Lux

Undergraduate Creative Review Volume 6, 2010

Front cover artwork by Noah N Nipperus 4 x 4 x 5 Wood, glass, stone, natural foliage, clay, sand All rights revert to contributors upon publication Copyright 2010, Lux Arizona State University Printed in Arizona

Lux
Undergraduate Creative Review Volume 6, 2010

Staff
Editor in Chief Ginger Whitesell Art Editor Kumuda Pradhan Fiction Editor Rebekah Richgels Nonfiction Editor Tessa Muggeridge Film Editor Noah Pearlstone Music Editor Steve Limpert Poetry Editor Noel Tamez Production Editor Scott Seligman Publicity Coordinator Ashley Allen

Associate Editors Art Elizabeth Bates

Fiction Elizabeth Huntley Brian Anderson Nonfiction Garrett Trask Janice Wang Music Jessica Reynolds Faculty Adviser Dr. Lenore Brady

Editors Introduction Lux, ASUs premier undergraduate creative review, illuminates the talent of undergraduate students by providing them with a space to display their artistic and literary work. With each new issue, Lux brings to light the ASU undergraduate communitys point of view. Every year, Lux strives to continue and expand on the creative community. This year, that task was completed through several events, from a poetry contest where writers gained inspiration from a Salvador Dali painting to a collaboration with the When in AZ Music Compilation where we challenged community members to express themselves on a 3-foot by 3-foot cube. In the future, Lux will continue to explore the boundaries of human expression. Like the magazines cover, every piece in this years issue provides its own microenvironment. A creation may at first seem insignificant when glancing through the pages, but upon closer inspection, one can see the true value that each piece brings. Every selection in the 2010 issue is its own microcosm that draws the reader, listener or viewer, for at least a brief moment, into its little world. An individual may delve into the magazine once, twice, or even a thousand times, but rest assured, the adventures inside will be preserved forever. With that, I welcome you to explore the 2010 issue of Lux, and find a piece that stirs something up inside of you or brings light to your soul. Thank you to all of the students, professors, families and friends that have supported Lux over the years. I hope that you enjoy this years issue of Lux as much as we have. Sincerely, Ginger Whitesell Mission Statement Lux encourages the emerging talent of undergraduate students by providing a creative outlet for their literary, artistic and musical work. The review is produced annually by Barrett, The Honors College at Arizona State University. Lux accepts poetry, fiction, visual art, song lyrics, screenplays, creative nonfiction, music, film and other modes of expression beyond the bounds of traditional genres. We value originality, individuality, artistry, diversity and passion. Submission Criteria Submission guidelines can be found at our website at http://www.luxasu.com.

c Table of
Fiction

ontents
Art 39 Bump-tailed Fish with a Squiggle-stache Ben Isaiah 40 Golden Kimono Terri Valencia 41 The Necklace Lisa Bryson 42 Defy Dayna Bartoli 43 Rabid Max Bronner 44 Kiss Target Hannah Wiesenhofer 45 Target Lipstick Hannah Wiesenhofer 46 Input/Output Sarah Guck 47 Defy Andrea Garza 48 Family Portrait Ring Series Julie Mikelson 49 Racket Flower Pete Pearson 50 U.S.S. Arizona Brandon Burris 51 The Storm Lisa Bryson 52 Graeae Brittany Nopar 53 Ragtime Trent Bowen 54 Hotel Ghost Eric Stout 55 Healing Lori Davis 56 The Nest Carina Clark, Michelle Grams, Pei Pei Kao, Pete Pearson 58 Cafeteria Perhaps William LeGoullon

11 The Bereaved and the Innocent Afsheen Farhadi 16 They Are Very Nice Shoes L. Grayson Lindsey 19 Dollar Bills Dustin Diehl 21 His Heart Was Just a Metronome Victoria Miluch 26 The Four Horsemen Ben Varosky 29 Five Words Stephanie Sparer 31 Partial Elegy Spencer Hanvik

Poetry 61 Iraq Michael Begay 63 Flight 124 to Chicago Elyse Mele 64 Dinosaur Poop Jacquelyn Donaldson 66 Prima Luce John-Michael P. Bloomquist 67 While Sitting by my Window Noel Tamez 68 The Breathe of Soul Elizabeth Agans 70 The Norway House (North River Forest, Illinois) Anthony Cinquepalmi 72 Panchos Sestina Haley Coles 73 Shimasani Mary Bausano 74 They Say the Devil is a HighwayMan Elizabeth Onate 75 Sonata for Salvador Dali Kelly McVey 76 To Prefer the Former Anastasha Swaba 77 You Stay Alive in Art Kimberly Keith

Nonfiction 81 Questions Donald Weir 83 Arthur and the World Famous Red Bull & Ketel One Arthur Marcelo 85 Theres No Place Like Home Lara El-Hoss 87 On the Light Rail Kelly McVey 90 A Stolen Glance Amanda Hunt 92 Forgetting Kansas Dustin Diehl 96 Making Peace with Peter Stephanie Spence

c Table of
Music

ontents
Un Calor Seco (A Dry Heat): Composed by Michael Kocour, Performed by The ASU Concert Jazz Band: Jeremy Lappitt and Jeff Siegfried Alto Saxophones Paul-Eirik Melhus and Dan Puccio Tenor Saxophones Justin Marks Baritone Saxophone Kent Foss, Ken Johnston, Steve Limpert and Antonio Villanueva Trumpets Paul Collier, Peter Fruedenberger, Jeff Hattasch and Carson Parks Trombones Max Knouse Guitar Ryan Dingess Piano Wayne Jones Bass Wes Anderson, John Hopkins, Chris Pea and Dom Moio Drums and Percussion In Pursuit Composed and performed by Adam Simon Vocals and Guitar Unreachable Skyfort of Awesomeness Composed by Dan Puccio Alto Sax John Chapman Bass Jeff Gutierrez Tenor Sax Steve Limpert Trumpet Shaun Lowecki Drums Shea Marshall Organ Concerto in Eb Major: III. Finale Allegro (Rondo) Performed by Antonio Villanueva Trumpet Orquesta Sinfnica Carlos Chvez That City By the Lake Composed and programmed by Brian Brown Columbia River Narrative Composed by Amber Gudaitis Performed by the Portland Columbia Symphony Orchestra

Life on The Moon by A Nice Place to Visit Anthony Bass Brian Guitar and Keys Jessica Keys and Percussion Max Guitar and Horns Tim Drums Dip Into the Dark by Captain Squeegee Tyler Carlblom Bass Chris Hoskins Tenor Sax Austen Mack Keyboards, Guitar, Vocals and Percussion Mat Malloy Drums Kory McCarthy Guitar Ryan Sims Trombone and Vocals Danny Torgersen Vocals and Trumpet Nature Is An Apparition Composed and performed by Kevan Nymeyer Guitars, Bass, Sampling and Programming Steve Limpert Trumpets and Effects Circus Song by Dry River Yacht Club Freddy Bass Clarinet Garnet Vocals and Accordion Henri Percussion Jeff Trombone Jordan French Horn Kristilyn Bassoon Megyn Violin Ryan Acoustic Guitar Steve Cello Saint James Infirmary by The Bad Cactus Brass Band Wes Anderson Drums Bryan Geraci Tenor Sax Mike Hall Tuba Steve Limpert Trumpet Benjie Messer Trombone Ocean To Ocean by Tugboat Robby Carrillo Drums Phillip Hanna Synthesizer Wayne Jones Guitar and Vocals Trevor Marchman Guitar and Keys Justin Wier Bass

Lux Award Winner Life On The Moon Music is an art form of expression and aesthetics, and cannot be numerically evaluated or statistically ranked. It can only be experienced. For this reason, Life On The Moon by A Nice Place To Visit is a deserving winner of the 2010 Lux Music Award. A cleanly produced, intriguingly structured postrock instrumental anthem, Life On The Moon takes the listener to a place that they will not want to leave.

Video Extraordinaro on his Girlfriends Birthday Film by Michael Markowski and Jeff Goldstein Written by Ryan Gaumont Starring Adam Rini, Jessica Godber, Ryan Gaumont, Edgar Rider and Bryan Wynne Executive Producer Brian Weeks Quietus Directed by Armando Peralejo Produced by Neal Bellinger Written by Armando Peralejo and Ryan Carroll Edited by Matt Hemenway Starring Drew Haas, Neal Bellinger and Tony Day Fast Times and Fast Food Directed by Kyle Niemier Written by Kyle Niemier Starring Mitchell Ferrin, Coleen Donovan and Justin Mack Pastor Robert Directed by Charles Kelhoffer Audio Mixer Jay Jeffery Music by Pastor Robert Lonely Dragon Slayer Directed by Lauren Lanigan Produced by Marshall Kiernan Written by Lauren Lanigan Edited by Charles Kelhoffer Starring Bo Jacober and Lauryn Berger

Lux Award Winner Extraordinaro Extraordinaro is a wonderful, comical take on the superhero genre. It is a piece that never takes itself too seriously. This parody provides the viewer with consistent laughs, but make no mistake, it is also a well-crafted, directed, and edited film. Extraordinaro is a worthy winner of this years film award.

Fiction

Everybody else is working to change, persuade, tempt and control them. The best readers come to fiction to be free of all that noise. Philip Roth

The Bere
Afsheen Farhadi

aved and

the Innoc

ent

Lux Award Winner The Bereaved and The Innocent is a beautifully crafted piece that draws the reader into the experiences of three different characters while only hearing from one. It explores the bonds created by genetics as well as those created by love, and their importance in times of trial and heartbreak.

As Morton watched his fathers eyes follow the onscreen television puppy, which slid across the linoleum floors and crashed into pre-assembled cushions of stacked toilet paper, he formed two distinct thoughts. First, if the family really loved their dog, surely they would install carpet or at least lay a rug. Second, Morton marveled at how unfair life could be. The specific case that presently came to mind was that his father had never gotten a chance to forgive him, and now it was too late, the old man having driven his Lexus through a clay dog kiosk at the flea market and officially been diagnosed as senile. His room at the retirement home was roughly the size of Mortons dorm room back when he was in college, and exuded an equally unpleasant odor, likely less a result of the buildings decomposition through the years than from the decomposition of the tenants. He sat with his father on the faded blue cloth sofa that along with the bed and a couple of desk chairs allowed little room for walking. It was Mortons opinion that the layout of the room intentionally discouraged movement of any kind, save for the brief moments of transferring between pieces of furniture or treks to the toilet. Can I get you anything, Dad? Morton asked, neither receiving nor expecting a response and sighing out of fatigue rather than frustration. It wasnt that he resented his weekly visits with his docile father; it was that he was uncomfortable staring at the man in profile. This old man did not resemble the father Morton had grown up with. His nose appeared larger and had lost its shape. His skin seemed too abundant to cover his gaunt face and frail bones. And worst of all, this view allowed for an optimal showing of the mans ear and nose hair, both of which baffled Morton. He had not noticed these hairs in his fathers younger days, and he wondered if their length and prominence increased with age, or if they were merely a result of the old mans growing apathy toward regular grooming. Watching the thick protruding hairs tipped with small bits of wax and dry skin, Morton self consciously felt his own face for traces of unsightly hair and wondered how long it would be before he, like his father, sat unresponsively staring at the television while being visually scrutinized by a younger version of himself. Morton walked over to his dads bedside table and returned with a small carton of orange juice, which he opened and offered his father. Their hands touched when the old man accepted the carton, and Morton could feel the hard, leathery skin slowly, yet somehow violently, graze against his. Dad, theres something I need to tell you, Morton said. He swallowed nervously, just as he did a month ago when he delivered the news to his father that not only was he getting married but he and Sheila were also expecting a child. That had been the day his father had made eye contact, had looked into his eyes and for an instant resembled the man he had once been. Morton felt confident that his father had been a handsome man at one point, but not so much by the time he came along. Although, Mortons first few years had been marred by tragedy. His arrival had signaled his mothers departure. She had died on the delivery table from complications. He often tried to put himself into his fathers shoes, pacing the halls of the hospital, awaiting his family, but receiving only a small, helpless bundle, and a lifetime of mourning.

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That day, a month ago, had felt special. It wasnt compensation for the family his father had lost, but it was the promise that life went on. That Morton himself had been given the opportunity his father had not. That his father, at the very least, could be proud that in an indirect way he would be responsible for assembling a happy family. A reminder that Morton did not only signify death. Although the moment of his fathers approval in the form of attentiveness had been fleeting, it had been something, and now Morton felt tense with the regret of bad news, just as the doctor that delivered him must have felt. Dad, Morton began, we lost the baby. The doctors say its common, and Sheila is fine; shell be able to have other kids if we want. His father did not turn his attention from the television, which now featured the program Whos Your Donor, a game show, where adults formerly conceived from anonymous sperm from a fertility clinic ask a panel of three men yes or no questions. The objective of the game is to determine which man was the one whose formerly anonymous loins the contestant had sprung. Mortons father blinked distantly and his pink tongue briefly caressed the top row of his teeth. The baby, he said with no hint that it was in response to Morton. Yes, Dad, Morton said. Im not going to have a baby. Perhaps his father had suddenly remembered that day a month ago. Perhaps his mind, in its more feeble stage, no longer understood the etiquette of emotion. Perhaps it was logic that led to his next question. He turned his head from the television halfway toward Morton and stared at, it appeared, an unused aluminum bedpan that gleamed from the darkness under his bed, and asked, Are you going to have a wife? *** Morton lived in a two-bedroom apartment. When Sheila moved in, the first thing they bought together was a king-sized bed, because Sheila complained that the frame of Mortons secondhand queen bed screeched Bible hymns as they made love. The second thing they bought was a yellow wooden crib that they assembled together and placed in the empty second bedroom, which had previously served as a study. Morton always found it somewhat absurd that he had a study, seeing as how he spent most of his time in front of the television. But it seemed natural, albeit impractical. A bedroom for a baby, on the other hand, was something quite different. It wasnt a matter of being practical. It was a matter of being necessary. And it was the kind of necessity Morton found exciting. The exchange from study to baby room, meant an upgrade from bachelor to father. From caring for himself to caring for another. When Morton returned home from seeing his own father, he felt a bitter chill in the air and raised the thermostat three degrees. Sheilas car was not in their designated spot, and so Morton relaxed a little. It wasnt that he was nervous or tense about seeing her, but since the miscarriage conversation between them had been awkward and stilted and he didnt know if he was ready after an encounter with his father. On his way to the bedroom he stopped in front of the baby room. The door had been left open and he saw the crib sitting in the middle of the room, which was no

longer a study since it had been emptied of the desk and bookshelves. It was a small room, but the crib appeared tiny and desolate, like an uninhabited island surrounded by a sea of beige shag carpet. Morton closed the door without further deliberation and headed to his bedroom to dress for his bachelor party. When the bell rang an hour or so later, Mortons college roommate, Trent, stood on the other side of the door with a wide grin spread across his face. Ready for the night of your life? he asked. They drove to The Pleasure Palace, a strip club Trent promised was a hot spot on a Friday night. Outside, under the neon glow of The Pleasure Palaces hot pink sign, Morton and Trent met Phil and Tony, two of their co-workers from the insurance office, along with Mortons cousin Gregory, a shy chubby man with a tiny mouth hidden amongst the tangles of his beard. Inside, the black lights of the club illuminated the speckles of lint on Mortons shirt. Trent shrieked excitedly and demanded that they get the party started. Morton remembered his first time at a strip club when he was in college nearly a decade ago. Back then he remembered being completely floored by the strippers willingness to display the intimate areas of their anatomy. And as they gazed seductively into his eyes, he would look away and sip on his room temperature ginger ale while trying to suppress his involuntary desire to apologize for gawking and the feeling of being a pervert. After the next few visits, Morton no longer felt like a sexual deviant. Now, as he followed Trent to the back of the club, circumnavigating the stage, he tried to remember the last time he had seen a naked stranger, but could not. Surely not in the five months or so he had been with Sheila. Get this guy a lap dance! Trent exclaimed. And in minutes a stripper took Morton by the hand and gently led him to a back booth. It reminded him of the way a mother might lead her child across the street. He could not remember his father ever leading him by the hand, but he did gently nudge him on the back when he wanted Morton to move carefully. The stripper sat Morton down and then plopped down next to him. She asked him his name as she rubbed her slender, sparkling thighs and told him her name was Cookie. He asked what her favorite kind of cookie was. She said chocolate chip. He said he liked pistachio. And before the break in their conversation could become uncomfortable, the song changed, and Cookie rubbed her breasts in Mortons face. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering once a protruding nipple poking his retina, and when he opened them he got a glimpse of the strippers thin patch of pubic hair, which, although it was dark, reminded him of his apartments beige carpeting. And then he wondered if Sheila would be asleep when he got home. And then he wondered how many times a day she went into the babys room. And then he wondered if they were going to be okay. They had spent two months falling for each other before Sheila called him one night, crying, begging that he come over, and informing him that she was pregnant. At first he felt trapped, she frantic. But that was before they both stopped seeing themselves as two people in an unfortunate situation, and realized that they could be a family, realized that there was a certain sense of nobility and pride that could come of raising the child together, the child

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they had indeed created together. Sheila moved in, and Morton told his father. They were happy. But now they had lost the baby, the reason they had bought the crib, the reason they had bought the bed. It was on that bed that Morton held Sheila after they returned from the doctor. She cried in his arms and all he could do was wonder if she could feel it. She had once told him that she could feel the baby inside of her. He wondered if she could feel its absence also. Maybe she couldnt feel its absence. Maybe thats why she was crying. The stripper put her lips to Mortons ear and breathed softly. Her hand was at his crotch, and all he could think was that he hoped Sheila was asleep. Then he felt guilty for feeling this way. He didnt want their relationship to change. He didnt want to act bitter or hostile or distant, knowing first hand what it was like to be pushed aside from someones heart. His father had provided for him, had fed and nourished him into a man. But in many regards he had not been the parent Morton longed for. He remembered learning the story of Abraham in the eighth grade. More than once he had dreamed that his father was Abraham. But not only did his dad follow Gods order to murder his only son as a means of proving his faith, but suggested it. Morton did have memories of his father laughing and hugging him and kissing him on the forehead or the cheek, mostly from birthdays or Christmases or the time he kicked the winning goal in a little league soccer match. But they were infrequent and brief and only reminded Morton of what he was missing out on had his mother survived his birth. Now that his heart was broken by the loss of his child, the one he had built in his mind, the one that had struggled to survive in Sheilas uterus, he vowed to not let his grief consume him. He loved Sheila, and in a month, after their wedding, they would try again to birth a child. To bring into the world a being of joy. Someone happy and willing to be loved. *** By the end of the night, Morton was the most sober of the five and therefore the designated driver. Even cousin Gregory needed assistance making it to his front door and mumbled about the impractical implications of Communism as he stumbled through his lawn, leveling a number of plastic yard gnomes and trampling a bed of pink azaleas. At home, Morton parked next to Sheilas car and quietly entered their apartment balancing himself on the tips of his shoes. He closed the door behind him and turned around to see Sheila lying on the couch dressed in jeans and a tank top. Her eyes were closed, but sensing Mortons presence they opened, and she jumped up, startled and embarrassed, as though he had discovered her in a compromising situation. Youre up, Morton said. I was going to leave a note, she replied, but it wouldnt have been right. The lamp that rested on the end table next to the couch illuminated her cheeks with a warm orange glow. When she stood up and moved out of the light, the darkness spread shadows across her face. Everythings in the car. What do you mean? Morton asked.

I need time to think, she said. Everything happened so fast. We cant go through with the wedding. It was all just so sudden. Morton looked at her but could not bring himself to say anything. He wondered if she would touch him before she left. A kiss, an embrace, or even a brush on the shoulder. Everything is in the car, she repeated. I was going to leave a note, but it wouldnt have been right. Morton knew that if he were to check his closet it would be nearly empty. Her clothes would be gone, her shoes would be gone, possibly her bed sheet would be gone, and her childhood blanket, and an album she kept of her family pictures. That was everything. But Morton wondered if the crib was in the car or if it was still in the babys room, empty and sad, a reminder of what could never be. Sheila grabbed her purse from the floor beside her and cradled it in her arms. Are you going to say anything? Morton asked her where she was going, but either she left without answering, or he didnt hear her. He walked to the baby room. The door was again left open. The crib was still there. He smoothed his hand over the soft purple cloth padding and pressed down gently. He wondered if his baby would have been comfortable sleeping there. If his baby would have been comfortable in the home he and Sheila would have provided. Morton lowered himself to the floor keeping a hand on the cribs wooden frame. He lay down on the soft beige carpet and slept there that night, if only to use the room he never had and never would. *** Early the next morning, before the sun had been allowed to awake to full intensity, Morton found himself in the hallway outside his fathers room. When he opened the door, he saw the old man standing, his eyes wide with fright in the midst of the blue early morning light. Dad, whats wrong? Morton asked. As he stepped closer he could see that the crotch of his fathers light blue pajama bottoms had been stained a yellow green. A few steps more and he could see the old mans feet encircled in a puddle of piss. His fathers eyes began to well with tears. Morton winced, jarred by the old mans shame. Then he walked over to his father, who had always been a few inches taller but was now, in his old age, just under eye level. Morton placed his arms gingerly onto his dads thin, crooked shoulders and drew him near. He embraced his father, cradling his face into the arch of his neck, holding him tight, if for no other reason than because it was the way Morton himself wished to be held. The way his father never before had. The way his mother never could. The old mans prominent facial hairs were rough on Mortons skin, but he didnt mind. He felt so much at that moment. He felt the pain of his mothers loss, or more accurately, his mothers absence. He had never met the women whose body nourished him to life, and therefore could feel no sadness at her death. But he did feel his fathers pain, his fathers loss, and realized that despite their differences they both understood that life was tough and sometimes made casualties of the innocent. His father placed his tired hands at Mortons ribs. The two embraced, their feet planted in a pool of urine. And despite all of the emotion that welled up inside of Morton, it was the old man who began to weep.

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ry Ni ey Are Ve Th
she just

ce Shoes

L. Grayson Lindsey

Death gives Sandra a nudge and

falls, landing with a deep thud and rolling oddly off the sidewalk into the city street. Resentment spells itself out in the piqued lines on the forehead of her husband Richard but he does not know she has died in front of his pasty-white face because he is by no means a health care professional and convinces himself that she has merely tripped on a crack in the overcast cement with her goddamn, 187 dollar high heels that she bought with his credit card and overtime at the office because she was going out with an old college girlfriend of hers to some high end steak and shrimp joint downtown that serves its butter chilled and has waiters who unfold your napkin for you and place in your lap while good naturedly grazing your sexual organ and then ask if you want water from the tap or water from some glacier that Greenpeace and Al Gore are fighting to save or even if you want the sparkling water which comes from a new bottle each and every time because people are worried these days about SARS and AIDS and cold sores that they may or may not get from the low class people that share needles or the high class that share needles because everyone is still human on this spinning rock and everyone is the same except some get their water sparkling from bottles and some from the tap and even a few million here and there that do not get much of any because they live in the dusty center of the Gobi or Sahara or NYC. Richard says, The street here is filthy, Sandra. And busy. You must get up. Sandra says, . This is embarrassing. Highly embarrassing. I hope you havent hurt yourself. We have appointments to keep. . . Sandra, there are cars coming. You must move. Its those goddamn shoes. I knew this would happen with those shoes. Dont worry though about how your head is bleeding. It will clean up easily enough. Everything can be cleaned up one way or another. A homeless man that has been baked in the oven of the sun for years and years stands up from the corner he begs donations from and walks over to Richard and poor, dead Sandra. In his right hand he carries a bottle of Crown Royal wrapped in a wrinkled, brown paper that matches nicely the crumpled, dry skin encasing the mans organs and muscles and veins. His eyes are dead from many days of inhaling the exhaust fumes of automobiles and exhaling nothing but stale alcohol and indignation.

Quite a spill she took, he says to Richard, pointedly. Odd trajectory at which she fell wouldnt you say? What do you mean by that? She tripped. Just now. Right here on the damn sidewalk. The homeless man smiles and takes a short pull from his bottle before placing it on the bare cement. I too abhor the taste of mea culpa. What does that have to do with anything? Richard asks, his wiry frame tense and frantic. Nothing really. Could you help me here? For Christ sake my wife has fallen down. If you ask me, she looks dead. The way her leg is twisted up under her body is far from natural. Please. She has only fallen. She fell because of her shoes that she bought herself for a night out with a friend. A male friend? Richard, who was stooping over his fallen wife and snapping the fingers of his left hand in her face in the hopes of securing her attention, abruptly stands, his back without bend or curve or hesitation. Of course not. A female friend. I am her husband after all. The gentleman doth protest too much and all of that, the homeless man says in an undertone, indifferently waving off his own words. I still believe she appears to be more dead than alive. Her twisted leg and now her face has begun to lose much of its color. Look, only her cheeks are flushed from her makeup, the rest is very white. And she is bleeding from the head. Please do not say that again, says Richard desperately. She has only fallen. She fell because of those goddamn shoes. She bought them with my credit card for that dinner date and I didnt even know. Well, you are her husband. And the shoes are very nice. Very nice looking material. True enough. But could you help with her and of course say nothing of this? Id like to move her off the street somewhere out of the way. Traffic is backing up and she needs time to come to her senses. I will help you if and only if you give me her shoes. They are very nice. Of course. The goddamn things. The homeless man takes Sandras wrists and Richard takes her legs by the ankles because he feels that it is far more appropriate for him to handle that part of her body for in his mind the curve of a womans legs represents the most stately

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intimacy and he has on many occasions, though lately less frequently than usual, been intimate with Sandra in the way that is customary and not one bit peculiar for a husband and wife married for 22 long years that all started because Richard loved fine art and was judging the color photography portion of an art show at a county fair into which Sandra entered a landscape progression she had taken with a Polaroid camera over the period of exactly 34 months that showed the swift rate at which a local shoe plant with its chemical waste from treating and coloring all the leathers used in their apparel was polluting a historic stream that apparently either George Washington or Stone Wall Jackson or Alexander the Great sailed down during some war of aggression years back in history when things were simpler and marriages were arranged and men believed in honor and bravery and women could not buy things that they could not afford because goddamn credit cards were not even invented yet and people slept better without fears of unemployment or impropriety even though they slept on bouncy box springs or hammocks or cave floors made of stone. The two men develop a rhythm as they swing her body left, right, left, in a sort of deep communal unison. Richard says, One.. The homeless man says, Two.. Sandra says, . And they toss her rag body up onto the sidewalk but some of her curled hair dangles above the gaping mouth of the sewer as if the world is hungry for her beauty. Her mouth has opened and the tip of her pink tongue rests on her bottom lip. She is fine, says Richard, taking off her heels and handing them to the homeless man. She has only fallen because of the shoes. The homeless man nudges Sandras head with his foot and it swivels frictionlessly as if on some perfectly oiled hinge from left to right. Perhaps, he whispers deliberately. Perhaps so. Who knew though? A man scorned. Something rotten and so on and so forth. Excuse me? His voice picks up both strength and volume. Oh nothing. Just a bit of a fall, after all. She will be fine. Of course. They are very nice shoes though. Yes, Richard says, turning his eyes from the homeless man to the street and, finally, to Sandras inert form. They are very nice shoes.

Dustin Diehl

Dollar Bi
Parliament Lights. You gesture absently toward the rows of boxed cigarettes behind the cashier. The humid air of the convenience store is a welcome reprieve from the twenty degree temperatures outside. Youre never up this early, not used to the way the air freezes inside your nose. It had stopped snowing hours ago but the muted light of the sun does little to warm the morning. Thatll be eight oh eight. The cashier slides the wrapped box across the pockmarked counter. Jesus Christ, you mumble. Digging through your purse you try not to break any of your new nails. They cost you more than you had expected, even extra for the neon pink polish. That made you feel better about jacking seven unopened polish bottles as you left the salon. Your hand finds a tattered bill crumpled beneath your car keys and you rub it between your fingers, feeling the worn fibers. As you pull it out you see its a ten and place it in the grimy hand of the cashier. You hold on a second longer than you should and the cashier tugs the bill from your fingertips. He turns his back to you, the cash drawer rattling open loudly. You reach over to the stack of gum to your right and deftly palm a few packs, dropping them soundlessly into your bag. $1.92 in hand, you head back out into the bitter cold. The heater in your car doesnt work, making you painfully aware of your warm, empty bed back in your apartment. Cursing, you rip open one of the gum wrappers, only to find that its spearmint. Your mom always bought spearmint. You would find bent and smashed pieces of spearmint gum in the bottom of her purse as you dug through receipts, make-up tubes and expired credit cards. You were chewing a wad of spearmint gum when your mom left the first time. You hate spearmint. Tossing the unused pack of gum onto the icy pavement you pull the heavy, squealing car door shut. The church parking lot is full and you have to park in the back by the jungle gym. Frost glints off the swing chains and exposed metal beams of the playset and for a moment you remember your mothers hands pushing hard against your back, feet dangling in mid-air as you scream with delight. Your moms nails were long and hard, and they scratched your back when she pushed. But you didnt say anything, afraid she might get upset and leave again. It had been summer and the jungle gym had gleamed fire-engine red. You pull yourself from your car, smoothing your black dress over your thighs. You were a lot thinner last time you were here. Maybe no one will recognize you. The steps leading to the carved wooden doors are deserted and you press a fresh cigarette between your lips. Youve finally mastered your lighter with your new nails and drag deeply, the crackle of charred tobacco loud in your ears. You cant tell if the gray wisps from your nostrils are smoke or frozen breath as you exhale, the cigarette still clamped in your mouth.

lls

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Loretta? A voice behind you sends your cigarette tumbling down the front of your dress, showering orange sparks across your prominent breasts. Dammit! You brush hard at the ashes, smearing gray streaks into the faded cotton. Sorry to startle you, Loretta, but the service is about to begin. The pastor smiles warmly, choosing to ignore your outburst. You nod, pissed that your cigarette is left unsmoked on the frozen steps of the church. You drive the heel of your boot into the smoldering butt, bright red lipstick ringing the filter. Your mom never smoked. She would probably be disappointed. Loretta. The pastor puts a hand lightly on your shoulder, as if afraid to touch you, a look of concern stretched through his wrinkled face. Im truly sorry. For your loss. His words sound canned, forced. You flash a smile that doesnt touch your eyes and follow him inside. The church looks just like you remember; streaked stained-glass along both walls, large wooden cross above the stage, even the rickety podium. You wonder if the second row pew still bears the carved initials of you and Mike Ostheimer, your crush from the second grade. It still smells like old people and yellowed hymnal pages. The only thing out of place is the large onyx box pushed beneath the cross. The lid is closed but you know what lies inside. No one sees you come in, the pastor already busy greeting the seated parishioners. You linger in the back, not sure where to go. Probably to the front, but youve never liked sitting in the front. Your mom would make you sit in the front and you hated the way the pastor could look you right in the eye. You decide to wait as long as possible before taking your seat. You wander over to the pitted offering box by the door, running a long nail across the walnut lid. The brass lock is broken and the lid lifts without a sound. A few ones, fives a ten and a twenty with a sprinkling of silver and copper coins. You reach inside and scoop up the bills, mashing them into your fist. You feel the worn fibers brushing your palm and stop, hand still in the box. How many times had your mother pressed a neatly folded bill into your tiny hand and lifted you under the arms, instructing you gently to push the paper treasure through the small slit at the top of this very wooden box? It seems like hundreds of times, hundreds of dollars. You glance behind you at the large, black rectangle sitting at the front of the church. You toss the wad of cash back into the bottom of the offering box and set the lid down quietly. Reaching around the packs of stolen gum in your lumpy purse, not caring if you chip your nail polish you find the $1.92 change from your cigarettes. Each coin goes into the slot, clinking hollowly. You look at the bill, wrinkled and faded. Smoothing it between your fingers you carefully fold the bill exactly how you remember. With a quick tap, the bill disappears through the slot.

His Hear
Victoria Miluch

t Was Ju

st a Metr

onome

Ms. Emma Clarke lived alone, worked in an art museum, and favored a no-nonsense approach to life. Rules were rules, and that was that. Spontaneity was superfluous, and free-spiritedness was frowned upon. So it was with great surprise that Philip, Ms. Clarkes coworker, reacted when she mentioned (carrying out compulsory small talk during a midafternoon coffee break) that she intended to purchase a baby grand piano. A baby grand? I didnt know you played? Philip said, lazily raising his last syllable to transform statement into question. His feigned confusion, rendered ridiculous by his unconcerned manner of asking, bothered Ms. Clarke a bit. She knew Phillip was perfectly aware that she did not play. She knew that he knew that she knew this, too. She also realized, however, that this playacting was merely the proper path the conversation had to take, and that her irritability was thus irrational. My interior designer recommended I add a focal point to my sitting room, Ms. Clarke told him coolly, stifling her sudden crossness. I always liked your interior designer, Philip said. What was her name? Sandy, wasnt it? *** Because Ms. Clarke was more concerned with appearance than function, she decided to buy her focal point secondhand. Unfortunately, she quickly realized that pawn shops and thrift stores were not ideal places to find exactly what one was looking for. She searched in vain and had almost decided to buy a potted palm instead until the overcast day her car wouldnt start and she couldnt find a taxi and didnt want to ride the subway and, so resigned, began to walk home from her work on the other side of the city. The wispy sky started dripping rain when Ms. Clarke couldnt have been more than ten minutes from home. Approximately two minutes after that, even the toughest umbrella couldnt have kept Ms. Clarke passably dry. Spotting a storefront with a protruding plastic curtain above its display window, she hurried to huddle beneath it. She thought to herself that she had never felt so grateful for kitschy decoration. Intending to tidy her damp hair, she turned to the window. Instead of seeing the face she was accustomed to, however, she saw the window reflect the image of a small and hideous man with stringy hair and a mangled face. For a dreadful second, she was horrified at her transformation and was poised to scream until she saw her reflection shift its limbs when she was sure she hadnt moved a muscle. The figure turned and shuffled away, comically (in Ms. Clarkes own humble opinion, anyway) lopsided by its hunchback. Suddenly a door swung open, a tinkling bell rang, and Emma Clarke was standing next to the misshapen little man, at whom she realized she had been staring at all along. babyMy deepest apologies for jiggling your nerves, the shopkeeper said, seizing Ms. Clarkes wrist. He had a strange accent Ms. Clarke couldnt quite place. She was usually quite good at placing these sorts of things. Please kindly refrain from taking offense from my marketing technique but, instead,

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enter my shop and perhaps even find something to your liking that you will purchase, he offered mechanically, as though reciting a memorized speech. Without waiting for an answer, the man tightened his grip on Ms. Clarkes arm and lightly pulled her into the curious little shop. Because the thunderstorm didnt seem to be letting up (and also because the mans determined face told her resisting would be useless), Ms. Clarke didnt protest. I sell a vast array of ravishing products, the man said, once the door had creaked shut behind them. I am Mikhail, possessor of Mikhails Antiques, where the fees for our products are supremely economical. Mm-hmm, Ms. Clarke said. She was far too busy taking in her surroundings to take much notice of him. Dark and crowded, the shop had more dust than antiques, and it had its fair share of the latter. Old globes, ancient wardrobes, rusty birdcages, and splintering spinning wheels lined the walls and formed crooked mounds that would challenge even the most accomplished climber. Narrow openings between the stacks and piles created winding tunnels that guided (or disoriented) unwary buyers. The place smelled like mildew and grime. Could there perhaps be a precise artifact the winsome madam is scrutinizing for? Mikhail suggested. Ive been looking for a piano, I suppose, Ms. Clarke said vaguely. A focal point for my sitting room. Mikhail nodded thoughtfully. I have just the Utopian thing. I will bestow it to you for a thrifty cost. Come, he said, disappearing into the labyrinth. Ms. Clarke felt mildly surprised, but found no real reason to disobey. As she followed Mikhail down the serpentine alleys, she marveled at the oddities she passed. A chandelier shimmering ruby-red, stacks of rotting books, maps of countries conquered long ago. Whats this? she asked, fingering a jewel-encrusted goblet. Mikhail scuttled back and rested a gnarled hand on Ms. Clarkes shoulder. This, he breathed into her ear, Is the Holy Grail cup. Ms. Clarke didnt notice that his fearful face was mere millimeters from hers. Is it really? she whispered back, running a finger around the cups cold, gold rim. This information is disclosed solitarily if the madam purchases the product, Mikhail chuckled nastily, hobbling away. Unsure of what to think, Ms. Clarke gave the cup one last glance and continued walking. They ended in a small cavity enclosed by mahogany dressers and discarded chairs, displaying a few choice items. One of them, to Ms. Clarkes pleasure, was a black baby grand piano, polished, gleaming and expensive-looking. A baby grand! This is just what Ive been looking for! Ah-hah! Mikhail cried. What did I verbalize to the lady? Mikhails Antiques always possesses just the immaculate thing, and proffers it for an unbeatable price, also.

How much? Merely five hundred dollars, containing following-day delivery. Sale final, no returns. An excellent treaty, you have my assurance. Ms. Clarke considered this. She pressed a couple of keys and lightly shook the piano bench. The sound was strong and the bench was sturdy. Ms. Clarke nodded. Ill take it. Mikhail grinned toothily. Most supreme. *** The following day was an agreeable one for Ms. Emma Clarke. She arranged pamphlets, finished organizing plans for a new museum tour, and avoided contact with messy schoolchildren on field trips. Above all, she looked forward to coming home and admiring her new antique. And it certainly deserved admiration, Ms. Clarke thought, once she had arrived at her apartment. Oily black and lustrous, it commanded the rooms attention. Ms. Clarke ran her fingers along the keys without pressing any, and then rested her hand contentedly on the silky lid. She lifted and propped it up and, about to step back and admire the instrument once more, looked down to see a small naked boy, curled like a baby squirrel enclosed in the pianos entrails. Ms. Clarke staggered back a step and clutched her mouth in surprise, only halfsuppressing a gasp. (She felt that this exaggerated display was the only proper way to communicate surprise.) What-- she gulped, then tried again. What are you? Immediately, the boy slid into a sitting position and latched his dark eyes onto Ms. Clarkes face. He couldnt have seen more than a day of sunlight in his entire life. His skin was so milky- white and paper- thin that a tangle of veins, bones, and even a few of his larger organs peeked through. His heart was immodestly visible, a crude reddish bump beating loudly and rhythmically. Youre as pale as piano keys! Ms. Clarke said, stepping forward for a better look. And why, you sound just like a metronome! His pulsing heart seemed particularly offensive to Ms. Clarke; she struggled against her desire to flinch at every beat. Well, I certainly cant keep you here, whatever you may be, she continued. I only paid for an instrument, you know. Imagine what the neighbors would think if I was charged with theft! Good grief. No, Ill have to return you first thing tomorrow. Despite her practical solution, Ms. Clarke felt slightly unsettled, or uncomfortable, or possibly some other unusual feeling that one could only experience when placed in this particular situation and which, therefore, had not yet been named. Finding herself unable to accurately classify the strange sensation, Ms. Clarke deemed it best to ignore the matter altogether.

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Crawl back into your proper place, then, she directed and, with one last disconcerted glance back at the obedient boy, she walked quickly to her bedroom and called it a day (albeit a notably strange one). *** Rather than allowing herself to sleep until eight as was her regular Saturday custom, Ms. Clarke was already quietly stealing out of her front door by seven oclock the next morning. She was less than eager to see Mikhail again, and this inconvenience irritated her. It took her a good fifteen minutes just to find the right street, and another nine to find the store. A bell indiscreetly chimed to announce her presence when she entered the dim shop. Back again so in a jiffy? Mikhail boomed, suddenly inches from Ms. Clarke. So gratified with purchase that you seek for supplementary objects? I believe theres been a mistake, Ms. Clarke said, pulling out her receipt. I found a-- No returns, Mikhail cut her off, his face darkening. No, I dont believe you understand, I found a-- No returns, Mikhail said again. If youd just let me finish, I-- No returns, Mikhail repeated. Ms. Clarke frowned in frustration. She considered this. Well, just as long as this doesnt cause problems... Most supreme, said Mikhail, smiling. During the walk back to her apartment, Ms. Clarke busied herself trying to avoid thinking about the piano. It made her uncomfortable. About to insert her key into the lock of her front door, she paused, straining her ears. She thought she had heard music. Yes, she saw when she entered her sitting room. Yes, there was the little boy perched on the piano bench, head bent over the keyboard, thin fingers drawing a sonata out of the instrument. Oh! Ms. Clarke said, sounding delighted. That really is lovely! Startled, the boy ceased playing and looked up. No, no, keep at it, Ms. Clarke instructed. When he didnt resume, Ms. Clarke walked over and shook his bony shoulder lightly, encouragingly. Like a sporadic record player, his body whirred immediately back into motion and the room swelled with music once more. Ms. Clarke was so pleased with her purchase that she had the boy play waltzes while she ate breakfast and nocturnes during her dinner. When he finished a song or a few, she safely placed the boy back under the piano lid so as to not misplace him. As the boy became thinner and more translucent with each passing day, Ms. Clarke noticed his music become softer and slower. Luckily, Ms. Clarke found that, if truth be told, she preferred the quieter pieces. A week later, she decided it high time to show off her excellent buy to her acquaintances and arranged a dinner party for the upcoming Sunday.

*** Katherine and Todd arrived first; they were the conservative type who frowned upon tardiness. Philip and Faustine came precisely fifteen minutes late, as expected. They all enjoyed a flavorful meal and swallowed (unflinchingly, it must be noted with admiration) the bland conversation. At seven- thirty, the guests relocated to the sitting room, where they were served espresso and lady fingers and told they were in for a treat. As Ms. Clarke creaked open the pianos lid and lifted the naked child out, Katherine and Todd exchanged uncertain glances. Philip and Faustine looked around awkwardly. Both couples stole discreet glances at the other to discern what the proper reaction was. Neither said anything when the boy began playing. His bones moved like machinery under his thinning skin. I think its high time we hit the sack, Todd said heartily the moment the piece had ended. Katherine looked grateful. Oh, but you havent even finished dessert! Ms. Clarke protested, watching her guests rise. It is getting late, isnt it? Faustine said, neatly finalizing the exchange by gathering her purse and prompting Philip to stand as well. Thanks for dinner, Emma. Everybody swapped good-byes, and Ms. Clarke was left alone. She fiddled with a napkin ring for a moment, listening to a faint waltz. Then she lifted the limp child off the piano bench, careful not to bump his dangling legs, and folded him back into the instrument. She lingered before closing the lid. Dont lose sleep over it, she told him, feeling a twinge of something like pity. I thought you played quite well, personally. *** A few days drifted innocuously by without imposing themselves into anybodys memory. Ms. Clarke listened to some muted bagatelles and a few feebly-executed etudes. Four days after the dinner party, her peace was disrupted by a harsh knocking at her door. An unpleasant voice announced that it belonged to the police. Startled, Ms. Clarke unlocked her door. A neighbor had noticed the small child, they told her. Neglected, emaciated, missing, they said. Ms. Clarke felt helpless and bemused as she watched the larger of the two police officers open the piano, lift out the boy, and leave. The action suddenly seemed so natural to Ms. Clarke that the entire situation knotted itself into a tangle of confusion. Everything felt muddled. She hardly knew which way was up. The remaining officer didnt make eye contact. Her wrists were bound in handcuffs. I didnt know, Ms. Clarke tried to explain, feeling control slipping away far too quickly to catch. Ive never bought a piano before. Its absurd to assume I would have known. The officer didnt answer, but was pleasant nonetheless. They chatted about Chopin while driving to the nearest jail.

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H The Four

orsemen

Ben Varosky

The setting sun painted the clouds all hues of pink and orange as they washed slowly over the open plains. The glow of the fiery ball was only barely visible as it sank behind the high cliffs of the outlying mountains, mountains that sheltered a land no man dared to enter the red man had laid claim to those parts and was ever-ready to make an example of the pale face who found the gall to cross the line. The temperature was cascading as the blistering sun found a new abode half a planet away: a full moon rose over the land and an icy wind beamed across the land. The meditative still of the plains was soon lost, however, as a lone mare and her rider came burning a trail. The mare was black from hoof to head, except for a pair of gorgeous yellow eyes that caught the moonlight and held it tight. She strode with the sort of forceful grace of a hurricane, an air of abject beauty trapped within an unyielding behemoth. She was unflinching in the cold dead of a desert night, as was her rider. The man was a tall and slender being, a black hat shadowed his brow unnecessarily. His shirt and slacks were black, as were his boots, all starkly contrasted by the red tie and belt he wore and the red decorum that adorned his boots. Amongst the crimson paisley of the boots were a series of sixes, a strong conversational piece. A barmaid the last town over had called him out on his choice of numbering, and he had only chuckled and said that six was just short of lucky. Seeming to have confused the barmaid, he explained the Biblical implications of sixes and sevens and it brought him a great, although self-sufficing, joy to do so. He stared into the emptiness of the plains in the frigid moonlight as he counted the stars, waiting for some great sign or momentous occasion. A falling star signaled it, and a great cloud of pale dust rose in the distance. The meeting would commence as planned. A great many men on the backs of horses and burros alike rode up toward the stranger under the cover of the night. Their animals stirred and whinnied as the biting cold chilled their bones and strangled their muscles. The riders attempted to strike up conversation between one another to mask their violent shivers and hide their chattering teeth. The clamor died as the mismatched band of thirty or so came upon the stranger who sat deathly still upon the back of his statuesque mare. He cleared his throat as the horse simultaneously swung around to face the crowd, a movement so swift and unexpected that those riders at the front of the approaching pack seized their reigns and tried to calm their bewildered animals. The stranger laughed, a cackle so nasally and piercing that it could almost be seen ripping through the night air, running in all directions, crashing into mountains, and settling itself upon the group. The stranger tugged a cigarette out from behind his ear and plucked it between his cracked and icy lips. No one noticed that he didnt strike a match, but that the cigarette just lit up in his lips. I truly am sorry for that little bit just there and you really must excuse me, I am rather partial to theatrics the stranger began. I am quite taken a-back by the

number of you. You see, my fliers never solicit much business, and that they have now is well, disappointing will suffice as the proper term in this situation. He exhaled a deep lungful of smoke through his nose, the long and crooked silhouette of which was caught in the moonlight, along with the image of his perfect teeth. All that remained fairly unlit were his eyes, cast in the shadows as two dark pits bored deep into his head. The crowd was captivated by the way in which he held himself so poised in the midst of such a violently cold night, as if he exuded warmth that only he could enjoy. So, continuing on, Im in need of a few good men. Unlike our friend Pancho Villa, however, Gringos need not be the only men seeking application. His humor was lost on the crowd and he removed his hat to wipe the nervous sweat from his brow. A few men swore they saw horns budding from his hairline but, as was often the case with cowboys, these were just fabrications of stifled imaginations. Boys, the time is coming. Not just any time, that is, but my time. I guarantee you that within the next few years I will be the most prominent name and face in these lands. Women will want me and the men I havent already slaughtered will come to fear me or join my ranks. Tonight I am offering you the exclusive opportunity to be amongst the first to ride alongside me into a new era in this untamed and uncharted land. These times will be tough and filled with sorrow and pain. You will certainly not enjoy them. A few men sighed, grabbed their reigns, and headed back toward town. Theyd heard the likes of men like this many times before, and for what? What happened to those faces? That of Jesse James had been slapped in every newspaper from here to the Old Kingdom. Butch Cassidy had gone the same way. There was no use in joining these brutes and tyrants, these would-be warlords and cheap pirates. There was no man at least, not in their eyes- worth serving. You may decide to leave, like those cowards have, the stranger taunted, but I can assure you boys that were headed into some wild and lawless times. As such, youd be best off joining the side of this fight thats going to win. What fight? inquired a fresh-faced teen on a young steed at the front of the pack. You cant go havin a fight if the sides aint properly chosed. He had a lot of spirit, and the stranger admired this. Right you are, lad, and the sides are simple and as follows: good and evil. See, the good will strive to restore order and meaning to this land, but werent we promised freedom? And what good is freedom if you cant go out and just do what you want? He laughed again, louder and with more conviction than before. This drove away a few more men, but the stranger gave them no attention as they hastened to leave his congregation. I am here to bring the pit upon the land, gentlemen. As it so says in Isaiah, I

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was forsaken and cast asunder! I am here tonight before you to implore you to join my ranks and assist me in my cause. I have come to prove that He, who sits upon his Mount and waits to cast His judgment, is no match for the havoc I can reap upon His lands! There certainly is no law, nor lawman, what can shake me and mine from the path that has been laid out for us! I need only four riders for my crew. Now, who will join me? Having heard enough, all but six men rode off into the distance. The deserters murmured to one another as they strode off toward town, coming to a consensus that the stranger was obviously a troubled and scorned individual seeking out the attention someone had forgotten to mind him long ago. They laughed and boasted all the way back to town, guided by the burning moonlight. The six that remained, however, did so out of fear. What if this man was right? His face was trustworthy in its moonlit beauty, and his mare was intimidating yet tempered. He could probably pull off any number of robberies and raids and escape without remorse or fear of capture. His rhetoric, although religiously askew, was appealing and academic. A gentleman, an intellectual, and a criminal: wherein laid the flaw? Well, it seems we have good news and bad news, friends, the stranger hissed from behind clenched teeth. The good news is that youve made the right choice in joining me. Youre all wise beyond your years and I applaud your decision. The bad news, however, is that there are six of you. I only need four. Are there any volunteers to leave willingly? I promise, your judgment will be favorable. Not a soul moved. The stranger shrugged, pulling a revolver from his belt that glimmered in the moonlight. He emptied the six bullets into his hand and replaced only two, spun the chamber, and clicked it back into place with a graceful -albeit mystifying- flick of the wrist. The entire process was crippling elegant: the motions were as delicate as they would be dangerous. He pulled the hammer back and snickered, pointing the gun at the head of the teen who had been the lone conversationalist earlier. He closed one eye and stared through the sight, lining the shot perfectly between the eyes. The stranger grinned as his grip on the trigger tightened, and he voiced a final question to no one in particular: Who will be my Horsemen?

Stephanie Sparer

Five Wor
Before he decided she was too fat to sleep with anymore, she worshiped him, and he loved it. She used to be fit and beautiful. Venus, he would tell people when they asked what she looked like, Like Venus. Seeing that in addition to being the beautiful goddess of love, Venus was also the name of a tennis player, sometimes hed have to elaborate, No, I guess like an Angelina Jolie Jessica Alba pre-pregnancy hybrid. That they understood. Then she turned into a pregnant hippo and moody. But, for a while, it was OK, because her breasts were huge. Huge. And he could deal with that, any guy could. For a while. Six months after the break-up, he runs into the slimmer, blonder version of her at the drug store. Break-up looks good on her. It takes on the form of a life-sized Barbie doll. Late Night Drug Store Run Barbie. It makes him look like the local crack dealer, which he isnt. Anymore at least. Its one in the morning and he doesnt know whether or not to say hello to Barbie. He did miss her. Hed like to tell her, but at his best, he was never great at being kind to people. It takes a lot out of him, exhausting his resources. Even worse, he has no idea what to do if someone is nice to him. He shifts uncomfortably when complimented, barely able to spit out a meager thanks to whoever paid it to him. And right now, his brown hair is a mess, making him feel even more self conscious than usual. He forgets hes holding the pregnancy test for that girl from a month ago who is waiting back at his place when he bumps into his reincarnated Venus accidentally, but more on purpose, while searching for the right Cheerios that he doesnt actually eat. Hes more of a Cinnamon Life kind of guy. Her basket comes into contact with his knee and falls, spilling its contents: crackers, shampoo, the latest US Weekly. Bright yellow font screams at them from the glossy cover that Britney isnt dead and Jennifer still loves Brad. Oh, He says, as he fumbles to rescue the Panteen. Its for sleek and shine. He thinks, so this is her secret. Oh, she says, as she reaches for the Saltines, but instead picks up the pregnancy test that hes dropped in the process. You lost this? He takes the box back, I guess I did. Standing up, he finally looks her in the eyes. They face each other and remember how it used to be. He doesnt remember when he told her that her ass looked big that day in January or that he didnt find her attractive anymore really, when he was with her in Vermont, but she does. He remembers only how nice it was to cuddle and watch Fresh Prince after a night of really kick ass making out. They called it Middle School Night. Sometimes their nights had themes. It kept things interesting. She has no recollection of this at the moment. Right now, she was just happy she had make up on and shed lost

ds

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twenty-pounds. I want you back, he would like to say, I miss you. I miss you when Im at dinner. Or when Im reading The New Yorker and I turn to make a pretentious comment and youre not there. I end up just telling my cat. Oh, I have a cat now- even though I hate them, really. I miss you when I have a funny story to tell. I miss you when I get home or when Im at work. Sometimes, I just want to call you, but I dont. His silence is met with her silence. She breaks it by asking how he is doing in that voice. That one she used to use on her annoying neighbor. The one with the scar on his arm. John was his name? James maybe? Her face looks like shes about as interested in his answer as she is in quantum physics, and if he remembered correctly, thats not a lot. He knows she doesnt care, shes moved on, and he breaks up six months into five words. Kinda like how he broke up the relationship. Hey, we need to talk. Six months. Five words. She does the same, and then its late so they part ways and go home. He doesnt know this yet, but in ten years, when her hair is back to brunette, she writes the screenplay about their relationship. What Hollywood calls The New Scarlett Johannson plays the lead role, which is really supposed to be her. Everyone who knows her knows that, but shell deny it was ever based on a true story. No one would believe it anyway.

Spencer Hanvik

Partial El
We suffer each other to have each other a while. Li-Young Lee

egy

I stood in the kitchen of my parents house with the lights off. I was back at home, visiting my parents. Sort of. The next morning we would all be flying to Minneapolis. It was winter again. Like fifteen years earlier, when I was in third grade. A winter funeral. This time it was my grandmothermy fathers mother. The house was quiet. I rested my elbows on the kitchen counter and pinched the bridge of my nose. The faucet was dripping, evenly punctuating the sound of my fathers breathing from down the hall. I heard him cough. I didnt think he was asleep. Years before, after my grandfather had died, one of my aunts told me that in the couple of weeks leading up to his death, she could hear the heart beat. It would snap across the room as a clicking sound. Like a marble hitting a laminate countertop, she told me. She said that when he died, everyone in the room heard that final click. My father wasnt there. He didnt hear it. He once told me that sound, what he imagined it was like, echoed into his sleep some nights. My mother turned on the kitchen light. Jesus, William! What are you doing standing in the dark like that? My mother said, jumping slightly. Sorry, I said, standing up. I didnt think youd be up. Neither did I. But I remembered I put some things in the dishwasher earlier. Id forgotten to start it. She fiddled with the faucet, trying to make it stop dripping. You should get some sleep. I dont think I can, I said. Ive had a cold or something for a little bit. Its hard for me to breathe when Im lying down. Its even more important to be well-rested if you havent been feeling well. Well, I dont know what to tell you, mom. Its hard to sleep when you cant breathe, right? I just want you go feel better. Yeah. Christ, youre such a mother. We both laughed at that for a moment. My father continued to breathe noisily, down the hall. You know what Dad said to me on the phone when he called to tell me Grandma had died? She looked at me. Memories in old houses never bother about how late it is and walk around as they please. Thats what he said to me. I had never heard him say anything like that. Is he doing okay? Oh, hes fine really. Its not like with his dad. When you were little. Well, Id imagine its not quite like that. I mean, I hope its not like that. I said,

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leaning on the counter again. It was just weird hearing him say that sort of thing. Yeah, that is strange, she said. I guess his mother dying just brought back some memories of his father or something. Hes really pretty much okay, though. He doesnt feel his mother had quite so much to apologize for. I stood tapping my fingers against the counter. Its too bad Marianne couldnt come, my Mother said. Yeah. Im sure it wouldve been nice for you to have her there. Yeah, I guess so. I stood up and put my hands in my pockets. My mother pulled at the belt on her robe. I think Ive got to get back to bed, she said. Were leaving pretty early tomorrow. All right, mom. Goodnight. Goodnight. I wish youd try and get some sleep. She walked away to go to bed after giving me a hug. I started the dishwasher. Marianne was back at home in Long Beach. I was by myself in my parents kitchen in Phoenix, waiting to fly to Minneapolisinto a real winterin the morning. I stood there for a while and looked at my reflection in the glass door across the room before switching off the kitchen light. I went and sat down on the couch in the living room. I was feeling too anxious to try and go to bed in my old bedroom; that cold I had was a good excuse for avoiding that. There was a show on TV about a wedding. I left it on but didnt pay much attention to it. I was thinking about the conversation that Marianne and I had after I got off the phone with my father and started thinking about the funeral. Shed been in bed when I got the call. When I got into bed, she turned over and asked me what it was. I told her about my grandmother, that the funeral was in a week. I asked her not to come. She pushed herself up and stared at me. Really, William, she had said. Why wouldnt you want me there? Itll be disgustingly cold. I couldnt do that to you. But I want to be there. I could get to know your family a little better. I want to be there for you. I know but Im sorry. I just dont think you should come. No one should go into such bad weather willingly. William, Im serious. Im not joking. You dont understand how cold itll be. God damn it, William. It had just gone on like that. But I stood my ground. I kept saying that she should

stay home, asking her just to do that for me. Finally, she asked me if I didnt want her around my family. No, Marianne, I told her. Its not that. What is it then? You know what? Its, I started and faltered. I dont really know what it is, actually. Mostly, I wanted some time to think. Okay, she said. I guess youll need to bring a black suit. And after all that, there I was, sitting on the couch watching a TV show about a wedding. I was nodding through the credits as the sun was rising. Highlights from the show played behind the scrolling names. An old woman helped her daughter buy a dress. The father sulked through the background, checking, over and over again, an old Casio watch he kept in his pocket. A young man with red cheeks and not quite enough dull blond hair smiled and held his arms out to the girls parents. When the credits ended, I turned off the TV and asked my dad about borrowing a black suit. I had left mine at home. Marianne might have laughed at me when she noticed, which she probably had by then. Shes a great girl, my father said to me as I tried on a thirty-five-or-forty-year-old suit. Its too bad she couldnt come. Your grandmother really liked her that time they met. Dad, she couldve come. My mother was drying her hair in the next room. It is too bad though. If shed come I wouldnt have forgotten my suit. She couldve come? He brushed the shoulders of the jacket I had just put on. She didnt want to? No. Its not that. Is everything okay? Yeah. Yeah, its fine, I said, moving his hand off of my shoulder. Did you tell her not to come? I just looked at him. William. Why would you do that? I just have some things I need to think about. I dont really feel like getting into it. You two have been together for a while. I guess the question is, What next? right? Dad, I dont really feel like getting into it. Okay, kiddo, he said and patted me on the arm. He took a step back. That looks pretty good. Can you believe that used to fit me? Huh, yeah. How about that? I was putting the jacket back on its hanger. Yeah, this is good. I put on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt and packed the suit. I couldnt stand the idea of sitting up all night for the couple of nights Id be at my aunts house, so, on my way

33 fiction

out of the house, I grabbed a box of Nyquil and threw it into my carry-on. *** We ate an early dinner as the Midwestern afternoon dusk came on. The whole family was there. All my aunts and uncles and first cousins. Almost everybody joked loudly about the conspicuous absence at the head of the table. Absolutely everybody remarked about how funny it was that my parents and I had never made it to Christmas while my grandmother was still alive. After sweeping a broken wine glass that no one seemed to notice from the table and cleaning up the puddle that had found its way down one of the legs, I headed for the door to step outside for a walk. My uncle Heath stopped me before I could get to the door. I hear youve got something on your mind about that girlfriend of yours. Have you been talking to my dad, Uncle Heath? Well he is my brother isnt he? He said, stumbling gently forward and grabbing my shoulder to steady himself. How long have you two been together, now? A couple years? I guess thats about right. He was standing on his own again. Listen, I dont really feel like talking about it. And anyway, it doesnt really seem like this is the right time. Oh, its fine. Listen, he said, you two are living together, right? He nodded to himself. It can be tough. Two people together, like that. Close quarters and all. All I wanted to do was get out of that conversation, but my uncle was drunk. It was nearly hopeless. He went on. You really get to know the other person. They say familiarity breeds contempt. I guess it can just breed too, huh? He laughed at his own joke and clapped me on the back. It can be tough. Look at me and your aunt. Or your mom and dad, for Gods sake! But looking at that, you can see how great it can be to have that other person. Okay, Uncle Heath, I said. Thanks for the pep talk. But you are planning something, huh? Oh, yeah. Big plans. Ive got big plans, I said, walking toward the door again. Dont tell my parents, please. I really dont want to talk to anybody about it now. Oh, youre fooling with me, he said. Ah, you got me. Sorry about that. I got outside and closed the door behind me before I could hear his response. It was a warm winter, so I only had to wear two sweatshirts underneath my down coat. With the noise of my uncle and everyone else and the heavy smell of gravy from inside the house, I lost my balance on a little patch of ice just beyond the driveway, having ignored the breaking sound underneath my feet when I walked across what

wouldin a few monthsbe a lawn. I caught myself on a parked car and stared into the solid eddies of frost on the windshield, which were so strange to me after growing up without winter. A little way down the block, my breath twisted upward through the yellow glow of streetlamps into soft, familiar curls. I watched them twist away through the veil of cold air. I reached into my jacket pocket and felt the postcard there, addressed to our house in Long Beach, with its one line of text. My fathers ridiculous phrase from that morning, I guess the question is, What next? right? Its all I could think to write there. On the front of the postcard, there was a picture of a boy and a girl, hand-in-hand, running across a snowy street. The picture must have been taken very late at night, well after it wouldve been reasonable for people to be out in their cars. At least in that weather. I remembered the garment bag that I had draped over a chair in the corner of the bedroom, to try and remind myself to bring it. I thought about the jewelry store box Id been hiding in that suit jacket for the past several weeks, wondering just what to do with the ring. At least my uncle had believed that I was joking about it, or at least I hadnt actually mentioned it. Someone leaned out the front door of my aunts house and yelled down the street after me. She wanted me to come in. It was too cold to be wandering around outside at night like that. I went back to the house, thinking of the photograph on that postcard on my way up the driveway and through the door. The sudden warmth asked me to bed. I said goodnight to everybody and went upstairs. I took a couple of the Nyquil caplets I had brought with me and lay down, wrapping myself in the blankets I had found sitting on top of the air mattress. The cold outside made me think of homefirst, my parents house. Then, home, with Marianne. I lay there listening to the laughing and coughing and stomping around downstairs. I waited to go to sleep. The boy and girl from the postcard ran back and forth in my head. I wasnt ready for it when we got to the church. While the casket and the mourners were still in the vestibule, the church musicians warmed up by singing Ave Maria. It came out of nowhere. It didnt really seem like I should, but I started crying into the bad jokes none of the men in my familyusually including myselfcould seem to restrain themselves from telling. The same thing happened to my cousin Jeff during the service. He gasped and took an unsteady and involuntary step forward, grabbing my sleeve for support. I held onto his shoulder while the priest intoned prayers I didnt understand. The procession was more normal. After the other pallbearers and I made our delicate way down the churchs front steps and to the hearse, I couldnt stop thinking of how warm I would be, sitting next to Marianne instead of against the rigid leather upholstery of my uncle Heaths car. The fog on the window kept me from looking at myself while I watched the hearse lead its stubborn way to the cemetery.

35 fiction

By the time it got there, everybody was ready to finish the formal grieving. As soon as all the cars were parked and everybody was ready to carry the casket to the grave, one of my uncles yelled, So whos this Paul guy, and why does it take so many of us to get his clothes off? And that was the burial. A bad pun and snow dusting my black shoes and the aluminum coffin at the military cemetery. I laid a hand on the lid and wrote, with my finger, What next?my fathers insipid question had obsessed mein the film of nearly frozen moisture, trying to ignore the irony of the question. *** Marianne pointed at the garment bag, lying on a chair in the corner where I had left it, and laughed at me through her teeth. It was the day after the funeral. All I could do was close my eyes and turn my face toward her as she laughed. When I opened my eyes, she stared at me under the soft curls pushed into her face by the pillow. Do you remember wandering back to the hotel that night, in April? I asked her. The streetlights were turning on. You told me how you had dreamt of me for months. I wondered if she remembered the same way. I was sure she knew what I was talking about. It was a few months after wed first met. The sun was setting. We wished for the evening to dissolve. To fall piece from piece into the night. It was the first time Id wished for her. That I didnt wish she would change. Maybe she was remembering other evenings, other dreams shed had. Dreams she didnt have alone. Then she recalled our hands. Do you remember your hands? The way they made arcs against the lamplight. Or the way I held my hands, with one palm against my knuckles? She remembered more than I did. Smaller things. I took a breath, nearly apologizing for asking her not to come to the funeral. But I just sighed and got up to return my suit to the closet. I toyed with the lump that the box made from the inside pocketslipping the postcard, folded in half, in next to itand looked at Mariannes left hand, imagining it winking at me. I hung up the suit and got back into bed. Marianne yawned and put her head on my chest. I remembered the frozen leather in my uncles car. The decorative stitching on the sheets burrowed into my back. My shoulder was pushed the wrong way, and my arm was numb. I fell asleep.

37 fiction

Art

Art is the only way to run away without leaving home. Twyla Tharp

Ben Isaiah Bump-tailed Fish with a Squiggle-stache 1 x 3 Brass

Lux Award Winner This Bump-tailed Fish with a Squiggle-stachepin may be small, but it has been chosen as the 2009-2010 art winner for big reasons. Finely detailed and immaculately produced, this pin is eye catching. Its display of competent craftsmanship captures a quiet fluidity that is dignified and precise. Art, an ultimate expression of the deepest human creativity, is best put to use when shared. As a unit of communication, this piece speaks powerfully. Congratulations.

39 art

Terri Valencia Golden Kimono 3 x 18 Sterling silver, fine silver, 24 karat gold, colored paper, kiln-formed glass

Lisa Bryson The Necklace 18 x 24 Graphite on paper

41 art

Dayna Bartoli Defy 11 x 14 Inkjet print

Max Bronner Rabid Digital photography

43 art

Hannah Wiesenhofer Kiss Target 11 x 15 Linoleum print

Hannah Wiesenhofer Target Lipstick 11 x 15 Linoleum print

45 art

Sarah Guck Input/Output 19 x 24 Oil crayon on aluminum

Andrea Garza Defy Digital photography

47 art

Julie Mikelson Family Portrait Ring Series 6 x 4 x 2 Sterling silver, fine silver, copper

Pete Pearson Racket Flower Digital photography

49 art

Brandon Burris U.S.S. Arizona 7.5 x 11 Digital photography

Lisa Bryson The Storm 10 x 10 Oil paint on canvas

51 art

Brittany Nopar Graeae 18 x 23.5 Ballpoint pen on paper

Trent Bowen Ragtime Digital photography

53 art

Eric Stout Hotel Ghost 8 x 10 Digital photography

Lori Davis Healing 24 x 14 Acrylic paint on canvas

55 art

Carina Clark, Michelle Grams, Pei Pei Kao, Pete Pearson The Nest 30 x 30 x 36 Rebar, steel, high density foam

The Nest
Building on the edge of infinity, Lies a tangled web of eroding memories. This is my new beginning. I take a hand and make a change.
Fourth year interior design students are given the opportunity to design, construct and auction chairs for the CHAIRity event. CHAIRity is an event for the City of Phoenix Family Advocacy Center (FAC) to raise money, as well as create a greater awareness for the issue of domestic violence. The FAC helps victims of domestic violence and sexual abuse by providing them with support and guidance, enabling them to safely leave their abusive relationships.

My words are finally spoken. My spirit is no longer caged. The strength below holds me up, I may be bent, I am not broken. In the clutch of woven pain, Lies a glimmer of hope. I am not on the edge, I am deep within my comfort, You cannot bring me down. I regain the strength and live on. I cannot stay in this nest forever. I am strong. I am okay. I leave fear behind. I am free. I start living.

57 art

William LeGoullon Cafeteria Perhaps 16 x 24 Archival lambda print

59 art

Poetry

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words. Robert Frost

Michael Begay I. As we land, we write letters for death: leave one of our tags behind our bootlaces, in case we have to hug grenades I call avocados. I stopped having dreams of dancing between flashes once I started calling bullets pomegranate seeds. My mother had bullets on her fingertips, stabbed and ripped the fruit for me to eat, and I smashed the seeds through my plate I only see them pepper battle buddies, their faces like strawberries, rounds embedded in their skulls, more seeds. Yesterday, I hugged an avocado It freckled me with shrapnel, flicked my face like water from fingernails. II. I dont remember a time before my tongue knew how to feel the inside of your cheek, to search for a tinge of grenadine, only to peel away skin burned by bourbon. I barely remember my father taking me to work, standing on the seat beside him, so I could watch him race Adders tongue and alfalfa until they became two bamboo stalks

Iraq

Lux Award Winner Michael Begays Iraq was chosen as the winning poetry piece due to its excellent use of imagery and ability to draw in the reader. The poet manages to paint a detailed picture of war while building a connection between the different characters through an emotional loss they each must deal with.

61 poetry

along the road. Our car was a water droplet running down a dead stalk until it hit soil whose smell filled the cab, masking the decay of leather and hardwood; and the wind drowned the country out until it was silent, like the calm of your grenade after it explodes: pomegranate seeds frag out, depressing the desert, and fire steals oxygen from your lungs. You see your face in a mirror of piss puddled in the soil, something like grenadine trickling down your face, and you taste nothing. III. The person I love is dead. Shelter, from the rain that falls only when were huddled under umbrellas. Given to your dad is a little triangle something of you tucked into each fold. Taps turn to noise, as the stars and thick thread disappear, birth a morning like the Hell we used to wait for. Seems silly now skimming obituaries, crying at the funerals of strangers. If your mother were here, shed throw herself onto you as if you were a Christmas tree. Become a star that would shoot, tear a hole into space, like our first night alone. Her wings would be yours.

Elyse Mele

Flight 12

4 to Chic

ago

According to popular science, we are not solid creatures. We are strings of thousands and thousands of particles loosely strung together. he told me, adjusting his spectacles. When these strings get too close together, they trade particles, the atoms of his arm on the rest flirting with my hands crossed in my lap, our strings stretching lazily like the tentacles of a jellyfish, braiding together. This man, whom Ive never met, was collecting the life rolling off me in his lap, these waves as uncontrollable as an ocean washing this stranger. This seems grotesque. Why cant we keep ourselves together? I find it dangerous that bits of my neurosis have broken loose and are working their way into the lives of others with pleasure. Perhaps these strings explain the effect we have on others, The way those who think they have stronger strings cant explain why they suddenly dont know how to look at the world until we rub each other off on someone else. Why, when God is not standing in front of me to wrap himself around and keep me from slowly unraveling, instead the specks of you caulk over the wounds of my flesh untangling my cords, retying them, so they can breathe again.

63 poetry

Dinosaur

Poop

Jacquelyn Donaldson

It scares me This war of the world Nightly, trudging through my dreams, I see crowds Of somber soldiers Who all have my brothers face Except through my dream closed eyes He is not his usual, Ample 23-year-old self Rather he is eight, and rosy Eager from our Imagination With every quilt Tossed in chaos, The deep brown and blood red patterns Navy blue and forest shaded blankets Weave and tangle to form Our pretend poop As the heap daringly mounts To reach a towering height That only he, would be Brave enough to climb We place our plastic helmet Upon our bed haired heads And smile.

With breakfast Sizzling in the next room And Jurassic Parks Dismissed dialogue Rattling through the surround sound We dive in head first, Kicking off our weekly game Of Dinosaur Poop. And yet still, ever-haunting in my dreams Through the mist of the bombs dropping And the brainwashed shooting, I see him army crawling through the poop But now its not me in my Sunday morning best Tangled on the other side Of the massive piles of blankets. Its just another dead hero, Covered in shit

65 poetry

Prima Lu

ce

John-Michael P. Bloomquist

A man, roped to freeway over-pass, sways To traffic thrush, flow of head light swifts Below: he is cloaked by moon In nakedness, is A black swollen roadside Tire. A white moth, born in the warmth of his brain, Crawls out his nose to glowing Spun dust and exhaust. The moth spreads its wings, Two black dots on its back Stare back at the dead. But there is no dead. There is only this moth and freeway cord of light, Womb screaming birth to an angel. The moth, seeing only light upon light, Leaves its home, and freedom is the descent To become insignificant Windshield smear, Streak of life, a detail. Father and son inside A passing car dont notice As they talk about the stars There are more stars in the sky Than sand in the sea, Some stars youre seeing Arent actually there, theyre burnt out, Dead stars. But as long as the void Light travels through is large enough, Well still see them, `Cause light, can exist without its source.

While Sit
Noel Tamez

ting by m

y Wi n d o w

I notice my old neighbor stepping out of his home with the cave of trees, crackling shells of pecans under his feet. Drinking his morning whiskey, sliding lower into his mahogany rocking chair. Cataract eyes blind of the Christmas shrines, filling the yards of our suburban homes. I open the shades completely, letting the cool oleander wind clash with the heat of my fireplace, intoxicating us, turning us mad. Madness where, doors remain unlocked at night, and children explore the creeks alone. My grandmother, coffee and cigarettes sits next to me, waiting for me to begin. My back straightens, one foot on the pedal hands hovering over. My fingers move lightly from key to key, playing an old church song grandmother loves to sing to. Sound travels in waves, into the old neighbors ears. We close our eyes, inviting notes, chords, and echo. Old neighbor taps his foot, and snaps his fingers while Grandmother plays conductor. Our last song, wed ever hear as one.

67 poetry

th The Brea

of Soul

Elizabeth Agans

My mother always told me that everything has a soul. Thats why we are drawn to the people, places, things in our lives. My baby doll, Julie, when I was five, permanently closed eyes. Tea set with smiley faces at the bottom, only seen after imaginary tea was gone. Long, day-glo beaded necklaces in high school. Dali poster- a womans head made of roses, rotting limbs. Bright red Ibanez electric. She said they sought us as much as us them. Their souls were ours. I found a G major harmonica in a thrift store on 38th street, initials BFG encrypted in sprawling looped letters on the slightly rusted silver. I picture a fat, wrinkled old man with sad eyes sitting on his front porch in a rocking chair huffin and puffin and stompin his foot to the rhythm of his hearts metronome. He is remembering when his brother was next to him, tuning up his hand-me-down six-string that had sung about their booze-soaked friends and cheatin old ladies for thirty years. He tries, now, to play the chord progression that always started the sessions when they were boys, just learning the staple blues chords from their silver elders. They always started with B. His brothers favorite was G, but he was younger. BFG through seniority. He cant play it anymore, memory making the notes sound cracked and choppy, inauthentic from a seasoned blues man.

Enter me. I breathe in for a long A, I swear I can taste the Jim Beam. I cant help but wonder, after opening closed nave eyes, seeing the broken tea set in a box that had been moved too many times to count on my hands and feet, posters torn in drunken stupors, stolen guitars living in ghettos, fairytale trips to Paris only to find they lied about the beauty, forgot the bitter cold, when will the blues become too much for me to write about?

69 poetry

House e Norway Th Illinois) r Forest, ve (North Ri

Anthony Cinquepalmi

I swore she was a witch -- that lady in the lower level apartment. I tip-toed down the stairs, six years old, back when strangers still seemed haunting. The steps creaked like I was bending the cedar in half like she put a curse on them. I would reach the front of her door, swing myself around the railing, and trample the steps, knowing not to turn around -Behind me was black: phantoms, the revenants, and everything that loomed outside my raggedy-blanket on the summer nights -- when skin was adhesive on the bedspread; I was holding off the shivers then. Sometimes, I wore a witch hat, part of some old Halloween costume my mother had from her childhood -the product of a stubborn girls spite. I crept down the steps in my red pajamas glorious role play and a sugar high from six packs of Pop Rocks as motivation. That shit was like magic. I used to stand on the teal floor mat, breathe my little ribs to capacity, submerge my toes in dirty polyester, and glare through the door, the witch lady taunting me on the other side, standing over her cauldron stewing neighbors. Chicago witches were the worst.

One time I sounded too many steps on the way down, and I heard those boots, or peg legs, poking their way towards the door. I froze, then melted in sticky fear like a Bomb Pop. There was a flash, a click-pop-shutter-close: My eyes opened. I saw my mother at the top of the steps, camera in hand, smiling with that shes just like me when I was that age mommy-glory. Lips pursed, I leaned against the white washed banister and fought a smile The yellowy hue of the picture is all crackled now with faded residue blots, the likes of wood primer. Its aged with curse -- longing, and bad years in the crawl space. But for awhile, that shit was like magic.

71 poetry

S Panchos

estina

Haley Coles

My friend Ricardo is from Mexico. Every Tuesday he takes me and his dog In his white truck to his mothers house. I Always leave with cilantro teeth, and blood On Panchos breath. Once a gas station man Told us never to feed the dog raw meat, That it would crave philistine from the meat. It was bullshit, R said. In Mexico The families got all their food from one man. He grew corn, slaughtered livestock, raised dogs, And sold at the market before the blood Rays of sun parched the earth, stole at the eyes Of churches and children. Years ago, I Walked out of my parents house, went to meet A man. I returned home, and there was blood Down my back, swirling shapes like Mexican Fireworks. With a rake, hed told me to dig My grave. When I was nearly done, the man Began crying, but he was a real man, He said. My breasts made tissues for his eyes While my flesh curled to the ground; like a dog He licked my wounds, chewed me as he would a meat And bones dinner. A boy with a Mexican Name, sweat and frankincense, made the man bleed More than the cow back home, roped and slit, bloody From the knife drawn through its stomach by the man Who killed the bull himself. In Mexico Ricardo waited as a boy, wide-eyed, For the jugular vein from the fresh meat. Hed bag it and bring it back to his dogs

And when he got there, he gave to the dogs A gift of coagulated blood. It turned to Jell-O, little bits of meat Congealing inside it like little men, Men who are never wrong, and I Want to send them to Mexico, Send them to meet the little dogs who are Happy, Mexican bull blood dripping from their Manic smiles, and look in their eyes.

Mary Bausano

Shimasa
The dusty brown crinkles and wrinkles In on itself, folding over and around gray and jutting rocks Skeletal yellow-green prickly bushes poke through the skin of the earth Reaching toward the hot sun Searching for rain I am old, the desert thinks to herself, I am old and tired and brown The skinny rivers are the tears I seldom cry They snake down my face, catching in the creases of age Moistening my dry, dry bones I am strong but desolate I am full of life yet alone How can I, a woman made of sandy leather, Inspire such awe and terror in the hearts of man? I have been here forever And here forever I shall stay. Past the ages of tall and metal towers Past the ages of screeching cars and smelly blacktop I will huddle low here in the parched dirt Stretching my wide body beneath the sun My grandmother fingers gnarled but tough The expanse of my bosom a place to call home. The dusty brown only responds in sandy, lonely whispers And the skeletons keep on reaching up and away.

ni

73 poetry

They Say yMan a Highwa is the Devil

The light traps a galaxy of smoldering skin flakes the size, shape, and color of day-old scabs, scouting and sorting, weighing them, lightest to heaviest, before roughly husking them skyward, shell of the body and soul and all, like sweat shop potatoes strewn in thin soup. I am but a common astronaut, craning my fragile neck to watch each cinnamon thin piece float timelessly across stretches of telescopic peach sky, as precious seconds diminish, as, over the gravel, red paws spin pebbles like chlorine tabs and crackers, making soft thumping noises, dancing dangerously over shallow walls of sharp teeth, ribs, and crooks of hinged kneecaps, until, at last, picking its way toward me, strides the sphinx boldly speaking. Who sent you? it warbles, eyes stonily glaring over rough but round cheeks, ground coarsely like wild corn. The words come fast and cold like spray paint from a twelve ounce can, as it rears back, shoulders folded and arms raised like gridded y-coordinates. Like a bruised eggplant, a bat adorns the crown of its curlicued hair. My misogynic eyes fix upon its lopsided breasts looming grotesquely above Suddenly, the stark glare subsides and Im again inside of an old 55 Chevy , watching desert fall farmers slash and burn the last of the summer crops. In the dark, I shiver, feeling as through rock were telling me to read more than roadmaps

Elizabeth Onate

Kelly McVey

Sonata fo
Six heads of Lenin grew on my piano. I had wanted to play etudes in barren minor keys, to flex the weight of dancing finger bones and flaming tendons in my hands, without a human thought or spark of need. But all I saw was Vlad, red glowing eyes, haloed and hallowed. If this is not the face of some desert saint, an ascetic burrowed deep in caves and all things crude and righteous, then I will never know such mystery or how I may be saved. So you, who stand a sweet ghost by the door, leave me now to my deep black and silence. Let me cling to chairs and cherries, my dark bed. May the quiet be full with the strange bleak callings of time, and the godly prophecies issued from glowing heads. They sing to me in something sweeter than music.

r Salvado

r Dali

75 poetry

th To Prefer

e Former

Anastasha Swaba

Virginity stolen with one baneful thrust-grating in and out motions gouge the child from a womans safe haven: Reality that your other has been with anotherbodies slithering in a sweaty adulterous mating ball: Life by the false pretense that tar spots staining your body are the signs, battle scars of enduring love: Father desecrating his little peach- plucking his childs youthful existence as she is left in a pool of defilement: Bloodshot eyes open to see that the world had not ceased spinningwhirling in a wind of inebriation as veins burn for that next fix. This is the purgatory Of the human condition Not the Hell Of eternal condemnation What a woeful yet blessed existence it must be, To prefer the former

Kimberly Keith Hush now; Leave your pli in the past. You steep in murder and my burnt sienna wings; fragile, stillhe came for you. You. Phthalo eyes in life: swollen maggots maw in death. Why not leave this place? There is nothing for you here. Nothing here. Just a husk: ripped ragged at the breast, life swirled out in vermillion and alizarin. Hurry now, time to take flighthe came for you. Stay, suffer as the daisy roots render fleshy fodder, endure the blood worms hunger such a sodden, sweet meal you make. If you stay.

You Stay A

live in Ar

Let go. Sweep the sepia skiesbecome immortal. Lie thererot, swell, bloat, and crumble. Only one chance lefthe came for you. Alive in oil-stained strokes, or lifeless here. For me, this choice does not matter. Many others can be found. Just as frail. Just as void. Decide

77 poetry

your fate. Make haste before the ribs cage you in, locked up; rigor mortis. How can you hope to perform an chapp nowhe came for you. In deaths embrace, you are nothing. Your arms supple once, become crois: as though holding mortal agony forever. Alight my back, sky dancer. Melt into me. Wings flutter. We are one, you and I. You: my crest, embracing sockets where phthalo putrefies to soured memory, stark against the ivory blackhe came for you. Art: a way to resuscitate the fallen; capture the Danse Macabre. Voracious teeth may not savor you here; a catalyst from your chrysalis, we become Deaths Head Moth.

79 poetry

Nonfiction

The greatest homage we can pay to truth is to use it. Ralph Waldo Emerson

Donald Weir

Question
My grandmother lives in a house on chicken legs with a fence all the way around it made out of childrens bones. She flies around at night cursing and hexing anyone who gets in her path. I never asked him why he married Grandmother. Grandpa lifted me up on his lap with his big, long hands and scolded me with a smile on his face, for being so old and still not knowing how to tie my shoes.

Lux Award Winner The best nonfiction writing is words in their rawest, truest and most real form. Donald Weirs piece Questions weaves strong, creative literary technique into a deeply personal story. It was chosen as the winning nonfiction submission because it tells a poignant and authentic narrative that teaches readers a valuable lesson.

I had been wandering in search of my moms help when he found me. Grandmothers big, dark house looked like it never made it out of the seventies. I could dimly hear my older sisters squeals and laughter as they played in the backyard and I was anxious to join them as soon as possible. At least you know how to put them on, right? Both of my plain white shoes rested on top of one of his large hands. I took one and with more struggle and force than skill jammed it onto the wrong foot. I guess not he said, taking it off. He loosened the laces and slipped it onto the right foot with an ease that decades of experience and practice bring. I learned how to tie my shoes that day, sitting on my grandpas lap listening carefully as he repeated the same instructions over and over. We practiced together till we got it right. I never asked him about his childhood. I loved to see my grandpa but I hated to visit his house in the summer because he lived with my grandmother. My dad left the van running as he unloaded our luggage from the back. My grandpa came out to greet us and helped him pile it all onto the front porch. Grandmother stayed inside the house. Dad kissed Mom, then got back in the van and left me there. There was a power my grandmother held over my mom and my grandpa. She had the ability to make them feel small and stupid whenever she wanted. For however long we stayed there, my mom was at the mercy of that power. My grandpa fought it the only way he knew how. He would spend all day outside of the house. I fought it too. I followed him everywhere. Gardening took up most of his day. There were squash, tomatoes, zucchini and a bunch of other things I didnt like to eat making perfectly straight rows in the small side yard. Whenever I talked to him, his eyebrows would rise up as high as they could go. I think he meant for his expression to come off as interested but to me he just looked surprised. He was very skinny, like my mom, but he was strong despite his frail appearance and just like my mom, he loved to go on walks. He had a funny way of walking that made him look like he was made entirely of knees and elbows. Everyone in his neighborhood was greeted with a smile and a wave.

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I never asked him what my mom was like while she was growing up. Even in the daytime our garage was never bright. On one side, a pile of our broken and semi-broken bikes made a mass of tangled handlebars, tires, and gears; on the other side my grandpa sat on a bucket working on my oldest sisters tenspeed. He worked miracles every time he came to visit us. Bikes long dead could easily be brought back to life in his hands. What bike do you want me to work on next? he asked, his eyebrows high. I knew exactly which one. I wanted him to fix my flat tire. I ran over and started peeling bikes apart with more struggle and force than skill. I cut my hand with a failed attempt to yank my little sisters bike out of the way. The blood was just starting to reach the surface when I held the cut up for him to inspect. His reaction startled me. The bucket he had been sitting on was knocked over as he jumped back and dropped the tool in his hand. It made a loud ringing noise that made me jump back as well. I put my hand down but still he wouldnt look anywhere near my direction. I never asked him about World War II, or jumping out of a plane on D-Day. The older I got, the easier it was for me to avoid visiting Grandmothers house. I could stay home by myself or go with my dad to stay with him and his brother if I chose to. Im nineteen and my Grandpa and Grandmother are visiting. I have four days before I get on a plane and leave for two years. Hell be gone by the time I get back. Hes already on his way. I walk downstairs into the living room and hes sitting on the couch by himself. The room is quiet. I sit down next to him and he turns and smiles at me. Grandpa, will you tell me about World War II? His eyebrows dont make their usual climb upward. He looks confused and he doesnt say anything. He turns and stares out the window. I dont press him. We sit in silence until his face clears and he looks over at me as if I just barely came in and sat down next to him. Grandpa, do you remember who I am?

Arthur Marcelo

Arthur an d the Wo Famous rld Red Bull & Ketel O ne

Born: December 25, 2001 Died: April 3, 2005 Cause of Death: A night of gleeful inebriation gone wrong. Throughout his adult life, Arthur had wished to move beyond his normal companion of Beer to something more adult, more refined if you will. High school parties, parents out-of-town weekend parties, and even at Bears games tailgating, Beer was always there. He was bored of immature and childish regulars. It was time to make a change to undiscovered country, Liquor. Sure he was young and brash, while Liquor was stronger and age tested but, he wanted more. He had an insatiable thirst that these ordinary Pilsners couldnt fulfill. He needed something that would keep him up (or keep up with him). One night while barhopping in Wrigleyville, after a breakup, he and his friends had decided it was time to move forward. This is the night he met her. As he sat on his barstool, he took a dry and long drag of his Marlboro Red. He exhaled slowly and quietly. Across the dimly lit bar, he saw her. Through the confusion of shadows of smoke and noisy din of what-some-call-music, a friend had brought her over. Immediately, he became enamored. Her beauty was something he had never seen. She was born of two different origins. Her clear complexion, thin figure, and mesmerizing aroma were obviously of Dutch descent. But, her contagious energy, bubbly resolve, and vibrant tang were interestingly enough, Austrian. As he touched her, he experienced something refreshingly different magical. ***It was on Christmas of 2001, she made him forget about all of his troubles. Things started off exceptionally. She made him forget about his two left feet and inability to perceive rhythm. He was more energetic and alive. Even that beloved beer belly started to disappear. Things were looking up, that is until morning. Somewhere between kismet and the next morning, he discovered that his credit card had been charged over $800.00 USD--and that was before he left his bedroom. In his living room were over 100 empty White Castle Hamburger boxes strewn all over the floor. His living room looked like the beach at Normandy on D-Day; only his friends were still alive and intact just passed out. A whistling came from the bathroom and a powdery, fruity feminine smell followed. His vision was garbled and his mind, a quagmire. When the faucet stopped, so did his heart. A beautiful young woman walked out of his bedroom with his t-shirt on. Oh Red Bull and Vodka What a wondrous elixir you were. Over four years, they became lovers. Actually, it was more of a Johns relationship with a prostitute than anything deeper or more real. Money was always involved and the next morning, she was never there. But her mark clearly was left. Headaches, empty fast food containers, and strangers in his apartment were a clear indicator of the debauchery of the night before. Regardless of the depleting weight

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of his wallet or vanishing funds from his bank account, his want became relentless and his desire unholy. Waiting with anticipation, night after ecstasy-filled night, the two were inseparable. However, on April 3rd of 2005 something went terribly wrong. After a night on the town, with his temptress, Arthur was still coherent and awake. Something was painstakingly unusual. What made tonight different than any other night? They both were enjoying an evening of fun but it just didnt feel the same. Is this the part of the relationship where the honeymoon ends? Is this the part of the relationship where certain private bodily functions become commonplace? Suddenly, there was a slight twinge in his chest. He found it difficult to breathe. His perspiration increased but never cooled him off. A pain ran down his left arm and his back became sore. And then, something happened. He woke up in the ER of Weiss Medical Center in Chicago. He had suffered a myocardial infarction, or in laymens terms, a major heart attack. As the nurse put a nitro pill under his tongue, the doctor inquired, Whats her name? With excruciating pain, her name labored from his lips, Ketel. Ketel n red. The next morning the doctor came in and said, Hello, Arthur. Im not going to tell you why youre here. You know why. But what you dont know is that you died twice actually. This relationship you have needs to end. NOW. That is, if you want to live. Could it be? Is it possible that what he had sought, for oh-so-long, brought his eventual demise? What once started out as a wonderful venture became a morbidly unhealthy addiction? He had to make a decision from this revelation. One can only surmise what truly was more important. It is true that his flirtation with wanton desire would surely lead to his end. That morning, what he and the filthy temptress had, ended with his death twice. He was 27 and never looked back He is survived by her memory, a broken ticker, and many great memories or the lack thereof.

Theres N
Lara El-Hoss

o Place L

ike Home

Grace and I walk into the Zara clothing store in Lyon, France. I wind through the throngs of peoples, past the nicely knit white blouses and dark blue jeans that I wish I could afford, and head straight for the clearance racks. There's nothing here that meets my fancy and so I follow Grace to a shoe table and wait for her while she examines the various styles. She's small, a bronzed Latina with long spiral curls, and, unlike me, very ladylike manners. She reaches for a pair of black ballerina shoes on the table and that is when it happens: I catch a sparkle of red to my left. I turn and stare, open mouthed and ecstatic. The sparkling ruby red flats I now covet are thin and bright, with a small leather bow at the toe end. They catapult me 15 years back, to a small, one story house in Mesa, Arizona. Our house was at the end of a cul-de-sac. The front yard was dull and brown and full of gravel, the only growth a large mesquite, but the large backyard was a comparative oasis, full of soft, green grass which my father tended to every Saturday morning. He planted orange and tangerine trees, whose tiny white blossoms filled the air with a sweet aroma. We also had sparkling pool, large and deep and seemingly endless. In the days before I started school, I watched Sailor Moon and Pirates of Dark Water in the morning, gobbling up a bowl of Lucky Charms, first eating all of the marshmallows, then the crunch, and finally drinking the rainbow colored milk straight from the bowl, it dripping down my chin and onto my pajama top. I would then get dressed in my usual outfit: A leotard, a very long red skirt, a shorter blue one, and an even smaller jean skirt, and my ruby slippers. I would grab my star wand and my sword, and Lara the Pirate Princess would venture out in the backyard to fulfill her destiny. Walking and sitting on the grass outside, I talked to myself, taking on the role of not only the pirate princess, but her father, mother, and friends. I whispered when I ducked in behind the orange trees, and whooped when I jumped out, running across the grass at a sprint. When I played in the front, I abandoned my long skirts and ruby slippers for a dirty t-shirt and shorts. Most of the time, I would run back and forth across the cul-de-sac with one sleeve of my shirt tucked under my armpit, pretending I was Pocahontas sprinting through the lush green forest of New England. Then, I would sprint back up the driveway with pitch black feet, and tip toe across the gravel to my mesquite tree. I climbed the tree, resting on the highest branch, and just lay there, relaxinguntil a person or two would walk by, passing underneath. I would then become a spy, trying to discern what they were saying and where they were going. Before dinner time, I washed up in the bath, and put on my usual layered skirts. I would walk down the long, dim hall until it opened back up into the living room.

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To the left, I entered the kitchen, noisy with chatter and fragrant with the smell of my dad's Lebanese cooking. Lemon, garlic, and thyme would fill my nostrils as I sat down eagerly to await dinner. I always had a glass of milk with dinner, as did my sister and my brother. I always felt a little different from them. Amber was very light skinned, with a freckled nose, golden blond hair, and big blue eyes and Omar had dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes. I was dark like my dad, my natural olive tone a deep brown during the summer. Despite the fact that they mostly ignored me, there were times we all played together. Our living room was a large, empty space, containing only a bookcase. On Saturday mornings when Omar and Amber were out of school, we would drag Amber's thick Minnie Mouse comforter off of her bed and into the living room. Taking turns, one of us would lay in the blanket, while the other two rolled them up in it, and tickled or sat on them. Then there were the times where we took the comforter outside. Our yellow lab Cody was very big, and had a very big dogloo (an igloo shaped dog house). After stuffing the dogloo with several pillows and the comforter, one of us would get inside it, while the other two rolled it around on the wet grass. I still remember climbing into the big, gray dogloo, and taking one last look at the backyard before cuddling into the blanket and getting jolted around. One morning, I put on my favorite red dress and my ruby slippers, and took a walk around the pool. I delighted in hearing the soft click click of my shoes against the cool deck. I was walking by the shallow end of the pool and rounding a curve when my feet slipped on the edge of the deck, causing me to fall in. The first few seconds were disorienting, but the water was warm. An adept swimmer, I quickly found the surface and climbed out, soaking wet, calling to my parents. They weren't very upset at all, as they were used to me getting dirty and messy a lot of the time. However, my mom told me that my shoes had to be thrown away, because the chlorine had ruined them. At this, I cried. My ruby slippers were my favorite shoes, and it was hard to let my mom take them. Soon thereafter, when I was eight, my parents divorced, and my dad and brother moved to Pennsylvania. My mom, Amber and I moved into a small, two bedroom apartment. Nothing was ever the same. Lara! Are you ready to go? Grace's softly accented English brings me back to the present. Oh yeah, I'm going to get these real quick, I say, rummaging through the pile of shoes until I find the right size. I slip them on quickly to make sure they fit. To my delight, they do. I wait in a long line and pay 45 Euro for my little shoes, giving away every last centime happily.

Kelly McVey

On the L
I. University and Rural

ight Rail

In a Station of the Metro The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough. Ezra Pound Though I suppose that reading poetry will never make me any money, it has given me one advantage in life: I can turn even the most mundane situation into something effete and vaguely snobby. I'm late to work at Rosie's House, a nonprofit that give music lessons to underprivileged kids, and only on the rail because my tire was either slashed or exploded in the sun. I am in a dreadful mood. I think of Pound and his rainy day homage to Paris, and as curly hair wilts and my white shirt slowly grows see-through from sweat, his poem becomes a demented joke. Have you seen the faces in this crowd, Ezra? We are not quivering petals. A woman across from me fans herself with a copy of the New Times, two bros in khaki shorts guzzle water as they discuss how to best cheat in business school, and the poor redhead to my right has looks like she might faint. I sit under this dreadful sun, toying with these melting faces and Pound's poem. I correct it: In a Station of the Valley Metro These faces on the light rail; Candles in a hot, bright hell. Kelly McVey Yes. That's it. *** Self-doubt, as always, slips in a moment later. I suppose my little poem game was mean and over-dramatic, but it's been a long year and I'm still kind of raw. It began soon after Paris a cellist most of my life and music major, the occasional burning pains in my shoulder became a nasty string of injuries; a few months of physical therapy helped, but eventually push came to shove. Things could never quite be the same, in terms of playing. Though I had changed majors over the summer, before the extent of damage was known, the news was a devastation. For a long, cold season I grew aimless and thin. But now it is late September. I am older and wiser and things are once more good. Just, now and then small things dredge up old bitterness. A childish, selfpitying mantra rings in my head: Late to your new job, McVey. Cell phone dead and tires slashed. An aching, useless shoulder on top of it all...

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II. Mill and 3rd Street The first thing you learn, when you are no longer playing an instrument for seven hours a day: there are so many people in the world who are not you. Here at the stop a man wheels in on a Jazzy scooter. It's pimped out with an American flag with a painted bald eagle and a license plate that says, I'm deaf, but I'm also ignoring you. He is balding, but his hair is white and long; he wears a baseball cap that says native on the back. He smokes one of those plastic nicotine faux-cigarettes and exits at the dog tracks. I sit and can't stop staring. I suppose he might be happy, and judging from his license plate, he certainly has some sass. But you can't help but feel pity- there is something so sad, and it is plain that he is not in good health. He makes me think of all the advantages, how many good things I have had in my life. Good health, and family who love me. Good friends. I can't imagine ever growing old and alone in this heat, but who knows what life can hit you with. And for all I know, I remind myself, he might be happy. I watch him wheeling away. The heat is horrible today. He looks about sixty. I don't know whether I should laugh or cry. III. Sky Harbor A student from China in jeans and a black polo sits straight up in his seat, clutching his backpack on his lap. A beefy old American man in a yellow polo enters the train, squeezes in next to him, and informs him that he is sightseeing Phoenix. The Chinese student gives a shy laugh. The man then proceeds to initiate conversation. He has nowhere to go for the next six hours, and figures this is the cheapest form of entertainment. The student laughs awkwardly again. The man keeps him in conversation, asking about life as a student and China. The student's English is broken, but he obliges the man; the man informs him that China has a promising future. At this point the student belly laughs. Maybe if we get the right government, he responds. I don't mean to listen to the man's whole conversation, but after a while I almost can't help it. He brings up the big questions, the kind I tried to skirt in all my hours of cello practice. Questions like, How do you become a thoughtful person? How do you keep yourself in line when there is no one to watch over you, when you are the only authority? I stare at this man, old enough to be wise, acting like a fool. If only adulthood came with a guide to let you know when you have become pompous and old and unaware as those you once ridiculed in your youth. Of course, life isn't that easy you have to work these things out for yourself, summoning the courage on your own. And here in the train, outside my world of abstraction, the man continues on as the student grows more and more uncomfortable. I want to stop and save him;

instead I put my in headphones and listen to Wilco. I can't listen to the man embarrass himself much more. IV. Washington and 22nd Street A father and his three children step on. The father is morbidly obese with greasy hair tied back into a ponytail, and black crucifix tattoos all down his arms. His face is harsh he could have been a cholo when he was young. The children follow him like ducks, looking like they just stepped out of church, the girls in their Sunday best and patent leather shoes, the son dressed neatly as his father's miniature. I don't hear what they say because my headphones are firmly in place and the beefy American is still questioning the student. I mean to ignore them and stare out the window, but the youngest girl sits next to me and I can't help but look at her -- she can't be more than five years old. I've never been the sort to fawn over little children, but my maternal instinct kicks in at the sight of her perfect braided pigtails. It's funny, but until I mostly stopped playing cello, I never cared much for children. I had my music and the thought of working with or ever having children was a distraction at best, a nightmare at worst. If you had told me two years ago that I would work with kids, I'd have laughed at you. But in that long winter, when my shoulder ached and I did not play and I was without a sense of direction, I finally understood a sonnet from Shakespeare: From fairest creatures we desire increase/ That therefore beauty's rose might never die. Things happen, and life can be ugly. And though often exasperating, children are a kind of eternal renewal, a reminder that life is short and yet so dear and beautiful. I look at the girl once more. I want to touch her smooth black hair and tell her how pretty she looks in her blue sun dress, how there could be nothing more precious in the world than the little leather bows on her shoes. I don't do any of this, of course. I simply smile at her once and then gaze out the window. I catch her staring at the embroidered roses on my shoes. V. Central and McDowell This is my exit, and I push my way out of the car. I am back in the sun once more, heading toward the street in a crush of people. I ready myself to go into work, to set up tables and memorize children's names, to monitor volunteers and open the doors. As I hurry through the crowd a handsome teenage Latino walks past me, and it takes a while to register that he has a terrible gimp. A mother pushes her round-cheeked baby in a ratty stroller. A grizzled white man smokes a pipe. For a brief moment, I miss the little family from the train. As I stand waiting to cross the street, I once more become a face in the crowd. Though the weather is still awful I once again remember why I find the Valley and all of its strange inhabitants beautiful. Maybe we really are petals, all fighting to bloom beneath this sun.

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A Stolen

Glance

Amanda Hunt

Amanda, age 8: As he carelessly lies sideways on the small chair in Starbucks, his eyes move visibly across his three-inch-thick book titled, The Philosophy of Time Travel. Although his eyes are hidden behind thick black-framed specks, you can see his big brown eyes bugging out from under them. He has fine, wavy black hair that hangs over the side of the armrest and resembles a bird nest I saw on my walk here. His long, slender neck elegantly connects to his broad shoulders and bulging biceps. The blue tank top he wears hangs off his body, revealing a preview of almost his entire side. Had he been a lady, his entire breast would be hanging out the armpit hole of his skimpy tank top. His legs dangle over the side of the chair, same as his hair, creating a U shape. His high-top Chuck Taylors sway from front to back, back to front, almost falling off his heels. I bet Momma would tell him to tie his shoes in bows like mine. I was almost sure he was an alien, imagining his own galaxy, when a girl walks in with almost a twin demeanor and his eyes are now bugged on her like they were on his philosophy book. He sits up, still leaving his pointer finger as a page holder, and wraps his hands around her ears giving her a kiss that is almost impolite in public. Her body falls loose, and for a second she was sucked into that foreign world in which he lives. By now I realize I am staring, and Momma says staring is rude, so I look away but smile to myself because they dont see anything but each other. Just as I start to think about how much those two looked like my Barbie and Ken dolls when I make pretend weddings for them, Momma shakes my hand and tells me its time to order. I look up at the pretty lady behind the counter and notice her shiny red fingernails. I get a warm fuzzy inside my stomach; Im not sure if its from the thick smell of coffee that fills the room or because my turtleneck is starting to make me sweat. My frozen cappuccino is made and we wait for Mommas hot cappuccino with whole milk. I watch her as she slowly takes off the lid and closes her eyes to take the first sip. I try and do the same but the ice chunks slide up my nose, giving me an instant brain freeze. By now I have already forgotten about the couple inside, and I hop from square to square trying not to step on any cracks. Amandas mom, 1997: It is almost Christmas, and my stress level is at the annual high; it is to be expected, it happens every year. I try not to grumble at my irritations of the hustle and bustle because I know Amanda loves the season. It takes us twice as long as normal to get to the coffee shop because she is suddenly obsessed with hopping from one foot to the other trying not to step on the cracks. I can feel myself picking up the pace looking forward to my warm cup of much needed caffeine, when she tugs my hand and says, Mom, you gotta hold tight! I suddenly remember to enjoy her youthful innocence.

Amanda, age 19: It is a few days before Christmas and I can hardly contain my excitement. I have to physically control my pace while walking to my favorite childhood coffee shop. As I turn the corner I feel as if I should put my hands over my eyes to block the view of an anticipated present; and there he is. His almostempty iced caramel macchiato sits sweating on the table next to him, developing a wet ring on the cherry oak wood. My mom would have a fit over the lack of a coaster on such a beautiful piece of furniture. His black hair hangs over the arm of the sofa chair and it reminds me of our deep conversations lying in cool grass with summers freckles painted on our cheeks. He sits sideways portraying his inner desire to remain a twelve year old, and wears his favorite blue tank top regardless of the cold winter air. I nearly collide with the entrance door. I get a warm fuzzy Im not sure if its from the memory of my mom and I here inhaling the thick java aroma, or from the desire in his eyes as I steal his glance. I notice his calloused index finger slide between the pages of his book. He greets me by cupping his hands around my ears pulling me in so close that I almost check to see if anyone is watching. Falling limp, I interrupt the impolite kiss with a grateful blushing smile.

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gK Forgettin

ansas

Dustin Diehl

I stood in the bay window of the house, running my fingers over sheets of watercolor paper. Dozens of pages lay scattered across the coffee table and on the back of the piano. They were flat on the edges and warped where the paint had formed trees and flowers. I wiggled my toes inside my uncomfortably thick socks. Id spent countless summers in this old house, the house my mother had grown up in, the farm house that belonged to my grandmother and granddad. The white limestone gleaming in the muggy sun, the screen door that banged viciously every time it closed. I felt like I knew this house, and its occupants. But this this was something different, something out of place. Despite the worn carpets and squeaking stairs, my grandparents house could never be described as cluttered. Everything had its place, and my grandmother made sure things remained there. Seeing the room littered with unorganized piles of paper made me feel uneasy. I couldnt help but wonder if the state of disarray was a reflection of my grandmothers state of mind. Or, more accurately, my granddads state of mind. I didnt want to be there. Kansas was so far away from Arizona, and it felt unfamiliar in the winter, without the smoke-belching combines and the smell of wet dirt and wheat kernels. Everything seemed gray and lifeless, incomplete. But it was more than just the distance or the weather that was the cause of my discomfort. It was the fact that my granddad was lying in a hospital bed because he could no longer recognize my grandmother, because he would eat pens and pencils, nuts and bolts, because he would wake up screaming that he was surrounded by strangers and just wanted to go home. But this is his home. Picking up a magazine from the couch cushion, I sat. As I flipped through the pages, the creased spine opened to an article entitled, Ways to Prevent Alzheimers. I skimmed one of the columns: Play board games like Scrabble or memory games. I closed the magazine with a slap. Was knowing the parts of a combine engine, knowing how to shoe a horse, knowing how to plan acres of wheat crop not enough of a memory game to prevent the decay of Granddads mind? Were gonna head to the hospital now. My mom walked into the room, her furry red scarf draped across her tight-fitting leather jacket. Purple earrings swung lazily from her ears, framing her narrow face. Ok. Dont forget your purse. I saw it on the barstool. Oh, yeah, thanks. She stopped, taking a look around the room. Wow, look at that. Mom leafed through a stack of paintings on the artist table. Looks like Grandmothers been painting, I understated.

 She has a lot of time on her hands. Shes lonely, she added, almost as an afterthought. She straightened the stack of paintings and headed for the porch. K, lets go. Mom. What, honey? She turned, hand on the doorknob. Your purse? Oh, yeah, gosh. She brushed past me and headed for the kitchen. I glanced at the magazine I had tossed aside. I knew I might have been paranoid, but I wondered if my mom should start playing Scrabble, if she should take up crossword puzzles. She was a lot like her dad. Small in stature, with a big smile and an even bigger heart. They both lamented the fact that they werent smart. I always got mad at Mom when she said she was dumb. Sure she wasnt a bookworm or a math whiz, but self-deprecation was never flattering. Granddad would mix his metaphors and Mom would always laugh, saying, I say the same thing! Like father like daughter. Except now, I worried the similarities werent so humorous. I was the first one to reach the hospital door. I rushed inside, happy to discover a welcoming blast of hot air. The stamping of boots and rustle of heavy coats followed me into the hospital as my mom, dad, brother and sister entered through the sliding glass door. Where the light outside was gray, the hospital was brilliant white. Exposed light tubes reflected against white tiles, making me squint. The air was thick with cleaning supply fumes and the metallic bite of hospital-smell. I could taste it too. I shut my mouth and unconsciously ran my tongue over my teeth. Mom took the lead, my brother, sister and dad behind me. The door labeled 224 looked wide and heavy. I expected an earth-shattering creak, but I was surprised it opened without a whisper. Everything was so quiet. Grandmother was sitting on an empty bed, a worn Bible spread across her legs. Her hair was shorter than the last time I had seen her, whiter. She wore a comfortable-looking sweater; a small watch pendant hung from a silver chain against her chest. Granddad slept in the bed against the wall; his cheeks were sunken, the tendrils of remaining gray hair spread haphazardly against his pillow. I repressed a grimace and turned towards my grandmother. She looked up as we entered, and her paper-thin lips curled into a smile. But her eyes swam with unsmiling tears. Putting the Bible gently aside, she stood, blinking furiously. Nice to see you, her voice was soft and cracked and she hugged me tightly. She feigned excited greetings for the rest of my family as we made our way into

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the room. I sat at the foot of the hospital bed, careful not to disturb my sleeping granddad. Sitting on my frigid hands, I could feel the scratchy hospital blanket against my fingers. How could these goddamn blankets be comfortable? I was uncomfortable, this whole situation was uncomfortable. This was the last place on earth I wanted to be. Kansas, the farm house, the wheat fields, these places held good memories, entire summers of horseback riding and watermelon eating. But this hospital room was the farthest thing from those memories. It was cold and Granddad was dying. This was not how I wanted to remember him. Emaciated, delusional, demented. This was not my granddad. Even though I could see him in the bed, right next to me, I couldnt believe it was him. My mom took the sole chair in the room, crossing her legs, her pointed boot toe staring right at me. The chair sagged and creaked ominously. My sister laughed and made a farting joke. I laughed because I couldnt think of anything else to do. I felt awkward, sitting there next to the wilted figure in the bed. Granddad had slept most of the time we were there. The nurse came in around five oclock to give him some medication and to bring dinner. It actually looked pretty good, surprisingly. He acted like he knew all of us, but I knew nothing about the horses I had apparently brought him the day before and last I checked my sisters name was Skylar, not Martha. I felt embarrassed. Everyone was smiling and going along with it, trying to brush it off as no big deal. Skylar got him to do his Donald Duck voice. He remembered that, but he kept looking past Grandmother, asking when his wife was coming to take him home. Grandmother seemed to be the only one not pretending. Im your wife, Carol, and we cant go home right now. Her voice was hard, tired, as if shed said this same thing hundreds of times before. Wheres Joan? he looked at her blankly. His lucid moments were almost more awkward then his delusional ones. I could steel myself against unintelligible mumblings and crazy stories that didnt make any sense, but when I glimpsed the real Granddad, the one who used to crack jokes and chew toothpicksit was almost as if he was the stranger, the one that didnt belong there. Because he didnt. My granddad didnt belong in a hospital, his mind slowly leaking into the hard mattress of a sick bed. But this shell, this wrinkled, quiet man, he belonged here. The ride back was quiet, the fading sun sinking, bloated, into the black spines of leafless trees. So, does anyone want to say anything? my dad asked, filling in the silence.

All Ive gotta say is you better kill me, I said, pulling my seatbelt tighter against my chest. There is no way Im gonna go through something like this. Its cruel and unusual. Yeah, Mom nodded slowly, staring vacantly at the floorboards, I think youre right. What if it was Grandmother going through this? Dad asked. I knew the question was directed to anyone willing to answer, but I felt he was really asking me; I think he knew Id been thinking about this, and if I hadnt been so disinclined to speak about serious matters with my family, I would have probably been the one to ask the question. I answered, It would be a lot harder. Without shifting her gaze, Mom asked, Why is that? It would be harder if it was Grandmother instead of Granddad? Well, yeah Grandmother is so intellectual; she relies so heavily on her mind that it would be really hard to see that go. I love Granddad, but hes always been kind of a goof; its not too weird seeing him act strange or disoriented. I picked my words carefully; I knew Mom related to Granddad more. I didnt want my words to hurt her. I stared at the back of Moms head, trying to gauge her reaction to what I had said Was she mad? Hurt? Was she worried, thinking back on all those times she had compared her absent-mindedness to her dad? I couldnt tell if she was worried, but I knew that I was worried. The same way I refused to believe Granddad could be lying in a hospital bed like that, I would refuse to believe my mom could ever be in that situation. I was angry. I was angry that Granddad was being forced to die miserably, I was angry that we all had to witness it. And I was angry at Mom. Angry that she compared herself so closely with her dad, angry that she forgot her purse on the barstool, angry that she mixed her metaphors. I joined my mom and stared, mesmerized by the chalky dirt road rolling towards us. Despite my anger, I couldnt help but notice Moms strength. Here she was, dealing with it head-on, helping Grandmother. But who was helping her? I wondered if Id be strong, like her. I wondered if Id be able to juggle work and family and disease like her. I hoped I would. I supposed those would be the memories I would hold onto, the memories I wouldnt forget.

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ce wi king Pea Ma

th Peter

Stephanie Spence

Relationships with anyone can be complicated and challenging, but my relationship with my father was non-existent. It had been twenty-five years since I had spoken to him. Sitting on my patio with an envelope in my hand with his return address on it was shocking enough. The anticipation of opening the envelope to see what he had written inside was electric. As a 47 year-old, the weight and amazement of reading the words I am sorry I failed you as a father was mind blowing. I sat staring at the letter. Do I answer it? What would I say? The last time we had spoken I wasnt even calling him Dad, just Peter. Peter was abusive. Peter was abrasive. Peter was a jerk. Peter was my father. I wrote back explaining that I was open to the idea of speaking, but that I needed time to adjust to my new life and then I would contact him. I had just moved across the country after a divorce and the grief I was experiencing was just about all I could handle. The idea of speaking to my father after all that time was more than I could deal with, but after six months I decided I was ready. I called one Sunday as I walked my dog and was surprised at how much I liked hearing his voice. He was gracious, blunt and full of gratitude for me calling. How could I resist when he said, Come up and see us. I want to give you the chance to say anything you need to me. I want to apologize to you in person. Please come! So I packed up the car and my dog and headed to Colorado. The long drive up gave me a lot of time to reflect on the monster I had lived with. He was an air traffic controller by profession and worked odd hours. When he was at the house I learned to disappear because he was either angry or distant. A real taskmaster I was given challenging chores at a very young age. I was expected to help because the message he sent was that I was a burden. Because of his shift work he slept sometimes during the day and when he did we had to be extremely quiet. One peep and he would whip us with a belt. The belt was never far from my mind. Any small infraction of the rules and the belt would come out. The worst part of the beatings was that we had to go and get the belt ourselves. The long walk from the living room to his closet to select the belt was the worst torture. Standing in the closet looking at them I would try and gauge the width of the belt in relation to how bad it was going to hurt. Before he struck me he would say, This is going to hurt me more than it is going to hurt you. I wasnt even allowed to be the one in pain; he was given that honor. As the years progressed I started to panic at the thought of him even coming home. I stayed outside most of the time. Avoiding him at dinner was unacceptable. The table had to be set perfectly and if a water glass was missing or a fork out of place he would explode in a rage. Every drop of food had to be eaten or we could not leave the table. I would sit at the table sometimes till late into the night. It took me well into my twenties to learn to leave a speck of food on my plate.

Over the years when questioned as to why I did not speak to my father I would always tell the puppy story. When I was around two or three we were driving my grandfather home from the hospital with a puppy in the car. My father kept saying, Keep the puppy in the back, it is bothering Papa. My brothers and I would try but the puppy kept sneaking around the seat till finally my father said, Thats it! and pulled the car over. He yanked the puppy out of the car by the scruff of its neck and put it in the trunk. It yelped for a while but once quiet we pulled the car over again. We all got out to see the dead dog. We put it in a box on a little creek and watched it float away. I internalized that gruesome act because I saw his message as, do what I say or Ill throw you in the trunk. I was petrified of the man. Once my mother finally had the guts to divorce him, I was eight years old. All of us started working to help my mother. In my teens he was around some, but you could always tell it was not something he wanted to be doing. The last I had spoken to him was at twenty-four. I had decided that my life was better of without him. It was. As I pulled into the gravel driveway I saw people on the porch. Tired from the eleven-hour drive to his house I spied him immediately. It was his walk. My father walks with a shift in his gait that comes from his hips in a jerky way because of a motorcycle accident thirty years ago. The elevated shoe he uses works for all intents and purposes, but I also know what his leg looks like underneath the jeans he is wearing. Scarred and freakish, his leg looks like a shark has mangled it. I may not have seen that walk in twenty-five years, but the visual image of him moving across the porch, down the stairs and towards my approaching car was comforting. I had spent the last eleven hours wondering how I would feel at this very moment. All those questions disappeared and I pulled forward, anxiously anticipating hearing his voice again. I stopped, put the car in park and opened the door. Hello Stephanie, my father said. Welcome to Colorado. I moved closer and hugged him. I looked over his shoulder and saw the smiling face of my stepmother, Sarabeth. She has a very distinct giggle and slight squeal when she is happy. Her Texas drawl came through clearly as she said, Come on up on the porch, darlin, and have a drink. I am not nervous at all, but the immensity of the moment is there. The weight of the moment is there big time. The surprise is that I feel like Im home like very little time has passed. The next four days were spent saying everything we needed to say to each other. I said my fill. He said his. We made up. It was all that the little girl that still lives in me could hope for.

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Although he has stage III cancer, he seems optimistic and never mentions being sick unless I bring it up. Straightforward as all get out, he and I discuss everything and anything. I like that about him. I missed that about him. I never really understood wish-washy in people and I must have learned to appreciate bluntness from him. Since re-connecting with my father, family and friends have asked me what it was like. How do I describe someone I really am just getting to know? Without speaking to him for the last quarter century I am just forming an opinion. Ive learned that he was right when he used to say we were just alike. I used to hate that but now I am making peace with that idea. I walked away a long time ago blaming him for my bad qualities, like his, yet never really giving him credit for my good qualities that were similar to his. He and I both have a wicked sense of humor, a strong work ethic, a strong clear voice, fearlessness and strength. I needed all those qualities in my last year of change. I drew upon them again and again. I feel a little less alone now that I have welcomed him back in to my life. Cancer and time had softened him. Still intense, yet a newfound sense of peace had really changed his expression. Grey hair could explain the physical outward appearance looking softer, but it was more than that. The black eyes remained the same, but the anger in them was gone. A once-full head of dark brown hair was now gone too. Sparse tufts of grey covered his crown now. The real beauty about this tale is that this new relationship has nothing to do with appearance. It is all about substance, connection and making up for lost time. My father called me recently to go over his will. I think he is tired of the fight or maybe he has received news that the treatments are not going well. He was serious on the phone and I told him that I would be there for Sarabeth because I now understand what it is like to lose someone. He said it was the greatest gift I could give him. I want more time now. Time to get to know this man, my father.

Lux Acknowledgements Barrett, The Honors College Mark Jacobs, Dean Margaret Nelson, Vice Dean David Pickus, Honors Faculty Fellow Kristen Nielsen, Assistant Dean Denise Minter, Events Coordinator Keith Southergill, Student Support Coordinator Ashley Irvin, Program Coordinator Elizabeth Weese, Development Coordinator Melody Philipp, Office Assistant Erika Ladewig, Business Manager Sarah Berguetski, Office of the Dean

Additional Thanks ASU Undergraduate Student Government ASUs Print & Imaging Lab When in AZ Music Compilation

In this volume
The ASU Concert Jazz Band A Nice Place to Visit Adam Simon Afsheen Farhadi Amanda Hunt Amber Gudaitis Anastasha Swaba Andrea Garza Anthony Cinquepalmi Antonio Villanueva Armando Peralejo Arthur Marcelo The Bad Cactus Brass Band Ben Isaiah Ben Varosky Brandon Burris Brian Brown Brittany Nopar Captain Squeegee Carina Clark Charles Kelhoffer Dan Puccio Dayna Bartoli Donald Weir Dry River Yacht Club Dustin Diehl Elizabeth Agans Elizabeth Onate Elyse Mele Eric Stout Haley Coles Hannah Wiesenhofer Jacquelyn Donaldson John-Michael P. Bloomquist Julie Mikelson Justin Mack Kelly McVey Kevan Nymeyer Kimberly Keith L. Grayson Lindsey Lara El-Hoss Lisa Bryson Lori Davis Mary Bausano Max Bronner Michael Begay Michael Kocour Michael Markowski Michelle Grams Noah N Nipperus Noel Tamez Pei Pei Kao Pete Pearson Sarah Guck Spencer Hanvik Stephanie Sparer Stephanie Spence Terri Valencia Trent Bowen Tugboat Victoria Miluch William LeGoullon