ir ~\ ~y ...... n "' '-~ loneliness loneliness illustration john thompson 9 krista cox love song for recovering codependent he thought he had loved her as a drowning man loves the boat-mistress reaching with her sure-fingered oar, but as they capsized, seasoned by the gnawing salt of the atlantic, arms and oars impotent, he knew he loved her as a drowning man loves a drowning woman, weary, fish-breathed and failing, content to waltz helpless into the inky, starless night 123190 iusb analecta 2014-15 body v3 proof %281%29.pdf samantha plute desert sprouts 44 jacob jones home in a coupc i drink from a wwii canteen, and wear clothes from 4th grade. the older the cheaper. at the grocery store bartering, you buy cheap, i take expired. i rub against pine trees, to capture the fresh scent. i don't just count my pennies, i make investments, in chicken stock, and 100 grand candy bars. i do hygiene in public bathrooms. my dentist is a mirror, floss, some thread. my toothbrush doubles on my head. lost a job for workers comp. had six kids as tax write offs. claimed asthma as a handicap, to get a better parking spot. i sell sod from others lawns. and use rubber gloves as condorr because it's a five for one. my showers are from the rain, my baths from the lake. have you ever missed menstruation? have you ever longed to recapture it? exorcise the demons of that sacred place that some label dark and dank like a haunted cave; send forth gallons of crimson lining when the anger overwhelms like a liquid primal scream; provide the mouth of a river to increase the life force flow into a gratifying flood? tonight, in the dark a girl cries with shamethe blood came for the first time and the whole class saw it. but thousands of years ago, in the dark the witch women of the moon laughed/ danced/ sang, giving thanks for what stained the ground beneath bare feet. cultivation by colleen card plant me bare between tilled rows of seedling wheat and fill my mouth with marrow of earth. let rain deluge my pores and flood my veins till hidden seeds burst and curl and pierce through layers of flesh to blossom in bright red drops beneath the aching sun. 2 poetry farmer's market. we thumb our r at doilies, baked goods, radishes­ torhanya calls: gold nugget nibs of noodles homemade by hands that await usthe hungarians. a dash of paprika-red freckles speckle the liver-spots of his knowing hands. unfurling like the gnarled knots of tree roots they knead, fo ld, and knead the dumpling dough. atop a leather stool his grandson perches, pinching off dough for the drying. still pinching, he winks at the wrinkled wad of ones i thrust out for the torhanya. apple-plump and apple-sweet shin yellow vidalia while scores of garlic cloves hang poised for the undead dice both fine ly. salvation costs a crumpled dollar. bowed down to the mother-herb, ' flat leaf, not italian talia reed man on bicycle 24 jason silveus carrying i wondered where the danger went. and think of the devil. this is what they call vengeance. i did ask for it. even missed my dirty friend. this is the rock that is my blanket novi heavy. and crushing. i speak too much. i think too much. i ~ i have. and don't share. if you're looking for violence, i've go1 but it costs. this is how they get you. i wondered where the danger went. and speak of the devil. this is what they call vengeance. 25 age of ... / cultivation/ budapest's best analecta farmer's market. we thumb our noses at doilies, baked goods, radishes­ torha nya calls: gold nugget nibs of noodles homemade by hands that await usthe hungarians. a dash of paprika-red freckles speckle the liver-spots of his knowing hands. unfurling like the gnarled knots of tree roots they knead, fold, and knead the dumpling dough. atop a leather stool his grandson perches, pinching off dough for the drying. still pinching, he winks at the wrinkled wad of ones 1 thrust out for the torhanya. apple-plump and apple-sweet shines one yellow vidalia while scores of garlic cloves hang poised for the undead. dice both finely. salvation costs a crumpled dollar. bowed down to the mother-herb, we glean flat leaf, not italian budapest's best laurel wiederman-bieschke 3 ' to be scrubbed clean until squeak-worthy, until emerald leaves streak green my knife hand. pepper with parsley. don't forget the paprika, lots of hungarian paprika: budapest's best­ a squat tin can of sweet, wax-bodied red peppers dried in ruby strands. untitled by bill mcc/ain i am really athletic and right-handed made of wood you are short and sweet and rubber banded and that's pretty good see i don't wanna wanna don't wanna do the things i should everyone else is evil fuckers we're just misunderstood i'm thinking about purchasing a megaphone, some new clothes angling for the motherlode looking for something new to loathe, something ugly l can grow something red that really goes you are skinny and pretty and pretty handy 1 am just skinny and nobody understands me 1 would die for ice cream and l would die for porn queens i would die to be interesting i would love to be anything 4 poetry you use me up like you smoke a cig: breathing me in only to blow me oc turning me into ashes you transform into a light brocade, unraveling at the slightest touch oft stub me out when you've had enou or when you've smoked me to my fi and you just can't stand my taste anymore. maybe this t ime you'll stomp me ou once l hit the pavement with a barely audible thud, scraping your boot, making me leave my innards in a trail on the asphalt. no matter how i'm disposed of, be it fire-down in sand, or sp layed on the cement, or sp it on and tossed in the garbage, or thrown out of the car window, my embers fleeing from my body with the force of the speed you are t you will leave me wherever i end up, and walk away without a second tho 6 affl)[ p;:in i.iv junvijuii i.iv ·.n 1101~ ,c 89 contributors’ notes j.b. adams is an undergrad at indiana university, south bend, majoring in english with a concentration in creative writing. his first book bump was published in 2014, with a revised edition coming fall 2015. he lives in mishawaka with his wife jenn, and their three cats, mumu, charlie, and boi. amanda barnett is soon to graduate. she likes long adventures in the woods and backyard reading on luscious blades of grass. she is a staff writer for the preface. her poetry may ruin your life. jeffrey barrick is a bfa student who enjoys a cross-disciplinary approach working in painting, drawing, and printmaking. barrick’s work runs the gamut from representational to abstract. additionally, he also currently works as the master scenic artist of the raclin school of the arts theatre. krista cox is a senior english major who lives in granger with two precious patience-testers (children) and works in south bend with three of them (lawyers). her poetry has appeared in words dance, scissors & spackle, and melancholy hyperbole. her okcupid profile is a work of creative literary genius. chad r. forbregd uses all ten fingers when praying. niall garvin is a senior at iu south bend where he studies english and french. he wrote his first poem at age eight. thankfully, it is lost to the ages. this is his third appearance in analecta. crystal gee is a senior from michigan. she adores landscape photography, modern british literature, and star fruit. ashley hochstetler is a sculptural artist driven by the untamed wilds and unending possibilities of existence. after the rejection from hogwarts the indiana native enrolled in iusb to refine her artistic ability and broaden her perceptions of the world. outside of her studies she enjoys jumping off goombas and impromptu dance with her toddler. savannah hope still as eight baby teeth, beside the fact that she can’t lose her teeth, she can’t lose her unfledged disposition, which has caused the freshman to jump from major to major. apart from her studies she finds peace in photographing the outdoors and hiking the michiana area with her chocolate lab named sully. 90 jennifer jones is a writer, a student, a mother, a daughter, a feminist, and a book hoarder who loves old dictionaries, weird reference books, cozy sweaters, laughing until her stomach hurts, teacups, and the occasional good long rant. tracy korn is a ma graduate who has excavated buffalo bones in tornado alley (during a tornado), barfed behind madrid’s royal palace, and been envious of her best friend’s blue toilet water. when she is inevitably shanghaied onto tlc’s what not to wear, she hopes to remember “everything is writable about…” cassie laforest is an average twenty two year old with not so average daydreams. in her academic endeavors, she has recently student taught and will graduate in may. in her rare spare time endeavors, she likes reading, writing, listening to alternative music, hanging with aaron quist, and going to chicago. samantha lewis is a twenty-seven year native of the dirt roads and cornrows of northern indiana. she spends most of her days catching snapping turtles and small mouth bass amidst the cattails of chapman lake. she has two dogs, a small collection of vinyl records and an unhealthy hatred for semicolons. ann marie lindgren is a prodigy bookseller for barnes and noble. she can find almost any book without the title or author’s last name. she studies english literature and creative writing at indiana university south bend. she will go on to graduate this spring where she will proceed to file bankruptcy, go on welfare, and have lots of children. she did not choose the american dream, for indeed, the american dream chose her. nichole m.k. lindhorn is a midwestern twenty-something who is probably somewhere drawing or eating pickles. elizabeth miley is studying secondary education with a concentration in english. david dodd lee inspired her to write poetry after taking a few of his courses at iu south bend. other than writing poetry she likes to thrift shop, create diy projects, and walk man-made nature parks. chad morgan is a student, writer, and blogger in south bend. his work has appeared in hair trigger and big ugly review. he still adores mariah carey. diane passero is climbing closer to a bachelor’s degree in english and a certificate in writing. her favorite genres are flash fiction and poetry with a pull toward prose poetry. in addition to being a student, she has a husband, several children, cats, moluccan cockatoo, tarantula and various fish, which often inspire her writing. 91 aaron quist’s – aka sir mr. sweet john mary de la beatlemania (the 1965th) – passion for the beatles and women by the name of cassandra laforest keeps his writing dreams alive. in his academic endeavors, he has just finished “learnin’ the students sum english” during his student teaching at discovery middle school, and will graduate in may. aaron aspires to be a writer in the future. dylan richardson is probably writing right now as you read this. or wishing he was. cecelia roeder is a senior majoring in mass communications, with a concentration in journalism, and minoring in graphic design. she enjoys piña coladas and getting caught in the rain. charis schepers is a sophomore majoring in social work with a minor in creative writing. when not studying, she spends her time with her dog, husband, and two kids. she enjoys reading, writing, and binge-watching the walking dead and the office. josh silveus is an asshole. courtney sniadecki is nineteen and a junior at indiana university south bend. in her spare time, you’ll find her shopping for hard-to-find vinyl records or writing in her blog. she attributes all that she is and everything she has to her faith and her family. makayla stutzman is an upcoming senior at iusb pursuing a bachelor’s degree in both english and secondary english education. at only twenty years of age this may seem like an unattainable goal; however, she punishes herself each semester with an enormous class load and two jobs in order to prove to the world that she is indeed the shit. seth umbaugh is a student, writer, and musician living in michiana. he has haunted local libraries for years. he has never met a dog he didn’t like. austin m. veldman is a fiction writer, poet, and singer/songwriter from south bend, in. he has recently rediscovered poetry. “driftwood” and “derelict” are his first published poems. he enjoys reading epic fantasy, playing soccer, and hiking through woods when he is not writing. kristiane weeks is a hoosier with a passion for arts. she’s dabbled in all writing styles, but poetry and creative non-fiction are her niches. kristiane is a creative writing ma student with her ba in english from flagler college in st. augustine, florida, where much of her inspiration stems from. 92 chris williams is an english nerd. with a memory reminiscent of a goldfish, he has somehow made it through this college thing. he’s had a life-long love affair with writing, don’t tell his wife. he is also pretty sure that his beard has taken on a mind of its own, but he is not positive. nick wort is the most important person in any given room at any given time. he likes to pet cats and other small mammals. he cannot swim and eats nothing but vegetation. on the day of nick’s birth, a chorus of angels descended from heaven to greet him. 123190 iusb analecta 2014-15 body v3 proof %281%29.pdf ll!jan l. gruenewalb on an €.bucation greasy prints you left on the glass doors, on the desk by the window, won't be there tomorrow? half-full paper cups of cold coffee, leaves that came in with your shoes, is it all gone tonight? inching toward the exit, the desk left scratches on the floor, so deepwhat of those? aman, his silent mop in figure eights will leave no streak, what powerwhat power he has. 99 .matt ijenr.!j ~eajulls in buffalo in someone's library there will be a sepia-toned book with a red-checkered spine. the book itself is barely thicker than a vacation-resort pamphlet. it's organs, however, are brightly illuminated; the stoic anti-heroa soulless model for humanity. seven dreams in six hours: instead in stairs instill in the still; in dreams in staying in stay ... here's a nickel here is the ocean. 98 ll!jan l. gruenewalb on an ebucation greasy prints you left on the glass doors, on the desk by the windov1 won't be there tomorrow? half-full paper cups of cold coffee, leaves that came in with your shoes, is it all gone tonight? inching toward the exit, the desk left scratches on the floor, so deep what of those? aman, his silent mop in figure eights will leave no streak, what powerwhat power he has. credits editor: rebecca gerdes art coordinator: kelly andrews cover design and magazine layout: kelly andrews, scot peterson advisor: david dodd lee submission solicitation: eleroy ramsey, neil kelly, laurel wiederman-bieschke literature reviewers: neil kelly, laurel wiederman-bieschke art reviewers: kelly andrews, scot peterson special thanks lo: debbie richards and anne richmond for their experience, support, and excellent advice. the wolfson awards poetry7 st place winner ways of looking, by susie russell-replogle 2nd place winner stardust, by chris o ' brien honorable mention stomach ache, by john thompson; walnut road, by talia reed; ode to chai, budabest's best by laurel wiederman-bieschke short fiction 1 st place winner a season for bears, by jesus moya 2nd place winner nasty habit, by matt skibbe honorable mention the best mashed potatoes and gravy i ever had by neil kelly; untitled by anne schillingsburg; enough by chris o ' brien drama 1 st place winner the clerk, by colleen card 2nd place winner the means, act one, by zorina e. jerome analecta, number 36, 2006 ii poetry the age of conti cultivation coll budapest's bes! untitled bill me the cigarette b1 the clockshop s1 fireflies rebec« cup of noodles thanks, ma lm someday on wt garbage joshu1 ghosts terri ve legends of the i blue lightning stomach ache j trash tyler mo riptide miehe/, walnut road t1 laura pimient a birth announcement the world pains me with the always present splinter that living is . a frosty winter night a baby is born, rivers of crimson, desire and doubt, gushing out of her unwrapped insides. the end and the beginning are both here to this world you have come already knowing the hurt of a broken bone outside, they do not know of you and neither do they care; a carelessly planted seed in a migrant's womb. you shall never belong. your roots, your color and your name are flagrant reminders of your alien­ ation. in your homeland you would be an aztec prince amid flowering dahlias, surrounded by the singing of sparrows and your hands would grow to grab the guavas from the tree and the waists of blossoming women with radiant copper skin under the eternally shining sun. but here you are in the coldness of a nation that does not want you, the bruises on your face glowing like the brightness of a brothel at daylight. your body is restrained of movement, hungry young maggot wanting to stretch. freedom is a lost country to you, the life that awaits you will be all too familiar to this feeling. the day nears with the hesitancy of the sun's rays like the shyness of a deflowered girl. the light coyly lures us out of our caves where they congratulate your parents in a foreign tongue they will never understand. 38 ryan smith lusk at the lake for his fifth birthday lusk was given a birthday cake, but no cane no candles, his father said, a hand on his mother's shoulder, no force, but managing to hold he no candles. have you seen what hope does to a man? lusk did not understand. he had not yet seen lake superio grey water, not blue at all, a magnanimous periphery of shells that held no oceans, his father at the center of the long rope bridge, eyes wide, and lusk sitting at the far end saying will you come if i meet you out there, and hold your hand? the waves coming and coming, stealing his answer. non-fiction i charmi keranen biokinematics i don't want to misspeak. the humanoid starts out in a normal driving position. the occupant wants to continue going along at the speed and the trajectory that he was going until he gets redirected somehow by the structures of the vehicle. the ejection is certainly a process. it's not an instantaneous, you're all the way in and then you're all the way out. there's no teleporation that we know of. moving in this up and out kind of scenario. once he separates from the vehicle, he's going to travel in a trajectory that's well defined. 28 the launch angle that he gets and the initial velocity and then the force the acceleration due to gravity. he's going to follow an arc. he will follow a parabolic trajectory and it will be tangent to the path of travel of the vehicle. the fact that he was able to observe the ejection certainly suggests that there was a launching going on. there's a separation between the passenger and the vehicle. the door was still there during that time. there were dicing injuries, injuries consistent with glass, consistent with him leaving through the window portal. 2s mow of. jf scenario. 28 the launch angle that he gets and the initial velocity and then the force the acceleration due to gravity. he's going to follow an arc. he will follow a parabolic trajectory and it will be tangent to the path of travel of the vehicle. the fact that he was able to observe the ejection certainly suggests that there was a launching going on. there's a separation between the passenger and the vehicle. the door was still there during that time. there were dicing injuries, injuries consistent with glass, consistent with him leaving through the window portal. 29 evidence of a likely partial ejection kind of phenomenon, injuries sort of immediately prior to the complete ejection. some attempts at respiration gomg on. it doesn't appear that he actually expired inside the vehicle. his heart was still pumping. you would expect to see blood somewhere. there's nothing that i would point to in a photograph and say, look, right there, that's his ribs, or something like that. a body can certainly leave a deformation. the place where i would expect to see the marks is going to be at the belt line. he 's not restrained. he's up against the door. 30 charmi keranen weather permitting astride a jagged black gash, a gerrymandered line, women vice in, wielding eraser thighs. screw the context. the weather bites fine. flay pumpkinseed. dust cornmeal. cast your net on the other side. 31 ;rowd and back to the stage while 1ch or wink at a patron. working ler money for the night, working then the music begins to take off v notes, rose stops in a theatrical es her arms out as though she is to the air above our heads. :aken a single shot. my minolta is nd shoot. later, when i am alone ie into being. rose's chin is raised an enormous smile on her face. :l the edges of multiple bills spill 1dent against the darkness of the . in the moment, the photograph ath the flawless makeup. rose has nee is cheering for a little boy she rsfunction and spent much of his the audience senses this tonight glint stamatouicb &a.stern ~pit i. i'm sore on you, babe, sores on your back some, and to feel that chicken spine move, shiver; it is enough outta you, hush, hume, hum, here comes force to glove its gripped deliver, how stupid is a reptile de-functioned, exhausted knowledge gonna knead, gonna drool sum, and scare the girls away (junk some anyway), we'll stay, girl-say, you hanga' louise, we've gotta getta ol' john-boy'she's got completion in the universe and we need this answer, babe, through the noise­ delved in the void, dead, spent, black in the purse; the car crashed head first before john-boy's joint; no remains, development, or sharp point. ii. so, off made some plate went vincent, his dear catherine,­ shut up the ass-good, too, all colours bright, say, john boy took the ghost's green clay and found essential sugars to gust up a silver son's dirty hair, shorn and open, his eyes shot in the clear castle sky, let's go to the cave, boys, lets' leave the girls a mutiny and we'll find a way; bellies full of bubbling green bile, got off foot loosely and found the first floor of the yardcouple a yeast and ferms later and the small boy is done, say, we had the babe-lass, pigeon-toed, take him-she took 93 him well; now, then, down the spiraled, bleak, black metal, down the kids hiccuping awfully, down the way; dark now, second, shitting and romanticizing john boy's self to sleep, left burned in the throat the fire of bottles that nearly broke in snarls­ the wench a cur, ha, o, with breasts far too small, she found some english drab and hummed sum american tune, but, say, she was hot and red, boy, asking for our bottle, and, hm, vincent pleading to have not carried her nation's ghost­ where she took no an answer; before the babes in the basement that bartered for tobacco, too young, far too young, but found someway; kids fingering themselves in booths blotted out of slurred, peripheral sight, light outside by the bright american glow, now just, ha, vincent and john boy and a sore inclination for full lungs, up by prazskj brad, wat, turned the corner for the cobble and found a murked room, japanese goblins peering out through the cracks, o, of consciousness hoisted up by vincent's cat-in-wall, 94 came close, comically, through bar! and on porcelain-chinese-ameri1 porcelain-the girls, the two, laughing, poking fun, at the whole, the whole while, singing stupid american pop, soda rotting the hind teeth, ha, and colours came bearing smell and touch; the letters smack some sense hard and mean and cold when the stones broke the wet wasteland and stairs that led to warmth cradled babies that fell under dream some hours early, care and huff and kiss each other in bright rooms, vince led that way; but the old-man-bag who outwardly stood in protest of the open restaurant (never feeding, mind him, those mouths of pork and beef and goulash), es no restaurante, he sez, 'panish? 'talian? surelybreathing hard and slow; sheets heavy and hot, in noway; say, o, this a last hurrah! running, unclad, shared, and fat to the yup's sink to spit-up and laugh and talk and, god, tripfound that spit-up in the mouth of the sleeping where the sisters follow the boys' night along iii. english babes have mouths that yaw1 came close, comically, through bars and on porcelain-chinese-american porcelain-the girls, the two, laughing, poking fun, at the whole, the whole while, singing stupid american pop, soda rotting the hind teeth, ha, and colours came bearing smell and touch; the letters smack some sense hard and mean and cold when the stones broke the wet wasteland and stairs that led to warmth cradled babies that fell under dream some hours early, care and huff and kiss each other in bright rooms, vince led that way; but the old-man-bag who outwardly stood in protest of the open restaurant (never feeding, mind him, those mouths of pork and beef and goulash), es no restaurante, he sez, 'panish? 'talian? surelybreathing hard and slow; sheets heavy and hot, in noway; say, o, this a last hurrah! running, unclad, shared, and fat to the yup's sink to spit-up and laugh and talk and, god, tripfound that spit-up in the mouth of the sleeping where the sisters follow the boys' night along iii. english babes have mouths that yawn, 95 come to dance before moon beam, native to the rooted shoe, the old yups come here to diesand that grits between piers on cold-sore construction; spotted spiders beneath each girder still in part of the quick light, boys' feet smaller than their northern dates, mar the turks, see, that see the gray hair more than their brothers see their mothers, and squint-eyed young man found his, in the american brew, (bastard, call him) her lips fat from clasp, sour, little plum, to the free sprawled chandeliers that 'loominate softly children in the height, crooked teeth and slighted sightthe expanded smiles come from landed, light-toed, sweet legs, but the dreams of the german pilot stay still apart; he filed aimlessly into cobblestone, barraged in pattern near golden raised stair-cased homes, a fountain robbed stately by eastern thieves with string and weight­ their get-up broke hands when the longer touched the guards' changest. vitis and his cock saw honey through her dress, maybe blue, borrowed a note from the shallows of proper french, you are pretty, petty silk, the cock sit proper and right, there it comes! but too late, disappeared under the oak steps clogged in cobble, beat in shade, gone where rifles of goats and mortars laid 96 .qian garuin ~ometijilljl of tije lonel <after liotel .lloom b.9 «bwarb lioj this new melancholy tastes of the bitter figs we had slathered in honey to drown their tough texture to force them to be sweet the way the august sun smothered me following the burial. i only knew her through grainy photographs danny carried on pilgrimages back to tiffin. i never cared enough to hate her diamond ring. i never thought of her breathing. and now danny's spirited me away; here where they were and loved, where they conceived a newborn so perhaps it was an apology; perhaps it was unnecessary that eventually i dressed and left. the truth refused coercion. the page obstinately remained blank on her pillow the way it silentlyin brilliancewas over. 71 savannah hope eden my underbelly tickled as his shaky hands lit the small flame that caressed the silver cusp in which i dreamily laid. it made me laugh, he was helping me prepare. his eyes were dark and longing, he needed me and that made me laugh more. he believed he had handled me before, but i was in on this one. i knew it was the last, the final leg of our long voyage. he put me on the table, which was the only thing in the room. he shook. he picked up the tube and gently emptied me into to it. the last leg, my evil mind was on his defeat. he tied the rubber across his arm and smiled. i was his love. he thought he was in eden now, but his garden hadn’t even begun to grow. i was angry with laughter as he brought me up to his arm. he ran the tip against his cool skin. and when he pushed down with the inevitable vaccine of me, i made his garden grow. first wrapping vines around his wrist and shoulders and then his skull. my strong roots cracked into his skull, splattering bone against his four walls. i twisted the vines into his mealy brains. eden was growing. his heart was precious, and i took separate stabs at it, as he began to convulse and grab his chest. only i could control the vines, they were mine. his heart was pricked with thrones from the green vines and blood trickled down into a waterfall of heat over his cold skin. he must remember that he had injected me. he thought eden was where he was going, that’s what i usually did for him. but i thought he might want to see the true strength of “out-of-body” experience. i laughed throughout his veins, and he shook in my fury that he had inflicted. i was his love, and he had wanted me. the bones slide down the four walls, which he had never really left. he watched them drip and didn’t know if the “trip” was true or really a journey to somewhere. i knew where, but it wasn’t his eden. i made the vines snap up through his fingers, he clenched his fist down. he was trying for an equal fight, but that didn’t count in war where you called out your enemy, or love. the veins lite with my anger and his flesh burned like paper, he watched his fingers disintegrate. ash piled around him and eden’s fresh gardens wilted in them. there was a pounding on the door, a dealer. he couldn’t answer, because my work had enveloped his lips and they seared with the paste of my love. 72 the smell of his cremation festered and lingered throughout his eden. a smoke collected at his feet and he twisted about trying to escape the choking pollution. the vines grew stronger around his ankles slowing him down. maybe now he would appreciate the eden that he had created. the needle which he had used to inject me, splintered under the garden vines that now covered the entire room. i laughed again, staring at him. for the first time he saw me as his administer. and the eden that he had painted up in so many dreams melted. there was nothing but him and me. he had loved me and smiled for me, and used me so many times. he didn’t know that each time was an infection, and now his fever was going to burn forever. he had allowed me, his love, to bring him there. that at least, he had to admit. :t was fairly barren out rone. what little vegeta­ . made it dance in the her hand as she pulled ier thoughts. ng.shescoopeditup guessing that miss lily?" 1lling red and blue lights ply isn't time to stop;' er. haven't you cor1e district attorney will )ut and i'm not going to you-go phone out the reaching up to kiss him niles ahead, have your w i've been saying it for ['ve always wanted to do e so comfortable with it anything that she could ttendant, he always they were careful every ' and it was only a mat­ ! heat on her mother. ng to back off. "hey 1olice cruisers. dementia: a dialogue i questioned whether the doors were big enough. there was a purple glove on the floor next to the trash a cup of apple nectar mingling with neighboring straws a surrealist's dream on dry erase boards full of times and temperatures and rotations and stick-figured ladies drawn in passing "are you warm enough?" yes. maybe, the smell of the hallway, like a backed-up sump pump kept them by: adam walz from coming back, or maybe it was just visiting hours a woman kept screaming across the hall. the 2011 analecta page 85 10 tracy korn lungstone like a bad lover the rain waters come too fast; they flood the river whose blood courses and flows into the sewer drain where a stray dog drinks. my head is held under the kitchen sink faucet until i choke and crash land laughing splash and drift i forget there’s no breathing and remember that i am a stone, hoping there is no water anywhere. 123190 iusb analecta 2014-15 body v3 proof %281%29.pdf zudj)/ 1ao1.po~ ju!jd ::>!1jdoj6owojt{) 11!9 s,a.1n1nn fiction vultures jordan eash (an excerpt) the 2010 analecta "jesus christ, you'd think a guy smart as you'd remember to put oil in his car before he drives out into the middle of the desert!" the metallic clash of the hood slamming down echoed over the cracked, shimmering landscape on either side of the highway and sent a pair of distant vultures scrambling into the air. the sound startled andy, too, who had been star­ ing at the birds. walt came around the front of the car to where andy stood polishing his glasses with a handkerchief. "friends of yours?" walt asked, nodding towards the vultures, now gently gliding specks in the clean sky. they seemed to face each other as they circled, like fencers delicately planning their next move. "what?" "those birds, you know 'em? you got the same haircut." he laughed. "you said you were a what.you call it?" "i'm an ornithologist." "that's it." walt ran his hands, coated in engine grease, through his stringy hair. he took a pack of marlboros from his shirt pocket and lit one. "i asked you not to do that," andy said. he never took his eyes off the circling scavengers. they were getting closer to the ground, flying faster. "that's when we were in your car. we ain't in your car anymore." he sighed, sending a cloud of smoke rushing from his mouth and nose. walt leaned against the car, almost too hot to touch in the afternoon sun. andy stood straight, hands in his pockets, eyes on the sky. "so what should we do?" he asked. "you got a cell phone?" walt said. "yes. there's no signal, though." "shit." walt dropped the butt and crushed it with the toe of his boot. "never thought i'd die like this. thought maybe someone would knife me in chuckawalla, now i get out of the pen and i'm going to be eaten by buzzards all 62 'cause of some moron profess1 "now's as good a time "i was joking." andy licked his lips. ". "well, it ain't a very g< "what did you do?" "none of your damn b do, mister wizard? why you the vultures, circling < grunt, more like a snorting pi~ "i don't want to die." "yeah, you do. you ai time to die' and everything. ~ andy stared at walt fa bird came down on top of the distracted by something on th "did you know that a called a 'venue?"' he said. " pick clean." he smiled. "it's walt raised an eyebro' factory." the object of the sma' the larger one dropped a shn "she said i was too di "who did?" "my wife." walt took out another andy took a deep bre they-" ves out into the middle of the g landscape on either side of ,ndy, too, who had been star:h a handkerchief. pecks in the clean sky. they rou were a what you call it?" :k of marlboros from his shirt vengers. they were getting :ling a cloud of smoke rushing . oon sun. andy stood straight, ght i'd die like this. thought o be eaten by buzzards all the 2010 analecta 'cause of some moron professor and his broke down car." "now's as good a time to die as any," andy said. "i was joking." andy licked his lips. "you never told me you were in prison." "well, it ain't a very good way to hitch a ride, is it? tellin' everybody you're a felon." "what did you do?" "none of your damn business is what i did." walt kicked at the crushed cigarette on the pavement. "what'd you do, mister wizard? why you wanna die out here?" the vultures, circling close above their meal, passed too close to one another. the larger one let out an angry grunt, more like a snorting pig than a sound any bird should make. "i don't want to die." andy blinked. "yeah, you do. you ain't taken your eyes off those nasty birds this whole time and then you're all 'now's a good time to die' and everything. what, your wife leave you?" andy stared at walt for a moment, and then looked away. the birds drifted calmly to the ground. the larger bird came down on top of the carrion and began to pull it apart. the smaller one landed a few feet away. it seemed distracted by something on the ground. andy watched it dance around the strange object. "did you know that a group of vultures is called a 'kettle' when they're in the air, but on the ground they're called a 'venue?'" he said. "and the parsis in india, when they die they leave their bodies outside for the vultures to pick clean." he smiled. "it's called a 'sky burial."' walt raised an eyebrow. "right. again with the death stuff. it's a good thing we didn't break down near a rope factory." the object of the small bird's attention leapt at its bald head. a snake. the little vulture let out a crackling yelp. the larger one dropped a shred of meat from its beak as both birds took to the air again . "she said i was too distant." andy said. "who did?" "my wife." walt took out another cigarette. "can't imagine why." andy took a deep breath. "you know, the great thing about vultures is-" his voice was strained. "you see, they" 63 the 2010 analecta andy sobbed. he stepped backwards against the car, slid down to the searing asphalt. he put his hands over his eyes and his knees to his chest. walt sighed. "god's sake," he said, "get up. she's just a woman, right? you don't need her." "she was the only person i knew." "how jong were you together?" "since high school." "how long's that?" "thirty years. she left me for another guy in my department." "i'd kick his ass." "what would that solve?" "shit ifl know. it'd make me feel better, though, and it has, let me tell you." walt dug his hand through his hair again and sat down next to andy, his legs splayed strait out ahead of him. "tell you what i do. i don't know anybody. and it don't bother me one bit. i get to a place and feel like stayin' there, i do. ifl get tired of it, i go. never need no­ body's permission. and look how i am." "you're a felon." "i'm free! i do what i want because all i got to worry about is me. hell, ifl were you, i'd thank god i was free of that old ball and chain. think of everything you missed out on all those years. college? i never been, but i've heard stories. and you with just her. damn." 64 poetry ginger ale and amare1 shawn heston i went bowling at an elk's loe with johnny depp. it was dark but he was upset they weren't bowling well. then i threw one into the wall a girl i went to high school w brought out drinks. i never liked her but she had a great body. leaning over a balcony, she might fall but i couldn't stop staring ... she said she knew the door cc and her father was angry. we were in a mcdonald's dri' she gave me two singles for a cheeseburger and jalape1 the screen said i ordered pan his voice told me to pull forn and keep my foot on the puss: :l :qian garuin ~omet~in.!j tlf t~e lone{!i grauif.9 <after .qntel itoom tijj «bwarb .qopper> this new melancholy tastes of the bitter figs we had slathered in honey to drown their tough texture to force them to be sweet the way the august sun smothered me following the burial. i only knew her through grainy photographs danny carried on pilgrimages back to tiffin. i never cared enough to hate her diamond ring. i never thought of her breathing. and now danny's spirited me away; here where they were and loved, where they conceived a newborn son. perhaps it was an apology; perhaps it was unnecessary that eventually i dressed and left. the truth refused coercion. the page obstinately remained blank on her pillow the way it silentlyin brilliancewas over. 97 during the day i drive else doing the same. behind the vanishing t to do now is make t. and then i wait. i am at the epicenter of most earthly entanglements by: jacqueline becker often while watching bumblebees i wonder, i wonder how it is they are able to fly. science says they shouldn't. laying in the cool grass staring at the clouds, watching them move, slowly revolving, i remember i forgot to notice them yesterday. when the tree branches freeze and have icicles, but the ground stays warm and green, i ask myself, if i were taller would my head be colder? night at winter is always more beautiful, it has more stars and the moon seems brighter, yet often no one looks long enough to notice. i saw a spider spin a web, its beauty so carefully and intricately constructed, only to be torn apart minutes after completion. the 2011 analecta page 89 parents. i know it's a pain turn to you cause my old 11 be in trouble. i'm not etty valuable. if he got he can afford the loss, 1ld be going as soon as planned on was an idle of georgian bay on entertain the inevitable keep my mouth shut and lock sunday night when asked questions later. ay morning. they didn't >ut no one who under­ ~ate. every time i heard e law school, i drove ced that i was only trying >r a boatload of students my mouth shut. i took it aypromise. <hen the phone rang. i s. he had kept close tabs she was declining since iodgers let him come declined. i don't think ; day, i keep on my desk, nd white sail offering a i've gotten so used to her silence that every syllable out of her mouth jolts me anew. muscles tense, neurons jump excitedly, ears perk, feet rooted to the floor to keep me ever-ready for each passing moment lest i miss a single drop of sound pouring ever so silently from her body language. silence personified by: christopher klein the 2011 analecta page 81 ( ) :: r 0 3 ;:i o: :o 0 co 0 .., ::::!. -§ v t :i:= -= 0 n a :, ti !: q .. · o a ., rebecca pelky mowing the lawn curled around myself i shuffle out of the shadowed glass door into overexposed august. for a moment my skin recalls the soothing cool incandescent interior of the clinic but summer presses me too close to her damp breast and i have to remember instead to force her thick breath into my lungs. it's just like mowing the lawn, he'd said, snipsnip the stems before they get too tall, but there will always be more seeds. the yard has to be tidy when the neighbors stop by. sweat beads my face, cramps contract my stomach and i lurch to the brittle lawn to heave. there is nothing left in my guts to expel. my fingers rake the dry grass, nails digging down for the fertile earth. the sharp stalks blur to mottled tan and i can't help but wonder if with my tears they, at least, will grow. 22 rosalinda leyva a time to watch 2008 lester m. wolfson 2nd i my grandfather is nearly blind. walks with his hands extended in front of him, tries not to run into something that has been in the same place for forty years, like the china cabinet stacked with cantaritos and coma/es. his walking stick hits a shoe box filled with plastic forks from restaurants. "que es eso?" "tenedores." i answer. he laughs for the first time in days. he walks outside with leftovers and i watch him feed rice and empanada < to starving birds and stray cats. i think he does it searching for somethi lifehopepeacei don't know, but i need my grandfatl like he needs the birds. 23 analecta 2014 poetry rebecca evans falling is just another means to an end icarus wanted to burn. he never saw the sun as gold, or life, or even a warm afternoon. he was one of the few that, since birth, thought of the sun as a post-fire boiling death. how you can love someone you've never met; deep, one-sided love: that's how he loved the sun. there's something wrong with the way we tell stories, as if lying is only tangential. nobody ever tells you that icarus wanted to burn. instead he made wax rain down onto his insipid father who built him paper wings and would ruffle up his hair, saying "the gods have plans for you, young one." so he concentrated as he fell, plucking death from the skies moment by moment piece by piece until it was enough to put in his back pocket and save for a rainy day. 6 a1 c souls drifting from 1. it surrenders to the sway of the water on the bottom of the sable river and relaxes in the gentle passing of sandy against its sides and whitened belly now empty of its purpos blink, but it's still there. the< avoid it like its polluting the freshness of their space, li already even though it's not d scatter as a boy throws a rock they smell fresh eggs sinking away from a female. it doesn't matter why, just that and leave the salmon alone to rest and gently chew nothi1 the salmons tried to see, i knc over the dam so many times, avoided hooks and colors of y only to drift backwards with 1 leaves to settle in a small dep of pebbles in late october. longing to choke on the color: of leaves that seep through the surface and to le1 is hard for anyone, so i think , that prized moment when an removes his oxygen tubes wit following the trail by: joe kuharic the dust swirled around the tires of the car .as the candy apple red '67 ford mustang named delilah thundered through the desert. empty pop bottles clanged together, littering the floor of the back seat. the leather seat itself was filled with alligator suitcases. the young man in the driver seat looked over at the ravishing young girl in the passenger seat next to him. a smile slithered across his face as he recalled the first time they met. they were both about twenty-five when he'd handed her the note; that's when she fell in love with him. after that day they had gone everywhere together. it seemed like they had traveled over the entire country, which was good because they both liked to see new places and didn't want to stay anywhere for too long. though, he thought, it would be nice to be able to stay in one place for more than a few weeks. she looked over at him from behind her polarized versace sunglasses. her black hair billowing in the wind, were ravens escaping through the window. she popped a stick of celery green spearmint gum into her mouth. 'tm glad we decided to take this trip;' he said. "me too! i've never been to mexico before:' "it's especially nice this time of year, but i'm just ready to be out of the country for awhile;' an enor­ mous grin encompassed his face and it was infectious as she too began to smile. the sign on the side of the road read, us/mexico border 10 miles. beyond that was a speed limit sign posted at 70 miles per hour; they were easily doing 90. he began idly flipping through the stations on the ra­ dio; turning the dial and hearing the satisfying click of old electronics. he bypassed the news channels look­ ing for some good 'ole rock and roll. he passed over 96.5 f.m. where "carry on my wayward son'' buzzed out of the speakers. "oh wait, i like that song!" she exclaimed. "ha, you would!" but he relented and left the radio alone. "so where are we going when we get there anyway?" "well, there's a hotel i know of in monterrey. it's aspirin white, kinda looks like one of those adobe churches you see in old westerns, except there's palm trees instead of cactuses in front of it. there's a guy that i know who stays there a lot. he can show us around;' "oh, okay" she paused momentarily, "you know i can't speak spanish right?" he looked over at her and laughed like a kid at a fart joke. "it's not that funny;' "you're right, i'm sorry. i just never really thought about it;' ahead of them an armadillo was crossing the road in its brown suit of armor, but they barely paid it any heed as they blew past; it became just another speck on the landscape. it however mattered very much to the armadillo that tucked itself into a ball and rolled back to the edge of the road. "hey, don't forget to give your mom a call when we get down there, i know she get's worried about you:' he said. "yeah, she's pretty over protective sometimes;' "she just cares; don't worry about it too much;' he reached in his front pocket and pulled out a box of marlboro red's slipping a cigarette quickly between his lips, he was her james dean. he replaced the box and began patting himself down looking for a lighter, he turned to look at her but before he could say anything her brass zippo was lit and waiting at the end of the stick. "thanks babe;' he gave her a knowing wink the 2011 analecta page 83 she looked out at the open desert as they were driving ever closer to mexico. it was fairly barren out here. mostly rocks painted a dirty rust color that couldn't possibly be appealing to anyone. what little vegeta­ tion there was to see was either dead or dying. she stuck her arm out the window and made it dance in the wind, up and down, waves on the ocean. she could feel the resistance of the wind on her hand as she pulled it up and the hard force as she brought it back down. abruptly she was pulled out of her thoughts. his cell phone, which had been resting on the center console, had begun to ring. she scooped it up and looked at the caller i.d. "restricted number;' she said with a frown. he took the phone from her, thumbing the send button in one swift motion. '"yello!" he'd been waiting for this call. "am i talking with mr. etzel?" came the voice on the other end of the line. "you can call me that. who do i have the pleasure of speaking with?" "my name is special agent southwell. mr. etzel, you're in a lot of trouble. i'm guessing that miss birkner is with you? why don't the two of you pull over and we can settle this peacefully?" the young man gazed up into his rearview mirror and saw a dozen pairs of rolling red and blue lights were still following closely. "no can do agent, we're on our way to a little vacation of sorts. there just simply isn't time to stop;' "that's special agent. come on mr. etzel. your little bank robbing spree is over. haven't you cor­ rupted miss birkner enough as it is? why don't you at least let her get out? i'm sure the district attorney will go easy on her:' "now that's definitely something i'm not going to do. she doesn't want to get out and i'm not going to make her. goodbye agent;' "mr. etzel, wai-;' the line went dead. he wiped it down and tossed the pay-as-you-go phone out the side of the window. "well, i guess that means they're on to us;' she smiled and touched his thigh, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. "there's nothing to do now but keep going!" driving faster still they came upon the next green sign: us/mexico border 3 miles ahead, have your passport ready, be prepared for a wait. "when we get to mexico i promise you i'm going to take you shopping. i know i've been saying it for awhile but this time i swear we're gonna do it. and we're going to go snorkeling too, i've always wanted to do that;' he said. she reached across the seat and hugged him. "i can't wait!" he now reached back into his thoughts to their last robbery. they had become so comfortable with it that it seemed like any other day on the job. she would fake illness, go into hysterics, anything that she could think of to cause a distraction. as always he'd slip the note across the counter to the attendant, he always chose a woman; less of a chance they'd reach across the counter and try to be a hero. they were careful every time, this time however the camera in the bank was able to get a clear shot of his face and it was only a mat­ ter of time before the eb.i. was able to track them down; more than likely putting the heat on her mother. she looked up in the rear view mirror and noticed that the police cruisers were starting to back off. "hey look, they're leaving us alone!" "oh, good. for a moment there, i thought we were in trouble;' he said. they crest the hill to the border and were greeted by a barricade of awaiting police cruisers. the 2011 analecta page 84 i questioned whether the doors were big enough. there was a purple glov1 on the floor next to the a cup of apple nectar mingling with neighbor a surrealist's dream on full of times and tempe and stick-figured ladies "are you warm enough? yes. maybe, the smell of the like a backed-up sump kept them from coming back, or n a woman kept screamir ~ard±ng ther men because my dad wasn't around ·as his responsibility to take care of us. :ctricity was shut off again and our small np. the pot-bellied stove crackled with n and out as the ancient house breathed. tat we would have to do. my youngest ~d something about being quiet. she sat s one of our favorite meals. my brother e squirmed. she demonstrated what we <j hungry. she gave us a hard look and 1 each spoonful, we carefully examined or air pushing their brown heads above l out the baby moths. they squirmed for ing completely still. they were dying. i em all. cursing her eyesight, she began id they would not kill her. she said they r:wan gruenewald our drought he keeps his face sharp and clean. he keeps the barrows full of rain. he keeps the knives so dull so mother won't cut her hands. a screw snaps in a pine stud. a wall of jars slides to the floor. a glass breaks in the dishwater. if the rain turns to snow tonight we'll know without waking. if the truck floor floods again i'll lift my feet. if this is a lesson i'll do as i'm told i'll never walk again the road barefoot. i'll never snuff a candle with my thumb. my secret? i pick it till it bleeds. another one? i like eggs with red in the yellow and at night i dance in his shoes shined fresh still smelling of the black. ii poetry 123190 iusb analecta 2014-15 body v3 proof %281%29.pdf jo.!j b,!jt 'qlalljl. qlalljl. qlalljl.· ment tlje ~rolle.!j i am 23 and in a large dressing room full of half-naked drag queens primping and pouring themselves into scintillating ball gowns. there is a leggy black bombshell to one side who pushes her hip pads into place be­ neath a pair of opaque tights. her pink brassiere is overflowing with taped man cleavage and thick contour lines have been drawn in beige and brown eye shadow to give the illusion of breast. i am sitting in a corner with an old minolta 25 in my hands and i place it over my right eye to adjust the aperture and snap her photo. next to me, at a dressing table is my best friend, brett, aka rose petal. he is sitting bare-chested in front of a large mirror with globe lights above it. in front of him are rows and rows of neatly laid out makeup supplies: brushes, tubes and jars all arranged on a white towel. his short dark hair is hidden beneath a wig cap and he is using a sponge to apply dermablend to the sleek curves of his face. dermablend is a heavy foundation people with skin abnormalities use to cover birthmarks and scars, he tells me. it is the basis of every good drag queen's makeup because it covers stubble so well. he is telling me this because it is my first time being allowed behind the curtain so to speak. straight women, even those who have earned the title of endearment known as "hags", like myself, are not typically allowed upstairs in the green room before a show. i don't ask why this is, but i am aware that they have bent the rules for me on this night. i am shooting a series for a photojournalism project and though brett is my main subject, the others have extended this courtesy and are giving me a crash course in what it takes to be a professional showgirl. a middle aged queen named lena myers takes a long drag of her ciga­ rette and leans into me. "that one over there;' she whispers while pointing at a stunning brunette who looks similar to linda evangelista and is wear­ ing a barabarella costume. "she's ten years post-op ... the tits look great, but they slaughtered the vag. it's a train wreck down there:' "ah ... " i say, without knowing what else to offer. "well, she's still gor­ geous:' "she is, isn't she? makes me want to gag. she's got a trans-fan man and lives her life as a woman full time. but she's really the only m2f on the cir­ cuit. almost everyone lives in boy mode:' i know most of these terms from hanging out with brett, but i have to ask what exactly is an m2f. "male to female, darling;' she whispers back while patting me on the 88 head. "you're a good little fruit fl) terminology:' brett and i have been friend am fascinated by the world of dra friends, who also happen to be ga­ mutual enchantment with wigged friends and admirers affectionate and had just moved up the ranks real-live-money-making-crowd-i: garland, and i have to admit that he looks incredibly like her. som€ ent outfits, different wigs, lip syn cello or blu cantrell. but when h he costumes himself as a 1950s ] trolley song" from meet me in sa "well, honey, whaddaya thir with my camera. her face is a wo ingly applied layers of dermablenc top of this is contoured shadowin illusion of fuller cheekbones and : the truth, rose really doesn't nee' ready high and full, her nose aln powder finish off the skin. blood eyes are the most splendid feature. higher, dramatically arched lines brown doe eyes are black rimmec lashes and shimmering powder. t and flawless. "i think you are beautiful;' i 1 bobbed wig are being made with spray. when she stands to slip inti face and the muscled torso of a sr vice used to tuck the penis and t top pantyhose and girdle. in a m1 silicone breast inserts into the cup silver stilettos. bronzer is dusted i then she holds up the gown. it covered in crystals and bead work. finish and clasp the top of the gov. ror. the stark contrast between m1 stunning creature makes me instai t~e trolle.!j n full of half-naked drag queens :intillating ball gowns. there is a llshes her hip pads into place be­ ·assiere is overflowing with taped e been drawn in beige and brown i am sitting in a corner with an it over my right eye to adjust the best friend, brett, aka rose petal. ge mirror with globe lights above neatly laid out makeup supplies: . white towel. his short dark hair ng a sponge to apply dermablend ~nd is a heavy foundation people thmarks and scars, he tells me. it ikeup because it covers stubble so y first time being allowed behind , even those who have earned the ! myself, are not typically allowed "· i don't ask why this is, but i am ne on this night. i am shooting a though brett is my main subject, 1d are giving me a crash course in rl. 1yers takes a long drag of her ciga1ere;' she whispers while pointing · to linda evangelista and is wear­ s post-op ... the tits look great, but :k down there:' • else to offer. "well, she's still gorgag. she's got a trans-fan man and ie's really the only m2f on the cir,, .nging out with brett, but i have to ?ers back while patting me on the head. "you're a good little fruit fly, but you really need to bone up on your terminology:' brett and i have been friends for a few years by now and he knows i am fascinated by the world of drag. we were introduced by my other close friends, who also happen to be gay, and immediately hit it off based on this mutual enchantment with wigged and sequined men. brett, or rose as his friends and admirers affectionately call him, was in his late twenties then and had just moved up the ranks from sometime female impersonator to real-live-money-making-crowd-pleasing drag queen. his shtick is judy garland, and i have to admit that when his is fully made up and outfitted, he looks incredibly like her. some nights, rose will appear wearing differ­ ent outfits, different wigs, lip synching to the likes of michelle nedegeo­ cello or blu cantrell. but when he is most lauded, most cheered, is when he costumes himself as a 1950s judy and performs something like "the trolley song" from meet me in saint louis . "well, honey, whaddaya think;' he says, as i look up from messing with my camera. her face is a work of art at this point. she has painstak­ ingly applied layers of dermablend to make a perfectly smooth canvas. on top of this is contoured shadowing that isn't readily evident, but gives the illusion of fuller cheekbones and a thinner nose bridge, though to tell you the truth, rose really doesn't need these touches. her cheekbones are al­ ready high and full, her nose already petite. another layer of blush and powder finish off the skin. blood red liner and gloss fill her lips. but the eyes are the most splendid feature. she has shaved off her brows and drawn higher, dramatically arched lines that remind me of joan crawford. her brown doe eyes are black rimmed and made even larger by the false eye­ lashes and shimmering powder. the face before me is incredibly feminine and flawless. "i think you are beautiful;' i say. the final touches to her dark brown bobbed wig are being made with pins and several thick coatings of hair­ spray. when she stands to slip into her gown, she has a woman's stunning face and the muscled torso of a small man. his hip pads and gaff, the de­ vice used to tuck the penis and testicles back, are hidden under control top pantyhose and girdle. in a moment rose puts on her bra, places the silicone breast inserts into the cups and slides her size 10 feet into six inch silver stilettos. bronzer is dusted in vertical lines to simulate cleavage and then she holds up the gown. it is stunning; a black and silver full length covered in crystals and bead work. will you zip me up? she questions. as i finish and clasp the top of the gown i am standing behind her in the mir­ ror. the stark contrast between my pale face and bohemian dress and this stunning creature makes me instantly want to fix my hair and reapply my 89 lipstick. she smiles at me in the mirror and then assesses herself. "not half bad, ifl do say so myself' one last tweak with a brush and rose slips some cash and a pack of virginia slims into a beaded handbag and says, "follow me. i need to do one last thing before i am ready:' the two of us walk down the narrow stair well to a back door. the stage manager is nearby. he's talking into his headset and turns to us: "rose, you are on in ten. don't be long:' she swings the metal door open, grabs my hand and we step out into a dark alley. "i just need to loosen up a bit before i face the crowd;' says rose as she pulls a tiny joint from her pack of smokes. her hands are the only things that betray her here. they are too large and square for a woman, even with the long press-on nails. one of them reaches up and places the joint gingerly between her lips and the other lights the end. she inhales deeply, holds her breath and then seizes into a coughing fit as the smokes trails from her mouth. "here;' she croaks as she passes me the joint. to be fair, i have had a few cocktails by this point and am already worried about the quality of my vision to continue taking photographs. but, out of politeness, i take a hit from the joint and pass it back. she inhales one more time and asks me what i am thinking. 'tm wishing there were straight female drag queens. i want a reason to wear rhinestones and sequins:' she chuckles, "well, honey, gold is in the dust that blinds all eyes. you get to have real boobs and wear makeup in the middle of the day without anyone thinking twice. unfortunately, that means we've got the monopoly on drag and there's not much room for straight women ... that is unless you are willing to do the victor/victory thing and run off to broadway:' as we head inside, i ask if she needs anything and tell her to break a leg. the venue is such a hole in the wall that to get to your seats out front or get to the bathrooms in back you have to wait for a performer to finish their routine and race across the ten foot by ten foot stage and down a few steps in front of the entire audience. iman, a 6'3" janet jackson imperson­ ator, is winding up her routine with the raucous crowd. right after she leaps up from the splits her song ends, she bows and runs behind the cur­ tain. i take this as my cue to run out to my seat that a group of our friends has saved. as i step onto the stage, this group begins to hoot and holler: "take it off, baby!!!" and "show us your tits!!!" i look into the blinding spotlight and knowing i am on the spot, i swing my camera strap to the side, throw back my shoulders, curtsy and blow the now laughing crowd a kiss. for some unknown reason, i am wildly comfortable in this setting. "my gays;' as i call them, have brought me into their mix in every regard and after a few years, i am acutely aware that among them is the only place i truly feel i can be myself. 90 rose is on after the next per in the largest cities like new york their own songs. on most circuit: synch to music, perform a dance that hands out money to the passi: performers start the song on stag€ tinuing their routines. dollar bill~ so graciously, the showgirl will t< money into her cleavage and lear their perfect faces. our table is right up front, a here, i also don't want to move arc spoil anyone else's view. there is shows so much i don't want to sp• tonight, rose is doing a middle < judy garland's career you know th out of control from an addiction tc period in her life is the most endea majority of gay icons have several out spoken, flamboyant, and typi• qualities are what draw gay men 2 and flawed an individual, the moi icons are almost always female. b cher) . my friend david tells me tl "we must be able to see a bit of o doesn't hurt if they love feather bo; the show's presenter, candy < and remind the crowd to tip the ple!" she says in her low, femini2 and welcome our reigning miss c roooossse petal!" rose steps from behind the bl< what a day this has been/ what a being! in love! i am always struck l movie star at the beginning of he arms flutter out for dramatic effect, then she will walk slowly to one sic crowd. midway through the song, : dience to begin accepting tips. she ' bills being offered, leans in while st person. she is so skilled at her perfr i then assesses herself. "not half l'ith a brush and rose slips some aded handbag and says, "follow 1 ready:' ,. stair well to a back door. the to his headset and turns to us: ;he swings the metal door open, . alley. "i just need to loosen up a e pulls a tiny joint from her pack s that betray her here. they are rith the long press-on nails. one ingerly between her lips and the 1olds her breath and then seizes m her mouth. "here;' she croaks ~ had a few cocktails by this point ' of my vision to continue taking e a hit from the joint and pass it me what i am thinking. ale drag queens. i want a reason the dust that blinds all eyes. you in the middle of the day without tt means we've got the monopoly ·aight women ... that is unless you and run off to broadway:' : anything and tell her to break a hat to get to your seats out front · to wait for a performer to finish by ten foot stage and down a few 11, a 6'3" janet jackson imperson­ ! raucous crowd. right after she le bows and runs behind the cur1y seat that a group of our friends group begins to hoot and holler: ts your tits!!!" i look into the :he spot, i swing my camera strap irtsy and blow the now laughing , i am wildly comfortable in this ·ought me into their mix in every ly aware that among them is the rose is on after the next performer. only in certain venues, usually in the largest cities like new york and san francisco, do the queens sing their own songs. on most circuits and in most gay bars, drag queens lip synch to music, perform a dance routine and play to the adoring crowd that hands out money to the passing performers. it's usually the same drill. performers start the song on stage and then walk through the crowd, con tinuing their routines. dollar bills are waved by the crowd, and then ever so graciously, the showgirl will take the crowd member's hand, slide the money into her cleavage and lean in for an air kiss that doesn't smudge their perfect faces. our table is right up front, and though i feel extremely comfortable here, i also don't want to move around too much to take photographs and spoil anyone else's view. there is that, and also the fact that i love these shows so much i don't want to spend the entire night behind my camera. tonight, rose is doing a middle aged judy tune. if you are familiar with judy garland's career you know that late in life she began to quickly spiral out of control from an addiction to pain killers. for some reason, this time period in her life is the most endeared to true judy lovers. i believe the vast majority of gay icons have several things in common. they are glamorous, out spoken, flamboyant, and typically quite tragic and vulnerable. these qualities are what draw gay men and women to them. the more talented and flawed an individual, the more they love her (i say her, because gay icons are almost always female. be it barbara streisand, bette midler, or cher). my friend david tells me this vulnerability is why they are adored. "we must be able to see a bit of ourselves in them;' he says. "and it also doesn't hurt if they love feather boas and can sing the hell out of ballad:' the show's presenter, candy cane, comes on stage to tell a few jokes and remind the crowd to tip the bartenders and waitresses. "ok, peo­ ple!" she says in her low, feminized voice. "get ready for a little judy ... and welcome our reigning miss gay muncie to the stage .... miss rrr­ roooossse petal!" rose steps from behind the black velvet curtain and the music begins. what a day this has been! what a rare mood i'm in/ why it's almost like being! in love! i am always struck by how much she reminds me of an old movie star at the beginning of her routines. she stands statuesque. her arms flutter out for dramatic effect, like a ballerina accentuating the music. then she will walk slowly to one side of the stage and open her arms to the crowd. midway through the song, rose glides down the stairs into the au­ dience to begin accepting tips. she elegantly uncurls her fingers toward the bills being offered, leans in while still lip synching and blows a kiss to each person. she is so skilled at her performances that she has timed out exactly 91 how long she has to make it through the crowd and back to the stage while stopping to present her cheek for a smooch or wink at a patron. working the crowd this way is how rose makes her money for the night, working entirely for tips in the smaller venues. when the music begins to take off in certain sections or judy belts out a few notes, rose stops in a theatrical stance, throws her head back and reaches her arms out as though she is releasing the potency of dorothy right into the air above our heads. as the song ends, i realize i haven't taken a single shot. my minolta is still on the table, so i snatch it up, aim and shoot. later, when i am alone in the dark room, i will see this image fade into being. rose's chin is raised to the adulating spectators and she has an enormous smile on her face. her hands are clutched to her heart and the edges of multiple bills spill out the sides of her fists. she is resplendent against the darkness of the stage's curtain and the glowing spotlight. in the moment, the photograph captured adoration for the man underneath the flawless makeup. rose has said in these instants, it is as if the audience is cheering for a little boy she was; the one who grew up in poverty, dysfunction and spent much of his life persecuted for being true to himself. the audience senses this tonight and cheers louder. 92 <:uint stamatouitij €.a.stern ~pit i. i'm sore on you, babe, sores on you and to feel that chicken spine mov, it is enough outta you, hush, hume here comes force to glove its gripp• how stupid is a reptile de-function exhausted knowledge gonna knead drool sum, and scare the girls awa) anyway), we'll stay, girl-say, you t louise, we've gotta getta ol' john-b< he's got completion in the universe and we need this answer, babe, thn delved in the void, dead, spent, bla• the car crashed head first before jo no remains, development, or sharp ii. so, off made some plate went vincent, his dear catherine,­ shut up the ass-good, too, all colours bright, say, john boy took the ghost's green clay and found essential sugars to gust up a silver son's dirty hair, shorn and open, his eyes shot in the clear castle sky, let's go to the cave, boys, lets' leave the girls a mutiny and we'll find away; bellies full of bubbling green bile, got off foot loosely and found the first floor of the yardcouple a yeast and ferms later and the small boy is done, say, we had the babe-lass, pigeon-toed, take him-she took nal, d creative writing award m by jacob jones 6 brandi miller childhood's last summer (an excerpt) the drive to the park took only about three minutes, even with traffic. there were only two stoplights between her quiet street and the popular park. but on this beautiful sunny day, as she gripped the steering wheel and drove as fast as traffic and safety would allow, it seemed to take forever. with heightening anxiety she replayed the conversation with her son in her head and hoped that between the time she hung up and arrived everything would be ok. "mom, my friend fell in the river. he's been under water for four minutes," he said in a voice that sounded strangely normal to her ears. "you better not be joking around, she said as her pulse quickened in anger and fear. that's not funny!" "no mom. i swear. he fell in. he's drowning." "oh, god! did you call for help?" she asked, her throat tightenmg. "yeah, we just got off the phone with them. can you come down here mom?" he asked. "i'll be there in just a minute, ok?" she didn't even think to ask who ... what friend. it really didn't matter. any of them being hurt or killed was equally bad. her chest con­ stricted as the faces of each of his friends came into her mind. they were all so young and alive, and every one of them had special qualities that this world would surely miss if they were no longer in it. how did this happen? what were they doing? she thought franti­ cally. her son loved to fish in the river; he had been doing it for a few years now. this was the first summer that he stopped wearing the funny nylon fishing hat that she bought him. the river was also so shallow because of the drought this year that his being down there so often didn't concern her as much as it usually did. just like her, he had a healthy­ bordering on paranoidrespect for water. she didn't know why she felt that way, maybe because of her little sister's near drowning in the family pool when they were themselves young and she herself rescued her sister from the cold waters because she was the only one out there. as she made her way down the driveway into the park and saw a couple of emergency vehicles parked nearby, and the people lining the riverbank, she knew, with a sinking heart, that her hopes were not going 47 to be realized. there wasn't going to be a boy, soaking wet, sitting on the riverbank, scared but alive. she jumped out of the car and as she ran along the foot bridge that spanned the river, she saw her son walking toward her, cracking his knuckles-something he did when he was nervous. she ex­ pected high color on his cheeks, remnants of tears but he appeared like he al­ ways did, except for his eyesthey were no longer as bright as they always seemed to be. he had such beautiful blue eyes, but like someone with a high fever, they now seemed dull and old. seven minutes had now passed. time was moving slowly, yet all too quickly. "what happened?" she asked, out of breath, as she watched two police officers lying belly down, gun belts off, on the outcropping of rocks at the base of the dam, intently watching the roiling foam for a sign of the boy below the water-watching ... waiting for anything close enough to the surface that they could grab hold of and pull him out. "he walked out on the dam, and when he came back across, he slipped and fell. he yelled for help, but he slid down into the water," her son said as he rubbed his eyes with one hand and pointed over to the dam with the other. "he couldn't pull himself out. then we thought he was getting out of it," he paused. "he came up twice and got farther away from the bad part, but then he went under again and we haven't seen him since," he explained in a quiet mechanical voice as he watched the police. he continued to crack his knuckles. he still sounded so calm, and there were no tearsjust empty calm. her heart was hammering. she couldn't catch her breath and her hands were cold and numb. she was afraid that she was having an anxiety attack. she felt that she was going to crumple to the ground. it was hard to hold back the tears, but she had to for his sake. how could he be so calm? she wanted to put her arms around him, tell him it was ok, that it would all be ok, but it wasn't, and they had long since stopped hugging. it made her feel sad because it was just another part of his growing up and becoming more independent, needing her less. but now, when she felt he needed her most, she knew he couldn't handle it if she did put her arms around himso she didn't. as she stood there with him, she heard sirens in the distance. there is a surreal feeling that comes over you when you hear the sirens; such an everyday occurrence in a city, but when you realize they are coming to your emergency it causes a fear in you, knowledge that after they arrive, life would never be the same again. [the previous sentence should be rewritten because you switch from third-person narrative to your own feelings.] she had only experienced that once before in a life-and-death situation, and that was when her grandpa died. her parents had found him face down on the 48 floor of his kitchen where he had laid heart attack. since she herself lived sc police and rescue vehicles. it seemed that time, because they knew he was i with every minute that passed she knt just like that summer day, they would the atmosphere at the park b• there were kids flocking from every • walking, some pointing and crying, sc ing pictures with their cell phones. a~ the fire department rescue boats were who were just moments before laughi away from all of the chaos. they 1001 day. they seemed hollowed out, olde disbelief on his face, like shell-shock< once in awhile one of them would sh< trying to wake himself from a nightm kids began saying that they i sibility that there were air pockets uni therefore, he could live, that perhaps • weren't they trying to get him out? tl the river-it was that shallow, to hop< firemen in the boats, jabbing at the ri they slowly moved along the deeper i sentence into the previous sentence­ police were talking to the kids that w1 when she learned that her son was th( one officer told her that, poir shoulder. "that was a good thing he di1 jumped in to help him. no one could she supposed it was meant to make h anything could make her feel better e happen. as members of the media she nal group refused to talk to them, whi other kids who weren't even there ta ders, waving and smiling to the came "hey! i'm going to be on the news!" "that's so cool!" said his frie more friends. ! a boy, soaking wet, sitting on the i out of the car and as she ran along he saw her son walking toward her, lid when he was nervous. she exnts of tears but he appeared like he al­ :re no longer as bright as they always ue eyes, but like someone with a high l. time was moving slowly, yet all too out of breath, as she watched two el ts off, on the outcropping of rocks tg the roiling foam for a sign of the ting for anything close enough to the d pull him out. id when he came back across, he t he slid down into the water," her son id and pointed over to the dam with t. then we thought he was getting out nd got farther away from the bad part, aven 't seen him since,'' he explained lied the police. he continued to crack there were no tears-just empty ouldn't catch her breath and her hands 1at she was having an anxiety attack. to the ground. it was hard to hold ke. how could he be so calm? she l him it was ok, that it would all be ice stopped hugging. it made her feel his growing up and becoming more v, when she felt he needed her most, id put her arms around him-so she she heard sirens in the distance. ver you when you hear the sirens; such then you realize they are coming to , knowledge that after they arrive, life 1revious sentence should be rewritten narrative to your own feelings.] she in a life-and-death situation, and that ts had found him face down on the 8 floor of his kitchen where he had laid for a few hours after suffering a massive heart attack. since she herself lived so close, she had gotten there before the police and rescue vehicles. it seemed strange to her that they came with sirens that time, because they knew he was gone. here it was happening again, and with every minute that passed she knew with a sickening sense of reality that just like that summer day, they would again not be performing a rescue. the atmosphere at the park began to have a circus-like appearance. there were kids flocking from every direction. some were running, some walking, some pointing and crying, some laughing, and some were even tak­ ing pictures with their cell phones. as the police blocked off the bridge and the fire department rescue boats were put in the water the original five kids, who were just moments before laughing and having fun, huddled together, away from all of the chaos. they looked so different than they had earlier that day. they seemed hollowed out, older, somehow. each had a faraway look of disbelief on his face, like shell-shocked victims of a war-tom country. every once in awhile one of them would shake his head or rub his eyes as if he was trying to wake himself from a nightmare he couldn't escape. kids began saying that they heard the police say there was a pos­ sibility that there were air pockets under the dam that he could be in, that, therefore, he could live, that perhaps he was alive down there and why weren't they trying to get him out? there were firemen in wetsuits walking the river-it was that shallow, to hopefully find him. and then there were the firemen in the boats, jabbing at the river bottom with their long pike poles as they slowly moved along the deeper parts of the river. [work the marked out sentence into the previous sentence-3rd person. it could be powerful.] the police were talking to the kids that were there when it happened. that was when she learned that her son was the one that made the call to 911. one officer told her that, pointing to her son as he patted her on the shoulder. "that was a good thing he did. it's a miracle that none of them jumped in to help him. no one could survive that water,'' the officer added. she supposed it was meant to make her feel better. it didn't. she didn't think anything could make her feel better except reversing time and making this not happen. as members of the media showed up, the kids who were in the origi­ nal group refused to talk to them, which only made the reporters try harder. other kids who weren't even there talked, arms slung over each others shoul­ ders, waving and smiling to the cameras. "hey! i'm going to be on the news!" one hyper, excited boy shouted. "that's so cool!" said his friend as he dialed his cell phone to call more friends. 49 kids began playing tag. they were eating food, laughing-she didn't think her son would ever laugh again. parents of other kids were standing along the riverbank just like she was--probably thinking just like her, "that could have been my kid. thank god it wasn'--,'' and breaking off the thought then, feeling guilty and saying a little prayer while looking over at the parents of the boy in the river. she didn't know the parents, barely knew the boy-she remembered that he was quiet and polite and his nature didn't make him stand out among the circle of friends-because she usually got to know the louder ones since they tended to draw more attention within the group. grabbing the arm and getting in the face of one boy who was run­ ning around like it was any old summer day, "you need to stop screwing around or go home!" she told him. "don't you realize that your friend is dead, in that river? they are searching for his body! he is not coming out alive,'' she yelled at him. "they said he's in an air pocket,'' the boy responded. "he's just waiting for them to come down and get him," said the boy. "i don't know why they are taking so long." "no! he's not going to come out alive!" she told him, intensifying the sound of her voice. "you need to show some respect for his family over there,'' she said, pointing at the family huddled together on the other side of the river, on the other side of the police barricade. "they can see you acting like an idiot while their son is in the bottom of the river!" she nearly shouted as she pushed away from the boy and his friends. that was when the tears spilled over. she didn't just cry for the boy in the river, or just for his family: she cried for the kids who watched their friend struggle for his life and lose, the kids over there as she watched them, away from everyone else, the ones who refused to talk to anyone. they lost, as their friend jost his footing and went under-never again to breathe fresh air, the last of that childhood innocence that had been barely hanging on. this was the last summer they would have before they went off to high school and they had, up to this point, anyway, spent it the way kids were supposed to-sleeping late, playing at the park, hanging out with friends. they shouldn't be sitting by the river trying to understand how and why this happened, thinking about what they could have done differently or how they could have maybe saved him. they talked quietly to each other, each one of them saying he wished it were himself instead of the boy that loved to fish in the river. it's what boys were doing for years and years. they weren't out getting into trouble, they were just fishing. how ~an something bad happen when you are doing something innocent like that? (an excerpt) 50 glenn lyvers the day i became i was another mexican gi1 with a dying father. papa was lyin best white sheets. we were too po did not want to go anyway. mam2 hour she would say, "isabelle, go would not have warm water by hi gold rosary beads the way she c cramped and looked twisted. she tortillas with the other. her lips w the dough, and i knew the prayen head, reading her lips while she p turning downward. before papa got sick, our orange stucco ranch, set so closel: block the porch. my friends woul our tiny living room and out the b ephants, stampeding on the clattei our house belonged to everyone. l we knew he was only pretending his face. he would shake his heac that?" and she would answer, "of she said that she married papa be made her smile he was the centc sick, so did everything else. my friends no longer ca still. i was tethered to that plact: moments, sitting by papa's bed, had never seen before. papa wa suffered with him, needing repc had cracks, and i could see blm by his bed, tracing those cracks ers on a globe, cutting across th the window by his bed allowec sometimes, they were all that rr painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting with the gift of speech. simon ides greek poet (556 bc 468 bc) table of contents scandalizing the librarians ....................................... joe eggleston 5 falling is just another means to an end ................. rebecca evans 6 souls drifting from a parking garage staircase ............ cody miller 7 millpond .................................................................... joshua stump 9 towers................................................................... ashley petersen 10 a bump in the night.. ...... ........................................... kyle hutslar 12 emerald ....... .......................................................... ahlam alhallafi 13 electric windshield wipers and marlbor reds .... courtney sniadecki 20 on the pancake ............................................................ brian miller 21 hot-and-cold ................................................................ crystal gee 28 falling action ...................................................... ryan gruenewald 29 real pleasure .................................................. andrew boomhower 30 i found a meteor while search for your picture ... ashley petersen 38 untitled #58 ................................................................... nick wort 40 sublimo mechanique .............................................. jeffrey barrick 41 simple man ............................................................ mccayla comby 42 bless taking the long road home from school ....... brette jackson 43 blue hollyhock ....................................................... jeffrey barrick 44 tvis watching ....................................................... katherine corpe 45 bull ....................................................................... l(atherine corpe 46 tempest ......................................................... cecelia marie roeder 4 7 villagers at the mill ................................................. brette jackson 48 converge ...................................................................... aaron quist 49 reception ................................................................ jeffrey barrick 50 either/or ........................................................................ nick wort 51 cloud construction ..................................................... madison blue 52 grandma .................................................................... madison blue 53 sunrise over ocean ...................................................... aaron quist 54 big brother . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . cecelia marie roeder 55 public art ............................................................... garrett martin 56 debt ceiling ............................................................ emily bencsics 5 7 i, too ....................................................................... eman alkotob 59 on the moment of realization: for pete ....................... crystal gee 60 homegrown ................................................. samantha hunsberger 61 evergreen ...................................................................... tracy korn 63 the perfect stranger ....................................................... c.d. coss 64 rush hour ......................................................... angela l. hankins 66 i never meant to cause you any pain ....................... lucas burkett 67 tired of cotton ............................................................. cody miller 71 creation ..................................................................... james master 72 the woman's shelter ............................................... rebecca evans 80 winter ............................................................................ krista cox 81 hera's husband ................................................ courtney sniadecki 82 tin ferry ................................................................... diane passero 86 nightlight ............................................................... samantha hall 87 the wisdom of rob ross ................................................ laura fox 89 building homes upon remains ..................................... cody miller 91 daughter song ......................................................... stevy erdman 92 analecta 2014 first place prize poetry joe eggleston scandalizing the librarians is what i would call it, but i've known too many to believe they'd be shocked at finding us in delicto, here, among the stacks. they pornographize the written word, have laid them, as it were, lifelong: who knows the depths or heights book-lust might have taken them, alone or together, some nights or bright noontimes among the shelves, orgy of orgies of pages breaking woven above the eye. so no, lover, they'll tell us to stop or maybe leave, or they'll call the campus cops, but they know more than anyone what's driving us today these lengths of passion and literary discourse. i should have known reading proust in the patch of sunlight to you out loud would bring us to canoodling. he's so flat until you hear him. feed me chocolates and grapes from your own lips, then, and tell me again why you think skirts are the best invention. we're getting caught, there's no avoiding it, but we'll make it to the door no problem; tell me how you like the view, tell me how you like me, like me to press you against the cold window glass and watch the snow blow across the ruined maple standing guard above the red bridge, its rough bark half gone, and weathered white ivory peeking from beneath. table of contents 1_ana_2014 table of contents 2_ana_2014 ryan smith velocity let the centrifuge sort it out. the maelstrom. baptism by ad-hoc tedium, but progress is progress, right? twirling like a delicate old thing a musical figurine in a grandmother's house, lost until her death. found and auctioned. hospital linens soften. 27 analecta 123190 iusb analecta 2014-15 body v3 proof %281%29.pdf v t 0 0 ~ 3 ~ ~ e-t : :!! :r ., , ... .,, fd l"l" i fd = fl ) r0 a z fd 'p = q z 00 83 chad morgan hiding: an essay i believe to this day, with a conviction so ardent it is probably akin to that which motivates religious radicals, domestic terrorists, and kanye west, that i did not, as my mother asserted that evening in 1995 or 1996, choose the flashlight because it was pink. in fact i am fairly certain that the flashlight in question just happened to be the first one hanging on the rack and that i didn’t even notice it was pink until my mother pointed it out to me. i’d simply grabbed it because it was the most conveniently located and we were in a hurry. i’ll concede that i was a pretty queer kid1, but kids learn quickly how to survive in the world, especially the queer ones, and at age ten or eleven, despite never having gone to summer camp before, it seems unlikely that i didn’t know better than to take a pink flashlight with me. that the flashlight was pink, however, was the first thing my mother noticed. the summer camp had sent in the mail a list of items i’d need to bring with me. the flashlight was on it, and things like tennis shoes, bug spray, “modest swimwear,” and shortly after arriving at the target on south bend’s south side, my mother ripped off the bottom half of the list and, handing it to me, sent me in search of the supplies listed thereupon. i quickly found the batteries, the hiking socks (surely the first intimation i’d caught of the possibility of such an activity, otherwise it’s hard to believe i’d have agreed to the whole summer camp thing in the first place), plastic disposable poncho in case of rainy days spent out of doors (likewise), and the flashlight. certain she’d be pleased at how expediently i’d completed my tasks, i rejoined my mother, somewhere between the coolers of frozen pizza and microwaveable dinners and the first aisles of the sporting goods section, delineated by the pup tents and inflatable mattresses in their oblong boxes, proudly bearing my spoils. instead of the glad tidings i’d expected, however, i was met with a disapproval so fierce and abiding i confess it troubles me to this day.2 “what are you thinking?” she railed at me. “you already get made fun of and here you want a pink flashlight?” i looked at her, stunned, silent. i was near dizzy with the belief that i hadn’t chosen it because it was pink, that i didn’t “want” a pink flashlight. my stomach turned with the sickening rage that accompanies any false accusation. yet i couldn’t defend myself, or provide what i knew was the true and perfectly 1 i remember once waking up from a nightmare – sweaty, breathless, in tears – wherein my older brother was destroying my cassette copy of mariah carey’s daydream. naturally, i went wailing of the terror into my mother’s bedroom, demanding that she wake my brother and make him swear that such an atrocity he would never commit. i was requisitely chastised for my “dramatics” and sent back to bed; my brother slept undisturbed. 2 i have hyperbolic tendencies, so you should know that when i say it “troubles me to this day,” what i most likely mean is that i think about it sometimes. 84 logical explanation. i couldn’t, because there was a subject that breathed always just beneath the surface, a truth unexpressed, seemingly inexpressible, that in moments like this bubbled dangerously to the top. i couldn’t, because there was no way to talk about the flashlight without talking about that other thing, however obliquely. my mother removed the flashlight from the shopping cart, thrusting it at me as if it were a dirty and soiled thing, and sent me to find one more appropriately hued. i returned a few minutes later with one that was blue. if my mother’s verbiage sounds cruel, let me assure you that her point was not wholly unfounded: i did get made fun of. a lot. in seventh grade, eric kelter and ryan strong and some of the other “popular guys,” a “friend” told me, nicknamed me banana eater3; ed snell in ninth grade p.e. was fond of calling me by the names of gay celebrities, hurling “elton john” or “george michael” at me with pejorative force; donald mackey, after watching me race a group of four classmates around the track sophomore year, had greeted me at the finish line with the inquisition, “you a cake? you a cake ain’t you?”4 i escaped the academic identity of the bullied for two reasons: 1) i was mostly unafraid to come to my own defense, usually with some retort as snappily generated as it was cruel, but resorting to fisticuffs when necessary, and 2) there really wasn’t such a thing as “bullying” in the 90s. kids were just kids and some of them were assholes. from a certain perspective, i did the absolute most to make myself an easy target. that’s what my mother was teaching me with the pink flashlight, and if her rhetoric seems misguided her intention is understandable in a way i couldn’t, truly, until many years later, as i watched a group of three year olds ignore my nephew in a mcdonald’s playplace. i can’t imagine it’s pleasant to hear daily the many ways in which people had been cruel to your child, or see, as clearly as my mother did, the things about her child that made him subject to those cruelties. she was trying to help: if i didn’t want other campers to make fun of me, she was saying, perhaps i shouldn’t take a pink flashlight to camp. if i didn’t want marcell peterson to ask me nine times a week if i was sure i didn’t have a pussy, or for leon mccray to spit slurs at me in the cafeteria line at lunch, then perhaps i should not do my best jessica rabbit, singing “why don’t do you do right?” for the entire class during free period. perhaps i should not know all the dance moves from the 2001 lady marmalade music video – or at least not perform them, wholly without irony, at ben cusk’s sixteenth birthday party. after all, those were not compulsive, uncontrollable behaviors but very calculated5 performances i enacted with complete agency, and, 3 long before i’d ever, ahem, eaten my first banana. 4 i confess that it was many weeks before i figured out that donald meant “cake” as an abbreviated version of “fruitcake,” and, as it struck my impressionable fifteen year-old mind as a rather creative neologism, i found i could only be mildly offended. this as well happened in gym class, which is basically a master-class in the enforcement of patriarchal ideals of manhood. 5 and, it has to be said, expertly executed. incidentally i’d like to take this opportunity to apologize, sincerely, to ben cusk, if my antics hampered your birthday festivities. 85 though they happened a few years after the incident with the flashlight, they are nevertheless emblematic of my general hijinks. recalling them leaves me as tempted as anyone toward viewing my situation with a well-damned-if-he-wasn’t-asking-forit attitude. but i was bothered by it. i think of the times i stayed home sick when i wasn’t, or the passing periods i spent nervous-vomiting in the bathroom, or the nights my anxiety was so bad it kept me awake, mentally going over the ways i could be better, pressing the dome of my head methodically against the headboard so that it hurt just a little. i’ve often wondered if being an effeminate guy might never have bothered me quite as much if i weren’t gay also. an effete nature is not a prerequisite for being homosexual, certainly, but in some circles, many of my characteristics read as indicative of same-sex desire, and that desire is what they were always objecting to, the flaw they were really pointing out. it didn’t matter so much that i “ran like a girl” or “talked like a girl” or that i listened primarily to music by women or had a fondness for movie musicals – things few traditional males would have much truck with. what mattered for the people in my life – for donald mackey, for ed snell, for my seventh grade math teacher who more than once euphemistically chided me for being “too charismatic” – was that these peculiarities weren’t so much reading “feminine” as they were reading “gay.” and if i didn’t care if that they thought i was girly, i did care that they thought i was gay, because i was gay,6 and, moreover, i didn’t want anyone to know. maybe that i was gay wasn’t why i “ran like a girl,” or why i liked “girl music,” or might have chosen a pink flashlight, but it was the terrible secret those things threatened to disclose. my body, that treacherous thing, and the things i made it do, my interests, habits, tastes – absolutely everything about myself, it seemed – constantly betrayed the only secret i wanted to keep. secrecy equaled survival, so, albeit with a lack of success that belied my true ambition, i tried to be a man: i practiced masculine postures in the full-body mirror on the back of my bedroom door, lowering and broadening my shoulders and training my hips away from their tendency to jut out to either side whenever i stood idle. i watched the men and boys i knew, studying the way they walked – slower than i, i noticed, at once more causal and controlled, their hips hardly moving. my entire torso seemed to sway when i walked, and i suffered backaches and constipation training it to do otherwise. i studied male characters in movies and on television and tried to emulate their natures and speech patterns and mannerisms. i spent more time with my brothers and less time with my sisters, and started going to the baseball games and wrestling meets my father officiated on the weekends, as if the problem all along was that i was simply spending too much time around women. yet any sustained effort to modify my behavior was, i discovered, ultimately failed, not to mention exhausting. i tried, bless my little heart, but the cold truth was that i just wasn’t any good at being a dude. i would not be able to hide there. 6 spoiler alert: still am. 86 * * * we find other ways of hiding. because i wasn’t and felt that i’d tried and couldn’t be traditionally masculine, i became obsessed with masculinity. if i couldn’t appease its mighty strictures with my life, i could, perhaps, mollify it with my ethics. this line of thinking manifested itself in many ways, most prominently in my habit of “dating” only “straight acting” guys. these were guys who were masculine in the most typical ways: sloppy dressers, careless groomers, video gamers. because they were all, like me, in their early 20s, they skewed toward un-showered skateboarders or the type of guys who went around dressed as if they were always on their way to the gym. we had very little in common, but that seemed beside the point. what mattered about these guys was that they were successfully masculine. when i was with them i could imagine my father liking them. i could imagine them getting along with my brothers, all of them huddled in front of the television some sunday talking about football – never mind that i could hardly get these guys to go to burger king with me, let alone home meet my parents. but if i could have, i knew that they would have been included in ways i was not, because i didn’t follow sports and didn’t have the vocabulary to participate in the conversations, didn’t know anything about cars, wasn’t in a poker club, wasn’t interested, and these things, too, snitched of my gayness. being with a veritable “man’s man” seemed like a vicarious sort of masculinity, like if i couldn’t be it i could at least find some validation in possessing it. and even as these relationships happened largely in both the literal and metaphorical dark, even as “dating” these fellows very rarely entailed actual dates, i relished knowing and telling my friends that the guys i slept with were routinely as butch as football quarterbacks. and yet, it wasn’t just that they were masculine. it was the privilege that masculinity allowed them. i liked that they could engage in homosexual acts in private and still be whomever they wanted in public. it wasn’t the first thing people asked them. it wasn’t an attribute people noticed from across the street, as it was for me, like a leg ravaged by polio. it didn’t have any bearing on them as a person. to be sure, there are perfectly masculine gay men in the world, even if you don’t see them on television, and while my “boyfriends” ran a spectrum of sexual identity from strictly-dickly to inconsistently straight, they tended toward the latter. it’s no coincidence that many of them were closeted and that the ones who weren’t lost some of their appeal each time they referred to themselves as gay. by the time i got to college i was beginning my coming out process, which was incremental and longer than necessary. i spent a long time one-foot out, testing the waters, unsure that i wanted to get wet. those were heady times and things were very enmeshed: because my masculine failures had always left me exposed, masculinity and heterosexuality had become synonymous. that these guys were masculine meant they could be gay without it disturbing their lives very much, and, as long as we didn’t go out in public, my life could be undisturbed as well. there was nothing wrong with the honest 87 attraction i felt for these guys, even if it was purely sexual, but beneath its lusty veneer, motivating it, there lurked a sinister self-doubt, if not self-hatred, that liked these men solely because their behavior coded masculine, because they “passed,” and not because i liked them.7 i knew those connections would never amount to anything deeper than the exchange of basic banalities and bodily fluids. they weren’t even connections; they were a way of staying in the closet, of denying myself an authentic life. full disclosure: i still like masculine guys. the acknowledgement does not necessarily portend rectification. my preference is still and will probably always be for guys who are slightly rough around the edges, slightly muscled, able to navigate a toolbox, and there’s nothing wrong with that. we are to a certain extent mere slaves to our tastes, wily as they are, and too-close analysis turns up more inconsistencies than followable logic. however, i work now to remember that i wasn’t merely finding delectation in my proximity to masculinity, but justification, exculpation, absolution. at least, i thought i was finding those things. i realize now, with the clarity that comes only from hindsight, that what i found there was not amnesty but further abjection. in those guys i “dated” and the things about myself i tried to change i wasn’t finding the clemency i didn’t truly need: i was finding a place to hide. 7 in fact, i’m quite certain i resolutely hated two or three of them, and at least one of them was a downright deplorable human being. ( ) ::r ­ ., 0 ~ 3 ., , a o cd a ca cd 0 ., a. . ., a ·" "tl 0 :r: =a n . ~. ., , -· a ., ca a.. . : ;· :r a _ _ u o sd w o ij l u ij o ( u o !j d jj s o i// ss au ua uo 1 poetry the 2010 analecta impressions from the bottom lounge rebecca pelkv a sweet voiced boy with an acoustic guitar sings sharp lines and it sounds like irony when he says fuck. he hides eyes that they admire behind a mane a shouted name but he bleeds from the strings and his soul spills from vocal chords onto the pitted cement floor littered with paper ticket stubs and crushed plastic cups. lfl saw him here in the harsh light of day i could not neglect the naked insulation hanging from rusted wire above damp concrete and the cobweb of cords and chains that secure the stage and amplify a melody. but tonight we are only crescent reflections of blue and pale on long hair and the angle of a face 66 while the cameras flash his s on the black curtain backdrop and these stop-motion shado him in context fade too soon. while the cameras flash his silhouette on the black curtain backdrop and these stop-motion shadows of him in context fade too soon. the 2010 analecta 67 p as relinquished she floated up into the liquid nitrogen of the sky where greek gods and poltergeists danced around the totem moon amyr gardine and slowly released a sigh like the creek of a weary church while her body floated in unison with the smoke from her nostrils for just one moment then fell down to the horizon where the birch and owl were kissing awake the cerise sun that lit the stone path beneath her feet where the moss crouched in anticipation of her mind ra ahlam life is a stage .. i am the actress of its pl being the eighth child of a s< kids played with. my mom used to h2 second living room in the house that b market full of candies, chips, drinks ar in the upper left comer. we called this cious stuff that it had. my mom used her neck. each day before school, ever pick up only three things. i still remen smell of the batook, the banana-flav01 one by one, my mom counted the thin1 go visit the neighbors. when she woulc ers would bring the ladder and put it 01 i was a slim seven-year-old gir no fear. my sister hind gave a long e: and urged me to jump into the frosty f strongest sister, the queen of courage, the controller of the situation my sib lit the rare precious green ruby. i got so nine-year-old sibling humod was spec attempts of stealing candies in the past' cheered for the soldier in her battle eve the frosty glass room had a sm a very long distance between the grom what happened was that i always clime step i would look down and see my fo· like the bags of the candies in the treasl i was trying to go down the crowd chet i got excited and crossed the ladder an< there, everyone asked for something wl throwing the bags through the opening candy boxes, raised my small body and . with my fingers which got red from the take a bunch of dollars with my toes an< 4.ndrews, scot iii kelly, laurel iederman-bieschke :>n ~ richmond for their ~ussell-replogle 1pson; st's best by laurel us moya be 1d gravy i ever had by by chris o 'brien •rina e. jerome table of contents poetry the age of contraception cassandra zurawski cultivation colleen card budapest's best laure/ wiederman-bieschke untitled bi// mcc/ain the cigarette burns joshua r. leuthold the clockshop sage rabbi steven m. leapman fireflies rebecca gerdes cup of noodles joe borkowski thanks, ma laure/ wiederman-bieschke someday on writer's almanac chris o'brien garbage joshua r. leuthold ghosts terri vega legends of the nile river valley cassandra zurawski blue lightning chris o'brien stomach ache john thompson trash ty/er moore riptide michele a. kroger walnut road talia m. reed 2 2 3 4 5 6 8 9 10 10 11 12 13 13 14 14 15 76 ill iv the owls kimberly correll stardust chris o'brien southern flow dan gleason tuesday at harry's dan gleason in the fall jesus g. moya in earnest of spring dan gleason if you play your cards right susie russell-replogle haiku zorina e. jerome a laugh, a star and the eternal projedionist david kobb with obsidian tongue jesus g. moya coulda, shouda, woulda neil kelly paradox ryan smith under the rug of a broken home justin gish windswept susie russell-replogle on the inside mark ulfig lizard king (an ode to jim morrison) adam gillippo old men susie russell-replogle bear creek (juno, ak) david hun!ington 17 eulogy jessica 17 stoodup sonnet 18 thankfully, it's 19 untitled shawn 20 the stupids da 20 0' ireland pat i 21 visions of the fi 22 ways of lookin! 23 24 non-fiction 25 your cheatin' h' 26 the mating hab 27 28 drama 29 the clerk co/le, 30 the means, act 1 36 37 17 eulogy jessica sieff 38 ' 17 stoodup sonnet david kobb 39 18 thankfully, it's the end of winter neil kelly 40 son 19 untitled shawn m. heston 41 20 . the stupids dave huntington 42 lson 20 0' ireland pat fay 43 . )usie russell-replogle 21 ' visions of the future joe borkowski 44 22 ) ways of looking susie russell-replogle 45 . i projectionist david kobb 23 ; , moya 24 non-fiction kelly 25 your cheatin' hearl katie madonna lee 50 26 the mating habits of ducks david kobb 57 1me justin gish 27 ogle 28 drama 29 the clerk colleen card 62 1rrison) adam gillippo 30 the means, act one zurina e. jerome 69 ·le 36 huntington 37 v short stories the last movie ryan batch el 106 independence day charmien a. keranen 116 shekinah glory colleen card 119 the truth is good for you aaron j. vue/man 126 just like mom april l. paul 132 a season for bears jesus g. moya 136 refilled coffee and lit cigarettees ••• mitch robinson 143 all in a day's work jennifer littler 145 enough chris o'brien 151 nasty habit matt skibby 155 point man dave huntington 162 vi 8 neil kelly swift migration i left the concrete via turn lanes, the one-way streets, the homeless suitering. an overpopulated mass transit subway system; a pulsing aorta of mortal vestige. i hotfooted it like fleeing deer from a forest ablaze; mosquitoes absquatulaling oul of rippling waler. the city has me sweating more than normal this year. a wild lime. nol the year for lover's luck. s latic covers understanding and conversation like moss. peat? nope, just a mossback. a backwards pedestrian crossing towards tomorrow's flooded basements. beyond the city limits, the brisk air and whispers of deceased foliage smash my face like a rubber mallet against a dent. i feel reborn. a sparrow, or maybe a finch, skims in the wind, dodging hail and meteor particles remimscenl of december dandruit on a black sweater. the wings brushing bashfully. it's to the country setting i'm jelling. no bike lanes or meter readers. just the echoes of silence and lhe smells of hogs and ethanol. art 11 juujdof slllf juds'jl{ qui tfjuj3tj1 s'.quag ~tnos lftj$'j3rjull uuujquj i • analecta 2014 first place prize poetry joe eggleston scandalizing the librarians is what i would call it, but i've known too many to believe they'd be shocked at finding us in delicto, here, among the stacks. they pornographize the written word, have laid them, as it were, lifelong: who knows the depths or heights book-lust might have taken them, alone or together, some nights or bright noontimes among the shelves, orgy of orgies of pages breaking woven above the eye. so no, lover, they'll tell us to stop or maybe leave, or they'll call the campus cops, but they know more than anyone what's driving us today these lengths of passion and literary discourse. i should have known reading proust in the patch of sunlight to you out loud would bring us to canoodling. he's so flat until you hear him. feed me chocolates and grapes from your own lips, then, and tell me again why you think skirts are the best invention. we're getting caught, there's no avoiding it, but we'll make it to the door no problem; tell me how you like the view, tell me how you like me, like me to press you against the cold window glass and watch the snow blow across the ruined maple standing guard above the red bridge, its rough bark half gone, and weathered white ivory peeking from beneath. 5 • «bitor-in·q~ief jefftatay .assistant «bitors jordan eash matt henry mckenzie lynn tozan faculf'j abuisor clayton michaels qouer art chris bush la11out & desijn jordan eash jefftatay acfinowlebjements i would like to thank the following people for their help and support in the production of analecta 2012: erica wood, dr. kelcey parker, anne richmond and service printers. jefftatay editor-in-chief inbiana l ~out~ €.1l.!lli$~ departme'. judge: jil poi rachel barn kristen lafoll ryan l. gruenewald jessica a. deckard ( fii ryan l. gruem hannah cro michelle hanshew l josh bisig (hor :qon1 joy bye 1 ja egglesto jean e. johnson (i «bitor-in·q~ief jefftatay .assistant «bitors jordan eash matt henry mckenzie lynn tozan faculfj abuisor clayton michaels qouer art chris bush lajout & dest!jn jordan eash jefftatay acftnoudebjements i would like to thank the following people for their help and support in the production of analecta 2012: erica wood, dr. kelcey parker, anne richmond and service printers. jefftatay editor-in-chief inbiana i soutl «njli.s~ departme judge: ji: po rachel barr kristen lafol1 ryan l. gruenewald jessica a. deckard i fit ryan l. gruen hannah crc michelle hanshew josh bisig (hm :qon1 joy bye ja egglesto jean e. johnson (1 . you knew where they were go ing. sir. there is o nly one bus left this roo m, the motor rumbles, the brakes :owards the window.) :lon 't get o n the bus? what if i just ·. (reaches under the counter and :ket stated, your destinati on is open 1o ments.) but what if i get lost alo ng .i ng to the clerk he puts the hat on his us) weep the room, the red ta il lights hes the bus lights for a moment, then •itch on the wall behind h im and turns the means, act one analecta the means, act one zorina e. jerome fade in ext · south bend, ind. interfa ith baptist churc h -day organ mus ic plays. autumn-colored trees envelope a quaint church. preacher (v.o) marriage. marriage is a sacred thing. the union be­ tween two people. spirit, soul and body. marri age is a compromise. a sacrifice. it is a li fetime commitment. yellow cab /juli.i up. lexie cummings gets out of a cab and walks hastily into the church. int inter fa ith baptist church/ sanctuary day lexie quickly finds a seat in the back of the church. at the alter, stand the pr each er and wi ns low stand fleck who is holding a very beautiful and pregnant monet spader's hands. standing behind winslow is the best man, waymon standfleck. he notices lexie. the camera focuses on aliycha andrews sitting in the fifth pew fold ing her arms and staring at waymon with jealousy. waymon smiles at her. aliycha's stern face softens. sitting next to aliycha is ma /tron who is text messaging through his top-dollar cell phone. preacher (cont' d) it is also a dying of o ne's self. ir's the resurrectio n of something new. something beautiful. .. (pause) the preacher looks at the bride-to-be. preacher life. monet and winslow exchange smiles. preacher if there is anyone today who does not bel ieve that winslow standfleck and monet spader.shou ld be married, let him speak now or fo rever hold his peace. waymon now. the guests gasp 69 70 drama winslow what? waymon forever is a long time, bro. i ca n't let you do this. winslow what? this? i love her. why are you frea king out, man7 this is my wedding day. waymon [ can' t let you do this. she's not right, win . look, just trust me on this. she's not the one fo r you. winslow hey, there's no cameras o n today ... waymon this isn' t about the damn show ... winslow you know you' re a real piece of ... waymon would you just li sten to ... winslow bad timing, bro. i'm kind of getting married right now ... waymon she's not pregnant, winslow! the guest murmur. monet rolls her eyes. monet this is ridiculous. father, please continue. preacher let us .. waymon no, let us get to the bottom of this. have you gone to the docto r with her? as a matter of fac t, who is her doctor? ls he here? surely, you've invited him to such an occasion as this, monet. monet i can 't believe you do what? fa ke a p to what, waymon? ous of your brothe1 you. he'll do anyth since our engagem1 do n't do this to hi (disgusted)you're d places his pa lm on can we just co nrim i'd like to enjoy the did you hear anyth pregnant! how would you eve my wife. thank you. not yet. look wins· lie about something excuse me, but we n ding ceremony toda~ monet and yes. let you do this. ou freaking out, ght, win. look, just ~ fo r you. ng married right rolls her eyes. :o ntinue. is. have you gone to jf fact , who is her invited him to such the means, act one analecta i can 't believe you would do this to your own brother. waymon do what? fake a pregnancy just to ... to .. . monet to what, waymo n? to what? you've always been jea l­ ous of your brother and i do n't know why. he loves you. he'll do anything fo r you. you haven' t been right since our engagemenr. waymon do n't do this to him . monet (disgusted)you're the o ne doing this to him.winslow places his palm o n monet's back to calm her. winslow can we just continue? our plane leaves at midnight. i'd like to enjoy the reception. waymon did you hear anything i said to youl mo net isn' t pregnant! winslow how would you even know something like that? she's my wife. monet thank you. waymon not yet. look winslow, yo u know me. would i ever lie about something like this? am i lying now? (pause) preacher excuse me, but we need to know. will there be a wed­ ding ceremony today? monet and waymon answer toge ther. monet yes. waymon 71 i 72 drama no. monet and waymon look at winslow. winslow 1...1 don't know. more murmurs from the guests. monet sweetie, don't let him get to you. [love. you love me. let's do th is. winslow are you pregnant? monet steps back with her hands on her sto mach. she is speechless. winslow monet? are you pregnant? monet remains silent. she is about to cry. preacher monet, this is very serious. are you pregnant with winslow's ch ild7 monet (in tears) a few minutes ago, you were about to pledge to god, to me, to everybody that you would trust and honor me ... waymon jeez, give me a break. monet (cont'd) ... and now, you question the woman whom you are to spend the rest of your life with? maybe i need to seco nd-guess my decision. i certainly don' t want to be with a man who doubts me. monet turns to the audience. she wipes her tears and places her hands back on her stomach. monet i'm sorry everyone. i'm sorry you had to see this. monet turns to leave. winslow grabs monet's arm. winslow monet. baby, no. !...don' t go. i love you. let's do this. let's get married . waymon yanks monet awe o h hell no. look! a pillow. here! lo winslow, monet, let me go! winslc feel the baby kick, winslow punches wa~ show's over. winslow and monet turn t proceeds to exit down the c uh ... ah yes. marri: the devil is a i waymon l int interfa ith as waymon attempts to ope her m waymon' lexie c what was that ab01 not right now, aliy right now is as goo tt winslow. the guests. love. you love me. ck with her hands : remains silent. she u pregnanr with were about to pledge you would trust and r'd) 1an whom you are ? maybe i need to nly don't want to be ears and places her hands back had to see this. r-abs monet's arm. >ve you. let's do this. the means, act oneanalecta waymon yanks monet away from winslow. he pulls at her ruffled dress. waymon o h hell no. look1 there's no baby in there! it's just a pillow. here! look1 winslow, monet, waymon and the preacher struggle. monet (screaming) let me go! w inslow' waymon, stop it. stop! waymon feel the baby kick, bro! feel the pillow baby kick! w inslow punches waymon to the ground and snatches his ring. winslow show's over. winslow and monet turn to the preacher. waymon stands to his feet and proceeds to exit down the center aisle of tlie church. the camera follows waymon out. preacher (o.s .) uh .. .ah yes. marriage is love. love is trust ... and th e devil is a u ar! waymon leaves. lexie follows him out. int interfaith baptist church/ foyerday as waymon attempts to open the main doorway of the church, lexie opens her mouth to call out to him. waymon ' aliycha (o.s .) lexie quickly steps out of sight. aliycha w hat was that about7 waymon not right now, ali ycha. aliycha right now is as good a time as any. waymon (yells) 73 74 drama i said not right nowl aliycha is stunned. waymon calms down and comforts her in a softer tone. waymon not right now, ok? i promise i'll explain everything. a uy cha waymon, you've got to talk to me. waymon !will. waymon showers aliycha with kisses. waymon i will. i promise. you gotta trust me. everything alright? not really, maitron. maitron (o.s.) waymon speaks to aliycha. waymon go with maitron. i'll call you. aliycha is hesitant. waymon i'll be fine. i just need to be alone. go to the recep­ tion. have a good time. maitron, take care of her. ma itron you got it. aliycha reluctantly enters the sanctuary with maitron. waymon i'll call you. aliycha and maitron disappear into the sanctuary. waymon leaves the building. ext interfaith baptist church day light breeze. autumn leaves scurry about the ground. the trees rain more leaves. a bruised waymon heads towards his vehicle. lexie runs out of the church after him. lexie robin! waymon stops instantly an batman7 in the flesh. waymon' it's refreshing to pu who gives inaccurat you 7 i'm batman. your f waymon become this isn't a joke. i j1 my reputation. lexie fearl£ aw, goldenboy's gc exactly how much c are you serious? as aliycha's faces are p stand? your reality: you forget? you know what i'm you're wasting time need to do ... i comforts her in a softer tone. explain everything. with kisses. le. a. nt. :. go to the recep­ :ake ca re of her. tuary with maitron. mctuary. waymon leaves the "church day te ground. the trees rain more s vehicle. lexie runs out of the n. the means, act oneanalecta robin' waymon stops instantly and turns around walking slowly toward lexie. batman? waymon lexie (laughs) in the flesh. waymon cautiously pulls lexie aside. waymon (sarcastic) it' s refreshing to put a face to my little internet buddy who gives inaccurate information. (pause) who are you7 lexie i'm batman. your robin. it's all very simple. waymon becomes frustrated and grab lexie's arm. waymon this isn't a joke. 1 just lost my brother and probably my reputation. lexie fearlessly snatches her arm away. lexie aw, goldenboy's got a boo-boo! waymon exactly how much do you know about me? lexie are you serious? aside from the fact you, monet and aliycha's faces are plastered on every supermarket stand? your reality show airs every thursday. or did you forget? waymon you know what i'm talking about. lexie you're wasting time on irrelevantquestions. what you need to do ... waymon 75 ode to nick drake illustration john thompson the means, act one analecta fade in ext -south bend, ind. interfaith baptist church -day organ music plays. autumn-col­ ored trees envelope a quaint church. preacher (v.o) marriage. marriage is a sacred thing. the union between two people. spirit, soul and body. marriage is a compromise. a sacrifice. it is a lifetime commitment. yellow cab pulls up. lexie cummings gets out of a cab and walks hastily into the church. int interfaith baptist church/sanctuary day lexie quickly finds a seat in the back of the church. at the alter, stand the preacher and winslow stand fleck who is holding a very beautiful and pregnant monet spader's hands. standing behind winslow is the best man, waymon standfleck. he notices lexie. the camera focuses on aliycha andrews sitting in the fifth pew folding her arms and staring at waymon with jealousy. waymon smiles at her. aliycha's stern face softens. sitting next to aliycha is maitron who is text messaging through his top-dollar cell phone. preacher 85 86 drama (cont'd) it is also a dying of one's self. it's the resurrection of something new. something beautiful...(pause) the preacher looks at the bride-to-be. preacher life. monet and winslow exchange smites . preacher if there is anyo ne today who does not believe that winslow stand fleck and monet spader.should be mar­ ried , let him speak now or forever ho ld his peace. waymon now. the guests gasp. winslow what? waymon forever is a long time, bro. l can't let you do this. winslow what? this? ! love her. why ~ re you freaking out, man? this is my wedding day. i can' t let yo1 right, win. l this. she's n< hey, there's : this isn 't ab< ' you know yo would you jt ' bad timing, l married right she's not pre the guest mur this is ridi cu continue. p let us .. 's self. ir's ething new. pause) te bride-to-be. r hange smiles. r who does •w standfleck uld be mar' or forever ~ ~sp v ~ bro. i can't v . why are this is my the means, act one analecta waymon i can'~ let you do this. she's not right, win. look, just trust me on this. she's not the one for you. winslow hey, there's no cameras on today ... waymon this isn't about the damn show ... winslow you know you're a real piece of ... waymon would you just listen to ... winslow bad timing, bro. i'm kind of getting married right now ... waymon she's not pregnant, winslow! the guest murmur. monet rolls her eyes. monet this is ridiculo us. father, please continue. preacher let us .. 87 bb drama waymon no, let us get to the bottom of this. have you gone to the doctor with her? as a matter of fact, who is her doctor? ls he here? surely, you've invited him to such an occasion as this, monet. monet i can't believe you would do this to your own brother. waymon do what? fake a pregnancy just to ... to ... monet to what, waymon? to what? you've always been jealous of your brother and i don't know why. he loves you. he'll do anything for you. you haven't been right since our engage­ ment. waymon don't do this to him. monet (disgusted)you're the one doing this to him.winslow places his palm on monet's back to calm her. winslow can we just continue? our plane leaves at midnight. i'd like to enjoy the reception. did you hea monet isn't how would thing like th thank you. not yet. loe me. would i thing like th (pause) excuse me, 1 will there b today? monet and yes. no. monet and 1 1...1 don't kr to m of this. k to r with who is her :ly, you've kcas ion as d do this to rncy just to ... what? you've our brother he loves :or you. you : our engage:te do ing this his palm o n er. v our plane ike to enjoy the means, act one analecta waymon did you hear anything i said to yo u? monet isn't pregnant! winslow how would you even know some­ thing like that? she's my wife. monet thank you. waymon not yet. look winslow, you know me. would i ever lie about some­ thing like this? am i lying now? (pause) preacher excuse me, but we need to know. will there be a wedding ceremo ny today? monet and waymon answer together. monet yes. waymon no. m onet and waymon look at w inslow. winslow i...l don 't know. 89 90 drama more murmurs from the guests. monet sweetie, don't let him get to you. i love. you love me. let's do this. winslow are you pregnant? monet steps back with her hands on her stomach. she is speechless. winslow monet? are you pregnant? monet remains silent. she is about to cry. preacher monet, this is very serious. are you pregnant with winslow's child? monet (in tears) a few minutes ago, you were about to pledge to god, to me, to everybody that you would trust and honor me ... waymon jeez, give me a break. monet (cont'd) ... and now, you question the woman whom you are to spend the rest of your life with? maybe i need to second-guess my decision. i certainly don't want to be with a man who doubts me. monet turns her tears and l' m sorry eve had to see th monet turn~ monet. baby you. let's do waymony winslow. he oh hell no. l in there! it's look! winslow, 1',, pn let me go! 'j stop it. stoi feel the baby pillow baby k winslow p ground a n the guests. et to you. i do this. 1 et steps back .tomach. she 1 mt? monet iout to cry. r •us. are you 's child? ; ago, you god, to me, uu id trust it'd) o the woman the rest of need to •n. i certainly man who the means, act one analecta monet turns to the audience. she wipes her tears and places her hands back on her stomach. monet i'm sorry everyone. i'm sorry you had to see this. monet turns to leave. winslow grabs monet's arm. winslow monet. baby, no. !...don't go. i love you. let's do this. let's get married. waymon yanks monet away from winslow. he pulls at her ruffled dress. waymon oh hell no. look! there's no baby in there! it's just a pillow. here! look! winslow, monet, waymon and the preacher struggle. monet (screaming) let me go! winslow! waymon, stop it. stop! waymon feel the baby kick, bro! feel the pillow baby kick! winslow punches waymon to the ground and snatches his ring. 91 92 drama winslow show's over. winslow and monet turn to the preacher. waymon stands to his feet and proceeds to exit down the center aisle of the church. the camera fotlows waymon out. preacher (o.s.) uh .. .ah yes. marriage is love. love is trust ... and the devil is a liar! waymon leaves. lexie follows him out. int interfaith baptist church/ foyer day as waymon attempts to open the main doorway of the church, lexie opens her mouth to call out to him. aliycha (o.s.) waymon! lexie quickly steps out of sight. aliycha what was that about? waymon not right now, aliycha. aliycha right now is as good a time as any. i said not rig aliycha is s down and car not right no· exp lain every waymon, yo1 i will. waymon sho i will. 1 prom everything al ' not really, m spe \ go with mait aliy vv turn to the s to his feet and ~ center aisle of allows waymon ~r is love. love evil is a illows him out. l baptist :rday open the main ,exie opens her to him. \ ut of sight. \ ";/ \ time as any. the means, act one analecta waymon (yells) [said not right now! aliycha is stunned. waymon calms down and comforts her in a softer tone. waymon not right now, ok? i promise i'll explain everything. aliycha waymon, you've got to talk to me. waymon i will. waymon showers aliycha with kisses . waymon i will. i promise. you gotta trust me. maitron (o.s.) everything alright? waymon not really, maitron. speaks to aliycha. waymon go with maitron. i'll call you. aliycha is hesitant. 93 94 drama waymon i'll be fine. i just need to be alone. go to the reception. have a good­ time. maitron, take care of her. maitron you got it. aliycha reluctantly enters the sanctuary with maitron. waymon i'll call you. aliycha and maitron disappear into the sanctuary. waymon leaves the building. ext interfaith baptist church-day light breeze. autumn leaves scurry about the ground. the trees rain more leaves. a bruised waymon heads towards his vehicle. lexie runs out of the church after him. lexie robin! waymon stops instantly and turns around walking slowly toward lexie. batman? in the flesh. waymon lexie (laughs) waymon cm it's refreshin; little lnterne1 curate inforn are you? i'm batman. very simple. waymon beo ' this isn't a jc brother and r lexie fearless!: aw, goldenb \ exactly how r about me? are you serio1 fact you, mon a re plastered c stand? your r thursday. or \j to be alone. .ave a good­ ·e of her. ·s the sanctuary m. n :appear into the 1es the building. y. baptist day i.eaves scurry trees rain more . ymon heads ~ runs out of the him. dy and turns toward lexie. n the means, act one analecta waymon cautiously pulls lexie aside. waymon (sarcastic) it's refreshing to put a face to my little internet buddy who gives inac­ curate information. (pause) who are you? lexie i'm batman. your robin. it's all very simple. waymon becomes frustrated and grab lexie's arm. waymon this isn't a joke. i just lost my brother and probably my reputation. lexie fearl.essly snatches her arm away . lexie aw, goldenboy's got a boo-boo! waymon exactly how much do you know about me? lexie are you serious? aside from the fact you, monet and aliycha's faces are plastered on every supermarket stand? your reality show airs every thursday. or did you forget? 95 96 drama waymon you know what i'm talking about. lexie you're wasting time on irrelevant­ questions. what you need to do ... waymon who are you to tell me what to do? look where your little "batman" information got me.waymon points to his swollen eye. waymon (cont'd) my brother still married her. l can't wait till he finds out she's not pregnant. i hope ... lexie that's where you're wrong, robin. (pause) i was hoping with your help, wecould've prevented this marriage. that's why i contacted you through the internet. lexie digs in her purse and pulls out a cigarette. lexie (cont'd) i never intended to meet with you face to face but l could tell through your emails you were getting desper­ ate. waymon takes and ligh ' you don't str smoke. l knew you w something sn showed up. y waymon frou lexie's m \ no. then why do \ in case a beal one. sounds of ap waymon and l the back oj \l you a reporte ~ king about. , irrelevant­ eed to do ... ~ : what to do? "batman" aymon points n 1) d her. i out she's not ·ong, robin. •ith your help, this marriage. . you through md pulls out a )) ~et with you l tell through :etting desperthe means, act one analecta waymon takes a lighter out of his pocket and lights lexie's cigarette. waymon you don't strike me as the type to smoke. lexie i knew you were going to do something stupid today. that'swhy i showed up. you smoke? waymon frowns as he passively waves lexie's smoke away from him. waymon no. lexie then why do you carry a lighter? waymon in case a beautiful woman needs one. sounds of applause come from the church. waymon and lexie start walking toward the back of the church building. waymon you a reporter? lexie 97 98 drama something like that. waymon for who? lexie for me. waymon takes a piece of bubble gum from his pocket and pops it into his mouth. waymon what's it to you if monet marries into my family and takes over the business? lexie i have my reasons. bubble gum? waymon winslow thought it would be a nice gimmick for the show. now it's a habit. want some? lexie no thank you. i've got my lollipop in the car. look, you've gotta get back in that church. waymon for what? lexie how else are monet is up t ' you're the on her. you tell 1 lexie takes on then drops it 1 out wit everything's c a few people maitron and s· ext-int church; }v what's wrong aliycha scans t1 p waymon's stil moved. m why do yous could believe : be false? n of bubble gum ips it into his n net marries :es over the )ble gum? n :iuld be a nice now it's a : my lollipop re gotta get in the means, act one analecta how else are we going to know what mon~t is up to? waymon you're the one with all the dirt on her. you tell me. lexie takes one last puff of her cigarette then drops it to the ground, mashing it out with her pink pumps. lexie everything's changed. a few people trickle out of the church. maitron and aliycha are among the small crowd. ext. interfaith baptist church/ front building -day maitron what's wrong? aliycha scans the parking lot with a look of concern. aliycha waymon's still here. his car hasn't moved. mai tron why do you suppose waymon could believe monet's pregnancy to be fa lse? 99 100 drama more people spill out of the church. a woman prances about holding a basket with a yellow bow. she is passes out little white sacks of rice with a yellow ribbon tightly sealing its contents. aliycha and maitron each receive a sack and fumble with the yellow ribbon. aliycha he probably thought she faked it just to spite him for choosing me as his fiancee instead of her. she even turned down half a million to stay on the show and for the chance of waymon choosing her. she was re­ jected and broke. l just don't know why waymon wouldn't just tell me. maitron why would he? aliycha i'm his fiancee. maitron only on televison. aliycha he chose me! maitron only on television. aliycha we love each other! ~ only-on-telev maitron u aliycha's she walk furthe1 awaiting the if you can ma it. lf it doesn' bachelor will you can put o winslow am church. everyc you actresses seriously. juli< ryan, nicole, waymon's far. dis tract you fr career. when black actress, ' friend. you co berry. l can m as winslow an to maitron anc aiming the rice hits monet in h from the res a : of the church. bout holding a v. she is passes >f rice with a ing its contents. :h receive a sack eltow ribbon. <\ he faked it loosing me as ler. she even ilion to stay le chance of . she was re­ ;t don't know t just tell me. n a n a 1n a the means, act one analecta maitron only-.on-television. maitron wraps his arms around aliycha's shoulders. they proceed to walk further down the line of guest awaiting the bride and grooms depar­ ture. maitron (cont'd) if you can marry waymon, do it. if it doesn't work out then #l bachelor will just be one more thing you can put on your resume. winslow and monet step out of the church. everyone applauds and throws rice. maitron (cont'd) you actresses take your jobs too seriously. julia roberts, lopez, meg ryan, nicole arie-parker. .. don't let waymon's family entanglements distract you from advancing your career. when hollywood calls for a black actress, you better jump, girl­ friend. you could be the next halle berry. i can make it happen. as winslow and monet step down closer to maitron and aliycha, aliycha starts aiming the rice at monet. a grain of rice hits monet in her eye. she shields herself from the rest of the "rice tossing". aliycha 101 102 drama the only thing that's going to hap­ pen is my becoming mrs. waymon stand fleck. as aliycha throws the rice at monet she says: aliycha (cont'd) we'll-all-be-one-big-happy-family! ext . interfaith baptist church/backside of church-day lexie peeks behind the church building spying on aliycha and maitron. waymon lexie! what's changed? lexie snaps out of her infatuation with aliycha and maitron's conversation. lexie you have to go back. waymon to what? lexie to making nice-nice with monet. waymon so i can ... ? know what lv next. \ she's gonna s standfleck c< that's what sl standfleck nc silen the hell it is. the reception dapologize to to your jealou: " but i'm not je and congratul; baby. waymon spits fresh piece of b1 \\, why would iv crazy like that? because you're to be one step in-law. you're t her. to everyb< pathetic and ir :oing to hap­ lrs. waymon ce at monet she a )) ;:>py-fami ly! h baptist cs/de of day church building rid maitron. in d? nfatuation with s conversation. >n vith monet. >n the means, act one analecta lexie know what monet is going to do next. waymon she's gonna sink her claws in standfleck communications. that's what she's gonna do. she's a stand fleck now. it's a done deal. silence. lexie paces. lexie (grins) the hell it is. you're going to goto the reception sloppy drunk an­ dapologize to the newlyweds. admit to your jealously towards winslow ... waymon but i'm not jealous! lexie and congratu late them on their new baby. waymon spits his gum out and pops a fresh piece of bubble gum in his mouth. waymon why would l want to do something crazy like that? lexie because you're on a roll. you need to be one step ahead of your sister­ in-law. you're no longer a threat to her. to everybody, you're pitiful, pathetic and insanely jealous. 103 saman tlma lit uns berger yorktown we danced. you used to dance me to sleep. in that house by white river. where the backyard flooded every spring. and you wore a wool hat every summer. when a meandering moccasin made its way to your back porch. and you would catch it. the same way you did that rat in a backroom dryer vent. but better than the way you caught your mind. forgetting. slipping. forgotten. gone. just like it never happened. 16 la mome p:iiaf if every note held comfortable woe and tenuous joy kept that marvelous tone then something transfixing must have been lost in each unrecordable smear of her voice. n:iiall contents poetry krista cox love song for recovering codependent [9] tracy korn lungstone [10] austin veldman derelict [11] samantha lewis sway [12] chad forbregd death becomes her [13] kristiane weeks pamphlets [14] makayla stutzman naked is one consideration under the hatch [15] austin veldmn driftwood [16] elizabeth miley acrobat [17] tracy korn big top [18] jennifer jones tornado alley [19] charis schepers sky sounds [20] amanda barnett love is a solid substance [21] samantha lewis homecoming [22] anne marie lindgren vending machine quarters [23] samantha lewis camouflaged [24] niall garvin straight date [25] makayla stutzman three ways [26] nick wort i’d rather read kanye than keats [27] seth umbaugh my mother’s porcelain cat [28] dylan richardson pun-pun [29] diane passero cremains [30] krista cox celebration, in triplicate [31] elizabeth miley type b [32] tracy korn sewing delusion [33] kristiane weeks how far back can you remember? [34] dylan richardson timeline [35] chris williams $1.32 [36] courtney sniadecki city lights [37] crystal gee the bend [38] chris williams national beef jerkey awareness month [39] diane passero observation [40] krista cox explanations for silence [41] charis schepers elm street [42] anne marie lindgren yellow silk [43] kristiane weeks slow motion [44] visual art ashley hochstetler i won’t bite [47] jeffrey barrick surrealist portrait [48] jeffrey barrick coffee & doughnuts [49] josh silveus the anatomy of art and life [50] josh silveus paradoxology [51] nick wort methoxetamine / datura [52] nichole m.k. lindhorn when we ran out of things to talk about [53] nichole m.k. lindhorn pantyless cakes [54] cecelia roeder forest hills drive [55] cecelia roeder the things you left me [56] aaron quist surf city / sweat [57] cassandra laforest finger trapped [58] fiction arron quist 33 1/3 [61] j.b. adams something lost: in medias res [67] savannah hope eden [71] cassandra laforest for sale: baby shoes, never worn [73] non-fiction chad morgan hiding: an essay [83] contributors’ notes [89] 123190 iusb analecta 2014-15 body v3 proof %281%29.pdf to be scrubbed clean until squeak-worthy, until emerald leaves streak green my knife hand. pepper with parsley. don't forget the paprika, lots of hungarian paprika: budapest's best­ a squat tin can of sweet, wax-bodied red peppers dried in ruby strands. untitled by bill mcc/ain i am really athletic and right-handed made of wood you are short and sweet and rubber banded and that's pretty good see i don't wanna wanna don't wanna do the things i should everyone else is evil fuckers we're just misunderstood i'm thinking about purchasing a megaphone, some new clothes angling for the motherlode looking for something new to loathe, something ugly i can grow something red that really goes you are skinny and pretty and pretty handy lam just skinny and nobody understands me l would die for ice cream and l would die for porn queens l would die to be interesting l would love to be anything 4 poetry you use me up like you smoke a ci breathing me in only to blow me c turning me into ashes you transform into a light brocade, unraveling at the slightest touch o1 stub me out when you've had eno or when you've smoked me to my and you just can't stand my taste anymore. maybe this time you'll stomp me o once i hit the pavement with a barely audible thud, scraping your boot, making me leave my innards in a trail on the asphalt. no matter how i'm disposed of, be it fire-down in sand, or splayed on the cement, or spit on and tossed in the garbag or thrown out of the car window, my embers fleeing from my body with the force of the speed you are you will leave me wherever i end u: and walk away without a second th ts which seemed as if •ted to soak in infor­ ind the microphone nowledgement and rritten by a five year 1mpire bats with razor !ll away. but i did not, nuch time invested in like i forgot to breathe, notes, my hands shak:s had never made hell". three. two. one. r to reach over 300,000 tee, i pushed the off butring "just breathe:' the missing by: michelle hanshew what's the difference between being seen as paranoid and being seen as perceptive? is it based on acceptance? is it a matter of one's standing in the community, amongst one's peers, or simply carrying the biggest stick? i wish i knew. it would make convincing my neighbors so much easier, but they're starting to think i'm nuts. hell, if they saw the inside of my house at this point they'd run for the nearest phone. as it is, i try to be as noticeable as possible, complaining to the neighbors how much renovations cost as i carry lumber and power tools into the house. the one thing that i've learned from social interaction is that if you bitch about something long enough, people will be almost afraid of bringing the subject up. so far it's worked; i've boarded up the first floor windows, as well as the one above the porch, all without visits from nosy neighbors. not that i've got many anymore neighbors, that is. the whole thing started maybe half a year ago. on my way to work i noticed that the people a few houses to the south weren't there anymore. it wasn't that their car was gone, it was that the windows were boarded up, like there had been a fire there. the thing was, i knew there hadn't been a fire i'm not that deep of a sleeper. the last time any sirens even came close to the neighborhood was last year, when old mrs. phelps had a heart attack. when i got home that afternoon, i asked the guy next door about it, but he hadn't heard anything either. the entire family had disappeared without a peep. within a week even their perma­ nent collection of toys had disappeared from the lawn, and the only proof that anyone had lived there at all was an old oil stain on the driveway. the next few weeks were fairly quiet. the mystery behind the neighbor's disappearance was ex­ plained away by theories of foreclosure, sick relatives, and fleeing debt collectors. when the boarded up windows were brought up, there were only shrugs and the topic was changed. everything was starting to go back to normal when the same thing happened to the house across the street. i knew the woman and her two sons well enough to know that there were financial issues, but nothing that would force them to leave in the middle of the night. even if things were worse than they had let on, who goes through the trouble to board up their windows before they leave? after a few days of looking at their empty house, i finally went over to see if they had left behind a note or anything that would explain their sudden departure. walking around the house revealed nothing, except a few abandoned toys and claw marks where their dog had scratched up the back door. wandering back to my porch, i stopped and looked around, but this time i looked past the neighbors' backyards and into the yards of the people behind them. roughly a quarter of them had boarded up windows. after that, i started buying supplies. the last month has been the worst, with the disappearances happening more frequently. i stopped going to work entirely, focusing on stocking up on food, lumber, and tools. i even snuck a couple of shot­ guns into the house, wary of the neighbors' response, but i shouldn't have bothered. there's only a handful of neighbors left around me now, and all of them seem to be oblivious to what's going on. i tried talking to them, explaining the odds against this many families simply moving out in the middle of the night, but they simply blow me off. before they stopped talking to me altogether i did find out something interesting though: all of the families who initially disappeared owned dogs. some of them owned large ones, like a mastiff, but most of them had medium to yappy sized dogs. most of the dogs were incapable of defending a house, but all of them were capable of warning their owners against any intruders. perhaps that's why they were chosen first i can't think of any other reason or common denominator. as for the remaining neigh­ bors, i gave up trying to help them and started to use what time i had left bolstering my defenses. the 2011 analecta page 87 currently, my house is one of the five in the neighborhood still left inhabited. during the day i drive around, getting more supplies from the now abandoned stores and looking for anyone else doing the same. at night i watch from the second story of my house, trying to find the reason or cause behind the vanishing families, but the only thing i've seen are more and more lights going out. all i have left to do now is make sure the doors are locked, my guns are loaded, and my tripwires are in place each night. and then i wait. the 2011 analecta page 88 often while watching b1 i wonder how it is they science says they shoul< laying in the cool grass watching them move, s i remember i forgot to 1 when the tree branche~ but the ground stays w i ask myself, ifl were ta night at winter is alway it has more stars and th yet often no one looks l i saw a spider spin a we its beauty so carefully a only to be torn apart m 11 austin veldman derelict reconsider the sea. our shipwreck is there under the salted foam, nestled in the kelp bed. if i was near i might stand at the helm and pretend – throw the headsails with the wind, cast us adrift above the coral. you like to stand at the bow – naked – it’s you against what is endless – the sea and the sky, they meet where our shipwreck lives. rusting beams and driftwood now covered in seeping polyps, our names carved in the heartwood. 123190 iusb analecta 2014-15 body v3 proof %281%29.pdf °' 0 samantha plute desert sprouts 4 jacob jones home in a coupon i drink from a wwii canteen, and wear clothes from 4th grade. the older the cheaper. at the grocery store bartering, you buy cheap, i take expired. i rub against pine trees, to capture the fresh scent. i don't just count my pennies, i make investments, in chicken stock, and 100 grand candy bars. i do hygiene in public bathrooms. my dentist is a mirror, floss, some thread. my toothbrush doubles on my head. lost a job for workers comp. had six kids as tax write offs. claimed asthma as a handicap, to get a better parking spot. i sell sod from others lawns. and use rubber gloves as condoms because it's a five for one. my showers are from the rain, my baths from the lake. 45 i check couch cushions for change, at every local waiting room. after i've fished a nickel from the urinal, i call people with smoke signals. they ask me what i'm doing, and i explain in smoky language. "i'm no recycler, but a never stop user" i wash all my plastic baggies, get 2nd opinions from the pharmacy "hey pharmacist, am i cheap?" "i don't know you've never paid me" i light up a cigarette butt and wonder if all the cancer has been sucked out. figure i should cheap out on death while i'm at it, to even out my investment. indiana unfversity south bend creatfve writing award 2nd place poetry: home in a coupon by jacob jones 46 brandi miller childhood's las. the drive to the park took traffic. there were only two stoplig popular park. but on this beautiful ing wheel and drove as fast as traff to take forever. with heightening ai with her son in her head and hoped arrived everything would be ok. "mom, my friend fell in th minutes," he said in a voice that so "you better not be joking a in anger and fear. that's not funny! ing. "no mom. i swear. he fell "oh, god! did you call fo1 "yeah, we just got off the j here mom?" he asked. "i'll be there in just a mim she didn't even think to as matter. any of them being hurt or 1 stricted as the faces of each of his 1 all so young and alive, and every o this world would surely miss if the how did this happen? whl cally. her son loved to fish in the r years now. this was the first sumrr nylon fishing hat that she bought h because of the drought this year th: concern her as much as it usually d bordering on paranoid-respect fo: that way, maybe because of her litt pool when they were themselves y' from the cold waters because she v as she made her way dow1 a couple of emergency vehicles pa: riverbank, she knew, with a sinkini r. 11· !~ 11 -. i . r ryan smith velocity let the centrifuge sort it out. the maelstrom. baptism by ad-hoc tedium, but progress is progress, right? twirling like a delicate old thing a musical figurine in a grandmother's house, lost until her death. found and auctioned. hospital linens soften. 27 24 jason silveus carrying i wondered where the danger went. and think of the devil. this is what they call vengeance. i did ask for it. even missed my dirty friend. this is the rock that is my blanket now. heavy. and crushing. i speak too much. i think too much. i eat too much. i sleep too much. i have. and don't share. if you're looking for violence, i've got spare. but it costs. this is how they get you. i wondered where the danger went. and speak of the devil. this is what they call vengeance. 25 it to in a photograph and say, 1rmation. :o see it line. 30 charmi keranen weather permitting. astride a jagged black gash, a gerrymandered line, women vice in, wielding eraser thighs. screw the context. the weather bites fine. flay pumpkinseed. dust cornmeal. cast your net on the other side. 31 poetry the 2010 analecta late at night, when my mother picked me up amy pfifferling-irons i secretly peeked from under the purple and pink blanket when i should've been asleep. the knotted tassel tickled my lashes, when i took it between finger and fore, and rolled it around until my mother, flushed from dancing and snow, rubbed the swell of my girl belly. when she picked me up and hugged me close, i could touch the freedom in her happy clothes. 68 non-fiction that other family jenna gensic for weeks i was waitin his neonatologist was fighting weeks old and already sported of tubes and wires that would ~ high oxygen and regular blood baby, and couldn't help but fee the machinery, combir to transfer him out of his isole1 and witnessed another set of p: at 24 weeks) across the room. gerous infection. the parents \ around the baby's isolette, han1 thought. not this moment, any then came a beeping f nurses and doctors exchanged tone and its duration were seri heart; the mother wept into he: nurse set screens around the b; the bird-like body at high oxyi to the still child who needed tl the parents were esco1 mother's hysterics and the urge chaplain entered the unit and i activities caring for other babi hallowed be thy name ... " the curred, touched by the staff's i were left behind with the doct 6 s~,-ift ~'ligration art imitating art ·wanted* dead animals hybrids an un likely condiment it happens all the time* black water empty nest betrayal the prom date* the ~fastery of\vords schroeder the lion tamers contents the creation of reality through language* daughter's devotion weight \vhite things* shells of men* wings ofthought* artwo~k ########### d-lysergic acid dicthylamide vodka politeness bad hair day stop signs layida through the looking glass the coward crc(m)ation the space between self-im provcmcnt * gas can bitlcrs\\·cct the prenuptial* art\\·ork some day he will playingwith fire* innocence* picnic at the lakcshore artwork what if i miss her a cento electric eye all in the kight burning leaves close enough happy hour train language* intervie\\ \\-ith john gallaher contributors * \volfson award winner neil kelly ~eil kelly ~aoko fujimoto chrissy ballinger lyla.azar jason cytacki neil kelly chris o'brien stacy rummel jason cytacki lindsey abair robert \vhite dan ~iann vince bauters eric a. gingerich talia reed katy wright kaoko fujimoto talia reed chris o'brien clinton worthington adam dwight joshua leuthold ryan smith neil kelly mandy ~1ccoy rosalinda le)"a katy wright matt skibbe joshua leuthold jason cytacki vince bauters chris o'brien katy wright amanda alvarado .terron robinson jillian guzicki joe borkowski eric oswald char.mi keranen clinton \vorthington jason m. silveus terri vega jefftatay chad forbrcgd vince bauters talia reed katy wright charmi keranen vince bauters 8 9 10 14 15 18 19 22 23 27 28 32 34 35 37 40 41 42 46 47 50 51 52 58 59 60 63 64 66 68 69 70 71 75 76 86 87 90 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 112 14 chrissy ballinger dead animal he was eating eggs and thinking how fish swim, flowing smoothly through her veins-pink salmon. crunch of garbage topping with the clatter of dinnerware. scalloped edges just above bare knees grandma's apron bow is tied tight in the back but hair dishelveled, carefulness is forgotten, the wicks smoke profusely as warm wax splatters and water spills softly over the cloth, soaking spottd on the crackle carpet. can it hold? ... \vho cares. the draperies sweetly frame the windows as a blissful breeze flows through carrying the scent of squirrels in the yard, stiff but steaming hot. hybrids: whe: marhaba! this is the arabic wor< always been a large part of my life an world where language plays a major expressing myself and finding my id ertheless, after many years of confusi ground and heritage, i have come to i was born in america, but my p: ocean from the middle east. my hou ing environment, but the backbone < the arabic language appears. the na spiritual language that has sadly corr a language and culture i have learne language is english. i am fluent in it with language and culture. my part from, but that i also take pride in id) arab parents i thought much like th arab. as the years passed and i mah ethnicity is not pure, but a mix. livir ous for me because i lived solely as ~ until i realized something: why not 1 not fully either, so why not explore a hybrid. this uniqueness is not gloric l-y-1-a is how i spell my name; l pronunciation is everything when is that pronunciation is up to the read• on experiences and knowledge. the tions: lila and layla. "which pronun on your knowledge. most americans which makes sense based on their u \vhen my father named me, he tried making it unique by translating it as two languages as best as he could. t name are the spellings, layla and lt represents "ie," which he prono_unce therefore, i have always had this de since i have grown up with this de:: people pronounced my name and i of them. many americans and arabe shameful or sad, but for me it is just it is like to have one "standard" nam less. choosing a name means, esseni i belong to both cultures. however, 1 more. americans and arabs now ust divided and forcing me to choose th an unlikely condiment jason cytacki 18 ne it happe1 (an 2007 lester m. w1 "i ain'l drunk. i'm just drinking!" the shouting next door. [ stood, looking: wru1led lo blare, "!l's cheaper lo keep i-i neighbor's wall, bul i didn't feel like dig: seallered across my apartment my lillle up. the tobacco seemed dryer lhan non: forgotten by someone eager to open up lang. my cigarelle was gelling liny and ' han est burn through the fingers, lips, lo from my nostrils and my insides fell blis l heard a loud growl from my neigh bumping into his wall. probably her hea e\ er wenl out drinking wilh him; howev i slammed down my beer and opened ll i started to gel a good buzz going after ll lhe neighborly inb·usions would bring n be a bang against the wall or someone"' " ould be silence for a few minutes. 1 walked back towards the kitchen a lrj. l put the beer down on ilie kitchen t one of the chairs from the lab le and flu1 l11j chest. i leaned my chin on my arms back.willie nelson 's "angel flying too speakers. i iliought aboul my neighbor; of why some people shouldn't be able t< pulled out a roach. il was just about an • fingers, along with my thumb, were blac lray. beads of moisture musl have dripp stance covering its base. [ was more like listening to \villie kelson 's voice tl wiili stickers lo give them a wood appea was in an old auditorium thal had five i: lals. the chandeliers also adorned garla were two makeshift bars in the lobby lh "premium" beer. the lines were long, di for two thousand people who needed d patrons weren't allowed lo take ilieir dr the auditorium. :my friend and i were fo whiskey shots before ~willie's set. \vl1ile i was thinking about the cor outside. i looked out the window and c< of eight and eleven, i'd guessed. they w in lhe pond across from woods thal b01 on the other side of lhe parking lol. my growing up and we would fire bottle m for a long time i felt guilty about the desire to be alone. my mother's mantra of grandchildren like generations of elders with paper thin skin steering my hips toward the human race. single, in nature, is a thing at which we would point in awe. snap photos, or touch someone on the shoulder and breathe, look, isn't it stunning. one red wildflower in spring runoff. one naked maple in a mown field. spotted elk dead in the snow. when europeans first came to this continent they took the indians' land. founding fathers. jefferson, jackson said if they didn't know how to own it if they didn't cultivate it with cotton or tobacco but only hunted and fished, didn't work but only lived, if they lived they didn't deserve to have it. every night now i wake up and my hands tucked under my pillow are numb. nishike by: rebecca pelky the 2011 analecta page 82 the dust swirled lah thundered through t the leather seat itself wa ravishing young girl in t time they met. they wer with him. after that day it seemed like th see new places and didn' to stay in one place for n she looked over : wind, were ravens escap mouth. 'tm glad we dee "me too! i've ne' "it's especially ni mous grin encompassed the sign on the ~ posted at 70 miles per h• dio; turning the dial and ing for some good 'ole r out of the speakers. "oh wait, i like t "ha, you would! "so where are w( "well, there's a h churches you see in old · i know who stays there ; "oh, okay" she p and laughed like a kid a1 "you're right, i'rr ahead of them a any heed as they blew p• the armadillo that tucke "hey, don't forge you;' he said. "yeah, she's prett "she just cares; c he reached in hi between his lips, he was lighter, he turned to loo end of the stick. "thanks babe;' l: 10 kaoko fujimoto wanted (an excerpt) 2007 lester m. wolfson lst place drama mari, an asian iusb student, is looking for a boyfriend, but she always meets somebody very weird. she is like a magnet for weird guys. her friends: elizabeth, leif, ron and tin, talk about mari's interesting experiences with six men. don is the manager at the sac; he dates many girls at one time and then he picks a girlfriend. jack has a girlfriend but he likes hanging out with other girls and he uses cheesy pickup lines. james is mari's friend and talks about sexual topics, but he is a married guy. john is interested in mari and calls her eve1-y 15 minutes. harold is pretending to be mari's stalker because he actually likes mari's friend, l=ton. mari meets phillip al a dance club ... 20. int. burger kingmorning jack drives through the burger king. ron is still working. ron will be off al 8:00. the camera shows a clock, 8:00am. jack is his last customer this morn­ ing. ron puts jack's meal into the paper bag and ron takes off his hat. jack hurry, hurry, man. i have a class at 8:15. jack gives money to ron. jack give me my change back. \vhen jack receives change, he immediately starts driving his car. and a next customer, harold, is waiting for his meal. harold the guy doesn't know how to say thank you. you're a sweet man. harold winks at ron. ron looks very uncomfortable. harold good luck on the revenge today. mari .0.) this is a vel-y possible pr-an. 21. int. a barevening mari explains her plan of her revenge to ron, tin, elizabeth, and leif when they drink beer and eal hench fr .mari there's an escape zone from the . the sac. leif oh, like mission impossible. leif sings the theme song and: sible. ti if a person does not touch the ha without any trouble. mari pours beer into her glass. l< mari exactr-y. ron \vho's gonna cross the rail? elizabeth you and ron because you're tall. 22. int. the gym in sacmo mari and tin wear black clothes : into the third floor. :mari (vo.) the hallway about 9 feel in heigl ron is standing on the track in tl turns it on in front of a security c ron (vo.) don't forget about the security c: mari lakes off her cape and thrm the smoke machine by the recycl der. tin (vo.) leif's also tall. smokes hovers around the smok jimoto 1d 1rpt) n 1st place drama :or a boyfriend, but she always l magnet for weird guys. her friends: vlari's interesting experiences with he dates many girls at one time and friend but he likes hanging out with 1es. james is mari's friend and talks ~y. john is interested in mari and :tending lo be mari's stalker because meets phillip al a dance club ... n is still working. ron ~will be off at jack is his last customer this morn­ bag and ron lakes off his hat. tely starts driving his car. and a next rou. you're a sweet man. :omfortable. ron, tin, elizabeth, and leif when they drink beer and eat french fries together. mari there's an escape zone from the infrared-rays bal-lier on the second fr-oor at the sac. leif oh, like mission impossible. leif sings the theme song and gestures from the movie, mission jmpos­ sible. tin if a person does not touch the barrier, the person can break into the gym without any trouble. mari pours beer into her glass. leif tries lo slop her but she ignores him. mari exactr-y. ron who's gonna cross the rail? elizabeth you and ron because you're tall. 22. int. the gym in sacmorning mari and tin wear black clothes and masks. mari wears a cape. they sneak into the third floor. mari (vo.) the hallway about 9 feet in height, so ... 274.3 cm. ron is standing on the track in the gym. tin carries a smoke machine and turns it on in front of a security camera. ron (vo.) don't forget about the security cameras. mari takes off her cape and throws it to the side. the cape accidentally covers the smoke machine by the recycling boxes. she climbs up onto tin's shoul­ der. tin (vo.) leif s also tall. smokes hovers around the smoke detector on the ceiling and the cape 11 12 calches on fire. leif (vo.) i'm wearing secret boots. mari (vo.) the security system runs from the bouom of lhe rail to about 6 feet in height, so ... 182.8 cm. there's 3 feet escape zone. ron (vo.) you bend like a cat. we'll hold you while bending across lhe security rail. mari carefully bends backwards and holds ron's shoulder. in the recycling boxes there arc many empl}' cans of hair and body spray. the boxes catch fire. tin notices the fire and tries lo extinguish it while holding mari's legs. leif(vo.) i'm in a relalionship. tin (vo.) that's not an excuse. mari has difficult time crossing the rail because of tin's unstable moving. mari (vo.) are you guys listening to me? elizabeth (vo.) the escape zone: 3 feet, 91 cm. the fire alarm rings and the shower turn on. the boxes are still on fire. the spray cans catch fire. mari slips from ron's shoulder and they collapse. the securily alarm turns on. ro (vo.) impressive mari. you're talking withoul your accent. leif (vo.) you always should be on a mission, then you can speak perfect english. don and security people come up to the third floor and find the jumpers. the spray cans explode. elizabeth(vo.) she speaks english pretty good. 23. ext. the sacday the sac has completely caught on fire. the windows are broken out. mari, tin, l{.on, don and securily office: zombies. the fire evenlually dies :mari (vo.) see. it's a vc-ly possible pr-an. 24. ikt. the barevening elizabeth are you sure? leif piggy, they' 11 be fine. elizabeth shows an uncomfortab and ron. marl she doesn't r-ike the nickname. leif l\iari. how's your love life? tik \vilh jack? rok james? elizabeth or don? the camera focuses on a big im2 enjoy talking. john (vo.) hey. it's me, john. call me laler' very busy with midterm exams .. 1 of the rail to about 6 feet in e zone. )ending across the security rail. ; ron's shoulder. in the recycling ind body spray. the boxes catch uish it while holding mari's legs. cause oftin's unstable moving. m. the boxes are still on fire. the ; shoulder and they collapse. the ur accent. ou can speak perfect english. liird floor and find the jumpers. lie windows are broken out. mari, tin, ron, don and security officers walk from the entrance like burned zombies. the fire eventually dies down. mari (vo.) see. it's a ve-ly possible pr-an. 24. int. the barevening elizabeth arc you sure? leif piggy, they'll be fine. elizabeth shows an uncomfortable smile on her face. mari whispers lo tin and ron. mari she doesn't r-ike the nickname. leif mari. how's your love life? tin \vith jack? rok james? elizabeth or don? the can1era focuses on a big image of them al the table. they laugh and enjoy talking. john (vo.) hey. it's me, john. call me later when you have time. i understand you're very busy with midterm exams ... 13 • analecta 2014 poetry cody miller souls drifting from a parking garage staircase 1. it surrenders to the sway of the water on the bottom of the sable river and relaxes in the gentle passing of sandy granules against its sides and whitened belly now empty of its purpose. i blink, but it's still there. the other fish avoid it like its polluting the freshness of their space, like it stinks already even though it's not dead. the others scatter as a boy throws a rock or because they smell fresh eggs sinking away from a female. it doesn't matter why, just that they glide away and leave the salmon alone to rest and gently chew nothing. the salmons tried to see, i know it has, over the dam so many times, avoided hooks and colors of yarn, only to drift backwards with the falling leaves to settle in a small depression of pebbles in late october. longing to choke on the colors of leaves that seep through the surface and to let go is hard for anyone, so i think of that prized moment when an old man removes his oxygen tubes with purpose 7 ' analecta 2014 to stand until he must be lowered back into bed. i think the moment sad until i look around at the fishermen snapping their lines like silky webs in a storm. none of them care that a beaten salmon is dying only feet from the bank. instead, they busy themselves with life, with food, with joy, and not death. 2. they don't think about dark birds scattering from above an empty staircase-it reminds me of the city­ and how they look like ashes without fire. there's no rain, only a river, and heaven still burns like how everything must fall because almost all is human and animal and still existing in those final moments. i say if birds turn to mist against the evening sun, we must let it happen and not miss the moments when a salmon whispers in its own voice, "i don't want to go," finally leans up into the current, and is gone towards something similar to life. 8 there's a bod) pond. long lei the cool mud i a sophomore e was all she ha4 the last seconc of drowning­ moonlight hymns. 67 j.b. adams something lost: in medias res …and you awake from a dream at 2 a.m. because the cell phone on the bed beside you is vibrating. and in the darkness of your bedroom with the shades drawn, tiny screen illuminated, the nightmare you were having now bleeds into reality. you consider just letting the call collapse, maybe let it vibrate itself empty. but you answer it on the third, maybe fourth calling, because the name on the screen matches the profile of your sister, april; who should have been home hours ago from a party just up the street, hosted by some boy named matthew, a football player, who you vaguely remember sighting in the hollowed out hallways of your high school. someone is crying in the background when you say ‘hello?’ and the voice that answers is not your sister, but rather a harmonic melancholy of her best friend, sarah. “you need to come,” she says, slowly, forcing you to question momentarily if perhaps you are still dreaming. “—something happened.” when you ask what it is that has happened, she refuses to explain over the phone. instead—she tells you, “it’s probably better if you just come. please hurry.” * * * in a stupor that excels any of the drunks you will find at the party here tonight, you make your way down the street. there is no need to drive because the house is so close and just around the corner on jefferson ave. the night is a particularly tempered sort of hot, where the sweat from your warm body bleeds through your clothes and breaks down beading past your brow. the pavement is also warm beneath your bare feet, all below the raw summer moon. rows of houses run the entire stretch of asphalt, resembling the high metal walls and watchtowers of concentration camps, where, here, there are none. and that asphalt if when followed—still more houses. more blacktop there, for miles and miles further. a meager pack of coyotes scour garbage cans for scraps of food, things your parents deem inedible, unsavory, and imperfect. and when they see you, they salivate. they watch you when you approach, when you linger too long in passing. you think, oh, how glazed eyes resemble diamonds when reflected from the moon. and this—suburbia—how it reminds you of a jungle in and of itself. * * * the house is loud. you hate the songs these kids all want to play; obnoxious, some deafening, but most, if not all dumb. everything is fuck this and bitches that. they 68 force you to shield your ears, to pine for the solace of your warm bed that you know will only grow colder the longer you are absent. out on the freshly manicured lawn, the drunkards are fighting over who will take the newly crowned miss nevada home tonight. but amidst the bloody noses, the split knuckles, and cracked ribs, she leaves with a boy from the swim team. and the drunkards—idiots—they refuse to cease their fighting. a lone jack daniels bottle, drained, floats tranquil in the swimming pool, as you witness someone in a green day shirt pumping violently at one of the kegs. he insists on striving for that liquid gold, and, though long gone, continuously seeks the last few drops that may be hiding at the bottom of the well. inside, you see those kids in their tightly knitted, fitted, prep school uniforms, hovering over a coffee table, while wishing there was still more white left to go around. the girl—a voluptuous blonde with perfect eyes and an imperfect soul—you watch her lick the table. you watch her lick her fingers, watch her press the nubs of each one into the gums of her yellowed teeth. these vultures of the desert, these abridged versions of an often forgotten collection of society—how they envy your normalcy, how they often dream of stealing your life. they will eye you with reproach when you enter, doubtlessly sneering when you leave. and up the stairs you hear the distant sounds of thunder and profanities; the rock ‘n’ roll of perverted jazz behind closed doors. oh, these screams of young lust, you imagine, disguised as honest love. come tomorrow, when the sun arrives, and after all this youthful petty sex, they will regret what was said in secret here tonight. and these young lovers, they will deny to their fathers ever committing the acts of things they always promised they would never do again. * * * into the only door left ajar you venture, where inside sarah paces waiting for your arrival. when you see her, you notice she is not crying. but then you see your sister’s boyfriend wes, naked from the waist up, nursing his face in his hands. he, you see, is the one crying. and on the floor of a bedroom you have never seen before, a mickey mouse blanket with the silhouette of your sister is still and motionless. and when you peel back the blanket, there she is. your sister—she is not sleeping. she did not drink excessively and beyond her means, simply passing out. she did not tire from a long and strenuous day, simply falling asleep alone. because your sister is so pale and cold and blue, you cannot come to any better conclusion than the truth. your sister, she is not breathing. because your sister—she is dead. you turn and notice sarah there beside. you take into account her quiet, macabre silence. she extends her hand to place upon your shoulder, to comfort you, but pulls away at the last second; and, you think, probably for the best. 69 and wes, he sees you crouch down there beside your sister, as if praying for the return of her immortal soul; and in this motion he no longer sustains the river of tears, and commences overtly weeping. “oh, god—” he cries. “please let her be okay…” but all his prayers and tears cannot bring back your sister from wherever we all go from here; just as they certainly will not do a fucking bit of difference for the nightmare in which you find yourself now living. you close her eyes with your fingers. you know if you felt for a pulse you would not find one. you know if you pressed your ear against her bosom, like a thousand times before, crying harder than a thousand times before, you would not hear the sound of a heart beating. and when you wrap her in that blanket and uplift her tightly into your arms, you will remember the sister who once laughed with you, and who truly kept you when you cried. this—the same sister, who would rock you to sleep each night while your mother slaved away, graveyard shifts at the hospital. and who sang to you with perpetual elegance, the songs that eased you into dreams. “what are we going to do…?” wes says. though, you are not listening. you are too busy ignoring the stares of the others, those who watch you so intently, and who gauge your every breath. should you survive this, it will not come without repercussions. without whispers. without stories. it will not come without the singular loss of a family member, but rather also your so-called ‘friends.’ sarah, she says, “call 911 wes,” and he nods while recovering his phone. wes, he stops and shakes himself alive. he tries violently to compose himself, before staring down at the small illuminated keypad. he stops just short of dialing. “what’s wrong,” sarah asks, confused. “what was the number again?” * * * once more on the open lawn, you fall to your knees still cradling her in your arms. you can’t help but brush away the loose strands of tawny colored hair that fall across her face. there, on that patch of grass, at just past three in the morning, you sing the song your sister sang to help you sleep through thunderstorms. you rock her back and forth, back and forth—until the paramedics come, and strip her from your arms. * * * the way your mother finds out—is you show up in her er at just past four in the morning on a saturday. so tired from that all-nighter and sipping coffee to remain awake, she smiles when she sees you. you will remember this moment, years from now, as the last time you see your mother happy. because when she sees that gurney there beside you, all adorned in that white sheet, the one in the shape of your 70 sister, her smile—it will fade. and your mother, she will not cry at first, but rather, she will leave her coffee to fend gravity and, in losing, a great dark lake will form upon the vinyl floor. only then will your mother just begin to cry when she pulls away the curtain to receive her daughter—her baby—her one-half of the whole world. and you will hold your mother when she starts to fall, and when she starts to cry because you know that she needs to be held right then. and you, you will not say anything. because your mother, she will not say anything. * * * after they bury your sister in the plot beside your father, after the preacher says some words, and your family, your so called friends, all cast up their sympathies—you will borrow your mother’s cherry red mustang with no intention of ever bringing it back. and you—you will drive. you will drive so far, so fast against a setting sun that you will race the stars as they gain on you, your back taillights. the headlights, they will fight the yellows and the reds, pinks and oranges of a horizon lined with the silhouettes of hills, the mountains just beyond your eager grasp. and in your grasp, the only prize you make from this heartache, there, beside you in the passenger seat, sarah, sits reading aloud from your sister’s diary, as you slam your foot down on the gas pedal. and from her lips come all the childhood crushes. your sister’s favorite books, movies, and songs they come crashing from sarah’s ruby red lips. those ruby red lips, she smiles at you with as she sings and cries aloud a passage about you. all the red lights and stop signs disappear behind you, deemed unimportant now, then, ever again, as sarah says, your sister she believes you brave. and your sister, she believes that you are smart. your sister says that you are some kind of infinite that will leave this god-forsaken town in either a mustang or a hearse. and sarah, she is smiling. and, like you, longing, when she sings all of your sister’s thoughts aloud. and up ahead in the distance, shadowy earth you seldom thought existed, let alone ever considered conquering, is a sign that reads, “reality begins… now,” marks the furthest you have ever traveled west of home. and your sister always thought you handsome, always thought you brilliant, and always thought you kind. your sister, she was proud to know you in the time that she was alive. the home in which you leave falls somewhere just behind as you. en or to her damp breast lings. tract :ertile 22 rosalinda leyva a time to watch 2008 lester m. wolfson 2nd place poetry my grandfather is nearly blind. walks with his hands extended in front of him, tries not to run into something that has been in the same place for forty years, like the china cabinet stacked with cantaritos and coma/es. his walking stick hits a shoe box filled with plastic forks from restaurants. "que es eso?" "tenedores." i answer. he laughs for the first time in days. he walks outside with leftovers and i watch him feed rice and empanada crumbs to starving birds and stray cats. i think he does it searching for something. lifehopepeacei don' t know, but i need my grandfather like he needs the birds. 23 jenna gensic baby blues (an excerpt) my life against the grain: surviving the politics of prematurity and home health care "jeeennnnaaaa! joooooooooohhhhhn!" i jerked my torso out from under the covers and shook my husband awake. it was nadine. she needed something. it was also 12:42 a.m. with a few thuds and dull claps, john fought the blankets and scrambled to the living room where our nurse nadine was leaning over our son's crib. when i caught up with him, i was horrified to find mikan completely blue. nadine had hooked up an ambu bag to his trach and was bagging him with intensity the sweat dripping off her forehead as she compressed the large blue bulb: she stopped bagging for a second to listen to his chest with a stethoscope. her brown bangs fell over her eyes as she frantically ripped the ear pieces away from her face. "i only hear vent breaths! call 911 !"she ordered and ran to crank his oxy~en analy~er up. squeezing the soft plastic in and out, i calmly, methodic~lly fell mto the appropriate life-saving rhythm while my heart pounded. m my ears and burned in my chest, like a steep drop in a roller coaster nde. my husband left to grab the phone. i was in too much shock to h~ve an emotional reaction. my first thought was, "why did she listen to his chest? i could have told her that he wasn't breathing. he's blue. of course you're only going to hear vent breaths." i wished for a second to rewind the video of my life so i could be ready for the crisis when i hit "play" again. my mind entertained several "what if' or "had i only been awake with him" scenarios. but almost as instantly as those thoughts pen:aded my consciousness, i shoved them to the outskirts, focusing on my immediate responsibility. six months ago i wouldn't have known what an ambu bag was much less how to perform rescue cpr using one. but now i was somehow able to .comfortably compress the ambu bag, forcing pressurized air through mikan's trach and into his underdeveloped lungs, while shaking his limbs and patting his face. "come on baby, wake up, take a breath," i pleaded. with each breath i gave him, images of the last five months came flooding through my mind. had we made an awful mistake? how did we get into this situation? 40 theb "you're going to stay here till you nurse, who revealed the crippling infc plenty of women each week, then i gl nurse. "you mean, tonight?" i asked, "you are definitely leaking amniot morrow, three months from now. we you here in the hospital." jerking my and i forced the back of my skull to rr hospital headrest. my sigh carried a r i supposed to work? my eyes closed, comfort the nurse rattled off. "can i at least put my clothes bad and a half weeks pregnant with my fii prepared for delivering a baby, in fact my list of things to do the next day. s fore their due dates? i had no idea. s still avoid labor? i had no idea. no c of leaking amniotic fluid in a hospital delivered my baby. it was february i two and a half weeks on bed rest afte1 twenty-eight weeks gestation. congr: "congratulations." a nurse broug: ket. because he entered this world br allowed to see him in the operating re seeing him for the first time was appa out of a quicksand of blankets. the b his shallow breaths, hiding, then reve twelve ounces, thirteen inches long. a few hours later, yet another nurs sive care unit on a hospital bed after r weak, i turned my head when she poi a different baby. this baby, if that's' bone and skin, was sprawled out on a leads attached to his chest, an iv in tl around his face like a boa constrictor, from view. his transparent skin mad1 a human. he stretched a little bit bigi wept while the nurse at his bedside tr tubes meant. although i would soon process anything she said about mika ving the politics of prematurity and [ealth care hhhn!" i jerked my torso out from >and awake. it was nadine. she 2 a.m. with a few thuds and dull >crambled to the living room where mr son's crib. when i caught up with )mpletely blue. nadine had hooked ; bagging him with intensity, the sweat 1pressed the large blue bulb. she !n to his chest with a stethoscope. as she frantically ripped the ear pieces 11 ! " she ordered and ran to crank the soft plastic in and out, i calmly, e life-saving rhythm while my heart iy chest, like a steep drop in a roller .b the phone. i was in too much shock irst thought was, "why did she listen 1at he wasn't breathing. he's blue. vent breaths." i wished for a second ould be ready for the crisis when i hit several "what if' or "had i only been 1ost as instantly as those thoughts :d them to the outskirts, focusing on known what an ambu bag was much ng one. but now i was somehow able )ag, forcing pressurized air through eloped lungs, while shaking his limbs breath,'' i pleaded. with each breath i 1nths came flooding through my mind. )w did we get into this situation? d the beginning "you're going to stay here till you deliver this baby." i stared at the er nurse, who revealed the crippling information to me that she probably told plenty of women each week, then i glanced at my husband, then back at the nurse. "you mean, tonight?" i asked, bug-eyed. "you are definitely leaking amniotic fluid. you could deliver tonight, to­ morrow, three months from now. we just don't know. we're going to watch you here in the hospital." jerking my gaze to the ceiling, my muscles tensed and i forced the back of my skull to make a shallow impression in the stiff hospital headrest. my sigh carried a more irritated than tragic tone. how was i supposed to work? my eyes closed, and i blacked out whatever words of comfort the nurse rattled off. "can i at least put my clothes back on? i feel fine ." at only twenty five and a half weeks pregnant with my first child, i hadn ' t completely mentally prepared for delivering a baby, in fact signing up for lamaze classes was on my list of things to do the next day. so you could deliver babies this early be­ fore their due dates? i had no idea. so your water could break and you could still avoid labor? i had no idea. no one told me that there was a possibility of leaking amniotic fluid in a hospital for an indefinite period of time before i delivered my baby. it was february 17, 2008. i was due may 28th. i lasted two and a half weeks on bed rest after which mikan was born at exactly twenty-eight weeks gestation. congratulations "congratulations." a nurse brought mikan over to me swaddled in a blan­ ket. because he entered this world breathing on his own, i was immediately allowed to see him in the operating room. i knew he would be small, but seeing him for the first time was appalling. a tiny mouse-like face peeked out of a quicksand of blankets. the blanket ever so slightly rose and fell with his shallow breaths, hiding, then revealing his miniscule features . one pound twelve ounces, thirteen inches long. a few hours later, yet another nurse wheeled me into the neonatal inten­ sive care unit on a hospital bed after my emergency c-section. groggy and weak, i turned my head when she pointed to mikan 's bed. surely this was a different baby. this baby, if that's what you could call the small mass of bone and skin, was sprawled out on a warmer, with cardio and respiratory leads attached to his chest, an iv in the back of his hand, and tubes wrapped around his face like a boa constrictor, concealing everything but a tiny nose from view. his transparent skin made him look more like a baby bird than a human. he stretched a little bit bigger than my husband's hand. i silently wept while the nurse at his bedside tried to explain what each of the wires and tubes meant. although i would soon learn each of their functions , i couldn' t process anything she said about mikan's equipment that day. when i held 41 him, i held more machines than baby. at some point during those first few weeks, john and i discussed that if mikan didn't make it, we would demand to hold him without his wires and tubes, just to see what that felt like. a mother wanting to hold her child without any machines attached. is that unreasonable? help! we have an expensive baby! "you need to think about how you're going to take care of this baby. look for all the help you can from the government." this from several family friends who knew a woman who knew a woman who had kind of been in a similar situation. we were confident that our private insurance would pay for mikan's incredibly expensive hospital stay. we had decent insurance, and had already met our out-of-pocket maximum for the year. the nicu social worker met with us near the beginning of our stay and gave us pamphlets on several government-run programs to help parents with the ongoing cost of a medi­ cally fragile child. "is there an income limit for these programs?" we asked. the social worker was never able to answer this question upfront and would scurry away, promising to do additional research and get back to us. unfortunately, every program required our salaries to be slightly less than the teaching in­ comes we brought home. other family or friends suggested we try to sign mikan up for social security's temporary disability program. this effort ended up being a waste of an afternoon. after countless attempts to call and set up an appointment, waiting an hour at the office for my name to be called, and spending another half hour filling out information about our finances, i was told by the social security representative, "the computer says you're denied. it looks like the primary reason is because you have over $3,000 in assets. honestly, you'd be better off if you blew your bank account on a new car." he smiled. "but if your finances change drastically in the next thirty days, you could reapply." was he mak­ ing a joke? despite any deposits we'd made into the system, we couldn't tap into any of the $62.5 billion that would be distributed by social security that year . i curtly thanked him and left, making a mental note to set-up another appointment with the social worker. teenagers "so how old are you exactly, if you don't mind my asking?" the nurse who took care of mikan on his three week birthd~y asked me this. initially i wasn't offended. i've often been mistaken for a much younger age. as a teacher, i've been accidentally reprimanded by administrators for "roaming the halls" during class time while trying to make copies of tests. but i had lived at the nicu long enough to observe many parents, and after asked 42 the same question by another nurse, i r prematurity was due to my youth. the weeks of mikan to fifteen and sixteen­ and perfectly capable of healthily bear fake smiles and i "so have you met a lot of other pan tion so often, and i always replied witt questioner anticipated, the one that wo smoothest. i usually didn't possess th( as it was asked. "yea, there are a lot of parents here through the same thing we are." but n different. we didn't meet many peoplt a lot of other babies in the unit, but the perhaps there were a few families we r circumstances, had their stay lasted as most babies came and went within a fe endured our length of stay. we were a ture births that have no known cause. broke early, he told us, "if i knew the answer to that, i wou cepting the nobel prize." mikan wasn't born early because o because i experienced trauma, or was : weight, underweight, too old, or too ye ob told me that i most likely had contr baby's amniotic sac, but left me unaffe we don't know how to prevent it in th1 while passing other nicu parents smc constant reminder of the unfairness of least one or two smokers every day, so weeks brought a different population t• (an e indiana university south be honorable mention non-fiction: my politics of prematurity and home hea u some point during those first few an didn't make it, we would demand , just to see what that felt like. a jt any machines attached. is that expensive baby! ~going to take care of this baby. look lment." this from several family 1 woman who had kind of been in a 1surance would pay for mikan's had decent insurance, and had already : year. the nicu social worker met nd gave us pamphlets on several its with the ongoing cost of a medi~ograms?" we asked. the social jestion upfront and would scurry ch and get back to us. unfortunately, )e slightly less than the teaching in~ try to sign mikan up for social m. this effort ended up being a waste 'ts to call and set up an appointment, ne to be called, and spending another mr finances , i was told by the social it looks like the primary reason is . honestly, you'd be better off if you he smiled. "but if your finances s, you could reapply." was he mak­ made into the system, we couldn't tap be distributed by social security that .king a mental note to set-up another •gers don't mind my asking?" the nurse :ek birthday asked me this. initially aken for a much younger age. as a 1ded by administrators for "roaming ~ to make copies of tests. but i had ve many parents, and after asked 2 the same question by another nurse, i realized that they had assumed mikan's prematurity was due to my youth. there were two early births within a few weeks of mikan to fifteen and sixteen-year-olds. i was twenty-four at the time and perfectly capable of healthily bearing children. fake smiles and polite conversations "so have you met a lot of other parents in the nicu?" i heard this ques­ tion so often, and i always replied with the same conventional answer that the questioner anticipated, the one that would move the conversation along the smoothest. i usually didn't possess the energy to give the real answer as often as it was asked. "yea, there are a lot of parents here. it's nice to talk to people going through the same thing we are." but really, this was a lie. john and i were different. we didn't meet many people in our same situation. sure there were a lot of other babies in the unit, but they were all there for different reasons. perhaps there were a few families we might have befriended under different circumstances, had their stay lasted as long as ours. but the truth was that most babies came and went within a few weeks or a few months. very few endured our length of stay. we were also unique as part of the 40% of prema­ ture births that have no known cause. when we asked my ob why my water broke early, he told us, "if i knew the answer to that, i wouldn't be here. i'd be in stockholm ac­ cepting the nobel prize." mikan wasn't born early because of an anatomical failure on my part, or because i experienced trauma, or was a diabetic, alcoholic, smoker, over­ weight, underweight, too old, or too young to have a child. on bed rest, my ob told me that i most likely had contracted an unknown infection that hurt the baby's amniotic sac, but left me unaffected. we didn't know how it happened. we don't know how to prevent it in the future. i loathed practicing my smile while passing other nicu parents smoking in the parking garage, another constant reminder of the unfairness of my situation. john and i would pass at least one or two smokers every day, some repeats, but it seemed that every few weeks brought a different population to the hospital. (an excerpt) indiana university south bend creative writing award honorable mention non-fiction: my life against the grain: surviving the politics of prematurity and home health care by jenna gensi 43 t. he put his hands over his 1eed her." :lug his hand through his hair do. i don't know anybody. :i of it, i go. never need norou, i'd thank god i was free ? i never been, but i've heard poetry ginger ale and amaretto shawn heston i went bowling at an elk's lodge with johnny depp. it was dark but he was upset they weren't bowling well. then i threw one into the wall. a girl i went to high school with brought out drinks. i never liked her but she had a great body. leaning over a balcony, she might fall but i couldn't stop staring . .. she said she' knew the door code and her father was angry. we were in a mcdonald's drive thru. she gave me two singles for a cheeseburger and jalapeno bites. the screen said i ordered pancakes. his voice told me to pull forward and keep my foot on the pussy. the 2010 analecta 65 12 samantha lewis sway i did not come from your rib and we are not caged i did come for you though to sink into you like a ten pound line into the water and unhook your mind in my hands and pull it heavy into me like a wave. 123190 iusb analecta 2014-15 body v3 proof %281%29.pdf tallie of qontents 6 brandy crise opening 57 kayla cano 7 josh bisig* prologue, morocco (from the 58 mckenzie lynn tozan color of sleep) 60 ja eggleston* 11 chance starcher fishing, no more 67 stephanie c. merryfield 13 joshua stump brackish 68 (jacques frevert) 14 jordan eash bread and 15 kristen lafollette lights that grow dim over 69 timothy dann-barrick time (an excerpt) 70 jessica a. deckard 17 brandi david breton kiss 72 jessica a. deckard* 18 joe kuharic family tradition 74 niall garvin 24 angela l. hankins devotion 75 jean e. johnson* 25 kirstin durfey black and ivory keys 78 rachel cheeseman 27 ryan l. gruenewald father's base coat 79 hannah stowe 28 joshua stump a toy box made of pine 80 hannah cross* 30 ryan l. gruenewald* waitingfor bats 87 kristin lafollette* 35 jennifer hlawacz salary man 88 joy bye* 36 cody miller doppler effect 37 erica wood where's the baby! 93 clint stamatovich 38 o'brian elijah yarde cardinal 97 niall garvin 39 barbara tibbs leopard 40 o'brian elijah yarde i'm not a fish 98 matt henry 41 o'brian elijah yarde hungry at sunset 99 ryan l. gruenewald* 42 erica wood elephante arboreal 100 rachel barrett* 43 chris bush self-portrait 44 chris bush discovery 45 samantha davis untitled 46 garrett martin untitled 47 damian beauchamp two story history 48 erica wood cephalopoda galaxia 49 chris bush fragile forest 50 erica wood 7th density 51 karie pfaffenberger the algebra of broken glass 52 lisa andrzejewski the graveyard affair 55 michelle hanshew* tough sales *english department writing al1 qontents opening prologue, morocco (from the color of sleep) fishing, no more brackish bread and lights that grow dim over time (an excerpt) breton kiss family tradition devotion black and ivory keys father's base coat a toy box made of pine waitingfor bats salary man doppler effect where's the baby! cardinal leopard i'm not a fish hungry at sunset elephante arboreal self-portrait discovery untitled untitled two story history cephalopoda galaxia fragile forest 7th density the algebra of broken glass the graveyard affair tough sales 57 kayla cano migrante 58 mckenzie lynn tozan visiting rights 60 ja eggleston* absurdity (re) incarnated 67 stephanie c. merryfield fleeting 68 (jacques frevert) chanson des escargots qui vont a l'enterrement 69 timothy dann-barrick sad snail song 70 jessica a. deckard the quick brown fox 72 jessica a. deckard* spring prophesy 74 niall garvin in a pail, passing by 75 jean e. johnson* the state of a homeless mind 78 rachel cheeseman i am a pear 79 hannah stowe forgetting 80 hannah cross* eating balloons 87 kristin lafollette* november baptism 88 joy bye* 'clang, clang, clang ' went the trolley 93 clint stamatovich eastern spit 97 niall garvin something of the lonely gravity 98 matt henry seagulls in buff ala 99 ryan l. gruenewald* on an education 100 rachel barrett* forked road *english department writing award winner just breathe by: jena dewald "just breathe': i whispered to myself as i stared at the board composed of lights which seemed as if they could light up the new york city sky. it was my first day on the job, and i attempted to soak in infor­ mation as ifi was a sponge, and it was pouring in at 100 miles per hour. the man behind the microphone explained what each and every button does when pushed, that is if i even had the acknowledgement and courage to do it. i stared endlessly, my handwriting horrible on the pad, as if it were written by a five year old on her first day of kindergarten. butterflies? what are those? this felt more like vampire bats with razor sharp teeth flying around in my stomach as if they were trying to tell me to run the hell away. but i did not, could not make a step. i was too infatuated in the moment, and had entirely way too much time invested in this to turn back now. and then he left. as the door closed behind him, it was almost like i forgot to breathe, and perhaps i did. the studio was now mine, my time. that is until three o'clock. i organized my notes, my hands shak­ ing almost as if there was a 7.0 earth quake occurring, but knowing that it was just me. 9:59 a.m. and only 43 seconds until the end of the track. brian johnson's lyrics had never made more sense to me than that moment. the speakers projected "we're on a highway to hell". three. two. one. showtime. i was alone in the room, yet when i turned on the mic, i had the capability to reach over 300,000 people with each word that was released from my mouth. as i finished my last sentence, i pushed the off but­ ton to relieve my anxiety, and play the next song. with a grin on my face, alone, there i was, the woman behind the mic whispering "just breathe:' the 2011 analecta page 86 what's the differ acceptance? is it a matt' biggest stick? i wish i k think i'm nuts. hell, if t is, i try to be as noticeat lumber and power tools you bitch about someth. worked; i've boarded uf nosy neighbors. not th; the whole thing houses to the south wen boarded up, like there h deep of a sleeper. the fa phelps had a heart attac heard anything either. 1 nent collection of toys h was an old oil stain on ti the next few we1 plained away by theorie: windows were brought 1 back to normal when th two sons well enough to in the middle of the nigl board up their windows over to see if they had le ing around the house re scratched up the back de looked past the neighbo them had boarded up w the last month r going to work entirely, £ guns into the house, wa1 of neighbors left around to them, explaining the , they simply blow me off though: all of the famili( mastiff, but most of ther house, but all of them w were chosen first i can bors, i gave up trying to non-fiction that other family jenna gensic the 2010 analecta for weeks i was waiting for my premature son mikan to gain weight. now that he finally reached two pounds, his neonatologist was fighting his edema, an excess of fluids that made his little body work too hard. he was only two weeks old and already sported half a dozen life-threatening conditions. he lived in an isolette surrounded by a labyrinth of tubes and wires that would surely thwart theseus. i looked at my son, who remained on a jet ventilator, requiring high oxygen and regular blood transfusions, his frail body so covered in wires that i was holding more machine than baby, and couldn't help but feel frustrated with his uncertain future. the machinery, combined with mikan's fragility, had required the assistance of a nurse and respiratory therapist to transfer him out of his isolette so i could kangaroo him. silently swimming in and out of self-pity, i snuggled mikan and witnessed another set of parents sitting through a procedure a doctor was performing on their week-old child (born at 24 weeks) across the room. from an earlier conversation with his mother, i knew the tiny boy had contracted a dan­ gerous infection. the parents watched their doctor don a blue gown, white surgical cap, and gloves. nurses crowded around the baby's isolette, handing the doctor instruments and supplies. at least we weren't going through a procedure, i thought. not this moment, anyway. then came a beeping from the monitor above the baby's bed, first cautionary ... then a more urgent tone, and nurses and doctors exchanged concerned looks. i was versed enough in nicu beeping to understand that this particular tone and its duration were serious. scrubs scurried around the isolette, then ran for the epinephrine to restart the baby's heart; the mother wept into her hands, muttering "what's wrong? what are they doing?" after catching my gaze, another nurse set screens around the baby's isolette, leaving room for the doctors and nurses who were now vigorously bagging the bird-like body at high oxygen. my own heart raced, and while i wished i could will my extra beats across the room to the still child who needed them, i feverishly checked mikan's vital signs. the parents were escorted out and then back in again several times by the doctor, depending on the level of the mother's hysterics and the urgency with which the doctor was needed at the bedside. i held my breath as the hospital chaplain entered the unit and performed a baptism. at the chaplain's cue, the staff at the nursery, all engaged in different activities caring for other babies, bowed their heads and recited "the lord's prayer." "our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name ... " the unexpected harmony of their voices stunned me. i wondered how often this ritual oc­ curred, touched by the staffs prayerful awareness of the fragility oflife. the crowd slowly dispersed, and the parents were left behind with the doctor. i heard the mother whisper, "so, those are just vent breaths?" and the doctor walked 69 the 2010 analecta them away from the bedside. finally, the baby was carried out from behind the screens, free from the medusa-like uni­ form of tubes and wires to meet his parents in a private room. the nurses carefully packed up his baby blankets and onesies in plastic bags, and broke down all of the machines attached to the isolette. some nurses brought the baby's body back and made moldings of his hands and feet for the par­ ents, then packed up nicu memorabilia for them with items such as his heart monitor leads, and his tiny blood pressure cuffs. when his body was removed from the unit, screens remained around his empty isolette, waiting for an environ­ mental team to come and sanitize it. i stared at the empty space across from me, holding mikan tightly. i hadn't cried. i remained frozen and humbled. a nurse who participated in "the lord's prayer," walked past the two of us, looked down, and said, "makes you want to hold em' a little tighter, huh?" and my dammed up tears ran down both cheeks. i'd never been so happy to see mikan's tubes and wires. 70 poetry a moment in extinctio11 jake jones nature and laws, formal or syst jumping up and down in organized massacre. pounded moistened and former in poignant suffering, stimulati within ten days of the end, carrying money, papers, as much as a pocket will hold. cold blooded animals, two meet or cross at the boilini with position but not extension to feel and express beauty one port of embarkation, two c their stock has gone. 1tachl barrett forfleb i\oab claire often was said to be the most beautiful. her mother kept her in a glass box on her vanity, only opening it on holidays. she would rather like to open books, she said, but her mother fed her carrot cake and dropped a polly pocket into her hand. her father was a religious man and would read her bedtime stories, never leaving out the scenery or unsettling end. he would leave her skylight open so she could see the stars and get rained on (never in the same night). she lived like this until her mother died, and her father, widowed, married the church. on her nineteenth birthday she emerged much a girl, talked to rabbits. she never looked at maps but would walk in straight lines and, finding herself lost, would nest with the owls she found there. 100 14 kristiane weeks pamphlets it’s always sparkling, wet, the cobblestone trailing around downtown, and in my memories it’s always night, during a season that can only be described a half summer, because autumn doesn’t hold weight here. rain and blue clouds against blue sky, street lamps, heat rising, breath. we walk to the top of lion’s bridge just to see the blinking lights reflected in the bay, to see what it’s like to have something beneath us. late sailboats and manatees drift in the salt bath, moonlight morphs their gray calm heads into floating spanish bodies lost to st. augustine’s namesake: matanzas. the breeze isn’t enough to chill to the veins, but listen for fate’s whispers, warnings always come too late. the townspeople brag because they have the oldest haunted places in america, complete with splintering steel bars and walls, sharp palm fronds, blue orbs. once, i was walking through all the cemeteries around town, while skipping over tolomato tribe plinths, a red orb drifted. a dandelion seed to my mouth, it floated bitterly and cold in my throat. early in the morning the cobblestone begins to dry and the ghosts come out, grasp on to sunbeams. they pass out pamphlets about their macabre parables of dying, most of the tales conclude: tell your heart to be cautious of a lover trying to tame you in that flowing quill-on-parchment script, but no one’s listening to the omens in st. augustine anymore. late at night, try to test an orange wrapped in magnolia leaves for honesty over mai tai’s and it will roll right into the ocean, it just doesn’t care for light, nothing does, except maybe the jellyfish jumping red tide to stick in the sand… even they aren’t alive, and like the ghosts, don’t have tongues to speak. 123190 iusb analecta 2014-15 body v3 proof %281%29.pdf 56 dane blue bike nicole koroch me, little lying there behind that old white bar watching the ragged tips of long gra~ wave in the languid breeze the heat pressed one so but it was cooler sinking into the dampish dirt with the sky above and the smell of the loamy green and the cicadas whirring and buzzin! because they were there too a beetle clung above me the slender blade drooped with his panicked wei his existence precious to him as mine was to me off a ways, my mother called god-dammit nikki, i swear t< you 're playing in the creek a i'm going to sell you to the j near by the water sang over the rocks and stc and i could see myself riding in the back of a green pick-up bouncing over a dirt road my new father strumming his guitar singing his sad, sad songs wasteland by: mandy mckee they used to say "if you see the widow on the road, then kill the widow. kill the widow." but there is no widow here. only a white-wash of snow, endless as it creeps onto the streets, curling to miss a snake of steam hissing from beneath the manhole. i wonder if there is a road down there, slow and sulking beneath the hide of these sullen tears. and if a widow, in her gray tatters and ruthless flesh might extend forward a meager bribe dull with a cobalt gleam at first then a silvery candescence hot enough to cook the crookedmouth fish gasping in her left hand the dusky scales shivering, another gasp, long, deep. a suck of air. just walk past, walk past. shut your eyes against the promise of transience. this road won't last forever. they say that here, here, this is the land of promise. but there is no widow here. all the bony hands are plump and their bribes are a shovel for the grave. i am too dazzled by the web of color that spiders across the curve of snow an ephemeral touch the 2011 analecta page 95 of transcendence and all these wafting tears, chilled offer only the slightest reconciliation. the street signs, a blare of green against the orange cone of falling snow point to no road. a canopy of shops with gaudy neon signs shiver in the waking cold. a sliver of snow falls down the neck of a little girl's coat. she dances with it and goes inside to buy a small, silvery carp that will die the very next day. the 2011 analecta page 96 dear mother, you ma that may trouble yom though it may seem j the time from the fro her name is denise, j the few hours i spen1 the french have beer i despise this despical sweet mother, lift up do not fear my lonelii life will once again bt do not let this war m the trenches are at b< and my men have nol we liberated some st< this allowed me, for ; i know you feel a sen: on the farm but lift u] my dear friend max i we have been throug decisions of our dem; in this war. i feel that why must men to go over this land that is : mother. i must confe: the papers back horn be broken by the ene1 i pray that my boys n battles of endless day of loneliness a new sour sense of s has fallen upon me. i my sweet friend max his life had a new spi1 his life is no longer c no more for him is tl the battle of loneline my beautiful mother, senseless and endless ............................ 34 ............................ 35 ............................ 36 joshua stujrp . in october she called the dust hung in the mid morning light i sat there when she came through the cedars with nothing on her swaying mind the wings beat the air or my eyes like wings lids thunderous against the coming waves 9 22 chris o'brien black water my father augers swirling metal shark teeth into the frozen lake. a dune of powder rises and dissolves as black water erupts from the puncture. he settles, an inflated mound on his plywood box, and drops his line in the hole. time to stop talking though he said he had nothing but time. my mother cut out the picture from the newspaper of men with lunch boxes like black barns, double gates s~winging closed behind them, but she didn't tape it to the refrigerator. another distant mound flings silver on the ice and i follow my stiff red boots to undersize bluegill and perch littering the white glare like sunset-bellied beer cans, some crystallized fossils embedded in the crust, others reflecting clouds in their newly air-drowned stare. mound says it cleans out the lake, too many little ones, not enough to go around. i see neighbor kids strewn in the back of their driveway, pink and red snowsuit shrouds. i perforate the ice arms burning under wind-bit cheeks and drop a fish into each hole like easler eggs in cups of color. some of them swim away. stac1 ,; an e in the kitchen, an egg-timer goe: lo be lo the brink of starvation, whil1 my feet, reminding me of our walks find browning chicken baking at a thing lo rotate the bird, but when i < spoon labeled stephen in faded red outlines of red and blue balloons. i the something to stab the bird with, emptiness is only temporary. "guess who's a big boy and no l• son stephen, the pride and joy ofd. phen graduated from the highchair extra special in his new chair. dave izcd place setting for months now w ing we found a set at the local child in to get potty training videos. stephen jumped up and down i; time eat?", as he paraded around ar and spoon together while i began lo "would you like to help momm3 it was too late. stephen was alr< dave and show off his new utensils. in the living area of the small efficie; to stephen's new toddler bed. the pot on the stove is boiling c chicken, causing me to quickly gathc checking the contents of the pan we for the first time since i've started c< the majority of them are burned dry al them with a wooden spoon, but tl nent fixture on the pan. it was a christmas eve. dave gr always a houseful. he really made s at all times especially the holiday , over this year for christmas eve, evt always gone to my parent's house. i christmas day, the new plan was to we'd have to take stephen to my sid matt miles three years perspective she sits by me when i smoke and steps onto the sidewalk hands on hips, and expounds on the turning of the stars and the sounds that filter back through the neighborhood. a train locks it's brakes and mars laments the loss of his mother. some trees tickle and others stick. the road will be done soon and we'll all hold hands when we cross. --next time, when we all come out don't say "lets go back in" ok? --ok. a cigarette takes three minutes. jerron robinson my twirl 38 39 unsberger ). 1ackyard )1 hat :1sin made .d catch it. !om lught 1. gone. la mome piaf if every note held comfortable woe and tenuous joy kept that marvelous tone then something transfixing must have been lost in each unrecordable smear of her voice. niall garvin i7 36 chris williams $1.32 you’ve seen the skyline with its gleaming spires i’ve seen the streets with abandoned buildings libraries full of books but empty of people schools abandoned for lack of students causing others to burst at the seams you’ve seen the super-mega-ultra marts with shining aisles full of trinkets i’ve seen the streets with abandoned buildings former corner stores boarded up and forgotten homes abandoned as families have to choose between the roof and their food you’ve seen the postcard i’ve seen the city anj}ela l . .ijanflin.s deuotinn i watched you make his sandwich­ calm, patient, steadfast. he was talking to me about vietnam for the first time in my life. i was trying to listen but i couldn't stop watching you. a breeze was blowing in off the lake but he didn't realize that it was summer. the curtains you had sewed, back when the nights were filled with simple dinners and watching cops, swelled up off the window pane, then sighed down in exhaustion. you glanced at his arms, chilled, and quietly shut the window. i watched as you served him lunch, as you turned up the volume on the tv, then as you turned it back down again. i watched you as you rubbed the lotion on his legs as if each careful caress could attenuate his illness. i thought of how deep the fracture of what you have lost. how woven the recollections with the new suffering. the sun was beginning to dim in the late afternoon, flickering through the window, wavering, like his memory. i thought of what robert frost's words said about devotion, and how in this moment, these days ... weeks .. . months ... you were his wave, his devotion. 24 l{ir.stin durfe.!j black anb iuorjl l{ep my teacher, a chinese lady with t and piano can not be friends. six years about this monumental sacrifice. but nails, sit at the piano and start to plun legs swing under the piano bend my mom comes by, bobbing her head in the sizzling pink dress in the right 1 slipping away from running mu from spaghetti noodles boiling on th< down from forty-five in the corner of back to the piano bench and keep pre zart's sonatina in c. my nose is wrin1 tortoise-learning a new piece such p smile is on my face for my fingers run so fun and easy. i sit on a swing, gliding through t] stretch toward the crisp spring sky. l\ air and i stick my toes into the ground sit down with a thud and speed thro1 tice "reverie;' and i forget the swing. sound of the sweet melody rising in tl the winter sun hits me through its rays through coats and hats and glc mozart are my friends at twelve, as rn melodious passages, turning them int my blonde german teacher ann of love:' composed by liszt. my eyes, 1 notes that make pages look like black1 with colorful fish and seaweed i have transparent beauty. the quiet college practice room see carpet stains and gray styrofoam practice on the pianos that seem to l i nurture a scriabin etude that begin: into hurricane middle, ending with a bach's prelude and fugue in c 1 semester number two. "bach is like 1 2: [ng food, laughingshe didn't think s of other kids were standing along ly thinking just like her, "that could --,"and breaking off the thought then, while looking over at the parents of 1e parents, barely knew the boy-she te and his nature didn't make him -because she usually got to know the nore attention within the group. n the face of one boy who was run­ r day, "you need to stop screwing m't you realize that your friend is for his body! he is not coming out :t," the boy responded. "he's just t him," said the boy. "i don't know ut alive!" she told him, intensifying tow some respect for his family over huddled together on the other side of : barricade. "they can see you acting ttom of the river!" she nearly shouted 1is friends. i over. she didn't just cry for the boy :ried for the kids who watched their kids over there as she watched them, > refused to talk to anyone. they went undernever again to breathe •cence that had been barely hanging ld have before they went off to high 1yway, spent it the way kids were the park, hanging out with friends. ying to understand how and why this uld have done differently or how they ced quietly to each other, each one of instead of the boy that loved to fish :or years and years. they weren't out mg. how can something bad happen 1t like that? ::erpt) ) glenn lyvers the day i became guil ty i was another mexican girl with a yellow sack for a dress but with a dying father. papa was lying in bed on a july tuesday, under our best white sheets. we were too poor to take him to the doctor, and he did not want to go anyway. mama prayed for him constantly, and every hour she would say, "isabelle, go fetch cool water," and i went so papa would not have warm water by his bed. i remember mama's black and gold rosary beads the way she carried them all day, until her hands were cramped and looked twisted. she held them in one hand while she made tortillas with the other. her lips would move silently while she pressed the dough, and i knew the prayers so well that i could follow along in my head, reading her lips while she prayed silently, the edges of her mouth turning downward. before papa got sick, our house was full of life. it was a faded­ orange stucco ranch, set so closely to the road that farmer's carts would block the porch. my friends would chase me from the street, right through our tiny living room and out the back door. we were like laughing el­ ephants, stampeding on the clattering wooden floors, and it seemed like our house belonged to everyone. papa would yell at us to settle down, but we knew he was only pretending because he could not hide the smile on his face. he would shake his head at mama and ask, "did we ever act like that?" and she would answer, "of course not!" with a mischievous grin. she said that she married papa because he was the only person who ever made her smile he was the center of our world, and when he became sick, so did everything else. my friends no longer came to play, and the house became still. i was tethered to that place, and to the stillness. in my frozen moments, sitting by papa's bed, i noticed all the details of the house i had never seen before. papa was a construction worker, and his house suffered with him, needing repairs. the yellow walls of his room had cracks, and i could see blue paint peeking through. i would sit by his bed, tracing those cracks with my eyes they were like rivers on a globe, cutting across the walls and i knew them all by heart. the window by his bed allowed a little air to move the curtains, and sometimes, they were all that moved. 51 it was my job to fetch ice from the church. it would be chipped from the block and mama would gently rub it on papa's lips, sometimes for hours. when i carried the ice home, my older brother antonio would embarrass me by pointing out to his friends that my chest was not flat anymore. i hated him for that, and sometimes i wore extra clothes to hide my shame. but on this day, i would not be going for the ice. the rocks and baby cactus along the way were sharp, and my sandals were broken, so it was antonio who had to go. i was happy that he had to do my work; he deserved it. but before he left, antonio told mama, "i think papa needs cool water" and then he laughed as i went to fetch it. antonio and i loved our church with the type of faith only children are blessed with. our church was called, our lady of guadalupe, and she rested quietly atop a great wind-swept hill, until her bronze bell would ring, calling out, in deep rich tones which would echo off the houses and into our hearts. the people would ascend the hill in a procession of small groups, carrying their bibles and babies to pray. the hill itself was overgrown with green cactus and thick brush. hidden within the brush were little blond flowers, brittle and intricate, which could only be appreciated while looking carefully. antonio would gather the tiny flowers, using the delicate cuttings to mark the pages of the hymnals, reminding us all that the beauty of god was everywhere. the inspiring wooden doors of the church had no locks, and they would groan loudly as they opened, announcing each visitor to the great room. the sunlight filled our church; it would cascade from the windows above, spreading out like warm butter onto the toast-colored pews. it was no great cathedral, but mama told us it was the greatest of all churches, because our church was not the great bell or the large crucifix above the altar, it was the singing of the people. the singing was like heaven, lifting our hearts to god and when the choir sang halleluiah, i felt like my feet would leave the ground. my aunt gabriela stopped by to check on us. she was a formi­ dable woman, powerful from working in the fields, but with the heart of an angel. she stared at papa and lit candles for him, kissing his dark eyes and rubbing his cold feet. she warned mama in hushed words that papa was waiting to die. she said he was too proud to let anyone see him lose control and pass on he would wait until he was alone. this made perfect sense to me because i saw papa's pride. he fought in the village circle, upturning carts of red potatoes and breaking the axe handles of a vendor who overcharged me nine pesos. he told me it was 52 the food in my "mexican mouth" he i it were nine pesos or nine thousand. i stood tall and firm with clenched fists i looked like a chihuahua, small but ' it was his way, and even death would terms. mama chimed, "isabelle . .. " 1 like a song, but instead, meant chores be left alone. she told me it was impc until she returned from the neighbors. pa's radio. i did as i was told, quietly about butterflies which we made up t< spot. he opened his eyes a little and i song papa," i said, beaming and he rhythm while i sang softly, and as we my song was interrupted b church, holding the ice with both 1 my attention. i hesitated for a mon do. "isabelle open the door!" anto room for a moment a moment w i pulled the door open witr mama's anxious eyes. she pushed room. for a moment everything w clock ticking. i went to papa's doc heard the sound of mama taking a someone takes before they scream fists so tightly that her rosary brok while batteries and rosary beads h and pings, scattering all over the fl mama's scream was liken "isabelle! isabelle! you killed you screams were so loud that they prn still filled with the perfect clarity c from antonio 's hands with a crust papa to just be asleep. "please, pa need you, papa, i have your ice, i' papa ... " then mama stood tall anc you to stay with him for five minu to do this one thing. you killed hir her eyes for me to see, and for a bi the church. it would be chipped from [ton papa's lips, sometimes for hours. brother antonio would embarrass me hest was not fl.at anymore. i hated him )thes to hide my shame. but on this he rocks and baby cactus along the >roken, so it was antonio who had to ark; he deserved it. but before he left, ls cool water" and then he laughed as 1 with the type of faith only children are ur lady of guadalupe, and she rested til her bronze bell would ring, calling io off the houses and into our hearts. rocession of small groups, carrying n with green cactus and thick brush. ~lond flowers , brittle and intricate, 1ile looking carefully. antonio would licate cuttings to mark the pages of ie beauty of god was everywhere. :hurch had no locks, and they would ncing each visitor to the great room. uld cascade from the windows er onto the toast-colored pews. . told us it was the greatest of all ot the great bell or the large crucifix ' the people. the singing was like . nd when the choir sang halleluiah, i mnd. y to check on us. she was a formi­ ng in the fields, but with the heart lit candles for him, kissing his dark warned mama in hushed words that : was too proud to let anyone see )uld wait until he was alone. this saw papa's pride. he fought in red potatoes and breaking the axe :d me nine pesos. he told me it was ;2 the food in my "mexican mouth" he fought for, and that it did not matter if it were nine pesos or nine thousand. i was proud too, so proud of papa that i stood tall and firm with clenched fists when the police came. he said later that i looked like a chihuahua, small but with the heart of a wolf. he was prideful, it was his way, and even death would not take him, unless it was on papa's terms. mama chimed, "isabelle . .. " using a musical voice, which sounded like a song, but instead, meant chores. she explained that papa was never to be left alone. she told me it was important, and that i was to stay with him until she returned from the neighbors. she was going to get batteries for pa­ pa's radio. i did as i was told, quietly at first, and then i sang to papa, a song about butterflies which we made up together on the bank of our secret fishing spot. he opened his eyes a little and i saw him smile. "you remember our song papa," i said, beaming and he gently smiled back. the clock ticked the rhythm while i sang softly, and as well as i could. my song was interrupted by antonio. he'd returned from the church, holding the ice with both hands, kicking the front door to get my attention. i hesitated for a moment, looking at papa, unsure what to do. "isabelle open the door! " antonio insisted loudly, so i left papa's room for a moment a moment which has haunted me for 60 years. i pulled the door open with a grin, but instead of antonio, i saw mama's anxious eyes. she pushed me aside roughly and ran to papa's room. for a moment everything was so quiet that i could still hear the clock ticking. i went to papa's door and saw her over his bed. then i heard the sound of mama taking a deep purposeful breath the kind someone takes before they scream. she turned to me and clenched her fists so tightly that her rosary broke and i watched in slow motion while batteries and rosary beads tumbled and bounced with little thuds and pings, scattering all over the floor in that horrific stillness . mama's scream was like nothing i had heard before. she cried "isabelle! isabelle! you killed your papa! you killed your papa!" her screams were so loud that they punched holes in me holes which are still filled with the perfect clarity of her painful words. the ice dropped from antonio's hands with a crushing thud. he started pleading with papa to just be asleep. "please, papa, please just be sleeping, papa, i need you, papa, i have your ice, i'll never be a bad boy again, please, papa ... " then mama stood tall and her cries hardened, "i just asked you to stay with him for five minutes and you did not love him enough to do this one thing. you killed him, you did this! " her words were in her eyes for me to see, and for a bewildering moment, she did not even 53 look like mama to me. antonio began to shake papa, pleading for him to wake up. "please, papa, wake up papa, please, please ... " his cries had turned into prideless desperate begging. i felt a sudden sickening in my stomach. this was all my fault and i ran mindlessly from the house. i ran all the way to the church and threw myself on my face in front of the altar, crying out, "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, ohh god, help me, i killed him ... i killed papa!" hours later, aunt gabriella came to the church. she carefully pulled the cactus needles from my crimsoned feet, wiping away the blood with her apron it felt like a dream. i remember how slowly she lifted me from the floor, wrapping me up in her powerful arms and rocking me like a baby while my tears dotted her yellow linen blouse. she carried me all the way to her home, returning me to mama the next day after papa's body was taken to the church. i wanted to talk to mama and tell her i was sorry, and sometimes, i think she wanted to talk to me too, but we just couldn't. it became a wedge of sorrow, hanging thickly between us, sapping all our happiness until we did not even speak anymore. two years passed like that, and a week after my 14th birthday, i came home from school and found mama on papa's bed. she was lying there with her legs exposed and i knew she was dead the way she was sprawled out, one fuchsia shoe dangling from her foot. i was surprised but i did not touch her; i simply backed away. for mama there was no shak­ ing, or pleading no screaming or tears. she was just dead spread out on papa's bed with the same look of unhappiness she wore every day. later i felt guilty for not crying. i wondered what kind of daughter would not cry when she found her mother dead like that. i felt pathetic and sinful. at mama's funeral i hid my face completely, not because i was wor­ ried people would see me cry, but because they might judge me for not crying at the funeral of my own mother. i barely noticed how plain the coffin was, the type the church gives those who have no money. i wondered if she was even alive when i left for school that day, because the silence of that morning was like every other. when the funeral ended, it started to rain. the sky had found tears for us all, and sent everyone scurrying back to their homes, leav­ ing only antonio and his friends to fill in the hole. aunt gabriella said mama died of a broken heart, and she took me in, leaving the ailing house to anto­ mo. living with aunt gabriella was strange at first. it was never awkward or silent. in the days that followed, she spoke with me every day, and in ways mama never did. in time i came to understand that aunt gabriella talked with a purpose she used our conversations to gently reopen my heart. after breakfast one morning, i was preparing to leave the house for school and the thought of mama, dying on papa's bed, took me completely by surprise. 54 i could picture her suffering, alone ir to help her. i suddenly felt profoundl and crashed like an ocean on my hea ing burst forth uncontrollably, and w again. i loved her, and missed her ~ i have lived a lifetime since · might have passed between mama ai the great sadness of that july tuesda forgiven me, or if she really blamed blamed myself. the events of that fa and have lasted all of my life, becam indiana university south i 2nd place fiction: the day i becar , pleading for him to wake up. "please, " his cries had turned into prideless cening in my stomach. this was all my 1use. i ran all the way to the church and le altar, crying out, "i'm sorry, i'm so ... i killed papa!" 1me to the church. she carefully pulled j feet, wiping away the blood with her !r how slowly she lifted me from the 1 arms and rocking me like a baby while se. she carried me all the way to her : day after papa's body was taken to tell her i was sorry, and sometimes, i t we just couldn't. it became a wedge >, sapping all our happiness until we .rs passed like that, and a week after my >ol and found mama on papa's bed. she and i knew she was dead the way she mgling from her foot. i was surprised ~d away. for mama there was no shak­ rs. she was just dead spread out on appiness she wore every day. later i felt t kind of daughter would not cry when felt pathetic and sinful. ace completely, not because i was wor­ ause they might judge me for not crying ~ely noticed how plain the coffin was, ave no money. i wondered if she was fay, because the silence of that morning tl ended, it started to rain. the sky had ne scurrying back to their homes, leav1 in the hole. aunt gabriella said mama le in, leaving the ailing house to antoas strange at first. it was never awkward e spoke with me every day, and in ways derstand that aunt gabriella talked ;ations to gently reopen my heart. after tg to leave the house for school and the d, took me completely by surprise. )4 i could picture her suffering, alone in the stillness of papa's room with no one to help her. i suddenly felt profoundly sad and lonely. my emotions welled up and crashed like an ocean on my heart. the sorrow and tears i had been miss­ ing burst forth uncontroll11bly, and with them, i became my mother's daughter again. i loved her, and missed her and knew it completely. i have lived a lifetime since then, and i'll never know what words might have passed between mama and me, if we had been able to talk about the great sadness of that july tuesday. i'll never know if she could have forgiven me, or if she really blamed me for papa's death as much as i have blamed myself. the events of that fateful day took papa, and then mama and have lasted all of my life, because it was the day i became guilty. indiana university south bend creative writing award 2nd place fiction: the day i became guilty by glenn lyvers 55 . : b.o co .... c • • 1!!!11 v j.pauua)/ !jd)/ ssd/~ pau!djs wn.11>ad5 a111 11&no.1111 adma&dssdd analecta spring 2011 edition volume 41 editor-in-chief terrie phillips layout terrie phillips cover art jefftatay readers jefftatay josh bisig jordan eash joe kuharic faculty advisor dr. kelcey parker printing apollo printing ondiment tacki neil kelly it happens all the time (an excerpt) 2007 lester m. wolfson 1st place fiction "1 ain't drunk. i'm just drinking!" i sang. i tried lo be loud enough lo cover the shouting next door. i stood, looking at the stereo, and smoked the thin cigarette. i wanted to blare, "it's cheaper to keep her" by the jerry-curled johnny taylor into my neighbor's wall, but i didn't feel like digging for it. ylusic in all playable forms were scattered across my apartment. my little cigarette was in haled quickly and burned up. the tobacco seemed dryer than normal. that's probably why it was conveniently forgotten by someone eager to open up their new, airtight package and breathe in the tang. my cigarette was getting tiny and with every inhale, i could feel the desiccated harvest burn through the fingers, lips, tongue, throat, and lungs. the exhale glowed from my nostrils and my insides felt blistered. i tossed it into the ashtray. i heard a loud growl from my neighbor's apartment followed by something bumping into his wall. probably her head, i lhought. l'd definitely wear a helmet if] ever went out drinking with him; howeve1; there's really no chance of that happening. i slammed down my beer and opened the other. j started to get a good buzz going after that brief interruplion, but i could predict that the neighborly intrusions would bring nothing but spoils. every so often there would be a bang against the wall or someone would shout "fucker" or "vvhore."then there would be silence for a few minutes. j walked back towards the kitchen and bumped into the door frame prior to en­ try. i put the beer down on the kitchen table by a really thick, green ashtray. i grabbed one of the chairs from the table and flung it around and sat on it vvilh its back against my chest. i leaned my chin on my arms which were resting on the top of the chair's back. willie nelson's "angel flying too close to the ground" started escaping the speakers. l thought about my neighbor and his lady friend. america's finest evidence of why some people shouldn't be able to breed.i reached down into the ashtray and pulled out a roach. it was just about an inch long. the tips of my index and middle fingers, along with my thumb, were black with moist ash from the bottom of the ash­ tray. beads of moisture must have dripped off old style cans to form a sludgy sub­ stance covering its base. i was more like a spittoon. i threw it back. listening to willie nelson's voice through the speakers, which have been covered with stickers to give them a wood appearance, reminded me of seeing him live. he was in an old auditorium that had five brass chandeliers that were draped with crys­ tals. the chandeliers also adorned garland and tinsel left over from christmas. there were two makeshift bars in the lobby that served decent liquor brands and bottles of "premium" beer. the lines were long, due to the fact that there were only two bars for two thousand people who needed drinks and the red headed stranger. howeve1; patrons weren't allowed to take their drinks into the recently remolded seating area of the auditorium. my friend and i were forced lo slam down four beers and a couple of whiskey shots before willie's set. while 1 was thinking about the concert i was interrupted by high-pitched voices outside. i looked out the window and could see four boys and a girl between the ages of eight and eleven, l'd guessed. they were shooting frogs, with single pump bb guns, in lhe pond across from woods that borders the aparlment complex's property. just on lhe other side of the parking lot. my brotl1ers and our friends all had those guns growing up and we would fire bottle rockets out of their barrels. they were our mis19 20 sile launchers. [ opened the door and yelled at the kids. "stop shooting those innocent frogs. get on oulta here, kids. leave urn alone and go back home." "go back inside, ya old bastard," one kid hollered back. bastard? why that little cocksucker. l killed my beer and threw the empty can in the direction of the kids, but they were about a hundred and fifty to two hundred feet awa). the can floated about nine feet before being blown another twenty feet to my left by a gust of wind. the kids laughed and told me to go inside. i did. l went in and opened the other beer that was already silting on the counter. i popped the aluminum ring on the lop of lhe can and there appeared to be smoke billowing from its mouth. i took a hard pull from the beer and set it back down. i stumbled over to the hall closet and found my old wrist rocket. it was in a box with old letters from ex-girlfriends.! grabbed it, closed the box, and closed the door. l went into my bathroom and pulled out about ten or so waler softener pellets from their yellow, plastic bag. l put them in my shirt pocket. l pul my beer back in the refrigera­ tor and i walked over lo the front window and could see thal they were still shooting frogs. i skipped over to my back door and undid all of its locks. i attached the super slingshot to my arm and hid it under my sleeve. i wenl down the back staircase and out the back door of the building. l kept low and made my way over lo an unkempt bush. j look cover.the children were still tj1ere laughing, socializing and bonding through carnage. i could see a bunch of skin colors throughout the munch kin murder group. all five of them were circling the pond, firing and pumping, then firing again. they repeated this process about a hundred limes. the bbs penetrated the water and pierced the frogs like torpedoes hitting unarmored vessels. i swore i could see smoke spilling from their barrels after eve1y shot. i fingered my shirt pocket for the salt pellets. l pulled about five or six out and started to crumple them up lo make them smaller. shrapnel for all. i put the pieces into the leather ammo holder that was in the middle of two rub­ ber straps. they were still tight after all the years in storage.i crouched up, about a foot or so, lo get a better view of my target. i steadied myself and pulled the leather holder back as far as i could and pointed the slingshot up toward god. the straps were tight and my arms shook a liltle from tl1e tension. i let go of the leather holder and the pellets jettisoned astronomical ly from the earth. they lore through clouds and ruptured the atmosphere while traveling up and then back down.the pellets came raining down all over the children. guns were dropped and little hands tried covering prepubescent heads. my ammo spread like buckshot and it ripped the youth's skin and the sall punished the wounds. [grabbed the rest of tj1e pellets and fired directly on the juveniles again. the shots crashed upon their heads, necks, shoulders, and backs. their screams were violently in lune. "mommy, help!" a boy cried. "i can't see!" shrieked another. the girl continued lo cover her head and picked up her bb gun and gave it a pump. she look off running, elfish, in the direction of her house, perhaps. she pointed the gun behind her and fired it. she pumped it again and fired another blind shot over her shouldc'r. she continued this until she found cover behind a dumpster. she popped up from behind it, fired off a shot where she thought the shooter was, and look off again. "you haven't seen tj1e last of me," she said. i went back inside my apartment. i opened up the closet and pul the slingshot back in its box. i went over to the window and peered out towards lhc pond. l could see a couple of bb guns lying around and a lackie box left open on a rock. i looked do" n lhe parking lot and cou id see peor skuthing around for clues. i went over to the fridge, grabbed m lh<' "inclow. the anonymous donor's co1 bartender. f liked being my own bartend ic'a\ e a tip. t con trolled tl1e mix ratios, cu [ ,rnlked back over lo the window ar sc'e the liule girl and she was pointing ir \\as bandaged and smoking a fillerless c of her cheek had been lorn off by the sa ground and picked up two daisy single j and other kids. lf it'd been darker, i figw eager for blood ar1d a soul. [sat on the arm of my recliner ar1d ; some shit i'd already known and took a• "h)the fuck they haven't won a \vorlcl s more importantly, they should print wh) my whole life. jlanging on lo every pron nomenon, and lo next year. i gaped tl1rough lhe cu rlai ns and tll figured me for lhe sneak attacker. i coul1 "ere heading north. i then beard voices, al lhe parking lot and could see the peo ne,~er seen an) one park in them. the gr• the ducks were growing louder. yo1 elation that honked from somewhere in \~as looking up. they were twisting lhei1 lrees. they were trying lo shade their cy point lo lhe sl-') with lhe two air rifles. "pull!" she said. following her orde1; tl1e rest of the lecm metal balls weakly into the hem~e1 brea·k apart. some of lhem were doings back. . on outta here, kids. leave um alone and hollered back. ed my beer and tj1rew the empty can in a hundred and fifty lo two hundred feel )eing blown anolher lwenty feel lo my old me lo go inside. t did. : was already si lling on the counter. j can and lhcre appeared to be smoke rorn lhe beer and sel it back down. i )' old wrisl rocket il was in a box with osed the box, and closed the door. i wenl •r so waler soflencr pellets from their kel. i pul rny beer back in the refrigera­ d could see lhal lhey were still shooling :lid all of ils locks. i attached the super ve. i wenl down lhe back staircase and nkempl bush. t look cover.the children jing lhrough carnage. i could see a in murder group. all five of them were ring again. they repeated iliis process fie waler and pierced the frogs like i could see smoke spilling from their lets. i pulled aboul five or six out and aller. shrapnel for all. >ider lhat was in lhe middle of two rub­ ars in storage.i crouched up, aboul a teadied myself and pulled the leather slingshol up loward god. the straps e lension. j lcl go of lhe leather holder i the earth. they lore through clouds up and ilien back down.the pel­ guns were dropped and little hands spread like buckshot and il ripped unds. i grabbed ilie rest of the pellets shots crashed upon their heads, necks, ently in lune. ontinued to cover her head and picked )ff running, elfish, in the direction of her her and fired il. she pumped it again :r. she continued lhis until she found n behind il, fired off a shot where she l. :cl up lhc closcl and put ilie slingshol l peered out tmrnrds the pond. i could ckje box left open on a rock. i looked down the parking lol and could see people slarti ng lo come oul of lheir dwel ii ngs, slculhing around for clues . i wcnl over lo lhc fridge, grabbed my open beer, and another, and wenl back lo the \\-indow. the anon)111ous donor's compilalion \\as now playing floyd dixon's uey barlender. i liked being my own bartender. i had no lines lo wail in nor did t have lo lcaye a tip. i conlrollcd lhe mix ratios, culoff limils, and closing time. i \\alkcd back over lo lhc window and took a drink from the white can. j could see the jillie girl and she was poinling in tj1e general direction of my aparlmcnl. she " ·as bandaged and smoking a fillerless cigarellc. she had cilhcr had a dimple or part of her cheek had been lorn off by tj1c sall) bullcls. she lossccl her cigarcllc lo lhc ground and picked up two daisy single pumps and started shouting orders lo adulls and other kids. if il'd been darker, t figured lhcm to be waving lorchcs and pilchforks. eager for blood and a soul. i sat on the arm of my recliner and read the cubs' facts printed on the can. i read some shil i'd already known and took a drink. one of these years they should prinl \\hythe fr1ck lhey ha' en't won a \vorld series in almost one hundred years. ~ia) be more irnportanlly, they should prinl wh) i\c been \\"a.sling my lime rooting for lhcrn my whole life. hanging on lo eyery promise, c\ cl) can 'l-miss-potenlial-rookie-phe­ nomenon, and to nexl) car. i gaped lhrough the curlains and the oulsiclc \\as quiet. the mob musl not hmc figured me for ll1e sneak allackcr. i could hear some clucks flying over head. they 1\·ere heading north.i then heard voices, again, gelling louder. i kepl looking clown at the parking lol and could see the people gathering in lhc handicapped spols. i 'vc neyer seen anyone park in them. the group looked unwashed, tormenlccl, penniless. the clucks were gro\\ing louder. you could hear the spring and summer-lime elation that honked from somewhere in lheir feathered chests. everyone in the group \\as looking up. the) were twisting their heads around lo see through and around trees. they were trying lo shade lheir eyes from lhc sun. then i saw the liltlc girl poinl lo ll1c sky with the two air rifles. "pull!" she said. following her order; the rest of the group poinlccl i heir guns to lhe sky and shol teeny mclal balls weakly inlo ilic heavens. the group of airborne ducks began lo break apart. some of lhern were doing spiraling nosedives while oiliers never looked back. 21 in-q~ief tatay 1t «bitors neash henry lynn tozan abuisor michaels rart bush ~ des(!ln l eash :'atay :bjjements ving people for their help and analecta 2012: erica wood, anne richmond ~printers. atay i-chief inbiana llniuersifjj ~out~ benb €.njli.s~ department mritin.!l awarb.s judge: jim daniels poetrjj rachel barrett (1st place) kristen lafollette (2nd place) ryan l. gruenewald (honorable mention) jessica a. deckard (honorable mention) fiction ryan l. gruenewald (1st place) hannah cross (2nd place) michelle hanshew (honorable mention) josh bisig (honorable mention) :qonftction joy bye (1st place) ja eggleston (2nd place) jean e. johnson (honorable mention) anne marie lindgren grains of brown sugar covered with a brown paper bag, a drug store on the first of the month. against the disabled pushing your way in past the lollypop given by the doctor. clustered on the tip of the nose, pinching off the hopeless. like plate tectonics, a grain of brown sugar embeds itself in the under birth of a nail. 18 nile} nicotine you smelled like my past staring back 1 when i was younger. how we would di moving trains. madness and loathing, a trembled as the needle landed in the rna:; my feet. the holes in my shoes were lik elliot died almost ten years ago. and i s the christmas tree's still there. they ga jousting is the official sport of marylat the sea away, he was left in the baseme absinthe and shellac records. i couldn't wrote your name on a postcard. it tastes well. your lips look like a lit mattress or the fuse was lit and i pulled it in. heavy through the strings and fire. there was a i'm going to tum your dad in, because i we were trapped in a tub. you burst in shook like haile selassie. there was a cigar box on the floor. ~ent ing is. ;hing out of her unwrapped insides. ·e wwing the hurt of a broken bone either do they care; womb. lre flagrant reminders of your alienec pnnce the singing of sparrows : guavas from the tree 11ally shining sun. t want you, 5ht. ;h. amiliar to this feeling. : sun 's rays :s 1 a foreign tongue 3 ryan smith lusk at thf lake for his fifth birthday lusk was given a birthday cake, but no candles­ no candles, his father said, a hand on his mother 's shoulder, no force , but managing to hold her­ no candles . have you seen what hope does to a man? lusk did not understand. he had not yet seen lake superior, grey water, not blue at all, a magnanimous periphery of shells that held no oceans, his father at the center of the long rope bridge, eyes wide, and lusk sitting at the far end saying will you come ifi meet you out there, and hold your hand? the waves coming and coming, stealing his answer. 39 lerstand that sentiment. i humor them by of the experience. "the teacher made sure 'ild after the left-wing secularists start " i will joke. "i was ok after the de-pro:nt amount of my experiences there were :her, was nothing like the fallwellian bible ;he was a graduate of columbia univer­ rer met), she was wickedly sharp, and she bout my criticisms of the religion. re in her beliefs, highly intelligent and e world's evils and confident that she was :hing that i was not. iding a darker self. she genuinely seemed ~et through life without any of the usual o pep-pills. whether that was a product of but the question seems invalid anyway. ecame a kind of template for ideal living. even if i thought that our fundamental di f­ rom getting there. i grandfather, are just a few of the people i :rtain questions. earlier, i asked if everyone 1ink i've learned that they do, but it's re­ :veryone has an equal ability to be. 1bout it like we do. i see that the more we e give to thoughts of helplessness. on >wledge it, we often take it out on others. sually the ones we love. or because of, confusing semi-answers ink that i have become something resem1g (even if it's not in the way that mrs. d ·and grandfather were not). 36 i would like to think that happy and confident people look in the mirror every once and a while and say, "everything is not ok. ev­ erything will not get better." i would like to think that maturity has changed my mantra's meaning from that of fated doom, into some­ thing more realistic. to this day, i still think a lot of things are not ok, and probably never will be, but at least i can accept the fact that true happiness will always be a rarity for me. i've learned to appreciate the memory of brief sunshine, while i skillfully navigate life's darkened rooms. talia reed window 37 ~ 0 fireflies by rebecca gerdes behind tall talking trees that are only silent when you can't hear them anyway, down an angle of masked road right off highway 51 a child, tammy, prays to bursts of light then pulls illuminated stomachs from spindly legs, and wears the glowing ring, glad it is only almost alive. and when daddy mows the driveway that's when pebbles dance, sand and stone and tammy's chubby finger joined in dusky faintness, gleaming like the twinkle of a distant star. and the child, grasping a shovel worn to sickly orange, like a triumphant banner of plastic pageantry, reaches up till hand meets sky, and grins. till momma thinks of chameleons against the backdrop of night and daddy hefting up, hauling up, holding up up beyond the sky his little daughter, thinks of a corkboard in his office pinned up and lined with negatives of rooms full of mouths and mouths full of teeth so big and white and holy that virgins couldn't do better. 8 poetry across his eyes, almost too quickl) settled on his shoulders (the shoulders of a giant, she thinl tammy flourishes her baton so far above the earth she almost forgets the firefly ... till, practical, momma calls, and the family goes into dinner, leaving only a shovel on the porch. lightning on the ring finger. and fireflies, spotted and illusory, try it, you'll like it she said it's a good fast meal she said first time i every wanted to just eat the box it came in i mean it tasted of cardboard and water it's like a starving man who tried this would say why the hell am i eating the box even a beggar would say can you spare something else? not to mention what my cousins~ this tastes like death in a bowl. then there's always what i put on killing people since 1638 then i put on it an expiration dat best used by 07/ 12/ 1774 ay, ; fu ll of teeth across his eyes, almost too quickly, settled on his shou lders (the shou lders of a giant, she thinks) tammy flourishes her baton so far above the earth she almost forgets the firefly ... till, practical, momma calls, and the family goes into dinner, leaving only a shovel on the porch. lightning on the ring finger. fireflies / cup of noodles analecta and fireflies, spotted and illusory, above the grass. try it, you'll like it she said it's a good fast meal she said first time i every wanted to just eat the box it came in i mean it tasted of cardboard and water it's like a starving man who tried this would say why the hell am i eating the box even a beggar would say can you spare something else? not to mention what my cousin said this tastes like death in a bowl. then there's always what i put on it's side killing people since 1638 then i put on it an expiration date best used by 07/ 12/ 1774 cup of noodles by joe borkowski 9 breath, they exhale the smoke into our tly. his mother doesn't love him. i tell him e saved his life. :autiful:' detroit. me from myself." oday. i take his hand in mine, show him e exclaims. ground, a young woman is crying on the her arms around her, pulls her in. lend pats her on the back. resses. they both shiver, quivering from tities of the streets, the air. adam offers ;ht-drunk. some guys, they picked her ,, ~ell phone screen reads 3am-the dim night. i realize we are three miles from tug on adam's shirt sleeve. ir restaurant for a break. inside, an aus­ :rums the air with his calloused fingers. n collar around the neck. as i listen, i d how he stood atop a mountain. ondo, but not yet. for now, i will listen. :nt i forget the swerving cars, the alcorthday and that someone, somewhere, s to be human. maybe the strip-these lip away. maybe these lights will grow 16 branbi dauib breton lli.s.s waiter takes the order ignoring faint smells of hair spray powder freesias & old spice as 2 make silent conversation amid empty chairs, dozens of water rings on scratched wooden tables. a bell's best brown a lemon-less water "have you seen-" sudden uproar from the bar, clinking glasses providing percussion for thunderous cheers. a team in ireland scored against a team from england whenlooks down. crumbs migrate from the grilled cheese, flocking to the beard and joined by beer in the moustache looks up. separate checks 17 poetry poisoned fruit audrey raymond michigan cherry dark with sweet juice trickled down your chin caught in the divot by cool flesh i suckled and was satisfied as my head lay dreamily upon your chest i listened to the heart beat out of tune i collected its rhythm in my ear tapped out its crooked dance across your stomach you clutched my arm until it stung but you let go i rea.ched out to ·your frigid arms they clutched your ribs in resistance i could not follow as you ran the red-faced burden of our love's nest cried and wriggled in my arms as once you had late long after little whimpers quiet i am left with thoughts of you i sob in my tiny kitchen rubbing my face into gritty linoleum i can taste the vomit that wells in my mouth i can feel myself dilute and spread like a puddle of blood dark red and unforgettable the juice of an overripe cherry that stained my lover's face when once he was mine 82 the 2010 analecta fiction a day at the county fail angela huff (an excerpt) callie and michael were county fair. they couldn't wait t shifted from the left to the right · how many people were ahead of callie closed her eyes at elephant ears sprinkled with pov oozing with hot steamy cheese. after what seemed like callie and stuffed his own into t rides before they ate. nothing w hand and excitedly said, "let's l that sounded just fine t• the one that made her took shor1 her pear-shaped figure and mad1 the line of children to t come from. they were still pati1 causing her to jump and unsettl1 "look," michael told c ened little girl, who was now ru as she ran and jumped into her 1 callie and michael exc tall lanky boy accepted their tic running. enjoy." michael's eye quickly looked away and glanc of fear to callie. callie 's knees wobbled without words, without writing and without books there would be no history, there could be no concept of humanity. hermann hesse swiss (german-born) author (1877 1962) 49 reed elcey parker wright ~ bauters & robert white cytacki ients >llowing individuals for their [on of this issue: ond lee ·ds ith laney itzer dgett poetry first place second place honorable mention short fiction first place second place honorable ment io11 non-fiction first place second place honorable mention drama first place second place honorable mention 2007 lester m. wolfson award recipients judged by john gallaher talia reed eric oswald vince bauters neil kelly naoko fujimoto oloc fl o rk<rn s], i ( :1ial'll1i "('1';1111·11 ( :l1ri-. ( l'bri<·11 i<; ric ci 11 g('l'icl 1 naoko fujimoto amanda alvarado lindsey abair shells of men innocence self-improvement it happens all thetime white things playing with fire tr:-1 in language wi.ngs of thought the creation of reality through language wanted the prenuptial the prom date 5 3ricn it er ~lh vood box, my molher ;, m, bul she didn'l lape it 1e ice :d beer cans, ~crust, )lllld. ind-bil cheeks · eggs in cups of color. stacy rummel an empty nest in the kilchen, an egg-limer goes off afler fifleen minules of whal seemed lo be to the brink of starvalioh, while hannah, the family mult circles around my feet, reminding me of our walks thal i now ignore. i open the oven to find browning chicken baking al a normal lempcralure. i go lo find somc­ lhing to rolale the bird, bul when i open the utilily drawer, l find my son's spoon labeled stephen in faded red lcllers surrounded barely noliceable oullines of red and blue balloons. i cringe, take a deep breath, quickly grab the something lo stab the bird with, and slam lhe drawer shul hoping the empliness is only lemporary. * * * "guess who's a big boy and no longer needs lhe baby spoon," i asked my son stephen, the pride and joy of dave's and my life. about a week ago, sle­ phen graduated from lhe highchair lo a booster seal and wanted him to feel exlra special in his new chair. dave and i have been looking for a personal­ ized place setling for monlhs now wilh no such luck. after weeks of search­ ing we found a sel at the local children's learning slore, where we stopped in lo get polty lraining videos. s lephen jumped up and dmvn in excitcmenl asking if it was "time eal? time eat?", as he paraded around and pounded his personal miniature fork and spoon logelher while i began to prepare supper. "would you like to help mommy fix ". it was loo lale. stephen was already running in full toddler speed to find dave and show off his new utensils. he found dave twenty baby steps away in lhe living area of the small efficiency apartmenl figuring oul the direclions lo slcphen's new toddler bed. * * * the pot on the stove is boiling over as i'm absent mindedly poking at the chicken, causing me to quickly gather my thoughls and lum down lhe stove. checking lhe contents of lhc pan wondering if lhey are still edible, i notice for the firsl time since i've started cooking that i am fixing green beans and the majority of them are burned dry on lhe bottom of the pan. l lry to scrape al them with a wooden spoon, but the green beans have become a perma­ nenl fixture on the pan. * * * ll was a christmas eve. dave grew up with four brothers, so tl1ere was ah\ ays a houseful. he really made sure s lephen was surrounded by family al all limes especially the holiday season. dave had invited his parenls over this year for christmas eve, even lhough for lhc past t\vo years, we have always gone lo my parenl's house. ins lead of going lo his parent's house on christmas day, lhe new plan was to have them slay lhe whole week and thal \\e'd have lo lake stephen to my side of the family cilher the week before or 23 24 after. when everything was said and done, i found myself surrounded with random family members on my husband's side opening up presents and cramming themselves into the living room and seeping into the dinning room. dave got socks and his second drill that even though my mother-in­ law knew i was also getting him one, while stephen sat content on a moun tain of toys next to his dad. i was dreading to open any of my gifts from any­ one, so i saved the best one (from my in-laws) for last so everyone can marvel at the lavish gift his mother got me. i wasn't expecting to find the nicest set of pans i would ever own to be underneath the fancy gift store wrapping. instead of wasting time wondering if my mother-in-law was mocking me for my lack of culinary skills, i took the gesture as a compliment and that we are finally considered "equals". for once in my life, i went over to dave's mother and gave her a hug followed by a genuine thank you. * * * as i probe the bottom the non-stick pan now with a metal fork, i give up on the green beans and pitch the entire pan into the trash. i then venture over to the cupboard and lay out the remaining pans from that memorable christmas long ago with my mother-in-law, and toss them into the trash. i dig deep into my cupboard. in the very back i pull out one of my original pots that i had since i first moved out. it was covered with stubborn liquid rings, dents for when i let stephen play drums, and just worn from age. i carefully place the deformed pot on the burner and open a can of cream­ style corn and pour the contents out. * * * "he will be here in ten minutes and nothing's ready," i scream aloud, scolding myself i have been dating dave for only a couple of weeks now. tonight i said i would cook for him, but the only thing i know he likes is chicken and corn on the cob with scalloped potatoes. the only thing i have is the chicken and cream-style corn. this is going to be a disaster! i quickly put the corn on the stove, place the knob on high to make it cook faster, as i run to the bathroom to brush my hair for the third time in a half hour! when i get done i am racing around my small efficiency apartment straightening up and fluffing couch cushions, pillows, anything i can get my hands on that might be out of place. as i light a single tea light, the doorbell rings and i open the door to the handsome david who is standing in the hallway with a single dandelion. "i could tell you i wanted to get you flowers, but i waited until the last minute and the shops are all closed," he said embarrassed. a deafening silence accompanied us between the four walls. between me running around like an idiot constantly brushing my hair, i was sweating and maybe bald from excessive brushing, but i it was too late to care at this point. "um, but i ah, didn't want to come empty handed," he said, sounding more like a question to a test. "it's beautiful," was all i could blurt out as i let him in, "let's put it in water. it'd make a great centerpiece" \ve are interrupted by the smoke the smoke-filled apartment and forge me in the kitchenette to make sure e' set lhe table. the chicken is burnt. 1 ized. i am too embarrassed to hide t1 "it'll be okay," he says as he begin while i'm still humiliated, and set ou1 between the two place settings. \ve both sit down, but something loes. dave goes into the living area a il in wale1~ then places it in the centc pick al the burnt food on our plates. "sorry, it's supposed to be cream the pol. "kew meaning of caramel corn," : "are you sure you don't want to c embarrassed he is actually going lo e. "this dinner is pcrf eel. i have rn said fighting with the chicken. "i'll try not to make this a habit ij cheeks reddening. "are you kidding? this dinner is sured, reaching over lo louch my har the egg timer dings again and th open the oven to the succulent chick door, and set the egg timer once mor put the lid on the pot and wail in the tween the egg timer versus the fire al first. \vhen the smoke alarm goes off off, and then make a plate of burnt cl over lo the utility drawer and grab th down lo eat at the dining room table. shortly after we had stephen, wt a family now and an efficiency aparlr out here was more room for all of m rooms, two baths, living room, breakf garage would make a great "starter" r eel cars and collection of tools, lo st( eventually his first car, to my garden purposes over the years. al the breakfast nook in lhe kitcl on fridays until stephen started h:i be full of life during the holidays, no living room was for entertaining guei , i found myself surrounded with l's side opening up presents and >m and seeping into the dinning ·ill that even though my mother-in ile stephen sat content on a moun ng to open any of my gifts from any­ -laws) for last so everyone can marvel isn't expecting to find the nicest set ath the fancy gift store wrapping. · mother-in-law was mocking me for ure as a compliment and that we are my life, i went over to dave's mother le thank you. !< pan now with a metal fork, i give up pan into the trash. i then venture aaining pans from that memorable aw, and toss them into the trash. i back i pull out one of my original t was covered with stubborn liquid drums, and just worn from age. i burner and open a can of cream !< nothing's ready," i scream aloud, e for only a couple of weeks now. the only thing i know he likes is ped potatoes. the only thing i have is is going to be a disaster! ~ the knob on high to make it cook my hairfor the third time in a half md my small efficiency apartment iions, pillows, anything i can get my i light a single tea light, the doorbell me david who is standing in the flowers, but i waited until the last said embarrassed. • between the four walls. between me brushing my hair, i was sweating and t i it was too late to care at this point. :mpty handed," he said, sounding out as i let him in, "let's put it in we are interrupted by the smoke alarm, which is my cue to run through lhe smoke-filled apartment and forgelting to take the dandelion. dave meets me in the kitchenette lo make sure everything is all right and offers lo help sel lhe table. the chicken is burnt. the corn is not so creamy, bul caramel­ ized. i am too embarrassed to hide the tears welling in my eyes. "il'll be okay," he says as he begins lo sel lhe table with paper plales, while i'm still humiliated, and set out the pans on homemade potholders between lhe two place settings. we bolh sit down, bul something is missing besides the scalloped pota­ loes. dave goes into the living area and brings back the dandelion and puls il in water, then places it in the center of lhe table. 've begin the laugh as we pick at the burnt food on our plates. "sorry, it's supposed to be cream-style," i say as he is guessing what is in lhe pot. "new meaning of caramel corn," he says and winks as he fills his plate. ''are you sure you don't want to order a pizza or something," i ask still embarrassed he is aclually going to eal lhis. "this dinner is perfect. i have never had a dinner like this before," he said fighting with the chicken. "i'll try not to make this a habit if you don't want me to," i said wilh my cheeks reddening. "are you kidding? this dinner is lhe best thing i've had all day," he en­ sured, reaching over to touch my hand. * * * the egg timer dings again and the corn is simmering at medium heat. i open the oven to the succulenl chicken and place it on lhe top rack, close the door, and sel lhe egg timer once more. i turn the stove burner lo high and pul the lid on lhe pot and wait in lhe dining room and listen lo lhe race be­ tween the egg limer versus the fire alarm and wonder which one will sound first ~when the smoke alarm goes off, i go into the kitchen, turn everything off, and then make a plate of burnl chicken and caramelized corn. i head over to the utility drawer and grab the fork and knife labeled stephen and sil down to eat al lhe dining room table. * * * shorlly after we had stephen, we decided to buy lhe house. we have a family now and an efficiency apartment was too small for the three of us. oul here was more room for all of us. dave's parenls believed a three bed­ rooms, two baths, living room, breakfast nook, kitchen, and three-car stall garage would make a great "slarter" home. from dave's garage for his proj­ ecl cars and collection of tools, to stephen's plastic pool, to his tricycle, to cvf'ntually his first cai~ to my garden bench and area; the house served many purposes over the years. at lhe breakfast nook in the kitchen, we would hold family game night on fridays until stephen started having dates. the dining room used to be full of life during lhe holidays, now only collects dust and junk mail. the liying room was for entertaining guests. the family room used for winding 25 26 down at the end of the day. now with dave's position in the company and stephen away at college, there is much more room in this house. every friday is now a reading night. holidays are light years away from one another. my garden has been taken over by weeds. vve have no guests stay over anymore. david practically lives oul of a suitcase now, so whatever was once "ours" has now become "mine". i find myself now lying in my bed staring at the ceiling wondering when this house became so quiet. my thoughts are interfered by two headlights that linger up the driveway, and then disappear to the rumble of the garage door opening. a door is open, then shut. after forty minutes of shuffling down­ stairs, heavy footsteps trudge upstairs. i roll over and pretend to sleep even though i am fully clothed and it is barely dusk outside. the bedroom door gently opens and dave leans over the bed, kisses my cheek and whispers, "that dinner was the best thing i had all day". brushing him off, i get up and head downstairs as he is left defeated sitting on the bed. i make my way towards the kitchen, but stop in the din­ ing room lo find another half-eaten plate next to mine followed by a single dandelion floating in water in an old sippy cup labeled stephen. e jase analecta 2014 nonfiction ashley petersen towers at the restaurant a stray grain of rice was popping on the skil­ let; i used my chopsticks without thinking about chopsticks and my leg only fell asleep twice during lunch. shanna sat across from me, her dark curls framing her face in a heart shape. we'd only met the day before but i fell into her arms the moment i saw her. she awkwardly patted my back and i felt like a child clinging to a mother's breast; i finally had someone to talk to again. someone who spoke my language. some­ one who was from where i was from: america. she invited me to go to mureung valley with her, a mountainous terrain with multiple hiking trails that claimed to be "the grand canyon of korea!" we decided to meet for lunch the next day and go from there. i agreed, even though i'd been many times before, because be­ fore i'd always been on my own. at the restaurant we ordered food we'd never tried before. a large pot held countless silkworm larvae all brown and steaming; we both picked at the bugs with our chopsticks, too afraid to try them, and settled on eating rice and soup instead. the soup was heartily filled with greens, smooth earthy mushrooms, and thick noodles the length of my arm. by the time my bowl was empty my belly was fat and hap­ py and i wanted nothing more than to lay back, use my floor mat as a pillow, and drift lazily off to sleep. we, however, had other plans, and shortly after shanna was fin­ ished we left the restaurant and headed towards the trail that led up to the valley. the trail snaked past an ornate bridge with cranes and trees featuring half-moon shaped leaves carved into the stone of the hand­ rails; three colorfully decorated buddhist monasteries were scattered beyond that, with candle after candle dotting the ground around stat­ ues of red tongued dragons. beyond that, pools of fresh running water settled in stone wells with plastic scooping cups circling the edges for drinking. shanna pulled out a water bottle and filled it up, then handed it to me. i gulped deeply and wiped the spill on my chin with the cuff of my sleeve. 10 we didn't talk n then we only talked wh iarity of her walk, the ' her clothes and even th started dripping at the and dirt became stones ders. my chest was hea­ of cars and hopping ov she asked me if i belie' wishes? the word sound i made a wish, but i wi land counted as a one . . found a four leaf clove1 in korea. regardless, i grabbed my hand and ] kled with vines. hiding met misting the trees a rocks the size of my ou some impossibly hight "you know, the: other like this, and mal your wish will come tn rocks from the ground. right next to each othe ask. she didn't ask me the sun hung le mountains turned dark air, and we decided to t my apartment that nig wish i made, and the n on the skils and my leg me, her dark lay before uy patted ; i finally llage. some­ !lle to go to lple hiking ~decided to ecause be1efore. a mrng; we ry them, eartily filled the length :at and hap­ >r mat as a 1na was fin­ at led up to ~sand trees the hand­ scattered 'ound stat­ ming water edges for .hen handed h the cuff • analecta 2014 we didn't talk much until we got further into the trail, and even then we only talked when we took breaks. i didn't mind. just the famil­ iarity of her walk, the way her arms hung loosely to her side, the fit of her clothes and even the scrunchie she tied her hair back with when she started dripping at the sideburns comforted me. we rounded a corner and dirt became stones, stones became large rocks, rocks became boul­ ders. my chest was heaving with the effort of climbing boulders the size of cars and hopping over rushing streams, but we pressed on. she asked me if i believed in wishes at one point. wishes? the word sounded strange here. i thought about the last time i made a wish, but i wasn't sure if hoping to find a friend in a foreign land counted as a one. after all, i hadn't thrown a penny in a well, found a four leaf clover, or even seen a shooting star since i arrived in korea. regardless, i shrugged and mumbled "sure," in reply. she grabbed my hand and pulled me around a large cliff face that was wrin­ kled with vines. hiding on the side was a pool where two thin waterfalls met misting the trees and the rocks and our faces. along the ground, rocks the size of my our hands were stacked one on top of the other, some impossibly high teetering in the light breeze. "you know, they believe that if you stack rocks on top of each other like this, and make a wish on them, when they finally fall over your wish will come true," she said this while gathering four or five rocks from the ground. i mimicked her. soon, we both had rock towers right next to each other. i wondered what she wished for, but didn't ask. she didn't ask me either. the sun hung low in the sky and the areas between the looming mountains turned dark and brown. with evening came the cool, crisp air, and we decided to turn back. when i collapsed on the floor mat in my apartment that night, legs stiff and exhausted, i thought about the wish i made, and the many things i would talk to her about tomorrow. 11 13 chad forbregd death becomes her like rain becomes a hearing aid in darkness. let’s assume she doesn’t mind informal forms of address: heavy-eyed space heater, a one glass girl: drowning (in flame). something is wrong – “never quit” is written on the grocery list (again). submerged (naked beneath an inflatable pool toy) an areola exposes itself beneath the porch light moon. stay away from lonely places: public pools or sunday afternoons. life during wartime. 123190 iusb analecta 2014-15 body v3 proof %281%29.pdf 1ew clothes ly i can grow untitled/ the cigarette burns analecta you use me up like you smoke a cigarette, breathing me in on ly to blow me out, turning me into ashes you transform into a light brocade, unraveling at the slightest touch of the wind ... stub me out when you've had enough, or when you've smoked me to my filter, and you just can't stand my taste anymore. maybe this time you' ll stomp me out once i hit the pavement with a barely audible thud, scraping your boot, making me leave my innards in a trail on the asphalt. no matter how i'm disposed of, be it fire-down in sand, or splayed on the cement, or spit on and tossed in the garbage, or thrown out of the car window, my embers fleeing from my body with the force of the speed you are traveling, you will leave me wherever i end up, and walk away without a second thought. the cigarette burns by joshua r. leuthold 5 ) dane blue bike nicole koroch me, little lying there behind that old white barn watching the ragged tips of long grass wave in the languid breeze the heat pressed one so but it was cooler sinking into the dampish dirt with the sky above and the smell of the loamy green and the cicadas whirring and buzzing because they were there too a beetle clung above me the slender blade drooped with his panicked weight his existence precious to him as mine was to me off a ways, my mother called god-dammit nikki, i swear to god if you 're playing in the creek again i'm going to sell you to the peach pickers near by the water sang over the rocks and stones and i could see myself riding in the back of a green pick-up bouncing over a dirt road my new father strumming his guitar singing his sad, sad songs 57 57 aaron quist “surf city” & “sweat” [digital photographs] 73 cassandra laforest for sale: baby shoes, never worn1 i never expected to see the baby anyway. my wife, gorgeous, leans over the toilet, cradling it like the child that never would be. “the baby shoes,” she murmured, crying, vomiting, hugging the toilet like a ticket to ride and desperately reading and re-reading the stick in her hand. who knew that a little symbol could mean so much. that little plus sign guided us throughout our life together: we met at the hospital where she worked as a nurse, she first told me she was pregnant in my tiny, crowded seventh grade classroom where i teach math, we got married in the baptist church underneath the plus sign that held jesus up by his flowing, bloody hands and now she held the stick out to me with her own bloody hands, but no plus sign this time. sometimes absence is worth as much as presence. i threw away the stick, grabbed the shoes with the tag still on them from the nursery, and placed them into a box in our garage that read in my wife’s unmistakable, illegible handwriting: for sale. going back to the bathroom, my wife looks up at me with swollen eyes hidden under curls that have stuck to her cheeks with her tears. i part the hair from her cheeks, “valerie…” and she falls apart in my hands. the first time i met my wife, i would never have been able to envision her in such a vulnerable position. after one of my students sneezed directly in my face while having a conference, i went to the doctor sick as a dog with the flu. she took my arm in her hand to take my blood pressure and i became enraptured by her beauty. clean cut, with the exception of her wild curls and bulging blue (almost silver) eyes, she was the epitome of an independent woman who knew what she was doing. as she pursed her lips in a way that only emphasized her professionalism, i couldn’t help but try to think of a way to make her part those lips, to put my own on them. lost in these thoughts, i foolishly but helplessly blurted, “god damn, you’re beautiful.” startled, but smiling, val looked at me and said, “actually, i’m valerie. please let me take your blood pressure instead of hitting on me.” and as the machine squeezed my arm so tight and her fingers grazed my arm ever so slightly, i felt my breath constricting and my heart racing and i knew i could never live without those fingers, or those eyes, or that hair, or this woman. it’s not that i didn’t want a baby, but a baby just never seemed as important as val. she always wanted a baby. it was a part of her dream, even though she always 1 ernest hemmingway 74 so independent. on our first date, she told me that she already knew who her child was. “it’s a girl. blond hair, blue eyes, a slight gap, never dirty. her name is rooney and i have always known her. she breathes life into me even…” and she trailed off. taking her hand, i said, “i think she sounds wonderful,” but even i could hear the artificiality in my tone. she took a sip of wine and smiled at me in a way that said i’m letting this go for now. and i let her because i really didn’t want to talk about it. i don’t know why the baby is the only thing that separates her and me. we are always so happy, but whenever the baby comes up this stifling gap comes between us and i get so angry about it. we have a nice enough life; i don’t know how a baby would add anything more to it. we live in lansing, michigan which means we get to enjoy each holiday to its fullest even if it is a pain in the ass to shovel the snow each winter and waste money cooling the house each summer. but even that has its joys. i always look forward to the winters with val because of our snow shoveling ritual. we shovel as fast as we can, race to the end of the driveway, and collapse in the snow and stay there until we can’t take the cold anymore, which makes hot chocolate taste that much warmer and that much sweeter. now, i make her a cup of hot chocolate even though it’s in the dead of august and we don’t even have the air on, but val is cold today and hot chocolate is her favorite drink. it used to be café mochas but when she (correction: we, i guess) started trying to get pregnant she cut caffeine from her diet. when her hot cocoa is done, i walk back into the bathroom and hear her murmuring “rooney” over and over again. seeing her like this, i thank god that i have two more weeks until the school year starts. i guess that’s one of the perks of teaching, summers off, even though the rest of the year wears you down so hard that a summer is a necessity. “val,” i say, setting the cup down on the counter. “we have to move forward. we can’t do this anymore. we’ve tried.” “nick, i need this. i need rooney. what don’t you understand?” “rooney doesn’t exist, val,” i tell her as gently as i can. “we had a child, yes. we knew she was in your womb, yes. but she was never born and we have to let it go.” she starts crying again and pukes again in the toilet. i feel bad now. “let’s go to our room. i made you hot chocolate.” i lead her to the bedroom; lay her down and i lay down with her. i think about the baby shoes in the for sale box, which serves as a reminder of her most important dream that she lost. val is my first dream, teaching is my second. i feel selfish in a way, because my dreams in our life have been fulfilled while she put her secondary dream (nursing) on hold to pursue her first dream of having a baby and look how that turned out. we both deal with mathematics in our jobs, working through equations to reach our humble humanitarian dream. i teach thirteen year olds how to solve equations in the hope that they will lead a good (sometimes better) life. val uses equations to mix medicines and take temperatures in the hope that those who come to her sick will 75 leave better. you’d think with our knowledge of math and science that we’d be able to figure out this equation of our marriage. but the baby seems to be the unsolvable problem; the prime number that never seems to fucking end and that valerie can’t seem to stop attempting to figure out. around a year and a half ago, we were making love and she seemed almost desperate in the way that she held me to her. i didn’t care but it seemed odd. i think what was odd about it was that she got those pursed lips like when i first met her. the lips that show that she is in a moment, that she knows what she’s doing. instead of being lost in our entangled bodies, she was thinking hard about something and doing something beyond being with me. when she started to shake before i did, she smiled in a knowing way and she grabbed my back tight, hurrying me along. that was the first time we finished together but as the last waves rolled away she pushed me off, held her legs tight together, and turned on her phone. i saw a menstruation app light up on her phone with a message that said: “you are currently ovulating. this is the prime time for pregnancy, so start trying or get protected. your period is projected to start in 2-3 weeks.” i immediately felt sick and opened the nightstand drawer where she kept her birth control. it hadn’t been taken in almost four months. that’s when i knew that part of our marriage functioned as a way for her to solve the equation of infertility in order to finally meet rooney. not that i blamed her necessarily. i have always gone to great lengths to keep my dream of being a great teacher and great husband working in tandem throughout our marriage, but it was the sneakiness with which she went about it. she knew that i needed to be a part of the decision to have a baby with her and she did it anyway. but then again, i wasn’t sure that i wanted to have the baby anyway. i just knew i wanted val, our house, my job, her job, and our life together and i knew that the baby would only complicate things. as val falls asleep, i go back out to the garage to look at the baby shoes. they’re pink and that super soft material that seems to be reserved solely for babies. i rub them against my cheek and then hold them to my heart, trying to feel the love for the baby that val does. but i only feel hollowness. to test the theory, i take off my wedding ring and hold it to my heart and feel a swell of emotion as i think about valerie. holding these two items in my hand, i begin to cry because i cannot figure out how these things can be added together in a way that makes sense to me. but this makes me love val more. she somehow has enough love in her heart for the baby, for her job, and somehow for me. what is even more baffling is that the baby does not even exist, at least not anymore. it is this natural, selfless, loving disposition that holds me to her. some may say she is a perfectionist to a fault, but to me she holds no faults. she is my val, and that is all i need in life. i was the one that bought those shoes for her. it was after a huge fight regarding the baby in which i dismissed the idea of us having a baby “right now” even though my heart said “not ever.” “how can you be so selfish?” val had spat at me, her voice shrill and filling our 76 bedroom. “you know how much i love rooney. i love you too, but you’re disregard for what i want makes me think otherwise.” “well, valerie, if sweeney or whatever the name is all that matters to you, then maybe i don’t fucking love you,” cruel and calculated. if this, then that. incredulous, she dropped her crossed arms. “fuck you.” seeing the disbelief, the near hatred, i saw in her eyes i knew i had to fix it. the next day i bought a pair of shoes. they were only seven dollars at the nearest wal-mart, and though i didn’t exactly change my mind about the baby i at least wanted val back. once i handed her the shoes, she cried but this time with happiness. “nick…i don’t know what to say,” she said and wrapped her arms around me. holding her to me, i felt us becoming closer once again. yet, i couldn’t shake the feeling that i would lose her to the baby. but, if having a baby meant i got to keep val, then so be it. i’d do anything. going back to the room, val still asleep, i lie down next to her and think about those shoes. soon, i fall asleep with pink silk on my mind. * * * i wake up to lips on me: frantic, wet, and crazy. “valerie, what the hell-” and she shushes me with another kiss, climbing on top of me and pulling off her top. “this is fucking crazy and you know it. you just had a miscarriage for god’s sake.” she wilts mildly for one moment, the fact that i just gave her not quite computing with her arousal. nevertheless, i am captivated by her beauty, her unabashed search for sex even in the face of tragedy, her frantic nails on my back, and the panting of her hot breath on my neck. and, in spite of myself, i let it happen. even though all of my instincts tell me i shouldn’t do this, this is wrong, i let it happen. * * * “nick, which color do you like better for her: a light pink or a deep purple?” i look over to valerie, her belly swollen with the baby. with it. “i don’t know, valerie. deep purple i guess.” she frowns at me, “light pink it is.” and i roll my eyes, realizing that, in the face of rooney, i am unable to win. it’s been like this for the past nine months. ever since that night when i let myself violate my wife we’ve been in the throes of marital indecision. i use the word “violate” because that’s what it was. she was obviously in an altered state of mind after the miscarriage and i allowed myself to give into her. now look where we are. her, pregnant with rooney, and me unable to come to terms with my new responsi77 bility: rooney, the thing that will separate us. yet, we’re both unsure if it is rooney. it’s an unspoken thing in our household, the sex of our baby. she chose to not know the sex as she was too worried that it would turn out to be her worst nightmare: if it is a boy. “i have to go to work, val,” i say, using the shortened version of her name that i haven’t used in months, ever since she became pregnant. i’m trying to distance myself. “no problem, honey. i’ll be here working on rooney’s room.” you’re fucking nuts, i think. a half hour later i arrive at the school. walking into my classroom, i feel comfort. it is a home away from home, away from the madness that is my household. i’m almost panicked that it’s may already and the school year is almost over. thankfully, i’ve arrived early so i have time to complete some work. i run my fingers over the student papers, all nice and neat in the “work to turn in” slot. i take out the pens that i have put into a cup specifically for pens and line them up. i take one out, a red one, to grade student papers. i get lost in it, solving the equations that students got wrong quickly and passing over the ones they got right. it becomes a mantra: yes, right, no, wrong, x+y=z not a, etc. all of a sudden, my phone rings. it’s valerie. “what’s up, val?” i say, not quite ready for her answer. gasping breath, a pause. “rooney’s coming!” “okay, i’ll be right home.” standing up, i rush over to the trashcan and throw up. every anxiety i have had over the past five years with valerie, over the past nine months with rooney, each day that i woke up and her swollen belly glared at me like the sun rising on the morning of a storm, each day that i tried to get past it to reach the woman inside this obsession only to be pushed away, all of it came up through my throat and past my teeth into the trash can in the form of thick, vile, nameless shit that represented my whole life with her. then, i started to cry helpless tears that ran down my cheeks until they took my breath with them until i cried out, my mouth taking form of a crazy smile even though i’m crazy with sorrow. “nick…are you okay, honey?” it’s liz, one of the other math teachers at the school. when i look up, i see her staring at me, horrified at my state. “the baby’s coming…” i manage, but barely, and her eyes widen enough so that i can see the reflection of my pathetic self. “go! i’ll tell the principal, there has to be a substitute floating around here.” taking my hands, “i’ll take care of things around here. go get your baby.” i can’t even bring myself to thank her or to explain myself for my state of mind, but i stand up and hug her for a long time which i hope is enough to convey what i need to. i immediately leave the classroom and start driving. the radio is already on, playing my thom yorke cd. the music and the drive have a calming effect on me that allows me to continue even though i’m dreading the moment that i meet 78 rooney. ten minutes. i’m at the house and valerie is on the porch, holding her stomach like she’s preparing it as an offering to a god, her hospital bag packed and ready. i honk to get valerie’s attention even though she hates when i do that (i can hear her voice in my head now, can you not honk at me, nick? why don’t you come to the door and pick me up like a normal husband?). even now when the best moment of her life is about to happen, she looks up, glares at me, and waddles over to the passenger’s seat. “i’m going to forgive you for your insolence this once just because i don’t want her to be born in a world of hate.” “don’t give me your hippie bullshit, valerie. let’s get this over with.” * * * i’ve always hated the smells of hospitals. the clean, alcoholic smell that induces anxiety no matter what you’re there for. i remember once going in for stitches after i was too careless with scissors and i almost passed out when the doctor put rubbing alcohol on it, the smell becoming so up close and personal, like the root of evil. the smell is overpowering now as i watch valerie push, her vagina stretching like a crying mouth. seeing the top of the baby’s head coming out, i feel myself getting woozy. looking once more at the gaping, gripping, possessive mouth that surrounds the head, i think about all of the moments that i’ve ever had with valerie. i think about the first time i ever saw her smile and how it entrapped me within her presence. i remember the first time i ever took her on a date and she laughed so hard that she drooled on the cheesecake and was so embarrassed that she left and i had to call her to convince her how incredibly adorable it actually was. i think about the first time that we ever made love; how that moment was not centered on a baby or a means to an end, but how it was the full embodiment of the interconnectivity between two beings who just feel like they belong to one another. i remember the first time that she felt like she failed a patient and she came home and cried so hard that all i could do was rub her back and tell her cheesy jokes until she couldn’t resist a smile (the one that got her was, what is a pirate’s favorite letter? argh! but he likes the sea!). i remember our wedding vows when i told her “no matter what storms change our landscape, the core of me will always naturally revolve around you.” and she smiled at me and said, “spoken like a true scientist” even though i’m a mathematician. now, the baby falls out of her and those moments vanish in one second, and in the next i suddenly let go: of valerie and my old life. it’s a girl. the doctor places her on valerie’s chest and i stay to the back, watching. valerie holds her and immediately starts synchronously crying with the baby. she runs her fingers over the baby’s full head of dark, curly hair and shakes her head in disbelief. 79 “i don’t want her. it’s not her. it’s not rooney. oh my god…” the anguish consumes her face and the whole room is silent. the baby’s cries continue, as if she knows that she doesn’t belong to the arms that hold her and vice versa. before i can say anything, a nearby nurse takes the baby, cleans her, wraps her, and places her in my arms as the doctor immediately takes to taking care of valerie. the baby stops crying. i look down at the baby and suddenly everything changes. that lack of emotion i felt when feeling the baby shoes back in the garage rushes at me when i stare at her. every bit of love i’ve ever felt in my life suddenly quilts into this enormous awakening that i only feel when looking into my baby’s eyes. i walk into the hallway with her and no one stops me because they somehow know i need to be alone with her. “you are the love of my life, my shining star, my everything. no matter what storms change our landscape, the core of me will always naturally revolve around you because i’m your daddy.” for some reason, i look up. when i do, i see liz coming down the hall. she smiles sheepishly at me. “well, look at the new daddy. sorry to come, i just saw how upset you were and needed to check on you and…anyway, what’s her name?” in an embarrassed gesture, she begins to stroke my daughter’s hair. “lisbeth,” i answer almost automatically, as if i knew all along. she smiles at me and almost blushes. “that’s so beautiful,” she finally answers. then, “oh! i bought her a present, i hope you don’t mind.” taking a pair of tiny pink shoes out of her purse, she gently puts them in my hand to try on lisbeth later. and in that moment-all three of us huddled in that hospital hallway through all of the obstacles, wrong answers, and endless miscalculations-i realize that this solution finally allowed life to make sense. • there's a body on the mill­ pond. long legs half in the cool mud painted a sophomore effort was all she had in the last seconds of drowningmoonlight hymns. analecta 2014 poetry joshua stump millpond 9 i the age of contraception by cassandra zurawski have you ever missed menstruation? have you ever longed to recapture it? exorcise the demons of that sacred place that some label dark and dank like a haunted cave; send forth gallons of crimson lining when the anger overwhelms like a liquid primal scream; provide the mouth of a river to increase the life force flow into a gratifying flood? tonight, in the dark a girl cries with shamethe blood came for the first time and the whole class saw it. but thousands of years ago, in the dark the witch women of the moon laughed/ danced/ sang, giving thanks for what stained the ground beneath bare feet. cultivation by colleen card plant me bare between tilled rows of seedling wheat and fill my mouth with marrow of earth. let rain deluge my pores and flood my veins till hidden seeds burst and curl and pierce th rough layers of flesh to blossom in bright red drops beneath the aching sun. 2 poetry farmer's market. we thumb our r at doilies, baked goods, radishes­ torhanya calls: gold nugget nibs of noodles homemade by hands that await usthe hungarians. a dash of paprika-red freckles speckle the liver-spots of his knowing hands. unfurling like the gnarled knots of tree roots they knead, fo ld , and knead the dumpling dough. atop a leather stool his grandson perches, pinching off dough for the drying. still pinching, he winks at the wrinkled wad of ones i thrust out for the torhanya. apple-plump and apple-sweet shin yellow vidalia while scores of garlic cloves hang poised for the undead dice both finely. salvation costs a crumpled dollar. bowed down to the mother-herb, ' flat leaf, not italian the elevator by: brian foster jake looked at his watch. only ten after three, plenty of time to make it to work before the boss even noticed he wasn't at his desk. she liked to take a long afternoon break, one that usually extended right through the start of his shift. manager's prerogative, apparently. now, if only this damned elevator would hurry up. mary closed her eyes, enjoying again that butterfly-filled stomach drop that slowly fades as the car reaches its top speed. she'd always liked elevators. the magic in how they always rose at the sam~ speed whether one person or ten were onboard. the way that soft music always seemed to emanate from nowhere. and most especially, she liked when the doors opened a split second before the car made it level with the floor, revealing the thick metal underbelly of the building or, if she was really lucky, a glimpse of the murky • dark canal the elevator slid up and down. the best part of this fun was that it was hers. it was a pleasure secret, small, and silent and it was something that no one else knew about. jake looked again at his watch. eleven after three. he swore softly to himself. this was bad, it had already been a minute and there were still twenty floors to go. who decided that high-rise office complexes were a good idea anyway? no sense in worrying though, that wouldn't make the damn thing move faster, anyway. he cast his thoughts out, fishing for something to take his mind off the wait; he quickly settled on the events of the previous night. oh, had he reeled in a catch or what? she was a seven, seven and a half, easy. of course, last night was a big part of the reason he was late today, but as the elevator ended its ascent, mary's heart began to quicken. she closed her eyes as the elevator started to slow, to better catch that elusive feeling, and stood very still as the doors began to open. this meant she couldn't see the man behind her, unaware she was in his way until he very rudely shoved past her, acci­ dentally hooking her mother's bracelet with his gym bag and tearing it right off her arm. she tried to call out, tell him wait, that is a very important family heirloom and i was told never to lose it and to take care of it always and if you aren't careful you'll break it, but it was too late: the bracelet bounced once and, with a flash of red and silver, was swallowed by the quickly vanishing hole beneath the doors, which promptly closed again. the elevator smoothly eased upward, hiding the tears welling in mary's eyes from all the busy workers in jake's office. jake, completely focused on how to sneak into his desk in the next five minutes, barely noticed the weak exclamation as he exited the elevator, and didn't feel his bag jerk at all. his afternoon continued as if nothing had happened. mary sat in the chamber and sobbed. the prick of shock and pain that was the first sign of loss had subsided, and in its place was a deeper ache in the pit of her stomach. her mother's bracelet, her grand­ mother's before that, possibly the one thing that reminded her more than anything else of family traditions and 'girl time' on vacations was gone, broken, dead. she was responsible for that bracelet, it was very impor­ tant that she keep it safe, and now all she felt was the hole it left behind, the space it used to occupy, the fresh feeling of breath and breeze on the downy hairs of her wrist. she felt naked, vulnerable, alone. she tried to close her eyes and will the bracelet back to her, hope that when she opened them it would all have just been a dream. it didn't work; she sat in the corner of the elevator feeling empty until it stopped moving and pushed her out numb into a cold hallway. mom was on the phone. it was good to hear her voice. mary said hello, good to talk to you too, and tried to find the words inside. they wouldn't come, and a lump rose in her throat instead. she heard her voice say "it's my bracelet mom, it's gone:' the 2011 analecta page 90 and then the w bounced a single time l something this irrespo1 "oh honey bee honey bee. b fr better off, in her own o 'oh, but your grandma why wasn't mom angr "it's just too bac though'.' the man who t1 gone, lost to her foreve mom asking "do you want t< with the sauce and pret volcanoes, just like wh strayed a little too dos< "thanks, mom, mary lay in bed the elevator was there, the man behind her; sh someone else beside he to her mother. her mol right, and not to let an1 thin and white like the and now it was gone fi ed perhaps, but she ha( her disapproval to hers and puberty. of course knowing whether she l her wrist, the place wh been. the hollow was s other side and stared al jake's alarm wa: to shut it off. no better line. jake rolled out ofl off the door handle. 01 day. he'd hop in for rea besides, he had to look seven minutes later, jal to-get-to-work thing d slammed shut. science mary was back had half a chance. she that the loss meant tha < before the boss sually extended right ned elevator would )wly fades as the car at the sam~ speed manate from nowhere. ade it level with the glimpse of the murky e :. it was a pleasure sebis was bad, it had -rise office complexes 1 thing move faster, b.e quickly settled on i, seven and a half, easy. '. eyes as the elevator ;an to open. this meant shoved past her, acci­ m. she tried to call out, nd to take care of it l once and, with a flash ch promptly closed >m all the busy workers s, barely noticed the 10on continued as if ~ first sign ofloss had ·acelet, her grand:e of family traditions :let, it was very impor­ ;ed to occupy, the fresh e, alone. she tried to mld all have just been a ~d moving and pushed o talk to you too, and ~ad. she heard her and then the whole story came rushing out. the elevator, the man, his bag, the way the bracelet bounced a single time before silently vanishing from her life. mom would be so mad, she had to be with something this irresponsible, but what mary heard was "oh honey bee, that's terrible. how are you feeling?" honey bee. b for belinda, her middle name. her grandmother could have kept it and mary would be better off, in her own opinion. but mom would never hear of that, if she said anything she would just get the 'oh, but your grandmother was so proud when i told her, rest her soul' story. but what about the bracelet? why wasn't mom angry? she wanted to ask, to know, but mom was saying "it's just too bad you didn't know the man who took it. i suppose it is too late to worry about that though:' the man who took it? how could he have taken it, he didn't still have it, he didn't own it. it was just gone, lost to her forever. she felt naked in the cold. she sniffled and looked around the room, listened to mom asking "do you want to come home for dinner? i'll make enchiladas, your favorite. you can smother them with the sauce and pretend they're volcanoes:' volcanoes, just like when she was a little girl. red sauce, spewing out over the beef-gorged tubes that had strayed a little too close to the hot-sauce danger zone. but that was years ago, she was an adult now. "thanks, mom, i'll be ok:' mary lay in bed, eyes wide open. she kept trying to close them, to go to sleep, but every time she did the elevator was there, mocking her with those feelings she had so treasured. she didn't even think about the man behind her; she had been so careless. was this her punishment for trying to find that pleasure with someone else beside her? mary sighed and stared at the ceiling without seeing a thing, thoughts turning back to her mother. her mother had told mary, when she was a little girl, to do what felt right to her, not good but right, and not to let anyone turn her away from that. that was when she gave mary the bracelet. the band, thin and white like the stars, and on it three ruby teardrops, like pomegranate seeds or droplets of blood. and now it was gone forever. was mom mad at her? mary didn't know. she'd sounded resigned, disappoint­ ed perhaps, but she hadn't actually said anything. of course, mom rarely said anything; she'd always kept her disapproval to herself. it had been frustrating when mary was growing up, fighting through high school and puberty. of course she'd always had her own conscience to tell her when she'd messed up but still, never knowing whether she had disappointed her mother too was somehow lonely. mary rolled over and grasped her wrist, the place where it, the treasure the man and the elevator too? had taken from her forever, had been. the hollow was so small; the difference wasn't all that much. it was just a bracelet. she rolled to her other side and stared at the wall, feeling empty and alone. jake's alarm was going off again. he mumbled a few expletives at it, then slapped the top a few times to shut it off. no better way to start the day like snoozing right up to the "sorry i'm late, won't happen again'' line. jake rolled out of bed and into one leg of a pair of pants, slipped the other one on as he snagged a shirt off the door handle. one splash of cold water for the face and another for the hair, good as a shower any day. he'd hop in for real before heading out for the night. the club was so much less of a drag than work and besides, he had to look good to score. nobody gets the ladies without showing up with his a game. exactly seven minutes later, jake was out the door and headed to the office. he had this whole falling-out-of-bed­ to-get-to-work thing down to a science. jake grinned as he hopped through the bus doors right before they slammed shut. science. mary was back at the elevator. she stared at it, that betrayer that had sided with the man the second it had half a chance. she wasn't sure which was worse: the fact that her bracelet was finally, irrevocably gone or that the loss meant that she might not ever be able to enjoy elevators the same way again. she sighed, tucked the 2011 analecta page 91 her arms into her sides and turned to leave when she bumped into a very familiar gym bag. "hey, look out lady, watch where you're walking:' "oh, i'm sorry, i. .. " "what? what are you staring at?" jake noticed she was kind of cute. "hey, have we met?" "yes, i-" "no, i don't think so. i wouldn't let a beauty like you get away without a number. want to grab a drink tonight? i get off at eight, when would you like to?" "i what? a drink?" "yeah, you know, a drink. people like them. i like them, and you'll like one with me:' the man had taken a part of her away for good, and he didn't even realize whom she was. mary felt the ache flow again from her empty wrist. "n-no, i don't think-" "my name is jake, by the way. jake baron. see you back here at eight:' jake flashed her his trademark grin one last time before he stepped on the elevator. she'd be there. they always fell for the smile. this one was actually good looking too, he almost didn't mind having to sneak back to his desk yet again. now he had something to look forward to all shift; it was gonna be a good day. mary sat on one of the lobby benches. what had just happened? there she was, right in front of him, and instead of making him see what he had done, making him understand her pain, he had talked right through her and asked her on a date. what did that mean? what would she do? he was expecting her, after all. it would be rude to stand somebody upno. he hadn't even listened to her, not even once, barely even looked up at her face. but still, wouldn't it be rude? she sat, and she stared at her hands, eyes flitting to the elevator only so often. jake looked at his watch. ten ti! eight, almost time to go get him a little something before he went out for real. nothing like a warm-up on a friday night. he popped up from his desk to look around for his boss, just in case she might decide to be a bitch about the end of the shift, before he took off a few minutes early. this meant that he would probably be in the lobby right at eight, but that was ok. jake knew the type, cute girl but a little mousy, a little shy. she would be downright excited to be with a real man. and man, was jake a real man. all-state wide receiver in high school, a captain of the football team his senior year even. and of course in college the after-game parties gave way to the real deal: frat parties. jake's name was still on the delta tau wall of fame for longest keg stand. that same night (he never tired of telling all his buddies) he'd fooled around with not one but two girls. he almost made it with the first, too, but her friend had called her and she'd split, saying her ride was leaving or something. whatever. back in the present, jake slid into the elevator, whistling tunelessly, and rode the way down thinking about alcohol and women and the music that glorified both those things. the elevator stopped and opened before jake, still lost in his thoughts, was ready, and he had to do a quick pat-down of his suit and hair gotta get that game face on quickly for that shy girl before she saw him standing slackjawed like some nerd. except the only people to behold his pearly whites were a businesswoman on the phone and a pair of guys in overalls talking about baseball scores. oh well, it was still early. he'd just wait a couple minutes for her to catch up, and maybe use her lateness to guilt her into moving things along a little bit faster. mary had started to leave the building, started to stand up jake the elevator man, but then she'd stopped again. she was just so confused. he had looked at her like meat. but he had looked at her. and his smell . .. now her legs were taking her back through the doors. why? she couldn't stop herself, couldn't stop moving back. he had looked at her, and smiled. the 2011 analecat page 92 what was it, te was, but it wasn't the g jewelry, a necklace, g!i­ ruby maybe. real pret1 late anyway. jake had a well, he wasn't started walking aroun< corner, irritated. a littl bar. maybe he had ask> left back at the lobby. 1 told herself. but wait. 1 suddenly, the dream e him with that exact srr the scene. his eyes dri was it. go or stay? jake stared ope fully delicious, filling l well, she had c have her bracelet anyn like this happened to e could be safe and in cc mind, but now she see darkness of spring nig jake sat in the 1 ing away angrily, yellir the decency to look at looked down at his so< he grab at that necklac home. he didn't feel tc mary stepped i body as the motion st< approached her floor. • the flash of dark and \i like her or maybe not. home. bag. r. want to grab a drink 1me:, n she was. mary felt tor. she'd be there. mind having to sneak nna be a good day. right in front of him, : had talked right ; expecting her, after n once, barely even , eyes flitting to the ing before he went look around for his •k off a few minutes jake knew the type, . man. and man, was s senior year even. ke's name was still on ling all his buddies) her friend had called ·sent, jake slid into omen and the music in his thoughts, was on quickly for that to behold his pearly baseball scores. oh ~ her lateness to guilt 1, but then she'd iked at her. and his herself, couldn't stop what was it, ten after now? something caught jake's eye as he waited on that girl, whatever her name was, but it wasn't the girl herself. another young thing, one he hadn't seen before, walked by, with a bit of jewelry, a necklace, glittering against her breastbone. silver chain, small teardrop-shaped stone, a garnet or ruby maybe. real pretty, actually. the girl it was attached to was pretty too. mousy girl could wait, she was late anyway. jake had another catch to reel in. well, he wasn't in the lobby. this was a perfect opportunity to turn around, right now. right? she started walking around the lobby, toward the other end of the building. she should just go. she turned the corner, irritated. a little voice whispered, irritated at jake or at you? around the corner was the building's bar. maybe he had asked to meet her here, and she was just mistaken. that was good, a good thing she hadn't left back at the lobby. and look, there he was, sitting right there at the bar. everything was going to be ok, she told herself. but wait. was he talking to someone? who was that next to him? was that another girl? it was. suddenly, the dream ended. her feet, driven by his smile, his hint of smell, stopped. she stood there, watched him with that exact smile on his face. of course it was an act. her head buzzing, she stayed, frozen, watching the scene. his eyes drifted down, slowly, away from the other girl's face. mary looked down at her feet. this was it. go or stay? jake stared openly. the gem, a deep red, captivated his attention. it was so enticing; its shape, power­ fully delicious, filling his vision. the girl's speech was a faint buzzing behind the red glow. well, she had decided. mary was walking home. and as she walked, she thought. maybe she didn't have her bracelet anymore, maybe she had lost something that she could never get back again. maybe stuff like this happened to everyone. it didn't hurt so bad, especially now that she was headed home, where she could be safe and in control and almost whole. she supposed the event would be forever solidified in her mind, but now she seemed free of its pain; it was behind her. as she turned the corner amidst the oncoming darkness of spring night, the ghost of a smile traced across her mouth. jake sat in the bar, water all over his face, ruining his suit. why had he done that? the girl was stomp­ ing away angrily, yelling about sexual harassment and no one respecting her personality or even having the decency to look at her face over her chest. but that wasn't right, he wasn't grabbing for her breasts. jake looked down at his soaked tie, the silk even now twisting itself into strange and shriveled shapes. why did he grab at that necklace? why couldn't he stop staring at it? jake decided tonight maybe he would just stay home. he didn't feel too hot, anyway . mary stepped into the elevator in her building and closed her eyes. a familiar thrill ran through her body as the motion started; she had missed this. smiling openly now, she relished every bit of feeling as she approached her floor. mary knew just when to open her eyes in this elevator, and did so just in time to see the flash of dark and warmth before the floors leveled. perhaps everyone had to lose something, maybe alone like her or maybe not. as she stepped from the elevator, mary brushed her wrist absentmindedly. she was home. the 2011 analecta page 93 linger nal lsw1m, :r of dinnerware. ,ack en, )latte rs stiff hut steaming hot. lyla azar hybrids: where do they belong? marhaba! this is the arabic word for "hello everyone." language has always been a large part of my life and my character. i grew up in a bi-lingual world where language plays a major role in self-expression and self-identity. expressing myself and finding my identity has never been easy, however. nev­ ertheless, after many years of confusion and exploration of my ethnic back­ ground and heritage, i have come to identify myself as an arab-american. i was born in america, hut my parents traveled across continents and an ocean from the middle east. my house has been a dominantly english-speak­ ing environment, but the backbone of my life is my culture, which is where the arabic language appears. the native tongue of my people is a beautiful, spiritual language that has sadly come to be something feared in america, hut a language and cullure i have learned to pride as a part of who i am. my first language is english. i am fluent in it, while arabic is something that i struggle with language and culture. my parents make sure i know where i come from, hut that i also take pride in my uniqueness. however, growing up with arab parents i thought much like them seeing myself, like them, as a pure arab. as the years passed and i matured, it has led to the realization that my ethnicity is not pure, but a mix. living in america as an arab has been ardu ous for me because i lived solely as an arab denying my american birth place, until i realized something: why not live as an arab-american everywhere. i am not fully either, so why not explore and bring out both sides? i have become a hybrid. this uniqueness is not glorious. it is almost a curse. l-y-1a is how i spell my name; however, i have always had two names. pronunciation is everything when is comes to letters written on paper and that pronunciation is up to the reader. the reader interprets tl1e letters based on experiences and knowledge. the readers of my name have two interpreta­ tions: lila and layla. which pronunciation do you see? that would depend on your knowledge. most americans pronounce the "y" in my name as "i," which makes sense based on their understanding of the english language. when my father named me, he tried keeping the arabic pronunciation and making it unique by translating it as lyla, combining his knowledge of the two languages as best as he could. the most common ways of lranslating my name are the spellings, layla and leila. for my father, the "y" in my name represents "ie," which he pronounces as "ay," giving my name its uniqueness. therefore, i have always had this clear division between americans and arabs. since i have grown up with this clear division, i have never really cared how people pronounced my name and i do not have a particular liking to either of them. many americans and arabs (young and old) see my impartialness shameful or sad, hut for me it is just a part of my life. i do not know what it is like to have one "standard" name. if i had to choose, i would be name­ less. choosing a name means, essentially, to pick a side. i cannot pick a side; i belong to both cultures. however, the line is starting to blur, dividing me more. americans and arabs now use both pronunciations making the line less divided and forcing me to choose the "right" one. the division, however, lies 15 16 deeper lhan lhe pronuncialion of my name. language, in a way, is the key to a sociely's acceptance of a person. through language humans can communicate ~with one anolhcr, establishing a sense of sameness. this "sameness" implicitly eslablishes a community because the humans that live logether can identity with each otl1er and feel comfortable relieving their hopes and fears to one another because they speak lhe same language. the magical parl is lhat they accepl each other based on the lrusl that is built. language has a power effect on how a community coexisls. this community is unknown lo me, because i can only look from the oulside in through the invisible glass divider. in america, for the mosl part, americans have accepled me but not based on my language and not with complele trust. instead, i have been accepted because of my ambiguity. it is hard for people to decipher what my back­ ground is because i do nol have an accent and have accuslomed to the way of american life. many people firsl assume me mexican, lndian, or just plain old white. this ambiguily has never really bothered me though: sometimes being unknown is simpler. besides, when people find oul thal my background is middle eastern, things become uncomfortable for me, especially in college. when l entered college, i was so excilcd to meet people who had open minds and wanlcd to explore everything. this is the impression i received, anyway, of all college students from graduales.however, when i entered college it was quile the opposite. i made some friends with a group of people in the student activity cenler where there was one guy, in particulru; who enjoyed talking politics. \,yell, that was something i enjoyed hearing other people's views on, so regretfully, i joined in. he found oul that i was an arab ru1d disregru·ded the american part, banishing me from my home and explaining lhat all arabs will and should die because we were no good jew-halers. taken aback, i jusl sal there and eventually walked oul. what could i have said? moreove1; would il have mattered? explaining my background is much easier than defending myself from people's reaclions loward it, which seem unchangeable of those who do not care to listen. arabs, however, immediately know i am pru·t american based on my bulchered replication of the nalivc longue. also, because i crumot read or wrile the elegant scribbles thal represent the way of their communication. for lhis nolability, they deny me full admission into the "club." i am an outsider, bul an outsider who is becoming more familiru· based on lheir own children's idenlilies, which is forcing arab parents to admil outsiders like myself this is because many of their children arc becoming hybrid, bul we threaten the destruction of the authentic arab. authenticity is a term important lo arabs, a term thal americans do not understand because of lheir unique situation. the uniled slates is a unique entity because every person's background is foreign and mixing with one another, especially the cullure. americans are not native lo the lru1d, but im­ migrants, showing they pride themselves in accommodating to every cultural need. arabs pride themselves on their "pureness." they have managed lo keep a culture alive for mru1.y, many generations. they also managed to marry among lhemselves, preserving a unified language, lradition, and customs. growing up in my household has been diff erenl from many other arabic frunilies. my parents did a balancing bic side and truly understanding my is lhc only home i know, my parents survive adding extra equipment, the lop. however, many other arab hous my parents have accepled the fact ar lo a cullure that does not presently ~ of households, although in immense children. my pru·ents speak only arabic to are upsel with me and they want me ish speaking araljic lo a friend or fai slories about their home overseas. a english language; howeve1; for the rr homes the dominant language is onl outsider. it is nol thal they do not kr iclcnlify themselves as americans or america to offer lheir children a bet tunilies, jobs, and career options. th heller lives. my pru·enls are not here offering this choice, lhey realized th1 of lhe american culture and languaf lhey expected me to lose a parl of m expect, if nol demand, their childrer in order to preserve lhis "authenlicii choice, but accept any choice i makt me lo accommodate to arab ways ar ever, other families raise their childr lo these ways and lradilions. many a crcaling communities that surround lo themselves. my pru·enls pulled a\-v me lo find myself, not for me to ask been a constanl slruggle and someti community or an all-american com much more rewarding. i will conlinue identifying myse maybe even you the reader, see lhis more. "arab-americru1" has a much from first identifying myself as an a an arab-american. an arab in ame l ivcs here. an arab american, withe wanl lo commil lo both lilies; he or ever, the last tille is a commitment t· slruggles and wants to play a tug of always connects the lwo entities, ke• for me to choose a name and to slic l(a)yla. i am ru1 arab-american. wl ne. ~iety's acceptance of a person. icate with one another, establish' implicitly establishes a community m identity with each other and feel irs to one another because they speak ial they accept each other based power effect on how a community me, because i can only look from the id er. cans have accepted me but not based mst. instead, i have been accepted ~ople to decipher what my back1t and have accustomed to the way ie me mexican, indian, or just plain y bothered me though: sometimes i people find out that my background lfortable for me, especially in college. lo meet people who had open minds • the impression i received, anyway, )wever, when i entered college it was with a group of people in the student , in particular, who enjoyed talking ed hearing other people's views on, hat i was an arab and disregarded y home and explaining that all arabs good jew-haters. taken aback, i just lt could i have said? moreover, would und is much easier than defending which seem unchangeable of those am part american based on my 1e. also, because i cannot read or : the way of their communication. for m into the "club." i am an outside1~ uniliar based on their own children's to admit outsiders like myself this :oming hybrid, but we threaten the rahs, a term that americans do not ttion. the united states is a unique i is foreign and mixing with one s are not native to the land, but im­ in accommodating to every cultural ureness." they have managed to rations. they also managed to marry anguage, tradition, and customs. ~n different from many other arabic families. my parents did a balancing act, allowing me to know about my ara hie side and truly understanding my american side. realizing that america is the only home i know, my parents equipped me with all the necessities to survive adding extra equipment, the arabic, believing it to put me over the top. however, many other arab households struggle to maintain this purity. my parents have accepted the·fact and realized it is not practical to subject me lo a culture that does not presently surround me. language is how both types of households, although in immensely different ways, enforce culture for their children. my parents speak only arabic to me in certain situations when they are upset with me and they want me to take them seriously, after they finish speaking arabic to a friend or family member, and when they talk or tell stories about their home overseas. all the other talking space is used by the english language; however, for the majority of other arab and arab american homes the dominant language is only arabic unless they are talking lo an outsider. ll is nol that they do not know english, it is that they do not want to identify themselves as americans or assimilate to the culture. arabs come to america lo offer their children a better education and a wider range of oppor­ tunities, jobs, and career options. they are here to stay and they here to live helter lives. my parents are not here to stay but to offer me this choice, but in offering this choice, they realized the way to succeed is for me lo gain more of the american culture and language. by realizing i needed to acculturate, they expected me to lose a part of my arabic-ness. many other arab families expect, if not demand, their children to marry an arab or an arab american in order to preserve this "authenticity." my parents would like me to make this choice, but accept any choice i make. they realize that it would be harder for me to accommodate to arab ways and culture in an american society. how­ cve1~ other fan1ilies raise their children ready and prepared to accommodate to these ways and traditions. many arab families contain their children by creating communities that surround them with many other families similar lo themselves. my parents pulled away from that a little more. they wanted me lo find myself, not for me to ask them who i am. having this choice has been a constant struggle and sometimes makes me wish i lived in an all-arab community or an all-american community, but the current situation has been much more rewarding. i will continue identifying myself as an arab-american. many people, maybe even you the reader, see this title as just a title, but to me it is much more. ''arab-american" has a much deeper meaning. i have evolved my lille from first identifying myself as an arab, then to an arab american, and finally an arab-american. an arab in america is someone who is born overseas and lives here. an arab american, without a hyphen, is someone who does not want to commit to both titles; he or she usually prefers one to the other. how­ ever, the last title is a commitment to both. no matter how much my identity struggles and wants lo play a tug of war, i will make sure that that hyphen always connects the two entities, keeping me whole. the first step, however, is for me to choose a name and to stick to it unwaveringly marhaba, my name is l(a)yla. i am an arab-american. who are you? 17 poetry the 2010 analecta postcard [addressed to the new year] lee scolt-green from here, i write where i find myself, stirring red lentils and artichoked hearts. have these four weeks strengthened my resolve to endure? the moon smiles. like you, it is new and i found "auld lang syne" on the floor of my four-wheel drive in need of tape and smoothing. my honest weigh-ins hold the truth of the matter, a pound, let go. taking, not just measurements, but also note of the place where the sunrise moves farther north, each day longer. opened gifts from my son, my marine, my reiki hands held a blue silk fan as my tears fell on a bonsai tree from okinawa, and i watched obama 's oath grace the inaugural news. 72 was the bagpiper's droning, for my heard across the creek from where i on oak ridge near my father's star soldiers lined the way through the c and the chaplain spoke of honor and hope. was the bagpiper's droning, for my cousin's son, heard across the creek from where i stood? on oak ridge near my father's stone, soldiers lined the way through the deep snow. and the chaplain spoke of honor and hope. the 2010 analecta 73 e lindgren 1onth. )fa nail. nick wort nicotine you smelled like my past staring back through a microphone, the voice of a siren when i was younger. how we would dive through the streets and jump in front of moving trains. madness and loathing, an agoraphobic fit. the way you spun and trembled as the needle landed in the maze, the way you sang and cried and bled on my feet. the holes in my shoes were like pencils falling from the sky. elliot died almost ten years ago. and i still sing that song. the nurses never came. the christmas tree's still there. they gallop through town towards each other. jousting is the official sport of maryland. we sped through the night and talked the sea away, he was left in the basement. i can still smell the bum; it tasted like absinthe and shellac records. i couldn't sleep through the caterwaul and music. i wrote your name on a postcard. it tastes like american spirits and whiskey from a well. your lips look like a lit mattress on a match. the fuse was lit and i pulled it in. heavy machinery blew by the window. fog lifted through the strings and fire. there was a cigar box on the floor, it belonged to you. i'm going to tum your dad in, because i fucking hate you. but i'll never say why. we were trapped in a tub. you burst into a waterfall and smiled like buddha. i shook like haile selassie. there was a cigar box on the floor. 19 windswept/ on the inside analecta she turns her focus to indigo and ultramarine, the watery greens and purple shadows she needs to paint a perfect picture when he wakes with a start: "did l sleep?"h is face navigating her face, his hair listing stiffly at half-mast. and with that random gust she feels the outland ish tug, the pitch and roll of vu lnerabilities that work the line, scuttling the flags, lifting the rigging­ to break free like a ship in full sail. lately i'm confused, my mind gets recycled and reused, thinking of all the times, i've been neglected or abused, thinking of all the pain and the hurt, all the times i've been treated like dirt, constantly searching for a cure, to cure me of this ailment, only to reach a stalemate, my shoulders carry heavy weight, it tends to wear me down, i can bearly wait, for the weight to tear me down, so i can see, who i am, and what i'll be, on the inside ... on the inside by mark ulfig 29 the 2011 analecta when i started this project last fall my hope was to include as many different authors as i could and with a record number of submissions in all genres (except comics), i was able to do just that. i am also hap­ py to say that our runner ups will be showcased on our website (www.iusbanalecta.wordpress.com) under a special tab to launch in june. i'm sorry for those who were not able to make either the website or the jour­ nal and encourage you to submit again next year. initially my goal was to give feedback to every artist but due to our later than normal deadline and the amount of submissions we were not able to do that. however, i hope that everyone who did and did not get in continue to work on your art. after sitting down with jeff tatay, cover artist, i already knew what i wanted. he had posted a pic­ ture to his face book that i was in awe of for some time and wanted something similar. however, if i wanted to tie our cover to the campus theme of working it would have made the picture slightly inappropriate. af­ ter some deliberation we decided that the picture of worker ants was the most appropriate for both the cover and the campus theme. especially since a significant population of iu south ben d's students also work in addition to taking classes. i hope you enjoy this year's selection of work. there was a lot of effort from both the creators of the work and those working on the journal and i appreciate everything everyone has done. thank you and enjoy. terrie phillips editor-in-chief special thanks there were a lot of people that help make this journal happen this year. first i would like to thank dr. kelcey parker who gave me the chance to put this journal together. our beautiful flyers this year were created by jefftatay. the amazing picture and design was unique and helped correlate with the black and white theme i wanted for the cover. joe kuharic helped with putting up the flyers, a task that needed as many hands as i could get. this was a key aspect to getting advertising to other departments so that we could encourage submissions from as many different departments on campus as possible. next, i would like to thank anne richmond for helping me figure out a schedule and coordinating with me to ensure we had all the submissions. without her help there were a few things that might not have gotten done. deb­ bie richards was a huge help in deciding all the little details of the book and took the time to ensure i had everything i needed when it came to my purchasing order. for all the advice and friendship i would like to thank rebecca gibson, editor-in-chief of the undergraduate research journal, and noel ullery, editor-in­ chief of new views on gender. i hope next year's journals work together as well as we have. lastly, i want to thank all the teachers that let me into their classrooms and helped recruit submissions. thank you all, for all that you have done, even those not mentioned here. ii english departmer short fiction first place malicf honorable mentior poetry first place 1850-j second place the honorable mentior and personal essay first place i thin second place the other selections oj the orator: the ste the aquatic ape h a visceral rip by j1 uncle mose by joe the capitalist cost faith by jordan ea chapin park by sa1 dining out by rae the queen of phoe art captain fitzpatrick still life by nicole schizo by britannj miss misery by bri dans la rue scrbit even the trees car bicho loco by jeff valley of oaxaca b; nature's canvas by flight communica ice wine by joe ku circular times by ; reflections on cav unsung by karie p final collage by tj walnut road by talia m. reed autumn was there loud and clear grey clouds and white moons leaves scattered in the street in a perfect performance and we were a cluster of future floating down walnut road, when the whole world was ours and the whole world was asleep. and we were visionaries born of people used to settling for less people who were frozen by their own contentedness our visions dimmed and our hearts broke as we went on and when the first of us was killed our minds dipped into trenches our ears and brains dissolved. on walnut road we drove to a bridge marked with our own graffitiwe liked the nights warm and noisy with wind. the bridge belonged to us in the backs of our minds, our tangible proof of a small-town nothing. the water under that bridge never moved our own bermuda triangle. we tested the waters of our own courage defined fame in our world. on walnut road we wrote his name, "mike" and "wish you were here" no one ever had the nerve to ask his mother what happened to his arm that was missing from the open casket. and we cursed the spring for coming for the grass that turned green, the lilacs that scented our misery on walnut road. 16 poetry the owls awaken the silence conversing amongst the darkness hiding in the trees while crickets conduct business from the sage infused grass the moon awakens it casts a shadow on the trees while apples rot in the dew filled g1 management comes to the party in offic like nuns in their habits, priests in their collars, proving their full-time fidelity to their respective gods. they greet with limp handshakes, scotch-taped-on smiles, obedient hair. i am a paper doilied silver tray, an asteroid of doll food passing througl the secretaries dress in vegas marquee iridescent aura of sequins, glass. glitter fallout peppers the parquet floo1 with each lift of a martini, each squeeze and spitty-kissed cheek from the men of management like tinker bell glanced off the windshield of a mack t only her star dust remains. could i lift some on a moistened finge1 and sprinkle it over me? a letter from the trenches by: jenn zellers dear mother, you may have heard things about the war that may trouble your heart, but do not feel ashamed at my loneliness. though it may seem like my time here in france is chaotic, the time from the front has led to me something beautiful. her name is denise, like you, she has a bright shining spirit. the few hours i spent with her and her family seemed like the old days. the french have been shelling us for days. i despise this despicable, senseless war. sweet mother, lift up your spirit, do not fear my loneliness, life will once again be beautiful. do not let this war make your life chaotic. the trenches are at best chaotic and my men have not slept or eaten for many days. we liberated some stale bread from the french-it was beautiful. this allowed me, for at least a few hours, to forget the war. i know you feel a sense of loneliness on the farm but lift up your spirit. my dear friend max has a troubled spirit. we have been through hell in this war, but it is the chaotic decisions of our demanding officers that leave us with a sense of loneliness in this war. i feel that their ways of waging war will weigh heavy on the days. why must men to go to war over this land that is so beautiful. mother. i must confess that this war is not beautiful. the papers back home tell us to not let our spirit be broken by the enemy and we will win this war. i pray that my boys never face these chaotic battles of endless days of loneliness a new sour sense of sickening loneliness, has fallen upon me. death is indeed beautiful. my sweet friend max ... his end of dayshis life had a new spirit. his life is no longer chaotic. no more for him is this despicable, senseless war. the battle of loneliness no longer troubles my spirit. my beautiful mother, i will leave these chaotic senseless and endless days next week and end my despicable, senseless war. the 2011 analecta page 97 bartalk " ... she told me she lov'd th'sound'f 'meh voice as i rattl'd on & on about th'way 'meh piephahn looks lik'a'swollen pinky­ toe missing its nail &" ao garrett martin jeremy: rebiri monot here there be monsters. [read this poem from top to bottom, then from bottom to top again] a kingdom of my own choices, my own soul, my own pepsi and coke and ford fairlane but it's my own show now and theirs don't matter, my own gacy and my own iraqi oil-zone, and i'll walk in my own vestive halls and screw with them, and they'll let me, they'll let me play with politics, and the kabbala, and when i shower and sing all to me in my own thrown of lust their cognitive dissonance like socialism, abstract and vague and i'll raise a family based on my ideals: break,, down the rules of language like cummings and i'll spit all over them, and my children will grow up just like me and it won't be till then that we see the problem, when i'm sittin in those vestive halls myself, like my grandfather, asking my grandson to calm the hell down. but that way lies insanity by jedediah walls 41 from the medusa-like uni)ke down all of the machines s hands and feet for the par' and his tiny blood pressure e, waiting for an environmained frozen and humbled. nd said, "makes you want to ~n so happy to see mikan's poetry a moment in extinction jake jones nature and laws, formal or systematic, jumping up and down in organized massacre. pounded moistened and fermented in poignant suffering, stimulating the mind. within ten days of the end, carrymg money, papers, as much as a pocket will hold. cold blooded animals, two meet or cross at the boiling point, with position but not extension, to feel and express beauty one port of embarkation, two of entry. their stock has gone. the 2010 analecta 71 d through the shadows. there was :he driveway and across the street. d the neighbors' yard. ;cratchy and dry from lack of use. the shrubs along the front of the , the neighbors' floodlight flashed ;rass. a light in the house turned o my yard and hid behind a tree. i rs' front door opened. the man was d the yard for a bit. l food bowl against the brick house. e here!" he waited, gave the bowl c inside. id headed toward my house. as i ling of a bell, rhythmic like a heartl{rtstin lafollette nouemlier bapti.sm [l] outside my window is a cab, and i imagine you're in it. coming home, your journeys recorded in the lines on your face like expressways. and i want to carry you to a brook and set you free, a perch cut from a line. the sediment will feel like salts around our feet and we will see white fences in the distance. [2] today i dreamt you were standing in the water and the clouds looked like narrow ribs in the sky. 87 analecta 92 i "justifiable genocide?" jessie devere onderonk neil kelly track marks 32 jason overholt cogito ergo doceo i remember standing in front of my m drugged, and so short on sleep that i ' glass. "everything is not ok," i said tc better." judging from the culture i live in, a le piness is the norm. they buy self-hel1 positive thinking, and they pop anti-ct the same kind of hopeful anticipation tab on a beer can. they seem to insist last man, woman, and child to be fille is it our right? should we worry abou grandparents, and many others who a1 concept of happiness wasn't thought< today, especially not by the working c "life is hard, but you just have to dea "sometimes you just have to eat shit < my grandpa was a very serious, (and 1 man, but he always tried to appear jo) that we went on when i was ten. "kee "you can't tell you got a bite with ym fully remind me again and again, his ~ repetition. "no, i won't put the worm do that yourself," tighter still. "godda i came home from that recreational ge sprained wrist. for the next month, he favoring my left hand. i got every toy 33 30 cecilia :roeder jjesola tion i.ow sharpie and colored pencil win alaba1 vince bauters jade before my grandmother died she wanted to be touched. petted. a hand on her forehead. four fingers on her cheek. even the nurses helped, rubbing her wrist with their thumbs in circles. she wanted her body to be tactile. touchable like a piece of jewelry. a stone of jade. meant to be oiled by skin, fingers and palms. cloudy with grease. as if, only the things that are touched can be beautiful. and quietly, using our fingers , everything was reversed. 62 ... _. 2 copyright 1999 indiana university south bend all rights revert back to authors upon publication. editor retained the right to edit all material for content and length. printed by impressions, inc. elkhart, in 46615-0007 analecta . ,.· ·-· ':_ . : .•. ~-:, .:: .. .. ,-.. .. ·· ... · .i. ··.: -~~ i~;. /-:: ~~ ; ng, shriveled. cancered thin. the top of the head and lotion. with owl instructors. vledgement of sexual conquests. lights and neon. ; to plug black holes. shadow. >rado. darkness in alaska now. scoop balls from imported melmb print. ing fast without guidance. from memory. 12 talia reed pepsi 83 commonplace by: carissa azner-beane there's fish swimming above her ceiling, slithering. quivering speaking some unknown language. the city outside hustles. they say its gourmet, but the truth is, there are more rats in this town, than there are people not rodents. rats. rats dressed in clothing. rats you love and rats you hate. she can't believe they left the amazon for this. an exhausted human spring. she wears her garb and walks to work, in wanting to be lost, she finds herself over and over again. in the roaring sea of crowds, she is not captain. everyone is just a statistic. abhorring a cookie cutter world is frowned upon. when everything is cliche a trite expression a commonplace everybody glitters in the end. new york ennui the 2011 analecta page 94 they used to say "if y' then kill the widow. i< but there is no wido\i only a white-wash of as it creeps onto the s to miss a snake of ste; hissing from beneath i wonder if there is a slow and sulking ben1 these sullen tears. an in her gray tatters anc might extend forwarc dull with a cobalt gle< at first then a silvery candesc hot enough to cook ti mouth fish gasping in the dusky scales shive another gasp, long, d( a suck of air. just walk past, walk p shut your eyes agains promise of transience this road won't last fc they say that here, he is the land of promise but there is no wido~ all the bony hands ar and their bribes are a shovel for the gr i am too dazzled by the web of that spiders across th< an ephemeral touch 18 steam with pain, i shake my dull and useless head of fumes thanks to patience and lack of heat. the noxious gas creeps naturally from the stove and kerosene heater to mouth through skin into lungs and blood to brain, confronting all the while. failure to see the labor needed to repair the broken boiler in the light and dark of suffering is personally regretable reasoning in circumspect. 900 pound pans need welds, knowhow, manpower and 8 days to join with the steammarker, which once assembled, carries dry, radiated warmth to converted rooms inside the tall, 1800's era building with a barbershop downstairs. by tom hoffman rnalecf-a w l.13 c5.he 7>reams in color by t.g. rafter the last feeble flickering golden dregs of sunlight sank beneath the darkening horizon . the cool twilit gardens smelled of lilacs and lost time as kahlan flitted barefoot among the trees, over the soft carpets of mosses and grass toward the river. it was her peaceful haven, there by the dark, sluggish waters, cloaked in purple shadows and wistful, distant memories. it was where she and her brother had played together during their childhood, and later where they would come to talk or just to be alone together. why did he have to die, she whispered to herself. why couldn't it have been me? in the blue evening silence, she hurried beneath the shadowy boughs, a wraith of mystical beauty in her nightgown, its folds of satin snow cascading from her shoulders. how could i? she asked the night. how can i fall in love when my brother never will? why can't i help myself? and then what of my brother? she cried brokenly. he deserves a sister who will always be there for him. i can't love anyone else-can't be bound by other commitments. that love will only take me away from him. god, let me die now! why do you keep us apart like this? the only response was a gentle breeze upon her face, brushing aside her tears and tendrils of fallen hair. she wiped her hands across her face and ran on, felling the hot wetness of tears fall down her cheeks. now even the fiery gold of sunset had faded from the sky, leaving only shades of violet and indigo and aquamarine. a second star joined the first in the heavens, close but equal points of radiance. like twins, she thought. like my brother and i, born together. born together and he died alone. how can i ever forgive myself? at last she was running along the mossy banks of the river where the ground sloped down to the water's edge. when she could bare it no more she leaned against a tree, pressing her cheek against it and caressing it in an ecsta­ sy of despair. the empty feel of the cool bark beneath her fingers awakened the old memories within her. they filled her soul with such a pang of aloneness that she clutched her side and fell against the tree, weeping bitterly. she must have sat there, crying her heart out against the cold coarse wood for more than an hour, for when she looked up, taking in deep, shuddering breaths, the twilight was almost gone, fading fast into the encroaching void of night . .-.. w rnalecta her pale hands slid into the folds of her nightgown, which still shone clearly in the gathering gloom. when her fingers brushed against the cold, metallic object hiding beneath the fold of cloth, they encircled it and brought it forth into the non-existent light that heralds the end of twilight. the sharpness of the knife's blade drew droplets of blood from her hands. she watched with detached interest as they fell to the ground, seeping into the dark earth. crawling forward, she knelt beside the dark, quietly whispering water of the river. parting the front of her gown, she revealed the soft curves of her breasts to the chill night air. she listened as the currents sang to her in melan­ choly voices, beckoned her down towards hidden depths. it was more of a brook really. why had she always thought of it as a river? she cast her consciousness back over the timeless sea of memories within her, over times with her brother, when she had been happy. she remem­ bered clinging to him, crying over a pain which seemed trivial to her now, and how he held her and made her feel okay. how they used to stay up late into the evenings, discussing matters both deep and whimsical. she remembered how he died ... i love you my brother. i love you. with a shuddering sigh, she was decided. she held the knife in both hands before her, a shapeless blur in her tear filled vision, and with a jerk, plunged it deep into her breast. the pain was biting, searing. warm blood poured out over her hands. she swayed on her knees, tears streaked her cheeks, blood ran down over the contours of her breasts. she fell forward into the stream, choking on her tears or her blood, she couldn't tell. the pain was now a dull ache, her lifeblood steadily flowed away from her. consciousness was leaving herdarkness claiming her vision. she couldn't even feel the pain anymore. there was only a dull impression of her life flowing out from her, mingling with the dark water in which she now lay, sweeping her into the void of darkness which surrounded her on all sides, hold­ ing her safe, warm, still. as the full moon rose, silvering the dew upon the grass, shedding frag­ ments of broken light upon the rippling surface of the brook, her last drops of blood seeped into the crystal waters, to be carried away forever. perhaps she awoke from this sleep of death into the arms of her brother, protectively holding her close, comforting her through the long dark­ ness of the night. and perhaps, in time, their souls were allowed to return from whence ever they had flown, to dwell beside the river where they always truly belonged, together. double tall mocha latte i stumbled down to the kitchen, fumbling for the little white bag­ before i lift the tab. the dark temptress of addiction­ roasted in italian bliss, ground with a sinful repetition then drowned in a calcium kiss. i clear the wand of its excess and bow to the steam on my face­ the milk heats rapid seduction to a deep bellowing pace. from the maker she drizzles brown into the metal petitesthen poured over ghiradelli as its stirred with perfect beats. i marry the god and the goddess, like it was meant to be and sip away its vircuebetter than a cup of tea. by kara taylor 55 ode to nick drake illustration john thompson ext-sc · interfall organm ored trees er p marriage. m:o the union bt spirit, soul a1 a compromis· lifetime com1 yetlowc. cumm/nc walks ha int . in1 church, lexie quickly of the chur the preac stand fl very beautiful spp standing bet man, waym< notices lexie aliychaa fifth pew foldi1 wayrr waymon smii face softens. is maitro through hi~ p branb.!j q.rtse openin.!l fall. and sheer terror, screaming, haunting discord and dissonance chime. your heartbeat, a drumline. precipitation, perspiration. cold sweats, soaking, smoking, swirling inside your head, tearing, ripping ivy winds to strangle sound from whisper breath. with clawing at your spine, you release a kind of madness of mind, of absolute void, and rise from bed. this time, my darling. you are dying. can you feel your chemical high? wakeup. 6 jos~ bisi$ prolojuet .morocco from th q.olor of sleep may 17, 1970 insulated from the casual processes 1 subject, except of course the seething cuts from handling the papyrus. "i ~ else looking up spoke, and u looked 1 zled. the papyrus edges were sharp a1 formless and empty, focused purely 01 allowed, he closed his eyes to placate was a deep darkness to his toiling at fi of their brows, men of every color we sel into the atlantic-tons of paper t< it. this was u's first and last day of the craft was in the water, the quicke a fast jeep home. but he couldn't sir not a photographer, and he made it more physical labor than the clickin1 how any genius planned on making i· made of paper. as he was taking par ing and pushing and yanking, every the serene, and eroding by the heatec so blisteringly hot-"jes us christ:' !­ among the reed laborers, his tall he like some mountainous gadabout 01 tempting heap, and once beyond th from the bleakfaced horde, he had ir surely momentous adventure and we of reflecting sand and pervasive heat his own force so that this vessel of uj the atlantic shores of morocco and r a dire trip, one with which u would he was a pilot, and that is how rica, as his chauffer dubbed it. whc nam, u mckensru was one of the much grace he immediately fled his i airbreather from the local base, his e africa, incumbent on the dusky air fiction 'elt budd little peach by samantha budd 2016 iusb english department writing award, third place, poetry midway between the cardboard box and mansion there was a rotting peach you leaned in quick to pick it up, bending your arms like a crescent moon. i watched the sunrise from your eyes that morning, knowing i might never see it againeverything feels okay. i touch your intricate lips with my velvet fingertip. shoving my frail body into your kitchen drawer compressing myself against a rusted spoon, decaying orange. 23 34 kristiane weeks how far back can you remember? mixed tea leaves and heart beats so loud, muddle into sedatives as a counterweight. in the spirit house, i am alone, inescapable, the way out only found by looking in, down through the rafters, only shrieking, no shimmer, sorry, ashbery. sorry asheville, i can’t stay. your hidden black bears, disheveled black mountain are too obvious, reminders of all we’ve lost. there are so many secrets in the spine of appalachia, i’ve been trying to tap them out, over-turning musk-covered peaks to catch a clue, only finding a longing with nothing left to long for, ennui and burned up roaches. the day after, i find a single scarlet carolina leaf alone with me, and when i pick it up, it pulls me from the fabric of this world, the lesson: all memories are generic spectres of truth... i hear your footprints call my name, but it’ll turn your eyes to orchids waiting for my signal back, because everything is an imaginary reason to keep holding out for more. ~ caught up with him and grabbed mted to get away. the gun was 1a jerk it right outta there and but when he gave it a jerk, the :hot himself in the leg, and the nd bleeding like a stuck pig, but ld've still outrun him, eddie said, too. it took both of them to eddie said, he put up a good i guess. 1ght up with eddie theodore ly. eddie was given some time at see, because of the extense of his waits trail. he is accused of rob­ ' he doesn' t have a leg to stand 1 can't shoot a gift horse in the t lady luck, or she'll give you a id fssell analecta 33 shal~ti' s reprisal leo a. mcnellis plant a seed of overbearingfury of rage-stricken poliowalbngfrustration need nerve endings of uninhibited incapacity to follow a path of thorn-infested cobblestone. the sangha plays mary ann moran seven elderly monks in a pizza hut white robes, andals, shaven heads giggle over the pepperoni and pitchers of pepsi play pinball games and jukebox rocl< meditating on the ways of western man. across campus the frantic dean of academic affairs worries the night for a trace of sandalwood an intonation of temple bells they've escaped his living examples of the mill<y way. analecta , .. 53 c;l v.lj3:1vnv ;.nmoci ho dfl ~nldd:>l.ls untitled there is a sameness in my days a slow piling (like snow) compiling my life. a continuuim, stretching out across the hours, sounding in the breaths that breathe away the years. and i remember being a child, blowing dandelion spores into the wind. phyllis moore .... 30 wrnalecta by clifford green of course a baby was growing out of our love how could that raging inferno escape my mind that constant back burner bitch agent of death/swiping a sickle through every half-formed thought cotton snowflakes/ riding the air to suede sneakers on my feet why did the wind whip along the granite of academia of course the cigarette was shaking in my hand of course the sun had painted the world in green leaves must she have sighed her love for me beneath the boughs her trust in sensual half moons fire and ice/waning into water and a baby! love of life/celebrating breath that painted lust on her ear how did my trembling tongue excite soft breasts of course i wanted to arch her back with each thrust of course it was raining in the adirondacks would mt. marcy divide a drop on its rocky point one sliding to the hudson determined/climbing the ladder of maslow's hierarchy the other/dreaming the hudson from a stagnating green pond would it viciously recycle in a cloud of course rain infinitely times infinitely adrienne latson bodily functions 3 a.m and i my eyelids wish to meet, yet that reunion is still hours away. people are most entertaining during the wee hours of the morn­ ing, providing fodder for hilarious stories to be recounted again and again, to as many listeners as possible. bonus points if someone snaps a photo of said fodder. 3 a.m. and i wake to the screams. my eyelids refuse to disengage. would somebody shut that kid up? oh, wait that somebody is me. as i peek my bed head and blood shot eyes over the edge of the crib, he gives me a look of profound relief that suggests he has long been sounding the alarm. feed and change, with bonus points if each action is applied to the correct end. sleep, like eating a meal while it is still hot, are sacrifices that shall go unnoticed until someone is around to call me nana. i've determined that napping during the musical guests on saturday night live does not count as watching it all the way through, but it definitely deserves an honorable mention. saturday afternoon. magazines and books crowd the end tables, and my husband's latest ''i'll fix it" is spread throughout the computer room. tiny pieces of machinery, rubber bands and screws are stolen in the middle of the night by little fi1rry paws to be found half way down the basement steps in the morning. those silly felines. later that day, we play monkey in the middle with the cat until he hisses and begins chasing his tail. saturday. squash on the kitchen walls, foul smell emanating from the hamper, and toys with too much battery life blinking on the living room floor. i must shove over grover and oscar to sit on the couch, if only to watch noggin. "uh-oh", my husband says. little baby finger­ nail clippings fly through the air, and land in the short shag of the car­ pet. we watch as the cat approaches, inspects and rejects the clipping. i admonish the cat, "why didn't you pick that up instead of just leaving it there on the floor?" phone rings and its mary. she and her husband want us to meet them for dinner tonight. in two hours. sure, why not. we'lljump in the shower and be right there. next weekend, hubby and i see vantage point, the last showing on a sunday night, around 11 pm we discuss 58 plans for a short get-away for my b. leave several bowls of food and wai between the two of us. we won't be . phone rings and its mom. uncle see the newest member of the famil change, dress in one more layer tha1 five-point harness. the diaper bag i: (2), extra shirt and pants, socks, bla liquid for germaphobic husband, an phlegmy lately. i dress in whatever my hair and in my cleavage. i debat sary, then find my purse and truck k leave, but baby needs to eat again. ' no, i say, we won't be leaving the l sunday night, watching "mad~ me. i ask him to keep the noise dow sunday night, watching football. hubby fake-burps, and baby giggle: aloud about stand-up comdedians. i tion. after all, boys will be boys. l< aloud, what is so funny about bodil: down, my husband says, the baby's ~n is > meet, yet that reunion is still hours g during the wee hours of the morn­ ; stories to be recounted again and sible. bonus points if someone snaps ms. my eyelids refuse to disengage. ? oh, wait that somebody is me. as it eyes over the edge of the crib, lief that suggests he has long been nge, with bonus points if each action ), like eating a meal while it is still 1oticed until someone is around to t napping during the musical guests :ount as watching it all the way an honorable mention. and books crowd the end tables, and spread throughout the computer ubber bands and screws are stolen in "ry paws to be found half way down ;. those silly felines. later that day, ~the cat until he hisses and begins :n walls, foul smell emanating from ch battery life blinking on the living >ver and oscar to sit on the couch, if ny husband says. little baby finger­ md land in the short shag of the car­ ies, inspects and rejects the clipping. i 1u pick that up instead of just leaving and her husband want us to meet >urs. sure, why not. we'// jump in xt weekend, hubby and i see vantage 'ay night, around 11 pm we discuss 58 plans for a short get-away for my birthday, no longer than four days. we leave several bowls of food and water for the cats and pack one suitcase between the two of us. we won't be leaving the hotel much, anyway. phone rings and its mom. uncle david is finally in town, and wants to see the newest member of the family. now. baby needs to eat, then a diaper change, dress in one more layer than the adults, and finally buckled into the five-point harness. the diaper bag inventory; diapers (4), wipes, burp cloths (2), extra shirt and pants, socks, blanket, toys ( 4), pacifier, antibacterial liquid for germaphobic husband, and the nasal bulb, because baby has been phlegmy lately. i dress in whatever fits and pick up my son, who vomits in my hair and in my cleavage. i debate whether a change of clothes is neces­ sary, then find my purse and truck keys. two hours later, we are ready to leave, but baby needs to eat again. "will we need the stroller?" hubby asks. no, i say, we won't be leaving the house much, anyway. sunday night, watching "mad men". my husband burps, says excuse me. i ask him to keep the noise down so i can hear what don is saying. sunday night, watching football. my husband burps, and baby giggles. hubby fake-burps, and baby giggles harder. we laugh. husband wonders aloud about stand-up comdedians. hubby and baby continue their conversa­ tion. after all, boys will be boys. later, during the fourth quarter, i wonder aloud, what is so funny about bodily functions, anyway? keep the noise down, my husband says, the baby's napping. 59 hors as i could and that. i am also hap­ press.com) under a rebsite or the jour­ to every artist but o do that. however, had posted a pic­ [owever, ifi wanted inappropriate. af­ te for both the cover lents also work in the creators of ie. thank you and mld like to thank ers this year were ith the black and that needed as ents so that we . next, i would l me to ensure we 1tten done. debe to ensure i had hip i would like to i ullery, editor-in­ ave. lastly, i want . thank you all, for table of contents english department writing award winners picked by guest judge joyce hinnefeld: short fiction first place malice afterthought by jessica deckard honorable mention vamos by maria hubbard poetry first place 1850-rising by glenn lyvers second place the boxer by samantha hunsberger honorable mentions memento mori by kristin lafollette and lost and found by mckenzie tozan personal essay first place i think we're done here by jenna gensic second place the ''i" states by erinn kelley other selections of fiction, poetry and personal essay the orator: the story of frederick douglass by christopher jones the aquatic ape hypothesis by derick eash a visceral rip by justin miramontes uncle mose by joe chandler the capitalist costume by john baldin faith by jordan eash chapin park by samantha wagner dining out by rachel barrett the queen of phoenicia by matt henry art captain fitzpatrick by nicole riniger still life by nicole riniger schizo by britanny herrada miss misery by britanny herrada dans la rue scrbie by rebecca gibson even the trees carry the weight of the ages by rebecca gibson bicho loco by jefftatay valley of oaxaca by jeff tatay nature's canvas by erica wood flight communication by erica wood ice wine by joe kuharic circular times by joe kuharic reflections on caviar by karie pfaffenberger unsung by karie pfaffenberger final collage by ty moore iii pages 1-5 pages 6-9 pages 10-13 pages 14-15 page 16 page 17 pages 18-19 page 20 pages 21-25 page 26 page 27 pages 28-29 page 30 pages 31-33 page 34 pages 35-36 page 37 page 38 page 39 page 40 page 41 page 42 page 43 page 44 page 45 page 46 page 47 page 48 page 49 page 50 page 51 page 52 art continued tumid memories by ty moore feminine form 1 by stephanie hoops feminine form 2 by stephanie hoops xanadu by rebecca pelky museum dreams of flight by rebecca pelky more selections of fiction, poetry, and short fiction songs by hannah stowe innocuous grape vine by brandi david headrest by josh bisig "elm street" by taylor lincoln i was much farther out than you thought by steven cheak theodore gericault and military leftovers by daniel bock driftwood waiting for a chest opener by lee scott-green adventure pants by meghan coughlin october virginia by chatell barnhill the unredeemed by tim patterson silence personified by christopher klein nishike by rebecca pelky following the trail by joe kuharic dementia: a dialogue by adam walz just breath by jena dewald the missing by michelle hanshew i am at the epicenter of most earthly ... by jacqueline becker the elevator by bryan foster commonplace by carissa azner-beane wasteland by mandy mckee a letter from the trenches by jenn zellers the leaf by jefftatay euclid avenue by doug hubbard small treasures by michelle hanshew iv page 53 page 54 page 55 page 56 page 57 pages 58-59 page 60 pages 61-62 page 63 pages 64-69 page 70 pages 71-72 page 73 pages 74-76 pages 77-80 page 81 page 82 pages 83-84 page 85 page 86 pages 87-88 page 89 pages 90-93 page 94 pages 95-96 page 97 page 98 page 99 page 100 '! 1. as a child i noise would start a her ... no ... useless. my mother. whiit days when i had to breath, and quietly the bathroom do01 wouldn't turn on ti after i sh01 mother would be a would say. 2. when i wa. mushroom soup. ' which ones were p left them on the co ing that some of th the red-and-white· forest had provide1 after readi poison my stepfatl3. my mother am alive or dead:' i look at he know she is trying sympathy the sam1 i can fool myself fi 4. would it st united states was i for three years-fr 5. i knew it w in a car crash. i di had begged me to he thought was a d death as a cleaner ' bled out, skin fryir 50 ~-· w analecta untitled ian hansen oil the clock shop sage by rabbi steven m leapman salve time's sting amidst instruction and risk a lesson dimmed a state of affairs my mentor would not endure you see, my father was a watchmaker, a trade school graduate success story made prosperous by the gi bill's generosity as korea's aftermath and worthy cast returned to safe democratic shores, secure despite china or stalin's rage come december he was carried off, each cbanukab season's absentia, snatched high away by the talons of retail's american eagle in mercantile ascent held tight and tedious those long hours by the whims and wiles of owning a business blind to jewish time early tbe next morning as ended thanksgiving's abundant fare my father, partially concealed by dawn's early light, did as would many dutiful men raise a garage door and depart to serve and sell in the year's dark twelfth month when light is sought and whether electrical or inspired we celebrate so as to guarantee income and a way of life for which his immigrant parents risked an ocean's roar and an earlier america's accusations, on behalf of all unborn's better future out onto pa rt. 30 then westward holding to 283 w. aboard bis o lds '98 at 70 mph and more dad's daily reenactment amidst hurried ruminations of our lithuanian ancestors peddlers' path, though adjusted to the days he knew adorned and delivered in a mid 70's metal cloak of four-door, 8-track sound prowess while snow fell and ice formed as cash registers rung and customers shopped a mother and son of the upper middle-class and a merchant's fond, unspoken affections were necessarily abandoned celebrants and audience of a father-absent festival of lights a proprietor and throughout all decembers' delirium so sadly less prevalent as a parent whose presence became a nightly telephone line's contingency while son and spouse kindled light and recited lin1rgies in a glow suburban and solimde ii we reclined every passover to be ready for prophetic redemption he reclined after thanksgiving's rich repast to rest for an arduous retail season one winter vacation's late afternoon at bis hours' drenched store, during my insensitive high school days, whi le packing up santa displays and pi ling wreaths which never hung in our home came forth this son's decree, shallowly seeing myself a latter-day maccabee now freed of an anxious mercanti le legacy my sureties soon to strike at and shove aside an industrious father's loving intent 6 poetry i cringe as adulthood's unforgiving refit "you don't need to keep this business smug certainty dismissing the fragile e my father's duties, the sales-driven bas1 failing to secure validation before a bo amidst adolescent arrogance when im1 all too shrill and surely proclaim, a sec yet too much a child to discern how ear and pass onward a man's practiced era a previous generation's priorities, and m a gender lame with words hoped to fir the communion of deeds wherein ide1 are remedied by proximity, not emotion: and leave their audience mute if dazzlt a seasoned merchant shall wisely displ: for far beyond making a living, it is virtu this too is an art whose studio is shop availability of proprietor and product are these are skills books will not impart ar so too one family's willy loman grom quicken and become the daily felt substa i ponder the sentences he couldn't forr appeals and acclamations though somt amidst the shoppers and trade well am so poorly attuned, to the vocabulary of slowly pushed open as decades pass on and i now watch my young boy's eyes s my own gestures of legitimacy and stun as i recall a clock shop's unappreciated n med uate success story :ermath and worthy cast or stalin 's rage on's absentia, :le in merca ntile ascent d wiles lt fa re nould many dutiful men h's dark twelfth month '.!ebrate so as to guarantee . ri sked an ocea n's roa r barn 's better future oa rd his o lds '98 rried ruminations sted to the days he knew x, 8-track sound prowess md custo mers sho pped ; fond, unspoken affections ler-absent festival of lights { less prevalent as a parent 1gency ;low suburban and solitude mptio n arduous reta il season 1ed store, 'santa displays tter-day maccabee •lis fa ther's loving intent the clock shop sage analecta l cringe as ad ulthood's unfo rgiving reflections rewind to a son's needless distinction "you don 't need to keep this business fo r me!" smug certa in ty d ismiss ing the f~agile epicenter whereupon fe ll my fa ther's duties, the sales-d ri ven bastion of his dign ity faili ng to secure valida tion before a boy we ll shy even two decades on this earth amidst adolescent arrogance when imprudent passio ns, if given tongue all too shrill and surely procla im, a secession from all thi ngs paternal yet too much a child to d iscern how earnestly fa thers wish to vouchsafe, not separate and pass o nward a man's practiced craft into welcoming hands, strong to embrace a previous generation's prio ri ties , and maybe too, a profession it may come to impart a gender lame with words hoped to find in shared skills and hours together, the communion of deeds wherein identities and unannounced anguishes are remedied by proximi ty, not emotions' eruption when well-styled words burst out, and leave their audience mute if dazzled ill a seasoned merchant shall wisely d isplay and array timely attractions for fa r beyond making a living, it is virtue and vendor's skill to know one's customers this too is an art whose studio is shop, stall, and aisle ava ilability of proprietor and product are to commerce and cl ient as free will to the soul these are skills books will not impart and as dawns this insight and understand ing, so too one fa mily's willy lo man grows fo rgiven as consciousness and compass io n quicken and become the daily felt substance, indeed the penance, of all those tuitions i ponder the sentences he couldn ' t fo rm , those sentiments remain concealed appeals and acclamations though so mehow never spoken , went better heard amidst the shoppers and trade well attended , while a son stood by illiterate, so poorly attuned , to the vocabulary of the marketplace, an occlusion of the hea rt slowly pushed open as decades pass once death has come and taken my dad away and l now watch my young boy's eyes stare at me and scrutinize, my own gestures of legitimacy and stum bling linguistics of affirmation as i recall a clock shop's unappreciated soul , what will my offspring pass me by? 7 porring, drypoint etching .. _. 6£ castration in 1313 a franciscan monk committed to god those parts of himself sacrosanct by most men, the knife was sharp and both his fear and pain faded away with his new found purity. tell you about myself? well i'm twenty-six years old, worked in the chambers for the last ten years and of course i'm a celeb. my job? i sweep the ashes out of the chamber after every run. no, i wasn't forced, chose celeb status of my own free will. why? there're a lot of reasons. i never liked other men, wasn't high enough on the merit list for hetero status, the government does provide every celeb with a job and you know how hard those are to come by. besides, we celebs are guaranteed to stay clean . have i been to see my breeders lately? well yes right before ... it was last restday. dad still wouldn't talk to me but mom was nice. see, i was born before the purge so i'm one of the few left around who really knows who their actual parents are. mom always makes a big deal when i visit, of course they never leave the breeder farm but she seems happy there. i wouldn't know about sex but i think she feels safe there. we were placed in the farm when the government first introduced mandatory culling and reclassification to control the disease, that was back in the 90's. dad hated it there. when i was little he used to rant and rave about freedom of choice and his constitutional rights. i don't think the disease ever read the bill of rights. i guess he never understood the government's responsi­ bility to protect us, not to mention the survival of our race. back then at least eighty percent were infected, that's way down now. when we first got there i didn't like the breeder farms either. once you tested, clean isolation was permanent. we never talked about the soldiers that were stationed all around us. before the purge dad used to take me fish­ ing every spring. we'd drive down to the river and sit on the rocks, impaled worms dangling in the water. he used to send me up to the stand for pop and crackers. i'd munch away and he'd tell me about the river, the fish he'd caught when he was a boy and how he and grandpa used to fish in the exact same spot. 35 fishing on the river is a family heritage my dad would say. make sure you pass it on . i don't fish anymore. of course all of us have to make sacrifices, who knows that better than a celeb? the day it happened i came home from the reclassification center, sore from the operation but excited, now i had a status all my own, a guaranteed job and the chance to leave the breeding farm. he was sitting in his chair when i came in, said hello but he acted as if i wasn't there. tried to hug him but he pushed me away. said that i was dead now, no longer his son. ran to my room, never seeing the tears my mom said were streaming down his face. he couldn't accept my reclassification. i tried to show him how it was the right thing to do, how necessary it is for excess males to be classified celeb so they can work in the unclean areas without fear of infection. i even brought home my textbook from school and the pamphlets that they hand out around classification time. he said i'd be better off a homo, or even going wild. he has this bizarre image of the wild ones as rebels fighting repression, 'revolutionaries and patriots' he used to call them. he never saw them for what they really are, the infected carriers of a deadly disease, a cancer nestled within the very breast of humanity. every visit i would sit in the chair across from him while my mother served us supper, trying to tell him what i saw at work, those thin pathetic stick people, covered in running sores and smelling of death. some came will­ ingly. others had been captured by the weekly patrols. it didn't matter how they got to the chambers, they all ended up in the same place. some believed the government claims of a cure, in a way i guess those claims are true, they all wound up cleansed. most were too weak to even walk, but they all screamed when the conveyor belt dumped them into the chamber. he never listened. charles h. rose ill untitled 46 yellow lullabies sylvia kimbel yellow lullabies the trees sway in silhouette from a mellow crescent moon a show flashing twilight casts shadows. the last train travels the rails in a careless rhythmic sleep a slowly flashing yellow light marks the end. the black man dances down the street in a smooth calculated beat slowly flashing head lights pulse in time. the dry brush burning in the field sends up steady funnels of smoke flames flash slow in the distance. the dead, hallow building stands behind the trees, down the street from the rails a slowly flickering street lamp finally burns out. and the yellow melts to black. michael amato apt. 201 he stands there naked save for black wool socks fallen to his ankles. he cranks electric heater higher, then hesitates before a piece of mirror without a frame, & stares enraptured at what's left hanging from his bones. he runs a hand through hair to calm it, rinses out his mouth, hurries over tiled concrete back to bed, & presses fingers to her marble breasts; rolling over, she wonders where she dropped her shoes. 24 34 untouched i look in the mirror and see my son, a reflection of me untouched. i wonder how it feels to be denied, neglected, willingly forgotten? i brushed him aside like sweat off my forehead. walking through the mall, getting drunk with friends, i still see his face, i felt better before i saw his face. now i know it is me. what have i done? what will i do? can i please move on? untouched. i didn't know sex could produce these horrifying emotions and self hate. memories sicken me of how i forced her to abort our children, the first three i want to cry and vomit and vomit some more but tears don't come i've kept all of this bottled inside for over a year. nobody knew. my sister thinks she's perfect found out on her own. of course, life could never get her in a situation where acting so inhumane could be justified. w i { c d h tl u1 fo i ~ sh a b sh t~ j al ur well guess what little sister life ain't so pretty and you need to wake up. i move through the restaurant, the crowds, my mind j go to confess to one who may not hate me, but in reality she already knows. we order food and pretend to be casual consumed i order a cheeseburger and my hands shake uncontrollably how bad a lashing will i get today? the grease from the cheeseburger starts to go solid from sitting untouched. for so long. i can't eat she brings up the abortions and i go numb. a place she's never seen me go before. bl a nk ... she leaves me alone that's what i've been and what i want to be alone. untouched. please leave me be, i feel bad but it's too late for that. please love me and believe what i want to believe don't try to talk sense in to me. she is being nicer now and we leave the conversation untouched. i hug her and she smells like home. dryer sheets and home cooking. two things i miss. i see her and i see myself. she is pretty. so sensitive and lost in her world of feeling. i see in her eyes what she wishes for me. i see my son. untouched. by kelly hurley 35 60 ~-· w rnalecfa untitled alex bishop pencil & ink untitled janet thompson analecta 2014 fiction james master creation an angel and a demon sit next to each other on a sheltered bus stop located on the side of the road in south bend, indiana. it was a crisp rainy autumn evening and the last bus was due at their stop in roughly a half hour. the angel dressed in tan khaki cargo pants and a white tee shirt while the demon wore a long black trench coat that wore too big on his small wiry frame. the angel, having adopted the earth name jericho, glanced at his watch. "well, it's time for the next round to begin. same rules as before?" the demon, having switched his name from rodney to garrett in the mid 1980's, glanced at his angelic counterpart and smirked. "do you really have to ask that?" "what do you mean?'' "we've been playing this game since sodom and gomorrah and every time you start out with the same question." jericho shrugged his shoulders. "i was only trying to keep with tradition. pardon the annoyance." garrett sighed and reached into the inside breast pocket of his trench coat. the small notebook he produced from his pocket was bound in human skin and the fountain pen that accompanied the notebook did not contain red ink. cracking open the book, garrett turned to the first blank page and uncapped the fountain pen. he wrote the time and location with small neat cursive. the angel watched him with disdain, jericho would've preferred printing to cursive. "what is the score?" "oh, let's see. i've damned 87,891,002 and you've saved 87,891,002. although i would have an asterisk next to your score, you cheated last time." jericho stood up suddenly and fixed his hands on his hips and scowled in shock at garrett. ""that sir is a lie, but i doubt someone like you would be able to tell. i have never cheated nor would i ever. that last round was not my fault." garrett leaned back on the bench and smiled, pleased with himself for getting underneath the angel's skin. 72 ""calm down, jerry. i was o stood for a moment before sitting huffed. he mumbled something tl ""what was that?" ""i said that the reason you picked the man and still lost." ""well how was i to know tl wearing all that gothic crap that l he was a satanist. honest mistak ""have you not heard of cb smiled at jericho. ""you know back in the da) death. i guess it's like that bob d ""which one?" now it was 1 you telling me you haven't heard jericho thought for a quick secon ""nope." before garrett co up alongside the shelter. after pa the rear of the bus, they started 1 nudged his competitor and pointt alone in the third row from the fr his head. ""you know i never pick ba and went back to eyeing the ride1 time dragged on as angel ; through the seats of people. afte spoke out, ""you know the rules; you l leave and the transfer center is gt ""i do not like any of them ""but you still have to mal. another glance around the bus bt ""i guess i will pick the hal when the bus pulled into followed everyone off. they folionumber 4 which would take then bald man was startled when jeri stand on either side of him. jeric !014 •n :.ster on to each other on a sheltered bus south bend, indiana. it was a .t bus was due at their stop in in tan khaki cargo pants and a long black trench coat that wore tgel, having adopted the earth nd to begin. same rules as 1.is name from rodney to garrett c counterpart and smirked. "do ince sodom and gomorrah and ' question." jericho shrugged his tradition. pardon the ched into the inside breast pocket he produced from his pocket tain pen that accompanied the king open the book, garrett tpped the fountain pen. he wrote :ursive. the angel watched him :d printing to cursive. 11,002 and you've saved asterisk next to your score, you ddenly and fixed his hands on his neone like you would be able i ever. that last round was not bench and smiled, pleased with ;el's skin. analecta 2014 "calm down, jerry. i was only teasing." visibly ruffled, jericho stood for a moment before sitting down again. he crossed his arms and huffed. he mumbled something that garrett didn't quite hear. "what was that?" "i said that the reason you are sore about last round is that you picked the man and still lost." ""well how was i to know that he was a christian? he was wearing all that gothic crap that kids now a days are wearing. thought he was a satanist. honest mistake really." ""have you not heard of christian rock?" garrett grimaced, then smiled at jericho. ""you know back in the day that meant pummeling sinners to death. i guess it's like that bob dylan song." ""which one?" now it was garrett's turn to be shocked. ""are you telling me you haven' t heard "the times they are a changing' ?" jericho thought for a quick second then shook his head. ""nope." before garrett could say anything else the bus pulled up alongside the shelter. after paying the bus fare and finding seats in the rear of the bus, they started to pick the next contestant. garrett nudged his competitor and pointed to a chubby older bald man sitting alone in the third row from the front. jericho eyed the man then shook his head. ""you know i never pick bald men, i never win." garrett smiled and went back to eyeing the riders. time dragged on as angel and demon went back and forth through the seats of people. after several arguments, garrett finally spoke out, ""you know the rules; you have to pick someone before they all leave and the transfer center is getting close." ""i do not like any of them." ""but you still have to make a decision." jericho winced , taking another glance around the bus before finally settling on the third row. ""i guess i will pick the bald guy after all." when the bus pulled into the transfer center, garrett and j ericho followed everyone off. they followed the overweight bald man to bus number 4 which would take them to the south side of the city. the bald man was startled when jericho and garrett came from nowhere to stand on either side of him. j ericho smiled at the man, showcasing his 73 analecta 2014 full set of gleaming pearly whites, and stuck out his hand. "pleased to make your acquaintance, allow me to introduce myself. i am jericho and this is my compatriot garrett. don't mind his appearance, he's just a sly devil is all." jericho laughed at his inside joke, but then noticed that neither the bald man nor garrett shared in his joke. the bald man looked from jericho to garrett then back to jericho and shook hands with the angel. "the names bob robertson." garrett tapped bob on the shoulder, which led to bob turning to look at the demon. "yes?" bob said with no curiosity. bob wasn't really that interested with this encounter. he'd seen a lot of strange things riding local transportation in his day so when two strange men with even stranger appearances came up to him and asked him his name, it wasn't that interesting. they probably just wanted to rob him. good luck with that, bob mused to himself as he waited for the other guy to respond. it wasn't that bob was a karate master or anything; he just didn't have a dollar to his name. in fact, if one was to inspect the contents of bob's pockets and wallets one would find these following items: three quarters, a 10 cent euro, his drivers license, a few paperclips, a maxed out credit card, a black ink pen, and four pennies that managed to hide in the inner lining of his wallet. garrett raised an eyebrow and asked, "your name. is it short for robert?" bob, knowing where this line of question was eventually heading, rolled his eyes and nodded. garrett jumped up and down whooping laughter loud enough for the whole station to hear, his trench coat flowing in the air like crippled angelic wings. jericho sighed at the sight and followed bob in rolling his eyes. garrett stopped to catch his breath before continuing even though his kind didn't need to breathe. it was an unhealthy habit that was caused of being around humans for so long. garrett had also formed an appetite causing him great humiliation when he went to hell for holidays and special events. his fellow hell bound brethren will never let him live down the time when garrett asked satan if there would be a buffet following the motivational conference. "so your full name is robert robertson? man, your parents must have had a sick sense of humor. sounds like my kind of people." "garrett, can we please proceed? you are being rather rude to bob." 74 jericho gave his demonic fr and patted bob on the shoulder. "' my rudeness, allow me to pay for his transfer ticket. ""thanks, but i've already ] garrett ripped the ticket fr bits, the pieces scattering along tl parade only less colorful. bob staj the pieces of the ticket he had spt wind. the number twelve bus ran remnants every which way. if thf' heard the tiny screams of the tiel their numbers. ""those poor little things." people in front of them board thf' him questioningly and garrett ju the bus. ""this is for myself and for garrett inserted eight dull days. they had seen better days i philadelphia mint in 1969. fresh down to texas where they reside( man who sat in a window at a set man had done his deadly deed an policeman where they sat in a jar found them while going through 1 were found at approximately ll: ~ years later, the grandson met gm see these quarters leave his possef and sometimes you just have to a adventure. bob, whose personal journ important crossroad, sat down or bus leaving an empty seat on the the seat behind bob while jerich• one tried to make conversation. i to say, quite the opposite in fact. upcoming event that was keepin~ ~014 stuck out his hand. ance, allow me to introduce npatriot garrett. don't mind tll." jericho laughed at his inside bald man nor garrett shared jericho to garrett then back to ~i. arrett tapped bob on the ook at the demon. ty. i with this encounter. he'd seen a jortation in his day so when two ·ances came up to him and asked g. they probably just wanted to sed to himself as he waited for tt bob was a karate master or o his name. in fact, if one was to md wallets one would find these nt euro, his drivers license, a few black ink pen, and four pennies g of his wallet. sked, ''your name. is it short line of question was eventually urett jumped up and down :whole station to hear, his led angelic wings. jericho sighed ; his eyes. garrett stopped to 1 though his kind didn't need to .t was caused of being around ·rmed an appetite causing him l for holidays and special events. 1er let him live down the time ld be a buffet following the bertson? man, your parents must ' like my kind of people." 1 you are being rather rude to analecta 2014 jericho gave his demonic friend a stern look. garrett sobered up and patted bob on the shoulder. "my friend is right yet again. pardon my rudeness, allow me to pay for your bus fare." bob showed garrett his transfer ticket. "thanks, but i've already paid for it." garrett ripped the ticket from bob's hand and shredded it into bits, the pieces scattering along the pavement like confetti during a parade only less colorful. bob stared down at the ground watching the pieces of the ticket he had spent his last dollar on fluttering in the wind. the number twelve bus ran through the confetti scattering the remnants every which way. if the world wasn't so noisy, one might 've heard the tiny screams of the ticket pieces as the bus crushed through their numbers. "those poor little things." jericho said as they watched the people in front of them board the bus. bob looked over his shoulder at him questioningly and garrett just chuckled as they stepped up into the bus. "this is for myself and for robert robertson behind me." garrett inserted eight dull worn quarters that had seen better days. they had seen better days in fact. they were minted at the philadelphia mint in 1969. fresh from the mint, they traveled their way down to texas where they resided in the pocket of a troubled young man who sat in a window at a schoolbook repository building. after the man had done his deadly deed and was arrested, they were taken by a policeman where they sat in a jar for thirty years when his grandson found them while going through the old mans house. coincidently, they were found at approximately ll:59pm on december 31, 1999. five years later, the grandson met garrett and jericho. garrett was sad to see these quarters leave his possession, but everything has a journey and sometimes you just have to allow them to get along with their adventure. bob, whose personal journey was quickly coming to an important crossroad, sat down on the seat closet to the middle of the bus leaving an empty seat on the other side. garrett had already taken the seat behind bob while jericho sat across the aisle from the two. no one tried to make conversation. it wasn't because there was nothing to say, quite the opposite in fact. perhaps it was the gravity of the upcoming event that was keeping their lips shut. 75 analecta 2014 at exactly fifteen minutes into the second half of the bus trip, bob reached up with his meaty hand and pulled hard on the cord. the words request stop were highlighted in bright red. the bus driver almost instantly began to slow down and pull up to the side of the road, opening up the doors with a silent electric hiss. bob stood and walked to the front of the bus without any kind of acknowledgement that he had even met the two strange individuals that had paid his fare. if he had, he would have noticed that jericho and garrett had also stood and followed bob off the bus. oddly enough bob didn' t even notice that the two were following him just ten feet behind him. "he must be off in his own world." commented jericho quietly, afraid to alert bob to their presence. "isn't that what they say about your boss?" smiling at his pun, garrett placed both his hands behind his head and stretched. the trench coat fluttered in the wind again. jericho lightly pushed his accomplice. garrett struggled to maintain balance, but eventually got back control. he retaliated by shoving all his weight into jericho. the angel fell over, no pun intended, but didn't seek to maintain any kind of balance. instead he simply floated in mid air. garrett scoffed at this gravity defying display and continued to follow bob. eventually jericho caught up with him. ""why do you bother to maintain the charade of being human?" jericho asked to which garrett shrugged. ""guess i've just adapted to their mannerisms. what's so wrong about that?" ""careful or you might just turn into one and one day you' ll be the one i pick. or the one that your replacement picks." garrett waved this off. ""that's just an old fairy tale. you can' t seriously believe that by adapting to their mannerisms and way of life means that i'm going to become one of them." jericho didn't bother to argue with his demonic pal any further. he didn't feel the need to remind garrett that demons and humans were already pretty compatible, with their sins and vices. it was like comparing apes and humans. you can see the similarities, but you know they' re different. although on more than one occasion, jericho had caught garrett looking through his hair for bugs. garrett tugged on jericho's white shirt bringing jericho back to the world. jericho saw that bob was currently staring at them. he wasn't wearing that indifferent look he had been wearing at the bus 76 analt stop. now it was a befuddled type the point that jericho knew there couldn't see them. ""what the hell are you doir ""we' re actually on earth. 1 or hell." bob took that as a threat a garrett could say anything else, :e ""you just had to say that." pace. garrett easily caught up wi1 about? it's not like he can get too house." ""oh, now you want to be an e· ""shut up." the pair caught up with b4 two-story house. garrett manage4 could completely shut it. the two ""excuse me, mr. robertsor jericho sweetly said. from of a defenseless man rang out. ""no! go away or i'll call tb garrett shook his head. jer the matter?" ""i was hoping he would sa; chin' . they never say that. over 1 i heard that. he even looks like a ""i don't look like a pig!" ""shut up robby and let us glare by his angelic partner and t : bob if i may, we do not mean an: like to talk." silence from the other doo1 his breathe anxiously and release hadn' t noticed. jericho had, but 1 that old argument. ""i guess so, the door's oper who only nodded. garrett pushec house followed closely by j ericho 2014 the second half of the bus trip, and pulled hard on the cord. the in bright red. the bus driver md pull up to the side of the road, ~tric hiss. bob stood and walked nd of acknowledgement that he 1als that had paid his fare. ~d that jericho and garrett had 11s. oddly enough bob didn't even 11 just ten feet behind him. -ld." commented jericho quietly, t your boss?" ::ed both his hands behind his .uttered in the wind again. jericho t struggled to maintain balance, ~taliated by shoving all his weight m intended, but didn' t seek to l he simply floated in mid air. ; display and continued to follow ,th him. in the charade of being human?" ;ed. "guess i've just adapted to )out that?" t into one and one day you 'ii be ~placement picks." garrett waved you can't seriously believe that way of life means that i'm going vith his demonic pal any further. rett that demons and humans their sins and vices. it was like see the similarities, but you know b.an one occasion, jericho had tir for bugs. ite shirt bringing jericho back .s currently staring at them. he e had been wearing at the bus analecta 2014 stop. now it was a befuddled type of look that scrunched his face up to the point that jericho knew there were eyes on bob's face, but he just couldn't see them. "what the hell are you doing here?" garrett stepped forward. "we're actually on earth. it's your choice if you'll be in heaven or hell." bob took that as a threat and turned towards his home. before garrett could say anything else, bob bolted. ''you just had to say that." jericho started walking at a quick pace. garrett easily caught up with him. "what are you worried about? it's not like he can get too far. plus, we can just teleport into his house." "oh, now you want to be an ethereal entity?" "shut up." the pair caught up with bob just as he opened the door to his two-story house. garrett managed to get his foot in the door before bob could completely shut it. the two stood there at the entrance. "excuse me, mr. robertson. could we come in?" jericho sweetly said. from behind the door, the nervous timber of a defenseless man rang out. "no! go away or i'll call the cops!" garrett shook his head. jericho looked at him curiously. "what's the matter?" "i was hoping he would say 'not by the hair of my chinny chin chin'. they never say that. over two thousand years and not once have i heard that. he even looks like a pig. it would have been perfect." "i don't look like a pig!" "shut up robby and let us in!" garrett was given a reproachful glare by his angelic partner and tried making amends. "mr. robertson, bob if i may, we do not mean any violence towards you. we would just like to talk." silence from the other door, garrett found that he was holding his breathe anxiously and released it immediately hoping that jericho hadn' t noticed. jericho had, but there wasn' t any point in getting into that old argument. "i guess so, the door's open anyway." garrett looked at jericho who only nodded. garrett pushed the door open and walked into the house followed closely by jericho. 77 analecta 2014 "where'd you go, robby?" garrett asked to the empty living room where they now stood. ''it's bob and i'm in here." his voice was not so nervous this time, jericho noticed as they followed it into the bedroom. as soon as garrett entered bob's bedroom, a shotgun blast erupted, hundreds of tiny pellets embedded themselves into garrett's abdomen, knocking him back into jericho. stunned silence prevailed as two things happened simultaneously. the first thing being that garrett was coming to terms that he had just been shot, which was a good thing because if he had actually been converted into a human he'd be as dead as the pieces of bus pass that had been ran down by the bus. the second thing was that bob was coming to grip with the fact that he had just shot someone and that person was still standing in front of him. "you shot me!" garrett yelled. "you're alive!" bob yelled. "you are both morons." jericho quietly stated. "but how can you still be alive?" bob raised the shotgun, but jericho raised his hand and swiped it in the air. the weapon flew to the ground. it didn' t go off, something that 80's cinema portrayed falsely, but just hit the ground and rested comfortably on the shag. jericho calmly extended the hand in a soothing gesture. "bob, let us say our peace and we'll leave." garrett sat down on the bed and fixated on his shirt. he couldn't stop inserting his fingers into all the little holes the pellets had made. "garrett, would you please pay attention?" "sorry. ha, my shirt is like you are ... holy." the pun fell on deaf ears as bob sat down on the bed. "what did you want to tell me?" garrett looked at jericho. "i guess we' re getting to the final round of this game, eh?" jericho looked solemnly back at him. "i suppose we are now. tell me bob, what do you think we are?" jericho watched bob think. "we'll, you guys appear out of nowhere, rip my bus ticket up then insist on paying my way home only to stalk me and then you break in and refuse to die when i shoot you with a shotgun. my best guess is that you're some new genetically engineered perverts." garrett smiled and nodded, 78 analt "yup, because that makes s jericho ignored the commm an angel." garrett interrupted je "what do you mean?'' "when you just introduced looked at garrett puzzled. "what?" bob looked from t any sense to him. garrett persisted, "when y capitalized your title, but not min he was crazy, something that isn't except for santa claus. he's bonk garrett shrugged, "i don't i the creator will run out of words. ' "the creator? you mean g< took a few steps from the arguing don't mind me." they didn't. garrett stood and spread 01 creator, little c not big c." jericho lost. "garrett, you're not makin garrett laughed and shrug~ no one has informed you about th we're here talking. he made us an "you mean god." to jericb head. "i mean the author. god cr the author. it is the author who c we'll never figure out who broke t l giving up, jericho replied, ' garrett smiled, "because h , 2014 tett asked to the empty living 1 and i'm in here." his voice was :ed as they followed it into the (s bedroom, a shotgun blast edded themselves into garrett's icho. stunned silence prevailed as the first thing being that garrett been shot, which was a good thing rted into a human he'd be as d been ran down by the bus. the g to grip with the fact that he had s still standing in front of him. ) quietly stated. i" ~icho raised his hand and swiped round. it didn't go off, something t just hit the ground and rested tly extended the hand in a we'll leave." garrett sat down on mldn't stop inserting his fingers made. "'garrett, would you please are ... holy." b sat down on the bed. 1" garrett looked at jericho. ,al round of this game, eh ?" bob, what do you think we are?" nowhere, rip my bus ticket up 1ly to stalk me and then you 't you with a shotgun. my best tlly engineered perverts." garrett analecta 2014 "'yup, because that makes sense." jericho ignored the comment, "'garrett here is a demon and i'm an angel." garrett interrupted jericho, "'what gives?" "'what do you mean?'' "'when you just introduced us, what are you implying?" jericho looked at garrett puzzled. "'what?" bob looked from one to the other, nothing was making any sense to him. garrett persisted, "'when you introduced us just now, you capitalized your title, but not mine. why?" jericho looked at him like he was crazy, something that isn't possible with ethereal creatures, except for santa claus. he's bonkers. "'what are you talking about?" garrett shrugged, "'i don't know. we should get on with it or else the creator will run out of words." "'the creator? you mean god?" bob stood from the bed and took a few steps from the arguing pair. "'i'm going to use the bathroom. don't mind me." they didn't. garrett stood and spread out his arms, "'not god silly. the creator, little c not big c." jericho was confused before, but now he was lost. "'garrett, you're not making any sense." garrett laughed and shrugged again, "'oh, jericho, i can't believe no one has informed you about the creator. he's the only reason that we're here talking. he made us angels and demons." "'you mean god." to jericho's frustration, garrett shook his head. "'i mean the author. god created everything, just as he created the author. it is the author who created you and i. it's a shame that we'll never figure out who broke the tie." giving up, jericho replied, "'and why is that?" garrett smiled, "'because he wanted to save two words." the end 79 eric duenez the emerald ash borer (an excerpt) clay pigeon watched the news with the rest of the troops. it was streamed in via satellite. the news acted as the post-game ~ho~, br.inging in the box scores, the daily highlights, and playoff 1mphcat10ns of the war with russia. everyone watched hoping to catch a glimpse of themselves in some heroic battle, like a wide re­ ceiver in a foot ball game, diving for a one-handed catch in the end zone, but it was hard to stand out in a game that had over a million players on each team. they watched a missile close in on a com­ pound that supposedly housed enemy intelligence. clay wondered how long it would be before bullets came with cameras and live video feeds. after the news was over, clay and a few others watched a nature program on invasive species. the narrator rattled on about the dangers of certain species of blue-green algae, zebra mussels, and the emerald ash borer. clay was on the edge of his seat, as most of the troops went off to bed or cleaned their guns. the narra­ tor told clay how, as an invasive species, the emerald ash borer has killed over fifty million ash trees in the united states. the larvae fe~d .on the trees ' cambium and phloem, girdling the tree, killing it w1thm two years. death by halo. the borer's natural enemy is a parasitic wasp that lays eggs within the larvae, that when hatched consume the larvae. these wasps are so microscopic they may even appear invisible to god. when clay was still in high school, he was getting the mail and noticed the shell of a cicada on the maple tree in front of the house. as a child he had enjoyed collecting the empty cicada shells, bombed out tanks of some forgotten front in an imagined war. they were mythical shells, belonging to some miniature death machine that had crawled from beneath the earth. they were some­ thing that stimulated his imagination. he had caught one once and had kept it in small cage made out of wire screen and wood until one day it died, a prisoner of war that gave up no secrets. but that day on his way to the mail box, there was not just one cicada shell, there were many cicada shells, left empty and hollow, holding on to 32 the bark of the maple tree, one even pi around the tree, frantically counting th down imagination. twenty-three. he many wou ld be gathered around this 1 find only one or two on a tree, one on maybe one on the sidewalk. but here some celestial body to come close eno had escaped. surely, it meant somethi around it. weeks later, the deluge broi ike didn't even wash away these dispc monuments to whatever it was that thi: after graduating, he had enlis friends and family, into the armed fore cried, shedding tears down the left sid dreamed that he was throwing away, a of her face for fear of him dying. of c doing his patriotic duty, being a true a didn 't know what else to do. then the war broke out betwe wasn't as cold as it had been before. i getting a little hot in fact, enough to m that uncomfortable way. clay was ser chagrin. he wanted to be on the alas! fortunately for him the georgian front clay's platoon was a small se: sions away from the front. they spen­ backwater village to small backwater · although it was harder finding an inst color of skin as an indicator, all of the was good to be out of iraq. one time clay asked pvt. lee "well shit, now i've had the o ferent countries, covering three diffen don 't send us to the alaskan front so i "i took care of that before i er "doesn' t count. my two pair · off the tree line, just waiting to pop a i insurgent. "what two pair, you got again "i told you before: jack of sp: and the five of diamonds." borer (an excerpt) ews with the rest of the troops. e news acted as the post-game 1e daily highlights, and playoff t. everyone watched hoping to 1me heroic battle, like a wide re­ )r a one-handed catch in the end i a game that had over a million ~d a missile close in on a com­ ny intelligence. clay wondered ; came with cameras and live '. lay and a few others watched a :. the narrator rattled on about ue-green algae, zebra mussels, is on the edge of his seat, as )r cleaned their guns. the narra­ >ecies, the emerald ash borer has t the united states. the larvae oem, girdling the tree, killing it rhe borer's natural enemy is a 1 the larvae, that when hatched lfe so microscopic they may h school, he was getting the da on the maple tree in front of ed collecting the empty cicada orgotten front in an imagined ~longing to some miniature death 1eath the earth. they were some­ m. he had caught one once and of wire screen and wood until iat gave up no secrets. but that re was not just one cicada shell, empty and hollow, holding on to 2 the bark of the maple tree, one even piggybacked another. clay hurried around the tree, frantically counting the ghosts that fueled his now dulled­ down imagination. twenty-three. he was amazed. it seemed odd that so many wou ld be gathered ar_ound this tree, while at his old house he might find only one or two on a tree, one on the yellow brick of the house, and maybe one on the sidewalk. but here they gathered like cultists, waiting for some celestial body to come close enough to offer escape, or maybe they had escaped. surely, it meant something. clay just couldn't put his mind around it. weeks later, the deluge brought on by the remnants of hurricane ike didn't even wash away these disposable shells. they were to be lasting monuments to whatever it was that they symbolized. after graduating, he had enlisted, with mixed reactions from his friends and family, into the armed forces of his beloved country. his mother cried, shedding tears down the left side of her face for the future she had dreamed that he was throwing away, and shedding tears down the right side of her face for fear of him dying. of course there was the praise offered for doing his patriotic duty, being a true american hero. the truth is: he just didn't know what else to do. then the war broke out between russia and the united states. it wasn't as cold as it had been before. for quite a few young men, it was getting a little hot in fact, enough to make the back of their necks sweaty in that uncomfortable way. clay was sent to the georgian front, much to his chagrin. he wanted to be on the alaskan front, defending his homeland, but fortunately for him the georgian front wasn't suffering as severe of losses. clay's platoon was a small search-and-destroy unit running mis­ sions away from the front. they spent a lot of time marching from small backwater village to small backwater village, looking for insurgents to shoot. although it was harder finding an insurgent when you couldn't rely on the color of skin as an indicator, all of the more experienced soldiers agreed it was good to be out oflraq. one time clay asked pvt. lee why it was so good to be out oflraq. "well shit, now i've had the opportunity to kill someone in five dif­ ferent countries, covering three different continents. i'll be damned if they don't send us to the alaskan front so i can kill someone in north america." "i took care of that before i enlisted," smirked slim. "doesn't count. my two pair's still good," lee never took his eyes off the tree line, just waiting to pop a shot into any one looking the tiniest bit insurgent. "what two pair, you got again?" clay asked. "i told you before: jack of spades, jack of diamonds, five of clubs, and the five of diamonds." 33 clay had to pull out the sheet sgt. baker had given him and look those up again. he always had a hell of time keeping all of the awards straight. the jack of spades represented the decapitator award, which was given for shooting someone and detaching at least one third of their head from their body, by weight or surface area. the jack of diamonds repre­ sented the early bird award, given for killing three people before ten in the morning. the five of clubs represented the globetrotter silver award, given for killing someone in five different countries. the five of diamonds repre­ sented the i'm a big kid now award, given for racking up five kills without dying. clay was the only one in his platoon that didn't have the five of diamonds. "boat up bitch, then talk shit. i'm straightening out,'' slim said and threw down his cigarette. say." "you ain't ever gonna be straight, no matter what da cards "tell that to yo' mama." "incoming!" the whistling of the incoming mortar reminded clay of his mother making tea on the stove. the explosion sent everyone flying. clay was nearest the impact and stood up dazed; dirt rained down from the sky. it was just like some world war ii movie he watched on cable while waiting for the soft core porn to come on. he couldn't hear anything. someone was in front of him, saying something; their lips reminded clay of the fish in the aquarium of the doctor's office back home. clay shrugged. they pulled him down to the ground. the lips were still moving. clay shook his head and said i can't hear you. they nodded and started laughing. "three of spades, clay, three of spades." the three of spades represented the can you hear me now? award, given for permanent or temporary loss of hearing. clay understood the achievement system the first time it was explained. it mimicked all the first person shooter games he had played as a child and teen. he had practically raised himself on videogames. if you accomplished certain feats you were awarded certain titles. in the army, these awards were assigned certain values, represented by playing cards. the cards were used to play poker. at the end of each day the sergeant would award a prize for the highest poker hand of the day (sometimes this was just a pack of smokes for the high card; it wasn't every day someone racked up two pair or a 34 straight). however, the cards were kep knees had a jack high flush. dirty do~ a bigger prize was awarded after an esr dog rog', picked up all three eights or with some destitute russian girl, prosti himself, he w as sure she was only sixt scratching his back all to hell. after clay gained his balanc quickly followed the others into the would have to hurry to get any kills seemed they would be able to shoot even decide if the villager was hosti whistled past his head as he ran intc stepped out of a doorway and aimec time to aim his gun before the villa! took a bite out of clay's left arm. f the trigger. the bullet hit the man s smiled and then dropped to his kne~ "you ok, buddy?" sgt. bak< "i think so." "good. king of hearts, quet second." sgt. baker walked over to of hearts represented the one good given for shooting someone who jw represented the purple hearted parn in battle. "i'll accept it. jack of sp< it was also his fifth kill, five home that it was a big day for him. write with a smile. of course his m but she hadn't known that in one mi went from one card to five, and had flush. she wouldn't know they wer (an ex indiana university south be 1st place fiction: the emerald ash e 3 sgt. baker had given him and look )f time keeping all of the awards !d the decapitator award, which was bing at least one third of their head irea. the jack of diamonds repre­ killing three people before ten in the d the globetrotter silver award, given mntries. the five of diamonds repre­ given for racking up five kills without atoon that didn't have the five of it. i'm straightening out," slim raight, no matter what da cards .ng mortar reminded clay of his he explosion sent everyone flying. )od up dazed; dirt rained down world war ii movie he watched core porn to come on. he couldn't mt of him, saying something; their e aquarium of the doctor's office pulled him down to the ground. 1ook his head and said i can't hear ;hing. !e of spades." the three of spades ~ow? award, given for permanent rement system the first time it : first person shooter games he had practically raised himself on certain feats you were awarded rards were assigned certain values, cards were used to play poker. at )uld award a prize for the highest this was just a pack of smokes for .omeone racked up two pair or a 14 straight). however, the cards were kept and the game went on. johnny two­ knees had a jack high flush. dirty dog rog' had three eights. sometimes a bigger prize was awarded after an especially dangerous mission. dirty dog rog', picked up all thr~e eights on a covert mission and won a night with some destitute russian girl, prostituting herself. dirty dog was beside himself, he w as sure she was only sixteen and she had been ferocious in bed, scratching his back all to hell. after clay gained his balance and some of his hearing, he quickly followed the others into the small village up the road. he would have to hurry to get any kills. the other guys were so quick. it seemed they would be able to shoot the insurgents, before clay could even decide if the villager was hostile or not. the bullets hissed and whistled past his head as he ran into the village. a man with a pistol stepped out of a doorway and aimed at clay. clay had just enough time to aim his gun before the villager pulled the trigger. the bullet took a bite out of clay's left arm. he steadied his right arm ahd pulled the trigger. the bullet hit the man smack dab in his left eye. clay smiled and then dropped to his knees. "you ok, buddy?" sgt. baker asked. "i think so." "good. king of hearts, queen of hearts. and wait here just a second." sgt. baker walked over to the man clay had killed. the king of hearts represented the one good tum deserves another award, given for shooting someone who just shot you. the queen of hearts represented the purple hearted pansy award, given for being wounded in battle. "i'll accept it. jack of spades." it was also his fifth kill, five of diamonds. clay would write home that it was a big day for him. he'd almost been killed, he would write with a smile. of course his mother would break down in tears, but she hadn't known that in one minute, one pull of the trigger her son went from one card to five, and had three to a straight, and three to a flush. she wouldn't know they were playing a game. (an excerpt) indiana university south bend creative writing award 1st place fiction: the emerald ash borer by eric duenez 35 obscurity obscurity curly hair frames your face eyes staring, not seeing me. your eyes see nothing; they never will. i pity you . but why? you see the sunrise with your ears as the birds begin to talk, and know the sunset by the end of their conversation . you watch the fragrance of the opening roses . fingertips see satin grasses, powdery sand, crisp dry leaves in autumn . all you see in so many ways. i long to see so well. marlene demeyer /i 0 "mask" "mask,, melanie garcia untitled woodcarving ~ a-n:nie perron bisbee silver shines, blue-black slips glinting mule mountains. old mines yawn empty holes in the hills. slip, they carve the terraced sides of lavender pit, cutting copper and shading their eyes to the thunderheads. bisbee, these houses bloom white and the streets slip past the hillsides. the sky has watery eyes. the streams speak blue down the mountains, they dream through these stony cliffs. roads shine everywhere, half cut half paved they flirt the skies with coyote, and the wind blows my hair long enough to tangle in yours. 5 40 kristin lafollette-samson alexithyrmia all i hear are the airplanes flying over and i watch through the window as they glide to the ground. the lights remind me of ice and gold and i think of my fatheri think of when i stood in the back of my brother's pickup and watched the planes take off and land, but this was at a smaller airport, a different one than this. i was wearing a red sox sweatshirt as a plane left the earth and the air smelled like mud and wet grass. the old truck we were standing in broke down two months after thati remember that much. • joe k the reach the hot sand granules are oozin: girls, in neon green bikinis that barely c bleached sidewalk. ahead i can see largt up jersey jack's-toss around 300 pour my left is an almost imperceptible whit "the original location of muscle be my boss, dennis, forced me to t' executive at kellogg, santa monica bra mini-wheat that can't wait to get eaten sound system from best buy just becaust job i literally felt like i couldn't live wit my last idea was to give small books aw up the order and accidentally shipped be believe how pissed people get about tha1 beach for both a break and to generate i cles, and tons of food; how can you not as i get closer to the muscle cag there is a pair of balance bars, whereas] the metal poles, like a 2x4 plank of woo hogan looking guy is pulling an old ste1 to my amazement, when he reaches the worn plastic bucket, sits down, and star the keys. i haven't seen too many comr if i wouldn't buy one from this guy. i w maybe we can get the rock to sell egg, ing! my stomach gurgles like an un walls contracting, calling out for a sac north towards the boardwalk. i leave my the food. in the late afternoon sun the distinguish from the cream colored san< ence is by following the twenty foot tall in the ocean air. echoes echoes listening from the hall as the remains of your family barter the lot of your fifty years here framed faces still hang on the rose papered walls you in a strauss pose your bureau was emptied in the search for the unworthy paper, witnessed and signed by strangers my father settles on the table you sat around with four children and a husband after the great war he paid cash for this porch and sunlit rooms upstairs, your mattress lies stripped, linens going to your eldest girl i am the child of the child of your favorite son that willful child who broke your heart then died a broken man before you when did you take his photograph, first christmas 1918, from the mantle shelf? as he faded did you dream of the boy he'd been? we've never met you are dead and i am six i roam your house i run down the hall my shoes loud on the floor where they have already taken up the rugs i play while adults argue over china pieces and chairs your remaining children have all grown bitter all your love spent on the youngest of these with none left over at the end they had none left for you you sat alone in the chair where you'd rocked them years ago i am the child of the child of your child and you have taught me plenty i need some one to blame so i reach through our history you died blind and alone in a house quiet bone for bone -ami cressy 47 speaking in tongues .-.. •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• viaceral pagoda speaking in tongues m. kouroubetes i was told by a friend pentecostal women are a furnace waiting to open its grate. at calvary temple's sunday service she sat next to me, amen air, plates of dollars like caesar salads floating by. i sang off key. she smiled. sun rising, her calves hitched over my shoulders missionaries in a jungle sweating malaria. "were you born with that?" she shuddered "it's from the first supper." "delicious." "non-fattening," i replied. "i like you," she said. "i like you," i said. then her mouth shut like a fist, a red string from her lip lining down her neck, eyes rolling to egg white tongue whipping cryptic "a i 0 u alla all he a i 0 u shelaba laa ..." "labia," i cried, "labia." after the flesh dove delivered its message she made me pray for her period because little angels can't cross streams of blood. red sylvia kimbel red redthe blinding burning bleeding red. the red that flows through the meat, in the streets, in the heat the irrepressible irresponsible passionate red. direct, demanding, deep and damning, flaming raving blazing crazing redred of light red of sleight red of flight gleaming, steaming, thieving, seething, breathing red. the painfully pure, narcotically sure, pitiless possession of red. 23 46 moving on you can still see the handmade crosses on the side of the road where the wreck happened, a constant reminder of that tragic day. no one really knows what happened, but it was a day that reshaped a community forever. clint was the toast of the town, carlton, ohio's favorite son. in a town where friday night high school football was the social event of the week, clint was the main attraction. he had scouts drooling all over him since his sophomore year. he was a can't miss quarterback. that is until he and jimmy veered into that tree on old sullivan road. it took clint awhile, but soon he was back making his old rounds to his usual hangouts. "chocolate milk shake, sam," ordered clint with smile. clint loved henderson's ice cream parlor. it made him feel normal again. "coming right up," said sam. "looks like it might rain for tonight's game. how does the old team look?" "pretty good," said sam with a wink, ''are you going tonight?" "i wouldn't feel right. it's just to soon to go back there." "they all miss you." "look, they miss the hero. they miss the football star. they miss mr. perfect. they don't miss me." "that's not fair, clint. that's all of you they knew." "does anyone say they miss jimmy? was his life any less important?" "they didn't know jimmy. they knew you." "well they should have known him. he was a good guy. he was my best friend and it shouldn't matter that he didn't play football." clint started to cry. he was so different from the guy who played for two hours with a separated shoulder in the homecoming game. he never let anyone see him cry, but that was then. "somebody needs to remember jimmy even if it's just me. it's time i visit the grave and say my goodbyes," said clint. "now clint you can't climb that hill to the graveside, not in your condition," said sam. "shut up, sam. just shut up." clint stormed out, wiping tears from his eyes. he didn't like people pointing out his disability. his constant limp was enough of a reminder. a few raindrops started to fall as clint walked home. he was supposed to call his mom when he was ready to come home. his mom didn't like him to walk long distances with his bad leg, but clint wanted to clear his head. clint flung open the screen door. "mom, i'm home." "you were supposed to call me," called his mom. clint sat down at the table with a glass of milk. his mother walked into the kitchen and gave him a look only a mother can give. "what?" "you know how worried i get. it's starting to rain and you could have been right in the middle of it." "mom, will things ever be like they used to be?" "things can never be like they used to be, son. you're a different person now." "i know i can't play football anymore, but when will i move past t his? when will things stop being weird and just start being?" "it will when you're ready, and not a moment sooner." ''i'm tired of hearing that, mom. i'm ready now!" "you must not be or else you wouldn't still be here." " i don't want to go to the game. that's the one thing i won't do. it brings back too many memories. i couldn't deal with that." the rumble of thunder interrupted this tense moment. they both gazed through the window at the approaching storm. " mom, i want to go see jimmy's grave." clint's mom stood and started clearing the dishes. storms always make me nervous," said clint's mom as she grabbed clint's cup. "didn't you hear me mom?" ''are you hungry dear?" " mom, will you take me to see jimmy's grave? it's time. i've never said goodbye and i think it would help me." " i don't think you're ready, son ... " "that's what everybody says," interrupted clint, "but i say i am! i'm tired of mourning. i'm tired of this life. i am ready to move on." clint stood and slowly walked to the door. his mother just stared at the floor. she couldn't face him. "please don't go up there, clint. you are going to open a wound that hasn't healed yet. trust me. you are not ready for this." "if you won't help me then i'll find someone who will." clint pushed the door open waiting for his mom to say she would help him. the screeching of the screen door was the only reply he got. "goodbye, mom." the door slammed behind him and he slowly limped toward the hill where jimmy was laid to rest. "goodbye, clint," whispered clint's mom as a tear found it's way to her cheek. the sky began to open up onto clint. the rain was slow and steady, but it was enough to soak clint in a matter of minutes. by the time he reached the hill the rain was becoming a torrent. the more it rained, the more determined clint became. the dark and violent sky lit up with lightening streaking across the sky. a wind gust blew knocking clint down on one knee and as he tried to stand he slipped and fell face first into the mud. he reached out for a dark barren tree, but it was just out of reach. "do you need some help," called a voice from the dark. a shadowy figure stepped towards clint. through the night sky and the rain clint could barely make out what appeared to be a face of a young man. 47 48 ''i'm trying to get to the top of the hill," cried clint. the young man helped clint to his feet. "i'll walk with you if you need help." "i'd appreciate it. this leg isn't what it used to be." the young man put his arm around clint and walked him up the hill. "i used to play hide and go seek on this hill, and now i can't even walk up it," explained clint. "i played hide and go seek on this hill too," said the young man, "maybe we played together once or twice." "maybe." the pair reached their destination. "would you wait for me? i need to do something." the young man agreed to wait and clint walked towards the grave. a lightening flash illuminated the night sky revealing the writing on the gravestone. jimmy dent, march 2, 1984 september 6, 2001. ':.jimmy, i'm sorry. i'm sorry i haven't come here sooner. you were my best friend and i miss you ... " clint's face was wet. the tears and the rain mixed together to form a stream of water pouring down his face. the emotion of the moment was too much and he fell to the ground. "are you okay," asked the young man rushing to clint's side. "he was my best friend and life hasn't been the same without him. was hoping this would help me move on, but i just don't know. maybe my mom was right." "i think you're doing exactly what you need to do. if you are ready you'll move on." ''i'm ready. i just hope jimmy forgives me for taking so long." the young man walked from jimmy's grave to neighboring sight. clint hobbled over. "did you know him too," asked the young man. a streak of lightning lit up the words on the new stone they were gazing upon. it read clint hunt, march 2, 1984 september 6, 2001. clint slowly turned to lock eyes with the young stranger who was no longer a stranger. ':.jimmy? that means i'm dead." "what took you so long buddy," said jimmy as he smiled at his long lost friend. by david wagner untitled •• l i i -n -. ' ~ i ., ... • j ., ~ .. .. ... . .\; -i • j "' untitled drawing julie herrick white playthings of the viennese child the viennese child treasures chocolate and oranges and palaces of marzipan. her grandfather, historical in his grey and green suit, remembers when the spacious opera was bombed. and restored. new architecture, and pigeons coming back in new-gathered collections. and the viennese child gathers collections of leaves and chestnuts as treasures from the prater, while the architecture of,the giant wheel is set in motion, a quarter turn at a time. palaces open into spacious gardens too, and children play, happy and running and happy and running and fierce against the sunshine, scuffing with their shoes the white stones of things historical. i denise botka bounce bounce little ball up down just bounce for too soon you will bounce lower and lower until you can no more. ,.f,:ji!.,.,,., q/·jl.·7! 6 qjffek/ru.&.. 9 untitled elaine galvas ~-· 106 analecta fractals amanda schermer fractals are everywhere-in the flowing of a stream; in the inter­ twining branches of a tree; in the rise and fall of voices in conversation. the language of fractal geometry describes the underlying patterns that we intuitively sense in each of these. fractals are complex designs which are created by repeating a simple mathematical rule many times. they allow us to examine the subtle structures of our world and show us how the repetition of simple patterns results in the infinite variety of objects that we see around us. fractals are exciting because they offer us a better visual description of the way natural objects change and grow than do simple shapes like circles and squares. for this reason, scientists often use them as models to describe natural processes. the best way to understand fractals is to see how one develops. philofopher ' s stone although the formal study of fractals began in the late 1970s, philoso­ phers and artists have been using the ideas behind fractal geometry for centuries. since the time of the ancient greeks, philosophers have sug­ gested that we can train our minds to think abstractly by learning to see increasingly subtle patterns in the world. the study of fractal geometry teaches us to see the subtlest of patterns in the chaos of our experience. the human mind has an innate tendency to search for patterns. many artists use this tendency in their visual portrayal of structure. natural objects are so complex that it is not possible to communicate every detail in a picture. a cluttered image results from the attempt to draw everything we see. artists often solve this problem by outlining the form of an object and allowing the viewer's mind to infer the rest of the structure. ansel adams discussed such a technique in his basic photo series book, natural light photography: consider photographing rocky landscapes, another instance of textural rendition. beyond a certain distance, a great field of granite boulders will appear as perfectly smooth stones, the natural textures being beyond the resolving power of the lens and/ or the emulsion. in order to suggest the substance of these stones it is necessary to include in the very near foreground a boulder in which the texture is adequately revealed. you can then say that the photograph 'reads well.' while you cannot see the texture in the distant boulders, you can see it in the near boulder, and you assume that all the boulders are the same material. adams reminds us that in art, as in everyday life, we need structure and detail to form a coherent and meaningful view of the world. our minds crave complexity. if we lived in a completely ordered environment, everything would be identical and our senses would not be useful. everywhere we turned, we would see and hear exactly the same thing. after a few minutes of uniformity, our minds would cease to respond to sensory messages. rigid order satisfies us aesthetically only when our senses are overloaded and need a break. complete randomness does not meet our aesthetic needs, either. if we flip a coin a large number of times, we will not find any pattern in the resulting string of heads and tails. because there is no structure in random occurrences, they are not complex. our minds are not able to make any more sense out of completely random experiences than com­ pletely ordered ones. great music is neither monotone nor noise. a great painting is neither a blank canvas nor completely random splotches of color. artists .-... 107 108 analecta incorporate the random and the ordered into their work, but it is the way in which they do this, the structure they impose, which is beautiful and meaningful. those objects and processes which are most complex and beautiful involve both an underlying form and the potential for infinite variation. in other words, they are fractals. to generate a fractal, we choose a simple "replacement rule" and then repeat it many times. computers are usually used to create pictures of fractals because it is difficult to perform the rule enough times by hand to get a feel for the end result. the replacement rule might be geometric, such as the one used to create the bush that we saw earlier. in this fractal, each line segment is divided into five pieces, two of which remain aligned and three of which are duplicated and angled. each of the new line seg­ ments is replaced using the same procedure. another type of replacement rule involves algebraic equations. classic julia sets, for example, are created by using the equation (new z)=z2+c. here is a picture of a julia set. the original z in the equation is a point in the complex plane and c is a complex number which stays constant. to generate this image, the computer starts with the point at the upper left corner of the monitor. philofopher's stone it takes the complex number z corresponding to that point, multiplies z by itself, and adds c to it. it then replaces the original z with the result, squaring it and adding c to get the next iterate. the computer repeats this process until the iterates become "large," which means they are "escaping" to infinity, or until the operation has been performed a certain predetermined number of times. if the iterates do not escape to infinity, we say that the original point remained "bounded" under iteration, and the computer colors that point. otherwise, it leaves the point uncolored. the computer then proceeds to the next point on the screen and repeats the entire process. sometimes, instead ofleaving the background blank, the com­ puter assigns color to a point to indicate how many iterations it took for the results to become "large." those points which escape first form the background color for the fractal. those points which escape after one iteration form the outside color band. each successive iteration produces a new, smaller escape band. those points which never escape are colored black. the fractal on plate 31 was colored in this way. because this image is a zoom from deep within the fractal, we cannot see the back­ ground or the outside color bands, but we can see which points escaped during each of the last few iterations. using different values for c creates different pictures. the fol­ lowing images demonstrate how very small changes in c affect the result­ ing fractal. it is interesting to notice the similarities and differences between c=-0.736 + 0.097i c=-0. 7 43 + 0.097i .-.. 109 110 analecta c=-0. 7 44 + 0.097i c=-0. 756 + 0.097i fractals created with different replacement rules. the first julia set is more filled in than the others. what causes this? some of these fractals "blow away" as we increase the number of iterations. there are other val­ ues for c which do not produce an image at all. which values for c produce images that will not blow away? we notice that these four images are all symmetric around the center point. is that true of all julia sets? both the julia sets and the bush fractal have features which are repeated on different scales throughout the image. do all fractals have this property? these are the types of questions that fractal geometry explores. the study of mathematics has long been used to develop our intu­ itive ability to recognize patterns and structure. math students first learn to recognize simple patterns, and gradually learn to think about more abstract structures. plato argued that this training would ultimately enable the mind to contemplate the subtlest concepts: the beautiful, the good, and the other ideal forms. fractal geometry is an extension of this ancient search for the essential forms in our world. to see a world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wild flower hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour blake described what it means to understand the fractal structure in the world around us. we are everywhere surrounded by profound beau­ ty. by learning to see subtle patterns, we develop a deeper understanding and appreciation of the wonders around us. philofopher's stone for more information an eye for fractals, michael mcguire, addison-wesley publishing company, redwood city, california, 1991. this beautiful book is an excellent introduction to fractal geometry and its use in art. nick's fractal page, http:/ /www.bush.edu/-nick/nick.html, gives more detail on how mandelbrot and julia sets are generated. nick offers copies of the freeware program fractint, which is one of the most user­ friendly fractal programs around. this page also has links to fractal gal­ leries and other related sites. .-.... 111 table of contents table of contents bisbee, anne perron . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 from: it looks like i've been in the city too long blues, "battle royal": preview of coming attractions, i'll get your attention yet, absorbed, in the cornfield, reflection on a puddle, hagar's second journey, semele, anne perron . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 to my sister, eileen godo/lei-reis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 michael downey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 playthings of the viennese child, julie herrick white . . . . . . . 9 bounce, denise botka . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 the dark room, julia mahon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 the body of the world, julie herrick white .............. 15 descent, between the gates, triolet, scott taylor . . . . . . . . . 16 no second coming, scott taylor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 the poet, paul wappenstein . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 the end of the world, michael amato . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 shirley marvel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 red, sylvia kimbel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 apt. 201, michael amato ............................ 24 yellow lullabies, sylvia kimbel .... .. ... . ....... ... . .. 24 slides, michael amato . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 spring in attention,jane eggleston ............... .. ... 26 tree of heaven, anne perron . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 a marvelous thing, melvin c. fisher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 i ride about, lois tenbieg-godollei . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 polity, dan scott ................................... 30 deep sea diver, pat fenelon ...... . . .. . . .. ..... ....... 30 eileen godo/lei-reis .............................. 31 crutches for kevin, michael downey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 beverly g. demario . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 driving, anne perron . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 progress, michael downey .. .... ........ .... ......... . 35 old places of winter, beverly g. demario ................ 35 abacus, lois tenbeig godo/lei ... . .. ... ..... ... .. . . . .. 36 evening, fifth street, anne perron . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 glamorous mirror, beverly g. demario .................. 39 3 early morning prayer "why do i keep doing this," the dark haired girl sitting on my bed asked in a sigh of exasperation. "doing what" i asked but i knew what she was talking about. "you know what i'm talking about" she said as she searched the tangled covers for her shirt. "i just wish you would stop me," she said. i sighed; i knew i couldn't argue with her. "don't you have anything to say for yourself," she asked. i had plenty to say but i knew she didn't really want to hear it so i just lay there looking at the ceiling. she wiggled her way into her jeans and i watched a pillow vibrate off the bed and tumble to the ground. i looked over at her and saw her dark, loosely coiled hair and perpetually olive face silhouetted against the moonlight drifting in through the window. she was brushing her hair. "my roommates will know what we did." the brush that just a moment ago was in her hand was now flying at my face. i ducked just in time and heard a thud as the brush hit the wall behind me. "so what" i said ignoring the brush attack. "god isn't it possible even your roommates have slept with a guy before?" "don't talk about my roommates you don't even know them." she said searching the sheets for what i assumed as another object to throw at me. suddenly she stopped rummaging through the linen and look up at me with her dark eyes; "we need to pray." "oh god, not this again" the words escaped my mouth like a breath. 68 "yes, this again, and don't use the lord's name in vain." "you're insane." 'tm not insane, and you're blasphemous." she was dressed and made her way to my bedroom door. ''are you coming?" she asked though i knew i didn't have a choice. i slid out of bed and made my way to my dresser. i found a pair of sweats, tossed on a t-shirt and slid a pair of sandals on. i dug my toes into the astroturf that was the sandal's soles. there was a hole where my big toe digs in the green plastic of the right footed sandal. i walked to my dorm room door and looked out the peephole. "it's clear, let's go." in the tope colored hallway we walked past paper license plates with peoples names' on them taped to doors. "which room is your r.a' .s?" "that one" i said, pointing to a door with a license plate that said matt. matt's like one of those teachers who wants to be cool and befriend the students but the students aren't fooled. that's what matt reminds me of. he's the kind of guy who would have a beer with you, but you knew he would dick you over if you ever got on his bad side. "we should ask him for advice about temptation." she said stopping just short of matt's door. "god, you can't be serious?" she hit me in the arm. "don't use the lord's name in vain." she said a little too loudly. "shut up, do you want to get in trouble?" she got quiet and looked down. ''i'm sorry," i said. she looked away from me. i ran my finger across her eyebrows going against the grain. she hated when i did that. she ran her fingers furiously across her eyebrows until she was satisfied they were fixed. "you know i hate that why do you do it?" i couldn't tell her the real reason that sometimes i just hated her so much; that i found simple pleasure in pissing her off so i said "i don't know. i'm sorry." "it's okay, i forgive you" she said smiling at me. she always says things like i forgive you, god i hate it. she smiled at me with the shy smile i couldn't resist. ''i'm so pathetic" i said aloud. "what" she asked. "nothing." i looked over at her. she really is stunning. her mother is brazilianthat's why she has the dark hair and olive skin. i brushed the back of my hand across her cheek. it was so soft. she took my hand and put it to her lips. i loved it when she did that. "let's go back to your room," she said flashing the smile i knew too well. we stopped walking and i looked at her. "no, we're going to pray remember." i began walking again. "we don't have to pray i was being stupid." i knew she was being stupid but my mind was set. "we are going to the chapel and we are going to pray." my pride set in and i wasn't going to budge. she grabbed me and pulled me dose to her. i smelled her sweet breath and faltered. i kissed her. "let's go back," she pleaded. i had played this game of wills with her before. my lungs swelled with a deep breath i slowly let out the air, shook off her medusa stare, and began walking again. we soon reached the chapel. "i hate this catholic school." "don't say that," she said as we entered through the thick oak doors. she dipped her fingers in the holy water and gen­ uflected next to a pew. i sat myself in a pew a few rows behind where she sat. there was no one else in the chapel. i knew there wouldn't be at 2:00 in the morning. "you should sit by me," she said. "no i'm comfortable where i am," a lie. i'm never comfortable in this place. "i really wish you would sit by me." she pouted. i sighed and gave in. it wasn't worth fighting over. she folded down the knee bench and knelt, eyes dosed and head bowed. i sat looking at the crucifix in a daydream. there was jesus hanging from a tree with spikes in his hands. all of that for me i thought. "crazy." she was praying aloud in a perceptible whisper. "please forgive him he doesn't know what he does." she heard what i said and knew what i was thinking. she always knew what i was thinking and always thought she was better than me because she begged forgiveness. i could never ask forgiveness. "forgive his pride," she said. she stopped and looked me. "kneel beside me before god." 69 "leave me alone" i told her. she looked down away from me, her shoulders slouched, and she began pray­ ing again. this time 1 couldn't hear her. i dropped to my knees onto the padded bench. a creak echoed throughout the hollow chapel. i caught her tak­ ing a glance at me. she smiled. i closed my eyes and tried to pray. i shivered and wondered how much colder it would have to be before i could see an ethe­ real cloud escaping my lips. the only sound was her saintly breath and my pounding thoughts drowning out the words i wanted to say. all i could think of was the feel of her cheek the, the curve of her breasts. "oh god" i said aloud. why couldn't i just pray? she took my hand and said, "let's pray aloud you can go first" "no, i really don't want to do this." "please, for me." she kissed my hand again. "i really don't want to, it's private. truth is i couldn't dare tell what i was thinking. "okay, well i will, even if you won't" she said. "dear god i pray tonight for mom back in brazil. please don't let her be lonely. i also pray that you save dad wherever he is. she didn't talk much about her father. all i really knew was that he used to be in the us army, went to brazil impregnated her mother and left. i guess i knew as much about him as she did. it's sad really. 70 "i also want to pray for my math test this friday." at this, i must have made a noise because she stopped praying and looked at me. "what?" her eyes glowed like the devil. "nothing go on" i said. "and i pray especially for him" she nodded my way as if ashamed to say my name in the house of god. "lord let him understand the error in his ways and beg forgiveness for his sins." i couldn't take anymore and i stood up. "where are you going?" she asked. "for a walk" i said. i started walking toward the door each step echo­ ing and overlapping the last. i walked to the marble holy water basin, looked in and saw my reflec­ tion. my eyes looked tired and my hair looked grey. i saw wrinkles that i had never seen before. 'tm nineteen, how can i look so old?" i saw disgust and anger in my eyes. i searched for something familiar but the water reflected only a self i had never seen before. i looked vicious and cold. is this how she sees me? is this how everyone sees me? the water reflected something i didn't want to be. i was caught in this reflection for what seemed like hours. suddenly i heard movement and saw she was walking toward me. "what are you looking ?" at. i'm not sure why but i told her about the reflection. "do you see what this means" she asked betraying her excitement. "it's god showing you how you look in his eyes because of your sin." i couldn't listen to her anymore. surprising even myself, i spit in the basin. she screamed, "what the hell are you doing?" i laughed, "you just said hell." "don't change the subject, why did you spit in the holy water what is wrong with you?" i began walking away and she grabbed my shirt. "why" she demanded. i couldn't explain it to her. i couldn't explain that i was tired of feeling dirty and ashamed for everything i did. i couldn't tell her that the god 1 want to love wouldn't be so caught up in trivial things like sex. or that he wasn't so vain as to demand the solemn observance of his name. so, i told her 'tm sorry-i didn't mean too." "oh, okay" she said apparently appeased by my practiced apology. we walked back toward my room i led the way. she put her arm around me and moved in close. i moved a piece of hair out of her eyes and she began kissing me. we quietly made our way through the hallway of license plates and reached my door. she pinned me against the wall and whispered in my ear. "i want you." we entered the room and in a fury of clothes and heavy breathing made our way to my bed. she sighed "oh god, oh god'', because i guess it's okay to use god's name in celebration. the room once again grew silent after a symphony of moans and sighs. i made my way to the shower dirty. but before i closed the bathroom door i saw her buttoning her shirt. i saw her eyes close and her lips began movmg m prayer. by david kobb 71 .. _. analecta time david mangels photography 42 ~ evolutions feathers near the nock by tonya may scene ii the stage is set as a small kitchen (stage left) and living room (stage right) with a dividing wall in between. the living room is sparsely decorated, the walls covered in cheep wood paneling, the plaid couch against the back stage wall (facing the audience) with a coffee table in front of the couch, a single recliner directly opposite the television. next to the recliner is a small round table clut­ tered with an assortment of small vases and candlesticks. the kitchen has cup­ boards on the backstage wall next to a refrigerator that is next to the back door. on the far stage left wall is the sink and a small window above the sink. there is a table with four chairs in the middle. cora and her mother, margaret, are in the kitchen. margaret is at the sink, peeling potatoes and cora is at the table snapping beans into a bowl. cora. mom, do you ever just think about cows? margaret. (she gives her a somewhat bewildered look.) no, not very often. 165 cora. i don't mean just thinking about them, but thinking about them. you know, how they nurture their young, sheltering them from the weather with their own, motherly bodies. sometimes, when i drive slowly, when i don't care where i'm going i can see them nuzzle a bit, the mother's face brushing against the softness of her babemargaret. they also use their tails to swat away flies. they use each other to satisfy itches. (she points out the window.) do you see how they stand in groups? how they shit on each other? it's not affection. cora. but it could be so much more. you can see calves hop and prance. you can see happiness and joy. (distantly) they don't care about direction. they stay close to their mothers where they are nursed and promargaret. they are cows. we eat them. they are not happy. they do not care. they are stupid animals and we eat them. cora. but just think how it must feel to have your baby snatched away by the man who was feeding and housing you. the moms probably feel a degree of trust, and then their baby is taken from their side. they don't know why. they .-.... 661 analecta don't even know, (cora is cut of by a sharp look from margaret). if they are stupid, that's why. margaret. they were stupid before. they don't feel anything. (angrily, margaret puts last potato and the peeler in the sink then stares out the window.) cora. (after a short pause.) i guess that would give a whole new meaning to mad cow disease, huh? (she laughs, and margaret, relieved, laughs also as she reaches on the windowsill for her ciga­ rettes. as she lights up, cora walks to the storm door and waves it). margaret. don't start. cora. what? i wasn't. margaret. oh sure you weren't. there's plenty of air in here. it's not going to kill you. cora. it's not the dying part i mind so much; it's the living miserably. you know it makes me sick. i'm allergic. margaret. one doctor, cora! one doctor suggested that you got per­ sistent sinus infections because of second hand smoke. (she inhales deeply, pauses, then exhales.) it's a bunch of bullshit that's what it is. it's all in your head. you just don't take care of yourself. burn your candle at both ends and you're bound to get sick. the stress of every­ day life is enough to kill a person. cora. yeah, almost enough. margaret. don't start with that feeling sorry for yourself crap. you made your bed, young lady, and you're darn well going to sleep in it. i told you to wait to get married. i told you that you just don't know who you are until you're twenty-five, and look (she opens her hands) it's falling apart all around you. (she rests the cigarette between her lips as she pats cora on the shoulder, softening her tone.) you just don't know which end is up, do you? cora. (crescendo) you know, mom, i never said anything to you, nothing and here you are going off about the mess i've made of my life when no one asked you. john doesn't even care. oh you think he cares. (decrescendo) you think he's a saint the way he's all ''i'll forgive you, cora" and all ''i'll love you, cora," but you don't know what it's ~ evolutions like to be alone with him. you don't know what a monster he can be in pri­ vate. i'm nothing to him. margaret. oh, cora, honey. you're just tired. it's been a long week and you just need some time to think before he comes to the house in the morning. bob and i have to go into town tomorrow and the two of you can be alone. you can talk this out. you'll be ready to go home by noon. you'll see, all will be forgiven. cora. why forgiven? (her mother dismisses her with a look.) why does it have to be forgiven? why do i have to be forgiven? why did you forgive dad? was it worth it? margaret. at the time, i was thinking of you, what needed to be done, what i needed came last. i was taught to give one hundred and ten percent in a marriage, and i did that. cora. without expecting anything from him? margaret. of course l did. cora. why did you forgive him? margaret. because he asked me to, and he was sorry. (quietly) and i loved him. cora. again and again. did he always say the same thing? did he simply say, 'tm sorry?" and it was enough. (pause) what made him not come back the last time? margaret. that isn't something for me to answer. (margaret walks over to the door.) put the potatoes in the pot will you? (a man whistles off stage.) rusty! git out'a there. margaret: aren't you looking all tanned and tantalizing. (exit) enter ray a medium height man in his mid thirties. he is wearing a plain pocket t-shirt with faded and worn blue jeans. ray: hey there! (short pause as recognition spreads across his features.) well, if it isn't pretty little cora. cora. (she turns her head and pauses for a moment.) ray. hi, ray. .-~ 167 analecta ray. whoa, don't get too excited to see me. cora. sorry. how are you? ray. well, it's been a while, but things are good, pretty good. you? cora. (noticeable pause.) better than ever. ray. well you still look great but then, you never looked bad. cora. (quietly.) stop or you'll make me blush. ray. what? cora. thank you. ray. (he nods.) so-uh, let's you and me go into town tonight. now that you're older we can hit the blue marine together. cora. i think you know that i'm married, ray. 68 i ray. well, from what i hear, not too married. margaret. (yells from off stage.) cora! start those potatoes right away! cora. okay! (she retrieves a pot from a cupboard. ray blocks her path to the sink.) what are you doing here, ray? ray. checking out the compressor in the fridge. (he steps toward her, staying her with his hand on her arm.) hey. what's your hurry? she can wait a minute. (he takes the pot from her hand and holds it behind his back as he stands an arm's length away from her, his other hand still on her arm.) so what about tonight, pretty cora? cora. i already told you. ray. no, darlin', you didn'tcora. no, then. i'm saying, no. okay? ray. (he brushes his fingers over her cheek.) ooh, i love that tem­ per. you know what they say about women with a flash point tem­ per, don't you? ' 7 y. i • i it ~ evolutions (cora reaches around him for the pot, but he holds her to him without a struggle.) ray. now, cora, i've known you for a long time, and i know how smart you are. you knew what would happen if you reached behind me, pressin ' your body on me. you wanted me to hold you like this. cora. noray. uh uh uh. you can't fool me, cora. i can feel your heart poundin'. reminds me of another time. (she pushes away from him and runs off stage right. his laugh fades with the lights, and then he begins to whistle 'goodnight ladies'.) curtain. .-€253> ~€253> 169 untitled 0 i untitled £p sonnect (from the book of not) sonnet (from the of not) michael greenlee and in heaven a blind god spins madly churning to the insane piping of flutes mouthed by knowing angels whose once golden sbn and downy wings have been ravaged by the eternal atomic glory of our most high god. sing alleluia as fallout descends manna and for the space of an hour silence reigns . my blasphemies are the only true words i lrnow, so in praise i lift them up. and i know no better charity than my sins, so freely given. of this i have no doubt: my honesty i'll give to god, whose grace will bury all of us. analecta 17 drawing michael downey from: it looks like i've been in the city too long blues i. on the green sward that laces the side of the river across the street, were two ducks. from the distance of my high window, they ~lept, not far apart. how many million wingbeats had they come together? where were those nests of mud, lined with plucked white, that had warmed to life the shells of selves? minnesota, michigan, or ontario, a place spoken only by a tongue forgotten, long from this open city of smells and dogs. still there these many minutes, how contended they lie. weary of wind and far space, yet not of each other, they rest. ii. oh my generation, see of this dual whiteness a symbol of perfection, you that love well sbut not long. if the downy feathers of one explode in flight, the mate would circle and paddle alone the cold waters. they slumber still; not in disturbed nearness, but united in faith by the distance they keep. a tribute to their love will i descend from my study, walk with old bread that will give them strength, grateful for their sign of true devotion . iii. crossing the street, i sail a breadslice like a frisbee not halfway to them. still they sleep ... something is wrong for wild ducks. the thought winces if somehow here they have journeyed to die .. . both white mcdonalds' sacks, yellow arches opened at me like eyes. i crumble crust to the sucking carp. poppies gladys oberlin 26 tree of heaven anne perron tree of heaven sweet jungle scent blossomed the city's backyard. sun -dappled street, the tree cast white flowers on our hair, on soft lawns, we turned cartwheels and the sky rolled sharp blue in our eyes. summer, flowers turned to round green seeds, threw bamble sounds to grass. gaslight lamps caught our first kisses, the tree slipped silhouettes to shadow and grew sharp scents in city air. black tree boughs cradle children's ghosts, each with one small wish, dreams cast to the vivid clouds and never seen again. melvin c. fisher a marvelous thing why is it such a marvelous thing to see the coming rain moving in dark straight lines slanting down from leaping clouds to see and hear drops smack the dust when the rain begins to fall and to hear chairs scrape on the porch as folks get up to run inside and to feel it fall cold and wet on neck and back and to sit near windows and see and hear the rain fall outside? lois tenbieg ·godollei i ride about i ride about in a little cart running on a hidden track that masks my destination. i never know when a fee will be asked of me, or what the fee will be. the last collector wanted clippings five or six or so rooted near the road. it took awhile. so i moved into the prisonhouse of the sullen gardner's cave. i chanted prolix formulae, and pinned the vinings round and round: staked them upright in the ground watered them with tears and when that was not enough, i fed them with the gardner's blood and ran away again in the little rusting cart that no longer stays upon the rail i think i've lost its bearing. 28 the blue fox eileen godollei-reis hound a blue shape, all but hidden, dingoes in the dark, intent, follows one scent past town, past farmhouses, remote barns, up a hill, to where the road narrows to a footpath, wanders off, is nearly lost in weeds, tree-roots,aworn rag of ribbon dropped long ago, along a lake, and then widens again. three crescents: the moon, and two yellow eyes. they widen, wax round, · nearing the mistress. she waits at the crossing. she sits on a fallen tree, obliquely dividing the road. caressing his ear, she whispers, "i knew you'd come." eileen godollei-reis angry poem i'll laugh if you bar the door. nail the windows-go ahead. wreathe the bedposts with garlic, clutch a cross all night! build a fireor shut the damper, and strew upended nails on the cold hearth floor. you won't hear usbut we'll get in. delicately, in the dark, my hound will lick your throat (a thin wind will have snaked through a crack and blown back the sheet). you have to sleep sometime. eileen godollei-reis the blue fox the blue fox sleeps, haunches drawn in, tail blanketing. the wind ruffles his fur. nostrils, jaws, ripple, work, tasting it. lapped in shadows, he is lapped by other shadows, seen and disappearing, the carcanet of white at the throat. he could almost be deadbody fretted with light stabbing the canopied space like seven swords through a magician's box, when the leaves stir. the dictionary says that the blue fox is the winter color phase of the arctic fox. this canine roams the arctic regions, which lie mostly north of the timber line. regardless, in a viridescent forest, streaked harsh and glorious with purple, orange and yellow, droning, steaming, tangling, screeching, sucking, gnawing, splintering, the blue fox twitches in his dream. julie chwalek37 madien/crone .. _. 19 au0.1;:)/uap!rw sa/mou")/ oauiv:j v.1.vq.1.vff "' -· ~ .., " !!. c» !:! '. :s .,, " .., -· co :s .... co .... l=:s "' 00 " .,, >< .., ::! . -· n o "o co 0 ->< co a> 0... 0 apt. 201 sylvia kimbel yellow lullabies the trees sway in silhouette from a mellow crescent moon a show flashing twilight casts shadows. the last train travels the rails in a careless rhythmic sleep a slowly flashing yellow light marks the end. the black man dances down the street in a smooth calculated beat slowly flashing head lights pulse in time. the dry brush burning in the field sends up steady funnels of smoke flames flash slow in the distance. the dead, hallow building stands behind the trees, down the street from the rails a slowly flickering street lamp finally burns out. and the yellow melts to black. michael amato apt. 201 he stands there naked save for black wool socks fallen to his ankles. he cranks electric heater higher, then hesitates before a piece of mirror without a frame, & stares enraptured at what's left hanging from his bones. he runs a hand through hair to calm it, rinses out his mouth, hurries over tiled concrete back to bed, & presses fingers to her marble breasts; rolling over, she wonders where she dropped her shoes. 24 untitled untitled eileen godollei-reis hound a blue shape, all but hidden, dingoes in the dark, intent, follows one scent past town, past farmhouses, remote barns, up a hill, to where the road narrows to a footpath, wanders off, is nearly lost in weeds, tree-roots,aworn rag of ribbon dropped long ago, along a lake, and then widens again. three crescents: the moon, and two yellow eyes. they widen, wax round, · nearing the mistress. she waits at the crossing. she sits on a fallen tree, obliquely dividing the road. caressing his ear, she whispers, "i knew you'd come." eileen godollei-reis angry poem i'll laugh if you bar the door. nail the windows-go ahead. wreathe the bedposts with garlic, clutch a cross all night! build a fireor shut the damper, and strew upended nails on the cold hearth floor. you won't hear usbut we'll get in. delicately, in the dark, my hound will lick your throat (a thin wind will have snaked through a crack and blown back the sheet). you have to sleep sometime. eileen godollei-reis the blue fox the blue fox sleeps, haunches drawn in, tail blanketing. the wind ruffles his fur. nostrils, jaws, ripple, work, tasting it. lapped in shadows, he is lapped by other shadows, seen and disappearing, the carcanet of white at the throat. he could almost be deadbody fretted with light stabbing the canopied space like seven swords through a magician's box, when the leaves stir. the dictionary says that the blue fox is the winter color phase of the arctic fox. this canine roams the arctic regions, which lie mostly north of the timber line. regardless, in a viridescent forest, streaked harsh and glorious with purple, orange and yellow, droning, steaming, tangling, screeching, sucking, gnawing, splintering, the blue fox twitches in his dream. julie chwalek37 102 ~-· analecta magazine: the anatomy of art portrait candace kmitta allvin d.m. c the curtains. thi movement is room--the w< spaces betwe and midnight unknown. hi! same manne otherwise pe. the thick blanket upon his che: face glows in the pockets • are indistinct du rkovitch. durl durkovitch h· a smith & w1 am him, yet he 5 durl turns tail anc abo them . he is c durkovitch, t nim corps generc another marl another targ• many nights artists catalogue artists' catalogue each work listed by page number page 5 john van dyke: woodcarving 6 julie faini: drawing, charcoal and conte crayon 8 linda freel: drawing 9 dorothy zehner: drawing, charcoal 10 julie jankowski: watercolor 14 lynn weaver: watercolor 15 robert macmillan: sculpture, bronze 16 dennis sopczynski: drawing, charcoal 1 7 lynn weaver: watercolor 19 mary de bruyn: sculpture, plaster 22 t. a. kozuch: drawing, charcoal 23 t. a. kozuch: drawing, charcoal 24 dennis birdsell: sculpture, bronze 25 edward grant: sculpture, bronze relief 2 7 bruce thom: pain ting, oil 28 julie chwalek: print 29 cynthia cooke kauss: print 30 dennis sopczynski: print 31 wendy moses: sculpture, bronze 31 dennis birdsell: sculpture, bronze 32 arlene van belle: drawing 33 julie jankowski: watercolor, oil pastel 34 lynn weaver: drawing, pencil 35 julie morrow: print 36 doug schmidt: watercolor 37 robert macmillan: watercolor 38 lynn weaver: painting, oil 2 rnale!!cta w candy and cigarelles jesse conrad candy and cigarettes, candy and cigarettes all i want from life is rubber buns and licorice wax-covered fruit from dining room tables big wicker baskets and old bentwood chairs. hickory sandwich and oak lemonade pureed pyjamas with steel marmalade and old dirty stockings that weren 't ever made. i never work and i always get paid i'm the only pimp who never gets laid 'cause it's candy and cigarettes and old bentwood chairs and everything else for which nobody cares. black rhododendrons with switchblade desserts big pineapples picnics where ants play charades. five iron wedding and cocaine suprise four and twenty blackbirds got baked with 4:20 guys. he says the only win is right through the eyes which have been crying and are stuck shut in the morn, i was already dead, yeah, before i was born. so candy and cigarettes and old bentwood chairs are the last things i see and rubber buns and licorice are my greatest fears and a big beautiful rainbow is the last thing i hear ..... ~ cover page i i i i c c ., i c ,., .} tr>--.. (u f1lb,.....: ~ t .... iq w n : m ~ ~ .c:... ~ co"' 1:: "' ~ >.0 .c: a. ~ b c l 0 .c: c.. untitled drawing d--~, · ('..t ~ \ 'fl/ \ \ \ \ \ l scott taylor descent i've known this sort of underworld before, where the soft lamplight sways against the gloom, and a soft arm slips back to shut the door as shadows slowly curl across the room; i've known the last faint traces of perfume ~ that settle with the shadows to the floor as the soft lamplight sways against the gloom, and a soft arm comes sliding back for more than i can give but i cannot ignore. an arm sways slowly back to lock the door. scott taylor between the gates alone, between two broken garden gates my pensive lady plucks a single rose which, gathered to her lean breast, intimates the long forgotten lawn where best it grows; she holds if firm, but lightly: for she knows that curled along its length the lean worm waits. alone again, she lifts her dress and goes in darkness, where the frozen river flows. scott taylor triolet i grow so weary of your windblown ways, my brittle leaf: i thought you held a fruit, but a dry line barren nature betrays. i grow so weary of your windblown ways; you twist, i listen: but the winter says nothing for one so withered at the root. i grow so weary of your windblown ways, my brittle leaf. i thought you held a fruit. 16 untitled watercolor of absence from being a mother? well, they don't give loa's from motherhood, my dear." "i just wanted to make something beautiful and all my own." "you already made beautiful kids. doesn't that satisfy you?" "no, it doesn't. it doesn't!!" i yelled. i ran downstairs and slumped on the floor of the dark room. i cried for hours, wetting the photographs spread on my lap. i wondered what would happen if i ate the potassium tablets. it would take away the guilt and confusion at least. but, no, one trip to the emergency room is enough for one night, i thought. crazy, huh? well, i put away my photographs, those stillborn hopes, and packed away my camera. i turned to close the dark room door and it seemed to me then that i could develop pictures and develop children, but never develop just myself. i closed the door, and i haven't been down here for any time since. "mom, why didn't you run away?" kate asks me. "how kate? where to? and what if it turned out that i had no real gift, that it was just a housewife fantasy? i would have had no husband, no children, and no true talent to sustain me. i wasn't brave enough to take that chance." "but mom, these pictures are great." "keep them if you like, kate." "mom, why didn't you wait twenty years to divorce daddy? he was an asshole to you then." "i thought so too, kate, and i made him suffer for what i thought he made me give up. but kate, he wasn't the bad guy or the jailer. he was as frightened and as confused by a changing wife as i was frightened by the changing. kate, try to understand. i was my own jailer." "mom, i met daddy's girlfriend yesterday." ''yes? did you like her?'' "i liked her, but mom? mom, did you know she is a photographer?'' i start laughing, laughing hard, and tears are coming down, and i'm hiccoughing and holding my stomach and this sick, silly laughter echoes through the basement. kate's staring at me. "mom? are you all right?" "oh, kate, that sounds like, hie, a bad ending in a bad story.'' finally i stop laughing and kate leaves to meet her fiance. i sit in the dark room and hold the camera to my eye. click. the damn thing still works after twenty years. 14 untitled drawing 6 photograph-"bread" "bread" caroline eberlein 26 .. _. viaceral pagoda 111 ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• • ,• appology chriatopher burgeaa dearest daphne, your name, my dear, echoed on hushed lips, the traces of fingertips on weathered marble, the soft lights upon your face from distant lamps, has undertaken to withstand time. we parlayed, and fought, and finally agreed to disagree. artistry and nature, forever separate. i found no allies among my reasons, refusal no longer serves me yet i still sit and wonder, sit and beg to no one, sit and wonder if i had ever found the strength to petition, be other than myself and stand, not tall but stooping, shorter in the end, than the beginning, would i not still see the whisps of leaves beginning to sprout from your fingers. would i know yet of the whispers i hear, concilliation, a foreign artiface, an idea i had not thought of and would still not consider. and had i not found it better, in the end, to simply fight for what i had thought was my best virtue, had i not had art, and probity, a judging eye, and a healing hand, can you say, for certain and with no doubts, that you would still not be rooted to your spot, only your laurel crown left to me. driving anne perron i. yellow lines diminish beside me and extend ahead on slate gray. the steaming engine urges onward, controlled by casual hand. rain stars explode on the foggy window and are wiped squeaking away. lights behind the mirror change green, yellow, red, shining oily on wet pavement. twin suns approach. ll '\ \ \ ~ ~ ~ . ~ { '· 'c .__ .// . ' '>;. :\; \ ; \ ~ 1r. i\ i ,, . i )i:\ l -// i '--"' . i ~ driving ii. one soft-winded day we rode across the city, you, steering with both hands, me, foot braced on the floor when you turned. we sought established haven, neighborhood home, children on the lawn. iii. birds scatter before the hood, trees arch to a halo, green on blue. i urge acceleration with slight movement, transmission whines through three gears. at great speed, i am unsure if i am moving, dreaming at yellow lines, or if the landscape is willfully rushing past. bared of speed warnings and odometer clicks, i control the velocity of the breeze. iv. one night we drove three hundred miles through dark curves, you, silent and strange, me, following twin red lights to stay on the road. the draft whipped snow-ghosts across my vision, not even a street light's beacon to catch my windshield and lead us on. v. back wheels trench the dirty snow, and i rock the car, like a cradle forgotten and wind-pushed. it doesn't matter. i'll get out, and control this thing through streets blue with ice. 34 you asked for it you asked for it country music pounding kids in the kitchen sounding out phrases of hunger and confusion. mom's in her silence painting over the doors that leak the sound of children, bawling, that invade her seclusion with thoughts of single bars, and two seater cars, and alone. to be hitched. what a bitch. dennis wujcik sue hartup editors 11 i/ analecta spring 1975 editors: carla hoffman, carol schaal faculty advisor: el~ine gottlieb hemley cover design: jan bower analecta is a semi-annual literary magazine funded by the student 1) activity fees, indiana university at south bend. printed by ludwick graphics, inc., april 1975 ') editors analecta 1979-80 editor: shirley marvel art editor: lynn weaver copy editor: scott taylor special photography: richard feingold reading staff: beverly g. de mario charles neises kimberly karnes anne perron patricia lawton eileen godolleireis corinne mcclintic faculty advisors: elaine hemley and harold zisla analecta is an annual literary-art magazine funded by indiana university at south bend student activity fees. correspondence and manuscripts may be sent to the editor, room 009, university center, 1700 mishawaka avenue, south bend, indiana 46615. untitled watercolor 0 the poet scott taylor no second coming now make your music sadly; sweet lady, make it long: sing to sad hearts a gladly forgotten song. sing low for summer flowers long buried in the frost: sing long for the quiet hours forever lost. sing sadly, and discover no lean notes known before. sweet lady, know your lover returns no more. paul wappenstein the poet i sit and i write and i kid myself yet every word and every sight seems to rhyme or have some metre perhaps bizarre, perhaps understood my mind in flight seems to connect empty spaces. michael amato the end of the world the end of the world is not something i would care to watch on the late show, sandwiched between eleven o'clock news & the star spangled banner the end of the world should be perused at leisure with a tall collins by the pool & soft music ~ 17 that lucky old sun that lucky old sun carla hoffman she knew the bell was about to ring. one minute to go. the others shifted noisily at their desks stacking books in their arms, ready to escape. five, four, three, two, one. at last the bell! she filtered into the herd, moved along by shoving hands and nudging shoulders, into the hall of grey lockers. she clung to the wall, supporting heavy books in her arms, waiting for him to come out. he was the last one out, balancing his one book on his head. the books were damp in her hands. bobby burke, she sighed inside her tight sweater. heart-throb of the month, her desperate substitute for the real thing, which of course was ricky nelson. she followed him through the maze of bodies, fighting to keep up. locker doors opened dramatically, the crowd parted for her. bobby, she called silently, watching the black cotton jacket fade into the others. the name "annette funicello" was stenciled in bright yellow across his back. she hurried faster. "bobby," she called, finally gathering courage to say the name. he turned, looked at her casually. they were nearing the double doors, the crowd dispersing. he was tossing his book in the air, making it spin with admirable agility. he waited for her, impatiently, to catch up. "what do you want, creep?" he wanted to know. panic. she had prepared no opening line. her books were weighted like lead. his book spun in the air. he stared at her, bored as ricky nelson. she couldn't bear the sight of the sensuous lips, the half-closed eyes; she looked away. she saw him coming toward her then, her younger brother. he was only twelve years old, an insignificant junior high student and, she thought, a stupid little punk. she thrust her foam rubber breasts out threateningly; he must remember she had reached the sacred age of sixteen and was no longer approachable. but still he came toward her, white teeth flashing in a silly smile. "hey, wendy," he called and quickened his pace. "i don't know him," she told bobby nervously, alternating between half-crazed glares at her brother and batting innocent eyes at bobby. "ain't he your brother?" "are you kidding? that little creep?" she looked down at her saddle shoes with the plaid shoelaces, hoping they would reassure her that she had a touch of class in spite of her brother. "yeah," she nodded. the punk had joined them, smiling from her to bobby and back again. "hey, wendy, this the guy? the one you sing to when you play your records and cry?" in the midst of bobby's laughter, she reached out and shoved her brother. "get lost, icky!" "what else does she do?" bobby wondered. "swoons over presley." "that's a lie! if you don't get lost, jimmy, i'm gonna tell mom!" ''i'll tell her you put rubber in your shirt." she felt her face color with red heat. it was impossible to even look 9 at bobby's face; she knew the smirk would be there. just as the smirk covered jimmy's face, beneath the fringe of straw-colored hair. when she reached out, her books dropped to the linoleum, but she wrenched the boy's shirt in her hands, tore it in one quick jerk. the three of them stood, all eyes on the ripped shirt sleeve. "my favorite shirt," jimmy said increduously. "the one you gave me for christmas." the satisfaction she felt mingled with regret. she glanced around the hallway to be sure a crowd hadn't gathered to watch this domestic fight. there were kids going by, more or less interested; but not nearly as interested as she imagined. the books rested on her saddle shoes, she couldn't see them anymore; her confidence was gone, what little she had possessed. jimmy was crying. "you ruined my shirt, my favorite shirt!" "shut up!" "i'm telling mommy!" "shut up, shut up!" bobby bent down and picked up her books, balancing his on his head again. when he got up and gave them to her, she took them but did not meet his eyes. "i hate you!" jimmy shouted and punched her in the arm. jimmy turned and ran toward the double doors; she hesitated only a moment before she ran after him. down the walk they ran, the armload of books holding her back, jimmy dashing in front of a car. a screech of tires on pavement. she followed him across, dodging parked cars, onto a green lawn. two girls in big skirts with poodles printed on them, walking close together on the sidewalk, jimmy crashing into them, scattering their books. she tossed her own books onto the lawn and dove at him. he fell back on the grass, she on top of him, punching, until she noticed the poodles looking at her. looked up and saw the girls looking at her. she knew them. "boy, you're nuts," one girl decided between smacks of gum. "sorry," wendy whispered, still crouched over a laughing, sobbing jimmy. "whatcha wanta beat up a kid for?" they turned in disgust and continued their concentrated walk, hips swaying the poodles dizzily. "jimmy, cut it out!" she yelled at him. he brought his laughter to controlled sobbing and looked at her with a child's frightened wide eyes. 'tm gonna tell," he promised her, flinching at the slap he expected. but she was frozen with thought, a mixed-up feeling of having done this before. beside the christmas tree, beside red and green gift-wrapped packages. crouching over her little brother, pounding him, yelling at him. "tell me," she had cried. "no!'" "tell me what's in it or i'll break your arm!" through tears he had answered, "lemme go, i'll tell, i'll tell." she had released him and when he told her, she wept. wept for what she had done. wept for a ruined surprise. wept for a cinderella book and mickey mouse watch he bought for her at the dime store with his own money. 10 she sprawled over him now, remembering, feeling sick. 'tm sorry," she said, wondering what good it was to say it. "my shirt," he wailed. "i'll fix it, jimmy, i'll sew it up myself. really." she shook her head, rolled onto the grass. miserable. "why'd you do it, jimmy? why'd you tell bobby those things?" "i dunno." he lay there, looking tearfully at the sky, his hair mussed boyishly. "oh, jimmy," she sighed. the rubber cones stood out of the sweater by themselves, empty inside. she touched the sweater over them and wondered why she was so icky. why was jimmy such a creep. life seemed a confusion of fear, humiliation, and pimples. breasts that didn't grow, boys who didn't call, girls in poodle skirts wearing class rings on chains. "remember when we were gonna get rid of the dog?" jimmy asked her. she thought back to summer, when they were left alone with the obnoxious collie licking their bare feet. "we could tie him up," jimmy had suggested, "and throw him into the street!" "yeah," she had agreed, inspired. "then after a car hits him, we can untie him and tell the folks he was hit by a car." "we should've done it," she said confidentially, blinking at the sunny sky. "yeah." "crazy dog bugs me." "me, too." "jimmy, i'll fix your shirt." "mom can do a better job." "jimmy, don't ever say anything about my bra again. i've never told mom about the dog. so don't you go telling things." "that's bribery." "so are all those slips of 1.0.u.'s you made me sign. i'll be in debt to you ti! i die." she got up slowly and watched the others coming home from school: some running, others strolling, a boy and girl holding hands. "oh, bobby," she thought sadly. "it's all over for us. i can never face you again." supposing this was the plight of women, she gathered her books and her brother; they skipped along the sidewalk, avoiding the cracks. "step on a crack you'll break yourmother'sback," she called to him. "step on a space you'll slap your mother's face." they saw a colony of red ants milling around a sandy crack. in a jubilant dance, they stomped on them all. an old studebaker crept slowly along, a boy with long bangs and sideburns hanging out the window. "hey, baby, he called to her. she tried not to look, averted her eyes and nose, walked along the street with jimmy at her heels. from the corner of her eye, she watched the car moving with them. he looked like fabian, she decided. i wanta growl, wow! "i'll tell bobby burke," jimmy yelled at the studebaker. "shut up!" it was a warning, the hiss of a snake. jimmy stiffened, goose-stepping behind her as they walked home. later, she decided. i'll cry about bobby later. the spring sunlight felt warm on her neck; the world was so old and new it overwhelmed her, but the sun was always the same. 11 lady of the mud the balloon lady sat in the mud on the side of the road, entangled in strings and dead balloons, swearing to herself. "damn smart ass kids, tried to run me over with their car, lucky i ain't dead, i ever see that purple hot rod again, i'm gonna get me some kids. how'm i gonna eat, ain't got no balloons to sell. my only coat just had two small holes in it, now it's ruined, ain't no amount of water gonna take out this much mud. look bad enough now, could stand on a comer downtown and beg." the balloon lady grabbed on to the lamp post, pulled herself up out of the slippery mud, then looked at her feet. 'that mud done gone clean through the newspaper i wrapped on my shoes. only had a few good things, now they's ruin­ ed. damn kids!" the balloon lady had mud on her face, and in her tangled gray hair, but she didn't notice. it was the mud on her things that mattered. she walked the two miles to her small clapboard house. only had it, because she had a husband once. on her front porch that was falling down, she stopped to kick off her mud caked shoes, and entered the house with her mud caked socks. she stopped in her front room to talk to the parrot hanging by its feet in an old wrought iron cage. "how's my baby? did ya miss mama? >vu hungry? got birdseed, ain't got nothin' else, but got birdseed. guess you and me will eat together tonight. ain't killed you, guess it cain't kill me." the balloon lady went out to the kitchen to get supper. a hodgepodge of dishes filled the sink and the counter tops. a handleless coffee cup from mr. marche's trash can, a yellow plate with two large chips out of it from maude clover's trash, a large red vase with a crack half way down from the mizbie's trash, and various other odd pieces from other neighbor's. she knew who had the good trash. gilgulan's only had garbage. she rinsed the old coffee out of the handleless cup, and filled it with birdseed. she took a glass with a broken lip off the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, rinsed it out, filled it with hot water, and dipped a dried up tea bag in the glass. she shuffled back to the front room leaving pieces of dried mud in the lint covered rug. "mama's got your supper, patrick. now don't get greedy, mama's got to eat too." the balloon lady sat in an old green chair with the stuffings coming out, courtesy of the mizbie's trash. the chair sat her well enough. she set her glass on a crate beside the chair, and scooped up some birdseed in her hand from the cup. 'well patrick, here goes, cain't be much different from cereal." the balloon lady filled her mouth with the seed. her toothless gum gnawed at the seed, but she swallowed more than she chewed. ''patrick, you cain have your birdseed, i'd sooner eat gilgulan's garbage." she reached for her tea to rinse down the rest of the seed. knock! knock! the balloon lady looked up, startled. ''nobody ever knocks on my door/' she mumbled, as she pushed herself out of the chair. she opened the door cautiously. the door pushed into her face, almost knocking her over. it was "them damn kids." the tall one wore cowboy boots and tight black jeans, his long blond hair hanging to his shoulders in greasy strings. the other one was short, with a sleeveless black t-shirt pulled tight over his protruding belly. where was the third one? "look maury,'' said the short one, '1'll be damned if it ain't the balloon lady. she ain't washed the mud off yet. from the looks of the place, didn't think anybody lived here. wonder what's taking daryl so long with the beer. hey maury, we can have some fun, we got us a helpless victim." ''yeah, earl, may be a good night after all. what ya want to do to her first, tie her up and tickle her feet, or cut off her hair. don't look like much hair!' a skinny boy with no hair, long legs, and a short waist entered the room loudly. '1 got the beer, we're gonna get shitfaced. hey, it's the balloon lady. we gonna have fun?" ''yeah, daryl, " said maury, "we ain't decided on the tickling, or the haircut." 'thu done the haircut on me last night. i ain't been that drunk in i don't know how long." the balloon lady backed further into the room. 'thu sure you boys don't want some coffee first, i cain fix you some, no bother!' 'what,'' said earl, "with beer, you got to be kiddin' lady. don't want to neutralize the effect." ''earl ain't got no manners," said maury, ''sure we'll take some lady. got all night to get drunk and have fun." '7b hell with manners,'' said [)qryl, '1et's do something to the lady first." 31 "all right," said maury, ''we'll take a vote, the haircut, or the tickling." '1 like giving haircuts," said earl, '1et's make the lady bald." the balloon lady watched them like a baseball player waiting to steal home. ''nahl" said daryl, '1'd rather tie the lady up and tickle her ti[ she screams." ''looks like it's up to me," said maury, "lady would you rather have your hair cut or be tickled?" the balloon lady looked into maury's eyes, and said nothing. it didn't matter what she said, they'd do what they wanted to her, so why waste the energy. ''lady, are you deaf?" said maury. '1'm talking to you." ''}bu decide,'' said the balloon lady. '1. ain't no good at making decisions." "you heard the lady,'' said maury, "she can't decide. well, neither can l so, we do both. one now, and one after the coffee. daryl, go find some scissors." the balloon lady moved to the couch and sat down. "hey, did i say you could sit lady?" said maury. the balloon lady stood up and looked into maury's eyes again. daryl came back with some scissors, and handed them to maury. ''now lady, you can sit down,'' said maury, 'yt's time for your haircut." maury moved to the couch, the blades of the scissors pointing like the needle on a compass fixed on its direction. 'this is my house, take your beer and git out,'' said the balloon lady. ''hey!" said earl, "the lady's got fight. this is gonna be more fun than i thought. shut up lady, there's three of us, and one of you. the odds are in our favor:' ''okay,'' said the balloon lady, '1'll make a deal. you cain cut my hair, if you'll let me git the coffee after:' ''okay,'' said maury, ''but you gotta fight us when we cut your hair, ain't no fun otherwise." the balloon lady nodded in agreement. daryl and earl moved onto the couch and held her down. she kicked and screamed, while maury chopped her hair. she even bit him once. ''daryl,'' said maury, "go find a mirror, the balloon lady has got to see my beautiful haircut." earl continued to hold the balloon lady down. maury cut a few more strands he thought he missed. daryl came back with a large piece of broken mirror. earl let go of the balloon lady, and grabbed the mirror. ''see, lady, we got rid of your lice." he let her take one quick look, then set the jagged edge of the mirror against her neck. ''gonna draw some blood lady,'' he said. ''but a bargain is a bargain, we'll let you get us some coffee first. we'll even be nice and drink it." maury helped the balloon lady up, and escorted her to the kitchen. '1'm gonna stand right here in the doorway,'' he said, '~nd drink my beer, and sometimes i'm gonna be watching you, but you won't know when. oh, and i got sensitive ears lady, you touch that back door, i'll know it. then i won't just mess you up, i'll kill you." earl went over to patrick's cage. ''look boys, damn bird must be drunk, it's upside down." ''let's have some fun,'' said daryl, coming toward the cage. ''open the cage, let that bird fly around. we'll throw things at it, first one hits the bulls eye, gets to do what he wants to the bird." earl let patrick out of his cage. patrick wisely flew into the open basement and down the stairs. ''damn,'' said earl, '1 ain't going down them stairs after that bird. he'd see us before we saw him. hey lady! hurry up with the coffee, you ain't left have you? we got.your bird." the balloon lady took her time in the kitchen. she wanted to make sure the coffee was just right. 'wouldn't want to make them damn kids angry,'' she thought. when the coffee was fixed to her liking, she moved to the kitchen doorway with some broken cups on a famished silver tray. 'well, if that ain't elegant,'' said maury, "the balloon lady has class. we, gentlemen, are in the presence of a lady. note her elegant attire, socks just washed by us, a regal checkered robe, or is that supposed to be a dress? and to top it all off, haircut by mr. maury. gentlemen raise your coffees to the lady, a toast to the lady of the mud." the balloon lady said nothing. she watched them drink their coffees. ''damn kids, told you i'd get you if i saw you again. could have me some meat for months, but you wouldn't be no better than patrick's birdseed. i'll take your money from your pockets, before i cut you up, you got to pay for them balloons. take the arms to the mizbie's trash, got to take some parts down to mr. marche's, gilgulan's can have the worst parts. ain't gonna have you damn kids messing up my place. patrick and me likes our house how we likes it." christina gilbert 32 untitled :. ·;~'i" .::.1 .. ,,;.. ~ .,,r i ~· , ·. '' i :,' ,.r· , , < , , , i... . ~ -,. t . it ,, .. green glass riches green glass riches kelly danielson [ilntil she turned twenty, anna lived a of hfe. like one that's three-mch thick, corner-fringed, pictureless, coverless, with miniature black words scrawled on white onion-thin sheets, dusty and unreadable. but one with potential. potential if you're vacationing in the bathroom with saturated bubble-bath-hair, immersed in a tub excreting the underneath emerging water, and there's a george .winston cd beckoning you to become familiat with the wind, the seasons, the world. potential if you qecide to explore, wander and discover, and don't have deadlines. but no one saw the potential or opened anna lint's hardback: the red-stitched, neatly-bound, ' diljgently-written six-hundred-paged-or-so book to even take "but something happened a glance. until she to anna lint that turnedtransformed her into a twenty. butter-glazed croissant, all anna curved and twisted, bent lint. the and flipped up, served atop name a china saucer ... " itself doesn't provoke interest; plain and simple, like white bread. but something happened to anna lint that transformed her into a butter-glazed croissant, all curved and twisted, bent and flipped up, served atop a china saucer. that something was robert lemur. rob, robby, ra-bear, rabeart, robo: her love, her husband, the man who opened her book and wouldn't let it close. she saw him and she knew they would be together. they married when she turned twenty-four, exactly four years after their marriage was arranged. by anna. anna would say by fate. that "master plan" stuff doesn't really exist, her mother told anna after she informed her parents of her future destination. oh, mommy, she responded, you'll see. four years later her parents said they guessed they'd been wrong. and that was that. anna liked robert, grew to love robert, because of what he did to her. did to her, not for her. he did it to her on the ten-thousanddollar oriental crimson and gold rug in the living room, did it atop the sheets, clothes, and scattered scraps of papers strung along the mattress upstairs, did it to her against the walls in the dining room, the walls along the staircase. her head pounding, banging, smacking not from the sex, from the wine. a bottle of it a day, once a week. he'd give it to her on a sunday, granting her the freedom to drink it whenever she wanted during the coming week. she picked tuesday. always. tuesday was a blah day, worse than wednesday, because it hadn't yet reached the hump. when she thought of tuesday, anna thought meatless chili. tuesday had the beans and the noodles, the tomatoes, but something was missing: the meat and chili wasn't good at all, wasn't even worth eating, without brown hamburger to fill it up. so to cover her blank-tape tuesdays, she filled her body scarlet-red in the afternoons and robert filled her body creamy-white during the nights. that was the only way she'd have it. and she never would have guessed that before she met robert. never would have guessed either the way she adored it when she finished the bottle and he flung it across the room, the 11 dql d!lj ptm j;}q pb;}"m ·lqgnoql sabmjb jowd'"j uuuv 'n;}m os j;}q pb;}j pjoo::> lnwd'"j lj;)qo'm 'lbql sbm lbql 'jowd'"j buuv jo ){ooq dql u! abp bjo ;}gbd dql uo lqg!u abpsmqi b uq 'lbql sbm lbql puy l;}uog ;}j,noa u;}qm op i ihm lbqm lsnf lnq 'lqg!u lbql j!bq j;}q jo )j::>!tj u ql!m. p!bs dqs 'mou){ 1qo ·aupsdni lou s,l! ub puu noa ;}aoj i p;}jqwnlu bql!m qgnbj-jjbq djllh b:pdqgnbj lsnf dq lnq 'uo!pb;}j ::>!lbwujp u 'dpa u ·wu;}j::>s u loj pdl!bm. dqs 'u!q::> s!q jo ;}ajn::> ;}ql umop d!jp puu sl;}{dojp wjoj pooiq ;}ql p;}q::>lbm. puu d!j wonoq ){u!d s!q uo pmq ln dqs 'l!q dqs 's;}gpd p;}u;}lsbj ajlb;)u dql lb gu!m.bug lbj bd){!'l 'ss!){ ol ubg;}q dqs '::>psu1d dql lb gu!)j::>;}d pj!q b;}){h os ';}p!su! sbm. lbqm. q::>nol p1no::> dqs os s;}gu!jj ol l! p;}jqs 'jjo l! jb;}l 'uudu l! d!j ol p;}lubm. uuuy puy 'j;}lu!m dql u! sm.opu!m l!;}ql jo ;}p!sloo ;}ql ol q::>bllb s;}w!l;}wos s;}lbw!j::> pjo::> u! d{do;}d ::>psbjd llibls!s;}j-j;}qlb;}m. 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'uo!lbjlsnlj s 'puuqsnq j;}q ;}su;}s p1no::> uuuv 'ss;}{;}qlj;}a;}u gu!){jom. s! ;}abmoj::>!w b;}su;}s ub::> ;}uo ;}){!j puy ';}{q!s!a l,usbm ;}j!j s!q 'u;}ao ub ol pdmdwo::> ;}abm.oj::>!uj bd){h lnq 'ajgub puu loq 'loq sbm. ;}q '.;}abm.oj::>!uj b;}){h ;}ujb::>;}q ;}h 'm.ou){ lj;)qo'm l;}{ p 'dqs lqgnoql dqs os 'ss;}{dql;}uou 'j;}q pjol puq dqs lng 'ijb lb uop::>b;}j bjo q::>nw lon 'suo!lbuw;}puo::> ou 'suo!lbjolbjguo::> ll ou :uo!pb;}j ::>pbwbjp ajpbx;} lib ;}a!;}::>;}j l,up!p ;}qs 'nu j;)ljv 'j;}q guhjdl l;}jg;}j lbqm.;}wos p!p dqs 'al!a!pb lqg!u aups;}ni j!;}ql lnoqu j;}qlow j;}q pjol puq dqs w!q pjol uuuv puu ;}woq ;}wb::> lj;)qo'm mufl 'lbql sbm. lbql puy jq::>nw os ;}w s;}aoj lj;)qo'm 'j;}qlow 'qo 'p;}j;}m.sub puu pdj!ws lsnf uuuv ';}){ods anuuy gqs u;}qm. p!bs dqs lbqm. sbm 'm;}p 'p;}u;}dduq lbqm. 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'jopop snomqwb aj;}a 'jojss;}::>::>ns dqi 'jopop gql lj;)qo'm 'lj;)qo'm jo ;}snb::>;}q nv ]j;)sj;}q p;}wjojsubjl puq dqs •guqpuuq q::>bo;) u olu! p;}ujol ;}sjnd jau!a ;}a!su;}dx;}u! ub ;}){!i ·puq ;}ql joj nu lou puy 'sjb;}a lnoj lsbj dql u! p;}gtmq::> puq j;}lqgnup j;}q abm. dql lnoqu lqgnoql dqs su 'wooj gu!ah s,uuuv u! j;}q wojj anuuogb!p gu!ll!s 'j;}lqgnup j;}q p;}q::>lbm. j;}qlow s,uuuy 'jojj;}puom os s! li ·gu!u;}dduq u;};}q suq lbqm. ;}uo;}wos m.oqs ';}p!su! s! lbqm ;}uo;}wos n;}l ol p;};}u i ptm •gu!)j::>ou)j dql {d;)j i ·pduddo dq ol p;};}u u!bjq aw jo sjoop dql puu 'sjb;}a moj joj 'sjb;}a joj u!bjq aw dp!su! gu!ddd){ u;};}q ;}a .i ;}uq ·p!bs dqs 'l;}j::>;}s u noa ipl lsnw i 'j;}qlow 'j;}ql;}gol ;}j;}m. a;}ql abm gql 'p!p a;}ql lbqm. j;}qlqw j;}q pjol uuuv lqg!u dql mun 'lbql sbm. lbql puy 'pbx;} ptm asb;} :dndmq u jo wonoq ptm dol dql d){h j;}ql;}gol ly a;)qj. ·d1noq u j;)ljb p;}pugj uuuv abm. dql 'nu lb ;)jjbzn lou 'ppo l! ){u!ql l,up!p udqo'm puv 'slu;}luo::> p;}pdw;} s,;}{lloq dql diqwgsgj ol p;}jojo::> 'sqwn umop gu!pb::>su::> ;}::>!nf-apoq pd'm 'j;}ql;}gol ajlu;)jo!a p;}aow oml sb 'u!)js gu!::>j;}!d 'u!)js gu!dbj::>s p;)ljbls joou gql uo sd!q::> ssbjg u;}qm. l! p;}aoj ;}qs abm. leaves filled with ancient ideas about the way things should be, about the way her life would be. but she couldn't read him; she didn't even iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisee the words, just"she felt them when his felt them body pushed her buttons, sometimes.like those on a hand-held she felt kitchen mixer, and twirled them on her all up inside. it made tuesday her feel all gooey and nights when sticky, all dizzy and she had her lightheaded ... " emerald !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!l!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!green glass container on the table, cork popped, and a glass in her hand. she felt them when his body pushed her buttons, like those on a hand-held kitchen mixer, and twirled her all up inside. it made her feel all gooey and sticky, all dizzy and lightheaded, chocolately sweet, gushing out unintelligible words half-unknowingly. when he's gone it'll be alright, she always thought, alright as long as i have my bottle. there's something of him in that bottle. that was what she thought at first, and then she thought yes, yes they'll say, that crazy woman thinks her dead husband is perfectly accessible, sitting on the kitchen table inside that bottle. i can see the mental guards now, laughing at the lunatic woman in bed eight who worships a green glass container because she thinks her used-to-be husband's going to float out of it. crazy woman. mentally marble-headed woman. that was what anna's mind whispered every time she thought of robert dying or leaving. but they wouldn't laugh. they wouldn't laugh or smirk or say a syllable, the mental guards or the neighbors, they'd just wonder what that bottle was. everyone'djust wonder what was so special, so unique about that inexpensive object, but she would never tell. because it was their bottle, all green and red and fine or all empty and scattered and pieced apart, it was their bottle whether they were together or not. and no one would ever understand. no one could ever understand that it gave her life, and whether she knew it or not, gave him life, too. and they'd never comprehend that the bottle, each identically sized and filled bottle that somehow all mentally emerged into one bottle, anna and robert together gave it life. but that was how it was. and that was that.o 13 untitled dorothy zehner sliedes michael amato slides where purple blood stains the fabric geometrically a woman instructs the boy in its use weaving palm leaves round the edges his coffee skin clings closely to the flesh her breasts which overflow weak bindings, the color of bruised salmon a handsome couple with a burnished glow here for the big time playing tennis on a plastic court they will make love (as they say) in sundown on the beach & complain afterwards of black grit lodged in tender openings one of us watching the other from the bedroom of a fine hotel your body partly sunk in sand at water's edge raises compulsions as i kneel inside you tasting as you open on a hot street her dream walks side by side a man with long mysterious hair warm skin she aches to touch prepare with insistent probes perfect teeth drawing sweet blood from his shoulder (a chartered compass idles on charts opened to tropic archipelagoes) i. a gray couple standing side by side smiling under a dead king's gaze seabirds picking stale bread from a bronze boy's hand 25 reflection on a puddle t michael downey crutches for kevin for days he wouldn't willingly touch them, pointed reminders of the accident. he could be coaxed across the room (open hands close behind) wobbling for a phone call, or a cookie. muscles on his good leg knotted, shoulders wearily pushing the earth down ; each 1day the small trapezist swung farther before crying, stopping. he really preferred to scoot, dragging the heavy cast over carpet trails. always was faltering of nonacceptance, until on the ground they became parking garages for matchbox cars, then they were lifted like guns at his troubles, whirling only through his play to become his. beverly g. demario in the cornfield the pail is caught between the barn door and blue grass, it empties. a scarf is pulled tight against her head. i imagine her hair as smooth as skin. she folds her hands seems to lean upon the air catching yellow across the face . all the house lights have been pulled downward as a plow over rich earth. charlene rocks back humming words evenly spaced like teeth biting silence. the room appears albino oval shadows swirl, flatten in her eyes. in the field the horses trot quickly between the rows of corn. i turn once to gather the small sound of the heat rushing through them. beverly g. demario reflection on a puddle in the listening, i take twice the trees and stones, and the wind that turns around with october. the sweet singers of rain faraway, of geese rolling, all blooming beneath the full cloud. the rocks rise blue, weave laced foam in and out. i walk and turn my face to the wind dry leaves swirl, wood, scrubbed as hands clench and lies on the black. it is a hollow puddle carved wet. birds cross bone to light. i enter, one shadow in the thick, a still drop buoys with fern and years of stone in the webbed wall of this weather. 32 untitled s. zehner an arrival of an important guest an arrival of an important guest anticipation of almost there, wet hands grasping handles and fogged windows. the vessel silently cutting through solid air. you are numb and forty with the expression of a farm face. you keep hearing heels clicking from a distant race. why such wear on your fragile system leaves you breathless without conclusion. face so close to equal face, and stares mistaken for glares. but all in all, i think you found the place. dennis wujcik 50 table of contents contents my young daughter, kathryn, scott bird 7 that lucky old sun, carla hoffman 9 poems xxxviii, lxxii, gustavo adolfo becquer, 12 translated by ronald powell i st are transfixed ... judy moon 13 the guitar, federico garcia lorca, 14 translated by jill blue the woodcarver, phyllis moore 15 eyes, lois rensberger . 16 tess and company, carla hoffman 23 excerpts and images, henni akkerman, carol brumer, . . 24 greta gilmore, terry hoffman, jennifer johnson, mantea kapatan, thayne oppelt, phy la phillips, darlene r. sanders, francie shaffer, t. j. ransberger it's finally come to this, dennis wujcik 27 concerning dostojewski , herman hesse,. . . 28 translated by sue kaczor, brock blosser, douglas gottbert, steve baker, ralph t. slabaugh, miriam kckiernan, and leonard copeland is play has no social relevance or . . . . . . 31 ;:a christmas story, david a. schrader brother of a friend, scott bird . . 39 you asked for it, dennis wujcik 42 that's life?, thayne oppelt . . . 43 cat, poetry and drawing, henni akkerman . 45 grief , thayne oppelt. . 46 the critic, carol schaal. 48 (cont. on next page) 50 55 60 65 70 75 contents (cont.) an arrival of an important guest,dennis wujcik all this pain ... , greta gilmore 52 the engagement, man tea kapatan they say life ... judy moon this may be a t.v. society, judy moon death of anne sexton, scott bird . bathing baby alive, carla hoffman. childbirth, carla hoffman . . 53 fandango of fall,phyla phillips 58 crusades , dennis wujcik . . 59 atrabilious cowboy, terry hoffman 63 metaphoric fantasy, carla hoffman 64 healing, carol schaal . 67 sailors, greg marchant . 69 late at night ... judy moon 71 memory , phyllismoore . . . 72 after l 'm gone, thayne oppelt . 73 time ... judy moon . 76 snow, h enni akkerman 78 there is a sameness .. . phy llis moore . 79 progress michael downey progress black wires, holding the speed of light, stretch across this city. their bisecting lines slice the high blue bowl of sky into rectangles. now all new wires are being buried beneath the concrete. what about the soft-feathered birds who for generations have teetered on phone conversations? we'll have to build some kind of tree. beverly g. demario old places of winter (for p. l.) the boughs no longer disturb the silence. not in a year has one leaf shaken, yet a strong green throngs. the tree holds itself in air, in winter. what's drowned is bound by moonlight. nothing is standing that does not stare at its own ghost. nothing has changed these eyes, these fingers, the heart of silence knows the answering, the narrow rooms. am i to leave with nothing learned, too little love and too much thought. although i cannot stay, the wild is still, birds dream and wake. remembrance is one shadow behind, wandering, dulled by pacing, repeating the grey stroke, it reaches yet never proves, nor alters the face. where are the branches, the blue flame, the autumn. only the tongue holds still. if i speak nightlong, half grief, half laughter, how it holds, how still the eye. is it here that i begin, all between the knees that creaks. is it below the breath, hard to hold the yellow seeds, too soon it's gone, the face leathery, the sapling picked by sun. is it love that beckons backward, wood calls, the years past, yet does not tempt the windless night sweet and yet a song too human for a bird. 35 foreword foreword the spring 1975 issue of analecta combines the talents of those who previously contributed with promising newcomers. we were once again fortunate to receive outstanding work from scott bird, phyllis moore, and dennis wujcik. newcomers like judy moon and thayne oppelt answer the hope for continuing talent resources. phyla phillips, who was the author of a short story in last spring's issue, appears this time as a poet. some artists are becoming legendary: henni akkerman and sue hartup continue to display outstanding talent. in fact, there is so much talent in iusb's art department that it astounds me. the basis for selecting material was originality and overall quality. all submissions were carefully considered by our editors and several readers; some material that had been rejected in the fall was returned to us rewritten and accepted this time. i hope this serves as inspiration to those whose material does not appear. space limitations force us to view submissions on a competitive basis, and the response of students this time was overwhelming. material selection for this issue was enhanced by the efforts of bill borden, paul whitfield, and gayle zubler. we were again flooded with artwork of excellent quality, thanks to deloris davisson, dick feingold, and marie remington, faculty members who were vital in encouraging student response. marie remington and harold zisla took the time to help us make decisions on artwork when high quality submissions made our choices difficult. we have analecta's first student translations from a foreign language in this issue, thanks to dr. jacob sudermann and dr. rogelio de la torre. a last word of thanks goes to the students of sl05 who designed covers especially for analecta, and to our faculty advisor, elaine gottlieb hemley, who gave freely of her time and talents. analecta is a greek word which means a collection of literary passages. that is fitting for this issue, though i feel we present much more than that. we have tried to carry on the trend set last year by anna skidmore, who upgraded the magazine's overall quality. it is hoped that our editorial successors will take the lead and direct their efforts toward an even higher quality publication with more and more interest and contributions from the iusb student body. it is not an easy task, but a worthwhile one. as editor, the pleasure has been mine; now, as a reader, i hope the pleasure is yours. enjoy! carla hoffman march 10, 1975 back cover crusades crusades christian soldiers in the morning sun. crosses in the sand. horse breath and sweat liquidate as one. gold illuminates off helmets of hard reflection from man to man. pounce and bait, hurry up and wait, instruction into circumstance. the gallant charge. drove first, drove hard, drove last, and such was conversion. dennis wujcik 59 my young daughter, kathryn my young daughter, kathryn the hollow wind is without peace. the grey moon is without a friend in the sky. today is the dead presence. write daddy why. stay away a little longer. sleep is not the time between. the string has no beads. unrest follows unrest. my tears daddy, a little peace daddy. you'll come by tomorrow. all will be fixed up. i could beat my head against the wall. she might look up. mainly she would sit on the floor throwing cards into the empty drawer. music makes her dance. she is dramatic in what she does. she tears pages out of books. carries the kitten from room to room. oh where did taffy go? the dog is missing. there is no time to rewrite history for her. there is no describing to nature her tenderness. bye-bye daddy. love me. neither of us are leaving. neither of us are staying long either. scott bird 7 untitled sculpture julie herrick white the body of the world a collage the body of the world shares its hurts with mc;)untains and oceans, and plenty of green algae exist to soak up the pain, yet certain cries are always picked up by the small and unpretentious ears of groundhogs . indians howl and jump off the edges of movie screens, refusing to play their parts while the arms of anonymous women weave bandages with leftover strips of sky. and all the world's eyes gather in one dead siamese cat by the side of the road, eyes still orange in the headlights. eyes still orange, and the tails of all comic strip dogs wagging infinitely, these are the body of the world, including mice and teeth and grasshoppers and children's navels that tighten when they cry out. these are the body of the world including the grey marshmallow feet of elephants, sick to death of walking. 15 eyes eyes lois rensberger at ten o'clock on a saturday morning a woman stands in the phone booth on the far corner of the square. she is calm, precise, coolly observing that beyond her glass box it is april: sun warming moist earth, tulip and dandelion leaping into splendid bloom. sweet juices stirring, in the maple over her head, in the robin shouting to his mate. a precarious, unsettling day. the phone in her hand reeks of tobacco, of some heavy male scent of shaving lotion or cheap cologne. the robin shouts, the soft air trembles with anticipation and she stands impaled upon a musky reminder of masculine presence, so invaded by her sense of the previous occupant that he might be lingering there in the booth with her. body touching hers, hands... she moves sharply, knocks her purse from its unsteady perch on the small shelf, bends to pick it up; nose and eye are confronted by the damp spot on the floor. disgusting. what kind of man... a picture presents itself and she averts her mind from that vision with delicate haste, fixing it instead upon her dislike of telephone booths, cold in winter and hot in summer, filled with distasteful reminders that others have been there before her and left traces of themselves behind, fingerprints and lipstick smears and smell of humanity never tidied away. she turns again, listening to the long rings at the other end of the line , and thinks of the remaining errands she wishes to do, of the endless peaceful solitary day tomorrow. of the sister she is calling, a last link to the child her mother wished her to be. the note received yesterday said sister i am ill; nonsense, thought ellen, reading it. yet here she stands, trapped in this repulsive booth. resentful of her sister's tug on withered ties. angry that she forgot to call before she left home but cannot forget it now. furious that she almost believes in spite of repeated evidence that her sister can take to bed at will, inventing terrible new diseases that will kill her if she is not able to talk them away. helpless before the childish compulsion: i must call or she will die. 16 ring, ring. has the woman gone away? or is she really ill, unable to reach the phone and left alone by that lean gray shadow she calls husband? anxiety stirs, guilt lifts its head, and ellen moves uneasily as she wrenches her mind away once more. she searches for any distraction and finds none; she stares very hard at the nearest architecture, trying out varying perspectives, following a line around to its final conclusion and then letting her eye jump back to the beginning. the building before her is cream colored, roofed in red shiny tile, the fat chimney a deeper, rougher red. next door a gray cinder-block structure ... her sister's voice is a thin pale hello. she does not ask where ellen is or what she is doing, only waits for her to say how are you. in answer she begins a recital of her symptoms as though she has placed the r~corded disc of her illness on the turntable and begun to play it, a fugue for groans, sighs, and whimpers: with obbligato for listener. it is a definitive work, pains here, a chill there and a bit of fever next, building slowly to a climax of suffering. are there false notes, discordant intimations of health? ellen cannot tell; perhaps her sister does not know either. hmmm. yes. too bad, ellen says. nothing more is required of her. she is an ear, disembodied. if the two women were together there would be more, a pillow for ellen to tuck into a particular spot, a glass of water to fetch or a shade to adjust. squeezes and pats from her sister's cool dry hand as ellen leans down to pretend loving care. a sad reproof that she does not return the pats and squeezes, that she is so cold, so shut away from others. a wistful regret that ellen has never married. oh sister, do you not like men? no, sister dear, and i think rather less of women. listening, not needing to hear, ellen falls into soliloquy. i do not like people who sag on me, she thinks. fall on me like limp featherbeds, smother my life with their own. my mother was like that. a soft white squidge of damp emotion, leaving a trail of tears and sighs on everything she touched. like a gentle snail she laid her track of suffering across all my days. and died. i did not believe she was ill. how does that shadow of a man stand it? not like my father. excused himself from our lives very early, took what he wanted and went his way, men often do. who should mourn that loss? mother, her easy sorrow over him, even dying her eyes leaking tears at the mention of his name. what is it people get from one another that makes them do such things? a puzzle i do not wish to solve; i am pleased with my life as it is. the complaint is continuing in her ear. oh sister, it says, you do not know how i suffer. anger and boredom collide in ellen's mind and she looks outside her box once more, turning 90 degrees to see the diagonal sidewalk that cuts cater-corner across the pale green lawn of the town square to the courthouse at its center. pushing his boy-sized bicycle along the walk, looking straight ahead like the indian on a buffalo nickel, here comes the old man of the square. he is as much a part of it as the fountain of neptune and the greeny-black cannon and the brick street where the watermelon market used to be. he is always alone; he sits on a bench near the fountain or wheels his bicycle here and there, mounting with a 17 ponderous dignity when he reaches the street and riding slowly away, keeping his careful balance like a stately jungle king on his baby elephant. ellen shifts her stare to this familiar figure, another example of the square's architectural wonders. she follows the outline of his clothing and lets her eye jump from shoe to shirt. he hides in his clothes, winter and summer, this year or next, the same garments: bib overalls and long sleeved shirts, heavy work shoes of the kind her mother used to call clodhoppers, worn suit coat and a felt hat with no particular shape. in the winter he covers it all with a topcoat that comes to his ankles; he is not a tall man. even then he wears no socks; there is always the flash of pale skin between the top of his shoes and his pant legs, tied up with pieces of old twine to keep them out of the gears of his bicycle. he was conceived fat, not roly-poly jolly soft flesh but solid tight fat that filled his clothes to bursting. his overalls have always been outsize, the legs wide to accommodate his huge thighs, their folds bunched together into the tied-down ends. his face has deep lines and the kind of gray look that comes from not using enough soap. or from illness. his eyes are an indefinite blue and his hair is just hair color; all his features, nose, ears and the rest, are indistinguishable from those of his fellows who surround him. still he walks alone, separated in some invisible way from those others. he does not seem to notice he is among people. yet now as he passes he looks straight at ellen, not seeing a woman in the phone booth but ellen herself, looking into her eyes as though he knows her. worse, as though he knows an ellen that no one has ever seen. their eyes lock; she feels the world whirl giddily around her. for one mad moment she believes he can hear the voice whining in her ear. is aware of secret furies, old anxieties, a sudden yearning she had not known was there. helpless, she feels him touch her in her mind's most private place. it is intolerable. shaken, she drops her own eyes, stammers some final words and phrases in farewell and hangs up, blindly gathering change, purse, packages as she flees. sister sighs, sniffs, pouts but does not know she has been present at apocalypse. days pass and summer comes. the sister recovers and ellen also survives. she sleeps, wakes, moves about as though the world had not been shaken by thunder and consumed in flame. in a few weeks she almost believes that she has forgotten an april day, a telephone booth, and an old man's eyes. when she does remember---passing along the street by the courthouse or observing a display of bicycles---she assures herself that ~he foolish old man is just that and nothing more, his strange and piercing glance was merely a vacant stare or some unexplained trick of the morning light, and the panic in which she fled was only a nervous reaction. she is ashamed of having nerves. walking through people on her way home from work on a day in june she sees the old man on the corner by the bank, waiting for the light to change. perhaps he sees her out of the corner of his eye; he does not turn his head. then the light goesgreen and he flows across the street with the others. ellen walks on alone, stumbling slightly at the curb as though she were suddenly unable to see clearly. she continues on home, 18 slowly, forcing herself at first to look at dogs, children, and other objects of interest. by the time she puts her key in the lock the incident is buried under thoughts of spinach greens and lamb chop; as she falls asleep a face flashes across her mind like a falling star across the summer sky. the next morning she remembers only that she had no dreams. she knows nothing about the old man, nor does she wish to, but from time to time he continues to look at her. once she is walking down main street on an evening in late july. she sees him sitting on the steps of the abandoned cigar store, observing the world as it drives by his throne. he swivels his head and there she is; he does not try to stare at the usual points of a man's attention, the round firm well covered breasts, the long legs so modestly hidden, but searches for her eyes instead. he almost finds them. she walks faster, dives into the drugstore and buys a lipstick she does not want, goes out the back entrance and so on home. why does he distrub her so? she reminds herself that she has nothing to fear from him; she can run faster and scream louder and hit harder. an unnecessary reminder; she is well aware that his assault is not physical. but she is reluctant to admit that a penetrating stare can so shatter her composure, although she acknowledges that she dislikes being touched by even so slight a touch as the weight of an eye's regard. she can only convince herself repeatedly that the old man is not important yet, fascinated as a bird before a serpent, she begins to watch for him and almost to anticipate his coming. in august he passes her on the sidewalk outside the dime store. the lines in his face have deepened and the gray look is more pronounced. his body seems thinner too, without the smooth plump tightness she remembered. is he ill? she tries to imagine him going to a doctor like other mortal beings. warned of the dangers of overweight, restricted to this much food or that much drink. watched overas he begins to shrink, slowly deflating like a child's balloon ... he sees her at the moment of passing, would meet her eye except for her vigilance. she takes two steps and is safely past and melted away into the crowd. where does he go when the night comes? she does not know. in a moment of fantasy she speculates that perhaps he was created out of the myths and legends of the town and no one ever troubled to invent a place of habitation for him. she does not attempt to discover where he lives; she is unwilling to share him and the fearful anticipation of his coming with anyone she knows. there is something delicate, tenuous and set apart, a private space contained in their casual passings that would be destroyed were she to speak of them. she is no longer able to pretend that she has forgotten him; sometimes she believes that he waits for her, that there is some message in his eyes she is not yet willing to receive. six weeks later he stands watching her as she crosses the street. half way over she sees him, falters, moves forward. he does not move or speak; his splay feet are firmly planted to support his bulk and his bicycle leans against the barbershop at his back. she mounts the curb, allowing herself to notice him. she forgets to take her eyes from his. they are more blue than she had thought. this time she does not run; she walks calmly away as though he means nothing to her. does he turn to watch 19 her go? she restrains herself rigidly, does not turn around, walks on as she had planned. she does not know what he sees in her eyes or what she might find in his. it is all part of the puzzle of life, of her parents, her sister, the others she sees around her who couple, quarrel, part or cling together in blind obedience to some instinct she will not recognize. she has kept her life tidy, ordered and empty by choice, her self pure and unviolated. it is too late now to throw open the door to any casual passerby. the days grow colder; october is nearly gone, the leaves have turned red and are falling, the robins have all gone south and the world is waiting to die. as she walks about the town, going and coming on her sensible errands, she watches for a man in a long gray coat, pushing his bicycle by his side. some day he will speak and i must answer. deeper than thought, the realization comes with the thud of doom. oh let him keep silent forever, she prays. she never sees him again. more weeks have passed; it is mid december and very cold. snow lies piled in heaps of dirty gray along the sidewalks and the wind is sharp as a knife. sitting solitary over her evening meal, she picks up a neatly folded newspaper and begins to read. the old man's face leaps out of the page at her and she staggers with the blow. he is dead. numb, she reads what others in the town had known of him. he was a colorful eccentric, a man who kept entirely to himself and saved his money for two sisters who live in shaky old age far away. the word "lonely" is not mentioned in the story. leaving the dirty dishes on the table she fumbles through her medicine cabinet until she finds a sleeping pill, and goes to bed. her last conscious thought is a memory of the old man's eyes, their blue gaze fixed on hers, in their depths some message she is unable to comprehend. the next morning she wakes and rises as usual, annoyed that she had been so untidy with her clean kitchen. she slides into routine as though this were only an ordinary day; she persuades herself that the weakness of the night before was a result of some slight illness, perhaps a touch of virus. the day continues; she smiles, speaks, takes dictation and says yes mr. porter in a sorrow-tinted daze that she tells herself is only feve.r. yet no one notices she is ill and the hours pass without comment or meaning until the day is ov~r. walking home from work she alters her habitual course, on an impulse, so that she walks along the street by the courthouse square. it has begun to snow; at the corner of the square she hesitates and then, not knowing why she must do so, crosses the wet black street through the softly falling flakes. the telephone booth is empty and there is a scattering of stale gray ashes on the shelf; beyond the door as she closes it the snow continues to come down like a thick white curtain. shivering, she searches out a dime and dials her sister's familiar number. waiting through the long rings at the other end of the line she yields at last to the booth's embrace and rests her cheek against its cold glass wall, staring out into the falling snow as she breathes in the lingering traces of tobacco and old spice, surprised to find that she is weeping. 20 excerpts and images ! . i. i !'\·. ' : :; ,.. 'l i 1 1 ! \ .,.\ ; t 1 ·' ?. ··::,~ t , ' ,• _../"";\ ~\ ~: r ' \', ~ i \f ' ,;1" excerpts and images\ \\,. ~ / i ' \\ \ \ i . •~·--·.... :,. ' . ......, r ,/ ./·\. \ \ ( : ! ·'· ;~ ' ·:.i ~ ~-,. ;. ~, ,:·,•..• ,.,.,., ••_\ \ 1>t l i f{/ '\''·-~,~. t/j.). ~ / :.: \ ~:i. ,f.x{ ,.. :: 1 \ ·11::;~j !.\. \.i:: \ j:\.\ (v.:. ; ~ '• 'i:'· , :\ '.. . '1, i, tv ' :-s ·-..::.'.;'i~r -~ 'j ; -.~ ' ~ !i ! i ... • 1:\f / i:: !i• ' ' !,,~'.-! ''):'-~ 1·\i',f·•t,r. '5'( ~(~ ~ .. :i.,: .. : ii ii: j;~. i ~ 1\;1 \\,i h \: t1l·\; ii .,ii,: vi t.r j\,; !j ;~. \\·.•.." steven new ·., f~\; :*··i ·.. ~ sometimes i feel like a head of hair too often teased brushed aside pulled out by my roots dyeing tangled with troubles curled up in happiness dressing fancily for special occasions ever set in old fashioned ways and styles carol brumer may i touch the spiral of color _ that spins sorrow like threads around and around and around your sleeping smile? jennifer johnson the february clown in tambourine rhythms of echoed laughter sprang lightly through the hoop of reason scattered the sensible stretches of surprise t. j. ransberger \\. .;; \ i am, i am and there' s no \; other way to put it; i'm just one small grain of sand upon an endless shore and nothing more. francie shaffer 24 