The Purple Patch - Missouri Valley College

The Purple Patch
A Literature and Art Journal
Volume XII
2011-2012
Editor
Tessa Belcher
Associate Editors
Flannery Crump
Robert Pannell
Ashley Sipala

The Purple Patch
A Literature and Art Journal
Volume XII
The Purple Patch is an annual not-for-profit publication
dedicated to readers, writers, and those who appreciate the arts.
Expenses associated with its publication are underwritten by
the Board of Trustees.
The Purple Patch is published annually by the Nu Epsilon
Chapter of Sigma Tau Delta located at Missouri Valley
College in Marshall, Missouri.
The Purple Patch is copyrighted but all prior rights and
all rights to new materials revert to the contributor after publication.
Contributors who are submitting previously published
materials to The Purple Patch for consideration must obtain and
supply copyright permission from their former publishers.
The Purple Patch disclaims any responsibility for the
contributers’ errors, mistakes, and failures to acknowledge
sources or copyright infringements.
Submissions, correspondence, and requests for guidelines
should be emailed to The Purple Patch at purplepatch@
moval.edu.
Manuscripts and art submitted to The Purple Patch must
be original and submitted in doc, rtf, pdf, or jpeg format or they
will not be opened or considered for publication.
NU EPSILON
Copyright © 2012 by Missouri Valley College
Marshall, Missouri.
2

Letter from the Editor . . .
As this year’s The Purple Patch comes to a close, I find writing
this simple letter one of the most difficult parts of my job. It means
my job is over, and although this is somewhat relieving, it is also bittersweet.
By no means was putting together this literature and arts
journal an easy task, but it was made much easier and enjoyable because
of all the help from my staff, the guidance of our faculty sponsor,
a friendly printing company, and the skilled and artistic submissions
this year.
To my staff, without your help, input, and many hours spent
working on The Purple Patch on your own and in room G-13 (where
we are on the list and allowed to be!), this edition wouldn’t be what it
is. I enjoyed my job as editor this year and a large part of that enjoyment
came from my staff and their hard work.
Without the help of our faculty sponsor, Dr. Eimers, I must
admit The Purple Patch might be riddled with a few mistakes that
even four very intelligent English majors didn’t catch. You’ve provided
the guidance and support our staff needed to make an exceptional
journal.
Our printing company, Colormark, has been a joy to work
with as well. Thank you for your fast responses and making our
exchanges always simple and friendly. Just like last year, Colormark
has really pulled through for us, and we appreciate that.
To all the students who took the time to send their submissions,
thank you. Unfortunately, there were many submissions that
had to be cut. However, the submissions were above and beyond this
year, and each person deserves some recognition.
Our hard work throughout the year has resulted in the 2011-
2012 edition of The Purple Patch, and I’m proud to be a part of it.
At this point, the only thing left to do is hand over the reigns to my
successors, Flannery Crump and Robert Pannell. I know you will do a
wonderful job and enjoy and learn from this experience as much as I
did.
Your Editor,
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Table of Contents
Poetry
“I Fall” by Molly Parsons 6
“Undressing” by Joshua Tag 7
“Clear View” by Lorin Blackburn 8
“Falling in Love” by Ashley Sipala 9
“Love and Life are Poisons” by Madeline Harrison 10
“Ironic” by Madeline Harrison 11
“Enemy” by Julie Jacobs 12
Short Stories and
Narrative Nonfiction
“The Fortuitous Plunge” by Timothy Johnson 14
“At Least You Hooked Him” by Todd Bracket 16
“Brother from Another Mother” by Joshua Kuttenkuler 20
“Beauty in the Sonoran” by Sydney M. Robb 23
“Forever Young” by Brett Edward Clause 26
“Disposable Generation” by Jessica Manjarrez 29
“The Power of a Place” by Chloe A. Lake 32
“Browning Road” by Blake Studer 35
“There and Back” by Jessica Manjarrez 37
“Taken Over” by Bradley Baker 40
“The Vault” by Tracy Bommer 44
“My Own Province” by Timothy Johnson 55
“A Single Word and a Promise” by Jessica E. Ulloa Martinez 59
4

Artwork
“Top O De Duomo” by Carly Eades 9
“She” by Bryanna Rex 13
“Enid Shores” by Brittney Faust 19
“Butterfly” by Sarah Christopherson 22
“Flower” by Dakota Day-Herrell 25
“Callie Jade” by Lauren Schweer 28
“Flag” by Geneva Looney 31
“Barn” by Sarah Christopherson 34
“A Flash from the Past” by Jacob Coleman 36
“County Love” by Calli Anderson 39
“Germany” by Bailey Yeater 53
“Italy Boy” by Carly Eades 54
“View” by Bryanna Rex 58
5

I Fall
I fall asleep to the romantic fantasies of my mind’s eye,
Knowing that when I wake it will have been for nothing.
I fall into the oblivion of dreams in the darkness,
Smiling in my sleep as peace breaks upon my restless soul.
I fall from the world
Where I don’t feel lost.
I fall into the day’s routine, masking everything from the
night before,
Hoping I won’t falter when something might show that I
am in too deep.
I fall away from the person who lived for tomorrow
To become a being who desires dreams that seem out of
reach.
I fall against solid reason,
Understanding the end is far.
I fall through life not realizing the weeks are passing by
Then I think back to find the walls closing in.
I fall into your arms and ignore the past creeping near
Within them I feel that I could be alright.
I fall into this feeling
Hoping not to fall fast.
6
-Molly Parsons

Undressing
Layers slowly come off,
Burdened heavily with rain
Slowly gliding to the carpet
All security lost as they plummet
Now completely exposed,
She shivers in a slight breeze
Bracing for the trial to come
Bound by things she cannot control
Falling asleep but barely awake
Praying to wake in time
The oak stands stark
Merciless comes winter
7
-Joshua Tag

Clear View
Wind in my hair.
Windows rolled down.
Music blaring, not caring, I’m still leaving.
Leaving this town.
Rearview mirror, smooth glass, no smudges, no cracks,
just a doorway to the past,
Holding in so much pain in the rectangular reflection.
The past, what was is no more, the boy, the town, the love.
I left him standing there without a glance back, he didn’t
see it coming.
He just stared ahead as the cloud of smoke disappeared
into the shadows.
The boy I left behind, the home I burnt down, memories
too hard to face.
My perfect life shattered.
Windshield, not so clear, one crack, a lot of wear and tear,
Uncertainties, beside the bright possibilities,
The future, what lies ahead on this road?
I don’t know where I’m going but somehow I keep the
wheels rolling.
8
-Lorin Blackburn

Falling in Love
My name is Humpty Dumpty.
Around my heart, I built a great wall.
One day I sat atop it,
and fell far too fast, too hard.
Every day since,
the King’s horses and men
have tried in vain
to put shattered pieces of me
back together again.
9
-Ashley Sipala
“Top O De Duomo” by Carly Eades

Love and Life are Poisons
Love is to life but both are poisons to us.
I say this to all of you
because it is true.
While both can bring happiness and truth
it can also bring sadness and death.
Love and Life are what makes everything continue.
Without one, you cannot have the other
but both are needed to balance the other half.
So while we enjoy both these things,
One should be aware that both are poisons
that only kill in the end.
You can think I’m nuts for thinking this,
but if you think about it what I say is true.
Love and Life are poisons
so that means that the loves in our lives
and our life itself are only but a poison that slowly kills us
in the end.
So in essence both are parasites
but if both are balancing and work out
then that parasite is worth your slow death.
I say this to everyone out there.
From whether you’re alone but continue to live on,
To couples who love and thrive together,
We all are poisons to one another but in order to live
we must balance our poison to ensure life together for as
long as you would want.
10
-Madeline Harrison

Ironic
Ironic isn’t it.
That I get irritated, frustrated and extremely bored and
pissed off when I am stuck at home with nothing to do.
However, today I feel at peace and happy, that I don’t mind
welcoming this loneliness. In fact I quite enjoy its company.
Though I am sure it’s just a fleeting phase that will pass
sooner or later. Somehow I feel like I have a deep rooted
hatred and anger towards someone yet I know not why.... I
feel that it is a good thing I do not know and yet I hate not
knowing why I feel such a thing. I loathe it. Irony comes
with contradictions both to which I love but in this case,
I despise it.
11
-Madeline Harrison

Enemy
So many mistakes,
That can’t be undone.
So many fights,
I only wish I’d won.
My own worst enemy
Is right there,
Inside of me.
Perfect is something I’ll never be
And she’s always right here
To constantly remind me.
The pain she brings
Is kept deep inside
From the rest of the world,
This I can hide.
If they would only look and see
Then they would surely
Somehow, think less of me.
If only they would know
That this feeling
I can’t seem to let go.
The battles fought
Have been hard and extreme
But as young as she is
You couldn’t guess what she’s seen.
The person she is
Should be all that I’m not,
But the similarities
Are some you wouldn’t have thought.
I’m so afraid of being just like her,
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Knowing we’re already the same
Scares me even more.
13
-Julie Jacobs
“She” by Bryanna Rex

The Fortuitous Plunge
by Timothy Johnson
I remember feeling pressure: pressure from the narrow
walls, from the narrow trailer, from the narrow town.
Gloom seemed to constrict whatever fell under its looming
shadow. This was not home. I felt like Ishmael, cast out
to seek my own path. But where was it? Could I find it?
Naturally, I had to leave from this incommodious dwelling.
Either something could happen or not.
As I walked out the door I was struck by the dryness.
My surroundings were empty. The air was meaningless.
The only motion came from the dark clouds accumulating
in the south. I was sure they had always been there.
I wandered hither and thither, aimless. Parched mouth.
Parched soul. Hours passed before I decided to sit down.
I was within the sterile boundaries of the town, but not a
familiar area.
As I sat, possible activities that I knew I would not
perform fluttered in my brain. Suddenly, a putrid smell
wafted beneath my nostrils. I looked around quickly,
detected nothing. Leaning back, I latched my eyes on the
insipid, oatmeal-azure sky. This is when I descried a black
bird in the distance making its way from obscurity—a
crow perhaps.
Gradually, it was heading in my direction. I kept
my eyes focused on it like the camera of an ardent documentarian.
Such a swift and portentous creature roused
all my curiosity. As it neared it flapped its wings and flew
over me, dipping behind a building to my left. I soon
hastened—I felt I hadn’t any choice but to follow it. Down
an alleyway I flew, swift as a shadow, hoping to find it.
Abruptly, rain came gushing down. I no longer saw it
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above. Minutes later I discovered the bird standing unperturbed,
voraciously pecking at dead flesh.
Behind the bird was an old, faded olive building
that drew little attention. The bird didn’t matter anymore.
What could I have done anyway? I hurried in because a
door was open. A desk was to my immediate right upon
entering, but no courteous fellow to greet my arrival.
Looking closer, a squat, middle-aged man with chalky hair
sat at a computer below the counter, walled in by books.
He didn’t seem to notice me, so I walked on.
Heavy, moldy molecules were diffused throughout.
I was soon rendered speechless by the massive shelves
cluttered with innumerable books. I was sure the store was
breaking some fire code, for abundant stacks were everywhere.
Books that had been abandoned. Books that had
been forgotten. It was fertile with everlasting ideas. I took
my time perusing the shelves, looking for nothing in particular.
Whether it was just for shelter or some unknown
intangible attraction, I lingered. Outside, the rain was not
departing, retaining me within the learned refuge. I pulled
one of the dusty volumes down and began to read.
That the was beginning of a pure, unquenchable
desire to know. Over time, I consistently visited the place,
gaining pleasure by just browsing. The books emitted a
musty perfume that cast me into a trance: time was relative
to me no longer, only the words. Fortunately, the store
wasn’t very conspicuous. Visitors rarely came, as if the
public regarded it as antediluvian—possessing ideas with
no modern application. I was a submarine surveying its
oceanic depths, discovering literary wealth the further I
sank. To not read now would be to deprive myself of cognitive
nourishment. You are what you read, so be sure to
chew carefully.
15

At Least You Hooked Him
by Todd Bracket
“Ya, I was an athlete once,” Grandpa said, continuing
our earlier conversation. “I never played on a team but
I would play with my buddies,” he carried on.
“Which sport did you play?” I asked curiously.
“Basketball,” he replied with a slight smile on his
face, “and you bet your life I could jump with the best of
them.”
Grandpa likes talking about athletics, having started
this conversation directly after talking about my wrestling.
He was always interested in both my accomplishments and
my failures. And today would be filled with both because
we had just lowered our john boat onto the foggy waters of
our favorite lake, with the sun just peeking over the hills.
You never know how a day of bass fishing will go.
“Start her up,” he said. He was excited to get on the
water. So I did just that, starting up the engine and heading
down the lake.
“That’s good.” said Grandpa, as we arrive at the first
spot of the day. We grab our fishing rods and start casting
towards the brushy bank.
“Were you any good?” I asked.
“Well, I wasn’t anything special, but I would have
to say I was pretty decent,” he replied as he focused on the
tiny vibrations in the fishing line. Both of us, in fact, were
waiting on that distinct “head shake” of a largemouth bass.
“There’s one!” he said. At the same time, he set the
hook deep into the fish’s lip and rocked the boat.
“You need the net?” I asked in excitement.
“Na, it’s a slot” he said. This is always slightly disap-
16

pointing because a slot fish is between 12 and 15 inches
that must be released in the lakes we fish. But just the thrill
of battling a fish keeps us going time and time again. We
continue down the bank and go awhile without a sign of
any activity.
“Let’s head on up,” Grandpa said. So I started up the
engine and we headed to our next destination.
“That’s good,” he said as we pull up to the dam, one
of our favorite spots. We set up and continued our conversation.
“Could you dunk?” I asked him, considering he
might have enough height to be able to.
“Well I could get the ball on top of the rim, but
I could never quite dunk it,” he replied, knowing that it
would bother me to know he was that close.
My Grandpa and I have never been able to accept
failure. We have always tried to prove people wrong,
whether it be him being able to walk again, or me beating
state champions at my wrestling tournaments.
“There’s one!” he squealed out of nowhere, but
quickly saw in his rod that he had missed the fish, slack
coming to his line almost instantly.
“Good bite?” I asked him, always wondering how
aggressively the fish attacked the lure.
“Just a pecker.”
He would always say that. Peckers are the worst
bites, considering they are the weakest vibrations. Weak
vibrations meant the fish either barely struck the lure or it
was a bluegill impersonating a bass, so we continued down
the bank.
After about 25 minutes we discovered a fallen tree
in the water. This is always an encouraging sign because
fish tend to hide in cover. Grandpa tossed his plastic worm
17

over in the main fork of the tree, and almost instantly, got
a bit. He didn’t have enough time to even warn me about
the hook set. I quickly turned my head in his direction,
only to see a disappointing slack in his line.
“Throw over there real quick,” he told me as he began
to fix his worm.
I did just that, and I, too, felt a quick bite. I set the
hook as hard as I could and felt the instant pressure of a
largemouth fighting at the end of my rod. It was my first
fish of the day, but I could instantly tell that this might just
be the catch of the year for us.
“Need the net?” Grandpa asked.
“Ya, I think so!” I managed to get out, almost
sounding like I was in pain.
I fight the fish left, then right. I can feel its every
movement. I feel him move deeper into the dark water,
and in the blink of an eye, he’s heading towards the surface
again. I dig my pole deep into the water, knowing that allowing
the fish to jump could possibly result in losing it all
together.
“Don’t let him throw it!” Grandpa yelled.
I felt the fish retreat to the deep water, but it caught
me off guard and headed towards the surface once again.
He jumped and threw my hook into the water beneath
him. Completely in awe at the pure size of the fish, I put
my head down in shame.
“That was at least a seven, eight-pounder,” Grandpa
said with a smile.
“Ya, well we’ll never know now,” I said, irritated
with myself for allowing the monster bass to get away.
“Well at least you hooked him,” Grandpa said. “That
could have have been the same fish I just missed.”
I cracked a little smile, and we headed down the
18

ank, tossing our lures at every obstacle in our path.
19
“Enid Shores” by Brittney Faust

Brother from Another Mother
by Joshua Kuttenkuler
Corduroy pants, a pink long-sleeved shirt, innocently
confident demeanor, must be a total pansy. A fool’s
opinion I would have thought, if only I knew what I know
now about Randy Johnson. He arm-wrestled with every
man who challenged him that day and won, every time.
It was only later in life that I learned of his secret history,
experiences he had hidden from even his mother, as a
teenager involved in fighting clubs, where he had fought,
and sometimes won, both for money and simply for fame.
Fortune smiled on me that day. Many lads our age would
have tried my jaw on a knuckle sandwich for that insult,
but he simply laughed and offered a handshake.
While I lacked in social grace that day, Randy was
hiding a veritable Achilles heel when it came to insight and
planning. I became his close friend during my vacations,
helping with his dad’s daycare. As we endured the demonic
screams of our infantile tormentors, we drowned out the
noise by sharing tales. We shared the memories of parents
trying their best to distill through love, the way to live in
a world far removed from it. Understated, our weaknesses
were. We bonded over this challenge, and like two trees defending
the other from a harsh storm, we peered forward
through the dim light to see our adulthood. Sharing our
experience and insight, forming strategies in the tranquility
of silent nights, and supporting each other whether in
victory or defeat. In our unique way, we fought and fight
to succeed in life while influencing and encouraging each
other.
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With the trials of proper manhood still to materialize
before me, in the beginning I had little to guide me:
naïveness, careless optimism, and little else besides a deep
love for philosophy. Freshly out of my mother’s tender
care, a mildly autistic, homeschooled gentleman scholar
slash witless farm boy, I made a strange presence to quite
a few, confusing, irritating, even infuriating a few of them.
However, I never despaired or lost my drive to succeed;
this thanks to a stoic temperament he had helped to distill
in me, even from the beginning of his influence.
Casually, even callously, like bags of groceries,
Randy spent these formative years smoothly stoking fires
in the hearts of young women who passed between his
hands. Inside his heart, though, he was desperately walking
this wanton path to futilely search for the unmentionable
brand of love that once had seared him, and would eventually
cauterize me, before it again vanished into the mist. I,
too, failed to charm this golden opiate of first love, but that
bitter cloud of shattered dreams lost seeded a diamond of
memories and morose tenacity—tenacity that enabled me
to divert his energies from self-destructive womanizing
into building the character of the capable husband and
father he is today.
Now, as a reward for my struggles, I am a single, independent,
confident young man, far more educated than
he has ever dreamed of being. Today, I prepare to walk a
path his footsteps have long since evaporated from, even
as he, with two children and middle age looming just a few
decades from now, prepares to walk the path I have strode.
I realize, silently gazing over the nighttime lights glowing
in the valleys before me, a pang of remorse, longing, vivid
desire to once more, someday, be able to walk beside him.
A brother from another mother as none has ever been,
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one who echoed the epic of my soul since the time he entered
this world, as he influenced me, I him, and the earth
thundered beneath our feet. The glow of the sun, as in awe,
illuminating a long gone waking realm of infinite potential.
22
“Butterfly” by Sarah Christopherson

Beauty in the Sonoran
by Sydney M. Robb
I grew up in the foothills of the Rincon Mountains,
located in the Sonoran desert. From the age of four up
until my freshman year I resided in my step-father’s adobe
home, isolated from the hustle and bustle of city life. His
home was unique from any other house I had ever seen.
The roof was outlined in collected saguaro ribs and along
the outside walls were massive windows, proceeding one
after another. It was my private observatory. From my
bedroom I often watched deer lope across hills and mother
bobcats navigate their babies across the extensive lands.
In the winter the desert looked dry, like the smallest
touch could crumble the leaves upon mesquite, or
patches of wild grass would become a cloud of dust with
the slightest disturbance. It was the summer that was my
favorite time of year, though. By then the condition of
the Sonoran desert would change: winds shifted and the
monsoon storms pushed through the foothills, bringing a
heavy downpour of rain and lightning that would light up
the sky. In such a calm environment, these storms brought
a violent and alluring nature to the landscape. Quite often
the roads would flood and streams would pore over and
create new ravines. As a child I always wanted to play in
the water, and always my mother would tell me no. Most
times I’d obey her, but every now and then, when her back
was turned, I would sneak out the front door onto the
patio. Even now when I think back, there is still a natural
intimacy about standing in the heavy rain: to feel the
downpour of cool water as it soaks your clothes and
23

caresses your skin. In that moment you appreciate the
beauty of desert life.
You see this massive storm flood what is dry and
withered and soon make it lush and green. It became an
endless
rolling sea of mesquite, ocotillo, and Palo Verde.
Of all the Sonora plant life, the most majestic were
the saguaros. It amazed me how a plant so rare, so unique,
so alien, could be so abundant in one area. Their bodies
would tower over all before it and its shadow would engulf
everything in its path. They were majestic; they were wise.
They had seen their land grow, and die, before them. These
organisms lived well before my mother and grandmother,
and they will outlive me and future kin, like a God of the
desert overlooking all. I liked to stand before them and
ponder the ages they had seen and hope to have a life as
long and full as theirs.
Often, when I was mad or upset, or if I just needed
to be by myself, I would wander out into the lush desert.
The hills would ascend at nearly vertical levels and descend
in the same manner. I would tackle hill upon hill
until I reached the gentle, downward slope of the dirt
road, descending into the vast wilderness. On occasion I
would run across a rattlesnake. My heart would pound in
my chest as I heard its tail rattle in warning. Too close, it
would say. You are too close. The dry heat hugged my body
and the sun kissed me warmly on my skin as I pondered
life and meaning.
Often I would turn and admire the Rincon Mountains
and how close they seemed, like they were just within
reach. They contrasted with the desert on such a thin line.
At their base stood diverse varieties of cacti and mesquite,
desert flowers bloomed atop the ocotillos and saguaros
24

in decadent white, pink, and yellow. Then, slightly farther
up, you could see thick forest decorated in pine and
spruce. When I felt overwhelmed it was the variety of
scenery, the towering saguaros, the arduous mountains,
and the vast, open sky that reminded me—these problems
I let control my life were small and insignificant in contrast
to the beauty of everything else.
I would breathe in the clean Southern Arizona air
and listen to the calm of the desert, and when the sun hit
the edge of the mountains and projected bright oranges
and pinks across the sky, I would begin my descent home
with a clear mind and a renewed joy of beauty in life.
25
“Flower” by Dakota Day-Herrell

Forever Young
by Brett Edward Clause
There has always been something that bothers me
about rest homes. I think it is that combination of the classic
“old people” smell and seeing elderly men and women
living out their final and fleeting moments of life in a “safe
and wonderful place.” If my children ever think about
ushering me into one of those, I will disown them. At a
recent visit to my great grandmother’s rest home facility, I
could feel that uneasiness creeping up inside me. I pushed
through it and entered to find my grandmother sitting in
her chair looking out of the window, her stocking hat covering
her thinning hair. I looked and realized that no one
knows that she exists. Apart from her family and friends,
the world will never know of Blanch Forbes. I guess I’m
writing to change that.
I have had the privilege to love many grandparents
and great grandparents during my life. All of them have
contributed to my life in some way or another and I can
never repay them. Two of these individuals that come to
mind are my two great grandmothers on my mother’s side.
I speak of these two because they both lived for almost a
century. They are my Grandma Carter and my Grandma
Forbes. Grandma Carter was quiet and very sick up until
the day she passed away in her nineties. I remember—with
much difficulty, as I was very young—the house she lived
in on the gravel back roads of Saline County. Running
around playing hide and seek or daring my cousin Carter
to open the storm cellar to explore for “monsters” were just
some of the adventures we had on her farm. Those
26

memories are like old friends that drift in and out of my
mind and remind me of the wonders of being a child. She
finished out her long life in an elderly community. Being
young, I never knew much of her past. I knew she was a
teacher and a very hard-working farm wife.
The other woman in my life who has stood the test
of time is my great grandmother Blanch Forbes—or the
family’s term of endearment: Granny. We are pleased that
she is still alive and I remember sitting down with her
many times, provoking her to remember anything from
her past. I assume if I lived to be 107 I wouldn’t remember
a damn thing either. As a history major, I foam at the
mouth for stories of the Great War and the turbulent sixties.
She is a dwarf compared to my six-foot frame—and
boy, does that woman have a gift for cooking. Her home
was always fragrant with some tasty delights and she lived
only a few miles down Interstate 70 in the neighboring
town of Sweet Springs. I remember driving to her house
with the green painted siding and the old television antennae,
big enough to climb. I remember playing touch football
and, again, hide and seek. I remember eating holiday
meals there and trying on her wigs as a joke. These are
memories that define me and are plentiful. She has left
that home and now is in a rest home in Marshall, and my
extended family visits often. I wish I could see past her
tired pupils into her mind’s eye and watch her life as a reel
of film, starting off in black and white and moving to color
when it was introduced in the fifties. To see the March on
Washington and the assassination of JFK would have been
unforgettable.
My family, both my mother’s and father’s side, is
filled with people I have modeled my life after. My resemblance
to my mother’s family with Papa Edward and my
27

grandmother Bobbie is scary at times. My humor and
personality is from my father’s side with Grandma Joyce
and Grandpa Roy. It makes me wonder if I will live to
see myself in my grandchildren. I wonder what my great
grandchildren will ask me. Will it be about where I was on
September 11 or the riots on Wall Street? I wonder what
awesome or maybe even terrible things are to come in my
lifetime. Will my future grandchildren ask me with wonder
and awe of Lady Gaga? Or will they just sit with their
iPhone 10 and play games? I have learned in my short time
here on earth that human beings strive to achieve one goal:
It is not to be rich or famous or powerful. It is to be remembered.
The fame, money, and status are just by-products
of pursuing lasting remembrance. I think my grandparents—along
with myself and the rest of the world—just
want the simple act of other’s acknowledgement that they
lived. So I write about their long and treasured lives so
they will be a forever and lasting memory. This is their
legacy. This is my way of helping them say, “I lived.”
28
“Callie Jade” by Lauren Schweer

Disposable Generation
by Jessica Manjarrez
Everyday, for one year, I watch the leaves slowly
change to reveal the seasons. My job as the carrier of medicine
never varies until I am assigned the nursing home.
After class I quickly slip into one of my four brightly
colored uniforms and drive the short three blocks to work.
I saunter into the little shop whose shelves are lined with
pills that promise to cure your disease. The array of pill
bottles reach from the ceiling to the floor and span the
entire building. The smell of leftover garlic pizza crust
and musty air fill my nose. My three female co-workers
greet me with enthusiasm and are happy to fill me in on
all the ornery customers. Hesitantly, I close the conversation,
knowing in the back of my mind where I have to go.
My brown Converse sneakers feel as though they are filled
with cement as I drag my feet out of the store with apprehension;
the nursing home awaits my arrival.
The ominous brick structure is situated behind
the main hospital buildings. It is tucked away like a dirty
secret. A few sparse shrubs are placed systematically to
make it seem as if life flourishes in this desolate place. An
illusion to the unsuspecting. I am wise to their trickery.
I know this place is a death sentence and the staff is the
executioner. They over diagnose and misdiagnosis in order
to pump their naive patient’s guts full of concoctions. Otherwise
the patients would realize the truth of their situation.
Death is always looming.
4628 is the security code that allows me access into
the building. My fingers are so attuned to this sequence
29

that I don’t have to think about it. I take a deep breath to
calm my jittery nerves and fill my lungs with the crisp air
before I enter. As soon as I open the door, I am hit with the
smell of bleach and cleaning chemicals. The scent burns
my nostrils and I blink hard to keep my eyes from watering.
I know if I inhale deeply I am sure to choke.
I notice the place is designed as a star. The nurses’
station is the center and each leg leads to a hall of discarded
people. All eyes are glaring at me and not one nurse
cracks a smile. My heart races and my palms are full of
sweat as I ask the bulky, red-haired nurse where the patient
resides. Her subordinates stop working to listen in.
With one snarl and a wave of her hand, they disperse.
She locks her dark brown eyes into mine, sending
chills through my body. She looms over me as she forces a
map into my hand and shoves me in the right direction. I
feel her eyes burning into my back.
I am a frightened tiny mouse trapped in a corner
by the ferocious saber-toothed cat. I gaze down the long
hallway to flee. The fluorescent lights that hang above me
are so bright I have to squint. A cold breeze wraps itself
around me and I take the first step down the hall. Timidly,
I crane my neck and peer into rooms. The shades are
drawn and darkness has taken over, the sound of artificial
breathing spreads throughout the hall, and then I see the
silver number 103. My imagination is reeling with all that
will befall me once I enter. My heart pounds so hard I
think it may explode. I step in.
This cell belongs to an eighty-year-old woman, who
is no longer a human but a shell. Her arthritic body is
twisted. Her glassy gray eyes look straight through me. She
eats the baby-like food when commanded, drinks when
the straw is forced to her lips, and swallows the pills. This
30

is the life that this devoted mother is given after her children
decide she is a burden.
I stammer and trip over my own feet trying to leave.
The horror I imagined was nothing compared to the reality.
Tears stream down my face as I run past the red-haired
nurse, out the door, and into the safety of my white Chevrolet
Aveo.
With one last glimpse back I realize that society’s
empathy is dead.
31
“Flag” by Geneva Looney

The Power of a Place
by Chloe A. Lake
There is a place where you can go and all your
problems go away. From the moment you enter, a smile of
contentment covers your face and all of life’s questions are
answered. All you have to worry about is how dirty your
clothes are going to get by the time you leave. In this place,
your best friend is not a person, it is a horse. Your favorite
perfume is not Chanel Number Five, your favorite aftershave
is not Old Spice, but rather the wonderful aroma of
alfalfa hay and the earthy scent of freshly cleaned stalls. In
this barn, you discover more about yourself than you could
ever imagine.
The drive to the barn is long, but from the moment
you pull up to it pure happiness kicks in and you feel
wanted. The drive was worth it. Walking in through the big
wooden doors and looking straight down the center aisle,
the first things you see are the heads of the beautiful horses
looking out of their stalls with their ears straight forward
and their big bright eyes looking at you. They are all nickering
gently and saying hello. All you can do is just smile.
You drag your boots in the dirt as you walk between the
row of stalls petting and saying hello to each of the horses
until you get to yours. You can clearly see that your horse
is just as excited to see you as you are to see him and this
makes your day that much better.
You unlock the rusted latch on his stall and greet
him with a hug that you want to last forever. Then you tell
him all the things that have happened since you saw him
yesterday. Only his eyes seem to respond to what you are
32

saying, but you know he is listening. In his own way, he
will help you when you need it most. A horse truly is your
best friend. Your horse brings you comfort when all you
want to do is cry. Your horse calmly listens when you just
want to complain. And most of all, your horse will never
leave you just because of a fight. Your horse will love you
unconditionally.
Now you get all tacked up in your Billy Cook barrel
saddle with the matching bridle and reins and you’re ready
to ride. The ride lasts for hours because you are working on
new things and trying to improve your time. You’re feeling
every little movement he makes and he is responding to
every little touch and every little squeeze you command.
You move as one body and your ride is consistent and
peaceful, just like the wind that blows through the trees in
the field. As the ride comes to an end you lean down and
hug your horse’s sweating neck. You feel every deep breath
he takes while you hold him and thank him for the great
ride the two of you just had.
After the ride you’re still not done. You get to stay
in this wonderful place a little longer. It is time to cool
him down, clean him up and get him a long wet drink.
Water directly from the hose is cold, so you rinse him off
gradually starting with his legs until he catches his breath.
As you move to the rest of his body, you wipe off all the
dirt and sweat until he is perfectly clean. Meanwhile, he
is having a snack of grass before he goes back to his stall.
When you are done hosing him down, you take a step back
and you see something. You see the wind slightly blowing
through his mane and his tail and the sun is shining off his
clean wet coat. It is a sight to see and something you will
never forget.
You walk back to the stall with your horse following
33

close behind you. Once in the stall you say your last good
bye. He nuzzles his head into your chest while you tell him
how much you love him. He does not want you to leave
and neither do you. You give him some of his favorite little
white and red peppermints and you kiss him on his nose.
As you walk back through the barn, your horse goes right
back to the spot where he was when you first arrived. His
ears are again straight-forward and he is bright eyed as he
watches you walk away. Those wonderful eyes follow you
until you are out of sight through the closed sliding doors.
Then you walk back to your truck and head back down the
road towards home. As you drive, you are reminiscing and
hoping that tomorrow at the barn will be as great as today.
34
“Barn” by Sarah Christopherson

Browning Road
by Blake Studer
I catch myself staring in the rearview mirror at the
plume of white smoke following my car. The fog of memories
envelops me until I can’t feel the constant bumping of
gravel underneath my tires. I reminisce about the times my
father took me along this road at the break of dawn to go
fishing. I stared at the smoke back then as well, sometimes
getting lost in it and completely ignoring my old man.
In the present, I snap myself back into reality. “I still
have a ways to drive,” I tell myself. “When I get there I can
think.”
Once I pass the Greenwood Cemetery, I crank my
wheel to the left and arrive. My “happy place” isn’t really
a single place, instead it’s more of a long winding road.
A place where I can go to think, or even better, not think
about anything at all. Browning Road has always been my
little secret, my own slice of calm and peace whenever I
need to “lose” myself for hours and not even know it. Trees
arch over each side to provide an eternal shade that mostly
covers the road. Where there are occasional breaks in the
barrier of trees, streaks of bright, luminescent sunlight
highlight the bumps and cracks of the old, paved road.
The only sounds come from my radio, usually whispering
tunes of Mumford & Sons or Manchester Orchestra
to add a peaceful ambiance for the journey, and my
thoughts.
It doesn’t matter what I have to think about, nor
does it matter what I have to get away from. When I can’t
fix some situations by myself, that’s when I go to Browning.
35

For whatever situation, Browning always has the answer
for me. I don’t know where my answers come from, maybe
from the trees, or possibly the road itself.
Sometimes, I don’t need a reason to drive. I may
just be in a good mood with some time to kill and a lot
of gas to waste. Maybe the best part of Browning is that
nobody else goes there. It may seem selfish, but I only want
it to be special to me. If others find out where this secluded
road is, maybe its magic will wear off. Maybe, it won’t be
there for me anymore.
Maybe, it just might turn into another overused
Missouri road, with too many potholes.
PHOTO
“A Flash from the Past” by Jacob Coleman
36

There and Back
by Jessica Manjarrez
I am sitting in Friday evening services, listening to
the Hassan lead the group in prayer and singing, and my
eyes begin to scan the congregates. I see the elderly couples
holding hands, the family of four, and the wife of the Hassan.
These people are no different than me. They are made
of flesh and bone; their blood is pumping through their
veins just like me. These people before me are survivors
and descendants of survivors. They have suffered horrendous
crimes against them. My mind wanders and I find
myself transported to the Holocaust.
My family, there are four of us, is told to leave our
possessions behind and get in line. We are each handed
a passport. Within this passport are a picture and a story.
For the next three hours we will become the photographs.
An invisible veil of oppression is brought down on my being
and I walk slowly towards the railcar that is to start my
journey.
My eyes rest upon the railcar that transported so
many Jewish families to their deaths. It is small and unkempt.
Myself and all the others on the journey step inside
and we are surrounded with stories of cruelty. I see how
humans are smashed together with no amenities. These
people are forced to defecate on one another and to throw
the corpses of strangers and loved ones out when their
bodies pass out of this world to make more room in the
railcar. All of us experiencing this are overtaken by grief
and begin to weep as if we can ease the suffering. As my
turn on the railcar comes to a close I step out of the railcar
37

only to be shocked by what I see: boxes that reach from the
floor to the ceiling full of personal belongings.
The wooden boxes in front of me are made of thin
brown wood. These holding boxes are made to ridicule
all those who gaze upon them. This is the place where so
many humans lose their last hope of identity. Nothing is
safe from inspection. Gold fillings, children’s toys, hairbrushes,
shoes, and clothes fill the bins. I scan the walls
where I learn how many thousands of belongings are actually
taken and how, after being stripped naked, families are
lined up, split up, and marched towards impending doom.
Fear grips my heart and anger pulsates through my body
as I learn what comes next for so many in the possession of
Dr. Josef Mengele.
There are hundreds of eyes staring at me from every
direction. Most of these big eyes belong to children. Their
eyes are pleading and hollow. Some have desperate hope
while others are sure of their fate. Inside I am a web of
twists and turns. I am helpless. I gaze down into the glass
where I read about the fates of children. I am confronted
with starved, deformed bodies that have been sliced and
sewn back together as if Mengele is trying to create monsters.
Across the room I spy a replica of the operating table
where so many children have chemicals injected into their
eyes in order to change their color. It is a cold slab of concrete
with straps that welcome death.
The crematorium that stands before me is metal
with a small door and a pull out table to lay a body on; it is
impending danger. The secrets it holds I cannot bear. After
they died they are burned to ash. Their lives, meaningless.
I wept with all these tortured souls. The manner in which
the lives it consumed died is etched in my mind.
I cannot handle the burden my heart feels any
38

longer in this place and escape comes quickly. My tour
ends physically but my mind feels oppression and sorrow. I
can not change any lives but I am a survivor.
I look at my Jewish friends with hope that I am
worthy enough to share a meal with such admirable people.
“County Love” by Calli Anderson
39

Taken Over
by Bradley Baker
Everything is clear to me now. It was no war. Saying
it’s a war implies that both parties had a fair chance at winning.
If it was a war, then it was one we could have never
won.
I slowly and cautiously push aside corpse after
corpse as I crawl away from the skirmish, trying desperately
not to be spotted. Finally, I free myself and stand up. The
horror my eyes catch nearly throws me right back down.
Blood is everywhere. It is the lifeblood of my people. What
I see is horrendous, but for reasons unclear to me, I cannot
look away. Several weeks of constant bloodshed transformed
a once beautiful meadow into a putrid field of rotting
flesh. I gaze over at a river once revered for its purity,
now a river of the deepest red.
Looking down at my side, I watch as a steady
stream of dark liquid flows from me. I’d been stabbed,
but when had it happened? Not once had I felt a blade
pierce my skin. No sharp pain had erupted. No pain at all.
Shouldn’t I be feeling something? In fact, I feel no pain at
all. A sudden rush of sheer tranquility hits me as I hear
a voice in my head whisper, “All will be well.” As I begin
to feel my life slowly begin to slip away, out of my grasp,
more words come to me: “You will not escape this war. Tell
them your story …” Overcoming my nearly lifelong fear of
death, I shoulder my pack and begin walking.
It was a war we never could have won.
I’ll never forget my first week in battle. It was the
first time I had witnessed such immense bloodshed. Unaccustomed
to the hardships of war, I vomited for hours.
40

Everyone I knew was dying before my very eyes. My brother,
the leader of the rebellion, watched as I fled the fray to
grab the corpse of my best friend, intending to grant him
the proper burial he had earned. After several moments, he
finally found an opportunity to walk up to me. By the time
he came to me, I was crying uncontrollably, dragging the
lifeless body of my childhood friend. He stopped me and
quietly, but forcefully said, “Leave him. There’s no time for
this.”
“But … he … this isn’t right, Lars,” I whispered between
sobs. “… he deserves better …”
Hours later I watched as a small group of birds
landed near his fresh corpse. For quite a while they nervously
hopped around, waiting for us to carry on. Then the
feast began. I watched as the bodies of my closest friends,
men and women I had grown up with, were slowly devoured
by a great variety of scavengers. Angered beyond
reason, I flew into an uncontrollable fit of rage and lunged
with my blade at the closest bird, only to have it fly to
another rotting corpse. This was an effort I repeated countless
times, but to no avail.
Back once again to the present, I notice that I am
the last man standing, the last of my people. I drop my
blood-stained sword and begin to leave the battlefield. As
I stumble over the corpse of my once brave and powerful
brother, the last hope our rebellion had, my mind once
again reverts to the past and I recall the brief conversation
we had had that morning. Once prepared for the day’s
onslaught, he began berating me for always shirking battle.
“You must have anger, brother! Is this not so?” He
asked me, growing impatient.
“Yes, but I also have fear. It prevents me from acting
upon my anger.” And as I remind him of this, he strides
41

away.
His last words to me were not intended for me to
hear, but nonetheless I heard them. “Damn fool …” He
trailed off, never again to speak to me. I took his last words
to heart and began that day, our last day, with a renewed
vigor. I wanted to prove I was no fool.
It was all too little, too late.
I then think back to when this had all begun, back
before the “peaceful invasion” and our inevitable enslavement.
It was a time almost five years before I was born.
We once had the planet Terran all to ourselves.
After many years of war and poverty, my ancestors had
agreed that we would live as brothers and sisters in peace.
And it worked. As a people we prospered and slowly Terran
became a land free from tyranny, free from rule. Then,
during a mighty storm nearly twenty years ago, a great
flying ship arrived. Out of it came a race of people far advanced
from my own.
A promise was made by a king, King Ysmault.
Ysmault proclaimed that he’d come in peace and promised
to live in harmony. He told of a civilization on a planet a
great distance from Terran. Even after a mighty struggle
to save their home world, it had been destroyed. The cause
was never revealed, however. Predicting the worst, a small
evacuation had been successfully orchestrated. Narrowly
escaping extinction, they sought out a planet with inhabitants
as similar in physiology and development as possible.
The task was difficult and took many decades, but eventually,
and unfortunately, they found Terran.
Due to their advanced technology, the people of
my planet were enamored, and soon Ysmault proclaimed
himself King. Months passed and overtime my people
became aware of his true intentions. He’d had no desire to
42

live among us as equals. Instead, he’d expected my people
to worship him. My people, the true natives of this planet,
became subclass. There were many attempts to revolt, but
eventually, and discreetly, they were silenced. The years
passed and the natives became little more than slaves,
forced to help him build his empire.
Since before I was born, my people trained in total
secrecy. They believed that this corrupt new Empire was
weak, that we could beat them if we all worked together.
Swords were forged and strategies were planned. Men,
women, and children all trained for the war we would one
day wage on the Tyrants who had enslaved us. Hiding in
plain sight, we slowly prepared for a war we could never
win.
Back again to the present, I finally escape that field
of death and sorrow. As I make my way up a hill, I look
around. Behind me, I watch as my enemies methodically
search the piles of corpses, checking for survivors. They
find a few straglers and finish them off as well. Someone
spots me and I proceed onward, ignoring the screams of
agony. In the distance I spot the cave I had played in when
I was very young. As I crawl through its narrow opening, I
laugh to myself; how very fitting that this will be my tomb.
I take out my two most prized possessions, my notebook
and pen, and begin to write my story.
Written in the language of my conquerors, I leave
this message not for my people, but rather for those that
have robbed me of my rightful home. Sadly, I am the last
of my people. My dying wish is that someone will read this
and usher in a change. Hopefully this tragedy will not be
for nothing.
But for now it is over. The Humans have won.
43

The Vault
by Tracy Bommer
As David Roberts leaned back in the chair, putting
his feet up on the desk and interlocking his hands behind
his head, Paul Jensen thought to himself: “You’ve gotta be
kidding me.” All Roberts needed was a half-smoked cigarette
jutting out of his mouth, and he could have passed
for one of those arrogant police chiefs you would see in an
old-time movie. You know, one of those smug-faced bastards
who thought he knew it all, but couldn’t find a clue
if he stumbled over it walking down the street. But due to
the fact that he desperately needed the job, Jensen wisely
decided to keep his thoughts to himself.
Roberts went on explaining the duties and responsibilities
of the file clerk position Jensen was being offered—
the same position that had got him started at Stockton
Brokerage five years earlier. He was head and shoulders
above just being your average ordinary file clerk, and he
knew that Roberts knew that too. They had both started
in Stockton’s filing dungeon, and while Jensen’s popularity
and business savvy quickly shot him up the ladder, Roberts
had only gotten as far as being a mail-room supervisor.
And now he was the head of his own investment firm.
“So Paul, whaddya think?” Roberts asked. “You
wanna get in on the action?”
“Dave,” Jensen replied. “I’ve gotta get back on my
feet somehow; when can I start?”
“I’ll get you in at the start of the new pay period.
How does Monday the 16th sound?”
Jensen rose from his chair and extended his hand.
44

“Thank you Dave,” was his answer. “You won’t regret this.”
In the back of his mind Roberts thought to himself,
no, I won’t.
Stockton Brokerage had been one of the up-andcoming
investment firms that appeared on the surface to
have quite a successful future; operating out of a modest
four story building on the lower west side of Manhattan,
it seemed that the world was their oyster. The majority of
their clients were high profile lawyers, doctors, and a few
major corporations. Their biggest client was ScienTel, a
pharmaceutical manufacturer headquartered in Morristown,
New Jersey. ScienTel had patented a major breakthrough
drug for the treatment of dementia, and with the
FDA’s approval, rushed it onto the market. ScienTel was
also Paul Jensen’s baby. Acting on a tip he’d gotten from a
friend who worked for ScienTel, and with Burt Stockton’s
approval, he left on that Wednesday afternoon five years
ago and made the drive to Morristown.
The traffic on Route 78 was lighter than he expected,
and what he thought would be a two hour drive
only took him 81 minutes. He looked at his watch as he
pulled into ScienTel’s parking lot and noticed that he was
45 minutes early for his scheduled appointment with June
Morgan, the company’s business manager. Having skipped
breakfast that morning, his stomach was now telling him it
was time for lunch. He pulled Morgan’s business card out
of his wallet, smiled to himself and dialed her number. He
knew this approach was a little unorthodox, but he decided,
eh, what the hell. With a voice that rang with a natural
girlish charm, she said she’d be down in five minutes. It
only took her three. They discovered they both had an
affinity for Italian food, and they settled on a small restaurant
only a few blocks away. Over a meal of linguini with
45

clam sauce, Jensen outlined Stockton’s services to her.
Though she had a Princeton education, June Morgan
wasn’t one of your typical run of the mill, stuffed shirt
business types—she was cute, but not stunningly attractive
either. The meeting went well, and she accepted his invitation
to meet again the following Tuesday at Stockton’s
offices on West 33rd and 8th. He dropped her off back at
ScienTel, and as he began the journey back to Manhattan,
he thought to himself, damn, you’re good.
As they were nearing the end of the tour of Stockton’s
offices, Jensen decided to show Morgan the mail
room. It was unusually quiet for a Tuesday afternoon, with
just the one big sorting machine humming in the background
“Dave,” he said as they approached Roberts, “this is
June Morgan of ScienTel Pharmaceuticals.”
“Hello,” Roberts said, extending his hand. “It’s a
pleasure to meet you.”
Her eyes seemed to light up as she smiled at him
and took his hand. “Dave,” she said, “the pleasure is all
mine. Paul’s told me so much about you.”
I’m quite sure he didn’t tell you so much about himself,
Dave thought to himself. Surely if the son-of-a-bitch
had let on more, you would’ve turned right around and got
the hell out of Stockton that instant.
“Oh, I’m not so much,” he replied aloud. “Just a
working class stiff, that’s me.”
“Working class stiff, I like that, that’s funny,” she
giggled. With that, they both politely excused themselves
and headed towards the door. Half way down the hall she
asked Jensen to wait a moment and went back into the
mail room. As Roberts closed the bottom drawer of his
desk, he sat up and saw June coming back into the mail
46

oom. He thought she had forgotten or lost something, but
she couldn’t have, she wasn’t in the room that long. He rose
from his chair as she reached the desk.
“June, are you OK?” he asked.
“Dave,” she said, “I wasn’t sure if we were gonna go
with Stockton, but since I met you, I think we will.” She
reached for his notepad, and jotted down her home telephone
number.
“Call me later,” she told him. She gave him that cute
smile again as she turned to leave, only this time it seemed
to him that not only her eyes, but her entire face lit up.
“Uh . . . oh yeah, sure . . . be glad to.” He watched
her go. Nestling back into his chair, Dave Roberts felt really
happy for the first time in a long time.
Six months later, June Morgan more than happily
agreed to become Mrs. David Roberts. Eighteen months
after that, the Stockton scandal broke. It was plastered
across every newspaper in New York. The not-so hushed
rumors of illegal stock trading, off-shore bank account,
and dirty back-room deals not only turned out to be true,
but downright disastrous. Not only billions of dollars, but
three lives were lost because of it. Burt Stockton’s trust in
Paul Jensen also proved to be his downfall. Jensen had
assured him that nothing illegal was being done within
the confines of Stockton Brokerage, but the Securities and
Exchange Commission saw it differently. The day after
Burt Stockton blew his head off with a nickel-plated .38
revolver, it was reported that ScienTel Pharmaceuticals was
closing their doors for good.
Unfortunately, Paul Jensen had had some ideas of
his own regarding ScienTel. Not only had he garnered a
huge commission with the signing of the ScienTel contract,
he had finagled his way into their computer system—so
47

ScienTel’s profits were also Paul Jensen’s profits. But Elberton
Industries had improved upon the formula for Scien-
Tel’s dementia drug and had driven it off the market. This
new drug did not have the side effects that had diluted
Diloxitin’s popularity, so the medical community deemed
it to be safer than Diloxitin. Sales of the drug immediately
dried up, along with ScienTel itself. The connection
between Jensen and ScienTel was soon discovered, and at
the conclusion of the two-week trial, it only took the jury
seventeen minutes to find him guilty. Although the prosecution
wanted a stiffer penalty, he was sentenced to only
nine months in prison, and two years of probation subsequent
to his release. The papers had a field day with the
verdict, calling it a serious miscarriage of justice. And they
were right. Paul Jensen had directly (or indirectly, as the
case may be) caused Stockton Brokerage to fall, ScienTel
to go out of business, Burt’s suicide, and the death of June
Roberts and her unborn child. It was something that Dave
Roberts would not forget.
Wisely stifling the rage welling up inside of him,
Roberts watched Jensen cross the room. If his eyes were
daggers, they would’ve cut his lungs out and Jensen would
be dead before he hit the floor. But that wouldn’t have been
good enough. Jensen would never have known what real
suffering was. Son-of-a-bitch, Roberts said to himself after
Jensen closed the door. You’re goddamn right I won’t regret
this. He thought back to the trial, and how Jensen had
seemed so arrogant on the witness stand. Jensen was no
more than a common thief, and not a very sophisticated
one at that. It didn’t take the SEC long to figure out the
scheme; there were a couple of tracks that Jensen hadn’t
covered up. No, not very sophisticated at all, he thought.
“Molly,” he said through the intercom to his secre-
48

tary, “I’ve got a Mr. Paul Jensen starting on the 16th. He’ll
be in the file room, can you see to that please?”
“Yes sir, right away,” came the reply.
“You can also go home early if you’d like, I’m taking
the rest of the afternoon off.”
“Thank you, Mr. Roberts,” she said. “Enjoy your
weekend.” Initially he didn’t have any plans for that particular
weekend, but as he drove home, the wheels started
to turn.
Paul Jensen was not a family man, no serious commitments
to anyone, no one to answer to. He was orphaned
as an infant, having had no siblings to speak of
either. In other words, if some accident were to befall him,
he would not be missed. Roberts pondered that idea as he
pulled into his driveway. But if he were to have an accident,
it would have to look like an accident. How does one commit
the perfect “accident?” One thing he wouldn’t have to
worry about would be guilt, or his own conscience. Paul
Jensen had already seen to that. Roberts went to bed that
evening with the thought still fresh in his mind. He awoke
on Saturday morning with a brilliant idea.
He decided to have that year’s Christmas party
catered, a buffet brunch with an open bar. And just in case
one of his staff got too tipsy, he had made arrangements for
them to be driven home. For the entire year, the office had
operated in the black, and the generosity that Burt Stockton
had instilled in him reflected in the bonus checks he
handed out. As the rest of his staff left along with the caterers,
no one noticed that he asked Paul Jensen to do him a
favor before he went home.
“You want me to go down first?” Jensen asked quizzically.
“The one thing I don’t need, Paul, is some drunk
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guy falling down my stairs and breaking his neck,” Roberts
replied.
Jensen cleared his throat, looked at Roberts with
that twinkle in the eye that drunken people have, grinned
at him and said, “No, dude, I got it, I’m quite sure a flight
of stairs isn’t gonna do me in.”
“I had Prentiss do section one, I just wanna finish
up section two,” said Dave. “Section two is a helluva lot
smaller than section one, we should be done down here in
no time.” Neatly arranged down the descending stair leading
to the basement were 8x10 framed photographs. On
the one side were various pictures of Dave and June Roberts.
Their wedding, vacation pictures from Niagara Falls,
and candid posed shots of just June herself. Along the
other wall were pictures of Dave and June together with
Burt Stockton, mainly consisting of their trip to the Grand
Canyon. Jensen had seen those dozens of times, but this
time he deliberately ignored them.
The file vault was set twelve feet from the bottom
step, recessed into the left wall of the basement, not unlike
a safety deposit box vault found in a bank, only much
smaller. File section one occupied the left side of the vault,
while section three took up the right side. Section two was
straight ahead, fifteen feet from the door. Roberts punched
in the access code, and the huge steel door swung open.
The overhead fluorescent lights automatically illuminated,
and Jensen followed Roberts inside. While Roberts opened
a file cabinet in section one, Jensen went straight to number
two.
Flipping through files, acting as if he was annoyed
by something, Roberts briefly stopped what he was doing
and said,
“Oh damn . . . that’s right . . . I didn’t bring the
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Norton files down yet.” Deliberately leaving the file drawer
open, he told Jensen to keep working, excusing himself as
he went back upstairs to get them.
Roberts opened the door to his office, slowly
crossed the floor, sat down at his desk, and turned on the
intercom. Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds later the
alarm in the vault went off. He then heard Paul Jensen’s
voice over the intercom: “Dave . . . Dave . . . Dave, the vault
door closed.”
Speaking softly, but loud enough for Jensen to hear
him, he spoke into the intercom: “Alright . . . hang on . . .
I’ll be right there.”
Jensen could barely hear the footsteps coming down
the stairs, but he heard them nonetheless. He let out a sigh
of relief. The sounds came right up to the door and then
stopped in front of it. But he couldn’t see what was going
on, as the door had no window. Finally, he heard the click
of the intercom.
“Paul, are you alright in there?” came the disembodied
voice.
“Uh, yeah, I think so . . . but it’s not too often that I
get stuck in a file room . . . you wanna open the door?” he
said with a chuckle in his voice.
The voice over the intercom then answered, “You
know Paul, I’ve got a lot of important contracts in there.
A lot of files I don’t need falling into the wrong hands, so
to speak. A few years ago, I heard of an entire company
falling into the wrong hands. The hands of someone they
thought they could trust. The hands of someone they
thought was an upstanding individual. Turns out that they
were wrong.”
Puzzled, Jensen spoke into the intercom: “What the
hell are you talking about, Dave?”
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Roberts went on, oblivious to the question. “You
see, Paul, ScienTel Pharmaceuticals fell into the wrong
hands: yours. June Morgan fell into the wrong hands:
yours. Last, but not least, Burt Stockton fell into the wrong
hands: yours. Did you have enough soap and water to wash
them?”
Normally, Jensen kept his emotions in check, but
due to the effects of the drinks of the previous four hours
his voice became belligerent: “HEY FUCK YOU, DAVE,”
he yelled at the intercom, “IT SURE AS SHIT WASN’T
MY FAULT THAT SCIENTEL SANK!”
Remaining calm and speaking matter of factly, Roberts
asked him if he remembered the Stockton trial.
“Sure I do,” Jensen said. “What of it?”
“Well, Paul, the what of it is that not only did I lose
a close friend in Burt Stockton, but my wife as well. June’s
asthma flared up when her boss told her about the company
closing down. Strongest attack she’d ever had. They
lost her and the baby I didn’t know she was carrying on the
way to the hospital. That, my friend, is the what of it.”
“Dave,” Jensen said. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know . . .”
Roberts cut him off: “THAT’S THE PROBLEM,
PAUL, NOBODY EVER KNOWS ANYTHING!” he
yelled. “However,” he continued, “there is one thing I do
know: the vault is hermetically sealed upon closing; I’ve
got too many important contracts in there. I’ve spared no
expense in keeping them safe. Even if someone were to
leave the lights on, they automatically go off in 15 minutes.”
“So Dave,” Jensen said to the intercom. “What
would you like me to do, wait here until Monday?”
“Don’t worry about Monday, Paul; every year I shut
down for two weeks over the holidays. To save money, I
52

also have all utilities suspended for those two weeks, something
I learned from Stockton.” He added, “not too much
oxygen in there. You might wanna conserve it.”
Roberts turned and walked towards the stairs. As he
reached the first step, he shouted, “Happy New Year, Paul!”
53
“Germany” by Bailey Yeater

54
“Italy Boy” by Carly Eades

My Own Province
by Timothy Johnson
“The thoughtful man’s greatest comfort
is to have explored what can be known
and to worship the unfathomable quietly”
−Goethe
It can be difficult to describe what moves people,
the feelings that burrow deep under the flesh and deny
proper examination. This inefficiency limits my own understanding
of what moves me: Nature. Sometimes I feel
a rush of sentience and ponder how long I’ve been living.
It’s like all of my synapses are filled with electricity. A
feeling definitely worth striving for. But there is no way to
describe such singular experiences. Search for it patiently,
and when you find it dissolve into it.
When I was a child my grandmother brought me
to Missouri. Her house was located on a hill of a dead end
street. The virtue of the spot was the woods that skirted
the right and hind side of the house. It wasn’t long before
she took me in. I remember the feeling of captivation the
woods possessed, which was probably heightened by the
storybooks. I didn’t heed the lessons. I had thought: would
I ever use breadcrumbs to aid retreat? Whenever I needed
to escape from the discord and turmoil of my family, I had
the woods. So much was to be discovered, so many adventures
to undertake. I truly loved that area. Assuredly, the
woods carried a profound influence from then on. If I were
to believe the Latter Day Saints, I had unknowingly wandered
the grounds of Zion.
55

I don’t want to imagine being separated from the
woods, but there are times that I am. Times that I’m buried
under dull colors, right angles, concrete, and carpet.
When I need to regain sanity and shed the redundancy I
head to the nearest mass of trees. I will just walk and walk,
roving through an environment as chaotic and stirring
as a Pollock painting. And therein lies its beauty. Look
anywhere around and you are bound to find something
worth a closer look. All the seasons vary and affect this
organic sphere, each enhancing the depth. Be it winter,
with its starkness and snow blanketing the conifers. Be it
spring, with its emergence of new life. Be it summertime,
with its warmness and the woods majestically verdant. Be
it autumn, with the foliage arrayed in fiery reds to imperial
golds and their fallen brethren rendering the pleasant
crunch, as if each step meant something.
I have found myself multiple times entranced at
the side of a creek assimilating the melodic flow of the
stream. How I wished I was minutely collapsible so I
could roll down the side and into the water, drifting until
I reached the river, and from there to the sea. Doubtless,
I would lapse into nothingness from an excessive amount
of harmony. Let me just take a sip! Other times, I would
gaze into still water vibrating from the wind and the slight
ripples of the water striders; this caused the reflection of
the world to look fluidly abstract and paranormal. How do
the water striders feel ghosting on life itself?
Now and again, the sun will prove his dominance
with intense temperatures. This is reason enough to fly to
the nearest woods. Upon reaching the shade of the trees,
the sun gropes through the canopy with its golden claws,
ever vigilant. If I decide to linger, the sun impresses on me
and my faithful haven beautiful charms: Diffracted light
56

adorns a spider web with vivid hues; the once dull rocks
are now clad in emerald moss; closer to the water, eerie
reflections slowly dance on the underside of the branches
and leaves, and on the near rocks; and the pesky white flies
are transmuted into faeries frolicking amongst the reeds in
the brilliant glow.
Time doesn’t exist in this realm. One is also ageless.
The only requirement is just be. Introspection and selfishness
can drift away and all previous memories with it. The
ever-present cicadas and the birds chirping long distances
and the wind kindly filtering through the tress should be
enough to lull one into forgetfulness. The rest of the world
holds no significance: I am alone and always have been—
the first man. Such thoughts are as uplifting as they are
frightening. But I’m not alone, nature supremely encompasses
me, impartially catering whatever befits my mood.
It’s my soul made manifest.
As sad as it is, I can’t stay forever. I must exit the
same way I came in, and return back to the monotony of
society’s frigid, distasteful farce.
57

58
“View” by Bryanna Rex

A Single Word and A Promise
by Jessica E. Ulloa Martinez
Inside of my mind I am screaming, “NO!” ‘til my
lungs are rung out of air. My head is spinning from the
oxygen that it’s not receiving. My stomach is turning, turning
in knots that seem to me could never be undone by a
single human on this earth, except for myself.
My heart beats rapidly because of all the anger and
disappointment pumping throughout my body.
I bite my tongue, ever so hard, and feel the blood
coming down my throat. Along with every cell and nerve
in my body that is paralyzed with fear, to think if I were to
say that two letter word.
I open my mouth and a word comes out. It is not
“no.” It’s the other word that I hate with every last breath
my body could give . . . it’s “yes.” I always say yes.
I think to myself. I need to push out the walls! I need
to be able to say what I think. I need to be able to speak and
breathe. And I’m still afraid. But what am I afraid of? I’m
afraid that if I were to say “no” people will think that the
colors I show can be easily washed away with water.
I know it hurts me more the longer I keep it inside.
It will eat me whole if I don’t speak. I need to get this
weight off my chest so I can breathe again. So this is what I
promise; I’ll speak out more. I promise I’ll be more honest
with what’s on my mind. I promise I’ll still be happy and
nice. Not for you but for me. ‘Cause in the end the only
one that matters is me, and no one’s decisions can wash
away mine.
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