--~~ Vw ~~h~ - .d. '4

Augustana's Literary and Artistic Magazine

"I thought to myself, this is how revolution begins-with candles, with songs, but mostly with poetry ."~ Laima Vince from Lenin s Head on A Platta

Jon Josten Tiffany Bobertz

Editors

Brady Holm

Cover Design

Vol. LIV,..., Augustana College,..., Sioux Falls, South Dakota ,, Table of Contents

DIVERBIA...... Page 6

Leigh Hooks

MEHNDI...... Page 7

Megan Rasche

I'D RATHER BE A GOOSE ...... Page 8

Matt Stensland-Bos

PORTRAIT OF AN AMERICAN FAMILY...... Page 9

Ian Malloy

THE EXECUTION ...... Page 10

Hal Thompson

LISTEN! MY HEART IS BOUND TO THE FLOOR IN ROUGH LEATHER AND YOU CANNOT SAVE ME ...... Page 12

Carrie Sullivan

AMIDST THE BLAST...... Page 13

Samantha Perry

THE FEELING ...... Page 14

Catherine Beddow

18-24 ...... Page 15

Carrie Sullivan Table of Contents

STAIRCASE SYMPHONY...... Page 16

Sonia Halbach

THE DRUNKIES ...... Page 17

Leigh Hooks

SERENDIPITY IN C-MINOR...... Page 18

Carrie Sullivan

WAIPEO SLANT...... Page 19

Katherine Foiles

SCENES FROM AN INDIAN ADVENTURE ...... Page 20

Megan Rasche

WIDOW'S PRAYER ...... Page 24 Carrie Sullivan

DEATH RATTLE ...... Page 25 Christine Bergeson

HUMAN SPIRIT...... Page 28 Ian Malloy

A VAMPIRE' S MEMORIES ...... Page 29 Kate Thorson

SLURPING ...... Page 32 Christine Bergeson

VLUCHT GEANNULERD ...... Page 33 Jenny Lockhart Special Thanks:

The editors would like to thank the following people:

Janet Blank-Libra for her guidance in the production of this magazine.

Our judges: Ivan Fuller, Darcie Rives-East, David O'Hara, Sandra Looney, and Tom Shields.

To all who submitted to the magazine, without the superb talent of all of you, this magazine would cease to exist.

Central Services for the printing of this magazine.

To Brady Holm for his wonderful cover design.

Jess Winter, Val Olness, Jan Brue Enright, the Writing Center, the Department of Visual and Performing Arts, and anyone else we may have forgotten to name here, without your donation of time, money, resources, etc. this magazine would not have been possible. Thank you. From the Editors:

Jon Josten:

This past summer I traveled to Vilnius, Lithuania as part of a literary seminar. I was and continue to be inspired by the resilience of the people there. Not only in their daily life, but in their art, their song and their poetry. The people of Lithuania used words and images to effectively stage a revolution against oppressive forces in their country. And it was their story that initially inspired the theme. I would like to take this opportunity to thank the many people who made this publication possible. I would also like to say that each work in this publication was judged without names attached to them. As such, \everything in the book is chosen based on the artistic merit. As such, the publication epitomizes how much wonderful talent is on this campus. This is something we all should celerbrate and be proud of. In having the theme "The Singing Revolution," Tiffany and I hoped to create a publication which would carefully and thoughtfully meld two worlds. One world of the written word and the other, the power of images. We hope that you enjoy this year's Venture and will be inspired to create, to laugh, to love. Because through a time of real trouble and real uncertainty, we have the power of words and images to unite us all.

My Quiet Revolution

I sing to blast the eardrums of hatred. To sing, to shout, to write for the world to hear.

To listen, to accept, to tolerate for the world to speak

Tell me your song.

Tiffany Bobertz

Venture,...., 5 Diverbia ,, By Leighland Hooks ""' 1st Place ""' One Acts

If I was to look, would the mountain look back? Would these sheer faces bleed for me? It's all so serene, God. The peaceful, spindly pines reaching to bow at your feet. Each woodland creature striving to become worthy to pray and me just here talking to you. I've been on my knees all my life looking for answers that never came. So, here I stand at the trim of a cliff on the edge of my existence, trying to look my God in the eye. But, all I see is a bloodshot sun slipping down with a world at its mercy. All I feel is the cold wind, the cold embrace of its silence. Father, hear me now and hear my confession. For I have sinned and sinned again with no path to follow. The sheep has lost his way and the Shepherd is apathetic. What happened to you? You used to be all fire and smoke, smiting at the drop of a hat or sandal (Old Testament). And now God is all tears and forgiveness. God goes to anger management and loses his backbone? God, you need to fight for what is yours. I am yours and I am slipping, falling, skidding, tearing my eyes out trying to see you. Trying to be your perfect Adam, your Son. Something we could both be proud of. But I'm not perfect and neither are you ... and on the eighth day God died. If I was to jump, would the mountain scream?

Venture""' 6 Megan Rasche Mehndi ~ 3rd Place~ Photography

Venture~ 7 Matt Stensland-Bos I'd Rather Be A Goose ,...., First Place ,...., Poetry *

you were once a flower (in a past life or some hindu thing) a daffodil maybe a rose? and i guess it's true

i snorted and said what a stupid thing to be

you smiled and said no i loved the peace it brought me

i said you must have been insane to sit \ in the ground all day wasting away with the November cold­ peace aside you probably froze i 'd rather be a goose i said

you laughed (and i could see you were sincerely amused) you said with Fall enthroned you'd be shot right out of the sky

*The first place poetry award is dedicated to Herbert Krause, who was writer-in-residence at Augustana College for 38 years. He was a teacher, novelist, poet, historian, scientist, bird-lover, and an appreciator of beauty. He believed that a writer ought to "observe accurately and describe pictorially." In this spirit, we present the most outstanding poem with the Herb Krause Poetry Award. Ian Malloy Portrait of An American Family ,__, First Place ,__,Art

Venture ,__, 9 I know how I feel about my Grandfather - I told him so, and I know he will be with me forever. Death cannot rattle that. I also know that when his soul departs; it will be on my side ... all of us are not too far behind.

Countryside Senior Living, Sioux City, IA R.M.B. Room 623 R.I.P. Sunday, July 19, 2009 !2:20PM C.M.B. Room 624 He closed his eyes for a moment, listening, but all he could hear was the rain and his heartbeat. When he opened his eyes the ground before him had grown dark and as he watched a single worm exposed itself from the safety of its subterranean home. It had come to feast upon the waters. He looked up. For a few seconds he forgot about the soldiers, the prison, the past several years of his life. For a few seconds he even forgot the smell ofthe dead. Upon seeing the worm he was transported back years ago, to a time when he knew nothing of evil, loss, or hate. So long did it seem that he nearly thought it another life. But she was there. She had always been there, and he had always been with her. As he stared into the rain he saw beyond its gray curtain. He saw it, green and blue, as it once had been. Her figure full of col·or and light, dancing in his memories. He blinked. The gray curtain fell back and he was again surrounded in the color­ less world of the dead. The rain had softened. He bent his head down again and stretched out his hand to the worm before it had time to dive back into the earth. He lifted it up to his face-the only living thing left in this place. He let it wriggle around in his palm, wrap itself around his fingers. Then he gently closed his hand and raised his eyes to the soldiers. The two of them looked back at him, perhaps wondering if he would say anything before the end. So far this example had been disappointing. They did not see the point in prolonging the finale anymore. The same soldier that had shot her took one step to the left so that he stood directly in front of him. With the slightest twitch of his mouth he raised his gun up. They were doing him a favor-letting him see his own death-unlike the other one. He had time to take in one breath. One last breath to fill his lungs full of the rain, and not the dead. It was quiet. The flash from the barrel was dull. Even the bullet ap­ peared to move slowly. As a final gesture he opened his hand. Then it was over. His head flew back as the bullet buried itself in his skull. His mouth opened wide releasing a sharp gasp, then his face fell into the mud, and the remaining air flew from his lips. The soldier with the gun lowered his arm. Then he turned to the other and they made their way back to the main building. The bodies would be left out for the day to ensure that all the prisoners would see. The rain stopped. The worm cautiously made its way out of the still hand and onto the plain of mud. It kept moving out until it was be­ tween them-the ones whose eyes now mirrored eternity. The worm then disappeared from sight leaving them and their tears. For soon they too would join the smell. And only be remembered as the dead. Carrie Sullivan,___ Second Place,___ One Acts

Listen!My heart is bound to the floor in rough leather and you 1Cannot save me.

(one person [P2] stands silently, while the other [Pl] speaks, face to face)

Pl: Your face ... (begins binding hands w/ tape/cloth) I'm forgetting what it looks like (binding hands) when you smile (done binding hands) your eyes just spewing time (panicked) and anger and sadness and (look away quickly on ''fear.) fear (Pause) (look back face to face) (pause) why can't you just love me? (softly, begging) The way I am, for what I am, who I am ... (panicked, then trailing) (pause) Who I could be? (both raise hands/shoulders) (pause) all we do fight the loss like some (begging, sadly) sad machine with a rusting heart

Screaming, SCREAMING (Screamed in the face ofsilent) (pause, searching P2face) Just leave (softly, defeated, raises arm halfheartedly in direction of door) (P 2 eyes follow arm) (both look down, in opposite directions) (pause) I'm sorry (begging, almost questioning­ looking back face to face) I'M SORRY (screamed in the face ofP2) (pause) you never hear me when I tell (sadly) you that I love you (pause) (P 2 unbinds own hands, places tape over PI mouth while staring at each other for I 0 - I5 seconds, then PI looks down) P2 : "I love you" (signed) (black out) Samantha Perry

Amidst the Blast r-.J Second Place r-.J Photography Catherine Beddow The Feeling'"'"' Third Place '"'"'Fiction

That feeling when you feel so deeply about something, you love it so much, it hurts you so much and you think to yourself, write. Write your heart out. Tell the world or maybe just tell yourself Either way, this is everything that everyone has ever said you should write about, ever. You sit down to write, to express, to put that feeling of your soul floating away from your body into words that everyone will read and comment on how you really know how to make feelings tangible. How they felt that way, once, and reading what you wrote brought it all back, for better or for worse. But instead of those beautiful words, instead of that perfect picture, I've got stilted sentences and flat emotion. I can't touch what I'm feeling, I can't express the emo­ tions welling up inside of me. I realize I'm afraid to reach out and touch what I'm feel­ ing, because it's so raw and intense that I tense up and wait for the crackling of pain as I inch nearer to the truth. If I say what I feel, I' II be exposed, laid bare for the world, a cold breeze blowing on my open heart. When I picture this battle, I'm sitting on a black chair in a dark room, apprehen­ sively scooting closer to the wall that is what I'm trying to say. I shuffle a little closer, a little closer, and I always get stuck at the same point. I hunch over, huddle down, grab the sides of the chair and try to steel myself to just reach out and get it over with, but instead I find myself leaning further and further away. My eyes are squeezed shut, my lips twist­ ed with effort, because I want to get these feelings out of me and on the page. But I also want to keep them warm in my intestines where nobody can ruin their self-esteem. It's because I know what's on the other side of that wall. It's bright white and breezy. There's a stage in the center, and I am on it, in white, in the same chair, bleached by the light that pervades every corner. I'm still hunched over, I'm still leaning away, but now it's because everybody can see me. My words open me up to everybody's eyes. They respond to me and I can't say anything back, I can't reason with them or explain myself further or justify the emotions. I have to sit there and take it, knowing that my body's been cracked open and my life stuff is on display. My intestines have been ransacked for my most secret thoughts (because really who keeps the good stuff in the brain), my most beautiful experiences, my most locked-up pain. It's fucked up and I'm fucked up and the whole world is fucked up with me but that shared fuckedness has never united us before so it's not going to save me now. So instead I say nothing. I close the document. I shut my journal. I stitch myself back up and am shamed and relieved at the same time. I'm no writer. I'm no sharer. I'm an island, a repository. I'm importing other people's writings into my body, weeping and laughing and critiquing alongside every page, but I refuse to share. I'm no writer, no, just a junkie looking for a fix . One day I'll get clean and have something to say but until then, I' II be content with pretense. Venture '"'"' 14 Carrie Sullivan

18-24 r-.J First Place r-.J Photography

Venture r-.J 15 Sonia Halbach

Staircase Symphony r-.- Third Place r-.- Poetry

Dress shoes, a pair of muddy Nikes, and young, bare, pink callused feet stain the treated floor with memories.

Loose boards, and a rickety old railing; together making a perfect creaking triplet of aged harmony with each step.

Impatient feet, with well-timed rhythm, keep a consistent beat before the slower ballad finishes on the landing.

Up and down: a never-ending song of steady, thoughtless movement.

Venture r-.- 16 Leighland Hooks The Drunkies '""' Third Place '""' One-Acts

I am loud, angry, and discontent. It is now five o'clock somewhere and I'm hungry. That's right I have the drunkies. That burning deep inside my carb-loaded gut that tells me I need a big greasy cheeseburger, or some pizza or maybe a taco. But, I won't drive myself, no, I'll coax one of my sober friends to cart me around after I threaten to expunge my stomach contents into his shoes. And he'll give in because if he doesn't I'll use his mobile phone to call China while running across the front yard, sans pants. I've done it before and I'll do it again, twice as good! Ladies (wink). While my buddy procures his keys for the coming quest, I'll run to his car, place myself behind the rear bumper and begin to pelvic thrust whilst screaming "Your Mother. Your Mother. It's true I had sex with her." Sure, he'll tell me to be quiet, but it'll only fuel my inebriant fury! Until he says that the trip is off--how cruel sir! To deny his merry friend the sweet reward of White Castle or Taco Bell! I'll beg and plead and cry if I have to, anything for sustenance. And he'll do it because if he doesn't I'll pass out on his girlfriend, sans pants. Ladies (wink). At the car, the door will open and I will sit gracelessly in the seat, and realize how many calories I expended. Here come the eyelids ... into the drunken haze I go-

Venture '""' 17 Carrie Sullivan Serendipity in C-Minor '"" Second Place '"" Poetry you sing like the ocean and i laugh wickedly we are old sisters two yellow roses on their park bench antique lace and linen turning silver in the may sunset

'7 Venture'"" 18 Katharine Foiles Waipeo Slant ~ Honorable Mention ~ Photography

Venture ~ 19 Megan Rasche Scenes from an Indian Adventure ~ Second Place ~ Noh-Fiction

Rishikesh. January 15, 2010.

I have a picture of a cow blocking the way of a motorcyclist on the suspension bridge on the first day we arrived in quaint little Rishikesh. In a way, that picture accurately represents my time in this unique city. In the photo, my eyes are first drawn to the cow. There's such a peaceful look on the cow's face. He's not phased by the dozens of people trying to hurry by; he's simply enjoying the sun and the breeze passing over the Ganges River. His calm gaze represents the natural, peaceful getaway aspect of Rishikesh. Past the hustle and the bustle of the bazaars, the town transforms itself into a relaxing haven, with benches lining the streets, where both local and tourists alike come to gather for conversation over a cup of chai. Even the evening aartis take on a more relaxing pace than that ofneighboring Haridwar. The aartis we attended in Rishikesh were so powerful, seeing the cleansing fire and all the young priests in training up close. To ensure calming relaxation, Rishikesh is the yoga capital of the where. While the "Yoga Centre" signs tacked on to nearly every storefront door are a bit kitcshy, the yoga we practiced in the mornings was an authentic challenge. The view from our yoga room was a perfect background for centering ourselves each morning, although I fear I'll never achieve the one-legged crow pose. Another aspect of this photo is the motorcyclist. Indian street traffic is some of the most intense, messy chaos I have ever seen. The chorus of car horns, the non-existence of lanes, the nerve-racking anticipation of all those blind turns around mountainous corners ... I came to truly appreciate the extra set of eyes the faithful driving assistant provided. The shops lining the streets of town are justly as lively as the street. People yelling, sticking post­ cards and peacock feather in your face, telling you to name a price---what an experience. The calming affect of yoga and traditional mantras quickly fades away amidst the commotion of shopkeepers and their wares. I had so much fun going out and experiencing Rishikesh through the art of bartering. It's in the street where I feel you see the true nature of a city, and Rishikesh is one of the most dynamic places I've seen. I lost count of how many photos we've taken, namastes we've said to people passing by or the amount of bangles we bought. What I'll never forget in the experience .. . the exotic Hindi music playing, people (and cows, and monkeys, and dogs ... ) walking everywhere, the cars and motorcycles zipping in and out; it's all a part of it.

Venture ~ 20 While I'm not sure why, I really love that picture of the stubborn cow on the suspension bridge. For me it illustrates how unexpected Rishikesh was and how two-sides it was as well. It was intense, yet relaxed; cold some days, warm others; the colors of the women's saris and jewelry were vibrant and clean while the streets were often dull and muddy. To me, Rishikesh was full of contradictions, and that's why I liked it-some thing was around every corner, waiting to be discovered, ready to surprise me.

Agra. January 16, 2010. I have seen the Taj Mahal. Call it cliche, but the very image of this wondrous structure literally took my breath away. It didn't even look real as I passed through the gigantic entrance gate, still vaguely engulfed in the lingering fog. I felt a sensation similar to what I felt upon seeing the Great Wall of China ... 'Wow, it really exists.' Until that day, the Taj lived in my mind, in textbooks and lectures. Seeing it, entering it made it real. However powerful visiting the monumental palace was, the actual entering and exiting the premises was just as memorable. Young men and boys mobbed and overtook the streets, selling some of the cheapest, tackiest (yet oddly endearing) trinkets I've ever seen. Despite our adamant refusals, each boy was steadfast in his futile attempts to sell a soapstone box or Taj Mahal keychain. The mobsters didn't leave us alone until our getaway car sped up, leaving them in the dust. It was chaos. And yet, selling glittery key chains and tawdry magnets is a way of life and survival for these boys. It was hard to see, especially against the backdrop of the wondrous Taj Mahal.

Varanasi: January 17-20. What a place. The afternoon we arrived in this holy city of Lord Shiva, six of us brave ami gas attempted to walk around the streets of Varanasi for some fresh air after a 12-hour overnight train ride. It was a Sunday, so many of the shops were closed. But that did not mean the streets were empty. From the first step outside of the hotel gate, we were bombarded by auto-rickshaws, street vendors and beggars ... We made it five steps before retreating back to the refuge of our hotel rooms. Like Rishikesh, Varanasi was a city of extremes for me. I felt extreme peace on the chilly morning boat ride, watching the sun come up over the Ganges river. It was a powerful experience to watch the ghats come alive with the arrival of a new day. Seeing and smelling the crematoriums lining the banks is something I know I'll never forget. The overcast fog mixed with the smoke from burning bodies engulfing groups of men witnessing this holy rite of passage was a truly moving image. My feelings of wonder and contemplation were tossed abruptly to the side by the presences of a boat vendor, selling his wares from his mobile shop. It seemed a bit sacrilegious to me, with all the temples and priests lining the river's edge. Although, when I think about it, I really can't blame the man nor anyone vendor of the hordes of people tugging at my sleeve, pleading with me to buy postcards, bindis or a cup of chai . Whether on the street,in the train station or outside a temple, every one ofthem is simply trying to make his or her way in this crazy world called India. During the first few days of the trip, while my eyes were still wide with wonder and disgust at India's extremities, our tour guide said to me, "Megan, everyone has a place in India; everyone has a job. It may not be very dignified, but at least it's something to do." It stuck. With every step, I was bombarded with people. The streets were always full , with shopkeepers, beggars and sweepers. There was always someone bathing in the Ganges, and always a baby crying. But everyone is doing something; for better or for worse, everyone seems to know his or her place in it all. Our last morning in Varanasi, we visited three temples that provided a strikingly accurate portrait oflndia's extremes. The first, tucked away on the campus of the Hindu University, was an open, peaceful refuge from the noisy city. Lined with inspiring and important quotes from the holy book The Bhagavad Gita, the temple's upper level was quite moving- a place where students can sit for hours, studying, praying or pondering. After a peaceful moment, we ventured to our second temple, the temple of the monkey god Hanuman, the first temple's polar opposite. Filled to the brim with worshipers and monkeys, the temple was adorned with elaborate offerings, as it was Hanuman's holy day this particular day. With people praying, selling things to offer, feeding the monkeys and occupying nearly every square inch of the temple, this temple was literally out of control and a complete 180-degree turnaround from the peaceful sanctuary of the first temple. Our third and final temple was simply in a league of its own. With the walls lined with the verses of the famous Indian epic tale The Ramayana, this building was part temple, part carnival. Crude mechanical figures lining the walls depicted scenes from the momentous Ramayana, looking as if they had been pulled from a department store window display circa 1957. I loved it. There was a group of Hindus at my side viewing the displays, and I was moved by the awe and wonder with which they took in the experience. They were pushing and shoving like small children trying to get a glimpse of Santa Claus. Having read The Ramayana, the scenes had meaning to me, but to them it was their entire religion and faith being acted out before their eyes. The temple was something pretty special. My experiences in Varanasi continue to shape my impressions of India as a whole. I look up and see beautiful flowers adorning an altar on the riverbank for the evening prayer service. I look down and realize I'm standing in cow poop. Varanasi was beautiful, and it was ugly. It was peaceful and it was chaotic. It was as fulfilling as it was frustrating. Whatever it was, it was an experience I'll never forget and one I'll carry with me always. Bodh Gaya. January 21-25 . I sit now in a sea of gold, maroon and orange Buddhist monks, trying to make sense of all the swinging prayer wheels, prostrations and circumambulations that are taking place right by my side. The chants are foreign to my ears and the prayer shawls are inscribed with characters I cannot decipher. The active method of meditation is a far cry from the folded hands and bowed head that I am used to. But one this I do understand and admire is the fervor and intensity with which the Buddhist pilgrims do these holy rituals. Just one prostration is not enough; it requires 108,000. These devout monks have committed their entire lives to their mission and faith that it makes sense they feel so compassionate and compelled to pray with such action and vigor. It is their whole life. As prayer flags of vivid red, blue, white, yellow and green sway in the breeze, I am drawn to thoughts of home, where I sometime gripe about sacrificing one hour of my time for God on a Sunday morning, where the most strenuous action is passing the offering plate or goin up for communion. Our cultures are different, but the goal is the same: peace among nations. The more I study these foreign religions, the more I identify with their basic principles and beliefs. I'll never forget our last morning here. En route for the legendary Bodhi Temple where Buddha himself gained enlightenment, we departed our hotel at the precise moment that 20,000 (not exaggeration) Buddhist were exiting the temple grounds. It was as if we were going up a marron and gold raging river of monks without a boat or a paddle. India never fails to overwhelm and over stimulate the senses. Carrie Sullivan Widow's Prayer ~ Honorable Mention,,~ Photography

Venture ~ 24 Christine Bergeson Death Rattle "'"'Third Place "'"'Non-Fiction

7118/09 12 :04 A.M.

Staying overnight in a vacant nursing home room is not my idea of a rousing weekend evening. At this particular raisin ranch some are here to live out their later years in style; they get fed and changed twice a day, get to hang out in the hall with their friends (most of whom are as exciting as a nose-bleed) and they get to keep their television volumes turned up all night long. Some are forced to come here by their families who can't find the time in their busy lives to care for their elderly relatives. Others come here to fight off the force of nature that is the Death Rattle for a few weeks, but eventually, end up passing on - to wherever souls go when they decide to leave. Room 624, the room I am blessed to have, has tile and decoration that hasn't been updated since the nineteen-seventies. It is home to three spiders who enjoy the chilled floor. Above the window across the room, hangs a crystal humming bird with three tone chimes dangling below it. Perhaps the woman who owned these chimes used to be an international concert pianist. Maybe she ended up in this room because she no longer recognized the faces of family and friends. Maybe her husband died years ago and she hasn't spoken a word since; she only smiles at people when they walk past. Maybe now she only plays a cantata when no one is listening. It's 11 :30 PM and the man next door mutters and moans in his sleep, as the woman down the hall has conked out with Cops at top volume. My grandfather, however, rests peacefully across the hall. I came as soon as I got off work; did not stop to sneeze. Since it's Friday I got off early, at five. Grandpa hasn't eaten since Monday. While he sleeps my uncle and I get re-acquainted for about an hour, then my uncle decides to go home and shower- he's been here at the nursing home since yesterday morning. I will hold down the fort while he's away. Sitting next to his bed I hold my Grandpa's warm clammy hand. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open, frowning. He looks like a ghost with sunken cheeks and skin so transparent I can see the blue blood pumping through his veins. I whisper to him, reminiscing not only to hear myself speak, but to remember a Life Cereal and cantaloupe breakfast in bed and Bozo on Sunday mornings, Barbie themed birthday cakes and brightly colored fingernails. Those were the good times; a young girl without a care in the world, only to be with Grandpa at Toys R Us, the pool, or on the couch. Happiness is ...

Venture "'"'25 Tonight is a different story. There is a muted television and an alarm beeping somewhere in the distance, down the hall. Grandpa is not coherent, chatty, or inquisitive. The Death Rattle has taken hold of my strong, loving, kind-hearted Grandfather. It has put him in another state-of-mind. He struggles to breathe and when he does, there is an echo deep within -the sound wants to be let free. "Just rest now, everything will be okay," I say aloud, so both of us can hear it. He raises his eyebrows at my attempt at reassurance. Smiling to myself, I know it is only my Grandfather's body that is failing. For the next few hours I explain and reiterate that it's alright with me if he'd like to leave us and move on to a better place. With my left hand holding his and my right gently stroking the top of his head, I remind him that he doesn't need to be afraid. Somewhere deep inside, I have faith and understand that his soul will leave his body when it decides to- no one has control over that. I also believe that the conscious mind of the person needs to be at peace; knowing that it is alright for their soul to let go of the world. Afterwards, everyone left behind just has to keep breathing. Grandpa inhales with difficulty and tries to speak. Moving my chair closer to his bed, I listen intently. He attempts to swallow, opens his mouth and says, "Love ... " Squeezing his warm hand I say, "Grandpa, I know. And I love you too. But you know that already." A tear falls onto the blanket between us. He nods and lays his head back and closes his eyes. My right hand continues to smooth back his thin hair. I sit quietly while Grandpa falls asleep again. I got the chance to speak my peace. The most important thing in life is Love and making it known through your actions and words. The power behind three simple words is complex and indescribable. It's similar to the impressionist style; language is the paint on the canvas. Words are a means, an attempt, to communicate human thought or emotion. Just four letters doesn't seem enough. I know how I feel about my Grandfather - I told him so, and I know he will be with me forever. Death cannot rattle that. I also know that when his soul departs; it will be on my side ... all of us are not too far behind.

Countryside Senior Living, Sioux City, IA R.M.B. Room 623 R.I.P. Sunday, July 19, 2009 12:20PM C.M.B. Room 624 Ian Malloy Human Spirit ~Honorable Mention ~Poetry i sat on a sill, in sunlight wave filtering falling through the shades you gasped ecstatic to see a smiling face a reflection we can all relate to our spirit grew above the weeds and dead leaves moist from fall . ra1n the pitter patter that kills we are above this I, you the roots of the trees where the flowers grew seeds that know no bounds

Venture~ 28 Kate Thorson A Vampire's Memories ~ Second Place ~ Short Story

What do people know about vampires? They know all the myths and legends and stories of old. But do they know a vampire's life and how they last a hundred years? I have to admit I don't know what it takes to last for hundreds of years, but I do know how to last for 99 years. For you see, this Halloween is my hundredth year as a vampire. I was turned in 1908 on Halloween night. The vampire that turned me died 8 years ago, when the hunters almost caught us. It was a cool night and our little family was celebrating with a little blood mixed with our wine. The wine I recall was pumpkin spice and chilled blood. A delicious Halloween treat, our little tradition. When suddenly a young vampire burst through the door. He yelled, "Hunters! Hunters are coming! Coming for ones you drained them folks dry! " His voice startled us and in that instant he as good as told the hunters this was the vampire hangout. In that hangout there were perhaps five of these vampire packs. We all ran. Our little family, for that is what my mentor called us, ran out into the night. Our family was ten vampires strong. I was the youngest and my mentor was the one of the oldest. As we sought to seek shelter or get away, parts of our little family was cut down by the hunters. The first two to get cut down were the sisters. The sisters were originaly one year part, but then the youngest was turned at 13 and the younger turned the oldest at 16. I think one was shot and the other went back to help her sisters and she was cut down. They were the older sisters I never had and they had taught me all a female vampire should know. Their enraged battle cries were cut off so horribly and quickly, that I dare not look back. Next to fall was a vampire almost like an older brother. Protective and yet annoy ing. One only 75 years older than me. In some ways he was like a young vampire and in others he was already old. He was my friend, and always made me life. With him I had gotten into almost every kind of trouble available, and he was always there to talk to. Cut down so easily and mercilessly. The vampire like an uncle swung to face him and I could hear my mentor cursing him as we ran down the streets. This vampire was turned around the time as my mentor, and he was my mentor's best friend. My mentor and him kept us in line. They led our little family through it all and thanks to them we had all survived. But now, it seemed our luck was starting to run out as time went on the vampires of this time weren't as careful as we had been. It seemed thanks to their stupidity, the hunter could find us easier.

Venture~ 29 Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mentor move. He turned around, to my growing horror, I saw him face the hunters. I turned to him and he whispered to me through the still night air, "Go, follow Martin and Emma." I shook my head no. !'wouldn't leave him, not now. "Morgan, leave." he instated. When I started to approach him he yelled, "Damn it Morgan! This isn't a game! Listen to me! Martin, get her out of here! " I felt strong arms encircle me and start to pull me away. I tried to resist but there is no resisting Martin he is the strongest of us all. Tears streamed down my face as I fought Martin. But it was useless, for no matter how hard I fought Martin would not let go. Martin is my mentor's mentor and I suppose, he feels responsible for me because I was the last one my mentor turned. What happened next, will live in my memory as long as I walk this earth. My mentor and friend fell to the hunters. He fought them and they .... they struck him in the chest and he died. I screamed to the night and made my sorrow known before falling into my memories. Memories of my mentor, myself and our little family. The first memory I saw through my eyes was my turning. It was the year of 1908 and a Halloween night. A warm night, as an 18 year old, I was scared. Marriage was coming for me and I wanted to run from it. I was walking and stopped for a drink in the nearest pub. When I saw him, drinking a red wine, I asked him the kind of wine. He told me it was strawberry, yet I don't think he was being completely truthful. "Won't you like to travel the world?" he asked me. "Of course kind sir," I replied intrigued by his daring, "But how? For unless you can afford a ticket on a boat there isn't a way to leave." "There is, if you trust me." he said with that toothy smile and then he turned me. A few days after that I met, as he dubbed it "our little family". The next event that filtered through my mind was the winter of 1938. It was the winter solace when we boarded a ship and left Europe forever. "But why are we leaving?' I had pestered my mentor with this question for several times. "Ah, Morgan." he said to me, "The hunters are closing in on us and I fear our little family will not survive the war." We crossed the Atlantic and landed in Philadelphia. I had never seen so many different people in my life. Another new experience, and new dangers awaited in this land. For one thing the hunters were different, they did not have the centuries of experience to fall back on. Also they didn't have any type of united front at the time of our arrival. Over the next couple months we journeyed to a place that was known as Watertown located in South Dakota. My mentor had been killed in Minneapolis and I have avoided that place ever since. I came out of my memories two days after he was killed. I can thank Emma for that. She was turned by Martin and is slightly older than me. She can be a bit of a brat, but she is a good person. She had gotten fed up with me and grabbed a vial of blood which she poured down my throat. I swallowed which was my only defense at the time. Halloween is such a bittersweet time. I lost the sisters, the brother, the uncle and my mentor in one night. I feel the loss of my mentor every night. Halloween night approaches with memories of pain, but also happiness. I was the oldest of five children before becoming a vampire. The marriage was good for my family, but not for me. I was released from the burden of marrying him. The sun is setting and in a few hours the Halloween feast will begin. So many memories are associated with Halloween. Last Halloween, the man I drank from looked so much like my mentor I started to cry. My salty tears and his warm blood ran together. Then I heard Martin calling me. "Morgan! Emma, have you seen Morgan?" he asked. Catching sight of me he sighed, "Oh Morgan! What are I am going to do with you?" I carefully set him down and walked away with Martin." Morgan, you are going to have to be more careful. Though with the blood and tears, you looked really scary'' Martin, Emma and I are the survivors from that Halloween night. Martin was the first one my mentor turned. Martin looks after myself and Emma after that night. But unlike she already passed her 100 year mark. Emma is 115 years old. "Morgan!" Emma yells, "Are you coming or what?" I sit up with a start, she scared me out of my memories. "Now, now Emma," says Martin, "the night is still young. You can go ahead if you want, we'll catch up with you. "And miss the start of the Celebration?" asks Emma. Her eyes shining with excitement. "Are you crazy?" "Martin, do you ... " I start to say, but trail off. Would he think me childish for wanting to know? "Do you think he would be proud of me?" I finished. "Yes." It was all he said and that was everything I wanted to know. I've been a vampire at this point for a hundred years and hopefully with a bit of luck a hundred more. I grinned. "Well, come on! Let the Celebration begin!" I said with joy in my undead heart. Arm in arm, our little family skipped into the night, for it is the night of celebration. The night of strawberry wine mixed with blood to be drunk and hot blood to suck. It is Halloween. May your blood never run cold. Happy Halloween. Christine Bergeson Slurping ""'Honorable Mention,, ""'Poetry

Slurping the bottom of the sanity barrel my straw makes noise upon deaf ears. If I were to act the way I feel In public, I would receive looks of di sdain talking to myself, truly feeling every emotion: amusement, pain, rage, confusion, sorrow, contentment. I must play and write to purge.

Venture ""'32 Jenny Lockhart Vlucht Geannuleerd'"'"' First Place '"'"'Non-Fiction

Vlucht geannuleerd.

Flug annulliert.

Vol annule.

The words flashed on the screen and droned relentlessly over the loudspeaker. People around me seethed and sighed and murmured, and then a few began to wander. None of this made any sense to me until the screen switched languages again and confirmed what I feared the most: "Flight cancelled."

While some stranded passengers headed off to shop for perfumes or visit the contemporary art museum near gate G22, others prepared to read out the wait. I just stood.

And then I sat down on the floor and started to cry.

The cancelled flight should have been ending the worst travel experiences of my life. Instead, I was sitting on the floor of terminal 1, at an airport 8 time zones away from my comfortable sweatpants and loving mother. And still a time zone and 773 kilometers away from my ending location. My destination- a university established 325 years before the States were United - had been out of reach for 3 7 hours, and running. After almost a year of planning, my anticipation was off the charts. And contrary to my usual ' can't-wait-to-leave-the­ Midwest' self, I missed South Dakota. I bought a phone card. I called my mom. I only fel t worse. Not only was she trying to assure me that I would indeed live through this experience, but she was also trying to hide her own worry. Now feeling guilty and depressed, I found my gate, dropped to the floor and began to wait out the seven-hour delay to my next flight. I dreamed myself back home, listening to Ben Folds and clutching my well-loved orange Jansport bookbag - inhaling the smells of spilled Capri Sun and rambunctious chocolate lab -the scent of my life back home.

Venture'"'"' 33 This meltdown, not my proudest moment, reminded me how challenging this experience was going to be. Studying abroad might be an exceptional experience for any college student, but the reality doesn't hit until one faces the moment ofmadness. Moment of madness: definitive event that sends one into a spiral of self-doubt and utter fear; usually accompanied by tears that cannot be controlled and phone calls that cost more than a typical trip to Target. My particular moment of madness lasted seven hours and included four cups of coffee from a Starbucks. Four expensive cups of coffee. That did little for my shaking. [Reminder: Soy lattes taste the same worldwide and the amount of cash needed in an airport should never be underestimated, especially one with a multi-denominational cash register.]

Had the idea of living in Amsterdam's airport not terrified me to my core, I might never have climbed aboard the plane to Scotland. But instead of hunkering down in Schiphol, I journeyed onwards, the land of haggis and Scotch .

• • •

After arriving in Glasgow, I found the cure for jet lag and homesickness. I became the sophisticated traveler of my dreams. Although nothing beats Skyping with friends and family, the real panacea to loneliness abroad comes from the strangers destined to be new friends. One night, I lost a Guinness-fueled gamble, and found good use for my Sarah Palin accent. And I learned that the Irish immediately default ' American' to a slow Southern drawl. Every American abroad has a night like this, whether it comes from a chance meeting in a pub or a night in making dinner for neighbors. A group of friends is just one coincidental chat away and an absolute necessity of surviving time abroad. As my mad rush continued, I found myself travelling further away from Glasgow. First came Edinburgh where I lived the true Rabbie Burns experience with An Address to a Haggis and the cuisine itself A week later, I was in Dublin, climbing Martello Tower and searching town for the right spot to buy lemon soap. As I fought January snow, I recreated the Bloomsday experience myself After that I headed south, and spent time in London. With the Tube map finally memorized, Camden Lock was just minutes away from St. Paul 's Cathedral. I found the building where Chaucer wrote Canterbury Tales. Taking a sporadic trip, I arrived in Oxford and toured the colleges that produce great leaders and epitomize Harry Potter. With each day, I saw myself growing. I navigated trains and ferries. I found safe and student-friendly hostels. I kept my belongings [mostly] safe and free from ever­ present bugger muggers. The transition from terrified to daring was swift. And I knew that the guidance from the study-abroad students before me was true: international travel made me independent, rational and confident.

• • •

I found myself in a familiar place: terminal 1 at Schiphol - the origin of my initial frantic meltdown. Scanning the announcement boards, I saw the words at once: "flug annulliert ... flight cancelled." Thank god my transit-related German improved. While I scanned the crowd of stranded passengers, I watched students sink to the ground, to pull out their tissues and dry their eyes. But instead of melting into a puddle of pathetic tears as I had once before, I savored my remaining moments. 1 had a mere five hours left to peruse the shops and buy duty-free perfumes. That left even less time to examine the art at G22 and enjoy one of Murphy's fine Irish coffees at gate DlO.

I still made the call back home.

But this time, I was torn on my truly desired destination. While I listened to my parents and my baby brother, I knew I wanted to be home. But that still didn't stop me from feeling like I left the ultimate life behind. The mad rush of my European adventure did more than educate me in intellectual matters. I discovered life outside of the Midwest and I were meant to be. My experiences abroad were not without their challenges, but even hardship seems less traumatic in foreign cities. Without the comfort of mom and dad, I dealt with issues on my own. So now, months later, one cancelled flight elicited no frenzied panic. A cancelled flight meant extra free time, a few moments for a luxurious coffee and a chat with the Texan couple across the aisle. I eventually did climb aboard that flight back home, even though I could have just as easily snuck back to London. My faded orange Jansport soaked up the smell of the delicious Panini I snuck aboard and the variety of substances spilled on countless nights out, by my ever-so-thoughtful flatmates. Today, the scents of Europe have long been dry-cleaned from my luggage and my duty-free bottle ofDKNY is half empty. The physical reminders of my trip are gone (save one artfully hidden tattoo procured in Glasgow), but from my travel fixation, I can't be cured. I've already placed the down payment on a trip to Egypt - a month-long excur­ sion- and I've learned to recognize a phrase I'll undoubtedly see- "vol annul e.... IJ.JcJo IJ~Jtlo ... flight cancelled ... " ,,

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