Volume 27, Issue 1

WWW.SVSU.EDU/CARDINALSINS Cardinal Sins is produced by the students and staff of Saginaw Valley State University and is published on campus by the Graphics Center.

Works by students, staff , alumni, and faculty are eligible for submission. All submissions are considered for publication unless otherwise requested. Cardinal Sins staff members are excluded from receiving an award in any category.

Judging is done by Cardinal Sins staff members. Identities of contributors are not revealed until after the fi nal selections are made.

Cardinal Sins is designed in Adobe InDesign using Myriad Pro and Ambulance Shotgun fonts.

Cover designed by Rob Bastek.

SVSU does not discriminate based on race, religion, color, gender, sexual orientation, national origin, age, physical impairment, disability, or veteran status in the provision of education, employment, or other services.

Copyright 2007, Cardinal Sins

All subsequent publishing rights are returned to the artist. EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Christi Griffi s

ACADEMIC ADVISOR Chris Giroux

ASSOCIATE EDITOR Courtney A. Farmer

ASSISTANT EDITORS Matthew Falk Tyler Germain Ashley Schafer

EDITORIAL STAFF Britt Barnett Peter Brian Barry Tim Kenyon Eric Morningstar Holly Morningstar Shiloh Slaughter Brandt Snook

GRAPHIC DESIGNER Rob Bastek

BUSINESS/BENEFACTOR MANAGER Tracy Ulch

WEB SUPPORT Nick Blessing tableTABLE ofOF CONTENTScontents EDITOR’S NOTE...... 6

COLOR ARTWORK

ALCOHOLICISM James M. Zimmer II...... 9

CO2 Andrea Beff rey...... 10 *GEOMETRIC COMPOSITION I Robert Darabos...... 17

COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY

JAPANESE KOI POND Melony Blasius...... 18 BRIDGE Tabitha Meyering...... 21 CLUB 211 Rachel Wooley...... 22 NYMPHAEACEAE ONE Robert Darabos...... 47 PINK PONEYS David Eudosio Smith...... 48 *RETIRED LOBSTER TRAP Adam Baudoux...... 51 STUMBLE ABODE Jesse Fretwell...... 52 COLORS WORKING TOGETHER Amanda Alliston...... 59 FOCUS James Fry...... 60

BLACK & WHITE ARTWORK

BOY WALKER Dawn Kehr...... 16 TEASE James M. Zimmer II...... 29 LIFE Ashley Roggenbuck...... 43 *SHADOWS AMONG MEN James M. Zimmer II...... 54

BLACK & WHITE PHOTOGRAPHY

LATER, SKATER David Eudosio Smith...... 40 LET’S GO SLAM DANCE David Eudosio Smith...... 42 LISTEN James Fry...... 44 MORNING SUN Kristen Latuszek...... 46 SAINT ANDRE D’ARGENTEUIL Ryan Martin...... 50 *SYMMETRY Adam Baudoux...... 57 SHORT FICTION

A TELEVISED WAR Blair Giesken...... 12 REFRIED, LIMA, PINTO Tom Wheatley...... 23 *ALTERNATIVE OXYGEN AND THE STORY OF SIMEON MINOR Robbie Pieschke...... 37

FLASH FICTION

COSMONAUT BLUES Tom Wheatley...... 7 *MATERNALISM Blair Giesken...... 31 AUSPEX NEMORENSIS Matthew Falk...... 35 SANDCASTLE TOWERS Britt Barnett...... 45

POETRY

CITY RIVER Tom Wheatley...... 11 INTO THE MORNING AIR IT RISES Tom Wheatley...... 19 MALIGNANT SPECIES Carlie Hacha...... 20 OM Matthew Falk...... 27 MONTANITA II Rachel Wooley...... 28 AT O’HARE Daniel Schell...... 30 **SUGAR VS. SWEET ‘N LOW Amelia Glebocki...... 32 BATTLEGROUND Daniel Schell...... 33 ON THE CENTER LINE Blair Giesken...... 34 FROM MANILLA Blair Giesken...... 41 *LUCIFERASE Blair Giesken...... 49 HANDWRITING Noah Essenmacher...... 53 ABNORMAL ABNORMALITIES AND THE DECONSTRUCTION OF MEANING Robert Darabos...... 55 I FOUND MY INNER CHILD ON A MILK CARTON BECAUSE OF James M. Zimmer II...... 58

BIOGRAPHIES...... 61

BENEFACTORS...... 65

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS...... 66

*Congratulations to the winners in their respective categories. **Congratulations to the winner of the Fall 2007 Cardinal Sins Slamoramaglamaramajama EDITOR’SEDITOR’S NOTENOTE

I’ve labored over what to write in my fi nal editor’s note. How, in one small page, do I sum up three semesters of hard work? What can I say that hasn’t already been said? What grand statement can I make about art? While I’d like to make this fi nal note as pretentious and self- congratulatory as possible, Cardinal Sins is, in fact, not about me. It’s about giving those artists with something to say a place to say it, through the publication itself or at our events. We’ve featured a wide range of art from a diverse mix of artists: writers, painters, slam poets, graphic designers, and rock musicians, just to name a few. Cardinal Sins is an outlet for creative ambition and it only exists because of the thriving creative community at SVSU. As editor of Cardinal Sins, I feel lucky to have been a part of that community and able to experience fi rsthand the talent and enthusiasm around campus. I’m incredibly grateful to have had the opportunity to contribute. So that’s it. No grand statements or congratulations—just gratitude, and recognition that... “Art is much less important than life, but what a poor life without it.”–Robert Motherwell

Christi Griffi s

6 CARDINAL SINS COSMONAUTCOSMONAUT BLUES BLUES by Tom Wheatley

Channel 86…static. Channel 87…static. Channel 88…static.

Bonoir bowed his head in a wordless prayer, a formless sense of spirit reaching into the aether, mysterious and ineff able as in a dream. He opened his eyes and switched off the radio. In the darkness, lights on the instrument panel fl ashed orange amid fat buttons and analog knobs set beside a plasma display screen—images of iconic old clashing with new. The air scrubbers had stopped working a while ago, and each breath Bonoir took in had more carbon dioxide in it than the last. Already his ability to think was faltering, the singularity of his mind now like a tuning fork, the vibrations of cognizance waxing and waning to the rhythm of his pulse. His pattern of thought was jilted and intermittent, a music disc that somehow played though it was scratched to hell, or a movie with a thousand frames and a dozen scenes removed, edited for time.

It was a simple station transfer from Lunar Orbital 3 to Lunar Orbital 7. Each station had a diff erent orbit, and at the time of the transfer it chanced that the quickest way was around the dark side of the moon. “Nuthin’ to worry about,” Captain Haber had said. He was fat, an overconfi dent NASA Yank. “Swing ‘round and pop out the other side. You’ll be outta contact for a bit. No big deal.” In his mind, Bonoir heard Gregory scream with panicked, primitive terror. The void brings things into focus, into clarity, and it is a dark epiphany. Tumbling without end, Gregory saw himself for what he really was, an infi nitesimal ripple in nothingness a million miles from anything. Out there the emptiness had the weight of infi nity, the madness of the vacuum crushing a small carbon-based life form into a diamond glittering in the night. “Don’t leave me!” Gregory sobbed. “Please!” But Bonoir needed the electricity. He put his hand to the communication-link receiver and sighed. He switched it off . There was a scandal back when he was still in training, a bunch of international politics threatening the Lunar Orbital project. Some ex-KGB agent, sensing his death was near, publicly revealed a secret fi le detailing the deaths of over thirty cosmonauts back in the early days, the Soviet days. Some men were blown up, some asphyxiated, and others just disappeared into space. The Soviets had covered it up, but

CARDINAL SINS 7

even after the fall the Russians had tried to keep it secret. “Bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell,” Gregory was saying, anxiety and fear bringing out his accent. He had sealed himself in the capsule’s tiny airlock and was snapping the spacewalk jetpack to his suit. “I know I can make it. I’ll get help,” he said, depressurizing the airlock. Bonoir had tried to stop him, had told him that the jetpack wouldn’t last. “I’ll get help!” Gregory said as he stepped out of the capsule. Bonoir hung his head, defeated. He knew he should have killed him. Gregory was a Brit, but a nice fellow. It was when he was telling Bonoir about his home near Sussex that the guidance computer’s internal gyroscope failed. The computerized autopilot systems changed the trajectory of the capsule, running the engines at full thrust. In less than a minute, the capsule was out of fuel.

Bonoir stirred a bit and switched the radio back on, resuming his search. The air was getting cold and he was growing weary, his coherence like a lover’s hair slipping through his fi ngers. An electric pulse of thought shimmered somewhere in his brain. He smiled, still checking the channels as he sang in his feeble English:

“A soldier’s panic, a martyr’s sigh, that ol’ feelin’ when yo gonna die, hey, Major Tom, I’m callin’ you, I’ve got it bad—the cosmonaut blues.”

Bonoir laughed. On the radio there was nothing. Rollover. He wept.

Channel 01…static. Channel 02…static. Channel 03…static.

8 CARDINAL SINS ALCOHOLICISMALCOHOLICISM by James M. Zimmer II

CARDINAL SINS 9 CO CO 2 2by Andrea Beffrey

10 CARDINAL SINS CItyCITY RiverRIVER by Tom Wheatley

Still, ‘tis ever still— a slate of slick obsidian in the dusk and the smell of some many dead things comes like rank female corruption, and then, of a sudden, six-gun fi recrackers snap, the sound rising out of the Tao to make love with music, some groovin’ fuckin’ ghetto jive from a nightclub nearby.

The summer sun that brings young blood to boil is gone, now fallen into the Tao, and pith out of pore shall cool save where sober night is made hot by slippery wayward spirits or miasma with fi re cleft from mystic fruit of the earth.

Weary, though, the watcher grows, restless, sublimity and all sense of shape subdued and undone like his pants, and as Jupiter in wrath from him lightning leaps in a hot arching bolt— down to the dark to discharge and diff use, and he and the river are one.

CARDINAL SINS 11 A Atelevised TELEVISED WARwar by Blair Giesken

Summer, 1968. Hot. Hottest it’s ever been. Gas and milk, both for 89 cents. Virginia Slims in Lorraine’s red-carpeted bedroom and blowing smoke up to the popcorn ceiling above. There’s a vintage doll propped against the rocking chair in the corner, with tiny almond- shaped eyes that bob around in their sockets when you tilt her. Lorraine’s mom likes to keep these things around, to remind us that we’re seventeen and not running off to Vegas to marry strange men like we say we will. Lor’s dad bellows for us from the middle level. We twist the remainders of our cigarettes into the ashtray stowed in her jewelry box and bolt downstairs. Should have known that the apparent emergency was only Bill being too cocked to properly tune in the news. Antennas adjusted and Bill positioned back in his recliner, Walter Cronkite makes his way fuzzily across the screen. Robert Kennedy’s dead. So is Andy Warhol. Vietnam and a million other things I can’t feel connected to from a two-story farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. They say we’re starting a revolution. Almost dusk. The boys will come in from the fi elds soon, covered in dirt and stubble and sweat, the blood-orange sun sinking into a thousand rows of corn. Lor and I come out here every night about this time…roll up our already cut-off shorts a few more inches. Those boys need something to look forward to. They stagger up the dirt lane, one by one, a summer’s worth of tending the fi elds written across their peeling foreheads. There’s Carl and David and Arnold and two new ones I’ve never seen before. As the boys draw nearer, we stay on our stomachs in the tall grass. Lor pushes her elbows together in a desperate attempt to make her B cups protrude. I follow suit, pretending to be immersed in the Teen Screen magazine spread out in front of us. There’s a form I can fi ll out to join the Nancy Sinatra fan club. Maybe tomorrow. An hour and three cigarettes later, I’m paddle-brushing Lorraine’s hair in soft rhythms by the vanity table. “Nyla…” Lorraine started. “Yeah, Lor?” “I think this is it. I think tonight’s gonna be it…for Carl and me. He tells me he wants to marry me, ya know. Says he’s gonna take over daddy’s farm and we’re gonna have all kinds of kids.” Just then, we heard Carl’s pickup humming in the driveway. Lor pried the window open with a couple jabs of her palm and slipped

12 CARDINAL SINS through the frame onto the balcony. “Wish me luck,” Lor whispered, as her shaking appendages led her down the trellis.

“Hey, Lor,” Carl whispered, kissing her on the cheek as she plopped onto the stained seat of the truck and slammed the door. One stretch of dirt road. Busted headlight. Silence, apart from the weak groans of the truck’s rickety frame. “Where ya takin’ me?” she said, full of excitement. “Nowhere, really,” Carl replied. “Whatdya mean nowhere? You can’t take your girlfriend nowhere.” “Well, Lor. There’s somethin’ I gotta tell you. You know my dad was shipped out last month…and mom just can’t stand to be in that house without him. She says we’re movin’, Lor. I don’t even know. Somewhere on the east coast she says. Anywhere else.” “When, Carl? When?” Lor screamed at him, her face already soaked and blotchy. “Tomorrow, Lor. We’re leavin’ tomorrow.”

I wake up in Lorraine’s bedroom staring at the tiny grooves in her ceiling as my eyes come into focus. There is a half-smoked cigarette in the bedside tray, Lor’s trademark. She only ever smokes half a cigarette, like she gets tired of waiting for the end to come. I roll out of bed and tiptoe downstairs to the kitchen. A note on the counter reads:

Gone to work! Lorraine, please do the dishes. —Mom

Thank God she’s gone. Lor’s mom is always so controlling in the morning. Pouring myself a bowl of cereal, I notice Bill in the living room. Walter Cronkite’s on again. Then more coverage of Kennedy’s funeral. St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Special train transportation to the burial. Bill slaps my ass as I walk to the couch to fi nish my breakfast. Sometimes, if he’s still drunk in the morning, he’ll forget that I’m seventeen and his daughter’s best friend. Tired of Bill hitting on me as if his living room is a dive bar, I dump my leftover milk into the sink and

CARDINAL SINS 13 head upstairs. Back in Lorraine’s room, I wrestle with the window frame, attempting to close it once more as a cool breeze settles in. Lighting up, I throw the vintage doll from its throne and begin to rock to my own steady rhythm.

Now he’s gone. I don’t know why And till this day, sometimes I cry He didn’t even say goodbye He didn’t take the time to lie

Bang bang, he shot me down Bang bang, I hit the ground Bang bang, that awful sound

For a minute, I had even thought the sound was coming from the record player on the dresser. We had listened to it so many times in that room, the notes almost never left my mind. But this time, the lyrics were distant. I followed the sound down the hall.

Bang bang The fl oorboards moaned beneath my bare feet. I shot you down. I pulled back the door to reveal the butter-yellow bathroom at the end of the hallway. Bang bang. Lor’s record player rested on the pedestal sink. You hit the ground. Water dripped slowly from the bathtub faucet. Bang bang. I peeled back the thick, shower curtain. That awful sound. Lorraine’s naked body. A crimson bath.

I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to spend hours staring at a ceiling by myself. It’s a fi ne habit when you’re with someone, but stare at the ceiling alone and they’ll think you’re crazy. I wasn’t ready to lose my best friend. It’s not like she trucked off to Vietnam to be a hero. She trucked off in a fucking pickup with the farm boy that took her from me. Most of all, I wasn’t ready to smoke alone. We’d shared every pack

14 CARDINAL SINS since our fi rst one at thirteen. I brought in Lor’s rocking chair and sat near the bathtub for several minutes, while the record skipped on and on. -ful sound. -ful sound. -ful sound. -ful sound. -ful sound.

Finally, I screamed for Bill. Surprisingly alert, he pounded up the stairs. Maybe Bill was mourning his daughter. Maybe he was just a sappy drunk. Either way, he cried the most tears I’ve ever seen a grown man cry. Not much later, they came to take the body. No one dared turn off Lorraine’s swan song. We vowed to let that record skip until the player broke or began to spark. Lor’s mom went downtown to the church to make arrangements for the services. Bill and I went back to Lorraine’s twin bed and lay down on our backs. Smoked every last pack in Lor’s jewelry box. Stared up at the white ceiling that matched her skin in those fi nal hours. Down at the red carpet that matched the blood-streaked bathtub. I hurt. I could tell Bill hurt too. With stained hands and a coat of sweet smoke in our mouths, Bill and I made love to a televised war.

CARDINAL SINS 15 boyBOY walkerWALKER by Dawn Kehr

16 CARDINAL SINS geometricGEOMETRIC COMPOSITIONcomposition I by Robert Darabos

CARDINAL SINS 17 japaneseJAPANESE KOI koi POND pond by Melony Blasius

18 CARDINAL SINS intoINTO the THE MORNINGmorning AIR air IT RISES by Tom Wheatley Into the morning air it rises over the tired brick and weathered concrete of post-industrial blight, some stallion of smoke halfway into a leap, an ancient spirit stretching toward a cloudless sky, a horse-god, disjointed in a foreign element, or a signal with an illusionary shape, delayed, warning of some approaching thing hundreds of years too late.

CARDINAL SINS 19 MalignantMALIGNANT SPECIESSpecies by Carlie Hacha

A bipedal virus a swill of insatiable hogs descending upon a watermelon patch black seeds chaotically splashed strewn about by sloppy snorts and slobber their violence leaves no trace no leftovers

Just an empty patch of fi eld soaked deep red with slaughter ready to be littered with blacktop and skyscrapers towering and shadowy enveloping earth trees oceans

Filling up the air with its thick choking waste clouding and clogging water with soupy toxicities

Hungry and ruthless never ceasing only increasing its army until there is nothing left to consume but itself

20 CARDINAL SINS BridgeBRIDGE by Tabitha Meyering

CARDINAL SINS 21 ClubCLUB 211211 by Rachel Wooley

22 CARDINAL SINS refried,REFRIED, LIMA,lima, PINTO pinto by Tom Wheatley

It was summer and the night was ideal, sublime. No cloud marred the sky and the moon was almost full, illuminating the concrete with its eerie, pale glow. I was standing on the Genesee Street Bridge with downtown on my left and the river below me, and the murmur of the water soothed me. I thought that if I could sit on that bridge and dangle my legs over the side, listening to that water, maybe I’d attain enlightenment. Or I’d get robbed at knifepoint, which was the likelier possibility. Just then I heard a voice, both quiet and tremendous, like whispering thunder. The voice was mirthful and masculine, and it rushed at me from the sky, from every direction at once. “Eat beans!” it said. “What?” I replied, though truthfully I had heard the words. “Eat beans!” “Why?” “Because they’re good for you!” “Oh. Okay.” The wind picked up a bit in a momentary breeze before fading away. I looked around and leaned against the rail of the bridge. “Um…” I said, and stopped. Had I imagined the voice? “No,” it said. “No, what?” “No, you did not imagine any voice. Look up here.” The words now came from a distinct source, somewhere in the sky. I saw nothing except, a little ways down Niagra Street, the old bean tower where, presumably, beans had once been processed. But atop the tower, alternating between neon pink and neon green, the word “beans” was spelled out, along with a huge rabbit, one moment sitting, the next moment leaping, the next moment sitting again. The rabbit smiled. “Bingo.” “Hmm,” I thought. “How’s it goin’?” “Cheeky,” he said, and laughed. “How are you, man?” And before I could answer, “Hey, hey, enough chit chat. Call me Jack, ‘kay?” “As in Jack Rabbit?” “No, as in: call me Jack ‘cause I don’t have a name and even if I did you wouldn’t be able to hear it or read it or speak it or write it or even know it, man. So call me Jack. Dig?”

CARDINAL SINS 23

I nodded. “I dig, Jack, I dig. But what’s the deal with beans?” “Beans?” “Yeah, why eat ‘em? Why not eat pizza or tofu, or somethin’ else?” “Everything is possible when you eat beans. Why, the whole world grew from a bean.” “Just one little bean?” “No, man, a real big-ass bean. Refried, I think, with hot sauce and cheese.” I heard the sound of a police-car siren—faint, diminutive, like the fi shy scent of the river carried by the wind. It came from the other side of downtown, in the slums of the First Ward where a bunch of autoworkers once lived. A moment or two passed before the city was quiet again. “Will beans help me get a better job or a new car or something? Can you give me a bean that grows into money? How about gold bullion? Or platinum?” “Ha! Even better, Tom! I met Siddhartha and said, ‘hey, eat beans.’ He just kept saying, ‘Ohm.’ I said, ‘come on, eat beans!’ and he said alright and tried some chocolate-covered coff ee beans and cried out not ‘Ohm’ but ‘yum!’ And, well, you know the rest.” “You did?” “Yeah, I did. I was in Pompeii, too. They made good pizzas there, but unfortunately none with beans. I got there just before the grand fi nale, and I called to the people from the mountaintop. ‘Hey, you! Yes, you folks down there! Come on over the other side of the mountain where it’s safe and eat beans! I’ve got 22/7 tons of green beans. There’s enough for everyone, and they’re in a casserole, no less, with cream of mushroom soup and those crispy fried onions!’ But everybody went back to their homes without saying anything except for one man who shouted back at the mountaintop, ‘thank you very much, but this is not a bean-eating town and we like our buttered noodles very much, so go away.’” “Bummer, Jack. But how do I know you’re telling me the truth?” “Cause you’re not really real. I’m crazy, really crazy, and you’re just an illusion. Ha! How does it feel, man?” “I’m both disturbed and sad at the same time.” “That’s not so bad. Picasso felt the same way after I talked with him. He turned out all right. Before that he was a realist.” “So, are you like a time traveling alien or something?”

24 CARDINAL SINS “No, man, no. I’m not an alien. And about time, well…. For you humans time is linear. But for hippity neon electric bunnies, it’s just groovy.” “Hmm. Do people usually listen to you? When you tell them to eat beans, I mean, do they take your…advice?” “No, they don’t, man. It’s not really advice, though. More like a command, no—a commandment. It was number eleven, I swear, with its own special tablet and everything. Moses even brought it to the Israelites, but as soon as he wasn’t looking they built a giant bowl of peas and carrots made out of gold and decided that they didn’t really need beans after all. Then they smashed that tablet and got some Wite-Out and went through their scrolls and changed every instance of ‘bean’ to ‘manna.’” “That’s harsh.” “Christians did almost the same thing, man, yes they did. Jesus and his disciples ate bread for the last supper, but it was pita bread. Peter cut it into a bunch of triangles and they dipped it in hummus, which everyone really liked. In fact, Luke even put the recipe at the end of his gospel, but the pope took that part out because it threatened Rome’s nacho-based economy.” “Did you see Jesus crucifi ed?” “Yeah. I even went to Pontius and brought him some pinto beans with cheese, asking him to have a bit and think about it. He turned it away, and when I asked him why he said he was trying to lose weight and couldn’t aff ord to eat any carbohydrates.” “What would have happened if he had eaten them?” “Oh, it’s hard to say exactly, but things sure would have been diff erent. I found Hemingway when he was about to take his 10-gauge farewell. I said, ‘Hey, man, don’t go out on an empty stomach. Come in and have a handful of jelly beans. Just have some and think it over.’ So he did, and in fact he ate two handfuls, but then he didn’t say anything, and as soon as I wasn’t looking…well….” I didn’t say anything for a moment, listening again to the water. The air was starting to get cold and my legs were starting to grow stiff . It was then that Jack reached behind his ear and pulled out a huge joint, as long as a Buick but not nearly as wide. “What are you doing?” I shouted. “If the cops catch you with that much weed you’ll go to jail forever!” “Relax, man.” Jack pulled out a giant-sized Zippo and lit the joint. “It’s rabbit nip. Besides, you don’t know it yet, but the city council

CARDINAL SINS 25 is already planning to demolish this building soon anyway. I might as well have one last toke before I head out of town.” Smoke was already rising in a huge gray cloud from the tower. “Where are you going from here?” “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go to the future again. Or the past. Yeah, I really should make an appearance on a pancake in a Pittsburgh IHOP sometime last week. But I think I’ll visit my girlfriend fi rst.” “What’s her name? Jill?” Jack looked perplexed for a moment and laughed. “It’s Francine.” After that there really wasn’t anything left to say, and so I waved to Jack and walked home. It took a long time, but nothing of interest happened along the way, and that night I had a deep sleep, fi nally waking up a little after noon. When I turned on the TV the news had already started, and the big story was about how the old bean tower burned down during the night. Public health offi cials speculated that there was a large amount of asbestos and other toxic materials still in the building, the burning of which caused everyone in the city to get high. That day many businesses were shut down on account of a lot of people tripping out, and with no work for the day, I decided to make some tacos. I browned the meat, chopped some onions, grated some cheese, and got the salsa out of my refrigerator. I even decided to heat up some refried beans to have on the side but found I didn’t have any at home. When I got to the grocery store, the beans were all sold out.

26 CARDINAL SINS omOM by Matthew Falk

1.) original ovum origami onion often ornery, often odd, off or on off ering oysters or off al ovidian oven of oblivion one’s only otherwise one

2.) mimetic martyrs mutter. mismatched memories map monstrous motives. measureless mistress, marginal music’s my mission.

CARDINAL SINS 27 montanitaMONTANITA IIII by Rachel Wooley Lazy summer night spent sitting on a porch swing because I wasn’t ready to go to bed and you weren’t ready to leave so we stare up at the stars in the blue-black sky neither of us knows any constellations so we make up new ones I shut off the porch light so the moths stop coming and the stars have no competition except for the streetlights (but they’re too far to really interfere) I really want to reach for your hand but I don’t know how you’d react so I push the ground with my shoes to make the swing move and lean my head back against the scratchy worn cushion I could listen to your voice all night over the crickets and the creak of the swing the rocking motion is soothing so you fall silent and lean your head back too

28 CARDINAL SINS teaseTEASE by James M. Zimmer II

CARDINAL SINS 29 atAT o’hare O’HARE by Daniel Schell

Delayed once again, I sit and wait through the stalled, winding lines, through amateur hour at security theater, drinking overpriced water I can’t even bring aboard.

My name is a red fl ag; I become tripped up in a cause not quite explained, tired ideas plucked from fading leaders, wisps from the ghosts of history black-or-white rhetoric bleeding across the gray domain.

My scuff ed shoes are carefully examined like laced explosives reeking of sweat from war games long past; fl ying on auto-pilot, I gather thoughts scattered across the miles like contrails darting across the sky, masking the fear I feel for us all.

30 CARDINAL SINS maternalismMATERNALISM by Blair Giesken

That morning was cool and moist. Like a peeled hardboiled egg or long, wet hair on a bare back. Mom asked if I’d seen the dead baby on the front porch. Not a real dead baby, but a baby bird. One of the robin’s eggs we’d been eyeing for weeks. Split clean open on the sidewalk. Dad’s old 35-millimeter swallowed the fresh roll of fi lm slowly and painfully, like a child choking down liquid medicine that looks pink but tastes brown. I fetched an empty frosting bucket from the garage and worked it down into the thick mulch near the front porch. Had it not been too early for even senior citizens to be out in pursuit of half-price coff ee, I might have felt foolish standing there on an old baker’s bucket in nothing but a terrycloth robe and rubber galoshes. I teetered on the thin rim of the makeshift ladder, the aerial view of the nest nearly perfect. Each remarkable turquoise shell begged for the routine snap and whine of the shutter. I continued to twist my cupped hand, causing their tiny spots and grooves to swim in and out of focus. I’ll never forget how my mother came out, wringing cake- battered hands in her apron. She paused, then slapped me clean across the face. Said you don’t get so near a robin’s nest when you know right well the mother might come back, feel threatened, abandon her young. And you certainly don’t take a picture of them. Because maybe the fl ash might over-warm the eggs, and the babies might not come out right after all.

CARDINAL SINS 31 sugarSUGAR VS.vs. SWEET sweet ‘N LOW by Amelia Glebocki

It’s a constant war, the battlefi eld resembling a television commercial—you know, with friends or twin sisters. One uses the product being advertised, while the other uses something else.

And it’s obvious which should be “best,”— the Sweet ‘n Low packet is thin and pink—like a healthy fl ush.

It almost makes the sugar packet look unwell: plump and pale.

Yet, each time, the sugar manages to defeat the Sweet ‘n Low. How, you ask?

Well, at the end of each commercial, there’s always this guy who speaks too quickly, and you know that it’s over when you hear useonlyasdirected.

But with sugar, see, we don’t need directions. Sugar has only fi ve letters, and no fi ne print.

Sweet ‘n Low seems full o’ fi ne things: a promise of fl avor without the calories and print.

A blend of nutritive and non-nutritive sweeteners.

On store shelves, it begs forgiveness for this fi ne-print fl aw in a tone that is skinny and pink. 32 CARDINAL SINS BattlegroundBATTLEGROUND by Daniel Schell

Red horizon, a net of mosquitos dot our skin, robbing our blood like Sam Houston robbed lives at the muddy, brown San Jacinto; we pause at that spot, soaking in history, covered in the mist of time.

Above us, a lone star perches atop a stone obelisk, a beacon shining in twilight, bright and majestic, taller than the battle was long, the Mexican army caught asleep, surprised and stumbling into a rout.

She and I are alone on this battleground; I can feel the souls chasing the warm breeze as it hides her face with hair, too thin a disguise, like Santa Anna’s, who was humiliated and fl ed, only to be a prisoner of war, and then to exile from the land he loved.

CARDINAL SINS 33 onON the THE centerCENTER LINE line by Blair Giesken

the sheen of well-preened feathers blackbird bodies that skim the bubbling tar scattering from the carcass they devour on the center line

fl eeing from the truck that whines a thick, metal colic baby the color of “it’s a boy!” cigars the sound like coins that get caught in the washer

34 CARDINAL SINS auspexAUSPEX NEMORENSISnemorensis by Matthew Falk

Waking in the afternoon, he stiffl y swung his elderly legs over the edge of his bed and tottered down the hall to his kitchen. He opened the cupboard and got his medicines, one at a time, lining them up on the counter. There were so many pills, prescribed by diff erent doctors for his many ailments, such as arthritis, beriberi, catarrh, diabetes, ennui, folie à duex, gout, halitosis, ichthyosis, jaundice, kleptomania, lupus, mesothelioma, necrosis, oxygen poisoning, quixotism, recidivism, sepsis, tetanus, ulcers, vertigo, warts, xerophthalmia, yaws, and zoomorphism. He got his gin, fi lled a tall glass with it, and washed the pills down one at a time. Thus fortifi ed, he looked forward to his daily walk to the park, where he would sit at his bench under his oak tree until it was time to return home and go to bed. This had been his life for as long as he could remember. Parents picnicking at the park told their children that he’d always been there and he’d always been an old man. They even gave him little off erings from their baskets. But he was never observed to eat anything. He would take the loaf of bread or whatever it might be, crumble it up, and feed it to the pigeons. His favorite part of each day was when the people would come to him for his wisdom. Petitioners would line up before his bench, holding out fi ve-dollar bills on which they’d written questions. He would take their money, read their questions aloud, and give his answers. Someone might write, “Is my husband cheating on me?” And he would look the supplicant over and say, “Yes,” while depositing the bill in the pocket of his tattered coat. Or, “Are you really a prophet or just a weird old man?” And he would say, “Yes,” pocketing the bill. It was, he thought, a good life, one of public service and dignity. But all this was yet to come. Right now he was just leaving his apartment. He waited outside the open elevator as his neighbor, a bird- like lady whose name he’d never bothered to learn, struggled to debark while managing several bags of groceries. He watched her drop a bag, then another while retrieving it, then the fi rst one again. Apples and cans of cola bounced and rolled around in the elevator and out into the hall. At last she got all her purchases over the threshold so as to make room for him. He smiled politely at her as the door closed, and then he rode down and went out into the street. He trudged cheerfully through the dirty city, taking tiny old-man steps that produced only rudimentary momentum. He knew

CARDINAL SINS 35

exactly how many steps it took to get to his park, and as he counted them off he was happy. But near the end of his route, after turning the last corner, he stopped abruptly, alarmed by an impossible sight. There, beneath the brittle snow-coated branches of his pin oak, a stranger was sitting on his bench! The old man’s hands squeezed themselves into fi sts and he started to tremble. Time passed pointlessly as he stood paralyzed by hesitation. The snow soaked through his shabby boots. Slowly he became aware that the stranger on his bench was speaking: “You all right over there?” He made an eff ort to run away, which expressed itself as a sort of impetuous lurching back to the corner. He refl ected on what had just happened. He thought about his fi rst trip to the park. That was a long time ago. The bench had been occupied when he found it. But he had sat down anyway, with old-man entitlement (for he was already an old man then), right next to the incumbent, who had immediately got up and left. And he had sat there ever since, and his right to do so had never been challenged. But he realized now that he’d always expected something like this to happen. And yet here he was, totally unprepared. By now the day was fading fast, the sun already half-hidden behind ugly modern buildings. His boots sloshed as he hobbled homeward, heartsick and heavy-footed. The sky was almost black by the time he reached his block. A single sickly sodium lamp shone down on his neighbor, the bird lady, as she left their building dressed for a night out. He hoped she wouldn’t look at him, but she smiled and waved. He felt weak with shame.

36 CARDINAL SINS alternativeALTERNATIVE OXYGEN oxygen AND THE STORY OF SIMEON MINOR by Robbie Pieschke Just before the robbery, Simeon Minor was sweeping the fl oor of the Windmill Café for the second time. His gray apron matched the tile, and it moved with the broom like a pendulum under the incandescent lights. In the corner the science fi ction writer sat and smoked cigarettes and drank coff ee while the lonely evening poured through the window and cast a shadow of the writer on the fl oor. Simeon swept in and out of his shadow. He liked when the writer came in because sometimes he told Simeon about his stories while Simeon poured the writer coff ee. The writer’s silhouette reminded him of one of the stories. It was about a league of super humans who could survive in space on alternative oxygen which he called neogen. Simeon secretly wished that he could survive in space on neogen. Instead he worked at the café and had done so for three and a half years. At twenty, he still couldn’t grow a beard or get laid and was mostly awkward, but customers seemed to appreciate (or maybe sympathize with) his uncertainty. He was always on time, his hair parted perfectly, and his name tag was always straight. Simeon leaned on the broom, sighed, and watched the mist move under the streetlight outside, knowing that soon Maine would be snowing. Lindsay The Night Manager echoed Simeon’s sigh and said, “Only one more hour and we can get the hell outta here.” She had just come from the back room sucking empty whipped cream bottles for their remaining nitrous oxide. It seemed to Simeon that everybody breathed alternative oxygen except him. At twenty minutes to ten, the two started their closing duties. They emptied the espresso grinders of the remaining espresso, cleaned the steaming pitchers, rinsed and washed the coff ee pots, emptied the trash, and wiped down all the tables. Then the robbery happened. Three minutes before the café closed, the science fi ction writer said goodnight and opened the door for an elderly man before walking out. The elderly man wore black pants and a fl annel shirt and moved with the determination of a poor stockbroker. Simeon was at the front counter next to the register. He said hello, then explained to the man as he made his way to the counter that they no longer had any coff ee and they were closing.

CARDINAL SINS 37

“I didn’t come for coff ee,” said the man, who looked as if he had been crying. “I’m going to take all of the money in your register.” It took Simeon a second to register what was happening, and he replied with a smirk, “Excuse me? Are you serious?” “I’m very serious, son,” replied the man, who, with tears running from his eyes, pulled out a small gun that must have been tucked in his pants. Simeon still, even with a gun pointed at him, had trouble believing that this old man was robbing the café, for he was hardly taller than Simeon, and his gray, unkempt beard contributed to his equally unkempt stature. “Sir, you don’t want to…” “Open it up, son, and please give me the money,” said the old man. He looked at Simeon with tears rolling down his cheek and shook the gun in Simeon’s face. Simeon thought the old man looked even more frightened than he was, but he still opened the register. Considering the circumstance, there was a strange serenity to Simeon’s movements that even he was conscious of and curious of just the same. The old man moved behind the counter and, while raising his gun above his head, said under his breath to Simeon, “You’re much too special for this,” and hit Simeon just above his left eyelid with the butt of his gun. Simeon fell to the ground and caught himself in push-up position just before passing out. The commotion fi nally brought Lindsay The Night Manager from the back room in time to see the old man walking out of the café with his gun drawn and a wad of cash. She stepped over Simeon and, in a panic, picked up the phone to call the police. After the robbery, Simeon awoke. He picked himself up from the gray tile ground after what felt like an hour but was actually only a brief moment. Lindsay was still on the phone trying to explain what she had seen and didn’t even notice that Simeon was bleeding on his apron. Simeon stood and, after regaining his equilibrium, walked out of the Windmill without a word. Lindsay yelled for him to wait, but her words were melted away by the misty night that created a fi lm on

38 CARDINAL SINS Simeon’s arms as he made his way to the coast. His head was throbbing and his face was swelling by the second, but the blood that was dripping from just above his eye seemed to alleviate the pain. He didn’t quite understand what he was doing but, at the same time, had never been so sure of what he was doing. This paradox brought a smile to his face as he wiped blood away from his eye. Simeon reached the coast while seemingly transparent clouds covered the brightest moon he had ever seen. He walked just past the water’s edge so that the peaceful ocean swept over his shoes, then picked up a stone from under them and hurled it into the bluest waves. He did this again with another stone, and a third stone watching each of them fl y through the night and fall into the Atlantic. Then he unbuttoned his name tag and threw it, too, as far as he could into the water. The name tag splashed, and Simeon smiled as he untied his shoes. He threw his shoes into the Atlantic Ocean. Frantically, Simeon looked for more things to throw. Pocket change. Splash. Wristwatch. Splash. Wallet, keys, water-logged apron. Splash. Simeon stood in ankle deep water dripping of the Atlantic and his own blood, but his heart sped and goose bumps riddled his skin as he breathed in the coast’s breeze. He started walking back but fell to the sand and, looking up at the brightest moon, wondered what sort of alternative oxygen he was breathing. Somewhere further north, cold waves collided with the coast, foreshadowing snow as the fi rst fl akes of winter fell onto the Atlantic.

CARDINAL SINS 39 Later,LATER, skaterSKATER by David Eudosio Smith

40 CARDINAL SINS fromFROM manillaMANILLA by Blair Giesken

I. 1968 you moved here from Manilla, Iowa, eleven years stowed neatly in old milk crates. the U-Haul held your life like it was an unassembled bed or a glossy swing set.

that day, the seagulls pocked our sky gray and brief as cindersmoke. you lay fl at in the grass and cried and I told you I was sorry we didn’t have hills.

we nursed on slabs of watermelon until the juice ran, sweet and pale drying in tiny pools upon our skin.

II. 1970 that summer your mother found a job— a new salon called “It Grows Back.” she came home with expensive shears to practice how to taper and cut fringe.

I sat on the cool linoleum bathed in dim, yellow kitchen light as you steadied a paper plate beneath your chin to catch the strands.

that week we started back to school with matching hats that tried to hide uneven and unfi nished heads of hair.

III. 1972 your family took a late fall trip to Iowa. we counted blue cars and sang in rounds and in the underpass, I felt you skim my knee.

CARDINAL SINS 41 let’sLET’S goGO SLAMslam DANCE dance by David Eudosio Smith

42 CARDINAL SINS lifeLIFE by Ashley Roggenbuck

CARDINAL SINS 43 listenLISTEN by James Fry

44 CARDINAL SINS sandcastleSANDCASTLE TOWERS towers by Britt Barnett

I grew up with her tapping on computer keys or hunched over a stack of papers. Always with her nose in a book. If she wasn’t grading papers, a book was being written. Me peering around corners. Crawling on all fours beneath a desk or tabletop. Lying on my back, eyes following the grain in the wooden desk. My heart suspended between ribs. My memories of childhood are stories of characters with diff erent names. A small girl, barefoot. Mother watering fl owers, rubber hose snaking over patio stones. She writes dialogue, and I remember the cold of the tiny river that followed with her steps. I’m dressed in pink rubber boots and matching raincoat, dotted with little red fl owers. In my hand, a plastic bucket of wet sand. I walk on stones. The green grass alive with brown. I stop and thread my fi ngers through the blades and scoop up slimy coiled worms. I have been making this trip all afternoon. Every time I pass through the kitchen, I am squeaking across linoleum behind my mother. She is sitting at our dining room table. I dump sand on the carpet of my bedroom fl oor. Patting the pile, molding my tower. Why aren’t bedroom fl oors made of sand? The pile reaches my height. My mother standing. A look of astonishment. I pat and smile, proud. This is the story she tells when asked how I was as a child. There are times I think it’s the only one she can remember. I tell it because it’s witty. I’m thirty. The smell of honeysuckle and rain fi lls my nose. I can see the stones glisten. I tell her it has become mythology at this point. The image of fi ve and pink. She asks me, what child doesn’t play with worms? I’m slumped in a chair, the cuff s of my sleeves wet with toilet water. I’m questioning a two-year-old who keeps fl ushing Legos down the toilet. We’ve had this conversation before. Primary colors fl oating in the bowl. After he is asleep tightly clasping his blanket, I call her. Plunger at my feet. A bottle of Excedrin next to a glass of wine on the table. Middle of the night, voice frustrated. She laughs and says the best stories come from heartache and credit card bills. I groan and tell her I will talk to her tomorrow.

CARDINAL SINS 45 morningMORNING SUNsun by Kristen Latuszek

46 CARDINAL SINS nymphaeaceaeNYMPHAEACEAE ONE one by Robert Darabos

CARDINAL SINS 47 pinkPINK poneysPONEYS by David Eudosio Smith

48 CARDINAL SINS luciferaseLUCIFERASE by Blair Giesken

trapping fi refl ies between waxed paper cups just to see if Roger meant it— when he said that rubbing their tiny remains on the fronts of your jeans could make you glow in the dark

CARDINAL SINS 49 saintSAINT AndreANDRE D’ARGENTEUIL by Ryan Martin

50 CARDINAL SINS retiredRETIRED LOBSTERlobster TRAP trap by Adam Baudoux

CARDINAL SINS 51 StumbleSTUMBLE ABODEabode by Jesse Fretwell

52 CARDINAL SINS handwritingHANDWRITING by Noah Essenmacher

A typed page, formatted for structure. Within borders and set by margins, standardized letters marching across lines organized into columns to defend the argument.

There are rules and there are conventions in the world war of processed words…

And something dear is lost…

But the pen and the ink still fl ow free across some pages, in cursive strokes and slanting loops the way they have for ages, sculpting each word original, an art unique in every hand.

A cursor can but imitate; no one mistakes it for a man.

CARDINAL SINS 53 shadowsSHADOWS AMONGamong MEN men by James M. Zimmer II

54 CARDINAL SINS abnormalABNORMAL ABNORMALITIESabnormalit AND THE DECONSTRUCTION OF MEANING by Robert Darabos

All things lose meaning, as Lady Hamilton will lose meaning when old age strikes me with its sickle-shaped blades; and upon the encounter with sickle-shaped blades of idolizing infections—an abormal abnormality—one, which, though received at birth, will not show her menacing face until the time of the Decrepit Age: but what form of abnormal abnormalities shall invade my body like the plague and worm into my graven home? To think of none would be as grave as the end of age, though to think of many would be the same.

When the fl ies become my friends and, after them, their kin, I shall not worry about abnormalities any more.

And when I am no longer welcomed into the Nation of Silk Worms this same abnormality—this plague of thoughts!—will vanish like the phantasmal hell-dogs I envision into long sleepless nights.

But what of thoughts and abnormalities while my vision is not eternally blanketed by eyelids? And what of these plagues that fi ll my mind with sorrow

CARDINAL SINS 55

until the Invasion of the Annelidas?

I am the Gardener forced to walk beside the Rose: jealous of its beauty and incomparable to its radiancy.

And of the Rose: to accept its victory (though eternally succumbed to idolization) or to destroy it in a fi t of rage, and present my own Cadmean victory?

56 CARDINAL SINS symmetrySYMMETRY by Adam Baudoux

CARDINAL SINS 57 I foundI FOUND myMY INNER inner CHILD child ON A MILK CARTON BECAUSE OF by James M. Zimmer II

that evil industrialist who makes petroleum from discarded fetuses, lost babies of Babylon. Ghost towns litter the Heartland. Poltergeists eternally playing Sand Invaders. Phantasms of war and intolerance.

This isn’t war; it’s an eradication.

Our victory is a walk to the sun; it never gets closer. So I ask, How many nations of little brown people, mocha martyrs, cappuccino casualties and hazel-eyed humans must die?

Oh, of course the white man deserves the spoils of victory and power. They were made in God’s image after all if you believe that sort of thing. And if you don’t

you’re next.

58 CARDINAL SINS colorsCOLORS WORKINGworking TOGETHER by Amanda Alliston

CARDINAL SINS 59 focusFOCUS by James Fry

.

60 CARDINAL SINS BIOGRAPHIESBIOGRAPHIES Amanda Alliston will be graduating from SVSU in May with a BA in graphic design and a minor in psychology. This picture was taken at an art exhibit in Dakar, Senegal, during a study abroad. It was an amazing experience where she took hundreds of photos. She is glad to have been able to support and contribute something to Cardinal Sins.

Britt Barnett is not a writer. She is not lazy and never lies. She does not believe in validation and never sleeps to dream. “I am not wherever I am the plaything of my thought, I think of what I am where I do not think to think.”–Lacan

Peter Brian Barry is an assistant professor of philosophy at SVSU and is interested in ethics, moral psychology, and philosophy of law. He steadfastly tries to avoid stereotypical philosopher-behavior like wearing black, hanging out in coff ee bars, staying up too late, and drinking wine. He does not succeed at this. Also, he has a cat.

Adam Baudoux is a fourth-year graphic design major. He enjoys photography and capturing how God reveals himself through nature.

Andrea Beff rey is a returning student with an associate’s degree in graphic design and is now in her senior year working towards her B.A. She wants to say thank you to her mother, Debbie, and father, Ken, for always believing in her; her big brother Chris for always pushing her; the rest of the family for being there; and to her friends for always being there and giving her the inspiration to create even more art.

Melony Blasius is an occupational therapy graduate student at SVSU. She enjoys photography as a hobby and wishes she had more time for it. She would like to thank her friend Wei for making it possible to take this photo and many others in Malaysia.

Robert Darabos is currently a junior at Saginaw Valley and is planning on getting a bachelor of fi ne arts degree. After graduation, he plans on moving to either Chicago or New York to continue his education in the arts.

Noah Essenmacher is a junior majoring in secondary education in both English and chemistry. He enjoys fi ction, poetry, and photography. Creative writing has always been one of his passions, and he looks

CARDINAL SINS 61 forward to the publication of Cardinal Sins each semester. He’s pleased and honored to have his work be a part of this semester’s collection.

Matthew Falk is an ephemeral assemblage of other-constructed identities.

Courtney A. Farmer has a way with words—profane words, that is. One of the many ways she wastes her time is by inventing new and more vulgar variations of existing obscenities. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisicing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua.

Jesse Fretwell loves Jesus Christ with all of his heart, and he doesn’t care who knows it. He loves to take pictures of anything because he knows God made it. That just happened.

James Fry is a Christian who happens to be a photographer. He hopes to use his love for people, music, photography, and Jesus Christ in his future. He would like to thank his sister Janey for tagging along everywhere and his mom and dad for always being there for him.

Tyler Germain is, at best, a mediocre autobiographer.

Blair Giesken is a third-year creative writing major. She would like to thank her family for being hilarious and amazing.

Chris Giroux is a pseudonym.

Amelia Glebocki is cynical, but kind. She is a freshman at SVSU. A coff ee addiction keeps her from getting enough sleep. Each summer, she attends the Controlled Burn Seminar for Young Writers, which she loves more than most things in life. Her work has been published in Temenos.

Christi Griffi s would really like to get acquainted with that guy who rides his unicycle around campus.

Carlie Hacha is an elementary education major with a passion for literature and political activism. When she is not busy creating lesson plans, she enjoys spending time outdoors and reading. Her favorite author is Chuck Palahniuk who writes: “This is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time.”

62 CARDINAL SINS Dawn Kehr is a senior majoring in special education and visual arts education.

Kristen Latuszek is a freshman at SVSU. Her family farm has provided a large portion of the inspiration behind her photography. She is currently planning a career in the medical fi eld.

Ryan Martin is one of the Kings of Albanmar, former Tag-team Champions of the World; a semi-talented graphic designer and creative writer; an avid hockey fan; a Canadian superstar; and most recently a published photographer. 1 for 1 on Cardinal Sins submissions! ¡Viva Albanmar!

Tabitha Meyering is in her fourth year at SVSU and is a graphic design major and business minor.

Holly Morningstar is waiting...impatiently...for inspiration...and for Starbucks, because she can only go so long without easy access to chai tea.

Robbie Pieschke would like to own a wooden rowboat and live on the coast of Maine someday. He’s in love with a beautiful Mexican woman named Brooke and would like to thank her family and his family, Rick Moede, Ron Stelter, Jeff Easlick, and Janice Wolff for all their help and encouragement, and also Cardinal Sins for letting him be a part of the team.

Ashley Roggenbuck is a third-year student majoring in graphic design and professional and technical writing, a perfectionist, an optimist, a competitor in life, determined to succeed. She is creeping up on graduation, and she is convinced there are not enough hours in a day.

Ashley Schafer is a chronically busy person. If she has not overbooked her schedule, she doesn’t know what to do with herself. And if she doesn’t travel somewhere new every few months, she goes a little bit stir crazy. She loves meeting new people, but will always rely on the old friends that have agreed to live with her in a big house full of cats should they all succumb to the fate of becoming old spinsters.

Daniel Schell is pursuing his bachelor’s in professional and technical writing at SVSU. He also works full time for a Saginaw law fi rm. He has

CARDINAL SINS 63 been published in such magazines as Poetry Motel, Voices, The Crowbait Review, and Pegasus Magazine. He lives in Saginaw.

Tornline is a creative writing major and an underground poetry muse. Addicted to running and drinking coff ee, Tornline is the balance beam of many dreams stagnant in the creative process. Recently, she has been rejected more than accepted, but she has been accepted, and her fi rst novel will be out soon.

David Eudosio Smith is invisible and a razor of love.

Brandt Snook is addicted to the A&E reality television show Intervention. Calls made by family and friends to the show’s producers to address this issue have not been returned.

Tom Wheatley is cheeky.

Rachel Wooley thinks she really should write more often if she plans on pursuing a creative writing major (since, unfortunately, she can’t make a living traveling and shopping full-time). This was her fi rst time submitting to Cardinal Sins and she’s pretty pleased about making it in.

James M. Zimmer II is the King of Albanmar, Beta MAX, Larry the Turtle’s creator, Patrick Westwood, Captain Morgan, Inappropriate Comment Man, updating his Facebook status, a mental abortion, a masturbatory aid, artist, musician, writer, part-time construction worker and Emilie Autumn’s secret lover. ¡Vivá Albanmar!

64 CARDINAL SINS BENEFACTORS

Patrons Donald & Liana Bachand Frank & Linda Dane Dow Corning Corporation Mary Harmon Jim & Melissa Seitz—in memory of Carl Seitz

Donors Jill Allardyce Diane Boehm J.J. Boehm Kelly Boettcher Joni & Rick Boye-Beaman Merry Jo Brandimore Julie Coe Ruth L. Copp Susan Crane Steve, Deborah, and Riley Duncan Jeff rey Easlick George & Judy Eastland Linda Farynk Eric & Cindy Gilbertson Janelle & Matt Hemingway Shirts, Mugs & More—Idalski, Inc. Robert Maurovich & Nancy Warner David F. Oeming Janis Paul Helen Raica-Klotz Carlos & Jean Ramet Kathie Smith SVSU Bookstore Odail and Mamie Thorns and the Offi ce of Diversity Programs Perry Toyzan Ruthann Voss Janice and Terry Wolff

CARDINAL SINS 65 AcknowledgmentsACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank all of those people who make Cardinal Sins possible. Thank you to Chris Giroux for taking on the role of advisor and doing a great job; Tracy Ulch for crunching the numbers; Rob Bastek for designing another amazing cover; Pat Latty and Sharon Opheim for helping out; Nick Blessing for maintaining the website; the hardworking members of the Cardinal Sins editorial staff ; Melissa Seitz for her advice and for making me aware of Cardinal Sins in the fi rst place; President Gilbertson; Dr. Donald Bachand; Dick Thompson, J.J. Boehm, and the PJPC; Student Association for their continued support; Aaron Crossen and the staff of The Valley Vanguard; Perry Toyzan and everyone who works on printing Cardinal Sins; Linda Farynk for all her help with the post-publication reception; Lucille Beauthin and Suzette Zimmerman at the Foundation Offi ce; Trish Gohm and Student Life; Evening Services; all the benefactors who support Cardinal Sins and our continuing progress; and all the artists who contribute their work.

I’d also like to thank everyone who helped with the Fall 2007 Slamoramaglamajama. Thank you to Janelle Hemingway and Valley Nights for their monetary support; Amelia Glebocki and all who particpated in the poetry slam; SMTV, The Blacklist, and Appearance and Reality for sharing their music; Bryan Hampton for providing sound; Steve Duncan for being the evening’s MC; all the Cardinal Sins staff members who came early, stayed late, and ate lots of pizza; and everyone who came out and had a good time with us.

Christi Griffi s

66 CARDINAL SINS