.

Metaphor, Weber State University’s undergraduate interdisciplinary journal, is in its thirtieth year of publication. The journal is staffed entirely by Weber State University students.

Metaphor accepts submissions in visual arts, poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and music from students of Weber State University as well as selected pieces from the National Undergraduate Literature Conference.

Publications in Metaphor are chosen through a blind submission process. The author, visual artist, or composer of each piece is unknown until that piece is selected for publication. Guest judges are invited to ensure the objectivity of art selections.

Metaphor is funded primarily through student fees and is distributed free of charge to students, faculty, guests at Weber State University’s annual National Undergraduate Literature Conference, and the community.

Copyright © 2011 is retained by individual authors, visual artists, and composers.

Printed in the United States of America by Weber State University Printing Services, Ogden, Utah.

Metaphor Weber State University 1404 University Circle Ogden, Utah 84408-1404

Visit us on the web: weber.edu/metaphor

Cover design by Danielle Weigandt TABLE OF CONTENTS ix Metaphor Staff

x Acknowledgments

xi Editor’s Notes

MUSIC 13 Josaleigh Rain Pollett Salt

13 David Thomas Owen IV Ships; Youth

14 Fox Van Cleef Somethin’ ’bout the Way; Dizzy; Red

15 Clint Stanger It’s OK to Die; Destiny; Red Rain

16 Brady Adair Midnight Sky

16 Owl Hoots Sun Come Callin’

17 Jacob Smith ’64 Skylark

18 Tom Hughes Lorena; Your Song; Wrapped Up In Yer Blues

18 Rawson Butts The Owl and the Pussycat

POETRY 21 “A Book to Its Author” (as inspired by Anne Bradstreet) Kory Wood

23 Pink Galoshes (For My Daughter) Jennifer Widdison

24 Shattered Vase Dwight S. Adams

26 Tomes Joshua Brothers

27 A Moment Between Two Artists Laura Funk

iii 28 Story Man (From: “Lives of the Artists” by Dennis Vannatta) Jason VanDaam

29 It Seems I Have Heart Trouble Jason VanDaam

30 Plato’s Pawn Shop Lee Nguyen

31 The Last Cantaloupe Cynthiann Heckelsmiller

32 Grocery Shopping Dixie Hartvigsen

33 Of Vincent Lee Nguyen

34 Dot Murielle Parkinson

35 Where They Go Laura Funk

36 The Things I Can’t Afford Amy Mayo Townsley

38 Sunday Chess in the Park Melanie Walker

39 The Inevitable Love Poem Kaili Watson

40 Owning Briana Zike

42 After My Father’s Death Sean Peek

43 Spent Clint Stanger

44 The River, Merlot Lee Nguyen

45 Eldritch Karleigh Weeks

46 Waiting Jennifer Widdison

47 The Night at the Circus Shannon Beverley

iv ART 49 Pensive Women, Little Houses Camela Corcoran

50 Muy Caliente Alex Pommier

51 Who Shall Comfort the Comforter? Megan Wilson

52 Constellations Erica Stearns

53 Color Theory Tom Hughes

54 Fabric of Time Danielle Weigandt

55 Spiral Jetty Ruth Silver

56 The Journey Megan Wilson

57 Morg Darren Curtis

58 Ain’t it Funny How Time Slips Away Carey Francis

59 Under an Umbrella Sharon Salmond

60 Twin Fiddles Tyler Dilworth

61 Roost Jennifer Ronayne

62 Green Women, Little Houses Camela Corcoran

63 A Memory Anna Kristensen

64 My Inner Demons Melinda Taggart

65 Awoken Danielle Weigandt

v NONFICTION 67 Caught an Edge John D. Linford

71 Of Indians and Baseball: An Analysis of Sherman Alexie’s “The Approximate Size of My Favorite Tumor” Amy Mayo Townsley

78 American Exceptionalism as Justification for U.S. Foreign Policy Alexandria Waltz

83 Seventy-nine Cents, Plus Tax Amy Mayo Townsley

85 Dickens, Willis and Bogart Kory Wood

93 Fleeting Memories Logan Cox

FICTION 95 Chocolate Alicia Glascock

103 Deadlines David Glen (Harrison)

107 Roma Shelly Sphar

109 The Ladybug Trevor Wheelwright

110 The Day that Mrs. Butterworth Died Cynthia Balzomo

118 Pesos Julianne Hiatt Caldwell

120 First Ink Dustin Follett

NULC 131 Salt Water Kills Margaret Reynolds: Tulane University, LA

132 Pulling Out of a Walmart Parking Lot Brock Michael Jones: Utah Valley University

133 Marc Chagall’s The Birthday Engram Wilkinson: Tulane University, LA vi 135 Buried Alive Gary Smith: Pikeville College, KY

141 Daddy Long Legs Keats Conley: College of Idaho

RETROSPECTIVE 144 I Meant Exactly What I Said Stephanie Pringle

145 Council Brittanie Stumpp

146 Earth Drunk Kristin March

147 Travis Park, Wyoming Rykki Olson

148 Excerpt from “Desert Geisha” Halbert Pete

149 Excerpt from “The Surrogate” Adrian Stumpp

150 Evening Song Mario Douglas Chard

151 Excerpt from “To A Mouse: Lessons In Compassion” Marilyn Diamond

152 Excerpt from “Why Robert Frost No Longer Comes To Tea” Kate S. Tanner

153 Cold Fingers and David Vanessa Hancey

154 Excerpt from “The Beauties” Scott Woodham

155 Brad’s Bakery Bettie Turman

156 Adam’s Apple Jen Henderson

157 Excerpt from “Dyadica” Krista Beus

158 Excerpt from “The Taste” Katherine Herring-Furlong

159 Flying Patrick Murphy

vii 160 Seedbed Linda Larsen

161 Excerpt from “Another Washday” Sundy Watanabe

162 Excerpt from “Old and Wise” Anne L. Robbins

163 Excerpt from “Bu Dop 1969” John Beal

164 Ice Cream Man Jennifer J. Elkington

165 Verdant End Briana Beckstrand

166 The Great Put On Jennifer McGrew

167 The Embrace Michael Cheney

168 Michelangelo’s Forgotten Slave Karrin Peterson

169 Hunting Carl Porter

170 We’ll Be Dinosaurs Caril Jennings

170 Thorn Lee Walser

171 Excerpt from “Suffer the Little Children” Amy Allred

172 Excerpt from “Midnight Thoughts” LaVon B. Carroll

viii Metaphor Staff

Faculty Advisor Jan Hamer

Editor-in-Chief Assistant Editor Andrea K. McFarland Quincy Bravo

Layout Designer NULC Selections Aaron Conder Coordinator Andrew Choffel Music Editor Clint Stanger Weekly Poem Project Coordinator Art Editor Jason VanDaam Danielle Weigandt Copy Editors Poetry Editor Jan Hamer Jason VanDaam Stephanie Presley Andrea K. McFarland Fiction Editor Briana Zike Website Manager Michelle Paul Non-Fiction Editor Alexandria Waltz Publicity Specialist Andrew Choffel

Reviewers Aloha Morris Jacob Ericksen Amy Higgs Jennifer Sanda Amy Mayo Townsley Kayla Jones Bailey Dolan Maggie Greer Carey Francis Melanie Byington Cynthiann Heckelsmiller Melanie Walker Devon Hoxer Michelle Paul Dixie Hartvigsen Stephanie Presley David Glen (Harrison) Tamara Sisler Heidi Vance ix Acknowledgements

This, and every other, edition of Metaphor would not be possible without its staff. Thank you all for your time and service to this publication. Thank you for your commitment, for working with tight deadlines, for handling difficulties with grace, for being friendly to one another, and in general, just being awesome. You are Metaphor, and I see y’all on every page.

We would also like to thank the following individuals: • Jason Francis, Cindy Stokes, and the Printing Services staff for answering our questions, making the book happen, and walking with us (literally) every step of the way. • Aubree Gleed, Robin Scott, and Kim Webb for “having our backs” and helping us with everything from advertising to transferring twenty-nine years of printed work into an electronic format. • The professors of Weber State University for encouraging their students to submit their work. • Drs. Kathy Herndon and Vicki Rameriz for their continued support. • Dean Madonne Miner for listening to our idea about having a retrospective section and funding it. • Glen Weise and Brad Roghaar, our Emeritus Faculty Advisors, for going through the old issues and selecting pieces. You have given of yourselves to the students you have served, and we will never forget you for that. • Jan Hamer, our Faculty Advisor, for her willingness to cannonball into Metaphor full force. You have the singular gift of being able to take student ideas, no matter how far-fetched, and figure out ways to make them happen. We love you for your generous heart and your red pen. • The spouses, family members, and significant others of the staff for their patience and support. We could not do what we do without you behind us. x Editor’s Notes

Metaphor has changed over the course of the last thirty years from a publication involving a small staff, to a publication that utilizes the talents of about thirty students from all areas of the arts. It has matured because of the dedication of hundreds of student staff members, three faculty advisors, and thousands of students who have generously offered their work for its creation. We are grateful for these efforts, and recognize how much they underwrite our work this year. We give you the thirtieth edition of Metaphor as an extension of this collective memory and as a showcase of the talents of Weber State University students, past and present.

As part of this showcase, the thirtieth edition has a few special features. The music and retrospective sections have online com- ponents that can be accessed at weber.edu/metaphor. Adding these online components to our journal has given us a greater capacity to represent the work of musicians, both as reviews in the journal and as actual performances online. It has also given us the ability to showcase the work of past contributors whose stories or poems were a little long for us to publish full-text. We hope that you will take advantage of these features, and that in the future they will allow Metaphor to expand its outreach in the performing arts.

I only have one other thing to say. It is that there is something very communal about publication. It has the power to preserve moments in time and to help us see ourselves clearly. We hope that as you read, listen to, and view the works of artists from this year, and past years, you will find things that echo through your own life. Good reading.

Andie K. McFarland Editor-in-Chief

xi MUSIC Everywhere we go music surrounds us. Whether it’s com- ing from a blaring alarm clock too early in the morning, a live performance on a late night weekend, or from someone’s screaming ear-buds heard above the harmonious sounds of bustling hallways between classes, we simply cannot escape its mesmerizing hook. Much like the literature and art found within this journal, music is used as an escape from the people and world around us, if for only a few moments. It sparks our imaginations, gives us identity, and keeps our minds from sinking into silence.

For this gift of music we thank the gods of harmony, melody, and rhythm. The Metaphor staff would also like to thank the students of Weber State University: both the artists below along with their listeners and fans. For without the body as a whole, without each cog in this great machine, we would surely find our world a decidedly secluded and silent place.

Of course, the music section of Metaphor wouldn’t be com- plete without, well, music. The artists have submitted record- ings of the pieces below and have allowed us to put their music online; we ask that you please follow up reading these summaries by visiting weber.edu/metaphor for free down- loads. Thank you!

Editor Staff Clint Stanger Bailey Dolan Quincy Bravo Jacob Ericksen Andrew Choffel

12 Metaphor Vol. XXX Josaleigh Rain Pollett Salt (folk/acoustic): This song is about the places we live and the experiences we have inspired by those places. It was written about the love I have for Salt Lake and the people I have met there.

Josaleigh Rain Pollett is an Ogden native who has been writing songs her entire life. She is a junior majoring in anthropology and trying to find out what her calling is. Music is her hobby, de-stressor, and emotional outlet. Without it, she says she would explode with all of today’s worries and craziness. She writes, records, and produces her music with the help of her wonderful family and friends. (Josh Seppich and Dustin Bessire added vocals and noises in the recording.)

David Thomas Owen IV Ships (independent arena-rock): This song is a peek into a great journey across a vast desert, perhaps near Egypt. A type of souljourn in which the character is searching inside and outside of himself for answers regarding faith and religion. The chorus represents a sort of spiritual purification he must undergo in order to embrace higher enlightenment.

Youth (independent arena-rock): This song is sung from the viewpoint of someone in a dream state. Everything is a bit fuzzy, dreamy, and unclear. In each verse, the mental lens hovers around strange happenings. The chorus speaks of a mystical “in between” world that lovers are called to and are eternally bound together dancing in ethereal dark- ness. A sort of metaphor for blind, eternal love...

David Thomas Owen IV originally hails from northeast Ohio. Music has always been at the forefront of David’s endeavors. In 2003 he signed on to play guitar for a

MUSIC 13 band called Lovedrug who eventually signed and released a record with Columbia Records. After thousands of miles and hundreds of shows in countless cities across the U.S.A., David decided to leave Lovedrug. During this much needed break, David wrote and recorded his first solo effort, “Solace My King,” which was released nation- ally in the summer of ’09 by Esperanza Plantation. After amassing a large stockpile of demos for the anticipated follow-up release, David decided to put the project on hold and focus on higher education. He now attends Weber State University and lives a quiet life near the Wasatch Mountains.

Fox Van Cleef

Somethin’ ’bout the Way (independent rock): Here’s the Fox’s hybrid of soul and funk that sounds something ’bout the way it would back in the day. But watch out for the frenzy of theremins and modern EFX that places its sound into a timeless world where anything can be said, and indeed heard. As far as breaking up with that other person, well as long as it has to be, ya might as well dance.

Dizzy (independent rock): The volume of truths that are presented in this song makes it one of the most personal for the Cleef. From the strange story of our anti-hero Dizzy to the tangible tension of the horns and guitars, one is drawn into an increasingly complex and yet steadily silly web of words and bells. Dip down into the ocean for a spell, relax and let the waves take you away.

Red (independent rock): This is a modern Greek tragedy, set in a post-Roman West. Reflecting both on the loss of our collective souls to the machine as well as our despair- ing choice to continue on despite the hive being dry, this song is a bittersweet ballad to the Modern Age. Strange

14 Metaphor Vol. XXX notes, odd rhythms and the blues, though a very unusual and dark blues all permeate through to form a backdrop of the strange world we live in. Still, it’s advisable to boogie whenever the mood hits you.

The Cleef formed under unusual circumstances culminat- ing in a strange brew of ideas, stories and of course groovy tunes. As early as 2006 there were murmurs and tall tales of a new sound being forged out in the distant mountains of Ogden, but many dismissed this as mere hype. Af- ter several years of hard work (but much more play), the family that is Fox Van Cleef is spilling its love and music out for everyone to enjoy. The songs presented here are a Fox Van Cleef sample from the band’s last EP, Pleasure Junkies. Fox Van Cleef is Chase Baur, Dustin Bessire, Jesse Hodshire, Anna Hodshire, Matt Froling, Spencer Reed, and Erich Newey.

Clint Stanger

It’s OK to Die (folk/acoustic): Written in Dr. Ramirez’s lyric writing class, this song draws strong parallels to the Biblical character Jesus Christ and one of his good timin’ pals, Judas. Meant to be reassuring during those times in life when one would just as soon give up, the song also points out that there are worse things than death.

Destiny (folk/acoustic): The singer of “Destiny” vows to take with him those things that the material world finds useless, but in the end we all understand to be the most important things in life.

Red Rain (indie synth-pop): A call to those who just can’t get their minds to see over and past the steering wheel to see the good things in life. It also makes a statement about the paranoia of exposing your true being to the world.

MUSIC 15 Clint Stanger has been a prolific musician in the Weber County area for the past ten years. Along with doing solo performances, he also plays with a number of groups in the area and teaches music at a local shop in Ogden. He has also been a member of the WSU Jazz Band, WSU Jazz Combo, and WSU Classical Guitar program for the past four years and is looking forward to graduating soon.

Brady Adair Midnight Sky (alternative/acoustic): “Midnight Sky” is about a relationship that was broken apart by jealousy. It digs into the regret, and the wishful thinking that the relationship could somehow be mended. The song goes through how the relationship was torn apart, and the rea- soning why they should return to one another.

Brady Adair is a solo musician that was introduced into songwriting at the beginning of his sophomore year in high school. Since then he has fallen deeper and deeper in love with music, and takes every opportunity he can to mess around with it. Towards the end of his senior year of high school he was introduced to recording music, and through the help of a couple friends recorded “Midnight Sky.”

Owl Hoots Sun Come Callin’ (folk/acoustic): A song about the passage of time between a couple. Profession will most likely take me away from home a lot and I already feel that longing to be with my wife and daughter. This work is just the expres- sion of those feelings. In short, it’s an “I miss you” song.

16 Metaphor Vol. XXX Owl Hoots (Colby Peterson) is a songwriter born and raised in the greater Ogden area. The oldest of three children, Owl began writing songs at the age of ninteen. Though a busy guy, (he is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Middle Eastern studies and Arabic), he loves to sit down, write, and share his music with the community. Of his influences, he says, “The biggest has to be Josh Ritter. If I could find a way to write music as happy as his with that Brady Adair level of thought in the lyrics, I will have achieved my goal as a songwriter.”

Jacob Smith

’64 Skylark (rap): This song is what happens when two musical cousins get together when the wives are out of town. It started with Jacob’s cousin, Chris B. Cream, who is a deep rapping freestylist, wanting to just spit some- thing and the words you hear first, “He learns so quick”, were his amazement that Jacob found a sick beat so swift- ly. The rest of the song was built up around that first verse. Jacob added his (penned) rapping section and the chorus, which references “The Three Little Pigs” and Ogden’s very own Cosmos’ Burger and their famous “gems.”

Jacob Smith has been playing guitar and piano for around fourteen years, writing and singing his own songs pretty Owl Hoots much from day one. Like many little kids, he was forced to play piano and attend formal piano lessons from a very young age. He didn’t always like or appreciate this when he was younger, but just like Mom said he would be, he is more than thankful that she made him stick with it. His mom played guitar, which sparked his interest, and he soon began walking around the house clumsily strumming an E-minor chord. But hey, you gotta start somewhere.

MUSIC 17 Tom Hughes Lorena (folk/acoustic): Lorena is a woman that represents the hopes and dreams of everybody. She has lived the life of a sixty-year-old, but she is only in her twenties. Life has beaten her many times, but she still holds onto her dreams—she is always dancing. Your Song (folk/acoustic): This was a collaboration of writing with a friend. I wanted to try to capture the inten- sity of her words and combine them with song to encap- sulate the emotion. Wrapped Up In Yer Blues (folk/acoustic): This is a song that isn’t geared towards anybody in particular. It is more about the feeling of despair that sometimes goes hand in hand with love. Tom Hughes: “I am currently a senior studying English with an emphasis in creative writing. I enjoy all forms of art and find myself constantly challenging my ideas in ev- ery medium. I have many stories that need to be told and each story has its own characteristics that sometimes take the shape of poem, song, or painting. Art has many faces wearing a variety of masks that distinguish all aspects of life; and I am just the mask-maker.”

Rawson Butts The Owl and the Pussycat (children’s music): This song is one of my favorite children’s picture books. The illustra- tions are vividly colored and very clever. As I set text (a poem by Edward Lear) to music, I sought to capture its fun and carefree nature with a simple melody and “colorful” harmonies. The song was written as a gift to my favorite youngest sister, Rachel. It is my first published work, and it certainly won’t be my last.

Rawson Butts is the second of eight children raised by loving, supportive, and artistic parents. His childhood was full of colorful imagination and creativity. As a kid, he

18 Metaphor Vol. XXX Tom Hughes often enjoyed listening to his mother read aloud from all kinds of books: picture books, novels, and the scriptures. The children would frequently incorporate these stories in their play. His love of music began primarily at church, singing children’s songs. There, he learned the power of music in storytelling and sharing the deepest feelings of the heart. He is now a choral music education major with plans to continue being a kid, start a family of his own, remain active in church, graduate from WSU and earn master’s and doctorate degrees, continue composing and arranging, author a book, and eventually direct a university choral program. These are no easy goals, but with a lot of hard work and the grace of God, he believes he can ac- complish anything.

Rawson Butts

MUSIC 19 POETRY Understanding a poem is a personal experience. As you read these worthy words strung together, various pearl necklaces offered for you to wear, give yourself the opportunity to let the poems become yours. It is your right as the reader. As all poems, even all my poems, are no longer or wherever mine. As to possess a poem as a writer is to chain a racehorse in a suburban backyard denying it a chance to run. Poetry is more about listening than writing. Most good ideas are simple. Here are some good ideas in the format of poems.

As a Weber State poetry staff, our purple hearts were full and ripe with pride at the amount of submissions received this year. The process of choosing is never easy; in fact, it squeezed and aged us causing a pleasure similar to the making of wine. We are now word drunk and we thank you for your kindness for giving us your poems. Such bravery shown at visiting our humble vineyard called Metaphor will not be forgotten as the experience changed us. Joining this staff has made us better writers as I am sure if you submitted, regardless of whether your piece was selected or not, you are now a better writer. It is all in the trying that great things are accomplished.

My deepest gratitude and admiration to all involved and it pleases us to share these selections.

Editor Staff Jason VanDaam Melanie Walker Devon Hoxer Cynthiann Heckelsmiller Carey Francis Jennifer Sanda Kayla “K.C.” Jones

20 Metaphor Vol. XXX “A Book to Its Author” (as inspired by Anne Bradstreet) Kory Wood

Here I stand, propped up twixt the new Palin and a Vampire saga, on the Hot, New rack of books. A kidney stone in the pipe of literature.

You worked on me all through college. Based characters on interesting people around you, Plead the cases of common men, Scattered in Christian allegories and allusions to Jonah and Beowulf and Luke Skywalker, Made people think like apartheid and religious zeal and pork barrel legislation and second marriages.

At least, those were your intentions. But it didn’t work.

Now, don’t get me wrong. My intention is not to sound ungrateful. I saw how much you put into me. I appreciated the effort. But now that I’m out here, I can’t help but miss the snoozey womb of your jump drive.

My protagonist makes road work seem compelling. When he isn’t sitting alone, in a London café, whining about injustices, he’s sitting with other lame heroes of other failed novels, comparing pretentious facial hair and talking about as-yet-un-revolted revolutions.

POETRY 21 Do you remember the scene in the zoo? The one where you walk through the bird exhibit? Why did you let them cut it out? I know you liked it, not because it meant much, or contributed to your overall Greek allegorical scheme, but because it added a splash of color. It got lopped off by editors and thrown in the trash along with the tops of Christmas trees that wouldn’t fit in living rooms.

That first chapter was great, then the next couple dozen dropped off a bit. But don’t give up! I saw what else you were hiding in your Word files behind the mediocre poetry and that re-working of The Odyssey.

22 Metaphor Vol. XXX Pink Galoshes (For My Daughter) Jennifer Widdison

Rain hits the ground Pops and springs upward Before it settles into Slickery earth.

I sit under heavy clouds while My newspaper shelter disintegrates Wet and wretched, I wait For streaks of color to appear as The day’s only redemption

Until,

She steps out in her pink galoshes Runs and stomps in the water that Collects in the cracks and cavities of a Dilapidated world and suddenly I no longer see the drizzling, Misery of rain.

POETRY 23 Shattered Vase Dwight S. Adams

It lay shattered on a brown table top, a gaping hole in its side.

It was once beautiful; it had, for a minute, been beauty. It had sat on a white table, flanked by dozens of price-tag pots, bulging, pregnant with intended meaning, ready to burst beyond its designed curves. It had sat beneath a lamppost, perfect.

Perhaps it asked to be broken. The fractal patterns of many, maybe hundreds, of tiny hand-crafted pebbles, side by side, scarred its face with such broken precision, such insistence, that maybe the fatality of the piece was in its creation.

I don’t know. Does art flee so easily?

Now its jagged shards, dagger flakes of hardened clay, once in

24 Metaphor Vol. XXX a union of private happiness have abandoned one another.

And the sculptor? Why shouldn’t he weep? Why not clench his fists as disaster clenched his vase? It was once beautiful; it was once happiness, if not intent alone. Now it is anger.

Now it is defeat.

Now it is ugliness; wretched, twisted, shattered vase– aborted– filled with unintended meaning.

POETRY 25 Tomes Joshua Brothers

Like a sunbeam caught askew, Passing in and out of view, A phantom’s swirling round and round, Without age and without sound. And somewhere in the breaking spray You almost hear the vision say That, “as you search theses scattered tomes, Only one can take you home.” A single tome contains the key To garner love or misery. Silent pages becoming bound With words wrapped in a misty shroud. It comes unraveled through our desire As memories are caught on fire, And a crucible grows white with heat Issued from a Holy Seat. And in the dark, a strong embrace Ignites a spark with saving grace And like a sunbeam caught askew The phantom swirls within our view And somewhere in the breaking spray You almost hear the vision say That, “as you search these scattered tomes, Only one can take you home.”

26 Metaphor Vol. XXX A Moment Between Two Artists Laura Funk

He steps through an invisible wall Into his music And weaves disjointed tunes Accenting chatter

Five feet away on a worn red couch She’s confined in her own Groping words Fragmented symbols, unformed mosaics

His fingers along the keys He names them all

“I call this one, Beautiful Girl is Writing”

Blushed lips, timid She thinks the tone is fitting Somber and serene A weeping willow swaying through a storm He knows her very well

“Your turn,” he grins “What is that you’re writing?”

She whispers “Handsome Man, Keep Playing.”

POETRY 27 Story Man (From: “Lives of the Artists” by Dennis Vannatta) Jason VanDaam

He was an ancient television Warm tube throated, off set, knob of nose Rabbit eared, screen faced Cro-magnumed entertainment Speaking for sustenance Basic tribal vitality in Dance, drink, and song Life changing moments until Life becomes forfeit to Goat dung stuffed in mouth Like some putrid textured cotton Bringing back the Unbearable silence From which we came before Angry spear-armed men.

28 Metaphor Vol. XXX It Seems I Have Heart Trouble Jason VanDaam

She twists her coffee cup with elegant nervousness I tell her the only people us matters to Are sitting right here When I bite my lip it makes her giggle School girl tribute’s to my face This pen gets twitter pated and sighs knowing that There is work to do while she exists here For us, or do we exist for her?

She sings soulful sunrise breakfast blues between bites I tell her this makes me sad and in her Soft sultry river bottom voice she replies “Why sad?” so, I confess My ears are unworthy to hear you, My hands unworthy to touch you, My eyes unworthy to see you, My…she interrupts like we are already married “I don’t mind so much your unworthy lips!”

She likes it when I stack the plates for the waitress I tell her sun-setting runny eggs reflect in her eyes She tells me “You have no sense of personal space do you?”

(As I do not it should be noted she fits in my pants nicely and I have nice fits when I’m in hers)

I drink her in this warm Chianti girl as a Certain slow sensual wobble occurs What a lovely sober drunkenness she provides Tipsy on life’s beautiful creatures What sense can be found in being a poet if not to enjoy Ringing telephone laughter of epic earthbound angel’s Calling to apply for the vacant position of muse.

POETRY 29 Plato’s Pawn Shop Lee Nguyen

A cup of hemlock for your wisdom, for crimes, committed, peace and solace like a pint of absinthe, for a palette, for a vision.

An obsidian idol, for a prayer, an open palm, sitting lotus, wooden carving, for clarity.

Here, there’s no need for coin and crown, or static medium upon walls, no interest in grails or spears, or a stone to be sworn upon.

Here, you can find yourself awake under a Bodhi tree, venture down Marlowe’s river, meet The Raven at the door, or Gyatso’s crows, above.

30 Metaphor Vol. XXX The Last Cantaloupe Cynthiann Heckelsmiller

The knife sliced through easily The skin thin and less than firm The flesh is softer than I’d hoped The juice drizzles, thinner, cloudy water It is difficult to grasp and swallow. The sun still cuts through the clouds The branches less than full The leaves left sooner than I’d hoped The air is damp, hazed, growing colder It still clings to the thought of warmth. Three weeks ago, we opened a watermelon It had turned to sour brown sugar Wasn’t worth noting but for the smell, Clotted earth in our garbage can. Since then I’ve won and lost Victory-ed and bombed tests Owned and sold auditions Since then I’ve danced To another’s tune and to my own. Cradled in my spoon is orange water It swirls with nostalgia Smells sweet but tastes bitter Sprinklers not rain Bikinis not coats Novels not speeches Flowers not frost I tip the spoon And summer’s gone.

POETRY 31 Grocery Shopping Dixie Hartvigsen

Grab a can of traffic To mix with the Snooze Seasoning And your cart already contains a fabulous mix for a late dinner. In the frozen section they have hearts on sale, But only the generic-take-years-to-thaw brand.

Your last conversation called for a chunk of spiral ham But the one before that needed thigh of chicken. Because we can’t decide if laughter or running is healthier, I recommend putting both off and using 75% lean mean serious.

A bottle of hugs and kisses Fizzle out if open too long, So I suggest a jug of consequences to take to the adult party. A bag of frivolity would be nice—buy one, get second half-off. Make sure you still have a box of excuses To get you through the rest of the week.

Two-liters of lite-tears mix well with any slice of depression, And I would also recommend a-half-a-pound of sliced Deli happiness. (Any more and it starts to taste fake.) Speaking of—weren’t you planning a salad? Grab a head of time and a bag of shredded hopes. Toss in some education loans and voilà!

I’ll wait for you at home. I already went through the express lane with A loaf of dreams and a carton of bad habits.

32 Metaphor Vol. XXX Of Vincent Lee Nguyen

Here amongst the Midwest grain, vibrant yellows meet blue-gray, Perhaps this is such a day found on Vincent’s palette.

Over a field, a murder of crows, Like Auvers-sur-Oise some time ago, a wind-swept field and beaten road, sowed on Vincent’s palette.

In the distance, a petaled sol, perhaps worthy of an Arles home, though not yet vased, it may have grown, out from Vincent’s palette.

On a Midwest river the moon has shone, just like stars upon the Rhône, deserving of an eternal stroke,

Alight on Vincent’s palette.

POETRY 33 Dot Murielle Parkinson

A degenerate curve, Circle of radius zero, Origin, No dimensions.

A pencil point, Shading technique, Space filler, Ink Spot.

An iris, Freckles, Finger tips, Navel.

A third of an ellipse, Half a colon, A jot, Full Stop.

34 Metaphor Vol. XXX Where They Go Laura Funk

Kleptomania was not my intention. I only collect the luggage and the socks that airlines and dryers misplace. You thought it was goblins or trolls wreaking havoc just to make you late for school or work or your important date. But it was me, taunting your sanity. Stealing t-shirts, shampoo, underwear, and extra shoes thickens the blood My own socks aren’t enough, I have to mismatch them with yours for my feet to feel free to wander from Texas to Chicago with connections in Paris and Tokyo. I only wear your socks, never your trousers or the stolen hotel bathrobe, because socks can be hidden inside shoes and beneath long jeans so no one knows they once belonged to someone else. The suitcases are homes for the sock people made from the too small or too large cotton sheaves; they need someplace to hide. Everything else goes to the people on the streets; those you forget to look at as you hurry to catch your flight. So when you see a bum wearing your Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, or Armani, think of me… I’m wearing your socks.

POETRY 35 The Things I Can’t Afford Amy Mayo Townsley

Every poor person knows what it is like to put back things at the grocery store when one’s appetite has exceed one’s bank account balance.

First I put back my pride. I can always pick some up later, and besides, I have swallowed it before and it is bitter.

Next I forgo my vanity. No Palmolive for these dish-pan hands, as the generic brand is half the price. Never mind, L’Oreal, I’m not worth it— I’ll just grab some Suave instead.

Time is money, so I can’t afford that either. Besides, I’ve already sold it for seven twenty-three an hour, minus tax, and social security, and FICA, no benefits.

Money can’t buy you love, but I found something that looks a lot like it over on aisle four. I’d like to try it out, but it don’t come cheap, so back it goes.

36 Metaphor Vol. XXX But I don’t want to put back these dreams. I know the brand I selected is far too pricey for someone of my means, but I just can’t do without, so I put them in my pocket when no one is looking and smuggle them out of the store.

POETRY 37 Sunday Chess in the Park Melanie Walker

The two old men meet, Cane and metal walker set to the side of the picnic table. Expressions mirror each other like pieces of the moon. Hats shade their eyes; shaking hands move the pieces. Each considers the other. The wars they have been in lie in wooden drawers, Purple hearts for their grandchildren to run their hands over. The sound of airplanes and gunfire replaced By the sound of Red-breasted birds and Bluejays chirping in the trees. Each makes his move, carefully considering the chipped pieces. Checkmate. They salute and return each Sunday.

38 Metaphor Vol. XXX The Inevitable Love Poem Kaili Watson

A check engine light Glaring from the dashboard, Neglected service;

Lottery ticket: Cherry Cherry Lemon

All that remains is a Four-frame photo strip souvenir From a convenience store rendezvous

And a red plastic cup Urging you to Pick your poison.

POETRY 39 Owning Briana Zike

He’s seen pieces of paradise.

Narrow canyons The pressure of God’s hands. Folded the valley Like a child crumples paper Just to feel powerful.

Green hills Cover giants, long since Curled up for the final sleep; Backs blanketed With gentle grass.

Always he wondered, How best to keep these. Trinkets rust, lose their charm, And grand memories lose luster.

So he took them; For himself claimed Paradise.

Stones from the coast of South Africa, Sharp, clear air of Greenland, Leaves snatched from Japan, Soil of Ireland. Labeled each on his shelf.

What good is a broken toy, thirty years from now? But these miniature boxes will someday tell How he single-handedly took possession Of numerous treasured countries, All tamed in his study.

40 Metaphor Vol. XXX A lifetime of journeying Taught:

A box full of dirt Can contain the world.

POETRY 41 After My Father’s Death Sean Peek

I lay his head down onto the pillow, the pillow his head slept on for numerous years. The pillow which carries all his sweats and smells. The pillow which carries all his dreams and nightmares. Later, when I am alone, I take the pillow, my father’s pillow and place it under my head. I close my eyes and open them again, this time in the next place where I see all his nightmares and all of his dreams. But out in the dark I see a dream which isn’t his, which actually is pretty new. I look closer and I see my child existing in the place before this place, smiling in the dark, waiting to dream this dream of fathers and of sons.

42 Metaphor Vol. XXX Spent Clint Stanger

I woke up this morning face down on the floor Tried to open my eyes and move for the door The very last thing that I could recall Was a handful of bennies and an empty high-ball

I set out for a while and tried to lay low Then I tightened my nerves until they let go I lifted my head again ’til it hurt Forgot all the best and remembered the worst

It all came back like a calm winter’s snow The whiskey, the pills, and of course all the blow There’s just one thing I couldn’t run through How to forget myself and get over you

Well I finally set up and wiped off my face Tried to put you behind me forever to stay I would never think of or see you again Until I crashed into that bottle of gin

It all came back like a slow moving tide The whiskey and pills didn’t help to subside The feeling I get that you may just come back Will push me on forward until I’m out black

Then I wake up so cold, face down on the floor Your memory I’ve tried to shut out once more Another day spent just trying to get high Another day spent just trying to get by

POETRY 43 The River, Merlot Lee Nguyen

The moon burned eyes, on the wet slate bank of a river the color of merlot, Flightless things spoke from the trees, from under wilting ferns,

The merlot river stained feet pale, Moonlight dragged and ripped on the canopy, Remnants of frightless things that will not come, or refuse speak, A silver line baited with song.

The air breathed me in, just as the river breathes fish, and slate, Smells of flightless things, and torn thread, A soupçon of madness upon its palate.

Echos trapped in the folds of slate,

Moonlight shattered like stained glass each Monday morning.

44 Metaphor Vol. XXX Eldritch Karleigh Weeks

A fellow daily sits on a bench center of town where he watches the pavement guide human steps

Here he sees them holler stumbling over cement slabs whilst on course for a new chat or drink or love or path

Loose coins and other wares fall from the pockets as coats squirm from shoulders expose lurid skin

Not long, the body has shriveled to the ground with change marking the former footprints. This fellow bends down and gathers the remains, counts, and adds them to the safe of his palms. His thumbs twiddle as a new set of passers step on earth

POETRY 45 Waiting Jennifer Widdison

A house Sits on a street Built out Of worn brick and Cheap dishware It’s now missing Teacups and saucers Desire and aspiration

It tries its hardest To resist collapsing Sagging on one side Where monogamy has Picked it apart Keeping what it liked And discarding the rest

Half-heartedly deserted— Property lines blurred by the Droning song of elusive crickets It rests in the sunlight Undeservedly, it waits Letting the leaves Fall over like a mantle

46 Metaphor Vol. XXX The Night at the Circus Shannon Beverley

The striped tent towers in the distance The smell of cotton candy and fried food blows through the air I am everywhere but invisible This place is seen as magical Rubber mallets and pop guns Balloon swords and little fortune telling huts One week a year we are seen as equal Normal The bleachers full of animals claiming to be human Gawking, mocking Pointing with sneers As it darkens my time to shine comes forth Popcorn litters the floor Ice cream melted to the bleachers Doing my best even the freaks gawk and mock Some day we will belong

POETRY 47 ART “Through art we comprehend the interconnectedness of disparate ideas, images, and objects. Art helps us step outside habits of seeing and thinking, so that through our imaginations we may make the world anew.” -Nils Folke Anderson Feb. 2011

Thanks to everyone who submitted this year; you didn’t make it easy on us. It wasn’t easy going from one hundred and seventy two submissions down to thirty-two. It is even more difficult having to go from thirty-two submissions down to the final sixteen, so I want to give a HUGE thank you to Nils Folke Anderson for doing such a wonderful job as our guest juror and choosing the art you will soon be viewing. Murphy was quick on my heels through the making of the art selections this year, but he soon found he could not keep up with my quick thinking and the awesome staff I had with me this year. And now, your 2011 Metaphor art selections.

Editor Staff Danielle Weigandt Maggie Greer Heidi Vance Aloha Morris Cynthiann Heckelsmiller Carey Francis Andrew Choffel

48 Metaphor Vol. XXX Pensive Women, Little Houses Camela Corcoran

ART 49 Who Shall Comfort the Comforter? Megan Wilson Muy Caliente Alex Pommier

50 Metaphor Vol. XXX Who Shall Comfort the Comforter? Megan Wilson “Through visual narratives, I seek to communicate thoughts and feelings that cannot always be verbally expressed because they are overwhelming or intimidating.”

ART 51 Constellations Erica Stearns “This work deals with conflict and balance inherent in relationships and interactions of forces in life.”

52 Metaphor Vol. XXX Color Theory Tom Hughes

ART 53 Fabric of Time Danielle Weigandt “This piece of ‘fabric’ from Time cannot be manipulated or moved very easily, but we are well aware that it is there as we pass by.”

54 Metaphor Vol. XXX Spiral Jetty Ruth Silver

ART 55 The Journey Megan Wilson “Journey is a process of trial and error, all the while creating the layered narrative of life itself.”

56 Metaphor Vol. XXX Morg Darren Curtis “Travel and love.”

ART 57 Ain’t it Funny How Time Slips Away Carey Francis “The reason for the name of this piece is that it demonstrates life.”

58 Metaphor Vol. XXX Under An Umbrella Sharon Salmond “Isn’t it so sweet, to go walking down the street, under an umbrella, with Grandma Ella?”

ART 59 Twin Fiddles Tyler Dilworth “I don’t set out to produce art; I am more for producing a feeling, whether I catch that feeling or not.”

60 Metaphor Vol. XXX Roost Jennifer Ronayne

ART 61 Green Women, Little Houses Camela Corcoran

62 Metaphor Vol. XXX A Memory Anna Kristensen “This was inspired by the different stages of a loss and connecting with that person.” ART 63 My Inner Demons Melinda Taggart “I have been researching different techniques used in art therapy. This is my own self-portrait.”

64 Metaphor Vol. XXX Awoken Danielle Weigandt

65 NONFICTION This edition of Metaphor has received the largest number of nonfiction submissions the journal has ever seen. For this reason, the Nonfiction staff had a difficult job choosing be- tween the high-quality work that was submitted. However, after individually rating the pieces according to a numeric scale and ranking our top selections, we feel confident that we have chosen the best work to represent Weber State. This section includes both academic papers (ranging from literature reviews to historical essays) and creative nonfiction stories. We truly appreciate the fine submissions we received this year and are proud to highlight the talented writers of our university.

Editor Staff Alexandria Waltz Dixie Hartvigsen Amy Higgs Melanie Byington Devon Hoxer Amy Mayo Townsley

66 Metaphor Vol. XXX Caught An Edge John D. Linford

I was bleary-eyed, gazing into the bathroom mirror at my fat cheeks and disappearing hairline. I yawned and let warm water run over my stiff fingers. Looking into the mirror, I imagined myself, not as I was that morning, but as I might have been twenty years down the road. I imagined my pained movements, tenuous health, short and heavy breath. I imag- ined myself falling with a bone-shattering crunch, slipping on a concrete floor. I saw that I was on my way to becoming ter- ribly obese. Alcoholics call it hitting bottom. In that imagined fall, I felt myself hit bottom and break. My heart banged away in my chest. The color drained from my face. With my sore fingers still beneath the running water, I looked in the mirror and realized that I had to do something radical. I had to change my life. What was the most radical thing I could do? An- swering out loud, I said, “Snowboarding. You should learn to snowboard.” “Hmphf,” I half laughed, half snorted consider- ing the idea. I was midway to ninety years old. I had never been athletic or active. I had always been clumsy, had no sense of balance, had never been skiing or skateboarding, had never done anything like snowboarding. This would definitely be a radical change. “Okay, I’ll learn to snowboard,” I said, deter- mined but only half believing, to the blue eyes in the mirror. A few days later, after huffing and puffing through pulling on snowboard boots and adjusting gear in the rental shop, I grabbed coffee and clomped out into the dazzling white morning. I tried to act blasé, like I do this sort of thing all the time, coffee in hand, helmet cocked “gaper” style up on my head, goggles askance, snowboard hanging heavily, awk- wardly out of balance in my hand. I watched a circle of sharply uniformed instructors, chatting about gear, exploits, people they knew, and casting an occasional sideways glance at their prospective students, including me. Eventually, a very fit-looking, confident, moun-

NONFICTION 67 tain version of a blonde California surfer walked over to me smiling. “This looks like my kind of snowboard lesson,” he said, nodding at my coffee, “Very chill.” “I may look chill,” I said quietly, “but I’m terrified.” After a chuckle and a reassuring quip, Skylar intro- duced himself and told me that we had a couple more guys coming. “We’ll wait a few minutes for them and then, Dude, we will get you acquainted with the greatest thing man ever did with snow.” His bright gaze promised he wasn’t overstat- ing this thing called snowboarding. Skylar quickly dispensed with preliminaries like which end of the snowboard is the front, how to strap into the bind- ings, and safety on the slopes, “It’s your job not to run into anybody. If you manage that today, you’ll be okay.” Two very athletic looking guys from South America made up the rest of the class, and we were on our way to the slopes. Terror and my abject lack of coordination or bal- ance made my attempts at the board a pitiful sight. It cer- tainly wasn’t funny or fun from my point of view. Neither was it funny to my classmates who were progressing rapidly and wanting to move to a more advanced slope. I had given snowboarding my all for about an hour. I was exhausted, and I couldn’t even stay up on the thing, couldn’t turn it, couldn’t slide a short distance on the slightest slope. I was incredibly frustrated, but I was more determined than ever. Skylar knew I wasn’t ready for the chair lift, but it was obvious that the other guys were. I had just struggled to my feet and was trying to catch my breath when Skylar rode over to me and said, “Dude, what d’ya think? Wanna try the chair lift?” All I could do was nod. I was determined to learn to ride that snowboard. I fell getting off the chair lift. I crawled awkwardly out of the way and sat in the snow breathing heavily. Then I chuckled in a poor-spirited way at myself. What did I think I was trying to prove? Did I have any idea how ridiculous I looked? What was I thinking? These and other mocking thoughts rattled around inside my head until I remembered the blue eyes in the mirror and knew why I was there. 68 Metaphor Vol. XXX I ratcheted my bindings tight, struggled to my knees, and pointed my board down the hill. Slow sliding accelerated quickly, and I tried to keep Skylar’s words in mind: “Relax, bend your knees, look down the hill over your shoulder.” I was starting to get it! I was just cracking a big ol’ smile when I learned exactly what Skylar had meant when he said, “Whatever you do, you don’t want to catch an edge.” Catching an edge means turning your body into a sledgehammer and slamming it into the mountain with blind- ing speed. Your body becomes the hammer’s long handle giving speed and power to its collision with planet Earth. Your head becomes the weighted mass delivering a blow, and the full force of the object in motion (your head) colliding with that unmoving object (planet Earth) shudders through your body and changes your understanding forever. All this happens in an instant when one side of the board digs into the snow like a shovel. For me, the blackness began at the edge of my vision and closed in until I was looking at a dot of blue sky through a long, dark tunnel. “John, hey John, dude, you okay?” Skylar’s voice echoed down the pipe to what remained of my consciousness. I couldn’t respond. After a few minutes, I took a deep breath and tried to sit up. A touch of concern in Skylar’s voice, “Hey, just relax a minute. Don’t try to get up yet.” “God! What happened?” “Dude, you caught an edge, big time.” After about ten minutes, I could move my head around, and the feeling started returning to my arms. I pulled my hel- met off and said, “I think I’d better be done.” A few weeks and three lessons later, a frustrated Skylar asked other instructors for ideas on how to help me progress beyond the most elemental basics of sliding the board on the bunny slope. I finished the year without complete control on even that hill, but I was no less determined. The following summer’s weight-shedding exercise and the next season’s snowboarding lessons brought victory over the bunny slope and even more of the mountain. I sought Skylar

NONFICTION 69 for a lesson late in the season. “I want to firm up the good stuff, throw out the bad stuff, and practice for a few days be- fore the season’s over,” I explained. My growing ability made this a very different two- hour lesson. Skylar had always closed his lessons with a little speech, but this one surprised me. “Dude, you should think about being an instructor.” I half-laughed and shook my head in disbelief. “No dude, really. You’re no great boarder, probably never will be. But you’re no gaper either. I’ve watched you learn every detail the hard way. You’ve got a mental under- standing most of us will never have, because boarding came easy to us. You’d be a good instructor. Think about it, dude. We’ll see ya next season.” I stood dumbfounded and watched him walk away. The 2010-11 season will be my fourth year teaching snowboarding at Snowbasin. I’m still no great boarder, and know I never will be. But with the snowboard driving me, I’ve been able to get down to a healthy weight. I’ve taken up mar- tial arts and skateboarding. Perhaps the craziest part of my new life is that I’ve gone back to college. With temperatures cooling and the days shortening, I’m excited to get back on the mountain. Now, when I imagine my future, I see a man seventy, eighty, ninety years old, with a whoop and a shout, dropping into deep powder at the top of some mountain with four or five of his grandkids, maybe great-grandkids, and tearing it all up, beating them all to the bottom, and bounding up to do it all again.

70 Metaphor Vol. XXX Of Indians and Baseball: An Analysis of Sherman Alexie’s “The Approximate Size of My Favorite Tumor” Amy Mayo Townsley

Sherman Alexie’s short story, “The Approximate Size of My Favorite Tumor,” features a protagonist, Jimmy Many Horses, who employs his characteristic sense of humor to cope with his terminal illness. Jimmy is suffering from a cancer that has resulted in a number of tumors, one of which is “just about the size of a baseball, and shaped like one, too” (Alexie 167). In this paper, I will argue that Alexie’s “The Approximate Size of My Favorite Tumor” demonstrates the erosion of the mod- ern Native Americans’ cultural identity by Anglo-Americans’ continued imperialism, as symbolized by the destruction of Jimmy Many Horses’ body by the baseball-like tumor. Early in the story, Alexie makes the reader aware of the poverty of Jimmy’s life on the reservation. His “HUD house” (Alexie 165) and “dinner of macaroni and commod- ity cheese” (Alexie 166) are the meager offerings of Anglo- Americans, half-heartedly apologizing for sins of the past. Jimmy’s friend, Simon, drives a broken-down pickup truck that can only go in reverse, echoing the paradox of the Native Americans’ attempts to forge a future for their people while holding on to their heritage and traditions rooted in the past. Jimmy calls Simon’s truck his “horse” (Alexie 166), a trade of traditional Native American possessions for Anglo-American paraphernalia. When Simon jokingly refers to Jimmy as “Jimmy One-Horse,” (Alexie 166) then later angrily calls him “Jimmy Zero-Horses,” (Alexie 167) the nickname not only notes Jimmy’s poverty, but also the loss of his potential; if not for colonization, he might actually own many horses. How- ever, the white occupation of the American lands consumed the resources that once belonged to the natives, leaving scant leftovers for the native people. Jimmy’s poverty almost surely exacerbated his condi- tion. Low-income individuals of all ethnicities suffer from poor access to quality health care, but “Native Americans have

NONFICTION 71 the poorest cancer survival rates among any racial group in the United States [. . .] factors contributing to this include genetic risk factors; late detection of cancer; [. . .] and lack of timely access to diagnostic and/or treatment methods” (U.S. Commission on Civil Rights 18). The result is almost akin to a slow genocide, as a bit of heritage is lost when an older Native American passes. Jimmy’s wife, Norma, notes, “Every one of our elders who dies takes a piece of our past away [. . .] And that hurts more because I don’t know how much of a future we have” (Alexie 172). For Jimmy, as for the Native American heritage, poverty is not just merely uncomfortable or inconvenient; it is fatal. The “approximate size” and shape of Jimmy’s “favorite tumor” is symbolic of the dominant Anglo-American he- gemony which oppresses Native American cultural identity. Jimmy lives on the reservation but participates in Anglo- American culture, as evidenced by his consumption of Diet Pepsi and his love of baseball. Alexie raises the question of whether true hybridity can exist, or if the dominant cul- ture will ultimately extinguish the oppressed culture. Daniel Grassian notes, “Alexie appears to be no proponent of ethnic assimilation, for to Alexie, there can be no assimilation, only the subsuming of identity, in white-dominated America” (Grassian Hybrid Fictions 115). Baseball “symbolize(s) what is quintessentially American [. . .] (therefore) Jimmy becomes, in part, a living symbol of a dying people, and his cancer exemplifies and highlights the physical and psychological as- sault upon Indian cultures by Euro-American society” (Cou- lombe 101). Jimmy’s baseball-like tumor is a metaphor for the “cancer” of Anglo-American influence that is spreading inside modern Native American society, threatening to kill the cul- ture of their heritage. The use of stereotypical “Indian” characters as mascots and logos by Anglo-Americans is another form of hybridity. Jimmy’s joke that he will go “to Cooperstown and sit right down in the lobby of the Hall of Fame [. . .] (and become) a new exhibit” (Alexie 167) alludes to the white use of charac- terizations of Native Americans, especially in baseball, such 72 Metaphor Vol. XXX as the Cleveland Indians, Atlanta Braves, and Cincinnati Reds. Alexie refers to other “reductive stereotypes of Indians as cultural curiosities and historical souvenirs for the enter- tainment of white America” (Coulombe 100), such as when Jimmy notes his wife’s resemblance to “television Indians [. . .] (like) ‘Tonto’” (Alexie 165). However, unlike the assimila- tion of white ideology into Native American culture, the use of bits of “Indian” culture by white America is more a form of consumption or exploitation than appreciation or assimilation. Particularly offensive uses of “Indian” mascots include those that advertize alcoholic beverages. In one successful lawsuit against Stroh Brewery, a Native American group com- plained about the “commercial exploitation for financial gain in association with a product that has proved so deadly to In- dian people” (LaDuke 111). Alexie himself makes use of the stereotypical alcoholic Indian in the character Raymond, who mistakenly delivers a eulogy at Jimmy’s wedding, an image so ridiculous it forces the reader to address the reality behind the stereotype. Alexie’s inclusion of Raymond in this story is more than a bit of comic relief: alcoholism is a very real prob- lem for Native Americans, as the “alcohol-related mortality rate is 5.3 times greater than that of the general population” (U.S. Commission on Civil Rights 13). Early colonization and modern insensitive governmental policy have led to the depression that Native Americans experience in dispropor- tionate numbers, and ineffective mental health care has led to many Native Americans turning to alcohol to self-medicate (U.S. Commission on Civil Rights 12-13). Though at times comical, Alexie’s inclusion of alcoholism in this story is an indictment of the Anglo-American colonization and modern business practices that have contributed to this additional burden on the Native American people. The fact that Jimmy does not drink alcohol marks him as a “good Indian,” one who plays by the rules of white soci- ety. Modern depictions of Native Americans seem to appreci- ate those who are most assimilated, those who only engage in their heritage on occasion, the way someone of Dutch heri- tage might collect—but not use—wooden shoes and wind-

NONFICTION 73 mills. Jimmy’s abstinence from alcohol separates him from negative stereotype, and he further assimilates into Anglo- American society by consuming an iconic American beverage, Diet Pepsi. The fact that it is diet, rather than regular, Pepsi is significant in that diet soda is a non-nutritive beverage, just as the commodity foods, such as white bread, Spam, and processed cheese, provided to Native Americans through government food programs, are generally poor in nutritive value compared to their traditional foods. In addition, calorie- free sweeteners have been accused (rightly or not) of causing cancer; in this sense, Jimmy’s body becomes symbolic of the larger Native American culture. Jimmy lets in a bit of white culture, in the form of Diet Pepsi, into his body, and it be- comes a cancer that grows until it is inevitable that the cancer will kill him. Though the subject matter is very serious, the story is full of dark and twisted humor. The title itself presents the reader with a startling paradox: the juxtaposition of “favor- ite” and “tumor” alerts the reader right away that the story to follow is unconventional, as does the very long title, which has become something of Alexie’s trademark. Alexie’s humor “unsettles conventional ways of thinking and compels re- evaluation [. . .] and forces non-Indian readers to reconsider simplistic generalizations” (Coulombe 95). While a realistic examination of the plight of the modern Native American might garner some sympathies, it does little to encourage readers to look at the problem with a fresh perspective. Alex- ie’s brand of humor deconstructs traditional assumptions and engages the reader with constructing a new reality. Jimmy’s use of humor to cope with his situation “shows both the transformative and destructive possibilities of humor” (Grassian Understanding Sherman Alexie 76). On the surface, the ability to joke at his own devastating illness seems to help him cope. However, his humor also reveals a lack of sensitivity about the effect his condition has on his loved ones. This threatens his marriage, as “it denied real intimacy. Hu- mor in this situation erected a barricade between him and his wife” (Coulombe 101). Even his comment about her “Tonto 74 Metaphor Vol. XXX face” (Alexie 165) betrays this lack of sensitivity, as Tonto is a sidekick. By failing to engage her in an honest conversation about his illness, he fails to treat her like a partner. She says, “quit calling me your wife. It makes me sound like a fucking bowling ball or something” (Alexie 167). Although humor is a method of dealing with problems that has served him well in the past, he cannot drop it when it threatens his relation- ships and prevents him from dealing with the serious nature of his illness. Alexie’s humor invites in readers of diverse back- grounds through the common language of laughter, which “is a great unifier, and has the power to lift us—if only tem- porarily—beyond many racial tensions and cultural conflicts” (Coulombe 110). White Americans are often resistant to facing the problems of modern Native Americans, especially “the illegal and immoral machinations of the present” (Cou- lombe 105), as it is easier to believe that white sin against the red man is an artifact of the past, not an ongoing offense. The scene where the police officer extorts money from Jimmy and Norma might be uncomfortable to most white Americans if presented realistically; however, Alexie’s humorous portrayal is like seeing the event through a funhouse mirror. The police officer is so racist and abusive that he seems ridiculous, and the scene, instead of making the reader sad or angry or un- comfortable, as a realistic depiction might, makes the reader laugh. However, after laughing at the image in the funhouse mirror, the reader is forced to realize that the image does reflect something that exists in reality. That police officer takes ninety-nine out of the one hundred dollars that the couple has, alluding to the amount of land and resources the whites have taken from the Native Americans. Humor makes the uncomfortable reality more palatable, and “fosters a sense of community that can be shared by all people regardless of background” (Coulombe 109). Laughter unifies the reader with the author and the characters, putting aside defenses and allowing the reader to empathize with the Native American people the characters represent. However, Alexie’s humor causes the audience to confront harsh realities.

NONFICTION 75 Most Anglo-American readers will be unaware of some of the jokes that Alexie writes for Native American audiences exclusively. Though Alexie does not reveal these jokes, perhaps one is Norma’s reference to the “Flathead cousin” she stays with when she leaves Jimmy. “Cousin as in cousin?” asks Jimmy, “Or cousin as in I-was-fucking-him-but- I-don’t-want-to-tell-you-because-you’re-dying?” (Alexie 173). Few white readers might know that “cousin” is an affectionate term one Native American might use for any other Native American, especially one from the same tribe. Like Jimmy and Norma’s private joke at the Powwow Tavern, Alexie and his Native American readers “recognize the bond that oc- curs over a shared joke, especially a private joke” (Coulombe 106). Alexie calls these “Indian trapdoors, because an Indian will walk over them and fall in, but a non-Indian will keep on walking” (West), and they serve to give the Native American readers a sense of identity separate from the white audience. “The Approximate Size of My Favorite Tumor” al- lows readers to examine the challenges facing modern Native Americans through the experience of Jimmy Many Horses, a man with a great sense of humor and terminal cancer. Jimmy’s misfortune echoes that of the Native American people, whose culture is dying under a proliferation of Anglo-American influences. Alexie employs a dark humor to draw in audiences from all backgrounds to examine uncomfortable truths. This story touches on a number of problems confronting the modern Native American world, all of which are largely due to the colonization of America and the continued domination of the Anglo-American hegemony, as symbolized by baseball. “The Approximate Size of My Favorite Tumor” suggests that continued assimilation of Anglo-American customs will erode Native American culture from within.

76 Metaphor Vol. XXX Works Cited Alexie, Sherman. The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. New York: Grove, 2005. Print. Coulombe, Joseph L. “The Approximate Size of His Favorite Humor: Sherman Alexie’s Comic Connections and Disconnections in The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven.” American Indian Quarterly Winter 26.1 (2002): 94-115. Project Muse. Web. 19 Nov. 2008. Grassian, Daniel. Hybrid Fictions : American Literature and Generation X. Boston: McFarland & Company, Incorporated, 2003. Print. Grassian, Daniel. Understanding Sherman Alexie. New York: University of South Carolina, 2005. Print. LaDuke, Winona. “In the Spirit of Crazy Horse.” Cultural Representation in Native America. Ed. Andrew Jolivette. New York: AltaMira, 2006. Print. United States of America. U.S. Commission on Civil Rights. Office of the General Counsel. Broken Promises: Evaluating the Native American Health Care System. 2004. Web. 21 Nov. 2008. West, Dennis, and Joan M. West. “Sending Cinematic Smoke Signals: An Interview with Sherman Alexie.” Cineaste 28. Fall (1998): 28-33. EBSCO Host. Web. 2 Dec. 2008.

NONFICTION 77 American Exceptionalism as Justification for U.S. Foreign Policy Alexandria Waltz The history of American foreign policy has often been defined as either solely positive or negative interactions with other nations and cultures. These interactions have resulted in equally black or white consequences that are either praised or condemned by historians. These polarized views of American foreign relations, however, are debunked in Anders Stephanson’s Manifest Destiny, a novel that looks at the underlying reasons for American ex- pansion and studies the myths that Americans have constructed around landmark historical events. These motivations behind American expansion, as Stephanson claims, possess roots in moral and spiritual convictions that the United States has a right to push its physical borders and intellectual ideas to the outside world, whether that world desires them or not. Although Stephanson argues that this sense of predesti- nation was a direct cause of expansion, baser economic and politi- cal motivations indicate that these convictions were actually a means of justifying actions that otherwise might be construed as imperialism, a focus that would be deemed unacceptable in a na- tion based on an aversion to tyranny and European empires. This justification has developed through the emergence of American exceptionalism, the idea that America is somehow different from other civilizations and therefore has an inherent duty to spread its influence. Ultimately, American international relations have been externally directed by this belief of the United States as separate from its European predecessors, chosen by divine powers for its privileged status and charged with a mission of spreading its political and social doctrine to the rest of the global community. However, this exceptionalist “tradition that created a sense of na- tional place and direction” in U.S. foreign relations actually served as a way to legitimize questionable American actions internation- ally, a method that publically coincided American foreign policy decisions with a higher moral plane of divine values.1

1 Anders Stephanson, Manifest Destiny: American Expansion and the Empire of Right (New York: Hill and Wang, 1995), xii. 78 Metaphor Vol. XXX American Exceptionalism as Justification for U.S. In Manifest Destiny, Stephanson claims that the begin- Foreign Policy nings of America’s belief in itself as a unique nation, independent Alexandria Waltz of Old World values, emerged in the years leading up to the American Revolution. The Puritans in New England carried a large burden of this creation of an American identity, revealed in their views of the New World as a place for the rebirth of a more purified society. Away from the corrupting influences of England, Stephanson argues that the Puritans believed that it was no “ac- cident…that God had unveiled this New World…hidden for so many ages” as a bastion for religious reformers.2 The geographi- cal land of America, then, was different from Europe due to its very “newness” and ability to be molded into whatever shape its founders saw for it. The idea of a “New Canaan” fed the conviction that the New World was a land where social and political structures would automatically coincide with Christian values, a vision that ap- pealed to discontent immigrants arriving from the perceived decrepit nature of Europe.3 This Puritan thought filtered into the ideology of the American Revolution, an event that literally separated America from its European founder. However, even though Americans used inherent differences between its nation and Britain as justification for rebellion, the underlying motiva- tions were much more complex, finding basis in economic (inabil- ity to expand west of the Proclamation of 1763 line) and political (inability to determine policy in Parliament) slights. In reality, it was not until much later in the revolutionary process that Ameri- cans ultimately decided to declare independence from Great Britain, a drastic move that was met with great controversy in the colonies. Although Stephanson claims that there was “no need for intercourse with the old and tainted world,” Americans not only borrowed institutional ideas from Europe but continued to rely on trade with Britain and France for decades after the revolution.4 This relationship with the “tainted world” nevertheless was justi- fied by America’s avowal of difference between its nation and oth- ers, allowing it to remain an ideological haven for democracy and

2 Ibid., 9. 3 Ibid., 6. 4 Ibid., 21.

NONFICTION 79 freedom in contrast to Europe’s perceived betrayal of these values. The conception of America as possessing a nature inher- ently different from previous countries evolved into a fervent belief that the American cause was chosen and therefore always right. The emergence of “manifest destiny” as a term was used to “understand and legitimate…aggressive annexation of territory.”5 Stephanson’s identification merits the point that American expansionist tendencies were motivated by a baser, less idyllic factor that Americans did not feel comfortable indulging. The idea that Americans needed a divine cause for their simple desire for Western land directly indicates the importance of the United States as a chosen nation in expansionist ideology. The blatant racism and aggressive westward movement encouraged dur- ing the Jacksonian Era ironically became the beginnings of this destinarian movement, which focused on American expansion as “the highest stage of history, God’s plan incarnate.”6 This plan dealt with history being “divinely engineered” and predestined for America to gain land extending to the Pacific Ocean.7 Similarly, the destruction of native peoples and the forcible annexation of Mexican territory fit under the exceptionalist framework for ac- quiring land from cultures that were spiritually unfit for adminis- tering to North America properly. However, Stephanson neglects the importance of Native Americans and Mexicans remaining physically in the way of America’s westward expansion. Ameri- cans did not wish to remove foreign nations simply for their inability to match American liberal values, but focused much more intensively on acquiring land for increased settlement by the United States. On surface appearances, the concept of mani- fest destiny covered the much less acceptable American want for more land, a desire that could only be negatively construed as greed. Stephanson mentions the failure of expansionist idealism to stand up in the face of the Mexican-American War, but fails to delve completely into the later attempts at justifying the imperi- alist tendencies of the war. The offering of money for the already acquired Mexican territories reflects an example of American

5 Ibid., 32. 6 Ibid., 40. 7 Ibid., 43.

80 Metaphor Vol. XXX efforts at legitimizing their aggressive expansion. Namely, Ameri- cans used later payments to substantiate their claims that the war had been fought legitimately and in accordance with non-impe- rialistic values. By offering payment after the fact, Americans at- tempted to show how divine providence had allowed the acquired land to essentially fall into their laps, a falsehood that ignored the actual political and economic implications of the war’s cause. Ultimately, the use of America’s inherent rightness attempted to legitimize actions that otherwise were at odds with a way of life that disproved of imperialism, a contradiction that was remedied by claims that America had a divinely guided destiny. In the twentieth century, American exceptionalism added a new component that included spreading social and politi- cal doctrine to the rest of the global community. The idea that America had a calling to “Christianize and civilize the world” was contrasted with the fear that they would “face divine retribution.”8 This fear that the United States was required to use its blessings of liberty to free other enslaved nations largely was reflected by American justifications of policy during and after the Cold War. The belief that it was necessary for “the civilizer to rescue [other nations] even though this might involve conquest” reflected the political zeal with which Americans approached the rest of the world.9 Distinctions between free and enslaved nations were made clear during the Cold War, causing Americans to take it upon themselves to liberate people captivated by tyrannical govern- ments. Specifically, as Stephanson identifies, the Soviet Union was construed as the ultimate evil, an entity set on destroying the values and institutions propagated by the United States. However, Manifest Destiny does not entirely explore how this fear moti- vated American international relations by causing it to center on containing the Soviet threat. The deep-rooted fear of communism in the American psyche caused policy decisions that were based on protecting American interests abroad, not so emphatically on lib- erating threatened nations. The scare over Cuba during the Cold War reveals the nervousness with which Americans viewed the communist threat so close to their homeland, causing government

8 Ibid., 80. 9 Ibid., 88.

NONFICTION 81 officials to use the idea of liberating the conquered Cubans as a pretext for seditious acts against Fidel Castro’s power. Interestingly, the use of America as a chosen liberator for other nations has become confused in the modern era, causing policy makers to remain somewhat unsure in responding to the new threat of terrorism. Instead of having a “single, terrifying an- tagonist” to fight against, the United States is left with dispersed organizations that are not formally affiliated with any single country.10 The attack on Afghanistan and Iraq symbolized the attempts of the United States to locate an enemy when one was not easily found. The traditional justification of American inter- vention, which coincides with America’s role as a liberator, has failed to stand up after the U.S. invasion of countries that can- not be fully blamed as aggressors. The duty of the United States in the face of terrorism is yet to be fully identified, allowing it to remain a fluctuating definition in an international community that no longer has easily spotted adversaries. However, the con- cept of America as a missionary force for justifying international intervention has provided the framework for American foreign relations throughout the majority of the twentieth century. The idea of America as a unique nation with a divine mission has remained a large influence on American foreign policy throughout the nation’s history. However, the notion of America as separate from the Old World order, chosen for geographical expansion and imbued with a duty of spreading its belief system to the world has largely served as a justification sys- tem for more deeply rooted American motivations. Although the desire for land and international influence in reality helped spur United States foreign policy, American ideology relied on a moral basis for expansion rather than these less saintly motivations. Stephanson’s argument in Manifest Destiny remains powerful when considering the ways that this exceptionalist ideology moti- vated thinking during times of American expansion. Ultimately, however, destinarian thought served as an effective way of justify- ing United States actions in an international community often at odds with American expansionist policy.

10 Ibid., 125. 82 Metaphor Vol. XXX Seventy-nine Cents, Plus Tax Amy Mayo Townsley

Like most moms, my life is ruled by the clock. And, like most moms, I’m usually running a little late. School for my youngest begins at 8:20, which means I need to drop her off by 8:10 if she is going to get in any good playground time before the line-up bell rings. However, if drop her off before 8:00 there is no adult supervision, so I have a ten-minute window Monday through Friday mornings. If I time this right and luck is on my side, I will arrive at the university where I go to school in time to get a decent parking spot. This particular morning, luck is not on my side; I have a good hike between my car and my first class. As I pass by the campus pond, a gang of geese ap- proach. The tallest one has a bump on one side of his bill—my left, his right; he is the spokesman. “Uh-nck,” he says confi- dently. “Uh-nck,” a few of his followers murmur in agreement. “I have nothing for you,” I apologize. “I’ll come back later. I promise. I’m good for it.” As I walk away, I notice that some of the rank and file take a few uncertain steps forward, but none pass the spokesman, who stands stoic, meeting my eyes with his. I run carpool later that day. After dropping off the last kid, I notice that there is about a half hour before my oldest is due at her babysitting gig. I decide to make good on my earlier promise. I pull into a convenience store, buy a soda for myself and a snack for the kids, then hunt for food appropriate for water fowl. I pass on the white bread, affixed with a sticker unashamedly declar- ing that yes, they would charge three dollars and forty-nine cents were anyone to be so stupid to actually buy bread from a convenience store. I pass on crackers and chips for the same reason before grabbing a bag of pretzels. I have no idea if geese like pretzels, but, for seventy- nine cents, they are gonna try.

NONFICTION 83 I don’t tell my bewildered kids what we are doing as we drive onto campus. They assault me with unanswered ques- tions as they follow me out of the car. I see the spokesgoose—I know him by his size and the bump on his bill (my left, his right). As I approach, he pokes up his head. “Uh-nck?” he asks. “I told you I’d be back.” I wave the bag of pretzels seductively. “Who are you talking to?” my oldest asks. “My friends.” I hold out the open bag. “Want to feed them?” As my daughters and I begin to mete out the pretzels, we are swarmed. Ducks, seagulls, and pigeons materialize, forming a greedy ring of feathers and sharp beaks. By far the most aggressive are the geese—when my youngest accidently steps on a pretzel, spokesgoose looks as if he is fully prepared to go through her foot to get it. I move her as I admonish him for his bad manners. He looks at me and says, “Uh-nck,” which roughly translates to Hey, nothing personal, but a pret- zel’s a pretzel, you know. We quickly run out of pretzels, so I upend the bag, spilling crumbs on the ground. This distracts a few, for a mo- ment. “Run for your lives!” I tell my girls. We run for the car, laughing. As we reach the van, my youngest yells out, “This is the best time of my life!” which my cynical teenager remarks is highly unlikely, as we have done many things far more grand than feeding geese. Maybe, I say, but now is now, so now wins.

84 Metaphor Vol. XXX Dickens, Willis and Bogart Kory Wood Though lacking in flair and panache, Sally’s beau spent the bulk of his cash To offer her flowers. Sadly, their floral powers Served only to give her a rash.

“So, like, yesterday, I’m at work, right?” gabbed the skinny, big-haired blonde across the whirring treadmills of the college gym. Her friend, a brunette in pink booty shorts, inspected her fingernails while parking on an exercise bike. “Uh huh. Right.” “And I’m just sitting there at my desk, taking calls, and then this HUGE bouquet of flowers gets delivered. I mean, at least a hundred roses, right?” Loud smacks of gum- chewing popped out of Big Hair’s mouth as she moseyed down the electric belt. Booty Shorts leaned back and held her arms together to make sure her tan was evenly distributed. “Right. Geez, that’s huge. So?” “So, I look at the card, and it says ‘To Ashley: Happy Valentine’s Day.’ And I’m all, ‘Yeah, right!’ Jerk. I mean, he didn’t even bother to write anything special on the card at all, and there were so many flowers, I couldn’t even carry them out to my car.” “Ugh! What a creep.” Booty Shorts stood and fiddled with some controls on a treadmill before starting a slow pace. “And,” Big Hair said with pointed emphasis, “I had to get one of my bosses to help me take the flowers out, and ohmygosh, it was so embarrassing, and I was so ticked off at him. I just left the flowers there. Guys are such jerks.” Booty Shorts rolled her eyes. “I know! Like, my hus- band comes home with a big box of chocolates and a necklace, and two tickets to see Carrie Underwood, and he thinks he’s

NONFICTION 85 so amazing and impressive, but I know all he wanted was for me to make out with him.” “Typical male horn dog,” said Big Hair. “What did you say?” “So I was just, like, ‘Thanks, hon.’ And then I just went back to doing my homework.” Booty Shorts leaned her head back and laughed. “When are guys going to start being origi- nal? Chocolates and jewelry? I mean, what is this, the 1950s? I swear, sometimes, I’m married to a caveman. How primitive can you get?”

I sat fifteen feet away on an exercise bike, my mouth open like a trout’s, and my legs robotically and slowly pumped the pedals as I listened to the two girls on the treadmills be- hind me. I didn’t know how to react. Sweat poured down my brow, and it wasn’t coming from the workout. Did all women think like this? Surely, there were women out there less hard to please. If not, what was a single college kid like me supposed to do? Was I doomed to blunder aimlessly through a Sahara of indifferent women? Would I be forever a clueless buoy bobbing in a sea of nerds, arms and legs paddling frantically, gasping for breath? And what would happen when I did come to be at- tached to one of these women? Would I be stuck forever, roll- ing the stone of offerings up the hill of the unsatisfied and the disappointed? Big Hair and Booty Shorts walked off, texting and watching themselves in the wall mirrors. After they left, I sat and contemplated the ineptitudes of my gender. Sure, we men start wars, pillage villages, and corrupt governments, but I am reasonably sure that never, not once, in the history of our modern civilization, has a man asked a woman to drive across town to get him a strawberry-kiwi frozen yogurt from, “you know, that one green convenience store, by the church-thing, but take it back and get me a new one because this one is too melty and it was from the wrong 86 Metaphor Vol. XXX place anyway. It’s by the church-thing, darnit! And there’s a stoplight by one of the corners. Just go get it!” “Hey, are you okay? You were breathing really hard.” I blinked the sweat out of my eyes and noticed a large guy in a muscle T-shirt a few feet away from me, staring sus- piciously. “And you were talking out loud about frozen yogurt,” he said, with one eyebrow raised. I noticed him casually heft a barbell in one hand, as if he were worried he might need to use it to defend himself. My calves burned from the effort of mindless pedaling. I ran a hand across my forehead. “I’m okay, sorry,” I said. “And I was just wheezing. It’s…” I stopped as I looked at his biceps, which were so big someone could build resort hotels on them. “It’s a form of breathing. For nerds. Not something you would know about.” He nodded in dismissive comprehension, then set the weight down and moved away to another station. I thought about rotating to the treadmill, but my wheezing was increasing, so I headed home to get ready for my date.

I had a date that night with Sarah Stonewall. I’m still not sure how it happened. I’d known her for years, since high school, even. Extremely pretty girl, with a smile that would unite the Middle East. And friendly, too. One time, she’d dropped her pencil in the hallway, and at least seven of us had thrown ourselves to the floor after it, our heads resonating like the clacks of wooden wind chimes as they collided. She gra- ciously thanked all of us as we fought to hand it back to her. We’d all had crushes on her growing up, but we’d also always felt our chances with her were about as likely as the chance of her walking into our after-school chess club and asking to watch us play a rousing match. She and I were relatively close acquaintances. More like English literature buddies, actually. She sat in front of me in AP English, and we’d bonded over the fact that neither of us had read Great Expectations, but we’d seen the movie and

NONFICTION 87 done just fine on the test. That was pretty much it. Our only connection, but I’d milked it as far as it would go. “Hey, Sarah, how about that Charles Dickens?” I would casually shout as I passed her in the hallway. “Pretty great, eh? Ha ha ha ha. Because neither of us read it, remem- ber?” She would always smile politely. “Yeah. That’s right, you. See you in class!” “Ha ha ha ha ha ha,” I would laugh, wishing the school carpet would open up and suck me into the fiery bow- els of the earth. “Yeah. Charles Dickens. See you!” That was pretty much the extent of my relationship with Sarah through high school, and even into college. But I’d never thought of trying anything more courageous than a Dickens allusion. Besides, she’d had the same boyfriend for years. Donny Millsap. Blech. Donny Millsap. Donny was that guy with the puka shells and expertly shaggy hair who sat with his acoustic guitar in the hallway, or on the hood of his car, singing wimpy, introspective, sappy positive songs in a lyrical tenor voice. Girls ate that kind of thing up, but we hated him and his stupid perfect hair and his flip flops and his effortless flirtations. Donny and Sarah had always been Donny and Sarah, and to our knowledge, that could never change. But I found myself at a party one night and, miracu- lously, she was there, too. The miracle of her presence was only trumped by the miracle of her single presence. Donny wasn’t there. Sarah looked pretty unhappy. Her eyelids were splotchy and she kept her arms folded tightly around herself, looking supremely uncomfortable. And suddenly, I sensed a change in the air. Now, before you judge what I did next, let me explain some laws of nature to you. First off, in the wild, pack hunt- ers don’t usually go for the strongest animal. They poke at the herd’s fringes until they can successfully expose the weak, sick animal. There were dozens of hyenas nipping at the heels of 88 Metaphor Vol. XXX this wounded gazelle, and one of us was going to bring her down. Why not me? I rehearsed my lines for several minutes, carefully edit- ing my delivery as I watched the other hyenas nibble, then walk away. Feeling sufficiently prepared, I walked up to her and delivered my brilliant greeting. “Sarah! How about that Charles Dickens?” Damn it. She forced a smile. “Hey, you.” She turned back to the crowd, wrapping her arms back around herself, and I felt the icy grip of rejection wrapping its bony fingers around my ambitions. No! Wait! Give me another chance! “So, how’s Donny doing?” Sarah looked back at me, hugging herself even tighter. “You haven’t heard?” she asked, her eyes beginning to tear up. “We…we…” Her lip was quivering now, like a flag in the wind. “We broke up.” My brain grinned wide, but I managed to keep it off my face. What happened next was a long series of consoling, shoulder patting, intense, sympathetic looks, and apologizing for the grievous wrongs a member of my gender had inflicted upon her. Needless to say, I walked out of that party with a phone number and a date.

I normally spent too much time preparing for dates. Dating, for me, always felt like trying to sell an old car. Sure, the tires are bald, and when the engine accelerates it sounds like a rhinoceros giving birth, but if you give it a lot of room to get going, it runs just fine. My first problem lay in fashion. Clothes were not a thing in which I was well versed. Most of what I wore was purchased with the intent of hiding me behind the skin- nier, more athletic guys like Donny: guys with abs (I’ve been told that all people have these “abs,” but I think they’ve been genetically bred out of my family), guys with tans (sometimes, when the sun glints off my upper arm, it causes traffic acci-

NONFICTION 89 dents), and guys who used every excuse (I mean every excuse, including going out to grab the mail) to walk around in public without their shirts on. Other big guys know what I’m talking about. Large males like me only get two fashion choices: the dark-colors- merging-with-the-rest-of-humanity-vertical-stripes look, or the Hawaiian-shirt-party-guy-self-deprecation-watch-me- eat-a-whole-pizza look. That’s it. You either get to blend in or stand out. But beware, because once you pick the Hawaiian shirt, you can never go back. Look what happened to John Belushi. To prepare for a date, I would stand in front of the mirror and hold each clothing item up to effectively analyze its wooing quotient. Rugby shirt? The high white collar made my head look a snow cone. No go. Slacks and dress shirt, no tie? Eh. I looked like a realtor. Hawaiian shirt? Sweet Angel of Mercy, no. Not yet. I ended up going with the ultra-safe, if possibly bland and sterile polo-and-jeans combo. Couldn’t go wrong there. I laid them down on the bed and showered. While in the shower, I tried to construct the Supreme Date, a date where Sarah would fall instantly in love with me. A date where we would end the night snuggling on her front porch while watching a statue of Donny Millsap being burned in effigy. I decided on the traditional dinner-and-a-movie for- mat. Again, safe, but with plenty of opportunities to talk (and a few opportunities for some incidental elbow-touching). But as I scoured my body with Irish Spring, the con- versation of the two girls in the gym rang through my head. What if Sarah thought I was unoriginal? I didn’t think she was that fickle, but was I really confident enough to gamble my chances? I thought about which movie to see. Every option led me to a horrible ending where Sarah would give me the same look she gave me in the hallway every time I mentioned Dickens. Billy the Fish Saves Christmas? Too kiddy. Camp 90 Metaphor Vol. XXX Slaughterhouse IV? Too gory. A Summer of Reflection? Too intel- lectual. I went with the latest romantic comedy. The reviews said it was harmless and happy. I bought the tickets online. By then, it was 3:30. I wasn’t supposed to pick her up for four more hours.

I worried, fretted, fussed, re-ironed, daydreamed, sweated, combed my hair, uncombed it, stuffed myself silly, re- gretted it, shot free throws, ironed my shirt again, and noticed that only two hours had passed. Wonderful. I showered again, scrubbing the Irish Spring into my pores so hard that I lost my calluses. I then changed into my pristine, carefully selected outfit, and lay down, width-wise, across my bed, my head brushing up against the wall and the soles of my feet flat on the ground. I lay there in silence with my arms folded limply across my stomach, and I stared at patterns in the ceiling for the full last hour, glancing at the clock every five minutes. Eventually, my daydreams overcame me. I woke up twenty minutes later when the phone rang. I answered. “Hey….Yeah!” It was Sarah! “Yeah, I’m way excited! Have you seen that new Jennifer Aniston movie yet?...Good, good….Well, I’m great, uh, how are…. Yeah… You…………. Oh!… You and Donny…No! Well, that’s…that’s so good for you two…………Oh, uh huh… That’s awesome, he’s such a lucky guy. I hope he realizes what…….You’re going to that movie tonight with him?…No, no, that’s fine. You two just go. I don’t want to intrude……. Yeah, yeah, I like talking to you, too….Sure, any time you need someone to listen, just give me a….. Oh, is that him on the other line?…No, no, you’re fine. Have fun at the movie! I’ll, uh, I’ll see you, uh, around cam- pus…Monday…No, it’s okay! Really! I’ll talk to you later… Okay, bye… Bye...”

I sat there on the edge of my bed, hunched over, star- ing at the left toe of my shoe for what seemed like days, the

NONFICTION 91 phone held limply in my upturned right hand, draped over the side of the mattress. I spent another hour in reflection, silently going over my good old mental checklist of personal character flaws and odd-looking physical features. I spent extra time checking “lack of abs” and “spontaneous wit deficiency” and “Dickens obsession,” just to make the process of recognizing my own gross ineptness more painful. I spent the next two hours watching a showing of Die Hard on TV while spackling the holes in my emotional sheet- rock with plaster of chocolate ice cream. As I watched Bruce Willis turn German terrorists into human wall art, I thought, ‘Wouldn’t it be great to be as direct as Bruce?’ I became more occupied with my ice cream, and subsequently didn’t notice when Die Hard ended and turned into Casablanca. Where there once was Bruce Willis, walking across glass with his bare feet, there was now Humphrey Bog- art, walking into the Moroccan desert. I had a quick conversa- tion with myself. “You can change it, if you want,” I said. “Oh, you know, whatever. This is fine, if you want to watch it,” I replied. “Well, either way is fine. It’s up to you.” “Okay, I guess we can just keep watching it. No big deal.” And I did.

92 Metaphor Vol. XXX Fleeting Memories Logan Cox

Withered posters litter the walls, but they still cling to life. Albums that inspired are blanketed with dust. The radio that blared is useless on the desk. The guitar idles in the corner. The red and white snowboard tilts against the colorless wall. Even the light bulb is dim. The light departs from this earth to wherever wasted energy goes. The boy collapses on the exposed mattress and ignores it all. Items bought for happiness that fled. Materials aban- doned because the future is too hard to see. He looks at the ceiling fan and watches as blades slice air. The dim bulb mud- dies the clarity of the mirror. He shuffles to the light switch and turns it off. He doesn’t want his family to see. He latches himself to the ceiling fan. He’s too heavy. His weight rips the ceiling fan off. Failure. Darkness softens failure. He stands up and checks out the door. He doesn’t want his friends to see. Spencer stalls for another chance and stumbles around his room. Blindness causes him to topple his guitar from its stand. He tears post- ers from his wall and crumples them in the corner. He crashes into his nightstand sending the radio smashing into his snow- board, scarring them both. He looks into the mirror and sees who he is. Darkness demands distorted thoughts, so Spencer sees his distortion. He looks at the corner nook of the sliding mirror and decides. It’s time. He hooks himself up and takes one last glance. The radio is wrecked. The snowboard is scarred. No way to buff that out. The posters will never straighten, and the guitar will never play. The dust on the albums will reappear. He tightens the rope. Memories flee the room with gravity and a tight noose. I open the door and switch on the light. I see the sway- ing body. A pallid face and swollen tongue stick out to mock me. Eyes that see nothing look at me while I plead to ears that can’t hear. I turn the light off. Hello, darkness. Goodbye, brother. 93 FICTION Writing great fiction and also getting the recognition it de- serves is harder than it has ever been. In today’s world, it is so easy to find a million different stories on the Internet that are published by anyone with a mind to do it. How can a great story get noticed when there are a million good stories to ob- scure it? That is why Metaphor has always striven to provide this amazing opportunity for undergraduate students with true talent to be published, and never have I seen a fiction story in Metaphor that did not measure up to high standards. Not wanting to break the tradition of this book, my staff and I carefully considered the pieces that we chose to be published in this section. This was difficult, because Weber State has an astounding collection of gifted writers, and we could never have put in all our favorites or this book would be entirely fic- tion! However, I think that with the large staff on fiction this year, we were able to choose a variety of literature that reflects the variety of the university. Our hope is that there is a story in here for everyone, and that Metaphor has many more suc- cessful years to come. Enjoy!

Editor Staff Briana Zike Quincy Bravo David Harrison Michelle Paul Aloha Morris Amy Mayo Townsley Amy Higgs Tamara Sisler Jacob Ericksen

94 Metaphor Vol. XXX Chocolate Alicia Glascock

Alzheimer’s disease is characterized by the loss of social and mental functioning. It starts with simple lapses of memory, like where the plastic baggies are in the kitchen. These first signs of the disease are similar to the effects of old age, so they oftentimes get overlooked.

The door rings. It is one o’clock. Tuesday, I think. My grand- daughter is coming to get me for our weekly trip to Baskin Robbins. I have Alzheimer’s, so Beth thinks I need structure. Sometimes it gets annoying, but I don’t mind today. I love seeing Alicia. We are perfectly fine just being with each other. She doesn’t expect me to talk. I don’t expect her to. I like that. I lose words lately. I hate that. People come up to me, and I forget what I am supposed to say. Hello? Yellow? Running? I know Beth doesn’t know what to do when that happens too. So she just talks for me. I used to try to talk for myself. Now I just let her. “Hi Granddad! Are you ready?” “Oh boy!” That’s all that comes out now. It works for just about everything. If I say it enough they think I know what is going on. It makes them feel more comfortable with this. We get into her car. I bought it for her when she grad- uated high school. I’m glad I did. She looks good in it. We look good in it. I wish she would let me drive though. I miss driving. I miss my manhood. They don’t understand how hard it is to sit in the passenger seat. Every day. I know exactly how to get there. I may get lost going to a friend’s house, but I sure as hell know how to get to Baskin Robbins. “It’s pretty hot today,” she says. “ Yep.” She parks. I’m glad. Her driving worries me. But I can’t tell her that. I wish they would let me drive. She lets me open the door for her. Most people open the door for me. I know they mean well. But, it sure makes

FICTION 95 me feel like I can’t do anything. I have Alzheimer’s disease, it’s not like I’m in a wheelchair and can’t walk. My favorite girl is working today. She reminds me of Beth when we met. I saw her at Jim’s Soda Shop and knew I had to talk to her, but she was with all her girlfriends. I stayed a little later than I should have, Father needed the car. But I just had to talk to her. She was so beautiful. Her laughter, oh, her laughter. “Granddad, what kind do you want?” “Chocolate.” Always chocolate. I hate chocolate. I don’t know why I get it. I should have got it in a cup. This cone is so hard to eat. I know I look like a damn baby with all this ice cream melting all over my hands. She gets a napkin and helps me clean up. I should be helping her, whoever she is.

People with Alzheimer’s tend to repeat things. Repeat things. Repeat things. Their life is a constant struggle. Things become lost, and they must find them immediately. This sometimes can lead them to strange places—like the neighbor’s deck at two in the morning looking for their belt, not once, but four times, in one week. The caregivers learn to adapt to the constant changes by hav- ing an alarm sound when the outside doors open.

I walk into Grammy and Granddad’s house. I hear someone in the kitchen, so I head over to see who it is. “Hi, Granddad. Are you ready to go?” “Oh, boy.” Today must be a bad day. He is struggling with an empty glass in his hand and all the cabinet doors are open. I close them before Grammy comes in. She just hates when he leaves them open like that. “Do you want some water?” I turn on the faucet and hope he walks over here with the glass and doesn’t put it down. He would do something like that. He walks slowly. I wait for him to get his water, and go find Grammy and tell her we are leaving. Before I leave the 96 Metaphor Vol. XXX kitchen, she comes in with his wallet. We have to put it in a basket, on his dresser, in his room, as soon as he gets home— every time. Otherwise he loses it, even if it is in his pocket. So to avoid the daily wallet search, we just put it in the basket. “Here you go, Bill,” Grammy says, holding out the wallet. He looks at it, and doesn’t grab it. She waves it a little. “Here’s your wallet.” I think he just had to figure out what it was. With that, he walks over, forgetting the glass he barely filled with water, and puts it in his pocket. “Let’s go get our ice cream; I’ve been waiting all day,” I say. This is a lie. I kind of dread our Tuesday trips. I never know how he will be, and what we will do. I’m scared that something will happen while I’m alone with him, and I won’t be able to help. What if he falls, or worse, needs to go to the bathroom? I can’t help him. I help him down the stairs and into my car. As we drive to Baskin Robbins, I try to think of something to talk about. Our conversations are pretty much one-sided, but I like to make sure he can at least say something back. It’s less awkward that way. I go on about school. He likes hearing about that, and always tells me how he wishes he would have graduated. He only went to college for a year before he joined the Air Force and fought in WWII. He made such a name for himself, yet he still wishes he had that degree. It’s conversations like this that make me want to graduate—even if they are one- sided. It is important to him, so it is important for me. He guides me to the store. I know how to get there, but I let him help. He needs help with almost everything, so when he can do something I let him. Even, if it is a little pointless. We pull into the handicap stall up front, and I help him unbuckle his seat belt, before he gets a chance to do it himself. I find it easier if I unbuckle him, because otherwise he gets frustrated when he can’t do it. Then he stays frustrated for the rest of our trip, and I don’t know what to do to make him feel better. We go inside and I order rainbow sherbet. I

FICTION 97 ask what he wants, knowing that it will be chocolate. He used to like other flavors as well, but the last couple months it’s always been chocolate. I grab more napkins than I normally would. I can be messy as it is, but Granddad is even worse. Together, we leave a big sticky mess. I purposely try to be a bit on the messy side, so he doesn’t feel so bad for needing me to help him clean up.

Lapses of memory increase over time, becoming more noticeable. They may start to forget to close doors, or not put on shoes when going outside in the snow. Speech becomes simple. Physical activi- ties—labored. Eventually, the disease may make them forget how to eat. Or breathe.

Alicia should be here soon to take Bill. I should get his wallet ready, before he realizes he doesn’t have it. I go to his dresser, and pick his wallet out of the basket. I make sure there is a twenty in it. I can’t let him have any credit cards because they always get lost. He really doesn’t need his wallet all the time, nor the money in it. But, it makes him nervous if he doesn’t, and so he gets it every day. He walks in, holding a flashlight. “What are you doing, Bill?” “Oh, boy….boy…oy.” “You don’t need that flashlight to go get ice cream. I’ll take it.” He struggles giving it over. “Bill, give me the flashlight.” He still holds onto it. He can be so adamant at times. I don’t know why he wants this flashlight so badly. I bribe him with his wallet. He finally relents, and leaves the room—wal- let in hand. Now, I am left holding a flashlight I don’t know where he got, and am going to have to figure out where to put up. Getting my husband ready to leave the house takes hours now, because of moments like this. I wish he would just not get into things. I’m tired of closing all the doors, and fighting to take things away from him. I hear my granddaughter opening the front door. It’s 98 Metaphor Vol. XXX about time, I don’t know how much more I can take this morning. He is sitting on the couch, searching for something. What has he lost now? “What can I help you find?” He looks down at his pocket, and pats it. He lost his wallet. He just had it, how can he possibly lose it that fast? Alicia walks in, holding his wallet. “This was on the floor, by the door.” I’m so relieved. I did not feel like searching the whole house again. “There you go, Bill. You are going to go with Alicia and get some ice cream.” She takes him by the arm as he shuffles to the door. I sit down, only to see all the cabinet doors open.

Sometimes, no matter how many times they are shown where their belt is, they will forget, and try to find it. This sometimes can lead them to strange places. Like the neighbor’s deck at two in the morn- ing looking for their belt, not once, but four times, in one week.

That girl is here again. I know I know her. She gives me a hug and calls me Granddad. I wait for Beth to say her name. Alicia. That’s right, ice cream girl. I wish I could drive her somewhere. She walks me over to the passenger seat and puts on my seat belt. I point to the next road. I’m not allowed to drive there. At least I can tell her how to get there. She turns. She lets me help her. I’m important. I sure as hell can get to Baskin Robbins. “Did you see that dog, Granddad? It kind of reminds me of Lucy. I miss her. She was a good dog” I wish I knew who Lucy was. “Yup.” She keeps talking about Lucy. I think she was my dog, I’m not sure. What’s a dog? “Oh, boy.” I can’t get this. Stupid. Seat belt off. Why do they make things so challenging for me? Girl helps me, and smiles. I take

FICTION 99 my time getting inside. Trying to think of the ice cream I like. There are so many ice creams. It’s scary. Confronted with choices. When you have no choice at all. “Granddad, should we get you a chocolate one?” Chocolate. It’s always chocolate. I don’t know if I like chocolate. I guess so. She can’t find her cash. I pay. We looked all morning for my wallet. I’m glad. We found it so I could pay for us. I’m not completely. Useless. We sit and eat our ice cream. I don’t want to make a mess. I just let the cone melt on my hand. Wrong thing to do. Girl has to help me clean this. I look like a damn baby.

Speech becomes simple. Physical activities—labored.

Bill fell last week. The hospital wants to send him to a rehabilitation center. I don’t know if that will be good for him. It will be too new and different. He has a hard enough time surviving here, where he knew where everything belonged at one time. I think leaving this house would kill him. He practi- cally built this thing. It took him the full summer before Billy was born to make the deck I always wanted, just so we could sit outside with our baby and see the sunset. He was always doing things like that for me. And he still loves that sunset. We spend our nights sitting at the coffee table just looking at the beautiful colors outside our window. I can’t take that away from him, away from us. He has been sleeping an awful lot since the fall, and he hardly eats. In fact, he doesn’t eat at all. Since the fall, he for- got how to hold a spoon or fork. He hasn’t been using a knife for quite a while now. I give him a spoonful of something and he just keeps his mouth shut and moves his head. Breaks my heart. I can get him to drink some water, but even that is small and labored, since he has forgotten how to swallow for the most part. I sit in the chair next to the bed reading, listening to his breathing and waiting for my granddaughter to come 100 Metaphor Vol. XXX back. Her family is staying with us now to help me. Instead of going out to get ice cream, she brings it here. Hopefully he’ll eat it and get something in his system. He always seems to eat chocolate.

Alzheimer’s disease is characterized by the loss of social and mental functioning.

There was a line at Baskin Robbins. You would think they would know what I want by now. I’ve only been going there every Tuesday for months, and the past month has been simple—just a pint of chocolate to go. No cones to deal with. No special add-ins. Just chocolate. Plain and simple. Things aren’t looking good. I feel so uncomfortable here. I don’t know what to say to anyone. I know what not to say—how are you? Because, good is a lie, and I don’t really want to hear how they really are. I can see it. Granddad has been in bed for the past week straight. The nurses put a cath- eter in, so he doesn’t even have to get up to go to the bath- room. Or rather, we don’t need to walk him to the bathroom, since he can’t walk on his own anymore. I sit down in the chair next to the bed. His lips are chapped, and I can see his ribs through his shirt and blanket. He looks like a breathing skeleton. I reach out and hold his hand. He only moves his eyes to see me, and I smile. “Hi, Granddad,” I whisper. He slightly squeezes my hand tighter. If I wasn’t looking for some sort of response, I might have missed it. He opens his mouth, but no audible word comes out. Just mumbled sounds. He has completely forgotten how to talk. I still think he knows what we are saying, but he just can’t say anything back that we can understand. I grab the ice cream tub from the floor and show him. He just looks at me. So I grab the spoon and scoop some on it. I slowly put it to his lips, but he doesn’t open them. After a little coaxing, his lips open slightly. I put what ice cream I can get in the small gap of his mouth. But he starts coughing, and making a gurgling noise.

FICTION 101 I panic and try to sit him upright. Even though he has lost a lot of weight, I still struggle moving him. He is basically dead weight. He continues to cough. It gets worse, and he starts gagging. I call someone in to help me. My parents and I have been staying here since the fall so someone was there at all times in case something happened. Well, this was that something. And it’s all my fault. Everyone comes rushing in to his side. I slowly get out of their way. I watch as they try to calm him down by giving him Ativan. I can’t take any more of his panicked coughing and chaos, and I walk out of the room. Looking back, the chocolate melts on the floor.

102 Metaphor Vol. XXX Deadlines David Glen (Harrison)

So I sit here, waiting for nothing as usual. There’s the blacked- out hum of electronic devices all around, and I take a moment to think about cancer. There’s a better word for it, at least for me. It’s called hope. There’s a slow, agonizing death waiting out there somewhere if only I can get my hands on it. There’s a girl sitting at the table next to me pouting into her coffee and I want to break out into shrieking laughter every time she sniffs at her little tragedy. Her blue eyes almost melt into aqueous webs every time she leans over to blow in her cup. There’s apparently something about living a life of overstimu- lation that dulls the senses into ridiculous, passionless plays made of someone’s perceived expectation of human reaction. Every decision made in public has turned into a rose cer- emony without the sincerity. If I could vote someone off the island, it would be me. I’m waiting for a man to come in and sit next to me. He’s supposed to abide by my wishes and remain silent, but he never does. Invariably he wants to know how I’m doing these days, but he’s never satisfied with an honest answer. If the response isn’t “tired” or “hanging in there” or “been better” or “bad,” he asks me if I’m okay until he’s satisfied that I’m not. The truth is that I’ve never felt better; but I don’t plan on telling him that. If I’m not recovering from something he gets worried. He’d ask me if I was drinking again, or if I’ve started using drugs to hide the pain of my existence. I’ll give him what he wants. When he sits down, I’ll tell him that I’ve been nursing a hangover by the age-old “hair of the dog” technique. I’ll tell him that some girl, maybe the one sitting at the next table with the snot lines on her sleeve, has broken my heart and that I’m thinking about killing myself again. I tried tell- ing him that my dad died a couple of weeks ago, but he didn’t get the joke. It’s such a burden these days to not have a mil- lion things going wrong at once. I used to come in here a lot. I almost married one of

FICTION 103 the waitresses. I think it was around that time that I developed a short attention span for faux distress. Shortly after that, she was living with some guy, inflicting bruises and cutting herself, then using her wounds to attract new victims; it’s classic preda- tory behavior. Despite the ridiculous nature of such a pursuit, she knew her audience. If a man doesn’t walk up to a girl like that, tell her that she deserves better from whoever they as- sume did this to her and leave his name and phone number on a napkin, she’s not interested. I give her full marks for creativ- ity, even if she is a parasite. I couldn’t feel too superior to these guys, her suitors; I used to be one of them. I suppose the bright side is that she never accused me of anything; something about having “always treated [her] well.” The problem was that she was special to me. She was, sadly, so used to the contrary that she was impossible to please without going against my nature. I don’t have it in me to treat a woman with disrespect. I’m just not wired that way. Sorry. It would have been one hell of a wed- ding though. I almost went through with it just to have Car Bomb and Frank Zappa played at the reception. Oh well. C’est la vie. I suppose that I would rather be miserable alone than be miserable with her. But today is a good day. The fake walnut/pine/oak/Formica/whatever table was suffering from disorientation, likely caused by repeated use as a last bastion of support to the downtrodden. It’s a fad; the lifestyle of “feel sorry for me so I can feel better.” Simple eco- nomics: If people are happy, they don’t need to be distracted. If people don’t need to be distracted, business suffers and the terrorists win. I steel myself for what I am about to do, as I know a priori that it is a mistake. I sit next to the hunched over mass of 34-C’s and eyeliner. “I couldn’t help but notice that something is bothering you.” Do understand it’s not only a female show of melancholic plumage. It’s equal opportunity call and response assimilation. Depression and maladjustment are the crux of any functional social system. The trick is to get this woman to spit out her fleeting drama and get her to smile. Once she smiles, she will naturally continue to smile. The important thing is to remember to keep grounded, otherwise one runs the risk of be- 104 Metaphor Vol. XXX ing pulled over the cliff they’re trying to draw attention to. “I’m just lonely,” she tells me, still leaking all sorts of fluid all over herself and the tablecloth. She barely notices me; apparently she had been expecting something like this. I guess some people plan their breakdowns. Where’s the fulfillment in falling apart where no one can see it? I put a presumptuous hand on hers and she doesn’t flinch or look at me. “Why’s that?” “Everyone I know is either dead or lying,” she says, finally looking at me. I know the feeling. “I must be quite a sight. I’m sorry. What is your name?” I make something up. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Tiffany.” “I’m sorry,” I say. “Tiffany.” “I heard you. I meant I’m sorry that you were given a name which guarantees you will never be taken seriously.” She laughed. The trick to helping people is maintain- ing boundaries. This is where I have the problem. She’s crying, and she’s beautiful. The two aren’t mutually exclusive. If I get sucked in, I might have to love this girl. I have an addiction to fixing people, well, doing whatever I can to help them fix themselves. It’s got a stronger pull than alcohol ever did. It’s a curse. I’m not attracted to this woman because she’s crying. I’m attracted to her because she doesn’t see what I see. This is my little tragedy, karmic relapse. Despite a firmly set founda- tion of misanthropy, I can’t help but let people on their little secret. “You are beautiful,” I say finally. “What use does loneli- ness serve?” “It gives me something to do. I guess you could say that it’s a hobby of mine. I like to push people away until they’re about to leave, then I do whatever I can to bring them back.” It sounds pretty sadistic the way she says it. “That sounds pretty sadistic.” She sits up straight, her eyes half evaporated. “I’m sorry, I don’t know you. We shouldn’t be having this conversa- tion. My friends are almost here. If they see me with someone else, they might be worried.”

FICTION 105 “Don’t you ever get tired of that?” I ask, sufficiently astonished at how often thoughts become realities. Maybe I should start thinking of something more useful. “Every day until I don’t,” she says, removing her damp- ened pullover, revealing a shirt from Crystal City. “I get tired of it until it’s not there anymore. It’s Addiction 101.” “I see,” I say, gathering my cup and standing. “If you ever decide that you’d like to not be lonely, I come in here a lot. Since we both drink coffee, I think we may be able to justify drinking it near each other.” I would hate myself if it wasn’t so redundant. “I think I’d like that.” I nod some sort of approval and walk out of the shop. I really don’t want to see my dad anymore. I’ll just call him and tell him that I got called in to work. Even though I’m unem- ployed, he still seems to buy the excuse. He must think I’m off somewhere smoking crack or injecting heroin into the vein under my... That should tide him over. On my way home, I stop in at the liquor store. That woman with the ridiculous name is there buying tequila. I would bother to question how this woman had gotten there before I did, but she had been stalking me long enough to know my routine. Today was the first time we had talked since the break- up. Generally, she would just follow me home and then go on her way. I have a feeling that tonight was going to be different. I hope this doesn’t mean that we’re getting back together...

106 Metaphor Vol. XXX Roma Shelly Sphar

It was late in the day when I found the old newspaper aban- doned by the road. It was clearly discarded without any thought just as I was. The paper would help start a fire which would hopefully keep us warm for a night. As I was separat- ing the crumpled pieces a black and white picture of a boy caught my attention. I recognized those dark sorrowful eyes. It wasn’t anyone that I had ever met but he was part of the Roma family, a family of wanderers. I quickly skimmed over the article, anger and resentment filled me as I read about our predicament through a stranger’s eyes. The president of France called Roma camps “a source of crime and prostitution.” A source of crime! Is it a crime to live? Is it a crime to eat? The article went on explaining how over 1,000 Roma had been expelled. I was one of them. In a rage I wadded up the article; the boy’s crumpled face stared up at me as I threw it in the pile. I couldn’t look away from the boy’s eyes as he quickly turned to ash. Is that what is to become of us? Thoughts of the burning picture, as well as our hopeless future kept me awake that night. My growling stomach fueled the rage searing through my body. That is when I decided that I was done waiting for my turn to burn. I wasn’t going to take it anymore and with that thought, exhaustion finally robbed me of all consciousness. The next day I quietly slipped away and headed toward the nearest town. I had walked great distances before but this short road seemed to be the longest I had ever taken. When I entered the town I continued to wander looking for food; there was none to be had. Eventually I found a place to sleep on a dark street. The next night a Frenchman saw me and offered me money for my services. I told him that I had no experi- ence and he merely laughed and said that he had more than enough for the both of us. Fear and disgust gripped me and I was about to refuse when he took out the money. I was nod-

FICTION 107 ding my head before I realized what I was doing. That night I went through hell and the tall Frenchman was my guide. The next morning I awoke weak, hurting and oddly warm. I turned to see the pile of money lying next to my soiled clothing. The Frenchman was nowhere to be seen. I looked again at the small pile of money and my insides turned to mush. Regret and anger filled me as I dressed. I hesitated a moment before I tucked the money away. I practically ran to get away from what I had done. I spent the next couple of days searching for food, ignoring the money in my pocket. I grew so delirious with hunger that I didn’t even notice the fever that had overtaken me. That is how the boy with dark sorrowful eyes found me. I could feel the fire growing and I knew that I would soon turn to ash as the boy from the black and white picture watched. My time was short and I knew it. There was but one thing left to do. I put my hand in my pocket and removed the small pile of money. Without a word I placed the money in the boy’s hand just before I let the fire consume me.

108 Metaphor Vol. XXX The Ladybug Trevor Wheelwright

“Look Mama, an alien!” In the soft canyons of his hands, a ladybug moseyed around, making sure to explore every crevice as he offered it to me. I could see his small tongue poking out from where one of his baby teeth fell out—he was stoked. I gave him my seal of approval by playing along. “What do you think? Is it here to eat our brains?” “Probably!” he shouted and put the bug in my hand, then ran off waving his arms and screaming. I used to hate these things when I was his age; they freaked me out, but now nothing fazes me. I’ve learned as a mother, I’m a disposal for all things new to my child, who requires approval for his dis- coveries, but I’ll take this harmless little insect over sticky toys or boogers any day. He found another boy to play with, maybe a year older than him; they started playing with the sand around them. He had gone from space aliens to being king of ancient castles. By the time we got home, it was likely we’d be forest rang- ers or cowboys. He was that perfect curious but naïve age. I was watching him try to knight the other boy when I heard a voice, small but deep, say, “Greetings.” I looked around, but didn’t see anyone. I heard it again: “Excuse me, but…” I looked down in the palm of my hand, astonished to see the ladybug speaking proper English. “I don’t mean to be rude,” the ladybug said, “but you do realize that if we only ate human brains, it’s likely we’d starve.” My jaw dropped and I stared blankly. I couldn’t say a word. It coughed as though the silence was awkward and said, “I’m kidding.”

FICTION 109 The Day that Mrs. Butterworth Died Cynthia Balzomo

Opening the wooden cabinet door just a crack, I peered inside its depths. The minimal amount of light that managed to filter in highlighted her dark smiling face and hands clasped togeth- er in an almost nervous giggle. She appeared innocent enough, but it was misleading and at the right moment, she would try to make her escape. Slowly opening the door a little wider in an attempt to retrieve the breakfast cereal, my suspicions proved true. As soon as it opened, it spurred her into action as the packed shelf she rested on tipped forward just enough to fling Mrs. Butterworth off her perch. My superior reflexes helped catch her in the downward flight. With a sigh of relief, I put her on the counter and rummaged for the box of cereal on the top shelf. It was the box with the athlete on it, a muscular, yet feminine figure. Athletic and muscular, something I have never been nor ever will be, but the cereal was supposed to be good for me. Opening the box and pouring its flaky contents into a bowl that sat waiting on my small table, I poured the milk. The pitter-patter on the outside of the small kitchen window let me know that it was raining heavily. So much for the idea that it never rained in southern California. Noticing that it was the top of the hour, I turned the small radio on that Mrs. Butter- worth now guarded with a smile. A happy male voice came in sounding a bit too chip- per. “In the news today, millionaire Dustan Franks said in an attempt to have a little fun and help people, he will be leaving a large sum of money somewhere in town. Anyone who finds it gets to keep it. Well I guess people with a lot of money can do anything they want. Hey Dustan, you can always leave it in my mailbox. Anyway, the weatherman says there is a forty percent chance of rain. So you may or may not want to bring those umbrellas.” In disgust I flipped it back off and sat down. “This just proves that they don’t live in the same state.”

110 Metaphor Vol. XXX The Day that Mrs. Butterworth Died My eyes scanned the small kitchen. It was just a small Cynthia Balzomo one-bedroom apartment. The living room had just enough room for a couch and a TV, and the kitchen had only three small cabinets, besides the usual tan refrigerator and stove. It was modest, but it was mine. This little sparse place proved that there would be no more college roommates in a dorm, or living at home with a nagging mother. After finishing the cereal and putting the bowl in the sink, I grabbed Mrs. Butterworth and put her back on the shelf before quickly closing the door. “Better luck next time old gal.”

My low heels clicked on the wet cement while hurry- ing to the bus stop. The rain had not let up and it ran off the umbrella, which in reality proved little protection from the semi-horizontal rain. At least the bus stop was enclosed and if it proved to be a lucky day, some handsome man would be kind enough to give me his spot. Well on second thought, forget that; he would move over so I could sit next to him and flirt. The traffic of the city whizzed by, splashing the dirty water off the streets, and I found that the only protection from them was to stay near the buildings. The sky was a patchwork of grays and blacks, but it echoed the dirty city in the distance with its tall threatening buildings. Turning the corner, the sight of three people in busi- ness suits standing outside of the bus shelter interrupted my thoughts. A lump of different dirty-colored rags sat on the bench, obviously left from the night before. Other than that it appeared to be empty. The men’s odd posture and nervous tempting glances towards the bench tipped me off that some- thing wasn’t right. On my approach, a pungent smell equiva- lent to a hundred dead rodents assaulted my nose and then a low groan reached my ears. Of all things—a bum had taken over my bench. Andrew, the man next to me, shook his head. “Forget it Sara. The stink will get into your clothes. It’s not worth it.” As he finished the sentence my sometimes friend Niesha, with her red umbrella that matched her skirt,

FICTION 111 approached the enclosure. Her nose wrinkled as she got closer, but her smug smile told me that she was oblivious to the world with the exception that she thought she had beaten me and apparently everyone else to the bus bench. As soon as she entered she stopped short, her high heels sliding a bit. The lump of rags came alive as he propped himself up on his elbow and glared at her. His dirty gray hair hung off his head and his beard, just as dirty and tangled, helped enhance his murderous look. “Get off my plane.” He moaned. “Wha…” Niesha gasped and took a posture that one gets when they come across a dead animal next to the curb they are about to step off of. “I said, get off my airplane!” His scream revealed the absence of any teeth. He stood up with the dexterity I had used that very morning in catching Mrs. Butterworth. His clothes were nothing more than the rags that covered him. At one time, they had probably been dark khaki pants, some color of a T-shirt with an old army jacket. His movements were too quick and the name on the jacket was too dirty to make out. Niesha hustled back out in the rain where Jimmy came between her and the ragged remains of the man. It proved un- necessary, as the bum made no attempt to step any closer. “Someone should do something,” I mumbled. “They shouldn’t let people like him out on the street.” The wild man looked around at us with fierce eyes that seemed to speak in an unrecognized jumble before he went back to his bench and sat down. He leaned forward with his head in his hands and began to rock and groan some more. “Don’t leave me, Stella.” He called out suddenly as Jack pulled out his cell phone. “Yeah, we need police to respond to…” Just then, the bus pulled up and we all stepped back to avoid the tidal wave of water. By the time we loaded into the bus and sat down, I looked out the window to see the bum ly- ing back down. Apparently, he had passed out with his mouth gaping open. “Poor guy.” A Hispanic man in a business suit that sat 112 Metaphor Vol. XXX behind me shook his head.

“Maybe you should just put your syrup on a different shelf,” Roberta told me as I sat in my cubicle. She was the kind of woman who always had on just the right amount of makeup. “Then she would win.” “Win? It’s a plastic container filled with pancake syrup.” She eyed me. “You do know you’re having a battle of wits with an inanimate object?” “Of course.” I leaned back in my leather chair. “If I move her to a different shelf it’ll throw my system off.” “System, what system? Girl, I helped you unpack that place.” “Snacks and cereal belong on the top shelf, boxed food on the second and seasonings on the bottom. There’s no other place to put her since the bottom shelf isn’t tall enough and the top shelf is too packed.” “But the second shelf is too full. That’s why she keeps falling out. Why not just put her on the counter or the table?” I faked a shocked look at her mere suggestion. “Then she will be exposed when she changes aprons. We both know she doesn’t wear anything underneath.” Roberta laughed. “You are an odd one.” “Yeah well, it’s because of this spacious place with a grand view of the beach.” I waved around my drab gray cubicle before pointing at the calendar someone had forced upon me. “Are you going to see Robert tonight?” She changed the subject. “Oh… maybe?” Thinking of the relatively handsome man from the third floor made me want to yawn. “He’s a catch, Sara. What’re you thinking?” She waved her hand at my boredom. “Nothing is good enough for you.” “Beg your pardon. There are plenty of things that are good enough for me.” “Name one?” My brain twisted, making me wonder why it had to

FICTION 113 work so hard. The lack of sleep obviously. “My computer.” I turned my chair towards it and circled my arms around the flat screen, speaking to it the way women always do to men in the romance books. “You love me don’t you, Acer?” Roberta chuckled before straightening out her dark dress slacks and jacket. “You’re too much, girl.”

After work, I got off the bus and glanced over at the bus stop. The vagrant was still there with two ash-colored duffle bags streaked with black dirt. He had one open, but I didn’t bother to try to see inside it. He couldn’t possibly have anything of interest. “Stella, come back,” he yelled. Making it a point to walk faster, my thoughts drifted to other things. Lucky for me it had stopped raining, though the sky still hung low with clouds of assorted degrees of gray. The only nice thing about the rain in California was that it cut back on the smog. Sometimes the nasty haze would come in as thick as rain clouds. Maybe it would continue to rain and the sky will stay at least a little bit clean. Though I hate getting wet, the thought delighted me until I remembered the bum that had taken over the bus shelter. Well maybe he’ll be gone by tomorrow. Upon my arrival home, I checked the phone for mes- sages and found one from Robert. It remained a mystery to me why he insisted on calling my house phone when he had my cell phone number. That day he had almost caught me before entering the elevator. He had worn that horrible salmon-pink shirt and the tie of the same color. The one that looked like a bunch of cut up salmon grouped together with one on top struggling to come back alive whenever he moved. A group of people head- ing in the same direction had blocked his view, allowing my escape. “Hey, this is Robert…” Pressing the delete button enabled me to bypass listening to his pleadings to ask me out. There were better things to do, like making myself feel better by watching the news. 114 Metaphor Vol. XXX Day eight of the epic struggle with Mrs. Butterworth. During the last week, she had gotten sneaky. For a couple of days in a row she had sat patiently, seeming to behave. Then yesterday, with the help of a box of macaroni and cheese, she sprang at me, forcing me to catch her just a few inches from the ground. Today would not be her day either as I reached in to pull her out, not even giving her a chance to win. This would be the last day of the challenge however. I was going to finish the box of cereal and had decided last night that she would have a new home on the top shelf. In truth, enough was enough of not only the game but also looking at those unsee- ing eyes and grin while catching her. Looking at the kitchen clock, it dawned on me that it had stopped on three a.m. “Damn it, I’ll miss the bus.” Just my luck; it left me only enough time to throw everything back in the cupboards.

The bus driver saw me coming and held up the bus for a moment for me to get on. Grateful, I sat down in the first seat available and tried to catch my breath. “Harold’s gone?” “Huh?” “Harold,” a man in clean overalls and dark hair that I vaguely recalled from my stop repeated. “That was the name of that homeless guy living in our bus shelter. He wasn’t there yesterday or today. He’s not at the corner like before either.” “On my corner? Hmmm, to tell you the truth I hadn’t noticed.” Since the rain had stopped, who needed a bus shelter. Besides, the smell had gotten so terrible in that shelter that it probably wasn’t fit for man or beast. “Maybe he found a home,” I tried to finish the conversation, but the man ignored me. Turning my own eyes from the busy streets, I looked out towards the city and saw the smog clinging to the build- ings like a three-year-old had scribbled on a picture with a gray crayon. It would be a good day to buy new shoes.

The feeling of melancholy made me skip out of work during lunch. Besides this would be a great way to avoid Rob-

FICTION 115 ert. He wouldn’t get another date out of me, but it remained unforeseen just how to break it to him. He would be heart- broken after all. From the shopping center, I rode the bus home and took note that the late afternoon news would be on in just seconds. Finding the remote hidden in the recess of my cranky, tired couch, I turned the TV on about the same time the phone rang, causing me to pick it up without thinking. “Sara?” Robert’s cool voice asked on the other end. “Robert, I was just about to call you.” “Yeah, well, no matter how many messages I leave you never call me back, and you’re avoiding me at work.” “No, we just keep missing each other.” He sighed. “Look, there is no good way to put this, and you won’t see me, so… here it goes. Maybe we should see other people?” “Are you breaking up with me?” My thoughts raced, no guy had ever broken up with me before. “Yeah, that is usually what it means.” “Who is she?” I spit into the phone. “What?” “You heard me, who is she? Let me guess, Roberta right? That dirty tramp always did have her eyes on you.” Of course, it was Roberta; the wedding invitations would read, Robert and Roberta, the names would be perfect together. “Who?” “Don’t you play games with me, fella,’ and just so you’ll know, I never want to see you again. You can take your fish shirts and stuff them up your…agh!” At that moment, slam- ming the receiver down seemed like the right thing to do, just as they do in the movies, but it was a cordless phone. Not sure what to do in its stead, I frantically smacked the phone against the wall. His puzzled voice still came from the re- ceiver, so I smacked it again and then with some satisfaction, pushed the button to end his connection to me forever. How dare he. Tears began to well up in my eyes. Cup- cakes, cupcakes would make it all better. Quickly I went to the kitchen while wiping my eyes and flung open the cabinet. In a surreal moment, the unseeing eyes, odd smile 116 Metaphor Vol. XXX and nervous clasping hands came at me. She seemed to stay suspended in midair for a moment like those cartoons you see on TV and then she fell with a sickening sound of plastic hitting the ground coinciding with an odd splat sound as the corner of her bottom ripped open. In shock, I couldn’t turn away from her eyes staring at me. Her triumphant smile never wavered, even while the color drained out of her face as her insides came out in a gooey rich thickness. Worst of all, it had splattered on my new shoes. In the other room came the crisp content voice of a male newscaster. “And to continue the story from last night, the homeless man that found the thirty thousand dollars left by millionaire Dustan Franks has been identified as sixty- seven-year-old Harold Johnson, a Vietnam vet who had received numerous awards including the Silver Star. He had apparently found it under a bus bench in….” “Damn,” I said with a heavy sigh.

FICTION 117 Pesos Julianne Hiatt Caldwell

I held my credit card in my hand, looking into the deep brown eyes of the small woman in front of me. I could see it in there. She knew I was racist, and for the first time, I real- ized it, too. A moment ago I had been standing in the breezy, open-air shop by the pier. My cruise ship sat out in the bay, crystal clear water lapping at her freshly painted hull. I was in paradise. A mariachi band played in the town square, the men in matching suits and sequined sombreros never missing a chord as they turned to admire and whistle at bikini-clad touristas walking past them, hardly looking at the musicians as they tossed a buck into the open guitar case. I took my purchase to the counter and noticed happily that they took my card. She ran it through, making small talk in her sweetly accented English. “Two hundred pesos, please,” she said as she ripped the receipt off the machine, handing it to me to sign. I froze. “I thought it was twenty dollars American,” I said uncertainly. She nodded. “This will show up in American on your credit card statement, but we charge in pesos.” “Can we cancel the charge? I think I have a twenty.” I looked up as I took my card back, but the hurt in her eyes was unmistakable. She knew I was thinking she would rip me off. I didn’t trust the Mexican. With her impeccable suit and professional mannerisms, I still found something to mistrust. She smiled and wished me a good day as I left, but I didn’t even deserve that. Clutching the small plastic bag in my hand, I headed for the top of the ship where I could see it. I leaned against the railing, smelling the sweet, salty air as a calypso band played on the deck for the revelers who were washing their scorpion tequila down with a Corona or two. I could see for miles, nothing but lush green trees camouflaging crumbling

118 Metaphor Vol. XXX Pesos cement boxes with blankets for doors holding multiple gen- Julianne Hiatt Caldwell erations of the same family, rusty bikes, open air buses with people standing, crammed inside and sweating in the swelter- ing heat. They still smiled and waved as Americans rode past, chauffeured in our luxury buses with extra-cushioned seats and the AC set at sixty-nine. I hated myself. Why had I not trusted her? The ship’s horn blasted; we were due to leave in a few minutes. The last few tenders were pulling alongside the ship, bobbing like corks as parcel-laden cruisers in sandals with socks and ridiculous straw hats struggled to climb aboard. The horn blasted again. Again. Again. I looked down at my watch. We should have left fif- teen minutes ago, I thought as we finally pulled up anchor. “Stop! That’s my ship!” Two very drunk men stumbled down the distant pier, screaming and pointing as the ship turned to head back out to sea. They jumped security and ran before being stopped by diminutive policemen holding very large machine guns. One man ripped his shirt off and threw it to the ground, stomping and spewing epithets in frustration. After a few moments, our ship stopped long enough for a Mexican police bay cruiser to pull up beside us so the men could board. Alone at the bar later, I couldn’t help but smile at what I heard. “The police charged them $250 each to get to the ship! It’s piracy!” the outraged woman next to me was telling her friend. Take your $500, Mexico. You’ve earned it.

FICTION 119 First Ink Dustin Follett

Folks always ask ’bout my first tat when they see it, like if after I ’xplain it to ’em it’ll make sense to ’em. But it won’t help ’em understand. Ya see, most folks haven’t been where I been, seen what I seen. Most folks should be glad life played out like that too, else they’d have this damn thing inked on their chest, and I’d be the one buggin’ ’em ’bout what it means and why they have it. But, there’s no sense in wishin’ life was different than the way it is. I got lots of ink, so I don’t suppose there’s any reason why folks should take notice of that particular piece, but they do, and everyone wants to know what it means and why I gots it. That’s the part that kills me. Why does everyone think all my ink has some reason for bein’ there? Sure, I have a piece here and there that means somethin’ to me, but sometimes all the tat means is I had a few spare bucks in my pocket burnin’ a hole and couldn’t find nothin’ else to spend it on. Well, this piece is one that just so happens to mean somthin’ but the other part of that is I don’t always feel up to tellin’ people what it means and why I gots it. But since you’re here and I’m already talkin’ ’bout it, I guess you deserve to know as much as the rest of them that asked. This here ink in the center of my chest was my first and my second. Now before you go arguin’ with me lemme finish ’splainin’ it to ya. I got the first part, a blood-red circle, when I was only seventeen; just barely knee-high to a grass- hopper is all I was then. The second part of it is a jagged black X through the middle of the circle. I got that part a year later, and they both hurt like high hell, felt it all the way up in my teeth. It’s an ungodly feelin’, havin’ pressure on your chest and bein’ able to taste it in your mouth, don’t quite know no other way to ’xplain it to ya, but that’s how it felt all right. Before I can tell ya why I gots it, I gotta tell you ’bout her. When I walked into my new school in La Grange,

120 Metaphor Vol. XXX First Ink Texas halfway through my junior year, the last thing I ever Dustin Follett guessed would happen to me would be to fall in love. Oh shut up, I don’t mean that mushy stuff ladies get all teary- eyed over at the movies, I’m talkin’ ’bout the real thing. Now I was only sixteen at the time, but I’m older now, and I can justifiably say it was the real, cotton-pickin’ deal. So there I was, standin’ in my first class tryin’ to keep my head down so I didn’t call any more attention to myself than already was the case, bein’ that I was the new kid and all, and then the sweet- est voice I ever did hear ’bout knocked me over. And when I seen the person attached to that voice, well I as good as forgot how to speak a lick, and had to wipe my mouth ’bout four or five times just to soak up all the droolin’ I was doin’. They didn’t have girls like her back home. Her name was Naomi, and I was hers, ’though I didn’t know it at the time. She probably had to repeat herself three or four times before whatever cat had run off with my tongue had the good graces to give it back to me. ’Til then all I could do was blush and duck my head. “You speak English, right?” There was two things runnin’ through my mind at this point. The first was me tryin’ to figure out how two people had taken every good thing in this world and the next and mixed ’em all together to make this beautiful creature in front of me, and the second was what hole I could crawl into and die ’cause she probably thought I was some kind of idiot sittin’ there just starin’ at her. “Yeah,” was ’bout the only response I could muster, and to be honest it’s a wonder I managed to get that much out with my jaw sittin’ on the floor as it was. “He speaks!” “Yeah.” “You know any other words besides just that one, new kid?” “Yes.” I’m pretty sure I turned seven shades of red when she started laughin’ after I said this. I’m pert-near sure I could’ve spent all day just listenin’ to her laugh, though. Didn’t matter she was laughin’ right in my face, so I just sat

FICTION 121 there grinnin’ like the cat that caught the mouse. “Well aren’t you just the master of the English lan- guage? You got a name to go along with that astounding repertoire of words?” “Yeah. I mean, course I do. I mean, oh hell, my name’s Ash.” If it was at all possible for me to get even redder, I’m sure I did right then and there, and she just kept on laughin’ at me. “Well, Ash, I’m Naomi. This class is pretty close to full, but the seat behind me is empty if you want to sit there.” “Uh, yeah, well, if you don’t mind none, I suppose it’s as good as any other seat.” “It’s better.” “’Scuse me?” “I said it’s better. You said it’s as good as any other seat, but it’s better because it’s next to me.” I wanted to say somethin’ funny back to her, some- thin’ that would get her gigglin’ ’bout somethin’ other than me gawkin’ at her like an idiot. I wanted to tell her she was the prettiest thing I’d ever did see, prettier than all the girls back home, or on TV, or in the world for all I knew. I wanted to say anythin’ to her, but nothin’ sounded right to me, so I just nodded and took the seat behind her. That was the last thing she said to me for the whole class, ’cause the teacher walked in just as I sat down, and before I was even settled I was up at the front of the class gettin’ my new English book. I don’t remem- ber a damn thing from the rest of that first day, on account of I spent the whole time daydreamin’ ’bout Naomi as boys tend to do at that age. We couldn’t’ve talked for longer than a minute or two, but I could tell you every little detail of what she looked like. She had curly brown hair, the natural kind of curly. The kind girls with straight hair wish they could’ve, which is why they spend so much time in the bathroom curlin’ their hair, I sup- pose. Her eyes was so blue I’m sure fresh-picked blueberries would’ve been jealous of ’em. Her eyes smiled at me from be- hind her glasses when she laughed too, I liked that. As for the 122 Metaphor Vol. XXX rest of her, well, you get the picture; she was pretty enough to keep me blushin’ the whole time I knew her. When the bell rang, and it was time to head to the next class, I wanted her to ask me if I knew where my next class was just so I could hear her voice again. I wanted to ask her if she could show me where it was, maybe walk me there, not that I didn’t know where it was, I’d passed it on my way to this class, but it would’ve been nice to talk to her for any reason, just the same. But, I couldn’t get up the gump- tion to squawk out anythin’, so I just nodded at her again as she glanced back at me. She’d been out of the room for a full minute before I stopped starin’ at the doorway she’d just left. Well, as you can probably guess, by the grace of God, that pretty girl found some redeemin’ quality in me, and we started goin’ together. It only took me the better part of the rest of the year to muster up what courage I could find to ask her, and I’ll tell you what, there’s never been a happier man on this Earth than I was when she said she’d go with me, just in time for prom too. Now I’m not one for dancin’ myself, but Naomi was, so I swallowed my pride and asked my momma to teach me a step or two so I didn’t look like an idiot again. We spent almost every day together when we could. But Daddy’d moved us out here to La Grange to work on a ranch so I had lots to do between schoolin’ and workin’. I made time to see her though, even if it meant I stayed up well past midnight to get my homework done. We started spendin’ so much time together that I hardly had time to make any other friends of my own, so it’d be either just the two of us, or we’d hang out with her friends. It didn’t matter what we did, or who we was with, just as long as I could hear her laugh. Everythin’ was goin’ real fine between me and Naomi ’xcept for one, small thing. Her daddy absolutely hated my guts. Normally folks don’t mind me none, and more than not tend to think kindly of me, but try as I might, I just couldn’t get her daddy to see me as nothin’ more than poor, white trash takin’ his daughter away from him. And ’cause her daddy was just spit- tin’ mean to me, she spent so much time at our house she was practically part of the building, and I didn’t mind one bit.

FICTION 123 School finally let out for the summer, and I can’t say as I was sad ’bout havin’ a break from it, but Naomi seemed a bit upset ’bout not bein’ able to go to school. I just figured it was ’cause she liked learnin’ and readin’ and those things, so I never really got to askin’ her why she hated summertime. She must’ve been the only teenager in America who wanted to go to school durin’ summer break. Well, we had more free time to spend together now that we didn’t have to worry ’bout gettin’ our schoolwork done, and you wasn’t gonna hear me complain ’bout that neither, and Naomi got a summer job waitin’ tables at the local diner. I’d never been a big fan of Joanne’s Diner, but I sure as shootin’ ate lunch there whenever I could. I swilled down the greasi- est burgers and fries you ever did see as quick as I could so I could get to talkin’ to Naomi just to hear her laugh. Now, I didn’t have my own car like she did, but Daddy’d let me drive the work truck into town so I could see her. I think he knew it would’ve killed me to go that long each day without a chance to talk to her. I ’member when I finally got up the nerve to tell her I loved her. I couldn’t even say it, I had to write it in the dirt with a stick, and I was so nervous ’bout doin’ it, that it came out lookin’ like nothin’ more than some chicken scratches. But she knew what it said. She cried, flung her arms ’round my neck and liked to’ve squeezed the life right out of me, but I didn’t mind none. I just hugged her back, and cried along with her. Now don’t go rollin’ your eyes at me, I was young and in love and this was all new to me, but I was happier than a pig in mud. That’s when we decided to go get ink together. We wanted to have somethin’ that meant we was gonna be in love, forever. We was just a couple a dumb kids in love, we didn’t know no better. She was so nervous her daddy’d find out that we went two towns over to get ’em. A friend of hers told her ’bout this place that didn’t check to see how old you was so we could go get tatted even though we was both underage. The fella behind the counter sized us up when we first walked in. 124 Metaphor Vol. XXX “Can I help y’all kids?” he drawled. Naomi stepped up to the fella and put her money on the counter. “I want a tattoo.” The fella picked up her money and counted it out. “Fifty bucks ain’t gonna getcha much, darlin’. What all you want done,somethin’ on your lower back?” “No, on my hip.” She lifted her shirt up a little bit and tapped her hip bone, just above her jeans. I have never been as heated as I got when that fella’s eyes mozied their way down her body to where she was pointin’. It was like he was a starvin’ man starin’ at a cheeseburger, and I didn’t like it one bit. “I think we can do that, whacha gonna get there, dar- lin’?” The way he said “darlin’’’kinda oozed outta his mouth like molasses, and I didn’t like how hungry his eyes looked while he was talkin’ to her. I was ready to walk out the door, tattoo or not, but I didn’t want to look like a sissy in front of Naomi so I stayed put. “We’re both going to get something,” she said, pointin’ over her shoulder to me. “We’re going to get red rings.” “Red rings? That kid gettin’ his on his hip too?” the fella laughed. “Yeah, rings, like a circle. You know, those round things that aren’t squares? You’ll have to ask Ash where he’s getting his, though.” The fella laughed at that and nodded. “Yeah, I might’a seen one or two in my day.” He seemed to think for a bit, then added, “It’ll be a hundred and fifty bucks for the both of ya.” Now, I don’t rightly know why I paid that fella to put the hurt on me like that, but I guess it had somethin’ to do with Naomi thinkin’ we needed these tats. And like I said, I could feel the pressure on my chest, and taste it in my teeth, but it tasted sweet with her there holdin’ my hand like I held hers while she got inked. Well the red rings meant a bunch of things to me and

FICTION 125 Naomi back then. I wanted to get our names in a heart like folks carve into trees and tables at the park and whatnot. But Naomi kept insistin’ we get somethin’ else, somethin’ only the two of us would understand. So we got rings, red ones, cause red was the color of love or some mush.The rings mostly meant forever, which was how long we said we was gonna be in love. We just knew that nothin’ was gonna tear us apart. They was like promise rings or some such, meanin’ we was meant for each other. So that’s how I ended up with my first ink. But see, this part of the story never satisfies folks, ’cause they wanna know why I have the X and what it means. But since I’ve al- ready told ya ’bout the first part I might as well chew your ear ’bout the second part. Well things was goin’ just as right as rain for spell, but that’s when the universe likes to reach out and remind ya how you’re nothin’ special. Our ink had just barely healed up when her daddy informed us just as casual as if he was talkin’ ’bout the weather that they was gonna be up and movin’ four hours away to Austin.And well, Naomi was ’bout fit to be tied, and I don’t ’member much more that happened that day, what with all the gloom I was feelin’ inside. Alls I knew was I hated her daddy for takin’ her away from me like that, might as well took my air away for how I felt ’bout it. He didn’t even give us two weeks to get used to the idea before he had her packed up in a movin’ truck and head- ed off down the road. Now, if I’d’a had any notion of what was gonna happen to her out in Austin, I never would’a let her leave my sight. But, as it was, I couldn’t rightly tell her daddy what to do, so I just kept my mouth shut, like I do and watched her leave. I’d promised her I’d come visit every other weekend. Daddy was gonna let me borrow the work truck to make the trip down there, and her momma said I could sleep in one of the guest rooms at their new house so long as I behaved myself while I was there. Well, like clockwork, every other Saturday I would get up early and jump in the work truck to head into Austin to see her, and we’d have the time of our lives, me and 126 Metaphor Vol. XXX her, just enjoyin’ each other’s company. She’d talk and laugh, and I’d smile and stare. And when it was finally time for me to leave late Sunday nights, she’d cry and try to squeeze the life right out of me, and I’d wipe my eyes a two or three times and remind her I’d be back again in two weeks. But sometimes life has a way of gettin’ in the way of what you’d like. Naomi’s daddy moved her up there so she could go to a better school and get into a good college, so her free time on the weekends started gettin’ scarce the more the school year drug on, and I was busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest ’tween schoolin’ and ranchin’. So when I couldn’t make it up there to visit, I made sure to let her know and we’d just talk on the phone. Her tellin’ me ’bout her new life in the big city and her new friends and all the learnin’ she was gettin’ with her private tutor and how she missed me, but not La Grange, and how she wished I could meet some of her new friends and how she was gonna come home to visit sometime, but she don’t know when. And I’d just listen to her quiet, like I do, and miss her somethin’ fierce, and smile every time she laughed. The last Saturday that April I decided I was gonna sneak up there and surprise her with a visit. I hadn’t seen her in two months on account of her bein’ so busy with schoolin’, and I was done with waitin’ for her to have some free time. So I packed up an overnight bag and Daddy called a hotel to get me a room in case her momma didn’t take too kindly to me showin’ up all unannounced as I was, and I headed up to Austin. I didn’t even take the time to stop by and get settled in my room, I just headed right to her house and knocked on her door. Her house was as close to a mansion as I’d ever seen, so I guess it’s okay to call it such. So I waited for a few minutes before knockin’ again, since no one answered the first time, and I figured it wouldn’t be too hard for a fella to get lost in a place that size. My head sank a bit when no one came to the door after my fifth time knockin’ and ringin’ the bell. I was fixin’ to turn ’round and head back home when I ’membered she liked to go swimmin’ in the pool behind her house. So

FICTION 127 I made my way ’round to the back where the pool was, and heard her splashin’ and her laughin’ and her havin’ a great time. It was all I could do to keep quiet and sneak ’round the house, as I wanted to jump out and scare her while she was swimmin’. So I ducked down behind some bushes, sneaked my way closer to the fence around the pool and popped up to shout out her name. But, before I could squawk anythin’ outta my throat, that damn cat came back and snatched the tongue right outta my mouth again, and it’s a good thing too, ’cause what I saw right in front of me wasn’t anythin’ I’d have liked to comment- ed on. I just stood there, my face all red and my jaw on the floor, just like the first time I’d seen her, only this time there was a hole in the pit of my guts the size of Texas. I must’ve wiped my eyes four or five times for all the tearin’ I was doin’. I don’t rightly recall ’xactly what happened next, but Naomi finally noticed me standin’ there after God only knows how long of watchin’, and she screamed. That scream set me in motion. I don’t ’member runnin’ back to the truck, or turnin’ it ’round and tearin’ off down the road in no particular direc- tion ’xcept for as away from what I had just seen as I could get. I ’member hearin’ her shout for me to stop, to wait, to let her ’splain, sayin’ it weren’t what it looked like. Now I might never done things like that at the time, but I sure as shootin’ knew it was ’xactly what it looked like, and she was enjoyin’ the hell out of it. Somehow I managed to make my way back home, don’t remember a lick of the drive as my mind was stuck on what I just seen. It’s a wonder I made it anywhere through all the tears I was cryin’. I’m sure I was quite the sight when I walked in the door, ’cause my momma just hugged me so tight she liked to have squeezed the life right out of me. Daddy didn’t say nothin’ neither, he just went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of sour mash whiskey and two glasses with ice. We just sat and sipped our drinks, me not sayin’ a word, and him knowin’ everythin’ I was thinkin’. That was the last I saw Naomi. She called my house a few times over the next few weeks, but I just never seemed to be home when she called, and somehow the messages she 128 Metaphor Vol. XXX left just never made it to me. That next Saturday, I got up, got dressed, and hopped back in the work truck. I headed my way two towns over and went to the ’xact same tattoo shop as I had been almost a year before. That same fella was stan- din’ behind the counter. When he finally looked up at me, he glanced ’round the rest of the room like he was lookin’ for somethin’. “I remember you. Red rings, right? Where’s that pretty young thing you had with you last time?” “Not here” was ’bout all the reply I could muster, and it’s a wonder I could get that much out as choked up as I was. I wiped my eyes and continued, “I wanna ’nother one.” So I paid that same fella one last time to put the hurt on me again, and I tasted it in my teeth, just as before, but this time it didn’t taste near as sweet. I got that big, black X inked over top of the red ring, and sent a photo of it in the mail to Naomi. I didn’t write nothin’ on the back, didn’t include a letter or a return address or nothin’, just sent the photo is all. She stopped callin’ my house shortly after that, and I can’t say as I was sad to hear the phone stopped ringin’ so much. You still can’t understand what this here ink means, ’cause you never known Naomi, but I can see you’re a little more satisfied knowin’ what little you do know. Now if you can ’scuse me, I guess I got somethin’ in my eye I need to take care of. Seems to happen to me pert-near every time folks ask me ’bout my first ink.

FICTION 129 NULC The National Undergraduate Literature Conference is held once a year at Weber State University and is the only litera- ture conference specifically for undergraduates in the nation. 2011 marks the twenty-sixth year of the conference, and I am proud to present the NULC selections accepted for publica- tion in Weber State’s Metaphor. Literature is not dead; it has just evolved. Each piece selected epitomizes that evolution and demonstrates the true talent this nation possesses. The human heart thumps within us all, and I can only hope you feel the same beat as I do when reading these works.

NULC Selections Coordinator Andrew Choffel

130 Metaphor Vol. XXX Salt Water Kills Margaret Reynolds: Tulane University, LA

Lilac walls enveloped in mud crush the cast‐iron stove. Our delicate china warped debris, our azaleas lifeless.

A porcelain doll stares out at me, body mangled, face intact, as I stoop against oak flooring.

The car smells of mud, gas, and sweat.

(Post Katrina, August 2005)

NULC 131 Pulling Out of a Walmart Parking Lot Brock Michael Jones: Utah Valley University

The seven on the license plate of the car in front of me makes me think about how many close calls I had during three tours in Iraq, how many times I almost ended up with the bullet in my neck, almost in the twist and mangle of a blown-up humvee. I couldn’t settle on a number and the uneasy relief that came with not knowing led to this: What about that young man in Tal Afar? How many close calls had he survived before I tore off the corner of the brick wall he was hiding behind with a bullet, opening his chest to the empty sky? Did he really think he was hidden? Then, as unanswerable ques- tions eventually do, these thoughts congealed into a story: In the very moment the .50 caliber bullet was parting the skin of his right rib cage, he was thinking about the smell of his wife’s cheek, and how he’d cried last week when she had told him of a dream in which their first child would be named for the prophet. He’d hoped to find her a fistful of sunflowers; instead, this black rose blooming through his shirt.

132 Metaphor Vol. XXX Marc Chagall’s The Birthday Engram Wilkinson: Tulane University, LA

The night your sister died I was on the couch solving a Rubik’s cube. I remember reading somewhere the order of turns: before arranging the bottom corners you’ve got to make a cross. There are more steps but I do not remember them, just the rain and driving with you. You rolled the window down and drank from the air, feeding the gasping carp that filled your lungs. When your mother phoned we were moving, you were getting sick so I took control, said into the phone he’s all right we are coming. Our ordinary bodies were possessed by moonlight, possessed by all the strange feelings that usually promise a sexy ending. We too quickly forget nights like that, how we moved so fast but never collided. Our bodies divided and began the slow unstoppable process of dividing more bodies so now I’m seeing you everywhere, in the same lunar streetlamps that have come to resemble willow trees, in the curtained window above the writing desk. A book about grief suggested we skip the funeral and travel to China, so we skipped the funeral and drove to Oregon—it was the furthest we could go without driving into the ocean. You marveled from the cliff at a rock having slowly eroded into a giant circle. You mimicked its hollowness, made binoculars with your hands and stared down through its center.

NULC 133 It was a scene, something from a magazine cover, the wary explorer peering miles into the depths. You wanted to know how those kinds of things stay afloat but I don’t know. Everything is sinking and the audience knows it, they can read us in sequence or from left to right and it’s the same story: we’re sinking, revealing too much. I think that’s too obvious, I think you already get it. All the new thinking is about loss because we haven’t yet conceived a new geometry: that’s how you solve problems, with new things, rare animals like the lynx or those lilies that grow on water. You couldn’t walk across the lake surface—you could only approach the garden with scissors and your litany of prayers, one thousand different sentences each beginning with I am learning again. After dinner when I’ve gone across the room to take off my shoes, to sit at the desk and re-imagine the village, you follow me with what you’ve learned. When you rise I know what must happen and why it cannot: I please kiss me, kiss me quick. We separate. Outside some squirrels who know nothing of stealing contemplate the tree and its acorns.

134 Metaphor Vol. XXX Buried Alive Gary Smith: Pikeville College, KY

Ryan leaned against the stone wall and held a cigarette while he knocked his heel against a rock jutting from the pavement. The wall behind him curved around the hillside and the earth spilled onto the narrow road. When he closed his eyes, he saw the dull glow of his headlights on the empty road and the yellow line in broken intervals. When he opened them again, he saw Jeffrey walking up the road, swinging his arms as he climbed. “It’s about time you answered my messages,” said Jef- frey, breathing heavily. “How is everything?” “Tired is all,” Ryan said. “Hasn’t really hit me yet.” “Damn,” Jeffrey said. He ran his hand through his hair. “I didn’t know your dad was sick.” Ryan turned his focus to his car parked in the wide spot near the bottom of the hill. “The thing is, he wasn’t sick. I guess that’s why it hasn’t sunk in yet.” Jeffrey shook his head and turned to look at the city. “I missed ya and I’m glad to see ya, but I hate the occasion.” “I’ve been meaning to come home, but I was busy with work.” Ryan looked at his friend. “It was unexpected.” Jeffrey crossed his thin arms and looked at Ryan. “Jess coming down with the baby?” “You mean Jennifer,” Ryan said. “She’ll be here to- night, after she gets the baby from her parents.” “How long have you guys been married?” “Three years,” Ryan said. He noticed an orange and purple reflection on the hood of his car; it swirled and flick- ered as the sun rose, light breaking through the tree limbs on the side of the mountain. “It’s been a while, ain’t it?” “Doesn’t feel like it,” Ryan said. He walked to the edge of the road and sat on the curb. He looked over the hillside and down at the boulevard to the city. The city was tucked between the hillside where he

NULC 135 sat and the mountain ridge across the valley. The trees were fading into gold and orange, melting into one another and flecked with green that gave shape to the curve in the moun- tain. Rocks extended from the hillside. They were big com- pared to the trees that stirred in the wind. “Remember that?” Ryan said as he raised his hand to the sand-colored stones that blended with the shades of the dying trees. “Mostly,” Jeffrey said. He looked up from rolling a thin joint. His eyes squinted and his nose wrinkled. “Haven’t been there since we were kids. They put a gate at the bottom of that road.” He licked the paper and patted around the creases. “Have to have a key code to get up there, now.” Ryan remembered the first time he went with his friends to the rocks. He and Jeff sat in the back of the truck and watched the tall houses fading in front of them as they passed, climbing the mountain. The top of the mountain was leveled off and cleared for a housing development. Once they passed the construction sites, the road sloped downward again and was lined with trees. Dust rolled from the cab of the truck and from under the bed. Gravel popped beneath the tires and shook the truck’s small frame. A little grassy hill led down onto a dirt trail. The trail became more narrow the farther downhill they walked. The trees thickened and the trail behind, as well as all sight of the truck, was gone. It felt to Ryan like they were be- ing funneled down from the top of the mountain to whatever was below; he remembered Jeffrey tripping over rocks, trying to keep up and yelling for them to wait. The trail stopped abruptly and was split by a crevice. At the bottom of the drop-off was a stream lined with moss- covered rocks that made the air smell like rain. Jeffrey rushed past Ryan and jumped the crevice. Plumes of dust rose from his feet. “Don’t look so surprised, Ryan. It’s no big deal.” “Looked pretty crazy to me,” Ryan said. He considered the jump for a few minutes, watching his friends run to the edge and jump to the other side. When 136 Metaphor Vol. XXX he threw himself across the divide, he realized the other ledge was shorter, and the jump was more of a rush than a risk. “Can’t always be so cautious,” Jeffrey said. He wrapped his arm around Ryan’s shoulder and led him up the hill. The tree line stopped and the sky opened as they walked out on the rock. The hills were dark green and the air was humid. Strands of white cloud streaked across the sky, covering the valley and blocking part of the sun. The rock was the size of a house and the stone had names painted on it. There was an indentation further out; they climbed down the indentation and sat. The town filled the valley and curved around the mountain. The courthouse sat in the middle of town, its roof green like faded copper. It sat across the street from the furniture store and the new bank, whose bricks were still a bright red. The pond on the backside of town was deep green, reflecting the mountainside. Across the valley from the rock was the cemetery. It was dotted with blues, reds, whites, and yellows that accented the stones that were settled into the soft, trimmed hillside. The cemetery was cradled by the road that led from the boulevard, up the hill. “Over there, Ryan.” Jeffrey pointed. “That’s where I was talking about.” Jeffrey laughed and held his arms out to his side. “Why did they bury her if she was still alive?” Ryan asked. Jeffrey made clawing motions in the air. “They didn’t know she was alive. Legend goes her statue looks out over the city that turned its back on her; that way they’ll never forget.” Jeffrey pointed to the cemetery, but Ryan couldn’t see the statue, just the road that led up and around the hillside. This was the road he stood on now, talking to Jeffrey. They talked more about the rock, graduation, Ryan’s family. Jeffrey talked about working at the diner, the grocery store, at a garage his family owned, but Ryan kept looking over Jef- frey’s shoulder, across the valley to the hillside he remembered as green.

NULC 137 “I got this one at the old bar down by the bowling al- ley,” Jeffrey said, pointing at the scar on his forearm. His arm looked like a bone, save for the dark hairs that were scattered along the other side and the purple bruises near the sleeve of his shirt. “How long have you been using?” Jeffrey hesitated. “I don’t remember when I started,” he said. He looked over Ryan’s head at the hill and rubbed the creases in his arms. “It’s not as bad as it used to be.” Ryan looked away from Jeffrey’s bruises. “Want to head on up?” “We’re not here for ghost stories.” Jeffrey’s laugh turned to a cough. His body shook and he bent over, holding his fist to his mouth. Ryan patted Jef- frey’s back. He could feel his spine. There was no longer any trace of the muscles they built together in weight-lifting class, just bone under a loose T-shirt. “You all right, man?” “Yeah, just got tickled. Let’s stop and see how ol’ Ber- nadine’s doin’.” Ryan smiled. “Let’s go, I waited on you long enough.” “Glad to see you, too, pal.” Ryan laughed again as they walked toward the fence. “The fence is still pulled apart where we broke it,” he said as he crawled under. “Hold it for me,” Jeffrey said. The grass was tall but brittle from the morning cold. “Didn’t you say you had relatives up here?” “Dad told me we have family up here, but I can’t re- member their names.” Jeffrey’s feet crunched with each step as he walked between the headstones and their barren vases. “I guess they figured the cold would kill this grass.” “Seems that way,” said Ryan. The older headstones and monuments were at the top of the incline, closest to the tree-line. Behind the cemetery were pine trees. A layer of pine needles kept the grass from growing. Bernadine’s statue stood near the timberline. It was 138 Metaphor Vol. XXX always the first to be shaded by evening. Ryan looked at the hillside and the old statue. Her frame was petite. She stood straight and tall, cutting into the gray sky and fog clearing from the mountains as the sun rose. “Wonder what she really looked like?” Ryan asked. “She doesn’t look so great now.” The statue of the woman was weathered. Her nose was missing, the stone breaking apart, and her arms were cracking. She was not the statue from Ryan’s memory. “Remember coming here on Halloween?” Jeffrey turned and looked at the statue. “I don’t re- member her looking so big. I guess I’m remembering it wrong.” Ryan watched Jeffrey as he looked at the statue. He remembered when they first came to the cemetery. Jeffrey cut through the fence with a set of wire cutters he took from his dad’s tool box and led them between the headstones to the trees. They sat in the pine needles and looked up at the statue that cut into the purple sky and hid the stars. Jeffrey told the story and Ryan watched as Jeffrey traced her figure with his eyes. “She came down with a fever and they couldn’t help her. The people in town didn’t know what to do,” Jeffrey said, “so when they thought she was dead they buried her. They wanted to bury her before she spread her sickness.” Ryan remembered Jeffrey’s voice being deeper. They were younger when Jeffrey first told the story, but the statue had since begun to fall apart, her arms thinner than Ryan remembered. “Hey, Jeff,” Ryan said, “how did her story go again?” “They buried her alive.” “I remember that,” said Ryan, “but why?” “They thought she was dead, but then the same thing started happening to other people in town. They say when they dug her up, they found claw marks inside of the casket.” “You think that story is true?” asked Ryan. “I don’t know,” Jeffrey said. “Maybe.” He turned his head and stared out over the barren ground. “They said she

NULC 139 tore at the inside of that casket until her hands were bloody.” Jeffrey looked to the ground and scratched his side. “Why did you call me?” he asked. Ryan waited before he answered. “I just wanted to see how you’d been. I didn’t know who else to call.” He stood by the empty plot and turned his eyes toward the city. The once pale roof of the courthouse was now shingled and the bricks of the bank were faded. Most of the department stores were closed, their windows boarded up. “My ride will be here, soon.” Jeffrey rubbed his nose and crossed his arms. “I’m glad I got to see you.” Ryan let out a deep breath and looked down the hill. “You’re right,” he said, “let’s get out of here.” He turned and looked across the valley, the sun no longer broken through the trees, then headed down the road to his car.

140 Metaphor Vol. XXX Daddy Long Legs Keats Conley: College of Idaho

After three years of chemotherapy treatments, my grand- mother had to draw on her eyebrows with a wax pencil. They hung there on the rutted, Vaseline-shined skin below her forehead like two detached spider legs. Daddy long-legs is not a spider. In fact, it is further removed from a spider than from a scorpion. More technically, it is known as a harvest- man. They harvest the grassland floor for fungi, aphids, mites, snails, slugs, worms. After each meal, a harvestman will draw each leg to its mouth and floss its jaws. Two of its legs double as antennae because their eyes cannot form images. Their legs are ears and nose and tongue, heaving with nerves and sense organs by the thousands. Every ten days, the harvestman will split its body case and spend twenty minutes dragging its legs from the old casings. They move with the grace of forget- me-nots, on the frame between insect and seed, tripping the light with an octagon of toes. They samba sidewalks, fearful of birds, breathing through tracheae. In crisis, their legs can de- tach from their thorax. Daddy long-legs survived almost un- changed from the Devonian, fossils preserved in fine grained volcanic ash. The ground has been bristled by their broom feet for 400 million years. Something in the way they move is a sermon. I find them in the garden and stare, searching for a lesson I can pocket and recite through the day like a pop song. They move like a quarter note turning to a semibreve on a page of music. They keep their nerves in the ground and hold their thorax in air, splay their legs in the fishhook of foxtail seeds, ready to be pitched toes-first into the wind, ready to detach their legs and keep moving.

NULC 141 RETROSPECTIVE Thirty years. Many of you reading this were not born thirty years ago when Metaphor made its debut, a new publication with ninety-two pages of poetry and short fiction, written and edited by students at Weber State College.

Now we are Weber State University, and students are still shar- ing poetry and short fiction, plus visual art and music, in the pages of Metaphor. To celebrate our thirtieth year, we bring you a look at work from all the past editions side by side with the work of today’s creative artists. Many thanks to Glen Wiese and Brad Roghaar, my predecessors as Faculty Advisor, for their help in selecting the pieces. And special thanks to Madonne Miner, the dean of the College of Arts and Humanities, for her generous support of this special anniversary edition.

As Metaphor celebrates its thirtieth year, I mark my first year as its advisor. So before I yield this space to my worthy predeces- sors, I must take a moment to praise our editor, Andie McFar- land, and her amazing staff. I stand in awe of their energy and imagination, their easy camaraderie, and the hard work they have willingly shared to bring this beautiful book into being. The time I have spent in the company of these students has brought me joy, renewed energy, and a secure knowledge that the future of the arts is in good hands.

This retrospective section is funded entirely by the College of Arts and Humanities and by a special grant from Weber State’s Student Fee Committee. Since we have only thirty-two pages in which to present twenty-nine years of student work, some longer poems and all the short fiction are printed here in excerpts. To read the complete works, please go to weber.edu/ metaphor and follow the links.

Jan Hamer, Faculty Advisor

142 Metaphor Vol. XXX Metaphor is more than a publication or an organization—it is an experience: always new, always exciting, and always renew- ing. Students always have been and always will be intelligent, resourceful, resilient, creative, and generous. They care about the things that intrigue and interest them—and those things are little different from the things that intrigue and inter- est all of us. This kind of universality seems like literature to me—and this is what the student writers and editors have shared and continue to share. Metaphor instills confidence in the importance and, ultimately, the effectiveness of what the university means to do—and can do. Metaphor allows all of us to share in the great gift of potential and its accomplishment, captured as it is in each unique volume. For this gift I am grateful, and I am proud to have been a part of it for fourteen wonderful years—just happy to have been there. Thank you, students and writers.

Brad L. Roghaar, Emeritus

Ezra Pound defined “great”literature as “news that stays news.” This idea of the immortality of the arts is a main theme in literature. Whether the immortality refers to a person, object, idea, feeling, or mood, the experience shared is what lives in those receiving it anew. During my years as Faculty Advisor, Metaphor was a literary magazine; today it is an “arts” magazine sharing the imaginative experiences that students from various arts’ fields are creating and bringing to life for readers, viewers, or listeners. The students are picturing “things as they are,” touching reality in many places, commu- nicating artistic experiences in ideas, feelings, moods. Those shared experiences are the immortality of the arts.

Glen J. Wiese, Emeritus

RETROSPECTIVE 143 I Meant Exactly What I Said Stephanie Pringle

There’s coldness in the air, the bush is encased in ice, they say the bush represents my heart after Caleb left last May, but I meant exactly what I said: the air is cold and the ice does cover the bushes.

There’s a warmth in the breeze, the sun shines brightly, they say the sun represents my happiness upon my wedding day, but I meant exactly what I said: the breeze is warm and the sun does shine brightly.

There’s a storm cloud on the horizon, the thunder rumbles by, they say the storm cloud represents my expression when I saw my house on fire, but I meant exactly what I said: a storm cloud is on the horizon and the thunder does rumble.

Metaphor 2010

Editor Rebecca L. Samford

144 Metaphor Vol. XXX I Meant Exactly What I Said Council Stephanie Pringle Brittanie Stumpp

They sit round table, holding council with hookahs and whiskey discussing the world and all the words in it round a fire copper tone warmth cedar ashes and aspen

They define urban generica endemic gridlock, end of days doggy elysian buffets and the relationship between Beatrice and Dante while smoke saturates their pores...

Dusky skin, charcoal stains and they sit and they manifest words in spring’s deification of green.

Metaphor 2009

Editor Rebecca L. Samford

RETROSPECTIVE 145 Earth Drunk Kristin March

Drink wine, sleep with your belly to the stars. River water fills your mouth, bramble tangles in your brow.

Somewhere, the earth lounges. Naked and rosy, with hair that so wildly covers her eyes at dusk. Let her crickets sing you songs, let her sunset fall around you.

Be breathless under her fragrant weight.

Metaphor 2008

Editor Cynthia Loveland

146 Metaphor Vol. XXX Earth Drunk Travis Park, Wyoming Kristin March Rykki Olson

the sun sets on the crust of snow where grass lies yellow, dead and frost coats limbs of barren trees that stretch passive over a fence chilled with fragile crystal patterns

darkness turns the white to grey-drenched blue at edge of town where few would pass at end of day— empty swings and a long-forgotten baseball field

and lamplight at the corner reveals a wooden sign

this is Travis Park

in some small town, now a refuge for the pronghorn

Metaphor 2007

Editor Kyle N. Charlesworth

RETROSPECTIVE 147 Excerpt from “Desert Geisha” Halbert Pete

Grace flows out amongst the sage. A sweeping Kimono. Bright in elegance brushes the stems. A bright white face silhouetted Against the blue sky. Dark hair that outlines the surrounding mesa’s. The winds blow and the show begins.

She bends her knees and tilts her head, From out the sleeve a fan (flutters open. She covers half her face, with her eyes revealed. Her face is concealed only for a moment And she moves, suddenly, swiftly across Indian Country, face now unconcealed, glowing...

Suddenly, she stops while in motion. Frozen in time, as the dust settles.

Then she begins to move, but ever so slowly. Her knees bend and her arms spread, accepting. She kneels to the elements. The surroundings are foreign and dry, She stands and closes her eyes. From across the vast ocean she came, Dancing atop ocean waves and resting on clouds. A Geisha, sacred and ancient Belongs ever so. in mythical lands. A Geisha, in Indian Country, The Geisha, dancing in the desert. This Geisha, came in my name.

Metaphor 2006

Editor Tyler K. Telford 148 Metaphor Vol. XXX Excerpt from “Desert Geisha” Excerpt from “The Surrogate” Halbert Pete Adrian Stumpp

...Wolfe knocked up his girl, Felicite, in high school. Every- one knew it was coming. It wasn’t unusual in Taos. She was a sarcastic little shit with dark, intelligent eyes, a full figure, and a pretty face. Her son, Jorge, was three now with a simple face and complicated eyes, oaky round discs full of questions Don- nie could not answer. Three feet tall and his uncle cowered over him. Felt ashamed to draw breath in an innocent child’s presence. Broke into cold sweat and smiled at him. twitching. As a senior with plans for a GED, Donald Coker glared at Taos High from the bleachers, a joint in one corner of his mouth. He shuffled a deck of cards. Pulled the ace of spades from the bottom. A tiny doe, Stephie, crossed the field to where he leered at her. He appraised her bangs, make-up, white lace, and sweet perfume. Button nose wrinkling at his scent: straw, weed, sweat, and testosterone. “Ready to go?” he asked tenderly, as though his breath might break her. “Mhm.” He exhaled green smoke, threw the stub in the grass, and shuffled the cards. Pulled the ace of spades from the bot- tom. Put on his shirt. Three hours later in Albuquerque he ate filet mignon and she, chicken Caesar salad. They went to the movies where he sat with his arm around her, sinking low in his seat, and kissed her soft on the temple. Checked into a Motel 6 and hunted her through starched sheets where she asked, “Do you like it when I scratch your back like this?” “Do you want me on top or bottom,” then “Okay, stop, that hurts.”...

Metaphor 2005

Editor Stephanie Ridge

RETROSPECTIVE 149 Evening Song Mario Douglas Chard

And even if I knew the way, I still would linger by the door Dust-hushed like the stones That touched your little feet Before.

I would learn the eminence Of those who wait And do not stir, like evening Flowers soundlessly becoming Lavender.

Metaphor 2004

Editor Schaun Wheeler

150 Metaphor Vol. XXX Evening Song Excerpt from “To A Mouse: Lessons In Compassion” Mario Douglas Chard Marilyn Diamond

My father was a man of the soil. He could coax the most precious commodities from the ground. But it was his respect for all God’s creatures that taught me some of life’s greatest lessons.

Springtime is a season of wonderment, more so when growing up on a farm. It was always a busy time of year for my father, but he was never too busy to teach my brother and me principles of hard work, compassion, and more important- ly, sheer joy. I remember one spring morning almost fifty years ago; I can close my eyes and smell the freshly turned earth; I can see my father striding across my grandfather’s field, his hat pulled down just enough to shade his eyes from the morn- ing sun. He whistled, swinging his arms in his usual confi- dent way. I ran to meet him from where I had been playing beneath the snowball bushes, their branches drooping under the weight of blossoming clusters of white laced with delicate green beans. I asked why he had stopped the tractor in the middle of the field. He rumpled my hair and replied, “Break- down.” He rounded the corner of the house and entered the garage where his tool bench stood solidly attached to the north wall. It was a large, wooden bench carefully handcrafted by my father and fitted with numerous little drawers and shelves. These held a multiplicity of nails, screws, wires, nuts, bolts, and tools the combination of which could repair a trac- tor, car, washing machine, or a baby doll. When I was six years of age, it seemed to me that my father could repair anything when standing at that wooden altar....

Metaphor 2003

Editors Melissa Paul Elisalyn Gardner

RETROSPECTIVE 151 Excerpt from “Why Robert Frost No Longer Comes To Tea” Kate S. Tanner

...There’s a small part of me that is very anti-dead people. It’s something I have to deal with all the time, considering Anne’s daily presence in my life. Sometimes I think it would be easier to just divvy her up into small sections, like they do on televi- sion and all throughout inconsequential towns, and feed her to the high hills along the Rocky Mountain Range. Bite my tongue, really. I could never do it. but it’s just.. .sometimes. Anne can be a little annoying, to be honest. She gave herself so stupidly to so many stupid people, it gets really frustrat- ing for me. And now that she’s dead, you can’t really even get mad at her for it. What is she supposed to do about it now? That’s another reason I took Anne: she places herself and her thoughts in very unreasonable situations and then unsurpris- ingly gets her ass kicked and then writes something really biting and clever in response. I seem to live that way. My best writing comes in retort to my own self-ignited, often silly, but mostly awful circumstances and how I managed to get out of them or at least file them away. I asked permission of my professor to better acquaint myself with Anne. She later told me how offended she was that I had to ask a professor of English, of all people, if I could take her home. She’s always been her own person. I suppose. Anyway, granted permission. I took the tall, slender, very pretty Anne home with me....

Metaphor 2002

Editor Keith D. Stephenson

152 Metaphor Vol. XXX Excerpt from “Why Robert Frost No Longer Comes To Tea” Cold Fingers and David Kate S. Tanner Vanessa Hancey

“You know that feeling between sleep and awake?”

Wind chime memories Of night and stars and stars And the mattress in The bed of an old green Chevy.

I wasn’t aware of the movie, Or the kids playing hacky sack Two rows over. Just the familiar smell of soap And the narrow lips In front of a quiet voice.

“You know that feeling Between sleep and awake? You feel like that to me. “

Metaphor 2001

Editor Kate S. Tanner

RETROSPECTIVE 153 Excerpt from “The Beauties” Scott Woodham

Yesterday, the Beauties came to me. They were all there.

There was Western Beauty, Eastern Beauty, Woman Beauty, Man Beauty, Morning Beauty, and The Beauty of Night; The Beauty of Ugliness stood in the shadows.

They knocked on my door seeking refuge. “Someone is trying to kill us,” they said. I let them in and swung the bolt.

The Beauties were thirsty, but all I had was red whiskey or water. The Beauties chose whiskey.

They were shy at first, but once they loosened up they upended my coffee table, and started to eat my food. They arm-wrestled on my kitchen floor, and placed bets on each other.

The Beauty of Peace sucker-punched the Beauty of War, and won the pot against all odds...

Since that night, the Beauties have moved in. They don’t pay rent, they don’t do their dishes, and they leave the lights on. I told them they could stay as long as they need to.

Metaphor 2000

Editor Ryan Decaria 154 Metaphor Vol. XXX Excerpt from “The Beauties” Brad’s Bakery Scott Woodham Bettie Turman

The homeless society have gathered again, arriving from both sides of concrete pillars under the shadow of a highway’s edge.

The baker opens the back door at ten, dispensing orange rolls and doughnuts— the offering of his living.

He respects their right to live the dumpster life, to wear spilled beer and urine.

They respect his gifts of uneaten leftovers, absorbing with both hands.

Does it matter, losing everything? For those who have a mind left for living will always fill open palms with sticky buns.

Metaphor 1999

Editor Jennifer Henderson

RETROSPECTIVE 155 Adam’s Apple Jen Henderson

We wear our legends so naturally. Those last few moments of paradise evident in every man’s profile, That piece of birth a lump in our throats.

Imagine

To travel as the snake coiling and recoiling around our mother’s leg like a child Tempting her to bear us again.

I would be that apple. I would know God through his fruit.

To be consumed and fall down the body of our forefathers Through the mouth of our myth.

Metaphor 1998

Editor Lisa M. Jensen

156 Metaphor Vol. XXX Adam’s Apple Excerpt from “Dyadica” Jen Henderson Krista Beus

She is thinking of his face From the Labor Day weekend photograph, And he is wondering if the wind is blowing In Utah today. She has found the antidote to bliss In his departure and he has Filled himself with “Other business,” Except when sea birds and table salt Remind him of home. Summers there are dust and haze And hot gravel, Or moistened evenings after storm, A land of opposition. There is desert and delta, Marsh and mesa, sun ray and snowflake, And she was two visions: The large eyed, shivering Girl in wool, November as a woman; And too, the Phoenix In the dust, the rusty Sand flailing hair like Fire against her face. These women two are his to keep Come lull in “other business,”...

Metaphor 1997

Editor Adam Cheney

RETROSPECTIVE 157 Excerpt from “The Taste” Katherine Herring-Furlong

Step onto the back porch. Into bird song, sunlight, the under-roar of cars. Cut open the mango. Knife glints silver Juice of pure gold drips out. Four drops, five. Run down my wrist. Are caught by my tongue. The taste-mmm-of a memory. Cut through the fibrous flesh To the seed, bone-hard. Eat a wedge off the knife point. I am a young woman, sun-bleached and strong Step onto a granite boulder aside an alpine lake Brimming with melted snow. The water so clear. Is it water? Or shadows and mirage Created by altitude and heady beauty. The lake is stadium-wide but never deeper than five feet. A crystal puddle. I am nude and completely alone, Except for rainbow trout Darting from shadow to shadow Living proof in that shelf, That pause in a landscape’s plunging and soaring, That tender stony hollow in the neck of crest proof of the presence of water....

Metaphor 1996

Editor Collin Turner

158 Metaphor Vol. XXX Excerpt from “The Taste” Flying Katherine Herring-Furlong Patrick Murphy

The wind screams. My ears about to shatter. The air around me becomes an obscure frenzy, Wrapping and pinning my breath Into collapsed lungs. And I remember the rush. Tangled in space, I recoil, And lunge. Never hesitant in the blind fever Of flight. And in the last moment, I find I was mistaken. A red flash of pleasure, Silence. And the ground rushes up to greet me.

Metaphor 1995

Editor Patrick McGonegal

RETROSPECTIVE 159 Seedbed Linda Larsen

Tucked in dimmest attic light Cobweb-covered relics. Childhood toys, scars, and dreams. The skin-horse’s fractured rocker. Black frayed leather belt Lying buckleless, crimson tinted. Velvet black embraces Lusty nights blanketed by innocence — Such is the dark earth-womb of the inner soul Fertile medium for poet seed. As from Gaea’s wrong, Aphrodite’s sprung So past’s pain Enriches, nurtures, cultivates. No spring green. shining rain-kissed bloom Without the birth-groan Wrenched from the gape of darkling’s yaw.

Metaphor 1994

Editor Linda Larsen

160 Metaphor Vol. XXX Seedbed Excerpt from “Another Washday” Linda Larsen Sundy Watanabe

April. Momma cries into the blueing. Her roughened work hands snag the hair she brushes back from cheeks and ears.

She slides those hands into silver harshness: rinse water so cold it makes her gasp.

Seven kids and counting.

She plunges shirts, socks, and overalls to the rinse tub’s drowning depth. Sucks them up again and feeds them to the wringer’s pressure. Draws them out the other side. Drops them into stainless steel buckets. Shoves the buckets toward me....

Metaphor 1993

Editor Dwight Thompson

RETROSPECTIVE 161 Excerpt from “Old and Wise” Anne L. Robbins

Mark Twain’s life was built upon, influenced, and motivated by his love for the river. However, Twain was to discover that learning to “read” the water required that he sacrifice and for- ever abandon the romance of the river. He reflected, “In truth, the passenger who could not read this book saw nothing but all manner of pretty pictures in it, painted by the sun and shaded by the clouds, whereas to the trained eye these were not pictures at all, but the grimmest and most dead-earnest of reading matter.” As we introspectively examine the kaleidoscope of our own lives, we may discover a pattern similar to Twain’s. Frag- ile fragments and perfect pieces of time slowly and precisely create the images of our dreams, memories, and perceptions. Breathless, we carefully view the delicate design, marvelling at its existence, believing that something so perfect, so vibrant, will last forever. Yet the imperceptible effects of time and ex- perience gradually change our perception of the pattern, shift- ing the shards of the images, until our illusions, like Twain’s, can never be reclaimed. “I stood like one bewitched. I drank it in, in a speechless rapture. The world was new to me, and I had never seen anything like this at home.”—Twain She trotted along the damp, packed sand, silver bucket clanking comfortably against sturdy legs just four years old. As she ran, her short-cropped auburn hair bounced above wide gray-green eyes. They reflected a world that was also gray and green at this early ethereal hour....

Metaphor 1992

Editor Jennifer Elkington

162 Metaphor Vol. XXX Excerpt from “Old and Wise” Excerpt from “Bu Dop 1969” Anne L. Robbins John Beal

II A Bus Vietnamese bus wants to pass the sweep team. In a hurry to get to market. You know the kind, small bus painted red, yellow and blue, packed with vegetables, chickens, people— and the kids riding on top.

A tense sweep team is alert, but it’s a fatigued tense, a strained alert— the hollow-eyed kind of alert. Alert to combat situations, fatigued to human situations.

Young sergeant in charge decides if the bus is in such a hurry to pass “fuck’t.” If it wants to be a mine sweeper, let it pass.

A hundred meters ahead of the sweep team road and bus flash in an eruption of spewing fire and dirt. As if the universe has just ripped open— then it’s almost over.

A black smoke billows skyward, even before the ever present red dust can start to settle there is a strange second of silence....

Metaphor 1991

Editor Marion Pust RETROSPECTIVE 163 Ice Cream Man Jennifer J. Elkington

The first time I heard the tinkling of the Ice Cream Man trickle up the street, I raced indoors to hunt for money. The neighborhood kids flocked to the sound, thronging the truck like nuts on a Choco-Peanut Cluster Bar. When he left, we plunked down on the July-hot curb, bolting the cool, slipperyslick bars until nothing was left but sticks and cream moustaches.

I heard the ice cream man again today. I bit my lip, counted to ten... but the chimes overcame me, and I dashed outside with a fistful of change.

Metaphor 1990

Editor Marion Pust

164 Metaphor Vol. XXX Ice Cream Man Verdant End Jennifer J. Elkington Briana Beckstrand

Sunlight pierced a ragged leaf and gashed out memories fraught with grief. Within the lacey filigree of a single leaf on a maple tree, molten gold saddened into blue and etched out poignant scenes of you.

Your faded name carved in the walk, the nights we wore away with talk. The dark-tressed child you brought to be who gave you sweet serenity. And laughter, which so filled your soul like wine brimming from a silver bowl.

In the realm you left I witness truth, your son unfolds into a youth. The winter surrenders, again, to spring. The maple evolves, as ever, green. Each leaf an emblem of life until the ice of autumn marks its will.

Dear sister, you were yet unripe when you wearied quickly of the strife. You cried for peace of heart and mind to another place that was far more kind- a leaf that fell before its time. Metaphor 1989

Editor Lisa Dayton

RETROSPECTIVE 165 The Great Put On Jennifer McGrew

Ah, the contrived affairs of those great fashion hippies! We grow oh-so-weary as they dress for themselves The cookie-cutters giggle, those cute yippie-skippies Off to the ward they parade dressed like elves

And beatniks in dreadlocks are maddening, myopic An irie existence, talking only of Jah Punks with orange hairdos on brains microscopic Anarchy, their big personality flaw

Protectors for pencils adhered to the pockets Of engineer-junkies, absentminded and static Bright sportsgear on jocks who have muscles like rockets They flaunt and they swagger for the goo-goo-eyed manic

My g-string ... Your Birkenstocks. Together we scoff At them all, for we wear what we plan to take off

Metaphor 1988

Editor Linda R. Nimori

166 Metaphor Vol. XXX The Great Put On The Embrace Jennifer McGrew Michael Cheney

Your lips, Ever like those ancient days. Round like curled velvet - Sharpening the roughness of The pearls behind them As they ever did. And your silky tongue flows behind them all and tastes like a new day like it always did. But I never tasted Tomorrow before. It was there, But I was not. I was always here Before I spilled over into us Like tears. My hands touch your back Running up and down; Tasting you in their own way, Up and down on The sinewing ease behind. I stood a bit aside As our mouths met But soon came to you, Pulling and pressing you to me; Mostly pulling — needing. I’ve felt this way Since ever at the first.

Metaphor 1987

Editor Kami M. Tilby

RETROSPECTIVE 167 Michelangelo’s Forgotten Slave Karrin Peterson

In the basement of the Louvre Dust settled on a half finished Half forgotten Michelangelo.

Chill White winter-stone Smooth as old snow’s icy crust, Rises from a chunk of Grainy frost crystals, alive . . .

He stretches nude; One arm flung back behind, One reaching, reaching upward His freedom’s in the air. ..

Adonis bold, bold beautiful Muscles ripple, ripple shifting Alive, in agony of dreams. Brow furrowed, Lips thrust down and open. An ancient shout stirs up the dust Upon the window casement.

No sinking — weeping — Into the rough marble oblivion Of his unshaped feet.

He freezes cold. Shaking the foundations of the Louvre Over, over, over — forever — With a slave’s dream-cry. Metaphor 1986

Editor David C. Wright 168 Metaphor Vol. XXX Michelangelo’s Forgotten Slave Hunting Karrin Peterson Carl Porter

“Have another can of suds unless you are duds” He taunted in the cold October air While loading his gun without much care.

He looked left, right and screamed “shoot the son of a bitch” and a trigger was squeezed by a drunken finger with an itch. A carelessly aimed shot rang out. Then all heard a muffled shout.

And when the bushes were pulled clear, they saw a body not much like a deer. “He was a friend, but he got in the way” and they were all there to bury him the next day

They stood looking sad, and said they felt bad; then spoke of how accidents will happen.

Metaphor 1985

Editor Stephanie E. Chamberlain

RETROSPECTIVE 169 We’ll Be Dinosaurs Caril Jennings

We’ll be dinosaurs While the Earth is still circling And even the Earth and Sun Will be ashes.

And what have I learned? Phenomenon is not necessarily all there is. Reason is not necessarily basis for judgment. Truths are not necessarily necessary.

All things are quite silent in time. This roaring inside no one hears. The abuse outside no one sees. The cry of living things doesn’t disturb the clouds.

Thorn Lee Walser

I burned thirteen years of memories today. I watched the sputtering fire melt the cheap plastics of Christmases past releasing the memories hidden in worn out toys of young, innocent, happy boys, the black smoke taking wing from chimney dispersing recollections of fleeting joys. how all that remains is dark ash and a charred nail which refuses to be destroyed Metaphor 1984

Editor Charlene Niederhauser 170 Metaphor Vol. XXX We’ll Be Dinosaurs Excerpt from “Suffer the Little Children” Caril Jennings Amy Allred

She heard the telephone ringing inside the house. Its shrill cry carried ominously through the screened window jerking her back to reality. The sound wrought a nervousness inside her—she sensed it was the call. Tensely curled up in the tire swing, gripping its black, rubber sides, she waited. She couldn’t hear what was being said from this distance even by straining her ears. A lawn mower growled softly in the yard next door, and the muted sounds of boys playing army in the fields just below her house rose up on the hot air waves. Shaking herself a little, Jamie unfolded her thin, knobby legs and let them dangle for a moment before pushing herself out of the swing. The grass felt dry beneath her feet as she walked toward the house. She entered silently, leaving the door open, and halted beside her older brother Todd who was talking to someone on the other end of the line. “Are you sure?” he asked, running a worried hand through his thick dark hair. “Well, what should I do?” His face Thorn and features were tightening up. Little lines pinched his skin Lee Walser at the corners of his eyes and near his mouth as they often did when he was in pain. “I mean, do you want us to come over or what?” Des- perately he looked over at Jamie, his little sister. He took a deep breath, blinked rapidly, and turned abruptly away from the skinny statue-like figure. “Okay, Mom,” he said, gulping past a lump in his throat. “I’ll get the kids ready and we’ll wait for Dad.” Slowly he placed the receiver back in its cradle, pausing for a moment as if he wanted to say something more, then deciding against it, let it fall the last quarter inch....

Metaphor 1983

Editor Joan Wilcox

RETROSPECTIVE 171 Excerpt from “Midnight Thoughts” LaVon B. Carroll

I Lord Leaf

The world has grown large and windy and loose things fly and whirl about. I have clung to a gray branch as long as I can. After all, what harm can come to a dead leaf in a winter storm?

II To a Ghost

If you awake at night as I. oppressed by some bleak thought that will not take its rightful shape. stays shivering in a shadow on the wall, how will you know that you do not seek me, but her, as once in her you sought for me? You may discover then, as I have now, that all loves, dead or lost. become their own tenacious ghost.

Metaphor 1982

Editor Ann Baker Marcusen

172 Metaphor Vol. XXX Excerpt from “Midnight Thoughts” LaVon B. Carroll ABCDEFGHIJKLM NOPQRSTUVWXYZ abcdefghijklm nopqrstuvwxyz 1234567890 Adobe Caslon 30 pt

ABCDEFGHIJKLM NOPQRSTUVWXYZ abcdefghijklm nopqrstuvwxyz 1234567890 Helvetica 30 pt A Note On The Design

The text of this book is set in Adobe Caslon which is a vari- ant designed by Carol Twombly and based on the Caslon’s own specimen pages printed between 1734 and 1770. It is characterized by short ascenders and descenders, bracketed serifs, moderately-high contrast, robust texture, and moderate modulation of stroke. Adobe Caslon incorporates the previous expert letters, adds ordinals, arbitrary fractions, and extends the language coverage to include central European languages.

The titles and headers are set in variations of the typeface Helvetica including Helvetica Neue. Helvetica was developed in 1957 by Max Miedinger with Eduard Hoffmann at the Haas type foundry of Münchenstein, Switzerland. The aim of its design was to create a neutral typeface that had great clar- ity, no intrinsic meaning in its form, and could be used on a wide variety of signage.Originally called Neue Haas Grotesk, in 1960, the typeface’s name was changed by Haas’ German parent company Stempel to Helvetica (derived from Confoe- deratio Helvetica, the Latin name for Switzerland) in order to make it more marketable internationally.

The choice of Adobe Caslon and Helvetica typefaces was made to have a serif and san serif font that both contrasted and complimented each other. Caslon is a versatile typeface with a friendly and altogether pleasing aspect to it. Helvetica is more neutral and widely recognized. To create a relation- ship between the book’s cover and content, the typeface used on the cover design, Helvetica Neue, was used for the book’s section headers.

This volume of Metaphor was designed on an iMac 7, using InDesign and Photoshop CS5.

Layout and Design Aaron Conder Layout Assistance Jason Francis