Cardinal Sins

Volume 29, Issue 1

The fine arts and literature magazine of Saginaw Valley State University 7400 Bay Road University Center, MI 48710

www.svsu.edu/cardinalsins Produced by the students and staff of Saginaw Valley State University and published on campus by the Graphics Center, Cardinal Sins features art, photography, poetry, and prose by members of the SVSU community, including alumni. All submissions are considered for publication. Selection is made by blind voting of the staff, who are excluded from receiving an award in any category.

Cardinal Sins uses Adobe InDesign. This issue features MyriadPro and American Typewriter fonts.

Copyright 2009, Cardinal Sins. All subsequent publishing rights revert to the artists.

Cover designed by Nicole Vlisides.

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

Editor-in-Chief Amelia Glebocki

Editorial Staff Charles Davenport Beth Erbacher Noah Essenmacher Chris Giroux Emily Krueger Kirsten McIlvenna Kelly Mundt Tracy Thiel Tim Windy

Business Manager Alex Soares

Web Manager Trevor Baranek

Academic Adviser Peter Brian Barry

Administrative Support Patricia Latty Sharon Opheim

Table of Contents

Editor’s Note...... 8

Black & White Artwork

The Battle Cassandra Birchmeier...... 14 A Beautiful Disaster Cassandra Birchmeier...... 45 *Death and His Pale Horse Robert Darabos...... 40

Black & White Photography

Lily 2 Samantha Prud’Homme...... 20 *Second Skin Nicole Pfeiffer...... 49 Shadows on St. Stanislaus Jamie Wendorf...... 64 Slaughter Shop Jeffrey Levin...... 57 Still Movement Tiler Bacon...... 35 Wretched Jeffrey Levin...... 26

Color Artwork

*Aleydis Renee Adler...... 33 Beauty Is Perfection Renee Adler...... 43 Burning Pipeline Katherine Karnes...... 17 Fail Alexander T. Danks...... 70 Fly Renee Adler...... 29 The Re-Explanation of Wasp Kevin Lee...... 18

Color Photography

Corner at the Mirage Hotel (Vegas) Kevin Lee...... 30 Fleurs Christina Van Poucker...... 59 How to Talk: A Complex Illusion Kevin Lee...... 69 I Dream in '80s Nicole Pfeiffer...... 44 *Small Town Story Adam Baudoux...... 60 29 Weeks Nicole Pfeiffer...... 34 Flash Fiction

*Exfoliation Blair Giesken...... 21 Running through Wind Brandy Abraham...... 31 Step-42 Brandy Abraham ...... 65 Villains Peter Brian Barry ...... 71

Poetry

Blue Collar Ashton M. Jurek...... 16 Cows Eat Their Afterbirth Sarah Wangler...... 28 Cracks in the Concrete Matthew Falk...... 27 **Easter Sunday Josh Crummer...... 73 Familiar Scent of a Passerby Holly Bird...... 47 Fool's Gold Rachel Wooley...... 19 Frida Kahlo: The Little Deer Matthew Falk...... 42 Hide and Go Seek Lauren Meck...... 41 Inside My Jar Blair Giesken...... 62 Matthew Christopher Applin...... 48 May Trees Sarah Wangler...... 61 *My Mother's Hands Whitney A. Ricker...... 15 On Dating the Same Woman (Again) Josh Crummer...... 46 Our Tender Bellies Are Wrapped in Baling Wire Sarah Wangler...... 63 Zilwaukee School Playground Josh Crummer...... 58 Short Fiction

Disenchantment Brandy Abraham...... 22 Market Jennika Bouverette...... 36 Porcelain Kirsten McIlvenna...... 9 *Voyeurs Jacob Ferrier...... 50

Creative Nonfiction

Sucking Out My Identity Holly Bird...... 67

Biographies...... 75

Acknowledgments ...... 79

Benefactor Information...... 80

Submission Information...... 82

*Congratulations to the winners in their respective categories.

**Congratulations to the winner of the Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins Poetry Slam. E d i t o r ’s N o t e

As your typical firstborn, I have always been known as "the responsible one." So when I took up the mantle of editor, it wasn't without an understanding of the responsibilities and difficulties that lay ahead. I spoke frequently with former editors and joined a local press as an editorial intern in order to gain additional experience before the time came to assemble this issue of Cardinal Sins. If only all that had been enough to prepare me for the level of experience demanded by this position. I found myself accountable for others, as well as in charge of negotiating disputes among those involved. At times, I felt incredibly overwhelmed. If not for good friends, a whole lot of caffeine, and the music of Fiona Apple, I would quite possibly have run away to Oz long ago. I am very thankful to everyone who took the time to remind me that there's no place like home—which, this semester, was the Sins office in Curtiss Hall. As the semester ends, I am ready for whatever editorial tornadoes come my way in the future. I have a greater sense of what exactly I am responsible for now. Until then, be kind to me or treat me mean. I'll the most of it. I'm an extraordinary machine.

Amelia Glebocki

8 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 E d i t o r ’s N o t e Porcelain

by Kirsten McIlvenna It is night. There is a cool breeze. The ferris wheel creaks in the wind. The scent of cotton candy looms. A crumpled napkin blows by. A young girl sits, alone, on a porcelain horse with pink hair. She sucks her thumb and imagines the carousel is actually spinning. An older man with a black hat spots her and runs towards her from across the way. The girl screams “Nooo!” and grips the pole tightly. He continues to pursue her. A dark cloud moves in. Nearby a woman wearing a black rain coat sees this. She lifts her gun and in reaction shoots the man. He falls, face first, his hand clutching his heart. Just as this happens, a carnival worker turns the corner just in time to see the woman fire. He then tackles the woman, and her head slams onto the concrete. The man with the black hat sips his last breath, blood making a pool around him as the child continues to scream. Blood pours from the woman’s head and a look of horror shines from her cold eyes as she drifts off to oblivion. Rain falls from the sky and washes red down the sidewalk and down the drain. The carnival worker passes out from the sight of blood. The child continues to scream.

Charlie The life of working at the carnival isn’t ever too fun. I live in a different town week-to-week. My wife used to be supportive of it, but she got sick of telling people that I clean up trash and fix rides for a living. I like to think of my job as rewarding, but she doesn’t seem to think so. Ever since we’ve been divorced, she’s been on my back trying to suck out all the money I’m worth, which, by the way, isn’t much. She’s turned crazy, crazy I say. I guess I’m not much better psychologically, but she is crazy in the psycho-killer way. Just this morning she called and left a message on my answering machine that said “I swear if you don’t give me that end table from our old living room soon I’m going to come over there and break into your house and then kill you before I take it!” I usually just ignore this type of phone call. Now I’m wandering around after hours at the carnival in a nameless town. It doesn’t really matter where I am. It’ll just change

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 9 next week. I pick up odd pieces of garbage and try to leave this place looking happy and exciting for tomorrow. Since it was a weekday, not many people came out and it was pretty much deserted by 8 p.m. When it’s deserted, that’s when I like it the best. Out here at night when I’m free to wander and consume myself in thoughts. I’m going about my business and I hear a shrill cry of a small child. I hurry with my old age and aching bones and arrive just in time to hear a gun shot. I turn the corner and see a woman in a black rain coat holding a hand gun. That bitch just shot that man! Thinking that she’d go for the child next, I tackled her to the ground. Apparently, I have more force than I thought I did, because her head comes to a smashing halt once it hits the solid ground. Blood starts to spread around her black streaky hair, and I feel sick to my stomach. I’m up on my knees trying to comprehend what I just did, and then everything goes black.

Diane My head aches and I can’t stare at these numbers anymore. I consider cutting out on work early and faking sick. But I realize that even if I go home, I won’t be any happier and will probably be even more bored. I cleaned out my fridge yesterday just to get my mind off of things. Sitting alone in my apartment doesn’t help the depression. I sip cold coffee and try to remember the last time I went out with friends, or even the last time I had friends. It’s been a while and these numbers confuse me more than the ones on the page in front of me. I crumple up the paper and toss it in the garbage next to me. Is this really worth it anymore? Three hours later and I’m back at my apartment. I push the button on my answering machine, not surprised to hear that I have no new messages. Instead, I shuffle through my bookshelf trying to find something I haven’t read at least five times. I accidentally trip on a fork still on the floor from the Chinese take-out last night and smash into the bookshelf. A few books fall off, and a photo album falls open onto the floor. I stare at a picture of me from high school. My brace-face is smiling, and my arms are wrapped around my best friend, Carly. I cringe as I remember that at one point I was actually happy. Carly died in a car accident right after we graduated. I grab the photo and rip it off the page. Staring at my former self, I scream a silent scream and rip it into pieces letting them flutter to the floor. Outside I notice that the weather is with me. The clouds have moved in, and the wind has started to blow through the trees. Promise of rain soon to come.

10 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 I walk over to the chest at the foot of my bed and begin to pull out the blankets, not caring where they scatter about the floor. Deep at the bottom is the handgun I bought last year when my parents decided to stop talking to me altogether. I’d been keeping it for safe keeping, but only once or twice got close to using it. It’s not like today is any different than any other day, but I guess that’s the point. Every day, it’s the same—I can’t do it anymore. I grab my rain coat—although I’m not really sure why it matters—and place the gun in my pocket. I wander around town for a while, until I realize that the carnival is in town this week. It looks closed for the night, but I head over anyways. Perfect, I think. Carly and I always went here, even when we were too old to ride the little-kid rides anymore. I hop the fence and pick a perfect spot in the shadows with a clear view of the park. It seems weird that a simple place like this can bring back such vivid memories. It makes it all the worse because I know that I can’t bring them back for real. I’m abnormally calm, ready to finally do it, I guess. I spot a young girl alone on the carousel and she reminds me of myself at that age, and I’m terrified that she’s all alone. I can’t imagine feeling what I feel now at that age. I gaze at her until she screams and then I notice an older man running straight at her. Already I’ve become protective of my former self and I act on instinct. I point the gun intended for myself at him instead, and he falls to the ground. Seconds later, something hard smashes into me and my mind goes blank.

Lucy “You can’t go to the carnival tonight until you finish your carrots, honey,” babbles my mother. I hate carrots and I hate having to eat them. As soon as my mother leaves the table, I flick one of them at my dog, Toby. He sniffs it, puts it in his mouth, and spits it back out again—at least he doesn’t like ‘em either. After sitting there for another hour, dreaming about which horse on the carousel I want to ride this year, I decide to shove one in my mouth and secretively dump the rest in the garbage. I pounce upstairs and strap on my unicorn backpack and bound back down the stairs yelling, “Let’s go!” My mom checks her watch and says, “I’m sorry, sweetie, but it’s almost nine and the carnival closed tonight at 8:30 because it’s a school night. We’ll have to go tomorrow night when your dad gets home from work.” “Nooo,” I whine. I put on my best pouty face, but she doesn’t care.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 11 “I’m sorry, sweetie, but you should have eaten your carrots sooner. Now go on up to bed.” Grumpy, I stomp up the stairs to my room, making sure she knows how mad I am. As soon as I hear my mom go into her own room, however, I sneak out of mine and downstairs and out the front door. I go every year to the carnival, and it’s not too hard to find. I wander around the outside of the park for a while, trying to find away to get over the fence, but it’s too high for me to climb. Then I see a small hole in the fence. I crawl through and my hair gets tangled on the wire. It hurts and I cry, but nobody hears me: nobody is here. Spotting the carousel, I skip over and find a beautiful horse with pink hair and a pretty purple saddle. I hum to myself and suck my thumb for a good amount of time imagining it really is moving: I’m spinning and laughing and magically, my horse leaves the station and flies into the air, and then I stop imagining. In the corner of the park, I see a dark figure, and it’s coming right at me.

Grant Having a job means long hours and long days, and that’s my life in a nutshell. I really wish I had more time to be around my family. I feel as if my children are growing up behind my back. I feel like every time I see them they are a year older. That and I don’t ever get to see my wife. When I go to her at night, she is already sleeping. Driving home tonight, I think about how I want to make it up to her, and my kids. I decide that I want to make things better and not work as much. I decide tonight that I’m going to tell my wife I’m sorry, and that I love her. Tonight, unlike others though, she isn’t sleeping as I creep in the front door at a quarter past nine. One of her hands holds the phone to her mouth, and she frantically talking to the police while the other hand is trying desperately to stuff her feet into some boots. She hangs up the phone and shifts towards her coat saying, “I told her she couldn’t go to the carnival: she’s gone.” I grab a hold of her shoulders and say, “Stay here, I’ll go find her.” Tears stream down her face, and I give her a little kiss on the nose before reaching for my coat and stuffing a hat on my head. I know that she wanted to go so bad. If only I was around to go with her, if only I didn’t work so much. I should have been there for her. Now who knows what could have happened to her? I don’t know what those crazy carnival workers have going through their minds.

12 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 I try to stop thinking of the worst as I enter the park. It is abandoned, and the rides seem to taunt me: “I know where she is, and you don’t.” But as I run about frantically, I spot the blue of her dress at the edge of the park. There she is, of course, sitting on the pony on the carousel. She looks fine, but I’m still scared and I run towards her at full speed, desperate to have her within arm’s reach again. And then, without warning, I feel like all the breath has been pulled out of me; I fall to the ground and feel a sharp pain in my chest. All I can hear is my daughter Lucy screaming, and then nothing.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 13 The Battle

by Cassandra Birchmeier

Black Marker/Drawing Paper

14 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 The Battle My Mother's Hands by Cassandra Birchmeier by Whitney A. Ricker I remember every Sunday spent on stiff, wooden pews, every three-hour wait in a pale, sterile doctor’s office, every stoic funeral and jubilant wedding, and every family gathering void of other children.

However, what I remember most is my mother’s hands. The lines on her palm that merged like a river and its tributaries as I traced them with my small finger during Father Patrick’s sermon.

The cool, pale wrinkles that were amazingly soft and rippled as they rubbed my back at the doctor’s office.

The way each bony knuckle protruded like a small hill as she clenched her salty, tear-filled Kleenex.

The faint, blonde hairs on the back of her hand that glimmered in the strobe lights while we danced the Macarena.

I remember twisting each ring around her thin fingers and noting how they were much too large for mine.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 15 Blue Collar

by Ashton M. Jurek I wonder if he will ever see a mauve sunrise as he drives on glossy roads to work every morning. Think about his worn fingers and if he is into adjusting his wedding band. Ponder the sheets of metal that come filing through his line; assume the buzzing of hard machinery leaves a high-pitched singing in his ears. Remember him talking every day at 11:36 about the calling of another job: a better life. We lay in stark white sheets together, but separate. You fell asleep hours ago and I stare at the clock, strumming out your dreams, like strings on a guitar.

Paintography

16 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Burning Pipeline

by Katherine Karnes

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 17 The Re-Explanation of Wasp by Kevin Lee

Pen Illustration/Collage

18 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Fool's Gold

by Rachel Wooley I remember digging for fool’s gold in a gravel driveway not big enough to be the sea, even in a child’s expansive imagination. We overturned dozens of cement-colored stones, dug down, delighted when the sun caught that sparkle— valueless except for its beauty. We stacked them in a pile of other shiny rocks in a plain and dark corner of the garage. We thought we might find some way to separate them, to scrape away the dull stone and just have handfuls of glittery crystals, but they might not seem so pretty without something dismal to adorn.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 19 Lily 2

by Samantha Prud'Homme

Black and White Photograph

20 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Exfoliation

by Blair Giesken Of this she was sure—a little bleach got rid of anything. But the briny stripes of stain still lined the basin walls like tender, discolored stretch marks on a thick inner thigh. And so Miriam crouched in the tub, her bony frame twisted and rendered like some malformed pretzel. There was something to be learned in a violent, scrubbing motion. Watching a glistening basin grow sick and strangely yellow, only to wash it back to white again. Miriam supposed it felt like peeling back a layer of a person or past life. She wished to rid herself of him, and would. It's the only way, she thought. To exfoliate her past loves like old or forgotten skins. The dull, slow creep of the bleach rubbed her insides to dizziness. It was all part of the ritual. Tiny bits of powdered tub cleanser scraped from side to side between tub and sponge, like a thousand sets of tiny teeth grinding in the night. She had been able to lose all the others with time. Washing down her walls with bleach water. Soaking her sheets in it, forgetting they had ever slept there. But this one refused to go, like a deep bruise or a blue candy-stained tongue. Miriam’s breasts were too long by not enough wide, and they hung, shapeless, like two loose socks stretched out in all the wrong places. They flapped wildly and mimicked the circular motions she scrubbed in, slapping hard against her hardworking arms. She remembered he had thought them nothing special, but kissed them like he meant it when the moment required. Before, she might’ve cried. Curled up into the fetal position in a wet heap on the basin floor. Let the scalding water pound hard on her back until it burned and ached. Now, she only scrubbed. This one had left her with a ring that all the bleach in the world wouldn’t lift.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 21 Disenchantment

by Brandy Abraham Fall came before the summer ever ended, and as the starless night grew on to early dawn, I lay by choice on cold cement. I was here again, stupidly tracing the stars with my finger and hoping to be remembered. The water fountain, with its adorned statuette and bubbled waters had been my only refuge from what has now become my disenchanted fairy tale. “Let it go…” I thought to myself, “Glass slippers aren’t for you.” My sweatshirt with its slightly weathered lettering wasn’t enough to stop the cold from creeping throughout my body. As I lay there, the events of the night before blurred across my mind. In the first light of morning, I looked more like the Snow White I had masqueraded as when I was a child—a serene princess whose prince had never come. My lips were the dulled color of red Rubinstein, and my face was pale against the glow of a hidden moon. I dreamt of all the things that made my life insufferable. Procrastination had gotten the better of me this semester, and yet I couldn’t summon the urge to care about exams and would-be term papers. Of the memories and tangled thoughts, I couldn’t think of anything but….frogs. “Get your lazy butt out of bed!” cried Mom. “You already missed the bus.” It was 7:45 a.m., and I woke to the smell of cigarettes and coffee, just like every morning. My class started in fifteen minutes, and I realized I had to make a vital choice: eating breakfast or finding my jeans in the storage closet I called my room. Sitting at the kitchen table, I ate Froot Loops. The taste of old cereal mixing with skim milk was already making my stomach churn; in memory I relied on the childhood wishes of buttermilk pancakes. I remember waking every morning to the smell of burnt toast, yet that was now many years ago. My childhood innocence had been replaced by textbooks and tuna fish sandwiches. My mornings are now restored to little more than my parents' coffee, dry cereal from a dusty shelf, and milk a week past the due date. My dad was already sleeping in the driver’s seat of our misfit family van, as I rushed out the door. We drove through our country “back streets,” screaming road rage with squealing tires and broken speed limits. My dad, with his now graying hair, reminded me of a retired NASCAR racer, mostly because of the way he gripped the wheel of our 1989 Oldsmobile Van. As we sped closer to the town that I desperately tried to call my “hometown,” I found myself lulled to sleep

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 22 by my dad’s voice, who, in screaming the NFL scores over the fiddle playing of Charlie Daniels, blew through another stop sign. I was thirteen, and middle school was etched in its white- walled familiarity; the smell of cleaner coated the inside of my nose as time slipped between the scribbles. English class was the same every year, but this time new faces were staring back at me, all thoughts bent on the monotonous ticking of the clock. Ten…Nine…Eight….Oh, come on already! I thought to myself as I counted down the minutes until the bell, its ring signaling the hallelujah chorus. “Three…,” and then a knock interrupted my countdown, our principal strolled into the room followed by a boy worthy of the dramatic slow motion that I always remembered from my favorite teen angst movies. “Sorry for interrupting, but we have a new student.” I just shook my head…the slutty girls in the back row unfastened the last button of their white cardigans, and whispers grew to replace the silence that overcame the room. Our eyes initiated him into our world of skater kids who couldn’t skateboard, of skinny jeans with holes in the knee, where the dentist was the gynecologist, and the mascot was always on ecstasy. I just sat there, my arms folded across my chest, and I thought, “Yeah right. I give it a week; by then he will either have dyed his hair or be the best guy to buy drugs from.” The sweet guys never lasted; it’s a necessity—either change or become an outcast. A week of volleyball, smiles, and smelly pizza dragged on and he dyed his hair black. It was lunchtime, and I took my peanut butter and jelly sandwich out to the swing set. It was sunny, but fall was foreshadowing its arrival with zephyrs of cold air and whipped cream clouds. The high school seniors had decided that frogs would be an excellent addition to the playground, so hundreds of frogs now hopped around the swings and sand. The seniors every year tried so desperately to top the senior prank of the year before. Yet, this year no one seemed disturbed by the frogs, it must have been too clichéd for anyone to truly take notice. As I watched the frogs hop happily between swing sets, a hand fell onto my shoulder. With his outlandishly fake black hair and holey jeans, it didn’t surprise me to see him standing there. In honesty, I had awaited his appearance in my life, often dreaming of this moment. Yet, in my dream I didn’t have peanut butter smeared across my teeth. “Can I sit?” “It’s a free swing; just watch out for the frogs!” I replied stuffing

23 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 the rest of the sandwich into my mouth, sacrificing dream for reality. The silence grew, and moments before the lunch bell rang, he whispered, “It should have been glass slippers…” “What?” He gave a half-smile, and while staring at the ground and rustling his Snicker wrapper between two crudely dirty fingers whispered again, “A princess like you deserves glass slippers…not frogs.” All I could say was, “Are you high?” It took three years, two months, ten days, five hours, and twenty-five minutes after those moments until I realized that things often fall apart. It was winter then and the snow fell in sheets as the wind raged against the walls of our contemptible high school. He said I promise, and I stupidly believed him. It was in high school, on that simple day when we looked at each other, tearlessly, without words, and realized the unnecessary attractions we obtained for each other through years of promises. I found that love isn’t a fairy tale, and at the price of broken hearts, we said “It’s over.” I remember that last moment, a moment of disbelief. He sighed, “Goodbye, princess.” “Goodbye, baby,” he whispered. It is night again, parties always happen here on Thursdays. College life is different than high school, mostly because parents are replaced by cops and relationships amount to nothing more than grinding and stolen, drunken kisses. In college, love is replaced by sex and romance by soft touches beneath house lights with some rapper as theme music. It is here where flowers wither in lonely flower shops and sweet words will rot on a mans’ tongue long before he thinks of saying them. The music was so loud, it knocked over the empty beer cans on the table. I was sober, but lost myself somewhere between the beer- pong tournament and playing a few rounds of my favorite card game, “Egyptian Rat-Screw.” He had been my friend since the first week of college, but now his sights were set on me becoming something more than just “that” girl. We spent a week together, lost in what he defined as “love.” Still, he didn’t call me Princess, nor was our romance a fairy tale. It was cruder than that, more real than childhood fantasies about princes. I started to believe that it could’ve been a fairy tale, but then I realized the truth—slow motion only happens when you’re high and they never have a “morning after.” That week I was high on love and “special” brownies, drunk on touch, and destroyed by those last words, “Goodbye, Baby.”

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 24 In high school, I lost my dark-haired prince to the foolishness that I could have him “forever,” and I lost my will to have “forever” when I reached college. I walked from streetlight to streetlight, seeing couples and would-be couples, hands together and lost in the inner workings of what people often call the heart. I wanted desperately to be among them. As the stars disappeared from the sky, I knew it must be nearly morning. People walked past me, almost unaware of my existence. Those silent figures criticized my short dress, my distressed hair, endlessly mocking my smeared makeup with their stares. They acted as though they knew me, yet they knew nothing of my past or would-be lonely future. I stood and watched the water bubble in the morning light. Still in last night’s clothes, I walked back to my dorm; my roommates still slept unaware of my tribulations. I lay down to sleep and held my hand in the streaks of light that flickered through the blinds. I could almost see their kisses on my skin, invisible memories that help me to remember that once I lived the fairy tale. It is human to grieve the price of fairy tales, and when the princess learns of her disenchantment…it would have been easier with poisoned apples.

25 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Wretched

by Jeffrey Levin

Black & White Photograph

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 26 Wretched Cracks in the Concrete

by Matthew Falk Damn it, Dr. William Carlos Williams, get out of our way! No ideas but in things had a pithy ring, but your red wheelbarrow is rusting in the acid rain, and all-white-meat chickens are coming to roost in our Eden of the unexamined life.

So go, Dr. Williams, take these Socratic scissors, snip saxifrage and greeny asphodel, and arrange them in the jar that Wallace Stevens placed in Tennessee.

Bring bouquets to the materialists and the piss-proud prophets of id at the contagious hospital, and then send for a metaphysician—

Dr. John Donne keeps his prescription pad in Wallace Stevens’ jar. Making his rounds, Donne dispenses conceits like gold to airy thinness beat. He writes in the margins of his patients’ charts:

An idea of a thing is a thing. A poem is a finger Black & White Photograph pointing at itself.

27 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Cows Eat Their Afterbirth

by Sarah Wangler Lotus flowers grow in filth, but die in the moonlight on a rusty floor: to be fertile is filthy.

Your mother banned you from high-school biology; she wore skirts because her heart was right

with God. You think you love her when you stop to eat the roses. But Alice in Wonderland is the myth you believe in.

You can shoot a moose, carry that bull back to camp, field dress a mouse, and hunt weasels in your chicken coop.

Can you can cherries in early June or condemn the morning after? Each month you’ll die.

You, too, are a little lonely flower, floating on the scummy pond.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 28 Fly

by Renee Adler

Mixed Media/Collage

29 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Corner at the Mirage

Hotel (Vegas)

by Kevin Lee

Color Photograph 30 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Running through Wind by Brandy Abraham It is 1989. The summer winds carried the smell of cow and tractor fumes across the sweeping Michigan cornfields and dandelion gardens. The Weather Channel played on every station that didn’t play Nickelodeon, and the kids set up lemonade stands out of cardboard. From the coffee shop, I could see them playing with kites at “Wishing- Well," a field named for the well that took the life of a little boy nearly thirteen years ago. They chased the strings that they purposely let fall from their entwined fingers. The wind blew the kites in the direction of the harbor, where the sweet smells of town would mix with cool air. The coffee shop reeked of sugar and the taste of it coated my lips like a seduction. The empty Splenda packets littered the table, my fingers sticking to the dried coffee stains on the hardwood. The waitress offered me another cup. “On the house,” she said. I looked away, the smell of her ginger perfume haunting my thoughts. In memory, the thought of my mother making gingersnap cookies made my stomach churn. Yet, that was another summer. Now the waitress glared, silently criticized my smeared eyeliner, laughed at the cherry-red lipstick on my teeth. I waved her on. As she walked, I could almost see the kisses, invisible memories of her “once upon a times” glowing like fireflies against her skin. The bell above the coffee shop signaled my departure. The air tasted like rain as I walked past the lonely shops and pharmacies littering the stone-lined walkway. I pushed myself against the wind. The air, brisk, sent shivers along my skin while begging me to remember the reason for my day at the coffee shop. Somewhere between Garfield Street and Pine Burrow, a hand touched my shoulder. My heart swam as I was swung into his arms, lost once again between his cool skin and the weather-worn wool of his coat. He wiped the eyeliner from the creases of my skin. I heard his whispers while watching the people swerve around our entangled bodies. Some would sneak a glance, and just for a moment I thought the feeling in their stares could be concern. He shielded me from the wind as it flung itself wildly against the ridges of his coat, whipping the clouds overhead into whipped cream. Running through wind, my sandals somewhere lost behind me, I reached the harbor. My throat was scratchy from the cold air in my chest, and I coughed violently while standing tiptoed on the edge. The dock creaking below me from the rush of water against the aged Color Photograph Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 31 wood, I felt like plunging myself into the currents of the water. “To feel,” I thought. I embraced the wind, the smell of smoke and fish caressed my face, and while wiping lipstick from my lips I remembered the coffee shop. I sat near the middle of the room, so I could see her through the Mardi Gras bead curtain. The people who came through the door had smiled at her behind aviator glasses or underneath tall, brimmed hats. They came for the reasons I did. They came for the smell of ginger. I ran again, this time the wind pushing at my back. The women before and after me had come and gone, staring at the waitress through frosted glass and reflections in coffee cups. I had waited patiently in the coffee shop today, for her to offer me a new cup when I had let mine smash against the floor. I had waited for her to come to my side, and explain to me why his coat smelled of ginger.

32 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Aleydis

by Renee Adler

Mixed Media/Collage

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 33 29 Weeks

by Nicole Pfeiffer

Digital Photograph

34 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 29 Weeks Still Movement

by Tiler Bacon

Black and White Photograph

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 35 Market

by Jennika Bouverette As we turned the corner, I prepared myself for the bustle of Market Street. Brightly colored canopies lined the road, covering hundreds of wooden carts, each one tended by an equally brightly dressed trader. Each cart held a different sort of thing. There were carts with fine clothes, some with lesser clothing. There were carts with pies, meats, and vegetables, their delicious aromas saturating the air. There were carts with shoes, carts with trinkets, and carts with candles. All of these carts drew my little sister's attention, but I had set my sights on the baker's cart. The morning sun gilded the cobblestones. Their warmth seeped into my shoes as we wandered silently through the jostling people. Three bronze coins tinked in the darkness of my pocket as my searching fingers slid them together; they were cool against my skin. They were supposed to buy tonight's dinner. It was all I'd managed to earn in the past week. Ever since the heart attack that had claimed my father six months ago, it had fallen to me to keep the three of us alive. I went out from sunup to sundown, doing whatever odd jobs I could find. Sometimes I was a messenger, other times I was a delivery boy. Some days I got lucky and landed a job on the docks, helping load and unload ships. That's where the good money was. I hardly ever landed that, though. They wanted older boys for that; I was only thirteen. Angie squeezed my other hand. I looked down at her. She'd grown so very thin. The fingers that encircled mine felt like pencils, no more than flesh and bones. Her once rosy cheeks had sunken in, and the chocolate eyes that once looked to me with innocence now looked to me for sustenance. She still managed to keep her long blond hair brushed, although it had lost its shine long ago. I could barely stand to look at her anymore, it hurt so much. She was only eight years old. No one deserved to be in the condition she was in. “What is it, sis?” “Are we eating bread again?” she asked, her voice so quiet I could barely hear it against the chatter of the market. “It's all we can get, Angie.” Truth was, we might not even be able to afford one loaf if the price had risen. Angie eyed a trinket cart as we made our way towards the baker's stall. I watched her small round eyes drink in the knickknacks, wishing I could get her something pretty for once. She was such an understanding and smart girl, she deserved a small treat every once in a while.

36 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Market by Jennika Bouverette The cart, surprisingly enough, wasn't well watched over. It would be so easy to walk away with one of those beautiful baubles for free. As much as I wanted her to have one, as much as I thought she deserved something lovely to look at when she woke up, I couldn't imagine closing my fingers around one of the warmed glass trinkets and walking away. Even if I could, I'd be in a lot of trouble at home. The first time we ran into trouble with money, I went to talk to my mother about our situation. She'd been sitting in our one chair next to the cold fireplace. It was always cold now, as we couldn't afford the wood to heat it. She'd lifted her tired green eyes to mine and smiled weakly. “My Vin,” she said fondly. She motioned for me to sit net to her. I stood beside her instead. “It's getting hard for me to earn enough for a suitable meal, Mom,” I told her. “All we can afford now is a loaf of bread and a handful of vegetables. I can't get meat anymore.” “I've seen what you've brought from the market, son. I know.” “Pretty soon we'll just have bread. How will any of us live on that? We can't live on bread.” “I know. We'll find a way, Vin.” “We might have to steal it.” The words silenced the room. My mother shifted uncomfortably. She would never agree to this. “I don't like the idea, either, but if we don't have the money...” She stood, raised her hand, and delivered a stinging slap to my face. “How could you even think such a thing?” With a small glance at the handprint on my cheek, she fled to the safety of her bedroom. I retreated to the room Angie and I shared, realizing it had been a bad idea to speak with her. She would not do what was needed to survive. She was in denial. Angie looked up at me as I came in. Her eyes widened as she saw the mark on my face. I laid down on my back in my bed. She silently crawled up next to me. Her small hands traced the red mark on my cheek. Even at her young age, she'd understood why it was there. After a moment, she moved back to her own bed. I fell asleep that night listening to her choking sobs. The baker's stall sat before us, the smell of the bread filling our noses. My heart dropped as I found the price. My three coins would have bought us one loaf yesterday. The price was one coin more than I had today. I had held off from stealing for weeks now. The only thing we'd eaten for our two small meals a day had been bread. We'd

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 37 stopped being able to afford vegetables three weeks ago. Despite what I'd told my mother, I hadn't been able to bring myself to steal the food to supplement our bread. But now we couldn't even get the bread. We would have nothing. Stealing would help us, but would hurt the baker's family. In these times, depriving a person of their earnings was putting them in the same position as the one stealing. Everyone needed as much as they could get. The thought of putting another little girl into the same state as Angie twisted my stomach. But Angie couldn't afford to miss any meal, no matter how meager. None of us could. Angie's hand clamped to mine as she felt my grip loosen. “Vince?” she whispered. She followed my gaze to the sign on the cart. She compared the number of coins on the sign to the number she knew I held. Her grip tightened even more, her eyes welling up with tears. “We can't eat dinner.” My heart broke. Forget what Mom said about stealing. My little sister was starving and I had the opportunity to save her life. I would not miss it. “Go wait around the corner, Angie,” I said softly. Her tiny fingers slid from my hand, their absence depriving my hand of their familiar warmth. I watched her go. When her slim form had disappeared, I turned to my task. My head buzzed. This was wrong, but I didn't have any other choice. I took a breath, hovering around the stall, waiting for the baker to turn his back just once. There were too many people for anyone to notice one underfed boy. I can't do this to his family. I shook the words from my head. I had to do this. This I wrong. Just see if he'll take three coins. He won't. I know he won't. If he didn't need it, it would still be three coins, not four. Angie is starving. If I don't do this, she'll die. What if he has a little girl like Angie, starving— The baker turned. My opportunity presented itself. Stepping forward a little, I set my hand on a loaf near the edge of the cart. Swiftly I slid it into the crook of my arm. I twisted around and booked towards the corner. The cry of the baker rang out behind me. No one moved to catch me. No one even looked at me. Everyone knew what I had done, just as they instinctively knew the reason for it. I rounded the corner. Angie stood waiting for me. She eyed the bread in my arm. Her face crumpled. She knew I didn't have enough to pay for it. The questioned stirred in her eyes as she lifted them to meet mine.

38 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 “Vince?” The word barely made it out of her lips. She already knew the answer. She'd seen that in my eyes too. I dropped my eyes from her young yet knowing gaze in shame. The warmth of her fragile hand pressed into my palm. With a gentle tug, she began to lead me home. No words were exchanged on the walk back. None needed to be said. We both knew what we were going back to. When Angie pushed open the wooden door and we stepped inside, our mother stood to meet us. She embraced Angie in a hug, then me, eying the bread I held. She heard the coins click together in my pocket. She jerked back. “No...” She shook her head, dark curls swinging wildly. She reached out and slapped me. Angie winced from the sound of the crack. “Can we not even afford a single loaf of bread?” Mom sobbed. Same as the last time, she fled to her own room. I gave Angie a piece of bread, taking none for myself. I couldn't eat. She ate it slowly as we went to our own room. I listened to Angie cry herself to sleep that night, her sobs joined by our mother's cries as she finally realized how far we'd fallen.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 39 Death and His Pale Horse

by Robert Darabos

Etching

40 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Hide and Go Seek

by Lauren Meck Some nights I stare at the picture like a star in the sky with a flicker of fresh flames burning a hole in the atmosphere. But like always the picture turns to dust.

Then other nights I see myself naked rolling down a hill wrapped in coils of barbed wire. The sun melting my skin like candle wax. Some nights I think there’s no difference between the living and the dead.

I was in one of those moods. The kind when you want to chase a few pills with five shots of vodka to follow your friend to the grave just so you can say goodbye.

But we were playing hide and go seek in the dark. Too busy to say goodbye. I was hiding, listening to the voices from the dead. Slowly I slipped into the silent whispers and fell into the cracks between the ice.

Etching

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 41 Frida Kahlo: The Little Deer

by Matthew Falk Half Diana, half Actaeon, you stand on splayed legs in the middle of the road.

The sure-footed game is surely afoot— divided self, pierced like some solipsist Sebastian by self-aimed arrows.

That blank goddess gaze dares me to look away from those monstrous ears.

Behind you, a mirror-sea draws down its own wooden lightning.

42 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Beauty Is Perfection

by Renee Adler by Matthew Falk

Mixed Media/Collage

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 43 I Dream in '80s

by Nicole Pfeiffer

Digital Photograph

44 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 A Beautiful Disaster

by Cassandra Birchmeier

Black Marker/Drawing Paper

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 45 On Dating the Same Woman (Again)

by Josh Crummer Calculate the chances of her leaving once again like a stockbroker on Wall Street. Feel the rise and fall of investments inside, let all the numbers crunch together, forming a patchwork question mark

the size of the moon. Dread the next phone call that could be the last like a horror film victim sprinting in the forest, naked and frightened, knowing the killer is a moment behind, knife drawn. Measure

her worth against every bill at a restaurant, every used condom, every magnified mile between her apartment and back, and every sleepless night spent hugging a cold pillow.

46 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Familiar Scent of a Passerby

by Holly Bird His buzzed-cut, black hair, Swiss-Miss- colored skin and those translucent eyes. The long ride in his black Berreta to Elias's house, silent, he couldn't stop staring at me in my skin-tight jeans and white halter-top. He thought I was too quiet until he kissed me and realized I communicated in other ways. The night we sat in his car at Lakeview Park, steamy windows, listening to TLC's Red Light Special, I asked him when I could call him mine. When we rendezvoused to Motel 6, I told him I loved him and he replied, "Is that so." It ended quicker than the mousetrap snaps when its little head reaches for the cheese.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 47 Matthew

by Christopher Applin An ekphrasis poem based on Homer Winslow’s “After the Hurricane, Bahamas”

We found you among the wreckage, Gabe and I, as we pulled up sun-dried planks for carvings of tiny soldiers; we pondered the great sea battle that

must have taken place amidst the roars and the cannonades, which echoed through the previous night’s storm. That was how we found you, how you looked, the sole survivor; a lone casualty, even more beautiful strewn with debris than if we had seen you at a distance, perched against the

rifling breeze, bronze in your nakedness. We searched you eagerly for some smell of breath—some hint of coin— as you lay defenseless in a belted sheath of oak. We did uncover your cargo eventually:

turning you on your side to locate the purse of your treasures, half-buried beneath your resting grave.

Did it contain gold, we wondered, or perhaps jewels from your native land?

But inside was only a locket of your mother, a scrap of paper with your name, and an excerpt from the New Testament: I desire mercy, not sacrifice, for I have not come to call on the righteous, but the sinners. And for the first time we wondered: Was Matthew ready to die?

48 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Second Skin

by Nicole Pfeiffer

Black and White Photograph

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 49 Voyeurs

by Jacob Ferrier

Jeremiah stirred his cheap soup with a dirty spoon, taking in its heavy scent of salt and chicken as he watched the digital clock above the microwave. 5:56. It was almost time for her. He willed the dry block of noodles to break up and soak in the boiling broth. He didn’t like it when they became too soft—the long wavy noodles would become bloated and slimy sometimes, and if he weren’t hungry, he wouldn’t eat it. 5:57. Thinking of watched pots, he went over to the sink and found a large soup bowl. He held it up to the light to see if it were clean; it wasn’t. There was a yellow-orange crust covering the bottom, a hard substance with little green chunks of seasoning stuck in it. Disgusted, he ran it under hot water and scrubbed it clean with a little blue sponge. The towel was cheap and had never been washed—it didn’t seem to pick any of the water off the bowl. He set it on the table in front of the large computer monitor. There was a bag of small pretzel sticks open already. They were close to going stale. He grabbed a few and stuffed them in his mouth. The soup was ready—he glanced at the clock. 6:00, as he grabbed the handle and moved it to the table where he poured it into the still-wet bowl. In a hurry he headed back to the kitchen where he dumped the pot in the sink before grabbing the spoon off the stove, and then cleaned it off hastily with the sponge. 6:01. Finally ready to eat, he pulled out the chair and sat in front of the steamy dinner, intently staring into the monitor. It showed the lobby of the apartment tower he lived in and worked at. The lobby was twenty stories down. It was a live feed from one of the security cameras, the cameras for which he, as one of the three security guards, was responsible. The camera posted to a secure website, and he was logged on now. 6:02. He took some pretzels and crunched them up, breaking them into twos and threes, which he dumped into the soup. He spooned them up, quickly, before they became bloated and soggy, then

50 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 wrapped some of the noodles around a few more, opening his mouth wide to shove in the wad. He started spooning the broth in quickly between his lips. He had to take care to drink it or it would be left over. 6:03. The clock on his cell phone read the same time. He watched the screen and waited. A lone figure gracefully made her way into the monitor’s picture. She always walked slowly, as if she knew she was watched. She had fair skin and dark hair; she wore pastel-colored pantsuits and sometimes a double-breasted suit in dark blue with thin silver pinstripes. She wore short-heeled shoes and carried several different purses to match. When it was cold, she wore a hat with a single feather across the top. Today she wore one that matched her outfit. He leaned forward over the supper and gazed, a slight and knowing smile crossing his face. He had come to know this nameless woman, who came home each day at the same time, this mysterious person that dwelled, if only for a moment, in his computer screen, and he imagined that only God must know her as well as him. Halfway through the lobby, she stopped, as she always did, and searched her bag for the keys to her room. He watched as she raised it up and rooted through it. She was never sure where they lay, in which pocket or under which flap, and she peered intently into each and every place as her hand determinedly thrust aside trivialities. She found them; confidently she pulled the shiny mess of them out, too fast, and she dropped them at her feet. He gasped—and she kneeled down, slowly, bringing her knees almost to her chest, and taking them in hand, she rose, slowly with the key arm limp, as if the metal was drawn to the floor. She re-shouldered her purse. He was focused. He imagined her name was Donna, and she was an account executive. She dealt with people for her entire day. When she talked with her clients, she used her hands, her thin, long hands, as weapons, gesturing delicately toward the charts projected onto the wall. She places a hand on the shoulder of a man— her touch is light, passing through the heavy fabric of a black suit and into his shoulder, the tips of her fingers making a semi-circle of pressure, and when she pulls it away, the skin feels cold and lost—the mind races, trying to stay at the negotiation, but he knows she has him, and he likes it, wants more, and agrees with whatever she is saying, not willing to interrupt with trivialities.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 51 What power she has, thought Jeremiah, what loneliness. He watched her cross the lobby, each step delicately placed so not to make a sound. Her hips swayed only slightly as she continued, under incandescent lighting that cast aside blue winter-shadows, to the elevator, where she would disappear until the next morning. She was alone in her room, in comfortable clothing, while a frozen dinner sat uncooked on the kitchen table. The room was quiet; she only had heavy books, both novels and figures. Tonight she would read fromPersuasion, again, then turn to her computer to enter data into spreadsheets. She went to bed at 10:30, a glass of white wine half-finished on her nightstand. The room was painted gray colors by a familiar movie with the sound turned low. When she woke up, she was greeted by a high frequency that she was getting too old to hear and in yellow pixel-formed letters "INPUT 1," as the room was painted in deep blue by the coming of the autumn sun. In summer, everything was orange and red, and the twilight made her soft complexion deep and vibrant. Jeremiah cut the streaming video and saved it in a folder with many others, its file name only the date and time. He crushed up some more pretzels, let them float on the surface of the yellow water, opened the new file in a player, and set it to repeat.

***

Jeremiah took his lunch at about 1:00. He made a grilled cheese sandwich and heated up some canned tomato soup. This morning she was wearing a blue suit—he hadn’t seen that one before—and she had a brown bag that almost matched. He dipped his greasy triangle in the thick red liquid, leaving little floating crumbs. He watched her exit the lobby five times before he went back to work.

***

He sat on the bench next to the door and waited. Today was his day—he had taken Tim’s shift so that he could be here, actually be here, when she came in. He wanted to see her fumble for the keys. Maybe she would say hello to him, let him hear that sweet voice for the first time. His legs were shaking. He pulled out his cell phone to check

52 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 the time and noticed that his palms were sweaty. 6:03. He pushed a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, holding it in for a long time before realizing. He tried to calm himself, taking several shallow breaths, letting his hands sit just above his knees. Be cool, he thought. Maybe it was best if she didn’t notice him, if she went about her day, stopping to rifle through her purse as she always did, never looking back, and walking with even steps. Today he imagined she was a social worker, checking in on adopted children daily, making sure that they found a home with their new families. She sat on the sofa, leaning forward understandingly as a young girl told her about the new school. Her hands were clasped together, a listening position, as she spoke slowly about her own life, helping that lost soul make a new friend. She laughed lightly and purposefully at a joke, her brow lifting convincingly above her glimmering eyes. She loved this child, would take her under wing, but she knew that this place was best, this time, this life, was one she could only touch briefly before she faded out of it forever. When she went home, she talked on the phone with her aging mother, who was starting to forget her, until it was time for the old lady to sleep. She made herself a simple dinner—a Mexican dish. After dinner, she exercised with free-weights, and then she settled down on the couch and browsed late-night television, taking care to set the alarm clock on her cell phone before she fell into a fitful sleep. He heard the door open; it snapped him alert. She wasn’t alone. On her right was a tall man in an overcoat, her arm tucked under his. They were chatting, laughing, but Jeremiah wasn’t listening. They were so close to each other that the two were one figure, permanently entwined in intimacy and happiness. He looked away at his feet. He felt silly. Of course, there were people in her life, but like a voyeur, he had become obsessed—there were many nights where he dreamed of her, but now he felt dirty, guilty of invasion. He wiped off his hands on his pants and stared at the ceiling long after they had gone, trying to set himself right. He would delete the files tonight; maybe he would take tomorrow off, go for a walk in the park, or see a movie. Jeremiah hated himself. His whole life centered on a

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 53 preoccupation, and his escapist fantasy now crumbled around him. What had he been thinking? Had he really put himself in her life, said hello in his dreams? "How many times," he asked himself, "have we shared a candlelight dinner? How many times have we been together in my mind?’" He had told himself he was the only one that could understand his mystery woman, but now he knew that he didn’t know her, and he did not care to anymore.

***

He watched the live feed until the early hours of the morning, bags, and deep gray circles forming under his eyes. He was fixated, never taking his eyes off the lobby until it was nearly dawn. The man never left. He spent the night. At 5:03 in the morning, Jeremiah turned the monitor and fell asleep in his clothing, sprawled on the bed.

***

The next day he sat again at the table, reluctant to turn on the screen. He knew that he had to delete the files, move on with his life. Jeremiah had to forget his make-believe woman. He switched it on, the lobby coming to life right where he left it. For a few seconds he stared into the space, but then he minimized it and brought up the folder with the files in it. Ctrl-A. Delete. He opened the recycle-bin folder and hovered over the empty button, unthinking and not really looking at anything. He pressed it. A dialogue box asked “Are you sure you want to permanently delete these 76 items?” Yes. They were gone. He took a deep breath, standing up quickly and pacing the kitchen. What he had done came to him, and he wanted to shout. Panicked, he pulled up the live feed’s twenty-four-hour buffer. He rewound it back to that morning. They left together, smiling broadly and with locked arms. He went further back, to 6:05 the day before, when they came in late. He saw himself in the corner of the view, the fish-eye lens making him long and thin. They came in, taking slow, deliberate steps,

54 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 her head tilted back and laughing. They separated when they reached the center of the lobby, and the man waited as she, with a huge grin on her face, reached in the brown bag for her keys. She said something and opened her mouth wide in laughter; then she dropped the keys. She went down to get them, but the man just stood there, hands on his hips, in front of her, looking down at the top of her head, a satisfied grin on his ugly face. Jeremiah slapped the computer screen off the table. It hit the wall before it hit the floor, and it sounded like snapping bones. He was standing over it, staring at the broken pile. Part of the shattered LCD screen was still illuminated, but all it showed was white, and there was a black spider web covering it.

***

Later, Jeremiah went to a dive in Queens with Tim, the other security guard. The bar was dirty, poorly lit, and filled with alcoholics. “What did you think, Jeremy?” asked Tim over a pint of Guinness. He was talking about his recently born-again wife, as he had been all evening. Tim had never been religious, and she went to church three times a week, but he rarely went at all. “What do you think of this whole God thing?” Jeremiah held his drink—beer—in both hands, shoulders hunched over, looking into the mirror behind all the liquor bottles, watching other patrons laugh amongst themselves, some quiet and hushed, leaning in close to those across the table, others loud and sitting with a knee up, comfortable and confident. Tim leaned with his back against the bar, one arm propping him up while the other held his dark beer aloft. Jeremiah sat his bottle down and looked at himself in the mirror, the name of the bar in gold lettering obscuring his face. “I don’t know.” He knew that he was supposed to be jocular, supposed to laugh with his friend about the silliness of frequent church attendance, but he couldn’t find any merriment in it. “It’s just that…” he took a drink, letting the slightly bitter taste stay on his tongue for a moment, “if there is a God, I can’t imagine Him watching.” His friend was quiet, maybe because on some level he knew what he meant and understood, or maybe just because he was killing the mood. The music came up, and everyone started talking louder, and

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 55 the whole sleazy place became a competition for attention, each and every person trying to sound above the din. It would be snowing soon, the first fall of the coming winter, the sky covered in clouds already as it darkened for the night. The wind was slowly fading. Jeremiah looked at the wood grain of the counter, at all the knots and blemishes under a thick plastic lacquer. He said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else: “I just can’t imagine him caring.”

56 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Slaughter Shop

by Jeffrey Levin

Black and White Photograph

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 57 Zilwaukee School Playground

by Josh Crummer Children once played here.

No longer does this hill rise steep nor do the surrounding fields shine emerald like an Irish knoll— no longer does a pale red kickball sail from the tectonic concrete courts to the south.

Come sunset, a spectral procession of old friends climb a bright red jungle gym long vanished; schoolyard crushes swoop down a tall silver slide that no longer exists— instead, wood chips and open air reveal the secret angst of the sun, its loathing of the dying blue of this town's sky, its slamming stone gray doors up there to a world of burnt spinach, green and black— I am a cornstalk in a field of cabbage.

Come darkness, punkish gangs of boys and girls dressed in their 80s flashback tatters walk dogs, ride bikes, smoke cigarettes, ask me what I'm doing here; like Inquisitors, demand my story be told. And like a heretic I babble about a sunlit sanctuary made of metal and spiraling rainbow steel once king of this hill. I tell them the swings once were all colors and not painted gray, with speckles of color underneath.

And atop these ruins, I transform from melancholy to sage.

58 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Zilwaukee School Fleurs

by Christina Van Poucker

Color Photograph

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 59 Small Town Story

by Adam Baudoux

Color Photograph

60 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 May Trees

by Sarah Wangler When I woke to find you gone, potatoes filled my belly, nestled in their sack.

Bile danced up my throat. Curtains I didn’t sew spilt blue and tan,

a gingham grid. Girdle of me vs. you: toenail clippings and cords too close to the heat register.

I sprinkled tears like bird food around the forest; all paths led home.

May trees swished in pre-storm light, a dangling pear,

succulent; a ground squirrel clambered, a protein gardener defending his stash.

I perched behind the window screen: nymphs played in the leaves.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 61 Inside My Jar

by Blair Giesken Mother thinks I collect them like sick, tail-wagging puppies or fireflies to swish around inside my jar. To give them a better place to be or a chance to realize what they are not.

Sometimes mother is right. I try to make them better— like a doctor or a new, learned language. But sometimes make them worse, and myself, too.

I ask them important things in the night— like hello and where do you go to? and who with?

They answer in marbled bathrooms where the sounds of bars and over-sauced, beautiful girls get muffled in the thick flush of toilets.

I am in bed early, they say when I know equally where they are and are not. They linger in a place where the lighting is dimmer the liquor burns dull like an old sting of bees and she is anyone but myself.

These homeless puppies and fireflies are no-nothings. They don’t speak beautiful words in so many ways or remember the spot on my spine to be rubbed when I ache and the day is long.

They sell wrenches and pool liners and sometimes make music in their basements on guitars with missing strings.

More importantly, they were never mine— even inside my jar with the lid screwed tight.

62 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Our Tender Bellies Are by Blair Giesken Wound in Baling Wire

by Sarah Wangler Demeter carries a paintbrush round during Indian summers. Tan-belly bare, polka-dotted breasts, makes trees brown.

A wintry gloss covers early mornings. Melts to a matte finish most days by noon. Pears drop like dead leaves and children

gather both. Fruits go home for jams. Juiced cheeks, jumping into piles feet-first, they frolic til bits of dirt stick to their fingers.

Later, tomatoes and pumpkins shrivel in patches. Springtime kids will poke and pop and fling the mealy corpses.

She sweeps chilled fog cross the hilly lake, pocked with islands. Eye-sores for the naiads.

Look at the reflection of trees, of red and yellow dying leaves. Here, it’s God country.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 63 Shadows on St. Stanislaus

by Jamie Wendorf

Black and White Photograph

64 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Shadows on St. Step-42 Stanislaus by Brandy Abraham Mrs. Jonathan Witter. This will be your name. The wedding will be spectacular, whispered your bridesmaids in the quiet church hall. You look from your dress to your empty ring finger, and a hopeful longing stretches within your heart—the kind you remember from those romance movies Jonathan hates so much. Your mother calls from the doorway, smiling her usual forget-me-not grin that she saves for weddings and family holidays. Step 1: You realize that there is no turning back after the doorway. The mirror reflects you, the bride, in a cliché of ruffled, white glory. You turn from it, while wishing that you hadn’t. You long for the mirror, wanting to ask for one more moment, but you knew such a delay would only make the longing seem more like forever. Three steps to reach the door. Fourteen to the waiting arm of your father, who stood with his arm outstretched, much like a courtier to a princess. His smile was discernable only under his crudely melodramatic mustache. Step 18: You step out to face the crude aisle, letting your eyes follow invisible footsteps leading to a flowered altar. Your arm is linked with your father's, and nothing seems more important than those moments as he leads you past the rows of people who smile effortlessly through make-shift eyes. Step 24, you think of them as pathetic. Step 28, you begin to cry. The tears fall from your sinuous blue eyes, smearing your eyeliner as they fall. Your grandparents whisper softly at your tears, grasping each others’ hand, thinking that this emotion was natural for a bride. Step 30: You look back at the flower girl dressed in pink, flinging rose petals at your heels. The altar becomes clearer in the distance. Step 32: You begin to hate how everyone has to smile. The priest smiles through gapped teeth. These are the moments, you realize. These are the last steps of womanhood. After Step 50, you will be a wife. Step 38: You begin to see the future, imagining yourself as some country-fair gypsy. You see yourself fighting over the remote. The T.V. programs you both want to watch always seem to be on at the same time. The love you called forever disappeared after a few years of passionless sex. You would begin to pretend his taste for cigars didn’t bother you. He would pretend you hadn’t gained weight after the fifth child. You would both blame his libido, when really it was the libido of your swim instructor. Black and White Photograph Step 40: Your father kisses your cheek and grants his future

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 65 son-in-law your hand, placing it cautiously in his open palm. You watch your father return to his seat next to your mother, who still has the same smile plastered across her face. It seems clichéd, you think. You grasp the flowers in your hand as if they were a lifeline. The white roses crumple slightly under your grip, a few petals fall from the bouquet to join the others at your feet. Step 41: You take one last look, out toward the crowd, before stepping to Jonathan's side. They look at you, memories floating through their eyes mixing with the turmoil within your mind. You see the girl who was left at the altar for the stripper. You see the man who couldn’t bear to settle down with any one woman. You see the old woman who secretly dreams about the man from Mexico she should have run away with all those years ago. You see yourself as Mrs. Jonathan Witter. You run. People gasp. Your mother is stunned, her smile now melted from her face. Your grandparents look away, ashamed. Jonathan looks longingly after you, knowing he couldn’t follow your steps no matter how fast he ran. Step 42: You realize you like the naked skin of an empty ring finger.

66 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Sucking Out My Identity

by Holly Bird I recently visited the doctor for my belching problem. Although up until that time, I never considered it a problem; I considered it my signature characteristic. For years I have delighted, intrigued, perplexed, and shunned many people with my belching capabilities. My earliest memory that signified I was a belching pro was when I was about fourteen or fifteen. My mom was with a close friend in the kitchen, and I was sitting out of sight in the family room. I suddenly released a deep, wild-hog sounding belch. All conversation ceased between my mom and her friend. Then, I heard her friend ask with part-confusion, part-worry: “What was that?” I knew I had something special. I decided to take my act on the road, sharing my bellowing tunes with others. I became known as “The Belcher.” My best friend’s grandmother from Spain didn’t speak a word of English, but tried to convey to me once how much she enjoyed my art. The translation was odd. I remember her smiling at me and mimicking what looked like a vomiting gesture. My grandfather, however, disapproved of my show. He was a very classy man from Austria who used to teach ballroom dancing before immigrating to the United States. When he would get excited, he would jump out of his seat and dance the waltz while humming some appropriate tune. I was sitting across the table from him one Sunday afternoon when I roared a deep screecher. He whipped his head towards me with his mouth open and eyebrows squeezed together: “NOOOO. You cannot do this. What if you must talk in front of people? You cannot do this on a date.” I thought about this…and decided to perform my show in only private venues (in front of close friends and family). I enjoyed the intimate setting of the smaller venues, and so did my fans. They felt a closer connection to me and even found comfort amidst my rumbling sounds. My friend and dormmate in college told me once she never felt alone listening to me play my deep-belly trumpet only a few rooms down from hers. Other friends often spoke to me about their admiration for my talent. They confessed to trying to play their own deep-belly trumpets at home but just could not seem to match my power, and my roar. But lately my art has been giving me pain. Sure, I can still bellow out tunes that are just as strong and fierce as the ones in my prime, but they are accompanied with a pain in my abdomen and chest.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 67 This is when I decided to call my art a belching problem, and I went to the doctor. After a series of tests to check my intestines, my esophagus, and my gallbladder (for which I had to drink a white sludge that tasted like thick paint and get injected with a nuclear hormone), I finally received a call from my doctor’s nurse a few days after the tests. “_____, so I’ve made an appointment for you with the surgeon and they are going to take good care of you,” she told me, as if I had just won a prize. I mustered a faint, “Okay…so I guess the tests came back… uh…BAD?” She hurriedly replied, “Your gallbladder is ‘abnormal’.” Silence. “O…o…okay,” was the only word I could get out of my mouth. I managed to collect myself and call back to make an appointment with THE DOCTOR to tell me the real and whole scoop, which is that my gallbladder only functions at 8%. A normal gallbladder functions at 35% or more. My doctor says she would be committing medical malpractice if she did not strongly recommend I get it taken out. So, I came home from my doctor’s appointment and Googled “Gallbladder Surgery.” What I discovered is that I will get a Laparoscopic gallbladder surgery. This is much less invasive and recovery time is much shorter than if the surgeon had to cut into my stomach. Basically, they will make three small, hole-like incisions at various points in my abdomen; then “the surgeon inserts a lighted scope attached to a video camera (laparoscope) into one incision near the belly button. The surgeon then uses a video monitor as a guide while inserting surgical instruments into the other incisions to remove…[my]…gallbladder" (WebMD.com). One of the inserted instruments is a sucking tube. So, once they disconnect my gallbladder, they will suck it out of my tummy through the tube. And they will also be sucking out my signature characteristic. I texted my long-time friend today to tell her the news. She replied, “I won’t know you anymore.” This makes me ask, I wonder if they will let me take home my malfunctioning organ in a jar? I could put it on my mantle and decorate it with ribbons. Then, when people come over and ask, “What the hell is that?” I can tell them that it is my identity.

68 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 How To Talk: A Complex Illusion by Kevin Lee

Color Artwork

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 69 Fail

by Alexander T. Danks

Colored Pencil

70 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Fail Villains by Alexander T. Danks by Peter Brian Barry I remain, reasonably content, seated at an unlacquered table whose wood grain had nonetheless been polished by countless pairs of hands before mine, whose owners had, out of boredom and nervous trepidation traced invisible trails with fingertips and smoothed calloused hands across its surface in hopes of finding a splinter so that they might have something to complain loudly about. It was not the hours of solitude spent in rooms like this that would make lesser men reveal their secrets, first fidgeting and sneaking conspicuous looks at the unblinking camera lens in the far upper corner of the room; it was the deprivation of autonomy that would drive you mad, the unwillingness of any of your interrogators to so much as acknowledge your requests and needs and very existence. The more they ignored the typical occupant of this room, the more that tortured soul wanted, needed, to talk and they were only interested in taking your confession—sorry, that was an unfortunate pun given the present state of affairs. And the more likely you were willing to talk motivated by desperation to be acknowledged, the more likely you were to give them what they wanted. Things were, of course, very different for me and different in so very many ways. For being alone and unacknowledged would not have bothered me, and since I was neither alone nor unacknowledged anyways, the point was moot. Given the nature of my calling, I am rarely alone; shepherds, by definition, have a flock and cease to be shepherds in any interesting sense without them. Further, my crimes were certainly well known and that was enough to ensure that I, as their agent, was perpetually on the tips of tongues and in the backs of minds. Strangely, my training in seminary—the same training that miserably failed to prevent me from acting like a beast—assured me that my infamy is consistent with the genuine disputes about my guilt that still lingered. Everyone in my congregation knows that the perpetrator of my crimes is bestial and inhuman although few can believe that I am that inhuman beast. What is known de dicto need not be known de re; Saint Anselm demonstrated that. Still, they believe that I’m inhumane even if they don’t believe of me that I’m inhumane, and that is enough to secure my infamy—quod erat demonstrandum, Q.E.D. Honestly, I wish that I were alone more often, so much so that I treasure my all too brief respite in this gray-walled parlor, otherwise known as an interrogation room. At the moment, I am waiting for the towf-headed toddler to arrive, my legal counselor to arrive who serves

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 71 me with my consent but not without my disdain. For while I insisted to the bishop that the innocent have nothing to fear from the law, wise Mother Church has learned the hard lesson that even we priests, we men of God, can be as guilty of sin, our seemingly sincere pleas of innocence to the contrary. Thus, I have a lawyer who exudes naiveté yet has at least some intuitive faculty worth my attention. For while he, like everyone else, insists that he disputes these heinous charges, he clearly senses at least something of the truth in me. It’s not that he has knowledge of my prior bad acts; most of those have been long since burned or buried. It’s that he is noticeably apprehensive around me and attuned to the clues that I provide. One of my favorite recent distractions—distractions that are now necessary since my former distractions are now off limits to me—is to stare at him unblinkingly just under lowered eyebrows and over folded hands while he speaks or to sit perpendicular to him and slowly turn my eyes towards him while keeping my head still, always with a thin and tight-lipped smile of the sort that one expects from teenage vampires in the terrible movies that have become all the rage with my students. I’ve also taken to hissing audibly when he speaks without looking at me and stopping just when he turns his head; I of course stare at him with that same thin smile. He is the Captain Vere to my Claggart: intuitively aware of my demonic nature but on the wrong side of things, despite his best intentions. I also take pleasure in the wall-length mirror that I have been seated across from, that both reveals my image to me and allows me, almost certainly, to be viewed without my knowledge by those on the other side, ostensibly out of my view. I am not terribly happy to be wearing my cassock; it is far too warm and frankly overly dramatic with its thirty-three buttons symbolizing the number of years that Christ walked this earth and its black silky fascia—which could have been red had I been just somewhat more “discrete.” Yet my counsel insists that I will be treated better if my calling is clear to all. I would prefer a black suit with a red tie, a spread-collared white shirt with French cuffs adorned by my favorite blue cat’s eye cufflinks, which I would twist in full plain view of my inquisitors, daring them to notice that one may smile and smile and remain a villain. Instead, I lay my palms flat on that table as though I were arthritic and in need of relief, and I smile and smile convincingly; villains often do.

72 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Easter Sunday

by Josh Crummer

Welfare; marching lines drawn in carpet, monotonous white faces like kewpie dolls shuffle single file into a holy white dome; hues of pinks, purples, blues and suits mingle and mix toward the pews like a death march led by a Queen Titania in his forties and balding; altar boys carry the book, carry the candles, carry the pressure of expectant gazes from dozens grudgingly summoned to celebrate Jesus.

There are no zealots here! Songs of hallelujah and praise mask hidden gossip nuggets behind “Hi” “hello” “how are the kids”. Sporadic lights and fans cool the heated participants and shine on their bodies; fluorescent auras an inch in thickness reveal two truths: One, for every child dressed in Sunday best, one hundred adults stare vacantly ahead like an evicted house before demolition, and Two: during passings of the body and blood, their checkbooks are revealed and balanced.

Their savior is no fool! The congregation takes a mental note at how pretty the pale, bright pink flowers are, at how tacky the phrase “rebirth and beauty” looks in stock construction paper, at anything but the prescribed books, hymns, and the statue of Him hanging fifty feet above. Those that don't believe don't pay attention. Those that do sit viciously in the pew, ignore social taboo, and write these poems.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 73

74 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Biographies

Brandy Abraham is a coffee-addicted, often sleepy, biology/English dual major who is prone to spilling tomato soup on her jeans. She has been known to chase frogs with her butterfly net. "Thankful," she has said, "for those who inspire to inspire her."

Renee Adler is graduating with a bachelor of fine arts with a concentration in graphic design. In her spare time, she enjoys creating mixed media pieces.

Christopher Applin would like to thank all the people who helped formulate who he is today, most especially his parents, Steve and Glori; his brother, Nick; and his girlfriend, Katherine.

Peter Brian Barry is a pretender, never was a contender.

Adam Baudoux is a wedding and lifestyle photographer who loves his iPhone. His personal website is www.baudouxphotography.com.

Cassandra Birchmeier is a senior at SVSU. She is a visual arts and English education major who enjoys all forms of art and creative writing. She spends her free time traveling, listening to music, drawing, and taking photographs.

Jennika Bouverette is a creative writing major at SVSU. She loves doing puzzles and being out in the rain. Her favorite color is royal purple, and her favorite season is autumn. She hopes to one day have a zoo in her backyard filled with the many animals she loves.

Josh Crummer does it for the lulz on a daily basis, and, while it's been highly discouraged, harbors a keen interest in his hometown of Zilwaukee and www.encyclopediadramatica.com. He'd like to thank Dr. Joel Lewis and Matthew Falk for the unending reading and support: thanks, guys!

Robert Darabos is an art student working towards his B.A. with a concentration in printmaking. He has had works of his art shown throughout southern and mid-Michigan, as well as in New York, Chicago, Seattle, Arizona, Kansas, Toronto, Ottawa, the United Kingdom, Australia, and South America.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 75 Charles Davenport became an English instructor at SVSU after teaching secondary English in Western New York for several years. Previously, he was a journalist in Washington, D.C., and a market research analyst in Boston. In addition to coordinating writing workshops in New York, his poetry has appeared in three anthologies.

Beth Erbacher loves laughing, life, and lilacs.

Noah Essenmacher is a staff writer forThe Valley Vanguard, coordinator of the Cardinals' Creativity Camp, a Writing Center mentor, and a member of the Roberts Fellowship Program. Noah enjoys the tradition of storytelling and challenges others to find the stories worth telling in their own lives.

Matthew Falk has of late, though wherefore he knows not, lost his mirth.

Jacob Ferrier exists in your head, from your perspective, which means it's your head that perceives him to be ugly, which means it is your fault that Jacob Ferrier is ugly.

Blair Giesken is a creative writing major and professional and technical writing minor. She is thrilled to be graduating this winter, and would like to thank Cardinal Sins for giving her an outlet for her writing during her time at SVSU.

Chris Giroux is a Gemini and, not surprisingly, has two sides to his personality: crabby and crabbier.

Amelia Glebocki reminds you to celebrate small victories, and is learning to take her own advice.

Ashton M. Jurek is graduating (!!!), has a passion for cheese (specifically sharp cheddar), and still thinks Canadians produce the best French vanilla iced coffee (double cream, double sugar) ever.

Katherine Karnes is a graphic design junior. She has a passion for digital art and is proud to have a piece included in Saginaw Valley's Cardinal Sins. Katherine has had her artwork displayed in the campus student show for two years and also in Midland's Space Studio. She hopes to participate in many more Sins to come.

76 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Emily Krueger is a third year student, but will not be graduating for another two years. Ridiculous, right? She enjoys biting off more than she can chew, and therefore takes on voluntary homework (see this publication). That's not to say that she doesn't enjoy the voluntary homework! After exhausting all other interesting career options, Emily has settled on being a literature major, which is quite to her liking, though not so high in practicality. Toss in an Art minor, and voila! Picture of success. She is a big supporter of the SVSU hockey team and attends nearly every game.

Kirsten McIlvenna is.

Kelly Mundt is a coffee addict, passionate writer, and member of "Psychopaths Anonymous." Her best friend is the angel on her shoulder, telling the voices in her head to be quiet.

Samantha Prud'Homme loves Monty Python. She enjoys drinking beer with Amelia's cat.

Whitney A. Ricker loves the color green, golden retreivers, Panda Express, Mountain Dew, the fall season, cooking (but only when it turns out right), Adobe InDesign, Ireland, her goofy friends and supportive family, reading until 2 am, laughing, the smell of fresh air on cat fur, and comedy movies.

Alex Soares is a third year student at SVSU. His interests are diverse. He loves God (he is a Christian), different cultures (he is from Brazil), helping others (he is a Writing Center mentor), and art (he is Cardinal Sins' Business Manager). He is just a simple person who believes every individual's life has a purpose.

Tracy Thiel is a member of the editorial staff. Her official title should be "Carrier of All Bulky & Heavy Stuff for the Editor-in-Chief." But that would probably be a layout nightmare, so she doesn't insist upon being credited that way on the staff page of the magazine.

Christina Van Poucker is in a constant state of quarter-life crisis. She is a creative writing major with an interest in all things art. She finds photography to be challenging, fun, and rewarding. In her spare time, she daydreams, takes photographs, collects books and hobbies, and tools around on the Internet.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 77 Sarah Wangler, 2007 SVSU graduate, holds an MA from Northern Michigan University, and is studying for an MFA at Oklahoma State University in Stillwater, OK, where she is trying her damndest to become the next great cowgirl poet. In the meantime, she's enjoying iced tea, long walks in the woods, and spicy mustard on pretzels.

Jamie Wendorf is a sleepy literature major who loves her friends, '90s music, James Franco, brilliant novels, caffeine, political science, springtime, Spanish, and hugs. Especially the hugs where people pick her up and spin her around. They're her favorite. . Tim Windy's passions include playing guitar and kicking it on the weekends with his main squeeze, Emilee. Together, they also enjoy snogging and wondering where the time goes. He's also known to sing "Blackhole Sun" with such crushing despair that listeners are forced to contemplate the essence of their being.

Rachel Wooley has never been to Mexico, ridden in a hot air balloon, or had much luck keeping her strawberry plants alive. She hopes someday to accomplish all three, though not necessarily simultaneously.

78 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Acknowledgments

I would like to thank all of the people who make Cardinal sins possible: former editors Matthew Falk and Christi Griffis for answering my countless questions; Sara Kitchen and The Valley Vanguard; Student Technology Center; Trish Gohm and the Student Life Office; Brittany Giordano; Ryan Kanine and the Student Association; J. J. Boehm and the PJPC; Perry Toyzan and the Graphics Center; Linda Farynk; Anita Dey, John Mauch, and the Reference staff of Zahnow Library; Suzette Zimmerman, Emmie Busch, and Jane Anderson; SVSU’s English and Art Departments; Lynne Graft and Adrienne Lewis for recommending me for the editorship; Trevor Baranek for maintaining the web site; Alex Soares for the mathematical skills; Tammy Bouza for the endless supply of caffeine; Melissa Seitz; President Eric Gilbertson; Dr. Donald Bachand; Pat Latty and Sharon Opheim; Corey Gilbert; Erika Hanschmann; Nicole Maxwell; Samantha McCarty; Chris Giroux; Peter Brian Barry for being a fabulous adviser; our benefactors; our contributors; and of course, the dedicated editorial staff. Also, thank you to those who helped make the Fall 2009 poetry slam a success: Lisa Kusey-Rechsteiner, Gary Rechsteiner, and the staff of the Magic Bean; Josh Crummer and everyone else who came out to compete; the judges of the slam; and everyone who came out to watch.

Amelia Glebocki

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 79 Benefactors

Patrons Donald & Liana Bachand Peter Brian Barry Ruth L. Copp Frank & Linda Dane Dow Corning Corporation George & Judy Eastland Eric & Cindy Gilbertson Christopher & Sally Giroux Mary R. Harmon Alissar & Michael Langworthy Robert Maurovich & Nancy Warner Jim & Melissa Seitz—in memory of Carl Seitz Janice & Terry Wolff

Donors Stephen Barbus Andy & Andrea Bethune Dave & Jan Blecke Diane Boehm J.J. Boehm Joni & Rick Boye-Beaman Merry Jo Brandimore Basil & Margaret Clark Sara Clarke Cliff & Juanita Dorne David Fackler & Karen Brown Linda Farynk Jules Gehrke Peggy & Richard Glebocki Lynne R. Graft John & Elizabeth Hansen Amy & Jan Hlavacek Deborah & Al Huntley Mark McCartney John & Gretchen Mooningham David Oeming Jan Poppe Helen Raica-Klotz Walt & Cookie RathKamp Perry Toyzan

80 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Become a Benefactor Today!

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Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 81 Submission Guidelines

For deadline and drop-off location, visitwww.svsu.edu/cardinalsins .

Entry Requirements

All submissions must • be accompanied by a completed cover sheet. • be submitted on a floppy disk or CD in the format specified below. Please do not submit any disk or CD with unnecessary files, e.g., class papers. • have titles. The file name must be the same as the title of the work. • not contain any contact information within the entries. This information should only be on the cover sheet.

All text submissions should • be in 12-pt. Times New Roman font, single spaced, with one-inch margins. • include the title at the top of each page. • be on a 3.5-inch diskette or CD, in either .rtf or .doc format. Hard copies will not be accepted. Diskettes and CDs will not be returned.

Poetry should be no longer than 70 lines.

Flash fiction should be 1,000 words or fewer.

Fiction and creative nonfiction should be between 1,000 and 2,500 words.

Artwork/Photography submissions should • be 300 dpi or greater, with high contrast and sharp definition. • be on a diskette or CD, in either .tif or .png format. Hard copies will not be accepted. Diskettes and CDs will not be returned.

Photos that have been manipulated with a computer program should be submitted as artwork, not photography.

Number of Entries

• Submit up to 5 poems, 3 flash fiction pieces, and 2 pieces of fiction or creative nonfiction. • Submit up to 5 artwork and/or photography pieces.

82 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009 Submission Guidelines

Prizes and Judging

• Prizes will be awarded in the following areas: poetry, fiction, flash fiction, creative nonfiction, black & white photography, color photography, black & white artwork, and color artwork. • The winner in each category will receive $100 and recognition in the publication. • All submissions will be entered into the contest unless otherwise requested. • Judging is done through blind, anonymous voting by the editorial staff. • Staff members are excluded from winning an award in any category.

“I, ______, do affirm that the personal information given by me is accurate and correct, and that the work attached is solely my own. I understand, accept, and agree to abide by Cardinal Sins’ requirements governing submissions. I understand that the decisions of the Cardinal Sins staff regarding submissions are final. If my work is accepted, I grant permission to Cardinal Sins to publish and distribute my work, both in print and on the Cardinal Sins web site. I also grant Cardinal Sins permission to edit my work. I understand that I will retain all future rights to my work.”

Thank you for submitting to Cardinal Sins, and good luck.

These guidelines are subject to change; please visit our website for the most current guidelines.

Fall 2009 Cardinal Sins 83 Submission Cover Sheet

For deadline and drop-off location, visitwww.svsu.edu/cardinalsins .

Please print or type.

Name (as you would have it appear in Cardinal Sins):

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# of items in each category: Titles: ____ Poetry ______Limit 5 ______Flash Fiction ______Limit 3 ______Fiction/Essays ______Limit 2 ______Artwork/Photography Portrait Landscape Limit 5 total Medium______Color Black & White ______Portrait Landscape Medium______Color Black & White ______Portrait Landscape Medium______Color Black & White ______Portrait Landscape Medium______Color Black & White ______Portrait Landscape Medium______Color Black & White

84 Cardinal Sins Fall 2009