In the Atlantic ocean, hypothermic saltwater

tastes like love. How was I to know which I

waschoking on that night, w

hen you appeared

like a medallion glinting against a mirror of

waves?

At the time, the snow compacted against my

body

was over ten thousand years old, while the ice

sculpture

of my skin had only been drifting for two. I

was at once

an antique, and a toddler, and instantly began

melting.

They tell me it’s

impossible, that icebergs

don’t have hearts, but if only ten percent of me

is visible above water,

who’s to say what else might be drowning?

So I held my breath and looked up

to where the corpses of stars were igniting

from the inside out,

    burning the edges of the sky

for a second chance.

Their silent combustions, pinned

to the felt of twilight, lin

ed up to whisper

    it would be worth it

all just to hold you

    once.

Steam rolled up from my blushing face

like a bashful confession to the violin strings

pulling on your ship deck while you danced

as though your blood would never run cold.

You were supposed to be unsinkable.

Instead, I made you immortal.

In the Atlantic Ocean

love dissolves, writing its legacy

    onto a surface destined to erase

with the changing tide. No one remembers

the ships that float. G

race needs

tragedy in order to be excavated

from the ocean’s floor

like a fallen crystal chandelier.

A fading color photograph

is all that remains of Shane,

even though he’s still alive,

technically.

The friend I knew is gone – faded

as surely as the color in a photo is blanched

by too much exposure to the sun

and to the world.

Reds became pink,

blacks became grey

as my friend became a ghost.

The addictive cry of patriotism

coursed through his veins and, as if by accident,

with the well-oiled precision

of their marching platoons, they convinced him

to buy their drug. All it would cost

was everything he was.

The science of growing soldiers requires

careful cultivation - the seeds are planted

in perfectly prepared rows

of tract homes,

littered with toy guns and video games.

To get a bumper crop, apply fertilizer –

the ash of fallen buildings

and the blood of innocent victims

works best.

At harvest time,

they ship off in boats and planes

around the world to keep the market safe.

When he was harvested, Shane was no longer

a child who thought guns were toys,

he was a real-life G.I. J

oe – a real American Hero –

who thought guns were tools,

who learned how to obey orders – Yes, Sir! –

and stare straight into the eyes of nothing.

The verdant green of the severed cornstalk

turns to the tawny drab

of the lifeless husk, and

the once-radiant eyes of my friend

have turned weary

and hollow,

full of stories

I don’t want to know.

THE

2015WIRE HARP

Spokane Falls Community College – 2015 – Creative Arts Magazine

The Wire Harp

ii Wire Harp 2015

2015 Wire Harp Staff

Literary Editor Mikayla Davis

Graphic Arts Editor Lisa Mattson

Literary Staff Zach Bartmess Alexis Cox Ryan Hatten Lauren Gilmore

Graphic Arts Advisor Doug Crabtree

Literary Advisors Laura Read Connie Wasem Scott

Special Thanks Richard Baldasty Bonnie Brunt Shelli Cockle Heather McKenzie Carl Richardson Erik Sohner Becky Turner

2015 Wire Harp iii

This issue is dedicatedto Almut McAuley,

founder and matriarchof the Wire Harp.

1942-2015

iv Wire Harp 2015

Richard Baldasty Awards

Richard Baldasty taught philosophy and history at SFCC from 1984-2007, and during his tenure, he was regularly published in this journal and contributed significantly to the arts on our campus. Upon his retirement, The Wire Harp honored the spotlight he shone on art by naming our poetry award for him. Each year, The Wire Harp staff selects what we consider the most artistic poem as the recipient of this award. We also honor a work of prose, a photograph, and a work of fine art. Each of these four student artists receives a $100 prize, as a result of a generous gift from Richard. We appreciate Richard for supporting students in their creative arts.

2015 Wire Harp v

Contents

Poetryblood oranges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

Eric JamesMETPO (Metro) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

Elizabeth WilsonThe Grass Brings This to Mind . . . . . . . 7

Amanda BatchelorBaseball Games and the Movies . . . . . . 9

Tiffany DismukesGood Company on Murray Street . . . . 15

Tyler PurschI Howl For You . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Alexis CoxThe Poets Kicked Out of the Museum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Danielle Estellerobin williams is defunct . . . . . . . . . . . 30

russ deniston“Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

Carol Harrington*Ecstasy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

Mercedes YatesWhen We’ve Come Full Circle . . . . . . . 43

Mikayla DavisThe Geology of a Person . . . . . . . . . . . . 48

Elizabeth StadtmuellerEnvoys . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49

Richard BaldastyA Letter from the Iceberg to the Titanic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53

Lauren GilmoreThe Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

Tom VersteegVivian . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64

Danielle EstelleShane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65

Jason Oestreicher

The Time Between . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70Austin Julian

The Echo from the Himalayas: Stand Against the Darkness (in Tibetan) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83

Jigmed DawaThe Echo from the Himalayas: Stand Against the Darkness (Translation) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84

Jigmed DawaSummer is a Moment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86

Nicole StevensonThe Howl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88

Anne HarrisThe Soldier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95

Mikayla DavisYears Travelled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99

Lindsy Wood

NonfictionFridays . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .11

Beth Anne RoseberryAn Introduction to Miss Dzunukwa: Lady Bigfoot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37

Monica Leeds Stenzel

FictionThe Oregon Coast . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

Anne HarrisMy Father’s Greatest Gift . . . . . . . . . . . 57

Charles JohnsonThe Avoidable Inevitable . . . . . . . . . . . .71

Lindsy Wood*Stars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91

Nicole Stevenson

* Baldasty Award Winner

vi Wire Harp 2015

Contents

PhotographyTaking Shelter (scene 2) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

Clara WilsonThorn Flower . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

Harold DalkeOn the Inside . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

Clara WilsonInto The Woods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

Heather Biggs*A Woman Jambed Up . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

Marc HarveyDay to Night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35

Raymund MoralesOut of the Dark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

Amber St. PierreEye of the Beholder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

Alicia DunavanWoman Profile . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47

Marc HarveyDancer #1 - Darby McMillian . . . . . . . 50

Taylor SchultzNapoleon Girl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51

Devon GravesIn Five Decades Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

Clara WilsonUntitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59

Grace BlanchardUntitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

Grace BlanchardPower Plant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62

Raymund MoralesI Can’t Do This Anymore . . . . . . . . . . . 63

Marc HarveyCarnations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69

Marc HarveyStormy Night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81

Trina ButlerSwitchfoot in Charleston . . . . . . . . . . . 82

Rachel Corbett

Urban Rain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97Cambria Edwards

New World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98Devon Graves

* Baldasty Award Winner

2015 Wire Harp vii

But I Refuse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56Paulina Broadhurst

The Bay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58Katy Welte

Dial of the Four Giants . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67Makayla Miracle

Cold Connections . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68Deanna DeYoung

The Rook . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85Jaxsoniun Wright

Patience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87Brandt Wurzer

Gentle Touch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89Roxann Maier

Cerulean Plume . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90Michael Dean Williams

The Lady’s Horizon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93Michael Dean Williams

Devouring Light . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94Brittany Vens

Fine ArtLight-Fast . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

David Tague/Benjamin SchenkKoi Pond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

Deanna DeYoungviolet eyed frog . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

Lavonne WestPersonal Journey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

Benjamin SchenkJesus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Jessica TomasBattle of Skull Boy and Lawyers . . . . . 14

Jared BarrGoodnight Moon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Makayla Miraclepneumonia nebula . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

Lavonne WestSweet Wave . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Susan MorskiOlla . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

Jessica TomasCharmer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Brandt WurzerForever Blooming . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

Brandt WurzerStudio Floor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

Danielle FletcherFoctopus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34

Brittany VensTwo-Faced 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

Roxann MaierLaverne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

Pamela LoweWho is that Shady Character? . . . . . . . 45

Makayla Miracle*Watermelon PUNCH! . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46

Paulina BroadhurstDoor to the Horizon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55

Benjamin Schenk

Contents

* Baldasty Award Winner

1 Wire Harp 2015

Light-FastDavid Tague/Benjamin Schenk

2015 Wire Harp 2

blood orangesEric James

The bank teller said, she said, “Would you like to start a checking account?” I said, “There’s blood on my shirt .” “Sorry?” she said . I said, “No, not today .” So she looked up, she looked up and she said, “Tomorrow?” “Tomorrow .” I said, ‘‘Maybe tomorrow .”

She said, “Okay.” She said it just like that. “I can’t marry you,” I said. “Excuse me?” “I don’t believe in love, it’s funny that I’m here .”“Where are you?” “In love . It’s humorous,” I said .

“Oh,” she said . Like we understood .

“Tomorrow,” I said . I said, “Maybe tomorrow I won’t be in love, maybe I’ll start a checking account, maybe I’ll marry you . Maybe .”

She said, the bank teller, she said, “The world is full of possibilities .”

I think she got it just then, we got it, so I said, the last thing I said was: “Limitless.”

I walked outside into the bright afternoon sunlight. I filled my lungs with the crisp air, each molecule singing to my every cell – “Spring is coming!” and with each step I was getting closer to it .

3 Wire Harp 2015

Koi PondDeanna DeYoung

2015 Wire Harp 4

violet eyed frogLavonne West

5 Wire Harp 2015

METPO (Metro)Elizabeth Wilson

Dad says not to let go of his jacket,rough, black leather in my small,child hands, floods of winter-cladpeople pushing uncomfortablyclose . My icicle nose picks upsharp scents of body odorand vodka, Moscow’s undergroundtransit at its finest, the trains travelling through the cementtunnels under the city like veinsjoining at the wrist and spreading in thin blue lines to each of the fingers.The suction of the car from the platformpulls at me like a magnet untilI think I might be sucked right intothe flashes of light and sliding doors,like what my brother witnessed oncewhen the violin music of beggarsturned into a funeral songfor a man who wouldn’t spare a ruble . My eleven-year-old mindruns wild with all the detailsI would never tell my mom . The metal doors scrape open and inscrutable faces push me in . The voice crackles through the speaker,“Be careful, the doors are closing.”Dad says not to let go of his jacket.

2015 Wire Harp 6

Personal JourneyBenjamin Schenk

7 Wire Harp 2015

I lie in the green carpet of grass behind our house . Those tiny bladestickling my toes aremy long lost friends .Wind wafts the smell of the dirt close to my nose, reminding mehow mud pies taste like nails on a chalk board sound .My sister Anna and I spent hours in that south Alabama yard making our momma dirt desserts .Drought dried the land all summer but we still had us a good number of creamy dirt pies .They didn’t taste all that bad back then .

I like to reminisce on those hot dayswhen child’s play was all we knew and death wasn’t a thing we understood .That’s why I’m out here nowwith the grass and dirt—to remember what children do when they live .

The Grass Brings This to MindAmanda Batchelor

2015 Wire Harp 8

Taking Shelter (scene 2)Clara Wilson

9 Wire Harp 2015

Baseball Games and the MoviesTiffany Dismukes

When old people fall, it isn’t good .Here I sit with my optimistic thoughts,a dark abyss slowly forms, clouding my hope . Fear can get the best of us . Inside I cry out, “Don’t leave me!”Being selfish, your feelings are not considered . It’s not like you want to leave. But eventually, you will be taken.

Finding the sunshine, the crack of a baseball bat against a petite ballbrings it all back—your typical attireof mitt and red baseball cap, your giggles when a foul ball doesn’t end upin my mitt, a salty soft pretzel with cheese to warm my hungry stomach .And after, a frozen strawberry lemonadewith the chilly tang for quenching thirst and cooling down .

In the theater: movie commercials begin to roll . Nothing but the soundsof the movie . I know you are there as we enjoy each other’s presence for the time being . The large popcorn in my lap while you have a small tray .Soon the tray is gone and the bucket empty .

The perfect partner for going to theatersand stadiums . You’ve taken on a role of a close friend, holding the title no one can have but you, My Grandma .My selfishness demands you forever.But you will always be with me, for I will never forget our baseball games and the movies .

2015 Wire Harp 10

Thorn FlowerHarold Dalke

11 Wire Harp 2015

FridaysBeth Anne Roseberry

I . The year I turned seven, my mother made a present for me and managed to keep the specifics a secret until my birthday. I remember peeking around the corner while she sewed . My nine-year-old brother knew; he never tired of reminding me it was for my birthday, and I shouldn’t peek . When the anniversary of my entrance into this bad world of wise older brothers finally came, I unwrapped the gift for which my mother had sacrificed sleep on the altar of love: a white flannel nightgown with little blue flowers. If I squinted just right, the flowers looked like blueberries with twin leaves . The collar and short bell sleeves were trimmed with lace, and the neckline gathered like a prairie dress . The soft fabric reached down to my ankles . I wore the blueberry flower nightgown until it became immodestly threadbare, and my mother cut it up and put the pieces in the rag drawer . She took out her sewing machine and began again . This time though, there were ten children instead of four . She cut the new gown from a white and pink flannel patterned with vines trailing up the sides . She called sewing her break, but breaks were fewer these days . The pieces were put away in order to comb a two-year-old’s hair, or bandage a cut, or read a story . When it came time for me to try it on for the hemming, I had already outgrown it .

II . When a man at the local Salvation Army thrift store stopped me in the checkout line and asked if he would see me again, I politely told him that I was not privy to the future, but that I did shop there often . I left wondering at the strangeness of the question, only to be informed later that he was “flirting,” a strange custom where one implies, but never comes right out and says, what one means . My mother thought I was too naive to move out on my own, even though I was twenty-three. Despite her objections, I rented a room from a family at church and worked cleaning houses to pay rent . When I went to visit her, we would sit in chairs on the concrete porch . She’d hear me cough, and worry I wasn’t getting enough sleep . She would step into the house and bring out vegan gelatin capsules filled with vitamin C that she gave me when I was small . I wouldn’t tell her my classmates inhale other things besides air, coming to class with pupils dilated and smelling of herbs . She’d tell me she wished she had more time to sew for me, and asked me to call her when I got home, because it was always dark when I left .

2015 Wire Harp 12

III . When I was small, I hated Friday nights . Fridays we ate a small dinner because Mom wouldn’t have energy to cook . Dad would be home during the day, leaving at 3:00 to go to his job as an assistant manager of McDonalds . Mom would carefully iron his baby blue dress shirt on the battered iron board that had a towel for a cover . She’d sprinkle the shirt with water to make steam, giving extra attention to the collar . The creases would stand crisp when she gave him his shirt . He’d put it on, and kiss her, then go away . To my childish mind, on Fridays Mom was always angry . As soon as Dad left, we’d do our best to stay out of her way . She would speak sharply to us for minor infractions of household code: playing on the computer without permission, being inside when we were supposed to be outside, being outside when we were supposed to be inside, failing to do assigned chores . Dad would come home at 3:00 in the morning . Sometimes, Mom wouldn’t sleep until he did . I’d wake up at midnight and see her light still on . Looking back, I don’t think she was angry . When I am alone at night, I think of Fridays . I feel the emptiness of the fully furnished room with only me—the hollow thoughts that say, if something should happen, I’d be the only one to stop it . I wonder, if I have children of my own, will they hate Fridays, too? I think of my mother, with her six youngest children, and her anxious, eye-open nightmares, keeping the light on to sew, or just to have the light on. And I forgive her for Fridays .

13 Wire Harp 2015

JesusJessica Tomas

2015 Wire Harp 14

Battle of Skull Boy and LawyersJared Barr

15 Wire Harp 2015

Good Company on Murray StreetTyler Pursch

Born-again business tucked beneath leagues of NewYorkers, the honking and more honking, and Lord,the honking and “Hey, watch where you’re goin’, kid!”Misleading Google maps and streetlamps becomeuseless in our pilgrimage for thatholiest of waters, a divinewhiskey reward after the city’s humid

hug left our body’s river to run dry .At wit’s end, we gave in and spoke to a priest alone in his church on Murray, whose clerical robes promised security .Roll away the boulder, right this way,the staircase down, he said,its thin descent beckoning .For below, his squinted eyes revealedin God’s basement a speakeasylingering casually under a haze of dim

secrecy, teeming bow ties and bootleg gin cocktails, the suspenders tinkling happy-go-lucky harmony behind a drum and double-bass choirleading the congregation to salvation in a cup,confessing our sins in exchange for seven hailbloody Marys . Then our communion, the blood of Christ in raised glasses, cheering“Amen,” speaking easy because we’d beenbaptized in an August evening, a silver liningin good company on Murray Street .

2015 Wire Harp 16

On the InsideClara Wilson

17 Wire Harp 2015

I Howl For YouAlexis Cox

I saw the best minds of my generation higher than life ignorant and starving for wireswho parade through the streets prideful of their lovewho open their minds to new possibilities through connections our parents discouragewho drive down the street buried in newsflash after newsflash from their peerswho struggle in the dark and thrive in the lightwho sneak down alleyways scratching wanting their parents to quit yellingwho call friend after friend after friend to acquaintance to that girl that said hello when she saw a tear fall to the groundwho got the highest marks in their class and met a boy alone for coffee while he drove and ended her lifewho went to Harvard and Yale and Princeton and watched the starry nights twinkle and dazzle on psychedelics they bought in a storewho meet from Spokane to Collingswood to find someone who finally under stands how it feels to be left waiting waiting waiting for a hope that hides in the shadows of boys with nice smileswho sit in English with scars and drugs and a baby no one knows while dreaming of a family with two mothers and puppies and say it will be theirsand the man the woman the child listening in to whomever is speaking not thinking about the message and telling the man on the street that he is the one to blame

Oh Allen! is this what you wanted?Oh Allen! is this your picture of America?Oh Allen! did you see young men and women holding hands with whomever they loved, parading, happy, laughing? Oh Allen! are you proud? or are you disgusted with the country that screams freedom while black boys are shot and gays are “choosing” to live their lives in constant emotional turmoil?Oh Allen! can you believe that here in my hometown we are now able to sit high on rooftops in parks at home with stars twinkling, twinkling?Oh Allen! why are you gone when so many are left to plant seeds of corruption in little boys and little girls?

for Allen Ginsberg

2015 Wire Harp 18

I write to you here from my bedroom of assignments and lectures and unopened Christmas presents screaming for you to hear me and help me end this thirst for peacewanting to be with you in those New York streets but instead sitting alone scared that the man will shoot me down will silence my voice like it did Michael Brown’s and the women standing in the streets of Boise being blamed for the babies planted in their wombs by men getting a quick fix.

19 Wire Harp 2015

Goodnight MoonMakayla Miracle

2015 Wire Harp 20

pneumonia nebulaLavonne West

21 Wire Harp 2015

The Poets Kicked Out of the MuseumDanielle Estelle

Or rather, we were“never invited back .”This happenedafter I performed a poemwith one “shit” and two “fucks”which incidentally is moreof either of those than I giveabout the museum’s never-previously-established censorship policies .

Look, I know how to behave . I grew up taking etiquette lessons, but I still caught dirty looks from my classmatesfor writing poems about physicsand eating salad impolitely .

Their fathers spoke like The Supreme Courtand their mothers like doormats .

The Public School System taught me how to swear . I wrote “fuck” in large letterson every paper I could find, but I know how to behaveso I bound the papers up tightlywith barbed wirein a file reading“Things Ladies Shouldn’t Say .”

Censorship is magic . A disappearing act for our voices . When asked why he loves me, my husband often replies that I’m real .

2015 Wire Harp 22

Real like grass stains, like dirt on a well-traveled roadsincere as a family tradition, but this sincerity spent far too longliving under the rock of propriety .

Until one day, in a class argumentI was told to sit downeven thoughthat boy was wrongand I was right . Until one dayI learned some Declarations of Independence read:

“We hold these truths to be self-evidentthat only men are created equal .”

They taught me to do magic to talk quietly,to sit down quietly,to be right quietly . Let the boys be wrong as loudas every bullet ever firedin the name of God .

But youare the silencer on a gun, they said . The treasure you hold is so pricelessthat it must be forever buried . Like a disappearing act . Like the fireworks in my throat.

23 Wire Harp 2015

Sweet WaveSusan Morski

2015 Wire Harp 24

Into The WoodsHeather Biggs

25 Wire Harp 2015

The Oregon Coast Anne Harris

The breeze is whispering off the ocean, tickling my fingertips with anticipation of the pools to be discovered when the tide wanders back toward the deeper sea . The starfish and anemones, snails and barnacles, sea urchins and crabs and anything else that happens to get trapped in a depression of rocks are there in miniature aquariums until the breakers come rolling in again . I love the Oregon coast at all times of the year . The smell of the salt air, the constant movement of the waves, sand between my toes as I walk barefoot . It is beautiful here: trees, shrubs, rocks, wild flowers, dunes, even the pestiferous bugs. But, above all, the ocean itself, that constant, soothing movement . So, I come here at least twice a year for the sun and the storms, to walk and beach comb and say “hi” to all the critters in the pools . I start in the north at Astoria this year . The 164 step spiral stairs in the Astoria Column is a must every time I visit . The column is the only place I have ever gotten vertigo; the back of the steps are open so you see through them all the way up . On the deck at the top, there is a 360 degree view of the Columbia River, southwest Washington, and the forests of Oregon . As I reach the deck, I see the shadow of a person, unusual at 6:30 a .m . Stepping out, I say “Good morning” but get nothing in return except a back turned to me and a man walking away . Not what I expect in the friendly West . I bask in the sun as I slowly move around the deck and start to walk behind him . He reaches back, clamping a hand on my arm . I freeze . I turn toward him and look at his face, doing my best not to show fear . He lets go of my arm and turns away again, moving off, gripping the railing. I stand there, not quite feeling afraid now, but wondering if I should head pell-mell down the stairs . As I stand there, he starts to talk, as if to himself, then, louder, like he is speaking to me . She is dead, his wife, three years gone . This was their favorite place; they had honeymooned in Astoria 34 years ago . They used to come back to Astoria every once in a while, reminisce, enjoy some time away from the children. Now he comes back once a year on their anniversary to talk to her in his head about how much he misses her, tells her what the kids are doing, that a new grandchild is due in four months . He goes quiet, tears streaming down his face, his back still to me. I wonder if this is the first time he has truly cried, finally letting the grief release. I walk up to him and put my arms around his shoulders. He stiffens, then relaxes. He turns to face me as I back up to give him space .

2015 Wire Harp 26

It is a hot mid-July day. The tide is out and the tidal pools are many, filled with the ocean’s beauty . I greet others going about their walks and runs, some scouring the beach for things left behind when the ocean goes back home . He and I walk and talk for a few miles, then turn back to Astoria . He is smiling, apologizing for his tears that keep appearing as he talks . He says he hasn’t talked this much in a long time . We exchange phone numbers just in case he needs to talk again; I don’t think he will. He thanks me for listening as we part, hugging each other just before he gets in his car . He is going back to his life, I’m going back to mine . It was a chance meeting at the right time and place . The planets must have been aligned .

27 Wire Harp 2015

OllaJessica Tomas

2015 Wire Harp 28

CharmerBrandt Wurzer

29 Wire Harp 2015

A Woman Jambed UpMarc Harvey Photography Award Winner

2015 Wire Harp 30

robin williams is defunctruss deniston

he was always on couldn’t stop four decades at the

TOP

he made us grin giggle

snicker scream

chuckle convulse

it was never ending

but it threatened to

so he took his show on the road

it makes me wonder ifthey have run-by fruitings

over there

after e e cummings

31 Wire Harp 2015

“Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine”Carol Harrington

Running my fingers down blocks ofbasalt along the Centennial Trail, I pace off pain in slow even strides.Blue black pangs stacked heart high form tight crevices—intersections in the wall .So much igneous rock hewnto hold back the earth . It feels rough,

my fingertips bump at intervals over the black seams, like the systolic memory of you beating into the structure of my days since you left .

My stride is brokenby a small green scroll—the fronds of a fiddlehead fern.

Oh play! Tell me how you arehard-pressed on all sides . Soft clef of veined fronds cleaving the dark days—sing!

- Mary Oliver

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Forever BloomingBrandt Wurzer

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Studio FloorDanielle Fletcher

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FoctopusBrittany Vens

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Day to NightRaymund Morales

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EcstasyMercedes Yates

She said it tastes like battery acid,

but I still don’t knowthe overwhelming feeling

that comes from a pillshaped like a butterfly.

I imagine it’s the feel of a rubber-band stretching

though perhaps it feelsthe same as what I already

know: that sudden expand in my chest,

a bacterium multiplying infinitely under a microscope,

fingers and toes that reach and fold in ebb and flow,

the fresh bite of a blueberry,or the sky when it’s open .

Baldasty Poetry Award Winner

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An Introduction to Miss Dzunukwa: Lady BigfootMonica Leeds Stenzel

Consider the Sasquatch: tall, dark, potentially handsome, but painfully shy, so it’s difficult to know. Usually, people think of a lone forest beastie, long arms swinging, but sadly just outside of camera range. Yet an extremely popular image of Sasquatch, from the Patterson/Gimlin film (1967), features what James B. Shuman referred to as “big pendulous breasts .” Indeed? A lady Bigfoot? It would seem that Sasquatch isn’t so lonely after all, but who is this coy companion? Lurking in mythologies all over the world, these hirsute and Brobdingnagian beings must also have families, and as nature would have it, womenfolk . In 1924, gold prospector Albert Ostman claimed that he had been abducted by a Sasquatchian family of four while sleeping in the British Columbian wilderness. Boasting both a mother figure and a young female, in addition to the father and young male, Ostman’s story seems contrary to Janet and Colin Bord’s exhaustive list of Bigfoot sightings, which overwhelmingly records encounters with a singular, adult, male creature . In the Bords’ list, a report of a female Bigfoot necessitates the specific label of her sex, as though that would be unusual. Particularly in Pacific coastal Native American traditions, such as the Kwakwaka’wakw, this wooly lass bears the name of Dzunukwa, also transliterated as Tsonoqua or Tsonokwa, and sometimes called Kawaka . One of the great anthropological scholars, Claude Lévi-Strauss, even discusses Dzunukwa in his 1972 analysis, “Structuralism and Empiricism .” If Dzunukwa has danced around Bigfoot circles, scholarly discussions, and Native mythology, it is high time she makes her grand debut to a wider audience . Perhaps the variants of her name complicate her introductions, but there may be more to the slow progress of Dzunukwa’s popularity. Reporters of male Bigfoot sightings have built a persona of a brutish, grunting, hungry, or curious beast . He’s a bit of a cad, but he’s not evil . Mythologically speaking, however, the females gleam with a more sinister reputation . Depictions and physical descriptions of Dzunukwa feature bristly black hair, squinting eyes, and protuberant lips . Lévi-Strauss, among others, refers to her as a “giantess” or, more often, as an “ogress .” Art historian Richard Bernheimer comments that in many cultures these female beings are depicted “as ugly as possible” with “creased and oldish faces,” noting that some local traditions refer to those pendulous breasts that are “so long they can be thrown over her shoulders .” (Bernheimer admirably sidesteps the Continental soldiers at this point.)

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As for her demeanor, she seems particularly standoffish, even for a Sasquatch. Dzunukwa lives not only in forests and mountains, but “remote” or “distant” ones . She speaks very little, crying out only “Hu! Hu!” in a terrifying voice . In Kwakwaka’wakw tales, she moves in a sluggish, ham-handed, and rather lethargic way . These loud and clumsy traits prove useful for the local children, as her favorite meal consists of ill-behaved youngsters, whom she collects in a basket worn on her back . When that harvest is found lacking, she will enjoy a clam dinner, spitting out the bits she finds offensive. Luckily, the children can usually outwit the gormless Dzunukwa, often tricking her into taking a nap . Our Lady Bigfoot is not all lazy, cannibalistic infanticide tendencies . Unlike baby-stewing witches of central Europe, or the ferocious Mother of Grendel, she has a generous, warm-hearted side, as well. Dzunukwa’s artifacts in the Brooklyn Museum and the University of British Columbia’s Museum of Anthropology relate to her role as a wealth provider . If one can befriend her, she will supply drinking water, share her hoard of dried meat, fish, and berries, or distribute gifts from her collection of copper and animal furs . In some ancient tales, as well as the 1976 Jan Michael Vincent cinematic adventure, “Shadow of the Hawk,” Dzunukwa has magical properties of her own, which she can use for good or for evil . Far more than just a ‘Lady Bigfoot,’ Dzunukwa boasts a rich tradition all her own, one that deserves some media attention. Judging by the subjects of reality television, Dzunukwa could only find her way into the hearts of the American public. Like the rest of us, she can be grouchy, loud, and eat too much of a poor diet . Somewhat isolationist, but prone to irregular bursts of generosity, she sounds like a dream-girl, for more than just a Sasquatch beau, but for all of us, who prefer to spend their time with interesting characters .

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Two-Faced 2Roxann Maier

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LavernePamela Lowe

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Out of the DarkAmber St . Pierre

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Eye of the BeholderAlicia Dunavan

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When We’ve Come Full CircleMikayla Davis

Blood is that stuff that courses through your veinsblue to redlike the setting of the moonlike looking at the worldmakes it blush

And I blusheach time I open my eyesand see the worldunderneath your skineach pathway I trace up your armsin the mornings as if following a map of our time

I can see the passage of your lifelike when your blue eyes first openedto a white delivery roomtiny handsstretched and just as blue

before blue fadesblushesto brownand you are fourwith knees leaving skin trailsacross the drivewayhelmet-head bouncingbike twisted

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like your elbow at fifteenbent backwardsPicasso-paintedbut you Jackson Pollockyour embarrassment across the football fieldtoo early for the red and green

So you are thirty-twoand it is mespread across the sheetsflushedwith pain and a twisted smilestomach swollen to blueand your hands are whitereaching out to grab our sonI am bleedingand my hands are blue

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Who is that Shady Character?Makayla Miracle

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Watermelon PUNCH!Paulina Broadhurst Fine Art Award Winner

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Woman ProfileMarc Harvey

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The Geology of a PersonElizabeth Stadtmueller

You started as a mineral, but wind and timethrew you outas a grain of sand .

While a grain, the windrounded your edges and you flewinto a river .

You found religionin the waterand wind,

cementing youwith other like-mindedsands compactedtogether, alone,

accumulatinginto a detrital rock of diverse parts .

Ideas and labelsclumped togetherby a desire to belarger than grains,

unique, nameless,identified onlyby particle size .

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EnvoysRichard Baldasty

It could be temptingto let a troupe of acrobatsline up empty glass, mostlyRiesling bottles plus one Macabeofrom Spain, on the front lawn .

Gently lest currents perturb,they might tiptoe across, anti-gravityswitched on, almost it would seem, through magic feet . Steps of promise, progress of solace .

Admiration and wonder, that’s allyou’d need supply, forgetting for those moments laundry left undone, brittle loves, and much else besidesswept aside like pissants .

Already you imagine them, sensationalin white, muscles taut . En pointe they pause, distilling patient grace . Calmlyyet thrillingly, you speak: envoys, enter,take this day, transfuse my life .

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Dancer #1 - Darby McMillianTaylor Schultz

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Napoleon GirlDevon Graves

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In Five Decades TimeClara Wilson

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A Letter from the Iceberg to the TitanicLauren Gilmore

In the Atlantic ocean, hypothermic saltwatertastes like love . How was I to know which I waschoking on that night, when you appearedlike a medallion glinting against a mirror of waves?

At the time, the snow compacted against my bodywas over ten thousand years old, while the ice sculpture of my skin had only been drifting for two . I was at once an antique, and a toddler, and instantly began melting .

They tell me it’s impossible, that icebergsdon’t have hearts, but if only ten percent of meis visible above water, who’s to say what else might be drowning?So I held my breath and looked upto where the corpses of stars were ignitingfrom the inside out, burning the edges of the skyfor a second chance .

Their silent combustions, pinnedto the felt of twilight, lined up to whisper it would be worth it all just to hold you once .

Steam rolled up from my blushing facelike a bashful confession to the violin stringspulling on your ship deck while you dancedas though your blood would never run cold .

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You were supposed to be unsinkable . Instead, I made you immortal .

In the Atlantic Oceanlove dissolves, writing its legacy onto a surface destined to erasewith the changing tide . No one remembers the ships that float. Grace needs tragedy in order to be excavated from the ocean’s floorlike a fallen crystal chandelier .

Before my longing was swept awayin a lifeboat carrying huddled survivors, the wrath of my passion reduced to driftwood, I anchored usto the marble banister of fame:

outlined our fingerprints in tarnished goldand rust . In this way, you will be remembered

not for your beauty,

but ratherthe ease

with which it was destroyed .

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Door to the HorizonBenjamin Schenk

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But I RefusePaulina Broadhurst

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My Father’s Greatest GiftCharles Johnson

It’s a hard thing to leave one’s home land, but in times of great strife, it can become necessary . I was thirteen when we left Ireland and immigrated to the United States . My father sold almost everything we owned to pay for the tickets to get us over here . There are four of us, including my mother, father, my younger brother William, and myself . We came to this country with little more than lint in our pockets, the clothes on our backs and the hope that we could start over again . The potato famine ravaged the Irish countryside, so we weren’t the only ones looking to this new land as a means to escape that hell . The boat we were on was named the Douglas, and it was crammed over capacity with families and individuals in the same dire straits as us . I remember the journey vividly, the smell and the filth we were forced to live in and the gaunt bodies that roamed around the ships decks like ghosts. The journey took two and half weeks, and each day dragged on for what seemed like eternity . It’s hard keeping yourself occupied when all you have is each other to entertain one another . William and I would roam around the ship and often we would find ourselves on the deck watching the sunset on the sea . To be honest that was the only beauty that could be found, and it was a welcome sight, that is, until I saw her . As our ship entered upper New York harbor, there she was in all her green glory, Lady Liberty . I remember William and me running to get Father and Mother when we first got a look at her. We rushed back on deck to bask in her glory. Up to that point in my young life, I had never seen my father cry . He was a stern man, but loving and caring, and in all the years and hells we as a family went through in Ireland, he always maintained a stoic strength . He had to, as he was the man of the house and in turn the cornerstone that provided . He did what he could to take care of us . To see him cry that day still sticks with me, and I can see it even now, the tears streaming from his eyes, the smell of the salty sea in the air, and the warm rays of sun upon my face . Finally, we made it . We could start again . I thank god every day for that memory, and the new beginning that came with it .

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The BayKaty Welte

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UntitledGrace Blanchard

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UntitledGrace Blanchard

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The Unexamined Life is Not Worth LivingTom Versteeg

The ape staring out through my eyes would seem to beme for the moment so we can no doubt expect an interval of slapstick to commence shortly, some admixture of meticulous manual labor and extreme crashing, not to mention a good deal of hurtling forward to a dead stop . Oops is one way to punctuatethe hurlyburly, mild to the point of trivializingas it is, and god help me, what have I donepossesses true dramatic flair,but having found myselfdangling like bait here above the immeasurable plunge, I judge a sustained Tarzan yodel most appropriate to the occasion .

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Power PlantRaymund Morales

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I Can’t Do This AnymoreMarc Harvey

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VivianDanielle Estelle

Memory arrives at the front door, an unwelcome relative who never calls before she arrives . Her name is Vivian or Vicky, I always try to forget which . When I answer the door,she hands me storiesfilled with porous plot holes. She has suitcases with herthat are far too big for her to carry .I don’t have time to wonderhow she got them to my porch . I’m too busy scrambling to make room for herin an apartment which only has space enoughfor my grief and the cats .

I throw her blankets on the floorand refuse to give her a pillow,hoping this will hintat her inconsiderationand poor timing . Vivian does not notice . She drops her dirty handbagupon my tranquility, pulls cheap beer from her pockets, tells me how much I’ve grown, then, from more pockets, reveals a scrapbook with photographsof every night I cried myself to sleep .

I try not to be reminded of a mirror . I see red-rimmed eyes, crooked teeth, and a young soulwhich most closely resemblesa chipped champagne flute.

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ShaneJason Oestreicher

A fading color photograph is all that remains of Shane,even though he’s still alive, technically .

The friend I knew is gone – fadedas surely as the color in a photo is blanched by too much exposure to the sunand to the world . Reds became pink, blacks became grey as my friend became a ghost .

The addictive cry of patriotismcoursed through his veins and, as if by accident, with the well-oiled precision of their marching platoons, they convinced him to buy their drug . All it would costwas everything he was .

The science of growing soldiers requirescareful cultivation - the seeds are planted in perfectly prepared rows of tract homes,littered with toy guns and video games . To get a bumper crop, apply fertilizer – the ash of fallen buildings and the blood of innocent victims

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works best . At harvest time, they ship off in boats and planesaround the world to keep the market safe .

When he was harvested, Shane was no longera child who thought guns were toys,he was a real-life G .I . Joe – a real American Hero – who thought guns were tools, who learned how to obey orders – Yes, Sir! – and stare straight into the eyes of nothing .

The verdant green of the severed cornstalkturns to the tawny drab of the lifeless husk, andthe once-radiant eyes of my friendhave turned wearyand hollow,full of stories I don’t want to know .

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Dial of the Four GiantsMakayla Miracle

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Cold ConnectionsDeanna DeYoung

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CarnationsMarc Harvey

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The Time BetweenAustin Julian

I wasn’t there to witness your death, Grandma Darlene,but my imagination ran wild and tears wovea tapestry of memories:

How you couldn’t hear the things I saidand they would turninto something hilarious,like the time I said “I thought that bird was a plane until it started flapping,” and you heard,“Blurgoh the plain toaststarted wapping .”

Summer is here now,but it bears no warmth .I spend my days wonderinghow such tiny cells can randomly mutate into something so monstrous .

Then the dry autumn leavescrunch again, and I’m back in school . My aspirations to weave stories keep me too busy to wander to that dark place again .

I feel like I can conquer the world with mere wordsand hot chocolate .

Today, Grandma Katie died .

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The Avoidable InevitableLindsy Wood

“He was struck, but not in the way that Einstein was struck by genius, or how Romeo and Juliet were struck by love, no . Abel was struck by Cain, and Cain was the first murderer and Abel was the first to be murdered. He was the first to die before time was ready to take him, and his soul was the first to get lost in the shadows of Earth . “Abel was supposed to live ten more years before fever took him in his sleep . His soul was scheduled to be collected at that time . You see, once the human soul leaves its body, there is a very short window of time in which an angel can return it to God, to Heaven, to paradise. But after that window closes, and the soul becomes conscious again, the only way to get it to where it belongs is to convince it to go willingly . “That sounds simple, admittedly, but there is a stigma surrounding death among humans, and people who die have a horrible habit of trying not to be dead . The problem with all of that is, along with the short window of unconsciousness a soul has after death, there is also a three day window in which it can return to its body, and continue living. This miraculous happening only ever realistically benefited Jesus of course, because humans also happen to dislike zombies, regardless of whether or not their bodies are rotting or they’re craving human flesh. Zombies are just not a well-liked thing on Earth . Once you die, the best thing to do is remain dead . “So God saw that Abel’s death was not good, obviously . And since there were also angels in Heaven who God saw were not innately good, he decided that they would be the ones tasked with the tedious job of hunting down lost murdered souls, that they would be reapers and angels of death . “And, I might not be ‘innately good,’ but I’m damn good at my job, so I’d appreciate it if you came with me .” I finished my little monologue and turned to the man behind me, keeping my face stoic . The man was thirty-six, a little over-weight, dark haired and moderately handsome. His wife had added just a dash of calcium chloride to his orange juice that morning, and needless to say he was two parts confused, one part devastated, and one part angry . “But I thought –“ “Look, I know what you thought . I know what you think . Seriously, I’m an angel .” “You don’t look like one . You look like some Chinese girl .”

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I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose . “You humans and your nationalities and stereotypes . First of all, I’m male . Not everyone with long hair is a girl . And second, what were you expecting? A pretty blonde lady with a halo and fluffy white wings?” He nodded, face in a state of awe, as if I’d read his mind . I rolled my eyes with a bored grunt . “Too bad, you got me . Now hurry your dead ass up and ascend the heavenly stairs to your right in an orderly fashion . I haven’t got all day, what with everyone getting murdered all over the place .” “My wife’s going to Hell though, right? When she dies?” “Yes,” I grumbled, shooing him along, “She is going to Hell .” He went up the stairs finally, and dissolved into the light. This whole fanfare was much too cheesy for my taste, but humans expected at least a few white lights and stairs to Heaven . Heaven wasn’t even up . It existed on an entire other plane of reality, so the stairs were just for effect. I rubbed the back of my neck, exhausted . It was three in the afternoon in Chicago, but I had already taken care of four murders . At least I wasn’t in a warzone . My right hand burned suddenly, and when I looked, the name, age, and time of death of another victim was being carved into its skin with an invisible fire lit blade. “Soo-Hyun?” I murmured it to myself . “Nineteen, 15:05 .” Great . A teenager, and freshly dead too . The young ones were always so hard to deal with . They always “had so much to live for” or something like that . When I was only a few feet in front of him, I cleared my throat, and he looked up . The blood that had once poured down his face was now replaced with tears and rain . He’d probably been crying since he died . My heart softened; being murdered was a traumatic event, especially when it was brutal . I started my usual introduction, which would have then been followed by my usual monologue, but he interrupted me as soon as my mouth opened . “Are you the Grim Reaper or whatever?” he said with a sniff, accent heavy. English obviously wasn’t his first language, which wasn’t surprising, given his Korean name . “Yes,” I answered in English . If he wanted to talk in his native tongue, he would’ve started with it . “Please go away .”

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I have to admit, that was a first. No one had ever just asked me to leave before. Humans always had questions, complaints; they always wanted something from me . “I can’t do that kid . I have to remove your soul from Earth .” “No .” Another first. I pursed my lips, already agitated with him. “What do you mean no? You have to give me an argument if this is going to work,” by which I meant, ‘so that I can refute it and convince you to come with me .’ “Well I’m not going with you. I’m going to go back to my body, as soon as I find it . I still have two days .” I furrowed my brows at him as I spoke . “How do you know that?” “This isn’t my first time around the block.” As he responded his gaze drifted all around, “just the first time it’s happened in America.” Three firsts in one day. I’d been assigned a soul that had already died and returned to its body before. And from the sound of it, more than once. But I was good at my job after all; I would just have to get crafty. “Take a walk with me then . If I can’t convince you to come with me, I’ll let you go .” He considered it for a good minute before he spoke again, “Will you take me to my body if I say no?” I had to take a moment myself, just to weigh the consequences of that particular request . If I couldn’t convince him to come with me, helping him return to his body would put me in a lot more trouble than just letting him go. I sighed. “Sure kid .” He stood then, scrubbing the tears from his face with his palms . “Okay .” I probably shouldn’t have agreed to his conditions, and I shouldn’t have offered to go on a walk with him, since the protocol for this sort of thing recommended that you keep the soul in the place you found it. But there was something intriguing about this boy. I just couldn’t help myself. He fell to my side just as I started walking, hands stuffed in the pockets of his odd looking sleeveless sweatshirt, eyes on the ground . The clothes he was wearing, his dyed red hair, the piercings in his ears, the tattoo on his arm, and any scars that he might have had under his clothes, were all a sort of illusion . They were only the parts of him that he remembered . The gashes and bruises and fresh blood left on his real body were things that he probably never got the chance to see and memorize, so they didn’t

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show up on the physical incarnation of his soul . When he entered Heaven, and eventually he would, he’d receive a new, perfect body as promised by God, with none of those manmade additions . “So how old are you?” I broke the silence . “You already know, don’t you? It’s on your hand with my name .” “Humor me .” “Nineteen . How old are you?” “As an angel, I don’t really have an age—“ “Humor me,” he clucked . “Well then . I suppose on Earth, my body would be about twenty one . How’s that?” He whistled, “They sure make you guys young . And how come you’re all so different?” “What do you mean?” “I mean what are you? Japanese? The last guy I got was Black, the two before that were White, I think I got an Indian guy once, like from India though, not a Native—“ “How many times have you died?” I stopped walking . “You didn’t answer my question .” “I-I don’t know. We were just made that way. Humans were the things that assigned people of a certain aesthetic or location a race .” “But people from different places look different—“ “So? Humans are humans . Now you haven’t answered my question,” I started walking again . “I stopped counting. Maybe fifteen?” “Jesus .” “Was that in vain or were you actually talking to the guy?” I couldn’t help but roll my eyes . Humans . “Do you recognize this place?” He turned his attention away from me, finally looking around. “Um . It’s a hospital? When did we come inside—“ “Do you see that hallway right there?” “Yeah, but—“ “Keep walking .”

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I took him down to the intensive care unit, past dozens of closed curtains, and every once in a while the soft gagging sound of a sobbing visitor would surface . I stopped where I felt the suffering was the strongest and held the curtain open for Soo-Hyun. He fidgeted, but went in anyway. Inside there was a girl, probably no more than twenty five. She lay unmoving in her hospital bed, tubes and wires connecting her to several machines which monitored her pulse and blood pressure and kept her breathing . The tube that came out of her chest was draining something yellow and clear . “This is Emily .” His jaw tightened, and he tried hard to look away. “Emily isn’t dead. But her body is, her soul is trapped in it.” “Okay,” he said, voice small . “Okay?” “What does my body look like? The one in the alley I mean .” “Bad.” I considered lying, telling him it was worse than it was. “You have gashes on your face, broken ribs, a concussion, I’m guessing . Your hands are mangled, and your left leg is twisted in the completely wrong way,” I sighed . This was all the truth . “Is my head open?” “Wha— no . . . Why?” “And are my eyes screwed up?” “I don’t think so .” “My ears?” “No .” “So I can see and hear, and think normally. Then I’ll be fine.” I’d never been so frustrated with human optimism in my life. But coming from him, it sounded more like stupid bravery, so I just sighed for the hundredth time that day . “You hungry kid?” He stared at me, looking rather confused, probably at the sudden jump of subject. “I guess?” “C’mon then .” The hospital trick almost always worked, and usually when it didn’t, a quick visit to any grieving family member did. But for some reason, I had a feeling that there

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wouldn’t be any family members for him to see, grieving or not . Outside of the hospital there was a small café, nearly empty with the rain, so I led him inside and sat him down at a booth in the back next to a large window . Small miracles like making food appear aren’t hard for us angels, and going inside the café was only for the purpose of an aesthetic environment. We could have just as easily sat in the middle of the road and achieved the same goal . I let him meander the menu for a while, and then when he had decided I made the food appear in front of him like a cheap magic trick . He dug in . I stared at him while he ate, chin rested on my palm . “So, why don’t you tell me that story now .” He glanced up from his half-eaten mound of ketchup-smothered hash browns, speaking around a mouthful, “What story?” “The one that explains to me how it is you’ve died so many times .” Soo-Hyun swallowed, sat back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stared at me for a moment, pursing and un-pursing his lips . “I’m from Korea,” he said finally. “Yes, I gathered that from your accent .” “No, no, I know. But I mean North Korea . Do you know what’s all going on over there?” I released yet another sigh, having just then understood his entire situation. “Yes, I do .” “Well I escaped from there, on a boat, when I was fifteen. But before that, I was in one of those camps you know, because my parents committed some kind of treason when I was twelve . I think they said something about how the government was corrupted, and the neighbors overheard or something, and anyway that’s how I ended up there after they were executed . “It was one of those camps where they torture you to get information that you don’t actually have, whips and all that kind of thing, and they just kept doing it, the torture I mean, and I guess I kept dying . And then they’d leave my body there for someone to pick up, and one of you guys would come an hour later. The first time it happened was an accident, you know. I just kind of tripped back into my body when I found it, and after that I kept doing it .” “Kept going back into your body, you mean?” “Yeah . Dying is weird . Every time it happens, I still think I’m alive and I try to

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run, but I forget where I am, and I have to find my body again. I still can’t remember where I died this time. I remember it happening, but I just can’t . . .I just can’t put everything together. It’s all so hazy,” he finished with a huff and shoveled some eggs into his mouth . I felt pity settle in my stomach, guilt, actual sincere sympathy . With most people, it was hard to care that they died . They didn’t have much going for them, their lives served no real purpose . And they didn’t start out somewhere awful and forge on so their lives would mean something, like Soo-Hyun did . I swallowed all of that emotion down like acid. My job wasn’t to be sympathetic, after all . “Soo-Hyun – “ “You can call me Soo . Everyone calls me that .” “Soo . What happened this time? That you remember .” “Some guys I’d never met, on drugs I think, said I owed them money . Didn’t have any . I guess they killed me . I shouldn’t have come to Chicago . I used to live in New York . Have you ever been to New York—er, what’s your name?” “Jun . And yes, I have .” “Wait . June, like the month? That’s a girl’s na-“ “No, Jun, like J-U-N, as in Jun Mei .” He snickered . “Mei, like M-E-I, not May like the month .” “You said angels didn’t have an ethnicity, so why do you have a Chinese name?” “I don’t know . Ask God when you get to Heaven .” He seemed to completely ignore the not so subtle mention of his inevitable ascension to God . I was at a loss of what to do at that point, so I decided to be blunt . “Why do you want to keep living in such a corrupted world? You’re not even in your old hell anymore, and yet your life is full of suffering still.” “You must think humans are morons, huh? I just want to be alive long enough to be happy this way, somehow . I get it, you guys are always saying Heaven is paradise, but I don’t care . I’ve never been to Hell, but Korea was worse . I need there to be something good, or happy, or something, on Earth .” As he spoke, he kept his head down and all of the suffering he’d once experienced radiated off of his memories. The acidic emotion I’d previously swallowed down came bubbling back up like bile in the back of my throat . When I couldn’t force it back down, I put my hand on his, just to soothe.

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“Please, I’m begging you, forget all of that . It’s valiant, and incredibly brave, but please forget it . Dignifying this corrupted humanity isn’t worth putting yourself through death, again and again .” He sobbed when he looked back up at me, crying again . “So what then? Everything that I went through over there meant nothing? I wake up every night thinking I’m back there for nothing? It has to have meant something; it just has to. Jun, please. Please let me make it mean something.” I’m not sure what moved me to do it, aside from the heart wrenching guilt he was showering me with, but I got up from my seat and scooted next to him, and pulled him into a hug “The worst thing about humans is that when you choose to end your lives, it’s never worth it, and when it’s ended for you by someone else, there’s still a part of you who thinks life is worth living. But even if there is, even if you’ve got someone you need to be there for, or something you need to do, you have to move on . I’m sorry . I’m sorry . I’ve never been this sorry, but you have to move on .”“Please take me to my body .” Any other time I would have felt frustrated, angry . I might have yelled at him . But then I just felt exhausted, defeated even. “Very well.” I stood and offered him my hand, which he took with his right, left scrubbing the tears off of his face. When he looked back up at me, we were no longer in the diner . I had taken him back to the alley where his body was. It lay behind a dumpster, eyes open to reveal flat, cloudy irises and pupils . Rain had washed away most of the blood, and his skin had taken on a bluish hue . Rigor had begun to set in, quickened by the cold weather, and he seemed slightly bloated from being drenched in water . His face, or at least the face his soul had taken on, contorted at the sight of his body . I doubted he’d ever taken this long to return to his body, had never seen it reach this stage of decomposition . It probably only felt like thirty minutes to him, but I’d kept him for three hours . He took a weary step towards it, so I reached out and grabbed his arm at the elbow . “When you go back into your body, it won’t be like the times before . It’s been in the rain for hours, so you probably won’t be able to move . Your soul’s presence will reverse the decomposition after an hour or two, but you’ll be in immense pain .”

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He looked nauseous, “I’ve been through worse pain, I’m sure .” “Please think this over once more . Soo-Hyun, please come with me, I’m begging you here .” “I can’t do it . I can’t leave Earth . I can’t leave humanity behind . I’m not ready . If I could do both, if I could give up living and stay here, I would, but I can’t, can I?” I was going to get in a lot of trouble for what I was about to do, but somehow, I didn’t care . I was stupid, probably with infatuation, which was stupider still, but I had never cared so much about the well-being of a person, and could not help myself . Angels are not allowed to lie to humans about what’s on the other side . We shouldn’t have to, since it’s paradise, but whatever we promise a soul to get them to cross over must come to pass . It’s one of the biggest rules we have . So if I had to promise a soul he’d be able to eat the food from his favorite restaurant every day to get him to pass, someone upstairs would make sure that was available for him . “You could come with me!” I blurted before I could come to my senses, “and I don’t just mean to Heaven, I mean with me on my job every day. You could help me retrieve souls everyday if you want. You could find good people every day. The good that you’re looking for, all of the purity that remains in this corrupted world, resides within the souls of the dead . “It’ll make all of the suffering you went through in Korea finally mean something, because you couldn’t have arrived here and met me without it . You won’t have to leave humanity behind, and if, or when, you feel like you can finally stay in Heaven, you can do that . I promise that if you come with me to Heaven now, everything I just offered you must come to pass.” “You can . . .you can do that?” “If you come with me, I can .” “Why do you care so much? I don’t get it . Don’t thousands of people die every day? Why does it matter if just I keep living?” “I don’t know . I suppose I wouldn’t get in too much trouble if I let you return to living, but I don’t want to. I want you to find that happiness you were taking about. Will you come with me, Soo?” He looked at his deteriorating body, and then up at me, face struggling with decision . “I-I can come with you? Everyday? Even if I never get tired of it?”

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“Yes .” “You promise?” “I promise .” “You swear though? On God or whoever?” “I swear in the name of the Lord,” I said, and I couldn’t help but smile a little at the cliché . He took a deep swallowing breath and then dropped his hand into mine . “Okay .” A light appeared bright and blinding to our right . I’d always hated those stupid looking golden stairs, but for once I was relieved to see them . Soo, on the other hand, seemed frozen in place, terrified of the choice he had made. I tugged on his hand and stepped onto the first stair. “C’mon, I’ll go with you.” He smiled then. I felt for the first time like the romanticized version of an angel humans obsess over, even as we ascended those stupid golden stairs, even when he came back with me to Earth the next day, and the next, and the next .

81 Wire Harp 2015

Stormy NightTrina Butler

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Switchfoot in CharlestonRachel Corbett

83 Wire Harp 2015

༄༅། ། མུན་ནག་དེའི་ཁ་གཏད་དུ་ལངས་དུས།

ཨ་མདོའི་གངས་ཆར་རམ་འཇིགས་མེད་ཟླ་བས་བརྩམས།

བོད་ཅེས་པ་བརྟན་བརླིང་གི་ཧི་མ་ལྰའི་རི་རྒྱུད་བཞིན་གྲགས་པ་འབར་དུས། ཁྱེད་ནི་མི་རིགས་འདིའི་སྲོག་རྟེན་ཡིན་པ་བདེན་དཔང་བྱས་ཡོད་ལ།ལོ་ཟླའི་བང་རིམ་ཨ་ཕའི་ཐོད་རིས་སུ་བརྩེགས་དུས།ད་གཟོད་མི་རིགས་འདིར་གསོན་ཤུགས་བསྐྲུན་པར་ཁྱེད་ཀྱིས་དཀའ་སྤྱད་དང་བསམ་གཞིགས་ག་ཚོད་གནངས་ཡོད་པ་གཞི་ནས་རྟོགས་ཡོད། འོན་ཀྱང་། འོན་ཀྱང་་་་་་་་ སྐྱབས་གནས་མཆོག་གསུམ་ལ་དད་པས་ཐལ་མོ་སྦྱར་མཚམས་རེ་དང་། བྱིན་ཅན་མ་ཎི་ཡི་དབྱངས་རྟ་མགྲིན་ལ་གྱེར་མཚམས་རེ་རེ་ནས་ཀྱང་མི་བུ་དེ་ཚོའི་ཨུ་ཚུགས་ཀྱི་ཐོབ་ཐང་རྫུན་མར་དོགས་ཟོན་དགོས་དུས།དེ་ཚོའི་མིག་ལམ་དུ་ང་ཚོ་ཅི་འདྲའི་སྣང་མེད་ཅིག་ཡིན་པ་གཞི་ནས་རྟོགས་ཡོད།

ཕ་ས་སྨུག་པོའི་ཁ་དོག་རྡུལ་དུ་བསྒྱུར་ལ། ཕ་སྐད་གཙང་མའི་རྒྱུད་ཐག་གཅོད་ལ་ཉེ་དུས།ལྷིང་འཇགས་ཀྱི་ཁོར་ཡུག་ཞིག་ནས་ཁུ་སིམ་མེར་བཟོད་བསྲན་བྱེད་རན་མིན་པར། མུན་ནག་འདིའི་ཁ་གཏད་དུ་ང་ཚོ་སྤོབས་པས་འགྲེང་དགོས། ལྷད་མེད་ཀྱི་ལྷག་བསམ་དང་འགྲན་མེད་ཀྱི་གདེངས་ཚོད་དང་བཅས་ཏེ་འགྲེང་དགོས།

ཤེས་རིག་རིན་ཆེན་གྱི་སྒྲོན་མེ་སྦར་བཞིན་འགྲེང་དགོས། དྭངས་གཙང་ཕ་སྐད་ཀྱིས་མགྲིན་པ་ཕྱུག་བཞིན་འགྲེང་དགོས། མི་རིགས་རང་ཉིད་ཀྱི་འདུ་ཤེས་མངོན་བཞིན་འགྲེང་དགོས། མཐུན་སྒྲིལ་ཟབ་མོ་ཡི་དཔུང་རྡང་སྦྲེལ་བཞིན་འགྲེང་ཤོག

མུན་པ་འདི་སེལ་རག་བར་དུ། ན་ཟུག་འདི་དང་རག་བར་དུ། རང་དབང་འདི་ཐོབ་རག་བར་དུ། གཞིས་བཤེས་གཉིས་འཛོམས་རག་བར་དུ། མཉམ་དུ་འགྲོངས་ཤོག སྤོབས་པས་འགྲོངས་ཤོག །

Original Poem in Tibetan

The Echo from the Himalayas: Stand Against the Darkness (in Tibetan)Amdo Snowflake, Jigmed Dawa

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The Echo from the Himalayas: Stand Against the Darkness (Translation)Jigmed Dawa

When Tibet becomes as renowned as the steadfast Himalayan MountainsWe come to know that you are the life force of our people .Only when we see your forehead filled with wrinkles, We realize how many hardships you, our father, have made for the sake of our nation .

However, we must be wary of those who hold to trumped-up status with stubborn attitudes . We know we are invisible to them .

When our homeland turns to dust, when more and more people forget to raise the voice of their mother tongue, it is not the time to be silent . Let us stand against the darkness with courage, compassion and confidence.

Let us stand against the darkness with the burning fire of wisdom and with our genuine mother tongue . Let us stand against the darkness with national dignity, hand in hand with harmony and unity .

Until the darkness disappears,Until the millions of broken souls have been healed, Until the moment that all brothers and sisters gather together in the Land of Snow,Let us stand together with courage .

Translation

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The RookJaxsoniun Wright

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Summer is a MomentNicole Stevenson

A blue jay sings her song before flight spreads her wings . She glides by our faces – our ghosting breaths skim each other’s skin .

You touch my face,caress a smile into my lips . We laugh,for your hand trembles .

I like this warmth, holdingonto you, under the falling rain .

87 Wire Harp 2015

PatienceBrandt Wurzer

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The HowlAnne Harris

Night falls and the stars shiverthrowing glitter through the skiesas the moon begins to ascend .And the howl begins to form .

The snow is deep and drifted,drifted as high as old wooden fence posts leaning at obscene anglesover fields full of weeds and bramblesfrom a farm long gone to ruin .

The branches of trees are drooping to the earth,laden heavy with snow covered with icesnapping and breaking from the weightas the moon is rising higher .

And the howl is in his throat .He is mangy and skeletal and scruffyand hoping to find a mealin this God-forsaken winter .

He hears a scratching beneath a bush,something starving for a morsel of grain .He stops, listens, waits .And the moon is almost at its apex .

At the next sound of movement he pounces, the attacked unwitting in its search for food .A rodent, nothing but bones, now dead in his jaws.And the moon is risen and the howl of victory rips through the sky .

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Gentle TouchRoxann Maier

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Cerulean PlumeMichael Dean Williams

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StarsNicole Stevenson

Son

We’ve driven a complete journey without cell service. Total waste of time, you ask me. But you don’t. And when you do open your mouth beyond the frown that’s been set in stone, you ask me to put out the cigarette I just lit. It’s the only link between me and some sort of sanity you think I don’t have. Okay fine, so I hit him first –the kid at school. But he was asking for it. It doesn’t make me a monster, and the least you could do is act like you get that . I grow angry inside when I think of this, and I want you to feel for once the way I do. So I douse my fingers in spit, and crush the glowing cherry tip between my tips –and you wince, thinking it a hot coal on my sensitive fingers. I smirk, and with that hand I swipe the remaining smoke from the front of your scowling face . I turn away from you and focus on the fact that we’re in the middle of nowhere in the pitch dark . The only way I know for a fact that we’re moving is by the way the road seems to melt under your car as we drive 50 mph over it . We’re over a gravel path, and little pebbles ricocheting under us sound like bullets firing against metal. I told you I could drive, but you said you know the way better than anyone . Fine . Whatever . You say you want to get away from the city, and so we drive for two hellish hours to get as far away as you deem fit. Eventually, the car slows its pace and we’re pulling off to the soft part of the earth . You kill the engine and spare me a glance . As you throw the driver’s door open, it screams in anguish before it’s slammed shut after you exit . I’m tempted, for a moment, to stay where I am. But my legs ache with boredom. So I throw myself from the rusted jeep and find you at the tail-end. We’re in a clearing in the middle of absolutely nowhere . I don’t see the point to any of this, and you won’t tell me . You look to the sky like you’re reading a message in the stars . I sneer at your stoic face, and amuse myself and try to read the sky, too . I didn’t expect what I found . When I look above, I can’t help but feel how the sky swallows us from above and stretches its gaping mouth somewhere beyond the horizon . There’s hundreds –no, thousands of stars above. Before I can make a conscious thought of my actions, I whisper, “Woah, now that’s cool .”

Fiction Award Winner

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Father

We didn’t raise him this way . We’ve tried everything . No matter the result from us, he still thinks this is some joke. And then he goes and lights that damn cancer-stick in my truck. Hasn’t he broken his mother’s heart enough? She’ll be devastated to find this out. I want to reach over and smack that grin right off his face. I won’t. Damn it, I won’t! My father did it to me, and I swore I’d raise him differently. I force my attention away from him and to the darkness beyond us . I can hardly see anything beyond the headlights, but I know this road like I know the scars across my hand from working as a mechanic for so many years. Hard work. That’s what kept me in-line. But him, he’s too plugged into that damn phone to take the time to learn to navigate the land without a GPS . Not like me . That’s how we were raised back then . That’s the youths’ problem, I think . They can’t see the stars with all the damn light pollution and they soon forget . I see his glare when I catch his reflection on the window. I wonder if he knows how much we try to make him a better person? It feels like we’re scraping knuckles on bare concrete without ever seeing an end to our pain. He fights all the damn time. And yesterday, he damn near sent a kid to the ICU . What happens when he’s 18 and all the consequences are for him to figure out? I’d hate to see my only son behind bars before he can even make something of himself .

The night is set above us, blanketing everything in a peaceful darkness . We’ve driven far enough to clear away any sort of wilderness that would block our view, so I pull off from the rocky road and look at him before climbing out . I sigh, and the cold of the air teases against my exposed neck. I find a spot near the back of the truck and look up to the night sky . Eventually, I hear him exit the car, followed by the crunching of gravel as he finds a spot next to me. We’ve been cloaked in a veil of stars. I can guarantee nothing on that little screen of his can provide him with what he sees now . I can’t help but smile when I hear words of amazement fumble from his mouth before he can stop them .

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The Lady’s HorizonMichael Dean Williams

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Devouring LightBrittany Vens

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The SoldierMikayla Davis

He’s eight, thrusts the rocking horseback and forthback and forthhis pudgy fingers white against the flank, eyesnarrowed, my cries ignored .

As 10 he stands in front of my dollhouse,wide stance, hands on his tiny boy hips,our sister stomps her feetto get past . I huddle behind the roof,shielded by house and home .

Then he’s 15 with a shell of a gun restingon his shoulders, his blue suit creasedto perfection, his hat perchedon his prematurelybalding head .

And at 17 he looks away, knowingnot to touch . I cry, curled into the cushionsof the chair . Mother sleeps in a white bed with cold metal barswhile my father hides his face in his hands .

He turns 18 and fills our garagewith khaki MREs he’s sent home from basic .They smell of bark and fresh paint . His coughis worse now .

He is 19 when I am allowedto hug him at graduation afterwatching him march for an hour .His green uniform fits tight and he will be sent to Okinawa, Australia, Afghanistan .

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At 22 he is firm with muscles and stress, buthe is still here . He can’t playdancing games because his musclesare trained to stand only one way,but his trigger fingercan press the punch button faster thananyone .

And he’s 25 and returns with a wife from childhoodthat I don’t remember . We sharea song for him, Count on Me,and we know that he might not always be there to carry us .

When he’s 27 he sends us videos of jumpingfrom altitudes that require air-masksand the soldiers are beautiful in their excitementholding hands against the clouds,letting the fall take them .

At 30 he already has a little girl, teachesher words like paleontologist and Diplodocus .He mounts a gun-rack to their front doorto scare off boyfriends and to silencethe memories of war .

We watch him through Skype, laughas his daughter dances in circles,while he stands nearby to catch her .We wonder why the Army uses black bags as safety-nets .

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Urban RainCambria Edwards

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New WorldDevon Graves

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Years TravelledLindsy Wood

I am born the right weight and number of inches on the right day at the right time, with all of my fingers and toes and senses. I swing between two sets of hands down the sidewalk on a rainy day, with a bear-shaped honey bottle filled with root beer hanging from my mouth. I am happy, and so are the hands that hold me .

My father sells his freedom in tiny plastic bags and disappears in the back of a black and white car .

My mother meets “him .”

“He” has a daughter who’s older than me but younger than my brother and my sister . We move into a house too big for the five of us.

“He” writes new rules into the air that fill our lungs like ash and pneumonia, too heavy and thick and daunting, each with a lack of sense to them . My mother laughs at our expense .

Together they pour punishments into our bowls at breakfast and onto our plates at dinner, like grains of rice .

The three of us live in the basement for weeks at a time, with cases of Mountain Dew and packages of bologna, and the house that used to be too big is suddenly too small . “His” hand is the earthquake that destroys our house and the leash that pulls us away from it .

We walk dozens of miles, through beds made from playground slides, and truck stop bathrooms fashioned into nurse’s offices, to a motel room where we live on dry milk and fruit loops .

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I am old enough to recognize the police officers when they come to our room and whisk us away so quickly that I do not realize that I will not see “him” or her ever again . Years pass in my grandma’s house . I am a kindergartner, and then a middle-schooler, and then a senior in high school .

I cut off all of my hair and learn the scale with the tips of my fingers on snowy mornings, spend seven nights on a stage reciting satire, and read and write and read and write .

I spend two weeks in and out of a car with my diploma tucked away three thousand miles behind me, enthusiastically taking in sights for the first time that children sigh over, the first five years of my life no more than grayscale pictures to look back on.

101 Wire Harp 2015

The Wire Harp is a nonprofit annual publication of Spokane Falls Community College, presenting the creative works of students, alumni, faculty, and staff.

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© 2015 The Wire HarpSpokane Falls Community College

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