a humanities magazine

Director Ron Grant, MD, MFA Editor-in-Chief Uma Goyal

Visual Arts Editors Shadi Rafael Dan Combs Neil Gholkar Copy Editor Oren Rodriguez

Layout Editor Rebecca Parada

Contributing Committees Soroosh Beshad Barbara Gardner Sanjay Sinha Leigh Gardner Alana Thomas D. Rogers Luben Sigrid Gardner Special Thanks Steven Goldschmid, MD The Hill Family T. Philip Malan, Jr., PhD, MD Helle Mathiasen, Cand.mag, PhD Kenneth J. Ryan, MD Daniel Shapiro, PhD

For more information, please visit the Program in Medical Humanities website at http://humanities.medicine.arizona.edu Complete guidelines for subscriptions, donations, and submissions may be found in the back of this journal Front Cover: Strings in Harmony, Juliet Pea Recipient of the 2009 Kenneth J. Ryan Visual Arts Prize Inside Front Cover: That One Was Too Close, Kevin Reilly Back Cover: Tiny Dancer, Kevin Reilly Recipient of the 2009 Kenneth J. Ryan Visual Arts Prize Inside Back Cover: Pear Tree, Janet Alessi

Harmony
Harmony is a publication of the and is sponsored by Arizona Health Sciences Center The University of Arizona College of Medicine Medical Humanities Program and the Kenneth Hill Memorial Foundation as a gift for the community. All works in Harmony, both visual and literary, are the exclusive property of the artist or author and are published with her/his permission. Authors retain their copyright for all published materials. Any use or reproduction of these works requires the written consent of the author. Views expressed are solely the opinions of the individual authors and are not representative of the editors, advisory board, or AHSC.

direc t ors welcome

Dear Reader, As the new director of the Medical Humanities program at the University of Arizonas College of Medicine, I would like to introduce you to Harmony, our annual literary and visual arts magazine edited and published by our wonderful and very diverse group of medical students. Inside you will discover a different world of medicine; a world not of treatment plans and hospital options, but of poetry, essay, and photography. A world full of insight and personal reflection. I now know how valuable it can be to stay connected with this world. Recently, I came upon an old dusty notebook while cleaning out rgrant@email.arizona.edu a box of college and medical school memorabilia. Opening it to the first page, I found a few paragraphs of my (mostly illegible) handwriting that began with the sentence: Im overwhelmed by the excitement buzzing around the room. Realizing I had stumbled upon a journal I had begun at the start of my medical school career, I read on. I wish Grandpa Harry could have seen me today, read a line from the second page. (Grandpa Harry had been my inspiration when I was young.) Got my medical bag today with my name engraved on it in gold letters, was highlighted in yellow. (Yes, I was one of those.) And another line that jumped out at me: First day of anatomy labI still smell like formaldehyde! Do I really deserve to be here? Unfortunately, after about twenty pages, the journal ended, leaving me more than a little bit sad. Why had I not continued to write? I wondered as I leafed through the mostly blank pages. Though I was now someone who spent a significant amount of time writing about the touchy-feely side of medicine, I felt a great sense of loss at not being able to connect with that person who was once me, a person who once felt excited and privileged at the thought of becoming a doctor. So stay connected to who you are. Read our magazine, come to our events. Keep a journal, reflect. Because that is what medical humanities program is all about: staying connected to the part of us that brought us into medicine in the first placethe sense of our own humanity. I hope you enjoy this issue of Harmony.

ron grant, md, mfa

medical student class of 2011

uma goyal

Dear Readers, Each year Harmony Magazine reflects the talents of the people who submit their written and visual work to our publication. Their imagination and personal experiences are shown in the pieces that make up this magazine. And the work published in this years edition is no exception. However, much of the magazines preparation goes unnoticed. This publication is created through teamwork among the College of Medicines students, faculty, and staff. This years magazine is thanks to the hard work of multiple people whose dedication to the Medical Humanities program has allowed it to grow from older editions and revamp Harmony into their own vision of a literary magazine. It has been an interesting and exciting experience to make the 2008-2009 edition. I am grateful to have had this unique opportunity and to be able to put my Journalism degree in use while in medical school. I hope that this magazine is amusing and insightful for all who look through its pages. Enjoy

edit ors welcome

I was a munchkin that never dreamt of a world without sewers or gutter-religions, and as a mans man I never figured out why not. Humiliated. I once wrote, This world was built for sleepless teenagers and their nephews greatest grandchildren. I watched them. Watch men climb down stairs while children hold railings and their mothers, Unshaven. Sanitized of mascara. I had hang-nails and broken-pen stains on my palms and pockets. Satisfied. I wanted to embrace smoke and brew and despise alarm clocks and halftime shows. Validated. Explain to me please: homeless are pitied and law-makers make loopholes and enemies. Exploited. What yesterday could have been! Strip clubs and car bombs. Bimodal handshakes and leather strapped blouses. Brunettes with darker halves and Blonde girls with optimism. Treat YOUR self for once and forget the Hers. They killed themselves. Trim your nails and straighten your glasses for an interview with a priest in the morning. Hell know but he wont want to know. Do him a favor and tell him a lie. A Brunette type lie. Hell hate you and thank you for it.

me younger
janet alessi

Late night at a cinema. Calm. Followed on all sides. Forget her, she said. Forget her and embrace me. Give me your breath and fingertips. I will never ask you for a gift. Never cold. Love youth, because they are able to return favors.

patrick richardson

wiring

The world of medicine is a scary place. Vital decisions, life-altering treatments and missing tee time are all par for the course for doctors. Well after being fully engrossed in terror for about 18 months, I think Ive finally discovered the Scariest Thing in Medicine. FDR once proclaimed from atop a pile of his vanquished foes that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself. Well my friends, I have stared Fear Itself in its single unblinking eye and lived to tell the tale. The scariest thing in medicine is...the neonatal circumcision. During my last Family Medicine rotation I had the honor and privilege of acting as mohel to a young boy Ill simply call Unfortunate Victim. Dont worry, everything went fine. But honestly, who would have expected the parents to say yes when asked is it okay if the student does it? Regardless, I got to do the whole procedure from soup to nuts. Sorry, bad choice of words. Lets go with start to finish instead. Despite being closely supervised, I was scared witless the entire time. Last time I checked I was a boy, so my empathy was in overdrive. Forget uncontrolled bleeding, drug reactions or even death - those things are over quickly. This kid would see the consequences of my actions every time he looks down for the rest of his life. Unless he decides to wear pants. The worst part, aside from all the other bad parts, is that Ill never get to see how it turned out. Im like an artist whose work gets put on display at the worlds most exclusive gallery. A gallery with a zipper for a front door, and only the canvas decides who will get in. After all was said and done, and after my attending physician had time to stop me from weeping, I had time to reflect on what had happened. I had made myself an indelible aspect of that childs life (maybe irreplaceable is a better term in this case); Ill never forget little Whats-His-Name, and hell have a constant reminder of me. Our lives have become intertwined - which I think means he gets half of my student loan debt, too. So get on that, would you kid? But really, thats an awful lot of power. The same guy whos sitting here writing

goofy jokes will have somebodys life in his hands in a few short hours. And then another persons. And then another persons. And then yours...muahaha!! Sorry, got carried away. Its the kind of power that Ive been told tends to corrupt. One needs to look no further than Dr. Evil for an example. We all know what happens when doctors become corrupted they go into plastic surgery. Im just kidding! Theyre precorrupted and become doctors later. This experience has given me a new appreciation for the responsibility doctors carry. We have to keep our patients interests paramount and know what were doing? Pretty tall order. I just hope I can live up to those expectations. And maybe, with enough study and training, Ill get the reward every doctor hopes for when a former patient recognizes me, signals toward his crotch, and says, Nice work, doc.

a little off the top

colan kennelly

campana
4
dan shapiro

Over the years, I have been privileged to read many personal statements from prospective applicants to medical school. While each statement is unique to its author, there seems to be a common thread

compassion
janet vargas

that binds them all. That common thread has to do with their desire to change the way doctors interact with patients. It is their desire to bring compassion to medicine. Oddly enough, each of these authors has shared a story about at least one doctor who failed to show compassion for one of their loved ones. It is with strong conviction that these warriors are out to change the world of medicine into a nicer, kinder, gentler profession. What happens between writing the personal statement and becoming "the attending" they each wanted to be? What happened to the attending that vowed, as a pre-med, to show compassion to each patient? I think what happened was medical school and residency. If medical school alone did not beat out the desire to be compassionate, residency picked up where it left off. Medical school brings students in contact with residents, nursing personnel, staff, and attending physicians who are bitter and whose goal, it seems, is to make the medical student realize that he/she is the scum of the earth. They watch the students every move hoping to find some morsel of error that they can latch onto and thus be able to validate their right to lack compassion for the student. Being in shark infested waters would, in many ways, be kinder and gentler. Many of us survive that hazing adventure during medical school knowing in just a very short time we will start residency, and will finally be able to fulfill every word we wrote into our personal statement. But, we find that those same people who lacked compassion while we rotated through our clinical rotations did not leave. They are still present and have a louder voice than ever. They are the people that residents are exposed to, on a daily basis, as role models. Slowly, but surely, we begin to forget why we came into medicine. That lack of compassion is not only reserved for our patients, but soon, thanks to our role models, it extends to our family,

black eyed susan

tessie otalley

friends and colleagues. We are quick to size people up and pass

judgment without taking the time to really get to know them or as the saying goes, "Walk a mile in their moccasins." If you choose to hang onto the "cause" of changing the profession so that it truly becomes a kinder, nicer and gentler profession, you stand the chance of being emotionally beaten every day of your residency. So, to those attending physicians that survived the beatings, my hat is off to you! Please heal your wounds and come forward. You no longer have to cower and hide. Become our role models. Be that constant reminder of why we wanted to go into medicine. Let your voice be heard and remind us that it is the loud minority in medicine that lacks compassion and not the silent majority.

Life force. First Last. Automatic, integral Undetectable, silent, sweet. Vigorous, ardent Ready for all to come. Or labored, infirm Unsure, unsteady, timorous. Unwavering companion, First to last.
nicole capdarest

breath

this ear, or my other

This ear, or my otherPerceived as a listening piece Elicits such an outpouring Emotions, thought or speech. To heal the pained or wounded, Resolve conflicted minds This ear, or my other Is all they need to find.

mark gilbert

I cannot quite imagine Why I need to utter much My tongue has rarely changed the pace Of my eardrums healing touch. And I am still not sure If I should one day not hear That my ear lobes would be yet enough To heal them of their fears. This ear, or my other So simple its absurd The greatest need of a human beingTo believe they have been heard.

matthew medeiros

paula

the mountain
betsy whitesel
Pentacles on the lofty peak They gleam like stars in mystery My eyes climb the shaggy craig Until the stone pierces the brilliant Blue sky I am blinded by the divinity As I close my eyes The pentacles dance more clearly In the afterimage

white creek reflection

steve rodney

buckskin cliffs

Your hand is open I light upon it A twinkling butterfly Small I am, you think Looking more closely at my wings. Some brilliance in them catches your eye A rainbow here that glistens for an Instant from an inner light A soft feel of moonbeam from Iridescent blue The music of green plays a Meadow of flowers You follow the notes as they dance A symphony of love To the very source; The butterflys heart; Pink and white, vibrating laughter and love I hand you the mirror You see the mirror image

steve rodney

butterfly hearts
betsy whitesel

a tribute to randy pausch

janet vargas
I first heard of Randy Pausch in 2007 when my eldest son sent me the link to the YouTube presentation of his Last Lecture. After sitting and watching his hour long presentation, I was emotionally moved not only by his message but also by the number of people he inspired to make changes in their approach to life. For those of you who never heard of him, he was a professor at Carnegie Mellon University who was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He inspired many, myself included, and it was sad to hear of his death on Friday, July 25, 2008. His message was simple. Things we all should aspire to achieve and yet in this world where the message seems to be either What about me? or Its all about me! the simple lessons are often lost. I now humbly share a select few of his lessons. Lessons that I, too, have learned over the years. 1. Achieving your childhood dreams. During his lecture, he spoke about the importance of pursuing your childhood dreams and how these dreams need to be specific. For him, the dreams were playing in the NFL, being a Disney imagineer, authoring an article in the encyclopedia, winning stuffed animals, and meeting Captain Kirk. For me, my childhood dreams included going to college, becoming a teacher, becoming a doctor, going into the Peace Corp and giving back to my community. I also had other dreams like becoming a track star, performing in front of large audiences, and becoming a race car driver. Much like Professor Pausch, I have been able to achieve most of my dreams. While I have yet to become a race car driver, Im still young! To those of you who still have not taken the risk of realizing your dreams, I say quit finding excuses. It is never too late! Quit listening to the voices of others telling you why you cant achieve your dreams. Most importantly, stop listening to your own recording of, I cant because I know of what I speak. I realized my childhood dream of becoming a doctor at the very young age of 56. Currently, I am a second year psychiatry resident on my way to fulfilling that dream.

reasonable doubt
nataliya biskup
Ive drawn a line out across a page. Another one suggests itself. I rarely have trouble going on from there, Though there have never been two alike When I am done. I would have made a bad God. Sometimes I wonder where the lines come from; Why I know to merge them here and there To form a pattern that I have never seen before. I am not God and yet I too create, but randomly, Selectively, completely on my own recognizance. I start a circle, but do not complete it drawing Away my pen at the precise moment I sense is right. And it is right of course, for I make up the rules As I go. And I judge the result. The one that really gets me though is how I know When I am done. Ive never figured that out. But I suppose its like knowing each stroke is Right or wrong as though there was some pattern Of evolution that I was following in my minds eyes. But I cant see it before I start or as I go. I only see the lines on the paper as I put them there. I guess theres no sense in questioning the why or how. It seems to me if you can and do thats what is important.

the artist speaking

janet alessi
8

continued on next page

Achieving your dreams is wonderful, but equally wonderful is helping others achieve their dreams. Remember to go through life with one hand stretched out in front of you and the other behind you. Use the one stretched forward to hang onto someone who can help you achieve your dreams and use the one stretched behind you to grab onto someone and help them achieve their dream. Most importantly, remember that not a single one of us gets to where we are on our own. Dont forget to make time to show gratitude to those who helped you achieve your dream(s). 2. Tell the truth ----(All the time) Much like Professor Pausch, anyone who knows me will tell you that I tend to say what it is Im thinking and what I believe and much like him there are times when I have come across as arrogant and tactless. When it comes to telling the truth the legal system has a great definition for explaining the meaning of the truth. You tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Simple yet complete. Anything less is not the truth, it is a lie. Telling the truth may not seem easier at first, but in the long run it truly is. If you tell the truth, you know the facts and they are easy to repeat. When you lie, you have to remember what it is you said so that you can try and repeat the same story over again. Then you have to remember not only the lie, but to whom it was that you lied. Sooner or later you are going to trip up and get caught in the web you wove. People do not forget when you lie and whether or not you realize it, you loose credibility. Most importantly, if you have to lie to make yourself look good and/or to make others look bad, then you really must not think very much of yourself and sooner or later others will not think much of you either. They may not say it to your face, but the word gets around. 3. A bad apology is worse than no apology. Speaking the truth sometimes means you need to apologize. An apology should be sincere and from the heart. One should not ever apologize and try to conclude with a phrase that starts with the word "but." As Professor Pausch so eloquently describes, a good apology has three parts: 1) What I did was wrong, 2) I feel badly that I hurt you, and 3) How do I make this better? I often wonder if people could just give a sincere apology when things do not turn out as well as expected what impact that would have on our society. Over the years, I have had the opportunity to counsel families and it has not been unusual to hear a family member say, "Why should I apologize? I didnt start this!" It isnt about who started anything. Its about being mature enough and valuing your relationships enough that you can be sorry there is a void in the relationship. Its about you wanting to help the relationship get better as a result of being the first to offer a sincere apology. All you have to do is be willing to take the first step. 4. Dont complain just work harder. I have my parents to thank for giving me this perspective about life. They emphasized several things when it came to a good work ethic. Most importantly, not to complain and always work hard, that no job was beneath me, and the importance of treating others as equals. I can only pray that my husband and I have passed on these values to our children. During medical school I learned a new phrase,

Scut work. That phrase signified a task which a resident saw as beneath them and then assigned it to the medical student. I still do not understand the meaning of scut work because I was raised to believe that all work and every worker is important in order to accomplish the bigger goal. As both an older student and an ethnic minority, I have always had to work harder to achieve my goals and I can honestly say that it has been worth it. It truly is all about attitude. Just think how much we could improve society if everyone pitched in and worked. Think about how clean our world would be if we all cleaned up after ourselves? Better yet, how about leaving the place better than it was when you got there? Leaving the place better than when one arrives is a philosophy I embraced from my many years as a Girl Scout. 5. Have fun and play more. I have been married to my husband for 38 years and when people hear this they often ask, "What makes your marriage work?" Over the years Ive given some pretty pat answers. Today, I think I finally have the answer. We have never forgotten how to have fun, laugh, and play. We have also always remembered that loyalty is a two way street. Whether it is loyalty to each other, our dreams, our family, or our careers ~ it most definitely is a two way street. We have had some tough times in these 38 years, but I can honestly say that we have had many more fun times. We still hold hands and love spending time alone with each other. Medical school and residency have challenged us to remember the importance of making time for laughter, playing and having fun. 6. Live today to its fullest. I believe that Randy Pausch nearly perfected the idea of living each day fully. I wish I could say that I have perfected the idea of living each day to the fullest, but I havent. I keep trying and I think that perhaps that is the key ~ to keep trying. I try not to give up, not to be a quitter, and try to focus on what I have and not on what I have not. I know I am blessed because I have a strong relationship with my heavenly Father and He will always take care of me. I try to be the eternal optimist and look at the glass half full rather than the glass half empty. I try not to focus on the injustice in the world around me, but on how to effect change for the better. I remind myself that good manners are not "old fashioned," but a must if the world is to become a better place. I am thankful for the daily opportunities I have been given to positively touch the lives of others and yes, some days are easier than others. Wouldnt it be wonderful if we could all live our lives to the fullest and leave this a better world? I know that I will always want to keep trying both to leave the world a better place and to live my life to the fullest. My question to you is, "Are you up to the challenge to do the same?" God bless you, Randy Pausch. Thank you for giving so unselfishly of yourself and for leaving this world better than what it would have been without you.

I went upstairs last night and You werent there But your watch was Which reminded me that Time had passed And I was supposed to accept that. I cried myself to sleep and Felt this small With fulfilled dreamsI am supposed to Be that big And come to believe that what is what.

Im still afraid to go upstairs Despite my faith For who would guess With all my learning That a simple watch Would make me cry and feel such pain. I went upstairs last night and You werent there But your watch wasWhich reminded me that Faith and feel May not be so at odds again.

I lost my health one-day when Spring was tired On the way upstairsWhich reminded me that Truth and hope Are not quite one but must be so tied. A near-born child and father had Been upstairs Though never returned And much I loved Would meet there To only have passed through time or died.

my discovery on your leaving for college

mark gilbert

10

i brought my beachball

janet alessi

The faint smell of coconut suntan oil lingers on the plastic lounge chairs. It is discernable against the concrete trim of the pool, where a few hours earlier a collection of young, sun-blond girls sat in a line like birds on a wire. They splashed their feet in the water, threw their heads back in brazen laughter at the catcalls of men in knee-length, parrot-red swim trunks. They were slick and sizzling in the desert sun. Their youthful boldness betrayed by incessant fidgeting with the strings of their bikini bottoms. Wet footprints, just beginning to evaporate along the edges, are still visible in the humid night air. They weave between abandoned towels and pool accessories: a kick board, arm weights, a lone flipper, and mysteriously end at a table covered in french frys and a Wendys bag translucent with oil. I have slipped silently into the pool, unnoticed by the lone lifeguard, wilted from the heat of the day. It is only a few, sliding seconds after I press my foot against the pool wall, till I am in the middle of the lane. I am suspended. The cool water laps over my forehead and I splay my arms and legs to buoy myself, staring into the deep, star pricked sky. The position of my body, my suspension, the way only my nose and lips are exposed to the air, all of these things suggest my vulnerability. In my field of vision all I can see is the large expanse of sky; Cassiopea in the left corner, a cluster of unidentified patterns in my right. A lone star, surrounded for miles by emptiness, seems to flicker on as if prompted by a light switch. I am suddenly thankful for my vulnerability. Its just me and open space, now. The anxious questions parents asked me at the Childrens Hospital just hours earlier- directed to me because I was the closest warm body in the playroom, never mind I was only in charge of the afternoon activities, my inability to answer leaving me feeling so small

daisies
bess stillman

cassiopea in the left corner

these questions slip away from where Ive carried them all day in my body, letting me relax my back. With a swift exhale, I let out half my air and sink below the surface. Quiet. With every inch I sink, even the rustling of the trees whispering at the pools surface, have gone silent. I release more breath and sink even deeper, hugging my limbs against my bodys core. The moon appears to be rippling in the night sky. Its here, curled in the cool, dark womb of the pool, that I think about babies. About how you can toss a newborn into water and it will instinctively know to hold its breath and swim. I could do that once. I am still inextricably drawn to cool rivers, to deep oceans, to the chlorinated comfort of a heated swimming pool. It makes sense that I would have known to survive in such places since my birth. That I, too, crawled out of the water into the warm desert sun, left with the vestigial need to slip back under the surface and see moonlight ripple through silent space.

11

untitled
bill madden

His mind wanders aimlessly without pause To his Soul; to his Being His breath no longer deep His sight shallow from the cloudy sky The man again as a child; Trying to uncover ones True calling; ones True self In his thoughts he is consumed If he is to change his path Disregard the path he knows as learned Does he lose his Soul? -- or Does his Soul become Renewed? The power of ones path taken; holds tight But is it the grip on the vanquished? The conqueror faceless, nameless Holding one with a merciless, uneasy grip Or is it the gentle guidance of Divinity; His path lit with a firm but tender touch Offering an uneasy fidelity to ones true self? But on this ceaseless question Of the nature of ones paths now taken Is it the path that has been given or Is the one given yet to be taken?

green light sunrise

12

ones path given

scott hessell

Nana, you handle him so gently, yet so firmly, allowing him enough independence to explore while protecting him from harm. He is eight months old and stands tentatively on strong legs, feet pressed into your lap, his arms outstretched, and small hands grasping your thumbs. He smiles and laughs easily as I talk to him. His clothes are clean and neatly pressed, covering skin that has no blemishes. His height and weight are at the fiftieth percentile, he is in perfect health. You speak of your fear that he might be a drug-damaged baby, and you have no idea how to raise him. The worry shows in your brow and blends smoothly into the love shining from your aging eyes hidden behind bifocals. You ask, how can anyone give up their child for another to raise? Yet you know it is for the best. You condemn the worthless, drug addict of a mother who is off doing who knows what with who knows who and has no time for her son. The father is your child and he does not work and cannot raise his own son right now. The task falls to you, Nana, who at age 67 thought your child raising days were over. You did not ask for him, nor did you want to raise him. You accepted him, this obligation, because there is no one else really. He crawls everywhere and gets into things, you report. Is this is a sign of a cocaine baby? No, he is a normal child. His baby shots are up to date and he is regularly checked by me, his doctor, because you pay for it out of your social security pension. He is not included in the state Medicaid program and his parents give you no money. I tell you he is lucky to have someone like you as his foundation. He will know who loved and cared for him. It is the place of his mother to do so, you respond, and women like her should not have children.

You nurture, he thrives. What would happen if this nourishment were deprived? If I die, you say, his aunt would raise him along with her six children. That is not the concern. I know his needs will keep you alive until he can be on his own. But, what if his mother returns and wants him back? She said you could raise him only until she is ready to be a parent. His place is with his mother, you insist. But he thrives because of you, I persist. What would his life be like living with an unloving parent. Maybe you should seek custody. You will look into it, maybe, reluctant to take a child from his mother. She is a worthless woman, you add, perhaps someday she will change. He sits on your lap, head tucked into the softness of your breasts as the shot is given. You wipe away the tears and gently hug him back to a smile, the pain forgotten. His eyes look at you and say, thank you Nana.

doug campos-outcalt

nana

heart of the agave

13

keven siegert

candace johnson

the locket

Knocking, knocking, knocking. Who is that at my door? As I rush to answer, the noise fades away once more. I fling it wide and walk outside, searching all the while, And as I do, something new lies on my garden tile. A bit of gold, tarnished and old, its chain is broken too The little heart gives me such a start as a picture springs to view. A little child with eyes so wild, looks up and stares at me. I clutch my throat, is this a joke? It seems like eternity. Its been so long, was I so wrong, to turn this child away? Her long blonde hair, her beauty fair, she pleaded with me to stay. She asked then begged, filled me with dread, crying silent tears. I told her no, that she must go, theres no place for her here. So off she went, her shoulders bent, silently down the street. I said goodbye, I didnt cry but looked down towards my feet. And as I turned, I felt the burn as a knife went through my heart. I fought the pain, and the shame, although it was tearing me apart. And so here I am this Autumn, my hair has all turned gray. I sobbed out loud and wasnt proud, looking back at that last day. The girl that Id forgotten, the girl that I once knew, Her face captured in a locket, shining eyes of darkest blue. I had tried to keep her hidden, forbid myself to dream, But all at once I felt her, knowing what Id seen. It was time again to remember, time to hold her near, Trying now to recapture, that time that was so dear. For as childhood had raced by me, I locked it tight away. I was so afraid to embrace it, too afraid to let it stay. But as Im approaching winter and my body is soon to fail, I now reach out to grasp it, although Im gaunt and pale. For in that golden treasure, the face that had startled me, Was my own, before I was grown, and lost my naivety. I wanted back what I now lacked, my heart to soar once more. My young girl days, my childish ways, cares thrown out the door. So let this be a lesson, please listen to the truth. Be careful what you wish for, lest you throw out your youth. Take pleasure in the moment, live fully each and every day, Please stop to smell the roses. Please dont forget to play.

untitled
brian hunter

untitled

14

diagnosis
christine krikliwy
An earth-shattering telephone call delivers the message. My world stops. Maybe I didnt hear right. Too shocked to cry, my wheels start to spin. Airline tickets and packing. I need to see my mum ASAP. I board a plane overnight and arrive at the hospital. Am taken by ambulance with my mother to the best heart hospital in town. Through the ambulance window we can see the leaves changing color. There are twelve of us who have travelled from Tucson, Kitchener and Montreal. We join hands and say a prayer before they wheel my mother away. In the waiting room there are other families whose ordeal had already started. Ours is just beginning. The nurse comes in two hours later to inform us that she is doing all right. Three hours later a volunteer arrives and tells us not to worry. His family went through the same thing. He proudly shares his warrior scars with us. He tells us that we are on a ship stranded in the middle of the ocean patiently waiting for someone to throw us a rope. At lunchtime a cauldron of soup explodes. It clogs the drains of the hospital instead of our arteries. The smell is pungent. Corn and potatoes float to freedom. Security is everywhere to make sure it is not an act of terrorism. There is no soup to warm our hearts and bellies on this cold day.

luis rodriguez

pinocchio

Snow is gently falling outside the waiting room. It is so quiet one can almost hear the flakes hitting the ground. It is a time of solitude. One ponders deeply as life hangs in the balance. Have I been good or bad? Smokers abound, calming their frazzled nerves and polluting their inner selves and the first snow of the season. Does anything remain pristine, or does everything have to deal with the inner and outer environment of ones being? Lunch, teatime, almost dinner, seven hours later the physician arrives. My mum fared well, she is now in intensive care and we can see her for a few precious moments two at a time. Our ark has returned safe and sound ready to welcome her brood aboard. Time seems endless while waiting for those precious moments. It is scary. Technology at its finest, a tube to help my mum sustain life. I want to pick her up and run home with her. But theres a pink Styrofoam blanket hovering two inches over her, providing warmth and creating a barrier between my mum and me. Lifestyle, fast food and genes, families wait in the wings who unbeknownst to them will go through the same ordeal. In the meantime the surgeon continues to sharpen his skills.

15

Your head was light a few hours ago, after the first six. You were flirting with the checkout girl at Safeway, handing her sweaty dollar bills, loose change for the twelve pack under your arm, songs in your head, sun still high and burning. Now, only four remain, crowded between your legs, taking up space where children might sit to listen to the stories. You dont want to share the half-warmed cans with your friends who sink like stones into a dirty sofa to watch MTV babes flash across a silent screen. They are drunk enough. Jim City Indian wont shut up about the importance of tradition, cheap tape player pounds Dakata Hotain Singers into choking smoke while the coke-whore from two doors down puts her tongue in a bros ear, his hands down her shirt. They vanish behind a door. Other bodies slip past you, spread, blur, connect and you are suddenly afraid. You begin to talk, to sing your way out of the black silence that is pulling down your eyes. Your head is heavy. Your voice grabs out like someone falling. A bone pushed through your skull while you were sleeping haunts you Navajos scare you. Skinwalkers. Bear medicine. You sing out against it and the emptiness. And you try not to sleep. Your head has grown so heavy someone else must lift it. Your wifes hands empty the last ones down the sink. She sighs, calls your name into each hollow can, crushes each one when you dont answer. The children begin to cry and she is gone.

dreaming a way home

jennifer lee

16

mary matthews

Iktome on the ceiling walks the four directions, drops on your chest and you feel a vague desire to weep. Cell by cell is the way to destroy a warrior now, he tells you. You have two choices; Red Road. Black Road. You can no longer stagger in between.

hoisting their colors

Your grandfathers big, shiny, square face is bobbing like a tethered balloon above you, trying to teach you the steps again to that dance. Dont you remember your small feet chasing his shadow? He is suddenly angry, fingers on the lumpy scarred flesh you offered again and again beneath a burning sun and the tears of the people. Have you forgotten?

plaza

gary freiburger

The mystery surrounding the Grey gulch Awakens with the blast of a sand storm I hunker down to make myself small My face against my hands I wait With eyes closed The sand and wind howl around me I am carved by them I think Rough edges smoothed until I resemble The landscape When I move again after the storm I will look like myself once more

An urge, a trigger, a desire beyond belief, A voice inside that gives me no relief. I need a place to rest my weary mind, My heart has hardened, so hope I cannot find. Desire to change, but where do I begin, With a coach wholl help me to look within? I want to see what life is all about. I plant a seed. It grows into a sprout. The voice is back and calling out my name, Give in, Put out, these cries I can not tame. Why are you back when forward I must go? You do not care; youve always been my foe. Why cant I free my heart of all its ties, To the addicts voice that only speaks in lies? Hush! Stop! I can not take much more, Youve wrecked my life; Ive turned into a whore. I need some help, but who is there to ask, A priest or saint might be right for the task. Ill try again and find my inner strength. Ill walk the path of truths entire length. An urge, a trigger, a desire beyond belief, Ive found some hope, which brings me some relief. How long this lasts, I can not really tell, But this I know - an addicts life is hell.

ode to anger
betsy whitesel

an addicts cry
kimberley elliott

17

A lump in your oatmealperhaps your breakfast is less appetizing. A lump in your throatnothing like a glass of water to wash it back down. But a lump in your breastthats a little differentYou are told words you dont believe, In all honesty dear, a woman your age has nothing to worry about BUT, so both of us can sleep better at night why dont you have this followed up in about a month? So begins your thirty days and nights of nightly breast manipulation. Some nights you feel it and other nights you convince yourself that there is nothing there. Nonetheless, thirty days later the less squishy part of my breast that appears to round in shape that someone carelessly referred to as a lump is still there. You dont dare to vocally consider the possibility of the c-word, but internally our mind is a whirl You attempt to distract yourself with a philosophical debate. You ARE more than your breasts! Are you more than your breasts? The annoying bounce that has interfered with your sports participation in grade school you have come to expect and perhaps admire a littlea little too much Would any man glance your way after not only being flat as a board but also being mutilated flat as a board? Where is your feminism nowyou think in shame? You know that youre more than your breasts but you guess you have become emotionally attached to them over the years. Silly questions cyclically torment your mindHow will you breastfeed your child? How will your blouses lay? What will you do with the small fortune you spent on your bustiers? Waitthis is stupid! This is not about appendagesthis is about your life about saving your life! You now stand there shivering in a front-closure, paper gown while the female technician attempts her best to make you feel comfortable. No matter what she tells you, this monstrous machine is about to squeeze your breasts into oddly-shaped pancakes. Place them right here on this shelf, now lean forward and hold still. First, the cold plates compress from the top down. Then from left to right. And lastly, but just as humiliatingly diagonally across. You cannot help to twiddle your thumbs as you impatiently wait to be seen by the breast surgeon. Hes the one you got referred to follow up on your imaging studies. Finally your name is called. You cautiously smile back at your family that you leave behind in the waiting room. No matter what the verdict you wantedyou needed your family to be there when you find out one way or another. You once again find yourself in the front-closure, paper gown and you patiently wait for him to come into the exam room. After what seems like eternity you hear the knockand enters the breast surgeon 18

followed by his female chaperone. He carries the films that you presume carry your diagnosis. He begins to speak to you, but you hear nothing. All you think about is yes or no. Do you? Do you not? Finally all you hear is, the films clearly show

elizabeth cudilo

the lump

complementary
angelica gomez
I walked into the room and discovered a husband and wife. The charge nurse told me that the woman experienced a stroke a few days ago and that she was unable to fully communicate. She also mentioned that her spouse stayed with her and that he may be willing to fill in any blanks that she could not. The man appeared weary while the woman looked out the window. Hi there, I greeted them both. I proceeded to tell them that I was with the College of Medicine to ask if they would be willing to be interviewed

and examined by first year medical students. The woman grinned at me brightly while the man sighed slowly. I continued to express to them the value of sharing their experience, the small size of the group, the approximate length of time involved, meanwhile gauging the general mood of the room. It was not promising. Today he said shaking his head, is not a good day. She is still..recovering. The woman listened intently, smiling most of the time. I understand, I told him with a nod of assurance. Not today is an acceptable answer. I looked toward the woman to return her smile, Thank you for your time. The woman slowly began moving her mouth. Noiseblackoneright. she said proud of her accomplishment. You see, her husband apologized, She hasnt been able to speak well. if at all. his voice sounding fatigued and discouraged. I know, I said as I winked at her, It took me awhile before I could put a sentence together after my head injury. Her smile widened. Her husband looked at me quizzically. I leaned toward him and whispered, Its OK. I speak a little aphasia. I briefly told them that at sixteen, I encountered a major head trauma that left me somewhat impaired for almost a year. It could be sometimes frustrating but truthfully, fairly funny. I believed that I recovered more than less. There was a glimmer of optimism in his eyes. I wanted to continue telling him that the impairment was purely seen on the outside. On the inside, it was extraordinarily cool. My mind stopped harboring thoughts: no future, no past, no judgment. There were no worries about speaking properly. In fact, there were no worries at all. As I tried to find the words to explain, my aphasia found me once again. I was at a loss in how to describe it. As I looked toward her I saw that she understood clearly.

marana sunset
david vangelder

The exchange invigorated the woman. She began to piece words together talking about her time in the hospital, the family dog, breakfast, and anything else that seemed important. Thirty minutes passed. I enjoyed the conversation but needed to move on to find todays quota of willing

19

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patients for the students. Despite our exchange, I still knew the answer for this room. I began my goodbyes. Minutenow? she quickly interrupted. Its totally alright, I said again seeing the pressure this was putting on her husband. Oh no, not today, he replied, shaking his head with certainty. She looked disappointed. Ill tell you what, I interjected, Ill be looking for patients again in a couple of days and Ill stop by to check on you then. Is that alright? She smiled in agreement and I returned it with a would return. I believe I heard him quietly mention something about moving her to rehabilitation tomorrow as I exited. Two weeks into this block and it is apparent that neurological patients are difficult to recruit. Fortunately, they are my favorite people.

Touched heartsrapidly beating steady beating slow beating stopped beating Silence. Wiped with an alcohol pad between the beats on broad chests small chests old chests young chests much too young to be dying. Tossed in a lab coat slung around a perspiring neck sometimes lost Then found by the initials j.r. Carved into the metal by an ex lover Who broke my heart, Still beating. Now sitting on the bottom shelf of my bookcase A reminder of the hearts touched lost loved Memories of their journey Beating in my heart.

stethoscope first tree to go

john murphy

jennifer reich

20

This is a story from the early 1970s when I was a resident at Tripler Army Medical Center in Honolulu, HI. Mrs. C had had diabetes since early childhood. Because of the limitations of medicine in the 50s and 60s, her diabetes control had been very poor by todays standards. With the only way to monitor diabetes control being urine dipsticks and the quality of insulin being variable, Mrs. C had developed Class D diabetes. Class D diabetes is defined as diabetes having being developed before age 10, having had the disease more than 20 years, and having vascular complications. In Mrs. C this meant that her iliac arteries were seen to be calcified on x-ray (ultrasound was not yet part of the medical armamentarium). We knew that the calcification was not limited to her iliac arteries. Mrs. C had wide spread vascular disease that would soon lead to further diabetic complications. Mrs. C had wanted to be a mother for a long time. She had been pregnant and miscarried three times before. It was agreed by both the medical and nursing staff that this would likely be her last chance to be a mom.

dusk at black mesa

keven siegert
holding her baby's hand. After a week there was a day with no new problems. The next day, Baby C began to improve. And, within another week, Baby C was ready to go home. Like countless times before and since, I watched her dress her now healthy baby in her new outfit. Her gentleness and love flowed out of her fingers into her now healthy daughter. Done preparing her child for the journey home, Mrs. C expressed her thanks to the nurses and I. We said our goodbyes. As she turned to leave she handed me a card. As she walked out the door of our NICU I opened the card and read: Thank you for my baby's life.

Because she already had major complications of her diabetes more than 30 years ago, it is highly likely that Mrs. C. has since died. But Her baby was born at 36 weeks gestation. somewhere, Not very premature, but because of her perhaps Baby C is now a Mom of her own mother's diabetes she developed numerous children. I hope so. complications. Hypoglycemia, respiratory distress syndrome, sepsis, jaundice. Baby C suffered from them all. Each day there bill madden seemed to be a new crisis. Mrs. C was always there, watching, asking questions,

mrs. c

21

suzu igarashi

friends

Somehow they know

When reluctant clouds over my head hover and stall. When mean slosh on my shoulders stair and fall. When lifeless bean bags on my ankle shimmer and rattle. Somehow they know when to ring. Those psychics called "friends",
neil gholkar

Truth came unannounced to your door last night Changing your viewpoint from left to right? Its truth that tempts away hope when it steals, I know well of this robber- this thief of ideals. Your angry tears, your pained disbelief Did you actually think that youd live without grief? Truth, to its credit, makes an honest earning Though it steals away comfort It leaves behind learning. Learning, you say, whats that next to strife When youve lost the love that defined your life? But learning is not to avoid future pain The learning is hopes renewal again While suffering is often the proof of whats true Hope being eternal is what gets us through.

truth and hope

mark gilbert

22

balance

Somehow they know.

A wet brick wall glows rust like rectangular basketballs throwing light back to the sideways sun fiberoptic birds of paradise pulse orange, yellow even rocks are blushing Roses move like a red velvet curtain ready to signal the end of this show Sometimes the sun rides on the tail of a storm into twilight bringing the desert from muted to manic But first, one last moment of grace a fleeting final bow a reminder just in case you didnt hear the thunder answer each flash with some applause or a whimper signaling the end either way This is another kind of light that cannot linger golden and gone in a monsoon minute the air rings and colors vibrate like a tuning fork soon silent 23

monsoon minute
peggy gigstad

no place like home

jessica serrano

and back again

lindsay gunnell

the letter

I knew 3 things irrevocably: 1. He hated me 2. On a surface level, I hated him too 3. I knew, deep down, that I would treat him like my own flesh and blood Dear Dr. H, You are probably a doctor emeritus now, even if that designation didnt exist in your day. Ill just be brief. I dont think you knew. What you were asking. To first do no harm. Every man who hit his wife. Every person who lies. Everyone who abusesheroin, chastity, their own body, a child. Then they come to me and ask metreat my bruise. Even though I doled out thousands more. Give me vicodin. Even though the pain is a lie. Give me a second chance. Because I ruined my first. Treat my STD. Even though I cheated to get it. Staple my stomach. Even though I dont want to change. Listen to my troubled past. Even though I just gave a child a past that will haunt her for a lifetime. So theres that. Then theres that when Ive been awake for 48 hours. And I just regretted snapping at the nurse down the hall. And in my past I never had a mom who was around. And my parents were divorced. And my boyfriend died in a climbing accident. I just want you to know that this hurts me. But I want to say thanks. Even though its hard. For helping me to give the benefit of the doubt. 3 things Ive unequivocally learned: 1. I am judgmental 2. I am usually wrong in my surface judgments 3. There is a part of me, albeit however small, that will one day live up to my expectations Sincerely, THE OATH

suckah got busted

nick panayi

my love and personal (valentine)

Recipient
of the

Mathiasen Arts Prize

24

stefan walz

christie
Circle Two: How am I not myself? You are bones wrapped in brown flesh. I have never been anywhere. Words cannot compete, With you, Like God strewn across clean, white linen. I forget how I came here, Why I stay. I try to pull my presence away from the bed. You tell a story beyond words. You are the space between life And what others call divine, What I call everyday. My blood is on your sheets, Falls from your eyes, My story on your lips, Restless, Today is beautiful Because it is here. I do love you, I hope its enough.

Circle One: Where is my mind? The body is not a prison, From which we must escape, A cage in which we must parade For peanuts. The Hereafter is Here not after. Pardon me, Thats not complete: Its here There Both and Neither. I know, Dance a song, Compose a cake, Sew a story, No, poets write visions, It really lacks reason. Still, what I do is as real As human flesh And human bone. We can see eternity, An ocean of daybreak, From the vacant lot Behind my house.

daniel lopez

untitled

Circle Three: Once Opened, Never Again May Close, The Worlds On Fire, Come Forth Like Rain What I work to provide, Was denied to me, In a world plagued and possessed, With false morality. The ways of men--to taste the flesh of Children, saints and thieves. To live and love in light of day, May we always see, When I breathe out you breathe in, I am you and you are me.

25

My abuelitos suitcase, holding a lifes worth of pictures, didnt open until he died. He was stubborn like a splinter and had the temper of a dust devil. He was the type who would scold a fly on the other side of the house, the type who would grab his belt if a grandchild went into the wrong room or sat on the bed instead of the ground.

I come across a black and white picture of a brown boy with the warmest smile staring into the sun as if into his happy place. Behind him is a pile of scrap wood ladders, wooden planks, a small table. To the right, a parked, 1950s truck.

I smile with my father. This is the happy childhood he talks about, one where hed run around the town barefoot or race popsicle carts down the mountainside. This is what he means when he tells He never hugged or kissed his own children, my sisters and me but they never failed to kiss his hand in reverence. The richest man is not the one The first Christmas tree didnt come up until they were adults. who has most, Its ironic how such a frigid, strict man never remained still, but the one who needs the least.how he was always moving about his dirt dominion putting order to scraps of wood and metal. Even when sitting, his hands couldnt stop working, maybe from the muscle memory of his childhood when hed roll up cigars with the other boys to keep the mosquitoes at a distance tomas amaya during humid summers in Veracruz, far from the desert he hailed from in Chihuahua la tierra del sol. Yet another irony was his green thumb, which was much like Narcisos, the town drunk in Bless Me Ultima. Despite his avid taste for 40 oz Carta Blancas, and his blizzard aura that rivals the desert snow, my abuelito raised some of the most fruitful plants in Jurez, a border town that has sand for earth and smog for sky. Unlike him, his watering was religious so that at different times of the year, family and friends could count on their share of plump pomegranates, apricots, and peaches. My grandfathers garden held all the romance and affection he denied his body the chance to express. A curandero up in Wenatchee, Oso Chacn, told me on a spiritual retreat to Silver Falls that all life wants to express itself the flowers, insects, trees, rivers, and clouds, they move as dancers do confidently asserting their emotions. Humans, however, are not always sure of their beauty and so my grandfathers manifested itself in the plants that he watered daily and in this box of photos, where he preserved in a seed the love for his children, and even the wife he would beat in a drunken frenzy. Those dark stories werent captured, but remain.

the one who needs the least

magical clouds

nancy huff

26

Ive been trying hard to lose my watch, but I just cant seem to get rid of it. Its really a shame because this watch is perfect for me. Its simple, but not boring. Not too flashy, not too plain. Not too big, not too small. Its brown leather band wraps warm and snug and smells soft and earthy. Even its lean second hand moves with a distinct tough attitude, tick-a, tick-a, tick. She gave it to me as a birthday present because she was tired of seeing me always wear my digital sportswatch which was plastic, void of personality, and smelled of my last workout. After we broke up, I put everything she ever gave me into a brown box for Goodwillexcept the watch. I argued that the watch still had purpose worth keeping. I could wear it to interviews. I was too busy (and cheap) to buy a new one. Plus, it fit just right. But now this watch weighs on me. When I put it on in the morning, I remember waking up next to her. Its band reminds me of holding her, warm and comfortable. Its once endearing ticking awakens echoes of our ugliest arguments. I see old reflections in its clear face that are now long gone. Id feel guilty to simply destroy my perfect watch; to throw it in the garbage would be a waste. One afternoon I purposely left it in my lab coat pocket and nonchalantly swung my coat over my shoulder as I walked across the entire campus, hoping it would fall out. Yet, the following day when I slipped my hand into the pocket, I uma goyal felt its cool silver frame, unmoved and mocking. I decided that given all weve been through, perhaps this watch and I deserve to depart from one another with more style. However, finding a creative exit strategy is trickier than I thought 1. I could sneak it into the offering collection plate at church. Downside: future church bulletin blurbs about a mysterious watch found or worse, the priest making an announcement, Good heavens, did someone lose their perfect watch? Potential workaround: attend a random church one Sunday and never return. 2. Leave it at the grocery store. I could fasten it to a celery stalk and take off. Downside: not very hygienic to touch others food. 3. Mail it to someone who lives far away in Africa, Sweden or Ohio. Downside: suspicious watch package may lead to potential confusion with terrorist mailing attack. Also, I dont know anyone in Ohio. My watch started to lose time so I replaced its battery with a life-long battery and that one died too. So I replaced it again. Then the fastening loop on its warm band broke. I tried to replace it, but Dillards doesnt manufacture that same style anymore, so I left it as it is for now. Its funny. Perhaps my perfect watch has been trying to lose me tooIm just not ready to let it go.

dubai

27

oren rodriguez

the watch

A sullen azure sky envelopes his thoughts As the winters late sun gives way to a frigid moon The coldness of his thoughts On questions of his missed resolve Reveals a deep melancholy As a morose - unforgiving and undaunted Shrouds his consideration As the violet robe weighs heavy on his shoulders Hanging like a shroud, impervious to his emotions But, as with its royal brethren Symbolic of his private noblesse oblige Its omniscience, forever his guide Pointing without disquiet To his imposed Gentility But Hope is eternal, as flaxen wheat sways In the summers warm breeze And in its quiet dance His hope rises - reaching to the sun And as the day stretches across the dial His solitary dance pronounces a faith As the divine Phoenix promises a calming temper And of this disposition, The verdant gardens springs a hopeful beginning As life renews and captivates The sounds of her laughter A childs voice echoes in his ear A tender touch on her brow Radiates his Rebirth For this renewal its hope and assurance The earths terra cotta faade emits An enveloping warmth Embracing and protecting

a souls prism

scott hessell

As a prism, his life serves A medium for his souls expression Revealing a complex simplicity And as for the lights refraction His prism, his life Unmasks his souls spectrum

Its strength, as of his spirit, Is given from the land And the soil from which he sprang Gave of themselves equally And from them, his calm And solidity are born And for those in his heart Tenderness and protection reside In his heart, the rising embers of a fire Its crimson core radiates An uncomfortable intensity But its heat, inspired by her senses, Is unmatched For him, an unrestrained power Is unleashed Passion now replete; Unrivaled by the Sun Breathes a joyful effect The moons melancholy cannot be Without the suns brilliance And his Souls hopes cannot be Without its fears As his Souls light is dispersed His life; as a Prism Reveals

bess stillman

roots

28

It is Sunday, late afternoon. The weekend is nearly over. Its been homework and housecleaning, car washes and dog baths, yard work and yoga, sneaker shopping and Sunday school, kathylynn saboda but now - the list is complete. My younger daughter and I wander in the Walmart near our house. It is open to our whim. I am thinking about DVDs and the garden center, but Dorothy wants to go to the make-up aisle. Help me pick out a lipstick, please she grabs my hand in hers and pulls me. Her steps quicken and I come along, reluctantly. Lipstick lipstick She wants to pick out lipstick.

my mother never taught me to put on lipstick

I am 46 years old. My daughters are 17 and 14. When I was as old as they are, make-up and its mysteries were out of style. I was a wanna-be hippie. In the late 1970s, my hair was dirty brown, long, to my waist and parted straight down the middle -Make-up and me were non-existent. I was ala naturale, O.K. I tweezed my eyebrows and shaved my legs and arm pits (but many, many of my friends did not). Still, the concept of make-up eluded me and besides, my mother never taught me to put on lipstick. My mother was a beautiful woman. Petite, unlike me, barely 5 foot 2 inches tall and small-boned. She had golden blonde hair which she tossed side to side when she laughed out loud. And as much as I can judge such things, she was sexy. Even after 5 children I was the third, she turned mens heads in the neighborhood park, at my school, in the grocery store But she never taught me to put on lipstick. She always wore lipstick bright red-like a blood stain. I watched her apply it in the dimness of her bedroom. The lighting enhanced her entire mystery, and I, sitting on the edge of my parents bed, was in awe of the magic she congered while pulling on her girdle and lacy bra. She pulled on stockings, real stockings, that clipped into a garter belt with a soft snap. In her underwear, she picked up the lipstick from her dresser and twisted the brazen color with a single graceful motion. Voila, her lips were painted. She would then take a tissue from the box on her dresser and put it to her mouthleaving a shadow of a perfect kiss that she tossed into the waste basket by her dresser. To finish her prayer, she would take the perfume bottle and spray the air. She walked into the linger in her lacy lingerie, capturing fragrant whispers on her skin.

sedona sunset
nancy huff

This night I am telling you about, my parents were going to a dinner with their best friends, our next door neighbors. The ones whose son I was in love with. It must have been a fancy thing because my mom was wearing her black evening dress with the flowered bodice. It was one of my favorites because of the many buttons. She always let me close the back. I sighed each time the cloth covered button slipped into the hole. Each time she wore the dress, I kneeled at the edge of my parents bed, buttoning her up, bottom to top, stretching a bit to reach the last two.

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When she opened her closet, I exhaled. She had everything a woman needed - lacy, fancy, silky, white, black and so many shoes. That night, she picked her paten leather black sling backs. She took them from the box and leaned against the closet door, slipping the lovely shoes onto her feet. After she was done and with both feet on the ground, she turned towards me and extended her arms with a flourish. I inched on my knees towards the door and she kissed me on the top of my head. Turning she blew me a kiss. When she was gone I relaxed against her pillow and listened as her high heels clicked on the stairs. Before I went to my room I raided the wastebasket for her tissue kisses so I could sleep with them under my pillow. Now, Here. I stand in the cosmetic aisle in Walmart. Dorothy asks me- Is this the right color for me? I stand mystified, dumbfounded, and, mildly annoyedUntil I was thirty, already a mother myself, I never bought myself a lipstick Since then I usually think reds But sometimes its Pink And when I am feeling wild I remember, my favorite color is purple Dorothy shows me a chart that is attached to the lipstick shelf. It has something to do with skin tone and hair color I cant help but panic I flash back to a party in the early eighties and questions about seasons and color combinations-things like this have always made me sweat ... It apparently doesnt matter to Dorothy She makes a choice without my terrified input. I am so relieved and dutifully produce my debit card at the kiosk. The next day, Monday, I am driving Dorothy to school At the stop light, we do our make-up. continued on next page

30

masquerade

nataliya biskup

Foundation, Blush, Mascara, Touch of eye-color, Today it is blue because I am wearing my denim skirtI take out my lipstick, color the shape of my lips I turn and smile at Dorothy. When she looks at me and I see a beautiful woman. Her sky blue eyes mirror the look of my mothers I have seen boys turn their heads when she walks by She is her grandmothers True enough since she is named for my mother That moment she laughs at me, You always mess this up Taking her finger, she edges my lips Cleaning up my mess, As she gets out of the car and shoulders her backpack, She turns toward me once more I am baffled by her sense of beauty and authority Both- the reckless haughty of youth. When she closes the car door I yell out after her My mother, never taught me to put on lipstick Dorothy smiles at me and tosses her hair Neither did mine

luis rodriguez
We give you struggling Americans in a weak economy We ask you to restore the American dream We give you an abused and ravaged environment We ask for a heritage for our children We give you a country entrenched in war We ask for our troops at home in peace We give you a staggering national debt We ask for a lighter burden We give you a country of great diversity We ask for a common vision We give you a history of forgotten promises We ask for a new beginning We give you a demanding and changing world We ask for courage in the face of adversity We give you the problems of many yesterdays You give us hope for a new tomorrow

elizabeth

31

hope for a new tomorrow

karen greco

linda j, rn
bill madden
Flashing eyes and hips Intensity of thought and feeling Ribald humor and quiet assurance She demands the best from us all But the most from herself She works best when there is too much to do there is mass confusion there are too many Category 5's there is sadness and despair there are too many doctors and not enough nurses to go around Big kids Little kids Young kids Old kids She can handle them all Just so long as they are the sickest Of the Sick Linda has, I am sure her own trials her own fears her own wants her own needs But they are left behind When she walks in the door Wearing green scrubs That are her suit of armor For in the Unit She is a Nurse Dedicated to Curing But most of all to Caring And for that We will always be eternally grateful

darla keneston

dont move

hummingbird
phil malan

32

After all the tests, x-rays, and the valiant quiet conversations with my doctors, we all agreed I needed to get rid of certain parts of my anatomy. I was assured that I would feel better after it was all said and done. That is, if I survived the process. And I did. And I am. The resilience of the human body to heal and go on puzzles and amazes me. I remember years ago I met a very beautiful older woman in the bus who proudly confessed that her doctor had been very impressed with the fact that she had no missing parts. Please do not take the sun, the stars, the trees outside my home, the light streaming in on Sunday mornings while the chirping is happening outside. Do not remove the smiles on peoples faces, the human voice, and for that matter color. I surely will not live without those parts.

anatomy study
luis rodriguez

missing parts
33

evamaria lugo

Blown bare by wailing wind, these Montana prairies, remote, austere, abandoned, homesteaders houses leaning, listing southeast, silent immigrant ships tired of sailing against the storm. Weve deserted their decks without a word. Taciturn at twenty-two, I remember well silently shouldering the storm door open, straining against that

homewords

winter-white wind that rips and tears my northwest words away, that blows and blows and blows us boys and our young wives away to the east, to the south, storm so far, so fierce we howl around the corners of the world and blow back winters and winters later from the east-west, the north-south syllables as spare as when that wind tore our words in two. Home again now, decades downwind, seeking shelter still, houses, husbands, wives cold, vacant, gray. Downwind, snowed in, still waiting for the words.

ron pust

prague, december 2007

vince sorrell

It is another glorious day and I should run every cell in my brain tells me to but the majority of cells are elsewhere pulling me into the big chair reaching for books those fat cells have a vested interest in the status quo They like being carried, happy on the rolls do not want to be bounced out if their makeshift homes hiding in the shadows under big shirts and elastic they take squatters rights and breed like flies subverting the aristocracy, they hide underclass but they rule peggy gigstad

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From a long night I have returned a mother. My son cries his announcement and we consider one another with curious eyes. I touch his tight-curled fingers, kiss the spiral of fine delicate hairs on his forehead that looks like a universe unfolding. As I doze with him in the crook of my arm nearest my heart, nurses cluck their tongues and say You should put him in the bassinet. I ignore them. It has been a difficult journey and we need each other. Behind my lids I see her, that girl I was on the cellar floor, head bleeding for so many, many years, near the roar of the green furnace that rattled her bones, I still feel the warm urine spreading in alarm beneath her. Shell be in trouble for that. But its okay, Im coming for her now. I have returned a mother and though she doesnt call or cry out. I hear her. She waits, rooted in that damp spot, eyes fixed on a sharp sliver of light from the door at the top of the stairs. She waits

for what comes next. But it wont be him this time, barking Get up here! through clenched teeth. He was never able to stop the bleeding. I am tired but I do not sleep, this girl has swallowed her voice and choked but I hear her and I am going back for her. Down that spirit road where time does not exist. I have wings that tear me through the doors of that green, shingled house past the averted eyes of my mother, clenched fists of my father, down those worn wooden steps where I see her and she sees me and I reach for her and she reaches back We will never be separated now. She is the bravest part of me. I smooth her hair, kiss her forehead and we move past them out into the gentle air and the sounds of the trees cheering. The sky was blue for her, too.

returned a mother
jennifer lee

bill madden

untitled

35

janice degan

the pear

There was a tiny flaw a bubble, I think - and it was set aside and marked second. It was inexpensive, and I decided I had to have it. As I brought it to the counter, my largerthan-life friend took one look at it and said, Oh, fabulous, Ill take it! I must have had a shocked look because she suddenly realized I had wanted to buy it. I told her to go ahead she could have it, and she quickly said maybe shed give it to me for a Christmas gift or something. My first sense was disappointment, but then I thought about it. The pear was a beautiful one-of-a-kind, and no matter where that pear went, it was still the pear. Possession doesnt change a thing only in the mind of the possessor. Possession is only an illusion. I started to think about all those things we yearn to own houses, cars, clothes, jewelry an endless list. Must we own them, or is it enough to witness them, appreciate, acknowledge? Does it have to be mine to be of value? If the pear resides in my house or her house, does it matter? The pear is just the same, just as beautiful and it can always exist in my mind, wherever it is. Some years later, I did come across another pear made of stone. I bought it, enjoy it, admire it for the shape and beauty, but most of all Im always reminded of the lessons of that pear so long ago.

I really didnt have a sense of anything big coming my way I was on an out-of-town, impulse weekend with a friend who just happened to be an impulsive and compulsive shopper. Spending hundreds of dollars at each shop, she was on a roll with a seemingly unlimited bankroll. I, on the other hand, was recently single and definitely in a limited spending mode. With an hour to spare before my flight home, we ducked into a tiny shop full of blown glass art all crafted by the shop owner. It was almost too much to take in beautiful, colorful, unbelievable shapes and designs. My friend immediately grabbed items from several shelves, while I wandered and admired everything. I noticed a shelf where fewer things were displayed and there it was. I spotted the pear. It was life-like in every way size, color and even weight, but it was blown of glass.

madrigals, cambridge
phil malan

36

untitled

bill madden

This January afternoon I sit and think of you wherever you may now be you must know Im in the shade of acacias and though the gravel is uneven and the smokers with spiky hair imbue this restful place with choking smoke The breeze lifts the newspaper page, plumbago waves its faded blue, silent jets float overhead trailed only later by a dull roar, and every so often a white coat hurries by. And I think of you. Before the cancer did its work did you stride across a campus or a busy street or sit lost in thought at your kitchen table, despairing at the irresponsibility of children? At the shoddy way the kitchen table was made? Why tomatoes dont taste like they once did? Did you worry disaster would call and blast your reveried day right into tomorrow? Now that it is over, would you have chosen the same words, voted the same way, made the efforts, claims, avowals?

(upon learning of the death of an ex-husband) nancy coleman

lunch break at the medical school

I notice now the sun is gone behind those innocent white puffs - changing everything at my feet are cigarette butts. From the rear, what I notice about Hippocrates is the twining snake of that curious trio: rebirth, fertility, authority. Every thing can be fearsome, even this marble meant to inspire. Even this unseasonably mild afternoon. The future physicians fresh-cheeked but weary around the eyes, bright but not wise, these future healers or reapers pass the statue daily forgetting, as we each have done: first, do no harm.

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dancing in the operating room

thomas gibbs

Dr Wapner leaned across the operating field and handed me the knife. A Mozart sonata was playing behind us. Never stand still at the table, a slow

dance around the anatomy will give better perspective, a better position. he said. Keep your head up and move your feet. I opened the patient, a midline incision from the umbilicus to just below the pubic hair line. I started dissecting through the tissue layers; skin, subcutaneous fat, fascia the layer similar to the external skin that keeps everything inside. You think an assistant is just for retracting ? he asked rhetorically, No they see things. They see your side, the other side. And if you dont move, you will see very little; let alone allow your assistant to follow. I had always thought of surgery as being about the anesthetized patient and my hands operating. I was always thinking about the next step. It is not a hard and fast rule, but most surgeons operate from the midline and then toward themselves. The bowel is pushed out of the way and packed to keep it from sliding down into the field. The bladder is retraced and kept empty by a foley catheter. The assistant follows from the other side, back and forth.

And it is true that an ovary can hide, stuck along the pelvic sidewall behind the bowel. Mobilizing an adherent ovary without tearing the bowel serosa, or avulsing the ureter, takes a rhythm. By the time the adagio started, we were in the middle of lysing (cutting away scarring and freeing up) adhesions. There is a classification for extensive endometriosis, the condition we discovered. Whether a woman menstruates back through her tubes and implants endometrium throughout the pelvis has been documented at laparoscopy or whether there is a congenital remnant that lies dormant until stimulated by estrogen we dont know. But sometimes the pelvis seems to be glued together; there is no classifying term for that. Frozen pelvis, is the old definition for what we encountered. With meticulous dissection, and a one-two-three, we waltzed. I noticed the OR crew picked up and moved with us, even breathing together, as though a rest had been written into the score. Dr Wapner was a respected member of the senior staff at Albert Einstein in Philadelphia. and had been the chairman of the department. But he didnt practice obstetrics anymore, I cant get back to sleep. he said. He claimed to be semi-retired. But he still came to every Grand Rounds and he had many comments (we called them pearls) when difficult cases were

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presented. He knew every important physician in the city, and it was not unusual for him to invite a legend to speak. I found it very interesting that he saw the importance of teaching me about the OR environment and the sensory perception of the surgical suite. As a teenager I had worked on a diary farm in upstate New York during the summer. Howard Hopkins and his war bride from Hawaii, Lily, owned the place. I could have turned the other way on Route 13, headed toward East Homer and gone to work with my friends, the Forbes boys, but I didnt. I wanted to make it on my own. When I came into the barn, the lights on, the sun still down, Howard would turn on the radio and tune it to the classical station broadcast from Syracuse University. He saw me watching and laughed, I dont really like it, he said, but those guys at the Cornell vet school say the cows let down and relax. They give more milk. A farmer will try anything to get more milk out of a cow. So I play Chopin. Many years later, when I stopped by and he showed me his new John Deere tractor with a cab and A/C, I noticed it had a music system. When he fired it up, wonderful soft vocals of hula harmonies were playing. I wondered how much milk the cows might have given if they had been subject to the genre of the islands.
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canopy walk, peru

kyle jensen

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I really never knew how to dance. I had been brought up in a very conservative religious family. We didnt go to public school; we didnt really socialize outside of church. Dancing was the Devils doing. Oh, once or twice, we went to a picnic the hospital threw for the doctors and their families. But I knew enough. The dances still had names, but really, by the time the sixties came around, people just got out there and did the grind. Even the slow dances were pretty much standing in place, shuffling feet and moving hands up and down. By the time my son would marry, dancing for the young had been reduced to lalapolossa and a mosh pit. At his wedding reception I noticed the men taking off their coats and when the band covered the Red Hot Chili Peppers I jumped in. I looked more like Tigor than an x-generation head banger but there I was. They didnt play the blues in Cortland. wouldnt hear this music live until 1966 in a smoky back room on M street in Washington DC. Now there is music that does more than keep the beat, more than follow a score . It allows for improvisation and rifts. It tells the truth. It is a musical narrative, a story, something to say. Years later with my friend Dr. Jose Gutierrez across the table I would listen to BB King play and sing, The Thrill is Gone. I love the 5/4 rhythm, it is that anticipation that keeps me wondering what is next, where I am going. It could be a rift, the sax man playing the high cries of joy, or the bass

player walking on, taking me with him. The OR crew always has the CD player ready when I am scheduled. Some of the nurses I have worked with for years already have my music playing when we bring in a patient. I save the classical music for the really tough cases; -C-sections for triplets or placenta accreta. I play them when the tumors are the size and shape of wrapped turkeys in the grocery store. The ones where the 4/4 time is necessary to keep everyone in line. No going off on your own here. It was time to close, and Dr Wapner asked for the next tape. Fred Waring and The Pennsylvanians softly crooned as layer after layer was repaired and brought back together. When a surgical case is done, I always reach across and shake hands with the doctor on the other side. I learned that from Dr Wapner. Ill take care of the dictation and the orders I said. Ill round this afternoon and see you in the morning. The Pennsylvanians were playing Body and Soul as we left the OR and washed our hands. In the mornings, now, when I leave the Doctors locker room and walk down the corridor between the OR suites, I see the staff looking up at the scheduling board. They are looking to see to whom they have assigned for the next surgeryif they will be operating with me. When they enter the room, if it is not already playing, they always ask for the music. They fall in like a chorus line, and we do what we love, what we are trained to do. We do it well.

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noble surgeon
41

They come from great distances People of all shapes, sizes and colors Tumors growing deep inside Bodies broken from years of wear Internal derangements of all kinds They have been failed by braces and gadgets By herbs, elixirs and other medicinal things All just temporary fixes at best Now they come to you Noble surgeon To be made right They are calmed by your confidence You shake They are reassured by your strong hands Powerful surgeons hands You invite them into your world A cold, sterile 40 by 40 foot chamber This is your domain Blinding lights shine down from the ceiling Like a half dozen suns Shining down from the heavens To illuminate your path There is a steady beeping of the monitors Interrupted by the whoosh and sigh Of the breathing machine Its like music to your ears You open your right hand And your palm is instantly filled with cold steel You close your fist around the scalpel And steady yourself for the task at hand As they drift off into a deep sleep Your subject entrust you with their lives And like a masked marauder you go to work Stealing the tumors growing deep inside Taking away their disabilities Removing their internal derangements of all kinds Quickly, skillfully, with a purpose You are doing Gods work And the Lord himself guides your hands Some will say thanks Others will pass through Like transients in the night Never even knowing your name Either way they will know your impact For they are now able They are swifter of foot They are lighter in body lutul farrow Thanks to you O Noble Surgeon

washington crossing the delaware

john murphy

first lesson

jamie dermon

I remember the autumn that first taught me about death and loss Watching a new mother with child growing inside Give birth to a blue creature Who slipped from between her legs Like the first fish that came from the sea Without sound, without movement, without breath Bathed in air, sand, and salt water The mother grasped at the hollow space below her swollen belly And rivers of blood flowed through her fingers toward an ocean of despair Doctors and nurses shouted and turned in a dance of chaos Above it all the crescendo and quickening of her heart monitor Feet moving faster to match its tempo Drum beat driving the waltz of death And in this swirling motion of red sea, hot desert winds and macabre music I witnessed a loss of two lives and cried two lakes of frozen mountain ice I learned that it is possible to swallow the salty sufferings of another human being And age a thousand years in an hour I learned that I can die a thousand times in a night And still be reborn with the coming dawn.

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mensa as i think it reflects his deep thoughts

vince sorrell

dubai coastline
uma goyal

a life and friendship tested

madelon cook
There was this odd incident when Marylou and Emily vacationed together in Key West. They lived in different cities but had been best friends for almost 30 years. You could not find two more disparate people Marylou, ex-hippie, still searching for what she wanted to do when she grew up despite nearing retirement. Emily, straight arrow, enjoying a successful academic career at the top of her field at a top-notch university. Emily had hired Marylou as her assistant way back when but their lives diverged when Marylou moved to the desert southwest while Emily climbed ever higher on the ladder of east coast academic success. Throughout the years there were visits and vacations, the two found family in each other.
Both women were fiercely independent, lived alone, shared liberal political leanings and a love for atypical cinema. Marylous undisciplined upbringing wrapped her psyche like a tightly wound spring, prone to emotional outbursts. Emilys own familial background constrained her emotions; she was a paradigm of control with a tendency toward subversive behavior usually performed below the radar of her parents gaze. Marylou was open, gregarious and forthright while Emily was a closed book. Their shared work ethic and integrity bonded them throughout their long distance friendship.When you live alone there is no one to complain about extreme snoring or restlessness. Having to share a hotel room with different sleep schedules, Marylou was awake when Emily shouted in her sleep as if she were being attacked: No No No, please dont hurt me! Marylou,

justin liberman
Ronald [McDonald] was a brilliant entrepreneur, after which he retired oney-drunk, fox-brained, covertly vegetarian, and in nutritional revolt; a pop-culture prophet, a catalyst of polyphagia, a corporate chump, a Big Mac, a cost-effective slaughterer, a purveyor of carcinogenic ambition and under-appreciated charity. Forced from The Bozo the Clown Show into the fast-food industry, introducing us along the way to overprocessed meats, gastrointestinal anarchy, obesity, hypertension, internal cardiac defibrillators, frivolous law-suits and to an explosion of mediocre minimum wage opportunities. And to the back-store magic of minute burgers, flash-fried french fries, over-flowing grease traps, shamefully disregarded health codes. And to America late in the twentieth century, a great bullet train of lower-middle class mentality, full of lies and conspiracies, soured ice cream and watered down soda, meat cleavers and severed cow heads, mainstream fright and E. coli.

ronald

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astonished, called to Emily loudly to break the nightmare. That odd incident marked the beginning of Emilys future struggle with a disease they did not know but would change everything forever. Rapid eye movement sleep behavior disorder (RBD) can be, and usually is, a precursor to Parkinsons disease (PD), a neurological disorder due to insufficient dopamine production in the substantia nigra cells deep in the brain. We all lose a percentage of these cells as we age, some faster than others. Alternatively, if we lived long enough, the majority of us would develop Parkinsons. Instead of losing our personalities in the most common neurological disorder of Alzheimers disease, Parkinsons patients lose control of movement, developing either tremor-predominant or slow movement (bradykinesia) types of the disorder. PD is the second most prevalent neurological disease, yet is much less well known. It is easy to misinterpret a patients lurching gait for inebriation and often there are no obvious outward signs of the disease other than a masked face, frozen from normal expressions. Each PD patient charts a unique course of the disease, some with mild symptoms for many years, others with an accelerated progression potentially leading to dementia. In Key West, the women laughed off the nightmare incident as an anomaly but Emily kept having attacks when she returned home, often finding herself on the floor at night with her bedsheets strewn about. In RBD, normal sleep paralysis gets replaced with acting out the nightmares, which can involve fighting your partner in your sleep. Through her own research, Emily discovered her RBD diagnosis but was slow to accept any correlation to PD. The symptoms could be controlled with a sufficient dose of clonazepam before bedtime, a drug usually prescribed for anxiety but extremely effective for RBD. The condition itself would be permanent. Reluctantly she saw a neurologist for her increasing fatigue, small writing (micrographia), and shooting pains in her leg and back. Emily reported to Marylou that the house she was asked to draw in a diagnostic test was perfectly fine yet the clinician noted that she had not connected the lines. Diagnosing the disease is an

inexact science since many of its symptoms mimic benign conditions like essential tremor, without the ramifications of permanent downward escalating debility. Thus Emily resisted the obvious: she had Parkinsons. Months later, when her condition became more widely known, other type A personalities in her high stress environment came forth. Many of her colleagues also had developed the disease. One clinician mentioned that he knew Emily had Parkinsons a year ago because she lacked a right arm swing. (What are the ethics of holding back a potential diagnosis to a clueless acquaintance especially a motivated driven high achiever with no perceived obstacles to success?) Soon Emily could not ignore the effect the cold had on her bradykinesia, literally and figuratively freezing still. She would have to leave the professional demands of her academic ivory tower for warmer climates and based on previous visits with Marylou, Tucson was it. Marylou, back on the east coast mid-atlantic region, headed to Boston to help Emily drive to Tucson. The going-away festivities so depleted Emilys energies that by the time they reached Oklahoma, she asked to be hospitalized. Mid-country was trip nadir with hideous dun colored concrete jungles dirtied by traffic smog and the smell of diesel fumes. Trash was everywhere near the interstates and the hotel rooms nearby were depressing. Only when the terrain evolved from midwest to southwest open country did their spirits rise: first the continental divide, then the Arizona state line, Pima County, and the blessed Tucson city limits. Monsoon clouds rose heavenwards, the mountains green from recent rain with the soul-warming summer sun. It was good to be home where Marylou had lived and Emily had frequently visited. As if baptized from above, the movers were met with a torrential monsoon rain as they unloaded the van. Marylou returned to the east coast knowing full well she would be making a return cross country trip soon. Emily could not manage alone and the DC area had lost its charm with over-population and theft of Marylous Acura Integra, resulting in a 10 year old Honda Civic replacement that she hoped would make it to
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the desert. Traveling the southernmost route to avoid December snow, the homecoming was sweetened by making a pre-Christmas deadline; finally the two friends were reunited at last. Marylou was shocked at the fast progression of Emilys disease which required immediate 24/7 care; however Emily had her own problems simply surviving: cardiac insufficiency, edema, difficulty speaking and swallowing, and balance problems so severe it was hard for her to stay upright. The disease swallowed up both their capacities to cope and their friendship faltered under the strain. Yet there were also moments of great levity and laughter, a mental connection that merged them long before Parkinsons took its toll. Within a few months life became such a struggle that the joy in their friendship was a distant memory. Marylou felt overwhelmed with nonstop caretaking while Emilys concern focused on death which seemed to loom on the horizon. Instead of counting on each other, the relationship became a runaway train of emotional outbursts. Depleted of energy, both butted heads for survival and the women evolved into secretive strangers beyond the keen of a relationship, or salvation. Mistrust abounded. Emily disowned Marylou in her will; Marylou felt used and cast away after months of devoted housekeeping and caretaking. Emily refused to slow down, taking unnecessary risks with a principal symptom of falling. Finally, the medics had to be called once too often; Marylou could no longer pick Emily up off the floor. A nursing home loomed as the only means to keep Emily safe. Once admitted, she chafed against the rules and regulations, the constant interruptions for vital signs, specific meal times and scheduled physical therapy sessions. Younger than most of the denizens and not quite out of her mind, Emily set up her room as if still in academia with internet connectivity, letters to write, manuscripts to read and review, and calls to make. Yet the vagaries of inpatient care, consistent undermedication, constant visitors and interruptions corrupted her best efforts to complete simple tasks. Her doctors recommended deep brain stimulation (DBS) surgery but ever cautious, Emily was slow to commit. Its brain surgery, after all, and drilling through the skull,

placing wires deep in the brain, implanting a generator/stimulator a week later had its risks, not the least of which would be coma or death. But the risk the two friends feared the most was that the dual-stage operations would not work, that Emily would see little improvement in her condition. The alternative of her progressive downhill slide was worse. Almost one year from Marylous arrival, Emily underwent the five hour operation awake as they drilled into her skull with her head stabilized in a surgical halo which looked like a medieval torture mask. The effects were immediate and dramatic even though the stimulator was not yet implanted. The wire placement in the subthalamic nucleus was spot on, even causing uncontrolled movements (dyskinesias) in her extremities. These would be addressed by medication adjustments and tweaking the stimulator current later. The subsequent stimulator placement proved to be more painful but less traumatic overall, completed in one and a half hours. Emily was transferred to a rehab hospital where she once again became a well-known renegade. This is a trait both Emily and Marylou shared, although Emily was more circumspect. Despite having the bed and wheelchair alarmed for whenever Emily vaulted out of bed or chair inappropriately, they just could not keep a good woman down. Marylou pitied Emilys hospital roommate whom she was sure to be driven crazy with the alarms, telephone ringing, and constant visitors. Eventually the Frankenstein stitches were removed and Emily sported a new punk hair cut that on a lark she died purple at the end of her rehab stay. Although fond of Emily, the inpatient staff at the rehab hospital were probably glad to see her discharged home where her recovery continued on a daily basis, able to do more as time progressed. In fact, Emily was a nonstop whirlwind of activity who organized, did yard work and got caught up with her life. DBS bought Emily time and Marylou relief from 24/7 caretaking. It was nothing short of a miracle for both their futures. The friendship, however, needed time to heal and over many months, heal it did.

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hunting creek

david vangelder
The gardener walks into the barren room The garden crowds among the anticipated visitor Already the tulip is heaving The apprentice white-faced looks on This will be the first harvestfor the bulb and the apprentice The tulip quivers as its petals slowly but progressively part The undulating petals within come into view With each pass of the breeze the petals further contemplate parting like their counterparts As seconds turn into minutes and then into hours The previously indecisive petals are now steadfast in their act Nonetheless their contemplative efforts have left their aromatic singe The carnal smell of life now fills the previously sterile space It will not be long now The gardener gestures for the apprentice to take her place As if the timid touch invigorates the tulips stem The tulip inhales The tulip exhales The slippery seed slides into the apprentices hands Without hesitation the gardener is there shears in palm With one quick clip the seed is free from its mother vine The tulip beams and nuzzles its creation One set of roots now flourishes as two As the garden gathers closer to admire its new flora The gardener recedes into the shadows Closely followed by the novice no more

the gardner and the tulip

elizabeth cudilo

46

bess stillman

big bang

Carl Sagan walked confidently towards me on the digitized Milky Way. As he strolled along the Universe clearly an interstellar jet-setter, for he didnt wear the oxygen rich space suits required of normal men constellations lit up around his head like ideas. He swept his hand across deep space with the ease of Vanna White turning letters. Then Carl moved his gaze towards the camera. He met my eyes. Never underestimate the mentally disabling effects of first love. I was only six years old when I watched my first episode of Cosmos; still, I dreamed of Carl. We floated, hand in hand through the galaxy, as he brushed nebulas out of our path like cobwebs. I swore I saw him from the corner of my eye at school, reaching for a pudding cup in the lunch line. At night, when the rest of the house was asleep, I watched videotaped episodes of Cosmos like a secret pornography habit, even turning the volume down so my parents couldnt hear. I waited for the moment when Carl would motion towards the computer generated constellations and say, Billions and Billions of stars! Really, Carl? I replied, lowering my voice seductively. Billions? I believe were born hardwired to what turns us on. Of my friends, Jerry claims he knew he was gay - not only gay, but exclusively attracted to very hairy men - from the time he was five, and Nicole, a bondage enthusiast, says her first sexual fantasy was of the boy across the street kissing her patent leather Mary Janes. I would like to say what stirred within me as I watched that first episode of Cosmos was a desire to know about the Universe; that this was the very moment when my lifelong fascination with science unfurled within me like a tongue poised on the verge of a question. But what I really felt as Carl began to speak stopped between my legs before it got anywhere near my mind. I have never desired a lover with a big car, big bank account or big dick. I need a big brain. Show me a man who can do a Fourier transform, and Ill show you a man who knows about the special thing I do with a stick of cinnamon gum. I was fifteen and virginity was as much of a social liability as orthodontic headgear or a membership in the Audio-Visual club. While the rest of my small town classmates shared tips on getting away with quickies behind the football bleachers, the only thing I pressed against at night was the eyepiece of my Celestron telescope. Its not that I didnt want to enjoy one of the only good forms of entertainment available in a small town, but I had this idea that your first time subconsciously colors your relationship to sex for the rest of your life, and it was imperative to find a first lover who could meet your needs. But any

sounds of pacheta
amber steves

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fetish, even a highly scientific one, is hard to satisfy: the high school boys in my town struggled with basic calculus, they thought the life cycles of a white dwarf had to do with the reproductive habits of midgets. High school boys were, well, boys. But Carl, Carl was a man. I would save myself for him, or, at least, for a reasonable facsimile. When I enrolled in college, the world of men expanded as rapidly as the universe after the Big Bang; finally, I knew I was going to get one of my own. Entire buildings were filled with physics, engineering, math and astronomy majors. A single whiff of the lab chemicals and coffee that scented those hallways was more intoxicating than any pheromone. The plan was to put together outfits with the same care my roommate took when dressing for one of the nightly frat parties I refused to attend, scan the pages of my popular physics nonfiction for conversation facts, then troll the Science departments for a suitable genius. Every good scientist knows chance favors the prepared. I met Hugh just two weeks into my first semester. He sat beside me on a bench in front of the engineering department, wearing a standard collegiate uniform: khaki slacks and a t-shirt with a band logo emblazoned on the front. When he opened the book in his lap to a page of Greek letters and foreign symbols, I made my move. What field? I asked, pointing casually to the text. Theoretical said Hugh, delaying to look me over before smiling. My dissertation is on chaos theory. Oblivious to the foreshadowing contained in his chosen field of study, I focused on the attributes that could help me take my plan to the next level. Hugh wore hip silver wire-frame glasses and had an unruly shag of curly black hair. His skin was pale from what I imagined were hours purging his brilliant, burdened mind of elegant proofs under the fluorescent lights of a library study carrel. Pillow talk would, of course, involve differentials and implicit functions. I was instantly attracted. Plus, he had what all seventeen-year-old girls want most in a man: he seemed terribly interested in me. I discovered quickly, however, that Hugh did not like talking about math. Hugh liked talking about Hugh. In third person. As in, Hugh cant go out tonight, some moron in the lab deleted his data from the computer, said Hugh.Or, Hugh had a fucking awful time teaching today. All his college algebra students are mongoloids. And of course, the most common refrain, Hugh doesnt understand why youre still having trouble with this differential equation, nothing about this is hard. Its hard because youre skipping steps when you explain it to me. I pushed Hughs illegibly scrawled notes across the table. So make the cognitive leap. I wanted to tell him what he could go leap off of, but the irritable edge in his voice made me demure before he shut down and turned all his focus inward, as if I wasnt even in the room. After six weeks together I still couldnt have sex with Hugh. No matter how physically attractive I found him, even when I closed my eyes and imagined it was Carls lips against my neck, Hugh would always find an opportunity to open his mouth and ruin things moments before I was ready to hit the sheets. There is a story Carl Sagans last wife, Ann Druyan, tells. They are out to dinner in Manhattan, celebrating the launch of Voyager. A man approaches the table, grips Carls right hand and says, thank you for giving me the uma goyal Cosmos. Ann reaches out and takes Carls other hand, explaining that connecting with the experience

nerd

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untitled

payam morgan
of sharing science was not only what attracted her to Carl in the first place, but was one of their great joys in their life together. With alarming regularity, even impersonal galaxies can extend a long arm of gas and matter, grasp at one another and let gravity do the rest of the work in merging them with unstoppable force. Sharing science with Hugh was supposed to be a fully clothed act of intimacy leading, Id expected, to other expressions of desire. I was supposed to be getting laid by now. Eventually, Hughs uncanny ability to alienate me was outmatched only by the guy in my dorm who began sporting a toothbrush mustache in the style of Hitler. We were attending the birthday party of my friend Tanako, an exchange student from Japan. It was a home-away-from-home theme: anim played on the television, jelly candies from the Asian market were littered about tables, and of course there was a universal addition to the festivities alcohol. Tanako greeted us at the door with two beers. I introduced Hugh. I dont drink, said Hugh. What do you do, Hugh? asked Tanako. I gritted my teeth. It was one thing putting up with his third person talking in private, it was another admission entirely for other people to know I put up with it. Hes a mathematician, I said, cutting in before Hugh could speak his own name. He studies chaos theory. Its incredible, really. Hes like rain man. As soon as I said it out loud, I knew it was true. He probably did have some diagnosis listed in the DSM-IV. Hugh thinks Kirin beer goes better with Japanese, said Hugh. After the party, I told Hugh we shouldnt see each other anymore. Breaking things off was astonishingly hard. Part of me continued to equate his books of theory and his freakishly white teeth with someone both intellectually superior and exceptionally hygienic (another necessary sexual trait , given my lifelong dabbling in hypochondria). I got over it when Hugh demanded to know what numerical value, on a scale of 1-20, I placed on our relationship of barely two months. I answered with an imaginary number, the irony of which seemed lost on him. Was I discouraged? Of course I was discouraged. Discouragement was the only way to explain the barrage of blind dates and setups I accepted once I was single again. I went out with a biology student who grabbed my breast without any warning, and explained himself only by saying he wanted to know if they were real. Another mathematician took a sip of wine at dinner, then leaned forward to kiss me and tried to squirt the wine into my mouth (It ended up down the front of my new white blouse). A chemistry student whispered in my ear, just before he thrust his tongue into it, that the only thing that would look better on me than my new denim skirt was his girlfriend. I got close to sleeping with a guy from mechanical engineering until I saw hed mounted a 6 by 4 foot modeling headshot of himself above his bed. And lets not forget the astrophysicist who, as we made out on his couch after what had been a fantastic date at a local black box theater, confessed that he has wanted to bang a hot Jewish girl ever since he got his head on his shoulders and left the white supremacists. While I was screening men for sexual eligibility, I should have been asking my girlfriends, who were setting me up, why they thought so little of me. I said thank you for trying, but if I wanted another hot night out,

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Id overturn my own rock to get a date of similar caliber. It seemed I was faring better on my own when I set a date with a geology major. What do you think about SETI? I asked, wondering if he was as curious about the mysteries in the sky above as he was in the soil beneath our feet. Sorry, what? he asked. SETI? Think well find life out there? Settee? Like an ottoman? Im not really into antiques and all that girly shit. Oh God, youre not asking me to go shopping with you, are you? My frustration had reached a critical point. So I did what any horny, red blooded American female looking for distraction would do: I turned on PBS. Like a sign from God, there was Carl Sagan. Two hours and a bottle of cheap vodka later, I was slurring my credit card number to a volunteer on the fundraising hotline. For $150 I was the proud new owner of a PBS tote bag and a DVD copy of the Cosmos series to be delivered in 4-6 weeks. But not having my thank you gifts as immediate, tangible comforts made both Carl, and the possibility of good sex, any sex, seem unreachable. So, moved by some kind of strange masturbatory impulse, I decided that if I couldnt screw a scientist, Id just become one. I enrolled in Biochemistry and Cell Biology and began studying eight, then twelve hours a day. In between classes and the library, I began doing research on novel forms of protein folding. If I didnt find the right man soon, I would be on either the fast track to a Nobel prize or would be found dead on my textbooks, my brain leaking out through my nose, highlighter marks like the yellow glow of seedy strip club lighting underscoring the same equations that had sparked my libido and hastened my demise. Only one activity could lure me out of my library cloister the physics open house. There were lectures from science professors, chemistry demonstrations and, on the roof, telescopes pointed into the starry night. The roof was my domain. As people peered into the sky, my job was to tell them basic science facts about the stars, as well as the mythologies behind the constellations. Carl said that we are how the universe experiences itself. When I was on the roof of that building, it did seem as if I was speaking, not of matter outside myself, but of elements that reacted at the center of my own life. On my way out, a crowd on the first floor drew my attention. On a table was a rectangular glass container no bigger than my dormitory microwave. It was filled with a clear fluid made all the more exciting by a tall, attractive Ph.D. student who said that if the

50

fluid were to escape it could blind us all. In the box I saw normally invisible things. Trails like the tails of comets traced themselves in the viscous fluid , revealing the paths of cosmic rays that flew through the room. They were like a living creature, diving, darting through a small toxic ocean. I was becoming incredibly aroused. Reflexively, I glanced at the Ph.D. students hand and noticed a wedding ring. Damn. Without warning the image changed. A tunnel expanded from nothing, fat and wriggling as a worm. It traveled in a slow curve. Cosmic radiation hitting the nucleus. Youre seeing neutrons reacting, the Ph.D. student said. I instinctively touched my own body. Was that same reaction happening inside me? Had it been occurring my entire life as I walked the dog, and went to class and cleaned the bathroom? With all of this cosmic penetration going on, did I even qualify as a virgin? Dazzled, I was the last person to leave the building. Hugh was waiting on the front steps. I miss you, he said. can we talk? I led him back to the roof. I was turned on and frustrated from waiting, he was familiar, and everything felt possible out there where the very rays of energy that make up the world pass through one body into another. I pointed to Orion, but Hugh didnt look. He was unbuttoning my blouse. I tried to tell him about the new Hubble pictures of a red giant as he unbuttoned my pants. He tugged them over my hips and slid his hand into my panties while I whispered about the millions of neutron wormholes exploding in our bodies without our knowing. But he wasnt listening. Then his lips were on my neck and he was on top of me and inside me, the infinite universe the only thing I could see. When it was over, he rolled off and dropped on his elbow. Are you glad it was with me? he asked. Unsettled, I looked back at the stars, and pretended they had asked me instead. Yes On a scale of 1-20....., Hughs voice trailed off. Hugh? I said. Just go. Sex, Love, Cosmology: Theyre all parts of the same thing. Ann Druyan said that when she and Carl realized they were in love, even though they hadnt so much as held hands, it was a great eureka of a moment, like scientific continued on next page

fishing boats, aswan

phil malan

discovery. Two days later, her neural impulses were being recorded at Columbia hospital and added to the audio tracks housed in the Voyager interstellar project. Right now, in space Ann is thinking of Carl, loving Carl, calling out to Carl with the almost inaudible sounds of her own body. But Carl died in 1997 and he cant answer. I had the idea my own yearning might travel as far as deep space, never uncovering even a facsimile of Carl. My expectations were exhausting. Three weeks later, on the fifth anniversary of Carl Sagans death, I was picking up my tote bag and DVD copy of Cosmos from the campus UPS store, when Jack literally ran into me. He clutched a manila envelope addressed to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in one hand and stamps in the other. A TI-92 calculator rested snugly in his side pocket like a bulky, mathematical erection. Despite myself, I felt a familiar desire. Can I get your number? he asked. Driving home, I dialed the radio to NPR. Carl was everywhere: in memorials, old interviews, lecture clips. With Jack fresh on my mind, I listened to the sound of Carls voice and thought of what he meant to all the nights of my life; the way he would always stand, invisibly, beside each new lover. I mourned for Carl, then, and for all the men I will find and lose beneath billions and billions of stars.

the reading

ana maria lopez

death

There are many souls around you, the psychic said, before she even knew my name. Do you work with the dead? she uttered, wondered. No, no, do you care for the dying? Yes-- they are now caring for you.

It was expected. He would die today; they said on rounds that morning. He would die today; it would be a relief. He would die today; AND, allow natural death. DNR, then. I was with you, then. Held your hand. Witnessed your last agonal breath.

51

It was you who introduced me to Death.

For three days I listened from Bohol Island your agonal breathing Saw your eyes searching for something that was not there Then I saw a dream where you were floating on the virtual walls of your new home You were dying while I was operating on Boholans In this far, isolated Island of Philippines Where people have broad faces, warm hearts and scared looks They are poor, and need help, teary eyes You waited to take your last breath as I was finishing the last operation of the surgical mission I heard your last breath from more than 10 thousand kilometers on the other side of the earth It was a beautiful breath A friend said that you are waiting for me I saw you flying by with your smile on your face Free of pain, your back straight, looked taller, beautiful, as always The patient woke up on the operating table, missing that giant goiter under her chin Now she will go back to school to teach children of her village, her giant mass missing from her neck She will wear a smile, instead of shawl covering the neck I hope you will understand that I could not break my promise to these poor souls I know you were there with me as I was crying and operating at the same time You were there, I saw you, just as you saw me. Now, I have only 1178 kilometers and will be in Prishtina I have been flying for two days from Tagbiliram, to Manila, to Hong Kong, to Frankfurt, to Ljubljana half of the world to come home But today, when I arrive in Prishtina
continued on next page

my mother
rifat latifi

john murphy

untitled

52

You will not be there For the first time in 35 years you will not be there when I return! 35 years looking toward the hill of the village, and lately holding on to the mobile phone waiting to hear that I have arrived Or watching the television to see me Why could you not wait - wait one more time? One more return! Just one more. Last time I saw you, you looked sick, frail, barely holding on I will be alright if you do not come when I die, But you need to come, to put my body in the grave you told me jokingly You knew it. You knew and I knew it when I last held you tight That that was the last time we hugged We both knew it! But I did nothing about it Why do I need to return anymore! If I do, it will be very difficult! Who is going to keep the light on for me? February 26, 2006 - Flying across the world PS: My mother died on February 24, 2006, at age 77, as I was finishing a surgical mission in the city of Tagbiliram, Bohol Island, Philippines.

53

gods anatomy

lindsay gunnell

janice degan

threads

I see you when I catch a glimpse I take a breath and tears begin youre right here, arent you? within me As the years gone by outnumber those left I miss you more and I see more of you in me I see me in her when I catch a glimpse I take a breath and tears begin Im right there, arent I? Within her And so the years go by, with fewer left and then one day, shell catch a glimpse -

54

patrick richardson Nothing comes of black rims, green party dresses or misplaced hospitality in the hands of hypocrites throwing baby showers, or whatever shower may come up. Nothing except casual alcoholism and everything that follows it like teenage girls following graduate students into apartment fires. Funnier jokes; punch lines repeated for the benefit of recent arrivals. Rehashed rivalries; sexier ex-girlfriends with myopia and commitment problems. Mutual jealousy; a better house with well behaved dogs and a wine cellar. I try not to recognize on only these nights in another mans house with amorphous but thinly disguised intentions.

average

life goes on

uma goyal

adam philip stern

Authors Note: Please be aware that all aspects of the following short story are fictional including characters mentioned as well as events that transpire throughout the story.

postmortal

Exactly when the tradition started was not clear. For as long as anyone in the Abernathy clan could remember, family gatherings were always held on licensure decision days. The events had often felt more like wakes than any sort of celebration, though one could never admit it. Somnolence on those days was specifically repudiated by the state. According to the authorities, negative decisions were to be embraced as opportunities for further achievement. Not obscured by the municipal lens, it was hard to imagine any rejected couple enduring another premortal span without remorsefully wondering what might have been. Perhaps that was why twenty of Anne and William Abernathys closest friends and family surrounded them in their home that day to cushion the inevitable blow. They were not ideal candidates, and everyone knew it. William was only on his sixth PM span, and two of Annes seven spans were tarnished by periods of what the state denoted as poor performance. With a healthy surplus of applicants each year, the state had no reason to grant licenses to couples without flawless records of postmortal achievement. Annes dalliances with illicit substances and her propensity to sporadically become non-contributory provided the state with more than enough evidence to unapologetically deny the couples application. While everyone at the house knew about their slim chances, Hornsby, Williams great grandfather was the most unabashedly candid about it. He greeted his sons daughters son by pinching the skin under his chin, and tugging it toward an unoccupied corner of the living room. Hornsbys grip was tight, and his strength was unparalleled in the family. Rightfully so, thought William. Hornsby was engaged in the latter portion of a PM span devoted to the physical arts (i.e. athletics, kinesthetics, and combat), so it was only fitting to William that his own physical potency (largely neglected for as long as he can remember) would pale in comparison. William, have I ever minced words with you? Asked the ancient man, looking younger than his great grandson. No, sir. Well, Im not about to start now. You are a putz, and you know I say that with love. Yes, sir. What are you thinking? Youve got no chance. And applying now will only hurt your application a few spans from now.

A few spans from now? What? You cant wait a few more lousy spans? Why the hell not? Youre a kid. Death by trauma or sterility who knows what could happen? Ive heard stories of Stories, William. Thats all they are. Everyones time comes if he works hard. You know that, and its not for you to say when that time is because youre scared, or worse, bored. William closed his eyes heavily, and Hornsby knew he had struck a chord. What? Youre bored? Give me a break, kid. How much time left do you have in this span? About seventeen years, William replies. And then you get to move onto something new. Dont give me this bored. The system is built to avoid tedium. Avoid it? After this span, do you know what Im slated to study? Law. One hundred years of law. Itll be my third consecutive PM span that I despise. What were the first two? Inorganic sciences and math apps. You didnt like inorganic sciences? William shook his head. I havent really enjoyed anything since my second span. It was education and care. I remember that. That was a good one. That was four hundred years ago, Hornsby. So? Just put in your time and youll be onto electives soon. And thats when the achievements really carry weight in this process. You have to just pay your dues and prove your worth. Yours and Annes. Hornsby motioned to Anne across the room. Hornsby saw a flawed postmortal woman; she did not take her responsibility to society seriously, and should not be rewarded with the most sacred gift the state had to offer. William looked at his wife, and didnt see her for what she had been, but what he knew she could be if she were ever given permission. His cheeks curled fully as he envisioned her abdomen growing full and her usually anemic complexion taking a ruddy hue. It doesnt have to be this way, Hornsby. What are you talking about? Yes, it does. Premortals didnt live like this. You want to go back to those savage times? Youre being a putz again. Those times? When man worked his whole life which was only one span by the way just to put bread on his plate and then he died? He was an ignoramus, William! No education! No achievements! You know he only got to know one or maybe two of his descendents. What kind of way is that to live? And thats your dream? Sounds pretty lousy. Maybe youre right.

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I know I am. One day youll see it, dont evacuate the phlegm in her throat, and Selma was worry. But for now, lets go eat and mingle with our tremendously relieved. loved ones. Anne walked past a dozen in-laws who each William joined Hornsby on his steady walk went from stone faced to plastic smiles and back in back toward the center of the room. He noted the instant she passed through their field of vision. Selma, his mother, taking an entirely different She passed Howard and Allysa who spoke entirely approach with Anne than Hornsby had taken with in coded pessimism about the whole application. him: complete denial. She walked sideways to avoid colliding with Peter Have you thought about names? She and Richard who spoke about the financial market asked. in order to completely avoid the situation. And No, weve been superstitious about it, lastly, she sideswiped Hornsby who looked at her Anne replied when in fact they had thought about with such a bittersweet concoction of sympathy names. and disappointment that she had to close her eyes They had brainstormed hundreds of names as she moved past him. Seeing her dejectedly representing possibilities for each gender. They make her way out the side door and onto the deck, had fantasized about how their lives would change. William quickly followed her. She was hunched over Their house would be transformed, and their the railing with her elbows propped on the guard days would be filled with important goal-oriented rail and her face buried in her hands. behaviors and authentic bliss the likes not seen in Your mothers certain well get approval, recent spans. They had imagined how the next PM she said after hearing William step onto the span would be spent shaping the life of an entirely wooden porch. new person and that they might reinvigorate She may take it the hardest of them all, the spark that used to embody their lives on a he replied solemnly. daily basis during their joint experience studying He rested an arm on her back and silently education and care. Most of all, they had dreamt of kissed the back of her perfectly shaped head. a life and a family which would move them to seek What are we going to do? I mean, when achievement out of personal desire for success will we tell them? that stemmed from their hearts and not a mandate The information to which she referred was from the state. that they had already received official rejection You neednt be so worried, Selma from the state. William had sought and been given continued. Once they look at your application, the notice before sunrise that morning. The least theyll know what kind of extraordinary parents competitive applications were always doled out first you will make, and Im sure they will make the as it were. right decision. You know they dont use just some The sooner we tell them, the sooner we formula. They utilize opinions from actual people, can grieve, William replied. too. It will all work out, dear. The couple stood embraced in silence for Selmas tone sounded authentic but the three minutes. They may have matured, but they content was so dramatically out of touch with did not age during that time, nor any time since reality that to any reasonable observer she reaching adulthood. At the most infinitesimal level, seemed delirious. Anne looked back at Selma with no palpable part of them was marching forward desperate eyes that wondered if that was the best or slumping backward, but rather maintaining she could do; if Selma sounded so out of touch to a healthy level of the status quo. Their very Anne, how could she and William possibly have physiologic foundation had leapt off the course of expected the state to consider their application? time and stood still in defiance to it. If one did not It was a fantasy. Sensing Annes despair, Selma move forward, William wondered, how could he decided that the only way she could act was to lead progress? How could he achieve the level of being Anne deeper into the illusion so as to delay the the state sought if he never even allowed himself horrid realization beginning to rise from her core. to participate in all dimensions of existence? You know that first span, with William There is a way, realized William. I know and his father, she said shaking her head with of one way to allow us to follow our hearts and gleeful disbelief, it was the happiest time I can minds, to spare our families and ourselves, to lead remember. us back. Anne felt the most miniscule tear begin Why havent you said anything until now? to well up, so she contorted her face in a highly Anne shrieked. unnatural way in order to force it back from Its absurd and unheard of. I cant believe I whence it came. The act was not successful. Every even what kind of person must I be? There would effort she made only drew out more sadness, and be such consequences. with each palpable increment of despondence came What is it? They cant be so immense to a renewed effort by Selma to deny its existence. continued on page 58 Eventually Anne excused herself in order to 56

Inhale exhale And five years have passed Your heart beats in a strangers body Kidneys filter others blood Bone, cornea, liver over 50 souls given another chance Your ashes are Among the roses in Kansas City Up the mountain caught sparkling on the breeze You blew back on Lil making her squeal I have Daddy all over me! dawn curry Still memorialized by The Nation Year 1, Year 4 The traditional San Xavier Mass A plate of your favorite parking lot food and chocolate You left a feather near the alter as a sign for those of us who knew Shared memories of your legacy Somewhat larger than you were in life A Friend of the Court plaque in the kitchen Organ Donor Medallion in a drawer And your ashes on the bookcase in the cookie jar you crafted in high school Your energy now one with the mountain I go up every weekend and we talk, you and I To center, regain perspective, grounding, strength Inhale exhale And five years have passed I thought wed have to learn to live without you But you never left

inhale - exhale

57

virginia lebaron

kerala, india

negate all of the good having a child will do for us! in that moment, none of those outcomes could William brought Anne in closer and looked possibly compete with the potential they envisioned down upon her. He searched her eyes for a sign for their new life, and none could possibly dampen of her readiness for what he was about to say. He the exhilaration they felt as they allowed time to knew how badly she wanted the states license that sweep them up and finally begin to move them day, and how fulfilled she would become as part of forward. a new family. But could she possibly be as eager and ready for his solution as he was? It was the The End. unspoken road for so long because he knew that they must be in unison for it to be discussed; the mere mention of it, were they not in agreement, had the potential to decimate even the strongest bond. The state will never forgive my past, and an eternity is too long to wait and waste. What can we do? Tell me, William! He filled his lungs to their capacity and let the oxygen rush through his body. Each cell within him fought to maintain its composure, and each one began to weaken ever so slightly. We can refuse the state, Anne. Refuse the state, she repeated as if in a trance. How could I have been so blind? Its so simple. We can refuse the state. We can refuse its treatments, and we can refuse its power over us! You realize the consequence of this, Anne; we will not survive more than another span this way perhaps far less, and there can be no turning back once this decision is made. There is no uncertainty about that. There is no uncertainty about this choice. It was long past time for them to live and to begin something finite with the real drive only a ticking clock can provide. They would start their lives anew with the promise of and urgency of their own mortality. Mortality, William whispered. My heart has stopped its flutter at the mere mention of the word. Fantastic! We will need good hearts for our new lives, Anne exclaimed as she placed a hand on her husbands chest. It was at that instant of contact that Anne and William Abernathy shared a moment of bliss the likes of which one could only hope to experience a handful of times throughout a lifetime. It was the first time each of them had ever felt this kind of ecstasy, but they were confident it would not be the last. Their families would squabble and bicker when hearing the news, but they would eventually come to admire or at the very least understand the decision. The state would file a formal declaration of unlawful and non ambitious behavior. Their records would be marred darla keneston and their names slandered. Gossip and criticism from their closest friends behind the safety of closed doors would haunt their lives from that moment forward. Previous accomplishments would be disqualified, and opportunities for state-guided achievement would be completely renounced. Yet 58

can you see me?

Sunday afternoon parking is free at the university my youngest son age seven and I flee a certain grouchiness our home develops on weekends up into the garage down the stairs through the tunnel wait he says, I want to climb a dirt hill covered in rocks a twenty foot bank below the museum I say sure he sprints up like a cat I was made for climbing he says when he gets to the top holds onto the rail walks across back down rocks I want to do that again he says laughing okay, I say praying that he wont slip fall head over heels bang his brains on rocks gouge his eye on one of many sharp rusty metal bars that he uses for leverage after two trips up we go to the museum look at coal miners drifters, carnys, migrant workers blown up to gigantic proportions they are creepy he says I agree we leave he climbs the embankment twice more

lets go to the park and write poems he suggests the park is a giant roundabout with a jungle gym at either end a path girded by palm trees snakes through it it is here we plop our blanket he draws ninjas I watch people why do you say arms for the poor? why do the poor need more arms? when I explain that it is alms not arms he convulses with laughter sits folded over his notebook munching graham crackers giggling at poor people with extra arms the bald man with a tattoo on his head and a cute dog looks up from his book and smiles its cold my son wears my sweater gets lost in the arms giggles again in the way that calls to all people in earshot makes them smile I am so thankful for this moment this afternoon I dont want to forget

steve rodney

mule rider

richard avedon, rock climbing, and graham crackers for Rabiah 59

laila halaby

hurt me reasonable woman

patrick richardson

None but the most normal feel any less pull towards bedfellows, predators and elbow fire. Melt like a clock on a chain on a wall lofted for inquiries for tall men wearing sombreros as pants. Can I listen to it? you asked her. I could put my hands on your mouth while you talk to your pregnant girlfriend. Beat lub dub my reasonable woman.

Worse? I could be a fly grown in sunlight and cheese-cloth, holding a rose trying to force irony into the conversation. I could not know my reasonable woman. She could have known my stories beyond stories. She could have kept her hands to herself her gentle self without man or legend feeling what a reasonable woman feels like.

mike montague

jewelry box

60

A few trapezoidal brushstrokes of sunlight streaked the floor, bed, and chairs but otherwise the room was in a window blind-induced twilight. charles putnam Quiet bathed the room, further darkening it; four of us were beclouded by our private thoughts, one of us was unknowing. Janet lay in her hospital bed, quietly. Not the quietude of drowsiness or sleep or coma, but the quietus of the inevitable. Janet was dying. Shed been dying for hours now; although her blood pressure rose and fell in fits and starts, the downward trend was inexorable. Her heart continued to beat but it was pumping barely enough blood to support itself; the other vital organs were left to die, their organismal screams for more oxygen, more sugar, more amino acids, more blood had faded away. The electrocardiographic monitor mounted above her bed traced a fluorescent green line of a heart in agony; even electrical conduction had become a nearly impossible effort. The pattern was becoming increasingly random and erratic. The beeping of the monitor, signifying each beat of the heart, was increasingly distorted; the beeps came too rapidly for a while, only to be followed by interminably long intervals of silence, forcing sidelong glances at the screen. Then, another beep or two or three or four, another pauseit was maddening. I reached up and turned off the audio alarm and turned the monitor toward me. There was no reason for her parents to be continually tormented by this. As for me, each blip on the screen was a scornful reminder that my weeks and weeks with Janet were almost over, that I had failed in my task, that my every effort had ultimately made no difference. I had done everything that years of surgical training had taught me, had done the very best I knew how; I had let no detail slip, had tracked every scrap of laboratory data, had read every reference, consulted every expert but that compulsivity had made no difference. I had loved Janet and that too had made no difference. After a few more minutes, the tracing on the EKG monitor retreated to the baseline; every now and then a foothill appeared on the screen a pathetic imposter of the mountain ranges inscribed by a healthy heart. I shut off the monitor. Janet was dead. A nod to Sharon, the Head Nurse on the Unit was sufficient; and to Janets parents: Im sorry. Can I do anything for you? Well leave you alone for a while. Sharon and I left the room and swung the door closed behind us. Sharon went off to the nurses station to attend to the myriad of trivial details that must now be addressed. Perhaps from habit, I went into the small utility room across the hall; a coffee maker there was a frequent stop for me. I poured a Styrofoam cupful of thick, stale, noxious, barely warm coffee, closed the door, and started to cry. The ferocity of my grief surprised me. I could not have stopped the tears if I had wanted to; I did not even try. I have no idea how long I cried but it was easily an hour before Janets mother eased into the room, touched my arm, and asked what I might need. Nothing; nothing, thank you, I replied. It had all begun about two months before. One afternoon a page to the office of the director of the Transplant Service was followed by a briefing on a new admission, scheduled for the following day: a V.I.P. Just what I needed, I thought, another V.I.P. I had already weathered the exiled King Peter of Yugoslavia, who after being deposed, drowned his despondency in alcohol. He arrived in a coma, went to the operating room in a coma, and after receiving a new liver and fifty or sixty units of non-royal blood, remained in a coma until his death a few weeks later. A prominent member of the royal family of Qatar arrived by chartered Boeing 747. His retinue spent thousand of dollars a day on limousines, big-screen TVs, French take-out, and female companionship; the Sultan or whatever his title was didnt know and could care less; he was dying of liver cancer, alcoholic in origin (go figure!), too far advanced for even a transplant. There were others: the son of an internationally respected gastroenterologist, the teen-aged daughter of a Colorado politician, a member of a prominent Denver family. The expectation of celebrity is to be treated differently, that is, better than everyone else. Thats not a good thing in medicine. If you are truly sick, the last thing you want is to be treated better because that usually translates into: Lets just skip that uncomfortable x-ray. Or, Well forgo that blood sample. Moreover, celebrities often bring along their people, their posse, whose self-anointed duty is to challenge whatever

it made no difference

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continued on next page

shimmering light

darla keneston

unpleasantness the doctor might propose. Its all just plain annoying and it makes it that much harder to do your job which, in my case, was to do usually unpleasant, often painful, sometimes demeaning things to people in the name of medical care. Not a terribly effective way to suck up to celebrities so I left that behavior to the sycophant or two on the service who seemed to enjoy and profit from it. So here we go again, another celeb: this time, the daughter of a Rear Admiral stationed at the Pentagon. Her doctor was no kidding the White House Physician. I immediately started to conjure up calls from President Nixon, questioning my every choice of antibiotic or the need for yet another chest x-ray. But then, he was kind of busy with that Watergate thing. With a clearly audible sigh not well received by my boss I picked up the manila file of medical records and retreated to my cubicle on the eighth floor. Endstage liver disease from chronic active hepatitis began the summary. Late the following morning, I was paged to the Transplant Unit. Janet had arrived. My boss was wondering where I was. I took my time getting there, grabbing a cup of coffee from the ward coffee-maker along the way. The ward clerk pointed me to her room. Sitting in one chair was her mother, in another my boss. The two admirals, Janets father and Dr. Lukash, the White House physician, stood at the foot of the bed. I eased into the room and was brusquely introduced. Janet was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed. She wore faded and patched jeans and a tee shirt, advocating saving the whales or stopping the war, I cant remember which that day. Despite her illness and its physical manifestations a swollen belly, the characteristic sheen and pallor of the skin, the yellowish tinge to her eyes she had absolutely no intention of acting like a patient. No one in the room, especially those in uniform, had the slightest doubt who was in charge. Janet answered our questions and asked her own with all the respect for authority that a college student during the Vietnam War could muster: next to none. It wasnt that she was disrespectful of her parents or the continued on next page

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physicians in the room, she just wanted to be clear about who was making the decisions in her life she was. And, she was beautiful. Things went smoothly for the next few weeks. She was an ideal candidate for a liver transplant; clearly doomed without the intervention yet not too sick to tolerate the operation and its immediate aftermath. Within a week or two a donor organ of appropriate size and blood type became available (a euphemism belying the emotional tornado accompanying organ donation). The operation went smoothly, the anesthesiologists needed to transfuse only ten or so units of blood, and there was relatively little in the way of intra-operative whining, cursing and berating by the head surgeon. And after the operation, Janet made an amazing recovery: her jaundice cleared and she developed a keen interest in activities of all sorts and a new-found appetite for the vegetarian fare that her mother brought to her. I found myself making rounds in her room more frequently than necessary; I found myself becoming protective of her care; I found myself falling in love, the kind of love I imagined I might have had for a younger sister, someone I could look after, care for, protect. During that time, I also developed the greatest of respect for Dr. Lukash for despite his singular title and assignment he was neither overbearing nor aloof. He welcomed every bit of information about Janet, listened carefully to my analysis, and never questioned my decisions. Even when I reached him en route to Camp David aboard the Presidential helicopter, he listened carefully and offered suggestions, support and encouragement even though, I suspect, President Nixon was within earshot. But a few weeks after the operation, I began to notice barely perceptible erosions in her clinical condition and in the daily blood tests. My compulsivity only intensified. I managed her immunosuppressive drugs, designed to protect the transplanted organ from attack by its host, with all the care that my experience could muster. But it seemed to make no difference: modest improvements in laboratory values were followed by further deterioration and her condition worsened. I managed every aspect of her care with obsessive attention and that too made no difference. I sought consultation after consultation; the specialists had nothing of importance to offer. continued on next page

63

on a hilltop

uma goyal

I had hoped, I had willed Janet to be different, for in that era of liver transplants, two-thirds of the patients died in the first year. I had allowed myself to believe that Janet would beat the odds, that through my skill and utter commitment she would live. Only years later did the flawed logic of this devotion to perfectionism emerge with utter clarity. Unbeknownst to us, the outcome for any given patient was dictated nearly entirely by immeasurable, unpredictable biologic forces; after the transplant, the patients killer lymphocytes and other soldiers of the immune system engaged in an assault upon the life-sustaining organ with the ferocity ordinarily directed against hostile bacterial or viral pathogens. Only if, in a cruelly capricious biologic lottery, the patient received a liver bearing a molecular signature sufficiently congruent to the patients own, was it possible for the crude immunosuppressive cocktails, pioneered in the 1950s and 1960s, and still in vogue in the 70s, to quell the attack. And so, in the operating room and on the ward, hundreds of thousands of sutures were placed, drugs given, interventions made, treatments debated. The result? A few patients lived and many more died. We knew, of course, that a faulty operation or manifold errors in judgment would certainly spell failure yet patients who had received a sound liver and the best of care also died. Paradoxically, the vagaries of the immunologic casino in which we plied our craft stifled true creativity. For whenever there was a major complication, or a transplanted organ failed, or a patient died, the myriad of antecedent acts and decisions were minutely scrutinized. Because we had no reliable benchmark by which to appraise our performance, the biologically relevant factors lying beyond our ken, the leader of the transplant team operated on the assumption at least so it seemed to the rest of us that the outcome was the consequence of our faulty judgments, poor decisions, and bungled interventions. I suppose we had no real choice but to buy into that thinking. Our academic stars our careers, our reputations ascended and descended like the dot.com stocks of the nineties, as one after another of us took the helm of the transplant unit. Each of us came into that position believing that by making smarter decisions and by working harder, more patients would survive. It was not to be. Some years later it occurred to me that our situation bore a disquieting resemblance to a rat experiment I had performed in an introductory college psychology course, taught by a disciple of the legendary B.F. Skinner. Over the course of the semester we conditioned our rats to respond to various cues with specific actions, for example, pressing a bar after a light went on. Over the course of the semester, the routines became more complex and, in return for a drop of water as a reward or an electric shock to punish erroneous actions, the rats perfected their entrained tasks. The final experiment though was profoundly disturbing; after successfully completing the elaborate sequence of cues and responses, the rat was to receive nothing no reward, no punishment. The bewildered rat paused, and then repeated perfectly the entire sequence. Again, nothing. Ever more frantically, the rat redoubled his efforts; over and over again, nothing. It was as if we on the transplant service mimicked that rodential psychosis. We were not as obviously frantic and visibly psychotic but we were no less distressed. We had been trained to accept the notion that our patients fates hinged upon surgical skill, diagnostic acumen, compulsive attention to detail, and sound judgment. But in the transplant world of the sixties, the reward of patient survival bore little correlation with the technical precision, intellectual acumen, and dedication that we brought to the task. Even as Janets liver slowly failed her, her youthfulness and inchoate optimism, and my affection for her, drove my clinical obsessing to even greater levels. Every lab value, each drug dose was embedded in my brain; I scarcely needed to refer to her chart. I knew her case far better than anyone else and argued passionately for her every need. Her room was my first stop in the morning and my last one in the evening, often at midnight or later. These visits were a source of pleasure and anguish. If she were awake, Id linger there, awkwardly enjoying her company and conversation, while inside my mood swings were precipitous, hinging on the slightest change in a blood test, for better or worse. continued on next page

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In all honesty, I managed her case just about perfectly. But it made no difference. Like a wind-driven forest fire jumping a laboriously cleared fire-break, the immunologic assault on the foreign liver overwhelmed the pitifully inadequate drug cocktails pumped into her blood stream. I carefully calibrated each dose, but that made no difference. I swiftly diagnosed and treated a potentially lethal lung infection but that only temporarily made a difference. My true forte in the transplant arena was supporting patients with severe liver failure, titrating fluids, administering salts, giving albumen, and transfusing blood and plasma. I did all of this for Janet and that too made no real difference. Ultimately, there was no more to do. She was dying, and we all knew it. Her mother knew it; she barely left Janets side for days on end. Her father knew it. His reserved stoicism, which had stood him so well at sea and at the Pentagon, was of little help to him now. He stood for hours in the shadows at the foot of her bed, his posture was erect but his eyes betrayed his grief. I could not leave the room: I loved Janet, I admired her parents, I respected Dr. Lukash, and I had failed them all. After it was all over, I had finally made my way home. It was late Saturday evening, a crisp winter night with a bright crescent moon. I didnt come into the hospital for rounds on Sunday; I didnt even leave the house until late Monday morning. Back on the ward, I went through the motions: I saw patients, made rounds, wrote notes in charts, and looked at x-rays passively, without emotion or energy. I doubt if I was any less competent than before but my self-confidence, already deeply eroded by the interminable, colorful and cruel monologues spewed in my direction every time I assisted the lead transplant surgeon in the operating room, was now like crystalline iron, impossibly brittle. If I hadnt been able to help Janet then whom could I help? A few months later, I took another job, in another state, leaving forever the liver transplant field. Yes, I have had successes in my career since then but there remains a heaviness of heart, unrelieved by the passing years. As I trudged home that Saturday night, my world seemed to drain of its color, leaving instead the blacks and grays of the roundscreen Philco television in my parents living room. But that too didnt matter. I had known Janet and that had made all the difference.

untitled
65

luis rodriguez

untitled

grand canyon

I looked at her. Pulling up languageless memories neural pathways had no physical right to recall. I locked her gaze and lay quietly upon her breast. Still, the immensity of sound, tucked away from a New York blizzard in that tiny hospital room, was enormous. The premier in a flood of wordless sounds banged out on keys of toy pianos, then electric keyboards, then Steinways. A litany of melodies I have tried so hard to forget when, on my knees, hands tied, teased with memories of precious notes from before twisted ropes of flesh tied swollen knots around my bones, I look at her. Curved ebony leg and ivory crest. Eyes downcast to the divots in the carpet, left from times before I took away the bench that drove me into keys and pedals, drove me into ecstasies each new lover is compared to.

kyle jensen

bess stillman

wordless

66

I What use, this memory? Only to anticipate. What now, with nothing left? Alls been done. Whats to be seen, has been seen. The fish that swam and birds that flew, Swum and flown. Micro-constructs are crumbling, Those children of the mind, legislators in a vast cerebrum, Spindles, tubules, fine filaments and organelles, They held congress while concerned, And have all gone home to comfortable gravesites. The voices available, spoken and through. An infinite inaccuracy encroaches.

alzheimers in triptych

lawrence cronin

II Its raining in here, the castle is deconstructing, tile by tile. Oil prints ooze off canvas, slide silently down drainpipes out to eternity. The room that honored all this work is open like the Russian Hermitage, In a summers breeze, sunlight bleaching, humid fungus disfiguring. Dark winds and owls prey upon the shattered window panes, Wooden shutters clamor until even the night guard abandons shift. No ones been paid for moons and each one is tiring of the charade. A light flickers, tungsten filament waning til at last a dim flare extinguishes. And still the room remains. Walls foreshorten, dropping by the day. Ventilators wheeze then fall silent while the floor remains, present and muttering. Theres a word for this structure. It had a spelling. If only one could recall. It had a meaning until everything above abandoned it. Shes now but a naked roof reflecting dimly the soft entreating rain.

III Follow me. Follow me. I flow over and through you, down, down below. Together we go into pits and rivers, Out to the seaside mingling in the meaninglessness where, Chaos is queen and all cosmic order beseeches nothing. Time itself stays unperceived when nothings left to happen. All an illusion My name not here anymore No name recalled Nothing answerable any longer

67

She wont remember this moonlight ceremoniously pouring over the stilled road, touching night-sharp corners of buildings, bleeding through the silence of birds breathing deep within the branches of eucalyptus, mesquites and oleanders until it finds her on her knees, hands pressed to the summer-warmed blacktop of a dozing Texaco station. Her body arching like a frightened cat, slackens and arches again as she coughs the last whiskey past. She feels invisible and weighted as she rises, bared legs offering her up to a darkened road heading West where her tiny house crouches against flattened mountains. She knows the way home, even with her eyes closed tight so they dont float out of her, so they dont drift and bobble on a current of air and pop like the fragile skin on bubbles. Behind her lids they become stones sinking to the bottom of her and she fears they will turn her inside out. She squints and they swim the dry bed of the Santa Cruz where a couple rubs into one shadow licking light from the stars to illuminate shifts in curve and angle. There is a moisture between them that dances a hot memory across her dry skin: A sour taste of kiss and salt and a long sigh rising and wilting as they are swallowed into the deep of rock and shadow. She is suddenly aware of a black cold blossoming like ink on silk. She remembers Cornered at a table - a man red-eyed, wild-haired, young and hard, buying her drinks, bumping his chair legs into hers, her breath pulsing like a rabbits heart on his cheek, a rattling beneath his clothes and somewhere a safecracker stretched his fingers and flexed a winning hand. No regrets, she thinks. No real damage done. Not like a forest burning animals where they sleep, lying flat beneath him in the backseat, vinyl sucking her skin, his boots against the door, pants pulled down like a popsicle wrapper. She is thinking of empty beds, folded back, stripped, straightened. She is thinking of stopping. But her eyelids are pulling down a small and startled girl, jumping from high places- tables, fences, rooftops. It is her fathers back she sees from these heights and she is calling, Watch me! But he barely glances to see her crash through the air without pawing.

whiskey, flight and lost girls

jennifer lee

Recipient
of the

2009 Mathiasen Written Arts Prize

68

cvs #6549: friday, 5 pm

A sick bag lady standing in line at a pharmacy in the Prozac City cant seem to find enough money to pay for her prescription, as the line disrupts into a loud, angry mob without medicine impatient patients, numbered and in pain, growing more irritable every minute more theyre made to wait. The pharmacist, frantic, skin still glowing red from her hotel-island tan, standing in white lab coat two feet above the crowd, is caught in a tangle of telephone wires and staring at a computer refusing to supply her with the answers, as she mutters demands like a schizophrenic in front of the customers, sometimes dispensing with politeness since it is all too time-consuming. The clock indicates a break for the clerk who looks at the pile of unfilled scripts and slips out the back to smoke his fifteen-minute cigarette for the next half hour. The high-brow vein of the university intern is about to explode and no one can seem to explain why theres an even bigger break between curing and caring her professors couldnt teach, as she reaches for a book, hoping to look busy while avoiding any eye contact and recalling again the guaranteed salary and security-patrolled home in the suburbs of her dreams. Someone screams, Jesus Christ! And the store manager covers the phone with his palm, closing the door to his office. Hes fixed on faxing a letter

neil antonio diamente

to his district manager asking for another raise due to Christmas sales in October when he broke company record. Scanning the aisles via camera for the uncanny shoplifter, he sits like a sniper in hiding, everyone becoming a target. The lack of individual attention like the company sign insists upon causes some unhappy shoppers to leave. Others follow suit as the office chair collects the sweat of potential loss. The rest remain, more or less satisfied by a sudden jump in line. Outside, a cloud of cars thunders its way from the city to the suburbs carrying a rainstorm of money, flooding the high plains. Inside, the Muzak puts me back in time as I try to figure out the original version of this song and my original goal in life, at the same time wondering what makes me happy, when suddenly the hidden waves bouncing off satellites like voices orbiting the earth return lasers from a ray gun invading the bag ladys brain at the beginning of the line, who smiles, half-crazy, holding a real gun now, as the citizens take action and scatter like spilled pills. She mumbles something about losing her dead husbands insurance card and starts crying. Im high on hydrocodone stolen from the shelves and can barely feel my heart beat. Im dying, she says, as we wait for the SWAT team on horseback to rescue us from this ill-planned fantasy not one pill can save us from.

bess stillman

dc2

69

beyond the end

dennis pivnyuk
I dangle my feet over the cliffs edge. The drop is incredible. Peering into the darkness below me, I can just barely make out the reddish ground.1 I look up into the sky. There are no clouds. There has been no water here for years. All that there is now is the terrible red glow. It is barely enough to light up the dreary landscape, but soon, there will be even less. The huge red orb of this sun is nearing its death.2 I take out my watch. By my calculations, there are less than five minutes left before the last star of the Universe goes nova. It will, of course, take 10 more seconds for the light of the explosion to reach me and then it will be time to leave. I have readied the ship for its final launch. My ship is a little one; the final model released by G&G: Frontier Outfitters. Its truly incredible, needing only one nuclear engine coupled with two antimatter drives. I still remember the advertisement: Seats five, handles like a breeze, and holds ten cubic meters of cargo. It moves at god knows how many times the speed of light. We ran water drops on it several million years ago. Made billions off of it too, when water was going for 700 dollars per cubic centimeter.3 Then we were raided and Paul was killed and I lost a leg and that was the end of that. We werent the last, but we were close to it. Nobody wanted to risk it anymore. It wasnt worth it. Id been keeping a journal for three subjective years by then, but it was now that we decided to record everything. We renamed the ship to The Chronicler, equipped some improved observational tech and were off.4 It was a crazy idea, but I think we pulled it off. We downloaded and updated the databases of all three major space civilizations that were still around and sped around galaxies noting the deaths of stars and planets, and other major events. The ship used no fuel once it had accelerated and, since it needed very little to do that, we refueled only every

thousand years or so. It wasnt bad really, until David lost it and pulled a knife and stabbed Marilyn fifteen times. Then he broke down and sat in the ship screaming his head off. Me and Nick were out in the port, trying to barter a water tank down from 1000000. Luckily there was a pilot who liked to walk back to his ship and he heard him.5 They saved Mary, and rewired half of Davids

brain and then they were fine. A crew member was too precious to lose so we kept them both on. David became quiet and sad, and Mary was reduced to frequent hysterics and fits, but we survived.6 They say the Universe is infinite, but the living space in it sure isnt. They said you couldnt continued on next page

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see it all, but Im pretty sure we did. We had been out for a year of subjective time in blank space as we called it -- for thats what it was. No galaxies, no stars, no planets, not even dust. Nick wanted to push the ship to maximum velocity and go like this until we died or pierced the wall of infinity. We might have done it too, but Mary got scared and screamed and raged and we turned back. I dont know if I could have handled it myself now that I think about it.7

I dont know exactly how it happened, but I think we ended up being the last alive. We had lucked out. We had a ship, money, we had survived the pirates, and we spent all our time nowhere, buying ourselves more of it with our ships faster than light drive. We just kept traveling through space, recording the death of the Universe.8 I glance at my watch once more. One minute remaining. I snap a few photos and upload them immediately to my ships database. I have set it to launch automatically even if Im not on it.9 What use is there in this?, said Nick. He was the first to leave, snagging an abandoned ship on one of the desolate planets that we landed on. I think he really wanted to continue the journey into nowhere. I told him he wouldnt find anything more, but he refused to listen and stay.10 Mary was the second. She just stopped one day. Wouldnt move, wouldnt talk. We couldnt tell what was wrong with her. She seemed completely fine but had no willpower left. She died a week later. David said it was time to make some upgrades or wed end up the same way, and there was no way I was disagreeing. We dropped on some derelict space station and found some functioning medbots.11 Time to go. I walk up the short ramp into the inside of my ship, giving one last sweeping look over the terrain.12 I dont know if Im still human. I sure have more machinery in me than organic material. I havent needed to drink or eat in centuries. David isnt with me anymore though. The altered circuitry in his brain couldnt withstand the pressure of the mechanization of his body. His mind was fried.13 The planet is light years behind me now. I look off into the grayness of the warped space around me. So this is the end? Yet infinity still stretches billions of light years ahead of me. Ive heard the popular saying that the ending of one thing brings about the start of something new. I disagree. Its just that once youve seen what you thought was the end, you see that there is still quite a long way to go beyond it.14

iguazu falls

kyle jensen

I set the speed to maximum. Ordering the ship to wake me in fifty years of subjective time I switch off my electronic brain.

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DREAM of the blessed life I have had. I BELIEVE that I had made a contribution to this world. I am HAPPY to see familiar faces. I experienced all different kinds of LOVE throughout my life. I get NERVOUS for the end is near. I am FRUSTRATED without control. I am ANGRY because I am not finished. I am ASHAMED of my body. I am exposed and have lost my DIGNITY. I am DEPRESSED that I know its coming. I have GUILT leaving my family. I have the FEAR of being alone. I am SCARED to go to the unknown. I am

en giv

RAG CO U

E to just try and HOP E ag ain .

desert sand dunes

uma goyal

72

deborah potucek

thoughts

I HOPE to see the day tomorrow. So I sleep and

misadventures of a geriatric variety

lora grainger
You wouldnt think that switching trains from Dublin line two to Killarney line five in the heart of Limerick would be such a big deal, but you are not the responsible daughter of two Ireland struck parents who rely on you for your exceptional navigational expertise, among other things. The swish of the opening doors cues your mental review of the master plan. You glance at your watch noting that there are only twenty minutes for the transfer. You send Dad off first. He is the slowest. Shuffling, he is out, and on his way. His fairytree walking stick, will guide him up the stairs, over the bridge, and to the other side. Mom is in view, which is good because you almost lost her in Dublin when you had to make a split minute decision of whether help her exchange dollars for Euros or to help Dad cross the cobblestone road to pick out a birthday card for Mom. Dreaded thoughts flashed in your brain of having to either round up the Irish police to find a grey haired, slightly overweight, American lady wearing a yellow raincoat, or dealing with Dad falling helplessly in the middle of the street where he would be a prime target for oncoming traffic. At that time you resigned to review the map with Mom, having her recite it back to you, which seemed to work because, luckily, everyone made it back to the old folks tour bus at our designated departure time. Experience taught you well. This should be a piece of cake! In line for the elevator your shoulders and arms ache under the strain of one trekking backpack, two red overstuffed suitcases, two gold trimmed duffle bags loaded with souvenirs, and one giant, leather purse. You question if this is what Aunt Susie had in mind when she gave you your bag and made you promise to take it backpacking across Europe. Well, in all honesty, it wasnt the picture you had painted in your head so many years ago. That was a happy, but faded memory of crashing in a new hostel, in a new country every couple of weeks, with worn out shoes, a fabulous tan, and a dozen new friends. Now your eyes scan the next platform to find Dad to see if he made it to the other side, but there are too many people in the crowd, leisurely waiting for the train and sweetly oblivious of the massive task at hand. Finally your gaze catches his woolen vest and Viva Las Vegas baseball cap. You wave to him with a feeling of success. In only ten minutes one out of three was ready to board the train. You are next up for the elevator with fifteen minutes left to spare. Looking up you see 73

Dad overhead on the bridge waving with a smile on his face happy to see you. Horror strikes. The plan is failing. Waving frantically, you yell go back, go back but the words bounce off the nose smudged enclosed plexiglass bridge. Luckily, he redirects his shuffle back to the Killarney line five platform. The elevator is bursting with suitcases, noise and a very smelly heavyset Irishman who probably had one too many Guinesses. We have exactly twelve minutes before our train arrives and Mom has a death grip on your hand as the elevator doors start to close. Moments later she screams at the top of her lungs, Let me out! Let me out! No worries, you had an inkling this might happen. In fact, your finger was already hovering over the door open button. Meditation, breathing, Xanax, and Dr. Gooten with his guaranteed internet support group for anxious flyers had helped her get here, but apparently elevators were still on the to do list. You gave her an A for effort. Luckily, you got everyone on the train. Mom and Dad found seats two cars up and were already chatting up strangers happily unaware of the miracle that just happened. You relax, kickback and smile because you did it. And yet, you still say a little prayer, hoping that they remember where to get off.

least chipmunk vail

tessie otalley

jill aleshire

untitled

You ran me down In a tightly packaged FedEx ground And as I lay silently, blocking off the street You contemplated driving away or stuffing me into the trunk with some damp cardboard boxes and a dilapidated drunk And meanwhile I stayed at bay Spying your calves between shades of brown While thinking how nice it would be To catch a break with a song, stowed in the passenger seat After deep contemplation and refrain You finally bent my aluminum bike frame Back into riding physique, minus a few cracks And brushed off pieces of rearview glass and sent me off to a drinking fountain with tepid water and gum stuck to the faucet to wash off a pestilent bloodstain And I wondered in my broken hearted mass If you ever reflected back on my unarticulated blame As something you might somehow lack Much like an outspoken conscious, well-intact

The devil reaches inside you Takes your vocal chords between his thumb And forefinger And gives you a new voice With absolution and incantation And then the devil reaches down below i can say that i hate the soulless mongers For letting the devil get their souls i can say that the devil has touched me But i wiggled and stomped around Until he let me go i can say i hate the weaker tycoon For not fighting to be free

jill aleshire

untitled

But if i love them just a little more Maybe hell let me see

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nicole capdarest
Strode the sidewalk Shoulder to shoulder amidst many All the same Disconnected Then flaccid fall Paralyzed, All but mind and heart ascending: Those left acutely aware of the slack slumped mass. Then, trodden on, over, around, Below the passing gaze.

fall

durango silverton train

tessie otalley
children, dogs, and fellow campers. Stepping out of the car is immediate sensory overload crisp, clean air wafting the smell of hotdogs cooking over an open fire. Rhythmic cries of batter-batta-batter echo from the meadow and the sky would be the color of blue jays that swoop down so close you can hear the flap of their wings. For some families, getting settled involved just three steps: find a level site, park, and popup the camper top. Others simply roughed it with army surplus tents that smelled faintly of mold and pine tar. Rocks and pinecones seemed to cover every square inch of ground making clearing the site no easy task. There was one particular family though who worked together like a well-oiled machine to try to surpass their previous years tent-pitching speed record. From an aerial view, the compound must have looked something like a three-ring circus. In center stage, the firepit: a galvanized steel ring surrounded by piles of wood and four long splitlog benches. Three tree stumps, strategically placed for checker games or mumbly-peg, stood as monuments to the etched-in-bark names of previous champions. To the east, the red dirt volleyball court, marked and ready for tournament play, looked lonely and vacant. And beyond the softball meadow on the west: the train tracks, put there apparently for the sheer delight of the kids and to keep the adults awake most of the night. During the day, though, those trains entertained young and old alike. The under six- and over- sixty set never tired of signaling the caboose engineer to pull his whistle. And the older kids would spend hours there lying in wait

ghosts of summers past

darla anderson
A few years ago, I drove up to northern Arizona to bring back a travel trailer I had received as part of my divorce settlement. As I pulled into the campsite I had visited many times as a teenager and again with my own small children, twilight was rapidly descending as it seems to do in the woods at 7,000 feet. An eerie sensation swept over me, bringing with it a mixture of emotions as I listened to the ghosts of summers past all around me. The memories came flooding back of a more innocent time in my life. During the 70s my family spent a week each July in a small community just west of Flagstaff. We looked forward every year to getting out of the sweltering heat of Phoenix to commune with nature and other families and friends. As soon as the cactus gave way to junipers and San Francisco Peak came into view, wed roll down the car windows and gulp in air heady with the sweet scent of pine sap and red clay. The crunch of tires on red cinder meant you were almost there. This little community has an eclectic mixture of modest large homes, A-frames, and small lots dotted with mobile homes and camp trailers. Across the railroad tracks stood the ramshackle house of a little old lady who kept chickens and gave away eggs to anyone who would stop and chat. Taking a left for a quarter mile, we would inch carefully along to avoid small

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for the train to flatten pennies on the track. A typical morning would begin at the crack of dawn with a pancake breakfast and discussion about the annual talent-less show to be held the final evening. The favorite part of my day, though, was spent stretching out in a hammock slung between two trees with a small pink bundle lying asleep on my chest. I can still close my eyes and hear the sounds of horseshoes clinking and thudding into the dirt, children yelling higher, higher at the tire swing, and smelling the sizzle of steaks on the grill. Lazily rocking in that hammock with warm babys breath rhythmically flowing on my neck was a feeling of peace and contentment I will never forget. There were things you learned to expect on these camp-outs: kids clothes would very soon rival any before picture in a Tide ad, and at least one dog always falls prey to a skunks wrath. Every afternoon promptly at three, the sky would darken and fill with clouds and the smell of rain. The shower lasted just long enough to settle the dirt on the volleyball court and wake the mosquitoes for their late afternoon feast. All too quickly, though, the time would come to pack up and start that dreaded descent into hell, or Phoenix, in the summertime. I do recall, however, arriving home each year and feeling very grateful for those creature comforts like hot showers and water that doesnt need hauling every time you cook. Camping does inspire the kind of heart-felt appreciation and awe you feel as you stand and stare at a flushing toilet in your own private bathroom. That was twenty years ago, that pink bundle is away at college, and I am on my own and back in college as well. It was a painful year of visits to old haunts, but as I stood at the old campsite I realized that my children werent the only ones who had grown up. What had outwardly appeared as an idyllic vacation was merely a change in location for a marriage already in trouble, and gave me insights into what families should be like. The years gone by have opened my eyes in many ways, but as I recall that insecure, self-doubting young mother, I realize how much more I now know who I am, and respect myself for the courage and strength it took to attain this independence. Before I pulled away with my trailer, I took one long last look around. I couldnt help but feel like something was gone forever. But as time goes by, I realize that I also took with me some very treasured memories. The years have changed my perspective in many ways, but I will always remember and appreciate the freedom of allowing my children the simple joys of catching fireflies in a jar, hiking through the woods, and sleeping under the stars.

mesquite bug

the life of an undergraduate biology major

kristin renkema
I frantically skimmed over my lab packet one more time, my eyes darting randomly across the pages, trying to pick up key words or phrases. (The word hemacytometer meant nothing to me, yet I dread its inevitable importance). With my head down, my papers spread out on the smooth black counter, my back already protesting the uncomfortable lab stool, I waited out the last five minutes before lab begins. Noise swirled around me, and I tried to ignore the conversations of the 26 other students in my labslightly difficult to do when several of these students are talking directly to me. Did they completely understand the jumble of jargon called a lab manual? Dread sunk to the pit of my stomach as I tried to sort out my thoughts. Twenty-seven students were packed in a lab better equipped for 15. My professor strode in the room, and after quieting the class, he complained again at our number. We were sitting so close, our elbows were touching. He explained the lab, and I fought to pay attention. Chaos ensued when he set us loosetoo many

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darla keneston

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people rush for the too few supplies. Stress became my focus, and from that point on, my abounded, and Im ready to quit before Ive interest in science took a very different turn; I begun. began to think seriously about using science in a If anyone says that college biology is pure career. By the second semester of my freshman memorization, he or she is correct. Information year of college, I was officially a biology major, was stuffed into my already overloaded brain writing major, and a chemistry minor. However, only to be recalled and then forgotten. I doubts still clouded my mind: should one hate her rewrote my notes over and over in preparation major sometimes? for an exam, all the while thinking, What is This bipolar relationship with my major the benefit of knowing how a protein folds into seemed unnatural and destructive. Instead of a primary, secondary and tertiary structure? absorbing knowledge, I began to work for perfect The information gathered in my head like water grades in my biology classes. I learnednot for gathers in a river: it begins to swell, threatening the sake of learning, but for the sake of the test. the banks. It pushed at the dam holding it Knowledge became degraded to simple facts and back, lapping at its edges, trickling over the figures. And I hated it. I was ready to quit. The sides. Pressure built as more information was boring lectures, stressful labs, and overwhelming stuffed into my flooded brain. The test itself was information tired my soul. My mind burned with something of a relief I happily opened the dam one simple question: What is the point? and let the information pour from me. Once I was confused about my major. I hated the drained, I handed in the test and shuffled out of classes. I hated the homework. I hated the tests. the room. One test down, countless to go. I loved the people. I loved the future. I loved the My eyes blinked rapidly, trying to clear insight. the fog descending in my brain. My professor I look at a tree, and I see a thousand tiny parts droned on about something within something working in harmony. within mitochondria within a cell. My eyes felt I look at a bird, and I know why it can fly. as if every eyelash had a heavy weight attached, I look at the clouds, and I know how they form. and I dragged them up to the clock one more I look at a fish, and I know how it can breathe. time. Was it possible that the seemingly 20 I look at a human, and I see the 1013 cells minutes of mind-numbing information was packed working together, forming organs and tissues with into three and a half? My eyes fell away from amazing capabilities. the clock to my notes, where my handwriting I look at the world, and I see the eautiful had deteriorated. The words became nearly intricacies that make up our planet. illegible near the bottom of the page; I could With a swipe of my all-powerful swipe keyclearly trace the dissipation of my attention from card, I entered the biology core. To my left, two the top to bottom of the page. Briefly amused, exceedingly ugly fish mouth their outrage at being I suppressed a snort and attempted focusing on concealed in such a small tank. To my right, a the screen. Were those words in English? Almost lone computerdedicated student slumped over imperceptibly, my eyes slid closedheaven. With the keyboard. Ahead, I saw three worn couches a jolt, I pried my eyes open, darting them all around a coffee table littered with magazines, around the room, a type of eye aerobics meant books, and papers. Students were sprawled on the to warm up eye muscles. My friend hissed my couches, laughing and arguing. Sympathetically name; obviously, my attempts to stay awake patting the kid slumped at the computer, and were not unnoticed. I struggled valiantly to pay waving at a professor, I made my way through attention the remainder of the lecture. I began the room and pounced on a couch. Smiling at thinking about why I was even sitting in that the familiar faces, I jumped into the conversation, desk, struggling with college biology. comfortable and confident with the material being My interest in science was born in seventh discussed. The girl next to me declared her hatred grade, first conceived by my enthusiastic science for cell biology. The student at the computer teacher. Although interested, I did not think laughed and agreed, adding he has no idea why he about incorporating science into my future, is a biology major. considering I was 12 and movie stardom still I smile. I belong. held its appeal. Once I entered high school, my interests were diverse. I began to worry about my future, considering I loved everything. How would I pick my focus? Desperate, I searched for some guidance. During my sophomore year of high school, my biology teacher made the infamous comment, Kristin has a very scientific mind. My father, my role model, agreed. I grasped the insight and ran with it. Science 77

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index
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

Information Director/Editor Welcome Me Younger Wiring Campana A Little Off The Top Black Eyed Susan Compassion Breath Paula This Ear, or my Other White Creek Reflection Buckskin Cliffs The Mountain Butterfly Hearts Reasonable Doubt The Artist Speaking A Tribute to Randy Pausch I Brought My Beachball My Discovery on Your Leaving for College Daisies Cassiopea in the Left Corner Untitled Green Light Surprise Ones Path Given Heart of the Agave Nana Untitled (B/W images) The Locket Pinocchio Diagnosis Hoisting their Colors Dreaming A Way Home Plaza An Addicts Cry Ode to Anger Marana Sunset The Lump Marana Sunset Complementary First Tree To Go Stethoscope Dusk at Black Mesa Mrs. C Balance Friends Truth and Hope No Place Like Home Monsoon Minute Suckah Got Busted My Love and Personal (Valentine) The Letter Christie Untitled Magical Clouds The One Who Needs the Least Dubai The Watch Roots A Souls Prism Sedona Sunset My Mother Never Taught Me to Put Lipstick On Masquerade Elizabeth Hope for a New Tomorrow My Mother Never Taught Dont Move Hummingbird Linda J, RN Anatomy Study Missing Parts Prague, December 2007 Underclass Homewords

Janet Alessi Patrick Richardson Dan Shapiro Colan Kennelly Tessie OTalley Janet Vargas Nicole Capdarest Matthew Medeiros Mark Gilbert Steve Rodney Steve Rodney Betsy Whitesel Betsy Whitesel Nataliya Biskup Janet Alessi Janet Vargas Janet Alessi Mark Gilbert Bess Stillman Bess Stillman Bill Madden Bill Madden Scott Hessell Keven Siegert Doug Campos-Outcalt Brian Hunter Candace Johnson Luis Rodriguez Christine Krikliwy Mary Matthews Jennifer Lee Gary Freiburger Kimberley Elliott Betsy Whitesel David Vangelder Elizabeth Cudilo Angelica Gomez John Murphy Jennifer Reich Keven Siegert Bill Madden Neil Gholkar Suzu Igarashi Mark Gilbert Jessica Serrano Peggy Gigstad Nick Panayi Nick Panayi Lindsay Gunnell Stefan Walz Daniel Lopez Nancy Huff Tomas Amaya Uma Goyal Oren Rodriguez Bess Stillman Scott Hessell Nancy Huff Kathylynn Saboda Nataliya Biskup Luis Rodriguez Karen Greco Darla Keneston Phil Malan Bill Madden Luis Rodriguez Evamaria Lugo Vince Sorrell Peggy Gigstad Ron Pust

Untitled Image Returned a Mother Madrigals, Cambridge The Pear Untitled B/W Image Lunch Break at the Medical School Dancing in the Operating Room Canopy Walk, Peru Dancing in the Operating Room - continued Dancing in the
Operating Room - continued

Bill Madden Jennifer Lee Phil Malan Janice Degan Bill Madden Nancy Coleman Thomas Gibbs Kyle Jensen

Washington Crossing the Delaware Noble Surgeon Mensa as I Think It Reflects His Deep Thoughts First Lesson Dubai Coastline Ronald A Life and Friendship Tested Hunting Creek The Gardner and the Tulip Sounds of Pacheta Big Bang Nerd Big Bang - continued Untitled
Big Bang - continued Big Bang - continued

John Murphy Lutul Farrow Vince Sorrell Jamie Dermon Uma Goyal Justin Liberman Madelon Cook David VanGelder Elizabeth Cudilo Amber Steves Bess Stillman Uma Goyal Payam Morgan Phil Malan Ana Maria Lopez Ana Maria Lopez John Murphy Rifat Latifi Lindsay Gunnell Uma Goyal Janice Degan Patrick Richardson Adam Philip Stern Virginia LeBaron Dawn Curry Darla Keneston Steve Rodney

A Life and Friendship Tested - continued A Life and Friendship Tested - continued

A Tribute to Randy Pausch - continued

Fishing Boats, Aswan The Reading Death Untitled My Mother Gods Anatomy
My Mother - continued

Life Goes On Threads Average Postmortal Postmortal - continued Kerala, India Inhale Exhale Can You See Me
Postmortal - continued

60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80

Mule Rider Richard Avedon, Rock Climbing, and Graham Crackers for Rabiah Jewelry Box Hurt Me Reasonable Woman It Made No Difference Shimmering Light On A Hilltop
On A Hilltop - continued

Laila Halaby Mike Montague Patrick Richardson Charles Putnam Darla Keneston Uma Goyal Luis Rodriguez Kyle Jensen Bess Stillman Lawrence Cronin Jennifer Lee Bess Stillman Neil Antonio Diamente Kyle Jensen Dennis Pivynuk Uma Goyal Deborah Potucek Tessie OTalley Lora Grainger Jill Aleshire Tessie OTalley Nicole Capdarest Darla Anderson Darla Keneston Kristin Renkema

It Made No Difference - continued to page 65

25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

Untitled Grand Canyon Wordless Alzheimers in Triptych Whiskey, Flight, and Lost Girls DC2 CVS #6549: Friday, 5 pm Iguazu Falls Beyond The End
Beyond The End - continued

Desert Sand Dunes Thoughts Least Chipmunk Vail Misadventures of a Geriatric Variety Untitled Poems Durango Silverton Train Fall Ghosts of Summers Past Mesquite Bug The Life of an Undergraduate Biology Major
The Life of an Undergraduate Biology Major - continued

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