׉?4ׁB!3בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://6Bu-erb-Z1k3flzI5Ik5D8lkYPRLw9ioX82Fv44xBmMn`I׉ 7cassandra://E7WveN0I8uxjE67WdECI--NrhZvqA93Q1C6ugWJVuOA`)`@׉ 7cassandra://K0yeNsbGPHQxPI_t3djSgzEYIpSxb3R4PAvtDZ4H-UM`̫׉ 7cassandra://g90oK2QiaQQKK23tuB36jTYQ_yMv3Ye2LYEIeFEprHs kn͠^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://6Bu-erb-Z1k3flzI5Ik5D8lkYPRLw9ioX82Fv44xBmMn`I׉ 7cassandra://E7WveN0I8uxjE67WdECI--NrhZvqA93Q1C6ugWJVuOA`)`@׉ 7cassandra://K0yeNsbGPHQxPI_t3djSgzEYIpSxb3R4PAvtDZ4H-UM`̫׉ 7cassandra://g90oK2QiaQQKK23tuB36jTYQ_yMv3Ye2LYEIeFEprHs kn͠^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://6Bu-erb-Z1k3flzI5Ik5D8lkYPRLw9ioX82Fv44xBmMn`I׉ 7cassandra://E7WveN0I8uxjE67WdECI--NrhZvqA93Q1C6ugWJVuOA`)`@׉ 7cassandra://K0yeNsbGPHQxPI_t3djSgzEYIpSxb3R4PAvtDZ4H-UM`̫׉ 7cassandra://g90oK2QiaQQKK23tuB36jTYQ_yMv3Ye2LYEIeFEprHs kn͠^1'%6 ט8u׈Rfq׈E^1'%6 .׉EJanuary 2020 • Volume I, Issue I HIGHWAY 61, Revised Creative Writing by the students of Minnesota State College Southeast Red Wing & Winona, Minnesota ׉ 7cassandra://K0yeNsbGPHQxPI_t3djSgzEYIpSxb3R4PAvtDZ4H-UM`̫^1'%6 /^1'%6 .8בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://4c4tVKRl2Rj29q3xhQefVhNAjxQGWiFSuENW2ys1aZc`׉ 7cassandra://grBc9Dm69wRV2Ej6Eko92GN_Ad6pIR1L4Y1e-QG5BYk>`׉ 7cassandra://LfV7zkVWyThXRMJL1EYeZkOSEaz4W3bGSGO97bqUfLo+`U׉ 7cassandra://Avzd9oZfoMxv4sNFofesNr1G4YvaCIZNkNoln1p2pi8͊P͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://4c4tVKRl2Rj29q3xhQefVhNAjxQGWiFSuENW2ys1aZc`׉ 7cassandra://grBc9Dm69wRV2Ej6Eko92GN_Ad6pIR1L4Y1e-QG5BYk>`׉ 7cassandra://LfV7zkVWyThXRMJL1EYeZkOSEaz4W3bGSGO97bqUfLo+`U׉ 7cassandra://Avzd9oZfoMxv4sNFofesNr1G4YvaCIZNkNoln1p2pi8͊P͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://4c4tVKRl2Rj29q3xhQefVhNAjxQGWiFSuENW2ys1aZc`׉ 7cassandra://grBc9Dm69wRV2Ej6Eko92GN_Ad6pIR1L4Y1e-QG5BYk>`׉ 7cassandra://LfV7zkVWyThXRMJL1EYeZkOSEaz4W3bGSGO97bqUfLo+`U׉ 7cassandra://Avzd9oZfoMxv4sNFofesNr1G4YvaCIZNkNoln1p2pi8͊P͠ A^1'%6 נ^1'%6 q!̥ 9ׁHhttp://www.southeastmn.eduׁ ׁ Јנ^1'%6 99ׁHmailto:mlarson@southeastmn.eduׁ ׁ Јנ^1'%6 ̂#9ׁH!mailto:pbeurskens@southeastmn.eduׁ ׁ Ј׉EbHighway 61, Revised Volume I, Issue I. Published January 2020 Highway 61, Revised is published once per year under the auspices of Minnesota State College Southeast’s Creative Writing program. The essays, poems, and stories in the publication represent work by students enrolled in the certificate the previous academic year. For more information about the publication or the online Creative Writing Certificate, please contact Pete Beurskens, Faculty Editor, at pbeurskens@southeastmn.edu, or Mike Larson, Creative Writing Instructor, at mlarson@southeastmn.edu. Faculty Editors: Pete Beurskens, Daniel Bernstrom, Mike Larson Design: Dakota Street Design, Red Wing, Minnesota Cover: Highway 61 at Wacouta, by Katryn Conlin Minnesota State College Southeast is a two-year technical and community college that prepares students for a lifetime of learning by providing education for employment, skill enhancement, retraining, and transfer, to meet the needs of students and the community. The Winona campus opened in 1949, merging with the Red Wing campus in 1992 and updating its name to Minnesota State College Southeast in 2016 with the change of mission to offer both technical training and the associate of arts degree. Minnesota State College Southeast is a member of Minnesota State. Minnesota State College Southeast 1250 Homer Road, Winona MN 55987 www.southeastmn.edu ׉ 7cassandra://LfV7zkVWyThXRMJL1EYeZkOSEaz4W3bGSGO97bqUfLo+`U^1'%6 0׉EGHighway 61, Revised Table of Contents Still Life with Avocados by Katryn Conlin ................................................. 5 No One Laments a Terrible Roommate by Kathleen VanCor ........................... 6 Persephone’s Canvas by Emily Possehl ...................................................... 7 Kore by Elliot Engberg ......................................................................... 7 Story: The Sandbox Hot Tub and Nadiya’s Dumb Brother by Kate Thompson .... 8 Bus Stop by Elliot Engberg ................................................................... 13 Melting Snow by Sam Beurskens ............................................................ 14 I Stepped on My Guitar by Katryn Conlin ................................................ 15 Grievance by Emily Possehl .................................................................. 16 Story: Max by Katryn Conlin ................................................................ 17 Cut You Off by Kate Thompson .............................................................22 Essay: The Sky is Not Blue by Nick Shannon .............................................23 New Eve by Sam Beurskens ...................................................................28 On Ice By Robert Bidon ......................................................................29 Essay: Wheeling Wausau by Sam Beurskens .............................................. 30 Slough by Emily Possehl ......................................................................35 Krampusnacht by Kathleen VanCor ........................................................36 Essay: My Life, Approximately by Peter Smith ..........................................37 Mississippi River: A Ballad By Maria Jimenez .......................................... 44 Firewood by Emily Possehl .................................................................. 44 Story: An Old Friend by Danielle Nation .................................................45 Fallen Dust by Emily Possehl ................................................................. 51 Memoir: Summer, 1976 by Katryn Conlin................................................52 Short Lived by Ashley Schroeder .............................................................55 Story: The Beheld by Emily Possehl ........................................................57 Ballad of a Killer Cat by Kathleen VanCor ................................................63 Gryllidae Trill by Danielle Nation ......................................................... 64 Down by the River, Let Us Walk by Katryn Conlin ......................................65 The Unbearable Cuteness of Leo by Katryn Conlin .....................................66 Essay: Tossing Out Tradition by Emily Possehl ..........................................67 “Oh No, It’s Another Nature Poem.” by Danielle Nation ..............................72 April Storm by Elliot Engberg ...............................................................73 Essay: Hippity Hoppity Rabbit Haters and Their Ways by Mayr Boros ............74 Heart of Thistles by Kathleen VanCor ......................................................77 The Purple Hyacinth by Ashley Schroeder ................................................79 “And they say God only gives us as much as we can handle.”by Tyler Janssen ......96 Ghosts by Emily Possehl ......................................................................97 Index by Author ...........................................................................98 Illustrations & Typography ..............................................................99 Page 3 ^1'%6 1^1'%6 08בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://BA2D5qn1rysk3M25KDPY2aye2IEaY6iVEJ49qeiu-pkM`׉ 7cassandra://La8aLov8zOedQhhJfZMv6OZ9Zj9kuGsKLdp6-zuqPVw9`׉ 7cassandra://Ne0xT5s9E9qICO5YojZEMN8kel_NeViKlHIzArOKloQ`U׉ 7cassandra://YaIpy82h94eExTT-_6I49KAd4R-JrnL1S4AVb_TlMjs1͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://BA2D5qn1rysk3M25KDPY2aye2IEaY6iVEJ49qeiu-pkM`׉ 7cassandra://La8aLov8zOedQhhJfZMv6OZ9Zj9kuGsKLdp6-zuqPVw9`׉ 7cassandra://Ne0xT5s9E9qICO5YojZEMN8kel_NeViKlHIzArOKloQ`U׉ 7cassandra://YaIpy82h94eExTT-_6I49KAd4R-JrnL1S4AVb_TlMjs1͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://BA2D5qn1rysk3M25KDPY2aye2IEaY6iVEJ49qeiu-pkM`׉ 7cassandra://La8aLov8zOedQhhJfZMv6OZ9Zj9kuGsKLdp6-zuqPVw9`׉ 7cassandra://Ne0xT5s9E9qICO5YojZEMN8kel_NeViKlHIzArOKloQ`U׉ 7cassandra://YaIpy82h94eExTT-_6I49KAd4R-JrnL1S4AVb_TlMjs1͠ A^1'%6 ׉EPage 4 ׉ 7cassandra://Ne0xT5s9E9qICO5YojZEMN8kel_NeViKlHIzArOKloQ`U^1'%6 2׉EStill Life with Avocados by Katryn Conlin Preface Beginning with a blank page and a vacant mind, Closing my eyes, writing from the wrists out, Fingertips tapping the first odd thing, one sharp image appears: An avocado. Poem Six in the fruit bowl on the kitchen island. Six green ovoids, knobbly to the touch, just giving way when pressed. Ready and ripe, having arrived In the fullness of time. (Too soon: brilliant and green but tough and tasteless. Too late: mushy and rank, unworthy of eating.) Slice one down to the stone inside, Twist to expose the emerald interior, Whack the pit with a knife, Give it a turn and pop it loose. Scrape with a spoon, mash with a fork, Juice of a lime, sprinkle of salt, Eat with a chip. Don’t hesitate. Five to go, Eat them all before it’s too late. What have we learned? Seize the avocados! Life is short, the grave is long. The trash can awaits An overripe fruit. Page 5 ^1'%6 3^1'%6 28בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://aERnJjUwzaTeU4AReYqEOaB3IwEVVf5rrtYSRfTbtKI5`׉ 7cassandra://flx6_QwpW-WNgD_qoKWVt-rXVZBiihkFlYlcJBDXPc0U`׉ 7cassandra://AJKJVbhWaaVkYP6zZDSKLCN6_8LJRi2HvggM_dONy8w`U׉ 7cassandra://OdKf94ExDbpN7SqpUlMGgljUgY9Y2WQuDO8o4EK7r7o$͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://aERnJjUwzaTeU4AReYqEOaB3IwEVVf5rrtYSRfTbtKI5`׉ 7cassandra://flx6_QwpW-WNgD_qoKWVt-rXVZBiihkFlYlcJBDXPc0U`׉ 7cassandra://AJKJVbhWaaVkYP6zZDSKLCN6_8LJRi2HvggM_dONy8w`U׉ 7cassandra://OdKf94ExDbpN7SqpUlMGgljUgY9Y2WQuDO8o4EK7r7o$͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://aERnJjUwzaTeU4AReYqEOaB3IwEVVf5rrtYSRfTbtKI5`׉ 7cassandra://flx6_QwpW-WNgD_qoKWVt-rXVZBiihkFlYlcJBDXPc0U`׉ 7cassandra://AJKJVbhWaaVkYP6zZDSKLCN6_8LJRi2HvggM_dONy8w`U׉ 7cassandra://OdKf94ExDbpN7SqpUlMGgljUgY9Y2WQuDO8o4EK7r7o$͠ A^1'%6 ׉ENo One Laments a Terrible Roommate by Kathleen VanCor I’d hate to see a glimpse of him, he who the cats take note. I hear his knocking, wailings too. Dishes flung onto the floor. He’s making such a mess of things, His talent throughout his life. I have his stuff all packed away, For his relatives to retrieve. Those who did not truly know him Are all welcome to their grief. But I, for one. will not bother To hold vigil for such a bore. A slob, a cad, a thief and dolt Are the kindest words I can form. I cannot tell a lie. It’s all so true, He was just as I have said. He pawned my sax, he stole my girl, From my wallet took all my cash. I hope he will be leaving soon. I’m so tired of his ways. I cleaned the blood he left behind, And now the rent is due. I’d hate to get a glimpse of him, But I think he’ll still avoid. He’ll stay on and I’ll go mad, He still owes me 50 bucks. Page 6 ׉ 7cassandra://AJKJVbhWaaVkYP6zZDSKLCN6_8LJRi2HvggM_dONy8w`U^1'%6 4׉EPersephone’s Canvas by Emily Possehl The breeze was flavored with chickadee song As spiders knitted with thin harvest threads The toads peeked out of their mud cottages A daffodil raised her buttery head Kore by Elliot Engberg a blessing of crimson, blood drops, upon the soft, snow-laden pathways down, the pomegranate scarlet, poppy bright, that held the maiden in the arms of night Page 7 ^1'%6 5^1'%6 48בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://1yut9jVFpLBh2Xt2kleQDo_tQ9FfY1h_EO3Ze3Jo8as`׉ 7cassandra://9JMvfeV5GoUAuL0Q8d0gICmrShRgcdPxvLevtHuBVoc`׉ 7cassandra://cnZnzY012O-YTAiCl1RhproglDen9QURTpBNksMeO4g:D`U׉ 7cassandra://C0x_zANiaQFsuSGgf9unH6S0dYkg6kXCTx4v4MDIrUgY͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://1yut9jVFpLBh2Xt2kleQDo_tQ9FfY1h_EO3Ze3Jo8as`׉ 7cassandra://9JMvfeV5GoUAuL0Q8d0gICmrShRgcdPxvLevtHuBVoc`׉ 7cassandra://cnZnzY012O-YTAiCl1RhproglDen9QURTpBNksMeO4g:D`U׉ 7cassandra://C0x_zANiaQFsuSGgf9unH6S0dYkg6kXCTx4v4MDIrUgY͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://1yut9jVFpLBh2Xt2kleQDo_tQ9FfY1h_EO3Ze3Jo8as`׉ 7cassandra://9JMvfeV5GoUAuL0Q8d0gICmrShRgcdPxvLevtHuBVoc`׉ 7cassandra://cnZnzY012O-YTAiCl1RhproglDen9QURTpBNksMeO4g:D`U׉ 7cassandra://C0x_zANiaQFsuSGgf9unH6S0dYkg6kXCTx4v4MDIrUgY͠ A^1'%6 ׉E ^Story: The Sandbox Hot Tub and Nadiya’s Dumb Brother by Kate Thompson My parents, the two little babies in my mom’s tummy, and I moved into our house about three years before our new neighbors moved in next door. By the time those two little babies popped out and were about two and a half years old, I was already best friends with Nadiya. Nadiya had bangs and glasses and a pool in her backyard, and she was way cooler than the teenage boys who lived in her house before. They always used to ruin my sandcastles and they liked to pick on me because I was only seven. But Nadiya was eight, and she didn’t pick on me because we were best friends. The summer of 2009 was the peak of our friendship. We spent every waking moment together; we were absolutely attached at the hip. We kept a tally on the chalkboard wall in my playhouse of how many days we went together without one of us going on vacation or going shopping because one of our parents said we had to or something else stupid that kept us apart. Our grand record still stands at 38 days. That’s 38 days in a row of water balloon fights, selling lemonade to anyone who would stop, swimming in her pool, and chasing each other around my playset. Nadiya had two brothers, one of them, Chase, was only six, which meant he was too little to play with us and we didn’t want him hanging around, and the other, Steven, 13. Steven was a troublemaker, as all budding young teenagers are, and he would come out sometimes just to get Nadiya and I riled up. On this particular August day, Nadiya and I were running out of fun ideas to fill our day with. We’d already colored sidewalk pictures on the cement, done each other’s makeup with my $10 makeup kit from Claire’s, and made root beer floats with a little too much ice cream and not nearly enough root beer. Steven seemed to have a sixth sense about when his sister and I were at our most vulnerable time, when exactly he could get us in trouble. As Nadiya and I went back and forth asking, “I dunno, what do you want to do?” Steven made his way over and plopped down on the swing next to me. Nadiya and I immediately stopped our bantering and looked at him expectantly. Nadiya spoke first. It was her dumb brother after all. “What do you want, Steven?” “Just seeing what you’re up to.” “Nothing,” came our unison reply. We knew Steven’s games by this Page 8 ׉ 7cassandra://cnZnzY012O-YTAiCl1RhproglDen9QURTpBNksMeO4g:D`U^1'%6 6׉E point. He had already gotten us yelled at big time twice this summer; many more if you counted all the little scoldings we earned from performing his shenanigans. “Ok, well, I’ll leave you alone then. I did have a really good idea… oh well. Maybe next time.” He got up from the swings and began to walk ever so slowly away from us, knowing very well that his comment had gotten our attention. Nadiya gave me one of her famous side-eye looks and I shrugged back at her. She was older than me, she got to call the shots. Plus, it was her dumb brother after all. “What idea?” Nadiya said. Steven galloped back to our spot on the swings with the biggest grin on his face. Nadiya and I listened to his plan patiently and got to work the second he had everything laid out for us. His plan was perfect. We were giddy with excitement. My best friend and I scooped the sand out of the sandbox by hand. It was so much easier than wasting our time with the stupid toy shovels. Steven watched us, telling us we had to dig deeper or that the bottom was too lopsided or that we were throwing too much sand towards him. Now, my sandbox wasn’t one of those dinky plastic toy ones that were in the shape of a turtle. No, my sandbox was big, and it was plopped right into the ground underneath my playhouse. This meant that if we dug for long enough China would appear right under our feet. Steven egged on our childish delusions and had us clearing out dirt for nearly an hour. Finally, after our fingernails were dark with crud and our heads were itchy with sand and our faces were smudged with mud, he stopped us. “Now comes the fun part.” The smirk on his face said it all. Nadiya and I scrambled out of our surprisingly shallow hole and ran to the hose. We had it pulled halfway across the yard before Steven yelled us to a halt. “That water is going to be cold. It’s going to be a hot tub, right? We need hot water, idiots.” The eye roll was implied in his voice. “Why don’t you do it then?” Nadiya yelled right back at him. I didn’t dare get angry at him. It was her dumb brother after all. Steven frowned at her and then pointed back over in the direction of their house. “Just go get a bucket from dad’s shed and fill it up inside. Use the bathtub or something. It’s not that hard.” I followed Nadiya willingly and after a few minutes of scrounging around, we found a decent sized bucket. Her parents weren’t home,;they must have taken little Chase somewhere, leaving the house completely Page 9 ^1'%6 7^1'%6 68בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://b7Ra57DBC0aGEk3iqA6k_IujlB8q1NOoNZUkGIQwL8E`׉ 7cassandra://rb4lLMGwJ1xhlyv5GpiWej7OhAeTL4HGxGINDlKoVN8`׉ 7cassandra://a9-wuGkR4ZnSJ_DrTzVbvHzQu6RxJ_gDCB0Pvr2ryKY9`U׉ 7cassandra://d9IXKzuKTQZSJP11c4MdihiormFOstUT3-4RNA_5NPg=͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://b7Ra57DBC0aGEk3iqA6k_IujlB8q1NOoNZUkGIQwL8E`׉ 7cassandra://rb4lLMGwJ1xhlyv5GpiWej7OhAeTL4HGxGINDlKoVN8`׉ 7cassandra://a9-wuGkR4ZnSJ_DrTzVbvHzQu6RxJ_gDCB0Pvr2ryKY9`U׉ 7cassandra://d9IXKzuKTQZSJP11c4MdihiormFOstUT3-4RNA_5NPg=͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://b7Ra57DBC0aGEk3iqA6k_IujlB8q1NOoNZUkGIQwL8E`׉ 7cassandra://rb4lLMGwJ1xhlyv5GpiWej7OhAeTL4HGxGINDlKoVN8`׉ 7cassandra://a9-wuGkR4ZnSJ_DrTzVbvHzQu6RxJ_gDCB0Pvr2ryKY9`U׉ 7cassandra://d9IXKzuKTQZSJP11c4MdihiormFOstUT3-4RNA_5NPg=͠ A^1'%6 ׉E empty and Steven in charge. It took a while to fill up the bucket because every time it got close to being full it would get too heavy and one of us would drop it right back down into the tub and all the water would go swooshing down the drain. We finally decided it would be fine only half full so we lugged it outside, through her yard, across the road, and over to my playset. “What took you so long?” Steven was sitting on the top of the monkey bars trying his best to look cool. I responded while Nadiya dumped the water into our hole. “We kept dropping the bucket so we had to refill it. But don’t worry, it only splashed a little on the floor. It’s okay, we—” “It just soaked right up,” Nadiya interrupted me. She was really good at doing that. “What?” Steven peered down from his perch above us. My best friend pointed at the now damp sand at the bottom of our hole. “The water didn’t stay in there. It just soaked right up.” Steven groaned. “This is going to take forever with you idiots doing the job. Go get the hose!” I looked up at him confused. “But you said we couldn’t—” “I know what I said but I take it back. It’s going to be a cold hot tub I guess.” Steven interrupted me this time. I should have expected that one; he was Nadiya’s dumb brother after all. “That Thronton family and their bad manners,” my mom would say. So, back over to the hose we went. After it was stretched across the grass and into the sandbox, Steven turned the faucet on. Of course, the one thing he got to do was the most exciting part of the whole endeavor. The stream of water was quickly soaked up in the ground. Nadiya and I looked at each other in defeat. I let the hose go and watched it slop into the muddy mess at the bottom of our little hole. “Steven,” I called, “it’s not working!” His only response was to turn the faucet up, even more. After a few minutes of watching the water gush into the ground, something began to happen. It was very slow going, but the water was rising. It wasn’t getting all soaked up anymore! Maybe Nadiya’s dumb brother wasn’t so dumb after all. “Come look! Steven! It’s filling up!” Nadiya and I screamed over each other. Steven took his sweet time coming over to our mini party by the sandbox. After examining the hole, wiggling the hose a little with his foot, and nodding silently to himself, he spoke. “Go put on your swimsuits. What Page 10 ׉ 7cassandra://a9-wuGkR4ZnSJ_DrTzVbvHzQu6RxJ_gDCB0Pvr2ryKY9`U^1'%6 8׉E are you waiting for, idiots?” We were gone in a flash. I raced into my room and pulled my swimsuit on in record time. “What are you so dirty for? You’re tracking mud all over my house,” my mom yelled after me as I slammed the door shut. Somehow, Nadiya beat me back to our makeshift hot tub, and one sloppy cannonball later, she was out of the sandbox screaming about how cold the water was. I couldn’t take her word for it, so I stuck my toe in the now half full hole. She was right; absolutely freezing. “Steven, it’s not even a hot tub!” Steven hadn’t moved from his spot on the swings. “Well, duh, what did you expect? You couldn’t carry the bucket full of hot water over. Now it just has to be a cold tub.” “Cold tub? This is more like a freezing tub!” “Do you want to have fun or not?” He was quick to respond. At that, Nadiya and I gave each other a look and jumped into our homemade “cold tub,” making sure to splash Steven at least a little bit. Our skinny little bodies didn’t get used to the cool water very quickly, but the sticky, hot humidity that day made up for whatever body heat we lost. The hole was big enough that we both could sit comfortably, with even enough room for Steven to fit if he wanted to. He, however, did not. He sat on the swings just grinning down at us and telling us we should dig the hole deeper so we could fill it with even more water. Looking back at it now, this was obviously his master plan. If he wasn’t in the so-called pool, he wouldn’t get in trouble. His idea was simple: watch us slave away at the stupid hot tub and then witness us get in trouble for it. He really was an evil genius. And of course, his plan worked. Just minutes after we had finally adjusted to the cold water, my mother came outside to see what we were up to. What she found was two dirty girls splashing in a pool of muck and Steven laughing down at us. Then the yelling started. “What are you doing?” My mom marched over to us and dragged us out of the muddy sandbox. “Why did you think this was a good idea? Huh? What do you think you are doing?” Nadiya and I stayed silent as she continued her speech. Steven seemed to be enjoying it from his spot on the swings. It was his grand plan after all. He had to try really hard to keep from giggling as my mom scolded us. His snickering quickly stopped when she turned on him. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?” “Well, no, I just—” Page 11 ^1'%6 9^1'%6 88בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://sJHvItoig_UQ_DMWEJfSiWIVrZRAwd8oFai59v2plKwE`׉ 7cassandra://b_ju41-zvz4mPkUJsq1qZRTO_FV1T_uY-Q3fmrh96vQOc`׉ 7cassandra://TgMAdJeHHdqFrM4GUmFNWQlwNMDE7uW6p0PEXVzOTNs`U׉ 7cassandra://mjxh5yXUx5SL-TYwW5iNtAG_dOEVqqK6MFEzc-pWkkE.͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://sJHvItoig_UQ_DMWEJfSiWIVrZRAwd8oFai59v2plKwE`׉ 7cassandra://b_ju41-zvz4mPkUJsq1qZRTO_FV1T_uY-Q3fmrh96vQOc`׉ 7cassandra://TgMAdJeHHdqFrM4GUmFNWQlwNMDE7uW6p0PEXVzOTNs`U׉ 7cassandra://mjxh5yXUx5SL-TYwW5iNtAG_dOEVqqK6MFEzc-pWkkE.͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://sJHvItoig_UQ_DMWEJfSiWIVrZRAwd8oFai59v2plKwE`׉ 7cassandra://b_ju41-zvz4mPkUJsq1qZRTO_FV1T_uY-Q3fmrh96vQOc`׉ 7cassandra://TgMAdJeHHdqFrM4GUmFNWQlwNMDE7uW6p0PEXVzOTNs`U׉ 7cassandra://mjxh5yXUx5SL-TYwW5iNtAG_dOEVqqK6MFEzc-pWkkE.͠ A^1'%6 ׉EENadiya jumped in, “Yes it was. It was all his idea and he didn’t even help us make the hot tub which was really dumb.” “Hot tub?” “It was supposed to be a hot tub, but we couldn’t get enough hot water in there,” I said quietly. I knew talking back to my mom was a big no-no. Nadiya and Steven did not know that, though, and they began arguing with my mother about how much water was actually wasted and how much sand we had really scooped into the yard and whose idea it truly was and so on. We were all grounded for a week. Nadiya and I had no choice but to end our streak of days spent together that summer. Steven apparently talked his way out of it because I saw him going out with his friends after two days. I think he could get away with anything, even murder. He was Nadiya’s dumb brother, after all. R Page 12 ׉ 7cassandra://TgMAdJeHHdqFrM4GUmFNWQlwNMDE7uW6p0PEXVzOTNs`U^1'%6 :׉EBus Stop by Elliot Engberg We sit in wait for those we know the drips and drops of rainy water splash for whence the clouds begin way up above it never fails to set a chill within . on wheels of rubber long since inflated always behind the schedule defined so we remain on the cold bench outside waiting ever watching for it to show . now it finally comes around in sight we stand and step in front sift through pockets rain dampening our shoulders coins clinking we board the bus and sit again waiting Page 13 ^1'%6 ;^1'%6 :8בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://1iOwQzwWDbi5d9YiL0TOAzBAR6FxY7fNt6SzUeOAd6c`׉ 7cassandra://O1V_0dlYIoU9QcvGjOTAJr2HCifOk5TfZG-4OU9e6EQD`׉ 7cassandra://MwS-g6FSxAHzL_aGoNTNeEy3g9lgW_cDzhvykOP6_SY`U׉ 7cassandra://n-N9QinMWikUhJJ2WleOXBo3APjAW2LviirFhz5852s1͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://1iOwQzwWDbi5d9YiL0TOAzBAR6FxY7fNt6SzUeOAd6c`׉ 7cassandra://O1V_0dlYIoU9QcvGjOTAJr2HCifOk5TfZG-4OU9e6EQD`׉ 7cassandra://MwS-g6FSxAHzL_aGoNTNeEy3g9lgW_cDzhvykOP6_SY`U׉ 7cassandra://n-N9QinMWikUhJJ2WleOXBo3APjAW2LviirFhz5852s1͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://1iOwQzwWDbi5d9YiL0TOAzBAR6FxY7fNt6SzUeOAd6c`׉ 7cassandra://O1V_0dlYIoU9QcvGjOTAJr2HCifOk5TfZG-4OU9e6EQD`׉ 7cassandra://MwS-g6FSxAHzL_aGoNTNeEy3g9lgW_cDzhvykOP6_SY`U׉ 7cassandra://n-N9QinMWikUhJJ2WleOXBo3APjAW2LviirFhz5852s1͠ A^1'%6 ׉EgMelting Snow by Sam Beurskens Mounds of white, light-burned To torrents of spring thaw Stones washed far afield. Heavily wrapped Divine body—entombed, sealed Black—no escape—hush. Snow-lands twinkle, gleam Till spring slow-purges the ground Mud-ugly splotches. Spring’s rain pounds harshly Like angry, vicious war drums: Beating snow to muck. Page 14 ׉ 7cassandra://MwS-g6FSxAHzL_aGoNTNeEy3g9lgW_cDzhvykOP6_SY`U^1'%6 <׉EI Stepped on My Guitar by Katryn Conlin I stepped on my guitar. I felt the wood splinter under my heel It made a terrible sound Its final chord I broke my bow. Carbon fiber, even harder than Pernambuco I set it across the arms of a chair Someone sat down And my fiddle fell prey to my absent mind. I left it outside all winter Frozen and thawed Seams split and the soundpost Floated away About my bass: I was packing the car. In the dark, it got left on the ground Behind the wheels You can imagine what happened When I backed up And now, I have a sore throat. I haven’t spoken for days I cannot sing a single note Nor have I a word to say I will be silent And listen to the music in my head Page 15 ^1'%6 =^1'%6 <8בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://m4KA1sZ0HBXeH9rTBVl-tDAn-_tCPmsRxnhvL6N5uok`׉ 7cassandra://RdFuMbeES6-TlRniDswxTLKqaD_xCdUGMgYFQs9NRjw͙`׉ 7cassandra://TlKuWF0UvZ9FfrM_97CEEEuhrLPIUKi_Sr5Ngt0wyvs%`U׉ 7cassandra://G5DMet1VU7CfbdFu_maKxVB5mqeiDCsPCwlr5OkqXqUC͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://m4KA1sZ0HBXeH9rTBVl-tDAn-_tCPmsRxnhvL6N5uok`׉ 7cassandra://RdFuMbeES6-TlRniDswxTLKqaD_xCdUGMgYFQs9NRjw͙`׉ 7cassandra://TlKuWF0UvZ9FfrM_97CEEEuhrLPIUKi_Sr5Ngt0wyvs%`U׉ 7cassandra://G5DMet1VU7CfbdFu_maKxVB5mqeiDCsPCwlr5OkqXqUC͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://m4KA1sZ0HBXeH9rTBVl-tDAn-_tCPmsRxnhvL6N5uok`׉ 7cassandra://RdFuMbeES6-TlRniDswxTLKqaD_xCdUGMgYFQs9NRjw͙`׉ 7cassandra://TlKuWF0UvZ9FfrM_97CEEEuhrLPIUKi_Sr5Ngt0wyvs%`U׉ 7cassandra://G5DMet1VU7CfbdFu_maKxVB5mqeiDCsPCwlr5OkqXqUC͠ A^1'%6 ׉EGrievance by Emily Possehl There is something about a frozen pond That makes me want it pressed against my head Against the nerves, the cells, the thoughts, ablaze To still them all, instant silence breaking The constant mess of heated missile fire There is something about a burning flame That makes me want it pressed against my heart Against the veins, the blood, the black chambers To make it twist and writhe to get away The soft muscle boiling, platelets shrieking Each frantic beat sends out a wisp of smoke But my plight is that the two are reversed: Head is filled with lit matches and paper Heart rests beside a broken window pane Page 16 ׉ 7cassandra://TlKuWF0UvZ9FfrM_97CEEEuhrLPIUKi_Sr5Ngt0wyvs%`U^1'%6 >׉EStory: Max by Katryn Conlin At the end of third grade, we moved to Crowne Point. My dad’s company had transferred him to a new job. “Transferred” was a word every kid dreaded. Being uprooted, just when you had finally made friends. At first my little sister Lilly and I put up a fuss, but eventually we realized we had no say over the situation. We cried when we said goodbye to our friends, but when you’re that age, you learn to accept whatever the grown-ups decide. The houses in the neighborhood were all brand new. Ranch-style homes with walk out-basements alternated with two-story colonials. Young trees dotted the yards; scattered lots were vacant. Concrete driveways led from the curved street into two-car garages. Kids rode their bikes up and down the street. Not far away, farmers still planted fields of corn and an untamed forest beckoned. I clearly remember the day we moved in, because that was the first time I saw Max. He was walking home from the school bus stop. We were standing by a huge yellow and green Mayflower truck, watching the movers bring furniture in the front door and carry empty boxes out. Max was headed for the house right next door to ours. I tugged on my dad’s arm to get his attention. “Can I go talk to that kid?” My dad gave permission, so I cut the boy off before he got to his door. I figured he was about my age, maybe younger. He was on the small side, with light blonde hair fringed over gray eyes. His clothes weren’t the cleanest, and his sneakers were well-worn and dirty. “I’m Anabelle,” I said. “What’s your name?” He held his books to his chest protectively. “I’m Max.” “What grade are you in?” “Third,” he replied. “I’m in third grade too! I’ll be in fourth grade with you starting next year,” I said. “Can you come over? We’re going to make a fort.” By this time, there were boxes big enough for me to stand up in strewn across our lawn. His eyes gleamed and I could tell he was tempted, but he put me off, saying, “Maybe I will.” He turned away and almost ran into his house, not even noticing how disappointed I was. He didn’t come over that day, or the next. It was a while before we became friends. Page 17 ^1'%6 ?^1'%6 >8בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://p0lFFlED-nXQOPw56Pfrz2EemtPysME6cPUVwOR7VFM4`׉ 7cassandra://2HlT-ntJAVWAKec25ZwN8rw125ZnHMgXelSD3bE9YlY`׉ 7cassandra://BGokgAlfT5HswI7Mdm0r28F-vqTqFfuzbE9_iITKfu88`U׉ 7cassandra://3sJYy01Zq_F_9LANqgcX3bhqgVW9IagVVG2SoepTvH0B͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://p0lFFlED-nXQOPw56Pfrz2EemtPysME6cPUVwOR7VFM4`׉ 7cassandra://2HlT-ntJAVWAKec25ZwN8rw125ZnHMgXelSD3bE9YlY`׉ 7cassandra://BGokgAlfT5HswI7Mdm0r28F-vqTqFfuzbE9_iITKfu88`U׉ 7cassandra://3sJYy01Zq_F_9LANqgcX3bhqgVW9IagVVG2SoepTvH0B͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://p0lFFlED-nXQOPw56Pfrz2EemtPysME6cPUVwOR7VFM4`׉ 7cassandra://2HlT-ntJAVWAKec25ZwN8rw125ZnHMgXelSD3bE9YlY`׉ 7cassandra://BGokgAlfT5HswI7Mdm0r28F-vqTqFfuzbE9_iITKfu88`U׉ 7cassandra://3sJYy01Zq_F_9LANqgcX3bhqgVW9IagVVG2SoepTvH0B͠ A^1'%6 ׉EI didn’t understand at the time why Max was so stand-offish. He acted like he was too good for me. But he was just very shy. He was like a fox, or a deer. If you hold still, you might catch a glimpse. One move, and it vanishes into the wild. So that was Max. He was my first friend in Crowne Point, and for most of fourth grade he was my best friend. R Almost every day that summer, Max and I played in the scrubby forest a few blocks from our street. It was hardly a magical place. The woods were under assault as bulldozers cleared out the subdivision lot-by-lot and new houses went up. “Progress,” they called it, and we hated it. But the forest was ours to occupy while it lasted. Making forts was Max’s favorite pastime. Sticks, scraps of stolen lumber, and pieces of leftover metal became our windows and walls. We made tables and chairs from fallen logs and pretended the mossy ground was our carpet. We’d pack up some snacks and books and play all afternoon. Sometimes we’d light some twigs with a candle and get a campfire going. We’d cook a hot dog on a stick, or roast corn we harvested ourselves. We always buried the fire carefully to make sure we put it out. The woods were a refuge of our own, our own little world separate from everyone else. Max didn’t tell me much about his home life, but even at that young age, I could tell he was embarrassed about his family. In the summer, people left their windows open to let in the night air. Sometimes I could hear Mr. Hallman, Max’s dad, yelling at his mom; sometimes it was even worse. What was happening over there? Why couldn’t anybody make him stop? He was a big man, and he’d come home tired and angry after work, simmering with rage. I steered clear of Mr. Hallman. Sometimes I could hear crying, too, and the next day I could see that Max’s arms were bruised. But I knew better than to ask him about it. We had an unspoken agreement to keep each other’s secrets. So maybe our life in the forest was a place of peace for Max. I would like to think so; I would like to think that what happened wasn’t my fault. But deep inside, I will always blame myself. If I had, if I had only, I should have … I hear those words over and over in my head. R Page 18 ׉ 7cassandra://BGokgAlfT5HswI7Mdm0r28F-vqTqFfuzbE9_iITKfu88`U^1'%6 @׉E 'In fourth grade, Max and I walked to and from the bus stop together, books in our arms. Lilly tagged along behind us, a first grader. After school, she stayed home, but I changed out of my dress and into pants so I could play outside. School shoes off, sneakers on. I was a tomboy and proud of it. I kept up with Max, running through the cornfields and slapping the stalks, climbing trees to the top, racing our bikes up and down the hills. Almost a year had passed by since I moved to the neighborhood. Max was a welcome visitor in my home, but I had never gone over to his house to play in that whole time. One day after school it was drizzling out and he invited me in. Nobody else was there. Downstairs in the basement, we built a tent, draping sheets artfully over the laundry line. It was gloomy inside, but cozy. We collected boxes and baskets from around the basement to furnish our new abode. Max fetched a lamp to light the space, but we couldn’t plug it in. The cord wouldn’t reach. Maybe it was my idea. I don’t remember saying we could light candles instead, but maybe I did. Or maybe Max decided to go upstairs into the dining room and get them. Soon our tent was aglow. We turned off all the lights to savor the soft light. “Let’s get a snack,” Max suggested. Upstairs, we took a box of Cheerios down from the cabinet and ate them right from the box, but then we heard the garage door opening. Max panicked. I could see the terror in his eyes. “We have to go, NOW!” he cried. That was when I suddenly realized we should not have been in Max’s house at all. We shoved the cereal back in the cabinet and raced down the stairs, quietly sneaking out the back door. From there we ran along the back of his house, cutting across the yard and ducking in the side door to my garage. Max trembled with fear. We hid in the garage until he calmed down. Eventually we went into my house. “Hi, Mom – I’m home!” I sang out. “Is it OK if we have Max over?” My mother and Lilly were in the kitchen, the smell of fresh cookies in the air. The kitchen was warm and bright. Max and I pulled up chairs and helped, eating as many cookies as we baked, laughing, drinking milk. The rest of the afternoon, we watched cartoons with Lilly on the black and white TV in the family room. Max left before dinnertime and I thought no more about him. It was sometime after dinner, but sometime before bed, that we heard sirens. Alarmed, we rushed out into the street. Next door at the Hallmans’ house: blue and red flashing lights, smoke, flames. Max’s mother, sobbing. His Page 19 ^1'%6 A^1'%6 @8בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://PwtJcQeWXX-54EaQ6az8x_aIEl3Upzb4KjaFFF-t4wQ`׉ 7cassandra://WP6nMK3GbSKr0RJNQhatOEpJlDWrAlCoKRo2emvtsc8߃`׉ 7cassandra://IQ_BSVRH241fvcbUBqFXS82U8X27jkCsZYBVPfy9fSE3`U׉ 7cassandra://jjwDuJrK2w0pDhEZ5AZo4iREepZKgAzrtbuESl05DOE<͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://PwtJcQeWXX-54EaQ6az8x_aIEl3Upzb4KjaFFF-t4wQ`׉ 7cassandra://WP6nMK3GbSKr0RJNQhatOEpJlDWrAlCoKRo2emvtsc8߃`׉ 7cassandra://IQ_BSVRH241fvcbUBqFXS82U8X27jkCsZYBVPfy9fSE3`U׉ 7cassandra://jjwDuJrK2w0pDhEZ5AZo4iREepZKgAzrtbuESl05DOE<͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://PwtJcQeWXX-54EaQ6az8x_aIEl3Upzb4KjaFFF-t4wQ`׉ 7cassandra://WP6nMK3GbSKr0RJNQhatOEpJlDWrAlCoKRo2emvtsc8߃`׉ 7cassandra://IQ_BSVRH241fvcbUBqFXS82U8X27jkCsZYBVPfy9fSE3`U׉ 7cassandra://jjwDuJrK2w0pDhEZ5AZo4iREepZKgAzrtbuESl05DOE<͠ A^1'%6 ׉Eolder brothers standing by her, arms crossed, curious but strangely indifferent. And his father, furious. “God damn it, where the hell is Max?” he thundered, storming toward the smoky house past the firefighters. I could see them arguing with him and trying to hold him back, but Max’s father disappeared into the front door. Water poured into the house, smoke and flame billowed out through the windows. Within minutes Max’s father stumbled out, alone. I thought Mr. Hallman was a horrible person. I knew how mean he was to Max, and he seemed huge and cruel to me. But then I saw him sitting in the back of the ambulance, shaking, with his face in his hands. I could tell that he was breaking into pieces. His rage had turned into grief. Max never did come out of the house, and the firefighters didn’t find him that night. As the sun came up, they searched through the ruined house for a small, burned body. A coroner’s van was parked out front. When they couldn’t find any sign of him, I suddenly knew where to look. R That morning, I didn’t go to school. I cut through the woods to the fort Max and I had built. There I found him, cold, wet, silent. “Come on Max, I’ll take you home,” I said, knowing that he didn’t have a home any more. “Your parents have been worried all night about you.” He stared blankly into the woods. “I don’t want to go.” “But, Max, we have to. They think you’re — ” and of course, I stopped in the middle of the sentence. “They think I’m dead. I wish I was dead. I would rather be dead than go back there.” I knew why Max said this, and I knew that was why he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “But Max, they really love you. They don’t care about the house. They’ll be so happy when you come home, I promise you.” That was a promise I should never have made. As I led him back into his yard, Max’s mother broke down crying and pulled him close, but his father turned on me. “You knew where he was all along, didn’t you? Didn’t want to tell on him? You two are always running around together, making trouble.” He loomed toward me and I stumbled backwards. I thought he was going to hit me, right there in front of everybody, but he held back his fist. The Page 20 ׉ 7cassandra://IQ_BSVRH241fvcbUBqFXS82U8X27jkCsZYBVPfy9fSE3`U^1'%6 B׉Egrief I thought I had seen in the night had burned away into anger. After exchanging some rough words with the remaining firefighters, Mr. Hallman brutally rushed Max and his mother into their car, dragging Max by his thin arm and pushing him into the back seat. As they drove away, Max turned back toward me, his eyes stony, glaring, accusing. Max didn’t come back to our school that year. I guess the Hallmans stayed in a hotel for a while and then moved somewhere else. Their house was destroyed, and they must have decided there was nothing worth coming back for — least of all the little girl who lived next door and was Max’s best friend. I confessed everything to my mother — the basement, the tent, the candles, even the part about how frightened I was of Mr. Hallman. My mother offered words of solace. “Anabelle, nobody knows exactly why the fire started. It might have been an electrical problem. I don’t think we should tell anyone else about it. It’ll just make more trouble for Max.” She was right, but it didn’t stop me from blaming myself. When you’re a child, you’re at the mercy of the elements and your elders. You have no control over whether you’ll be born into a cruel household like Max’s, or a kind one like mine; whether you’ll put down roots in one neighborhood, or move from town to town; whether you’ll make a friend for life, or lose a friend in less than a day — never a chance to say goodbye or ask forgiveness. I thought I saw Max in a grocery store over in Lincoln just a couple of years ago. He was taking items out of his cart and putting them on the black conveyor belt for the clerk. A yellow box of cereal, bananas, milk, cookies. “Max!” I called out to him. He looked up, and he turned toward me, but he looked right through me. “Max, wait! Don’t you remember me? It’s Anabelle.” I imagined a flicker of recognition, but he picked up his paper bag of groceries and strode past, leaving me staring through the glass doors into the parking lot. R Page 21 ^1'%6 C^1'%6 B8בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://SztYVySG0y5T4roHG6KriDmfmmIPwCg-MwQmSQKeBC8`׉ 7cassandra://nRoY6FLsKx-_UkCl-UG2tGS70Y2EZQQVZUiCdRi6BKMj`׉ 7cassandra://R9Zzev5NexJjiKyOIGtEgvAwpkE7ZFKn070t8SH2p2UK`U׉ 7cassandra://rf7JG4lp1vOaHwefrn_TDK88EqhQOceTOSk95mI3uHY ͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://SztYVySG0y5T4roHG6KriDmfmmIPwCg-MwQmSQKeBC8`׉ 7cassandra://nRoY6FLsKx-_UkCl-UG2tGS70Y2EZQQVZUiCdRi6BKMj`׉ 7cassandra://R9Zzev5NexJjiKyOIGtEgvAwpkE7ZFKn070t8SH2p2UK`U׉ 7cassandra://rf7JG4lp1vOaHwefrn_TDK88EqhQOceTOSk95mI3uHY ͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://SztYVySG0y5T4roHG6KriDmfmmIPwCg-MwQmSQKeBC8`׉ 7cassandra://nRoY6FLsKx-_UkCl-UG2tGS70Y2EZQQVZUiCdRi6BKMj`׉ 7cassandra://R9Zzev5NexJjiKyOIGtEgvAwpkE7ZFKn070t8SH2p2UK`U׉ 7cassandra://rf7JG4lp1vOaHwefrn_TDK88EqhQOceTOSk95mI3uHY ͠ A^1'%6 ׉EjCut You Off by Kate Thompson I should cut you off but I’m afraid I cannot hold the knife steady Page 22 ׉ 7cassandra://R9Zzev5NexJjiKyOIGtEgvAwpkE7ZFKn070t8SH2p2UK`U^1'%6 D׉ENEssay: The Sky is Not Blue by Nick Shannon The aroma of coffee roast and freshly baked goods overpowers your olfactory senses as you enter The Blue Cat, your favorite coffee shop in town. You order the usual, a blueberry scone along with a steaming hot cup of coffee. Decaf, of course. You find your usual seat in the far corner on a camel brown leather recliner, and wait for your friend to arrive. You are supposed to meet up to work on a graphic design project due at the end of the week. While you are waiting for your friend’s arrival, an elderly woman sits down across from you in the seat you were saving for your friend. This agitates you, and you are about to reprimand her when something catches your eye. You notice her necklace, which is adorned with a matrix of brilliant red rubies. The jewels shimmer with wanton brilliance as they solicit the morning light coming from the window behind you. You comment on the adornment aloud without thinking, and the old lady smiles, thanking you. “This necklace is an old family heirloom, passed down from my grandmother to my mother, and now to me. I only wish I could appreciate its beauty for myself.” “What do you mean?” you inquire, wondering if perhaps the luster of the ornament has long since worn off on her. “You see, I have a rare congenital disease which has made me blind Page 23 ^1'%6 E^1'%6 D8בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://paU0XkMitqX7EWLzewsmi3h8V17Rom8o31-uO6Ug9o4]`׉ 7cassandra://dXLWQYjVHaisF-c_Edo6QWo7gio_mqaDpKqFGKM6jfIS`׉ 7cassandra://xTbQS8P2KhMppjdXZxXfQZFkbkW1NT_4fP0r0XjBEgQ<.`U׉ 7cassandra://c6ggKbANZgHoY4yIy3hUrUNaw6hWGqYKqcnyHj7cE4YU͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://paU0XkMitqX7EWLzewsmi3h8V17Rom8o31-uO6Ug9o4]`׉ 7cassandra://dXLWQYjVHaisF-c_Edo6QWo7gio_mqaDpKqFGKM6jfIS`׉ 7cassandra://xTbQS8P2KhMppjdXZxXfQZFkbkW1NT_4fP0r0XjBEgQ<.`U׉ 7cassandra://c6ggKbANZgHoY4yIy3hUrUNaw6hWGqYKqcnyHj7cE4YU͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://paU0XkMitqX7EWLzewsmi3h8V17Rom8o31-uO6Ug9o4]`׉ 7cassandra://dXLWQYjVHaisF-c_Edo6QWo7gio_mqaDpKqFGKM6jfIS`׉ 7cassandra://xTbQS8P2KhMppjdXZxXfQZFkbkW1NT_4fP0r0XjBEgQ<.`U׉ 7cassandra://c6ggKbANZgHoY4yIy3hUrUNaw6hWGqYKqcnyHj7cE4YU͠ A^1'%6 ׉E from birth. I have never experienced the crimson red of this necklace, the pastel blue hues of the sky, the luscious greens of the trees and grass in the summertime.” You notice the signs of her condition as the two of you are talking. She has a probing cane resting against her left thigh, and her irises are a cloudy, muted blue. She is looking at you, but her gaze seems to be far away, almost as if it is directed through you to some other realm. You are speechless. As a graphic design major, it is difficult to come to terms with the fact that this woman has and never will experience the beauty of color. Color is something so integral to your life; something that you have simply taken for granted. You try to explain what the color red is like, but falter as you realize it is simply impossible. How would you describe the color red? Would you describe it using an analogy, saying that it is a “warm” color, or that it has a wavelength of 625-740 nm on the visible portion of the electromagnetic spectrum? Even with a frame of reference, it is impossible to convey the experience of the color red. Color is not the only property humans experience that is indescribable. Suppose the old woman had rheumatoid arthritis in her wrists. How would she describe the sensation of pain to you? Again, the only way she could relay her experience is through analogies. She could use an arbitrary scale to try and rate the level of pain. She could try to describe the location of the pain, or the duration, or the causation, but she would be unable to put into words the sensation itself. Sensations, emotions, and thoughts of experience are called qualia. There are many definitions for qualia, and it is important to understand the components that make up the idea in order to have a more complete understanding of the concept. As mentioned before, they are all ineffable. They are non-physical, private experiences that occur within the confines of human consciousness. Due to this non-physical property, this also means qualia are different from the physical processes that cause them to occur. Qualia are complete experiences that cannot be deconstructed into smaller pieces, similar to the way in which subatomic quark particles cannot be dissociated any further. But perhaps the most abstract property of qualia is that they are experienced directly. Descartes’ proposition, “I think, therefore I am,” perfectly exemplifies this. One does not need to be told they are experiencing qualia, or what it is—they just are. The proof is in the pudding! How then are we able to prove the existence of something as abstract as qualia without using the cop-out answer of “it is because it is?” One interesting argument for the existence of qualia is a thought experiment Page 24 ׉ 7cassandra://xTbQS8P2KhMppjdXZxXfQZFkbkW1NT_4fP0r0XjBEgQ<.`U^1'%6 F׉E developed by philosopher John Locke called the Inverted Spectrum argument. Suppose there was something a little stronger than creamer mixed in with your coffee. You black out and wake up on the café floor, only to find that the once mahogany colored tiling is now a startling sapphire blue. The wooden sign above the entryway proudly displaying the coffee shop’s namesake, a blue cat, now depicts a cat the color of sunset orange. The light from the sunrise streaming in through the windows is now an eerie azure color. Your friend has just arrived, and she helps you to your feet. Her skin is the color of a pitaya. “Are you okay,” she asks, “what happened?!” “I don’t know,” you answer dubiously. “I blacked out, and now I’m seeing things! Your skin is magenta, the camel-brown recliner I was sitting in a moment ago is green, and the sky outside is yellow!” “The sky outside is yellow?” she echoes sarcastically. “I think it’s a little early for this. Quit messing around, we have a project to work on.” “I’m serious!” you cry out adamantly. “The sky really is yellow.” Your friend looks at you, somewhat bewildered, and realizes that you are serious. She takes a deep breath. “The sky is blue. It always has been, and always will be.” Locke’s argument claims that because we can find the Inverted Spectrum plausible, meaning we can picture a scenario in our mind’s eye where the colors on earth have been inverted without contradictions, then we must admit that qualia exist and are indeed non-physical properties. Of course, our reality as we know it is shaped by both physicalism and consciousness. One idea that supports this dualistic perspective is the idea of zombies. No, not the pop culture interpretation of the undead inspired by George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, but a philosophical zombie. A philosophical zombie is a concept stating that it is possible for a “zombie” to express all the outward physical and emotional behaviors of a human, but to lack the phenomenological experiences we define as qualia. Descartes believed that all non-human living creatures are automata, and that their every behavior could be explained by physical mechanisms such as evolutionary traits. But the human consciousness was not so simple. He compared the mind of the human to the mind of the machine. With the now antiquated technology of his day, he concluded that there was something beyond the physical realm required to analyze the human consciousness. Our technology is considerably more advanced today than in the time of Descartes, and with considerable advances in artificial intelligence, it is conceivable that one day we will be able to create a real-life philosophical zombie. Page 25 ^1'%6 G^1'%6 F8בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://k1CggJFYnFFLhgr94GrapCJR9a6NICBPjX3lYF_up_ox`׉ 7cassandra://-9s15jlVjfUQhdOAqOlIMo5w1XEXAK-7lxXxeZ7ZX3oS`׉ 7cassandra://KSet2oDbbjyHyfidakK74EvmPjn0CxKIXHetBtpQZy0,`U׉ 7cassandra://OZAE4BQbu63agedbUJxa45KvabNJHWXdrOqwnU5q7JQQ͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://k1CggJFYnFFLhgr94GrapCJR9a6NICBPjX3lYF_up_ox`׉ 7cassandra://-9s15jlVjfUQhdOAqOlIMo5w1XEXAK-7lxXxeZ7ZX3oS`׉ 7cassandra://KSet2oDbbjyHyfidakK74EvmPjn0CxKIXHetBtpQZy0,`U׉ 7cassandra://OZAE4BQbu63agedbUJxa45KvabNJHWXdrOqwnU5q7JQQ͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://k1CggJFYnFFLhgr94GrapCJR9a6NICBPjX3lYF_up_ox`׉ 7cassandra://-9s15jlVjfUQhdOAqOlIMo5w1XEXAK-7lxXxeZ7ZX3oS`׉ 7cassandra://KSet2oDbbjyHyfidakK74EvmPjn0CxKIXHetBtpQZy0,`U׉ 7cassandra://OZAE4BQbu63agedbUJxa45KvabNJHWXdrOqwnU5q7JQQ͠ A^1'%6 נ^1'%6  9ׁH$https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qualiaׁ ׁ Јנ^1'%6 { 9ׁH:https://link.springer.com/referenceworkentry/10.1007%2F978ׁ ׁ Јנ^1'%6 d 9ׁH+https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/zombies/ׁ ׁ Јנ^1'%6 L3 9ׁH1https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/phenomenology/ׁ ׁ Јנ^1'%6 5 9ׁH#https://philosophyterms.com/qualia/ׁ ׁ Јנ^1'%6 2 9ׁH2https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/qualeׁ ׁ Јנ^1'%6 H 9ׁH2https://www.d.umn.edu/~dcole/inverted_spectrum.htmׁ ׁ Ј׉E While the Inverted Spectrum Theory and the Zombie Argument are widely accepted, not everyone finds the idea of qualia quaffable. Daniel Dennett, perhaps qualia’s biggest critic, provides an argument against these spontaneous perceptions in his book Consciousness Explained (1991). In his book, Dennett provides an argument against qualia by claiming that its definition breaks down with a more practical application. Dennett pits the idea of qualia against real-world neurosurgery and clinical psychology. He contends that in the context of real-world application, qualia has no use in the situations above, and the potentially useful questions that it presents are unanswerable because of its own fundamental properties. Let’s go back to the second scenario. You wake up on the café floor, and just like before, all of the colors have been inverted. You know immediately that something is wrong. You hypothesize that some mystery ingredient in your warm beverage must have caused your optic nerves to go haywire and invert your qualia. However, you soon realize that your qualia is not the only thing that could have changed. Perhaps it is not the colors that have been inverted, but your connection to memories of past qualia that have been altered. Both of these options have the same result, and you have absolutely no way of knowing which has occurred. What was in that coffee anyway? The only thing you’re sure of now is that from now on you’ll stick to water. The main fault Dennett finds with qualia is that it relies too heavily on memory. The only way to notice a change in qualia is to point out an incongruence with our past memories of qualia. However, what we remember are only construed memories of qualia, and not the qualia themselves. Dennett confirms through this thought experiment that we cannot prove the existence of qualia simply through introspection. Our memory is inconsistent and subjective to say the least, and as such it cannot be used as concrete evidence to prove or disprove qualia. Without going into too much detail, memory is subject to alterations by a number of influences. Drugs, physical and mental trauma, mental disorders, and stress, along with a slew of other factors can influence our surprisingly fragile minds. Memory is also quite subjective. Everyone’s memories possess some degree of subjectivity, because each individual has their own level of perceived memory ability—independent from objective standards or performance. Subjective memory is defined as the reflection of one’s perceptions about his or her personal memory functioning. That word, “perception,” should set off a few red flags. That’s right, our memory itself is a collection of perceptions, or qualia! We cannot define qualia Page 26 ׉ 7cassandra://KSet2oDbbjyHyfidakK74EvmPjn0CxKIXHetBtpQZy0,`U^1'%6 H׉E using qualia, in the same way we wouldn’t use the word we are defining in its definition. The true definition of qualia remains elusive because we continue to use a physical definition for a non-physical phenomenon. There are several plausible arguments for its existence, but when we attempt to blend qualia with a neurobiological perspective, it fails miserably. Yet as impossible as it is to prove qualia’s existence, it remains equally futile to disprove it. I must confide that my research has only made a splash in a subject that is as deep as the Mariana Trench. The answers to my questions have only led to more questions. I feel as though there is so much more yet to be discussed that one could devote their life to unearthing the mysteries of qualia and never fully explain the phenomenon. Next time you are sitting outside enjoying your coffee, look up at the sky and ask, “Is the sky really blue today?” R References https://www.d.umn.edu/~dcole/inverted_spectrum.htm https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/quale https://philosophyterms.com/qualia/ https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/phenomenology/ https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/zombies/ https://link.springer.com/referenceworkentry/10.1007%2F978-981-287-082-7_356 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qualia Page 27 ^1'%6 I^1'%6 H8בCט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://XyHLa4G9f5-P6LKaavEFDZzZelHl46dRxxBIIE2Zk4EV,`׉ 7cassandra://HnTfYxCJKYfZwj4VrDZA2ISrglg-Zu20AYPNsbaD5GE;{`׉ 7cassandra://Qlu2Dm5pPRmv2aKrGhvWhe4GlDzAXJzeJtqu3vK5B-M8`U׉ 7cassandra://l-xZnzC0wTGCVNueRAQtaLW3tuB9La_XEMvfu0h5Bmo0^͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://XyHLa4G9f5-P6LKaavEFDZzZelHl46dRxxBIIE2Zk4EV,`׉ 7cassandra://HnTfYxCJKYfZwj4VrDZA2ISrglg-Zu20AYPNsbaD5GE;{`׉ 7cassandra://Qlu2Dm5pPRmv2aKrGhvWhe4GlDzAXJzeJtqu3vK5B-M8`U׉ 7cassandra://l-xZnzC0wTGCVNueRAQtaLW3tuB9La_XEMvfu0h5Bmo0^͠ A^1'%6 ט8u׉׉ 7cassandra://XyHLa4G9f5-P6LKaavEFDZzZelHl46dRxxBIIE2Zk4EV,`׉ 7cassandra://HnTfYxCJKYfZwj4VrDZA2ISrglg-Zu20AYPNsbaD5GE;{`׉ 7cassandra://Qlu2Dm5pPRmv2aKrGhvWhe4GlDzAXJzeJtqu3vK5B-M8`U׉ 7cassandra://l-xZnzC0wTGCVNueRAQtaLW3tuB9La_XEMvfu0h5Bmo0^͠ A^1'%6 ׉ElNew Eve by Sam Beurskens New Eve of Earth’s empty ether Rose grown among groves of hemlock High, bright as a star Purely conceived Ivory heart Queen of bliss Mother of snow-tender sorrow Walks after the wooden cross Her heart impaled by seven swords. Under the tree of redemption worried Christ’s mother waits For her Son to conquer Earth’s hemlock. Page 28 ׉ 7cassandra://Qlu2Dm5pPRmv2aKrGhvWhe4GlDzAXJzeJtqu3vK5B-M8`U^1'%6 J׉E