2010 Volume XXIX Editor-in-Chief rebecca|SAMFORD Poetry Editor britta|STUMPP Fiction Editor quincy|BRAVO Non-fiction Editor alexandria|WALTZ Visual Arts Editor danielle|WEIGANDT Assistant Editor-in-Chief alexandria|STUCKI Reviewers patrick|BOWMAN andrew|CHOFFEL andie|KUNZLER janice|LEFEVRE stephanie|PRESLEY stephanie|PRINGLE carol|RAHMSDORF danielle|SMITH jason|VANDAAM darcy|VANDERDOES briana|ZIKE Music Editor adam|SMITH NULC Selections Coordinator: alexandria|STUCKI Copy Editors stephanie|PRESLEY darcy|VANDERDOES janice|LEFEVRE Faculty Advisor brad|ROGHAAR 2 Web Page Administrator britta|STUMPP Albert Einstein once said, “A person who never made any mistakes never tried anything new.” This past year I was given the unprecedented opportunity to serve as editor-in-chief for a second consecutive year – an opportunity that came with a spoken challenge to “eclipse [my]self.” Perhaps the expectation was that, since I had run the gauntlet once before, there would be little challenge and few mistakes to be made. Neither turned out to be true. Metaphor is as challenging this year as it was in the past. I learned many things during my second term, and of course, a brand new staff joined me in this endeavor. This year’s staff suffered through fewer “last year” stories while enduring my first attempt to write an instructional manual intended as a starter packet for future editors of Metaphor. We continued to host literary contests and decided it was time for the student body to have some say in Metaphor’s cover. Several visual communications students gave us their best under the theme “Make it Yours”. Five hundred and sixty-two students voted for their favorite cover in the Union building in January, and we feel confident that this edition represents the WSU student body better than any of its predecessors. Budget concerns led to a decrease in the number of color pages. However, our efforts to represent the arts and humanities at Weber State University have proven successful once again. Have we prevailed in making the 28th edition “less outstanding in comparison” to this? To answer this question, I would direct your attention to our non-fiction section especially, which includes the candid, the brave, the emotionally honest, and the humorous. In the past, Metaphor has only received academic papers to fill this section. Knowing that WSU’s students are becoming confident enough to create with emotional integrity is, for me — for all of us — a triumph. I agree with Einstein. I wouldn’t trade this experience for living safely, without any new steps and a tomorrow with no mistakes. I hope you will agree. 3 This book could not be compiled alone. As editor-in-chief for a second year, I have received a second series of gifts. I give my sincerest appreciation to all who make Metaphor possible: •To the students who volunteered their time over two semesters to this tyrant and loved it so much that they “pitied the foo’s” who did not. •To the undergraduates from WSU and the nation who dream of bigger things than writing in a closet, painting on the back porch, or crooning in the shower… thank you for being brave and constant with your muse. •To the WSU Student Senate for its continued financial support, without which Metaphor may have disappeared long ago. •To the alumni from Mountain Math who sponsored our writing contest again this year. •To Mark Maxson and Vicki Ramirez, who attempted to give our music section broader wings. •To the professors who encourage student participation by advertising the possibilities. •To the English department secretaries – ladies, that office doesn’t need a disco ball. It has all of you! •To Brad Roghaar, because he braced me for the worst and then kicked me out of the nest headfirst, only for me to discover that he was flying beside me all along. May you know bliss to the end of your days! REMARK By: Raymond Christensen 4 rebecca|SAMFORD Brittany Blake Michael Bloomquist Patrick Bowman Courtney Bryson Rachel Cox Tracy Cummins Megan Daniels Mike Erikson Heidi Cutrubus Keisha Goekeritz Michelle Granger Mark Harris Tom Hughes Kristin Jackson Laurie Klaass Cara-Lynn Krebs Andie Kunzler Kylie Lane Jeff Madsen Maegan Marett Will Merritts Sean Peek Jamie Peterson Alex Pommier Stephanie Presley Stephanie Pringle Amanda Rumsey Ruth Silver Lindsey Scharman “The Only Living Boy ...” “Pascal Discovers ...” “Obvious Nonsense” “Hell” “Life in the Details” “Coming Home” “Renewal” “Soldier” “Analytical Self Portrait” “Only Fourteen” “Dusty” “I Don’t Know If I Told You This” “Beard-Wizard Constituency” “Untitled” “Offerings” “Giving Over to Half Darkness” “Small House” “Crawl to Peace” “Die Brocken Hexe” “Ben and Celia” “Her Miscarriage” “Drawing Water” “Nature” “Anatomy of Typography” “Inspiration” “Haiku Trio” “Remorse” “End of Summer Storm” “Hallucination” “They Won’t Just Step On It” “My Friend Cricket” “Wonder Horse” “The Pixie Jar” “Clean-Eyed Monster” “Come With Me” “I Meant Exactly What I Said” “The Turgor Effect” “Mistake” “GSL Shawn” “Cleansing” 127 139 55 116 114 42 118 60 54 68 62 140 86 99 122 101 107 123 38 53 108 121 120 56 100 117 103 59 111 104 102 63 79 109 113 112 119 64 49 106 5 Eric Stanford Jimmy Swift Melinda Taggart Jared Taylor Tyler van der Stappen Jason VanDaam Shanon Wang Danielle Weigandt Shantel Wight Kory Wood “Night Musings” “The Impossible Life” “Dripping Vase” “The Maginot Line ...” “Purple Isle” “Being Socially Introduced ...” “One of a Thousand ...” “We Undergraduates ...” “... If You Heard My Shoe” “My Better Half” “Shroud of Danielle” “Impressions” “Untitled” “Bleaters and Hammerers” “... Where the Dandelions Grow” In This Economy... Drawing By: Chris Kirkham 6 115 16 50 30 61 110 105 97 141 51 58 52 57 98 8 After reading the non-fiction submissions for this edition of Metaphor, my staff and I were very impressed with the quality of the work offered. In past years, the non-fiction portion of the journal has been wanting in submissions, making this year’s high number a welcome anomaly. We are hoping to keep improving the number of submissions for this section and are thankful to those who were willing to offer pieces for judging. When it finally came down to choosing which pieces we wanted published, our staff individually scored each submission on a number scale according to a set rubric and averaged the individual scores together for the final number. We were unanimous in our decisions and are very pleased overall with the pieces chosen. We received creative non-fiction stories as well as academic papers, and have included both genres in this edition of the journal. We appreciate those who contributed to the nonfiction section of Metaphor and express our deepest admiration and gratitude to all the authors of the submissions for this year’s edition. Non-Fiction Editor: alex|WALTZ Non-Fiction Reviewers: andie|KUNZLER janice|LEFEVRE darcy|VANDERDOES WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 7 kory|WOOD The orange-brick houses and drying lawns flashed by the truck window as my father drove me to the park. My new uniform hugged my skinny fifth-grade body like cellophane. My pants, stopping just below the knees, were pristine and white, glowing contrastingly below the cheap, black Florida Marlins imitation T-shirt we’d been given. My socks came halfway up my thighs, turquoise and stretchy. My new baseball cleats squeaked like rocking chairs as I flexed them back and forth on the floor of the truck. My left hand ached happily inside my new mitt. It felt like I had jammed my hand clean through a rock. I’d been wearing the thing for the past three hours, anticipating the first day of practice on my first Little League baseball team ever. I barely had any knowledge of how the sport worked, but something about playing baseball felt like the natural thing for an American boy to do, like watching Saturday morning cartoons or drinking Coca-Cola. Admittedly, I was terrified. When it came to sports, my genetics were already dooming me to failure. If the world were the Major Leagues, my family would be the Washington Nationals. Our walls are adorned with “Best Sportsmanship” awards, the literal translation of which is “Most Accepting of Non-Active Role on This Team.” I remember once, when playing in a basketball game, I successfully ran the entire forty-five minutes without touching the ball. This was quite a feat, since there were only five kids on our team, and one of them was on crutches. My dad had done a good job of teaching me to catch and throw. I was no Willy Mays in skill level, but I felt confident that I could avoid grossly embarrassing myself. 8 non-fiction|METAPHOR We pulled up through the parking lot and I hopped out, the asphalt and my cleats clacking a hollow cadence across the summer night. I walked up apprehensively behind my father, who was easily twice my size. As we crossed the lot, a big, white truck swung around us and halted snugly inside of two parking spaces. Blaring red in the back window was a sticker of a fastball, aflame, highlighting the words “LIFE’S A PITCH.” The door swung open, and out stepped a rottweiler of a man in a baggy white Baseball Camp T-shirt. He wore a pair of light blue, tight-fitting jeans, and a green cap with its half-circle brim pulled down to the tops of his sunglasses. His lower jaw jutted out just a hair past his upper one, further marked by the continued mastication of sunflower seeds. His name was Coach Jensen, and he was a man of few words. Most of the ones he did use were motivational phrases involving parts of our anatomies. His son hopped out after him, a year older than me and already at least eight feet tall. Jeff looked like he was born with his cleats on, casually laying a clutch of bats over his left shoulder while a bucket of balls dangled from his right hand. Coach and my dad talked a bit on the way to the mound, and I followed quietly, my stomach starting to boil a bit more fervently. What was I getting myself into? The coach looked like the son of a gorilla and Mickey Mantle, and his son was probably already shaving. Jeff asked me a few baseball-related questions, like, “Have you had a lot of infielder’s experience?” and “What do you usually squat?” I told him that I didn’t think this was something normal people typically measured, and he looked at me like I had a cucumber in my nose. Halfway through the parking lot, Coach Jensen met up with his assistant, Coach Chavez, and his son Anthony. They were duplicates, different only in size, both smiling at all times, with long hair down to their shoulders and thin moustaches. We met up with the other players under the shade of the oak trees behind the dugout. There were five or six kids already there, throwing back and forth what looked like rockets. The WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 9 burner underneath my stomach raised another fifty degrees. Oh, man, another opportunity to showcase my athletic prowess. I might as well just lean my back up against an oak and pull out a book for the rest of practice. My dad watched me retreat into the comfortable cave of myself, and exhorted me loudly and patiently to have fun and start throwing with someone, pointing emphatically back towards the kids. Reluctantly, I walked over and asked a pair of boys already throwing, in a murmured voice audible only to canines, “Hey, uh, guys, uh, can I ... baseball ... I ... IsitokayifIthrowwithyouguyscoolthanks.” I wheezed with effort and sulked over to them. My dad walked off, one eyebrow raised, and told me he’d be back in a couple hours. I looked back at the two boys welcoming me. One was Darren, our shortstop, who was perfect at everything he did. I knew him vaguely from school, and all I knew about him was that he was a completely likeable guy who we all, for some strange reason, hated. Success trailed in his wake like algae churned up by a yacht. His short, curly hair blossomed out beneath his hat, and he smiled affably at everyone. He was the first one to run up to me and say hi, and willingly accepted me, and lo, how I hated him. I would learn later on in life that pride-looking-up would be a common emotion for me. The second boy was named Jimmy, and the sight of him buoyed up my hopes like a warm, gooey chocolate cake. I glanced around quickly, counting the boys on my team. One, two, three ... ten. Ten total. I knew enough about baseball to know that nine boys played on the field at one time, and there was absolutely NO way in heck that Jimmy was going to beat me out for a spot in right field. He was three-foot-nothing, sixty pounds at most, and wearing light-up Beauty and the Beast sneakers. His curly blond hair cascaded down the back of his neck, though the hair was buzzed short at the sides of his head. His inch-thick glasses were at least as large as our coach’s, and were connected in back by 10 non-fiction|METAPHOR a long, fluorescent purple string that might not even have been short enough to save his glasses from shattering in the event that they did spill off of his nearly nonexistent nose. As I tossed him the ball, I chuckled silently in evil hilarity as he simultaneously brought up his mitt (which was the size of his torso) and turned his head backwards, his eyes closed shut, while his throwing arm shielded his face and his left leg left the ground, scrunching his body into a standing, half-fetal position resembling a flamingo with a disease of the nervous system. I felt a bit wrong for exploiting his athletic ineptitudes, but not as bad as I would feel after sitting around behind a chain-link fence for an entire season. I was going to stand out in right field, the lowest-risk position in modern sports, and be the best inconsequential outfielder there ever was, gosh-dang-it. Our coach worked us through the first day of practice, and we soon became aware of the abilities of those around us. Jeff and Anthony were pitcher and catcher respectively, and none of us could even touch the cheese Jeff was slinging. Many a kid on many a team has complained about the coach’s son getting the most playing time, but the reality of the situation is that, usually, the coach’s son is the best kid on the team. Indira Gandhi didn’t grow up to be a ballerina. During our batting practice, these two boys traded off knocking inside-the-park-home runs past those of us unfortunate enough to be manning the outfield. I learned then that, while I was functional at catching a ball, I could not for the life of me manage to accurately get that ball from me to anywhere else. I would rear back and throw towards second base with all of my might, and would watch as the ball soared majestically skyward, then plummeted down, blisteringly, to land a full fifteen paces from where I stood. Darren, the cut-off man, looked at me with an understanding smile, and said, “Great try, buddy!” Then he sprinted up, grabbed the ball, and rocketed it off to home. I seethed with rage at his dumb curly hair and perfect stupid bionic arm. Hitting was even worse. While I was on deck, awaiting my WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 11 chance to effectively humiliate myself, Jimmy was up to bat, and on the very first pitch, the ball dinged off the handle of the bat, ricocheting straight down onto Jimmy’s toes. Jimmy dropped instantly into a rolling, swearing ball of pain. Thus terrified, I approached the batter’s box in wretched anticipation of my first batting opportunity. Standing on the mound and grinning, Coach Chavez bellowed heartily, “Okay, don’t worry, man, I’m just going to throw one across the plate reeeeeal slow and easy for you.” I nodded, trembling, the gargantuan bat getting heavier and heavier on my nearly absent shoulder. Coach pulled back and threw one across the plate. Suddenly, I was in war-torn Eastern Europe, and a surfaceto-air missile was shrieking like a banshee, hell-bent on my annihilation. In perhaps the greatest athletic moment of my life up to that point, I leaped backwards a full ninety feet, sweat pouring forth like a popped water balloon. I landed just in time to see the ball drift lazily across the plate. The catcher snickered under his breath. Darren smiled lovingly. Jimmy whimpered in pain from where he lay, stretched out on the bench. I gripped the handle, rotating my hands against the harsh friction of the rubber. Back up to the plate I came, still trembling, but with the glint of recklessness in my eye. Coach Jensen yelled through his sunflower seeds, “All right, Wood, no matter what it looks like, I want you to just swing and tear the hide off the ball, you got me?” Coach Chavez, holding back some wicked chuckles, said, “Okay, you don’t need to worry. Really, this one will be slower, okay, chief? Just keep your eye on the ball. Pretend it’s the face of your little brother, or somethin’.” He pulled back and lobbed it, free-throw-like, down towards home plate. I watched as the face of my little brother floated merrily towards me, mocking. Suddenly, the ball changed to Jimmy’s face, his eyes bulging in terror behind the translucent glasses. Then it was Darren, nodding encouragingly. Then, it was just 12 non-fiction|METAPHOR a ball wearing Coach’s sunglasses, zigzagging back and forth, chanting “Back-up right field .... back-up right field ... back-up right field ...” Blinking back tears of anger, I swung as hard as my twiggy arms could turn. PHOOMP. “Eh heh heh heh heh ... Try opening your eyes when you swing, bud!” said Coach Chavez. The catcher grunted in malicious glee, and Darren yelled something about a good hustle. The rest of practice progressed in like manner. I rode home, and entered my room in a youthful depression. Dropped flies and whiffing bats filled my dreams. The next morning, I took Casey, my brother, outside with me and made him sit there while I threw baseballs at him. This went on for a couple of hours, and feeling satisfactorily prepared, I arrived at my first game, trotting jauntily out to right field, taking my spot amidst the bald spots of dirt and the discarded Tootsie Roll wrappers and the dandelions. PHEW-EET! whistled Coach Jensen. “Hey, Wood! You’re on the bench for the first inning, bud. Jimmy, get your tail out there.” I stared open-mouthed, and then looked to center field to see if maybe my neighboring outfielder shared a common surname. Alas, he was of Tongan descent. No luck there. My shoulders dropped and I sulked back to the bench, the weight of my mitt dragging me down as it bounced again and again off my knee. I was worse than Jimmy. I felt my innards go stiff as Jimmy walked dazedly past me, out to his starting spot in right field, his mother yelling from the stands, “Don’t git caught pickin’ yer nose out there, baby!” Darren met me at the opening to the dugout, a hand warmly extended in the ultimate put-down, the high five. “All right, man! See you out there in a couple of innings!” I summoned all the strength left in my fifth grade frame, WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 13 raising up my arm to limply press my palm against his, and he yelled, “All right! Go, Marlins!” and ran past. My arm dropped back down to its original position like a wet rope. I assumed my familiar position on the bench and watched dejectedly as Jeff smoked fastballs past the unbelieving Dodgers. A few innings passed with similar results. Our team was up 13-0, and I had not been up to bat yet. My mood was improved by our success, though, and I stood, leaning against the fence, enjoying my time learning bilingual baseball chatter with Coach Chavez. In the fifth inning, Coach Jensen called me over and said I would be going in for Jimmy. I sprinted out to right field and stoically took my crucial back-up place in defense of our narrow 18-1 lead. Nothing would get past me today. Nothing! I only missed the cut-off man twice, and that was after a mortified Jimmy subbed in at pitcher for Jeff, who was reclining on the bench with his eighteen-year-old girlfriend. I was largely unsuccessful in my role as back-up back-up back-up back-up back-up clean-up hitter. I did, however, make it to first base quite often. I found surprisingly great success that season by being paralyzed at the plate. I would only be struck out half the time if I never swung and shrank my strike zone down to near-nothingness by scrunching up my body in anticipation. The rest of the season progressed similarly. Our team (Mighty Jeff and the Marlins) destroyed everyone by at least ten runs, and we won the championship easily, mainly from my important combined contributions of not messing up the plays I wasn’t involved in, and sitting on the bench and developing an intense rating scale for the different Airhead flavors sold at the concessions stand. In one of the most exciting nights of my life, I got to play third base once when the third baseman’s uncle died, and once I even got to second base in the rare instance of my bat actually making contact with the ball. And it wasn’t my fault if I benefited from the distraction caused by Jimmy being knocked out by the 14 non-fiction|METAPHOR third baseman on that play. The highlight of my statistical season was one at-bat where I decided I was going to swing at every single pitch, thus resulting in a hitting streak of twelve (yes, twelve, count ‘em, twelve) foul balls hit in a row. My team cheered wildly at my newfound courage, and was especially entertained when one of those foul balls careened helter-skelter into the opposing team’s dug-out and stuck fast into the chain-link fence right above their pitcher’s head. My team rejoiced, and I enjoyed a secret happiness every time I came back up to hit after that, watching the opposing team duck down and hold the tops of their heads in fright. As I drove back home after our last game of the season, my “Best Sportsmanship” award cradled between my knees, I realized that, all in all, baseball was more fun than not. I wish I had played more, but then, I might have actually impacted the games, which could have been a terrible thing. I did learn quite a bit from the experience, anyway. I learned that sometimes, it is completely acceptable to not only ride the success of those surrounding you to victory, but to enjoy that success. I learned that, sometimes, Jimmy gets the start. I learned that perfectly nice guys like Darren with straight teeth would plague me for the rest of my life. I learned the exact length to which an Airhead can be stretched before snapping. I learned that dandelions don’t like cussing. I learned how to effectively communicate the term “bellyitcher” in Spanish. I learned that the sun can be blamed for nearly any error. And I learned that, truly, life can be a pitch. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 15 jimmy|SWIFT It was sunny that Saturday morning. I had been to BYU for many of my own track meets before, but this was the first time I was there for one of my little brother’s. It was the Special Olympics. I was used to seeing the strongest, fastest athletes there. Today the place was stock-full of volunteers and people whose physical and mental ailments were obvious even to the most ignorant viewers. Matt was nervous, and you didn’t have to be his brother to tell. My parents and I got there about twenty minutes before his race was scheduled to start. We told him to go warm up, but he was too nervous to go on his own, so I went with him. The whole time we jogged, he just stared down at the grass. His head tilted slightly to the right, just like it always did when he was feeling stressed. His short blonde hair was all matted down on one side and sticking up on the other. It was obvious that he hadn’t thought to try and comb it, which was normal for him. Acne covered half of his face, mostly because he didn’t know how to take care of it, and partly because he wouldn’t let my parents help him take care of it. I asked him if he was worried about the race. “I thinking” is all he said, still looking down at the grass. When we stopped, they called all the milers to the tent for check-in. I went with him. They put him in a heat filled with all kinds of runners. Some of their disabilities were more obvious than others. However, one of his opponents was a healthy looking black man in his mid-twenties. He wore basketball shorts and a shirt that read “Salt Lake Country Track.” The man was thin and athletic. He was joking around with his friends as they gave the check-in instructions. He seemed normal, like someone I would race in college. My brother was only eighteen. Matt’s 16 non-fiction|METAPHOR disabilities were so transparent juxtaposed against the obvious abilities of the athlete set to race against him. Matt looked him up and down, and I could tell he was a little intimidated. I knew that he wanted more than anything to impress me that day. I knew that he wanted to win for me. *** Matt was always calling me on the telephone, asking me, “When are you coming home from college?” Sometimes I would oblige and go home for the weekend; sometimes I didn’t have time to but wanted to; other times I lied to him and told him that I was too busy that weekend to make the trip. I loved my brother, but spending time with him wasn’t always easy. In his excited way he would ask me the blandest questions, trying to make conversation. Then after I would answer them, he would ask them again and again to keep the conversation going. In his mind he was just talking, just being normal. But anyone normal would know that’s not how you do it. He always interrupted, too. I would be hanging around him and my sister. She would be talking and then he would ask me in the middle of her sentence what I had for dinner last night and what I liked about it. Disabled or not, the behavior annoyed me. Notwithstanding, I felt bad for the times that I didn’t spend time with him when I could have when I knew that I should have. When Matt called and announced that he would be running in the Special Olympics, I decided that I needed to go and support him in it, so I went. After all he started running because I was a runner. Matt wanted to be exactly like me. I loved watching The Simpsons growing up, so he loved watching The Simpsons growing up. I played basketball, so he played basketball. I teased our sisters, so he teased our sisters. Even though he was my disabled little brother, he still looked up to me like a normal little brother looks up to a normal older brother. That’s why what he told me later shouldn’t have surprised me. Just before I graduated from West Jordan High School, WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 17 my track coach made a life-sized poster of me running. He wrote on it “All-American Pete Jensen.” It hangs in the room where he teaches Spanish, next to life-sized posters of track and field greats Michael Johnson and Steve Prefontaine. I placed second at the Junior Olympic National Championships, and received All-American honors for my running multiple times. I was offered track scholarships from various schools and settled for one to a university in state. Needless to say, I made a name for myself running. I earned respect. I think Matt saw that. I think he wanted to win some of that same kind of respect for himself. I believe that’s why he told me, shortly after I graduated high school, that when he got into high school he was going to be a runner. “That’s great,” I told him. I really thought that it would be a good thing for him too, but then he said something I didn’t expect to hear — I didn’t want to hear. “I gonna be All-American like you,” he said seriously. “AllAmerican Matt Jensen, woooh!” I remember staring off into space, not knowing what to say — he was so excited about it. My whole life, everyone around me told me that if you believed you could do something, then you could do it. It was a lie, though, and it was the first time in my life I had ever considered it to be a lie. Matt couldn’t just decide to be an All-American distance runner and become one. It didn’t matter how hard he worked, he would never make it. “That’s great,” I said, trying to figure out how I was going to pad him back into reality. There wasn’t a way. I walked into another room of our house and tried to forget that he had said anything at all. *** After they had finished the last heat of the hundredmeter dashes, the volunteers signaled for the milers to step onto the track and take a few strides. Matt was struggling to pin his number to his white T-shirt. He looked down at the pins, then up at the other runners getting ready on the track. He was getting more nervous by the second, which made his coordination, bad 18 non-fiction|METAPHOR as it was, worse. He stared at the safety pins and his number like they were impossible. Normally he would ask me to help him, but he had a tendency not to talk as much when he was nervous. After watching a bit, I finally offered to help. I pinned the number to his shirt, patted him on the back, and told him good luck. He looked up at me, right in the eyes, and said, “I win for you.” Then he ran an awkward stride down the straightway towards the start line. I felt bad when he said that. I had been to some of his other races before. Usually I was happy for him when he didn’t take dead last. Sure, the crowds would give him a courtesy clap, but he knew what last place was. Sometimes after meets he would cry on the drive home. I walked over to the backstretch to cheer him on. Not as many people would be standing on that side, and I knew it was where he would hear me the best. The starter called the runners to the line. He gave them his instructions. He would yell “runners set,” and then the gun. When he yelled “runners set,” it was unlike any track race I had seen before. Instead of all the runners planting their power foot, crouching down in unison, and waiting for the gun, they mostly just kept standing straight up where they had been. When the gun went off it surprised some of them, but they all started racing just the same. The healthy-looking athletic man took the lead right from the start. My brother fell back into fourth place. There were about twenty runners in the race. “Good start, Matt! Good positioning!” I yelled as he came past me on the back stretch. He looked over at me and gave me a confident thumbs-up. Matt stayed in fourth place behind two others that formed a chase pack. The leader had nearly seventy meters on Matt’s chase pack before they had finished the first lap. As the leader came off of the first turn of the second lap I noticed some things: steady rhythmic breathing, a relaxed face, and perfectly defined quadriceps — the trademark of a good distance runner. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 19 Matt’s head was already tilting on a forty-five-degree angle to the right. His face screamed pain. I know he wanted to win, and I longed to be able to do something to prevent another disappointment from happening. At that point I was certain that reality would bring Matt a loss that day. I’ve always wanted to protect him from his reality, because to me his reality seemed like it was too much to bear. *** I remember being in elementary school, watching my brother when he went out to play, waiting for the moment that I knew the other kids on our street would start picking on him. Every house in our cul-de-sac was filled with big Mormon families. It seemed like each of the seven houses had at least one boy my age. Somehow, I still managed to be the runt. When we played football they would always have me play quarterback, because I was small and easy to tackle. If I got kicked, hit, punched, or otherwise beat up, they had an excuse to feed the grown-ups: “We were playing football.” When they needed a scapegoat for something, anything, I was it. It was always Jim who started anything bad. It was always Jimmy’s fault that there was nothing do. Jim was always the dumbest, weirdest, and ugliest. I don’t think my family was exactly poor, but it always seemed like we had less money than all the other families on our street. One of the families was definitely richer than mine. They had a boat, jet skis, four-wheelers and the most updated home entertainment center possible. Their son was the biggest kid on the block. He was a little more than a whole head taller than me, and he probably tripled me in weight. His name was Michael. Michael liked to pick on me for being poorer, smaller, and because he knew I hated it. The other kids mostly just followed his lead. I didn’t retaliate most of the time. I still hung around them, because frankly there was no one else that I knew. They were my only friends at the time, if you could call them that, but bad friends were better than no friends. I worried for my little brother because I knew that sooner 20 non-fiction|METAPHOR or later he would be out of diapers and playing outside in a circle full of jerks. With his disabilities, those assholes were bound to make his life hell. So every time he went out to play I watched him from our living room window. I watched and waited to make sure he was safe — to make sure they didn’t say or do anything mean to him, like they always did to me. I remember one day in particular. He went outside and was playing with his Hot Wheels on the neighbor’s lawn across the street. It was Michael’s lawn across the street. Michael and another boy were in his driveway shooting hoops. Michael said something like “watch this” to the other boy. He threw his basketball at Matt and hit him right in the face. Matt looked up at him. Tears began to well in his eyes. He sat there motionless. “Waaaaaah! Are you gonna cry, baby? Come on, baby, cry.” Michael started hitting his chest with a limp right hand, moaning like a mute, the other boy laughing at him and pointing at Matt. I sprinted out of our front door. I yelled at Michael from across the street. “What are you doing?” “None of your business, dip-shit,” he yelled back. “I saw you throw the ball at Matt. Just leave him alone, man. He didn’t do anything to you.” I didn’t want to sound so pleading, but I did. “Oh, did you see me miss my shot from your stupid window? You know, you’re not always going to be able to protect him from everything.” I thought about what he had just said for a second. It was true. Matt would eventually have to learn to defend himself. I hated imagining him all by himself in situations like this. “Does it bother you when I tease him? Huh Jimmy?” He said my name with a high-pitched voice, shaking his head from side to side. He started walking over to where my brother was sitting. I crossed the street, trotting towards them. “What about this?” he said, putting Matt into a headlock. Matt was much smaller than Michael. The little resistance he put up was use- WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 21 less. Michael closed his fist and rubbed Matt’s head with his free hand. “Calm down now, Matt, we’re just having some fun. I won’t hurt you.” “Let him go!” I yelled, stepping closer towards Matt and Michael. “Why? We’re just palling around. How about you run in and tell your mom, just like you always do? Huh, Jimmy, how about you just let me and the retard play for a bit.” I never had stood up for myself before. For the most part I just tolerated the abuse that Michael had given me. If it ever got really bad I ran inside. I’d tell my mom, just like he said, but she usually just told me to stay inside and to stay away from the other boys for a while. She wouldn’t tolerate this, though, but I knew if I ran in right now and told her, Michael would let go of Matt, and he would probably only get yelled at by my mom. His parents didn’t seem to care what he did to anyone, so she had given up talking to them a long time ago. I didn’t run inside. I hated Michael so much. Why couldn’t he just be a normal kid? Why did he have to be such a jerk? “What are you doing? You just gonna stand there, doofus?” Michael asked. “You know what, Michael? Fuck you!” I said. He looked at me completely surprised. I was surprised too. I don’t think I even knew what those words meant yet. It was like when America dropped the atom bomb on Nagasaki. They weren’t exactly sure what would happen afterward. I didn’t know what had gotten into me, but the next thing I knew I was swinging a high right hook rapidly towards Michael’s fat face. It connected. I remember it was semi-soft, like punching a firm pillow. I swung again with my left hand. I missed. Michael had let go of Matt and blocked the blow. His friend just stood to the side, watching us. Michael lunged toward me, both arms fully extended, hands reaching for my neck. I threw both my arms up to deflect his choke attempt. I was successful. His lunge brought him in close, so I jerked my right knee up as hard as I could. It 22 non-fiction|METAPHOR reached exactly where I hoped it would. He doubled over in pain, holding his groin with both hands. He was now bent down at a perfect level for me. His head sat on his neck like a baseball on a tee. I instinctively twisted my torso back and loaded my right hand. When I swung, my fist connected with part of his cheek and eye socket. That must have been the hit that left him the shiner that he had to tell everyone in the circle about for the next two and a half weeks. His head jolted up and back. He was momentarily stunned, so I pushed him back until he was up against his wood fence. I started punching him again. I remember my hand slipping off his face. It was wet from tears. I must have gotten two or three more punches in before he pushed me off of him and started running for his family’s front door. With a slew of profanities, I told him never to touch or tease my brother again. I told his friend to get the hell out of here unless he wanted more of the same. He listened and obeyed. They didn’t bother my brother again. Even though I stood up for Matt, and even though I kicked Michael’s ass, that fight still haunts me. It’s not because I feel guilty for fighting Michael — it’s because what he said I know is true. I couldn’t protect my brother from everything. I couldn’t protect him from the hard life he would have to live. *** “Lookin’ good, Matt! Go right by ‘em! Come on, Matt, you can do it!” I yelled as Matt came around the backstretch for the third time. The leader was showing signs of fatigue. Matt looked up at me when I yelled at him. The expression on his face changed from tired to determined. He looked up at the two guys in front of him with disgust. Matt went around them and before he had left the backstretch he gapped them by about ten meters. I could tell by the way he was running he wanted to win, but he had an uncertain look on his face while he was slowly closing the gap between him and the leader. The crowd cheered WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 23 both my brother and the leader on as they ran by the bleachers on the opposite side of the track from me. I heard them calling my brother’s name. I heard them yelling for John, apparently the name of the athletic leader. One of the volunteers working the meet came and started talking to me. It was Jason Hunt. He had run track for my alma mater’s arch-rival, Bingham. He asked me questions like if I had married and how was the running going. I gave him short answers like “no” and “good.” He told me he was there volunteering to get service hours to put onto his resume. He asked why I was there and I told him that I was watching my brother. He said he had heard a little bit about him. How Matt had run track, and how he won the Willie Cowan Award, an award given to athletes who overcome great disadvantages. He told me that I should be proud. I agreed, and I wondered if the people who had given Matt that award had any idea about what kind of disadvantages in life he had really faced. *** When Matt first figured out how to use the telephone, he would call my sisters (who had left the nest and started families of their own) five or six times a day. He did this with neighbors and friends too. We painstakingly got him to stop doing it. This was going on during my early high school years. We had a cousin named Carrie. My aunt had adopted her when she was three years old. My aunt would bring her to family functions, and it always seemed that the poor child was blamed for every little thing that went wrong in their family. On occasion there would be a slight outburst and my aunt would take the girl outside and hit her, telling her that she was rotten and should never embarrass her like that. Because of glimpses like that, my mother had worried about what might be going on at their home for years. At about the time I left for college, my aunt’s abusive behavior had become more obvious. The Department of Child and Family Services, or DCFS, took Carrie away from the only home she ever knew. My mom wanted to take her in, but it was a big 24 non-fiction|METAPHOR decision. Pious as she was, she prayed about whether or not she should adopt Carrie. When she prayed for reassurance that it was okay, she felt more and more uneasy about taking her in. She couldn’t just let a member of the family, her niece, be put into an unsteady life of foster care. Finally she decided to ask for a priesthood blessing. Priesthood blessings are like a special kind of prayer, in which the giver of the blessing can receive revelation from God, to help, comfort, and heal those that need them. My dad, a worthy priesthood holder, laid his hands on my mother’s head and in the name of Jesus Christ warned her that if she did bring Carrie into the home, it would be really hard on Matt. Though my mom believed what the blessing had said, and though it confirmed her feelings of uneasiness, she didn’t want this girl to just be tossed aside. She figured whatever that warning may be of, Matt would probably grow from the experience. My mom told DCFS that she would adopt Carrie. Carrie was about eleven years old at the time. My little brother was in the eighth grade. Carrie moved in and after some time the inevitable feud between my mother and her sister seemed to settle down. After beginning my third semester at Weber State University, my brother started calling me five or six times a day. He wasn’t just calling me, but my sisters as well. I kept telling him that once a day was good enough, but he insisted on calling anyway. “Hi, Matt,” I would say tiredly. “How are you?” he would ask. I kept my answers brief. I would ask him the same question. He would say fine. I would wait for him to give me a reason for his calling, which he never did. There were long silences of us both waiting for the other to say something. Matt never had been a great conversationalist, and the few skills he did have were lost over the phone. Sometimes I would humor him and ask him a few questions: How’s school going? How’s the family? Usually he would respond with “good” or “fine.” Sometimes, though rarely, he would complain to me about Carrie, saying that she took one of his toys, or that WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 25 she was stupid and ugly. After I had spoken to my parents about stopping his incessant calling, I began to ignore a lot of his calls. I wondered sometimes why he had reverted to this old habit again. My mom told me she was worried that Carrie’s moving in was too hard on Matt. Carrie and Matt fought every single day. Matt’s first curse words were directed at Carrie, and I’m told that he really meant what he said to her. My mom thought it was because he wasn’t getting the attention he was accustomed to. Her theory was completely off. Michael had said, “You won’t always be around to protect him, you know.” I knew, and I always thought that something horrid would happen to my little brother when he got into junior high. I worried some kids at school would pick on him while I wasn’t around and that no one would be there to defend him, which I’m sure happened too. But what happened to him in the house that I grew up in was way worse than anything that happened at school. Carrie apparently had been subjected to more than just the physical and verbal abuse that we had suspected. She had been abused sexually and continued the cycle by abusing Matt. I wasn’t there the day that my sister walked in on my brother and Carrie. I wasn’t there to help when Matt told my parents with tears streaming down his face that Carrie had touched him in a bad place. I wasn’t there to protect him from the abuse. I wasn’t there when he needed me to listen on the phone, and to understand the things that he couldn’t say. I couldn’t understand them. I couldn’t help. The hardest thing my mother ever had to do was to put Carrie back into foster care. My mom really loved her despite everything. Matt stopped eating meats, and he insisted that someone else from our family try his food before he ate anything. He never touched the food that he put into his mouth. He would make us hand-feed him, or try to pick everything up with a fork, 26 non-fiction|METAPHOR even potato chips. He felt dirty. He felt like he had done something wrong. He spent lots of time taking showers, and scrubbing his skin with the loofa, using up all the shampoo and soap. He had awakened to the fact that this world is dirty, and that everything in it was contaminated. He kept calling five or six times a day. After I knew what had happened, I tried to answer all five or six calls. “How’s it going, Matt?” I would say. “Fine,” he would respond. “How was school today?” “Fine.” “Are you doing okay?” No response. I would stay on the line asking him questions until he decided it was time to hang up. They put him into therapy. It was really hard finding someone that would take him. Generally shrinks don’t work with the mentally handicapped. Understanding the words Matt attempts to say can be very difficult at times, let alone the complicated task of trying to help him cope with something as debilitating as sexual abuse. In essence, helping him cope with the after-effects of sexual abuse wasn’t something the shrinks were able to help with. He had to do it on his own. Midway through his high school years, I was at home one weekend. It was lunchtime and we were the only two home. “I hungry,” he told me. I made us some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I cut Matt’s into pieces for him and set it out on a plate. I handed him his plate and sat down and started eating my sandwich. He stared at his plate for awhile, not touching it. I realized I had forgotten to get him a fork. I started to get up and then he sniffed his hands. He asked me to smell them. “What do they smell like?” he asked me seriously. “Clean,” I told him. He looked back down at his sandwich and reached for a piece of it. He grabbed the bread with his own hand and put it in WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 27 his mouth. He chewed and said, “Thanks Jim, this is good.” He ate the whole sandwich with his own hands. *** Matt was on the curve just before the stretch to the beginning of the bell lap. He closed the gap between him and the leader to just under fifteen meters. The crowd was screaming at both runners. Unlike a normal track meet, people were cheering on both runners simultaneously, not playing favorites. As the bell rang, signaling the final lap, Matt passed the leader and tucked to the inside of the curve. The leader had fallen back to Matt so quickly, I thought that maybe he would just give up and let Matt run away with it. But he woke up and drafted off Matt around the curve. “You got it, Matt! The race is yours! Go get it!” I yelled at him. I kept yelling for him as he went by and as both runners finished the back stretch and raced down the last curve. The original leader made a move to pass Matt on the curve but Matt countered with a surge and refused to let him around. Matt’s blonde head was still tilted at a forty-five-degree angle to his right side. He forced his arms forward and backward with each stride. The stops were off now, and Matt accelerated to full speed. The athletic runner went around Matt as they came off the curve and onto the homestretch. John, the original leader, regained a short lead of about a stride and a half with less than sixty meters to go. “GO, Matt, GO! Everything you got right now!” I was needlessly yelling myself hoarse. There was no way he could have heard me from my spot on the backstretch over the roar of the crowd right on top of him. Whether he had heard me or not, he responded just the same. He surged again — this time it was obvious that neither runner had anymore gears. Matt was only half a stride behind with twenty meters to go, and it was uncertain whether either runner was gaining or losing any advantage. Ten meters left and from my angle they seemed to be completely tied with one 28 non-fiction|METAPHOR another. “A photo finish!” was heard over the loud speaker. “Too close to call from up here.” I ran over to the finish line. Both of Matt’s hands went to his knees. Then after a second he laid down on the track. He rolled over on his back, heaving air in and out. Covered in sweat, he rolled to one side and threw up his breakfast. After he was feeling better and walking around, people that we didn’t know kept coming up to him — congratulating him on the amazing race he had just run. He went to the bathroom. I went to the stands to find my parents. As I walked by different people I kept hearing them talk about my brother’s race. I was sitting in the stands, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom, when they announced his victory over the loud speaker. Even though he had won, they would give both runners gold for effort. When he came and found us in the stands, people continued stopping him and congratulating him. When he sat down next to me I stared at him. I just looked at him while he watched the other events happening on the track. After awhile he noticed. “Why you staring at me, Jim?” he asked, a little bothered. I looked away towards the track. I couldn’t get the words to come out of my mouth. I didn’t understand what I was seeing right then — what I was feeling. Since he was born, I was worried about the kind of life my brother would have to live, the kind of race he would have to run. I was so worried because I thought my lot in life was hard enough. I didn’t want him to have to experience a life harder than my own. But not all races are fair, because not all runners are equal. I realized that I didn’t have to worry about him anymore, even though his race was bound to be tougher than mine, he was also tougher than me. It was the first time that I didn’t see Matt as someone I had to protect — or as a burden I had to carry. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 29 For the first time ever, sitting in the stands at BYU’s track, I saw him as my brother. I saw him as my hero. He could do the things I knew I couldn’t. He would live the life I saw as impossible. jared|TAYLOR The international relation context of the Maginot Line in the interwar period of 1919 to 1939 was an important time in world history. The Maginot Line will be defined as “a zone of French fortifications erected along the French-German border in the years preceding World War II,”1 and international relations are defined as “political and other dealings between two or more countries.”2 The Maginot Line was the result of complex internal struggles in France, coupled with the foresight of an impending invasion by Germany. It was important in an international relations context because of the result it created: the need for massive retaliation against the Germans. This paper will be divided into two parts. First, it will discuss the political climate in Europe after World War I, the internal turmoil in the French government and military, and the growing Nazi threat in Germany that led to the construction of the Maginot Line. Second, it will discuss the construction of the actual line and its context in international relations, in particular the possible deliberate decision to not place the line across the French/Belgian border. After World War I, France emerged as the strongest force on the European continent. France enjoyed the allegiance of Great Britain, America, and several smaller nations that had emerged from the old Austro-Hungarian Empire.3 1 The Random House College Dictionary. Edited by Laurence Urdang (New York: Random House, Inc., 1973), 804 2 Encarta World English Dictionary. International Relations. Search for “International Relations,” http://www.encarta.msn.com/dictionary_1861692562/international_relations.html [accessed Oct 9, 2009] 3 30 William L. Shirer, The Collapse of the Third Republic: An Inquiry into the Fall of France in 1940 (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1969), 137 non-fiction|METAPHOR No other country on the continent could challenge France’s supremacy. The nightmare of the German threat, which had haunted the French for so long, had been erased. Germany—still shaken by her defeat, her army and navy reduced to a token force, forbidden by the Versailles Treaty to build warplanes, tanks, heavy guns, submarines, battleships, and saddled with the burden of reparations—was no longer a menace.4 France emerged from World War I and returned to its powerful place in world politics, confident that treaties would be honored and allies would be quick to respond if the established treaties failed. Historically, France had plenty of practice fighting Germany by the time thoughts of a great “continuous front” entered the minds of the French High Command. Although France moved away from the armed nation to a professional army after the Napoleonic Wars, she reinstituted the nation in arms after the war of 187071. In that loss, Germany dramatically reminded her that wars were no longer simply quarrels between governments of ruling families, fought by relatively small armies of professional soldiers. Wars were now conducted between entire peoples, fought by armies of completely mobilized nations.5 After the experience of the Franco-Prussian War, and the lessons learned from the horrors of World War I, France now knew that war was capable of killing millions of people (through modern innovations), and the idea of a defensive front, with the support of the world (particularly Britain and the United States) appealed to the newly pacifist country. Economically, and more importantly strategically (because of the horrible experience with trench warfare in World War I) the Maginot Line made sense to the established French High Command. The First World War had taught that it took fewer people to defend a well-prepared bastion than to storm it and 4 Ibid., 137 5 Robert Allen Doughty, The Seeds of Disaster: The Development of French Army Doctrine 1919-1939 (Hamden, Connecticut: The Shoe String Press, 1985), 14 WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 31 that the attacker always suffered much heavier losses than the defender. Since France had a lack of men and was most afraid of another bloody war, it seemed reasonable to build the best possible fortress. Since until 1933 the French economy was prospering, the money needed to start work on the Maginot Line could be found.6 Perhaps the first chink in this new strategy and confident pacifist armor of France was the Pact of Locarno that was signed in October of 1925, which “brought back defeated Germany into the community of Western nations.”7 This international pact allowed Germany into the League of Nations and the symbolic embrace of the Western European community. This new spirit of friendship and good intentions would eventually allow Germany, under Adolf Hitler, to start to develop its war machine again. Even thought Hitler, a supporter of French destruction, had been jailed and put away by the German government and the Nazis banned,8 it soon became apparent that the weakness of the Versailles Treaty and the quick acceptance of Germany into the League of Nations would result in another world war and a need for defense for the French. Even though the knowledge of impending war was eventually accepted (because of the aforementioned weakness of the Versailles Treaty), and despite significant internal struggles largely resulting from the falling value of the Franc, most people in Europe were enjoying prosperity. In 1930, when France withdrew its last troops out of the Rhineland, Germany quickly recovered (mostly because of huge loans extended from the United States). This welcomed peace and superficial tranquility would be short-lived. The horrors of the trenches were still engraved in the minds of the French and “interwar France remained split between a desperate desire to avoid war, and a realistic sense—as compared to Britain—that Germany, especially Adolf Hitler’s Third Reich, would at some time in the future unleash another conflict.”9 Even with 6 Raffael Scheck, Building up German Hegemony in Central Europe, 1933-1938. Under The Thrid Reich, http://www.colby.edu/personal/r/rmscheck/GermanyE2.html [accessed Oct. 2, 2009]. 7 William L. Shirer, The Collapse of the Third Republic: An Inquiry into the Fall of France in 1940 (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1969), 140 8 Ibid., 141 9 Military Innovation in the Interwar Period. Edited by Williamson Murray and Allan R. Millett. (New York, Cambridge University Press, 1996), 13 32 non-fiction|METAPHOR this knowledge, the French started to reduce the length of military conscription for their young men, down to one short year.10 This pacifist attitude toward the military exposed the greater attitude of a decidedly defensive military strategy, which lent aid to the idea and construction of the Maginot Line. France knew that by pulling its occupation troops out of Germany—war would eventually follow and that it needed to protect its crucial German border. Directly behind this border lay France’s industrial power and precious coal fields—resources that would be critical if a national defense against Germany was necessary—and the plans for a great “continuous front” were born. Finally approved in 1929 by Paul Painleve, the Minister of War, the construction hastily began, and the rest of the world knew that war was coming.11 The next fault in French international relations, which had major international consequences and was linked to the implementation of the Maginot Line, was the slow deterioration of the High Command in the French military. This decline was a national problem in France, and for the world, during the Depression years of the 1930s. Outdated thinking based on lessons learned in World War I brought to light problems that, through war, would prove to be disastrous for France and the rest of the world. By the time the Depression came at the beginning of the thirties, the French Army … was withering away—not only because of dwindling manpower available and the shrinking military budgets but for other reasons just as substantial. The Army was suffering from sclerosis in the High Command, from a wave of pacifism in the country, and from utter confusion in the Parliament, the government, and public opinion as to what kind of army to have to meet the minimum needs of national defense … and the consequences of the post-war revolution in military science brought about by the swift technological advances of the … airplane and tank.12 10 Barry R. Posen, The Source of Military Doctrine: France, Britain, and Germany Between the World Wars (New York: Cornell University Press, 1984), 108 11 William L. Shirer, The Collapse of the Third Republic: An Inquiry into the Fall of France in 1940 (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1969), 183-84 12 Ibid., 174 WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 33 Internationally, the new construction of the Maginot Line, the pacifist attitude of the French Government, coupled with the huge oversight that it was possibly “in the wrong place”13 would prove disastrous for the entire planet in World War II. The French believed that a “methodical” approach to war was the only way to avoid the blood loss that was experienced in World War I. “What lay at the heart of the French approach was a belief that the methodical battle was the only sensible route in all cases to effective utilization of military force without heavy casualties.”14 A solid, unbreakable defense, for the French, was the only way to win against the coming onslaught from the east. By slowly breaking the German forces, and being safely housed in concrete barriers, a whole generation of French youth could be saved. However, several questions still remained in the construction of the actual line, and the results of these questions, would shape an entire generation, throughout the world. There were many proposed plans for where to lay the actual Maginot Line; one theory was that “to extend the Maginot Line westward along the Belgian border from Luxembourg to the sea would cost more than the French government could afford. Besides, if somehow it could be done it would offend the Belgians.”15 With this option not feasible (apparently), two others became popular, Either fortify certain strong points along the northern frontier from the western edge of the Maginot Line to the sea so as to block the main gateways to northern France, or arrange to rush the French army into Belgium to help the Belgians meet the enemy as far forward as possible. In 1932 Weygand and Gamelin (senior commanders of the French High Command) demanded the first solution (as to not offend the Belgians) and actually obtained preliminary credits from Parliament to begin the work.16 With this strategy, the fateful line began to take shape. 13 Ibid., 184 14 Military Innovation in the Interwar Period. Edited by Williamson Murray and Allan R. Millett. (New York, Cambridge University Press, 1996), 322 15 William L. Shirer, The Collapse of the Third Republic: An Inquiry into the Fall of France in 1940 (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1969), 184 16 Ibid., 184-85 34 non-fiction|METAPHOR Also part of the considerations was the Ardennes Forest and the possible invasion route through it. The Minister of War stated that it was “impenetrable”17 and to worry about having the line protect the forest was unnecessary. However, quite to the contrary of the Minister’s opinion, “in 1940 against the Belgians and French and in 1944 against the American First Army the Germans would show how dangerous it was … the French High Command would follow the advice of “victor of Verdun”—with disastrous consequences.”18 Although there was much controversy over where to place the Maginot Line and its accompanying strategic theory, and regardless of the aforementioned perceived “impenetrability” of the Ardennes Forest, and the possibility of offending the Belgians, some believe that the line was not placed across the Belgian border on purpose. The theory is that an invasion into neutral Belgium would result in a cry for aid from the besieged Belgian government, therefore allowing French troops into the country without offending them. This plan actually had a well designed part two as well. The French possibly created a safety net for themselves by implementing this plan; they thought that surely the inevitable invasion by Germany into Belgium, because of the construction of the Maginot Line, would entice the British into the conflict. “The security of the Low Countries had long been a British concern, since an invasion of Britain would be facilitated by the rivers and seaports of Belgium and the Netherlands. Hence France’s fortification of the German border and the neglect of the Belgium border increased the probability of British aid.”19 This theory would have been a very intelligent move on the part of the French because in applied to their newly pacifist doctrine, and they knew they were outmatched by the German war machine. Germany possessed more industrial capacity and had a greater population and, therefore a bigger army. The theory, offered by Barry Posen, continues, “In the Northeast, the Maginot Line not only was calculated to buy time to negotiate Allied contributions in the event of war, but represented a rational response to all the technological lessons of World War I.”20 This mechanization was the main threat for 17 Ibid., 185 18 Ibid., 185 19 Barry R. Posen, The Source of Military Doctrine: France, Britain, and Germany Between the World Wars (New York: Cornell University Press, 1984), 114 20 Ibid., 115 WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 35 the French; bodies cannot stop tanks, and millions of causalities were obviously not an option. Enticing the British into the war to help save the French homeland might have been their only option. The main oversight of the Maginot Line in traditional theory was its inability to stop the new mechanization of war. World War I was fought largely with horses, and while the tank was invented and used, along with other innovations (machine gun, poisonous gas, airplanes, etc.), the idea of a massive, highly mobile, speedy attack on the French homeland was not taken into consideration in the implementation of the Maginot Line. It (the Maginot Line) was obviously not mobile and it (possibly) assumed that the Ardennes was impenetrable. Any attack that could get around it would leave it floundering like a beached whale. Blitzkrieg was the means by which Germany simply went around the whole Line. By doing this, the Maginot Line was isolated and the plan that soldiers in the Line could assist the mobilized French troops was a non-starter.21 The move put so many resources into the Maginot Line, and the fact that it was immobile (and therefore ineffective against the aforementioned Blitzkrieg attack) proved fatal for the French and had major international consequences; essentially it led to the need for the infamous D-day invasion of June 6, 1944. Further insight into the French psyche was the fact that the Maginot Line was made to be ultra-comfortable and modern. With everything from air conditioning to cinemas, the Line was to limit the blood loss that France had experienced during World War I.22 All this money spent on comfort proved irrelevant however because the Germans simply went around the Line. Perhaps with better management of funds, a slightly different strategy, or a completely different focus, the Blitzkrieg that took France by storm could have been stopped. As a result of this mismanagement, oversight of key points of strategy, or the intelligent design of the Maginot Line, men and women from across the globe would have to fight to re-take France from the grip of Hitler’s Third Reich. 21 Chris Trueman, The Maginot Line. Under The Attack on Western Europe, http:// www.historylearningsite.co.uk/maginot_line.htm [accessed Oct. 4, 2009] 22 William L. Shirer, The Collapse of the Third Republic: An Inquiry into the Fall of France in 1940 (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1969), 186 36 non-fiction|METAPHOR The international relations context of the Maginot Line in the interwar period is highly complex. Many reasons for building the line are historically significant and still debated. Internal financial, strategic, and military struggles plagued the French and the resulting defensive attitude toward the impending war would shape the world. Regardless of the reasons for the placement, building, and attitudes associated with the Maginot Line, it was an international relations nightmare; the Germans ultimately just went around the line, and world military involvement, specifically the D-day invasion, was needed to put down the Nazi war machine. Works Cited Doughty, Robert Allen. The Seeds of Disaster: The Development of the French Army Doctrine 1919-1939. The Shoe String Press, Hamden, CT, 1985. Encarta World English Dictionary. International Relations. http://www. encarta.msn.com/dictionary_1861692562/international_relations. html [accessed Oct 9, 2009]. Millett, Allan R. & Murray, Williamsom (editors). Military Innovation in the Interwar Period. Cambridge University Press, New York. 1996. Posen, Barry R. The Source of Military Doctrine: France Britain, and Germany Between the World Wars. Cornell University Press, New York. 1984. Scheck, Raffael. Building up German Hegemony in Central Europe, 19331938. http://www.colby.edu/personal/r/rmscheck/GermanyE2.html [accessed Oct. 2, 2009]. Shirer, William L. The Collapse of the Third Republic: An Inquiry into the Fall of France in 1940. Simon and Schuster, New York. 1969. Trueman, Chirs. The Maginot Line. http://www.historylearningsite. co.uk/maginot_line.htm [accessed Oct. 4, 2009]. Urdang, Laurence (editor). The Random House College Dictionary. Random House, Inc. New York. 1973. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 37 laurie|KLAASS When I was five, I lived in Westerode, a small village in Central Germany. My family rented a tiny one-bedroom apartment above our landlady’s home. This rural location had plenty of barnyards to romp in, animals to play with, and haystacks to jump in from barn lofts. Our carefree lives were disrupted only by our landlady — who hated children. “Run, Reinhard, run!” my sister shrieked as she ran past me, grabbing my hand. “What did you do, Angelika?” “I accidentally stepped on die Brocken Hexe’s flowers!” We ran south from our apartments toward the Black Forest, about five minutes away. Not many children braved its grappling undergrowth, but we had our best adventures in this forest near the Harz Mountains. Oak and birch trees grew so close together that the sun could only freckle the ground to guide us along the snaking path. The local legend of die Brocken Hexe (the Mountain Witch) convinced my sister and me that our landlady was the very person everyone whispered about. She was an old, menacing lady with wrinkly skin and hairy red warts, who spent most days scowling and cursing at the children either brave or innocent enough to tread too close. Inspired by her hatred for us, we pretended we were Hansel and Gretel, getting lost in the forest while hiding from our mean old witch. It was a muggy day for summer. So we picked wild blueberries, only chewing long enough to burst open their juicy center. We used the rest for a trail — instead of breadcrumbs — to find our way out of the deciduous forest. We hadn’t noticed that the crows ate most of them until our route home was erased. Coming home late for dinner was a mistake that Vater wouldn’t excuse. 38 non-fiction|METAPHOR “We need to go north, follow the moss on the trees, Bruder! It’s getting dark.” She only called me Bruder when she was cross with me. “Hey, why are you mad at me? You’re the one that crushed her flowers!” “You must listen to me. We have to go this way,” she said, pointing toward the bare sides of the oak trees, “The moss grows on the opposite side. Let’s hurry home so Vater won’t beat us.” When we arrived home, Mutter was standing over the rusting stove, stirring watery turnip soup for our supper. Her wavy, golden hair glowed from the sunset shimmering through the kitchen window. She smiled and opened her arms to us. “Ah, mien kinder.” Mutter cuddled me against her heart. “Good zsing your Vater had a performance in the next town.” She examined our purple-stained fingers and laughed. “Now go wash those wild hands in the basin.” Angelika and I sighed, relieved that we would sit without pain that night since Vater was gone. He was a master tailor and had owned a petite shop before the war. Now he made what clothes he could from his small cloth cache by day and was often a musician in the evening. The only time I saw him smile was when he played the accordion. On Sundays, Vater would take us to the meadow for a picnic and play as Mutter danced with Angelika and me. Mutter and Angelika picked wildflowers to place in their hair, making them look like fairies floating through the prairie grass. But as a rule, Vater was a strict man, expecting his children to behave like little adults, only not allowed to speak. Or maybe we were just frightened silent by his glaring ice-blue eyes. If he’d been home when we scuttled inside, we would have received a belt on the behind and a “lesson” of disgusting chores (like scrubbing the family bathtub in our kitchen). But not tonight. Mutter’s soup was finished, and she ladled it into our wooden bowls. She always managed to make our meager food supplies into scrumptious tasting meals. Her emerald eyes mir- WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 39 rored mine as she stressed upon me how lucky we were. “Next time, sohn, you need to stay more aware of the time.” “Ja, Mutter.” I cast my eyes to the brown linoleum floor. I obeyed her because I knew she loved us, wanted what was best for us, to protect us. Just as we sat down at our coffee table with our soup, we heard a loud CLANK outside on the balcony. Mutter went to the back door to investigate, but an evening fog had diminished the view. “Sheist!” she exclaimed. “Kinder, hide behind the couch, now!” Grabbing her large wicker broom, Mutter stood out on the balcony like a soldier for the unknown assailant. Die Brocken Hexe’s head pierced through the mist. Our panicked screams drowned out the witch’s shrieking. She had climbed up a crude ladder and began shaking her twisted finger at Angelika. “You killed my flowers! Stay away from my front yard, Zerstörer!” She was pointing and chanting in an ancient language that we couldn’t understand, only, I think I heard the word “sleep” in her ramblings. The veins around her neck and forehead were like purple snakes crawling out of her skull. Angelika screamed and covered her face with her hands, but I was spellbound. Mutter hit her on the head with the broom while yelling, “You don’t scare me, old woman! Crawl back into your cave with zee other hexes!” The old woman’s prattling turned to cursing at Mutter as she descended back toward the sinister smog. With one victorious push, Mutter and I heard the ladder splinter on the ground. She wiped her hands and ran inside to hug Angelika through her hiccups. “There, there, dear little one. The hexe is gone. Mutti will protect you.” She slowly led us back to our bowls of cooling soup. The rest of our dinner was silent. I thought about how even Mutter had called her a witch. Perhaps Mutti was teasing us; perhaps not. 40 non-fiction|METAPHOR When Mutter tucked us into our beds — Angelika on the couch and I on the floor — I tried not to think about die Brocken Hexe in the dwelling below us. Mutter sang “Herz Holz,” a song about a strong love for another, and dying if it was unreturned. Her beautiful voice made the wiry-haired, screeching woman disappear from our minds as we drifted off ... into a very deep sleep. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 41 tracy|CUMMINS It’s been a long drive. Not really in miles, just from that place to this one, from who I was to who I might be. I guess Mother thought I left town last night, but I went out to Sunset Park. They told me I had to stay with her until the placement came through, but she didn’t have any place I could sleep so I’ve been sleeping in the car. It will be the last time. I watched the sunrise from the Tree. It’s like me. It was damaged in a storm, probably forever ago, and now, disfigured and remarkably odd, it hangs, suspended in time, out over the ocean, clinging to the eastern cliff face — clinging to life. But it is still alive. And strong. And growing. And supported by one great boulder. That’s why I’m here now. I’m looking for a boulder. The house sits pretty far back from the road. It’s a little two-lane country road and on the other side is a dairy farm. I’ve never seen so many cows all at once. But the house is waiting for me. It almost looks like a little church, with long skinny stained-glass windows and sort of hidden where the forest meets the farm land, like it was carved out of the forest’s edge. There’s a great big lawn in front, and all those trees right around the house. It’s not scary, really. It almost feels like a blank canvas; I’m anxious about how to paint on it. No, I realize it’s not fear I feel; it’s anxiety. I lean my head against the steering wheel. I don’t want to go in, but I don’t want to stay here either. Have I made a mistake? What if they don’t like me? What if I don’t like them? Why would some normal family just volunteer to take in some random sixteen-year-old girl? Tomorrow is my birthday; will they care? Why should they? No one has before. They don’t know anything about me, only that I need a home. How could they be sure I’m not what the counselors said I am? What did the coun- 42 non-fiction|METAPHOR selors say I am? What if Mother is right and I really am insane? If I was insane, would I care about all these things? I take a deep breath. I can do this. I am okay. I am not ... well, maybe I am angry. But I want to be normal; I want to be just like everybody else. I can do that here. I can. I open the car door and get out. It’s only a few feet to the door and yet I see so many things: ivy beds, pots with flowers in them, a bench, little cobblestones for the patio, bright lights behind pretty orange curtains in the window next to the door. I close my eyes and knock. The door opens wide and standing there is a woman, older than I had imagined, with iron-gray hair and large owlish glasses. She is tall, much taller than me, and heavyset. And she is smiling. “You must be Tracy.” Her voice is throaty and filled with the sound of the smile that crinkles her eyes. “Come in, come in, we’ve been waiting for you.” She grabs my hand and pulls me into the house, into what must be a family room. “Barry, go out to her car and bring in her things. Have you got much, dear?” She hasn’t let go of my hand yet. “No. There’s just my trunk. I can get it.” “Nonsense, that’s what boys are for. Barry, go on now.” Barry is a tall gangly guy who must be pretty close to my age. “No prob!” He smiles at me and heads out the door. I look around the room. There are pictures of family all around the room. Even group shots with two parents and — I quickly count them — five children. Beautiful pictures. There are couches and a table with about a million — okay, only six — chairs around it and a piano in the corner. A piano! I really want to touch it, to pick out the notes that are always running through my head. Would they let me learn to play it? “Here, take your coat off.” She finally releases my hand. “This is the coat rack where we all keep our coats. Burdette will be home in just a few minutes, he’s a dentist here in Bellingham.” WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 43 I haven’t moved, and so she smiles again. “Come on, honey, you can just hang it right here.” I don’t want to take my coat off. I’m only wearing a T-shirt and jeans. I don’t even have any sleeves on today. I’m not ready for her to see what I look like. Emaciated. Scarred. Fragile. I don’t want to see that look on her face. She just keeps smiling at me. I turn my back and slide the coat off. As I raise my arm to hang it on the rack she puts her hand on my shoulder and turns me around. I’m not sure about the look on her face; it’s not what I expected. Her smile is still there, but a little sad now. “It’s okay, honey. The first thing we will need to do is fatten you up.” She takes my coat and hangs it up, then grabs my hand again. At that moment Barry comes in with my trunk, winks at me (did he really just wink?!) and sets off down the hall. “Don’t worry, he’ll just leave it in your room and you can unpack in a little bit. Right now come sit down and tell me about yourself.” She leads me to one of the couches and we sit down. I can’t imagine what she wants to know; it’s all in that file on her table. “Well, I’m a foster child. I do get good grades in school ...” “But what do you like to do? What are your hobbies? Do you have any good friends? You can always invite them up to visit or you can go down for a visit. As long as we schedule it we’ll be fine.” “Oh. Well, I do have a friend named Suzi ...” “Good. We’ll have to get her up here. I would love to meet her.” She really seems interested. “Well, I like music. I sing in the choir, so if I can get into the choir class here, that would be nice.” I can’t really think of anything else, anything she would be interested in. I try to smile. I’m sure I just look pathetic. “We’ll get you into that choir. Don’t worry about that.” She seems so confident. I look at my shoes. I’m not sure what she wants me to say. 44 non-fiction|METAPHOR “Um, I’ll start looking for a job here on Monday, if it’s okay that I wait ‘til then ...” “You’ll do no such thing!” Startled, I look up and meet her eyes. The look in them is fierce, almost indignant. “You are a child and you will act like one.” She makes it sound like an order. Act like a child? What does that mean? “I ... I don’t understand. I’ve always worked. I mean, how else can the bills get paid or ...” “You don’t worry about bills around here. I know that you have always worked, that’s in your file over there.” I’m surprised she admitted she had the file; most of the homes I’ve been in don’t. “Here, in this house, you are a child. Like all children you will go to school, you will make friends, you will come home from school on time unless you call first and let me know where you are going, and on Saturdays you will do chores, you’ll watch TV or read books, or whatever you choose to do within reason, and, because you’re old enough, you’ll even date. But you will not work. You are my child now and it is my job to keep you safe, provide you with anything you may need, and make sure that you have every opportunity to enjoy your life. My job, not yours. Am I making myself clear?” Her blue eyes almost glint, like tempered steel. She is a force to be reckoned with. “I ... yes, ma’am.” I drop my eyes back to my shoes. How was I supposed to earn my keep? What was I supposed to do with my time? And what did she want from me? She puts her hand under my chin and makes me look at her. She’s smiling again. She releases my chin. “Don’t call me ma’am. You can call me Mom. Or Barbara if you want. Most of my children’s friends call me Mom. We have a lot to learn about each other, don’t we?” I just nod. I could call her Mom? Not ma’am. Or Mrs. Hansen. I could call her Mom. Could I? Mom. I didn’t even call Mother that. Maybe —Mom Hansen? Would she object to that? “Okay then, let’s show you your room.” She pats my hand, stands up, and starts off down the hall. I can only follow her. Up WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 45 the stairs and to the left is a door open on what looks like a room with purple walls and filled with piles of laundry. She quickly shuts the door. “That’s Brookie’s room. I would hope you are a little neater than that,” she smiles. She opens the very next door. It’s yellow. The walls are soft yellow and the carpet is almost gold. It’s large, with two windows that have little balconies beneath them. It’s beautiful. And my trunk is sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed. Only one bed. “Am I the only one staying in here?” “Of course.” She smiles and walks over to my trunk. She opens the top and turns toward the closet. “You can use the first half of the closet. My daughter Bobbie is still storing all her things in the other half.” She opens the closet door and reveals a set of drawers. “And the desk is there for you to use.” She points to an intercom system on the wall by the desk. “You can use that for a radio if you want or we can get you one of your own. Brookie likes to put her music on that and you may not like it. Personally I listen to classical.” At that moment I hear the sound of pounding feet, like a herd of wildebeests running up the stairs. A tall blonde ball of energy bursts into the room. “Hi! I’m Brooke!” She flops onto the bed. “Bare and I are going to the basketball game in about an hour we have to be there early ‘cause Bare plays you do like basket ball right? We’ll sit by the cheerleaders so we can yell loud and no one will get mad it will be fun to go with a high-schooler I’m in the eighth grade so do you go by Tracy or do you have a nickname? Man, you are really skinny! You’ll have to be careful Mom likes to feed people are you any good at English? I stink and I need some help to pass the class ‘cause if I fail it Mom will KILL ME DEAD well I’m going to get ready to go I cleared out the top drawer in the bathroom for you and you can have the mirror on the left and it will be really nice to have a sister again.” With that, she jumps up, hugs me and dashes out of the room. I just stand there feeling like I’ve been run over by that herd of wilde- 46 non-fiction|METAPHOR beests. I’m sure the shock must be written all over my face. “And that,” Mom Hansen laughs, “would be our Brookie.” “Wow. She didn’t even take a breath.” What kind of whirling dervish am I going to be living with? What have I done? The fact that she’s beautiful and energetic (which doesn’t even come close to describing her) and my total opposite is almost frightening. And she wants me to sit with her at a basket ball game? I’m not so sure I’m ready for this. Mom Hansen reaches into my trunk again and pulls out my quilt. It’s all hand-stitched with red and yellow tulip-like shapes with green leaves on muslin and a wide red border. “This is beautiful.” She looks at me. “Did you make this?” How did she know? Or is she just good at guessing? “Yes. With my Nani — my grandmother. I was twelve and just out of the hosp… She died last month.” I look at the floor again. When I look up, she is spreading it out on the bed. “I think it matches the room beautifully, like it was made for it.” She turns to me and smiles. “You’ll be wanting to get ready for the game. Make sure you wear a nice sweater, not too heavy, it can get pretty warm in that gym.” She stands there looking at me. I think I actually smile at her. Suddenly I am enveloped in a tight embrace. No one has ever hugged me like this. She kisses my forehead and, holding my face in her hands, with tears running down her face, she says, “We’ve been waiting for you, Tracy. Welcome home.” WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|non-fiction 47 Georgia O’Keeffe said it best when she said, “To create one’s world in any of the arts takes courage.” It takes courage for an artist to display her or his work, courage to let others decide if the work is or is not art, and courage is what it takes to be able to keep doing what you love even after you have been rejected. So, I would like to thank all the artists who had the courage to submit this year. It was not an easy process to narrow all the submissions down. I would also like to give a huge thanks to Jay Heuman from the Salt Lake Art Center for being the guest juror and helping us with the selection process. When I was selected to be this year’s visual arts section editor I was excited for the opportunity to be a part of Metaphor. As a Bachelor of Fine Arts major, I wanted to represent as much art as I could and be as diverse in the mediums as possible, so I was ready to be open to any and all art that was received. Art, to me, is a way of life. Art is a way to portray one’s self, one’s ideas, and/or one’s passions through a visual means. While looking through the body of work we have selected this year, I encourage you to keep an open mind and remember that the artists that represent this year’s Metaphor took the time and courage for you to be able to enjoy their work. Visual Arts Editor: danielle|WEIGANDT Visual Arts Reviewers: patrick|BOWMAN andrew|CHOFFEL andie|KUNZLER jason|VANDAAM Guest Juror: Curator of Education, Salt Lake Art Center jay|HEUMAN 48 visual arts|METAPHOR archival inkjet print ruth|SILVER WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|visual arts 49 ceramics melinda|TAGGART 50 visual arts|METAPHOR ceramics danielle|WEIGANDT WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|visual arts 51 digital and archival inkjet shantel|WIGHT 52 visual arts|METAPHOR acrylic paint cara-lynn|KREBS WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|visual arts 53 digital mike|ERIKSON 54 visual arts|METAPHOR digital patrick|BOWMAN WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|visual arts 55 digital jeff|MADSEN 56 visual arts|METAPHOR archival inkjet shantel|WIGHT WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|visual arts 57 clay and fabric danielle|WEIGANDT 58 visual arts|METAPHOR acrylic and polymer william|MERRITTS WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|visual arts 59 photography megan|DANIELS 60 visual arts|METAPHOR digital tyler|VANDERSTAPPEN WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|visual arts 61 wood block print keisha|GOEKERITZ 62 visual arts|METAPHOR medium alex|POMMIER WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|visual arts 63 color photography amanda|RUMSEY 64 visual arts|METAPHOR My Better Half “This piece is about two people who are perfect for each other but for some reason can never, never touch or become one.” Impressions “We are a wasteful society and this is my take on the impression we are leavig for our future generations.” Ben and Celia “Part of a body of portraiture of mannequins and human beings.” Obvious Nonsense “I was honestly mocking the seriousness digital artists approach their work with.” Anatomy of Typography “The concept behind this poster was to coat certain parts of the letters of murder weapons in ‘blood’ and then to explain these specific parts of type anatomy. “ Untitled “ There is an uncomfortable exchange that exists between the human body and a camera. That exchange is peaceful and frightening.” Shroud of Danielle “Expanding on the idea that we are literally made of clay and will return to the earth, this is a modern interpretation of the Shroud of Turin.” WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|visual arts 65 End of Summer Storm “Inner-reflection is its origin, yet its vision is of the air and sky which surround us, constantly changing and in motion, like lives and emotions.” Soldier “Memory is incomplete, but small details remain etched in my mind, the way somethinig smelled, its color, its texture.” Purple Isle “... to share this truly magical place with the viewer. This corner of the world, and photograph, appear simple and monotonous at first but upon closer inspection there exists ...” Dusty “A red sun seen through a wall of dust.” Mistake “Something that would normally go unnoticed, or be considered a mistake, becomes something beautiful and appreciated by framing it.” No Statement Given By These Artists: GSL Shawn Dripping Vase Analytical Self Portrait Wonder Horse 66 visual arts|METAPHOR Over the years, I feel that creative writing, fiction in particular, has gotten a lot of criticism for its not being real. People believe that because it never happened, its value is diminished. A falser statement has never been spoken; all writing has its beginnings in the writer’s experiences. It is through the use of hyperbole, irony, satire, and other literary devices that the universal truth of those experiences becomes evident. Great writing doesn’t have to be real, but it has to be true. I was very impressed with the talent our Weber State students displayed in their submissions. Our staff selected pieces that we felt best represented the talent of our school; unfortunately, we could only pick a few and there were some equally great pieces we were not able to publish. I am very proud of our fiction section this year, and I am honored to have worked with such a wonderful staff to create it. Fiction Editor kwintsey|BRAVO Fiction Reviewers: andrew|CHOFFEL stephanie|PRESLEY stephanie|PRINGLE jason|VANDAAM darcy|VANDERDOES WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 67 heidi|CUTRUBUS I stand at my kitchen sink, lost in a fog, methodically washing the breakfast dishes. “The papers for your divorce are filed,” my attorney said. I am numb as I hang up the phone, not recalling if I said goodbye. Blankly, I gaze out the window at my two beautifully giggling daughters, gliding on the swings, back and forth. Their long hair floats behind, dancing on air with every forward move. Now, the dishwater has gone cold. I haven’t noticed. All the while, the word “divorce” bounces off the corners of my mind, triggering a cascade of memories — memories from a lifetime ago when my sisters and I first learned the meaning of divorce. I was barely four when Mom and Dad divorced. My two sisters and I were awarded to the custody of our mother. Consequently, Mom took her legal right to move us girls out of state, away from home, leaving us only summer breaks to spend with Dad. Our family was forever broken. Even when I try, I can only recall a few memories of us all under one roof: I remember once drinking chocolate syrup right out of the can from the fridge door. I remember tilting back the tin can, while sticking my tongue through the handmade triangle openings on top. I must’ve dripped it onto the kitchen floor beneath the fridge, and I am sure it was still on my face, but I was probably closer to four than five, and I wouldn’t have known what traces I left behind. Then my dad asked who had gotten into the chocolate syrup. I lied to him and said, “Not me.” My dad, with his finger, wiped a bit of the chocolate off of my face, then put his finger in his mouth and said, “This is the besttasting mud I’ve ever had.” He smiled, then hugged me. No scolding. The backyard of our first home had about a dozen or so 68 fiction|METAPHOR orchard trees, which my dad loved pruning. Once he bought us Bubblicous bubble gum, opened up the packages and then hid the pieces in the crooked branches of the baby orchard trees. Holly, Heather, and I ran from tree branch to tree branch, finding all of the pieces. After Dad’s work was finished, he’d give us a ride in the old red wheelbarrow down to the corner of our street. On that corner, opposite the junior high, was the Pie Dump, an old neighborhood store. We would buy candy lipsticks, the colored chalk kind with matching plastic covers. I would pretend to be Miss Piggy while I caked the spit-filled chalk onto my lips. Dad would say, “What a beautiful color you’re wearing.” I would’ve loved to have been raised by my father. I don’t remember the actual moment my dad moved out. I just remember, before we moved out of state, Mom dropped us off at my dad’s apartment one weekend. Mom stood in his doorway, reading off some list of things to do that was written on some important yellow sheet of paper. I can still see her angry face, and I was scared and unsure of what was going to happen next. Dad tried to hug us and welcome us in; all the while, Mom was insisting that he listen to her, pay attention to her. The next memory that comes to mind was meeting her next husband, husband number three. All of us were parked in Mom’s car, my sisters and me in the big backseat. The sun shone down straight into the window to where I had to shade my eyes. Suddenly the glaring sun was blocked by a guy who came to Mom’s window. My eyes were still adjusting to the sudden darkness, and I couldn’t see his face clearly, but I noticed he wasn’t as tall as Dad. I could tell because he didn’t have to bend over nearly as far when he stuck his head inside of the car and gave Mom a kiss. I heard the smack, and I couldn’t believe a stranger was kissing Mom. I didn’t like it and I wanted Dad. That didn’t matter. Soon after, we were moving to Washington, and Short Guy, husband number three, came along. Moving and marriages, they’re what I remember. I be- WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 69 came a spectator and unwilling participant in my mom’s addiction: euphoria, that great feeling Mom got when she first met a guy, or when Mom forced us to move somewhere exciting. As soon as this wore off, she was gangbusters to find her new fix. My mom needed euphoria. I can’t recall a time that we weren’t on the move or being introduced to a potential step dad. Living with Mom didn’t feel like home, didn’t feel safe, and she never slowed down fast enough to realize she made us feel this way. There was a certain time when Mom was truly crazy; we were moving and she was marrying faster than we could even unpack from our previous life. Lots and lots of unfinished lives, that’s how it felt. There were so many husbands and even the occasional live-in. One was Slimy Lizard, whose head looked like a fuzzy red toupee, and another held the world record for the longest kiss during the Lake Placid Olympics. His entire body stank of onions, and I never could imagine anyone wanting to kiss him that long. Another guy, Tube Sock, wore striped tube socks all the way up to his kneecaps. I was always embarrassed to be seen with him. With the Gay Guy, Mom had no clue; how could she, they only dated for a couple of weeks. And Cokehead, thankfully, only lasted a couple of months. Like clockwork, every new season brought us a new address and some new brand of shaving cream in the medicine cabinet. I was relieved when husband number five, Tom, showed up at our door. I could tell right away he was kind — like the way a dog can sniff out a good owner. Considering the bar hadn’t been set very high, Tom was most like what I would consider a dad. Closer than anything I had had in a long time, as long as it had been since I had seen my real dad. Tom loved baseball, telling jokes and barbecuing everything. He wore flip-flops and the short, sporty kind of corduroy Op shorts. I think he had a pair in every color. He wore those all year long, even when he cooked steaks and chicken outside in the middle of December. He drank, though. He drank a lot. I mostly remember him outside relaxing over the barbecue with a cigarette hanging out of the 70 fiction|METAPHOR corner of his mouth and his drink resting on the table section of the barbecue. He could’ve juggled spatulas, plates of chicken, and tubs of barbecue sauce, all while talking and never once did his cigarette fall from his mouth. He drank vodka, vodka with orange juice and 7-Up. I can see his glass now, sweat dripping down and the ingredients separating with the alcohol settling to the bottom. In the summer, he would watch us jump on the trampoline and help us count how many back flips we could do in a row. Once I did seven. He also taught me how to make potato salad, the good kind with lots of eggs and a little bit of mustard. Mom and Tom fought, though — fought a lot, about some things I can’t quite remember, but mostly about money and his drinking. When my mother left Tom, Holly and I went with him. I think we figured that at least we knew what Tom’s problems were. We wouldn’t know what Mom’s next guy would have to offer. So we moved with Tom into a condo next to our high school. I was fourteen and Holly was sixteen. My other sister, Heather, two years younger than I, went to live with a family we knew from church. My youngest sister, Robin, was the only one left with Mother, probably because of the five hundred dollars a month in child support Mom received from Short Guy. Dad, her second marriage, only paid seventy-five dollars per kid for the three of us; our dad didn’t make as much money as Robin’s dad. As we grew up, we became a bigger liability than asset to Mom. To her, we weren’t worth as much. How does one survive knowing what you’re worth? How does one survive knowing this when you’re fourteen? After only a few months with Tom, I quickly caught on to the evening routine of a drinker: Come home, mix the first drink, don’t talk much and flip the channels impatiently. Second or third drink, begin talking, make a couple of jokes. Third or fourth drink, decide not to eat dinner with us, do or say something that just doesn’t make sense, enveloping the room with personality, causing others to be cautious — bewildered. After the seventh WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 71 drink, finally eat dinner and stumble off to bed. Once, before passing out, he took all the food and shelves out of the fridge and got inside just to prove he could. Every day was like our own private coaster, and quickly, we learned how to roll. I didn’t have my driver’s license and Tom knew that, but he would have me drive him anyway. I would take him to the dry cleaners, the grocery store and the liquor store. Those are the only places he ever wanted to go. Every time I would make a mistake behind the wheel of his big brown Cadillac, he would tell me, “That is strike one. You only get three strikes and then you are out.” More than once I made it to strike six, but he never enforced the out rule. He and I both knew I was better behind the wheel than he would’ve been. Holly and I always had his checkbook, and therefore we did the shopping. Every once in a while we would give the checkbook back to him long enough to sign a few checks, then he would hand it back to us and say something like, “Don’t spend it all in one place,” or “Don’t forget to buy me some toothpaste next time you’re out.” Things were as good as they could be for a couple of kids living with an alcoholic that wasn’t our father. One fall night, Tom brought home a girlfriend: she was nice, quiet and shy, much different than my mother. She wasn’t as pretty as my mother — she was plain without the kind of color or presence that Mom had. Maybe Tom’s girlfriend was just normal, just not the kind of normal I knew. Now that I am a middle-aged woman, I realize how sexy and vibrant Mom must have been — five foot seven, mostly legs, maybe one hundred and twenty pounds, perfect face shaped by sassy, short brown hair (not the mousy brown kind, more reddish). Mom was always the biggest personality in the room. For being beautiful, Mom constantly needed to be reminded of how good she looked or how funny she was. Tom’s girlfriend started coming around more often, and before we knew it, she had moved in. He never told us we had to go; he never said the actual words, yet Holly and I just knew. 72 fiction|METAPHOR But where could we have gone? We knew Mom was out of the question because she was dating some guy who barely tolerated Robin. The family Heather was living with could barely afford her, and most importantly, neither one of us ever wanted to go back to strange foster homes like before. So a week later my sister and I found a one-bedroom apartment next to the mall. We were officially on our own. I can’t remember who owned the truck we used to move with, but I keep thinking it belonged to my mom’s new boyfriend. Anyhow, I just remember taking our one queen-size bed and the bedroom dresser that matched it, four plates, two bowls, and some old mismatched spoons and forks. Later that day, Mom brought us over an old television and a metal stand. All the while, she was crying and acting like she was the one who was the child left out on her own to survive. Like usual, Holly and I began consoling her, telling her that we were okay and that she wasn’t a bad mom because her new boyfriend didn’t want all of us kids. We told her that we were just fine, and that we liked our apartment and living on our own was going to be okay. At least she brought us our child support: seventy-five dollars each. For me, that was the end. I have never looked back and acknowledged her since as my mother. I only see her as a distant deranged relative; one whom I’m compelled to see twice a year: Christmas and her birthday. Now that housing had been taken care of, food became the newest priority. Later that week, we found a pizza place that would deliver one large pizza for ten bucks. We didn’t have a car, so cheap delivery was perfect. Our apartment was only four blocks from the mall. My sister already had a job there in a jewelry store, so I found a job at the Grill restaurant down the hall. I was a busboy — or girl, I guess. I made $3.25 an hour, plus the servers split their nightly tips with me, making me about twenty dollars a day, barely enough money to pay half of the rent, thus keeping the fear WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 73 of foster homes at bay. The Grill’s jukebox played cool music — music that I had never really heard or appreciated before. Everyone who worked there seemed to be cool, like someone I wanted to be. I was only fifteen. I didn’t know what I wanted, but this felt right. All the employees smoked, so I started too. The waitresses wore hemp bracelets, silver rings on their fingers, and chopstick barrettes in their hair. I wanted to look like that, but I didn’t have any of those things. They talked about what party they were going to that night and whom they were hoping to hook up with. The big difference was they had parents to go home to, someone to protect them from their definite stupidity. Holly and I didn’t have this. I found myself sleeping in later and later. I didn’t get off work until about twelve thirty in the morning and I started going out with the waitresses or cooks afterwards. I quickly began to make myself look older and act older. I must’ve pulled it off, because it wasn’t long before I scored a fake ID and started sneaking into bars. Loud and smoky, my first bar, The Bar and Grill, was a major college hangout. I got up on the stage and sang with the Gammarays, “Blister in the Sun” by the Violent Femmes. I couldn’t believe that I wasn’t kicked out, and I remember the whispers between the bartender and the bouncer as they watched me. Later that night, a fight broke out in the ladies’ room. Some girl cracked a beer bottle across a bathroom sink and then sliced another girl’s face with it. Blood poured from the V-shaped gashes carved in her face. I had never seen so much blood before; it was so red compared to the white-tiled walls where the roll-up hand towel hung. Blood was everywhere. Holly grabbed me and we ran. I never knew if the cops or ambulance showed up first. This “first” scared me. Instantly, I knew that girl could’ve easily been me — someone could do this to me. I realize now the only thing that saved me, time and again, was the fact that I was scared. I don’t think I had been to my sophomore classes in over 74 fiction|METAPHOR a month. I started taking day shifts and working doubles. I was working so much my manager just started paying me under the table. I remember one time at the Grill — it was our slow time, around three-thirty in the afternoon — I was standing on a chair, having just erased and washed the blackboard above the jukebox. I began writing the dinner specials. I wanted the writing to be nice, maybe even little curlicues on the letters. As I was finishing writing the words “steamed clams in herbs and butter,” I turned to see that three of my seven teachers had sat in the booth by the busboy bar. There was no way to miss them — who was I kidding; the Grill wasn’t that big of a restaurant! There wasn’t any place to hide. My biology teacher looked up and over her menu and noticed me; she remembered my name. At that moment I tried to remember where my biology book was. I hadn’t seen it for months. She asked me how I was doing, and I didn’t know what to say. I felt like telling her everything, telling her how our mom didn’t want us, how Tom had found a girlfriend, and how I hadn’t seen my dad in six years. I wanted to tell her that my apartment was just down the street that we didn’t have a couch or anything like that, but she could come over and see it. I wanted to tell her that I really liked her class and wished I wasn’t too lazy to walk the mile and a half to school every morning. I could probably cut through the Smith’s parking lot and save some time. I could probably get to school on time, but I had to be to work by three o’clock. I couldn’t walk home that fast, change my clothes and be to work on time. My face felt hot standing alone high up on that chair, and I was scared. I finally told her that I was doing fine and yes, we did move. She asked me, “Where?” I couldn’t lie and I replied by saying just down the street. She looked bewildered, and I am sure she wondered why I hadn’t been in school. Not long after that encounter, something bigger than myself, but still inside of me, told me to stop, slow down, and get some help. I only remember that I woke up in my bed, somewhat hung over and not remembering how I got home the night WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 75 before. Wondering where Holly was, I got up to go to the bathroom and saw a guy I didn’t recognize, passed out on the hall floor. I stepped over him and made my way into the bathroom. As I was sitting on the toilet, I turned my shoulders so I could look into the mirror. The person in the mirror grabbed my attention — that person wasn’t me. Her eyes looked different, her face fake and unrecognizable, and the mascara left dark black circles around her eyes. She was like a ghost, and the ghost told me to call my dad. I don’t know where the idea came from. I hadn’t been thinking about him; I hadn’t considered he might be an alternative before. I didn’t even know where he was. Later that day, about an hour before my shift started, I picked up the phone and called information. Having not seen Dad in six years, I didn’t know if he still lived in the same house. I didn’t know if he was still a school teacher. I didn’t know if he even wanted to talk to me. I figured I could try to reach his mother. Grandma and Grandpa wouldn’t have moved. Information gave me the number to Grandma Beth’s house, and I started to dial. As the phone was ringing, I wondered if Grandma’s number was still a party line and four of her neighbors were also going to pick up the phone. Grandma picked up. “Hello,” she said. I froze. I thought maybe she might be mad at me for what happened six years ago, and maybe she didn’t want me to call. Maybe she didn’t remember me? “Grandma,” I said, a little unsure about even calling her Grandma. “Heidi, is that you?” she said. She knew my name; I couldn’t believe she remembered me. How did she know it was me? “Yes, it is me,” I answered. I went ahead and asked her if she knew the number to my dad’s house and if she would give it to me. I asked her if my dad still lived in the same place. She told me he did, and that my dad had Air Force reserves this weekend, but as soon as he got home that night she would call him and make sure he called me back. I gave her my number, 76 fiction|METAPHOR and she told me that she was so glad to have heard from me and that she loved us girls. She said she couldn’t wait for my dad to see us. I thanked her and thought that wasn’t so bad as I hung up the phone. I picked up my bag, locked the front door, and started my walk to work. The next day I talked to my dad. The conversation flowed easily and it wasn’t hard to tell him about our living situation, not like it was to the table full of teachers before. I don’t remember him ever asking if I wanted to come and live with him, but rather how soon could we move? I must’ve asked him to come that weekend and get us, but he told me he couldn’t — Grandma Beth had died and her funeral was in a couple of days. I didn’t know what to say; I had just talked to her, talked to her for the first time in years, She couldn’t die. I wanted to ask him, “When did she die?” After all these years, I never have asked my dad how soon after I talked to Grandma she died. Somehow, in my mind that question is off-limits, like perhaps answering it will prove that I did her in by calling her out of the blue, after so long. Grandma suffered from a rare kidney disease and her transplant didn’t take. She had been sick for a long time. Really, I was blessed to have had that last chance to speak with her. When Dad finally came, he pulled up in front of the apartment and got out to help us put our duffel bag in the trunk. I looked at him for the first time in a really long time, trying to see what I remembered. His face looked the same, no new wrinkles, although he had less of his sandy blonde hair, which was blowing sideways in the wind. His eyes were cool blue — just like Heather’s, and his nose bumpy — just like Holly’s. We all looked alike and I knew we belonged to him. He smiled, and I could tell he was as excited to see us as we were to see him. On the way home he let me drive his car — the same car I remember, his white Datsun 210 with a hatchback and two doors. Dad’s car even smelled the same as I remembered — of Brute cologne and leather. He never once told me, “Strike one,” like Tom did. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 77 Next, Dad packed up the few possessions we had and then went to find Heather, who was still with the family from church. He took us home — back to the same childhood home, to the same friends who remembered us better than we remembered them, to the same orchard trees in the yard, only bigger. Dad helped set up our bedroom; we even had the same bunk beds from when we were little, and this little connection was comforting. I was so relieved to be there and so angry that we weren’t there sooner. For us, this was the first time that we stayed an entire school year at one school — no moving. It was also the first time I knew that my sisters and I weren’t going to have to live without Dad again. I began to embrace my new role as a teenager; I started going to dances, movies and all the other normal teenage stuff. Dad even bought motorcycles, and we spent most weekends in the mountains riding and camping. For the first time, “something new” wasn’t frightening. We were experiencing unconditional love. I also never had to worry about Dad drinking. Dr. Pepper was the hardest drink in the house. For three and a half years, my life was normal and this is what saved me. I awaken from my own memories of divorce to hear the back door open, and in bounce my precious girls. “Mom,” calls Sophie, “when are we going to Grandpa’s?” “Soon,” I reply. “Now go find your shoes.” “Grandpa’s” ... Their casual reference is my everything, and I am thankful my dad will be there to help me raise my girls, as I seek to find my new normal. 78 fiction|METAPHOR stephanie|PRESLEY floor. When I was four years old, red flowers grew out of our A scent like loganberries and pulled grass enveloped my mom, my sister, and when we entered the house. In the hour we had been gone, the dull blue-gray whorls of our carpet had transformed in an explosion of moist red. Emery and I exclaimed at the novelty and started pulling apart all the flower heads within our reach (as children there is something so satisfying about demolishing an object pretty and perfect). Mom, however, blanched the color of saltwater and dashed upstairs, calling for my dad. Five seconds later she sent a wail of shock back down to us – the sort of sound, I’m afraid, that robs a child forever of the illusion that a parent can protect them from anything. I stayed outside in the treehouse while the police were there. For the hour that I crouched ankle-deep in decayed leaves and crabapples, I pinched a red petal untill my fingertips were faintly stained with its blush, and I rubbed the petal’s waxy redness with my thumbnail — the epicenter of my sensory network at the time; all shiny or pretty things I would press and rub with my thumbnail. The only thing I remember thinking is that the flowers were grown by fairies, to show respect for Dad. Fairies were the only thing I ever believed in firmly as a child. Dad, it turned out, died of natural causes, an undetected aneurysm. I have no memory of what the police made of the phenomenon of the red flowers or what was done with them. When we look back on that day, it is only the tragedy of losing Dad we dwell on; the flowers grown from nowhere were an interesting footnote that now I wonder why we didn’t puzzle over more often. The single petal I clung to in the treehouse has, aston- WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 79 ishingly, not been obliterated with time. Brittle and purpled, it nonetheless remains intact, in a Ziploc bag at the back of my sock drawer — a reminder to myself that I have seen magic with my own eyes, and a talisman that will now, with any luck, help me to call upon it again. Emery returned from her internship in Italy two weeks ago. She brought me a souvenir that she thought was cute – a little square jar slapped with a sticker that reads, IL POZZO DEO DESIDERI (I PIXIES TI AIU TANO), its wide, flat cork topped with what is apparently a pixie, though the Italian definition seems misinformed. While I suppose cute in its own way, there is almost something sinister about the little figurine. An Italian pixie is not a comely, winged young woman but a trollish little man with mottled grayish skin, gauntly thin in drab work clothes. His long, monkeyish arms lead seamlessly into floppy-fingered hands occupied with a flask of potion and an earthenware pot, and his dark almond eyes smirk impishly from beneath his baggy hat. But I’m over-dramatizing, of course, exaggerating the crafted life of the little thing because it gives him a mystique and power I desperately need him to have. Emery translated the instructions on the back of the jar for me — write your wish on the scrap of paper provided, put it in the jar, place the jar on the windowsill under the full moon and leave it out all night, only use it once. But I asked her to read the words as written several times so I can be sure to get the sounds right when I read them aloud to myself repeatedly: Questo flacone e la bottiglia magica dei Pixies. Scrivi il tuo desiderio sul foglietto che trovi all interno, tappalo ed esponilo in una notte di luna piena. I Pixies sentrianno le tue vibrazioni e faranno tutto il possible e l`impossible perche quello che tu desideri si averri. The mere fact that I do not understand the words gives them an elusive power that nothing written in English could hold. If anything can help me, it is this squat little jar, with a little help from whatever magic was in the red flowers. Emery said it was more expensive than it had the right to be, but she never has stopped teasing me about believing in 80 fiction|METAPHOR fairies until I was eleven and thought of me instantly when she saw this. Though curious about what kind of shop she found it in, I didn’t ask her in case she bought it from an Italian Wal-Mart or dollar store, which would as good as kill it. I’ve waited patiently for the full moon. I’ve even penned little rough drafts of my wish on scratch paper before carefully printing it in bold ink on the little scrap of crisp beige paper provided: If he loves me, make him realize it and do something about it. Make everything work out. If he doesn’t, you don’t need to do anything, but I know he does, so do this for me, please. Thank you very much. ~Your friend, Kade P.S. I’ve put something magic in with my wish to help you and to prove I believe in the paranormal. Despite the absolute seriousness of my request, there is a certain childlike novelty in convincing myself of my blind faith in this trinket. Since I’ve firmly decided against dabbling in these areas seriously, the closest I will ever come to a real love spell is allowing myself to believe, for a moment, in this little game. If it works, all the better, but I don’t think I’m putting any stock in it. Not really. Nevertheless, I take pride in doing a thorough job of it. I chant the magic foreign instructions into the shadows of my room, illuminated only by the ice of the moon bleeding between the blinds, repeating it several times until I have said it without stumbling once over the words. I roll my wish into a tight little cylinder and drop it in the jar, where it is joined by the single petal from the magic red flowers (I handle the petal gingerly, lifting it with a pair of tweezers and concentrating intently on not reducing it to potpourri crumbs). I even smile encouragingly at the homely little creature before sealing the jar with the cork it straddles. For the first time I notice the ubiquitous MADE IN CHINA sticker on the underside of the cork and the WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 81 green sticker, also written in mundane English, crediting Pixies™, David Enterprises, and the artist behind the pixie’s image (both stickers are quickly peeled off and discarded before they can do any more damage to the jar’s latent magic). Still feeling somehow as if there is something I’ve forgotten to do, my eyes brush the withered petal curled against the tiny scroll of paper, and I uncertainly rub the side of the jar with my thumbnail, which no longer holds any strange sensory satisfaction for me but seems an oddly appropriate gesture nonetheless. Oh, of course. That’s what I’ve forgotten. To make absolutely certain the pixie knows who to work its magic on, I reopen the jar and drop in the most important thing — the flimsy little photo cut from the yearbook. It’s black and white, but somehow the blue eyes still show up in it. Nothing left to do now but give it to the moon. In my bare feet I slip out of the house as quietly as I can. Our crunchy unwatered grass prickles underfoot so I tread lightly to the side of the house, where my window is. The jar slides off my slightly slanted windowsill several times before I get it to stay, but once it sticks I hurriedly turn away from it and leave it in peace. My part completed, I’m padding back to my room when Mom’s voice says, “Kade?” “Hi,” I whisper awkwardly, reluctantly turning in the direction of her voice. Mom flips on the kitchen light. “Can’t you sleep, honey?” Her eyes distractedly comb my sleepwear; tonight I’m wearing my pink silk camisole trimmed with black lace, and no pajama bottoms, only a mauve satin slip under it, which I guess does look kind of stupid considering I’m just spending the night alone in my room as usual. Still, it’s a necessary part of the process. You try casting a love spell (well, sort of ) in a T-shirt and sweats. It wouldn’t work. “Sure I can. I thought I heard the cat crying to come in so I went outside to look.” “He’s in my room.” 82 fiction|METAPHOR “Oh. Good. Well ... ‘night, Mom.” I whisk back into my room before she can engage me in further conversation and close the door gently but audibly behind me. I know nothing will have changed in the morning. It should be easy to get to sleep. There is no good reason for my skin to be buzzing or my heart to be zipping around inside me like electricity seeking an escape route into the ground. I settle snugly into bed and glance at the digital clock on my nightstand. It is 11:11; out of habit I immediately run a finger back and forth over the four neon 1’s, whispering his name over and over until the minute changes. When I don’t feel myself tiring, I roll over onto my side and stretch my neck to see out the window next to my headboard. Mere inches from my nose, separated from me only by a thin barrier of glass, sits the hunched-over form of the little pixie-man, illuminated by the moon as if sitting in a spotlight directed specifically at him. I look for the barely visible wisp of shadow in the jar that is the yearbook photo and feel the usual sweeping tingle that vibrates my very bones. He’s the very worst thing to think of when I’m trying to get to sleep because it makes me want to laugh, scream, get up and dance, jump out of my skin, run for miles, maybe even die, but certainly not sleep. As another way of helping the “spell” along, I considered decking out my room in red tonight; in the trunk under my bed I have some sheets and yards of flowery fabric that I’ve dyed red for times like this, but I eventually concluded that a red motif would miss the mark. Red implies passion, yes, but I’m thinking it is too easily mistaken for lust, and I don’t have lust. I can honestly say I’ve never once had a lustful thought about him. My mania wouldn’t be so potent if it were as banal as lust. It takes twenty minutes but I’m finally starting to feel sleep clouding my brain when there is a sharp knock on the door and Mom calls through the wood, “Kade, are you still up?” Rolling my eyes, I opt to feign sleep but Mom barges in. With an exaggerated yawn I roll over to see her turning on the WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 83 light and brandishing something at me. A red flower. “Did you bring this in, Kade?” “No.” “Well, someone did.” “I guess it’s Emery’s.” “But she knows the rule.” “Where was it?” “Why don’t you tell me?” Mom draws closer to the bed, holding the flower as far from her body as she can, as though hoping my body will absorb most of its toxic emanations. “I know you brought it in.” “Mom, I didn’t, okay?” I wish she’d leave; she’s completely killing the aura of mystique and possibility I so carefully constructed in the room. Mom has an awkward, almost comical presence about her due to her gawky, weedy frame and perpetually shrill, panicked voice; it’s enough to destroy any magic. “Get rid of it, please, Kade,” she says in a voice of forced calm, transferring it to my fingers carefully, taking pains to make sure neither of us touches anything but the stem. I’m about to chuck it in the wastebasket by my bed but she says impatiently, with the air of reminding me of a process we’ve been practicing for years, “No! Shred it and then take the pieces outside!” Glaring at her, I stomp out of the room and go stand out on the porch to tear it up so no pieces will fall on the carpet and get me grounded. I pluck the petals off first, letting them pile up in my hand, then let all but one fall to the ground around my feet as I try to rip one up individually. It won’t tear, though. I try each petal; none of them will tear. They’re still soft, they still feel like flower petals, but the cells holding them together are ironclad. Like the one sitting in the jar now, they may last for years. I really have to learn the name of these flowers. Glancing at the window to make sure Mom isn’t spying on me or anything, I gather all the petals back up and carry them to the windowsill. I know I might be overdoing it but the jar needs all the magic it can get. 84 fiction|METAPHOR The jar, however, is gone, and the window is open. Through it I see Mom sitting on the bed, holding the jar and frowning as she pokes her fingers inside it. I hurry back inside to my room, though probably not before she rolls her eyes at the photo. “Give that back to me, Mom.” “What’s this, Kade?” “It’s the thing Emery gave me. I thought I showed it to you.” “What’ve you put in it?” “Just my wish. And ... a couple things to help it work. It’s just for fun, Mom,” I add hastily as she raises her eyebrows at me. Mom nods slowly. “Should I put it back?” “That’d be nice,” I say, trying to keep the venom in my voice to a bare minimum even though Mom just wrecked any chances of the jar ever working. Mom reaches out the open window and puts the jar back. She thinks I don’t see her finger flick out and send it tumbling off the ledge. “What the hell, Mom?” I look down at the ground, halfexpecting it to be all right, but it’s not. “Don’t you know anything?” Mom says in a quietly disdainful voice that I guess she thinks makes her sound mysterious and cool (she can be such a loser). “The fastest way to lose something is to need it too badly.” I know what she’s thinking, but she’s wrong because her situation was never comparable to mine. Whether or not he died too early, she got what she wanted, didn’t she? She got to know that he loved her, didn’t she? What makes her think she has anything in common with me right now? I would love to have what I want for as long as she did. “Mom, let it go. Yes, it was too soon, but it happens.” “We’ll see if you’re saying that tomorrow,” Mom snaps, “when he doesn’t show up to school.” “Okay, Mom.” WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 85 “I’m serious, Kade. If you put too much obsessive energy into something, it ... ” She pauses, thinking she’s so dramatic. “ ... it’s not right ... it has to backfire on somebody, doesn’t it?” I let her see me rolling my eyes at her. I know I should be more sensitive to her trauma but I’m only human, after all. “Well, I’m going to sleep now, Mom, so if you wanna leave ...” Minutes later, when Mom has left and it’s dark again, I think I’m only half-asleep when I hear the softest of death throes outside. I can’t remember if I look out the window at the ground or not, but I think I do, and I think I see red flowers growing out of the cement around the pixie’s dead body. This, at least, would have been the happier ending. mark|HARRIS Welcome to Shirmdance Shattlebark’s Reading Center and Cartographer’s Haven. Scootch closer, children, perhaps even too close, and prepare your ears for listening. Set your hearts for racing and ready yourselves to steal away in your minds as my words blur into mind-pictures for your brains, words of familiars, wizardnesses, beaverbacks, treacherous politics, and towers of linguistic prejudice. Today we embark upon a story-adventure. Think back, children, think back to a time when you were not yet born, so long ago that we cannot measure the time in days, years, months, or even seconds. But we can measure it in ... beauty. Twelve-and-a-half beauty sparklings ago lived a man named Morfelgus Buxtlebraz. Morfelgus, at all times, carried and grew his trusty beard. He was a man of much knowledge; he 86 fiction|METAPHOR shared his knowledge in writings. To this day, the most famous of his writings is the Holy Slange, in which he shared many tips and tricks for beard grooming (a tradecraft in which his abilities were well known). Also in the Holy Slange were given crude and effective directions to the Buxtlebraz Reliquary (where “if they don’t sell it, it ain’t no relic”). Morfelgus was practically a local celebrity in the small village of the Scourgewood Forest that he called home. In point of fact, he had been dubbed the Scourgewood’s Lower Kaimler, a position traditionally reserved for the community member with the most glorious and shining beard — appropriate, considering that his beard shone gloriously 23/6, 364 (that’s twenty-three hours a day, six days a week, and three hundred and sixty-four sandwiches a time). Given this municipal appointment, Morfelgus had ready access to the village’s deepest and most expensive stores of grain, books, and trinketry. While sorting and sifting through these goods, Morfelgus found a small pocket’s worth of Swimbledust. To most people, the use of Swimbledust creates only a swarm of swimbles, which are frighteningly small, puffy foam-creatures, much like mice today, if mice were blown from a child’s tube of bubbles onto the floor. In Morfelgus’s case, he inhaled the glittery purple dust whilst he slept and no swimbles infested his house, but his well-groomed, perfectly kept beard began to change in color. It shifted from the dull brown of a relic-master and groomist to the dull brown of a prophet and beard-wizard. Morfelgus awoke the next morning to find that his beard had become even more well-groomed than before, which Morfelgus thought impossible. Upon a thorough inspection, prodding, and questioning, Morfelgus found that, no longer a stationary growth on his face, his beard could now talk and move, had given itself a name, and had, much to his chagrin, begun using a new waxing agent for smoother texture and greater volume. Morfelgus now held in his heart a secret from the world. Hidden under his trusty beard, which was now named Hoary- WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 87 humptus, hid Morfelgus’s mouth, and from his mouth came prophetry. He hid this skill and gift from the villagers with deception. He let them assume that any man with such developed skills in beard-grooming and the identification of relics could not have time for any other abilities than these. This all concerned Morfelgus to a state of near paralysis. From birth, Morfelgus had been deemed a hand-wizard and therefore belonged to the faction of the Crumpus Bicuplors. He had undergone hand-wizard training under the direction of Wentworth Goldfarb, grandmaster pugilomancer, who was the first to master the “roundhouse kick spell” and was thought by many to have perfected the “right-handed jab spell.” Through his learnings, Morfelgus had been taught that the combination of hand-wizardry and beard-wizardry was the most degrading and unacceptable taboo of the last twenty beauty sparklings; it suffered a greater punishment than dumping Mem’s Tose and Diet Corke in a volcano in order to cause eruption. And this, children, is where we join Morfelugus on his journey. Let me open a book and recite from memory its contents. “A groomerist you are, but a man of conversation you are not!” Morfelgus heard his beard grumble at him. Morfelgus’s eyes scowled wide into his hand-wizard’s first edition handcrafted hand-mirror. He worried that he was no longer worthy of a hand-wizard’s hand-mirror, for his beard was speaking to him, and this was a true and unfalse sign of beard-wizardry. The combination of the two arts in one man leads only to a bastardized and dangerous conglomerate of mayhem. “A foolsighted face that I am bound to! Tell me, man, think ye that you will maintain life with as handsome a beard as I if you will not even share your name?” the beard, Hoaryhumptus, persisted. Morfelgus had seen many a fellow commune with his selfsame beard in whispers and shouts and heard only muffled grumblings in their beard’s reply. He knew not how to speak to a beard, for he was a hand-wizard through and through; he tried 88 fiction|METAPHOR the only way he knew how. “I am Morfelgus Buxtlebraz, Lower Kaimler of the Scourgewood, expert groomer of beards, and sole proprietor of the Buxtlebraz Reliquary,” Morfelgus said aloud, firmly and wearily. “An acceptable name,” Hoaryhumptus replied. “With this matter finished, we shall discuss today’s business. Shall I start the morning’s tea? And you needn’t shout at me, sir; I am only just below your gaping mouth.” Morfelgus and Hoaryhumptus sat at tea and spoke heavily of their predicament. The beard, having just become selfaware, offered Morfelgus a new and fresh perspective on life. The man and his beard-familiar’s chat was quite pleasant when keeping in mind that they spoke of the grave dangers of Morfelgus having just become an abominable disgrace to all that he and his fellow village-dwellers held dear. Now, children, I want you to think to yourselves, if your beard had just been blessed with sentient thought, what would you wish for this hairy appendage to know about you before you died? Please raise your hand, if you’ve something to share… I see that many of you have raised your hands. Give yourselves a congratulatory handshake, as you have just survived a hypothetical situation. Now, to return to our story ... “Is it not indeed nearing the ritual of the annual dropping of the hat?” Hoaryhumptus gruffly asked his leader and owner. “Indeed it is,” Morfelgus replied, “but I cannot attend such a publicized event when only just now I have become the BeardWizard Constituency’s biggest disgrace.” The beard, having no face of its own, squirmed its most valiant squirm in order to appear as if it was raising an eyebrow. “Yes,” the beard started, “but it is only you and I who know of this treachery, and in fact, your intentions have not, as of yet, shown to be deviant. You must speak to Scrob Rithechild, the constituency’s expert on divine providence.” “Divine providence, you say!? It cannot be that a curse WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 89 such as this could be divine!” Morfelgus held his face in his hands, bewildered, but still taking extra care not to muss up his beard’s delicate groomedness. The bell at the front door of Buxtlebraz Reliquary rang, and Morfelgus commanded silence from his beard. His worries were, for a time, forgotten, replaced instead with excitement. An opportunity for bartering was near, and there was nothing that Morfelgus enjoyed more. He walked to his showroom, where he saw a young and obviously inexperienced stonemongerer — or as you children would call him, one who digs too greedily and too deep — waiting at a glass counter and impatiently tapping his boot, which had been creased and enstinkened from overwear. “Yes, sir, are you in need of a beard parlor or a relics master?” Morfelgus asked, knowing assuredly that the stonemongerer knew little of beard grooming, given the hideously ravaged state of his beard, and he had probably stumbled across a shiny trinket, praying to his grotesquely bearded god that he had found a relic. “Well, people ‘round these parts told me that if’n I’s to try ‘n find a place t’ sell my here relic, tha’ th’ is t’ be th’ only best place.” The man, whose flesh seemed to be putrefying rapidly, spewed forth a mess of spit, beard, and chewed blackness as he spoke, and Morfelgus stepped back with each word to avoid the wave of projectiles that seemed to gain velocity as the man spoke. “Nau ‘ere I’ma will to cutcha a deal,” the stonemongerer continued with increased spewing, both in mass and force. “I seen saw this relic d’ a up sum spell. ‘t made us up a steeple from tha’ up-grass rock. I’s coo’ take up only fou’reen goldrings. Mit’ ev’n git me a extra life!” Hoaryhumptus translated the man’s words, which were completely devoid of any enunciation and syntax, to say that the man had found the relic, and as soon as he grabbed it, a pillar of rock sprung up through the grass where he dug. He saw this as a magic spell and dubbed the item a relic. The man was willing to 90 fiction|METAPHOR part with the item for fourteen gold rings. Now Morfelgus saw his chance; he rolled up his bartering sleeves and began a seemingly endless series of one-two punches, with intermittent uppercuts, into the sales pitch of the nearly brainless man before him. “Fourteen gold rings!” Morfelgus exclaimed as if he had never heard such an absurd proposition. “Well, you’ve no proof that this item is indeed a relic. If you look around, you’ll not see anything like what you’re holding in your hand, and sir, need I remind you of our famous and astute slogan: ‘if we don’t sell it, it ain’t no relic’? Now I’ve a mind to buy that toy from you for the mere use of decoration.” Morfelgus knew that the purple gem encased in crystallized wood that the man clutched in his grungy, moth-covered hands was indeed a relic, for he was holding three similar items in storage for a trio of his regular customers, who were all paying forty-one gold rings or more. With an eye steady on engoldened-ringed profits, Morfelgus continued his trained boxer-like barter obliteration. “Even if this did, in fact, turn out to be a relic, which would require extensive and expensive research on my part, good sir, that could change at the drop of a hat!” An old, dingy man by the name of Jonsleby Custardpot peeked his head silently into the room and shouted in a joyful, shrill bellow, “And it likely will!” Jonsleby was gone as quickly as a crippled old man walking out of a room. “So, sir,” Morfelgus tied up his bewildering sales pitch to the man, “I am willing to offer you this single gold ring. I can even promise that all rat droppings have been recently wiped from its surface. I offer you this on one condition: you must speak not one more word whilst in my shop, you must leave the Scourgewood immediately, and you must promise to bathe yourself in the most painful and toxic-cleansing potion available.” Without a second thought, the stonemongerer dropped the relic in his hands to the floor, and grappled on to the gold ring. He pawed at his new possession with an insatiable greed, WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 91 and left the reliquary. Morfelgus picked the relic off of the floor and stuffed it into a drawer; in usual instances, he would polish the thing and prepare it for display, but today he had a living beard. This seemed not to be the usual instance. After some inward debating, both with his beard and with his brain, he decided that his infant facial familiar may indeed be an intelligent beard after all. He would follow the beard’s instructions and seek out Scrob Rithechild. Concerned that after tonight’s dropping of the hat Scrob Rithechild may drown in a sea of paperwork and bureaucracy, Morfelgus opted to consult Sir Scorpion Wordsworth’s Poor Fortune-Telling and Beaver Rental Service. Scorpion Wordsworth greeted Morfelgus as he entered, and the bristles at the end of Hoaryhumptus stretched outward. The beard grumbled a warning to Morfelgus, telling him that the fortunes given by Wordsworth were tainted. “Ah, Morfelgus, my friend. What pulls you away from your reliquary this day?” Wordsworth inquired. “I require the speedy back of a beaver, Scorpion. I’ve a quest of the utmost importance,” Morfelgus said flatly, trying to keep the conversation strictly on business affairs. “You’ve been a loyal customer, Morfelgus; I say, this time you must let me offer you a free fortune with your beaver rental. I’ve not used my crystal-looking ball made from diamonds and gold for more than a while now. I would indeed love to tell your fortune only for the sake of telling a fortune.” “I’ve no time, Scorpion, lend me your beaver and leave me on my way.” “All right, sir, that will be one gold ring.” As Scorpion took the ring, he grabbed Morfelgus’s wrist and started to read his palm. “You will be…” “One more word, Scorpion!” Morfelgus snapped as he cut the sly beaver owner’s words short. “One more word, and I will be forced to cast a ‘roundhouse kick spell.’ Your ... head ... may ... come ... off ...” Wordsworth began to cry, having lost the oppor- 92 fiction|METAPHOR tunity to do what he loved most. Morfelgus mounted the stoutest and most worthy beaver and rode away. Another customer entered within minutes. Wordsworth offered this man the same deal that had been proposed to Morfelgus. The man’s palm was read, and Wordsworth uttered the words “you will be ... poor.” Sadly for this man, eighty percent of Scorpion Wordsworth’s fortunes are realized. On the road to Fel-Finith, where the Beard-Wizard Constituency holds their nightly dance-festival-meetings, Morfelgus conversed with his beard. They spoke and identified the inevitable conclusion, that with both hand-wizard and beard-wizard skills, Morfelgus was bound to be found out, and his only source of solace at that point would be provided by an outcast group of wizards known as the Shiftus Crumpmunklors. The Crumpmunklors were initially cast out of every social circle when they proved unwilling to comply with the groundbreaking Pants Legislation of 1963, at which time, Gutheford Swurm, the High Crumpus Bicuplor, set the standard number of pantages on long pants at two. The same standard was set for short pants the following year. The Corpus Himunklors (who compose the entire population of beard-wizards) had contradicting polijimal perspectives, and thusly passed the Speedo Legislation of 1976, spearheaded by Frankis Del Champney, current Great Corpus Himunklor; this legislation effectively created a men’s swimwear devoid of pantages entirely, creating a trend of “hip-legged” or “no-legged” practices in clothing. The Shiftus Crumpmunklors were murdered by the thousands due to their non-compliance to every law concerning the controlling and limiting of pantages. Even after this legislation had passed, Crumpmunklors flocked through the streets like mad turkeys wearing pants with redundant, useless or peripheral leggings. Whether covering both legs, one leg at a time, or no legs at all in these leg holes, the Crumpmunklors continued to strut through the streets with unnecessary pant-legs dangling in front of them, behind them, and often coming out of the tops of their shirts. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 93 This practice was deemed irreverent, disrespectful, and wasteful (because the excess pant-legs could be used for other pairs of pants), and so the Crumpmunklors were hunted down and killed. Since the Crumpmunklors were already being hunted, they decided to start their own communes and ignore every standard set by the Great Corpus Himunklor and High Shiftus Crumpmunklor, thus they began practicing both beard-wizard and hand-wizard techniques, leaving them feared, hated, and with numerous dangling pantages. Morfelgus and his beard stopped their speeding beaver in the Forest of Narkindor when they heard a song coming from the trees. They knew the song well; it was the tale of a gnome named Calendor. The tale was told, some years ago, of a small and crowded home, wherein did dwell, with aunties twelve, a rather portly gnome. The gnome was dubbed Sir Calendor; his aunties, Geraldine, one name for twelve of the most ornery aunts the world has ever seen. On holiday, Sir Calendor, fed up with aunts and home, did venture forth — the goal in mind? Enjoy a classy Gloam. Within the forest, home of things, more mean than Geraldine, he found his Gloam, but woes be known, was never seen again. A child perhaps, Morfelgus and Hoaryhumptus thought in unison. He must be playing in the forest. That was until the song continued. An additional piece of song that they had never before heard echoed through the foresty tree-lands. Why go out, Calendor, in search of Gloams and fame? Wiser gnomes forget the Gloams; they shun the world’s acclaim. 94 fiction|METAPHOR As the song suggested, Calendor was never seen or heard again. If this creature of the trees sang of Calendor, they knew something of the once lost and likely dead Calendor. “It must be the thing more mean than Geraldine,” warned Hoaryhumptus. A “get sleepy without noticing” spell was cast on both Morfelgus and his riding beaver and they quickly drifted to sleep. Hoaryhumptus watched helplessly, as frightened as a beard can be, as his face and man were dragged by a cryptic and rotting dryad into a cave made of thistles and thorns. And that, children, is where I will leave our story for today. Wonder, children, will Morfelgus Buxtlebraz escape the clutches of this terrible and possibly gorgeous dryad? Will he want to when he wakes up? My guess is yes, he will. Do not forget, children, as you make your way out of our reading center, to take up a deep interest in maps and map-making so that you may visit and be enthralled by our cartographer’s haven just across the hall. Now, children, make your way back into your boring and mundane lives. Do not eat too much, for you will get fat, and fat children are thrice as likely to be stolen and eaten. This is my warning to you. Please do for me this favor: have at least a mediocre rest of your day, each of you. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|fiction 95 Poetry is truth, veiled. Time, freeze-framed. The transcendent in a sentence. Those who hear and see poetry in the world and in their hearts are many. Those who can capture the beauty of it on the page are few, but they are courageous and they inspire. It has been a pleasure accompanying so many on their personal journeys through poetry. We received many submissions and would like to thank all those who were brave enough to send us their work. Our poetry mentor, Brad Roghaar, has always told us that great poetry defines the human experience, from the monumental questions to the smallest details of life. The poems we chose for this year’s Metaphor exemplified the human experience in the broadest possible terms. This has been a wonderful adventure and we are pleased to share the following selections. Poetry Editor: britta|STUMPP Poetry Reviewers: andie|KUNZLER janice|LEFEVRE stephanie|PRINGLE carol|RAHMSDORFF jason|VANDAAM darcy|VANDERDOES 96 poetry|METAPHOR jason|VANDAAM We cannot shake the orange hue of the dying sun from our bones. We are of pleasant temperature having been warmed by the effort of trying. We have burned candles made of tallow from our own bodies for light. We testify that beautiful things will be available when needed in time. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|poetry 97 kory|WOOD Ambition is thought to strangle the Meek. man can’t have Success and Humility. of Av’rice and Pride some booming chaps reek. they see Mild man downtrodden too eas’ly. what matters most? Power and Achievement? whipping a name up to Respected lofts? bleating for swill, plump pig in confinement, Demanding Indulgence and bursting oft’? or is it better a cart-horse to be, Bearing bigheaded Bleaters to their shows? Affording others their platforming glee, as Hephaestus hamm’ring, while proud Zeus glows? Recognition is heftily prized, but for what do I want to be recognized? 98 poetry|METAPHOR tom|HUGHES The coffee was full, Grande, and warm, but the stares across the table were bitter cold. How could you do this to me, she pierced with her eyes. The other didn’t dare to greet those eyes. instead, he just spun the spoon like a top deep into the cup. He wanted to say, I’m sorry, but didn’t know where to begin. Instead he mumbled, into his deep, dark coffee. “Needs sugar,” Oh yeah, it needs sugar. She needed lots of sugar. She needed so much sweetness that no body would ever call her sweet again. But instead – She got nothing, but the bitter black taste of lips. French Roast on her WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|poetry 99 maegan|MARETT He played, the guitar in hand swaying, to and fro, though his fingers, raw, from hours playing pounded, he played. Up the neck and down, the sound wound around in and out. Six strings strummed vibrated, melodiously through me, my entire being tied in the threads of the song. 100 poetry|METAPHOR kristin|JACKSON You— These mouths, Sleeping beautifully these hands, in our bed, we connect these bodies breath dipping low until we are left sliding down around your shoulders open toward the quiet rise and naked, of your hip, in our own plainness. and then through your fingers, through the hands In the half darkness, I have given myself we are only what we are— over and over to. two bodies, in want. Again, I open in the lamp-lit dawn and choose to love you. Drawn, Not by some great fate, with its bright scatter of beads. Not by some destiny, and its glossy web. But by the accident of hours, in the chaos of moments, we choose. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|poetry 101 jamie|PETERSON I’m not sure how I feel about having a cricket for a friend. When I’m here alone, you’re all I have. Just the two of us in this big building together. You come out of hiding at night when no one’s around to interfere with your existence. No one will be back until morning. You’ve got all night to roam. It’s time for me to go home now; but I’ll be back tomorrow night. Be safe. When I saw your corpse lying there, shriveled like a black rose delivered two weeks ago, I felt like I betrayed you. I told you not to come out into the crowd. Had I seen you, I would have protected you— a shared trust. You knew I wouldn’t hurt you. Instead, I gently swept you along, giving you a free ride around the place, letting you experience the night life. Now tonight, my friend, you are gone. Swept up to rest in peace with all the dust, debris and paper scraps. 102 poetry|METAPHOR maegan|MARETT A man who went to fight for us, Was hurt a year ago. He thought he was quite safe, but then A bomb was set to blow. A friend, less hurt, then pulled him back And dragged him off the field. His armor saved his life that day His face it did not shield. No nose, no ears, his skin was burned. The doctors did their best. He made it through the dark and lived, But that was not the test. The real ordeal was yet to come To learn to live alone. And learn again to do the things That he had always known. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|poetry 103 jamie|PETERSON I feel like Jupiter’s eye, my life going in the opposite direction of everyone else’s. A simple phone call turned me into the stink bug no one wants to be around. My heart now crinkles like a brittle fall leaf ready for people to step on. But they won’t just step on it; they’ll pick it up and smash it like a pumpkin at 1:00 AM on November 1st. That’s just how some people are, though; predators facing a poorly-camouflaged butterfly, unraveling it like a piece of yarn until it becomes nothing but a filament, floating away like a lost balloon. 104 poetry|METAPHOR jason|VANDAAM Tip-toe words into conversation My walnut-skinned lovers Lay matching canes on Coffeehouse glass and rest. Earthquake cup handles shake Aftershock lips sup and sip Dice in Brittle china chests rattle Synchronized, breathing, champions. Trading today’s paper with Their own yesterday memories silently Splitting one of a thousand such danish While love betrays age through Lazarus eyes. One hour passes she breaks the silence, “I’ll pull the car up over there for you.” Five minutes later he replies, “One fall is enough for today.” Unsteady they stand like a pair of newborn giraffes Like penguins defying the cold they kiss Leaving crumbs, spilt coffee and demonstration That love does triumph over time. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|poetry 105 lindsey|SCHARMAN I kneel upon the cast-iron tub which is camouflaged by white, as am I. Clear plastic curtain and consistent shower pressure enclose my sound-proof sanctuary and muffle sobs. Salty tears mix with running water, creating a blend of flavors like Zesta Crackers. My moist tongue tastes the bitter hurts of time spent alone in my white-tiled refuge. Safe in this place of single admittance, thick steam engulfs me like a hug. Hot water soothes my knotted muscles, and time has ceased to exist. 106 poetry|METAPHOR kristin|JACKSON We can’t live where we used to. The roof is leaking. Rain seeps in, it drops all around us, wetting the plank floor in soft patterns. Saying — we were here. We enveloped each other — rain and wood. Once, A lamp burned in the night. The smell of oil, Thick – intimately lying in the air. Slowly, settling floors, narrow peeling corners, pulled at, the mysteries of this small house. Small and fragile. Later, our hearts, drawn by the coolness of worn bed sheets, laid down in our chests and heard the rain slow, and watched the lamp burn out its wick. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|poetry 107 andie|KUNZLER Tomato splays the kitchen window, drips on peeling paint; on the thumb and finger prints; and on the supple skin. 108 poetry|METAPHOR stephanie|PRESLEY Let she who is without roses in her eyes Throw up her hands for your wedding bouquet. All I feel is nothing when the blood runs out, When you (to all appearances) Are lost to fresh water for the stems, A purple page’s inky defect. Let she who is without feral thought of you Arrive in floral hues that of placid goodness gush. It seems I am content to be her Salieri, In awe of my own lack; Prostrate in my asylum, Swathed in salt and silk, Let me forever praise the satin of your smile — And let she who is without envy Cast the first petal Into your unmarked mudhole. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|poetry 109 jason|VANDAAM for Claver Across the lake from Bill Gates Estate As a Mercer Island bench it has a certain status This bench does not judge anyone It is Spartan in design Made only of the finest, sturdiest materials It is beautiful when alone Amongst, Weeping willows only mildly depressed here Amongst, Wealthy canines walking pedigreed people Taught only to defecate in certain areas here Amongst, Spectacular privileges within spectacular views here As this is “The Mercer Island” In this place everything is planned In this place everything except us is planned And, I realize You are so much like that bench. 110 poetry|METAPHOR sean|PEEK Their eyes were watching. The grave. We are thirsty for more than what came before. Cigarette stains on my hand. Their eyes were watching. Brown shoes full of foot-sweats. Our blood. The Raven’s eye. My father, his son, who knows which Is which. Their eyes were watching. Foot-sweats. Brown shoes. The grave. What came before. Cigarette Smoke. We are thirsty for more. Our blood. His son. My father. The Raven’s eye. Which is which. We are thirsty for more. Stains on my hand. Our blood. The father. The eye. The smoke. The dead. The shoe. The feather. The smoke. The dead. My father. Their eyes were watching. We are thirsty. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|poetry 111 stephanie|PRINGLE There’s coldness in the air, the bush is encased in ice, they say the bush represents my heart after Caleb left last May, but I meant exactly what I said: the air is cold and the ice does cover the bushes. There’s a warmth in the breeze, the sun shines brightly, they say the sun represents my happiness upon my wedding day, but I meant exactly what I said: the breeze is warm and the sun does shine brightly. There’s a storm cloud on the horizon, the thunder rumbles by, they say the storm cloud represents my expression when I saw my house on fire, but I meant exactly what I said: a storm cloud is on the horizon and the thunder does rumble. 112 poetry|METAPHOR stephanie|PRINGLE See mountains rise far above the dark horizon, the red dirt caked on man and horse alike, a boat 800 feet below on an impressive sea. Listen to the Humuhumunukunukuapua’a feed, to battle cries of devoted island warriors, nothing but the sound of wind in your ears. Feel the Tradewind’s effort to cleanse the air, the warmth of a new and lasting friendship, falling rain as fine as powdered sugar. Taste the sweet, spiky star fruit and mangoes, the Kalua pork, sour taro root, and coconut milk, the saltwater as it slips between your closed lips. Converse with the woodcarver on the corner, with the gentle song of the tenor ukulele, the captain of the majestic catamaran. Lay on the boat’s deck beneath the sun’s gaze, the soft, iridescent Northern beach, cool mats of grass and massive palm fronds. Come see listen feel taste converse lay Come with me. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|poetry 113 rachel|COX One notices every detail of the background when momentous events occur. You would think that your mind would attach itself to the big event, but rather, it picks up everything from the strange unidentifiable smell in the air to the car horn in the street to remember in the days and weeks, months, and years that will follow and replay that moment in your mind a million times. The air was heavy with unfallen rain and heat from the mid-evening sun on the day I heard the news. That one second of reverberating sound through a cheap cell phone changed my life forever and I will remember the fat bumble bee on the leaf that was too green for that time of June. 114 poetry|METAPHOR eric|STANFORD Mountain ridgeline Illuminated by the Night sky horizon Draws me in Pulls me away Leaving my mind Twisted Like the curvy Canyon road I drive down Dead fall leaves fluster Bringing my attention Back WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|poetry 115 courtney|BRYSON I do not believe in hell, because the mind creates that prison. Heaven comes from the heart, and gently urges me to follow. 116 poetry|METAPHOR maegan|MARETT Forgiveness comes slow, When ego remains whole. A time to let go. My favorite heirloom, More than just an antique pin, Grandma’s Sunday best. Intermediate; In the middle or between, Errors and triumphs. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|poetry 117 tracy|CUMMINS I slip past trees to perch upon my stone, seeking — muted by mist the ocean’s tumult thrums in time with the beating of my heart. emerald growth above and beneath where bluff meets craggy shore a windy insistent rhythm echoes my mantra… moss or lichen, fern or frond — regardless of the name — catch drops of water, mist that has cooled and pooled in pockets of stalk and leaf, each bends, stretches, becomes a source of life to those who cannot reach. and I feel solace encompassed in clean, quiet, solitude. 118 poetry|METAPHOR stephanie|PRINGLE Across the countryside, lemon-scented Thyme, spreads its fingers among the feathery Burnet. The sun moves into place, the shadows take their leave, purple blossoms gleam in the early morning dew. The small life stretches, the jade leaves swell, sweet fragrances escape into the heavy air. A cool breeze’s reprieve, a long summer day, the resilient herb stands strong among a palette of purple and green. Darkness consumes the sky, the mountain shivers, the weary foliage withdraws only to awake and return. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|poetry 119 kylie|LANE It’s beginning to call again In its little impish ways A sweet caress of the sun A starry night’s limitless mind The tantalizing smell of fresh life The waning lullaby of the winds Growing ever stronger and relentless The peaceful kisses of the rain The seducing howls through the night A warm embrace of the setting sun The spellbinding ecstasy of a full moon Never will they stop till all will to defy is lost Nature is calling Oh sweet nature is calling 120 poetry|METAPHOR andie|KUNZLER And after we have poured the water, and set ourselves down in the empty room with the worn wood table, we will begin to speak of making. And outside in dim lit mid-November they sit, the environmentalist and the scholar, the Marxist and the police officer, the capitalist, the libertarian, the mariachi flutist and the bohemian, in the middle of the road. They hold wake lamps, burning, and breath rises in the cold night air. Our power is small, Love, in these four walls. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|poetry 121 kristin|JACKSON There is something urgent here Now, I offer you under the white tablecloth, the last poured into delicate pink tea cups, and most final pressed tie between us into all of your starched shirts. Like the once urgent need to run along that soft and quiet space at the small of your back, and breathe in the pulpy grit of your skin against the sheets. Maybe it is the need to be provided for, and to provide. A finality that no longer provides anything but itself, that which stains everything. As if that, was all along, what we needed. Or the need of you to see me before all my edges soften and thin, 122 poetry|METAPHOR laurie|KLAASS At the precipice of the world the shadows skulk along the ground diminishing the bright-cheeked fawns shriveling flowers’ centers: black leaching moisture without the sun wrapping some with limbless hands choking ‘till the endless dawn Then warming with the firefly glow squinting carefully at third watch hoping, bare-thread is sufficient bringing manna to the center adoring still the fauna gone Welcome in the newest sphere and begin a timeless breath. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|poetry 123 It all started with an idea. Represent the musical talent of the student body at Weber State. Posters were made, phone calls transpired, and submissions were handed in. A lively group of listeners assembled and over the course of hours decided the fate of the Metaphor musicians. With that in mind, we thank most humbly those who submitted and did not make it. Also, we congratulate those whose efforts were selected. Music Editor: adam|SMITH Music Reviewer: danielle|SMITH With that being said, here are those musicians whose songs will be available to download from the Metaphor website for those who may be interested in listening further. 1. Scott Shepherd – “Face The Day” No website at this time 2. AESC – “The Pharmacist” www.myspace.com/teslagabel 3. Eric Hatch – “Life Is Beautiful” www.myspace.com/goodphilo 4. Fox Van Cleef – ”Chestnut BOOM!” www.myspace.com/foxvancleef 5. Alaskan Maps – “Swaying Grain” www.myspace.com/alaskanmaps 124 METAPHOR 6. The Descriptive – “Kicking Ass And Taking Names” www.myspace.com/thedescriptive 7. The House Cats – “Manners” www.myspace.com/thehousecatsband 8. Double Or Nothing – “Falling” www.myspace.com/doubleornothing 9. The Trouble Shooter – “Impaired” www.myspace.com/7he7roubleshoo7er 10. Josh Lavitre – “The Last Night” www.myspace.com/airpointreactants 11. Air Bag – “Most My Time” www.myspace.com/theairbagwarning 12. Marny Proudfit – “Lions, Tigers And Bear Lake Monsters” www.myspace.com/marnyproudfit 13. Adam Smith – “Marshmallow” www.myspace.com/adamsmithsmusic Metaphor would like to thank Ron Antencio for hosting a concert at his cafe and for believing in our talented local artists. MOJO’s 2210 Washington Blvd. Ogden, UT 84401 www.mojosrocks.net WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY 125 The National Undergraduate Literary Conference (NULC) is an annual event hosted at Weber State University. Currently, NULC is celebrating its twenty-fifth year. This conference gives undergraduate authors an arena in which to present their papers — both critical and creative — and inspires them to continue in their craft by introducing them to others with similar aspirations, including those who have made a name for themselves in writing, from across the nation. Metaphor reserves a section of its pages annually to showcase this important work. We are delighted to accommodate writers from sea to shining sea here at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. We share scribbles, musings, philosophy, papers, and poetry out loud for one weekend in spring and here, in these pages, for a lifetime. To all undergraduate authors everywhere, published or not, we say: PERSIST. NULC Reviewers: georgia|FERGUSON kristin|JACKSON rebecca|SAMFORD alexandria|STUCKI 126 nulc|METAPHOR nulc: dominican university, ca brittany|BLAKE “Welcome to Sunnyvale.” That was all they had written on the sign. The smiling sun was supposed to speak for itself. Sunnyvale was the place where dreams came true. Forget that it was a day’s drive to the Big Apple, where someone could escape the preconceptions of a tiny community. Sunnyvale was happy. It must have been Sunnyvale’s happiness that made the appearance of Langley and Zoe Gaunt a newspaper-worthy arrival. They were the town’s first morticians. Of course, it probably wouldn’t have been nearly as exciting if they hadn’t brought their five-year-old son with them. Edgar Mortimer Gaunt looked nothing like anything the people of Sunnyvale had ever seen. Unlike his parents, who were both brunette and brown-eyed, Edgar had pitch-black hair and bright blue eyes. The members of the community agreed there was something unnerving about those eyes. It was as though they were unraveling the mystery of each strand of being in each person. His cause was not helped by the fact that he never spoke. His nose was always buried in some book of science or nature, never one of fairy tales or fantasy. Edgar had never believed in fairy tales. He was too reasonable, too intelligent, to accept the thought of fairy godmothers or beautiful princesses or heroic princes. Being raised by people who dealt with death on a daily basis, Edgar had quickly learned to understand the fragility of life and the fact that there was no magic to keep people alive. People died, thus magic did not exist. He would never admit it, but sometimes he dreamed that he was one of those characters in stories who was misjudged at first, then turned out to be a wonderful hero. Then, WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|nulc 127 instead of his classmates wanting to play with him, they asked if they could visit his house to “see the dead people.” Edgar lost hope for humanity on his first day of kindergarten. He turned to facts and science, his only reliable friends. Here was comfort for the boy — there was a definite and unchanging answer to all his questions. One year, for his birthday, Zoe tried to give him a collection of the Brothers Grimm fairy tales. Edgar politely asked for a real book. Both parents gave up trying to make him more sociable. For thirteen more years, Edgar retreated further and further into his silent shell of taciturnity. On the day he graduated from high school, no one knew that someone by the name of Edgar Mortimer Gaunt had gone to school, even as he crossed the stage. As soon as his car could get on the road, he was on his way to New York City. He never complained about the people who cut in front of him, didn’t remind the man at the burger place that he had ordered it without pickles, and only waved at the man who flipped him off. To him, each moment of the day was a normal, everyday occurrence that had no special reason to pay attention. He found an apartment, registered for classes at a nearby college, and started his classes. For nine years, Edgar lived in the city. He earned a degree, interviewed for five jobs, finally got one, and went silently to work. When that job fell through, he found another that was equally monotonous. He changed jobs three times, missed one month’s rent, ate the same Thai takeout each Friday, and never once visited Sunnyvale. On Christmas Eve, he called his parents to wish them well in the next year. Other than those few phone calls, no one in the world seemed to believe Edgar existed. Even his landlord had some suspicions, only receiving the checks in unmarked envelopes stuffed under his door on rent day. Nevertheless, the world marched on, aware or unaware of the presence of Mr. Gaunt. Edgar, who found little delight in meeting his coworkers, let alone his neighbors, had no problem with being invisible to the rest of the world. 128 nulc|METAPHOR Then came the day that she walked into his life. The moving men had just come by five minutes ago to drop off a new entertainment desk and had left his door open. Edgar was too involved in replacing each book and pencil to notice the young woman standing in his doorway. “Um, excuse me,” came the soft voice from the door. Edgar turned around to see a woman so beautiful she defied words. Her caramel hair was hanging in loose curls around bright green eyes and a bright, friendly smile. It must have been the smile that got him to stand up. “Can I help you with something?” He had used his voice so little in his life that even he was surprised at how deep and confident it sounded. “I’m Maggie Keating. I just moved in two doors down.” She waved her hand haphazardly down the hall. “Edgar Gaunt,” he replied, holding out his hand and shaking hers. “Nice to meet you.” “Nice to meet you, too. And I know this is early in our lives as neighbors, but I was wondering if you could help me set up my stereo. It’s… well, I’m not very good with technology.” “Of course.” Ten minutes and thirteen seconds later (not that he was counting), Edgar had set up a rather uncomplicated stereo, accepted a cup of tea even though he liked coffee better, and had officially set his mind on Maggie. He found out over a neighborly dinner that night that Maggie was an English major in from San Francisco who was looking for a real city experience. He held back the derisive snort he usually bestowed on students of the humanities. “Why New York?” he asked politely, gently pulling a hair from his fork. “Oh, God, don’t tell me one of my hairs is on the silverware!” she laughed, blushing slightly. “I’m such a bad packer! I figured it was on the opposite end of the country, so I couldn’t really do better for the distance thing,” she added, flinging the WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|nulc 129 fork into the sink. “I think it was also the draw of being by the lights.” Edgar nodded solemnly, staring at the plate of salad. “But why did you come here?” Maggie asked, genuine curiosity creeping over her face as she handed him a new utensil. “I grew up in Sunnyvale. No one was really used to change. I figured there was no better place than New York to see diversity.” He picked at the lettuce that had wilted on its journey from the supermarket to apartment. “What do you do?” Maggie said, taking a bite of her salad. “I’m a scientist.” “Oh.” Maggie hadn’t expected a science genius to be as handsome as Edgar was. It wasn’t a conventional handsome, but an eye-catching oddness that surrounded him. By the end of dinner, she knew they were going to be friends. She invited him to watch an episode of America’s Next Top Model (he declined) and told him to stop by whenever he was bored. He started a notebook that night, recording exactly what had happened at dinner. Suddenly, Edgar realized he was more bored than he had ever been before. He went back every day. On day four of the friendship, Maggie introduced Edgar to frozen yogurt. He decided it was tolerable when mixed with fresh fruit. On day seventeen, Edgar took Maggie on a tour of the American Museum of Natural History. She decided it was tolerable when mixed with frozen yogurt. On day twenty-eight, they agreed to see the off-Broadway production of Titanic: The Musical. They decided it wasn’t tolerable when it was mixed with anything. On day forty-two, Edgar asked Maggie to dinner, but not as friends. On day seventy-two, she told him she loved him. On day seventy-three, they woke up wrapped around each other. On day seventy-four, there was no way back. On day one hundred thirty-two, the shit hit the fan. “Why won’t you even read the story?” “It’s a fairy tale, Maggie. It’s not real.” 130 nulc|METAPHOR “Sometimes it’s good to read something that’s not real. It distracts you from the darkness that’s out there in the world.” “That’s just something you need to accept, Maggie. The world is a dark, horrible, disappointing place.” “Maybe if you tried every once in a while to like people and the world, it wouldn’t be quite so disappointing!” It was the first time she raised her voice at him. She didn’t talk to him for two weeks. He felt a strange tugging at his heart when he didn’t see her. After five days, he broke down and read the story. The next day, a bouquet of wildflowers found its way to her doorstep. She forgave him a week later, under the condition that he went to Central Park with her. He agreed just so he could be with her. As they sat on the edge of the fountain a week after the agreement, Edgar stirred his cup of soda absentmindedly. “When I come here, I kind of miss Sunnyvale.” He paused and took a sip. “I mean, it was beautiful there. I never really appreciated it before.” Maggie’s hand moved to his shoulder. She could have said something about her childhood, how she knew exactly what he meant because she was an outcast in her family, but she didn’t. She let them sit in silence and watch the pigeons peck aimlessly at the sidewalk. Slowly, her hand drifted down his arm and touched his own. Edgar’s fingers intertwined themselves in hers. They sat for hours, just holding hands and watching pigeons. On day one hundred eighty-seven, she insulted him without knowing it. He was working on an experiment, one that involved some powerful chemicals and flies, when she came into his apartment. He tried explaining what he was doing, only to have her laugh in his face and talk about how great it was that he could pretend he was a chemist. Coldly, he looked up at her from the experiment and said his degree was in chemistry. He refused to acknowledge her for two days. She baked him cookies and left them on his doorstep. He kissed her when she WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|nulc 131 walked by his door again. The day finally came (two hundred one) when Maggie left. Edgar was used to disappointment. In twenty-seven years, he had never been as happy as he was now and knew it was only a matter of time before she proved herself to be just like the rest of the world. He had to admit, though, that it came unexpectedly. She announced it as they ate their weekly Pad Thai. “I’m heading back to San Fran tonight.” It was so matterof-fact, so dryly stated, that Edgar had no option but to drop his mouth open and ask her to repeat. “Something came up and I’m heading back on the plane tonight,” Maggie repeated, picking at her plate. “I won’t be back for a few months.” “So this is the break-up dinner,” Edgar said bluntly, pushing his plate aside. “No,” Maggie said, smiling slightly. “Well, it could be. But I’m not saying it is.” “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” His voice was toeing the line of anger. “It’ll make this part easier,” she said gently, pulling a piece of paper out of her pocket. “I made a list for you. If you want to stay together, you have to do each thing on the list in order. And no peeking ahead.” “Why the hell are you doing this?” He had stepped over the line dividing frustration and anger. His fingers were crushing the plate he held. Maggie looked down at her hands and then back at Edgar. Her voice was gentler than he had ever heard before. “Because I love you, Edgar. But I can’t let you stay the way you are.” “The way I am is just fine,” he said, standing suddenly and throwing his fork into the sink. “You never had a problem with me before.” “I want to help you. That’s why I’m leaving.” Her words, meant to comfort him, twisted like a knife in his heart. He couldn’t breathe for several seconds, trying to 132 nulc|METAPHOR understand what she was saying. The plate dropped from his hands. “You’re leaving to help me?” “You need to see the world differently, Edgar. That’s what the list is for.” Maggie was standing now, reaching for her coat draped over the back of the sofa and pulling it over her arms. Before Edgar could say anything more, she had kissed him chastely on the lips and was opening the door. The words “I love you” were fighting to escape his throat as she left the apartment. As they tumbled out of his mouth, the door clicked shut and his heart fell to the floor and shattered into a million pieces. When he woke up the next morning, Edgar found himself staring at the piece of paper. He had placed it on the nightstand the night before, hoping that when he woke up it would have disappeared into the moonlight. It was still there, still very tangible, and still unopened. He sighed and opened the first fold. 1. If you wished this had disappeared during the night, you passed the first test. Edgar assumed that, by passing the first test, he should move on to the second. He undid the second fold. 2. This week, you must learn to accept something “inexplicable.” Write it down on a piece of purple paper and fold it into an origami elephant. Place it in the knife drawer. Talk to it each day. Edgar narrowed his eyes. Something inexplicable? What could that be? While he was trying to think of what he could write, he absentmindedly pulled a piece of paper from the drawer and began folding it. He had mentioned to Maggie once that in his seventh grade class, he learned how to make an elephant. She must have remembered. As he looked down at the paper, he blinked slowly. It would probably help if he looked up directions of how to fold the paper before he seriously attempted it. All through work, Edgar sat at his desk thinking, alternating between what inexplicable thing he could accept, finding a website that could actually teach him how to fold an elephant, WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|nulc 133 and working on the stack of papers his boss had placed in his tray earlier. Eventually, he found a promising video, stamped at least half of the tray’s contents, and had a list of possible inexplicabilities. When he returned home that night, he sat in front of the computer for three hours, practicing his folding until he had perfected his elephant. Once that was finished, Edgar turned to his list. Possible Things That Could Be Considered “Inexplicable”: • Attraction to frozen yogurt • Waking up with cold toes even when one wears socks to bed • Fairy tales • Maggie As he stared at the last item, something tugged at his heart. He missed Maggie horribly. His dreams last night had all been about her leaving him, sometimes with another man, sometimes just because. He woke up each time with her name on his tongue. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before and when he tried to reason why he was so upset about her leaving, he couldn’t find a good explanation. And it hit him like her words the night before. Something inexplicable: why he loved Maggie. Throwing himself at the drawers, he dug through the different papers she had left him, finally finding a piece of purple. He pulled out a pen and wrote “Why I Love You” on one side. Capping the pen, he stretched his fingers and proceeded to fold. Once it looked like an elephant (a lumpy elephant, but one nonetheless), he carried it delicately out to the kitchen. He placed it in the knife drawer and looked at it. “I don’t know why I’m actually doing this,” Edgar said quietly, staring into the paper eyes. “I can only guess that it’s because of Maggie. But I guess we’ll be talking a lot.” He shut the drawer gently and turned to finish his dinner. Edgar spoke to Ted the elephant each day. At first, it was stiff and filled with confusion, but eventually it became as 134 nulc|METAPHOR natural as talking to Maggie. He told Ted all about work, the walk back to the apartment, how he gave the man on the corner a hot coffee one morning, how he missed Maggie. Ted was an excellent listener. When week two rolled around, Edgar had just gotten used to his miniature pachyderm confidante when he remembered the paper. Unfolding the next step, Edgar smiled at the knife drawer. “I wonder what she’ll have me do this week,” he said to Ted, who didn’t respond. He looked at the paper. 3. Take five pictures of things that you think are silly. Use the disposable camera wrapped in brown paper in the top of the cupboard next to the Cheerios. Develop the pictures. “That seems pretty easy,” he said to Ted, who still didn’t respond. Once he found the camera, Edgar snapped a picture of Ted in the knife drawer. He grinned and, grabbing his coat, stepped outside. By the time he returned that night, he had pictures of Ted, a little girl chasing a bubble while on a leash, an elderly woman in a red hat pointing at a streetlight as she laughed, a tiny dachshund wearing a hand-knit pink sweater, and his shoes covered in feathers from a pink boa. The camera was safely dropped off at the drug store down the street with a guarantee the pictures would be ready by the next day. Edgar chatted at Ted as he unpacked his bag of dinner and settled down on the couch for an episode of CSI. The next day, he wandered back to the drugstore and picked up the photos. It was all he could do not to open up the envelope there in the street. The apartment door was flung open and he dropped into a chair by the table. Pulling the photos out of the bag, Edgar took a deep breath. There was a reason she only gave him five photos. What were the others? He slid a finger under the edge and pried the paper open, pulling out the pictures. The colors spilled across the wood, slipped through his fingers. He sucked in a breath as he glanced through. One was of him doing an experiment, his eyes covered by WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|nulc 135 his safety goggles. Another was him trying to eat a long piece of spaghetti, sauce covering his face. The rest were in the same vein, everyday moments she had apparently deemed worthy of film. As he gripped the last photo, a smile escaped his lips. Maggie was making a heart with her hands as she grinned at the camera. It was one he had taken at her request. His smile widened as he held up the photo to show to Ted. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he asked. Ted stayed quiet. For the next four weeks, Edgar continued following Maggie’s instructions. She told him to read a collection of fairy tales and draw a picture of his favorite one. He had to eat as many popsicles as he possibly could in a row (eight, before he was practically unconscious from the headache). He watched romantic comedies until his eyes were in a state of constant tearing. He sang in the shower and danced when he made dinner. Ted listened carefully to everything. The change wasn’t noticeable to Edgar. He still walked to work, stamped papers absentmindedly, ate lunch alone, and walked back to the apartment to chat with Ted. Suddenly, however, people started talking to him. Coworkers realized there was someone in cubicle seven, the renter saw a human being on the stairs to apartment four. The world listened as Edgar Gaunt released the first strains of a whistle, watched as he found his feet in the puddles surrounding his building, laughed along with him as he let out his first real laugh. The last fold came faster than he had imagined. As Edgar opened the paper, he felt his heart pound harder and faster. There, in Maggie’s beautiful handwriting, was the last item on the list. 14. Sing in Central Park. Without thinking, without questioning, without considering the outcome, Edgar grabbed his scarf and jacket, said goodbye to Ted, and walked out of the apartment. The subway station was quiet except for the occasional roar of the train coming down the tunnel. Edgar sat patiently until the B Line came 136 nulc|METAPHOR in. It only took a few minutes to reach 72nd Street and walk into the park. The snow was thick enough to muffle his footsteps as he neared the fountain. He glanced behind himself for the first time since leaving the apartment. The new snow was covering his footsteps as he stood and watched. After several minutes, he turned back and stood on the edge of the fountain. Clearing his throat, Edgar began singing the first song that came to his mind. “Hey, I’ve got nothing to do today but smile, and here I am, the only living boy in New York…” His voice trailed off into the emptiness of the park. Closing his eyes, Edgar kept singing, determined to finish the list. As he neared the end of the song, another voice joined with his. He knew it instantly, knew the gentle ebb and flow of the words against her tongue. He didn’t want to turn around, afraid that if he did she would disappear. He was holding his breath and counting to ten when he felt the hand on his. He wanted to turn, wanted to reassure himself that it was her, but the thought of disappointment kept him staring straight ahead. When the hand moved up his arm, he spoke. “I wished for you.” She didn’t say anything in response. She didn’t need to. Her grip tightened on his arm, almost in her own kind of reassurance that he was really there. They stood in silence for minutes before he spoke again. “You know, you’re the Simon to my Garfunkel,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from the emotion he was forcing down into his chest. Her hand snuck up to his face. He couldn’t resist any longer and turned to face her. Eyes the color of pea soup (his favorite) gazed back at him, filled with tears too pigheaded to fall. Her perfect lips, those lips that he had dreamed about so many times, were mouthing words, speaking to him, but he heard nothing except the beat of his own heart. As her mouth formed another sentence, his own closed around it. In that moment, every fairy tale seemed plausible, each flight of fantasy a reality. To hold her, the WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|nulc 137 real Maggie in his arms, was all he needed for the rest of his life. The snow covered them in the silence only lovers can appreciate, shielding them from the cruelty of the outside world as they fell into their own world of each other. 138 nulc|METAPHOR nulc: arizona state university, az michael|BLOOMQUIST The desk bends under the weight Of rain and dry leaves like a horse Too old to cross the desert, again. The stars, Having grown tired, are now glued To ceilings like rows of teeth. When the train asks About the changes, always as an inhaling, I like to illustrate that planes now make braces Against the backs of the sky, white lines That are both like slitting the wrist of cactus And the tender steam rising from a teapot Ready for the return of sugar. When I take a walk outside, the lampposts With red ribbons are a gasoline Puddle set aflame by dry newspapers. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|nulc 139 nulc: new mexico state university, nm michelle|GRANGER I. But clouds are just water, and vapor my friend, water becoming your lungs again. The way the clouds bring out the moonlight in your face, you’d think it was autumn. It is, So the birds will be your friend again, you fill the bath with Bordeaux this time you will not shoot. But they have always been your friend, I said my Saturn was returning, But you said it never left. II. In Grenada they told me how to spell your name, then in Alhambra your vapors came to me in clouds, where the Gypsy at the cave’s base met with me, in the stolen afternoon we talked about the moon gambling, and missing you. I said I can feel my Saturn returning. He repeated it never left. All Gypsies are the same, speaking with tongues not attached to anything. 140 nulc|METAPHOR nulc: harvard university, ma sharon|WANG I don’t know if you heard my shoe falling to the ground, but I shoved it beneath the oven, then, so that you wouldn’t be able to see that I had lost it. You weren’t looking, anyway. You were cutting bread. You always insisted on cutting the bread so that you could make the edges clean. I didn’t mind. When you cut each slice, I would eat each of the ones you had cut already. That is why I loved you. Sometimes, I would place slices of uneven bread under your pillow, and because you were dreaming of bread, the silver knife that parted them became perfect and clean as it passed through the cities in your dreams, sharp and gleaming as the white clay walls came free of each other, and from the centers of those white clay furnaces came loaves of bread. Someone had kneaded the beads of dough with a love that pushed them up, and up, and when the birds came to pull the loaves apart, they grew larger and still larger on each bit of bread until they were bigger than the domes on the mayor’s house. More and more, I feel that I am making these stories up. The bread rising in the mornings. The bread rising in the evenings. How can I tell you that was just the way I felt, then. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY|nulc 141 retiring|14 YEARS Brad Roghaar is more than just a teacher or a professor or an instructor. To many WSU students, he has been a true mentor who goes above and beyond what is written in his job description. He has fostered creativity in all of us, confidence, and an eye for the divine beauty of poetry. His wry sense of humor and sarcastic wit will stay with me for the rest of my days and his advice has shaped my outlook on life. He is, without a doubt, the best professor at Weber State University and a true human being. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to be one of his students. ~britta|STUMPP I can’t imagine my undergraduate experience without Brad Roghaar. He helped me find my voice as a writer. ~isolde|PARKER Roghaar’s influence spans beyond classrooms; it reaches into the very juices that flow in writers, dreamers and poets alike. Thanks for everything, Brad. ~brianna|KENT Isn’t he the bald guy on campus, you know the one with the smile that seems to hint that he has already mastered the meaning in life - poetry?? ~heidi|CUTRUBUS I want to be just like Brad when I grow up! ~jason|VANDAAM 142 METAPHOR I still find myself quoting him to “make the strange familiar and the familiar strange.” I will never forget the impact he made on my life. He planted the little seed of confidence I needed to continue to grow into a writer. Writing went from an assignment, to a hobby, and now hopefully to a way of life. Thank you Roghaar! You are awesome! ~brittany|HACKETT There is no one like Brad to kick your ass and then build you up. He has started hundreds of people on their path to poetry. We are all very lucky and will miss him very much. ~hannah|NEW Brad has taught me that anyone can enjoy poetry but above all he has taught me to have confidence in my own writing. ~stephanie|PRINGLE Roghaar as Mark Twain at the annual Metaphor Literary Character Party. WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY 143