northern-lights-22

This collection of writing contains themes and descriptions of events that may be difficult and/or potentially triggering for some individuals. Please take the time for yourself before, during, and after reading.

Editors-in-Chief Madi Filber, Lead Jessie Colville Graphic Designers Stephanie Vanden Hoek, Lead Derek Johnson Editorial Assistants Emeline Glover Alexcya Hopper Ethan Kurtz Emma Storley Faculty Advisors Pen Pearson Patrick Whiteley Print Shop Coordinator Ryan Schwab

BECKER, DANAE Cephas ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..…………………...2 ComeWhat May ……………….….….…………………....…………..….…..…..…………….……………………….…...11-12 Elegy for My Brother’s Senior Year ……………….….….………………………………………....….…..…….35 BLINDER, CAITLINE Writer, Hawks, and Meaningless, Crappy Words …………….........................…….…....52-54 BRANDNER, MADELINE Moja Prva Ljubav ……………………………….……...……………………........................................…............42-46 BRISK, KAI Pottery ………………………………..........................................................................................................................14 CHRISTENSEN, OLIVIA Home ……………………………………………….....................................................................…………..…......................11 Uninspired ..…………………….....…………………………………................................................................……..….......1 FILBER, MADI The Least Expected Prophecy ………………...............................…………………….................................7 GLANT, EMMA Tuesday……..…….......………..….…….…..……....................................................................................……..55-56 GRUNDSTROM, DYLAN Heart ……………………………….……...……………..............................................................................…….…….....…...3 Forest ………………………………………………………….....................................................................….....................21 Tremors ..…………………….....……………………………………..................................................................…..…........19 tomorrow ………..……………………………………...........................................................…………..….....................30 HOPPER, ALEXCYA Longing for Something …………………..............................……………….......................................…..…......8 Noon …………..……………………......................................................................................................................….....2 Nothing Makes Sense, ........................................................................................................................32 The Child ………..............................………………......………………..........................................................…………..13 H., NICOLE My First Love ……………………………................................................................................................................6 On My Mind ………………………....................................................................................................…….............31 Winter Melts To Summer ……………………......................................................................………............24 HASSEBROEK, MCKENZIE The Lonely Girl ………………….….……….…......................................................……………......................…......57 HEIM, BRANDON Marriage Is Just a Number ...............…….................………..........................................................…..25

IMUS, RICO Beauty is a Light …….................………………………….....................………………..............…………………..…..59 Down by the River………..............................………………………………………………………….……………………...51 Every Star is a Sun to Someone ..................................................................................................36 Golden Healing …………………………………………………………………………………..…………....………….....….…...18 JAEGER, DAMIEN Mundane Memories .....................................................………………………….......................……......60-61 JAEGER, DOMINIC C. AndrewWi Enapay: A Native American Boy ……………………….......................……........26-28 KESSLER, CHRISTEN The Dove and the Crow …………………………………………….....…………….........................................…...20 What Do You See? ..……………………………………..…………….....................................................………........41 KURTZ, ETHAN Harrisburg ………..…………………………..….......................................................................……………….…..........10 LAHAMMER, ASHLIE Ode to Me: In Three Parts ………………...........................................................................……………….....4 Status: Brave ...…………..................................................................................................……………………....29 LARSON, MARAY A Servent’s Betrayal ..………..……………………………………................................……................….….............1 Nothing in my Head …………………………………………….....……….................................................…..........32 MCDONNEL, AUTUMN Guitar ....................……………………………………..………………..................................................................……......31 Laundry ..………………………........................................................................................……..…………….…….37-39 November Night …………………………………………..........................................................……………..............22 MOONEY, KAHDEN AWinter’s Glow …………..…………...............................................................................……………….…..........23 NATOLI, KAYLA Depression ..…………........................................................................................................…………………….....15 The Girl Who Cried …………………………………………………………………………………………………..…………......17 RAAP, SYDNEY Limited Landscapes ………………………………..........................…………….....………..................…….......…...5 REED, SIERRA Here Comes the Sun ..………..……………………………..............................................……………….…..........40 HowQuarantine Changed Me ………….………................................……………………………….…........58 STEVENS, L.J. (Marmorstein) Happy Pills …………………………………………….....………..............................................................……........47-50 I should have said goodbye ..………..……………………………………................................……….…..........16 STORLEY, EMMA A Starry Night ..……………………………………..……………….................................................................…….....24 Ghazal of Worry ……………………………………………..........................................................…………….......…....6 STRAND THEATRE: ADMIT ONE ..………………………................................……….….................33-34

1 Maray Larson There my lady be with madness in head. She still denying her late lover is dead. The maids say she will do nothin’ but wait, For him to stroll up to the old estate. All her children have left her here to rot. The twelve bastards claim they “merely forgot.” A beauty my lady was long ago. But like the spring she is covered by snows. Storms of abuse, affairs, grief, and love lost. She cries, “I want Hugh back at any cost.” I can’t keep this secret any further. I committed Hugh’s most deadly murder! Father, this was the tale I had to tell. Of when true love put me under its spell. Olivia Christensen Pen to the page, yet words do not flow out. My head, once filled with creativity, is now barren and desolate. I ponder and scour for a thought, but it feels as if my mind has turned off. Concentrate on and contemplate the works of other, much better, poets than you. Suddenly, inspiration strikes my brain. Sparks fly and engender poetic reign. Once again, I bring the pen to the page. Mindless, empty, there is no helping me. This blank sheet stares back and mocks me. Hopefully, artistry shall appear again, then words should soon come out, no doubt. uninspired a servant s betrayal

2 Alexcya Hopper No matter what I do, I wake up at noon. It’s a problem, I know, but what can I do? I set alarms, Go to bed by nine, Listen to calming music, Why can’t I wake up on time? Am I just cursed to never wake up before I’m needed? Will I ever know the joy of sunrise? I know the culprit. How could I not? I’ve known him since I can remember. He makes me sad, takes away my spark. He’s the reason I wake up at noon. Danae Becker A common fisherman by Galilee, He threw the net out for the fish and then Glimpsed a newman walking along the sea. This man promised that he would fish for men. Chastised and confused by the words he heard, This fisherman seemed fated to falter. But within him, deep faith was being stirred, And, bravely, he stepped out onto the water. His weakness and strength, doubt and confidence, Even the denial that caused him to weep— Through it all, he would extend providence. This man would be the rock and feed the sheep. Hung on a tree with his head toward the floor, He was not worthy to die like his Lord. noon cephas

3 Dylan Grundstrom I used to think In a sense of monotony Sameness in humanity Particularly those I know the least deviate hardly at all, if any Or so it seemed Time revealed to me Innate reason was enough For that I had only one thought The sameness I felt was not my own Instead I only felt sameness with my surroundings Differentiated by only one idea How does an individual truly act? Matters of this are not easy to know When the sameness is only made of the opposite Truth is hidden I know that Not behind a complicated lock Nor is the answer plain in meaning I find it simple What lies behind this curtain? A question, when applied, gives me the answer Individuals act truly only inside themselves Mind Body Heart None of it is real I see what is truly there The curtain only exists within oneself Only for my gaze to pull it away Drawing the rope to reveal the stage This set is created behind the curtain Still, it is not real One creates not just the props that lie within The costumes, the actors that play, the magic they attempt to elude I see it too All are the same United in one idea: I think I am behind a curtain Transparency shows itself not by attempting It only is Yet, something escapes this sameness You do not hide the curtain fromme Try as I might, the truth always seems out of grasp You remove the sameness that I know But every time I attempt to pull the curtain back I fail I cannot understand it You are different from the sameness You realize it, don’t you? Of course you do That is why I am so perplexed Your stage is set But you did not create it So again I fail Tosee But my eyes do not deceive me So what then am I left to do? Nothing Not that I refuse to act Nor do I refuse to open my curtain Quite the contrary All that is left is to follow Inside myself, I knowwhat it is I accept it But I refuse to think of it In order to do that which is left I feel heart

4 To past me: Who went through so much heartache. Who learned and hurt and loved and cried. Who realized sometimes the ones who are supposed to love you never do, and that’s okay. Who was dealt a horrible hand at life and made the best of it. Who broke over and over again and still continued on. To present me: Who is trying their best with what they have. Who is still overcoming all that happened. Who is still learning it’s okay to ask for help. Who is learning that sometimes people who aren’t obligated to love you love you more than those who are supposed to. Who is still continuing, despite everything. To future me: Everything will be worth it, one day. 0de to me: in thre e parts Ashlie Lahammer

5 Sydney Raap limi ted landscapes lighthouse cactu s palm trees cabi n

6 Emma Storley I want the sun to shine, And the worry to melt away. I want the wind to touch my face, And convince me everything will be okay. I want to embrace the roaring waves, And when it’s finally over If the stars won’t hear me, And the moon ignores my pleas, I will run to the mountains, And let the rain wash it all away. Nicole H. my first love oh, how i miss the feeling of being in love with you, and being loved by you i yearn for the way you made my heart warm and secure just to see your smiling face again, even if for a passing moment you made all the hardships sail away when it was just you and me every day i just wish you would come back to me every day i miss howwe loved each other every day i regret letting you go i miss your warmth please come back to me please just come back ghaza l of w0rry my first love

7 Madi Filber He introduced her as his girlfriend, She couldn’t help but smile. Finally, someone could see her inner beauty, He could see her intentions. Her limited free time was spent on him, He couldn’t help but tell all of his friends. She was worried to tell people Not because of shame, She was superstitious. The more people that know The more people that can form an opinion. She didn’t think she would find someone; That was not her goal at the time. He was lonely (so was she). Her spirit and passion lured him, His smirk and comedy lured her. He was an open book, Her personal life was locked in a box. He expressed his feelings, She would change the topic. Her ‘baggage’ didn’t bother him, He knew her mind kept her From expressing herself, But he wanted to know, To help her, To be with her. Opposites, But the same. His hands were always dirty, Hers were always clean. He was mechanical, She was creative. However, their hobbies, interests, They overlapped. This was the least expected thing, But they were happy. He ruined everything And she wouldn’t dare take him back. the least expected prophecy

8 Alexcya Hopper The living room floor was cold. It wasn’t hardwood-cold, but it was cold. The fan had been running all day, cooling the carpet down considerably. The scratchy material on my bare back was almost . . . comforting. Usually, I wouldn’t dare walk across the dirty carpet, not without socks on at least, what with all the cat pee from the previous tenant. Yet, here I lay, completely nude on my living room floor, surrounded by the litter of my junk-filled life. In my ear played the buzz of a random “classic movie.” You know the one, the movie everyone has seen and declared to be a cinematic masterpiece only to find that it’s lackluster and a huge waste of anyone’s time. There was no reason for my basic need for human comfort to be met by a floor needing to be vacuumed, for nothing had happened. The nothing might be why I needed comfort, though. Because, maybe, a lifetime of nothing makes a longing for something. Maybe the nothing was what I needed, maybe it would ‘build character’ or something. But if that were true then I would have built more character in my childhood than most other people in their lifetime. Possibly the opposite is true, and you need something to build character, in which case I’m as boring as they come, I have nothing. Maybe you need something to be something. And, just maybe, I’ve never been something. Maybe my whole life I’ve been what everyone says, nothing. That’s the price of thinking, I suppose. Worth is realized only when it is tested. Mine was tested yesterday, today, and it will be again tomorrow, but it isn’t tested by me or some other unknown god of the universe. It’s tested by the average man, the everyday co-worker, the casual friend. The test is always simple, unnoticeable, can be hidden in something as simple as a handshake. Every time I am tested, I fail. I see it. I see it in their eyes as they appraise me; I always measure up to nothing. Then again, what does it mean to measure up to nothing? Who decided that the average man, the everyday coworker, the causal friend gets to be my judge? Why should I have to worry about such things? Is it my duty to be what everyone else wants? And who said anyone should be the judge of anything? I have as much of a right to judge a movie as the average man, the everyday co-worker, the casual friend gets to judge me. But who cares, certainly not the landlord coming to collect my payment, and certainly not me. I am just a nothing anyways. What good is the opinion of one who amounts to nothing? I further relax into the carpet, the smell of cat urine ever more potent swirling around me, and accept my place as nothing significant in this world. l0nging for s0mething

9 Olivia Christensen What was comforting and warm Is now desolate and uninviting. The walls, once vibrant with different shades, Have since been painted over. The bright purple verbena along the fence line Will no longer bloom. The place where I was raised And where part of my soul remains Is no longer mine, Yet the memories still linger. Notice where the red oak banister is cracked, And know that was fromme. Admire the stickers stuck to the bedroom door, And know that was fromme. See the notches in the kitchen archway, And know that was fromme. Lastly, please know, That part of my heart And my soul remains, Where I may never go again. home

10 Ethan Kurtz I often think about what might have been How you could have gone If: one more bullet had been fired you were in the roomwith him rather than just outside you were in your classroom instead of right next to him Taking the gun from his hands Everything would be different One wrong move At any moment You could have been gone I think about that a lot now: What I would do Where I would be How I would handle it If you just up and left I think a lot about it How you could go harri sburg

11 Danae Becker I never knowwhat kind of weather South Dakota will offer. Unpredictability is at the heart of the state’s weather patterns: a difficult truth to remember, until it’s upon me. I recognize familiar emotions associated with various weather. Sunny days are wonderful when the sky is a rich, cerulean blue dotted with puffy, white clouds and the warmth seeps through my hair into the top of my head. There’s a peace in it that tells me everything will be okay. But once the pristine clouds become grayer and darken the sky, I hope that the sun doesn’t shine again for a long time. I’ll wait to hear a deep growl of thunder and I’ll wait to see sharp raindrops smack the window glass. I’ll rush to retrieve my laptop so that I can write, or I’ll grab a good book to read so that I don’t waste the precious ambiance of the storm. Once rain becomes snow, I’m truly settled in, decked in leggings and fluffy socks with a warmmug of coffee or apple cider in my hand and watching the powdery flakes bleach the neighborhood. Never will that dismal weather be unwelcome, regardless of where I am. Sometimes I’m safe at home, other times I’m driving. One rare moment, I was sitting outside in a hot tub perched on the deck of Spearfish Canyon Lodge. My grandparents used to take my brother and me to the lodge every Mother’s Day weekend. Some years, it would feel like spring, with warm sun and freshness throughout the Black Hills. Other years, snowwould still cover the hiking trails and Spearfish Falls would be frozen. Once, we planned to pack up the car and get doughnuts on the way to the lodge–the blizzard was so extreme that we sadly decided to pick up the doughnuts, turn around, and spend the weekend at home. Only in extreme cases does snow scare us away from our annual visit. I’ve walked the trails, stomping down snow and being careful not to slip. The most fun is running barefoot, in a swimsuit, through the snow to get to the hot tub; there was always something so disconnected and daring about that experience that I thoroughly enjoyed it. To add to it, my brother and I would make snowballs while sitting in the hot tub, then drop them in and watch them vanish in the steaming water. Three years ago, I was sitting with my grandmother and my brother in the hot tub. Perched on that deck, we sat in the bowl of the canyon, surrounded by rocky walls and fragrant pines. The purl of the creek sounded below. She asked about school, I asked how retirement was treating her. We reminisced, like always, about coming to the lodge when I was still a child. We remembered the games, when she and I would play the princesses and my brother would take on the part of the knight, saving us by slaying the dragon, my grandfather. We recalled finding countless snails dotted in the snow on the Spearfish Falls Trail. come what may

12 We still walk the trail. We still eat at the Latchstring, positioned across the street from the lodge. We still spend the morning in our pajamas in the lobby, playing Train with dominoes. But for years now, it’s been the three of us; the dragon perished for good long ago and poses no more threat to the princesses. As we sat in the hot tub, the sky became steadily darker, accompanied by a gentle, distant roll of thunder. Soon enough, raindrops were splashing softly into the hot water, onto the cracked wood. It was a calm drizzle, nothing that would scare us back inside. The rain only lasted for a couple of minutes before it turned into sleet, splattering icily onto my hair. I shivered a bit and sunk further down so that my shoulders were under the water. All around me, heavy fog had settled on the tips of the canyon, seemingly erasing any world beyond the lodge and sealing me in my own reality, one of calm and blissful joy. It didn’t take long before the sleet seemed to blur my surroundings, and I realized that it was becoming thicker, whiter: sleet had turned to snow. I reveled in the atmosphere’s peace. Flakes were flurrying silently among the dark green trees, clouding the sky and landing softly on the green grass. As I peered over the edge of the railing, I caught a glimpse of two whitetail deer trotting just below us, past the lodge and into the trees: a fairytale bonus to an already perfect scene. Everything was still. Nothing mattered in that moment. I felt no worry, no questions. I could simply feel the authenticity of my reality, the knowledge that this moment was only this moment, and I was experiencing it now and never would again, but that was alright. If everything was routine, I wouldn’t feel the need to worry. And yet, this drastic change, arriving without warning, did not bring anxiety; it chased it away. I was eager to see how diverse the canyon’s weather would dare to be. Experiencing that peace, I would have been more than happy if I’d been met with a massive snowstorm or a frigid downpour. Within twenty minutes, the snow slowly changed back to a sprinkle. Soon after, the sun broke through the clouds, shutting off the rain and chasing away the dreary peace. My grandmother and I discussed how strange that weather was, how quickly it had changed. I was sad to see the storm leave so soon. Perhaps, sometime, a new stormwill come, and I’ll try not to fear it as I’ve done before. I’d like that peace again, that happy surprise. So, for now, I’ll put on my coat and straighten my shoulders and think to myself: bring on the storm.

13 Alexcya Hopper Could I really suggest such a thing? To take another’s life? The strange part, however, was that I felt nothing when considering it. Maybe I amwhat they say I am. Maybe I really am the useless trash that everyone claims. But it is the only way. The only way for our perfect life to stay in its pristine glory. “We need to kill her.” Abdul’s voice rose in protest: “We can’t just kill her! Imagine the repercussions!” But my mind was already made up. The child claiming to belong to our civilization disrupts everything we’ve sacrificed. Everything Mother stood for went up in flames for the existence of this one child. Iness spoke up, “He’s right. This child ruins everything.” She spoke quietly again: “What would Bartna say?” “Bartna has nothing to do with this!” “Bartna has everything to do with this.” Iness was right. Hadn’t Bartna seen the chaos this child would bring? Hadn’t he been the one to say to leave it where we found it? Abdul’s tears were drowned out by the rest of the court’s murmurs, all in agreement that the child should not be kept. “What if,” spoke a voice, “what if we do not kill the child, but keep it contained?” “Contained where?” shouted another. The voice stood up to reveal the quietest among us, Talon. “We can contain it here. We shall take care of it, or I will. I have many children; it would not be weird for me to add another.” I did not approve of this idea at all. “And what, praytell, will you do if the child does as promised?” Talon stood proud, her cloak falling from her head to reveal her shaved head. “I guarantee the child will grow up to become one of us. If I amwrong, then hang me frommy neck.” The court’s hall erupted in protest. Talon was one of the more respected leaders of the court; it was almost unheard of for her to be wrong. Even if she were, no one would accept punishment such as this. And with that, against all I had hoped would come of this meeting, the child would be under the watchful eye of Talon. the child

14 pottery Kai Brisk

15 Kayla Natoli Behind your smile, I see the tears Inside my heart, I feel your fears In your eyes, I see your broken dreams I know how desperate it all seems Behind your strength, I can see your despair Inside my soul, I feel it isn’t fair In your voice I can hear your pain I know you are struggling to stay sane I need you to know that you matter to me When I look at you, I believe in what I see I need you to feel my love for you Giving up on you is something I’ll never do Listen to my words: I care for you Look into my eyes, you’ll see that it’s true I will fight on your side, I know you want to be free But never bow to your demons, take it fromme depression

16 L.J. (Marmorstein) Stevens . . . but I was tired. The second week of school was brutal, and I hadn’t slept in days. Besides, I thought that there would still be time to hold your hand and tell you I was glad you moved here all the way fromCalifornia where all the hills were gold, and citrus trees bloomed in the summertime. You spent these years, these seven snowy winters, in my town, and though I rarely made the time to visit, I knew that you were here, and I was glad. I thought there would be time. I told myself there would be time—yet somehow, still, I knew that even if there were, I wouldn’t go. Perhaps it was the fear that I would see you sick and quiet—even worse, in pain, not knowing who I was, or where you were. I do not knowwhat words I would have said if I had set my selfish fears aside— but take these words, if you can hear them now, across the boundaries of death and time: If there’s a God, I will see you again and hold you like I should have held you then. i should have said goodbye

17 Kayla Natoli The girl who cried, All through the night, Feeling emptiness inside, Yet hiding at the sight. But during the day, She shows a smile. A smile that would never decay. Showing that life is worthwhile. She led her life this way. Showing a facade. Day by day. Following her way to be odd. Then a new kid came. With a blank stare. He seemed the same. Like the girl, he was a snare. He too cried at night. With tears like a river. Crying, hidden, and out of sight. Every sniffle. Every quiver. They shared the same pain. Together learned to heal. And learned to love again. Breaking the seal. The girl who cried, No longer hid. And the boy who died Is the one who lived. the girl who cried

18 golden healing Rico Imus

19 Dylan Grundstrom Sitting still The ground moves beneath me Steady and solid becomes shaky and uneasy I grasp my surroundings to brace for the worst of it Earthquakes can only fade away after the worst arrives A four becomes a five quickly Jumping to a six, seven, eight even faster Reaching a nine as everything around me begins to collapse Picture frames, old clothes, jewelry, books, silverware, and glasses all clutter or shatter The worst is over, is it not? Finally, opening my eyes I realize The tremors came not from the Earth But within me All of my belongings kept where they were Besides one glass I reach for it But before I can return it It shatters on the floor As I look at my hand Trembling beyond measure The tremors shake me to my core tremors

20 Christen Kessler The tale of two sisters is one filled with woe; One blessed by a dove, the other a crow. They both were imbued with beauty and grace, Donning dresses of satin and lace. The Dove flew the garden, the village, the home. The Crow flew the woods, the river, the loam. A prince came along, and the Dove got hitched, Leaving the Crow to be labeled a witch. While the Dove got the man, the castle, the ball, The Crow got chased out, hated by all. Alone in the woods the Crow stood fast, And an evil curse on the village, she cast. No one in the village could enter or leave, There they were stuck until All Hallows’ Eve. Pleased with her work, the Crow turned to flee, But she suddenly turned to a crooked, old tree. The Crow herself was trapped in her spell, Locked forever in her own magic cell. the dove and the crow

21 Dylan Grundstrom A forest cannot exist without trees Young and old Small and large Oak and Birch Pine and Elm Maple and Aspen All have their place Together or not Each tree holds a heart, an experience Wind may blow But none fight back Time passes Weather moves Trees wither and die This is expected for the aged trees Trunks hollow Bark falls away Elder trees may fall However When a young tree is uprooted The heart torn to the surface Only then is nature in lament Further survival is not common Young cannot become old Small cannot become large Taken, stolen, ripped away A forest cannot exist without trees forest

22 Autumn McDonnel If I want to get better, I need to get this off my chest. My therapist recommended it to me; hopefully this will help me rest. At first, I thought she was crazy, but now I think she’s right. I think I need to remind you about that November night. I thought that I could trust you, yet you took advantage of me. My body froze and I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t break free. I called out for help as your hand held its grip around my hair. Nobody heard me and you said they wouldn’t care. I begged you to stop and I pushed your hand away. You forced me into one spot and told me to stay. Salty tears rolled down my face and you whispered in my ear, “Be a good girl for daddy. Look up at me.” You reeked of beer. You refused to finish until I stopped crying, And your only response was, “Quit with the whining.” By the time you grew tired of me, I was shaking. I was a mess, and I felt like the world around me was breaking. You know you got away with what you’ve done to me. I still suffer daily, and sometimes I wonder if you feel guilty. Maybe you don’t remember that night, or maybe you do, But do you think about me as often as I think about you? Now I take three pills a day to help me move on. I second-guess myself sometimes and think I was in the wrong. Some mornings I look into my mirror and all I can see Is a girl who used to be so innocent, staring back at me. My therapist claims that I need to learn how to cope. I’ve never believed in miracles, but I continue to hold onto hope. I pray that I never have to see you again, but if by chance I meet your sight, I hope my eyes remind you about that November night. november night

23 Kahden Mooney a winter s glow

24 Emma Storley Finally the great blue faded to black. The darkness embraced me, giving such warmth. Stars painted the sky with wonder and joy. There was no end or beginning, just light. But the Moon, so loud, she called out to me. “Come dance in the skies above that cruel ground.” So, I leapt and I let the Moon take me to the place of my dreams, my sweet escape. Mars played the piano, Venus on harp. Orion twirled me; Aquila flew by. Cassiopeia sang the melodies, swaying from her throne; tears fell from her eyes. We danced and we sang away in the sky. My night with the stars, until Dawn’s return. Nicole H. Smells like summer, but feels like winter My feet and face have gone numb from the cold Just like the cold lingers, so do the thoughts of you What is so captivating about you that you can’t seem to leave my mind I want you gone, but you keep me warmwhen the cold becomes too much This winter seems to never end Summer, can you come again a starry night winter melts to summer

25 Brandon Heim “You are way too young to get married” “Your feelings now are way too varied” I’m 22 and recently wed, For others, they would rather be dead. “You have not graduated college!” “You simply don’t have enough knowledge!” Didn’t you say that love conquers all? Just followmy heart? Or was that false? “We will see just how long it will last” “Marriage is hard, you’re not that steadfast” I know it will be hard, just from dating. But you know, what’s the point of waiting? If we think we should marry, we should. I love her more than I ever could. We are both still young, alive, and free, Why not do it together with glee? Enjoy those mistakes and happy days, Together while our love’s still ablaze. Why do life alone, than with your love? And honor God in heaven above? Two summers ago, dancing, we clicked; That’s why I’m told I married too quick. By God’s grace though, we are a great fit, Here’s to the lives we’ll live, bit by bit. marriage is just a number

26 Dominic C. Jaeger On one sunny Mother’s Day, my aunt was gifted with the birth of a son. A new Native American boy, who would be the love of the family. And he had a lot of family. He had a mom, a father, a sister, a brother, cousins, uncles, aunts, grandmas, and grandpas. In the small town he would find himself within a network of love and kindness. He would be a bit spoiled, despite the family’s financial troubles. He would be given many toys and even a video game console. It was hard to see that chubby face cry, to let the new life of the family be discouraged for even one second. But it was a big family, and they banded together to take care of this child. Every morning, they would bathe him and brush his long, knotted hair. He would cry in pain, hating the brush and comb. The orange bottle of Gorilla Snot was lightly applied to his hair. His mother, father, grandma, or sister would delicately braid that hair, and finish it off with a black hair tie. The bus would come charging up on the dirt road and we would search around wildly for his misplaced shoes. Finding them, he would come out of the house with his Spiderman backpack, waddling up to the bus alongside us. Like any child, he was quite fussy growing up. You can tell because he was given the nickname “Andrew Brokeit Enapay.” Being the older kids, we didn’t like him that much. He followed us around too much, wanted to play the same games as us, wanted to just be in our business all the time. When he didn’t get his way, he would cry and yell. He would often get to play our games, playing far into the night and falling asleep on the controller. And the instant he woke up, eyes half-closed, you would hear the sharp beep of the PS3 as he turned it on. His mom, his dad, his grandma, or his sister would get angry and tell him not to stay up so late. But, of course, it’s hard to discipline a child. Andrew got even fussier in the mornings, and one day, they didn’t braid his hair. It was too much of a pain right now, just let him go to school with his hair down. And one day, there were no fingers delicately twirling his hair into that long braid. His hair grewmatted and tangled because no one washed it. Too little time, too much of a pain. Finally, they cut it, ten long years of his Native American hair snipped off. A year past and I returned with my parents and brothers after a failed attempt at moving. After sitting in the car for hours, we pulled up to my grandma’s white metal house. He ran out, looking much older. He was holding out two purple cans of grape soda and he smiles so wide. Months passed by and he now lives with us. The simple reason for this is we have video games and he doesn’t. He’s a child, after all, there doesn’t need to be a more complicated reason. In and out like a wild dog, between his parents’ house and ours. The house was crowded already, so he would sleep on the floor, one blanket underneath him and another over him. One night, he confided to us that he had smoked his first cigarette with the other boys outside. We told him he was stupid and basked in our superiority for following the so-called right path. He copied the other boys, wearing baggy black sweatshirts, and adopting the slang of the other Native boys. andrew wi enapay : a native american boy

27 He hung out with those boys in between the spaces of the houses in the small, wild reservation that we lived in. Weed, alcohol, and everything else, the rites of young children at the time. Yet again, we basked in our superiority. Grandma got angry at himwhen he went on a drunken rant, and he was kicked out. He was 12. The police would come to our house, looking for the young truant who refused to go to school. His hair was greasy, his face was unclean, and he smelled because no one had taught him how to care for himself. No one liked him besides his friends, no one reached out. No one had time to deal with a young kid, especially now that he had a new baby sister. His father leaves around this time too and Andrew has little reaction because it happened so many times before. But he didn’t know that this time it was for good. All around himwere drugs and alcohol. Nothing else to do, only to stay inside and be a hermit or run around with the others outside. Nothing to do but get into trouble, get drunk, and steal cars–which he did. His brother, his sister, or his mother would drink with him or smoke with him. Their addiction was like a bonding glue, somehow keeping them closer together. He got a tattoo under his eye. A faulty one, given by friends and later burned in a desperate attempt to remove it. His voice was deepening, and he still slept on the floor. His birthdays were sad events: there only being a couple of last-minute birthday cards from his sister and mother. He didn’t get any presents because grandma said he “didn’t mind” and didn’t deserve them. One Christmas Day, my icy, egotistical heart melted at the sight of his misfortune. Sixty dollars for a new game, a blue case wrapped in plastic foil just for him. He fished it out of the plastic Walmart bag and he smiled wide, just like he did while holding those two cans of soda. I was reminded that he was still a child, that he was not a junkie or whatever negative label I prescribed to him then. He jumped forward and hugged me, glad that at least someone got him a present. I felt touched. Later that night, he quietly died in his sleep. He had overdosed on improperly mixed drugs. No one knows if it was a suicide or if he just didn’t knowwhat was in it. He was 13. I learned this on my way to the hospital, driving my family at 5 o’clock in the morning. The wake and the funeral went by quickly. It was the first time I had participated in a funeral procession or was nominated to hold the casket. His mother refused to come for a while, vowing that she would never do drugs again. His sister attended, gathering up all the pictures she could and hating herself for her last words to him. His brother drunkenly stewed in the basement, crying into the fat pug he held in his arms. His father came back, staying in the back of the room and cradling his daughter. His grandma stood faithfully in the front row of that gym, coming to the casket and softly running her hands through his hair. They put on his favorite pair of shoes, tucked a cigarette into his ear, and placed a small teddy bear on his body. It was the cleanest he had ever looked, his body inside that casket. His shortly cropped hair, his thin cheeks that used to be so fat, and his fancy suit shaped around his body. And that little homemade tattoo of the tear, sitting under

28 his eye and scarred from burn. I didn’t want to approach, to look into that casket and see the boy who I had treated badly for most of his years. I wanted to go back and force myself to see that we weren’t different, that I was not better than him, that he was just a child like me. That we were both just Native boys, walking along the trail that we were thrown upon. In the end, the entire family attends and everyone comes along, shaking our hands in a long procession. Every niece, nephew, cousin, grandma, grandpa, friend, and even teacher came along to shake our hands. Songs are sung and sermons are said before the casket is closed for good. I struggle to put the casket upon my shoulders as I walk him out into the black SUV, and then we go eat a somber feast back at the community center. Prayers for the family and the day is over, just like that. Andrew lingers inside every Native kid I see. With their wide, toothy grins, messy hair, some of themwith that faint whiff of tobacco in their sweatshirts. And every time one of those kids overdoses, I think about that Native American boy falling so far alone. I see it every time I see the drunks walking around, yelling and fighting with each other. And the messy homes with hiding spots for drugs. Or the grandmas and grandpas being so hard on their grandchildren. Not enough size, money, and love in these small towns. Yet too much tough love and too much to worry about. Now I’m leaving and I don’t know if I’ll ever go back. I just know that I’m lucky enough to have been able to make that decision. I will walk my lucky path and never forget the Native American boy, AndrewWi Enapay, and the world that we came from.

29 Ashlie Lahammer The stars are beautiful tonight Jewels flickering in an endless black sky They are beautiful and bright and then gone* The end of an era, the end of a friend Jewels flickering in an endless black sky Silent beacons of hope in a world of darkness The end of an era, the end of a friend Martyr in death, immortalized hero Silent beacons of hope in a world of darkness Calm amongst the chaos, caused by an imposter Martyr in death, immortalized hero Protector, coward, hero, liar Calm amongst the chaos, caused by an imposter They are beautiful and bright and then gone Protector, coward, hero, liar The stars are beautiful tonight ^reference to status of character. *lines taken from The Adventure Zone: Amnesty Episode 28. status : brave^

30 t0m0rr0w Dylan Grundtrom In the morning I will take the train To a place I have never been To meet people I have never known The clouds will dissipate and the rain will stop The tightness in my chest will be replaced with fresh air Air that I cannot help but breathe in deeply All while smiling faces would pass me by If only it were today The stain in my worn red shirt would fade A small hole, torn between the seams of my black pair of slacks would stitch itself together Blood stained into an old pillowcase from a nosebleed Like a scar froman accident Would disappear But healing is not automatic A process that needs shoes in order to walk The laces not yet tied Strung together instead by forceful knots Calendars haunt me I am stuck two months in the past A time preserved in hope Trapped in a memory That ceases to exist once the page is turned over to the proper month Schedules do not determine When the problemwill solve itself Pain will not leave if misery keeps it in one place I remind myself again: Slumber will take over me now For in the morning I will surely Take the train

31 Autumn McDonnel I fell in love with the way your fingers plucked the strings Those were the same fingers that danced their way to my heart I hummed along, quietly—my pleas for you to keep playing You understood and played me another tune that I knew I begged you to play my favorite love songs Now I can’t hear themwithout thinking of you I laughed with you throughout every mistake you made Our laughs intertwined; they made their own song I envied the way you looked at your guitar I just wish you looked at me the same way I listened to every chord that you played; I smiled Because your music brought me closer to you Nicole H. All I can think about is you You occupy my mind every second of every day I think I hate you But God do I want to kiss you To feel your lips on mine would be a blessing Just to hold your hand would be enough Please, why can’t you love me? If you can’t do that Just leave me be on my mind guitar

32 Alexcya Hopper Why does nothing make sense? It’s almost as if nothing was made to make sense. Am I made just to sit here and question? No, no there is a reason, There is a reason I was placed here. Placed here to know. Is there a reason to follow a dream? Follow something? Or is it to find a purpose of one’s own? Yes, That seems right. Maray Larson I have no inspiration, no motivation, Nothing but a headache; nothing in my head. “Don’t forget the homework. It’s due at 11:30 PM.” Still drawing blanks with nothing in my head. I need to write this paper and get it done fast. Feeling empty and void. There is nothing in my head. A ghazal is full of passion and true love. Yet I lie here lazy with nothing in my head. So many things that need my focus and attention. But there is absolutely, positively nothing in my head. nothing mak es sense, nothing in my head

33 Emma Storley I have always loved movies. As a child, I remember being compliant during nap time only when I would be attending a movie that evening. No nap, no movie. I figured that was a fair trade. The only problemwas I could hardly keep my eyes closed as I pictured a night filled with candy, popcorn, and excitement over whatever PGrated movie was showing that weekend. The Strand Theatre sits on the corner of Main Street in Britton, South Dakota. I went to the movies practically every weekend (only missing on the few occasions my parents deemed the movie “inappropriate”). My preferred seating changed with my age. At my youngest, the front row held the best seats in my eyes. Soon, around fifth grade, I realized I did not enjoy straining my neck to see the entirety of the screen as much as I had thought, and I preferred sitting in the left side aisle in the middle-ish of the theatre. After I began working at the Strand at the age of thirteen, I was required to sit in the back of the theatre during my shifts. Now, after my many years of experience in movie-going, I can say with certainty the back row is by far the best seating. Red carpet lines the lobby and trails into both aisles. The concession area is rather small and can hardly fit the two high school students taking and preparing orders (three on Sundays). The illuminated Strand sign shines down on everyone that enters the theatre. It was painted just a few years ago, the same colors, but something in me misses the chipping paint that showed the rusting metal underneath. It had a certain charm to it. The wall at the back of the lobby has an opening on each side. Thick blue curtains wait, pushed to the side until they are pulled promptly at the start of previews, separating the dark theatre from the glow of the concession stand. The curtains are then pulled to their full covering by Strand workers at least one hundred and thirteen times per shift (give or take), chasing away the intruding beams that follow after movie-goers who seek more treats or a bathroom break. There are so many fond memories that tether me to the theatre. The constantly jammed straw dispensers. The microwave that just barely holds the tubs of butter and forces you to stand on your tippy-toes to reach. The time that my brother dropped a full tub of melted butter all over himself trying to maneuver it out of the microwave. The sound of M&M’s rolling from the back of the theatre all the way to the front row. The wonderful feeling of spattering hot oil flying at your arms while bagging popping popcorn. The sight of customers trying to pull on the front left door even though it has been locked ever since I can remember. The overwhelming scent of popcorn on my clothes and hair that requires an immediate shower upon returning home. The Strand Theatre was built over one hundred years ago, in 1915. I wonder if its first owner, Mr. C. C. Baker, knew it would still be standing today. Perhaps even then he could picture all of the memories that would be made there. I imagine he would smile at the thought of howmany laughs, tears, first dates—and lasts—have been shared at the Strand. Tradition courses through the theatre. It is felt in the soft paper of the movie tickets—the true purpose of which is no more important than the glimmer in the eyes of children as they drop them into the ticket-pillar. I can still recall the absolute feeling of joy when my parents would hand me all of our tickets, and I would watch them fall one by one. Tradition is heard through the sweet reverberations of the creaking stairs and found strand theatre: admi t one

34 in the reliability of our regulars, the orders we have waiting on the counter by the time they make their way to the concession stand. Tradition even bites at the fingers tasked with changing the marquee during the cold months of winter. When I had already seen the movie (maybe even twice), I would often end up sitting on a stool in the corner of the concessions stand, one hand gripping a book and the other shoved into my bag of popcorn. I kept a bundle of paper towels nearby in an attempt to keep my pages safe from buttery fingerprints. I was so low to the ground that it was easy for my eyes to catch the signatures that decorated the areas of walls, shelves, and counter you would certainly miss at first glance. I recognized a majority of the names. Most of them had babysat me or worked at the theatre when I was barely tall enough to grab my candy from the counter. They remind me of the board of wood that sits at the top of the creaking stairs, and just before the opening to the marquee. It serves as another tradition: the signing of your name during, or after, your final shift. Forever making your mark on the establishment, or as close to forever as you can get with a painted square of wood that lives inside a one hundred-year-old building. I am not even sure if everyone has signed it. Maybe this tradition is forgotten by some, or maybe endings come too quickly no matter the situation. I had always planned to sign it—even taken a second or two to imagine where I would add my name to the others—but circumstances change and the letters remain unwritten. I cannot remember the last time I worked at the theatre, or if I had any indication that it would be my last time greeting customers and scooping popcorn into those bright-colored bags. I do remember worrying about my graduation being cancelled, but it seemed unfathomable that the pandemic outbreak would last throughout the summer. Ultimately, the end of my senior year of high school was completed at home, and my graduation was transformed into a parade, but I never had that final shift at the Strand. Losses that do not begin to compare to the devastation that is Covid-19, but ones that leave a strangeness in their wake all the same. I wondered if returning to the Strand as a customer would feel strange, but it felt remarkably normal. I walked under the lights and through the doors with my ex-coworker turned long-time beau. We were greeted with familiar smiles as time spent in line was not only for the tickets, but the pleasant conversations. Shortly after wrapping my fingers around our paper tickets, I tucked them safely into my pocket, making sure they wouldn’t be crinkled after the movie. When ordering our popcorn and drinks, I reached for a straw, hesitating once my eyes caught the sight of a new, un-jammed straw dispenser. We laughed as we sat in our seats, realizing that this was only our second time going to the theatre together outside of work. Instead of actually watching the previews, Preston and I spent the minutes before the movie began trying to recall all the times we had sat together while working, and complaining that the seats we chose (in the middle-ish of the theatre) just were not the same as the seats in the back. But we were too lazy to move. It wasn’t until halfway through the movie that my mind drifted, going past the blue curtains and up the creaky stairs. It landed on the board of signatures—the one missing mine—but I quickly pushed the thought away and instead let my fingers brush against the soft paper that sat safely in my pocket. I’m in no hurry to add my name to the others. I want to keep the theatre as mine for just a while longer.

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