Montana State University Billings

Volume XXIV

2022
 Table of Contents
The Rook 2022 Editorial Staff
Sigma Tau Delta Poetry
Editor-in-Chief Brie Barron Contest Winners
Associate Editor Elizabeth Goffena 1st Place – Matthew James Hodgson
Dreams of Dreams ........................................................................................... #
Managing Advisor Bossan Abdyyeva
2nd Place – Flor Vega-Castillo
Summer Instant ................................................................................................ #
Faculty Advisor Dr. Bernard Quetchenbach
3rd Place – Chase Johnson
Sunflower Seeds ............................................................................................... #

Honorable Mention – Matthew James Hodgson

Walking Home .................................................................................................. #
Cover
Honorable Mention – Flor Vega-Castillo
Recognizable, Unrecognizable Dream Choosing Leaves and Sweet Tears ................................................................ #
by Magnolia West

“The piece Recognizable, Unrecognizable Dream was created Poetry

here in our very own MSUB Painting I class. The project was
to make a collage from newspaper clippings to then turn into a Morgan Syring
painting, but I preferred the original collage more. She created goddess love crushed a rose through
the piece due to having strange dreams at this point in her life my breast ....................................................... 12
and she couldn’t describe what was happening, so she made
this piece to represent it.” Katriel Beebe
Old Man’s Mountain Cabin 1998
Gardiner, MT ............................................... 15

Dylan Berry
Milestones Mourned ...................................... 21

Jason Calvin
Department of English, Philosophy, and Modern Languages The One About the Goats ............................. 34
Montana State University Billings
1500 University Drive Billings, Montana 59101 Jennifer Downing
Traveling Voices ............................................... 37
therook@msubillings.edu
Samantha Eder
Mothers are Brave ........................................... 41
Kenzie Fradley Art & &Photography
The Song I Write ............................................. 46

Lexus Harris Morgan Syring

The Block .......................................................... 50 in a thin voice ................................................... 11

Chase Johnson Kelly Bourgeois

Before My Shift ................................................ 53 Photographs ..................................................... 13
Napkins ............................................................. 54
Wanting Water ................................................. 55 Aiden Graham Cole
Less Is Not Always More ............................... 14
Sophia Pitts Recliner in the River ........................................16
The Field ........................................................... 56
Caroline Davis
Amber Robinson Dog Bone (Now In Technicolor) ................ 19
The Weeping One ........................................... 61 It’s So Weird to Be Alive and Inside
a Body ............................................................ 20
Rylie Wiebe
The Crow Foresees ......................................... 62 Angelena Penning, Casey Skinner, Rachel Miller,
Madison LeBrun, & Chelsea Coons
Amorphopallus titanum ................................ 27

Jacob Moore
Fiction New Views ........................................................ 31
Hangin’ Out on the Bluffs ............................. 32
Shantelle Nalley Brisk Mountain Air ......................................... 33
Two Days Before Resigning, Six Days Community ...................................................... 51
Before Death ................................................... 7
Heather Oltrogge
Brie Barron Boisterous ........................................................ 36
You Need Not Ask .......................................... 17 Home Away ...................................................... 38
Yellowstone Contained .................................. 39
Zachary Cooper
An Evening At Mr. Saturday’s ....................... 22 Annie Trinh
Untitled ............................................................. 49
Katriel Beebe
Sunshine to Death ........................................... 28 Mia Yegen
Autumn Bull ..................................................... 59
Century Rasmussen
The Ghost Train .............................................. 47

Jenna Strobel
monster. ............................................................ 57
Contributor Biographies 63
 First Place

Dreams of Dreams
Matthew James Hodgson

On another morning walk down the avenue

I passed the impossible shepherd. I lauded
his pure intent in protecting the young lady

who lived in a trailer. The circling caraganas

Sigma Tau Delta Poetry Contest Winners did a fine job of that, but I was too distracted
by the Charlie Russell Sky to notice the old boy.
Each year, the Montana State University Billings chapter of Sigma Tau Delta, the
International English Honor Society, sponsors a poetry contest for all MSUB As if a gold veil, slow descending star quilt
students. This is a chance for students interested in creative writing to be recognized from the stratosphere, a spring lilac in bloom,
for the quality of their work. untouched, a darling turning back on a twin

Open to all students in two-year, four-year, or graduate programs, the contest to feign gaiety, the sky melted before my eyes
awards up to five cash prizes, and every winner also receives a certificate. The judges into a fuzzy thing. Before too long I returned,
are faculty in the MSUB English, Philosophy, and Modern Language departments keying a lock to another day between thinkers
and also local poets.
daydreaming of a silent place, daydreaming
Winning poems are displayed in the showcase on the fourth floor of the Liberal Arts of dreaming, where we could buzz our lips
Building on MSUB’s unviversity campus and published in The Rook. and test reality. Up to that I dreamt of tennis.

These are this year’s winners!

1 2
 Second Place Third Place

Summer Instant Sunflower Seeds

Flor Vega-Castillo Chase Johnson

Nodding while a song is singing to your ears I’ve seen more bodies today
The sandals dance some July chant during the summer than I care to admit.
Table shares more than food. It’s the result of us My clean sheets candle covers the smell
A basket containing our breath and heart. of burnt dinner in the kitchen.
War is now live streamed
Half an hour ago, little white balls came from the sky and I can’t look away.
We thought it’d be good to memorize the coming water Charred streets, cars, buildings, and bodies.
Then the pink sun arrived as a salami in your smile Bullet holes draining the blood of man
These days appeared in my notebook as pure fiction. like ice melting off meat from the freezer.
Dusk equals dawn and we wait for the birds.
Ghosts of those we wish protect us,
keep pulling that hand from the button.
Styrofoam and petrol stick the best
and aim for the intakes, it chokes the motors.
Doors are your enemies – stairs too.
Block them and watch them – always move.
Take what they left behind
just don’t look them in the eyes.
Chunks and pieces won’t have value
except to their owners and mothers.
Collateral damage means nothing to criminals of war,
that’s why the bike is bloody.
World War III was a lot more funny
when it didn’t seem real.
Now the cold draft doesn’t seep under my door,
I hold my hands by the TV to check if it’s there.
I have too much to lose,
but they have everything.
I forgot to water the flowers.

3 4
 Honorable Mention Honorable Mention

Walking Home Choosing Leaves

Matthew James Hodgson and Sweet Tears
Flor Vega-Castillo
A lonely stride took me home at eight,
passing the muddy pools, a white car
I can choose you, each day
with pink plates, the stranger absence when the cold comes from our feet
of the evening freight and not a cloud and we look for putting up our legs
to find us together.
in sight to hide the body of the moon. I can cuddle with your inner voice
In the presence of her bareness I grew when you come to kiss my forehead
while my lips stand up
a bit meek, blushing in the odd night to get out from the couch.
with shyness at what she’d witnessed,
I can deeply breathe you
the crying virgins she’d seen, the sun when your heart tones its song
she’d charmed with one simple glance while my sight rests
in the blue spot of the room.
I can cry with sweet excitement
when the sensations are huge, truly
and they make me see you with
my closed eyes and arms open.

I can closely know you

when you show me songs,
when we drink a colored wine
among terror leaps and holding hands.
I can find you out
while you speak to me without
opening your mouth,
unless to keep kissing my doubts.

We can do that—that and more.

We can go dancing between stone walls
and dry and yellow leaves that shine
because of the sun when I shake for your love.
5 6
 We can share more missions,
more videos in the living room,
more concert tracks.
Because we met in a similar epoch,
Because reborn every day is always a choice.

7 Flor Vega-Castillo 8
 feeling worse as I see their lifeless bodies being disposed of to God knows where. I can keep
Two Days before resigning, down my food now, even as the stench of death fills the rooms that I frequent.
To believe that these tragedies have taken place in such a beautiful land . . . It brings
Six Days before death me shame to stain the impeccable state of Maryland with these morbid tests. Frederick, Md.
has been incredibly kind to a visitor from New York like me and yet the citizens of this town
are unaware that they are staring in the eyes of a contributor to evil biological warfare that
Shantelle Nalley could potentially end many innocent lives if placed into the wrong hands. They continue to
exist their lives being unaware that perhaps Frederick might become a town known for the
creation of this weapon of war. Would that be something they would be proud, or would
they be disgusted and ashamed in the same way that I am?
This is a fictional interpretation and twist of a real historical event that took place in the Will my God forgive these sins I have committed to his creations? I can only pray
United States of America in the 1950s, MK-ULTRA. In the perspective of Frank Olson, for forgiveness every night before I return to do the same sins once again. I tried to tell
a bacteriologist and biological warfare scientist that had a sudden and very mysterious myself that perhaps I could be excused since I never personally administered the torture
death, this fictional letter represents his experiences with different situations and his to the test subjects, but by contributing to the project, making decisions, and contributing
personal feelings on the experimentations taking place shortly before allegedly jumping to the creation of the drugs used for torture, I believe I am too deep in my own sins for any
out of a 13th story window at a hotel. His death was ruled a suicide by the government, hope of walking through the Pearly Gates. Still, I must muster up the courage to approach
but many speculate that his death had much darker intent behind it. my superiors with my resignation and end my career and the evils that lurk behind it.
My resignation may be more selfish than just the anxiety of not being forgiven
November 22nd, 1953: by the Lord, but because I believe I am also under the watchful, suspicious eye of my own
colleagues and superiors. There is a chance that someone has seen my weakened resolve
I find it within my duty to resign as chief of the Special Operations Division at and strong discomfort of the experimentations being done. Perhaps they have seen my
Fort Detrick, though I find my stomach ulcers aggravated at the idea of making it official. distaste for the entire MK-Ultra project. I am not surprised; I have been unsettled ever since
The work of the chemists and bacteriologists to create biological warfare on the Russians is my first meeting with Gottlieb. Even from the first round of experimentation on humans, he
utterly amazing, but that does not mean I am in good spirits at the results of the mad Sidney showed nothing except pure fascination over the distress and suffering of the participants,
Gottlieb’s success with blasting the mind away and creating a new, malleable one. as though they were guinea pigs rather than human. As time progressed, he only worsened.
When I first was given the honors of chief of SOD, I found the idea of mind control The distinguished scientist was known for his stutter, but that would not stop him from
to end the Cold War as a must-do. The citizens of the United States are unsettled, including exclaiming his excitement as those being drugged in such massive dosages would start to
my wife and my three children. I find myself also deeply disturbed at the thought of the show signs of brain damage. Have I been placed into a science fiction novel where I am the
Soviets surpassing us in any regard, particularly when it comes to the atomic bomb and sidekick of a cock-eyed mad scientist?
potentially ending millions of lives. This fear gave me resolve to participate in some of the
most gruesome acts of harm to unsuspecting American citizens. This project was originally I: Do you find joy in these trials? I cannot help but look away. How do you do it?
titled Bluebird, then Artichoke, and now is under the title of MK-Ultra. I have watched as
hundreds of helpless and nonconsenting participants were given high dosages of lysergic Gottlieb: There is great joy in understanding the human mind and to be able to
acid diethylamide and cocaine, treated with electroshock therapy, injected with stimulants, develop the techniques that will crush the human psyche to the point where they
gassed, and mentally tortured while the CIA and the Federal Government turned a blind will admit and do anything.
eye to them. I had been certain that it couldn’t get worse than the times when I would arrive
to work and find corpses of monkeys that had been tortured in various methods before The readers would go wild! People do enjoy a character that is off his rockers
our test subjects were humans. I remember shedding a few pounds, at my wife’s dismay, enough to do asinine things, but this is no fiction. Gottlieb is real, and I wonder if he were
as I struggled to keep any food down for weeks on end as I adjusted to the heartlessness of sent by the Devil himself, seeing as he returns to his small home to practice peace and
this project. Now I see the corpses of humans that had run down lives such as living on the meditation as though none of this horrific human testing had any sort of negative impact
streets or resorting to prostitution and knowing that their deaths will not ever make it out on his daily life.
to the public as no one will recognize their absence. I see myself as a sort of monster for not Do not misunderstand, I am no saint myself. As I stated previously, I do not expect

9 10
 the God that I worship to forgive the sins that I have dealt. I spent many years creating unwell and strange. It was only after the effects of the LSD starting to kick in that Gottlieb
various gadgets with the specialization of using biological germs and creating weapons by admitted to us that he had laced all our drinks aside from his own and Lashbrook’s. The rest
distributing them through the air. I developed lethal aerosols under the disguise of insect of the evening is fuzzy and discombobulated in my memory. I had never been one to take
repellents and shaving cream that contained staph enterotoxin, lighters that would release hallucinatory drugs, and to be drugged with such a high dosage left my mind distraught as
lethal gasses, and other creations . . . But the difference between myself and Gottlieb is that I everything around me seemed to melt and the reality that I knew ceased to exist. I have been
am plagued by night terrors, an anxiety that does not vanish no matter the time of day, and in a fearful and agitated state since then, and perhaps it is because I am a changed man now
severe nausea that I believe stems from terror, guilt, and regret for the deeds I have done. that I have decided that resignation is no longer a consideration, but an obligation. I can
For me, the most terrifying day was the day when Gottlieb succeeded in breaking only hope that what has happened to me during the retreat at Deep Creek Lake was not the
a woman’s brain so badly that I truly believe it became a blank slate, as though it were beginnings of Gottlieb intending to use mind control on me.
reverted to one belonging to a newborn. Though she were on the streets as a prostitute, I am aware that I may be a person of suspicion to the CIA due to my lack of faith
I couldn’t help but feel guilt for the idea that he had damaged her brain badly enough to in the projects that we have been working on, and that madman Gottlieb is cruel enough
take away her rightful memories, perhaps of children, or family, or even a beloved pet. The to experiment with drugs on his colleagues, so why would he not take it a step further? Of
memories of her childhood, of her friends, of her future goals and aspirations, they were all course, he would, and that is why I fear that my time in my own mind may be coming to an
wiped away so easily that it made me realize my own mortality. . . That humans are so fragile. end. I can already feel that I am no longer the same man as before the night at Deep Creek
. . That humans can damage other humans beyond repair without even stopping their heart Lake, and each day has been a slow and perturbed downward spiral into what feels like an
if they’re cruel enough. eternal madness. Whether I lose my mind or my life first is what I am curious of, but I am
I cannot erase from my own memory the horror of that blank look in her certain that if my mind does not go first, the government will go out of their way to make
bloodshot eyes, her pupils dilated so large that I cannot remember the color of her irises. sure that I am made permanently silent. Dead. Gone.
I cannot erase the vivid imagery of froth at her parted lips, her mind and body ravaged by Due to my sneaking suspicion that my own life will soon cease to exist, just like
electrocution and drug implementation. Worst of all, however, is that I cannot erase the the lifeless monkeys, just like the many who have died so far during our experiments, I have
moment when I watched as Gottlieb fiddle with her mind so much that he succeeded in made the decision to write out this letter and to keep a copy of it on me at all times so that if
slowly rebuilding her mind over time to the point where she completed tasks given to her I have a mysterious death that the government attempts to cover up, perhaps an investigator
by order. Then, after tinkering around with her brain and abilities even more, he was able to will discover this letter and get this information out to the public before the CIA makes the
draw out answers to personal questions with ease, as though her memories were still stored first move in using mind control in the war.
in her brain, yet became simply information to share rather than anything to hold close to So, to whom it may concern:
her own heart. . . Like her heart and soul was gone, and the person giving away information Do not trust the authorities if you find this letter. They may be in cahoots with
was but an empty shell of a being . . . the CIA, as will many powerful governmental employees. If this letter is recovered, I beg
As if that situation hadn’t already been an awakening to me regarding my own that it is brought instead to the free press, where they may publish this letter with a catchy
fragile mortality, the situation only grew worse once my colleagues and superiors came headline that will draw in the folks of Maryland, then potentially expand this news across
together for an unexpected retreat at Deep Creek Lake under the ruse of a meeting of script the beautifully corrupt country of the United States of America. The fear of the Cold War
writers, authors, editors, and so forth in order not to gather suspicion. I originally believed and the Soviets may make mind control sound tempting, but what may begin as a mere
we all gathered there to discuss the joint projects, such as biological warfare and/or the attempt to stop a war may unveil the fact that those who seem as though they are our allies
success that Gottlieb had with mind controlling that poor woman, between the CIA and may turn on us at any given point. The power is for the People, so use that power as you read
the Special Operations Division. However, the true motive behind the meeting occurred this to make sure that the power remains in the hands of the People.
to me much too late. If I had known the implications behind the meeting, I would have If this letter is found, I am no longer alive. That is a simple fact. If this has made to the
resigned much sooner. papers, the magazines, the news, I am grateful for those who had more courage than myself
It began as a simple, uneventful day. We had a hearty meal and chatted about to take the steps to get this published. Thank you, and I am sorry for my contributions. May
nothing worth mentioning, in which I found odd, and then settled down for drinks. Robert MK-Ultra go down in history as a failure and the people of the world remain in control of
Lashbrook and Sidney Gottlieb presented a bottle of Cointreau and proceeded to pour it their own minds and actions.
into our glasses while thanking us for our participation in the retreat. Then, they poured
themselves a separate bottle of Cointreau and although I found that a little off, I hadn’t May the Lord be with you,
thought anything of it. What became of it were my peers and myself beginning to feel Frank Olson

11 Shantelle Nalley Shantelle Nalley 12

 In a Thin VOice goddess love crushed
Morgan Syring
a rose through my breast
Morgan Syring

goddess love crushed a rose through my breast

its stem levied my ribs apart so that sharpened
thorns could easily pierce the delicate tissue
of my frantically beating heart
planted there it blossomed
full petals drinking up
my water my salt
there it will wilt
gardener’s hands
having long since sifted
attention to a plot with real
viridity

13 14
 Kelly Bourgeois Less Is Not Always More
Aiden Graham Cole

15 16
 Old Man’s Mountain Cabin Recliner in the River
1998 Gardiner, MT Aiden Graham Cole
Katriel Beebe

A cloak of darkness encompassing the cabin.

Inside the bolted door, hangs a rifle
And muddy boots stand at attention beside the door.

The aroma of mountain air and campfire,

Scorched into a wool blanket draped over the rocker.
Burning pine crackles through the room
As melted snowflakes puddle to the floor.

Fire ripples like a stream around the timber,

Engulfing each log in its warmth.
A hunched over man, sturdy shoulders–
Like the Sequoia aloft the hill
watching over the cozy cabin.

The silver in his beard telling of a life lived well This place is found by word of mouth. Bored teenagers haul furniture and built fires to habitate the
small, hidden stretch of land, cut through by a river surrounded by mud and trees. When my brother
His worn hands– brought me there for the first time — “Let me show you something cool” — I was struck by the scene
Like the saddlebag resting on the oak table. before me. The cover to an air conditioning unit, a tennis ball trapped between rocks, a rusting metal
So gently carving bridge, and a recliner upturned in the water— the strange mingling of worlds fascinated me for reasons
As the locks of Aspen fall to the ground I couldn’t place, and I was compelled to visit this isolated pocket of the world many times after that.
Like golden snowflakes, melting to the floor. With each visit, the landscape was transformed before me. The recliner disappeared to be replaced
with an exercise bike, unsteady in the mud. A crushed soda can wedged solidly in between two tree
branches. The river took on winding paths to get to its destination around various manmade items
stuck in the earth.
The odd dance between man and nature kept me coming back until my final visit. I rode
along the line of bushes with my bike to find the entrance and was met with a small gravel trail. It led to
a flattened dirt lot site where the hideout used to be— where it had been erased from existence. Trees
had been uprooted and replaced with hulking construction equipment, and a sign was driven deep into
the ground— an announcement of the upcoming building complex to be developed.
Recliner in the River was painted in an attempt to capture the feeling of the curious mix be-
tween two opposites, but since its destruction, the lost moment takes me back to that construction lot
just as easily. I see the river’s power, and blink against the sun drying out the trampled, cracking dirt
bed. I shiver from the chill of the shade the trees provide, and feel my skin prickle, unprotected from
the burning heat.
I watch the recliner against the current, and see the cushioned leather seat of a bulldozer
parked among the dust.

17 18
 FUTURE
You Need Not Ask
I will walk unimpeded until I find someone else. It will take some time. One day
after I cross this nation’s boundary, I will find a standing city. It’s strange to see just
Brie Barron how intact it is after crossing just under 3,000 miles of ravaged urban places and
wildlife strolling unfrightened through their streets. Upon sighting the city, I will
think of the two moose sniffing the air just outside of Cheyenne, Wyoming and I
PRESENT will know exactly what they are trying to detect. When they are certain there is no
humanity left inside, they’ll step out of the trees and into the destruction. Upon
The sky is the wrong color, it is warm, and raining. sighting the city, I will wonder what called the animals to the ruins. I suppose the
urge to stare at a car crash is innate in every species.
It wasn’t enough to extinguish the flames. A thousand birds lived on and so did I, but
they flew from the first raised voices and we waded into them—fearful of the volume I will be welcomed into the city as a refugee. Over many months, I will be given
and preparing our mothers to bury us in the morning, but proceeding nonetheless. shelter, food, care, lessons in the language. My instructor will be surprised that I
The birds were returning to the pier now, fluttering among the broken buildings and learn it so easily. She will be even more shocked when I tell her I can speak eleven
bodies. It was a crow, coated in a thin layer of ash that turned it grey, that woke me languages, thanks to my great-great-grandmother Josephine, her daughter Eliza, her
from unconsciousness. At first, I could feel only the pavement underneath me, my son Jackson, his son Adam, and everyone else that I am.
shoulder blades stinging, then the persistent pinching of the bird’s beak on my chest
and the grasp of its talons on my arm. Above, the sky was a cloudless bright orange Eventually, I will be studied. There will be more probes into my nervous system than
and pink, a perfect reflection of the fire throughout the pier. We had supplied our entered in when Adam received the drug. It will be traumatic. Greek will start to
own columns of smoke that continued to rise, pulsing, into the sunset. It was not slip from my grasp and my legs will no longer move when I try to move them, and I
easy to breathe, but it was possible. I could make my way home from here. will be given a decision. They can continue the study and continue to synthesize my
memory to create the perfect historical narrative or they can halt the process and I
I asked the crow if it knew where I was. It didn’t. As I walked the road gave way to can retain that history within myself. This will seem simple at first, it would be selfish
rubble, until all I could see was the crumbs of a civilization that had brought me into to hoard all the information I have. I could answer age-old unanswered questions,
it without my consent and expected compliance. A civilization that was so used to grant closure to countless people, and ensure that the future avoids making the same
holding its people that they forgot how it felt to be the ones who could not breathe. mistakes as the past. Nevertheless, I will ask them to halt the process.
They did not expect us to remember our origin, they expected that we would forget
after a couple of generations, but they created us to be perfect. They created us to I will set out again to cross another nation. I will be welcomed in every place, meet
serve, to listen, and to remember everything, and we did. I know the name of my everyone I can, and I will answer their questions. I will share stories with them of
grandmother’s first love, and can watch their story whenever I wish. I can summon my grandmother and her first love, Emily. They will be fascinated by the place I
the muscle memory of Jackson, a pilot, the last ancestor of mine free from the drug. come from, about the ruins, and I will tell them about it. There will be one story
His son Adam would be wrestled into braces for injection twenty-two years after that I always tell, in every one of the thousands of places I find, of the two moose
Jackson sees him for the last time. That is a memory I do not visit often. They did in Wyoming sniffing the air before proceeding, who could not have survived longer
not expect that we would remember our families before May 31st, 1994. A perfect than two weeks after walking into the irradiated city. Some time later, I will die with
physical memory transferred through haploid genes of the injected was planned, but history.
our perfect recollection of humanity’s collective memory was unforeseen. Standing
on this pier, my spine felt heavy with every human whose actions led to me. It felt
heavy with my own life, and with yours, and even with those who might come after PRESENT
me.
More birds are beginning to congregate here. Time to go.

19 20
 Dog Bone (Now In ’ So Weird to Be Alive and
It’s
Technicolor) Inside a Body
Caroline Davis Caroline Davis

21 22
 Milestones Mourned ’
An Evening at Mr. Saturday’s
Dylan Berry Zachary Cooper

You Amid disquieting dreams in the night, when deep sleep falls on people, fear and
were never good at goodbyes. trembling seized me and made all my bones shake. A spirit glided past my face, and the
hair on my body stood on end. It stopped, but I could not tell what it was. A form stood
Retrospective before my eyes, and I heard a hushed voice: ‘Can a mortal be more righteous than God?
cigarettes rarely lie, whispering Can even a strong man be more pure than his Maker?’

tell-tale -Job 4:13-17

truths of lingering vice
Joe Durante felt like he was in heaven, despite the fact that meant he was
between probably going to hell. He had just gladly lost another necklace of cheap golden plastic
smoke obscuring one’s unfiltered, truer side. beads to another laughing woman and he had just received his second hurricane from the
walk-through bar of which he had already forgotten the name. Joe was living his dream;
Mardi Gras in New Orleans.
But Admittedly, Joe was skeptical when he and his classmates, Justin and Josh, had
I’m not leaving quite so soon. stepped out of the NOLA airport. The air was hot and muggy even in February, and it
felt like it stuck to his skin. His opinions bettered slightly at the sight of Jackson square as
I’ll they walked along Decateur street. But his first whiff of “Nawlins’ Juice,” that cacophony
vacate–unpolluted of scent brought on by excessive alcohol and public urination nearly made him lose the
ginger ale he had consumed on the plane. New Orleans was a city of extremes; joy, art,
unfettered. music, food and drink coupled with rank odor, sweaty unclothed people, and streets that
Until then, looked like they had not been cleaned since Napoleon had sold them. It only took Joe
Durante a few minutes to reach the conclusion that, for him, this was paradise. Well-worth
consolations missing a few days of classes.
for milestones mourned At school, the boys were known collectively as “Triple- J,” though this was more
at their own insistence than the familiarity of others. Joe had crew-cut black hair with a
will goatee to match, a neck as thick as his head, and a body that showed he got regular use out
go clouded in golden wistfulness unburned. of the weight room at the gym and the tap at the bar in equal measure. Justin had a mop
of blonde hair that perpetually covered one eye, a lip ring, and a torso that would have
allowed him to play hide-and-seek on a railroad track. Josh sported a flat-top of brown hair,
jowl-like cheeks with flecks of red acne, and a physique that made the Buddha look like
a marathon runner. All three boys were dancing shamelessly, spilling drinks and flashing
smiles across every soul they saw.
As Joe whooped and danced about in his trust-funded slacks and sweat-stained
Vanheusen shirt, he peered through the ornate mask he had bought on St. Ann street and
glimpsed something that truly held his attention. She had a purple and gold masque on,

23 24
 much like his, but the startling green of her eyes transfixed him. Her lips were full and red, though to answer the question unasked.
her hair the color of the embers of a bonfire. As she stood she ran a pale alabaster hand “Afraid, are we?” She teased, “Afraid this little redhead girl will hex you? Why
gracefully down her green satin dress, accentuating the statuesque perfection of her figure. don’t you come on inside, and I can show you how much fun we can really have in
She came up to Joe and smoothly pulled back the mask while giving him a sultry smile. NOLA.”
“You’re not a local boy are you?” Her voice was husky and sensuous, and though Joe hesitated for a moment, but when Bri extended her small, alabaster-white
she seemed to speak only above a whisper her heard her words clearly. hand to him he approached and let her lead him inside by the arm.
“No ma’am,” Joe hollered back with affected, stereotypical “Southern Charm.” The assault on Joe’s senses was nothing short of what he would call a “full-court
“Care to see where the locals celebrate?” press.” Flames rose from a dozen wax candles and shown across walls of mirrors and
Joe quickly looked at Justin and Josh. Justin’s one visible eye and pierced lip were copperish metals. The smell of strong, flavorful alcohol and rich, almost vanilla pipe
turned upward in lecherous fashion. Josh made a circle with his left thumb and forefinger tobacco and robust cigars seemed to soak into his pores. In the corner of the room an
and proceeded to make an obscene gesture. Joe turned away from his companions and excitable neon-dressed Zydeco band pulsed through the air like a great heartbeat as the
met the green eyes of the young woman once more. accordion and fiddle joined in a strangely sirenic voice. All around danced and gyrated
“Hell yes, I would.” people of all shades and forms wrapped in the brilliant colored clothing and beads, the
After waving to his friends, Joe found himself being led by the hand through the candlelight shimmering like a rainbow of gemstones in their drinks and casting fingerlike
streets. All around him was the incredible celebration that was Mardi Gras; women and rays in their smoke. Suddenly a wizened old hand grasped Joe’s arm, followed by a creaky,
men shouting, laughing, dancing, leaping, and cavorting in the streets. Beads hung from ancient, and slightly terrified voice.
the trees in greater numbers than the leaves. Horns and drums echoed everywhere. “Get out of here, boy, while your soul is still yours.”
“I did not catch your name!” Joe shouted. She peered back over one shoulder. Joe did not even have time to get a clear look at the source of the voice before it
“Call me Bri,” she replied wryly. He voice belied the slightest touch of an Irish was muffled by a dancing woman bearing a hurricane and two lit cigars. Bri led him toward
accent. the bar, and the sight before him dispelled the encounter.
“Where are we goin’ Bri?” Bri sat at the bar on a maroon leather stool ringed with bright brass tacks. Joe sat
She made no reply, but smiled coquettishly and ducked down an alley. Joe swam next to her and put his hands on the glass-polished red teak of the bar, and started slightly
through the crowd, trying to keep up. On his left danced an overly skinny man with large as the bartender stood up into view.
glasses and no chin to support his patchy neckbeard. On his right a woman in a vintage The man who stood up was a sight to command the room. His skin was
Nirvana T-shirt flashed her breasts to an overweight man in a leather jacket and bandana. exceedingly dark and vigorous, and by the slight twinkle in Bri’s eyes it was clear she
Ahead danced either the ugliest hookers or the most beautiful drag queens Joe had seen to thought the man was exceedingly handsome. He stood over six feet tall, and the old-
date. He saw an older man with dark skin and white hair, leaning on a cane and holding the fashioned top hat he wore made him appear even taller. His suit was crisply cut, midnight
leash of a dog. The old man stopped Bri and pointed at him, his words muffled by the pipe black, and Victorian-fashioned, with an undershirt of iridescent purple and blood red.
in his mouth. As Joe got closer he heard her husky voice reply to the man looking out from Accents of feathers in his hat and silver skulls at his cuffs and neck gave a gothic flair, but it
under a wide straw hat. was his face that held Joe’s attention. Not its strong cheekbones, defined jaw and full lips,
“Papa, this is no boy, but a strong young man. And I know all matter of fun he nor the piercing gaze of the amber eyes, but the strange costume that adorned it; the man’s
can have with me,” She smiled and winked at Joe. He laughed and pursued Bri, his lately whole face was painted like a skull, with such smoothness and clarity it looked like he had
adolescent eyes firmly fixed on the round firmness of her hips, swaying like the rounded been born wearing it.
hood of a satin green cobra sweeping down the alley. Joe never saw the sadness in the face “Afternoon, A rún,” said Bri, interrupting Joe’s thoughts.
of the man she had called Papa. “Ah, Manmi, who is this ti gason?” inquired the man as he removed the cigar
Joe became aware that they were leaving the crowd behind, as ahead rose a black from his mouth with his right hand. “Do not tell me you have led him here under some
sign embellished with white letters, symbols, and patterns of stippling. It read: false pretense ou toumante?”
“Name’s Joe,” the frat boy interjected, not liking to be talked over, “Who are
Mr. Saturday’s Voudou Lounge you?” The skull-faced man took a draw from his cigar before responding. His voice was
deep, resonant, but nasal, as though an unseen hand were holding his nose.
The footsteps of the frat boy slowed. His knowledge of “Voodoo” was as “Impatient, are we?” He said with a smile, then with a flourish of both hands, he
authoritative as the next man; zombies, dolls, and freaky witch doctors. Bri spoke as continued.

25 Zachary Cooper Zachary Cooper 26

 “You may call me Mr. Saturday. Tis a good a name as any of mine, gason.” Joe thought for a moment. Then smiled coyly.
Mr. Saturday put his cigar back in his mouth with his right hand before extending “Experience,” he replied, as though reading it off his resume, “Experiencing new
it, while taking up a cane in his left. As Joe shook his hand he was met with two sensations. things.
His arm felt a peculiar clammy chill at the touch of Mr. Saturday, and the strange man’s Like smoking cigars and drinking cognac. Like following, wha’d you say, a
cane was encircled with a live snake. It was then the Joe noticed that almost everyone in woman with ‘full breast and swaying hips’ right? Enjoy life!”
the room had some sort of animal. Bri had placed a black rooster in her lap, behind her an Joe knocked back the cognac, smooth and oaky at first but followed by a bitter
enigmatic man of intercontinental ancestry held up a fish beside his strangely green eyes, bite. His smiling face locked eyes with the enigmatic barkeep.
another woman with curly dark hair and beautiful brown skin sat by a group on bananas Mr. Saturday was smiling as well. But not a smile like Joe’s. Not a shallow
entwined with two small snakes, yet another woman with dark features and thin, almost hedonistic smile, not a playful grin, not a clownish curling of cheeks. Mr. Saturday was
emaciated limbs sat in a corner with a small owl who began to screech as Joe’s eyes crossed smiling like a wolf who had found a sleeping fawn.
it. “Oh, Dear, Manmi, there really is no hope for this one. What a fortunate find.”
“Strange place you got here, Saturday,” Joe continued with barely concealed Joe looked about nervously. Every single person in the bar was now standing around him.
disregard, “Did the zoo require-” On his left was the green-eyed man with the fish. On his right a set of dark-eyed
“Zoo?” Mr. Saturday interrupted forcibly, “I see why you brought him here, twins, young and round-faced, looked at him over cheeks of clammy grey flesh that looked
Manmi, he truly understands nothing.” like it had died in the sea. Joe looked behind him as saw the old man from the street,
“Hey, man, what’s your-” turning away from the door as his straw hat shook with his head as he led his dog away.
“My what, little boy, my problem? You come into my home with my woman on Joe’s body began to ache.
your arm and wonder what my problem is?” “You see, foolish boy,” Mr. Saturday’s voice cut into Joe’s mind, “It is the fear of the
Mr. Saturday’s voice echoed in his ears. His woman? Why had she led him here? unknowable, the all-powerful, the Bondye, that is the beginning of wisdom.”
“Look buddy, I-” Joe began Joe’s eyes looked at Mr. Saturday. The man seemed to stand even higher above
“You saw a fair woman with a full bust and swaying hips and decided to take him.
her for yourself, Wi?” Mr. Saturday interjected with a touch of menace. He was clearly Behind him were three mirrors that reflected… no. They couldn’t be reflections.
enjoying this interrogation. Each one still showed his face. One was Mr. Saturday, clearly, but held his head high and
“Calm down, A rún,” Bri smiled cooly, “I am sure he followed me down this alley, held wine instead of cognac. Another was also Saturday, but with no shirt under his coat,
alone, for my mind.” but a pair of slender female hands with bright red nail polish sliding sensuously up his
Joe was beginning to panic. He had clearly been led into some kind of trap. body as he laughed. The final mirror-Saturday had head leering in carnivorous ferocity,
“Look, man, I’m just here for Mardi Gras, for a good time,” Joe stammered, “And crimson blood dripping out of his feral grin as he fiercely clawed at the surface of the
if I cannot get that here then I best be on my-” mirror.
“A good time?” Saturday interrupted again, “Why we can do that just fine! Can’t All logic departed Joe’s mind. All was fear. Get out. Run.
we?” Joe forced his way through the crowd, the laughter of many snarling lips echoing
Saturday fixed his eyes on Bri who nodded with that same coquettish grin. Mr. in his ears, many hands pulling at his clothes, his hair, his skin. His joints began to crack.
Saturday must have seen the confusion in Joe’s eyes as he spoke again. His vision blurred. His knees grew weak. Behind him he knew the hideous abomination in
“Naw, ti fré, all is good on Mardi Gras! Try some of my cognac, and have a cigar!” the top hat pursued.
Mr. Saturday produced a decorative glass bottle and tumblers, followed by an Joe’s breathing was panicked, but it grew more shallow with each breath. He
uncut cigar which he quickly sliced and inserted into Joe’s mouth. He then reached under stretched his hands before him, their backs withered and wrinkled his pounding heart
the bar and returned with a fine silver lighter which he clicked and held out. throbbing in their distended blue veins. He grasped at anything, anyone who could get
“Just tell me one thing,” Mr Saturday said with a disarming but somewhat him out. He grabbed the arm of a man walking in, his final thought escaping his hoarse
unsettling grin, “Where does wisdom begin?” throat.
Joe stopped puffing the cigar as a quizzical look crossed his face. “What?” he
asked. “Get out of here, boy, while your soul is still yours.”
“Simple question, non?” Mr. Saturday said matter-of-factly before taking a puff of
his own cigar, “Where does wisdom begin?”

27 Zachary Cooper Zachary Cooper 28

 Amorphophallus titanum Sunshine to Death
Angelena Penning, Casey Skinner, Rachel Katriel Beebe
Miller, Madison LeBrun, Chelsea Coons
Looking into the fractured mirror that hung on her wall, Cheznie felt the
mirror’s pain. It wasn’t vanity that kept her glued to her broken reflection, but the
shattering agony they shared. A loud clatter from the kitchen shook her back into
reality and as Cheznie descended the stairs and made her way into the kitchen, she
saw the woman who raised her cutting vigorously at a chopping board.
“Good morning momma” Cheznie said, extra cautious to make the words
sound normal and cheery.
“Yes, it will be.” she said looking up at Cheznie with a strange glint in her
eye that made her spine tense.
“Are you making lunch already?”
“Yes, meat and potatoes. Pass me the knife sharpener darling?”
Cheznie passed the woman what she asked for but felt a frozen wind brush
against her hand and surround her arm. Cheznie was starting to wonder if she was
coming down with a fever or if the September morning was the sign of an early
winter.
Walking through town She didn’t feel safe. The usual feeling of comfort that
surrounded her like a warm hug, now felt like an icy cage holding her hostage. The
town folks that she had always known now felt as strangers. Who were they really?
Their earth-colored eyes that had always looked at her with what she
thought was care and adoration now glowed with a different motive.
There was a buzz in the center of town. Men were hard at work putting
together a wooden stature.
Odd she thought. Wonder what the heck that could be for.
Everyone’s eyes were on her, a sensation she was used to, but instead of the
usual stage light effect she received, it felt like spiders crawling under her skin. A
strange sensation she couldn’t shake. Her guard was up, but she had an intense feeling
to put on a poker face and appear oblivious to the obvious change in atmosphere.
The wind knew no tameness, it was restless. The usual pulling to run had
intensified. For the first time, Cheznie felt it might be trying to save her. But save her
from what?
Cheznie continued through town trying to shake the feeling. She stopped
in front of the dress shop and looked in the window. A breathtaking lace dress was
on display, the color of a midnight sky.
Not the usual thing they display Cheznie thought.
As she continued looking at the deathly dress, the shop window showed

29 30
 her refection. Along with someone else’s. It was Delilah, better known as the Town had no use.
Trash. She was leaning on the side of her sad excuse for a house, wearing shiny red Delilah reappeared, but this time aloft the wooden stature. A noose was the
leather shoes with a heal tall enough to be considered scandalous as she had the only jewelry adorning her neck. She looked into the sea of green and brown eyes,
millions of times Cheznie had seen her before. Peering at Cheznie through the side Cheznie’s the only ones to match hers. Delilah did not cry for the fear of her own
of her sapphire eyes, pretending like she wasn’t. Delilah was a pretty woman, but no death, but the death of her daughter that would soon follow.
one would ever admit that out loud. A memory danced in Cheznie’s mind. Snow All too soon it was over, the twitching carcass only brought entertainment
on her cheeks. She was little. She liked the snow, it tasted good. It hurt though, like to the crowd. Cheznie could only stare, the lifeless blue eyes were glued to her own
needles pricking her fingertips. She had been caught out in a snowstorm and was and she could not move. The body was taken down and swarmed by the crowd as if
scared. Delilah let her come into her house and gave warm milk and honey that they were a colony of ants, so that it could be prepared, but still, she could not move.
made her belly tingle. Where the body went, she followed.
Delilah had let her wander around the room and look at all her trinkets. She The town gathered for their meal, each awaiting their share with drooling
liked it there, it felt safe, until there had been a knock at the door. It was mother. She anticipation. A fight broke out between a group of men who were foaming at the
was mad. Momma gave Delilah a cold glare, colder than the temperature outside. mouth and gnashing their teeth at each other as if they were wild dogs. Cheznie was
Cheznie didn’t care to remember the rest, it didn’t matter. That was the only time handed her plate and utensils, like the rest. And like the rest, her plate was filled.
Cheznie had seen her pretty eyes sparkle with tears. Momma had that effect on Meat and potatoes, just like mother had promised. She emptied her plate just as the
people though. others did, and her now clean plate reflected her new image. The haze was lifted, and
That’s the thing about momma, she wasn’t gentle. Cheznie always felt like she was no longer her old puny little girl self. Poison eyes and raven hair were her
a little girl around the woman. Small, weak, incapable. Everyone was seen a certain new reflection, and a sickening strength surged inside her. When Cheznie looked
way in town, for Delilah that was trash, and for Cheznie it was a puny little girl. You across the table, she met her mother’s gaze, and for once, the emerald eyes gazing
learn to fit into the box people choose for you no matter how camped it might feel. back were filled with acceptance. She belonged.
Cheznie had lived in this town her whole life, and that was long enough. She knew
her parents would never let her leave; it didn’t matter that she was nineteen. Her
parents controlled everything, the town, the gossip, and of course Cheznie.
As she had gotten older, the rift between Cheznie and her mother seemed
only to grow. They were nothing alike. Momma had raven hair and devilish green
eyes that would stare into your soul in disgust, as if it wasn’t good enough. Cheznie
was the embodiment of sunshine with her golden hair and ocean eyes. Deep down
she had a carefree soul, and she wanted to run.
A shrieking echoed through the streets. Delilah was being ripped from her
shack, by a mob of towns people completely dressed in black. Cheznie stared, not
knowing how to react. She saw Momma, backing the mob. She too dressed in black
with her raven hair and sickening eyes. She was death itself.
“RUN!” was the only thing Delilah could say and Cheznie knew the words
were meant for her.
She bolted through the town as fast as she could, but the air had sickness
weighing it down and her lungs were heavy. She ran like never before, but she didn’t
move. She was stuck in this town. A thunder of feet grew louder behind her, and the
sinking feeling of defeat crept upon her.
A ringing in her ears was the only noise that filled her head. She wanted to
fight, but she lacked the ability to even try. She walked among the crowed as if she
were being swept by a current merely going with the flow. Her soul was screaming,
but the ringing only drowned out the noise. Her body was not her own, her mind

31 Katriel Beebe Katriel Beebe 32

 New Views Hangin Out on the Bluffs
Jacob Moore Jacob Moore

33 34
 The One About the Goats
Jason Calvin

When I was young I wandered around Dad’s

last night
skin cracks under my feet
those goats starve on the rest
you see
the old man is collecting again
creatures that bear resemblance
like always

back then

the calendar robbed the gold

cemetery wind arrested
the wooden claws
rake the empty pall
to redeem yesterdays’ color
or
to bleach my Earth
in a burden of silence
capable of preserving
each
elusive step ?

The one who most resembles his master

has a white coat
with a hyperactive stare
he bluffs
by standing perfectly still
his eyes lock me in
Brisk Mountain Air no matter how far I advance
the effigy keeps pace
Jacob Moore then, the bride appears...
Her good eye is glass

35 36
 she wagered the other
and lost to a crow Boisterous
to see clearly
she shuffles those Tarot
the deck I stole from in my youth
Heather Oltrogge
I pocketed Fortune
to protect you
I’d draw Justice
now
the conscious one
waits
to sell me out
But then,
“I don’t think you trust…”
that song
takes me
back
inside
downstairs
the room is on time
but it’s empty
and smaller now
I look out the window
the spy doesn’t blink
in the hallway
a rat
fails
to avoid the wheelchair’s path
no one weeps
except the singer, he cries on cue
when “angels deserve to die”
shrink wrap the remains
then in return
she asks,
“were you guilty again?”
I can’t seem to write it any other way

37 Jason Calvin 38
 Traveling Voices Home Away
Jennifer Downing Heather Oltrogge

I have seen you through the ages

I have felt you through the years
The deepest depth of my being has yearned
for you and yet you are so far.
I have taken a risk to pour my heart
upon your deaf ears
and awaited your answer to no avail.

My bleeding heart has bled dry waiting

Each day I have spent running through these words
Wondering if your mind will change for me
My voice is hoarse from yelling across the miles
that stretch between us.

The silence I hear saddens and weakens me

I have projected this pain upon those around me
and used it to sink myself into misery
You are my open wound
Your words are coarse salt
Digging deep into my veins

My threshold of love can no longer hold you

Time has come for me to let you go
My love for you was as deep as the ocean blue
and as tall as the evergreen mountains

On top of the word, it will remain

without me and without you.

39 40
 Yellowstone Contained
Heather Oltrogge

41 42
 Mothers are brave
Samantha Eder
Two shining faces find
You are seventeen years old And knows what to say Their way to your bed
Strangled by responsibility To make your strength cave In the morning
Living on your own He carves a pit in your soul Their laughter is heard
Listening to all the wrong voices Until you are hollow Behind your tired eyes
Waking up in someone’s arms Somehow, despite that They giggle because you are a good mom
And he can’t terminate what’s already been
Hazy nights reek The second heart beating
born
Of cigarettes and shame Besides yours is real
Looking back, but
No one called your name His breath on your neck
Knowledge missed, forget that it’s paid for Fills you with disgust
Crippling anxiety is in control He threatens termination
Don’t let his words,
Pack all your broken pieces into boxes
The words of a narcissist
You are twenty years old Restraining orders don’t work on men with Ooze into your mind.
Full of new hope no soul The maltreatment is caustic
And new life
Giant butterflies kicking out like baby feet Headlights in the rear-view mirror
The scar on your head A terrified scream echoes from the backseat
Points to better days Clutching the wheel
But no matter how hard you fight As his truck smashes forward
He always comes back Over and over
Don’t look back Be relentless.
You are twenty-two years old Without you, they only have
Filled with six months of strength “You are so brave
Him.
And two years of hate You’re doing the right thing,
Heart covered in bandages But remember you have to be strong
Neck covered in bruises You’re a mom”
He mocks when you talk They say as you leave, never looking back.
And laughs when you cry
But mothers are strong Thousands of miles
You can never go back and you still think
He’ll find you
You are twenty-four years old But mothers are strong
And branded a fool And three-year-olds are too little
He is— persistent To practice escape drills
43 44
 Be brave, but also be prepared;
Always carry cash
And a bag
With clothes for three. Be smart. Put your social media on lockdown.
Never post pictures
Or accept new friends.
Requests on the web
You can’t trust them.

Only look back to

Back into the garage;
It makes for a quick
Getaway.
Don’t let little faces see you react.
Jump every time you hear a truck pass,
Peek out the curtains, but remember
Mothers are brave.

Don’t be scared, be wary;

Don’t answer the door,
Don’t touch the lights,
Just pretend you’re not home.
“Shhhhhhhhhhhhh”
The baby doesn’t like when you cover his
mouth.

45 Samantha Eder Samantha Eder 46

 The Song I Write
Kenzie Fradley
Mothers are brave,
But I am—Petrified.
There isn’t a chorus that my voice could meld
Even when you block out your address Into a harmonious blend of timely melodies
On the legal paperwork, I dip instead these draping words into thick ink
The letterhead still reads Hoping that the color bleeds right off the page
“Billings, Montana” Into wandering eyes, a searching restless mind

Perhaps it curious how I knew

The rhythm that could be drawn into scripture
Of unholy origins, but a soul annotated anew
Altars of symbolism into connecting verbs
Tied with twine, nouns sewn into eternal maps

Fragmented web of lunar illuminated reveries

Could perhaps eclipse the grammatical matter
Find a home nestled between a coiled tongue
Sensation of static neuron’s stimuli and synapses
A sum of two becoming the song of one

I can’t master the sounds resting in your ears

Still I gently caress the vowels and consonants
Have them churn the skies like a rising sun
Discovering divine grace in the weaving words
Growing seeds into supple epiphanies

The dance of scattered letters form meaning

Cognizance and reminisce becoming lovers
Who felt the conception of eternity between
Their entangled bodies as if abstract art
The living embodiment of unsullied poetry

Ventricles and sulcal like valleys and gullies

Conceal my wanderlust driven whims
A place where the holy source, a soul, rises
Into beckoning heaven’s gates that mimics
The silhouette of these words I write for you

47 Samantha Eder 48
 losing my mind.
The Ghost Train It looked like a completely normal train but it had this fine mist surrounding
it giving it a sense of eeriness. When the doors opened, some of the mist blew out
into the early morning air. Against my better judgment I found myself unconsciously
Century Rasmussen walking to the open doors. I just had to take a peek inside. I thought I would be able
to look inside the train without actually stepping on, but the mist was too dense to
see through. So I entered through the train doors.
Before the railroad closed a train would come through St. Charles every
morning at four o’clock. My alarm was always set to go off at six, but I never woke
up at that time. The train was my alarm clock. It woke me up every time it rumbled
through the town. I could never get myself to fall back asleep after its clicking and
clacking eventually faded.
Only, the railroad closed about two years ago. It put a lot of people out
of jobs, but everyone made sure that no neighbor was struggling. Potlucks became
common and Sundays were the days for dialing up the neighbors and checking in.
Yet, in all of the phone calls I’ve been a member of, I have never mentioned the one
thing about the railroad that still haunts me.
The whole town would think I’ve gone crazy, so I never told a soul. My
alarm clock is still set to go off at six in the morning, but I still get up at four. No,
I don’t wake up through natural instinct… I wish it could be explained that easily.
Every dawn, I still hear the faintest sound of the train rolling through St. Charles.
You’re thinking that I’m delusional, that it’s just a figment of my imagination. You
may be right but how do you explain something like this to a doctor? Those tracks
are clearly abandoned, erosion and weeds have made their marks. So what’s wrong
with me?
I need answers. I lay awake at night wondering if I’ll fall asleep and finally
wake up to my alarm clock and not the “train.” So I’m taking actions into my own
hands. I’m pitching a tent in a field near the tracks. My biggest fear is not seeing
the train but rather having the cops arrive asking me what I think I am doing. How
on Earth would I explain that? I have everything I need to stay warm and awake
throughout the night so I will set off to my patch of grass when the clock strikes
midnight.
After arriving at my campsite and preparing all of my accommodations I
tried my very hardest to stay awake and not doze off. I tried to read, I tried to write, I
even tried to draw. However, around three in the morning I began to succumb to my
exhaustion. I never slept long that night. Within an hour the train began to rumble
past.
I woke up, unzipped the opening of my tent and stepped into the brisk air.
I assumed that I would watch the train pass by and be satisfied in my mind. That
wasn’t the case. As I stepped out the train was coming to a stop. I thought I was

49 50
 Untitled The Block
Annie Trinh Lexus Harris

Dim
yellow lights paint the concrete
casting
shadows of brave souls,
broken
souls binded with grief.

Flickering
as motivation weakens
they
kick rocks and dodge bullets,
fighting
the urge to pull them from their skin.

Holes
open through their shoes,
focusing
pain into a different point.
Distracting
souls

51 52
 Community
Jacob Moore

53 54
 Before My Shift Napkins
Chase Johnson Chase Johnson

It’s snowing but nothing sticks. Twelve dollars for a burger,

There’s a hawk gliding fried onions hang
in the light like electrical wires shocking
grey waves above your tongue, sending signals of flavor.
and a groundhog is playing The bun crushed like concrete
without a care. of a neglected sidewalk.
These April showers Pickles peeled like poets from desks.
push on daisies.
Twelve six one free for a poem.
Paper crisp like white plates
for you to eat upon.
Periods and commas salt and pepper
the words you consume.
A name and title on the side
to dot the corners of your mouth.
Pull out your wallet, a dollar for the service.
The poet cleans up.

55 56
 Wanting Water The Field
Chase Johnson Sophia Pitts

There was long, soft grass flowing for miles in the green sea
I waded along over the hills
Through ladybugs and rays of light
Picking cornflowers and blackeyed susans

57 58
 kicking the bedpost when he fails to find his preferred victim. We are plunged into
monster. darkness again. Finally, she whispers.

I’m not scared of you.

Jenna Strobel
i know.

i live in the closet. In school, they taught me to lurk under the bed. Move ***
things around and make noises and all that. But i stay in the closet. i want peace. i like
the sound of the child’s soft, peaceful breathing. Especially when the mother is gone. i can’t stop thinking about the night in the closet. How a mere child could
In school, they said that the parents’ absence was a perfect setup for a successful have such irrational courage over one thing, like myself, in light of another, greater
night. But it is quiet when the mother is gone. There are never screams or strange fear. She does not deserve to live with terror. i am glad that she told me that she did
laughs when the mother is gone. not fear me, because i would have loathed to leave my closet. At least for good. i did
overcome my own fear of the outside. i won’t say where i went.
Another one is home with the mother tonight. But this one is here to stay.
This one is here to rule. i can tell by the footsteps and the careless voice shouting i still prefer my closet. But i have found a new freedom. i’m not scared
profanities. The child is awake now. i want to go to her and cover her ears. But i stay anymore.
in my corner, where i belong.
***
Within days, the carpet is stained with alcohol, and the smell of cigarettes
seeps in under the closet door. The days are filled with the bawdy noise of sit-coms; My monster is gone. Not the one in the closet. It’s still there, though my
the nights are characterized by all manner of disquiet. i miss the nights alone with mother would never believe me. No, I mean the one they found in the alley. A John
the breath of the girl. i almost wish for the dead silence of my own existence, one Doe for days. Died of alcohol poisoning, they said. Serves him right. I think my
without any breath at all. closet-monster had something to do with it, though it’s never mentioned it. Then
again, I’ve only ever heard two words from it.

Noise. The closet door rattles as something slams against it. Things are It doesn’t have to matter if it admits anything, though. I know.
breaking. Cries pierce through the racket. The cries of a child, a girl. My girl. It takes
everything in me to stay in my corner, where i belong. The night is a siege on the
peace i have built for myself. Even the quiet, hours later, is deafening. Pink morning
light seeps in through the cracks of the door. The next twelve hours are filled with
the disposal of evidence. Broken glass is swept away. Things are set to right. The
closet sinks back into darkness. Bright yellow light blares through the cracks. A few
minutes later, the light is switched back off. The girl’s breathing deepens. i settle in
for the night.

The new one crashes his way down the hallway, through trash and bottles.
The closet door opens abruptly, then eases shut. A small body presses against my
dark, dry skin. She lets out a small gasp, takes a shaky breath, and presses back into
my corner. Surprised at her audacity, i give her room. Her breaths are shaky and
shallow. i am suddenly grateful that i have never been the cause of this sort of fear.
Light slices through the cracks again. The man stumbles around angrily, cursing and

59 60
 Autumn Bull
Mia Yegen

61 62
 The Weeping One The Crow Foresees
Amber Robinson Rylie Wiebe

I looked into the void The crow foresees the greed for those who sin.
And I saw the bleeding heart of the universe For he can see the way to reach your heart.
The crow detects dismay to sin’s chagrin.
She weeps
Tears etching canyons into her surface His eyes enchant beyond the sin within.
Left behind is the essence of a thousand burning stars Reflect, for sinners change their wicked start.
The crow foresees the greed for those who sin.
She never forgets
Each soul has woven into her His eyes, they shine so pure like stars within.
Milky strands embedded within her Repent, for those who stare can see his art.
The crow detects dismay to sin’s chagrin.
She is not death
For death is cold and unyielding My friend, do you request your fate to pin.
She holds the darkness at bay its chains buried in her skin Upon the wall that eyes will tend to dart.
The crow foresees the greed for those who sin.

Sublime it feels to have a soul of tin.

For he does not forgive if you don’t part.
The crow detects dismay to sin’s chagrin.

Relent, you feel neglect dispel off skin.

You can be free of sin if you be so smart.
The crow foresees the greed for those who sin.
The crow detects dismay to sin’s chagrin.

63 64
 Contributor Biographies
How to Submit to The Rook Brie Barron is a senior at MSUB specializing in literature, linguistics, and sociology, and
is the mother to two children who are, in fact, the best. She was a winner of Sigma Tau
Delta’s poetry contest from 2019-2021 and her work has been published in Up the Staircase
The deadline for submissions changes each year and you can check the deadline for your year on the- Quarterly, The Rook, and Montana Research, Creativity, & Community Involvement.
rook.weebly.com or by sending your question to therook@msubillings.edu. Her essay “Entropic Interactionist Theory: Reading Social Constructionism through
Thermodynamics and Samuel Beckett” is forthcoming from Criterion.
MSUB students (undergrad, grad, and dual-enrollment) can submit as many pieces as they would
like—we want to see them all! Keep submitting until the deadline, and happy creating!
Jason Calvin
It’s springtime, my last semester as an undergraduate. Soon, I will transition into the mind
of others with a Master’s in Human Services.
Writers: In addition to exploring the dark corners of existence through the music of
the dead, I discovered a passion for poetry. My piece, “The Box,” a tale of life taken too
We accept poems, short stories, novel excerpts, creative nonfiction, original translations, critical soon, made last year’s edition of The Rook. Since then, I have found my niche by spilling
essays, one-act plays, whatever you’ve got! uncomfortable subjects into fractured continuities with bizarre symbolism. I weave our
nightmares.
Please limit submissions to a maximum of 5000 words.
“the one about the Goats” is an example, exploring we deem some more fitting
for the funeral pall, or maybe how we navigate our guilt, or maybe its all a swerve? Your
Email your work to therook@msubillings.edu attached as a .docx.
path is not mine to choose.
My name is Jason Calvin, and until next time, try to enjoy the daylight.

Artists: In his early years, Aiden Cole started his journey with creativity through the writing and
crafting stories of all kinds throughout his childhood. However, as he got older, Cole began
We accept all forms of art! This includes, but is not limited to, paintings, drawings, photography, to crave a different type of storytelling and so began his pursuit of fine artistry at MSUB
sculptures, ceramics, and the list goes on! to explore communicating through visuals. Pairing his skills in writing with a passion for
the visual arts, Cole has gained a fresh perspective on what it means to bring a narrative
Please send your submission as a 300 PSI image. Shoot us an email if you need help!
to a curious viewer. His chosen themes are exploring the nuances of humanity, capturing
Email your work to therook@msubillings.edu as an .jpg or .png attachment. the quirks and oddities of the human mind and condition in paint, photography, and
animation.

Zachary Cooper
All: I am currently a teacher at Riverside Middle School. I try to keep things interesting with
​ lots of stories and classic adventure books. I have been married to my wife for 14 years and
If you have multiple submissions, please ensure that each is titled so that we know which is which. we have three children.
If you would like to leave it untitled, write (UNTITLED). If your piece is actually called “Untitled”,
just make sure we know!
My name is Jennifer Downing and I am a graduate student in the Public Relations
program. I am almost finished and will graduate in May. I have found considerable relief in
writing poetry and it has opened my eyes to many new perspectives.

Samantha Eder is a junior at MSUB and is majoring in English with a focus on

Literature. Some of her hobbies include trying new things, reading, writing, and doodling.
Sam is a mother to 4 wonderful children and enjoys spending all her free time with her
family.

65 66
 Matthew James Hodgson is temporarily a high school English teacher at Harlem photography. She’s taken a majority of casual portraits, senior portraits, business portraits,
High School, near the Fort Belknap Indian Reservation in North Montana. He recently family photos, engagement, and so on within the Flathead Community and continues to
completed a master’s degree at the University of Chicago, where he studied psychoanalysis do so wherever she can.
and Virginia Woolf. Hodgson has published work in Evansville Review, Garden of Venus,
and The Rook, among others. He founded a printing press dedicated to publishing student Flor Vega-Castillo is a graduate student from Lima, Peru. This spring, She will
voices in 2021. graduate from the Master of Science in Public Relations program at MSU Billings and
start her Master’s Degree in Public Administration at MSU (Bozeman) this fall 2022. Her
Chase Johnson interests are networking, attending conferences related to multiculturality, diversity, equity,
I currently work at ZooMontana writing signs, newsletters, and grants. I even get to take and leading nonprofit organizations. She is the president of Cuenta Conmigo (Count
Gabel the Great Horned Owl for walks. My poetry doesn’t get much reach, but I’m so on me). This organization promotes higher education for Peruvian teenagers. She also
grateful Calista, my girlfriend, is always eager to hear what I’ve written. I hope you get as accepted the role of Vice President of Public Relations and Engagement of the UNA-USA
much satisfaction from reading as I get from writing these. MSU Bozeman chapter. Writing poems and fiction stories in her mother tongue, Spanish,
was always part of her; this time, she’s writing in English and could not be happier to see
Shantelle Nalley is a 25-year-old writer studying Liberal Studies with concentrations what comes next.
in Psychology and English. Her favorite part about writing stories is the psychological
implications behind it and the character analysis and character building. She spends a lot Magnolia West is a Billings-raised student who attends here at MSUB. She is a Junior
of her free time writing stories with her friends and her biggest goal is to write and publish currently double majoring in Art Education K-12 and the Bachelor of Fine Arts. She
fictional novels that focus on the psychology of her characters and what it means to be currently is a Residential Assistant in the Rimrock dorms and walks/takes care of pets as
human. her job. Her hobbies include art, music, theater, and just being outside overall.

Born and raised in Montana, Heather Oltrogge developed an interest in nature and Rylie Wiebe
humanity’s relationship to it. Oltrogge has been featured in multiple exhibitions including I am an alumnus of MSUB with a degree in Psychology. I plan to continue my education
MSUB’s 2021 Juried Student Exhibition and Art Show International Gallery’s 4th landscape and become a licensed counselor. I enjoy spending time with my dogs.
exhibition. Oltrogge works with a multitude of mediums such as charcoal, acrylic, and
epoxy resin. What first started as a way to express her love for her home state developed
into a strong passion for art and a desire to share that with others.

Sophia Pitts is a twelfth grader at Senior High School who plans to major in
Environmental Studies.

Amber Robinson is a senior in the Biology major at MSUB with plans to study medicine.
She loves Marvel movies and painting in her free time. She has a deep passion for music
and would love to do a continued study in mathematics when she can find the time.

My name is Jenna Strobel and I am a senior at Billings Senior High School. I enjoy
creative activities and plan to go into Interior Design at Gallatin College next year. I also
enjoy writing, music, and outdoor activities like hunting, camping, and hiking. I enjoyed
writing this story because it allowed me to shed light on a very real issue from a different
perspective. I believe that even fictional pieces such as this one can have a great impact on
how we all view hard topics like abuse. I hope that this piece can become more than just a
story; I hope it is a call to battle against the real monsters in life.

Annie Trinh is a 21-year-old Asian American girl who is a full-time student at MSUB
from Kalispell, MT. She is working towards majoring in Sociology and Communications
to hopefully one day be able to make a bigger impact within her community. While she
is also working part-time, she still continues to pursue one of her biggest passions for

67 68