168 10 9760 https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/3f3d80b27228157959561bdf6079503f.pdf 5bc52de343530ccba25e8ceb4ded622a PDF Text Text '1/Vasp Grace iHolloway Non-Fiction In the right tail light of my dad’s car is a wasp. Sun bleached: it lies preserved in the tomb that it died in. He told me it had been there since the day he got the car, “Do you see it?” He said as he pointed to the mummified body. It lay there in all its seemingly unmemorable pointless glory, and it still does. The only difference is the belated knowledge I have of its existence and the stripes that were once black on its fragile body were now a faded gray. It has accompanied me hundreds and thousands of miles, from the time I was stuck strictly to the role of back seat passenger to now. It remains the same, with a different driver, and consequently, what must seem to the wasp like an unusually cruel eternal damnation in a layer of hell that plays the same pop music on repeat. I never met the wasp. Our introduction may be better defined as a viewing of an exhibit. It felt as unnerving as the mummy exhibit I had gone to as a child, something not meant to be seen in the state it is in. Maybe this wasp was a powerful political figure in its nest and went out to campaign, maybe it was a famous philosopher, or some nut job that every other wasp would whisper about to each other with a judgmental side eye. I cannot begin to understand what it was, but it remains what it is in my eyes. In passing, I may not acknowledge its existence, but knowing it was once living and now dead attaches me to it with a conceptual empathetic humanism I have never understood before. The last time I encountered a wasp on such an intimate level it stung me, yet I still allow this one to occupy my mind with grace, not holding the grudge of its seven-times-removed great, great, great grandchild that harmed me. Would it still hold all the meaning it does if I had seen it alive? It might not have held its place in my thoughts if I had seen it dead on the ground. Somehow, the perfect preservation of its death is what connects me to it on such a deep level. I draw parallels between myself and the corpse in the taillight, a relic of its own time, and now mine. At a point in history, it was living, existing in the world to give and take as needed. Then it died, what I can only imagine was a suffocating, terrifying death, encased somewhere unknown and unable to escape. Whether it entered on its own or the time and place had perfectly aligned to seal its fate, its death was certified and inevitable. The wasp had no choice, but it knew no better than any other, Was it wishing it had lived 6^tk EditiQnLlte'iatn'ie Ufl �Wa&p In the right tail light of my dad’s car is a wasp. Sun bleached: it lies preserved in the tomb that it died in. He told me it had been there since the day he got the car, "Do you see it?” He said as he pointed to the mummified body. It lay there in all its seemingly unmemorable pointless glory, and it still does. The only difference is the belated knowledge I have of its existence and the stripes that were once black on its fragile body were now a faded gray. It has accompanied me hundreds and thousands of miles, from the time I was stuck strictly to the role of back seat passenger to now. It remains the same, with a different driver, and consequently, what must seem to the wasp like an unusually cruel eternal damnation in a layer of hell that plays the same pop music on repeat. I never met the wasp. Our introduction may be better defined as a viewing of an exhibit. It felt as unnerving as the mummy exhibit I had gone to as a child, something not meant to be seen in the state it is in. Maybe this wasp was a powerful political figure in its nest and went out to campaign, maybe it was a famous philosopher, or some nut job that every other wasp would whisper about to each other with a judgmental side eye. I cannot begin to understand what it was, but it remains what it is in my eyes. In passing, I may not acknowledge its existence, but knowing it was once living and now dead attaches me to it with a conceptual empathetic humanism I have never understood before. The last time I encountered a wasp on such an intimate level it stung me, yet 1 still allow this one to occupy my mind with grace, not holding the grudge of its seven-times-removed great, great, great grandchild that harmed me. Would it still hold all the meaning it does if I had seen it alive? It might not have held its place in my thoughts if I had seen it dead on the ground. Somehow, the perfect preservation of its death is what connects me to it on such a deep level. I draw parallels between myself and the corpse in the taillight, a relic of its own time, and now mine. At a point in history, it was living, existing in the world to give and take as needed. Then it died, what I can only imagine was a suffocating, terrifying death, encased somewhere unknown and unable to escape. Whether it entered on its own or the time and place had perfectly aligned to seal its fate, its death was certified and inevitable. The wasp had no choice, but it knew no better than any other. Was it wishing it had lived differently, thought differently, or been more than it was? Maybe its spirit now looked over its own body and thought, “What I wouldn't give to be in my hive this Sunday,” Only able to hear itself. LIV (ixpiission Magazine �Wasp Living in a little town, growing up under a corner streetlight that made itself known with its pale glow and incessant hum. It makes the ten-foot radius around it feel like some kind of obscure liminal space. I understand that wasp more than most people could. I live day to day, just as it did, unwavering in the routine of my survival. Maybe this town is my taillight, where I’m trapped, rarely seen, and most days forgotten—doomed to the same fate. Left knowing that in the end, no one was coming to save me. Or maybe the wasp has remained there to be some kind of motivational support while also rolling its eyes and muttering, "You’re dramatic, it could be worse. I mean, look at me.” There’s a beauty in it, even if to some it seems strange and macabre. Morbid as it may be, the wasp calms me. It is stuck, riding along the same streets, seeing the same scenes, in Wyoming, of all places it could’ve possibly been. It is confined to my life and my experiences, yet I believe it has made itself at home with me. A sense of comfort has formed between us, each knowing the other is there—even if one of us is just a dead bug. Despite our wasp and human language barrier, and my lack of insect clairvoyance, the appreciation for each other’s existence persists, even in its unspoken state. The wasp and I have an immortal attachment it remains unaware of. I’d like to believe that I could’ve shown it something the way it has shown me life through its ending, but I don’t know if that kind of thing would really matter to a wasp as much as I wish it would. I like to refer to it as the Grandfather Wasp, an integral part of its quiddity, preserving my perception of the world in its tiny, delicate form. It reminds me of the experience of existing, the lack of control every living being has over its own life, and how it all is intertwined. With or without me everything remains, and my significance can only be what is allowed. Even in what may seem like an insignificant form to something greater, I remain appreciated. I’ve learned a specific type of forgiveness for life through those faded gray and yellow stripes, one that allows me to exist as I am, without focusing on everything I should be. 64th fxUtionliteiatu-ie LV � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wasp Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div class="element-text"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <p><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></p> </div> </div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <p><em>Expression</em><span>&nbsp;</span>claims first North American rights to submissions selected for publication. All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Grace Holloway Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2024_Prose_07 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/1793a6952e0f089f41eab218f1db5826.pdf 4b6f2b06c3952412c92c2c6377094e38 PDF Text Text rkc Erosion ofAhs. Montgomcy Jamie L Smith Fiction Wind and sand had long eroded the shuttered and boarded up businesses of the small town. Old signs, once brightly painted, were stripped, coated with grit dulled to gray. Now, the edges of the town had begun to erode with the strength of the wind. Wayward tumbleweeds gathered at the corners of derelict buildings that held a lifetime of memories. Buildings like The Strand, the first and only movie theater which stood at the edge of downtown. Once a popular destination now left to the elements, left to the erosion, left to mark the end. The old movie theater held many firsts: kisses, breakups, love, lust, and laughter. Mrs. Montgomery remembered her first kiss with Mr. Montgomery, as she drove by on her way to nowhere, away from everything. She stopped in the middle of the grocery store's parking lot. The cracked and sunbleached charcoal-gray lot was empty except for the carnival workers putting away rides and packing up prizes. She watched as the wind tore at the workers, the visible grit from the windstorm made the packing and moving of large sections of the rides much more difficult. She gripped the steering wheel—angry, frustrated, sad, and feeling very much alone. Tears refused to form; they had formed so much lately that she felt crying was a waste of time. Large tumbleweeds blew by catching her attention. She watched them disappear into an empty space of closed industrial buildings, and a knock at the driver's window startled her. A man bent over as she opened the window, the wind whipping her hair around, “Yes.. .?” *** As a young girl, Mrs. Montgomery lived sandwiched between the boom and bust cycles of Wyoming. Her father had been a coal miner in the little town of Honor, Wyoming. The land had been divested of its trees for the trains when it ran on wood, in the first decades of the railroad’s existence. What remained was sand, sagebrush, and coal. Patches of grass could be seen, but not many, and certainly not in abundance. The Montgomerys lived in a trailer owned by the mines, never having a home of her own. Her family eventually moved to Carbon for work. **« “Honey, I bought a new Magic card for the game tonight. It’s supposed to level up and destroy, giving me more mana,” said Mr. Montgomery, as he proudly displayed a card with a zombie and scythe. XLVIII Cxf'iesstoti Magazine �The C'lasuin of M'ls. Atnntgomci^ Annoyed, Mrs. Montgomery began folding clothes. Each shirt somewhat mangled in bitter frustration. Snapping a red shirt forcefully, “First, darling, didn’t we decide on no more Magic cards for a while? Maven has a choir trip to New York in a month and Mark Jr. is getting braces in the spring. Second, dear, didn’t we decide to have more family time. You're gone more than you’re home.” «** Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery were high school sweethearts with a future laid out before them. After high school, they married quickly, and Mr. Montgomery went to college to become a chemical engineer. She took a job in the same college’s alumni association’s office. The job provided a living, while her husband studied. Before Mr. Montgomery’s graduation from college, Maddox was born. He was fair-skinned with soft, chestnut hair. His hazel eyes sparkled with intelligence, even at a week old. After Maddox came Maven and Mark Jr. Maven had stunning, glacier-like eyes that pierced through anyone who met her gaze. She was softer in her nature than either of her brothers. Mark Jr. had deep, brown eyes with secrets behind them, Mrs. Montgomery was sure of it. She thought their family was finally complete. After a while, Mr. Montgomery found a job with a drilling company. A few years later, Mrs. Montgomery quit her job to take care of her young children. With only one person working, money was always tight. He provided adequately, but it wasn’t enough for the grand future Mrs. Montgomery planned, and year by year, her plans eroded, like the soil of the nearby windswept Wyoming prairie. The Montgomerys lived in one of many trailer parks inhabited by oil field workers. Theirs was a fancy, modular home, the contemporary version of a double-wide, made beautiful by a garden, white trellis, and ivy covering the deck. Wild yellow roses grew on either side of the porch. The yellow dulled by constantly-shifting sand, grit, and wind. She was first-generation in a town full of legacies. She could only reach a certain level in the small-town society, until she was reminded that she would never quite belong. Mr. Montgomery stood, arms crossed, jaw jutted forward, looking belligerent. Wednesdays were his days. He provided for the family, worked overtime for Christmas, and she got to stay home. It was his only night to play Magic: The Gathering. He admitted to himself that he had not wanted to be home for any length of time, for a long time. 64th EdUianUteiaticic XLIX �The TiasuM afM'is. Mont^omc'y Wind and sand had long eroded the shuttered and boarded up businesses of the small town. Old signs, once brightly painted, were stripped, coated with grit dulled to gray. Now, the edges of the town had begun to erode with the strength of the wind. Wayward tumbleweeds gathered at the corners of derelict buildings that held a lifetime of memories. Buildings like The Strand, the first and only movie theater which stood at the edge of downtown. Once a popular destination now left to the elements, left to the erosion, left to mark the end. The old movie theater held many firsts: kisses, breakups, love, lust, and laughter. Mrs. Montgomery remembered her first kiss with Mr. Montgomery, as she drove by on her way to nowhere, away from everything. She stopped in the middle of the grocery store’s parking lot. The cracked and sunbleached charcoal-gray lot was empty except for the carnival workers putting away rides and packing up prizes. She watched as the wind tore at the workers, the visible grit from the windstorm made the packing and moving of large sections of the rides much more difficult. She gripped the steering wheel—angry, frustrated, sad, and feeling very much alone. Tears refused to form; they had formed so much lately that she felt crying was a waste of time. Large tumbleweeds blew by catching her attention. She watched them disappear into an empty space of closed industrial buildings, and a knock at the driver’s window startled her. A man bent over as she opened the window, the wind whipping her hair around, "Yes...?’’ ★ ** As a young girl, Mrs. Montgomery lived sandwiched between the boom and bust cycles of Wyoming. Her father had been a coal miner in the little town of Honor, Wyoming. The land had been divested of its trees for the trains when it ran on wood, in the first decades of the railroad’s existence. What remained was sand, sagebrush, and coal. Patches of grass could be seen, but not many, and certainly not in abundance. The Montgomerys lived in a trailer owned by the mines, never having a home of her own. Her family eventually moved to Carbon for work. *★* “Honey, I bought a new Magic card for the game tonight. It's supposed to level up and destroy, giving me more mana,” said Mr. Montgomery, as he proudly displayed a card with a zombie and scythe. Annoyed, Mrs. Montgomery began folding clothes. Each shirt somewhat mangled in bitter frustration. Snapping a red shirt forcefully, “First, darling, didn’t we decide on no more Magic cards for a while? Maven has a choir trip to New York in a month and Mark Jr. is getting braces in the spring. 1_ Txp'iesdott Magazine �The T'losion ofM'lS. Mant^ome'i^ Second, dear, didn’t we decide to have more family time. You're gone more than you’re home.” **« Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery were high school sweethearts with a future laid out before them. After high school, they married quickly, and Mr. Montgomery went to college to become a chemical engineer. She took a job in the same college’s alumni association's office. The job provided a living, while her husband studied. Before Mr. Montgomery's graduation from college, Maddox was born. He was fair-skinned with soft, chestnut hair. His hazel eyes sparkled with intelligence, even at a week old. After Maddox came Maven and Mark Jr. Maven had stunning, glacier-like eyes that pierced through anyone who met her gaze. She was softer in her nature than either of her brothers. Mark Jr. had deep, brown eyes with secrets behind them, Mrs. Montgomery was sure of it. She thought their family was finally complete. After a while, Mr. Montgomery found a job with a drilling company. A few years later, Mrs. Montgomery quit her job to take care of her young children. With only one person working, money was always tight. He provided adequately, but it wasn’t enough for the grand future Mrs. Montgomery planned, and year by year, her plans eroded, like the soil of the nearby windswept Wyoming prairie. The Montgomerys lived in one of many trailer parks inhabited by oil field workers. Theirs was a fancy, modular home, the contemporary version of a double-wide, made beautiful by a garden, white trellis, and ivy covering the deck. Wild yellow roses grew on either side of the porch. ITie yellow dulled by constantly-shifting sand, grit, and wind. She was first-generation in a town full of legacies. She could only reach a certain level in the small-town society, until she was reminded that she would never quite belong. Mr. Montgomery stood, arms crossed, jaw jutted forward, looking belligerent. Wednesdays were his days. He provided for the family, worked overtime for Christmas, and she got to stay home. It was his only night to play Magic: The Gathering. He admitted to himself that he had not wanted to be home for any length of time, for a long time. "Now, we talked about this... It's the only downtime I get when I’m home.” “And,” Mrs. Montgomery raised her eyebrow, matching his stance. She was fixing to go- a-round with Mr. Montgomery, but she stopped herself. ★** 64th. Teiitlim.Ute'iatieit Li �Maddox would graduate with a welding certificate, and nothing more to offer the world. Maven was a junior varsity cheerleader that could sing, but not well enough to compete on American Idol. It was her aspiration to become a pop singer like Arianna Grande or Selina Gomez; to have a brand of her own like the Kardashians. However, no one would tell her the truth: she was destined to become a single mother at 18, pregnant by a transient roustabout who would disappear with the oil, like the vast number of oil field girls before her. As for Mark Jr., he was the least-favorite child. Mrs. Montgomery loved him, but didn’t like him, and she felt guilty every time she looked at him. She pitied him and spoiled him as a result. His father tolerated him, but Mark Jr. laughed at fart jokes and had a constantly-running nose. He did little to dispute that his future wouldn’t involve more than working graveyards at the C-store just off the only exit ramp to Interstate 80, a highway and a boy going nowhere. *** Mr. Montgomery watched as Mrs. Montgomery mangled the clothes. He was certain that he had triumphed over her, and his face smirked as she scrutinized him. Jaw clenched, the red shirt balled in her hand, Mrs. Montgomery took a deep breath, preparing to continue the argument. Suddenly, she clenched the shirt tighter and a hot, liquid rage burned bright, as she reached for her purse, “Well, fine, just fine. Fine,” is all she said. When Mrs. Montgomery gets mad, the rage stiffens her back. Her face grows angular, her lips compress into a thin, colorless line, and her cheekbones more pronounced. She walked with stooped shoulders to the front door, refusing to look back. Mr. Montgomery knew he won the fight; however, Mrs. Montgomery won the war. She walked out of the modular home and disappeared with the wind. As the gauzy days of August passed, the wild grass faded to yellow, tumbleweeds formed. Wind storms moved the dirt of summer through town, coating everything in its path with discomfort. Mrs. Montgomery disappeared, just as the carnival left town. Some say she was murdered, others whispered that she was involved in a love affair and had run off with a carnie half her age. The Ladies Auxiliary Club gossiped that Mr. Montgomery had something to do with her disappearance. Still, others thought she might have been the latest victim of a witch’s coven that met on the nights of new moons. The little old ladies of the Baptist Revival Church, who drank a spot of tea with a snifter of brandy, murmured to one another of sinister deeds. Al they knew was that a menacing wind blew through the streets of town the day Mrs. Montgomery disappeared. LI I Exfiessian Magazine. � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Erosion of Mrs. Montgomery Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div class="element-text"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <p><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></p> </div> </div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <p><em>Expression</em><span>&nbsp;</span>claims first North American rights to submissions selected for publication. All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Jamie L. Smith Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2024_Prose_06 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/44e0285ae2bed368011622161ebe147c.pdf 691f089a68f06e47541a661407293826 PDF Text Text Maxwell von Gunten Non-Fiction My first long term relationship had just ended, and I had spent a majority of my adolescence living in that reality. My young heart panged because it felt like it needed someone to fill the supposed void of solidarity. As a part of Gen-Z, I of course went to my phone to find the answers I thought I needed. In this age of technology we have been introduced to a myriad of new apps that are supposed to help us navigate our everyday lives. From supporting our local couch potato with food delivery straight to his door, the dictionary and encyclopedia embedded in every phone, and finally the new age way to fall in love.. .Tinder. The mindless activity of swiping through our social media feed has now been transformed into a zombified love connection. We put the best versions of ourselves into these tiny boxes to be judged with the hope that true love will swipe our way—and for a couple extra bucks our odds may be greater. As I watched this version of love connection sweep across my friend groups and even after dipping my toes into this pool of love, I found it to be quite empty with shallow connections. The dates I had with the women I matched with always lacked substance. They of course had no fear behind a screen and keyboard, but when sitting face to face with them they were void of any life. 1 asked one of my dates, "If you could live anywhere other than the U.S. where would you live?” Thinking a simple hypothetical question would get some engagement, she coldly replied, "Ummmm, I don’t know. I realty don’t have a reason to leave.” Where was the Imagination?! I didn't go on any more Tinder dates after that. After that brief experience I returned to the dating pool in the real world. The pain that infected my heart had begun to subside, and I was beginning to accept the single life I was living. I didn't think I needed to introduce another element into my life. Then without realizing I had slowly started growing closer to a friend that had been by my side for many years, Jane was her name. She was freshly heartbroken and was planning on running away to see the world again after freeing herself from the chains of a relationship. For one reason or another, she decided the world could wait, and we slowly started our dance stepping on one another's toes as we explored this new found connection. It had only been three months since we had started this experiment with each other, and Jane had proposed we take a road trip to visit my brother.. .in Michigan. We lived in Casper, Wyoming, and that was a 20 hour drive. I was surprised she was willing to lock herself in a metal can with me for so many hours. XLVl Sxf'iession Magazine. �Reconnect The day of departure finally came that summer, and as the sun rose casting its golden hues across the vast expanse of Wyoming while we loaded up the trunk of our car, excitement tingled in the air like static. The road stretched before us, a ribbon of endless possibility, and with each passing mile marker, we would unravel the layers of our budding romance. We were both stepping into uncharted territory, our relationship still in its infancy, yet brimming with the promise of adventures yet to come. As the wheels hummed beneath us, our conversations ebbed and flowed like the rolling plains outside our windows. We quickly passed through the Rocky Mountains and entered into the corn filled plains of Nebraska. Once in Husker territory, the mind numbing landscape of the flatlands removed most, if not all, of our filters in the conversations. She tested the waters and asked me, “Do you want me to come visit you while you are in Laramie?” After that summer I was going to move to the University of Wyoming, and she was clearly skeptical of the idea of distance being a part of the relationship. I replied, "Yeah, of course. It’s not far away at all so I’d love to have you come visit me anytime you wanted." It didn't seem tike my answer truly satisfied the thoughts she had bouncing around her head. She dug further, “Are you sure you don’t just want to be a free single boy in college? Because I don’t want to take those experiences away from you." It became clear that this conversation was going to determine the strength of the relationship we were entering. I carefully told her, “You are everything that I value in a partner. You give me the freedom to be myself and communicate with me about difficult topics like this. It’s hard to find that these days with the instant gratification that Tinder and social media creates in relationships.” Jane nodded and let the silence and limitless view wash over her as she placed her hand on mine. Of course the 1-80 drive through Nebraska seemed eternal, but as the sky and clouds began changing into brilliant shades of pink and orange we had just crossed the Nebraska border and entered into Iowa. That night we camped just outside Des Moines. After a game of cribbage we laid down in our sleeping bags as the brook babbled behind our tent and the frogs groaned in the humid night. I caught myself smiling, it was a joy to have someone so real and honest in the pursuit of a relationship. The connection I had been looking for was right there in front of me all along—I just had to put the phone down. 64th EdltianUte’iatn'ie XLVIi � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Reconnect Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div class="element-text"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <p><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></p> </div> </div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <p><em>Expression</em><span>&nbsp;</span>claims first North American rights to submissions selected for publication. All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Maxwell von Gunten Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <div id="dublin-core-is-part-of" class="element"> <div class="element-text">Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.</div> </div> Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2024_Prose_05 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/14b0ea79fcf88d4fa6e2683d47b85e50.pdf 8c95b4d9b40dd5b1931cc2288cf1c513 PDF Text Text NLqht of a Thousand Staas Zoe von Gunten Fiction She was from the moon, and the people of the Earth waited for her every hundred years. June 28th, the night was sweltering, quiet, and filled with anticipation. There were no clouds in the sky, and the stars above glittered and danced among the midnight curtain. The moon full and blue, all in the village below watched from windows and the streets as the moon, like water, cried a single teardrop. It fell like a comet, a moon drop, it glowed and shimmered, morphing, and soon she appeared riding a caravan being pulled by bears made of constellations. Bells rang out in the warm night, her lantern glowed with liquid silver moon. She landed in the village with an impossible silence and grace. The villagers gathered in crowds outside and watched her pass by their houses in hushed awe. The jingling of golden bells filled the air as the caravan swayed back and forth on the cobblestone streets. The hat that adorned her head curtained her face with hanging beads and stars that swayed with the summer breeze. As the strands of stars and beads bumped against each other, they sang an ethereal melody that sounded like no bell known to man. High pitched and ethereal, it was what one would imagine what falling stars to sound like. She reached the edge of the village where the cobblestone streets became dirt paths, and houses grew into tall dark trees. The bears stopped, stooping low to the ground, settling side by side. The woman stepped off of her seat and with a wave of her hands the back of the caravan flew open. Navy blue cloth floated up and situated itself on two large sticks, a small roof shading the entrance into the caravan from the cool moonlight. With that, the night began. Elders prepared the young, dressing them in their finest clothes, dusting the dirt off their faces, and adorning them with family crests. They ushered them to see the woman of the moon, to hear her stories, and perhaps if lucky.. .have their future read. The legends and tales were a guarantee of visiting the woman, but a reading was far less common. Legend stated that her readings were destined to come true and that in order to get one of these fortunes one must give up a token of significant value. Yet there was a fear within the eyes of the elders. Whispers of “the prophecy” floated through the village. Mothers hugged their children for much longer than normal. Fathers held their breath looking over their sons and daughters, hoping that none of them would be chosen. XL CxpvssLon Magazine �Nl^ht of a rhausand Stais The Moon Woman was the protector of the village, the spirit that watched over the souls that resided in the quaint seaside town, but this protection came with a cost. Eternities would pass and the spirits would live and die, but eventually live again within different bodies. Centuries prior, the great leader Yuu Xi had made a deal with the spirits. The village was in danger, invaders were crossing the seas, destroying and pillaging, the small town stood no chance. So Yuu Xi offered the spirit of the moon sanctuary, a soul like her own to carry on her life when her time should come, in return she would watch over the village and defend it from invaders. That night became the mark of her return. Every hundred years, she would come from the moon and find her replacement amongst the young. The village youth crowded at the entrance to the caravan, where the open door was visible. Teens bickered and teased each other attempting to hide their anxiety, the smaller ones clung to each other, peeking into the mysterious caravan. Finally, a brave boy pushed through and made the first pilgrimage in, the rest followed. Through the door a cavernous room filled to the brim with mystical sounds lay before them. Gold, silver, bronze, and gem covered trinkets decorated the room. Feathered headdresses, golden moon charts, and silver crowns glowed around the woman who sat at a large round table with intricate carvings of the moon phases atop it. Stars strung on silver strings hung over her head, satin drapery along with shimmering tapestries that looked as if they were weaved from the night sky decorated the wall. The Moon Woman’s dark eyes shimmered as she looked up calmly, sending the sounds of falling stars through the air as the beads dangling from her hat rattled together. A translucent lunar moth rested on her face, fluttering its teal wings gently. The children took their seats around the table, nervously glancing at one another. "So you’ve come to hear the legends?” She finally spoke, the timbre of her voice was deep and melodic, hypnotizing. Those around the table nodded, and she began her stories. Hours passed but in the caravan it felt as if a few minutes went by as the woman of the moon told her legends. Warriors who battled monsters of the sea who desired to steal the moon from the sky, tales of bunnies who chased fluttering cherry blossoms into the stars, and stories of the love between the sun and moon. The legends entranced the children, they were in a daze until the woman of the moon paused, her red lips parting slightly as her eyes wandered upward to the door, 64th EditianUt^'iata'ie. XU �Ni^ht ofa. Thousand Sta'is “You’re late, but please, come sit." In the door stood young Magnolia. The poor girl lived in a run down house at the edge of the village, her clothes were nothing but rags, her red hair thick and messy was falling out of her braids. “I’m not here for the stories...” her soft voice rasped. “Oh?" The Moon Woman smiled, interested, “Then what have you come here for child?" The group of children at the table had already turned their heads to stare, the boys snickered at her pitiful silhouette, the little ones averted their eyes remembering the warnings their parents had told them about the poor family at the edge of the village. Magnolia reached around her neck and unclasped the chain around her neck and held up a necklace with a shining silver coin. She thrust her arm out towards the Moon Woman. "This necklace has been in my family for generations, my grandmother says it fell from the sky. It brings me luck... ” The air froze as the eyes around the table stared in awe at the coin and Magnolia who stood with the grace and pride of a queen. The Moon Woman stood with a wide grin and held her hand out, the necklace pulled away from Magnolia and gravitated to the Moon Woman. It floated peacefully through the air, the children around the table whispering to each other as they watched it pass each of them. “So, is it a reading you want?” she held the necklace in her hand tightly, "...Yes this is a valuable item. It has been a long time since I have seen this coin..She traced the coin with her finger. The Moon Woman sighed, the longing of a lost memory reflected in her eyes. “Your fate... ” The Moon Woman looked up, melancholy saturated her voice, “yes.. .your fate is to become the moon.” The children around the table began to whisper frantically. “The moon?" Rhye, youngest daughter of Hua the fisherman, exclaimed, “That don’t make sense, lady!” “Oh, sweet Magnolia, you are the one..The Moon Woman slowly rounded the table, her feet never touching the ground, she hovered. "Thank you children, thank you for listening to the stories.. .the night is long, go home and see your loved ones...” She ushered the children out XLII Txff'iission Magazine. �Night ofa. Thousand Sta.'is silently. “But I want to hear more stories!” Whined small Yuzu, her white ribbons fluttering as she stood up reluctantly. “Fear not child, the stars will tell the stories,” The Moon Woman smiled softly and placed a hand on the small girl’s back, “When you watch the night sky, you will know. I promise.” The children left, sour in mood, yet confused and fearful. What would happen to poor Magnolia? What would it mean for her to become the moon? The Moon Woman floated around Magnolia, her eyes wandering from the necklace and to the girl. “Do you know who this coin belongs to, girl?” The Moon Woman hovered in front of Magnolia holding the necklace, suspended in the air. "My Grandmother says it is from the stars.” She responded. The Moon Woman laughed full and harmoniously, "No sweet child, the stars have no claim over this. My love, my dear Solaris gave me this as a parting gift. My last visit I had lost it.. .and yet," she gently grasped Magnolia’s hands, “you are here, dear child. You bear the last gift I had ever received from my love.. .there is no doubt in my mind.. .your spirit, your soul, and now this tells me that you are my successor.” Magnolia stood in silent awe, she stared at her small hands in the Moon Woman’s pale shimmering skin mixed with her dirty dull skin. She furrowed her eyebrows and looked up at the Moon Woman, her golden eyes digging deep into her soul. “Successor? I’m not meant to be your successor. I’m poor and don’t have much education. The people of the village avoid me, I barely exist to them.” Magnolia spoke, “Grandmother says that the Moon Woman protects our village, that if she were to choose someone to replace her. that they would have to be loved and cherished just as she is.” The Moon Woman released Magnolia’s hands, she left the necklace in Magnolia’s grasp. "Your grandmother has not hidden you from the truth of my visits it seems.” She waved her right hand gently and gracefully through the air like the conductor of a silent orchestra, "Magnolia, the village may not always love you...they may not always love me. To live is to experience pain, but what makes us stronger is our love for those who inflict pain. If you can grow kinder and stronger from these experiences, then this is a sign of someone who 1 can trust to be my successor. I have seen into your soul. Magnolia, you care deeply for this village no matter how much pain it has inflicted on you. You are strong. 64th. EditionLLttiatuie XUII �Nl^ht ofa. Thousand. Stais as I push and pull the tides, you push and pull the people to become more tolerant and more kind.” Within the Moon Woman’s right hand was a blue glowing orb. Small enough to fit in between the index finger and thumb. It glowed and pulsed, small gold and blue sparks shot off from it releasing a pop and the ringing of a small bell. “Will you miss this world, Magnolia?” The Moon Woman asked. “...Of course 1 will. I would miss my mother and my grandmother very much, but I also love the sea and the Earth beneath my feet. I would miss the breeze on my face and the sun on my skin. Do I have to lose these things? Do I have to become the moon now?" She responded, she bit her lip trying to show no fear, but beneath her was nothing but writhing worms and cicadas that buzzed in her stomach. “I wish you didn’t have to..The woman smiled sadly, "But I am growing old and weak.. .of course you’d never know. Us spirits have a way of looking rather beautiful when dying, don’t you think?” "But what about my family?" Magnolia pleaded. The Moon Woman tilted her head and looked down at the glowing orb in her palm. She sighed softly, the attachment to the material plane was something that still ached deep inside her heart, she understood but knew better. “To love your family is to protect them and to live on for them, whether it be in this world or amongst the spirits.” She carefully explained. Magnolia looked down, rainwater tears trickling down her cheeks. She took a deep breath in, she knew there was no other way around it. She loved her family and she loved her village, perhaps she loved them enough to leave them. “I'll protect them all if I do this..." She whispered trying to reassure herself. The Moon Woman nodded silently, “The star is the last step.” She held her hand out to Magnolia, the glowing spec of energy was a star, “Once you consume it...we will become one." Magnolia carefully took the star into her own hands, the blue glow was warm, the crackling energy spewing from it tickled her fingers. “Do you feel pain...?" She questioned the Moon Woman XLIV Txf'iesslan Magazine �Night of a Thousand Stdls "Of the physical variety?” “In your heart.” Magnolia clarified, focusing on the star and avoiding the tears in her eyes. “Not as much as I used to. The sadness will leave, but the aching will persist.” She held her hand to her heart, “With time...your heart will heal.” Magnolia nodded. The star popped and rang out again, the heat in her hands was comforting. Magnolia brought her hands to her mouth and put the star in her mouth. It went down her throat like warm tea on a cold winter’s day and tasted like lavender and sea salt. Her body felt numb and tingly all at the same time. Her stomach twisted, her heart panged with sorrow and loss, and then...it stopped. The caravan rocked sleepily, from side to side, like a sailboat on waving seas. The constellation bears trudged along the cobblestone streets, their claws clicking on the stones with each step. The village people watched from the sides of the road, eyes wide in disbelief. A single woman dressed in rags, being held by an older woman, broke free of her grasp and stumbled into the street, but quickly collapsed by the side of the caravan as it roiled by. Tears wet her dirty face and she let out an anguished cry: “Magnolia! My sweet Magnolia, my darling girl.” The older woman reached her side and put her hands on her shoulders. “Dahlia, she is no longer your Magnolia.” She croaked. The Moon Woman looked down to the poor woman on the street and stopped the caravan. Her hair was red in perfect braids, her skin pale and luminescent, she held out a necklace with a silver coin to the woman. Their eyes met, golden glowing eyes of a spirit melting into the dull blue eyes of a mortal woman. “This is a gift from the stars.” she smiled, “With time, your heart will heal.” 64tk£ditionUte.'iatii'ie. � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Night of a Thousand Stars Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div class="element-text"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <p><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></p> </div> </div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <p><em>Expression</em><span>&nbsp;</span>claims first North American rights to submissions selected for publication. All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Zoë von Gunten Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2024_Prose_04 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/b98a2af813f5dc9e5223f99c916bc29d.pdf 204c2d600857ee642c4d20678aa3f93d PDF Text Text Methodfa'i E^iasit're Jamie L. Smith Non-Fiction I fell In love once between midnight kisses and sunrise sex. I told him my secrets. I had been molested as a child and raped at twenty. He carved “damaged” into my skin. On a beautiful spring day, six months pregnant with our son he told me dating a woman with children is the lowest thing a man could do. He carved "unwanted” into my skin. While holding our threemonth-old son he told me I was just some bitch that had his baby. He carved “unloved" into my skin. I found a way to make those words disappear, to erase them from my skin. I found a method for erasure, and it was the high I would chase for fifteen years. I found that glorious feeling when I was treated for migraines. It was right before America found it had an opioid epidemic. I could get a ready supply. I started out with migraines, real ones, not the psychosomatic migraines I would later use to get pain meds. Hydrocodone was the most preferred. It was the best at achieving the disappearing effect I wanted. It was the only thing that erased the words carved into my skin. My method was simple. I wouldn't eat anything all day. It's best to take drugs on an empty stomach for maximum effect. I would take three hydrocodone pills when I got home. I didn’t add any other drugs until after I felt it take hold. It was like a shot of whiskey hitting my stomach and the heat radiating throughout the body. The erasure started in the abdomen; it didn’t radiate heat, but the empty darkness grew. The words would disappear from my skin, and I could hide for a short time in that void. When the erasure took hold, it was glorious. Mom found me, she always found me. My face ashen with labored breathing and heavy-lidded eyes. I looked half dead as she tried to get me up to walk around. Her voice told me this time was different. “Jamie, you need to get up, ok? You need to walk around, drink some water— Jamie, you need to get up. JAMIE! Please get up. JAMIE? JAMIE? Wake up honey, get up. You've got to get up.” Mom called 911 after my dad came home. This time nothing she usually did to help me in these situations was working. I stumbled and fell, and I couldn’t walk with or without her help. She asked the EMTs not to run the sirens. She didn’t want a spectacle and didn’t want to explain the situation to the neighbors: her daughter overdosed like a junky on a heroin binge. “Jamie stand up. The ambulance is coming. Come on Jamie!” 6^tk CdLtunilUx.'uibi'ic XXXVII �M£thadfd'i S'tasn'iC The Narcan came first, a drug given to overdose patients particuiarly when narcotics are invoived. Mom sat on a stool beside my bed. She patted my arm periodically to let me know she was there. In some ways it reassured her that her baby would be ok. I had an oxygen mask on and was lying quite still. The ER doctor worked quietly giving the nurses directions. They poked and prodded with IVs, needles collecting blood, wires connecting machines that didn’t make sense to me. Mom was talking to the doctor and I could hear Darth Vadar standing vigil, breathing.. . waiting. .. breathing.. . waiting... I lay motionless, gray with labored breathing, on the gurney as the doctor checked me for my vital signs Mom patted my arm again to let me know she was there. She patted my arm to reassure herself that I was still there. The doctor came back and felt my neck around my esophagus. He wrote some information on my chart and said to Mom, “I normally can’t tell you all of these things, but I just felt her to see if there was a reflex. Normally when someone is still with us, they have a small response when you touch them there.” "She had been doing so well with her sobriety. 1 don’t understand,” Mom didn’t know that I had gotten a shot and hydrocodone pills. The doctor, quiet and grave, "No, no she hasn’t. Her levels show five different medications at higher doses than prescribed.” "Oh.” He gave mom a fast tap on the shoulder, swallowed, and nodded. It was all he could do. “Will she be ok.. . when she wakes up?” “We will have to see when she wakes up. But for now she is showing signs of improvement and we’re going to be sending her to the ICU.” I don’t know how long I was in the hospital, days didn’t mean anything, everyday and everyone bled into the other until I had recovered enough to be discharged. I had only a t-shirt when I came into the ER and had thrown up on it some time in the ICU. I had no clothing to go home in. The discharge nurse had provided me with a two sizes too small t-shirt and billowing MC Hammer sweatpants. To add to the indignity, I had no bra or underwear. I had to wear hospital socks home because I had no shoes. I had no one to pick me up. I couldn’t get in touch with my mother. Apologies didn’t mean anything coming from me. Mom had stopped listening to them years ago. Promises meant nothing as well. Mom wasn’t going to forgive me this time. After fifteen years, two rehab stints, two overdoses, and one near-death experience, the sincerity of my repentance XXXVIII Expression Magazine �Methodfox E'lasu'ie obtusely ignored. I didn’t mean any of it then, but this time, this time was different. The hospital provided me with a cab voucher, I sat in a lone brown pleather chair in front of the entrance to the hospital. Little old ladies shuffled past me not meeting my eyes. Other people came and went with quick smiles and eyes darting to other places besides me. I didn’t know what I looked like. I had taken a shower after throwing up, but I didn’t know which day that had been. I had all of my hospital swag in a clear plastic trash bag. I tried to make myself small so no one would see me or recognize me. I wanted to disappear again. Erase everything. 1 took the remaining three pills when I got home before I changed my shirt. 64th CditianUte'iatM.'ie XXXIX � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Method for Erasure Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div class="element-text"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <p><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></p> </div> </div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <p><em>Expression</em><span>&nbsp;</span>claims first North American rights to submissions selected for publication. All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Jamie L. Smith Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2024_Prose_03 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/4b0cd3c6be26e363058d3e7ba5ed9db5.pdf 3aec4381cc636ccaf1b10f6f8e4fc0bf PDF Text Text Li£y Tyler Cooper Non-Fiction "When you bring home a dog, you bring home a tragedy.” This is something my English professor and I always joked about in class. 1 don’t remember where the quote is from. John Steinbeck I think? I really don’t remember, but I know it’s true. There’s always some sort of heartbreak in it. I mean you bring home this little baby right? You give it a name, you get up every two hours to take it to the bathroom, clean it up when you forget to take it out, and watch it grow. Eventually, it develops its own personality and you give it nicknames. You take it to the park, you love it, you know? It does things to piss you off too. Like pissing in the house, biting your toes for no reason at all, eating unattended plates, and getting mud all over your couch while it just sits there like, “Hey! Yeah I did this! Now you're gonna clean this up?” as you clean the mess, swearing and grunting. These are all things my dog, Lily, did. She was a little West Highland Terrier with white fur, little bead eyes, and stains around the mouth, the stereotypical white person's lap dog, She had a personality to her, and no, not the “Oh she watches tv with us,” thing that ail dog owners claim. She was sorta mean, she wouldn't bark or bite you, no, but she would glare at you, even sigh when you tried to talk to her. The best way I can describe her was like that one coworker that would say “I'm just way too good for this place,” then refuse to roll silverware. Lily was also spoiled beyond belief by my mom. She would get her faux diamond collars, paint her nails, and despite my protest, whole rotisserie chickens. Meanwhile, my mom wouldn’t spend a dime on my tuition, but this dog was going abroad for her art history degree. Was there resentment? Yes. yes I resented a dog that got more love than me. So with all the sighs, toe biting, and goddamn rotisserie chickens, we didn't get along. I remember the night I got the call. It was March 2nd, 2023, and it was a horrible night. Winter was making its desperate last push against Spring, as it always does in Wyoming. Hard shinny ice was still embedded into the road making travel both annoying and dangerous—if you didn't pay attention in some areas you could end up as a road marker. The wind made the ice more intimidating. Wind at this time of year seems extra vindictive. It hates anything that's not moving at the same speed. Like a New Yorker in a rush, it will push over small school kids, grandmas, and even oilmen breaking all their tailbones. All while whistling, being loud, and screaming, “get out the way.” The full moon silently observed and seemed to give a blue hue to the ice and the feeling of a CdLtlonlite.'iatu.'u. XXXI �gothic mystery to the whistling of the wind, making every move a little slower and sadder, it's nights like this that make you realize we are one shut down highway from being the frontier again. I was at the gym, trying my hardest to lose weight and forget the hetlscape outside, while also trying to put off editing my English midterm. I'd get it done, it might be close to the deadline but I’d get it done. I was only in there for about twenty minutes before I got the call from my dad. 1 was expecting an update, my mom had taken Lily to the late night vet about an hour before. She had fed Lily a potato, she was choking on it. This was the third time this had happened. I always told my mom she could avoid this by one, not feeding the dog potatoes, and two, actually cutting the food into swallowable pieces. I expected my dad to call and tell me that they made it home and that the vet gave her the same two guidelines 1 gave her, with a similar tone of annoyance. "Hey dad. let me guess, don't feed the dog potatoes?" Who would have thought? “No, Ty, No.” He was worried, almost crying. My dad loved that dog the same way my mom did but he wouldn't react like this unless it was bad. “Your mom, uh, oh my God, Ty. Your mom is up at the vet with Lily, and I guess it's—" He started crying the way all strong men cry, trying his best to hold it together before his stoicism left, "I uh, I guess it's really bad.” "Wait, wait hold on, what’s wrong with her?" I asked slowly, trying to soothe him. He let out a deep breath regaining his composure enough to speak. "They can't get the potato out. They don't have the um, the scope arm thingy." Here was my statue of a dad, a guy who no matter what stood stoically and logically in front of any problem, now blubbering and struggling to breath. "Dad, do you need me horn—” “She needs someone up there with her, Ty. 1,1 can’t Ty. I guess Lily has tubes in her and—” His efforts to keep some resemblance of strength collapsed. "I can't see her like that, Ty! I'm not strong enough, I just can’t." He said this last part in a guttural sob. I tried my best to comfort him. I got the address, it was only two minutes away from the gym. I was pissed off, at my mom for feeding the dog a goddamn potato, my dad for not “manning up" like he always told me too, and at the fucking dog for taking up more attention in both their worlds. But I loved my mom so 1 went to console her. I pulled up to the overnight vet. It was a small place in a strip mall meant for emergencies, not general care. I got out of the car feeling the harsh XXXII Exfiession Magazine. �Li£^ push of the wind telling me to get a move on, while trying to negotiate with the ice under my feet to give me some traction. I opened the door to the vet, and I was immediately greeted with the dominant smell of rubber and antiseptic. The place had a minimalist design, white walls with one solitary decoration of a picture with a family laughing at a park with their dog—it was the perfect corporate atmosphere. However, the human screams of grief overpowered the soulless building. My mother was sitting with her head in her hands. Hair messy and tangled with reading glasses somewhere in the jumble, skin flush red with pain and anguish, and wearing plaid pajamas with New Balance sneakers. I could feel the d in the air touch my skin. I approached my mom and she lunged at me for an embrace. When her mom died it was a simple inconvenience, a sad thing she had to move on from, but the dog was a tragedy. “Day, day wan’ to,” she sputtered out and let out another cry that sounded more like a scream. Between the quick breaths and tears she finally spoke. “I fed her a potato and it was too big. I thought she would swallow it, but it's stuck in her throat.” She barely pushed out. “Then why don't they get it out? Can’t they just reach in and grab it?" I asked, frustrated. Before she could give an answer the door to the operating room opened. There standing in the doorway was a man six feet four inches tall with a heavily muscled build barely contained in gray scrubs. Resting on his face was a peppered beard and a look of exhaustion and annoyance. This “vet” looked like the next ladder champ for the WWE. His ring name was probably something like “The Neuter.” In his deep voice he introduced himself and invited me into the operating room to update me on the situation. "The problem is, we can't get the potato. It's too far down, I’m sorry, what's it's name again?” He asked me. “Lily.” I told him. "Right, right. Well, the problem is this. It's too far down into her throat so we can't get it by hand or do the ol’ patting on the back trick for babies. Now if we had an endocrine scope we could. It’s basically this little camera with a hook on it, but the thing is,” he was trying to explain the complicated process to me, but my attention drifted to the scene behind him. On her back with legs sprawled out was Lily. Her stomach poked out in bloat, on a regular sized dog it would look normal, but for Lily’s size it seemed like she would pop open. Common for dogs choking to death I hear. They somehow got a breathing tube down her throat, which was powered by a system of pumps and screens 64tk EditLonLLU'tatn'te XXXIII �U£y that all clicked and beeped a tone of reality. I didn't feel anyoned anymore, I felt what best could be described as sudden sobriety. My mom’s dog was dying in the most horrific way possible. "Even if we did have one I don't think we could get it.” “I'm sorry what?” 1 asked him. "I said, even if we did have a scope to get it out I don’t think it would matter.” “What, why? Is it just too undercooked or what? What is it?” “Look, I think you know how much your mom loves this dog. She loves her so much that this is the third time we’ve had to do this. The reason we can't just get it out is because of how many times we, 1, have had to do this. Every time that dog chokes on something it creates some scar tissue, every time she recovers that hole gets smaller and smaller. This might be the time where it doesn't come out.” “I get what you're saying. I’ll scold her more later, but she loves this dog. There aren’t any other scopes in town we could take her to?” He put his hand up to his beard to think for a moment. I always hated that dog, but 1 loved my mom way more, and 1 couldn’t see her like this. “There's one in Wheatland, 1 can call ahead and have them ready for you. You're gonna have to drive smoothly so she doesn't wake up. That's going to be hard considering the wind, but it’s possible. If she wakes up she will choke to death.” "Ok, let's do that. I'll speed down there, be the hero, and i’ll scold her for your sake and mine.” His face soured when I said this. “Don't risk your life over a dog, be careful of the wind and ice. Also, prepare yourself for the possibility that this dog dies on the way there. You’re going to have to tell your mom, and comfort her.” I took a beat to think about this. This dog was still getting better treatment than me and my mom was going to keep spoiling her to death, literally. I thought in the moment that I was trying to prove myself. Trying to prove to my mom that I loved her, that she should love me more, and that this dog was too spoiled. The truth was I just wanted to get back at the two of them for the emotional neglect inflicted. I told my mom the plan, and we got ready. We took my mom’s car, a 2020 mercedes that she got on my 16th birthday. This dog's ambulance was a goddamn mercedes. My mom sat in the back to watch over Lily, and we were off. Driving 20 miles over the speed limit we were on track to make good time. Somehow, on the highway there seemed to be no ice, and the wind suddenly XXXIV Exp'usslon. Magazine �stopped, all that remained was the glow of the moon. Even God was going to spoil this dog. We drove in complete silence as to not wake the dog which gave me time to think. My whole life I was always second place in my mom’s eyes. My older sister, my aunt, my dad, and Lily. She loved me, sure, but it was always a second class kind of love. She was absent at my plays and concerts, missed dentist appointments, and even Christmas. The more and more I thought about it, it became clear I was doing this out of spite. When we got to the new vet, an hour early, we rushed Lily in and they got to work. Despite staying at that vet until 3 in the morning, they couldn't get it out. Still determined, I asked if there was anywhere else that could. They gave us a referral to a place in Denver. We held her overnight, I emailed all my professors that I would be missing class, and we found a Super 8.1 had chocolate milk for dinner. We drove all the way to Denver with a much healthier dog but one that still needed help. We found a vet that could do an operation. It would be $8,000, something my mom couldn't afford. Defeated, we got a hotel and weighed our options. My mom said that she wasn't killing her baby and she didn't. The morning after, we got a call from my aunt who was frantically looking for a scope to get this fuckin’ potato out, she had found one. It was at a vet a block away from our house, so we rushed back. Lily looked at me differently on the way back to Casper. It wasn't an annoyed look, it was one of love and thanks, gratitude. At least that’s what I like to think. When we dropped her off to the new place my mom seemed genuinely thankful. She said she loved me, and she meant it. She called me her hero. I woke up the next day, after getting much needed sleep and went to school. I did feel like a hero for this, I’m sorry. I bragged to everyone how good of a son I was. I saved the family pet. I got a call at lunch from my sister. It wasn't a potato, but an infection in her throat. She was slowly being poisoned to death. No scope could get that out. That dog died in my arms because my mom couldn't hold her when she had to be put down. She felt heavy. A year later I still see Lily's paw prints in the backyard, I find hidden toys and old diamond collars. I miss her. I realize now that all the late nights taking her out, cleaning up after her, getting her collars and treats, was how I loved her. All the high pitched barks and toe bites were her way of saying she loved me. 6^tii CdUhinLUi'iatM.'ii XXXV �litif brought home a tragedy, a six year long, slow burning, tragedy that I didn't appreciate enough. My mom still acts the same. I'm still second. We did find some improvement in our relationship from the whole experience. She does appreciate what I did, but you can’t break habits like her’s. Two weeks after Lily passed my mom sent me a text: It was a picture of a dog that looked like Lily, same breed, appearance, and build, but a puppy. She told me she was picking up Sophie, her new tragedy, in a month. XXXVI Exf'tessian Magazine � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Lily Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <p><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></p> </div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <p><em>Expression</em><span>&nbsp;</span>claims first North American rights to submissions selected for publication. All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Tyler Cooper Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <span>Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.</span> Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2024_Prose_02 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/18c53de76488389ca824f62e955d430e.pdf 1803316db1251a421c3924eb9d54dc4a PDF Text Text U\ain leashing t^a^iista Zoe von Gunten Non-Fiction The golden rays of sun pierced through the glass window, I rubbed my hands on my black apron as I stepped back admiring my own tea creation. Early mornings in the rose tinted coffee shop were not always pleasant. After all, waking up at 5 in the morning and arriving at 6 a.m. was not usually my idea of a “good” morning. 8 a.m. was the time when the summer sun would glow through the large windows and blind whoever was working the register. I stayed far away from it during this time unless absolutely necessary. The morning was slow, and I sipped on a warm darjeeling fog. The taste of earthy tea and creamy milk washed over my morning gripes. Siow Saturday mornings are often rare, a combination of relaxation and fear settled in. A slow morning was an invitation for fate to toss a coin. Heads, the day will be slow. Tails, all alone, I will face a hoard of people. But that didn’t matter, I had a cup of tea and I was at peace. I took another sip. my last sip, when from the corner of my eye the glass door swung open. Tails. “Heyl How’s it going?” I sat my tea down and pushed it out of the way. Customer service mode activated. “Goodl How are you?” I stepped into the blinding sun, only catching a glimpse of the woman’s dyed blonde hair and hastily drawn on eyebrows. I took her order. Vanilla mocha, half a pump of hazelnut (we don’t use pumps in this coffee shop), extra sweet, iced, and apparently made upside down, whatever that means. Before I could begin the first drink, a family walked into the shop. Then another person. Then another two people. Next thing I knew I was taking orders nonstop, all alone. I looked down the row of cups. Little soldiers dressed in pink, ready to be armed with caffeine anything from coffee to tea. They were ready for battle, while I, their general, was not. I ran back and forth, from register to drink. I felt like Sisyfuss rolling a boulder of coffee beans and pink cups up a mountain. “Hey how's it going guys!” “Oh! We’re just wonderful, it's our first time here!” The family that stood in front of me looked like every suburban Starbucks family. The mother had a wide strained smile and hair tall enough to reach Jesus, her husband had a baseball cap and seemed disinterested, the son was silent, tall, radiating teenage angst with every comb of his swooped XXVIII Exf'iessian Magazine. �'B.'iain hashing 'Ka.'usta. Justin Beiber bangs. His little sister who stood next to him looked about 12 with the mindset that she was 23. Her hair perfectly straightened and makeup up to the standards of Kylie Jenner. Her clothes were about 10 years too old for her, she tapped at her iPhone 15 mindlessly, hoping for a like on her newest Instagram post. “Okay well let me help you guys out here! If it’s your first time it'll be a little odd, we don’t have a main menu, so we work on a bar system..I ran through my mind numbing spiel, finishing off by telling the family that we don’t make frappuccinos. The mother’s face dropped a bit but was back to her forced smile in seconds. "Alright then! I’ll have umm..." She took a sugar free vanilla latte. Her husband asks for a mocha. "Don’t you want that sugar free?’’ His wife glanced at him, shooting daggers his way. “I can get what I want." He snapped back. "Fine. Logan, what do you want?” she attempted to smile like the sour interaction never occurred. The boy looked up vacantly from his hair combing and pondered for a minute. “Can I have a mocha frappuccino?” An urge boiled up in my body to slam my face into the counter in front of me. “Logan. She literally just said they don’t do frappuccinos.” His little sister rolled her eyes, looking up from her phone for just a moment. "Okay...I don’t know.” I recommend an iced mocha, it’s the same thing just not blended. He accepted, begrudgingly. “I want an iced white chocolate mocha with lavender and two shots” The girl asked robotically as if she had ordered this drink a thousand times. Finally they finished. They were the last group I had for the moment. I continued my journey up the mountain of cups. I poured and mixed, I burned my hands and ran drinks out on a small tray praying every time not to trip. Behind the counter I turned to pour milk into two cups when my eyes were accosted by red. The woman who appeared was dressed in all red, her nails, her lipstick, her sweater, her face. Red. “Is my drink almost ready?” It’s the woman whose drink I was currently making. “Yes ma’am, it’s nearly-” “Well, I’ve been waiting for too long and I’m tired of waiting.” "Ma’am. I’m sorry but I am only one person working back here, I 6^th EdiUanUti'taiM'ie XXIX �SosAZny ‘En'tista. don’t know if you can see this line of cups but I am in the process of making numerous drinks by myself. I’m sorry if it is taking a minute but if you would just be patient..." I put the lids on top of her and her husband’s drinks, ‘‘I will have these out for you right now.” I placed them on the counter in front of her. The woman glared at me and took a sip of her latte. “This isn’t soy milk.” She spit. “I don't believe you asked for soy milk.” I responded calmly as I continued down the line. "I did. This isn’t soy milk.” “I’m so sorry, would you like me to remake the drink?” I asked out of courtesy, I would have much rather thrown drinks at her. “No. I don’t want to wait any longer. I don’t care. Don’t remake it.” She stormed off back to her husband who sat patiently at the table. Finally, the rush died down and I delivered the last few drinks. The drone of voices in the dining room numbed my mind. I cleaned the mess that was left behind the counter and found myself laughing. What other place on Earth would you see these types of people? I’m frustrated constantly, yet once the rush is over, I’m reminded that these people too are human. I pulled my tea, now cold, out from its last resting place and downed what remained. I wondered how many people realized that they would be remembered for the ridiculous actions and words they spoke, Perhaps they will never know. XXX Cxf'icssitM Ma^aautc � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Brain Bashing Barista Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <p><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></p> </div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <p><em>Expression</em><span>&nbsp;</span>claims first North American rights to submissions selected for publication. All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Zoë von Gunten Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2024_Prose_01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/05b0f4b6f4278649b6838ad289be81c8.png bc17849243f34f7b9c7bdad88c60c76d Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Digital Newspaper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The rise of Riah! Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <p><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></p> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024-12-01 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Chris Mossman-Larson Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <div id="dublin-core-is-part-of" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <p>Chinook Student Newspaper, CCA 08.i.2023.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.</p> </div> </div> Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Dec_RiseOfRiah_02 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PNG Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/b9e1689dec92167c57a9be1c17b2198d.png 6c00553a2d5a54253d1b5c627727ac5d Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Digital Newspaper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The rise of Riah! Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <p><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></p> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024-12-01 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Chris Mossman-Larson Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chinook Student Newspaper, CCA 08.i.2023.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Dec_RiseOfRiah_01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PNG Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/d2bb8b3b3db998a49bd6d76e10421160.png 97bb9cb0fbd4fae2d68699fa2117518c Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Digital Newspaper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource A little bit of a Black Box idea Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <p><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></p> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024-11-01 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Lairen Brush Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chinook Student Newspaper, CCA 08.i.2023.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Nov_BlackBoxIdea Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PNG Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College