181 10 9760 https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/74f010aa2078bfd6b72ae824c894ac96.pdf 686ceabf105dc13abfe58828b06df724 PDF Text Text UespbEie Weston Chorak Over there are the roots of trees, the empty dwellings of birds and snakes. The low light of dusk fades through currents of falling snow. It trembles under the shaky breaths of mountain wind. He looks at me with the eyes of a wasp seizing and convulsing over a half-eaten moth, and coughs before falling and vomiting into the slush. He is an angry man. It's the difference between myself and men like him, I do not look at people intent on finding fault. I am passive. An observer. He beats his will against the asphalt until it is broken and bloody, 1 should have known it when I saw him on the roadside. His hands had no gloves, shaking, and the mailbox would not stay closed. A thick black coat over a yellow flannel shirt and no hat to cover his red ears. He fumbled with a hammer, and dropped it as he pulled nails from his pocket. He was swearing to himself when I slowed down and parked off the road, took my keys from the ignition, and opened the door. I had no wish to spend my night under the faded light of the hazy mountain nightfall. I knew he did not either. I walked over to him. He struggled to hold a nail against the front of the box and hammer it in. With the first swing of the hammer, he knocked the nail down to the ground and muttered again. I do not understand why he would have a mailbox without a means of closing it and keeping it closed when he lives on a windy mountain, nor can I imagine why he would be worried about keeping an empty mailbox closed anyways. And what would he do when he needed to open it again? It seemed to me such a fruitless and foolish task. I did not say that to him, though. I approached with a friendly grimace and asked if I could do anything to help. He turned to me. His face was a reminder that it was no longer a gentle summer afternoon. A 190 Expression Magazine �Vespine reminder I did not want. The dry freeze of November hung in the air without remorse, as rough as his quivering breath and as cold as his stiff smile. It takes a certain kind of man to meet kindness with annoyance, and even a parasite doesn't reject a willing host. I don't shrug away help with a sneer. I meet it with gratitude. It’s what separates men like him from myself. Of course, I don't see myself as a Samaritan. I am a watcher only of the irrelevant, a keeper only of things that do not matter. But I help when I can. When I offer my help, I can't stop myself from feeling bitter if my efforts are wasted. I would not sacrifice my time for a false gratitude. I was not angry with this man. My love for my countrymen is unhindered, my anger without ill will, my frustration without enmity. But he saw it in the twitch of my eye, the fracture of my expression. He saw it in the hiding of my teeth behind closed lips. I saw it in his face when I told him I didn't have time for an asshole like him before turning to leave. He knocked me down into the muddy snow and as I turned and lifted my arms he swung the hammer across my cheek and it cracked loudly. He lifted it and brought down the claw to my face, swinging again and again with clumsy imprecision. Even as the hammer was stuck in my eye, he ripped it out and swung again, missing my face and grazing my ear before it slipped from his hand. He was shaking. If you watch the snow growing on the asphalt, you will see it breathe. It is ragged and heavy. Its heartbeat shakes without rhythm and the blue arteries that run through it pulse under the moonlight. It was then that he became sick, and now he lifts his head before looking at me and vomiting again. He wipes his face and stands. There is nothing behind the black webs on his eyes. He’s thinking of what to do now, but he knows it doesn’t matter. He will never escape the craving and thirst that 65th Edition 191 �I 1 J V^ne perpetuate his existence. That's the thing about men like him. They're like wasps. They will spread their venom wherever they go until they are crushed on the asphalt by the heel of a boot. His body is helpless, stuck with a parasitic mind that is slowly killing itself through pure instinct, and he will only know suffering. My mind is free of sorrow, It flows in the veins of the mountain and breathes with the heartbeat of the snow. 192 Expression 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 Vespine Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <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 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 id="dublin-core-date-created" class="element"> <div class="field two columns alpha"></div> </div> <p></p> </div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-date-created" class="element"> <div class="field two columns alpha"></div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2025 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Weston Chorak 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_2025_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/9455545a9e62be59202aac5103de6faa.pdf 2fc907516bd4692be2e2336a443be340 PDF Text Text Ttie SDEnEibkaquist Kyle Haymond Over there are the roots of trees, the empty dwellings of birds and snakes. The low light of dusk fades To whoever finds this record, perhaps quite long since my departure, doubtless seeing the large collection of poetry and collected writings stacked within this house... I leave it alt to you. I simply wish to share my story with someone before I go, if you’d indulge this humble record. As you'll duly note, many of these pages and books are quite rare in their singularity. They’re all written by the renowned Emry Anders, ’The Dreaming Poet'. Every published book, manuscript, draft, and scribble she ever penned, I’m quite sure, It’s been quite a painstaking process acquiring them all from Emry’s family. My own relatives, forever estranged, would describe this endeavor as obsessive. Despite the struggle and disapproval. I’ve maintained this collection to a pristine level, if you discount the wear of my endless thumbing and flipping of every page. ... The chosen find themselves bearing crimson waves on the shores of madness... - Upon the Precipice. Emry Anders To do this record justice, as the last vestige of my life, I will not attempt to play the revisionist in this brief telling. What follows will be an accurate depiction of my thoughts as I thought them, I believe this, paired with the collection, will illuminate my journey to you. My love of Emry’s poetry did not supplant 180 Expression Magazine �TheSomniloguist much in my life, as I never chased after marriage or starting a family. Those traditional life pursuits never took, as I never really fit in with this world, and so, I have lived a lonely life. I was lonely and empty before, but now, I am neither, I assure you. Once, I was the primary investigator in the now famous Anders case a little over ten years ago in this very city. Before this case crossed my desk, I could hardly be said to have read anything at all aside from work related reports and memos, the occasional newspaper article. I was quite boring, many would say. I never gave much time to things outside my work, let alone something as frivolous as a highly eccentric body of poetry with a reputation of “expanding the horizons of the mind." It frankly annoyed me when it landed on my desk. The Anderses', her husband Silas included, fame began with a relative, cult-like status in the literary world but quickly spread, and by the time her second book came out, she was a national best­ seller. Her work quickly permeated everything from high school yearbook quotes to being quoted in congressional speeches, strangely enough. This mostly subverted the uninitiated's awareness. Five years into the reign of the Anderses, there arose many speculations and accusations of behind-the-scenes nefariousness regarding the likes of fraud, tax evasion, and abuse. Such is the way of people with money and influence, I suppose. Many ears perked at the chance to head a high-profile case, but not mine. Perhaps that’s why I was chosen to lead the investigation. Some accusations, on their face, seemed more likely than others. Those of fraud and tax evasion by Silas, the face of the duo’s operation, were then my first avenue of investigation. I thought if I could get him on something tangible, his other crimes would be easier to coax out. 65th Edition 181 �The SomniloQuist The accusations of abuse were made very public but did not have a leg to stand on, due to her reassuring public appearances, though admittedly scarce, and the wellness check conducted a year prior to my investigation. Silas played the role of the loving, supportive husband very well. It was, dare I say, weirdly wholesome. It was only over the past couple of years that Emry was appearing less and less while Silas appeared more and more as figurehead of the budding enterprise. She was a private person, in love with her art, he’d say, Over the weeks I found myself pouring over legal documents, ledgers and tax forms trying to make sense of what crime, if any, at that point had been committed. Connections to politicians and businesses unrelated to the industry sparked some thought, but nothing illegal yet. After examining Silas thoroughly, the idea that he was some charlatan or opportunist would not surprise me. He had all the motivation and control he needed to commit heinous acts. Though, nothing in what he said was uncouth or obviously corrupt, it was in how he said it. Like everything was a lie he didn’t understand he was telling, or that he believed wholeheartedly himself. It was a confused feeling, but it seemed more and more clear that Silas was manipulating and profiting off Emry. Inexplicably, I found myself looking through some of Emry’s books for the first time, perhaps looking for some kind of message hidden in the text. Some kind of hint to her situation. The first book of hers 1 read was Descriptions of the Corridor, her debut. There was something to this woman, something innately human. At the release, she claimed that the poems therein were spoken aloud by her while she slept. Silas would transcribe her mumblings for her to arrange, compile, and release. Certainly an approach to marketing. 182 Expression Magazine �TheSomnUoQuist ... By my very mode of being I am persecuted By that which descends upon me From both sides. -Night Songs. Emry Anders In Descriptions I found nothing but the surprisingly engrossing view of a young woman’s twilight dream world, full of abstractions, dark twisting narratives, and the hint of great horrors lurking in the dark waters upon which her dream boat rode, I didn't quite understand this at the time, but I had formed the vague idea of someone who was afraid yet completely numb to fear. Her work was like an expression of fear from someone who had conquered it. There was confidence. An ownership of fear. After a month and a half of digging, compiling various records, phony ledgers, and contracts, we finally had what we needed to bring Silas to court. There was a distinct lack of Emry at the proceedings as the charges against Silas were not for a crime against her. He, in fact, extolled her innocence and claimed himself the one responsible for the business side of their small empire, When her time to take the stand came, she returned the favor and defended him with fervor. Was it love that compelled her I wondered. 65th Edition 183 �The SomnilOQUist This muddied the water of the abuse claims, as that was the perfect opportunity to speak up and she didn't. It seemed to me this was some sort of Stockholm syndrome or perhaps Silas was actually innocent of that accusation. What really took me off guard was the inexplicable defense of Silas forwarded by many fans and those in the industry itself. Some of which were those he had allegedly defrauded, and yet they rallied to his aid. Often their claims would fly directly in the face of undeniable evidence. We puzzled over what kind of spell had been cast or blackmail he had to demand such loyalty. Hell, a lot of powerful people lauded his goodwill under oath and praised the majesty of Emry’s art: how it must be protected and any of Silas' wrong doings should be forgiven by sheer virtue of their product. It was a brief yet wild section of the trial that afforded Silas little ground. Around the time of the trial, I found myself engrossed in Emry's liminal Upon the Precipice and Night Songs. These were Emry's break outs, releasing back to back, skyrocketing in popularity seemingly overnight. I found myself really leaning into her work. My free time was consumed by the worlds she imagined. I caught a lot of flack for it at the department, saying I had just learned to read, but I knew there was something to her. To her words, it seemed so incomprehensible that the mild mannered and humble Emry Anders could produce such vivid and alien worlds. I was simply entranced. It wasn't long after that, after only a couple of months of reading, I realized I was falling in love with a poet I’d only ever met once before in a brief pre-trial interview. 184 Expression Magazine �The SomnUoQuist ... drowsy monuments tower over the emptiness... ... every observed particle a slave to this God. - Exhuming Arcana. Emry Anders Silas was losing the trial and facing a minimum of fifteen years in prison. By all accounts, this was a victory, but my job felt incomplete. Emry’s tales of traveling the endless colored abyss of her dreams, seeing through the eyes of great beasts, and the feelings of loneliness previously unimagined left me with an unshakeable feeling that something was truly wrong. Was Silas the omnipotent deity that kept her imprisoned in dark thorns? Was it through his eyes she saw these great truths of the universe? Fitting metaphors for someone locked away by a manipulator. It just made so much sense. The law at that point permitted me a warrant and sent me to the dull green door of the Anders' home. Even now I can’t help but feel like some kind of knight on a quest to save a princess, locked away in a castle. After stewing in her work for months and working the trial, I felt that, finally, I was able to truly repay her. I could really meet the poet of my dreams, not as an interrogator, but as her savior. Perhaps she’d be conjuring her next great poem when we found her in the depths of sleep. That all feels a little childish now, but it is what it is. I loved her. We knocked and no one answered, so we knocked harder until the door fell off its hinges and we went looking for Emry. I remember the scene so vividly. The place was distraught. Smelled of rotten food, ink and 65th Edition 185 �The SomnilDQuisi parchment, and a horrendous body odor. It was dark, the only light crawling in through the cracks in the shutters. A thick dust hovered in near stasis in the stagnant air. The air of imminent death. There was a musty weight to it al! that made me think of some long abandoned tomb. Nearly every surface, including the floor, was covered in piles of loose paper with the maddened, barely English scrawlings of some obsessive wraith, There was a beautiful chaos to it all, like the manifestation of a great artist's insides, spewn relentlessly into the confines of a small home. The dim-lit library of ancients... ... hidden grandeur littered every table... One secret unknowable. -Upon the Precipice The darkened maze that had overlaid itself over the likely once charming home engulfed us as we crept deeper into the crazed depths. Silence and my quickening heartbeat were all I could hear, my mind raced to find yet unthought conclusions. I worried about the fate of Emry when we had not found her, but we still had the basement to search. My heart swelled with the thought of the untold stories that littered the floor we tread upon. I know now how sacred this place was. Finally, in the deepest place of the house, lay a sleeping Emry Anders in a small bed in a dusty, yellow-stained room, illuminated by a single bulb fixture. A moldy IV drip punctured a deep purple bruise on her arm. Dark bags held up her closed eyes and accented her otherwise pale complexion. An oxygen 186 Expression Magazine �TheSonvtUoQuist mask modified with a brown, crusted feeding tube seemed conjoined with her face, edges pressing into her skin. Her chest rose and depressed so lightly, hardly to be noticed. The color of her skin inside the mask contrasting the rest of her unwashed body. She was smalt and frail then, though not always so. A pair of handcuffs fastened her to the headboard leaving dark marks on her wrist. This must have been her longest stint on the other side of dreams. Tucked beside the bed was the only other thing in the room, a modest wooden desk. It clicked into place for me then that the stories were true. This is where he sat while she slumbered in melodic decrepity. I tell you now, this place was a temple to everything wonderful and good, though my peers only saw a trapped and abused woman. They didn't know the truth like I did. We would later find the IV keeping her alive was not as giving as it appeared, if it can be believed. In the concoction was a sedative to keep her asleep. An induced coma where she could dream forever. Muttering her nightmares to Silas so he could push books and make their money, which by the state of the home, seemed unaccounted for. All while her body rotted and her mind swam endlessly in beautiful nightmares. How he escalated this madness, trying to squeeze every drop of that beautiful girl's power. He must have loved her if he waited so long to do this. Oh, the hum of her words. Suffice it to say, Silas died in an asylum not long ago now. After our discovery, he was... undone. No longer able to wear the mask of the charming literary mogul. Attempts to rehabilitate Emry were less than successful. Her body had long resigned to the dream world, incapable of being awake for more than an hour or so at a time. 65th Edition 187 �The SommloQijist In dreaming, I awake... ... I have always coveted separation. - Oceans of Tar She died a few weeks after her "rescue." After years of lying in that bed, days to weeks to possibly months at a time, physically dependent on her medication, the shock of being wrested from it proved too much for her malnourished, fragile body. She was beautiful, I only hope she is dreaming still. I was able to, painstakingly as I mentioned, attain all of her work shortly after this. I assume their families were torn between their lust for knowledge and disgust at what had happened. A weak disposition 1 did not share that cost them everything. I knew something like this, something like what Emry did, does not just happen, and I was plagued with the nagging of needing to know. I saw Emry as the emissary she was, not some victim to a whelp like Silas. I took my pension as soon as 1 could and spent my retirement searching. Searching for the Corridor, I poured through every word she ever wrote and then again and again. Tonight, recent revelations fill me with a motivation I have never quite felt. I know what my life is for now. In my home, which I have inhabited for nearly ten years, I too shall dream a beautiful midnight 188 Expression Magazine �The SomniloQuist dream. I will go to the basement of this old ailing home to meet my love upon the precipice of dreams. I write from the indentations of Emry Anders bed, where you find me now. How her body compliments mine. A solution of my own creation hangs above me, its stinger promising everything that I've searched for. I will find the divine frequencies that echoed through Emry so many years ago now. Oh. how quiet the world has been. To the one who finds me. I leave everything to you. May you take up my kingdom and follow down this chosen path. May you and everyone you love find their way to the beautiful and twisted world of dreams, as we are all compelled to do. Now in sleep, the corridor lay before me. I vibrate in diminishing earth tones. And something faraway awakes... - Descriptions of the Corridor 65th Edition 189 � 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 Somniloquist Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <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 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> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2025 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Kyle Haymond 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_2025_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/b104a17f506a95c6ecd2906c34e359a2.pdf 37709b6ceef5be601f0bae5dc45557fa PDF Text Text ETls- (Tlabb [riottier of niDsisters Zoe von Gunten The moon hung in the sky like a broken nail against the rocky cobblestone streets. It was a warm humid night. The kind of humid night that makes living in skin feel uncomfortable and no amount of washing can clean the sweat off the body. The oil lamps sputtered and flickered casting their warm hue onto the street as a well dressed man took long strides, He muttered as he went, quietly scolding himself and dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. His wire glasses slipped down his nose as he quickened his pace. The faster this interaction was over, the better. Mr. Whittaker and his fellow professors at the university had a bit of a problem. Her name was Ms. Mabb and she was hired to teach botany. Her passions were odd for a woman. Of course, botany was feminine, more suited to her, but she also adored scientific research, and entomology as well. She wasn't a bad teacher by any stretch of the imagination, but the issue therein lay with her sex. The tensions had risen the moment she was hired and had only gotten worse, Yes, the students loved her, and yes, she was beyond brilliant, but being the only woman in the university wasn't suited to her feminine ways. Something had to be done and the dean wouldn't budge when asked, nay, begged for Ms. Mabb to be let go and sent to a flower shop or a local garden, if she wouldn't be let go, perhaps she could be convinced to leave. After all, the life of academia was much too stressful for a woman; surely she was getting exhausted. And so it was decided that Mr. Whittaker would go and speak with Ms, Mabb. He was a mild mannered gentleman but had a way with words, a wonderful orator and kind to boot. The gentlemen of the university had selected Mr. Whittaker with care; if he couldn’t convince Ms. Mabb to step down, then who else could? As Mr, Whittaker approached the home of Ms. Venus Mabb, he found himself staring up at the large imposing oak door. It stood sturdily with a heavy brass knocker in the center that snarled out at whoever dared to knock with the face of an angry gargoyle. Mr, Whittaker grasped the knocker. 172 Expression Magazine . �Ms. Mabb Mother of Monsters attempting to avoid the fangs of the gargoyie, and knocked not even once when the door fiew open, revealing Ms. Mabb. She was taller than any woman he had ever met before, taller than he who stood quite tall himself. "Oh! Mr. Whittaker, what a lovely surprise." She beamed at him, snatching his hand and shaking it vigorously. "Ms. Mabb, how do you do?" Mr. Whittaker sputtered, shocked by her forwardness. "Quite well, quite well! Please, do come in!" She released her tight grasp on the poor man's hand and stepped to the side, waving her hand into the foyer, welcoming him into her dimly lit home. Mr. Whittaker sheepishly took a step into the home of Ms. Mabb. Plants filled every corner of the room, vines curled up the banister of the staircase, pots of green leafy plants stood by the front door. Even the paintings on the walls were of flowers and plants. Ms. Mabb herself looked eerily like the room, her dress a dull green with small inlaid designs of vines with small pops of red berries along the fabric. A shawl draped lazily over her arms; it looked ornate, the fabric cut at the ends looking like the leaves off a vine. A golden ring with the cut of a rose glittered on her finger, despite the fact that she was unmarried. Her long black hair was tied up loosely, unlike the common lady. She was like an unruly rosebush overtaking the garden. "Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Whittaker?" Ms. Mabb shut the large oak door, cutting off Mr. Whittaker's only escape. "Oh... yes, thank you.” He pulled his handkerchief out and pawed at his forehead. 65th Edition 173 �Ms. Mabb Mother of Monsters "Wonderful, follow me to the parlor." The tall woman walked past him and guided him down a long hall with more potted plants and paintings of plants. Mr. Whittaker found his stomach turning and his hands shaking. The hall was over crowded with plants, the green oppressive hall made the professor much more nervous. He went over potential words in his head, what he would say to this mountainous woman, what would he say? He paused, looking at one of the plants in the hall. It looked like a large open mouth; a petal lid seemingly floated above it. "What plant is this?" he asked politely. "This is Lucia! Oh, she is one of the more shy members of the family. She’s a pitcher plant, she can get a little fussy when she’s hungry." Ms. Mabb caressed the leaves of the plant, "She hasn’t had dinner yet, I hope you don't mind." Ms. Mabb reached into her pocket and revealed a small dead rat. She placed it inside the mouth of the plant. The lid slowly shut, condemning the dead creature to its fate. Mr. Whittaker, taken aback, stared in horror at the plant. He looked back up at Ms. Mabb, who gazed lovingly at the monster of a plant: she stroked its leaves once more then turned back down the hall, waving Mr. Whittaker along. "Make yourself at home. I'll be right back with the tea." Ms. Mabb strode off to the kitchen as Mr. Whittaker beheld her parlor. Two plush armchairs sat in front of a dormant fireplace, a terrarium stood at the arm of one of the chairs on a small wooden table. Taking his seat next to the terrarium he tried to steady his suddenly 174 Expression Magazine �Ms. Mabb Mother of Monsters shaking hands, The scene he had witnessed was nothing short of unusual. Looking up at the mantle above the fireplace was a large portrait. He wondered if it was of a late husband or perhaps another flower. Instead, upon closer inspection, Mr. Whittaker realized the large painting was of Ms, Mabb. her hands cupped under the chin of an unnaturally large plant. Her lips pressed against the head of the flower, it looked fantastical. Utterly unreal. He shook his head, chalking it up to some eccentric painting, perhaps a joke gift from a friend! Taking his mind off the odd painting, he inspected the terrarium by his side and the plants within. The small plants were nestled in moss and dirt. They grew upward reaching for the light with their round toothed heads, The plants looked ferocious, hungry even, just like Lucia. They stood tall and proud, opposing the moss below their stems. It seemed clear to Mr. Whittaker why these plants were in a glass prison, they seemed to grin at him...possibly drooling. "Would you like cream Mr. Whittaker?" The towering woman materialized: Mr. Whittaker jumped. "Oh! Oh my...you gave me a bit of a scare. Yes. Cream would be splendid." He rasped. "Wonderful," she grinned. Placing the cup and saucer down with a small rattle, Ms. Mabb poured the cream into the cup. White clouds danced in the amber tea, sea mist covering a golden sunset. Ms. Mabb took her seat in the antique chair across from the quivering man. "So, Mr. Whittaker," she began slowly with a motherly air, "What brings you here so late? Is there any trouble at the academy? Grading? Students?" She leaned forward, her green piercing eyes drilling into his skull. “W-well.„Ms. Mabb...l happen to be here to-’’ 65th Edition 175 �Ms. Mabb Mother of Monsters The woman suddenly let out a gasp and covered her mouth. She began to giggle like a schoolgirl. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Whittaker, I noticed that Lyonel seems to like you!" she clapped her hands still giggling with an unnerving joy that didn’t suit a woman of her age and stature. "Who...?" Mr. Whittaker stammered, looking around the room, eyes frantically darting from plant painting, to leaves cascading down the walls, to the mossy bricks in the empty fireplace. Ms. Mabb extended her long skinny finger, pointing at the hungry looking plant in the terrarium. She looked lovingly at the plant. "Lyonel is so feisty, but sometimes he can be rather shy. He doesn’t usually like guests, but he looks so happy in your company!” She sighed, her sharp features softened into the docile look of a mother overlooking her child in its crib. "He seems...kind...” Mr. Whittaker glanced nervously at the plant, and it looked as if it began to drool more. "He really is! You understand him! How wonderful." Ms. Mabb took a sip of her own tea. “So...Ms. Mabb. The reason why I have come to visit," Mr. Whittaker attempted again, his voice wavering, "Well, we have been discussing, the faculty that is, your health and wellbeing in the academy..." The botany professor nodded, her eyes closed, listening closely while sipping her tea intently. "We just thought that it would be in your best interest...” He gulped down the earthy air of the 176 Expression Magazine �Ms. Mabb Mother of Monsters dim home, dabbing his sweating forehead with his handkerchief, "We worry about you Venus! Truly! You’re a lovely lady and...and we want to see the best for you I ” Mr. Whittaker stammered. "Get it out, man!" Ms, Mabb’s soft voice suddenly raised, she slammed the teacup down on the saucer with the force of a thunderclap, her body leaning forward like an animal ready to leap. "We think you should consider retiring," the words fell out of his mouth pathetically like a child blurting out the first words that came to his head. After his careless fumble, Mr, Whittaker’s hand violently slapped over his own mouth, sweat trickling down his head and onto his fingers. He watched as the monstrous woman sank back into her seat calmly. She folded her spindly fingers together on her lap, occasionally tapping her index finger on her knuckle. "Venus...!-" She held her hand up. Her eyes stared into nothingness. Mr. Whittaker couldn’t read a single emotion on her face. She opened her mouth, then paused, closing it and pursing her thin lips, then finally letting an eerie smile grace her features. "Mr. Whittaker, would you like to see my greenhouse?" "Would I...I urn...your,..?" He pried his hand off his own face and gripped his handkerchief, his knuckles turning white as he shakily returned the white lace embroidered fabric to his wet forehead. "Would you like to see my greenhouse, Mr. Whittaker," she repeated, standing from her seat. 65th Edition 177 �Ms. Mabb Mother of Monsters “I suppose SO." He stood up feeling smaller than an ant next to her as she looked down at him. Her eyes were ravenous, Without a word she began to lead him through the kitchen. It had a sweet earthy smell with the dishes visible looking rare and antique. A wooden door with a mesh screen stood in front of them. It smelt like soil and moss. Vines fought their way through the cracks between the door. Taking a hold of the handle, Ms. Mabb opened the door and stood aside, letting Mr. Whittaker into the jungle. The greenhouse was humid and warm; Mr. Whittaker felt sticky the moment the greenhouse air met his skin. The cobblestone pathways were small and overgrown with woodvine and other sharp looking leaves. Stinging nettle laid in patches bordering the paths. Huge plants like he had never seen before grew upwards towards the glass ceiling. They had huge heads with teeth and colorful petals around the center. A large tall plant in the center of the room seemed to emit a smell that only could be described as rotting flesh, in an odd way it reminded him of Ms. Mabb. Remembering his host, he looked around frantically. It was as if she disappeared, but his eyes suddenly landed on hers. She blended into the foliage, her green dress matching the tones and her leafy textured shawl mimicked the vines. "Why did you bring me here...?" He began cautiously. "I just happened to remember how Lyonel looked at you, he seemed so happy that you were visiting that I figured the rest of the family may want to meet you!" She tilted her head to the side playfully. "So you're not upset about..." "Of course not, darling! I understand your concern," She grinned a wide toothed smile. 178 Expression Magazine �Ms. Mabb Mother of Monsters Mr, Whittaker felt as if a thousand eyes were on him. The scent coming from the tall plant was getting stronger, suffocating him. He coughed once, covering his mouth with his handkerchief. "Venus, are you sure you understand?" He coughed twice, his fingers tingled, numbness spread through his hands. "Oh yes, Mr. Whittaker, I understand,’’ She approached him, her eyes glinting like a lioness on the hunt, "No, wait...please don't approach me." He choked out, his chest was tightening. "Oleander is one hell of a poison isn't it, Mr. Whittaker...?" Ms. Mabb reached her long arm out and placed it on his cheek. He felt too weak to move away, his head was suddenly spinning and pounding, he grasped at the air behind him trying to find something to prop him up, "Lyonel's big sister seems to like you just as much as him! Come here Lilah!" Her maternal features glowed uncannily as she looked above Mr. Whittaker, In Mr. Whittaker's quickly blurring vision, he was able to look up and make out a large plant similar to Lyonel in the glass terrarium. Its head was ten times larger, the teeth ten times sharper, and it looked much hungrier. The white lacy handkerchief floated gracefully to the floor as its owner, now unable to hold it, was consumed whole like a pitiful rat. 65th Edition 179 � 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 Ms. Mabb Mother of Monsters Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <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 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> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2025 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_2025_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/4f827f428a3b99a387346941d80ed4d8.pdf c48d7213efbbe3381d8c95fa25e3dc27 PDF Text Text LisniEiak Space Weston Chorak I've looked at a screen for so much of my life that my dreams have pixels. They always start feeling real, and I’m back sitting in the home I grew up in with quaint curtains and dust and a little clock on the mantle of a fake fireplace that clicks offbeat with the passing of seconds. Stale air and distant rattling behind the vent grille push me further into the chair while my head vibrates, I’m falling back into memories of yellowed carpet and sickly green lampshades when it all melts into a datamoshed slush pile of fetid encryption and broken glass. I think It's cruel. I live every damn day of my life plugged into this diseased world, and I can't even escape it in sleep. 1 work in tech. Went straight from my degree to a remote back-end programming job for a startup you’ve never heard of. I clock in every day for ten hours to work on our shitty chatbot app and then spend the rest of the day browsing social media. A bartender for faceless alcoholic engines getting off work to blow his paycheck on cheap digital booze and short-form crack cocaine. I can see it in my eyes when I look in the mirror. They’ve got those same dark rings under them with glossy redness filling each iris. It’s always the eyes that tell. I don't leave my apartment often, but when I do, I can see who else has the sickness. Most peoples' eyes say something. 1 don't make eye contact enough, they say, but their eyes yell at me if I do, so I look down and walk past. The eyes of my father tell me THINGS THE DEMOCRATS DON’T WANT YOU TO KNOW with the same voice as my roommate when his eyes tell me of DIGITAL MEAT MARKETS - WATCH SEXY XXX VIDEO NOW NOW NOW, I try not to speak to either of them. 1 just work and browse before going back to sleep. I always dream back to times of youth, There was a weight to it that the distance has lifted, i never remember the pains and frustrations of growing up tn a world that hates itself. I remember the 65th Edition 169 �LiminalSpace image of a time when 1 did not have to care. I dream and I’m on a subway train going home from school. I saw snow from windows walking down to the station and I know there's a dark cold waiting on the walk home. Beside the door, there was a girl who sat there. She went to the same school and she rode the same way I did every day but got off one stop before me. I remember the backpack she wore off her side with a half-torn arm strap and the way her eyes would speak. They told me QUIZ - WHAT MENTAL DISORDER DO I HAVE, They asked THE FIVE SIGNS THAT YOU AREN’T GETTING ENOUGH SUNLIGHT and pleaded for BEST HOME REMEDIES FOR SEASONAL DEPRESSION. I sit in the dream and watch her leave at the stop before mine and I’m left alone in an empty train and its hissing silence. Yesterday, after nearly two weeks inside, I went to the supermarket. It was getting dark and I was tired and hungry, but the fridge was empty other than old ketchup and bitter milk. It was a quiet night. I drove a road dark and twisting, my headlights the only glow save a moonless sky of stars and the reflections of stop signs. Grass dropped steep from the side of the street, and it was as though I drove a freeway orbiting the Earth, with nothing aside to catch me should I drift off to sleep, the endless crackle of radio, a lullaby punctuated by stings of corporate pop music when it caught bits of a signal, and gone again in a moment. I pulled into a mostly empty lot and locked the car and went into the store. I walked the back aisles. The food was mostly unappealing. I stood for a while and considered the various bags of Doritos in different colors, crouching to reach the ones on the bottom shelf and grab them. I felt to see how full they were and put them back. I walked to the next aisle. There was a person in this one. Familiar. An older face wore a demeanor I knew. We were friends, I think. Back in high school. We liked the same music. When it hurt, he would drive us around town and we'd just talk for hours and it didn't make it better but we did it anyway. I looked at his eyes as he glanced up. Plain eyes. No words. They watched mute and went back down and he walked away with a few cans and 1 was left alone in an 170 Expression Magazine �Liminal Space empty supermarket aisle with the lights turned low that stretched on further than I could see. Always empty. Clicking of a clock and rattling of fishplate on steel rails. The floor starts to move and takes me home to that same chair under green lampshades and adrift in a sea of yellow carpet. I know I’m watching it through a television, It’s playing the same home video on repeat but the remote is gone and I don’t dare pull the plug. It all wastes away eventually to a mass of faded grain and I wake up to the start of it all again. 65th Edition 171 � 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 Liminal Space Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <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 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> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2025 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Weston Chorak 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_2025_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/587bb2e4c3159ba9f62cface8fb186af.pdf 7447c8223b01805901d02128ace5536f PDF Text Text Pin hncamphete Enesnary Joseph Meeks It was old-man Harver who said it first. He had come to the ranch to visit my grandmother; she wasn't home, and he spied me sitting on the porch of our house and limped over. He asked if my mother was home, but I think he knew she wasn't because she always worked weekdays. Then, he asked about my dad. Was my dad home. His face was expressionless, but there was an inflection in his voice that hinted that he knew the answer to this, too. Harver wasn’t what I would call a family friend, more of a fellow farmer that occasionally borrowed equipment from our family. My grandmother had known him for decades prior to my birth, so he was simply "Old Man Harver" to me. "I heard there was some trouble last night at the bar, that your dad was involved. Saw the ambulance running hot towards Evanston with lights and sirens blaring. Someone said a man died. Did your mom talk to you about anything like that?" "No sir. Didn’t hear anything." Truthfully, my dad was rarely home in the summertime when I woke up, so not seeing him today sparked no suspicion. "Do you know who died?" "I don't know for sure, but it didn’t sound like it was your dad. In fact, that maybe your dad did something to the man. But I’ve probably said too much already. Did you see your mom last night or this morning?" "She put us to bed last night, but I was asleep when she left today." Some trouble at the bar. That explains the late-night phone call. When mom had answered the phone, her face had frozen in curiosity, her head nodding in understanding. Then she was crying softly, but still nodding her head. And then she hung up, wiped the tears away, and didn't seem sad anymore. She read her book for a while, said goodnight, and went to bed. In the moment, it wasn't out of the ordinary. My dad was known in the small town of Carter as a free-thinking man that enjoyed a good time, so long 166 Expression Magazine �/In Incomplete Memory as you didn't mockingly disagree with him. A lot of his beliefs were cringing, so it could be difficult not to. Vietnam had been kinder to him than most. He suffered no obvious physical damage and only slightly noticeable mental damage. It was the emotional effects that stood out. Anger, impatience, and sadness flowed regularly from his self and those that knew him before he volunteered claim they were new. Though he rarely obeyed the law, he had never been to jail, nor seriously injured anyone to my knowledge. But we all knew he was capable. "Okay son. I'll let you alone then. Tell your grammy I was here." I was 12 years old when this happened. Our ranch was fairly large. We had several hundred acres of farmland, a decent number of cows, and several barns and corrals. Looking back, it's easy to see that we were not a rich family, but not poor either. But, at the time, I felt rich. I felt important. And I felt that an old burned out farmer with a shitty truck and no functioning farm equipment had no place telling me what he had told me. "You want to know something that I heard?" I said before he got in his truck. "I heard that you were at the cafe the other day and exposed yourself to the waitress. Just whipped it out and stared at her, like it was a cool rock you'd found and needed to show someone. I heard it wasn’t the first time you did that, too." “That’s an inappropriate thing to say to me, Nathan." He got in his truck and drove away. They found my dad a few days later, hiding in the hills. He had dug a large trench in a valley using a shovel, off the main road a few hundred yards. The trench was just big enough for his small black Tacoma to roll into and not be seen without the right angle. He didn't resist and didn’t apologize. The story I heard was that he was in a good mood when the cops found him. He even joked about how convenient it was that he 65th Edition 167 �An Incomplete Memory drove the Tacoma to the bar and not the dually. I don't think my mother was too upset about it. I guess she wanted him gone for a while and now he was gone. Freedom after so many years of uncertainty, She rarely dated afterwards and never remarried. It was definitely a hard time for the family, and we al! made adjustments over time. But it wasn’t so devastating that it ruined our lives. I visited my dad several times in prison during my youth and into young adulthood. He was released shortly after my twenty-second birthday. The most feeling I get about what happened is when I think about what I'd said to Harver. Did he expose himself to the waitress at our local cafe? I doubt it. But somebody said he did. Somebody said it first and it leaked to the rest of us. The rumor hangs around town like a bad smelt that never goes away. 168 Expression 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 An Incomplete Memory Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <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> <em>Expression</em> claims first North American rights to submissions selected for publication. All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2025 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Joseph Meeks 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_2025_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/5d71d1fec3548cd695f6c6a6a9185184.pdf e2a77df2241d590edffa32aff8951ec5 PDF Text Text JRn Empty Space af ETIestky Dust Weston Chorak If ever there was a great hypocrite of all the Earth, it was me. I always told you not to procrastinate, and it took me three days after the funeral to actually pack up your things. I slept on Monday, My Tuesday was spent awake in the insterstice of exhaustion and melancholic stupor, and Wednesday was mostly answering calls and emails. I got myself up early on Thursday morning to get it over with. I must have stood in the doorway to your apartment for a long time. Two of your neighbors had walked past me to go to work and they spent the whole time staring. The second at least gave me a nod. Some sort of pity. The first had only watched with blank eyes void of concern and covered in a thin film of annoyance. Even in those few days, the air had filled with dust and cobweb, but the heavy chill echoed over flashes of red and blue that still seemed to pour in through the window. I brought the flat boxes from my car and I unfolded them and stacked them in a pile off to the side. I started to organize the clutter. No matter how many times I said it, I don’t think you ever learned to keep your piles in order. At a certain point, you were out of my house, so it didn't hurt me for you to leave your things scattered everywhere, and I stopped mentioning it. I couldn’t step in any direction without having to watch for plates, or stacks of papers, or old books of poetry. Sometimes, I would just stand there and look at them as they lay sprawled on the carpet. The funeral was busy. There must have been a few hundred people who came by. They didn’t really talk to me, so they just stood there and I stood there and we listened to the quiet music. I even saw a few of your old classmates from high school that said they hadn't talked to you in years, but they still showed up, and 1 thanked them, I know you didn’t like crowds, but I think you would be happy to hear that people were there. I left after everyone was gone and I threw my handful of dirt and watched my child's casket go 162 Expression Magazine �An Empty Space of Mostly Dust down, I taped up the boxes that were full. It was midday by then, and my mind posed, for the first time this week, the question of food. I went out and locked the apartment. I was going to get lunch at a sandwich shop downtown, but halfway there I decided I wasn’t hungry. Before I went back, I spent my afternoon in the art gallery. Warm heat hung in the air and the paintings dripped from walls painted in an Oxford tan. I cupped my hands to catch and drink from each canvas while 1 sat on the benches. There weren’t enough works on display, I thought. The rooms stretched tall and each canvas was wilting, contained within a space of mostly dust and faded classical music ringing hollow through speakers behind the walls as rain pushed on the windows, I don't think 1 saw a single other person the entire time. I know you liked the gallery, but 1 could never find it in me to care for some old statues and portraits. They seemed so still to me. Empty and vacuous. They were the dead fruits of dead men, and if I reached out 1 thought they would crumble before I could even touch them. But 1 sat there a while and 1 watched them move. I heard you in the brushstrokes. I watched you walk in the grasses of the Netherlands and I sat with you and contemplated the nature of the stars above Athens, Birds sang overhead and perched in canopy ceilings while deer grazed the cold tile. We watched as apples on a table grew ripe and then fell to rot. The city was rotting too. Exhaust consumed petrichor and all silence died in the flow of people between their daily places, I walked back to the complex through swamps of wet concrete and grime, through alleys of smoke and low fog. I wasn’t used to your key, and 1 fumbled for a minute unlocking the door. It stuck twice before opening. The evening cast a dull blue glow through the blinds. I didn’t bother with the lights or with locking the door after I closed it. 65th Edition 163 �An Empty Space of Mostly Dust I had been efficient in the morning. Almost everything from the center room and kitchen was boxed already, the walls bare and unfurnished. I'd even started on the bedroom before I left. I spent the evening packing the remainder of the things away, it was mostly the clothes and shoes from your closet To be honest. I don't know what I'll do with them. It wouldn’t feel right to sell them or give them away, but I don't have anywhere to keep them. I'll at least find a place for the pictures. I’ll keep your books as well. I don't know why you loved the poems so much, but I know you did, so I'll do my best to take care of the lot. It felt odd to be in your room. It was a box, the short ceiling leaning into an empty space of mostly dust and air hissing behind the walls as saltwater leaked through the corners. It was a place I had imagined countless times this week. I was myself, answering my phone. I was an officer, making the call and noting the time on my watch. Sometimes, I was you, and I sat with my back against the door and I wore your mask and held the valves and I breathed in nitrogen, I felt my skin go cold, and my vision grew dark as I saw the blue in your face. I spent most of today at the gallery. I sat and drank from each dripping canvas. I watched the sun set over the Mediterranean and felt the winds of the Alps. I sat at the tables of kings and looked through the windows of seaside diners. I watched my child walk away on a windswept forest trail under the falling boughs of yellow leaves. I watched you fade into the distance. I waited as long as 1 could. I'll be driving home tonight. I just wanted to say some things to you before I left. I think this is a very nice spot, and it's right next to your mother, so I hope you don't mind it. I think she would want her child to be with her. I think it would be nice to sleep under the oaks, and they cast a nice shade over you in the mornings. I think I'll be buried here someday too. I won't ask why you did this. Even if you could answer, I don't think I would ever understand, I could read a thousand books of poetry and stare at a thousand old portraits and it wouldn’t change a 164 Expression Magazine �/In Empty Space of Mostly Dust thing. It doesn't even matter at this point does it? This is not a poem. The meaning of the words won’t scrape the ink from the page. I just have to know you’re at peace. The painted sky drips down as all the yellow turns to red and brown and fails away before me, and I wish I could just sit here under these withering trees with you a while longer. 65th Edition 165 � 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 An Empty Space of Mostly Dust Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <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 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 id="dublin-core-date-created" class="element"> <div class="field two columns alpha"></div> </div> <p></p> </div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-date-created" class="element"> <div class="field two columns alpha"></div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2025 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Weston Chorak 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_2025_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/4abf530799f4dc5526391ed7ce82745d.pdf be1754f7abf57543374cf255472272fd PDF Text Text Pl CnnuErsaUnri Duer Stohen Cigarettes Zoe von Gunten Family dinners weren't always the best, but family dinners with the Morettis were the highlight of each month, at least for Lydia, Dad, and Mom. Abigail was tired of them, mostly of Vincent, the middle child of the Moretti's. Her sister and the Morettis kids called each other "cousin," but Abby refrained from this. They weren't even related, but apparently this friendship between the families was as thick as blood. The Morettis and the Callaghans did everything together. Ever since Abigail’s father took them to the Moretti's restaurant and met Robert Moretti, the families were inseparable. Everyone except Abby. She knew her father saw Vincent as the son he never had. She had an itching in the back of her head every time her father looked at Vincent Moretti then back at her. The itching only got more and more loud and obnoxious, it seemed to tell her the truth of the look in her father’s eyes, a look that said: "If only you were more like him.” Abby was the failure who couldn't follow his rules; she slacked in classes, wrote poetry when she should have been writing essays, daydreamed at dinners while her father lectured her on personal financing, and, worst of all, she wanted to pursue being an author...an artist. She wasn't perfect like Vincent. The most recent dinner was a week ago. Vincent won an award at a recent science bowl. Abby had also won an award for her writing, but Dad cared more about Vincent. A straight-A student, intelligent, had a perfect path in life surely to become an award winning scientist or engineer, a painter in his spare time [it was never distracting like Abby's writing], and, of course, a pretty decent chef [thanks to his restaurateur parents of course]. He had a well of potential. Abby, on the other hand, was wasting time. Her writing was "a distraction,” something that would never make her father proud. That night Dad made lobster therm!dor, probably to impress his buddy Robert, He said it was a special occasion and Mom even made a pound cake. "Big night, huh. Pops?” Lydia asked, leaning against the door frame. Abby sat at the kitchen table 148 Expression Magazine �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes Staring down at the certificate hidden partialiy under her homework, she didn't know when to bring it up. "Sure is," he weaved around Mom who was stirring a pot on the stove. “I hate iobster,” Abby muttered, shrinking in her chair. “What?" Arthur turned and iooked at Abby bewiidered, "You never told me that before, I thought you loved it." "I don't love it right now," she said, placing her head on the table, “why do the Morettis have to come over tonight?" "They come over every Friday, dear" her mother responded, switching places with her father on the stove. "Right! Not to mention the celebration." Her father lifted the spoon out of the boiling pot, tasting it. "Celebration?" Abby sat back up, "Yeah, celebration. Didn’t you hear Vince won the science bowl or something?” Lydia chimed in "It's notyusf that! You and Cam are graduating soon too." Arthur had moved on to chopping vegetables. "Penny too. She's going into middle school next year," Lacey added. “Those are some pretty stupid celebration reasons." Abby said under her breath. "What did you say?" Art called back to her. "Nothing." "Celebrate, huh7" Abby thought bitterly. She wasn’t even a second thought in the conversation. There was nothing to celebrate when it came to Abby. She picked at her fingers. 65th Edition 149 �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes “1 have something to celebrate." She started, fiddling with a pencil. Her sister, father, and mother stopped. It felt like all the action in the room froze for just a second. They stood, staring at her. Her father's eyes burned into her. She felt like crumbling; she was good for nothing, but maybe this would change that. "I uh...I recently entered my short story and a poem into a competition and I won first place...in both categories." She mustered a smile and held up the certificate. "What's this?" Arthur ambled over to her and snatched the certificate out of her hand. "An...award?" "Oh.’’ He looked at it skeptically. "Oh?” "Hm, good job..." He looked a little closer at the paper. "I mean you could have been studying but this is..." Abby furrowed her eyebrows at him, “fine." Her father handed the certificate back and turned to keep cooking like nothing had happened. Abby looked down at her certificate then back at her father, the back of his balding red head seemingly apathetic to her. She shook her head, bewildered. "What’s that supposed to mean?" "Nothing. It's great." His tone was flat. "No, tell me what you mean." She tossed the certificate on the table behind her. Her father turned, pinching his nose bridge, his Seiko watch caught the light, blinding her for a moment. 150 Expression Magazine �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes “Abigale, I just think you should have been focusing on other things. Do we need to discuss your report card again?" "This had nothing to do with my grade." "Listen Abigale, you know what happened to me." "Oh my God. Not this again, Dad." "Well it’s true and it’s real life. Abby. You go into these artsy careers and you know what happens?" Abby rolled her eyes and simultaneously recited with her father: "You lose all your money and have to dig your way out." "ExactlyI" Arthur exclaimed after their duet. "God. Just because you failed doesn't mean I will," Abby muttered, crossing her arms: she avoided his eyes. “What did you say?" The air froze. "I said you failed, but I won't." She looked up glaring at her father despite her turning stomach. The kitchen was silent. Lydia opened her mouth to say something but closed it. She gazed back and forth from her sister to her father as if trying to decide who to defend, "Okay." Arthur turned to the counter and picked the knife up, slicing carrots once again. "Okay? Okay what?" Abby pressed. "Just okay," he said curtly, "You can say that all you want but just you wait. The real world hits you and you’ll be sorry. That certificate is only a false hope, just one win. How many more contests will you enter but end up losing money on? Just stop before it gets worse, Abigale." 65th Edition 151 �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes “Dad, come on...that's a little much," Lydia finally spoke up. “Art..." her mother placed her hand on Arthur’s shoulder. "Fine. Whatever," Abby spat. She knew the conversation was over. She bit her tongue so hard it hurt and snatched her homework and certificate through blurry eyes. She hobbled out the kitchen, her sister’s concerned look of pity infected her soul as she passed her. “Abby...wait, you know he didn’t mean it." Lydia tried to grab her sister, but Abby moved too quickly. She retreated to her room like a whipped dog, tai! between her legs. She slammed the door shut and dropped the pages of homework on the ground and amongst them, the certificate. Hot angry tears dripped down her face. She let out a groan and picked up the ornamental piece of paper. Her body felt hot and cold all at once. Her heart ached so much her chest hurt: her head boiled and pounded. She gripped the fragile paper; the golden etched words mocked her from the page. She gritted her teeth and found that she was crumpling the certificate. She hesitated for a moment, but, through the buzzing pain and hurt in her heart, she threw the certificate in the trashcan across her room. Her back slammed into her bedroom door as she sunk down to the floor. She contained the screams of frustration and wails of sorrow that wanted to escape her chest, instead letting out pitiful whimpers and moans. Her breath was choppy and fast. She sobbed on the ground for what felt like hours. She had stayed on the floor until her head hurt from crying and she had no tears left to cry. The doorbell rang; the Morettis had arrived. She knew she had to make an appearance: if she didn't, there would be about another hour worth of lecturing after dinner, along with the current issue of her competition at hand. After some attempted masking of her puffy face and eyes, she took four deep breaths in. After the last exhale she exited her room and emerged into a night of torture. 152 Expression Magazine �Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes The entire night, she couldn't help glaring at the shy quiet boy who sat on the couch as Lydia and Cam entertained 10 year old Penny. Even when Lydia and Cam pulled Abby and Vincent into a board game, Abby avoided interaction with Vincent. The entire dinner was lively; laughter filled the dining room. Cam and Lydia chatted about college plans, the adults smiled in approval of their eldest children's choices. Penny, ever the sweet girl, told all about how excited she was to go into Sth grade and that she had made her own hand-drawn invitations to her Sth grade graduation. Abby sat isolated in between her mother and older sister. Her mouth was dry from the lack of speaking: her head still hurt from the tears. She boiled beneath the surface as conversation shifted over to Vincent and all his wonderful accomplishments, traits, and skills. It all came to a head when the cake came out. Arthur stood up. Abby watched her father raise his glass of red wine. He gleamed and stared at Vincent in a way she had never seen him look at her. “All of you kids are growing into such fine people. I’m so proud of all of you. I wanted to take this moment to congratulate Vince on his recent award at the science bowl. This boy is truly a jack of all trades!" He said with pride, "I'm so happy to be able to be called your uncle, Vincent.” Before he could continue on with his speech, Abby jolted up out of her seat, nearly knocking her chair over. She couldn't take it anymore. The silverware and glasses clattered as her hands pushed off the table. She opened her mouth to speak, but her eyes met Vincent's. Those cold blue eyes filled with fear pierced right through her heart. They were filled with a nervous fear, he was confused. She looked at her father, clearly growing infuriated. Abby's mother let out a small sound of distress, turning away from the scene. 65th Edition 153 �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes "Abby..." Lydia whispered, taking a hoid of her hand. "Don’t touch me." Abby puiied her hand away from her sister's, "i'm done." “Young lady, you sit down right now." Arthur called after her as she left the table, fury radiating from her. Abby stormed out of the house, grabbing the keys to her sister's car. not before overhearing Penny’s small voice ask her older brother innocently: "Why is Uncle Art so angry at Abby?" She drove to the shore of Lake Michigan and stood on the shore screaming till her lungs and throat hurt. She didn't care if anyone heard her. She needed some way to get rid of the pain. Even though a week had passed since then, the memory was fresh and the wound still raw. Her father was more irritable with her despite talking little to her. Lydia was doing her best to try and be there for her sister while keeping their father happy. Mom, anxious as always, was trying to contain the fires but only inhaling the toxic smoke. She was taking more Xanax these days. Lydia's soccer tournament had finally arrived; her sister begged her to go. Abby refused many times, but the way Lydia looked at her filled her with guilt. Her sister, always the fixer, was trying to keep it together, but she was hurting just as much. So Abby sat on the bleachers next to her mother uncomfortably in her school uniform. She watched her sister and her strawberry blonde hair rush across the field; she was beautiful even when dirt was smeared on her face and sweat dripped from her forehead. She smiled brightly at her teammates between plays, patting the other girls on the back, and high fiving them. She was a shining light on the grey Chicago afternoon. When Abby wasn't pretending to watch, she was writing in her notepad; poetry which her father 154 Expression Magazine �Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes would never see, She wrote and wrote till her hands were cramped. When she looked up for a minute, i shaking her hands out, her eyes locked with her sister's as she looked up to the stands. Lydia smiled and (waved, she made a heart with her hands. Abby weakly smiled back and shyly waved hoping no one was ' lookingather. "Cam! Vince!" Her mother's voice dragged her attention away from her sister. Abby's heart sank when she heard the names. She looked past her mother seeing the tall dark haired boy and his younger brother trailing behind him. Camillo smiled like Lydia: the two suns in a dark world. "Hi, Aunt Lacey! We came to see Lydia play, she told me last week about her game. I'm happy to see you're here," Cam was cheerful as always, "Oh! Abby! I didn't think you’d be here!" He leaned to the side, looking at the sullen girl awkwardly tugging at her braids. "Yeah. I'm here too." She was cold, turning her head back to the field where she saw her sister looking at her with a frown. She knew Lydia didn't want her acting this way towards the Morettis. It was no secret to Abby that Lydia and Cam had something. The two were smitten with each other. He'd come to all of her games, and, every time Lydia would come back from dinner with the Morettis and Dad, she'd blush and talk all about him. "Yo cousin, what's up with the outfit?" Cam teased with a grin. "I just got out of school, what do you think?" She snapped, her face flushing red. The Catholic school uniform was prudish, probably never changed since the 50s, No teenager would be caught dead in it. "Damn, alright," He laughed awkwardly, "well...Aunt Lacey, would you mind if we sat with you? I know Cousin over there might bite my head off, but I know you're a little nicer,” He playfully grabbed 65th Edition 155 �/ Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes Lacey’s shoulders and gently shook her. “Oh, Cam!" Mom laughed, "of course you may. I'm sorry about Abigail, it's been a difficult week." She glanced at her daughter nervously hoping not to provoke another reaction, Abby rolled her eyes, Cam and Vincent took their seats next to Abby's mother, Vincent had a sketchbook. He buried his head in it, and he kept his head down unless his brother nudged him to make some quip or jab. After a long bout of silence with interjections of whistle tweets from the fields, cheering from the crowd, and occasional clapping, Camillo leaned past Lacey to speak to Abby. "So, Cousin. Why don't you wanna switch schools to ours like your sister did?" She straightened up uncomfortably as if she had been stung with a needle. “Because. Dad would freak out." She spoke curtly. "That's a shitty excuse. Lydia did it and Uncle Art hasn't blown a fuse." Cam shrugged. "Well that's because she's not me. Dad hates me or something, but he definitely doesn’t hate Lydia...or you...and especially not Vince." she shot a glare at Camillo. "Abigail!" Her mother had overheard, "don't say that. Your father does not hate you." "Yeah right. Dad could care less about me unless I'm doing something he hates, which is apparently everything." Abby shut her notepad and grabbed her messenger bag, “Yeah Cousin...that's a little harsh. Art doesn't hate you. It's just been a tough week for everyone that's all," Camillo reached over and put his hand on her knee in an attempt to comfort her: to Abby it burnt. 156 Expression Magazine �A Convefzation Over Stolen Cigarettes "Tough week? It's a tough life! Being that guy's daughter is like living in Hell! I can't be myself and I especially can't do anything right. I'm not perfect like Vince over there! I’m sick and tired of it.” Abby snatched her bag and slung it over her shoulder. "I'm sorry..." With a quiet and trembling voice, Vincent finally spoke. Abby froze. She couldn't place why he always made her hesitant. It was like the words he spoke broke her heart. His blue eyes were on her again. They were sincere. "Whatever. It doesn't matter." She huffed, quickly averting her eyes from Vincent's. She left the bleachers like she had left dinner. It felt pathetic, it felt cowardly. Yet it felt better than staying and seeing Vincent's eyes that looked deep into her soul like he could read her pathetic misery inside and out. She gripped her messenger bag’s strap: she could practically feel Lydia watching her from the field. She knew she would break her sister’s heart, but it didn’t matter anymore. She couldn’t stand being around Vincent. He didn’t have to do anything. He was quiet, he spoke rarely. He didn’t ask for her father's praise, yet he received it. They weren’t even related and her father called himself his uncle but acted more like a father to him, and it irritated her. Vincent’s presence alone was enough to make her want to rip her hair out, and he didn't have to do anything. He never did. She found a secluded place around the corner of the large highschool and squatted down against the wall. She dug around in her messenger bag, her hands shaking, searching for a moment of calm. She pulled out the pack of cigarettes she had stolen from her mother, secretly thanking Lydia for switching to a public school so any teachers or peers at her Catholic school wouldn’t recognize her. She lit the cigarette and took a long drag off of it, her shaking hands calmed for a minute. She 65th Edition 157 �4 Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes wished that she had rejected Lydia's request to watch her game. Abby shouid have known Camiilo would show up. Of course he would. He always was dragging Vincent along with him too, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. She tapped the spent ash off her cigarette and let out a long sigh, trying to ignore the tearswelling in her eyes. "Cousin," Camiilo had followed her, "what the hell is going on with you?" He stood above her. "It’s none of your business, Cam. Go back to the game, Lydia will be upset that you’re not in the stands." Abby put the cigarette to her lips and looked away from the boy. "She’s upset that you’re not there." He turned and took a seat next to her, "Seriously, Cousin..." his voice softened. "Shut the hell up." Abby attempted to sound angry, but her wavering voice said otherwise. "Abby, what’s going on?" Camiilo put his hand on her back: this time his touch didn’t burn. It was hard to hide emotions from Camiilo. He was the kind of person you could tell anything to. It didn’t help that he could read anyone like a book. "If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.” She turned and looked him in the eye, "it’s just...ugh. God, this sucks. It’s just that... it's just that 1 can’t do anything right in Dad's eyes. To him I’m just a failure, and yet he loves Vincent! He’s not even his son! I just don’t know. It’s like he wants to replace me with Vincent." She looked up into the cloudy skies. She brought her hand to her eyes and wiped away stray tears, "Listen, it's not that I hate Vincent, 1 guess I think he’s really sweet, but I just can’t help being upset with him. He doesn’t do anything and Dad is fawning over him.” she paused for what felt like centuries, "You know...I won a writing competition that night..." 158 Expression Magazine �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes She picked up a rock and fiddled with it. Cam reached over and took the cigarette out of her mouth; he put it to his own lips and inhaled the smoke. "You did?" He glanced at her. "Yeah. First place.” She tossed the rock. "That’s awesome, Abby. For what it’s worth, I think you’re very talented, and so does your sister." He held the cigarette out to her. "Thanks..." she sighed, “I just wish that Dad would think that." "Man, fuck what he thinks. He was being a prick anyway." Cam nudged her, "Lydia told me about what he said. 1 think you can make it as a writer." They sat in silence, listening to the distant whistle calls from the soccer field, the mindless chattering in the bleachers, and the fading spring breeze that was slowly becoming a warm summer wind carried the cigarette smoke far into the sky, "I know I said not to tell anyone, and I still mean that," Abby looked down, "But...would you tell Vincent that I don't hate him? I know 1 act like I do... but I'm just frustrated. I'll try to be kinder...but 1 can’t guarantee it. Just tell him I don't hate him, okay?" "Yeah, I’ll do that cousin." The two passed the cigarette back and forth for a few minutes longer. After a while Camillo stood up, “I’ll tell him, Abby," he turned to leave, "When you’re ready, you should come back. It’d mean a lot to Lydia.” Camillo walked back to the game, leaving Abby alone yet again. She pressed the cigarette into 65th Edition 159 �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes the ground, making sure it was put out: she slipped the remainder in her pocket, She took a deep breath in and exhaled long and hard. Why was it so hard to forgive Vincent? Why couldn’t she stop blaming him? She wished she knew. All she wanted was for the aching pain to end. She gripped her chest, the invisible pain only buzzed and hummed more. She finally worked up the courage to leave the safety of the secluded wall and returned to the soccer field. She quietly muttered an apology to her mother. She was ready to take her seat back on the opposite side of her mother, away from the Moretti boys, but, while she was gone, the bleachers had filled in more. Her stomach flipped, as if things couldn’t get any worse, the only spot left was next to Vincent. She gripped her messenger bag and scooted past Camillo, shooting him an uncomfortable glance; he shrugged in return. She sat next to Vincent. She could tell he was just as uncomfortable as she was. Vincent’s eyes darted from her to his sketchbook. His hands were shaking as he drew. Abby's hands shook too, "You smell like smoke," he whispered. "Yeah-.bad habit," She responded, trying not to inject the venom clawing at her chest into her voice, “I understand...I'm sorry...I don’t know what I did but I'm sorry if I hurt you." He muttered quietly enough that Abby strained to hear him. "You..,you haven’t." Abby forced out, "I’m sorry I’ve been so...you know." She avoided his gaze. She let out a long sigh; she picked at her fingers until they bled in the awkward silence. "I don’t hate you. you know." She could feel his eyes finally settling on her in shock. "You don’t...?” 160 Expression Magazine �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes “No. I don’t. I told Cam he could tell you that so I wouldn’t have to myself, but clearly he wants me to do my own dirty work." She leaned forward hoping Cam would hear her, he probably did but didn't care. "Oh...well, thanks..." Vincent looked back down at his sketchbook. Abby could make out a small smile on his face. Silence settled over the two. A strange peacefulness they had never felt near each other. Abby sighed and glanced at his hand steadily sketching away. "What are you drawing?" She asked softly and leaned over, their shoulders brushing against each other. 65th Edition 161 � 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 A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <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> <em>Expression</em> claims first North American rights to submissions selected for publication. All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2025 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_2025_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/ddeb6938b78fba7a7efdfa83398f0a0a.pdf e4d8ebbda16eb3df6a6a9bfefcae513b PDF Text Text Tbie hen of Fire Kyle Haymond the low decanter Cast iron pan sizzles and sweats of the soul with all its warmth used oil down its side to white charcoal Heavy scent of blood and iron an olfactory aura drifting The pit dims to low-light crackle It's power fading, absorbed beyond the ken of fire into us into the wooded ether Amber glow lilts on our faces the primal dance of flame Mouth waters, the first bite to engage the senses fully yet delicately, filling 65th Edition 145 � 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 Ken of Fire Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <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 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> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2025 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Kyle Haymond 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_2025_Poetry_04 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/c8731f2e9f28f8a00e0bf4b3d2b33b92.pdf 1cf9e867758f5f6c8a896d6aa7957232 PDF Text Text Secrsts Betkueen FriBcids Zoe von Gunten I have lots of secrets She sighs, Small and silly secrets She purrs. I don't tell anyone Heave for the day Except my best friend And my best friend is patient My best friend has two ears She spends the day catching up on the latest bird My best friend has four legs news at the open window My best friend is covered in fur and her eyes glow She gossips with her green apple slice mouse in the green like sea stone corner of our bedroom, sometimes about me And makes time for a charcuterie of dry food and In the morning she sleeps by my head whatever delicacy from my dinner lay in crumbs And I whisper my sleepy secrets scattered on the floor She listens, She nods. Late at night I stay awake She meows, I watch the clock tick The darkness like a blanket, covering the sky I lay in bed My best friend beckons me to sleep Rotting away She tells me it's much too late And she stays by my side She pokes fun at me for lying in bed all day but not Vigilant and quiet sleeping at night I tell her my sorrowful secrets I look to her She yawns, Bright sea stone eyes meet mine 65th Edition 143 �Secrets Between Friends of dull dead moss The only problem is that I ask her: I’d miss you too much." "Can I tell you a secret?" My best friend blinks slowly. She standsand stretches. She gazes at me She pads over to me on soft quiet paws. She needn't say a thing And she meows. "Some days I wish 1 was a pebble, A pebble in a stream Tumbling along with the current. I'd bump against other rocks, Loose some of my sharp edges But I’d be happy." "If I were a pebble, I wouldn’t think. If I were a pebble I would be in a perpetual state of rest Save for the current, that takes me wherever it pleases. I believe life would be simpler. I believe I wouldn't cry so much. 144 � 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 Secrets Between Friends Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <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 class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"></div> <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 id="dublin-core-date-created" class="element"> <div class="field two columns alpha"></div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2025 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_2025_Poetry_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/20f7692e89a7adbfccc287e499092f84.pdf 9d84b1d644e8e27f48b62864d264ae27 PDF Text Text Saturn □auDuritig His Son Jonathan Togstad The God of time crouches It crashes into the rugged walls. In the darkness, hidden Leaving the world with a final chime From the whole of the universe. Of what once was, A snap echoes off the flesh A Son. Of the primordial cave. Bones of a newborn crunch, As twigs under an archer's Muddy boot. Saturn. Its eyes dart across The dimly lit cavern, Checking to make sure its Atrocities are unseen. Viscous red leaks from Its mouth, spattering The cold, rocky floor. It’s over, it thinks to itself. At least for now. I am safe from my Cursed kin. It tosses the leftover gore, A leg, further into the tunnel. 142 Expression 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 Saturn Devouring His Son Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a> <em>Expression</em> claims first North American rights to submissions selected for publication. All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2025 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Jonathan Togstad 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_2025_Poetry_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 Language A language of the resource ENG