868 10 9858 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/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/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/18c53de76488389ca824f62e955d430e.pdf 1803316db1251a421c3924eb9d54dc4a PDF Text Text U\ain leashing t^a^iista Zoe von Gunten Non-Fiction The golden rays of sun pierced through the glass window, I rubbed my hands on my black apron as I stepped back admiring my own tea creation. Early mornings in the rose tinted coffee shop were not always pleasant. After all, waking up at 5 in the morning and arriving at 6 a.m. was not usually my idea of a “good” morning. 8 a.m. was the time when the summer sun would glow through the large windows and blind whoever was working the register. I stayed far away from it during this time unless absolutely necessary. The morning was slow, and I sipped on a warm darjeeling fog. The taste of earthy tea and creamy milk washed over my morning gripes. Siow Saturday mornings are often rare, a combination of relaxation and fear settled in. A slow morning was an invitation for fate to toss a coin. Heads, the day will be slow. Tails, all alone, I will face a hoard of people. But that didn’t matter, I had a cup of tea and I was at peace. I took another sip. my last sip, when from the corner of my eye the glass door swung open. Tails. “Heyl How’s it going?” I sat my tea down and pushed it out of the way. Customer service mode activated. “Goodl How are you?” I stepped into the blinding sun, only catching a glimpse of the woman’s dyed blonde hair and hastily drawn on eyebrows. I took her order. Vanilla mocha, half a pump of hazelnut (we don’t use pumps in this coffee shop), extra sweet, iced, and apparently made upside down, whatever that means. Before I could begin the first drink, a family walked into the shop. Then another person. Then another two people. Next thing I knew I was taking orders nonstop, all alone. I looked down the row of cups. Little soldiers dressed in pink, ready to be armed with caffeine anything from coffee to tea. They were ready for battle, while I, their general, was not. I ran back and forth, from register to drink. I felt like Sisyfuss rolling a boulder of coffee beans and pink cups up a mountain. “Hey how's it going guys!” “Oh! We’re just wonderful, it's our first time here!” The family that stood in front of me looked like every suburban Starbucks family. The mother had a wide strained smile and hair tall enough to reach Jesus, her husband had a baseball cap and seemed disinterested, the son was silent, tall, radiating teenage angst with every comb of his swooped XXVIII Exf'iessian Magazine. �'B.'iain hashing 'Ka.'usta. Justin Beiber bangs. His little sister who stood next to him looked about 12 with the mindset that she was 23. Her hair perfectly straightened and makeup up to the standards of Kylie Jenner. Her clothes were about 10 years too old for her, she tapped at her iPhone 15 mindlessly, hoping for a like on her newest Instagram post. “Okay well let me help you guys out here! If it’s your first time it'll be a little odd, we don’t have a main menu, so we work on a bar system..I ran through my mind numbing spiel, finishing off by telling the family that we don’t make frappuccinos. The mother’s face dropped a bit but was back to her forced smile in seconds. "Alright then! I’ll have umm..." She took a sugar free vanilla latte. Her husband asks for a mocha. "Don’t you want that sugar free?’’ His wife glanced at him, shooting daggers his way. “I can get what I want." He snapped back. "Fine. Logan, what do you want?” she attempted to smile like the sour interaction never occurred. The boy looked up vacantly from his hair combing and pondered for a minute. “Can I have a mocha frappuccino?” An urge boiled up in my body to slam my face into the counter in front of me. “Logan. She literally just said they don’t do frappuccinos.” His little sister rolled her eyes, looking up from her phone for just a moment. "Okay...I don’t know.” I recommend an iced mocha, it’s the same thing just not blended. He accepted, begrudgingly. “I want an iced white chocolate mocha with lavender and two shots” The girl asked robotically as if she had ordered this drink a thousand times. Finally they finished. They were the last group I had for the moment. I continued my journey up the mountain of cups. I poured and mixed, I burned my hands and ran drinks out on a small tray praying every time not to trip. Behind the counter I turned to pour milk into two cups when my eyes were accosted by red. The woman who appeared was dressed in all red, her nails, her lipstick, her sweater, her face. Red. “Is my drink almost ready?” It’s the woman whose drink I was currently making. “Yes ma’am, it’s nearly-” “Well, I’ve been waiting for too long and I’m tired of waiting.” "Ma’am. I’m sorry but I am only one person working back here, I 6^th EdiUanUti'taiM'ie XXIX �SosAZny ‘En'tista. don’t know if you can see this line of cups but I am in the process of making numerous drinks by myself. I’m sorry if it is taking a minute but if you would just be patient..." I put the lids on top of her and her husband’s drinks, ‘‘I will have these out for you right now.” I placed them on the counter in front of her. The woman glared at me and took a sip of her latte. “This isn’t soy milk.” She spit. “I don't believe you asked for soy milk.” I responded calmly as I continued down the line. "I did. This isn’t soy milk.” “I’m so sorry, would you like me to remake the drink?” I asked out of courtesy, I would have much rather thrown drinks at her. “No. I don’t want to wait any longer. I don’t care. Don’t remake it.” She stormed off back to her husband who sat patiently at the table. Finally, the rush died down and I delivered the last few drinks. The drone of voices in the dining room numbed my mind. I cleaned the mess that was left behind the counter and found myself laughing. What other place on Earth would you see these types of people? I’m frustrated constantly, yet once the rush is over, I’m reminded that these people too are human. I pulled my tea, now cold, out from its last resting place and downed what remained. I wondered how many people realized that they would be remembered for the ridiculous actions and words they spoke, Perhaps they will never know. XXX Cxf'icssitM Ma^aautc � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Brain Bashing Barista Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <p><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></p> </div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <p><em>Expression</em><span>&nbsp;</span>claims first North American rights to submissions selected for publication. All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Zoë von Gunten Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2024_Prose_01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/14b0ea79fcf88d4fa6e2683d47b85e50.pdf 8c95b4d9b40dd5b1931cc2288cf1c513 PDF Text Text NLqht of a Thousand Staas Zoe von Gunten Fiction She was from the moon, and the people of the Earth waited for her every hundred years. June 28th, the night was sweltering, quiet, and filled with anticipation. There were no clouds in the sky, and the stars above glittered and danced among the midnight curtain. The moon full and blue, all in the village below watched from windows and the streets as the moon, like water, cried a single teardrop. It fell like a comet, a moon drop, it glowed and shimmered, morphing, and soon she appeared riding a caravan being pulled by bears made of constellations. Bells rang out in the warm night, her lantern glowed with liquid silver moon. She landed in the village with an impossible silence and grace. The villagers gathered in crowds outside and watched her pass by their houses in hushed awe. The jingling of golden bells filled the air as the caravan swayed back and forth on the cobblestone streets. The hat that adorned her head curtained her face with hanging beads and stars that swayed with the summer breeze. As the strands of stars and beads bumped against each other, they sang an ethereal melody that sounded like no bell known to man. High pitched and ethereal, it was what one would imagine what falling stars to sound like. She reached the edge of the village where the cobblestone streets became dirt paths, and houses grew into tall dark trees. The bears stopped, stooping low to the ground, settling side by side. The woman stepped off of her seat and with a wave of her hands the back of the caravan flew open. Navy blue cloth floated up and situated itself on two large sticks, a small roof shading the entrance into the caravan from the cool moonlight. With that, the night began. Elders prepared the young, dressing them in their finest clothes, dusting the dirt off their faces, and adorning them with family crests. They ushered them to see the woman of the moon, to hear her stories, and perhaps if lucky.. .have their future read. The legends and tales were a guarantee of visiting the woman, but a reading was far less common. Legend stated that her readings were destined to come true and that in order to get one of these fortunes one must give up a token of significant value. Yet there was a fear within the eyes of the elders. Whispers of “the prophecy” floated through the village. Mothers hugged their children for much longer than normal. Fathers held their breath looking over their sons and daughters, hoping that none of them would be chosen. XL CxpvssLon Magazine �Nl^ht of a rhausand Stais The Moon Woman was the protector of the village, the spirit that watched over the souls that resided in the quaint seaside town, but this protection came with a cost. Eternities would pass and the spirits would live and die, but eventually live again within different bodies. Centuries prior, the great leader Yuu Xi had made a deal with the spirits. The village was in danger, invaders were crossing the seas, destroying and pillaging, the small town stood no chance. So Yuu Xi offered the spirit of the moon sanctuary, a soul like her own to carry on her life when her time should come, in return she would watch over the village and defend it from invaders. That night became the mark of her return. Every hundred years, she would come from the moon and find her replacement amongst the young. The village youth crowded at the entrance to the caravan, where the open door was visible. Teens bickered and teased each other attempting to hide their anxiety, the smaller ones clung to each other, peeking into the mysterious caravan. Finally, a brave boy pushed through and made the first pilgrimage in, the rest followed. Through the door a cavernous room filled to the brim with mystical sounds lay before them. Gold, silver, bronze, and gem covered trinkets decorated the room. Feathered headdresses, golden moon charts, and silver crowns glowed around the woman who sat at a large round table with intricate carvings of the moon phases atop it. Stars strung on silver strings hung over her head, satin drapery along with shimmering tapestries that looked as if they were weaved from the night sky decorated the wall. The Moon Woman’s dark eyes shimmered as she looked up calmly, sending the sounds of falling stars through the air as the beads dangling from her hat rattled together. A translucent lunar moth rested on her face, fluttering its teal wings gently. The children took their seats around the table, nervously glancing at one another. "So you’ve come to hear the legends?” She finally spoke, the timbre of her voice was deep and melodic, hypnotizing. Those around the table nodded, and she began her stories. Hours passed but in the caravan it felt as if a few minutes went by as the woman of the moon told her legends. Warriors who battled monsters of the sea who desired to steal the moon from the sky, tales of bunnies who chased fluttering cherry blossoms into the stars, and stories of the love between the sun and moon. The legends entranced the children, they were in a daze until the woman of the moon paused, her red lips parting slightly as her eyes wandered upward to the door, 64th EditianUt^'iata'ie. XU �Ni^ht ofa. Thousand Sta'is “You’re late, but please, come sit." In the door stood young Magnolia. The poor girl lived in a run down house at the edge of the village, her clothes were nothing but rags, her red hair thick and messy was falling out of her braids. “I’m not here for the stories...” her soft voice rasped. “Oh?" The Moon Woman smiled, interested, “Then what have you come here for child?" The group of children at the table had already turned their heads to stare, the boys snickered at her pitiful silhouette, the little ones averted their eyes remembering the warnings their parents had told them about the poor family at the edge of the village. Magnolia reached around her neck and unclasped the chain around her neck and held up a necklace with a shining silver coin. She thrust her arm out towards the Moon Woman. "This necklace has been in my family for generations, my grandmother says it fell from the sky. It brings me luck... ” The air froze as the eyes around the table stared in awe at the coin and Magnolia who stood with the grace and pride of a queen. The Moon Woman stood with a wide grin and held her hand out, the necklace pulled away from Magnolia and gravitated to the Moon Woman. It floated peacefully through the air, the children around the table whispering to each other as they watched it pass each of them. “So, is it a reading you want?” she held the necklace in her hand tightly, "...Yes this is a valuable item. It has been a long time since I have seen this coin..She traced the coin with her finger. The Moon Woman sighed, the longing of a lost memory reflected in her eyes. “Your fate... ” The Moon Woman looked up, melancholy saturated her voice, “yes.. .your fate is to become the moon.” The children around the table began to whisper frantically. “The moon?" Rhye, youngest daughter of Hua the fisherman, exclaimed, “That don’t make sense, lady!” “Oh, sweet Magnolia, you are the one..The Moon Woman slowly rounded the table, her feet never touching the ground, she hovered. "Thank you children, thank you for listening to the stories.. .the night is long, go home and see your loved ones...” She ushered the children out XLII Txff'iission Magazine. �Night ofa. Thousand Sta.'is silently. “But I want to hear more stories!” Whined small Yuzu, her white ribbons fluttering as she stood up reluctantly. “Fear not child, the stars will tell the stories,” The Moon Woman smiled softly and placed a hand on the small girl’s back, “When you watch the night sky, you will know. I promise.” The children left, sour in mood, yet confused and fearful. What would happen to poor Magnolia? What would it mean for her to become the moon? The Moon Woman floated around Magnolia, her eyes wandering from the necklace and to the girl. “Do you know who this coin belongs to, girl?” The Moon Woman hovered in front of Magnolia holding the necklace, suspended in the air. "My Grandmother says it is from the stars.” She responded. The Moon Woman laughed full and harmoniously, "No sweet child, the stars have no claim over this. My love, my dear Solaris gave me this as a parting gift. My last visit I had lost it.. .and yet," she gently grasped Magnolia’s hands, “you are here, dear child. You bear the last gift I had ever received from my love.. .there is no doubt in my mind.. .your spirit, your soul, and now this tells me that you are my successor.” Magnolia stood in silent awe, she stared at her small hands in the Moon Woman’s pale shimmering skin mixed with her dirty dull skin. She furrowed her eyebrows and looked up at the Moon Woman, her golden eyes digging deep into her soul. “Successor? I’m not meant to be your successor. I’m poor and don’t have much education. The people of the village avoid me, I barely exist to them.” Magnolia spoke, “Grandmother says that the Moon Woman protects our village, that if she were to choose someone to replace her. that they would have to be loved and cherished just as she is.” The Moon Woman released Magnolia’s hands, she left the necklace in Magnolia’s grasp. "Your grandmother has not hidden you from the truth of my visits it seems.” She waved her right hand gently and gracefully through the air like the conductor of a silent orchestra, "Magnolia, the village may not always love you...they may not always love me. To live is to experience pain, but what makes us stronger is our love for those who inflict pain. If you can grow kinder and stronger from these experiences, then this is a sign of someone who 1 can trust to be my successor. I have seen into your soul. Magnolia, you care deeply for this village no matter how much pain it has inflicted on you. You are strong. 64th. EditionLLttiatuie XUII �Nl^ht ofa. Thousand. Stais as I push and pull the tides, you push and pull the people to become more tolerant and more kind.” Within the Moon Woman’s right hand was a blue glowing orb. Small enough to fit in between the index finger and thumb. It glowed and pulsed, small gold and blue sparks shot off from it releasing a pop and the ringing of a small bell. “Will you miss this world, Magnolia?” The Moon Woman asked. “...Of course 1 will. I would miss my mother and my grandmother very much, but I also love the sea and the Earth beneath my feet. I would miss the breeze on my face and the sun on my skin. Do I have to lose these things? Do I have to become the moon now?" She responded, she bit her lip trying to show no fear, but beneath her was nothing but writhing worms and cicadas that buzzed in her stomach. “I wish you didn’t have to..The woman smiled sadly, "But I am growing old and weak.. .of course you’d never know. Us spirits have a way of looking rather beautiful when dying, don’t you think?” "But what about my family?" Magnolia pleaded. The Moon Woman tilted her head and looked down at the glowing orb in her palm. She sighed softly, the attachment to the material plane was something that still ached deep inside her heart, she understood but knew better. “To love your family is to protect them and to live on for them, whether it be in this world or amongst the spirits.” She carefully explained. Magnolia looked down, rainwater tears trickling down her cheeks. She took a deep breath in, she knew there was no other way around it. She loved her family and she loved her village, perhaps she loved them enough to leave them. “I'll protect them all if I do this..." She whispered trying to reassure herself. The Moon Woman nodded silently, “The star is the last step.” She held her hand out to Magnolia, the glowing spec of energy was a star, “Once you consume it...we will become one." Magnolia carefully took the star into her own hands, the blue glow was warm, the crackling energy spewing from it tickled her fingers. “Do you feel pain...?" She questioned the Moon Woman XLIV Txf'iesslan Magazine �Night of a Thousand Stdls "Of the physical variety?” “In your heart.” Magnolia clarified, focusing on the star and avoiding the tears in her eyes. “Not as much as I used to. The sadness will leave, but the aching will persist.” She held her hand to her heart, “With time...your heart will heal.” Magnolia nodded. The star popped and rang out again, the heat in her hands was comforting. Magnolia brought her hands to her mouth and put the star in her mouth. It went down her throat like warm tea on a cold winter’s day and tasted like lavender and sea salt. Her body felt numb and tingly all at the same time. Her stomach twisted, her heart panged with sorrow and loss, and then...it stopped. The caravan rocked sleepily, from side to side, like a sailboat on waving seas. The constellation bears trudged along the cobblestone streets, their claws clicking on the stones with each step. The village people watched from the sides of the road, eyes wide in disbelief. A single woman dressed in rags, being held by an older woman, broke free of her grasp and stumbled into the street, but quickly collapsed by the side of the caravan as it roiled by. Tears wet her dirty face and she let out an anguished cry: “Magnolia! My sweet Magnolia, my darling girl.” The older woman reached her side and put her hands on her shoulders. “Dahlia, she is no longer your Magnolia.” She croaked. The Moon Woman looked down to the poor woman on the street and stopped the caravan. Her hair was red in perfect braids, her skin pale and luminescent, she held out a necklace with a silver coin to the woman. Their eyes met, golden glowing eyes of a spirit melting into the dull blue eyes of a mortal woman. “This is a gift from the stars.” she smiled, “With time, your heart will heal.” 64tk£ditionUte.'iatii'ie. � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Night of a Thousand Stars Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div class="element-text"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <p><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></p> </div> </div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <p><em>Expression</em><span>&nbsp;</span>claims first North American rights to submissions selected for publication. All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Zoë von Gunten Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2024_Prose_04 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/ace9efac828b474b8481295ea12aa076.pdf 7804705a33806847a33451ae373710eb PDF Text Text Icc "Woman Zoe von Gunten I am not made of warm red blood Or writhing wriggling guts I am made of frozen stones And sharp bits of hoar frost that populate my stomach; It stabs through my flesh My blood leaks out of my eyes and ears It is the ice melted from frozen rivers My head is filled with cold water Shocking me into a state of constant hypothermia Nothing happens in my head Water sloshes Splashes Waves about Sometimes I leak Brain slush Rain water tears Snow infected blood I am empty All that I am can be melted away I am hollow All that pollutes my body can be easily rid of Murky slush pools out of my shattered skull The hoar frost splits open my body Snow fails out of my open flesh like a bucket of sand poured out by a careless child 6^01 CiiitianLlte.'iatn'ie XV �la.'Woman My hollowed corpse can be found without any evidence of my frozen insides Snow melts away Water evaporates Frost dissipates And all that is left is a shell No butterfly to be found No cicada Not even a moth Just a shell And a chill in the air XVI (jcp'iission 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 Ice Woman Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text"><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></div> </div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text"><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.</div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Zoë von Gunten Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA_04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2024_Poetry_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/d6442f4704c840f14c713b0a90211cdf.tif c389825620350c7eeb7e0da30d102b4f 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 Mar Lot Character Reference Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text"><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></div> </div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns offset-by-two"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text"><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.</div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2024 Type The nature or genre of the resource Image Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Zoë von Gunten Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2024_Art_23 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource TIF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/3d0f2c1f2d10d4ce0db7513ddbcd8f58.pdf 144c224fdb7943e8e032de05995bc40b PDF Text Text ������� 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 Archival Research 101 through a History of the Sandbar Description An account of the resource This digital resource contains copies of photographs and newspaper clippings used in the research for the History of The Sand Bar by Walter R. Jones. Copies of this material were featured in a traveling exhibit held at the Natrona County Library during the 2023 Casper College Humanities Festival. The theme of this Humanities Festival was “CommUNITY.” The dates of the material selected span from 1914 to 1973. The function of the materials was to let the people living in the area know both the good and bad things going on such as destruction and crime, which were strong currents in the life of the Sandbar District. Also documented in the exhibit are brighter sides of the Sandbar’s culture, its showbiz, and eventual rebuilding. System of Arrangement Note: The materials selected for this exhibit were organized according to the chapters in Walter R. Jones’ history of the Sandbar District: Early Years, The Boom, Vices and Violence, Civic Responses, The Good Side, The showbiz, The Great Depression, Declining Times, Urban Renewal, and Nostalgia. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Curated by Casper College Archives and Special Collections (Western History Center) student staff Hart Dority, Rae Mann, and Schuyler Fox. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2023-07-06 Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. 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 Early Years Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/UND/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/UND/1.0/</a> Subject The topic of the resource Sand Bar (Casper, Wyo.) -- History Description An account of the resource The Sandbar from 1914 to 1919 Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Walter R. Jones Papers, NCA 01.v.1996.01 US WyCaC. Casper College Archives and Special Collections Language A language of the resource ENG Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1914-1919 Type The nature or genre of the resource Image Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context NCA 01.iv.1996.01 https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/8abc49667f8bb3a533a4be7d3ef82953.pdf 6c75a812803daac076fb24cc14a0e1be PDF Text Text �������� 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 Archival Research 101 through a History of the Sandbar Description An account of the resource This digital resource contains copies of photographs and newspaper clippings used in the research for the History of The Sand Bar by Walter R. Jones. Copies of this material were featured in a traveling exhibit held at the Natrona County Library during the 2023 Casper College Humanities Festival. The theme of this Humanities Festival was “CommUNITY.” The dates of the material selected span from 1914 to 1973. The function of the materials was to let the people living in the area know both the good and bad things going on such as destruction and crime, which were strong currents in the life of the Sandbar District. Also documented in the exhibit are brighter sides of the Sandbar’s culture, its showbiz, and eventual rebuilding. System of Arrangement Note: The materials selected for this exhibit were organized according to the chapters in Walter R. Jones’ history of the Sandbar District: Early Years, The Boom, Vices and Violence, Civic Responses, The Good Side, The showbiz, The Great Depression, Declining Times, Urban Renewal, and Nostalgia. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Curated by Casper College Archives and Special Collections (Western History Center) student staff Hart Dority, Rae Mann, and Schuyler Fox. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2023-07-06 Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. 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 Boom Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/UND/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/UND/1.0/</a> Subject The topic of the resource Sand Bar (Casper, Wyo.) -- History Description An account of the resource Construction and expansion of the Sand Bar. Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Walter R. Jones Papers, NCA 01.v.1996.01 US WyCaC. Casper College Archives and Special Collections Language A language of the resource ENG Type The nature or genre of the resource Image Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context NCA 01.iv.1996.01 https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/1f650ff48eb13e0a234c30fa2acb641d.pdf d091e27fffd546b7a333ce0484d1205b PDF Text Text ������� 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 Archival Research 101 through a History of the Sandbar Description An account of the resource This digital resource contains copies of photographs and newspaper clippings used in the research for the History of The Sand Bar by Walter R. Jones. Copies of this material were featured in a traveling exhibit held at the Natrona County Library during the 2023 Casper College Humanities Festival. The theme of this Humanities Festival was “CommUNITY.” The dates of the material selected span from 1914 to 1973. The function of the materials was to let the people living in the area know both the good and bad things going on such as destruction and crime, which were strong currents in the life of the Sandbar District. Also documented in the exhibit are brighter sides of the Sandbar’s culture, its showbiz, and eventual rebuilding. System of Arrangement Note: The materials selected for this exhibit were organized according to the chapters in Walter R. Jones’ history of the Sandbar District: Early Years, The Boom, Vices and Violence, Civic Responses, The Good Side, The showbiz, The Great Depression, Declining Times, Urban Renewal, and Nostalgia. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Curated by Casper College Archives and Special Collections (Western History Center) student staff Hart Dority, Rae Mann, and Schuyler Fox. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2023-07-06 Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. 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 Vice and Violence Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/UND/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/UND/1.0/</a> Subject The topic of the resource Sand Bar (Casper, Wyo.) -- History Description An account of the resource The violence and crimes in the district. Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Walter R. Jones Papers, NCA 01.v.1996.01 US WyCaC. Casper College Archives and Special Collections Language A language of the resource ENG Type The nature or genre of the resource Image Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context NCA 01.iv.1996.01