Volume 2

Awards

Selected Works

Share a Coke- Faith Kukla- acrylic and collage on canvas

sour grapes

by jayne albrecht

we were only children. we went

to a log cabin on a lake and chased

each other around the yard,

gleeful squeals filling the air.

we had a grape war near the garage.

seedless red and green grapes

flew across the grass and up the stairs

splattering as they hit the light blue walls

and as they left welts on the back of our legs.

our only rule was no headshots,

but somebody must have had impeccable

aim because a grape landed in your

left ear and stuck. you thought i threw it.

years later we smiled at each other

in the halls. nothing more, nothing less.

my friends and i drove around,

laughs in the air, no welts on our legs.

i avoided grape wars, but

sour grapes grew in their ears like

somebody with impeccable aim had

planted a grape vine in their skulls.

Don't Leave Me Mother - Vanessa Desoto - photograpy

I Will Tell You Mine

By Audrey Pettit

I remember when Great Grandma Thomas died. Mom received the call on our home phone, so she couldn’t pace between kitchen and living room. She sat trapped, winding the cord around her finger. I wanted to cry with her, but Alzheimer's had made Grandma Thomas forget my name. She was eighty-five. Her death was anticipated. The funeral would be in Los Angeles. I asked if that meant we could go to Disneyland.

I remember the crunch of snap peas in Dad’s garden.

I remember writing Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese” on a sheet of loose leaf paper, folding its edges, and keeping it in my pocket. I did the same thing with his old store lists.

I remember wearing my black dress and cardigan duo on Space Mountain.

I remember sobbing, the kind of sobs where you can’t catch a breath and your face gets scrunched up and splotchy and your nose drips, and when asked why I could only answer that I didn't wanna grow up.

I remember crushing a dandelion between the pages of my journal because I had the romantic notion its petals would be preserved forever. But when I opened it up two years later it had lost its yellow and its smell and everything that made it a dandelion.

I remember that was why I wanted Dad cremated quickly.

I remember singing “Come On Eileen” at the top of my lungs in the passenger seat during a summer sunset and feeling like the manic pixie dream girl in a John Green movie.

I remember, I remember the home where I was born.

I remember repeating you do not have to be good you do not have to be good you do not have to be good until it felt true.

I remember visiting his grave ten months later. When I sat in front of that silver flecked slab of white marble I did not feel sobs heaving in my chest but heat wrapping its hands around my throat and trickling down my cheeks. I picked a bundle of yellow dandelions and made an impromptu bouquet.

I remember forgetting. And everytime the quadratic formula or the way he answered the phone or the words to my favorite Maya Angelou poem slip quietly out the door I hold a funeral, and in the eulogy I repeat:

I remember, I remember, I remember.

Outside Events

Creative writing spent six classes writing form poetry with local poet Robert Lee. Thanks to Robert and the Missoula Writing Collaborative. We had so much fun trying out sestinas, sonnets, haibuns, and clarihews.