Spring 2010 journal of the Honors Program at the University of North Dakota. The issue includes stories, poems, essays and art by undergraduate students.https://commons.und.edu/und-books/1063/thumbnail.jp

Burkland, Emily

Dickason, Andrea

Halvorson, Hannah

Kinney, Diane

Klaus, Amelia

Lund, Kirby

McCrary, Charles

Skroch, Jessica

English

UND Scholarly Commons (University of North Dakota)

University of North DakotaUND Scholarly CommonsUND Publications Elwyn B. Robinson Department of SpecialCollectionsSpring 2010The Forum: Spring 2010Jessica SkrochUniversity of North DakotaHannah HalvorsonUniversity of North DakotaCharles McCraryUniversity of North DakotaAmelia KlausUniversity of North DakotaAndrea DickasonUniversity of North DakotaSee next page for additional authorsFollow this and additional works at: https://commons.und.edu/und-booksThis Book is brought to you for free and open access by the Elwyn B. Robinson Department of Special Collections at UND Scholarly Commons. It hasbeen accepted for inclusion in UND Publications by an authorized administrator of UND Scholarly Commons. For more information, please contactzeineb.yousif@library.und.edu.Recommended CitationSkroch, Jessica; Halvorson, Hannah; McCrary, Charles; Klaus, Amelia; Dickason, Andrea; Burkland, Emily; Kinney, Diane; and Lund,Kirby, "The Forum: Spring 2010" (2010). UND Publications. 63.https://commons.und.edu/und-books/63AuthorsJessica Skroch, Hannah Halvorson, Charles McCrary, Amelia Klaus, Andrea Dickason, Emily Burkland, DianeKinney, and Kirby LundThis book is available at UND Scholarly Commons: https://commons.und.edu/und-books/63Editor Michelle Gomey Editorial Board Jessica Skroch Jacob Winkels Madi Whitman Devon Olson Advisor Kay Powell Editorial Policy The opinions and ideas expressed in this publication do not necessarily represent those of the University of North Dakota, Student Government, the Board of Student Publications, the Honors Program, or its editor . It is the policy of this publication that anyone wishing to have something published mu t have his or her name attached to the submission, although names will be withheld upon request. The Board of Student Publications at the Unjversity of North Dakota is the publisher and primary fund contributor to The FontTn. BOSP is a division of Student Government. BOSP Chairperson: Jackie DeMolee Phone: 701-777-4386 Jessica Skroch 2 Hannah Halvorson 3 Charles Mccrary A Poem It happened twice in one day The first time woke me up, Like a kick drum the first time it's tested And the microphone is way too hot. A bassy, punchy thud Against the streak-free shiny window. The beak obviou5ly hit first Because it had smashed through The back of the ku 11 . Both wings were snapped And the whole thing lay there, A pile on my patio. The second time was briefly distracting, Like the footsteps of my neighbor I've never met Heard faintly through a wall. A subtle, dampened thud Against the streak-free shiny window. The beak probably hit first Because a few tiny feather had flown From the face and stuck there on the glass. The bird looked around, confused, And flew away. It was probably just fine. But I don't know which one I'd rather be like. At least the first one Thought he was going somewhere. 4 Hannah Hafronon .. 5 Amelia Klaus 6 Andrea Dickason 7 Emily Burkland Soup EILEEN: It was \Vednesday. The featured soup was vegetarian chili , which was the only reason I had come down for lunch at all . Yet, the Highman Building Cafeteria dry-erase menu po ted at the end of the long line boasted a snobby New England clam chowder instead. But it was Wednesday. So, I knew they would be serving vegetarian chili as they had all other Wednesdays since my office had transferred to this building, since I had moved in with Brad to shorten my new commute, since I had started pretending to love him. "Cup of chili and a side salad," I challenged the frizzy, dripping fift)"-some-thing behind the sneeze guard. With blank brown eyes, she gave the menu at the back of the line a pointed stare. ''Our menu rotation· changed," she said to the distant dry-erase board. "Only soup today is clam chowder, unless you want a sandv.ich, or .. :· she trailed off, fixated on the menu. "Okay," I snapped. I wasn't sure what I was agreeing to, the chowder or a sand\.\ ich or a lobotomy. Too pissed to leave without food, and too self-conscious to leave the long line, I stared into the vast, empty pools of the cafeteria worker's eyes. It didn't seem like she even saw me. * * * SUSAN: I stared at the bowl of steaming soup, waging a silent war. Impatiently, I pushed my meager blonde hair behind my ears and grasped the plastic spoon with a sweaty palm. At least try a few bites, that's enough for today, I told myself. I me-chanically listed the reasons I needed to eat. Because the doctor said it v.·ould help me keep my strength up. because I'm not supposed to talk my medication on an empty stomach, because it's the only thing that's keeping me from disappearing al-together. I was seated in the corner. where it seemed I was ending up a lot lately, facing the wall and ignoring the buzzing crowd of suited insects behind me. I had done everything possible to put off what my stomach couldn't handle: carefully arranged the contents of my tray, mixed the sugar into my coffee with scientific precision, checked my phone for messages three times. (None, except the self-reminder I had set this morning to take my medicine. As if I would forget.) I gave one more weary, self-deprecating sigh and grabbed a small bit of thick soup with the edge of my spoon. As I brought it past my lips, I noticed something. The same pair of sensible black pumps had been occupying the same square of orange tile for the last three minutes. I replaced the bit of soup back into the bowl and followed the legs, then the body attached to the black pumps until I came to a face. A face, it seemed, that was waiting for me to do something. "You ' re not almost done, are you?" the black pumps accused me. Mute, I waited. 8 "It's just that every other chair in thi'> place is occupied except that one," she gestured theatrically towards the one opposite me at my comer table. "M) break ·s almost over. and they didn't have my vegetarian chili today. and - .. A desperate spark wa building behind her eye , o I interrupted her with a nod, more of an awkward vibration of my head than an affirmation. I pulled my tray, a neatly organized city of a meal. closer to my edge of the table. and he sat. She kept scanning the tables around us. though. a'> if lost or '>Catching for an es-cape. I scanned the lovely perpendicular \treets and gently curved cul-de-sacs I had created within the confines of the plastic edges of my tray " I wasn't even going to come down toda)," she said quickly and too loudl). si-multaneously frustrated and embarrassed. "It's okay," I said quietly, more to myself than to her. * * EILEEN: Of all the ways to spend my lunch break, haring it with some sloping, slouching secretary barricaded into the comer of the cafeteria was not one of my favorites, especially not with this slopping bowl of gelatinous clam chowder. I al-ways eat lunch alone. Alone, mo tly becau,e my breakfasts are '>Jlence littered with Brad's attempts at opinions, and dinner'> arc more of the ,ame. I enJO} the secure, silent boundaries I draw around myself at lunchtime. sitting at my O\\ n t.ibll! with soup and a book; no one asks me questions and I sure as hell don't anS\\er any. I looked down into my soup. It depre5sed me. so I looked into my lunchmatc's face in tead. It disarmed me, the whiteness. She had the air of constant ">ICkncss, a permanent swell of nau ea lurking just behind her C)eS. Her hair \\a, thin and light. like white seaweed fanned out underwater. I loo~ed back down into m) ca of soup. "They changed the menu rotation." 1 didn't know what else to say to thi, waifish stranger, clad a tented cardigan and a magnetic nametag claiming the name Susan. "I'm Susan," she off ercd. "I know," I yelped. Too loud. "Your nametag ... " I trailed off. abashed at m) own rudeness. My eyes dove back into the ">Oup. I groped about for blinders. but only came up with a flimsy plastic ">poon. 1< * * SUSAN: Could I really have forgotten how to be around people? Two bO\\ b of slowly cooling clam chowder and a several miles of cold silence sat bct\\een us. I couldn't decide what to do, ~o I defiantly shoved a spoonful of chowder into m) mouth and gulped. "What floor do you work on?" I mumbled quickl} as I grabbed my water. A pause. She swallowed. "Eleventh." Another pau e. 'T m an accountant .. I was far too polite to spout .off my ideas of ho\a. boring and uptight account-ants all were, so I muttered something generic about the economy. That ·s what they do, isn't it? "I wouldn't kno\\,".she \aid coolly. She \\.as precise!} stabbing her salad with a plastic fork, trapping a romaine heart. a cheIT) tomato, and cucumber. Crushmg a crouton. Talcing no prisoners. 9 I wanted to ask her name, but only allowed myself to after forcing another bite of chowder. "What did you say your name was, again?" She looked up from maiming her salad. "Eileen." "Nice to meet you, Eileen." I offered her a smile and emphasizing the long vowels in her name. She was still staring at me, so I kept talking, unsure . "I work on fifth floor.just administrative work, you know, a receptionist. I guess they keep me around just for m~ great phone voice." I gave a dry laugh, more of an exhala-tion than a cackle. A glance at the clock, J 2:23. AJthough I hated to do it in front of a stranger, it was past time for my medication. I jabbed another spoonful of soup into my mouth before I dub into the bottom of my sagging, flaking faux leather purse. Trying to keep it hidden inside the bag, I unscrewed the top and removed the pills, maggots in my palm. I nearly tos ed them down my throat, as if the more quickly I moved, the less visible I became. A gulp of water and another morsel of soup, and she was still staring. 'Tm sick," J hrugged. * * EILEEN: I didn't realize I wa staring. She, Susan from the fifth floor, was getting annoyed. 1 could teJl. She was going to leave soon, probably, which made me angry because I invited myself to this table and I hate being left to eat alone after I've been eating with someone else. I always eat lunch alone but I hate starting out with someone and then they walk away, on their own terms and not on mine. ''Sorry." I transferred my staring over to my salad, having made up my mind to shun the chowder out of simple self-respect. "Are you married?" Susan asked in her polite, quiet voice. The question saved a lone surviving tomato from a painful death ~ my fork froze in midair. 'Tm ne'vcr getting married again. What does it matter anyways?" "You were married before, though?" I felt like a bulls-eye in target practice, exasperated and panicky. Powerless. "Yeah. it was terrible. I '-"Ould never go through that hell again for anything. I have a boyfriend now. )eah. but that's different. I won't get married again, never." I burned holes into my alad with my gaze, like that child's game \\here the)' can't see you if you can't see them . My panic was slowly growing, feeding off itself like a vicious cannibal, engorging itself into sheer anger. How dare she? I wasn't asking this bitch about her petty ~ecretarial life. and yet it wa. all she could do to take her dull shovel of a soup poon and stab me right in the heart. When I sat down in this empty chair. I was not asking for a book club. ''I've never been married," the quiet voice nearly whispered in the kind of voice that holds more tears than a heart ever could. * * SUSAN: My medication always made me weepy. I ippcd my water and thought for a moment. She was unhappy, Eileen. I envied her. It had been so long, a decade probably, since I had felt anything but phys ical pain , thi sickness that consumed my entire life. And in the meantime, apparently, she had been feeling everything el e, pain of an entirely different sort. 10 I was exhausted. Not the kind of exhausted the tail end of a mid-day lunch break brings, or eyen the kind brought on by long yea~ of battling a d1 ea e \\ Ith a hopeless cau e. I was exhausted with loneliness. Tired of being all thmg to only myself. And here, miraculously, was someone who for the fir!)t time in ten years felt exactly the way I did. She may have a partner. someone warming the other side of the bed, but somehow, after feeling so much. she felt nothing anymore. Appar-ently it was po sible to use a living. bn:athmg mannequin as a hie Id for one's own loneliness. I could tell. with the kind of intuition slowly dying invalids have. "You should-" I stopped. "I should what? What should 1 do?" she snapped. I took one of those deep. shuddering breaths and looked can:fully between her eyes. at the bridge of her nose. as if 1 was aiming straight for the back of her brain. laser-like and precise. "You should think about it." I said to the bridge of the nose. "I already told you. I'm never getting married again." She was ~ginning to clean up her things irritably, knocking an empt) paper cup afar with a stray wrist, gathering utensils and paper and trash, dead or ali\c. "No." My forcefulness surprised even me. "You c.,hould think about leaving him." "I just what? No. Who do you think you are·> What are you ..... She snatched her purse off the floor. clutching her tray as if I would steal it awa). and Mood up. "Thank you for sharing your table with me." A mere fom1ality. thl! words were spoken more like an accusation. She wm, clearly relieved to be going. unless shl! was just scared. Scared of me, or what I !-laid. Ever smc:c I'"e been sick. honest) has always been an appalling habit of mine. I looked at the clock. 12:29. I tossed the soup. halfway gone: I left the cafete-ria exactly the way I came. * * * EILEEN: I tossed my still-brimming bo\\ I of soup and what was left of my salad on the way out the door. The past) chowder splashed against the black garbage liner, a tide coming in. I wanted to get as far awa) as possible. far from Susan the . ecretary and her all-knowing bullshit. J made it to my car. fumbling for my keys in the bottom of my purse. 1 sat, sweating but still cold . As a reflex, I had put the keys in the ignition. They \\-ere swinging there. mocking me. S\\ inging left, you end it, sw inging right, you don ·t:I stared until there were no dec1s1ons left. until the keys hung exactly in i.he middle. gravity dragging them tO\\ards the molten . . oupy core of the earth. Hanging in the middle, exactly like Suc.,an with her pills and her exquisite phone voice, an island among ecrctarics. But I'm an accountant, and when we do math, we would rather end at a hundred than at Lero. neutral. When I measured the figures. staring at tho~e key\ s\\mging back and forth. wear-rived at a um of zero. Although better than negative. the accountant in me ees room for improvement. 11 Diane Kinney 12 Jes.\ica Skroch . . 13 Hannah Halvorson 14 Kirby Lund Masterpiece Writing on a Saturday Night Writing a sonnet was my on~ intent This Saturday evening with no one home. The philosophical idea all roamed-I am a form without any content. The televi ion lets out it~ high whme To make its presence known. My writer's block (Did I just hear the door\ deadbolt unlock?) Has gotten the best of my now refined Mental status, '-"here I prepare to make My mm,terp1ece, my requiem mass poem. The only work rd ever tru ly own-Writing that would make my geniu~ awake. A moment \\I here I v.,a truly in')pire<l-1 put down my pen and simply retired. . . 15 Amelia Klaus 16 Emily Burkland Cottonmouth I want you to say something new. Something no one ha ever spoken before. Take the cotton from behind the fat of your cheeks And let your tongue dance. No, you've already said that. So has he. I want you To cajole me, regale me, Surprise and sequester me With your lips, forming consonants and vowels Like a lover. Let the soft. thick walls The inside of your cheeks rise and fall. Let that wet pink flesh Salivate, form soft shapes that Squish and smack. Delicious. I want words, luscious and long. Difficult. Send handsome ideas to Intoxicate my mind, timulating. This is what I want. what I need. When you can conjure a novel idea, Sending fireworks spiraling through my ear~. Then, then I will consider you. • • 17 Andrea Dickason 18 Kirby Lund Whiskey-Induced Identity Disorder Last night, Jack Daniels called my high school crush As he laid down in the bathroom For fear of vomiting on the living room carpet. She responded well to Jack-She never talked that way to me. Jack talked with her for nearly an hour; It took just that long for him to pour out his feelings (everything I fought and feared to say to her). All my articulated thoughts of love for her Staggered and stumbled past his numb teeth, Like drunken dreams and lullabies, When, all at once, Jack Daniels passed the phone To a friend and prayed to the porcelain. I woke up on the bathroom floor at 8:00 in the morning Wondering where Jack Daniels had gone. 19 Jessica Skroch 20 Dear F orwn Readers . We hope you have enjoyed this issue of The Forum. Our goal is to encourage good writing and creative expression among Honon, student . Share your talent by having your work published in The Forum. Just follow these simple steps when submitting written work or photograph : l. Email a copy of your work to undhonorsforum@gmail.com 2. Complete a Submission Release Form and place it in our mailbox. To submit artwork, please follow these steps: l. Bring your work to the Honors office. 2. Include your name and phone number with your artwork. 3. Complete a Submission Release Form and leave it in our mailbox . Thank you, The Forum Editorial Board 

The Forum: Spring 2010

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The Forum: Spring 2010

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