New Tricks
New Tricks Dakota State University 2019
Faculty Advisor: Dr. John Nelson, Professor of English for New Media and Sigma Tau Delta Advisor Publication Team: Molly Elwood, Melanie Gunn, Jayme Knauer, Megan Lang Student Editors: Molly Elwood, Melanie Gunn, Jayme Knauer, Megan Lang Editor-in-Chief: Megan Lang Content Editor: Molly Elwood Web Designer: Jayme Knauer Layout Editor: Melanie Gunn Editorial Review Board: Rachel Bruntz, Molly Elwood, Melanie Gunn, Jayme Knauer, Megan Lang, Dr. John Nelson, Jaclynn Rogers, Viana Waldner, Cover Art: Surreal Door by Thomas Jones
This literary magazine is published by Alpha Gamma Lambda Chapter of Sigma Tau Delta. Dakota State University 820 N. Washington Avenue Madison, South Dakota 57042
Visit New Tricks online at new website www.new-tricks.org.
Table of Contents Introduction Megan Lang, Editor-in-Chief Burning Phusuda Sheehan Impermanent Naomi Vonkeman What is Love Viana Waldner Ignored Existence Piyush Vyas A Letter to Hal Jordan Stacey Berry [Untitled] Molly Elwood Barn Owl Andrew Bender Devil Erin Peterson One Hell of a Roommate Rachel Bruntz Paladin Kendra Cary e Stillest Place Jaclynn Rogers Life as a Shadow Melanie Gunn Raven Thomas Jones Mocha Latte Holly Sando Mosaic of Myself Naomi Vonkeman Waves Erica Anderson Owed to My Middle Fingers Casualene Meyer One Winter Night Jaclynn Rogers Guitar Andrew Bender Love is Not a Strong Enough Word Rachel Bruntz Delicate Pipes Rick Janssen Moon Kendra Cary All for Shirtwaists Jaclynn Rogers Advice Stacey Berry Water Girl Lee Kampshoff An Insect Cadaver Jaclynn Rogers Some Saturday Chris an Buresh Where the Books Live Melanie Gunn Contributors Aerword Donors
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Well, spring is inally, here, the season everyone has been waiting for throughout this apparently interminable winter. Because with spring comes sunlight, warmth, new growth, fresh air… and most importantly, the yearly issue of New Tricks! Like a burst of creative color, this issue is here to brighten your day with the creative works of students, faculty, and staff from around campus, including poetry, prose, artwork, photography, and more. We are proud to showcase the works of these creative individuals, giving them their chance to bloom for the world to see – both on campus and off. Of course, the magazine you see before you would never be possible without the hard work of its editorial staff. This year’s staff includes Molly Elwood, Melanie Gunn, Jayme Knauer, and Megan Lang (that’s me!), supervised by Dr. John Nelson. I am proud to have had the opportunity to work with such a creative and hardworking team. As a staff, we would also like to thank our generous supporters, without whom we could not freely provide the magazine to the public. Many thanks to the Center of Excellence, Sigma Tau Delta, the Production Center, and Dr. John Nelson and Deana Hueners-Nelson.
we all burn. we all have a ire within us that burns in the waning hours of dark days. some of us burn beautifully. we kindle quietly, alone on white sand beaches under a moonlit night. some of us are forest ires. we roam wildly under a lame lit sky, blackening the road earth we travel. some of us are constantly putting out ires within ourselves. some of us hold constant lames beneath our lowest branches. the beautiful will see light. the wild will see light. the extinguishers will see light. the lighters will see light. we all will see light but only because we all have burned.
It’s my house now – and yet I feel That those before me live there still. It was their house for years and years – Who am I to trespass here? Tread the stairs their children climbed, Eat in the room where their family dined. Tokens of them linger yet, In the things that they have left. A single pearl bead on the loor, A note to oneself on the back of a door, Newspaper lyers, decades old Tacks in the wall – should I be so bold To claim this house as mine so soon? And yet, I know that in these rooms Others too will live someday, See my home as theirs to stay.
When you trust completely When you give the best When you accept entirely Imperfections and all the rest That is love. When their joy is your joy Their interests, yours When nothing can destroy The happiness that lows That is love. When you are willing To give all you have left Only then are you ful illing Unsel ishness to the best That is love. “No greater love hath a man,” Long ago Christ bid, “Than a man lay down his life for a friend,” Which he not only spoke, but did That is love.
In between how and why, I was born. They gave me a religion, why? Why not motherhood be my religion Because I met her irst and she brought me here With no gain With lots of pain Why not my father be my religion Because he provides me With no expectation and demand Why not my sister, my brother, my friends And why not the crux of these relationships “Love” We are in billions Categorized in millions All have one need, “Love” Some sapient they know the game They gave us our category name They taught us to ignore our irst cry on the lap of mother They taught us to ignore our irst step on the hands of father They taught us to divide by colors They taught us to follow which followed by others we ignored who we are irst we ignored what our thirst we ignored our existence “Humanity”
forget superman. that scarce motherfucker has nothing on you and the lessons you’ve taught me about resurrection. resuscitation. the destruction of your personal history drove you insane. zero cool. zero hour. we all die a little bit at the hands of fatal forces in rapid attempts to rewrite history to our liking. i know what it feels like to become a ghost in a world someone has written you into.
Sunlight lickers Lilacs fall The scent illing your senses as they drift Lost A lone person swimming through lilacs Wading through mock orange Happy No bees land on crawling ivy No threat to your bare toesies Safe No parents, ighting No throat raw from emotion Nothing Just you and your lost forest getaway Everything is good
It all started one night after a few too many shots. I was celebrating at my very own pity party with my go-to friend, alcohol. It was my birthday and as usual everyone in the kingdom and their grandmother had gone overboard to try and please me. Though, after twenty years, I should be used to the fuss everyone made for the crown jewel of the kingdom on her big day. My mother and father had given me the exact opposite of what I asked for, which had become a tradition. Mother tried to justify the present with the fact that princesses do not get electric guitars or wolves as pets. Instead, they bought me a harp and a new saddle for my horse. I was tempted to hang myself from the strings. After the party I had at age seven, which had provided me with less entertainment than the funerals of dignitaries I had been forced to attend, I decided to make a tradition I would enjoy. Every year after the day I most dreaded was over, I would raid the kitchen of all the junk food I could it into my little arms. I would take it back to my quarters and we would eat until we fell asleep. After a while, my parents and aunt got used to the food coma my cousin and I would be in the day after my birthday. The sweets turned to alcohol at age sixteen. It was on the night I had successfully outlived my teenage years that everything began to go downhill. The irst thing I noticed that morning was the word DANGER written in black ink. When I had inally regained the ability to open my bloodshot eyes and comprehend what I was seeing, I saw it was a book, covered in blood red fabric and stitched together with barbed wire. The front had peculiar markings that I had seen before but could not remember. I was sure the book did not belong in my room, though after last night, everything had become foggy. My own name was swimming in and out of my memory. I swore that morning I would never drink again, though I was sure that like all my previous birthdays by the next one that oath would be broken. The book looked like it belonged in my aunt’s workshop and I could only hope that I had not broken in there while drunk last night. She would slaughter me then hang my head on her door as a warning to others. With that image planted irmly in my mind, I decided it would be best to return the book before my Aunt Cassia woke up, though it
was already past dawn. When I got out of my bed and set my bare feet on my loor they came back sticky. For some reason, unknown to my hungover self, there was blood on the loor. This would lead most to scream or hide, though I had grown accustomed to the shady tasks I did while drunk. I checked my arms to see if the blood was mine and found a deep cut in my palm that had luckily stopped bleeding. I checked my long goldilocks curls. No blood in my hair, a good sign. Mother would kill me if I got blood on the silk sheets. I reached for the book on my nightstand but I managed to knock it down onto the loor. It fell open to a page that had a shape identical to the one drawn on my loor, in my blood. I grabbed the book and read the caption underneath the image, ‘The pentagram must be drawn on a full moon using the blood of a virgin.’ The rest of the writing was in Latin, a lesson I often slept through; though my aunt or someone had scribbled that note underneath. One word caught my eye though; daemon translated to demon. I had been participating in some questionable activities last night. It was about that time that an attractive, -scratch that understatement,- gorgeous man decided to come strolling out of my bathroom in nothing but a towel. So, I obviously did what any hungover and slightly crazy girl would in that situation, I threw the book at his head. This did nothing to faze him. He looked at me, then the book, then back at me. He calmly moved across the room and grabbed my arm in one hand while holding his towel in the other. “Christ, Doll Face, that’s quite a greeting.” “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my room?” Though I was completely unstable, I managed to keep my voice below screaming. I was, however, ready to throw him to the ground if he tried anything strange. He would have been black and blue if he did not have my dominant hand in his grasp. “You must’ve really been out of it last night. I guess I’ll have to introduce myself again then. I’m Lucifer, irst fallen angel, King of Hell, so on and so forth. You summoned me last night, right before you passed out.” “You mean to tell me that I summoned Lucifer, the Devil, while I was drunk?” “Oh for fu…” “No swearing in my room. I do not care if you are God himself. You do not swear here.” He looked towards the ceiling.
“I know you don’t like me man, but c’mon, even I know this is too far. If you send me back right now I’ll stop trying to recreate Vegas. Hell, I might even pray, please just send me back.” He stopped and after nothing happened he gave up and turned to me. “Well Doll Face, time to bring back your memories.” He laid a hand on my forehead and suddenly I was reliving last night through the eyes of my drunk self. Last night I had managed to get to the cellar and claimed all the booze I could carry. I took one too many swigs along the way, though and as a result, got lost trying to get back to my room. Somehow, I ended up in the wing my parents shared with my aunt, the best healer in the kingdom, on the opposite side of the castle. I started opening doors at some point and kept doing this until I reached my aunt’s workroom. Pages covered the walls, some with handwritten notes, others worn with corners that had been burnt, torn, or curled. Most were recipes for healing potions, but some were spells and others had origins even I didn’t know. The bookcase in the corner caught my attention. It was illed from loor to ceiling with all sorts of books. I’d never been much of a reader, but magic, especially spell books, intrigued me. I grew especially interested amongst the leather or other skinbound books in one that was covered with fabric the color of blood and held together with barbed wire. The side had DANGER written in sloppy ink. The front had markings, I believe they were called runes. I did not think twice about taking it in my drunken state. I placed it under one arm and held my alcohol with the other. I managed to ind my room somehow. I sat on the loor with the book in front of me and the alcohol to my right. The book was locked, though I’m not sure how I realized it, and there was no way I could it without breaking the stupid thing. It was a magic book and I decided a keyword was the way to get it open. I could not think with the alcohol clouding my thoughts so I resorted to yelling at it until I got a headache. “I wish you would just open already.” The lock was undone and the book opened to a random page. I began reading the pages. I know now the pages were written in Latin; I’m still unsure how I read them last night. It described the ritual needed to summon a higher-level demon. With no hesitation, I decided to try it. The items I would need were: the blood of a virgin which explained the cut on my palm, the tears of a father, and night-lock. My aunt’s workroom contained a greenhouse with almost any plant known to man.
I wrapped the night-lock in the skirt of my dress and slit my hand once I was back in my room. I let the blood run until it had illed half of a chalice. I felt a tad bit dizzier afterward. I grabbed the letter I had received when grandma died and tore off the part that had been stained with the tears from my dad when he read it. I threw it in the chalice. The book instructed me to draw a pentagram with the blood and tears then hold the burning night-lock in the center while chanting the incantation. I copied the pentagram on the cover of the book. I lit the plant afterward and began chanting. Somehow it appeared I had become luent in Latin. Te ab inferis ad terras. Quacumque die invocavero te. Vocavi te in conspectu meo. Ego instigo vos. I repeated this six times. When I inished the sixth time the nightlock burst into a lame which resulted in me dropping it moments before it went out. Smoke began to loat up from the plant. It was swirling into a form. I ran from the pentagram and hid behind my bed, only then realizing how bad an idea that was. I heard someone cough but grew paralyzed. I was too scared to move from my position. Eventually, I saw a shadow slither across the room; it was re lecting the shape moving towards me. I saw the face of a stranger looking back at me. He was a handsome stranger. His face had a gothic beauty, tragic and haunting yet heavenly at the same time. He appeared almost angelic. His brown hair and eyes were so dark they were almost black. His pupils almost seemed to swallow his iris. He held out his hand and without being able to protest, without control, I took it. “Now Doll Face,” he placed a inger under my chin, “what’s your name?” “Mary.” I had whispered it without being able to stop myself. This stranger had me in a trance I was not sure I could get out of. I was not sure I wanted to. He started laughing then pointed at the ceiling. “Oh, I’ll give you points for this one, old man, that is a good one.” “What is your name?” My curiosity managed to make its way through the trance and to my voice. “Oh, darling surely you know who I am.” He answered with a smirk. I swore the temperature rose ten degrees. “Well if I did, I would not be asking, would I?” The anger had replaced the curiosity and the trance was wearing off. I pulled my hand from his. “I suppose since you saved from the most boring meeting in the worse place in existence you have a right to know. I’m Lucifer, Doll
Face.” He took my hand again and kissed it. “Lucifer, as in the Devil?” I squeaked while yanking my hand away. “The one and only.” His smile was the thing nightmares are made of. Suddenly I was pulled back into my mostly sober body.
The innocents of the world look to you When they’ve lost all hope, Like you are the air they breathe. You kill for them With the hands of a saint Holy, and broken, and cracked Yet your god whispers to you Demands that they be redeemed Insists you smite with a vengeance You’re a broken, bloodied mess But the people cheer Paladin
The only voice here is your own. The only car, you drove from home. Fields surround you, crops and loam. You barely hear mosquitos’ drone. Without a signal to your phone, Here you are, truly alone. The quiet here can be unbearable, But the peace it brings is incomparable. As the sun sinks down, the night begins. A gentle glow comes from within That house behind you. Its light has been Kinder to you than the city’s din, Full of childhood memories when Your happiness would easily mend. Soon enough, the sky unveils Every star in its detail. You gaze into the darkened sky To watch Ursa run and Aquila ly. These stars can somehow simplify The troubles you keep in supply. As you walk in, the quiet outside Provides your pleasant lullaby.
Nobody acknowledges me. Nobody listens to me. Information I share gets ignored, Then repeated to someone else’s credit. People I hang out with, --Can hardly call them friends-Pretend to include me until they forget I exist. I’m sick of running around yelling “Wait for me!” I’m sick of being the map, not a participant. I’m sick of not getting a say in, well, anything. I don’t exist until I do something, say something, wrong. Then my shadow appears And is torn to shreds By people I care for. Then I retreat into my invisibility to tend my wounds. I’m starting to ask why I continue to put my shadow out there If nothing happens but Yelling, Stomping, Tearing it apart. But my shadow tells me That I need to put it out there Or I will be terri ied of everything. Transparency is a good thing in relationships, But invisibility leaves one person worried sick and alone.
I have my paternal grandmother’s smile. It’s mirrored in my aunt’s and cousin’s faces. My eyes are blue, like my mother’s and father’s – Perhaps I got one from each of them. Framing my face are My mother’s high forehead and stick-straight hair above, My grandmother’s jaw below. My nose is a mystery – Possibly from some great-grandparent I never knew. Maybe someday, searching old photographs, I will ind it. My body is chie ly of my father’s family – Long arms and legs and ingers and toes. My mind seems to be from them too – When I don’t show how I feel, When I get embarrassed and can’t laugh, My mother says, “You’re Dutch, like them.” But from her I got a love of books, sad music, and the ocean – British blood is in my veins too. When I look into this kaleidoscope of beautiful people, I see at the center Myself: Each part of me a part of someone else, And yet, in that scienti ic mystery of no- ingerprints-alike, My genes, my DNA, set me apart As justMe.
She stood in front of the mirror, watching as the wave of sadness engulfed her. This was a new daily occurrence for her. Waves of sadness came and went as they pleased. When they came, they crashed hard. When they went, they left slowly. She could never trust them because she knew they would be back. The waves of sadness would forever come back, but the person who caused this mess wouldn’t. That’s what hurt the most. She saw quivering lips where there once was a big, beautiful smile. Not just any smile, but a smile that reached her eyes. It was gone. She couldn’t help but wonder if it would ever come back and replace her heavy, aching heart. The mascara running down her face told her otherwise. Usually, it would drive her crazy if her mascara wasn’t perfect, but that was the least of her worries. She couldn’t grasp the thought of living without him. He became her comfort and happiness, and now she felt empty and alone. Desperate to stop crying, she told herself she didn’t need him, and it would be okay. It was almost 1:00am by the time she calmed down and crawled into bed. She couldn’t help but notice how lonely she felt. He wasn’t next to her and the bed felt bigger than usual. She tried to ignore the loneliness by closing her eyes, but all she pictured was her and him being happy together. Morning came, and she wasn’t sure if she ever fell asleep. She hoped this was all a dream but deep down she knew it wasn’t. She got up and took a shower with hopes of washing away the loneliness. However, it didn’t work;, it only brought more. The shower felt like something was missing because he wasn’t there to sing in the shower with her. Everything she did reminded her of him. But she continued with her day because she had to. He wasn’t coming back.
Three months later, she woke up and didn’t feel the pain quite as much anymore. She had thought she couldn’t live without him. But she had for the last six months and she was okay. This time, she looked in the mirror and saw hope in her eyes. Her big, beautiful smile was almost back. She didn’t cry as much as she used to. She appreciated all the heartache she went through, because without it she wouldn’t have found strength within herself. She didn’t need him all along. She needed herself.
We who won’t lift a inger to help our fellow beings Have plenty of energy to lift our middle ingers at them, A toast to pride, or greed, or just failure, We all who run or waste away from a destiny of altruism. Angry at my anger I think: amputate those middle ingers Rather than go to hell with angry hands. And think better: what I have owed to my middle ingers: To free them from being the lightning rods of demagogues And demagags and demigods. Easy now: I have owed to my left middle inger To shift her energy and anger to the left, To my ring inger, to my love whose band has a circumference That eludes exact measurement because in his case Every digit of pi is signi icant. Easy now: I have owed to my right middle inger To shift her energy and anger to the left, To the pointer inger, to the inger of awe, who says look at ixable horrors and humbling miracles, To the inger who touches unborn adults And raises them to life.
They say that love is the feeling of the heart, is this because it beats faster when that someone is abreast? Love is supposedly blind, and beautiful. But love is unpredictable. We never know the outcome when we jump in feet irst. Perhaps that’s why so many people crave it: the chaos, trouble, and unknown. It hit me like electrocution, frozen from the shock, a shot of straight adrenaline. No one expects love when it comes crashing into us like a freight train with brakes cut at full speed. Love is beautifully messy, imperfectly terrifying. Although, I wouldn’t change this all encompassing feeling for the world. I don’t love you though. Love is not a word strong enough to describe what I feel for you. You are a dream, one I only have at midnight: a dreamer who helps me to see things with my eyes closed. I see you in the dark spaces behind closed eyelids. Some days I wish to photograph a moment, and frame it on my wall, or capture it on paper, I’d even lock it in a jar so I could keep reliving that time with you. My love lives in mourning howls of the wind. I can sympathize with the wind as she seems to cry in the way someone who loses love does. When I listen to the decades old serenades and fall into the notes I feel little shocks start at the base of my neck and move outwards to my ingers and toes. The notes reach past my skin and into my soul. When our eyes meet somewhere in the deepest parts of my being I recognized you. Maybe from a past life or the supermarket, but you were home. You saw me as something more than the dream that others had. You took away my invisibility cloak, and I couldn’t be happier.
PLEASE DO NOT FLUSH Feminine products Condoms And Such Skittles Action igures Baby brothers Are Way Too Much Diapers Wet Wipes Paper towels Not Allowed Cell phones I-Pads Coffee cups Nor Mugs Hopes Wishes Dreams Not Foreseen THANK YOU
I promised the moon I wouldn’t sleep tonight Told her I would watch over my companions tonight While she shone above us all; I know I told you I’d come back someday But there’s a whisper in the ire that sleeps with you Tonight, I’ll let it burn in my chest And by the morning I’ll be gone Looking for the quiet silence that follows her name.
I’ve already climbed four lights of stairs, And I’ve four more to go. Three of the elevators are out, As usual. I’m used to this darkness, This daily traipsing up eight loors, then back down. I suppose it’s better than nine or ten. Many of the other girls are walking with me this morning. Several only speak Yiddish or Slovene, But I feel better with company. I reach the eighth- loor entry and there are girls busy sewing. I need to hurry; the sun is already beginning to rise. My companions nod to me and hurry further upstairs. My heels click rapidly into the main room. In a rush, I sit at my station And reach for a pile of colored fabrics, But the general manager scolds me for being late. I look at my shoes and nod, knowing better than to argue. I pick up my scissors and begin. You wouldn’t know that it’s a March afternoon By the wetness on our foreheads Or the stink in the air. Sweat is indistinguishable from cigarette stench. Smoking isn’t allowed But this manager often sneaks drags too. Some of the girls are bolder today, Sewing with a Pall Mall in between their ingers. We continue working And I continue cutting, Counting down the minutes to break.
It’s nearly ive We can feel it, though the clocks are all broken. Many of the girls are joking to one another, Making small talk about their families, And the manager even turns on the radio. Whether it’s excitement that soon we’ll be free Or the exhaustion from eleven hours of the same task, There is a tangible change in the air. Suddenly there is a piercing scream And heads swivel: “Fire! There’s a ire!” The manager runs to the nearby irehose, Then bellows “Stay calm, girls!” There is a plan for this. He begins cranking the knob or tries to. His voice cracks, “This damn thing is rusted shut!” In the time he’s taken, lecks of paper have lared And now drift around the room, starting smaller lames That soon catch the scrap piles and ignite. Girls are leaping up, running and screaming now. Tables are knocked over; chairs are shoved away. The radio clatters to the loor and cuts out abruptly. I jump up and run too, but the door is so far away. By the time I reach the eighth- loor entry, The word ire has spread more quickly than the lames. The upper loors have already begun leeing, And there is no room in the narrow staircase. Girls are pushing and shrieking and cursing and praying. I force my way into the hall And struggle towards the last functioning elevator, But it’s already failing from the heat. Someone has pried the doors open And girls are leaping down the shaft. Others scramble back to the stairs and try to lee, But the manager stays put. He stares blankly ahead and murmurs, “The doors don’t unlock ‘til ive.”
After a moment, his meaning dawns on me. We’re trapped up here. The lames have engulfed the eighth- loor now; There is only white heat and screaming. Those still stuck here hurry further upstairs, “The ire escape!” We have only this hope, so we climb. The ninth loor of the factory isn’t engulfed yet. We climb over tables and garment scraps, Half- inished shirts and still running sewing machines. We run to the window where Girls frantically rush through the opening And begin to clamber down. The air here isn’t illed with smoke, which gives us energy. Fire engines sound alarms below, But their ladders are too short to reach us. Just as I near the window A sickening creak occurs outside, Then a crack, Followed by more screaming that fades. The ladder has broken And the girls have fallen to the Manhattan street below. We become a hysteric mob of young women, Too young to have even thought of death Or know the smell of charred lesh. Those left of us run back to the stairwell And climb to the roof in one last attempt. The lames grow taller and the smoke billows higher. In a daze, I walk to the edge of the roof and look down: Girls are jumping, choosing to go on their terms. Firemen are holding nets, but The nets are tearing as the bodies hit. What else can we do? The frenzy of the crowd on the roof gradually settles, And the building beneath us groans As we look at one another on the edge.
To my left is one of the girls who climbed with me This morning. A lifetime ago. She smiles at me, sadly, and extends her hand And I try to smile back and take it. She says something to me, and though I don’t speak her language I feel her meaning: Until we meet again. We both turn to the street below us And jump.
things usually aren’t simple like driving on the right side of the road or trying to choose the best bread nevermind things always come to order and every day is a new day don’t chase a moving target don’t believe in wise tales wisecracks or wise men remember that, no matter what, i will always love you and if your gut tells you something listen
I walked up the stairs from the basement to the living room at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday and saw three people doing what they always did on the weekend. The TV was on, and Lifetime Movie Network was playing some guilty pleasure about murder, sex, and betrayal. They were loving every minute of it. “This budget Leonardo DiCaprio is doing it for me. I want to be in front of him, or underneath him. Basically anything he wants,” said Diana, my older sister, as she sipped on her third mimosa of the day. “To tell you the truth, I’d rather be watching Thor, but I’m sucked in. She’s just vicious, and he doesn’t know.” said Mom, sipping on a wine cooler. “I can’t do it again this weekend,” said Dad as he left the living room for the backyard, beer in hand. “Morning, Bud. Come sit with us; it’s getting good,” said Mom. “Nah, I just don’t hate myself enough to watch that shit today. Rain check,” I said as I walked to the garage door from across the living room. “Bud, you can’t leave. There’s murder!” said Mom. “Nah,” I said. I went to indulge in America’s favorite pastime: pretending to eat healthy. I went to the Green Bean Coffee Shop and ordered a wrap with bacon. Emily Card was making it, and I was sitting at a table three feet away from her kitchen prep station. “How does it feel to graduate early?” I said. “It sucks. It burns,” she said. “What are you gonna do now? Grad school?” “I think I’m just gonna be a broke bitch for the time being.” “Whaddaya mean?” “I’m going to rent a room in a trailer park, stock up on forties, and let 2016 pass me by.” “Didn’t you want to be an accountant?” “Yeah, but I’m just so fucking tired. I think I lost my motivation sometime in the fourteenth grade. Wish I could just ly away.” “Yeah, Chadron’s grinding me down too.” “Here’s your wrap. Want spit for 50 cents more?” “Ha.”
After eating the wrap, I decided to wash my car. I was scraping off all the insect entrails with a foam-dispensing brush, and then hosing it off when the foam dried. It worked pretty well, but spending $5 in change was a pain. I went back home to do some homework. I parked the car in the garage and walked in the house. Diana was attempting to make margaritas. I had only been gone for two hours. “Mom. Mom! Why won’t this fucking blender work!?” said Diana. “Did you check to see if it’s plugged in!?” yelled Mom from the rear bedroom just down the hall from the kitchen. Diana looked at the power cord, starting from where it connected to the blender, and followed it to the prongs hanging off the edge of the kitchen island. “Oh! Thanks!” said Diana. I walked down the stairs to my bedroom and turned on my laptop. I was looking for some lectures on Russian Formalism when my phone rang. I could see it was Kendra, my little sister. The thing is, I don’t answer my phone, so she went to voicemail after ive rings. Twenty seconds later, my phone dinged with a text: “Pls talk to me” followed with a picture of sad Puss in Boots from Shrek. Fine. “Whaddya want?” I said. “Geez, what’s your problem?” said Kendra. “You called me.” “Ok.” “So?” “I need some things sent to me.” “Such as?” “My study pants and my fuzzy boots and my pink bag.” “Ok, I know those.” “My bf is such a fucking loser.” “Why?” “He just smokes pot and plays Call of Duty all day while I work to support us. I don’t think he’s going to be a doctor.” “Well, you picked him.” “I only picked him because when I met him, he had a job, and he was easy on my eyes.” “Now you’re realizing that’s not worth as much.” “Yes.” “I’ll get a package together soon. Can’t mail it ‘till Monday. Don’t get any ideas from Snapped.” “It’s almost worth it at this point.”
“Bye.” “Bye.” I kept up on my research until 3:00PM until I was exhausted with literariness. I closed the laptop and started to put together an out it for the evening. An old lame from high school got in touch and asked me to accompany her to the band concert tonight. I said yes at the time because I could always back out later if I had to, but I was simply enraptured at the fact that she came back to me, not vice versa. I couldn’t just cross my arms in front of my chest and say no. I stuffed the suit into a black garment bag and headed out. The State University Music Department spares no expense for their elite musicians, so they put Lana Gibson up in the Iron Ridge Estates, complete with a balcony and living room ireplace. These apartments aren’t like the 1970s lemon-yellow pastel buildings I was accustomed to seeing in Belle Fourche, so I was out of my element, looking like a hood in a neighborhood. I went up to third loor and knocked, bearing a bottle of Smirnoff, a six-pack of Hershey’s chocolate bars, and my lat bag of clothes. The door was answered by who was once the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world. She was 5’5” with long brown hair, wearing only a blue bathrobe and a sparkly silver heart pendant. She had a cinnamon tan complexion with a curvy body. What can you say meaningfully after so many years? I just tried to act naturally. “Hi Christian.” “Hi Lana. I come bearing gifts,” I said as I held up the brown paper bag and the chocolates. “Oh, you shouldn’t have. Please, come in.” I stepped in and I was taken away with the smell of lemon Pledge and hair burnt by a curling iron. The kitchen looked barely lived in, and the living room was a void with leather furniture just waiting to be lounged in. I just kept smirking and thinking that this is nothing like home. “Bathroom’s yours if you want to get changed. I’m gonna smoke on the balcony,” she said. I walked out ive minutes later in all black, save for a gray tie. I met her out on the balcony. “Whose funeral are we attending, Johnny Cash?” she said. “You’re funny.” I said. She went back inside, and I stayed outside, smoking from the pack of Marlboro Golds she left outside. I stared out into the vastness of wavy, grassy plains and rolling midwestern hills while contemplating the mysteries of my choices while inhaling the mellow tobacco smoke.
An hour later, she emerged from the fog of hairspray and perfume to me, and we set off for the State University campus. After the performance, we sat on the living room couch, watching some trash on Netlix, passing Oreos and Smirnoff back and forth to each other. She was gulping down shots and clearing few Oreos while I was hal heartedly sipping and becoming the Cookie Monster with each bite. My mouth felt like chocolate-covered razor blades. I excused myself to the balcony for a cigarette and thought nothing of everything I’ve seen.
In the quiet, you can hear a subtle, steady breathing. You can see plants moving in rhythm with that breathing. You see books lined up on shelves like sentinels, defending the information held within their jackets, waiting for the next curious reader. When the books look upon a personal computer, they scowl and growl at being replaced. Bookcases groan with the weight of all that power, for Knowledge is Power, but loat away when empty. The saddest thing to see is a solitary book going with a patron. No book should have to leave their home alone. Always take two. For when you put them down to go to sleep, they will talk amongst themselves. Especially children’s books, take nine or ten, for they surely get lonely quickly. They seem to watch as you study, trying to learn the information too. If you wish for your book to reveal its secrets to you, you simply must stroke the spine, releasing the pent-up magic and soothing it before you open its brain to read what is written there. When releasing this magic, do not simply read the words, make them come alive— as if its page were a projector and your mind the screen. Let the words play a movie in your mind. See what the words tell you. Paint a picture with the beautiful soul of the book you released. When they return, they breathe a sigh; feeling relieved to be back home with their fellows, but also sad to be left alone after the coveted company of a reader.
Erica Anderson is a sophomore from Sheldon, Iowa. She is an Accounting major and enjoys the art of expressing feelings through writing. Her piece “Waves” goes through feelings of heartache and healing as time progresses. Andrew Bender has been interested in photography since a very young age. He draws inspiration from nature, especially the Black Hills around Rapid City, South Dakota, where he was born and raised. Andrew uses photography to guide his design in his major, Computer Graphics. Over the years, Andrew has taken a speci ic photographic interest in Macro (or Closeup) Photography. Through photography, he seeks to open people’s eyes to the minute details of the world around them. Stacey Berry is an Associate Professor of English for New Media. She has written poems about Grand Theft Auto, vending machines, and faulty html coding. She is currently working on a novel that she isn’t actually writing. She believes all stories are true. Rachel Bruntz writes as a way to get the thoughts and words she can’t speak out of her head. Poetry and prose are her favorite mediums, and her characters of choice use sarcasm as a weapon. She knows strength lies in words and writing, and she still has trouble grasping how others can stay sane without using them. Christian Buresh is a Resident Hall Director at Dakota State University. Originally from Belle Fourche, SD, he earned a Bachelor of Science in Education from Chadron State College in 2017. His works focus on his experiences during the Great Recession and his undergraduate education. He has also been published in Tenth Street Miscellany. Kendra Cary is an English for New Media major from Sioux Falls. She wrote “Paladin” based on a role-playing game that she played with some friends, and “Moon” loosely inspired from the same game.
Molly Elwood is originally from the ittsy-bittsy village of Dunkirk, Ohio, and came to South Dakota in search of knowledge. She is a senior at Dakota State University majoring in English for New Media. When she isn’t working on mountains of homework, Molly enjoys playing video games, reading, and expanding her to-do list. Melanie Gunn is a senior English for New Media Major from Sioux Falls, SD. When she’s not reading or doing homework, Melanie enjoys teaching herself new things, like how to crochet and how to cross-stitch. She is looking forward to graduating in May. Rick Janssen graduated with a Bachelor of Science in Art from DSU. Now retired, he enjoys conceiving free verse poetry. His poetry has been published in a number of past issues of New Tricks. Thomas Jones has been teaching photography, computer graphics since being hired at DSU in 2000. He created the Photography Study Tour course in which students travel throughout the U.K. and Paris, France, learning about photography and experiencing different cultures. Tom continually researches trends and incorporates them into his courses. He can often be seen with students taking photos at various DSU events encouraging and challenging the students to think beyond classroom assignments. Lee Kampshoff grew up in Salem, SD, where he irst picked up creating digital art. After high school, Lee decided to attend DSU to pursue a career in Computer Graphics. “Water Girl” was created by Lee during spring break while he was continuing a style study. Casualene Meyer grew up in Renton, Washington. She lives with her family in Madison, and is an adjunct instructor of English. Erin Peterson is a freshman double majoring in Game Design and Production Animation. She has always loved to create art and express herself through different forms of media. She created “Devil” for her sister. This piece was inspired by a line in the song “It’s Called: Freefall” by RKS.
Jaclynn Rogers is a third-year English for New Media major from Huron (and Miller), SD. She is still acquainting herself with original writing, but enjoys experimenting with poetry and prose (though both works included here were for a class). Jaclynn has taken photos since she was a little girl, and loves inding something interesting and showing it in a new light. Holly Sando is from Colton, SD, majoring in Production Animation. “Mocha Latte” was inspired by the intricate beauty of latte art. Latte art has always interested her and, despite not liking coffee, she yearned to see latte art in person. One day, she and her friend went to a cafe in Sioux Falls. Holly was lucky enough to not only witness real latte art, but to drink it. Sometimes a simple cup of joe can be art. Phusuda Sheehan is a irst year Computer Graphics major. She has two hands and uses them to take photographs and write poetry in her free time. “Burning” is a contribution to how, as human beings, we are all similar through the pain we all feel but choose not to talk about. Naomi Vonkeman is a freshman from Wentworth, SD, majoring in Computer Graphics. She enjoys writing poetry because it is a way to express emotions that can be hard to explain out loud. In addition to writing poetry, Naomi enjoys art of various kinds, baking, playing board games, and spending time outside. Piyush Vyas is from India and works as a teaching assistant in CBIS. He is a doctoral student majoring in information systems. He believes in acceptance of all things just the way they are and tries to write those feelings in his poems. He is a writer, poet, actor, and explorer. Viana Waldner is a 2nd year English Education major from Parker, SD. “What is Love” was inspired by a comparison between the best human love and the standard of love set by the Christian faith.
Founded in 1992 by a group of English-lovers who called themselves the “Literary Stunt Dogs,” New Tricks was created to showcase the literary creativity of the students, faculty, and staff of Dakota State University. Later, the responsibility for the magazine was taken over by the campus English Honor Society, Sigma Tau Delta – and many of the Presidents of that society spent long hours collecting, editing, and printing the yearly issue of New Tricks without any assistance. Today, Sigma Tau Delta is still the magazine publisher, but the work has been grafted into the publishing classes offered in Beadle Hall, to allow students valuable experience in career-oriented skills. Regardless of who has served as editor over the years, the mission of New Tricks has remained unchanged since its genesis over 25 years ago. Today’s issues now include creative pieces from across campus disciplines - including digital art, photography, physical artwork, poetry, prose, and any other publishable works - allowing DSU’s students, faculty, and staff an opportunity to showcase their skills and creativity to the world. Without further ado, but with great pride, we join in the proud lineup of past New Trick’s editors to present this year’s issue for your enjoyment.
This publication is supported by generous donations. Many thanks to our kind supporters. Sigma Tau Delta Center of Excellence Casualene Meyer Dr. Deana Hueners-Nelson Dr. John Nelson