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the GRINNELL REVIEW

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theGRINNELL REVIEW

VOLUME FORTY | FALL 2010

EDITORSMike Kleine

Mario Macías

Lorraine BlattJon Garrey

Abraham KohrmanKaitlin Loftur-Thun

Claire LoweShanna Nichols

Jennelle NystromDaniel Waite Penny

Rocio SafeMatthew Mertes

Leah RussellPaul Tavarez

GRINNELL REVIEW

James AnthoferTyler Banas

Lilith Ben-OrChristian Caminiti

Eileen DalyJakob Gowell

Tyrone GreenfieldAbraham KohrmanKaitlin Loftur-Thun

Claire Lowe

Clare MaoEmily Mester

Kelly Marie MusselmanShanna Nichols

Daniel Waite PennyRocio Safe

Sarah ShaughnessyJessica Rippel

Paloma VelazquezPaul Tavarez

WRITING SELECTION COMMITTEE

ARTS SELECTION COMMITTEE

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Copyright © 2010 by the Student Publications and Radio Committee (SPARC) of Grinnell College.

The Grinnell Review is the college’s biannual undergraduate literary and fine arts journal.

Acknowledgements: The work and ideas published in The Grinnell Review belong to the individuals to whom such works and ideas are attributed and do not necessarily represent or express the opinions of SPARC or any other individuals associated with the publication of this journal.

© 2010 Poetry, prose, artwork and design rights return to the artists upon publication. No part of this publication may be duplicated without the permission of SPARC, individual artists or the editors.

The Grinnell Review is printed and bound by Acme Printing in Des Moines, IA. It was designed using Adobe InDesign® CS5. The typeface for the body text is 12 pt. Minion Pro and the typeface for the titles is 48 pt. Minion Pro.

Cover art: “Shadow Series #4” an original artwork by Lauren Teixeira.

Simultaneous submissions are acceptable during the Fall and Spring semesters but are limited to three per category (literature and art).

All editorial and business correspondence should be addressed to:

Grinnell Collegec/o Grinnell ReviewGrinnell, IA 50112

Letters to the editor are also welcome. Please send them to the address above or to [email protected].

GRINNELL REVIEW

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C O N T E N T S

GRINNELL REVIEW

9 Letter From the Editors Mike Kleine & Mario Macías

10 Writing Section

12 High Definition James Anthofer

13 Midwest Weather James Anthofer

14 Olympia, Pt. ii James Anthofer

15 Any Given Weekend in Guatemala Tyler Banas

18 The Advice of Mr. Melpomene Benjamin Gregory Flebbe

19 applepicking Clare Mao

20 Coming Attraction Clare Mao

21 What Byron Did At the End of the World Emily Mester

22 Twiddling My Opposable Thumbs, or A Convoluted Answer to the Teacher’s Question of Why I Laughed When She Said Homo Erectus Emily Mester

24 Biped Love Song Emily Mester

25 Poem in Five Acts Daniel Waite Penny

30 No Looking Bacchus (For Isaac) Daniel Waite Penny

32 The Passion of Bear Grylls Daniel Waite Penny

39 Untitled Quinn Underriner

40 Lessons in Anatomy Clare Boerigter

41 Bike Megan Rupe

42 Romance Regifted Kelly Marie Musselman

43 Driving Force Kelly Marie Musselman

45 To Explain Her Status Kelly Marie Musselman

46 Art Section

48 deep bro i Nic Wilson

50 Untitled Lily Jamaludin

51 Untitled Liting Cong

52 Untitled Noah Delong

53 A Man With a Plan Jon Garrey

54 Untitled Greg Suryn

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56 Drawing Danica Radoshevich

57 Untitled Marlu Carolina Abarca

58 Coney Island Fireworks Dodge Greenley

59 Tea Cats Liting Cong

60 Untitled Davis Hermann

62 Sunset Across the Innoko River, Western Interior Alaska Ben Schwamb

63 Namib Noah DeLong

64 Ethan Boat Club Daniel Waite Penny

65 Puke Daniel Waite Penny

66 Untitled Lorraine Blatt

68 Progression of Instability Lily Jamaludin

70 Untitled Alex Reich

71 Untitled Colin McCallum-Cook

72 Ode to Arbus Daniel Waite Penny

74 Girl and Tree Abraham Kohrman

75 pH Greg Suryn

76 Hose Sara Kay

78 Mykonos Maze Jon Garrey

80 North Bubble, Acadia National Park, Maine Ben Schwamb

82 PEC Dodge Greenley

83 Electro Scene Davis Hermann

84 Wet Jon Garrey

86 Shadow Series #1 Lauren Teixeira

88 Empty, Vibrant Tyler Banas

90 The Culvert Dodge Greenley

92 Nick’s Diner Self Portrait Lauren Teixeira

93 Strange Fruit Mike Kleine

94 Ink Bubs Davis Hermann

GRINNELL REVIEW

C O N T E N T S

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Man Ray, Paris, May 1924

GRINNELL REVIEW

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Letter from the Editors

Welcome to the fortieth issue of The Grinnell Review. In ten years, the Review will be 50 and that makes it anxious. Jesus died when he was 33, and now, the Review is 40. Maybe the Review will get a motorcycle, for a change—it has always wanted a motorcycle. The Review remembers when it was young, when it dreamed of being a baseball player and, look, here it is now. How did this happen? Has it done anything yet, anything meaningful?

We think so. You’ve come a long way, baby. Last spring, the Review was released as an anthology. This year, it is not. But that was great: the shape was oblong, the paper recycled, cake was eaten, a roman X was omitted, and so what would have been thirty is now sadly forty.

Gathered here, we are thus proud to present you with the best of what we feel is . . . well, the best—or, at least, the closest one could ever get to the very best:

“One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.”That’s Dr. Seuss, everyone.

Let our regime rise toward perfection as it falls into self-destruction—for that, dear readers, is art.

That is why, with the most pretentious intentions, we now invite you to be a part of this boys’ club: for we are the brain drain in power, essayez de nous arrêter.

Mike Kleine and Mario Macías Editors in Chief

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WRITING

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WRITING

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POEM | JAMES ANTHOFER

Olympia, Pt. iiWhen Peter Puget reached the end,He turned back and killed some Indians.Today, in Olympia, they flood Capitol Lake(man-made) with salt to kill foreign slugs.

That didn’t work, either. Not much does here.The buses run on time, the college hums along,Always green, deep in a forest without grades.Without hip-hop, too, since a riot in 2006.

Well, yes, fuck the police, but I didn’t seeA single one when I was in Olympia.I guess that’s why the evergreeners Go to Tacoma to dance at the rave bar:

To gawk at the animals in Fort Lewis, And in the morning, to blockShipments to Kabul.

My younger brother, sober, serious,Refuses the dances and the orgiesAnd “dorm Z”: attending class from a homeIn the trees. He farms instead, urbanely.

At nights we talk about his prison project And how sex isn’t freedom. Drugs, either.It rains every day of my visit,And even during the day, We cannot see the forest For the trees.

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POEM | JAMES ANTHOFER

Midwest WeatherSomething semi-miraculous in your care for me:the loose shingle falls,the rain rises in slow motiontowards the clouds.Can we be weird? Of course, my dear.Let me marvel againat your small hands and feet. They fitinside me.

Long-distance is simply derivative.Tensions resolve into curves.I draw the next graphon the calendar,as an arrow pointing off of the page,as a tree ring, as a pill with some sort of nameI take each day. Anti-Melancholy.

I wear the relationship suitlike Superman,and each night I fly back to Antarcticato sleep in my ice fortress.The steady falls of your feetin the snow echo on the plain. Five weeks!

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POEM | JAMES ANTHOFER

High DefinitionIn fact, the wonders did not cease.The fad did not pass.The mid-term (elections) went on.

Long-distance relationship:we wrote for Lady Gaga,Beyonce, Ke$ha, Rihanna.Asalaam alaikum.

Over the phone and on the computer screen,I told her about my wonder.I told her I loved her.I wanted to become her,

Or something like that.She knows the way to laugh,To say I overcomplicate.Just skype, after all:

invent the way out, solve this without difficultylike the climax of a romantic comedy.

Forget your life,and it appears againWith twice the resolution.

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ANY GIVEN WEEKEND IN GUATEMALA

Tyler Banas

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July 6, 2010 Saturday

In the wake of a rose-hipped afternoon reading Kerouac’s infamously manic and beat-driven prose, I attack this weekend passed with reflective irides. A swanky story I will compose.

Saturday morning, my first acculturated encounter with Guatemalan relaxation. Eggs, bread, and tead manifest with sun-raged sparks from the intricate hollows of my home’s kitchen. The charged energy is supplanted into the night-dried bodies. Foreign words sling from mouth to ear in the food’s meter-high skies, desperately hoping to be received. “Yo voy alli con Esteban … no se cuando regresar.” I leave the table hoping for slimslender reception.

Dust-ridden concrete lies like an elongated snake between my destination and my condition. Fortunately, like-minded organisms called friends accompany me on the mission.

In a leap unprecedented by any gaze or outlook, we as three board bright bingy buses aimed toward the Devil in Xela City. Toward whatever hell we’re destined, at least we go in herds. They say the road there is paved with good intentions, but their claim is negated with searing sirens. The road to hell isn’t paved at all. No—hell is beyond the unmarked purgatory of sharp bends and desolute-but-proud eyes, staring as if the light reflecting from your skin and clothes contains some solution. “We’re headed together” is the only message conveyed.

Mayan temples destroyed into edifices of consumer advertisement serve as the grandest welcome post.No, wait! That girl does, the glassed beaut of HueHue.Take me in, lay me down. Please please be my host.

Courageous aimless strides lead to flamed carnes picante curry served above a complex of grated catwalks. Antlered liquor leads to hangovers and short-naps lead to the defiance of physical laws such as the conservation of matter.

We head out under wraithous banshee nights without a shield. “With reverence for clear conscious skies,” I plead to the lightless dios, “have mercy on this body, this organic capital!” The omnipresent nonexistence replies thrice: Once, with a cast of bullets lodged into the femur. Once, with a celestial dance floor of lovely lonely Latino ladies. Once, with a mechanical Toro.

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July 17, 2010 Sunday

An egg amongst an amiable family defines breakfast. The road to Xela City is stalled by a funeral procession headed toward heaven or hell or hallway sanctuaries.

In any case, I personally would rather take a bicycle, even if I must repair it first, for historic legend shows that bike crashes are like pink rose petals dashed upon brown suede sofa stone.

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THE ADVICE OF MR. MELPOMENE

Benjamin Gregory Flebbe

I found him right before sunset that evening as I drifted somewhere between the hori-zon and my hammock. He was drinking a margarita with a Brazilian on his left arm and the scant remains of his soul tattooed on his right... he told me he didn’t want to forget how it looked.

“Bah! Love!” He told me, leering at me with a longing glint in his eyes. “Nothing in this ‘versal world is more duplicitous, more tenacious, more conniving, intoxicating, and abso-lutely fatal as love. It comes, hat in hand, asking for a night’s lodging. Soon you throw your Les Paul and your copy of Deadeye Dick and your Clash collection to the curb in order to make space for her in your heart... Love! Kid, love is for virgins and dogs.”

His lazy thread wound its way to the nearest bar and my eyes drew to the swaying of his arm candy as the bartender prepared another margarita. I looked out to the meander-ing waves as they rolled between orange and pink and realized I must look like an angel framed by their light drifting through my hammock. People crowded around the bar as the chili lights turned on, cutting a haven out of the night the way alcohol cut a haven out of their memory... keeping it at bay but never killing it off.

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POEM | CLARE MAO

applepickingYou sent me pieces of the Spanish coastline,a different name for every inch you covered: This is where we would’ve sat, fingers meetingagain and again and again.We wouldn’t have neededanything more.

I ate an apple for every dayyou were gone,because they reminded me of you, somehow.Something aboutthe cores and your eyes,the seeds and your hands.How easily my teeth broke the skin,and your absence.

The sixth postcard you sent me called me querida,and I heard in it the corners of an accentI imagine you must have picked up there.It was a photo of your feet, ankles waving hello.I am always surprisedyou have the time to think of me.

Modern-day Johnny Appleseed,your hands make beautifuleverything they touch.I ask you how you are doing every single time,even when I know the answer. I just liketo hear your sincerity speak. I just wanta bite of your apple-core eyes,something to remember you by.

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POEM | CLARE MAO

coming attractionI am sorry I am not clever.

I had not known you loved me until you called me a light bulb,

But what does that mean, I had asked, I don’t understand—

My bedroom is missing a light bulb, you said,

Oh, I said.

Of course, this did not really happen.Men and women and men and men and women and women

do not speak like that except in movies because that is the only placewe let people get away with saying things like that, things like

you are a light bulb so please sleep with me we may even be ableto call it making love in the morning

or

I do not love you anymore and maybe I never did,because life does not lend itself to situations where problems

are solved with one-liners. Problems are never solved with one-liners.

My favorite part, though, is the calm before the storm—us in your bed, us holding hands, maybe just us,

and me wanting to crawl into the spaces between your ribs or even your toes.

I am not very clever, so I do not know when you stopped loving mebut I have watched a lot of movies and this—this is the part

where the girl cries, where I cry, and the man is sorry, where you are sorry,except I do not cry and you are sorry anyway,

and this is the part where the man leaves, where you leave,except you do not leave so I do and the lights come up because you

were never missing a light bulb in the first place.

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POEM | EMILY MESTER

What Byron Did At The End of the WorldCold reason rose from Enlightened banks, And sensing the end, He tried to transcend But that pleasure junkie clung to earth As he sank

Lost clauses hitched rides on flying commas desire lost a staring contest with the eye of the storm

The predators prayed The bees fell to their knees And losing their buzz And mixing their metaphors And heavy with honey Wept at the flowers and forgot how to swarm

Pump up the enjambment! Lord Byron had screamed.

Drunk on sunlight He’d made fire with the friction

Between fact fiction Spent seven minutes in heaven

kissing the stars

Shivering, breath bated He waited to drown

And all God would float him In the decadent dark

Was empty pages to fill With ennui’s constant spill

Instructions to bail out When he needed an ark

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POEM | EMILY MESTER

Twiddling My Opposable Thumbs, or A Convoluted Answer to the Teacher’s Question of Why I Laughed When She Said Homo Erectus

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To be honest, no.

I never stop to smell the flatulent roses,

nor does the pompous sunset hold my gaze for long.

And truthfully, gaze is here a gracious term for beady surveillance,

sometimes I ponder life, or more specifically,

my next haircut.

I like: artificial sweetener, fingerpaint,

indoor plumbing, sitcoms, tabloids, cursing.

Look,I don’t want to gnaw at my poor old psyche

like a chicken bone

No, if we’ve all got to wallow

let’s wallow with glee.

Descartes was an animal too, belching forth theories

picking old scabs, calling it philosophy.

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POEM | EMILY MESTER

Biped Love SongYou jaywalk

You jaywalk like a motherfucker You jaywalk and you don’t even care

And if I am like a road, Which, shh, I know, just—anyway

If I am like a road You jaywalk

You crosswalk You sleepwalk

You moonwalk across me.

Did you hear, they finally asked the chicken why But he just said

There’s another side?

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POEM | DANIEL WAITE PENNY

Poem in Five ActsI. To the New Academy

Swimming languid in wine dark seasSubmerged though we areIn the uncertain Merlot marlI must take pause

To admireA pair of ragged clawsScuttling across the floor

Welcome, Gaussian blur!Vision(s) swathed in Ebay-purchased furI refuse to seeThe head heldIn ragged, bloody clawsHaving torn parents’Tomfoolery to smithereensWith regretsThat new materialIs only pre-fabSiliconSiliconeEverything affixedWith pretense and prefix

We find ourselvesLost in an error of lemmingsAnd lamentsAnd laminate--Coated corn and soyNo longer youngDespite our ploys

AdjunctsFallen from the tenure track

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II. Some devices

Gabriel—Or is it Michael—Archangels without an arched brow between them,May my soul swoon like yoursLest your wrath cut me downTo a state of indeterminacy toAn estate of dubious worthBohemia less appealingWithout money for drugs

At age sixteenI never learnedHow to kick-flip (dick-slip) reliablyWhat is the differenceWhat is the differenceBetweenPractice and praxisSubstantial and substantiveTripe and haggisDroll and glibPepper and PibbAssholes use the latterI say thisAs I ascendThe ladder of assholery

Wearing technicolored Am Apper hosery!

Forget GestaltAnd things lose focusNo longer gesticulatingLike they once didFor Alice:Kaleidoscopic, oilslicked, ‘delic, Delphic visionsSeeing the stuccoAs if through a doublerainbow prism

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III. Broken on the rocks

Were it that I belongedTo a blanker generationThis one is too poorly dressedAnd apparently has no hand for the essayOnly writing in paragraphsThe nytimes says We multi-task too much(I have already checked fbThrice while writing this poemThrice while reading this poemThrice again because I was lonely)And lack transitionsMy parents complainThat words have no meaningWhen writing ≠ transmissionAlso,Leggings are not pantsDespite what you may have been told

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IV. Injunction junction, what’s your function

But let us returnFor I have been distractedI believe that I was lamenting somethingOverwrought and overwritten“I cannot read anymoreThe pages grow unclearThe letters jumbled with eyes uncertain”

Too strong a brouhahaFor this stomach to tolerate

My/our capacity for opacityMatched only byThe highwire tensionOf self-deprecationAnd artistic pretensionNietzsche and Derrida compel meTO DANCEAnd call me a partypooper when I declineBut I have no more AdderallThe fires of my fighting spiritDoused with a quiet domesticityHips achingGravel in between my bonesBecoming fat and happyThrough the ruse of a roux

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V.Untimely Postscript

Quaffed, coiffed, and coyI’ve dribbled my drivelEnough for one eveningAnd must attendTo the sauce

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POEM | DANIEL WAITE PENNY

No Looking Bacchus (For Isaac)Dionysus! Dionysus! Daiyehnu! DYN-O-MITE!

I want to feel like you, be like youI want you to help me FrenzyLike those kids in the Levis commercials, sweating, dancing around the fire

Have you ever wept like he does?Rolling on the ground inThrow UpIs it yours?Is it mine?It better not be mine

I want to flip that table overThrow that coffee cup against the wallBut I don’t have the ba--testicles

I want to speak in unfamiliar tropesBeyond cigarettes and big empty skiesFast cars, fast girlsVodka and Diet Coke

I want to grow upI want to blow up

But I can’t be kind of a big dealWith reverse Peter Pan syndrome andPerformance anxiety

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One day, I’m gonna make literary delusionsThat’ll make grown menAnd Virginia WolfHowl at the MoonWeep, and roll aroundIn their ownNeon Franzia vomit

Me and Dionysus are gonna make it big one dayIf I can figure outHow to stay in the presentTenseBetter save this for posterity’s sakeBitches

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THE PASSION OF BEAR GRYLLS

Daniel Waite Penny

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Bear stared into the crevasse, trying to measure the distance between the edge of the cliff and the last jagged rocks he had to clear in the surging water below. “Are you sure about this?” That was Steve, the new camera guy. “We could just walk a quarter of a mile that way. You said it yourself, there’s a pretty clear trail.” Steve didn’t know Bear very well. “Listen . . . whatever your name is . . . I don’t know what kind of show you think we do, but the Discovery Channel doesn’t pay me the big bucks to hike down trails.” Bear turned to face the camera. “I’m trapped above this forty foot waterfall. There’s nowhere to go but down. In a situation like this, you need to make sure there’s deep water to land in, and that you’ll clear anything that looks like those sharp rocks down there. Take a few steps back, and get a running start. And always remember, the real battle for survival is actually in your mind and in your heart. I’ll see you on the other side.”

The party was full of people he’d never seen before. Entertainment bigwigs and fatcats he supposed. They were all so pink and fleshy. Most of them had probably never even been camping before. A waiter passed by with a tray of escargot, the closest thing to the jungle Bear was going to get in a hotel lobby like this one. On the tube, he liked to make faces whenever he had to chomp on a grub, or a suck down a live scorpion—it made for better ratings—but lately, Bear was starting to develop a real penchant for those creepie-crawlies. He grabbed a handful and downed them expertly, forgoing the garlic butter sauce. “Do you have to suck them down like that?” Sheelah was a nice enough girl: Australian, and enthusiastic about the show. Sometimes Bear wondered if they ever really understood each other. She always wanted him to wear dress trousers instead of water-proof cargo-pants, but what use were trousers out in the wilderness? Ultimately, she just wasn’t practical. Could you carry a compass, bowie-knife, flint, and extra alligator meat in your wool pants? No. Would they protect you from thorns and potential snakebites? No. Then again, wool wasn’t the worst material. Nature’s natural insulator. Stays warm even when it’s wet. “Are you even listening to me?” “Yes, my little nutria.” “Why do you have to call me that?” “Nutria, I thought you loved that name.” “Why would I want to be called ‘nutria?’ Aren’t those like giant water-rats or something?” “The nutria is a majestic and noble creature. They can chew through a tire in un-der a minute.” He snapped his fingers for added emphasis, but could tell that Sheelah was unimpressed. “I’m going to go grab another glass of champagne. Do you want anything, Bear?” He thought for a moment. “A gin and tonic, please.” At least those had quinine in them.

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It had been a long day. Skydiving, rock-scrambling, boar-wrestling. Bear hardly had enough energy to light a fire, a sure sign that he would sleep well tonight, even if his bed was made mostly of driftwood. His eyelids began to droop as he stared into the fire. “So, we got some pretty good footage today, eh Bear?” Steve again. The daft fucker hadn’t gotten with the program yet. Bear sighed. “Yeah, I’d say it was a pretty rough and tumble day, Derek. We’ll look over the footage next week.” “You know my name is Steve, right?” “Yeah, that’s what I said.” This Steve character was a real imbecile. Bear asked himself where they got these guys. “No, I’m pretty sure you just called me Derek.” “Sorry about that mate, just a little exhausted is all. Oh, and I’d prefer if you didn’t call me Bear.” “Oh, uh sorry. Do you want another energy bar, Mr. Grylls?” “Nah, I’m good, the fourth has me pretty well full. Think I’m just gonna turn in for the night. See you in the morning, chief.” Bear stayed upright looking at the stars for a moment, closed his eyes, and flopped over, collapsing onto his impromptu bed.

The clock read 3:13. The hotel room was unbearably loud. The drone of the air-conditioner, the hum of the mini-fridge, the echoes of traffic twenty stories below. The sounds were so unnatural. How did people sleep in places like this? All day they sit at their desks, or in their cars, or on their couches. How could anyone be tired after a day full of eating and resting? Bear twisted around and listened to Sheelah’s breathing. He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close to his naked body. He always slept in the nude. Her shoulder rose and fell, and the loose strap of her bra hanging off the side of her tan skin was so alluring, like a snare filled with fresh venison. “What are you doing?” Bear had drifted south while running the lacy strap through the fingers of his other hand. “Nothing, just watching you sleep, my little cocka-too.” He grabbed her inner thigh seductively. She rolled over onto her stomach, ruining a perfectly good spoon. “I’m not really in the mood.” “You’re never in the mood.” “It’s three in the morning. I’m in the mood all the time when I’m awake, you’re just always off somewhere adventuring. Do you know how much bath soap I go through?” “Then let’s have a go right now. We can do it on the floor, like filthy, filthy animals.” “How about instead, you can go jack off in the shower, like a filthy, filthy animal.”

This was the worst diarrhea Bear had ever experienced. The pain in his stomach was excruciating, like a scorpion swallowed whole, stinging his insides. That had actually happened once when he forgot to cut the tail off. This was worse. Every ten minutes, Bear had to run behind a tree, a bush, a rock, something. This time, he didn’t make it that far.

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It must have been the crabs. They seemed a little off, but it was a risk worth taking. The network had started cracking down after the whole energy bar story broke. Fucking Steve. Bear was going to have to figure out a way to start sneaking food. Actually hav-ing to find all of his food and water was forcing him to conserve energy, which meant he couldn’t leap off of boulders or careen down rocky slopes, and if he couldn’t leap and careen, how was he supposed to maintain his ratings? His stomach grumbled angrily, as if to say, “What kind of adventurer are you? You disgust me.” The voice was authoritative, paternal. Bear dismissed it. It was time to find more toilet paper.

Mr. Goldstein, did not look pleased. “What do you mean you bought a heli-copter?” “It was on sale. I know a guy.” “Do you understand the state of your finances?” “What, it’s for work, that’s a tax deduction or whatever, right?” “Bear, you’re a nice guy, but you’ve got to reign in your impulse spending. You already have two mortgages, and that hang-glider. Jesus, could you have chosen a more expensive hang-glider?” “Look Goldstein, I pay you to keep track of my accounts, not to be my mother alright? I just got a bonus for last season, I’m sure that should cover it, eh?” “You already spent it when you installed that ridiculous bio-dome. And look at how that turned out. Maintenance, food, not to mention the veterinary costs. How many of those lizards did you replace?” Bear hadn’t heard that last bit; the fastener on his knife sheath had become increasingly distracting. “Bear, are you even paying attention to me? Goddamnit! It’s like you’re not even here.” Goldstein woke up face down on the beige carpet. He spluttered and gasped for air, while checking to make sure everything was intact. He looked up and could just make out the handle of a large knife stuck into the wooden desk and jutting towards the ceiling. That desk was an antique.

“For someone trying to survive in the harsh wilderness, the choice is pretty stark. Do you stay here and wait for rescue, or do you go take your chances out on the open sea and risk death. I guess I know what I would do.” Bear lifted what he considered to be his heroic gaze (the studio execs said it was solid gold) and turned away from the camera to haul his raft into the shallows, rushing headlong towards the horizon with a deadly necessity. In all honesty, there was enough food and fresh water on the island to last for weeks, maybe even months. But this was an hour-long show, and promos required action sequences. What was more exciting than doing battle with the ocean, real man against nature kind of stuff? The raft was perhaps not as well-constructed as it could have been; it was made mostly of debris he’d found along the shore, foam pads, logs, a well-worn fishing net. However, he’d tested it, and it kept him above water quite well. It didn’t provide much in terms of shade, nor did it have a real sail of any sort, but this was merely an overnight raft, not meant for an expedition of more than a day or two.

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By day five, the entire crew was dead. The satellite phones and radios had all either been ruined in the pouring rain, or washed overboard in one of the many storms. The first to go was Steve—swept over the side of the raft by a huge swell—a welcome surprise. They still had two cameras left, anyway. Plus, a crew member’s death would be great for publicity, just like any time one of those fairy fishermen croak on that crab show that came on after Bear’s. He couldn’t stand those guys. Always jabbering on about how hard their lives were: with the surf, and the cold, and the loneliness. Meanwhile Bear and the crew were stranded in the middle of the ocean on a raft made of couch cushions and twigs. These Alaskans had a gigantic ship. And crab. They could eat as much crab as they liked. Total fairies. Alan and Mike went on the night of day three. A freak accident really. Well may-be not accident—a shark swam up to the side of the raft and pulled Alan right into the wa-ter. Mike tried to save him, grasping onto the other’s hands. The two were dragged off the raft and never resurfaced. The water shimmered black and silver, bubbling with the frenzy below; Bear tried not to think about it too much; he knew where those kinds of thoughts led. The last to go was the sound guy, some Asian fellow, with a foreign-sounding name, Kikkoman, maybe. He kept crying and raving about their impending deaths, lamenting that he’d never gotten to see his own son or eat a Kobe beef steak. Finally, he gave in to thirst and drank the saltwater, a rookie mistake. It was amazing, as if he’d never watched the show, or heard Bear warn, “Never drink saltwater because it’ll fry you’re kidneys and dehydrate you so fast you’ll be frothing at the mouth within hours.” He almost deserved it, just for his stupidity. At least one backup camera managed to survive. Bear turned it over in his hands, checking the battery life. It was only supposed to be used if something really important was about to happen, like a storm, or an approaching ship. He wanted to conserve bat-tery life, so he kept it off, but continued addressing the camera as if it were still recording. Somehow, it just felt right. There was half a bar left the last time he checked it, the bottom of the barrel. Bear looked over at his water supply, a Poland Spring bottle tied to the deck: half a liter remained. The parallelism suited him and he began to chuckle, which soon grew to a loud cackle—only to be interrupted by the blair of a fog horn.

Bear stared down at the tiny puddles of gin and tonic at the bottom of his glass. The season four premiere party had ended hours ago. He looked up at the bartender, a man who resembled an Indonesian tree frog so much that Bear had felt obligated to tell him about his uncanny resemblance throughout the night. Upon receiving his drink, he did so once more. “I’m cutting you off, buddy.” “Whatever you say, Froggyman.” Knowing it would be his last, Bear decided to sip his drink a little more slowly while scanning the room for a potential catch. He spotted a pair of girls on the other side of the bar, rather like a hawk catching sight of a field mouse. Bear thought it was pretty impressive. He got up abruptly, and his chair made a grating noise against the floor, a mat-ing call. He sauntered over to their end of the bar and extended his hand.

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“I couldn’t help but notice you lovely ladies looking in my direction, and I thought to myself, ‘Hey, they’re probably out of your league, but why not give it a go. My name’s Bear, Bear Grylls.” In truth, the ladies were far from lovely, but they were drunk, sharing an oversized novelty sugardrink between the two of them. The lighting was dim enough, and lately, things hadn’t been going so well for Bear. Sheelah left after the rafting mishap. “I just can’t take it anymore—your Goddamn adventures. You could’ve died! And you want to be the father of my child?! You’ll be dead by the end of next season. I can’t believe you just got your life insurance renewed. Did you lie and say you were a naturalist or something? You’re no naturalist. You’re not even an adventurer. You’re a fucking twat!” Sheelah was the twat. And so, these ladies, though they were a little fat, and certainly stupid, had come to look increasingly appealing. They giggled nervously, unable to speak coherently, until the fatter one responded,“You’re that guy on T.V., right? Man vs. Nature? Or is it Man in the Wilderness?” “It doesn’t really matter, my pretty little cockatoo. How about the three of us head upstairs, and I’ll tell you about the time the entire crew died on a shoot, and I barely man-aged to survive.” “I saw that episode!” squealed the skinny one. They exited the elevator and stumbled through the hall to Bear’s room. He had left scratches on the walls to guide himself back, a key strategy for survival in any terrain. He opened the door to his room and the three sat down on the bed, the girls trying to look as coy and sultry as possible. And suddenly, they were all groping and kissing each other sloppily, beads of spit flying in every direction. One of the girls accidently licked the side of Bear’s face, but he didn’t care. He was in his element. He was an alpha male, testosterone pumping through his veins like a silverback or a bull elephant. They were all naked now, writhing around with the lights still on. Bear pushed the fatter one against the headboard and plunged himself inside her. They were screaming; the bed was rocking back and forth. Mid-thrust, Bear picked up the lamp on the bedside table and knocked off the shade, exposing the bulb. He raised it above his head and smashed it against the wall sending glass everywhere. “Cut me!” he screamed, handing the skinnier one the half shat-tered bulb. The one against the headboard looked up. “You want her to cut you? What the fuck is this?” “Cut me,” he grunted. His horsemuscles rippled in the fluorescent light spilling from the bathroom. The fatter one pressed her hands against his lower stomach and wrig-gled free. “Where do you think you’re going!” he roared. “We’re getting the fuck out of here!” And twenty seconds later, the girls were slam-ming the door shut, running half-naked through the halls of a Vegas hotel. Bear checked the bathroom medicine cabinet. Bingo, chock full of supplies! A full bottle of Robitussin and a traveler’s size Listerine. He downed them like a pro; he’d tasted far worse than artificial cherry and mint flavorings, though the combination didn’t do either one any favors.

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There wasn’t much on television, so he stumbled over to the balcony. It was quite a sight. Not beautiful. The Serengeti was beautiful. This was something else. Something so fascinating, so engrossing, and yet horrifying, nauseating even. Everything was blinking and buzzing and squeaking and honking, just going totally berserk. Bear wondered where Sheelah was, not that he cared. His eyes refocused and Bear noticed a pool below, forty, maybe fifty foot. Totally doable. He leaned over the railing, trying to estimate the distance between the edge of the balcony and the diving well in the deep end of the aqua lima bean. He figured if he got a running start, maybe from the door, and then leapt onto and pushed off of the rail, he could do it. No problem. The real battle for survival was actually in his mind and in his heart. This wasn’t beyond him; he was an adventurer. Bear-fucking-Grylls.

The pool at the hotel had to stay closed while the blood was purged from the sidewalk with an industrial cleaning hose.

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POEM | QUINN UNDERRINER

Untitledshe washed her hair with rainwatermind you not beneath the weeping skiesbut ratherfrom a pewter basinleft out for days in the mid-american heat

to anyone who will listenshe claims the initial plunge purifies years of depravity but i swear she is still the nurse outside the hospitalsmoking to the filter and absentmindedly flicking it onto the grass

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POEM | CLARE BOERIGTER

Lessons in AnatomyI am a cartilaginous creatureI wonder where my endoskeleton can be?I hear the soft cracking as I shed my endomorphic bodyI see the ribs of the world carving up from the bony spine of the earthI want to free myself from this ivory cageI am a cartilaginous creature

I pretend that the skein of the sky falls awayI feel myself dripping upwardI touch the velvet clouds with starved carpalsI worry that I may disappearI cry as my flesh ensconces my bones once againI am a cartilaginous creature

I understand that I am bound to this skinI say that I do not mind, butI dream of fluidity, of boundless elasticityI try to bend the atmosphere to fill my voidI hope one day that I succeedI am a cartilaginous creature

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1 cheers

BIKEMegan Rupe

Our battle started from day one. Your brown leather seat put me too far above the ground, and, to my great embarrassment, I could not ride you on my first day of school. Out of irritation, I once popped your back tire; you knocked my feet out from under me in vengeance. I jerk your handlebars as I struggle up the hill; you accidently-on-purpose relieve yourself of my bag. There are days when I cannot stand you, you stu-pid bike! However, when the mornings are crisp, I can feel a smile spread across my face as I zoom along the bike paths to the train station. So…skǻl, bike. 1

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POEM | KELLY MARIE MUSSELMAN

Romance RegiftedYou gave me an orange (when I gave you a peach)—it was orangeand it dripped juice down my elbows.My arms were sticky for hours.

You gave me a swamp (when Igave you a beach)—with slogand slop that swallowed me up and coveredme with silty soil

like saline evaporatedin a glass. The lurid rose and the moon tearing holesin the night mightwilt and wane, but

your swamp stands. I couldn’t have guessedthat roadkill and rancid raincould muster up an oasis,but there’s water here... and if we barbequed it just right...

we could have roadkill for our candlelit dinner.

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POEM | KELLY MARIE MUSSELMAN

Driving ForceYou lived at the end of the roadand I drove my car, hand on the stick,through overhanging brush, tiresflat, alignment off, and brakessquealing. I turned, pressing the clutch,driving slow and shifting.

You came out in a white shiftand walked to the roadbarefoot, your high heels and clutchin your arms, and walking over sticksand stones. You stood in the breakin the trees and watched the dust fly from my tires.

You were good at sleeping when you were tired,at cutting mangoes, and pressing the shiftkey with your pinkie, at breakingyour thumb in the car door, playing hopscotch in the roadin front of your house, making stamps stickto envelopes, and jolting when you hit the clutch.

We used to lay in your bed at 3 am, clutchinghands to limbs, never tiring.We watched musicals until the songs stuckin our heads. Your mom worked the night shiftat the Cherry Lane old folks’ home down the road—we didn’t tell her about the break-up.

We ran away for Spring Break,my car keys clutchedin your hands. I rodeshotgun, and you peeled the tiresout from under us, the shiftinglight of wheat fields led us out into the sticks.

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At a greasy spoon in Nebraska, we ate stickybuns and burnt coffee while firemen on breakgrumbled. I thought about asking you then, shiftingmy weight, dropping my hand to clutchyour shoulder, but you said “I’m tired,”so we paid our bill in dimes and pennies and hit the road.

Now we tear down the road, both our hands clutchedon the stick, shifting together,barely breaking. We’ll never tire.

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POEM | KELLY MARIE MUSSELMAN

To Explain Her StatusFor Caitlin (1990-2008)

See you on the flip-flop!! he called outon Highway SixSix to your slip-slopped skull.

You had carried the sun with you,gripped in your teeth.

Now your jaw lay dimmed and scattered on the tar,an oily puddle where your tongue should be.

You were obliging, he was stubborn strong.No brain blips? Make his mom turn him off.

What is it like to die at the hands of the man, only 17, that you loved?What is it like on the lap of Jesus with that cocksucker who killed you?

Sugar Beet, I’d beat him up! crowbar in hand if I saw himthe way I see you, Blonde Bones.

Every few weeks I stumble into that girl at the parkwith your short stature, bright face.

Christ! You never woke up uglyand you always had a cute nose.

I dreamt of you last night.You were not a ghost,

you were a hurricane,so successful, and meeting your husband in a bookstore.

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ART

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ART

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C ONTRIBU TORSMarlu Carolina Abarca ‘14 is from North Hollywood , California and has always been an avid participator in the arts. She enjoys painting animals and lanscapes, and hopes to contribute in the future issues of the Grinnell Review.

James Anthofer ‘11 is a poetry fan, Grinnell Review fan. Thanks to Mario, Mike, Jamie and all of the past editors!

Tyler Banas ‘13 has a biography that is twofold: the persons he meets, and the hobbies he seeks. Just as explosions in the sky give rise to light, the faces we weave give rise to life. If we encounter on the street, let’s not miss a beat, but call atten-tion to the confront tion of souls.Wine gurgles as it ferments. Brake pads emit ultrasonic frequencies as they commit to slowing the bike. Springy tensions hold equilibrium between dancers of swing and lovers in spring.

Clare Boerigter ‘14 was born in Abqaiq, Saudi Arabia, to an English and Spanish teacher. She does not, to her chagrin, speak Arabic, but she is contemplating majoring in Spanish. Clare has been writing ever since her parents bribed her as a child, and hopes to continue to pursue creative writ-ing, despite the sudden realization that it is not, in fact, particularly lucrative.

Liting Cong ‘11 is a Sociology and Policy Studies major. Originally from Shanghai, China, her first encounter with art took place through Chinese painting classes that continued for about ten years. She is a huge fan of Japanese anime and manga, which heavily influence her drawings.

Noah DeLong ‘11 is an art major from Saint Paul, Minnesota. Among his artistic influences rank Nickelback, DaveMatthews Band, and the later works of Ridley Scott. “To give anything less than your best, is to sacrifice the gift.” –PRE LIVES

Benjamin Gregory Flebbe ‘11 is a mathe-matics/history double major who wants to believe he’s from Greeley, Colorado though he rightly hails from Peoria, Illinois. He plays tennis often. He walks the tracks and drinks when he has occasion (and some-times when he does not). He sometimes likes to fancy himself something wild and free, but he knows better. His friends think he will get to where his proverbial road leads, but he secretly doubts it.

Jon Garrey ‘11 is an Art History and Political Science major from Humboldt, South Dakota. His academic focus is in Classical Greek and Roman Art. He plans to exhibit his work at Grinnell in the Spring of 2011.

Dodge Greenley ‘11 is a senior Studio Art major from Eugene, Oregon. He’s a mem-ber of Grinnell’s Improv comedy troupe, RTS, and a crowd favorite at the annual Titular Head film festival.

Davis Hermann ‘11 is from Atlanta, Geor-gia where he attended the Atlanta Interna-tional School. He draws, does sculpture, paints a little, manipulates digital images, makes electronic sound art, and makes tiny films. He draws much of his inspira-tion from Brian Fellow’s Safari Planet and music by The Knife.

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Lily Jamaludin ‘14 is trying to be a better person. In the meantime, she likes to take photos and write poetry.

Sara Kay ‘13 wants to live in a tree house. Let me know when you find one.

Abraham Kohrman ‘13 is an intended bio/premed major from Chicago. He likes to make pictures with cameras. Lots of them. And make cameras too.

Kelly Marie Musselman ‘11 wrote about fruit, then she wrote about the moon, then she wrote about fruit, then the moon again, and now she’s stuck on the desert.

Clare Mao ‘14 is from Queens, NY. To borrow a quote from a friend: “A Tribe Called Quest is the reason why no matter where I end up in my life, I will always introduce myself as from Queens, NY. This means I am magic, baby.” Truth is my biography. Thank you so much.

Colin McCallum-Cook ‘12 is a a Biology/Antrhopology major from Chester County, Pennsylvania. He enjoys a lot of different art work, but especially that of the Wyeths and other local artists of the Brandywine River Valley. Andy Goldsworthy is pretty cool, too.

Emily Mester ‘14 likes good smells, peo-ple, naps, and referring to herself in the third person. Mock turtlenecks intrigue her.

Daniel Waite Penny ‘13 makes art, sort of:prose, poems, photography.

Dani Radoshevick ‘12 is seeking a Chris-tian Teddy Bear. She would loveto learn how to two-step and play pool. Her work schedule varies so youwould have to understand that. Tats and piercings welcome as she has afew of her own. Jeans and t shirts are comfy so that is what she wearsthe most with her boots. She likes to travel and enjoys good page-turner type of books.

Alexander Reich ‘11 was bred to retrieve waterfowl shot by hunters. He has a soft mouth, so he can fetch game undamaged, loves water, and wears a warm, dense inner coat and a golden, water-repellent outer coat. He is sometimes seen rescuing people from beneath rubble, sniffing for drugs, and walking with blind and deaf people. Children love him.

Megan Rupe ‘11 is a history major from Chattanooga, Tennessee. When she gets tired of writing about history, she likes to create people and events and write about those instead. Megan also enjoys taking up her sword during Tuesday and Thurs-day night fencing practices and bouting with whoever comes to face her. Although she has been writing and fencing for quite some time now, she has yet to determine whether the pen or the sword is mightier.

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Charles Schwamb ‘12 is writing this while taking a sh... ...ower. Not literally, but he’ll have this memorized by the time he comes out. Ben hails from the Pinelands of New Jersey which he suspects shares the blame with Galen Rowell for getting him to look at photography in a different light. He is in debt to the Cole family for providing all the equipment he would ever need to ex-plore the unforgiving, yet ultimately beau-tiful and rewarding domain of color slide film and manual photography through a similarly natured Alaskan landscape this summer.

Greg Suryn ‘11 believes that after taking pictures of an ice covered Grinnell the Fall of his first year with his camera phone, he decided to get a real camera. One deceased camera and 30,000+ photos later, he has established a love for photography. He mostly finds macro and nature photogra-phy to be the most interesting and mean-ingful, however he also haas a fondness for architecture and capturing the nuances of a building. Photography is a way for him to show others the small details in life that make it special, and through it I can hopefully help people to see life in a more positive and energetic way.

Quinn Unerriner ‘14 Died Tragically Rescuing His Family From The Wreckage Of A Destroyed Sinking Battleship. (1932-2001).

Nic Wilson ‘12 has an internet homepage: nnnicwilson.com

Lauren Teixeira ‘14 is a first year from Silver Spring, MD. She graduated from the Visual Arts Center (VAC) at Albert Einstein High School. She attributes to her development as artist the verbal abuse and faith of her mentor, Mr.P, and encourage-ment of her peers at the VAC. She would like to thank the Grinnell Review for pub-lishing her pieces.

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