Roshelle Amundson

Serena Mira Asta

Terry Bebertz

James Byrne

Joshua Fischer

Gail Gates

James Henderson

Adam Hill

Peter Laine

Alice Lundy Blum

Tawny Michels

Dawn Nissen-Schachtner

Altamish Osman

Rebekah Pahr

January Rain

Sally Reynolds

Donna Ronning

Jer Rucinski

Jake Ryan

Kah Shepard

Laura Sourdif

Cat Usher

Jonah Volheim

The Tea Party: Three Sentences for Hazel

Hazel Clare had tea parties.  Her tea parties were held in the fairy princess bower, among the tops of pink blossomed apple trees, in summer afternoons during siesta, in sand castles bathed in beach sunshine, in seashells rimmed with iridescent blues and pinks, in boughs of Christmas trees white and silver, draped with dripping crystals and tiny white lights; tea parties with dressed up little girls in ruffled sundresses and curled pony tails, sashes and special Sunday socks trimmed with lace around the tops, little girls who came to tea and afterwards sat on the floor of Hazel’s bedroom in pools of sunshine like kittens warming themselves, putting on all her jewelry at once, playing Queen Elizabeth or Mary Queen of Scotts, wearing as many pieces as possible, putting on peace, quiet and tenderness – each item or decoration, collection, or compilation, told a story, personified the life of someone lost, lost in the heavenly smells of cookies and cakes, sipping real tea spiced with stories of ancestors and Scottish freedom fighters, many old souls happily wandered there with us like cheerful ghouls – a place where the dead and living met, ghosts walked seen and unseen, flesh and dust, dust particles caught, sparkling in the beams of sunlight on tea party afternoons, floating there, fairy visitors.  Hazel Clare was fragile, pretty, polite yet sharp, lover of words and education, champion of scrabble, history, old movies, politics, and religion, treasurer of heritage and chief voyager, tracing family roots deep into the past where they were planted, ancient and mysterious, magical – Hazel played the Queen, Queen of the grandchildren and great-grandchildren, she loved us all the most, because Hazel Clare came from the past where little old ladies danced and gossiped and floated like frail spirits down the lonely halls of endless doorways, doorways with their own smells, sounds, and stories, that eked out from under the cracks, like sighs from the past, a past where photographs were fingered and stroked and images inside the much handled photograph came to a shadowy life of their own, joining the polite and pretty, sometimes petty discussions of the aged – speaking in reverent terms of fondness and reminiscence, found again in the photo; inside that frame there was no heartache, shattered dreams, no hatred, rape, no drunken mistakes or tragic heartbreaks, no texts and cell phones, car crashes, disappointing decisions, disastrous consequences, or attempts to end the vicious cycling; the life of that photographed family member was precious, each small accomplishment was echoed so often that it left misty land of the past for a moment, taking on a booming rhythm of their own, that filled the small room and rattled the little objects, disturbed the crocheted lace draped on chairs and pillows, moved like a restless breeze through the wilting flowers on the tea table, fingered the saucer collection, searching for their favorite, feeling them at our elbows, stirring the cream and sugar in the Scottish tea. 


Red,       splashed against  white canvas.  Paintbrush chewed, wood splinters
only food.    Brain, racing
images swirling        struggling to reconcile       imagination and creation.
More layers,   extra cover,       vibrant morning glory blue,       copper penny sunset,
midnight black with baby skin dawn.
More movement,     new life
I want to make  this canvas speak.
Of things,    hidden in corners of my mind,     buried in the darkness.    Speak,
of a soul exposed at three in the morning.
Night is shadowy,     deep with thought      my brain in pieces     still waiting
to be pieced together in a painting.
Stepping to the balcony,
for a break         a breath         a cigarette       that paints its own patterns
as smoke  dances   against the darkness.
Thoughts swirl,       murky,        like the muddy
paint water    poured away       down the drain.
Long into the night,
my silent friend    my comfort     my peace.    I paint
my piece,   exorcizing    demons   trapped    that only emerge    at night.
To find,      relief       home        a place to sleep
on the canvas. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Rebekah Pahr is a current Metro State student who is planning to complete her degree in Technical Communications with a minor in Studio Arts. Rebekah loves to paint and write in her spare time and is usually inspired by her childhood memories. When she was young she wanted to become Peter Pan. Now she is looking forward to a degree; after that, her goal is to move to Key West for a year to paint on the beach.