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VOL. IIII S S . I

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IN THIS ISSUE

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30 34 38

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• 10 Vibrancy: Art by Constanza Castro • 14 Lost in Wonderland: Art by Laura Diliberto • 24 Without Blinking by Lea Moser • 26 Through the Clouds by Jessica Ross • 29 A Love’s True Life by Scott Powell• 30 Each a New Day by Meredith White • 34 In the Time of Food by Natalie Parker-Lawrence • 38 Did the Moment Ever End? by Thomas Mathews

• 46 Games to Look Forward to in 2012 by Jessica Ross • 49 A Human Right by Rachel Quinn • 51 Post-Holiday Detox by Ashley Dodge • 54 Rethinking Resolutions by Katie Green • 51 Submit

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You’ll have to forgive me. At the time of writing this, I’ve just finished watching Battlestar Galactica (the reboot) and am feeling very sentimen-tal to the idea of humanity, and what it means to be human within the vast expanse of the universe. One of the reasons I loved this show is be-cause of the many strong, yet flawed, female charac-ters who were an integral part of the story. I love sci-ence fiction and fantasy art because it often portrays women much differently than in non-fantastical stories. At the same time, it can also make female characters very one dimensional, so a great sci-fi piece must achieve a balance. Each woman on Battlestar was different, and not just in appearance, but in personality and in the choices they made: Starbuck was abrasive and rude, but also passionate and deeply spiritual. President Roslin was firm in her leadership, and faced her physical ailments directly and honestly, but sometimes made decisions that went against the status quo. And each of the cylon females struggled with doing what they were programmed to do, and breaking free so they could live and make their own choices. So what does that mean for us? What makes women “women”? We choose to call Wildflower “female-positive” because we know that women come in many forms, and we know that it is not just other women who appreciate the creativity, intelligence, beauty, and innovations of female artists and writers, but also our male counterparts and those who choose to seek out a more unique place on the gender spec-trum. Luckily, we think this issue reflects that idea, more than any other issue. Our feature artist Laura Diliberto literally deconstructs the female form, and places it in unique, frightening, and surreal settings. Natalie Parker-Lawrence reflects on a life through the food and smells that encompass our memories. Katie Green tells us to stop stressing about our weight and

our health based on expectations that may not even be our own. And Constanza Castro uses bright col-ors and exaggerated features to portray mysterious creatures with a haunting familiarity. Per usual, each piece in this issue was chosen with the intent to not only highlight the artist, but to also celebrate their commitment to respecting, honoring and appreciat-ing women for all that they are. If you’ve been following Wildflower for a while, you’ll notice this issue looks a lot different than our past issues. Much of it is the same–we still have cool art and wriitng, by cool artists. But we wanted to spice things up a bit, and really challenge our readers when they look through each issue. We even almost changed the name of the magazine and revamp the entire project, until our assistant editor was adamant that the word “wildflower” was a truth-ful representation of what we do here in the mag. And we hope that you will continue to tell us what the word means to you, and how you see it defined in your life. I don’t really have New Year’s resolutions, because I prefer to set goals for myself year round, but in 2012, I want to get back to basics. I want to chal-lenge my mind, my body, my creativity. I want this magazine to expand and showcase more artists than ever before. I want you, as the readers and contribu-tors, to feel that you are being represented in our publication. I want to explore who I am as a woman, but more importantly, as a human beyond the defini-tion of my gender. Here’s to a wild 2012.

Ashley Hennefer, Editor

butterfly gardense e k ing t he

primal

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By the time this issue is published I will be 27 years old. When I was a little girl dreaming of my future, this present is the furthest from what I had imagined. I figured that by 27 I would be living in a castle built of pure gold with a mermaid for a best friend and at least three pet monkeys. I’d have a butterfly garden where I would spend afternoons writing and watching the sun set behind my lake of liquid milk chocolate. At the very least, I thought I’d be married with kids and have a rockin’ job where I could boss people around and make them go get me coffee. But I don’t have any of those things. Not even the monkeys. What I do have is my own column at a women’s magazine that I’m crazy about. The mission of this magazine mimics my own in life–to give a voice to creative, imaginative, and passionate females from around the world. It has always bewildered me how many women in the arts go unnoticed and underappreci-ated. As I have spent the last several years trying to make a name for myself as a writer, it has become apparent that at least part of the problem is the lack of venues allowing us to even put our work out into the world. What Wildflower Magazine offers is a creative outlet for me and women like me who seek an inspirational and positive community with whom to share their craft. Perhaps another part of the problem is that our field is one that still requires a bit of defending. In the eyes of society, it seems, our contributions as writers, poets, artists, photographers, don’t necessarily stack up to those with other skills or trades. In this respect, the magazine acts as our de-fender. Each issue of Wildflower is jam-packed with evidence that what women in the arts have to offer society is not only abundant but invaluable.

But we don’t do this for the money. We do this because it’s in our blood – writing, reciting, paint-ing, photographing. We do this because it’s as much a part of our lives as eating, drinking, bathing, sleeping. We do this because we have to in order to survive.Recently, Ashley Hennefer, editor of Wildflower Magazine, made at least a portion of my childhood dream come true. She didn’t build me a palace, but she did crown me Assistant Editor of the magazine. It’s a job that, for now at least, I can do in pajamas while lounging on my couch in my non-palatial home. I don’t do much bossing around and I still have to get my own coffee. Nonetheless, the job is completely rockin’ and I feel honored to have been entrusted with a bigger role in the publication. As Assistant Editor, I have the opportunity to help recruit talented writers and artists to share their work with the magazine. (This has already proven to be remarkably good for my soul.) In addition to searching for great content, I will get a small say in the look and feel of each issue. Essentially, I get to be surrounded by beautiful writing and artwork from amazing women around the world. It’s an environ-ment so inspiring, it puts even a butterfly garden to shame. I have watched in awe since 2009 as Ashley dedicated her heart and soul to making Wildflower bloom. My goal as Assistant Editor is to offer all my resources to ensure it continues to grow. I believe in Wildflower Magazine with all that I am, and can’t wait to see what the future of the publication holds. What I envision is something even more magical than the life I imagined for myself as a young girl. Golden castles, mermaids, and monkeys don’t hold a candle to what’s in store for Wildflower Magazine. •

Jessica Farkas,Assistant Editor

butterfly gardenwildflower in a

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Constanza Castro • Laura Diliberto

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VIBRANCY

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Constanza CASTRO

Opposite page: Psychadelic Family Portrait. Above: Bittersweet Departure.

On next page, from left: The Girls Walk Side to Side; Upside Down Love; Tinkle in Her Eyes; Pretty in Pink with a Touch of Melancholy.

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lost inw o n d e r l a n d

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w o n d e r l a n d

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Opposite page, from top, clockwise: her last breath; these words; rebirth, the girl who could fly. above: lost.

On previous page: the fallen. On “art” page: a statue to worship.

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Q&A with Laura Dilibertoby Ashley Hennefer

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Website: wildflowermagazine.com/lauradiliberto

Location: New York, New York

Age: 23

Educational background: I did my undergraduate work in Arts Administration, as well as Graphic Design. I've always loved the arts and it was a good way for me to get involved in them. It wasn't until after graduation that I became captivated with digital photography.

Your art is very whimsi-cal and fantastical, very fairytale-like. Where do you find inspiration? I've always had a very active imagination. When I was younger I loved fairy tales and daydreaming. So, part of my photography is just being able to put my whimsical thoughts into a more tangible form. I try to look at the world as some-thing that can always be made beautiful, no matter if I am in a forest or just in my living room. I love looking at what would be a typically boring space and asking myself, "How can I make this look extraordinary?" Flickr does also have some really inspirational conceptual artists. Brooke Shaden, Lissy Elle, and Alex Stoddard are people I will always look up to.

What are some of the challenges of modeling in your own photos? Do you find yourself being more critical of how images turn out, or is the process easier than working with other models? It's definitely a mixture of both! Sometimes I can be criti-cal of how I am posing. It's also difficult many times to get the focus and composition just right when you are in front of the camera. I would like to branch out and work with models a lot more in the future, but what I love about self portraiture right now is the control that I have over my

own work. I'm always available to model, in any location that I desire. I think sometimes that discovering your own style and what you are passionate about just takes some self reflection—literally!

Faces, limbs and body parts in your images are often hidden or exaggerated. What is the significance of this? How does it feel to change your physical at-tributes so drastically, or to mask them completely? Considering my self-portraits aren't meant to be autobiographical, I've never felt much of a connec-tion to myself in the photos, but rather as a character telling a story or playing a role. I would never

want people to get the impression that I'm just saying in my work, "Hey, look at me!" So therefore, I don't find it of importance to wear makeup, show my face, or keep my figure perfectly aligned all of the time.

I think that if anyone is wanting to express themselves, whether with photography or something else,

then you should just go for it. I've always been a believer in follow-ing your passions, and not allow-

ing any obstacles to blind your vision. Work, school, and family obligations happen, but I think that if you have a passion and are doing something to act on it everyday, then eventually your

vision will be realized.

Opposite page, from top, clockwise: up and away; where the soul meets body; risen; trap; static electricity; sleeping fits.

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There are many elements—literally—of nature pres-ent in most of your pieces. Sometimes the setting takes place outside, but other times nature is inside, like butterflies, birds, spiderwebs, rain, even the universe. What does this signify? I've always loved nature and just think it's a really beauti-ful thing to incorporate in pictures. Overall, though, what I love about digital photography and the ability to manipu-late is that there are no limits to the imagination. Anything you can think of can be created, whether it's levitating off the ground or having butterflies in your living room!

When looking at your work as a collection, it feels like a story is being told—each image is like a still frame or a snapshot of action. Is there a story you’re trying to tell or is it more like an evolution of the woman portrayed in each capture? In most of my work there is a story being told. Although I do a lot of self-portraiture, my photos aren't autobio-graphical in nature. Instead I try to place myself in a world where people can feel the emotion of the character, and examine what my story means to them. Whether a photo is simplistic, or highly conceptual, it is meant to go beyond the lens of the camera and into a world that is not our own.

What is the editing process like? What software do you use to create, and how do you plan for what the final image will look like?I use Photoshop CS5 and try to always work in a square format. When I plan out a picture I usually sketch out the whole idea and what type of colour I would like to use. If I shoot something on a whim, then I will still always expand around the frame, because I know that I like the square format, and will also take the time to think about what I would like the end result to look like. Planning these things ahead usually makes the editing process go smooth. It can take anywhere from one to six hours to finish an image, depending on how conceptual it is.

What are some upcoming projects you have in store?I'm actually working on a "365" project. This is the chal-lenge of taking/editing a photo everyday and then up-loading it to Flickr.com. I haven't been able to do it every single day, but I am trying my hardest, and right now I am on day 17 so I'm really excited to see what my portfolio will look like in a year or so from now. Even though it is winter, I would like to be in the woods and do a lot of nature self-portraits in the near future.

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Opposite page, from top: escaping from this body; disunite; the intruder. above, breathe out.

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Jessica Ross • Lea Moser • Meredith White •

Natalie Parker-Lawrence • Scott Powell • Thomas Matthews

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Without Blinking

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There is clarity before the car hits her Then there is blacknessThe tar is hotit is lava it is the sunHer shoulder is velvet and it is ripped Freckled shoulders break like glass plates

There is clarity before the car hits her Then there is buzzing in her earsit is noiseit is trepidationHer ears are headphones that are brokenShe lives in sound proof walls

It is foul play, it is horse play. everything in living is fragile just barely

just barely

- Lea Moser

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through thec l o u d s

by J e s s i c a Ro s s

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as they formed shapes and then blew away. She sighed dreamily, her hands under her head, lying in the soft grass in her backyard. She heard the crunch of someone step-ping on something just to her left, and she jumped up, heart racing. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” James said apologeti-cally, startled at Sasha’s reaction. “You’re late,” Sasha admonished, flipping her long hair back and settling back down. “But listen, I have an idea. We always said that we wondered what was on the other side of the clouds, right?” At this, they both turned to face the sky. They watched the clouds swirl into each other and then apart. “Well check this out,” she whispered conspiratorially and withdrew a small vial with a bright light banging around inside. “What’s that?” “It’s a shooting star! I nabbed it from the elders when they were in council. No one even realizes it’s gone! We can ride it across the clouds and see what’s on the other side!” “A shooting star? You can’t just take those, Sasha! What if something goes wrong? What if it explodes? What if someone—“ “Are you going to escape with me, or not?” Sasha interrupted impatiently. “Our parents will be worried,” James hedged, shifting his weight uncomfortably. Sasha sighed and stood up. She took a deep, steadying breath, staring up at the clouds again. She tried

to look past the clouds to see what was beyond them, but found that the clouds filled the sky, as they always did, and blocked her view of what was on the other side. She looked back down at James and shook the vial at him. “Look, James. I called you here to tell you about this because you said that you wanted to escape just as badly as I did. This is our chance! They’re keeping us prisoner here! Those aren’t really our parents; they’re just clones! If we stay here, we’re going to end up turned into clouds, just like the rest of them. I don’t want to be a part of the clouds; I want to see what’s out there. No one has ever been to the other side of the clouds; they just tell us that we have to become clouds to protect what’s on the other side. Well what’s over there? I want to see what they’re keeping from us! If we stay, we’re going to be stuck floating around as stupid shapes while people stare at us and wonder what else is out there for the rest of our lives! If we do this, if we ride this star, we can see what’s on the other side. We can be part of what so many of our friends became clouds to protect! We don’t have to just sit here, waiting to be turned into clouds. We can go over there and see. Don’t you want to see? Just make this leap with me.” “I’m not going with you,” James said sternly. “And if you try to leave, I’ll tell. I’ll tell the elders that you took a star and that you’re crazy.” Sasha glared at James. She let the betrayal she felt cover her face, because she wanted James to know that she was hurt. He had always shared stories with her about what he hoped was on the other side and what

S a s h a wa t c h e d t h e c l o u d s

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he would do if he could make it here, and now he was refusing to go with her. Sasha almost let her frustrations spill forth in the form of tears, but then she realized that she had the most brilliant idea she’d ever had since de-ciding to steal the shoot-ing star. She kept her face disappointed, not wanting to let on what she was about to do, since James wasn’t going to go with her. “Fine,” Sasha said dejectedly. “Don’t go with me. But you’re not going to stop me!” At this, she shoved James down, uncorked the vial, and let the shooting star explode out. Just as it was about to fly off into the sky, she grabbed hold of the star’s tail and howled in excitement. “I’m unstoppable,” she cried, as the shooting star took off. She looked down past her feet and saw the hor-rified and surprised expression on James’s face get smaller and smaller, before he became a speck in the landscape below her. She turned her face toward the sky, watching as the clouds got closer and closer. She tightened her grip

on the shooting star as she got closer to the barrier of clouds, suddenly concerned that she wouldn’t be able to break through, but she screamed in delight when the shooting star cut right through the clouds. She looked around her, her eyes struggling to take anything in because of

the light from the star, but as soon as she could see what was around her, she let her happiness flow out of her eyes as tears. As the shooting star began to descend into the new, beautiful landscape, Sasha screamed her excitement. She turned toward a sudden bright light to her left, and smiled at it, soaking up the light. That must be the sun, she thought, letting its warmth wash over her. I’ve heard of it, but I never would’ve thought that I’d get to see it. “It’s better than I imagined,” she said to herself, smil-ing, as the star led her right into her first sunrise. •

“I’m unstoppable,” she cried, as the

shooting star took off.

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Scott and Emma Powell have been married since 1995, and they have been partners in life since 1993. Their troubles have been few, and their laughter abundant.

Woman and man alike thrive when a partnership forms.Side by side they journey through life—sharing its pleasures,and learn that together they can ride out its storms,while the other’s health and happiness become their great treasures.

They support one another, sharing failure and success.To this end they practice gentle honesty or success will be scarce.False praise has little value, and criticism without encouragement less.Such common purpose can only enrich how each of them fairs.

Challenges will present that must be faced alone.Such times a partner gladly shoulders the rest,and through this commitment the seam is more tightly sewn.Having faced these times they find in each other their best.

Beauty is not captured on film, nor reflected in glass.Have you not met beauty who through knowing sheds appeal?True beauty will not, when superficial does pass;have you not met plain, who with familiarity their beauty’s revealed?

You must know who your partner is, their wants and desires.Their weaknesses you strengthen, their strength you draw from.By loving this way, you will kindle the fires,that will keep you both warm, whatever may come. •

A Love’s True Lifeby Scott Powell

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There is never any warning when the world is about to close in. It might be one of those stagnant days of summer, stifling and sweaty in its stillness. Before anyone senses it, the weather vane rotates with a stiff creak, and the skies darken upon Caprice and her loved ones, none of them safe from the storms that follow her through life. Today, Caprice walks with a heavi-ness, with a stubbornness, shuffling through her errands. There is no joy in the short walk to the pharmacy, her face emotionless as she ticks items off her list, filling a basket. Su-vik, the lone pharmacist, smiles. He asks her about her family and her upcoming trip to Ireland. He has learned all of these friendly details on other days, better days, and it takes him only a glance at Caprice’s tired face to adjust his demeanor. A slightly more professional, more reserved pharmacist has subtly taken over, as he has hundreds of times before. Kindly, he wishes her well as her matted blonde ponytail disappears out onto the busy street. Inside the shop, Suvik is disheart-

ened. He counts back from today, Thursday, and concludes that it was just Monday that Caprice last sprung forth through the very same pharmacy doors, exuberant and grinning. “We’ve finally done it!” She had pro-nounced loudly, before adjusting her volume in respect of the only other patron of the store. Suvik raised his eyes in interest as she continued. “Liam and I are going to Ireland this fall! I’ve taken off work and we just bought our tickets and now all I need is a passport!” Words bubbled forth from her glossy peach lips as she strode through the shop, picking up a passport application on her way to the counter. “But first I’ll need my photo taken!” Suvik couldn’t help but smile back at Caprice as she shook her shiny hair, smoothed her bangs, and arranged herself on the stool. She posed like Vanna White and as Suvik took her picture her entire body seemed to be smiling. At that moment, her energy transferred to the middle-aged pharmacist and even to the grey haried woman sifting through the greeting cards.

each a new day by meredith white

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Sunlight poured in the windows and had Suvik hoped to himself that this time his unlucky friend would have a chance to enjoy it before the clouds passed over once again. Just like every other time, though, the bright and bouncing Caprice was now gone, replaced by a fog that could last from a day to a month, or longer. Out on the sidewalk, Caprice grimaces as a bus flies by, a dusty curtain in its wake. Plodding on through the September afternoon, she turns the corner towards the house she shares with her husband and brother-in-law. Just as she reaches the walkway to their shaded home, the tears she has been hiding from all day spill out onto her cheeks, betraying her to the world. Slowing, she presses her hands up over her eyes, shopping bags sliding down her arms onto her elbows, impossibly heavy and digging into her flesh. “Dammit,” she mutters aloud as she frantically wipes her face dry. Her sinuses are now as thick and as heavy as her spirit, and she finishes her journey back into the house. Inside, everything is as she left it. Liam and his younger brother Devlin wouldn’t be home until almost dinner time, leaving Caprice alone for another two hours or more. Grateful that this is one of her days off from the museum where she works, she deflates onto the couch

and turns on the television, dropping her packages onto the floor. She lifts the news-paper onto her lap, wishing for distraction. She checks the stats on the sports page, works dispassionately at a word scramble, and dutifully scans of the world news. With a glance at the dusty clock on the wall, she is relieved to see an hour has already passed. Sinking into the couch, she stares for awhile at the television be-fore the man’s voice coming from the box becomes white noise. The evening’s dark-ness comes into the room she closes her eyes in sleep. When the door opens a short while later, Liam stops for a minute at the threshold, and with a sick feeling takes in the sight

“Dammit,” she mutters

aloud as she frantically wipes her

face dry. Her sinuses are

now as thick and as heavy as her spirit.

each a new day by meredith white

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of his wife on the couch, legs covered in newspaper and darkness. By the light from the hall he sees packages lay-ing on the floor next to her, with something pooling out of it on the tile. He looks back to his brother still climbing out of the truck, laden with a case of Guinness in one arm and Chinese take-out in the other. Their celebratory meal now seemed unlikely to live up to the plans they had made driving home from their soccer game. As Devlin bounds up the path to the door, Liam holds his hand up in warning to his brother, who notes the fallen expression on his brother’s face and amends his gait . He approaches quietly and carefully and enters the house. Caprice opens her eyes as the men come in, turn-ing lights on slowly. She blinks her eyes and smiles, walks dreamily into the kitchen,. She fills a glass with water and joins the brothers in the living room. Liam hands her a plate, which he has filled with both lo mein noodles and sweet and sour chicken, her usual order. He passes her both a plastic fork and a paper covered set of chopsticks, offering her a choice tonight in utensils to avoid upsetting her further. Collectively the three begin eating, ignor-ing the mess on the floor. With an appraising whiff, Liam had identified ice cream as the culprit from the leaking pharmacy bag, and no one seemed to have the heart to acknowledge it now.

“Our team won tonight, Chaps.” Liam chances a smile at his wife as he speaks, using his nickhame for her. He cracks open a can of Guinness and pours it carefully into a glass as he continues, “You know what that means...” “Championships, at the end of the month!” Devlin can’t help breaking in, tossing his hair proudly. His dark bangs flop back playfully on his pale forehead, somehow untanned even after hours of outdoor soccer practice all summer long. After all of their hard work, the boys’ team finally had a chance to win it all. Raising his glass in cel-ebration, his eyebrows raise along with it toward Caprice. Halfheartedly, she lifts her water, and clinks glasses with both of them before changing her mind and reaching for a beer for herself. Drinking out of the can, she swallows more than half of it before retiring to the couch, her food barely moved on its plate. Within an hour, she has retired straight to bed without stopping to change or brush her teeth. Downstairs, the mens’ moods are subdued, but they continue their chatter about the afternoon’s game. This isn’t the first time they have witnessed such a drastic sea change, and they have tacitly agreed over the years to do the best they can to weather the storms while con-tinuing on as normal. On sunny days, their Caprice is ever full of charisma. She charms strangers, zipping through life with energy for everyone she meets. The past few months

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had been delightfully light and happy, culminating in their decision to take an anniver-sary trip to Ireland, where Liam would introduce Caprice to his cousins and they would explore the country together. Neither Liam nor Caprice had ever been overseas, and they had spent the last couple of days excitedly looking through travel books and maps, ready to take on the world together. Liam is quiet now, alone. Devlin is disposing of the empty takeout containers in the kitchen. Glancing back at the floor, he can’t ignore the ice cream any longer, though he wants to make it disap-pear, this tangible evidence of his bubbly wife’s sudden departure. He wipes up the ice cream with a rag, wiping off the container to put in the

freezer. In the packages, he sees the pictures taken at the pharmacy, realizing that she must have picked them up today. He gazes at the carefree and glamourous woman staring back at him from the photo sheet. He wonders when this woman will return to them. Walking upstairs to their bedroom, he looks in on Caprice. “Goodnight Chappy. I love you.” Caprice sits up, face flat and eyes puffy. She smiles at the man standing in the doorway, the strong and kind man who walks with her through life. “I love you too. And tomorrow is a new day.” “A new day.” Liam considers her words as he closes the door behind him, walking towards the stairs. Each day is a new day, as unpredictable as the weather. For both of their sakes, he hopes the sun will shine. •

Caprice opens her eyes as the men come in, turning lights on slowly. She blinks her eyes and smiles, walks dreamily into the kitchen.

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in

thetime

offood

by Natalie Parker-Lawrence

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1955 Birth. Drink mother’s milk.

1958 Tricycle days. Eat one-half cricket. Mother pulls out other half. Elvis rides by our house on motorcycle. Stops to talk to me. Mother waves him away with broom. Does not serve peanut butter with jelly or grilled with fried bananas. Elvis does not come back for lunch or otherwise.

1955-58 Day care, no such thing. Listen and revere Italian grandparents, aunts, great- grandmothers, cooking all day—no English. Visit grandfather's grocery next to Stax Records. A butcher, he stands in bloody sawdust all day and brings meat home in crisp white paper. Eat produce from family farm not inherited by my grandmother because she is the youngest girl and the only girl born in America.

1958 Little sister born. Mother stays home. Dinner on the table at 6:00 from that time until last night, balanced and color-coordinated.

1961 Mother goes back to teaching kinder garten. Insists on nutritious snacks. One of my kindergarten pals, Andy, sits next to me. Marries Kate, one of Charlie's Angels. His mother, Stella Stevens, kisses Elvis in the movies. Can reach the water fountain, but the temperature equals or surpasses my bathwater. Nuns distribute ice cream in paper cups with flat wooden spoons. Do not notice fat content = 94 million per cent. The school milk comes frozen in the carton. Can get out thousands of souls in purgatory if I drink it. Souls out = 11.

1965 Receive cookbook for birthday gift. Learn to make muffins. Eat new candy, SweeTARTS. Makes tongue bleed and turn purple.

1966 Deal with mean boy at lunch. Makes fun of celery and carrots in my sack lunch every day. Shows me mustard on his tongue. Stupid cootie head.

1969 Visit California to see American grand mother. Eat scrambled eggs with vanilla. Taste new soft drink, Fresca.

1970 First boyfriend. Make shrimp with garlic sauce. Learn a head of garlic does not equal a clove of garlic. House smells for months. Grow bosoms.

1972 Second boyfriend. His family eats fast food like KFC. Grills barbequed pork steaks every Saturday night. Mother thinks this food is low class like them.

1973 Third boyfriend. He introduces me to yogurt, granola, Chinese food from a restaurant. His sweat tastes like blueberries.

1977 Marry the chicken and barbeque guy. Eat turtle soup and fried quail in a potato nest at Commander's Palace in New Orleans on the honeymoon. Stand in line fourteen hours to see the King Tut exhibit.

1978 Graduate Assistantship in the English department. Eat omelets and cornbread at university cafeteria. Kitchen ladies smirk at the plate on my tray.

1978 First job teaching high school. Drink double Martinis—with two giant olives—everyday after school. Scoop ice cream with the wrong man. Learn all the methods of scooping. Practice scooping with fervor. Jettison Ice Cream Man and his wife.

1980 Earn MA in Linguistics. Visit Europe. Scarf down best Chinese food in London. Order thin pizza in Venice, baked in spite of the cooks running around trying to watch soccer finals. Find cornichons and brandy in the fois gras in France. Jettison KFC husband.

1982 Slurp oysters with photographer in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Learn to eat cold avocado soup and chilled scallop mousse line and strawberries and cream in Montreal. Start and end the year at 104 pounds.1984 Marry the photographer. Pour Cham

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boise into the champagne-filled flutes at the wedding. Make aioli for the recep tion with close friend, a food stylist. Receive news that mother-in-law chunked the crystal punch cups at my father after we left for Cape Cod honeymoon. Learn that my father ducks and remains unharmed.

1989 Golden Retriever dies. Reconsider the whole baby idea: maybe I will love a baby as much as that dog. Have baby. Amazed: I love the baby more than that dog. Read Linda McCartney’s book. Become a vegetarian—eat nothing with a face. Eat nothing that screams when it dies.

1994 Child gets Type I Diabetes. Measure every bit of food. Think about food + time every second of the day and night. 1999 Divorce Oyster Man. Lose appetite for 180 pounds of husband, the food photographer, and his lover, my ex-friend, the 90-pound food stylist, equaling 270 pounds of excess weight. 2001 Last husband = stupidhead boy (see 1966). Adds five sons to the table. Devour pizza at midnight. Relieve the planet of gallons of milk and boxes of cereal gone in one day. Watch this non-Italian husband make homemade pasta and spaghetti gravy my grandmother thinks is the closest to hers. Die a little.

2001 Grandmother dies—best cook (not just Italian food) in the universe. Deliver eulogy. Remind hundreds of people her salad dressing tasted like dessert.

2002 Order saganaki, calimari, tapas in Greek town in Chicago. Eat at Tuscany's on Clark Street across from Wrigley Field on one of our honeymoons: butternut squash raviolas with sage and brown butter sauce. Recreate recipe for Christmas gifts. 2006 Get three surgeries and get radiated thirty-four times because of breast cancer diagnosis. Question oncologist. Says it

could have been caused by eating an unwashed apple. 2007 Apply to MFA program in Creative Writing at UNO. Food = Comfort. Weigh this much before: yes, but I had a new baby the next day. Read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. Write to her cheese maker in New England. Receive cheese- making ingredients and instructions in the mail. Major fail at making mozzarella cheese. Do not admit this to any Italian members of family.

2008 Visit France, Italy, and Spain. Write and eat. Eat and write. Eat mussels, gelato, seven-course lunches with wine in the caf- eteria at the winegrowers' college in Montpellier, paella in La Camargue, pain au chocolat at dawn in Paris. Tour vine yard where the families have pimped out their children for centuries to offer bread and cheese making patrons thirsty for the wine they sell. Feed mine to their latest black dog. Leave through the chapel behind secret doors where they hid their books and wine from the Nazis. 2009 Pursue sushi addiction at Lee’s Gas Station in Memphis. First trip to inner Mexico: San Miguel de Allende. Learn to clean and cook cactus, make guacamole, eat churros, savor Spanish hot chocolate, add beans with queso fresco and chilequiles to break fast possibilities. Miss the jugo verde every damn day.

2010 Recreate recipe for spicy mayonnaise for sushi and for jugo verde. Decide that Barbara Kingsolver is patron saint of growing, cooking, and eating. Husband decides Mario Batali is a god. Plants only twenty tubs of tomatoes, peppers, and herbs for summer garden. Drives forty miles to find thick cactus pads for jugo verde even though he has never tasted it. Get two essays taken by Edible Memphis about funeral food in the South and children picking their own food from local farms. Write essay on Mario Batali's sex

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life. Forget to tell husband.

Summer 2010 Return to Mexico. For some reason must take husband. Learns enough Spanish to ask women in our hotel kitchen for the recipe for jugo verde: nopales, cucumber, parsley, celery, fresh cold orange juice. Eat Oaxaca cheese and hot greasy empanadas stuffed with ephemeral squash blossoms. Crush Mexican choco late in the molcajete for thick brown mole. Eat tortilla espanola decorated with a smiley face of pimentos and green olives. Steep dried hibiscus flowers for darkly red te de Jamaica. Watch the man with the machete at the mardes mercado strike, trim, sculpt, drain, sack hairy coconut. Eat dinner with Ann-Mary and Bob on Monday. Discover at breakfast on Friday that Bob died on Thursday. Eat breakfast on Saturday and every day since: count out lives in coffeespoons not churros. Future restaurants, markets, pantries, ovens, tables, linens, plates, bowls, strangers, guests, family, friends gather round. wash up. come eat. feed dogs. get seconds. empty plate. clear table. drink up. fill up. sustain us. Sustenance. •

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did the moment ever end?

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I remembered when the air was cooler, but not quite cold enough for a coat. You asked if we might need one later. “No,” I said, “the fire will be enough for the night and then we can all go inside.” It was autumn and the weather actually behaved like it was supposed to—cool and dry, sprinkled with the last lingering traces of summer. The leaves would break free of the branches and glide gently downward, covering the yard in a multihued tapestry. Everyone agreed with me about not needing a coat. Wearing only a t-shirt and shorts, I was actually able to forget that you’d be gone for so long even though the vigil your mother held for you was only an hour old. We all held hands, Tyler, James and myself as she led an open prayer in the mostly dark room. Candlelight danced across all of our faces, most of them presenting an intentional indifference or a reluctantly restrained solemnity. There was a silence in between each of your mother’s words that pierced my spirit. It wasn’t in a way that I would consider divine. No, it was something very human. I actually man-aged to forget that.

You were always the strongest of us. Well, definite-ly stronger than me. That is something I could never forget. You always took care of me, but I never realized it at the time. I can’t say you saved my life like those men in your squad. Still I was touched by you. That night in front of the fire and the morning after was the last time we saw you before you shipped off. Remember how much colder it was in the morning? There was fog, but it was starting to burn away as the sun lazily rose. I tried not to shiver, but you gave me hug when you saw my shoulders shake. The rest of us all drove home, after giving you hugs and wishing the best of luck. I knew you’d be back, after seeing you wave goodbye from the front yard. It was so green in the hazy blue. Remember how we kept in touch online only spar-ingly? You could only get in contact every month or so. You were only allowed to use a computer for recreation so many minutes a month or some such thing, according to protocol. I don’t remember. I made sure to never ask a question because I’d have to wait so long to hear the answer. Luckily we asked you the things you’d want from us before you left.

by Thomas Matthews

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“So, what aren’t they going to have over there that you’re going to miss?” I asked. “What? You mean, besides shampoo?” You looked deadly serious. “They don’t have shampoo?” I replied in practical shock. “Just kidding. They’ll have that. Cereal and fruit snacks—that’s what I’d really want.” I remember it well. You looked like you could eat it all right then and there. Without telling you before hand, we went to the store and got you a big package of all the things you requested, but never expected us to send. Of course, we managed to sneak in a little surprise with it—a toy harmonica so you could entertain the troops around some distant campfire in the desert.That was the way things should have always been. As a woman, you were strong—as a medic, even stron-ger. I could never imagine you in war, but that was all I had come to know by then. The occasional paper letter would drift back to us after oh so long. Imagine that, actual letters in this day and age. You told us of the things you had to do out there in the desert, but they were never done alone. I’m sure you withheld the worst of it so we wouldn’t be afraid. Could you have thought we wouldn’t understand? Could you have wanted to keep your image in our eyes untarnished? I suppose that’s what I would have done while holding back the tears. To me, you never changed. It was only those last sad words—talking about how worried you were you might not be coming back. “Are you really that scared?” I asked innocently that last night. “Of course. This is going to be one of the major events of my life—maybe the last one,” you said, no longer trying to spare the mood. The lights were dim, but I could still see you clearly. “That’s not going to happen,” I responded a little too harshly, but you obviously understood my reasons. “You’re usually right about these things I guess.” “What things do you mean?” I asked, taking hold

of your hand. Then you turned away for a moment as if trying to think of an answer. “I don’t know,” you said, getting up, “life.” I had to take another drink. I suppose we’d both had too much already, but clearly not enough. The others were drifting downstairs, oblivious to the seriousness of our conversation and we made sure it stayed that way. You were the first to smile at them, offering a small laugh as they reached the basement. I soon followed suit. It’s not often I share a moment with anyone. Sadly it always seems to be on the verge of parting ways. In all the years I’ve known you, that was the only one we had. I suppose that makes sense.

The first few weeks after your departure were numb. I thought I’d be hearing about some accident in boot camp or a plane crash on the way to battle. Each passing day you still lived was another victory, and a happy one at that. Gradually though, the numb-ness subsided and I was able to get on

with my life. I never felt guilty about that. The letters helped and hindered. Just as I was able to function on my own, I’d hear from you and be afraid for your safety once again. Then I’d wait some more and be fine. Sure, you said in your letters that you enjoyed the harmonica and the cereal, but how long had it taken for me to receive your thanks? Had something happened to you since then? You never did bother to put dates on the letters. The first time I almost lost you was harder than the second. Having some insurgent sic their dog on you was the most gruesome bit of detail you had decided to share. It came running out at your squad in the middle of the dark desert. It went for you first, but one of your men intervened. Its teeth punctured the flesh of his arm while the soldier screamed in the night. The dog snarled with a full mouth, muffled by blood and his mangled uniform. You shot the mutt point blank with your sidearm and the rest of the men went after its master as you tended to his wound. I’m thankful there was no need for a second shot, but, of

"You’re usually right about these things I guess."

"What things do you mean?" I asked, taking hold of your hand.

Then you turned away for a moment as if trying to think of an answer. "I don't know," you

said, getting up. "Life."

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course, you already knew that without me having to tell you. I wonder… did you share a moment with him as well? Did you experience that divine connection between the wounded and the healer? Were you scared even as your squad reported back that they had killed the man who had attacked? I would have been too weak to run into the darkness with so much bravery. Then again, I’m too weak to be afraid. But then things seemed to pick up. His wounds healed quickly. You would regale him with the calming melody of that harmonica I sent you, and probably with other guards as well. I felt I had done my part with that. Not only did I help you along, but I helped you to help others in my small way. I think that was the only letter that made me laugh, but it wasn’t for very long. A mere mo-ment of escape just isn’t long enough. And so the months dragged by. There were times when I wouldn’t think about your journey through the des-ert for days on end. In the beginning I didn’t want to ask you anything because it would take too long to get an answer. After a while, asking you questions was something I desperately needed. The things I would ask all at once—they were thrown out randomly across the entire front of the page, spreading like fire. It was nothing but the simple dribble that every enlisted person hates to hear. Did you have to kill anyone yet? How hot is it? Are you scared? Bored? Happy? What about shampoo? The answers would trickle in over the months, across several slips of paper addressed to me alone. I’m sure you sent the others their own special letters that an-swered the same questions like some revolving slideshow of redundancy. Every human being wants to know what it’s like to end the life of another. Secretly, we are asking ourselves: Would I be able to do it too? Now that I think about it, the second time you got attacked was much worse than the first. As you sat in that passenger seat of that Humvee travelling down the dirt road, avoiding the stones cast by local children, you were probably nervous. Did a stone manage to shatter the glass, sending you off course? I doubt it. It was too much to bear when that roadside bomb detonated under your truck. There was fire, heat, and panic. I’m sure you had to stay calm. That was what you did best, no different than our night in the basement. Did the world disappear in the haze? Were you floating in a pure white before being pulled back into the dust and fire? Knowing you, the medic inside must have jumped back into action immediately after the attack.

The driver lost both legs. He also suffered several severe burns throughout the rest of his body. When that story was first told to me, I forced myself to wait a moment before hearing what had happened to you. That poor man—just as brave, but simply sitting on the wrong side of the ve-hicle. Only a few seconds passed before I allowed the rest of the news to come in. But, that was long enough.Your parents had called me personally. I supposed they chose not to tell me face to face because no one wanted to cry. It would have been easier that way. But, naturally, you only suffered a few minor burns. Ultimately, you were alright. Again, you had tended to someone’s wounds. When the smoke gave way to screams after the first seconds of fear, your hands were too busy stopping the blood to cover your ears. From what I heard, there would be no songs played. He survived, but did he really? You kept him alive until reinforcements arrived and airlifted him back to base where they stabilized him before sending him home. I imagine how somber it must have been that night in camp. The only question I never asked you was whether or not the feeling was getting too familiar. Do you remember the end of that summer season when we all went swimming in the lake? The leaves were already growing brighter in the advancing autumn sun, but it wasn’t cold enough to drive us inside. We all had a nice day at the beach with barbeques and volleyball. The sand was warm, not scorching. The sky was blue, not choked with black. Do you remember that? Tyler skinned his knee and you helped him take care of it, tending to his wound no differently than how you would do it later in life. We all laughed then. When I heard you were okay after the explosion it was like waking from a vivid dream. It wasn’t relief I felt after the first few moments. It was the dreadful acceptance of a second near death incident that would no doubt be a harbinger of others to come. I couldn’t take that anymore. So I did what I had to. I stopped writing to you. The paper letters would arrive in the mail, one after the other, but spread out over weeks. With each lack of response I had hoped you would stop sending me updates so I could live my life. It was horrible, I know, but I couldn’t go on. Occasionally, you’d enclose a picture. You and your unit were all decked out in combat gear, holding your weapons. I laughed when I first saw the happiness the photographs presented. Then, I started to page through the old pictures I had of you. Your smile was different somehow. While you were still the same beautiful woman,

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aging gracefully into maturity through the photos I still had from high school and before, your smile in the newest picture was rigid and more disciplined. You were the same person, but I didn’t know you anymore. The military had molded you into something new. Your beauty remained, but I wondered if it was now only a mask, covering something underneath that was now changed when it had once been as beautiful as your face.Because of this, or perhaps in spite of it, eventually I got my wish. You stopped writing. I wonder how long it took you to realize. Did you think they were getting lost in the mail? Did you understand what I was doing right away? It doesn’t matter I suppose. From the letters I did receive before you stopped, I heard you were recov-ering nicely. You had only been holed up for a day or two after the attack. You were so strong. I wasn’t surprised by that. More missions ensued, but that would remain a void in our relationship. It was a place I dare not tread. And it was a place you couldn’t escape. The war dragged on. Such a major event in both of our lives, and I simply chose to change the channel every time they spoke about it on televi-sion. After a while I had actually tricked myself into not being able to see your face on every soldier firing a weapon or screaming an order in Arabic at civilians. Our generation has a habit of doing that. Looking back across the decades, it probably wasn’t too different for our parents in Vietnam or grandparents in World War Two. Of course, even Vietnam didn’t last as long as yours. Do you remember when you caught that fish on my parent’s boat? We had all taken it out that day to land us dinner. The bobber drifted calmly in the water, no differently than it did when I was a child, fishing in the local stream. Just like me then, you erupted in excitement when the fish dragged it under the surface. It was practically a minnow when you pulled it out, but you wouldn’t touch it

because you thought it was too slimy. “Just slide your hand downward so as not to get stuck by his sharp fins,” I said. You winced as you did so. And after only a few moments—probably a lifetime of agony for the fish, you managed to get the hook out. Of course, you dropped the fish back in the water before you could appreciate its value. We all laughed at that. “It was really slimy,” you said, still wincing. “Yeah, but at least you’ll be able to do it yourself next time.” Of course, we had to go to the store and buy din-ner. It was pleasant that way. There were paper cups and napkins dotting the old picnic table in my backyard. The grill was smoking in the background, and we were happy.

Come to think of it now, we were too young then. Too young to know what life was and too young to know that you’d ever ship off. We weren’t even eighteen. Sadness—is it just a word? I wouldn’t know what to call it anymore. What I felt when I heard the news was something different entirely. I’ve been sad before, but never so, well, disconnected. I remember hearing that the men in your squad were supposed to shoot anyone that came across the convoy. Did they fire first or was it all a surprise?

Somehow I think things played out in a way that I’ll never be able to truly understand. Did you suffer as you died? I can’t imagine how you wouldn’t have felt anything at all. Did your life flash be-fore your eyes? Every time you saw one of our faces, did you realize it was a face you’d never see again? Did you see mine? Or perhaps it was like a letter that was never replied to—read, received and soon forgotten. These are the questions I wish to ask, but I know I’ll never receive a reply. They told me your entire squad was wiped out in a single pass. They used RPG’s to knock out your vehicles, but then it all came down to ordinary gunfire and heroism. At least in the latter, you had them beat.

While you were still the same beautiful woman, aging gracefully into maturity through the

photos I still had from high school and before,

your smile in the newest picture was rigid and more disciplined.

You were the same person, but I didn't know you

anymore.

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Did you join the fight or were you gunned down while trying to help a fallen friend? Either way would have been something for which you’d be more than capable. I can’t imagine which I would prefer. All I know for sure is that they removed three bullets from your body. Two entered from the front, one in the back. I hope you were already dead by the time that one hit. I think my heart beat slower when I heard, but of course I had already given every other beat to you. Do you remember when we were sitting in the basement on that night before you left? We kissed and then after everyone came downstairs, we all went out-side. You said something that I couldn’t quite hear, but we laughed anyway and I added another log to the fire while

we all attempted to sing. I can still hear the music—can you? They never did find that harmonica, did they? Lost to the ages—reacquired by the earth, just like our friendship which I thought deserved to last forever. Usually in the mov-ies, they show funerals held on rainy days, but today is quite sunny. Not far from here there is a play-

ground with children playing, blissfully unaware in a way that we once knew. You can’t really hear them from here, but I imagine they sound happy from what little fragments of their laughter drifts across the breeze. Whenever we would write to each other, I tried, with mixed emotions, to tell you how I really felt about all this. I peppered my words with caring attitude and tone, but somehow I imagine that it came out as nothing but bland and shallow on the page. The procession has ended and I’m still here. Even your parents have already left. Do you remember, well, life? I guess I’m not always right about these types of things after all. I watch languidly as this letter drifts into the ground with you, but I can’t, or won’t cry. I’ve said everything I need to say. Somehow I knew we’d meet again under these circumstances. That was one of the reasons I refused to write. I can still see you waving goodbye to me from the front yard. I can still see the fish dangling on the line and

your beautiful face in the flickering light of candles. Will this be the last time that I stand over the grave of a fallen friend? Are we sharing a moment even now? Did the mo-ment ever end?

I think my heart beat slower when I heard, but of course I had already given every other beat to you.

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Ashley Dodge • Jessica Ross • Katie Green • Rachel Quinn

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Of course, there are way too many games coming out in 2012 to even begin to cover all of them, but these are the ones that popped out at me as I went through the list. I’m sure I missed a few good ones (again, a LOT of games coming out this year), but hopefully this will at least give you a taste of what to look forward to in gaming this year. Assassin’s Creed III, Borderlands 2—the predecessors to both of these games have become pretty well-known and loved. I admit that, when I first tried to play Assassin’s Creed, I found it odd that you had to live someone else’s life in the past or whatever the weird storyline was, but you forget that that’s happening pretty quickly as you just play the game and have way too much fun.

BORDERLANDS 2Anyone who has tried to hang out with me since I bought myself a PS3 knows that I love Borderlands way too much.

All I do is homework and play Borderlands. Just about every gamer I’ve talked to that has played Borderlands loves it. Borderlands 2 will hopefully be just as entertaining and amazing as the first one, and if it is, it’s going to rock the video game market this year.

FINAL FANTASY XIII-2I can’t imagine that anyone is surprised that there’s an-other Final Fantasy game coming out, because I feel like they have about a thousand games with a new coming out about every five seconds. That doesn’t make it any less exciting, though. I expect more amazing graphics, more fun fighting, and another (or the same) great storyline.

GAME OF THRONESWith as popular as the books and TV series have be-come, it’s no surprise that Game of Thrones is making its way into the world of video games. Hopefully the game will be just as intriguing and exciting as the book and show.

HALO 4People who are into Halo are really into it. I guess because I haven’t done more than play multiplayer on any of them, I can’t see the appeal, but supposedly, these games are incredibly fun. I imagine Halo 4 will be exactly like the previous games, but with more “revolutionary new things” (that are actually exactly the same as everything in the old games) that will keep gamers playing and talking about how amazing the “new _ _ _ _ _” is.

G A M E ST O L O O KFORWARDTO IN 2012B Y J E S S I C A R O S S

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FABLE: THE JOURNEYIf you’ve been following the Fable franchise, then you may be excited for the next Fable just for the next part of the storyline. There are those that felt that all of these games were pretty much the same, but I enjoyed the story and missions and leveling up your will to get sweet powers. Unfortunately, as far as I can tell, this new Fable is for the Kinect, and I don’t have one (nor do I know many people who do), so I’m not entirely sure how many people are going to end up actually buying this game, no matter how excited they are for it.

KINGDOM HEARTS 3D: DREAM DROP DISTANCEI admit that when the first Kingdom Hearts game came out for the PS2, I was in love. This game combined excel-lent gameplay with an interesting storyline and characters from games and movies that I love. Of course, I got King-dom Hearts 2 when it came out, but I skipped over Chain of Memories, because I didn’t have a Game Boy Ad-vance at the time. Maybe it was that I skipped a game, or maybe it was just that I was expecting it to be just like the first game, but the story started to get a bit odd. It got sort of hard to follow with all the craziness with things in dreams and some other person not being real (but se-cretly actually being real) and when I finished the game, I didn’t know or care what was going on. I could have gone back and played Chain of Memories, but I just never really got around to buying it. I’m sure that smarter and

more dedicated fans than I exist out there, and so they will be excited for the next game in the series.

MARIO PARTY 9, LUIGI’s MANSION 2, PAPER M A R I O 3 D S , M A R I O & S O N I C AT T H E LONDON 2012 OLYMPIC GAMES (3DS)Because they are Mario (/Luigi) games, people are going to buy these, whether they want to or not. Likely, they’re going to be just like their predecessors, but everyone will love them anyway. It’s impossible not to love Mario Party. I heard good and bad things about Paper Mario, but apparently, it was successful enough to be turned into a game for the 3DS, so we’ll see what happens with that.

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METAL GEAR SOLID SNAKE EATER 3DMetal Gear Solid: Snake Eater was an amazing game, and I’m interested to see how it will translate to the 3DS. I don’t have a 3DS, though, so it’ll be a while until I either get to play it, or get to hear about it from someone who does have one.

RESIDENT EVIL REVELATIONS (3DS), RESIDENT EVIL, OPERATION RACCOON CITY (PS3, X360)For fans of the Resident Evil series, it has to be exciting that they’ll be releasing a game of the 3DS and for larger consoles. I don’t have a 3DS, so I won’t be getting Revela-tions, but I can’t wait to kill some zombies when I get back to Raccoon City in Operation Raccoon City.

Games that I’m excited for, but you may not be:ALIENS: COLONIAL MARINESthe Aliens quadrilogy are four of my all-time favorite mov-ies, but I will admit that they got progressively worse (and don’t even get me start on the Alien vs. Predator movies, which, though I still enjoyed them, were incredibly terrible). I’m going to get this game because I can’t help myself – if it involves Aliens, I must have it, but I do not have high hopes for this game. This will probably end up being another poorly made first-person shooter that gets terrible reviews once people start playing it, but I’m excited for it nonetheless.

DIABLO IIII played Diablo II in my middle school computer literacy class, so another Diablo game interests me, but mostly for the sake of nostalgia. I don’t have a computer that’s great for PC games, so I haven’t played either of the previous Diablo games in years. I may look at getting a desktop (or something), just so I can play this and other PC games coming out this year. I worry that other people won’t be as interested in this game as others simply because it has

been so long since the last one came out. When I first heard that Diablo III was coming out this year, I stopped and said to myself “Diablo III? I don’t even remember Dia-blo I or II. Oh, wait…” It’s been a while, Diablo, so hopefully you’re worth the wait.

SLY COOPER: THIEVES IN TIMEI loved the first game in the franchise, but I felt that they slowly went downhill. It’s been a while since the last one, and they went through the trouble of calling the first three Sly games “Classics” and reformatting them for the PS3, so hopefully they will make it worth it by making this game as amazing as the last few should have been. •

Check out Jessica’s video game reviews at www.wildflowermagazine.com.

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For the past month, on and off, I have had a “neck problem.” However, it is now a confirmed ruptured disc in my neck that was caused because I have an already deformed disc in there. Well, that’s the consensus until the inflammation goes down enough so I can go ahead and have a MRI. This enforced week in the house hasn’t been so bad because of one thing. And that one thing has been the Internet. Though I am mobile in so much as I can walk around and make cups of tea, I am on so many prescrip-tion drugs that I cannot drive anywhere. I just so happen to live in the middle of nowhere and driving is the only option to get anything done. Even to get a pint of milk. I live about 20 mins out of the city and it means that if I want to go in and mingle (ignoring the difficulty I have with turning my head to the left) I have to have a bit of an expedition through the windy country roads of Cork and wrestle with parking. All in all, a bit too much of a fuss considering the level of the medication I am on currently. Cut back to a few weeks ago when I first started

with the neck and back issues, it was timed marvelously well with our move into this new house. And as with all new moves the house was lacking an internet connection. For that week I was off work I was in the middle of no where, with only Skyrim on the Xbox for as long as my at-tention span allowed me to play on it and the company of two cows and one bull in the field out the back. I had cabin fever big time. The drugs didn’t help of course, one of which causes blurred vision and the other which causes drowsi-ness and relaxes you to a point where you just cannot be bothered with anything. It meant that staring out over the fields and being sat in the same position for an hour was a normal thing for me. It sucked. “Read a book!” Mother suggested. “How about you finish that project you started ages ago?” was the suggestion from my other half. No. My brain didn’t want to. I couldn’t be bothered to eat. Making a cup of tea was a chore and bugger it all if I didn’t just go back to bed to nap because I had nothing else to do and hey, it meant my neck stopped aching for a while.

A h u m a nright

With the freedom of the internet at stake, one woman reflects on the impact it could have on her life.

by Rachel Quinn

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Cabin fever though more related to those liv-ing out in the wilds of Canada, America or the outback of Australia can hit even people stuck in hospital, house bound in their city apartment or in their quaint little home in the country. I was cut off from the outside world physical-ly and technologically. It got so bad I went back to work early, before I was meant to and as a result put myself more permanently back into the sick bin. Here I am now though, half way through another week off work and not suffering from any of the issues men-tioned before. With the addition of the Internet I now have this line of communication with an on/off switch I can control which means I can go out and explore without ‘being in control of heavy machinery’ or otherwise being a risk to myself or others. When it connected there certainly wasn’t a case of an explosion of information or a rush to do everything I wasn’t able to do for the month previ-ously. But now I can see what’s happening in the UK on the BBC website and if I want to I can log in and play a few computer games on Steam or Battle.net. Most of all I’m no longer stuck in a house in the middle of the Irish countryside alone. The internet for all it’s foibles has to be considered the new social interaction. Or at least an expansion on that idea. You can include a large number of people into a discussion about one topic. You can email groups of people about your day/product/event (not overlooking the whole opt-in/opt-out option here). People are grow-ing up now only knowing the internet and it’s resources, businesses are now only developing on an internet back-bone. While my generation are the last people to be able to say they were pre-internet (Windows 3.1 in the house), we were the first youth to grow up with a computer as we recognise them now, that could through a series of beeps and hisses talk with another 1000 miles away. Then it was a luxury, and one I can say I was blessed with but it then meant it was one I expected to have from then on in. On the plus side, not having the internet gave me the choice to go home and not sit in front of my computers and let people know I was still around. I could disappear and be alone. The problem came when the choice to no longer want to be alone was taken away from me. I’m

used to having this connection, this massive network. Not having access to it was like having an arm cut off. And in some white whine kind of way I felt selfish that while I was ill I was resenting people who had internet connections. Taking that and looking at the changes afoot in the virtual world and the people that want to bar certain doors into it; the internet, or a solid, reliable, uncensored connection to the internet (it’s not the content but the way we get to it that’s being controlled) has downgraded itself

from being a luxury to a necessity. So many things need the internet to com-plete simple tasks. Devices need an internet connection to activate them-selves for use, products need the inter-net to provide resources, certain tasks are now becoming internet based; paperless statements, online billing and payments. On a side note it’s a won-der that people even have physical money in their wallets any more. Even here, in Ireland I have a wireless credit card. Not that many places let me use it but I don’t even have to take it out of my wallet now to pay for things. Being able to make the deci-sion to talk to someone, show people something and be part of a community

of millions that you can turn off and on is brilliant. You can almost see why the large majority of people consider it, and want it to be seen as a human right. •

The internet, for all it’s foibles, has to be considered the new social interaction. Or at least an expansion on that idea.

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post-holidaydetox

Delicious feasts are part of the holidays, but once January comes around, our bodies are ready to get back to a normal diet. Here are some simple and quick recipes to get in the

groove for the new year.

by Ashley Dodge

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Cooking time: 5 minPrep: 5 minServes: 1

You will need:

1 apple, chopped with skins on (I chose a large Fuji apple)1 tsp cinnamon1 tsp nutmeg1 tbsp agave nectar (if needed, you can add 1 tbsp agave+1 tsp sugar)1 tbsp quick cooking oats

Directions: 1. In a small, microwave-safe bowl, add in apple, spices and agave nectar. Mix until combined. 2. Sprinkle on tbsp of quick-cooking oats. 3. Heat in microwave 1-3 minutes, until apples are slightly tender, but still have a slight crunch. 4. For an added touch of sweetness, you can top with vanilla ice cream, non-dairy ice cream, vegan whipped cream, or traditional whipped cream.

Cooking time: 20 minPrep: 10 minServes: 3 to 4

You will need:

2 cups pre-cooked grilled chicken strips1 onion, chopped1-2 green bell peppers, chopped 3 potatoes, chopped 3 tbsp vegetable oil Salt and pepper, to taste *1 can buttermilk biscuits (optional)

Directions: 1. I usually buy, in the frozen section of the grocery store, the pre-cooked grilled chicken strips, and simply heat them in a medium or large skillet (I used my electric skillet, set to 350 degrees)with the 3 tbsp vegetable oil. Heat according to pack- age directions- or heat for 5-7 minutes. 2. While chicken is heating, chop potatoes, place on microwave safe plate, and cook for 3 minutes. 3. Add potatoes, green bell pepper(s), onion and seasonings to chicken mixture. Cook for 10-20 minutes, until chicken is heated through and potatoes are fork tender. 4. Serve in bowl with fresh-baked buttermilk (my mom buys the Philsbury kind) bis- cuits on the side.

apple spicecrispThe holidays are over, but not ready to give up the taste? This apple crisp can be made in the microwave in five min-utes, and you can make throughout the year when you want a little taste of winter.

momma’s chicken mix This recipe from my child-hood is easy to throw to-gether after a busy day of work, and contains only a few ingredients.

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Cook time: 15 minServings: 4 You will need: 1 cup white or brown rice (I used white because I was crunched for time)1 tbsp olive oil or vegetable oil 1 to 1 ½ cups frozen bell pepper mix, or fresh (red,green,yellow, cut into strips)1 16 oz can crushed diced tomatoes1 tbsp flour 1 tbsp chile powder1 tbsp onion powder1 tbsp garlic powder1 tsp cumin 1 tsp oreganoSprinkle red chili flakesSalt and pepper, to taste 1 can red kidney beans,drained1 can white beans, drained1 can corn, drained1 tbsp cheese mix (vegan,Colby Jack, Monterey Jack)*1 ½ cups tortilla chips 1 can salsa

Directions: 1. Following the directions on your rice package or box, cook rice. 2. While rice is cooking, take a skillet (I used my electric skillet, set on 300 degrees) and heat oil, about one minute.3. Add to the skillet the frozen (or fresh) bell pepper mix. 4. While the peppers are cooking, using a medium sized bowl, stir together the can of crushed tomatoes, flour, and seasonings. Mix until flour is no longer visible. 5. Add tomatoes to pepper mix in skillet. Stir to combine. 6. Add in kidney beans, white beans, and corn. Stir to combine. 7. Turn heat down to 200, (or same heat if you’re cooking on stove top) and let cook five minutes, or until heated through. Add cheese. 8. When rice is done cooking, add rice to mixture, stir, and serve over tortilla chips, wrap into burrito shells, or eat alone. 9. Enjoy!

easy southwest stir-fry This is a quick and fla-vorful weeknight meal, which plenty of veggies. Serve with a side of tortilla chips, guacamole, or salsa.

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Rethinking

ResolutionsAre weightloss resolutions made out of

concern for our health? Or are women letting

advertising seep into their self-image? by Katie Green

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This is, after all, the most popular time of the year to go on a diet, and it’s still early enough in the year that most of you who have made resolutions to lose weight are probably still counting calories and working out three times a week. While there is nothing wrong with going to the gym and trying to eat a healthier array of foods, most people go on diets for the wrong reasons. They don’t go on diets because they have high blood pressure. They don’t go on diets because they have or are close to hav-ing diabetes. They don’t go on diets because they have cholesterol problems. I should know. I went on my first diet in eighth grade, and I have been on and off several different pro-grams every year since. I didn’t go on any of those diets because I had high blood pressure or anything of the sort. I went on a diet because I was tired of being the biggest person in my class. I went on a diet because I thought there was something wrong with me. I thought that if I lost weight, I would have more friends. I thought that if I lost weight, I would happier. I thought that if I lost weight, I

would find a boyfriend. As you have probably noticed, not one of those reasons has anything to do with my health, and I suspect that most of you who have been or are on diets have felt the same way. Sure, we say we’re trying to lose weight for our health, but that’s not true for most of us. One survey found that thirty percent of women would trade at least one year of their life for their ideal weight. Twelve percent would trade two to ten years. If their main concern was their health, they wouldn’t be willing to die sooner. Once we stop lying to ourselves about why we really want to lose weight, we can stop and ask ourselves if losing that weight is really all that important. Contrary to popular opinion, all fat people are not unhealthy. The summer after my freshman year of high school, I was thirty pounds “overweight” according to most BMI charts. But you know what? I could jog a mile and a half straight—the last quarter of a mile uphill. According to most people’s as-sumptions of fat people, I shouldn’t have been able to do that. But I did. And then I gained more weight. I got up to seventy

On any random day, approximately 30 million Americans

will be on a diet. Given that it is the first month of the

year, that number is probably quite a bit higher. This is

the time of year that the number of gym memberships in.

creases and diet programs offer all sorts of discounts.

Are weightloss resolutions made out of

concern for our health? Or are women letting

advertising seep into their self-image? by Katie Green

56

pounds “overweight.” My sugar levels were fine. My blood pressure was fine. Aside from the fact that the num-bers on the scale were higher than the charts said they should be, there was nothing unhealthy about me. I wasn’t gaining weight. I had been the same weight from sopho-more year of high school to sophomore year of college. I walked at least a mile every day going to and from class, and I walked faster than most of the people around me. I was also eating better than I ever had before. I had great friends. I had a boyfriend. I was happier than I ever had been before. So why wasn’t that enough? Why did I have to try to lose weight? I was happy. I was healthy. And yet I didn’t weigh what the charts said I should, and I didn’t fit into size six jeans, so I wasn’t happy with how I looked. I tried to fix it. I ended up gaining more weight when I failed. I’m sure that’s something most people can relate to. You go on a diet to lose weight. You lose a few pounds. Then you get discouraged for whatever reason and stop dieting. The next thing you know, you’ve gained back most if not all of the weight you lost – and sometimes you even gain more weight. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we allow advertising companies and the diet industry to con-vince us that there’s something wrong with us just because we have some fat on us? Most of the women I see who are worried about their weight aren’t even overweight by any chart I’ve ever seen. Women are so preoccupied with their weight that they spend countless hours and dollars trying to get to or remain what they consider their ideal size. Imagine what we could do with all that time and energy and money. Weight Watchers online costs a little under twenty dollars a month. That’s over two hundred dollars a year that we could spend on more important things. We could donate to charity. We could put the

money in savings. We could buy that DVD collection that we’ve been eyeing for a while. Whatever. And then there’s all that time that we spend think-ing about food. Imagine how much free time you would have if you weren’t constantly trying to figure out what you were allowed to eat and what you weren’t, if you weren’t always reading up on how much exercise was the right amount of energy. I understand that the new year has already begun. Maybe you’ve gotten further in your weight loss journey than you ever have before. If that genuinely makes you happy, go for it. If you have actual health problems due to your weight (either because you are overweight or under-weight), of course you should try to do something about it. But if you aren’t unhealthy, if you’re struggling to lose

weight, if you’re beating yourself up because you can’t lose weight, I have a suggestion for you: stop. Make a new resolution to love yourself for who you actually are. Make a list of things you like about yourself. Take all the money that you were planning on spend-ing on a gym membership and a weight loss program that you’ll end up not using next month and buy yourself something that you’ve always

wanted but couldn’t bring yourself to buy. We only get one life to live. We have got to stop wasting time feeling bad about ourselves because our jean size is in the double digits. Who cares? If your weight is the only thing about your life that you don’t like, then you should consider yourself pretty darn lucky. And if your weight is one of many things that you don’t like about your life, try fixing something else. Unless you’re actually unhealthy, losing weight won’t fix anything. It’s a cosmetic problem. I assure you, there is a much better use for your time and money. You just have to figure out what that is. •

Why do we do this to

ourselves? Why do we

allow advertising

companies and the diet

industry to convince us

that there is something

wrong with us?

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www.wildflowermagazine.com/submit

april 2012

submission deadline

march 1, 2012

art. writing. commentary.

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contributors

Born in Mexico City, Constanza Castro moved to Las Vegas, Nev. with her family in 1998 where she has since worked relentlessly to build a name for herself as an artist. Primarily known for her work in film, Constanza has won several awards for her art, and her work is on display in a prestigious studio in Mexico City.

wildflowermagazine.com/constanzacastro

Jessica Ross loves to read and write and is cur-rently finishing up blueprints for a time machine. She’s working on a degree in Linguistics and Cultural Anthropology and is currently working on putting together a collection of poems and short stories.

wildflowermagazine.com/jessicaross

Ashley Dodge is a poet and writer living in Reno, Nev. She graduated from the University of Nevada, Reno with a BA in journalism, with a minor in English. Apart from writing, Ashley works full-time as a social media freelancer and writer, writing short stories and poetry in her spare time.

wildflowermagazine.com/ashleydodge

Katie Green is a freelance writer and editor. She graduated from the University of Min-nesota in 2010 with a B.A. in English, and she now lives near Atlanta, Ga. She loves reading and writing, and she has recently started to understand the joys of video games.

wildflowermagazine.com/katiegreen

Ashley Hennefer is the Editor of Wildflower Magazine. She is also an environmental journal-ist at the Reno News & Review, and is com-pleting her M.A in Literacy at the University of Nevada, Reno. She lives in Reno, Nev. with her boyfriend Andrew.

wildflowermagazine.com/ashleyhennefer

Jessica Farkas is the Assistant Editor of Wild-flower Magazine and a freelance writer living in Las Vegas, Nev. She has a Bachelor of Arts in Journalism from the University of Nevada, Reno and has been writing professionally since 2006.

wildflowermagazine.com/jessicafarkas

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Lea Moser is a graduate from the University of Nevada who majored in political science. She hopes to be a candidate of an M.F.A. program in the future, and in the long-off future, hopes to sustain an income as a writer.

wildflowermagazine.com/leamoser

Scott Powell is an aspiring writer whose goal is to complete a novel that he believes is worthy of publication. He graduated from U.N.L.V. in 1986 with a bachelor's degree in Management Information Systems. He has been working in the legal field for approximately 21 years after a series of ill-advised career moves.

wildflowermagazine.com/scottpowell

Natalie Parker-Lawrence is an educator and writer Memphis, Tenn. Natalie lives with her husband in midtown Memphis in one-hundred-year-old house where her daughter, five stepsons, two daughters-in-law, one grand-child, and two golden retrievers come and go.

wildflowermagazine.com/natalieparker lawrence

Meredith White is a Mental Health Practitio-ner, blogger, and writer living in the Twin Cities. She has a degree in Psychology and Spanish. Most of the time, she is either looking for the next adventure or enjoying the one at hand.

wildflowermagazine.com/meredithwhite

Rachel Quinn is from an IT background in Op-erations and Engineering and currently works in technical support for a popular electronics and software manufacturer. She currently lives in Cork City, Ireland and writes in her spare time anything from short stories, nonsense verse to witty snapshots of the world around her.

wildflowermagazine.com/rachel-quinn

january 2012

Thomas Matthews is 27 years old and resides in the Minneapolis area where he has lived his whole life. He currently works in the insurance industry but hopes to make a career out of writing in the future.

wildflowermagazine.com/thomasmatthews

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