Northern Lights Journal 2024 Issue

Untitled Art: Victoria Stock

Possession

Female Changes

To All the Things I Didn't Do

I have imagination
I am just not attempting
I have no inclination
So nothing is too tempting

I lack the motivation
That is needed to create
I have the innovation
I just can't substantiate

Not too much deviation
in the quite conventional
I need initiation
I need the intentional

There is some indication
Of my major undoing
I have no dedication
And that is my wrongdoing

The predetermination
I have no destination
A huge abomination
With no imagination

Tree

Grief

Grief
You who bathed in sunlight had been
waxed in luminosity
Dipped and glazed
to be presented as perfect
And
from afar everything was
The brilliance of you
like many others
was but forgotten amongst many
Fragility concealed underneath
hiding any and all blemishes
engulfed all of you
And
suddenly there was a crack
destroying all but the sugary shell
Crumbs that were unsalvageable
stuck and sticky
The bits and pieces you left shimmered in my hand
Its jagged edges cut deep
Radiance eclipsed the scars
as I bled
It seeped deep
Deeper
and deeper
As if to preserve itself
Prevent you from dying out
And
me from saying good-bye

Forests of Absorption

The Winter-Winded Lights

Dear Nina,
          There is a moment when you look straight down upon the fragile peaks. Where the clouds look like a carpet of snow beneath you. You think for a moment that you can stand on them, that when you do, they'll make a crunching noise, reassuring you that they packed themselves down to support you.
          I must say, after each following step on the climbing peaks, I stare down and wonder when you had made it this high, did you look down? Questioned if you had let go, that the powder of clouds may catch you? Or did you keep soaring upwards, with the hope that you would see the lights?
          I took a long exhale as the air made a fog from my mouth; the warmth was barely as comforting as your loving embrace. Then, I turned back, gloves on the slippery stone, and pulled upwards. Regardless of how numb my fingers may have become, I still moved upwards.
          Did you know the locals have named their home based on this mountainside? They call it Shalindeer, home of the crumbling peaks. Not to worry you, but the stones on these mountains are fickler than your bread-making abilities.
          Even as I climbed the lower parts of the mountain, I was left bound from grapple point to grapple point to hold on as the stones deteriorated in my hands. Now, I look up, a few minutes from the peak, and I now know why you wanted me to come here. I take another step and reach the final ledge. The snow parts as my fingers prowl for something to latch onto. Then, with a stretch, I feel a sharp stone. I take one last breath, and with you in my heart, and my goal in my mind, I leap up, forcing myself over the ledge, and rolling onto my back. 
          I open my eyes, and the stars stare back. In that moment my love, I had done it. 
          I climbed the peaks like you had asked me to do so. Though, as you may assume, my quest is not yet complete. I find myself kneeling, my metal boots digging into the inch of powder beneath my feet. I flick open my leather bag and throw on the cape you made me. Even if it was old, you still made it with love.
          I threw the brown fabric over my breastplate, the fur collar warming my neck. Then, with a step forward, I found myself looking down over the lake.
          It was a frozen wasteland. The blue ice now covers the water that was collected in its basin. The wind howled at me, and only for a moment did I worry it was a wolf. The earth itself seemed to want in, as it spiraled down into the icy center. There was not a monster in sight, as the stars continued to illuminate the skies.
          I shall admit, dear. The excitement may have gotten to me, as I had left my bag on the ground and ran off. Though, if what you wrote was true, then how could one not be intrigued?
          As I drew near, I felt the air thicken, as the wind began to blow in a warm fashion, not hot, but not freezing to the touch. To put it in lighter words, it seemed that I was at the heart of the mountain as if the icy lake was the hearth of the mountain's home.
          I decided to sit before descending too fast, as after all, I came to see the sight. Being too close may be dangerous, but too far would ruin all spectacle. 
          Then, as the brightest star in the sky stood overhead, I watched as the wind blew in. I may not know why it happened, but the snow from beneath me blew straight off, as if a gust of wind blew it towards the center.
          I stood shocked, as I had not felt any chill at all, but as the slow flew, it began to spin around the center of the lake. Each particle had its own motion, each flake, its own dance. They parted around the center as they twinkled in the starlight.
          Before I knew it, I was watching a whirlwind of sparkles, one tame, and alluring. As each piece moved, I too found myself among them. I imagined them singing, like our girls do. They would hum their fine tune, or a jolly one as they were indeed dancing. Or perhaps they were jumping, like when Dwyn blesses us with rain. Where we as a family would go out and hope through puddles like frogs, cause we knew we could be.
          Then, from the corner of my eye was the signal you wrote. A single star, stretching across the night sky in a semi-pink light. It glimmered as you said, but not even that could describe its beauty. It was like taking the ink-colored sky and painting it with color. Since the second it passed, the stars in the sky began to change. They glowed in all shades, like a festival of colors. In that moment I saw the world beyond ours. A sight I wished you had shared.
          Then, the blowing wind whistled, as the snow before me began to shine. Not that of a sparkle, but of light itself. They turned from their white to an array of bright colors. Their purples and greens, their blues, and their reds. I found myself on my toes as they expanded. They spread past me, as they surged upwards in their memorizing patterns.
          I stepped back and stared up at the rings of light around me, the color and the sights nearly hypnotizing me. Then, as a gale blew up from beneath the ice, they soared and blasted out into the starry night sky. They formed waves upon waves of colored light. A gradient of color across a black and white page that was the night.
          Now seeing their beauty, I knew why the locals called it such an event. They called it the "Winter-Winded Lights," for it was when the gods themselves decided that the night should no longer be black and white. For years they never disturbed the peaks, but I did it for you. You always wanted to come here yourself.
          The colors stretched beyond anything that you could have said, and I assure you, when our daughters are capable, I shall take them to see it. If nothing else shall come from today, let it be known that I saw it, my love. That I have left you to rest there. I love you with all my heart, and our daughters will know your sacrifice. Until then, pray it be that the lights guide you home.

-The Diary of Pinto Kindenberry

Sokushinbutsu

The bell is ringing-
          we are still alive
as they sustain us with seeds
but soon the moon will be passing the sun
while rat-faced girls and corn-fed boys
          mouths full of fat and gristle,
               chests arched self-amorous—
will stand in awe of themselves for
all they've accomplished

They will have forgotten, of course,
          too busy curating the story to save face—
these are lives and legacies
Unfortunate, they'll nod—
sell what you can—trash the rest

armies with armfuls of bindings no one cares about
except we few who stare at the sun without shades
just to feel our retinas rage—
to respond to something other
than the bullshit of choking down more disdain
in the smile and swallow it
amid sips of urushi—
sumac's slow poison
staving off scavengers

when the seeds disappear
when the water dries
when the last of life is consumed
as the body morphs
as the skin sinks
as the organs die

In the dark,
the bell has stopped ringing.

Untitled Photo: Matthew Freitag

A Bigfoot Tale

          My dad is known to over-exaggerate stories, so when he told me of an encounter he had with Bigfoot, I laughed. Until I too came face to face with the creature.
          My dad is from Everett, Washington and camped a lot in the mountains when he was my age. Depending on the situation, my dad is either a hard-ass or a total wuss. He can't stand needles or the sight of blood but when he is stung by wasps (which he is deathly allergic to) he could not care less. So, when he told me he saw Bigfoot and he seemed so nonchalant about it, I just brushed it off as one of his many tall tales. Like the time he escaped from police on a motorcycle. Every time he tells the story, he tells a new version. He swerved in and out of traffic, he hid, and so on. Every ending is the same though; he got away, of course. Or the time he was alone in his family's basement and heard footsteps behind him and a hand on his shoulder. When he looked back, no one was there. I can't help but roll my eyes when he tells these stories. You know Dale from King of the Hill? Yeah, that's my dad. An orange-haired, blue-collar, chain-smoking conspiracy theorist. So, you can see why I didn't believe him.
          My grandparents still lived in Everett and my brother, my dad and I flew to visit them. It was my grandpa's birthday, and he was OLD old, born in 1934, so we needed to go see him before he kicked the bucket. My brother, Joey, begged my dad to go camping in the mountains of Washington like he used to. My dad is stubborn and when he makes up his mind, you have to beg. Joey has his ways. If you want our dad to change his mind, you have to guilt trip him. And that's what he did.
          Even though he was a supposed Christian, my dad's favorite words were Jesus Christ and Goddammit.
          "Jesus Christ, Joey! You know I don't want to go out there!"
          "Why not? We never go camping! Please, Dad, please."
          "Goddammit, Joey. Fine."
          So we started packing our backpacks to go spend the night in the mountains of some Snohomish County trail. Water bottles, snacks, a tent, sleeping bags, a compass, a map. The common camping supplies. Then, we started the drive to the trail my dad had his encounter at.
          My dad had hiked almost every trail in Snohomish County so when we finally got there, I trusted him when he began to lead the way. 
          "So, remind us of what happened out here with Bigfoot."
          Dad glared daggers at Joey, but he took any opportunity to tell his tall tales, so he started talking.
          "A group of my buddies and I were up here on this trail. It must've been about '83, '84. So, I was your age. There was no one out there but us, we had hiked a little off the trail and we were pretty secluded."
          The leaves crunched under my feet as I struggled to catch up with the equally tall Dad and Joey. My short legs ran instead of walking like them.
          "Anyways, we were getting ready to sleep for the night when we heard this scream, right across the river from us. Maybe 40, 50 feet away. It sounded like a woman screaming."
          "What did you do?"
          "I looked out of the tent, but it was so dark. I couldn't see anything. But I could smell this horrible, rancid, rotten smell." 
          The last time he told this story, he saw glowing red eyes.
          I stopped to readjust my heavy backpack and pulled the hat I wore tighter over my cold ears. I looked ahead and to my horror, I couldn't see Joey or our dad. My heart started racing and I began to breathe shallowly, as I watched my breath vapor form a cloud and disappear.
          "Dad! Joey!" I yelled.
          I looked around anxiously, walking in circles. The flowing river blocked any noise from being heard. I was panicking and I felt hot tears streaming down my cheeks. Fuck ... I'm alone and lost in the fucking mountains. I had no experience with mountains. Wisconsin has no mountains. I did have experience with the woods, though.
          I wiped the tears off my face and pulled the backpack off my shoulders. I unzipped it and searched for the map and compass. I pulled both out and laid the map flat out on the ground. I knew where I was, thankfully, and where we were going.
          I can do this... I can do hard things. I held the map and compass in my hands, and I started walking. I knew it was about an hour's hike from where we started to where we decided we were going to set up camp.
          Crunch. Snap.
          The once noisy forest suddenly went silent. I whipped my head around and my eyes came directly into contact with two other eyes. I screamed. These weren't my brother's eyes, or my dad's eyes. These were Bigfoot eyes.
          A huge figure was standing right next to a tree. It was hairy, and I mean HAIRY. Dark brown hair covered the thing from head to toe. It was still looking straight at me, as if it was looking into my soul. I felt like I was going to puke.
          I started to step backwards, away from the creature. The creature stood in one spot, very still, looking into my eyes. I was usually good at making eye contact, but I had to look away.
          "Ginger! Ginger!" A familiar voice yelled, and I turned around to see my brother and dad. I breathed out in relief. Thank you, God...
          "Look, look!" I turned back around and pointed, but the figure was gone.
          "What? What is it?" Joey asked, as he whipped his head around to see where I was pointing.
          "Oh my god, Bigfoot! It was just there!" I exclaimed in exasperation, putting my hands in the air.
          "Bullshit."

Untitled Art: Morley Remitz

On Soulmates, Love, and That Stupid Box

When I was seventeen I wrote you for a year,
and I put the envelopes in a box and
forgot about them.
(I don't remember what they say anymore.)
I stopped believing in soulmates after that.
Next were the dog days, the gentle erasure,
mornings spent squinting in a sun too bright—
the months slipping through my fingers like
small pieces of crisped-up leaves.
Four long years in the desert,
running circles around myself—
as if that could make the time go by any faster,
or make the heart's jagged edges any smoother,
or make the chaotic sum of me any less ugly.
Love, to me, in those days:
It was euphoric, it was "what if our parents find out", it was
curling in on myself, wishing I had never
let anyone see me like that.
It's not my fault, or the girl's, or yours.
Such is the way of the desert: fear, always.
But life is not restricted to one climate,
and when I came to I had sand in my shoes
and a box of letters that might never be read.
(I kept it when we moved. I wasn't sure why.)
When I came to you were still here.
How can one be haunted by someone they've never met?
I've since rediscovered what I once knew when I was small:
real love is quiet. It won't
shout at you from the rooftops or
leave you shaking at midnight. It won't
hit you with its car; it's not
a catch-22, or a funeral pyre.
It doesn't exclude anyone,
not the girls writing letters at 9:21 P.M.,
not the hearts who feel stupid in retrospect,
not the fools who hide from good things,
and not me. Not me.
(There is a box for you. Maybe you'll read them, maybe you won't.)
(Either way, I'll be okay.)

Something About Death

Back Cover Photo: Jellies