Perceptions 2014

2014 A Journal of the Arts Columbia State Community College

A Journal of the Arts Columbia State Community College

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A Journal of the Arts

Produced by the Humanities Division of Columbia State Community College

Columbia State Community College, a Tennessee Board of Regents institution, is an equal opportunity and affirmative action employer and does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, gender, sexual orientation/gender identity, religion, ethnic or national origin, sex, age, disability status, or status as a covered veteran in educational and employment opportunities, and is committed to the education of a non-racially identifiable student body. Individuals needing this material in an alternative format, e.g., hearing or visually impaired formats, should contact the office of disability services.

Columbia State Community College is accredited by the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools Commission on Colleges to award Associate of Arts, Associate of Science, Associate of Science in Teaching, Associate of Fine Arts in Music, and Associate of Applied Science degrees, and technical certificates. Contact the Commission on Colleges at 1866 Southern Lane, Decatur, Georgia 30033-4097 or call 404-679-4500 for questions about the accreditation of Columbia State Community College.

CoSCC AI-01-04-14, Parris Printing, Nashville, Tennessee - 1,000 copies

STAFF 2014

EDITOR Beverly Mitchell

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS

Ana Basoa Shelly Ganter Emily Gaskill Brittany Hall Jeff Hardin Susanna Holmes

Anne Reeves

Michael Sztapka

Judith Westley

Greg Wood

CREATIVE COORDINATOR

Carl Jones

COVER Roses Jennifer Tkaczyk

Contents Kim Meek

Untitled

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Heather Miller

At Night

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James Pegler

Mirrored Crystal Falls

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Janis de la Mer

Untitled

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Janis de la Mer

Untitled

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Kim Klein

I Doodle

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Nicholas A. Spence

Sleep

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Linda Hayes

What Lies Beyond the Bridge?

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Kathy Gum

Young One

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Kelsey Graves

TANKA: night

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Nada Aleryani

Nature 1

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Angelina Anselmo

Time: Inspired by Einstein’s Dreams

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Jennifer Tkaczyk

Wonderland

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Joan Cook

Butler’s Store

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Bill Williams

Motion Trails

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Holly Tkaczyk

Theodore

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Manuel Lagos, Jr.

The Clock

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Kim Klein

Flight Position

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Jessica Stafford

Cancer

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Cody Robb

Tug of War

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Bridgette Hurte

Rain’s Demise

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Carl D. Jones

Feeding Time

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Casey Mask

11 Months 16 Days after Goodbye

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Hannah Graham

The Cocoon

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Bill Williams

Shroom

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Tanner Osborn

From the Darkness

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Nada Aleryani

Nature 2

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Nada Aleryani

Architecture

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Carl D. Jones

The Actress

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Cody Robb

Drumming

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David Thomas Cauthen Cowboy Cody

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Haley Imhoff

I Just Can’t Wait to Be King

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Christa S. Martin

Wrought Iron and Spider Webs

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Casey Leeann Lane

Mrs. Tiny

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Stan Dickens

Mountain Brook

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Chelsea Marie Smith

Thoughts

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Carl D. Jones

Phoenix Friend

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Chelsea Marie Smith

The Notebook

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Chelsea Marie Smith

Tea for Two

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Linda Hayes

Baby Birds in Shoe

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Jolina St. Pierre

Untitled

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Untitled Kim Meek

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At Night Heather Miller

I hear dogs howling, They are singing to the moon, Next to the cool clear blue water.

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Mirrored Crystal Falls James Pegler

Gleaming cascade falls from the crown To twist, and flow, and splash.

Leaping in swirls over stone so fine To touch seems wrong to ask.

Crystal cool icy pools Of beauty touched with frost.

The pressure-quarried loveliness Veils brilliance almost lost.

The warmth of a depthless ardor Lies hid beneath the flood.

It inspires a pleasant longing To grasp this font for good.

Beauty and blessing before you, Desolation behind.

The substance of mankind’s ruin Eclipsed by grace divine.

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Untitled Janis de la Mer

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Untitled Janis de la Mer

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I Doodle Kim Klein

Because it’s not as boring as actually listening To my teachers. Because that dragon has been Flying around inside my head all day. Because Silly faces are therapeutic, as are angel wings.

Because that song lyric repeating itself is Annoying. Because my pens come in five pretty Colors. Because it might make me an awardWinning artist someday. Because of drawing Movements with varying degrees of emotion. Because Stick figures are easy and so is a Mickey Mouse Head. Because I have a great idea for a Halloween Mask. Because I can’t afford real sunglasses.

Because a line is pretty basic. Because a circle Can become the sun. Because party hats need their Pom-pom tops and the world desires more Olive Lords. Because it’s this pencil’s destiny.

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Sleep Nicholas A. Spence

Last nightI was a body; & I moved with the grace of a Persian rugRolled up & placed aside for the future decoration of some elaborate house in the city, where the people who will walk on it, drink brandy & never speak I had the eligibility of a stuffed foxwrapped around petrified wood, somewhat artistic in its finality, like a forest after the fire but I tasted like an old cigarmy smoke sophisticated & pure, like a wrist watch clinging to a corpse in the funeral parlornot yet ready for the ground This morningI broke the silence with the shuffling of my feet across shadowmy motion releasing dust into the light that intruded my room & like the dust that danced without form inside the beam that came from the windowthis body would not have been seen, if not for the shuffling of my feet

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What Lies Beyond The Bridge?

Linda Hayes

While driving in Lawrence County, Tennessee, I came across this road. I had never encountered a bridge quite like this where I had to go through a creek to get to the other side. This was such a pretty sight that I pulled my car over and got out to take a picture. While taking the picture I imagined that beyond this bridge was the perfect 1950’s town where I have always wanted to live. I had a vision in my mind that when I cross this bridge my perfect town would suddenly appear. In this town there is only one road that goes through the middle of the town; on each side of the street there are tall brick buildings that each have their own unique character. On one side of the street there is a bakery where everything is homemade, a butcher who has meat with no fillers, a mercantile, a hardware store, a clothing shop, and a dime store. On the other side a beauty shop, a barber shop, a post office, a bank, the sheriff’s office, the pharmacy, and the mom and pop diner where everyone in town gathers to socialize. This diner is special. It is not fast food -- it is all homemade food. In this community everyone knows everyone and greets each other with friendly gestures. Every Saturday night everyone meets at the community center to listen to the band and dance. It’s a wonderful place to live. On the outer parts of my perfect town there are quaint country homes laced with beautiful lattice around the porches and white picket fences. I imagine that I live in one of these homes, swaying on my porch swing on a quiet summer day soaking up the sunshine. I can feel the breeze blowing across my face and I can smell the roses from my garden.

The town people and I live a simple life where animals graze in the fields and where flowers bloom all year long. I woke up from my daydream and took a few more pictures and crossed the bridge.

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Young One Kathy Gum

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TANKA: night Kelsey Graves

the stillness of night, consumes my bedroom, and all I feel are silent vibrations, restless crickets chirping ‘till the sun awakes

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Nature 1 Nada Aleryani

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Time: Inspired by Einstein’s Dreams Angelina Anselmo Imagine a world where reactions ripple backward through time, covering the past in their own waves of consciousness. We are not carried back to the past, but instead the past makes room for the present. What defines the present? Action. Initial actions become the past when reactions occur. Here, the past is eliminated by the present; therefore, actions are ceased by reactions.

In this world of altered time, a school girl is bullied at recess. However, the teacher doesn’t see the girl get pushed, only that she has fallen. A young man graduates high school and receives his diploma. Upon which, he forgets his childhood. All progress toward this goal- years in the education system- no longer exists. This young man has only ever been an adult. A couple is passionately in love when they meet. In a few years’ time, the two decide to get married. This event of marriage travels backward, replacing the couple’s memories, making the man and woman strangers. An alcoholic joins a program to get sober, and now he has never had a single drink before. A middle aged couple is unhappy. They decide to get a divorce so that they have never been married to begin with.

Every birthday cake is the first because every birthday is replaced by the next. Every love is new and exciting, but every pain is unexplainable.

You are living in the precious moment because you’re abandoned by time.

Your memories can only exist until you and those around you make decisions, until life reacts from these memories. You are fire and smoke, being cycled into a faint ghost of yourself. Yet you’re always a new soul, a limitless breed of possibility.

A person who wishes to remember life must live in solitude forever.

Eliminate the stepping stones, and then an unchanging state can prevent reaction. These people sacrifice all progress and intimacy for constancy and awareness. Very few attempt this path, and even fewer remain alone.

Perhaps, this is because when you die in this dimension of time, you, in fact, never existed.

Would you rather remember a meaningless, lonely life? Or would you rather live in new moments until the end replaces the beginning?

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Wonderland Jennifer Tkaczyk

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Butler’s Store Joan Cook June days in the country were filled with long, hot days of chopping cotton, keeping sweat bees shooed from bends of knees and elbows, and neverending dreams of being somewhere…… anywhere…. besides a hot cotton field. The only hope of reprieve came from rain clouds that promised to ‘set-in’ for at least a half a day. On those rare occasions, mama and us kids would run for the outer lying woods along the fields and wait to see if lightning or the disappointment of a rain shower would be the end of us all. Daddy was always at work at the bicycle factory, but he knew exactly how many rows of cotton should be chopped or hoed by the end of his eight hour shift by one grown woman and four and a half kids. I say four and a half kids because Jean, considered the ‘baby’ of the family, although she was born a mere ten minutes after me, was allowed to make a half-hearted effort at chopping cotton on mama’s row. Daddy even engineered Jean a pint-sized hoe handle, which proved to the rest of us kids that work expectations were based on sibling order and body size. I quickly realized that I was out of luck on both accounts: fourth in the sibling line and twice as big and strong than Jean.

When mama finally gave us the go ahead on the rain out, we kids would suddenly become energized and make a bee line to the house. Along the way home, we realized that it was about dinner time (that’s noon for country folk), so inevitably Jr. would begin thinking on a trip to Butler’s store, about a three mile journey on our dirt road, but a thirty-five minute trek on a little red, beaten up Farm-all tractor that just might start if given the right push. Mama was a good fifty feet behind us kids, so we reasoned how we could get her to go along with our fine idea. Butler store was a shabby, run down country store owned by a man named Ronald who was married to a woman thirty years his junior named Blondeena. The two were an odd pair because of the age difference, but they had two strange looking offspring, and Blondeena was as child-like as the kids.

She typically stood grinning behind the store’s counter, filled with an assortment of useless items such as rusty fish hooks, torn playing cards, coke bottle caps, and candy wrappers, while Ronald tallied customers’ goods on a cash register that seldom worked. An old potbellied stove stood stoically in the back of the store, ready for duty at the first hint of winter, but during the summer the only whiff of fresh air came from a raised lid on the coke machine.

Butler’s store was the last place to stop if customers were concerned about FDA regulations, but to poor country kids, that store was a little piece of Heaven.

Since ‘eating out’ wasn’t an option for poor people, Butler’s store was the closest thing to it that we had experienced. My first Pringle potato chips, Honey Buns, Fresca, Kool-Aid straws, and pre-made pimento and cheese came from Butler’s store.

When mama finally caught up with us at the house, the onslaught began by us kids on why Jr. should drive the Farm-all tractor to Butler’s store for some ‘eating out’ food. We first reasoned that since mama was tired, not cooking 20

would give her a chance to rest or at least not have to heat up an already hot kitchen. Mama countered that Jr. was only twelve, had no license of any kind, and if the tractor broke down along the way, daddy would have a rip roaring fit if he had to find a way to get the tractor back home. Besides she said, “That tractor won’t start anyway.” Bingo! We bargained that if we got the tractor started, fate was on our side, so it was worth the risk. Overwhelmed by our tenacity or simply too tired to argue anymore, mama finally said, “Yaw don’t have money to go to the store.” Immediately, we began scavenging the parameter for empty coke bottles worth a deposit of five cents each. Next….we checked daddy’s rusted can of coins in the kitchen by the back door. Finally, my brother pitched in his personal stash that he had hidden in a sock drawer toward a whole pack of cigarettes. Collectively, we gathered a total of nearly three dollars, enough for five cokes, some Pringles, a can of spam (my brother’s favorite sandwich) and some store bought pimento and cheese. We already had bread and mayonnaise, so the rest was left up to starting the beat up Farm-all. We hurried outside for the last leg of our mission while mama resigned herself to the kitchen to begin an hour’s worth of worrying. The five of us began pushing the part red, part rusty heap of junk toward the highest point in the yard and held it steady while Jr. climbed on the tractor and began counting. On ‘three’ the four of us girls pushed as hard as we could and then ran and pushed behind the tractor until it built momentum. We finally stopped in our tracks, and held our breaths as Jr. gingerly let off the clutch and hoped for a miracle.

The old engine coughed, sputtered, and then finished with a continuous chug!

Jr. threw up his hand with a triumphant wave as we cheered him on like a warrior leaving for battle. We watched until the tractor chugged out of sight around the bend of the road and then waited anxiously on the front porch in hopes of a speedy return. When an hour had passed, the waiting always got more intense because the trip to Butler’s store and back took an hour and ten minutes, and give or take ten minutes for buying the goods, more than an hour and twenty minutes without sight or sound of the old Farm-all meant trouble.

After an hour and twenty-five minutes passed, panic began to set in when the outline of the old tractor appeared. Mama heard our shouts and joined us outside to welcome Jr. home in victory.

In the privacy of our little kitchen, Jr. opened the brown bag of treasures and handed each kid a coke, while my oldest sister equally divided the Pringles.

Mama made a plate of spam and pimento and cheese sandwiches, while everybody commended Jr. on another successful journey to Butler’s store.

The shared camaraderie among us as well as the food was delicious.

We were simply…..happy.

Over forty years have passed since my brother’s anxious trips to Butler’s store. Such moments during childhood left handprints on our lives that have shaped several generations. Ironically, several of my siblings have spent years acquiring materialism to offset the fear of poverty or gain public approval, simply to have decorated empty, pointless lives…... all in search of replicating the original joy experienced inside that tiny worn out country kitchen.

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Motion Trails Bill Williams

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Theodore Holly Tkaczyk

God is too big and the atom too small.

My understanding of the Cold War and the nuclear arms race comes in large part from Dr. Seuss and the Butter Battle book.

I don’t really understand how electricity works either.

I don’t like to think about what happens when you flush.

Some people might call me simple and that’s probably true – ‘cuz it makes me happy every time I push the soap dispenser and blue foam comes out.

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The Clock Manuel Lagos, Jr. With a crisp “crack” and “splat,” Wilson Fort opened his last can of franks and beans. The world was ending today, so he might as well finish off his canned foods. Fort scratched the gray stubble on his neck, no need to look good since the apocalypse was arriving. As he slid into a rickety folding chair, Wilson took a loud gulp from the aluminum can. A small drop of sauce fell on his plastic hiking vest. Absentmindedly, Wilson took his finger to the splotch and sucked on his fingertip. This process had become routine.

Wilson Fort tapped the clunky spacebar on the keyboard before him and slapped the side of the large computer monitor. Slowly the outdated tower began to whir, filling Wilson’s basement with a sickly hum. While others wasted their money on a wide variety of disposable electronics, Wilson Fort stuck to the desktop he had purchased in 1995. The screen in front of him took its time to warm up.

Gradually, the screen turned from black to a neon blue, casting the already cold, dark basement with its light. Fort squinted and adjusted his glasses. He should have gotten a new pair by now, but what was the use?

His pointy nose nearly touched the screen as he hunched forward to see.

He was looking at a clock. Simple, ugly, 8-bit, the clock on the screen was counting down. It was counting down to the end of the world. And it had nearly struck zero.

Wilson Fort had no idea how the world was going to end. But from what he had seen of people and places outside his basement, he knew that it was inevitable. The end of life could come from nature he thought; maybe solar flares would cook them all, or a meteor would smash life away. The hippies might be right and global warming could stifle life with the blaze. Perhaps the apocalypse was actually judgment day, proving the angry man on the street corner to speak the truth- that Jesus was coming back. Fort favored the idea of a financial apocalypse. He wasn’t quite sure how a stock market crash could end life, but he felt that somehow it would trigger the end. But then again, maybe war would kill everyone before the stock market had the chance. However the end would come, Wilson knew that he had exactly four minutes and thirty-two seconds before it happened. Thirty-one. Thirty.

In fact, Wilson was glad that the world was finally ending. He hated people. He hated the polluted place called earth and the toxic inhabitants called humans. That’s why he had the clock to give him hope. There was no questioning when doomsday would arrive because he could simply look at the blue screen with its white numbers, and know exactly how long he had.

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Breathing out a relieved sigh, Wilson leaned back in his squeaky chair.

He scanned the room around him. He had spent most of the past eighteen years in this basement. Since then, the people on the floor above him had varied. At first it was his mom, then it was his cousin, now it was empty.

But no matter who lived upstairs, Wilson Fort resided in his lair. The room itself was a mess, with a deflating air mattress in the moldy corner, an unkempt bathroom across from the mattress, and a sea of trash, clothes, and books in between. Fort let out a chuckle, realizing that this is the last place he will ever know. Beautiful.

Fort took another swig of the cold franks and beans. Over the past years, he had become a professional at drinking from cans. As usual, a heavy drop fell on his vest. Wilson wiped the drop with his index finger and stuck it in his mouth. Something was different. Did he taste blood?

Wilson immediately felt the inside of his top lip. He pulled his hand away to find his fingertips stained crimson. Had he cut his lip on the can?

He hadn’t done that in nearly eighteen years.

Then it hit him. He was bleeding. Bleeding. Life was literally draining from his body. The moments slowed and Wilson’s head spun. Wilson Fort had forgotten that he was alive. Frantically, he focused his eyes on the screen again. Two minutes and three seconds. Two. One. He had so little time left. And he had wasted it all. He spent every day slaving over his clock. Staring at a predictable screen. He had eaten nasty food, smoked heavily, and touched no one. He hadn’t spoken to another human in the past two years. Wilson ran to his bathroom, grabbed some toilet paper and pressed it against his bleeding lip. He dashed back to the clock. He wasn’t ready to die.

But there was no disputing the fact, his clock was almost to zero and the world ended when the clock hit zero. Wilson Fort realized that it didn’t matter if he wanted to live. Fort had told himself for the past eighteen years that the apocalypse was coming. He had nearly two decades to realize that when the world ended, so did his life. But it never occurred to him. He had ten seconds left. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three.

Two. One. Wilson Fort slumped to the concrete floor. His body would soon be as cold as the basement floor and as blue as the light of the computer screen. Outside of his house, the preacher shouted with red-faced fervor, calling the passersby to repentance; televisions were filled with the talking heads of business people who predicted economic meltdown; and a group of longhaired, bearded picketers protested to fight global warming.

Yet it took over a month for anyone to find out that Wilson Fort died, and that the world had already ended.

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Flight Position Kim Klein

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Cancer Jessica Stafford Before I had it, I never knew.

I can’t get that, can this be true?

You have cancer, that’s what they said.

Without surgery soon, you could be dead.

They removed the tumor from my brainstem, Just as you would, a leaf from a limb.

All sorts of treatments that made me sick I didn’t choose this, I didn’t pick.

It’s like the flu, two years straight through.

The side effects, were more than few.

I lost every hair upon my head, They all just lay there on my bed.

Struggling through, I saw the light.

You better bet, I fought my fight.

It’s over now, I’m as good as new.

As for the world, I have a different view.

Cancer took two years of my life.

And caused me lots of trouble and strife.

Life goes by in the blink of an eye Just be happy, no time to cry.

You’d never think your life could go, Just as quickly as the winter’s snow.

And now with each breath I take, A difference in the world I’ll make.

So like a blue bird flying high, I’ll spread my wings and off I’ll fly, Forevermore into the sky.

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Tug of War Cody Robb And again it goes on, That silly clash between My dog and myself, Where we try to test which one of us Has what it takes to tear This cotton stitched alligator Apart. Always the same: no winner or loser, Though we both try- heaving and hoeing, Teeth and fingers clenched at each other, Rolling out an emphatic growl.

“Why continue, you know how it will end” “Why continue? You know how it will end,” Asks my rational mind in a whisper. Yet, We continue to go at it, both knowing That she could take one fatal leap Right for my jugular And have it all be hers.

Likewise, in a fit of rage I could give One tight pull and send her whizzing Out the house into the frost bitten air.

But oddly enough, that’s what neither of us do.

Maybe that’s not what it’s about, This war between us.

-Like how in a game of chess, The sacred silence between the moves Seems better than the cold and sudden “checkmate.”

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Or when rising early one winter morning, With the sleep rubbed fresh out of your eyes, You stand before your window Admiring the snow as it softly falls, Painting the portrait before you, beautiful and ephemeral As a Buddhist’s mandala.-

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Rain’s Demise Bridgette Hurte

White billowing clouds suddenly churn Darkness builds, turning them a grayish-blue Like a bellyache rain slowly forms then bursts and breaks through First hundreds, now millions of tiny beads of water plunge Falling down past the sky with urgency Some over the mountains, the hills, the valleys with great speed Others cower and linger amid the welcoming trees But the most determined single-minded unwavering drops, free fall with fatal anticipation No time to waste Faster! Faster! The sound the rain makes as it crashes then collides Devoured by the voracious yet murky water below Inevitably the rain permeates the sea to bulging Its satiated final resting place

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Feeding Time Carl D. Jones

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11 Months 16 Days after Goodbye Casey Mask

I watch that show now … that show you didn’t like.

The one that made your mom laugh when she was drunk – Which was always.

I watch that show you wouldn’t let me watch, And I sing that song you hated. I sing it whenever I want.

And I do not watch your shows. And I do not sing your songs.

I cut off all my hair, and I never felt so free.

I cut it on your birthday.

All five years of you … I cut it off.

It belongs to some lady with cancer now.

She needs it more than I do.

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The Cocoon Hannah Graham

Still no moth today.

The swiftly spun encasement remains sealed and silent.

I had never considered this but a cocoon must be dark.

It must be tight.

It must be so confining that the metamorphosing moth wonders how much longer she can fight.

Maybe sometimes it seems she will never escape.

Maybe, she thinks, she began too late and will overwinter all alone.

She misses the sun and the moon and, yes, even the hungry-eyed birds.

Anything besides herself.

But all she can do all she can really do is wish and pray and cry and know: in a month, in a week or tomorrow she will fly.

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Shroom Bill Williams

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From the Darkness Tanner Osborn 1 Arrival The night air cut harshly through the trees, whistling and screaming as it carried the crisp iciness of the fresh winter. The dark clouds were illuminated by the full moon, the light of which cast an ethereal glow throughout the colony of Roanoke as the waves nearby crashed quietly against the cliff bank.

His breathing was rapid, his lungs aching from the coldness of the night and the length of the run. His eyes bulged with a combination of terror and fatigue as he burst from behind the trees and made his way to the colony at a fierce pace. His feet pounded loudly against the ground in synch with his desperate gulps for air.

He slid to a halt, nearly charging into a high fence near the colony’s church. His veins throbbed as if ready to burst, his vision blurring with his violent pulse rate as he quickly pivoted to look behind him and face his pursuer.

“Nothing,” he panted, his eyes darting along the trees in a paranoid frenzy. “No, not nothing. You can see me, you always can. Always watching, always staring. Where are you?”

As if on cue, a shape emerged from the tree-line with an unnatural slowness, halting altogether the very instant that he noticed it. From the distance, he could not make it out, but he knew all too well what it was and what it wanted. He had seen it already and now could never be free of it.

“Aye, there you are,” he spat, his voice rising in something between horror and anticipation. “What’re you waiting on, you bastard?

What’s keeping you so still?”

The shape remained entirely stationary, as it always had when he had faced it. Had he ever once noticed it move? Even as it had appeared from amongst the trees, he had seen no movement. It simply transitioned its very existence from empty space and pure darkness into this entity that had pursued him now for two days.

He darted to the side, hoping to escape its gaze, rolling desperately to put a nearby house between him and its view line. How long could he keep this up? Every night it had gotten closer, never moving but always watching. What would happen when it reached him? What fate had the other members of his camp suffered?

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He burst to the wooden house, peeking his head around the wall. His eyes darted wildly around the trees in rapid bursts. Where was it?

For that matter, what was that sound? It was slow but steady, a constant scratching. Almost as if a carpenter were sanding away at a board. What would make that sound? Unless…

He whirled around to see the shape standing by the fence he’d nearly run into, his eyes widening in terror as they followed its unnaturally long arm and fingers to see that they were resting on the fencepost.

The shape faded slowly away, leaving only a thick cloud of oozing darkness to wisp itself into the night like liquid smoke. How long had the transformation taken? Was it ever there, or was the shape simply an illusion created by that living darkness?

He inched forward to the fencepost, the color draining from his face as he read the solitary word it had carved into the thick wood. He himself had uttered it only two days prior, and now the other members of his party were gone.

“You let me live,” he gasped, his knees growing so weak as to entirely abandon their ability to support his body. He fell hard to the ground in front of the church. “You let me live…so I would lead you here.”

Like a moth to a flame. His stomach curled, his throat muscles contracting into an involuntary gag. Repeatedly, his nerves forced his body to heave in this manner until he finally vomited. He forced himself to stand, careful not to touch the fencepost as he did so for fear the word may in some way infect him with the darkness that it brought, and dragged himself behind the fence.

He collapsed behind the church, landing in the densest of vegetation he could find. Two days of horrific insomnia had drained away his energy.

His eyes closed despite his best efforts to prevent this reaction, and the word echoed through his mind.

From atop the church, the shape loomed over him, watching intently as he drifted into slumber. Its limbs, unnaturally long and slender, were held in an eerily erect manner that somehow still appeared relaxed as its neck bent at a perfect ninety-degree angle to gaze downward at its collapsed victim.

It had existed long before the earth or the sun, and yet had never had any form of existence. It had merely been a part of the abyss that existed before Light. Yet, with Light had come shadows. And from the Darkness, one shadow had willed itself into existence, desperately struggling simply to be real, tangible…alive.

It had never understood “life” or what it would have to do to obtain it.

But the more it drained it away, the more souls it pulled into the abysmal being that had forced its way from the Darkness, the closer to human its 36

Nature 2 Nada Aleryani

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appearance had become. And yet, no matter how close it became, its body was never right, it was never human. It was never meant to be real, and so, because it was no part of nature, it could only maintain a cruel façade of a natural form.

How it longed to be a living, breathing creature, to taste what it was never meant to have: life. And until it had it, until it could freely and openly exist among the souls before it, it would never stop.

Its body lost its grip on its human-like form and it melted slowly back into the Darkness from which it was born, blacker than pitch, thick and oozing, yet somehow light as a feather, and vanished into the night…

2 Roanoke The sunrise brought little warmth, simply adding a more crisp appearance to the winter’s cold atmosphere in place of warding it away.

The wind had died down but remained icy in its nature as it gently wound its way between the houses of the poorly-fortified colony.

The citizens of Roanoke had not been stirred long from their slumber, slowly getting about their day-to-day lives in their usual manner.

Nathaniel Carver scratched briefly at his lightly-bearded face as he made his way along the dirt street towards the general goods store. All goods had been running low, so everybody had made certain to receive only the bare minimum, not affording themselves even the slightest luxury. But this was a special day.

Behind him raced his daughter, Molly, in an excited fashion. Today marked her eighth birthday and he had promised to get her something special, though he had little idea of what might constitute as special with the limited selection of wares in the town.

The two of them reached the oaken steps of the store’s porch and stepped into the small room. The store smelled a bit strongly of wood and leather and was remarkably dark in the early morning hours. Carver was aware that he and Molly would be the first customers of the day, and he was also aware that the store’s owner would not be expecting them so early.

“Morning there, Nathaniel.” The cheery voice had come from a short, plump man with a rapidly receding line of red-blonde hair and somehow still healthy mutton chops. Carver had known this man since he was but a child, and the man had somehow managed to always maintain this image.

“What might I be doing for you at this hour?”

“A good one to you, Mr. Barker.” Carver smiled at the man his father had been such close friends with. “In truth, I’ve come to try and beat the 38

rush and find my pet here a birthday present.”

He patted Molly on the back and she smiled broadly in that excited manner that is all too often lost after one comes to maturity, her bright blonde hair bouncing as her body rocked from her father’s strong display of affection.

“A birthday?” Barker grinned. “How well you treat your little pets, Nathaniel, even the scraggily ones. And how old is it you’ve lasted to, little Molly?”

Molly smiled, holding up her hands. “Eight years today, sir. And Papa promised I could have a present for it.”

“A present, eh?” Barker scratched at his chops slowly. “Not much to be given in Roanoke, I’m afraid. Running low on everything, prices beating at the roof and what-not.”

Carver saw Molly visibly deflate, and so did Barker. The little girl was accustomed to having only the truest of necessities, and had always been strong for it. Christmas had provided her with nothing the past year, every coin being saved to allow them passage to the Roanoke Island to join the colony and perhaps make a new start. She understood that there were several ways of saying no.

Quincy Barker was an oxymoron of a man: so cheap that when he heard a pebble strike his porch, he would check to see that it was not a coin, and yet a generous man at heart. He clucked his tongue at the little girl’s forlorn visage and a shadow of pity wrapped itself around his face.

“But, for a pretty little thing like you, I may have just the thing.” Barker grinned, coming from behind his counter and making his way to the back of the store. “A couple of natives came by awhile back and traded me something for a cup of sugar. It was a poor trade, but I see that the Lord was watching for your birthday.”

He came forward with a small doll in true native fashion, its leather clothes covered in small turquoise beads. Molly’s eyes lit up at the sight of it. She didn’t have any dolls.

“Now, I don’t suppose you’ve got this one already, have you?” Barker asked, coming behind the counter again to look down at the blonde child.

Molly shook her head, smiling excitedly as he sat the doll on the counter. She even had a hairbrush at their house that might fix the tangles in the doll’s mane of coarse black hair.

“Well…how much for it?” Carver asked, reaching into his pockets to feel his precious little amount of money. He had to make it last enough to get supplies for the home before he could afford the gift.

Barker eyed Carver knowingly, then eyed the little girl. “I tell you what, Nathaniel. Buy yourself what you need for your home, sugar or flour or what-not.”

39

“Flour.” Carver interrupted. “Flour and a pinch of salt. If you’d hold the doll, I can pay you when we get more to our name. Or maybe you’d be willing to barter?”

Barker thought a moment and continued. “Buy your flour and salt, and then three candied yams. If you can afford that, then I’ll throw the doll in for free and call it a birthday gift for old-times’ sakes.”

Carver stared momentarily, his jaw clenching slightly. “I can pay you back for it.”

“No need.”

“Please, Papa?” Molly tugged at his shirt, her saddened eyes growing hopeful.

“Oh, come now, Nathaniel.” Barker smiled. “How could you say no to that pretty thing on her birthday?”

“Alright, alright.” Carver swallowed his pride and patted his daughter’s head as her face broke into an overjoyed smile. “Sack of flour, pinch of salt, three candied yams. And an Indian doll.”

“How quickly you go from your proud old father to the generous boy you always were,” Barker smiled. “There’s your goods, one yam for you and two for your daughter. And this,” he smiled as he extended the doll toward Molly’s outstretched hands, “is for little Molly Carver herself.”

Carver emptied his pockets entirely to pay for the goods. He hadn’t a coin to his name now. “Has anybody sent for supplies yet?”

“Aye, should be already on the way to us,” Barker nodded. “Just got to give them time to cross the sea to us. Be a happy day when they arrive, I tell you. This scarcity of goods is bad for business.”

“I’d imagine so.”

“Well, you have yourself a good day, Nathaniel.” Barker patted him heavily on the shoulder. “And, um, give my best regards to Madeline when next you visit the cemetery. I pray for you.”

Carver’s face grew grave at the mention of his wife’s name. “Aye, we can use those prayers. Thank you, Mr. Barker. Enjoy your day.”

Molly hugged her doll tightly to herself and popped a candied yam into her mouth, sucking on it vigorously, knowing that if she bit down, the candy would be gone. Her father handed her the other two yams with a smile and lifted the flour onto his shoulder and made his way out the door.

Today marked three months since his wife had died, leaving him alone to fend for Molly and ensure her well-being. He silently thanked her for giving him the beautiful little girl who followed him so closely now.

The two stepped out into the cold air, taking in a deep breath that nearly froze their lungs. This would be their first winter in Roanoke, but they had taken every precaution available to ensure that they would last it 40

out: stocking up large amounts of flour and meal, stockpiling wood, making certain their four walls held back the wind.

Everybody had done so, but nobody had taken any more than would likely be necessary. Carver was certain they would all end up sharing with one another, the same as they did already with any work to be done. It was a silent rule in the colony: when your day’s labor is done, spend the rest helping the next man finish his.

“This is Roanoke.” Carver sighed. “A fresh start with good people.

Come along, Molly.”

3 Croatoan The quiet morning was suddenly broken as a high-pitched wail erupted, screeching through the air like the cry of a banshee. Carver and Molly jumped, startled at the unearthly sound, as Barker came flying out the door of the shop.

“God in Heaven, man, what’s that commotion?” Barker exclaimed, looking wildly to either side of the porch as if expecting to see an apparition rise from the dust.

“I couldn’t say,” Carver replied as the sound shrieked through the cold air again, “but it’s coming from the way of the church.”

Carver set forward at as fast a pace as he could manage without leaving Molly behind, Barker passing him in a hurry toward the church.

The cries had grown much louder already, and a crowd of colonists were pouring toward the area.

Within moments, the church was in view, and with it came the alarming spectacle that had produced the scream: a man, ragged and disheveled with his eyes wide and bloodshot, was clinging desperately to a fencepost, pressing his body flat against it and shrieking at anybody who came near him.

By his side stood the colony’s minister, Reverend Grisham, in an obvious fury.

“What have you done to defile the house of God Almighty?” Grisham roared even louder than the man screamed. “Remove yourself at once, blasphemer!”

“To hell with you!” The man cried, tightening his grip on the post. “I’m saving your bloody lives!”

Jonathon Bradshaw and his son Lucas came striding forward.

Jonathon was slightly older than Carver and was a very well-known hunter. His son, though young, was quickly following in his father’s footsteps.

41

“Well, well, Reverend.” Jonathon whistled. “Looks like he doesn’t care much for your word. Imagine that.”

Lucas turned his head to Carver and Barker. “Maybe a bit of help, gentlemen?”

Carver sat his sack of flour on the ground. “Stay here, Molly.” With that, he and Barker quickly followed the other two to the side of the man.

“Now sir,” began Jonathon. “We’re going to have to ask you to remove yourself from this property. We don’t know you, and you’re no part of this colony. I’m sure you can understand how poor of a first impression you’re making.”

“Piss off!” The man replied, his red eyes darting wildly around the men who’d surrounded him. “All of you just leave me be!”

“So you won’t move?” Jonathon asked, rolling up the sleeves of his leather shirt.

“I told you piss off!”

Jonathon looked to Carver and Barker. “Well, shall we peel him off, gents?”

They each grabbed hold of the man, ripping his arms from the post.

He instantly flew into a frenzy, shrieking and kicking, his strength and demeanor belying his desperation as the strangers tore him from his post.

His boot struck squarely into Barker’s stomach, doubling him over and causing him to lose his grip.

“No!” The man shrieked, lunging wildly from the others to charge back to the post. “You mustn’t read it! You can’t!”

Carver caught him around the waist and Jonathon lifted his legs. The two of them pulled the man parallel to the ground, his arms clinging with unreal strength to the post.

“No! You can’t! You can’t!” The man screamed, his legs flailing in a desperate attempt to free themselves of the vice-like grasp of Jonathon Bradshaw.

With a glance back at Jonathon to warn him of what was about to happen, Carver jerked viciously at his quarry, ripping his arms away from the post and allowing him to fall face-first to the ground, his mouth open and screaming as he collided with the hard winter’s earth.

The man’s screams flowed seamlessly into sobs, his hands sliding under his face, shoveling dirt as they went. The colonists stared at the strange spectacle as his sobs grew in intensity until they evolved into pitiful wails, sheer agony in an utterly unbearable verbal form.

Carver glared down at the man, and as he did, his anger melted into pity. He almost felt ashamed to have gained this strange victory over the poor soul on the ground before them all.

“What is this all about?” Carver asked, feeling the eyes of the colonists 42

growing heavy upon him as he knelt by the sobbing man. He looked up and saw Molly watching in confusion, her mouth filled with the second candied yam. “Come now, there’s surely no harm to be had in saying your part.”

“Don’t,” the man sobbed, his words gargled and mangled through the blood and dirt that had filled his mouth. “Don’t read it…don’t read the word…you mustn’t.”

Carver turned and glared accusingly at the word on the post.

He’d never seen nor heard any such a word.

“Did you write this?”

“No, I would never.”

Barker grumbled quietly as he came to the post, his pride wounded a pinch more than his stomach. “What manner of word is this? Something of the native languages?”

Carver shrugged as Lucas Bradshaw took a look at it. “Why shouldn’t we read it? Is it profane?”

Molly, who could not read, felt something as she looked upon the carved post, something….dreadful. To her small eyes, there seemed to be something crawling over the letters.

They weren’t carved into the wood as a knife might do. It almost looked as though they had always been there, like the oak itself had borne them from the beginning. A blackness such as she’d never seen was moving slowly over each letter, tracing the entire word. Some deep, unnatural sludge creeping into the very fibers of the wood.

The minister pushed his way past them. “What villainy: vandalizing these holy grounds. And what does it mean? Nothing!” He pivoted, facing his congregation. “This is naught but foolishness and gibe! Disgusting filth dancing forth from the hand of this blasphemous wretch with no purpose other than to profane the church!”

The colonists began to stir and murmur uncomfortably, their eyes piercing the body of the weeping man before them like daggers poised to slaughter the outsider.

The man raised his head, his eyes locking on the word as tears fell from them to mingle with the grime caked upon his face. His mouth trembled, as if remembering the time he’d uttered it, blood dripping from his gashed and bleeding lips.

Reverend Grisham stomped his foot directly in the man’s view, narrowly avoiding catching his face in the violent motion.

“What nonsense!”

Jonathon Bradshaw furrowed his brow. “I think that’s enough, Reverend. Something about this is giving me a chill.”

43

“Aye.” Barker nodded, tapping his knuckles against the post. “He seems pretty terrified of this carving.”

Carver looked up briefly at the post and then back to the man. “What does that mean? Do you know who carved it?”

The man shook his head rapidly. “I don’t know what it means or what it was that carved it. It’s no man, but it is already watching us. It’s always watching, always watching, always watching…”

He continued repeating the phrase, his voice shifting back into the sobs. His body began trembling, his head sinking back to the ground.

Reverend Grisham shook his head in facetious sorrow. “It’s madness that drives this poor fool before us. Likely there is no meaning to this word whatsoever, simply the ravings of a lunatic.”

Lucas Bradshaw read the word silently to himself. “Maybe if we said it, it would break his lunacy?”

Instantly, the man began his shrieking anew. His cries were far higher now, his body lunging from its prostrate position toward Lucas.

Jonathon, Carver, and Barker caught him easily, his flailing body growing visibly feebler with every passing second as fatigue seemed to wash over him in a torrent of spontaneous exhaustion.

As they held him still, Reverend Grisham leaned his face until it was only inches from the captured soul. “Croatoan.”

4 Darkness Lightning cracked violently, shredding the calm sky in an instant transformation as deep, black storm clouds raced from the trees to black out the sun. The gentle wind unleashed its latent fury and howled as it subdued even the sturdiest of the trees until they aimed their every branch toward the colony. The ocean waters grew black with the sky and roared as they pounded against the island of Roanoke.

Darkness reached from the shadows of each tree, blackness crawling from beneath every stone and pebble within the colony to spread its way across the grounds. The earth appeared almost wet with the unnatural shade; its deep, sable appearance liquidating the landscape in such a manner that one might believe the colony would sink.

Carver loosed his grip on their quarry and lifted his eyes to the turbulent sky as thunder shook the entirety of the island. He could see nothing above them but black, sheer and pitch.

“Papa!” Molly’s small legs carried her as quickly as they were able to her father, who scooped her up into his arms, one hand over her head 44

protectively. “What’s happening?”

He patted her head, ruffling her blonde hair. “I…I don’t know, Molly.

I’m sure it’s just some sort of island weather that we’re not familiar with.”

He worried that she would sense the deceit but she seemed to feel somewhat safer.

His eyes darted in confusion to Barker, but Barker’s eyes were as blank as his own. The wind pressed against them so heavily that he nearly lost his footing.

“What is this?” The reverend rounded on the nameless man, who had become entirely silent. “What have you brought upon us?”

Jonathon Bradshaw stepped between the two. “Look at you: a minister showing his true temperament the moment something he’s never seen appears. He did warn us quite a few times not to say that word and it was you who did it.”

The minister stepped back, taken aback by Jonathon’s direct response.

Jonathon turned to the man they had so violently apprehended. “Do you have a name to you?”

“Peter.” The man almost seemed to choke on the words. “My name is Peter Thompson. I was a sailor. We were marooned here some time ago.

We found that word carved into a tree.”

Lightning cracked above them again, striking a house nearby and sending a blinding blue light throughout the colony.

Colonists cried out in terror, looking to the minister out of developed instinct.

“To the church.” Reverend Grisham yelped, racing to the large structure and opening the doors. “Everybody in.”

As the crowd converged upon the spot, filtering into the church’s sturdy walls, rain began to fall heavily. The wind picked up, flying haphazardly throughout the church.

“What is that?” Barker asked loudly, pointing toward the trees.

Carver, after placing Molly in a pew, turned to follow the indicated line. He squinted through the rain, but somehow he didn’t feel that he needed to. Something was most certainly there.

Along the trees, it stood and watched, its visually stretched and distorted frame perfectly statuesque despite the violent weather. It knew they could see it, it had no intention of hiding.

Jonathon and Lucas Bradshaw stepped forward.

“See it?” Lucas pointed.

“Aye,” Jonathon answered, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Let’s get the rifles and put an end to it, shall we?”

“Can you even shoot in this weather?” Carver asked, his eyes never 45

leaving the shape. Something didn’t feel right about this; it was too still, too calm in this chaos.

As if it belonged. As if it had always been a part of it.

“Can’t reload,” Jonathon replied calmly. “But two guns means two shots. Both of us are crack-shots, so I doubt we miss twice. Not to boast.”

“Of course not,” Barker grinned as the two raced into their home.

All eyes were on the pair as they exited the home and broke into a full run toward the shape near the trees. It never moved, almost as if the presence of the two men, armed with their loaded muskets, was of no consequence. Within moments, they were out of visual range…

Jonathon, being somewhat in the lead, stopped and knelt. Lucas had already halted his pace and taken aim. The two had done this numerous times before and were very familiar with the motions.

The crack of the musket was scarcely audible over the downpour and squall, the ball whistling through the air above Jonathon’s head. He heard something over the wind, a type of cracking sound that he knew to mean that the ball had made contact.

His eyes had never left the shape they pursued, and it had never moved. Had the ball not struck it? Had Lucas missed and hit a tree?

He rose and raced forward at a full run. He was closing ground quickly, but it seemed too quickly. Was it moving as well, coming to meet his charge? He could not make out any movement in it, but it was definitely coming closer. Too close.

Jonathon halted altogether, raising his musket in preparation. Had he closed that much ground already?

He fired, knowing his aim was true; he heard the ball strike its target. It gave not so much as a tremble.

He lowered his musket, his jaw dropping in disbelief. It had never moved, he had gauged his distance with the type of professional skill that came with years of experience…and yet now the barrel of his musket was pressed firmly against it.

His eyes climbed and locked upon it…

Lucas heard the beginnings of a cry, and then his father simply vanished. He froze, eyes wide in terror as his father’s clothes hovered momentarily in their position before falling silently to the ground.

Terror filled his mind, his hands completely losing their grasp on the musket and allowing it to crash to the ground as he whirled around and blindly bolted back toward the church. Was it following?

The thought brought forth a fresh new wave of horror, his legs suddenly overcome by a latent strength he was unfamiliar with.

46

The church was already in view, he was closing the distance for more swiftly than he had thought possible. He could hear his feet slapping hard against the soaked ground, feel the water dripping from his hair into his eyes to blur his vision.

His lungs were throbbing, his head swimming with this new awareness as his pulse pounded into his temples. Something was wrong: his legs were moving too quickly for his body to stay atop them.

He stumbled, the toe of one foot striking the heel of the other and sending his body rolling to the ground…

The colonists could barely make out the figure of Lucas rolling to the ground, flipping himself onto his back and rapidly shuffling towards the church.

His hands raised in what appeared to be defense and then…where was he?

Carver squinted against the tempestuous elements. Lucas had just been right there, how could he not be seen now.

“Wait,” he said to himself, his eyes focusing. Something was lying there in a heap, soaking in the rain. What was there?

“His clothes,” Peter murmured. “You see his clothes. It…takes you. I don’t know where, I don’t know why, I don’t know how. But it does. It watches and follows and never stops and then you’re just…gone.”

Barker turned to him. “So how is it you’re here then?”

Peter’s bloodshot eyes grew wide, filling until they spilled their tears.

“It followed us, the entire crew. We kept seeing it, but it seemed harmless enough. But every night, it appeared closer, like it was biding its time.

Then one night, it came out of the darkness and everybody was…they were just gone. Nothing but clothes. I ran and ran and ran and….and…”

He was overcome with sobs, his head lowering to his hands as his body shook with his violent weeping, memories overtaking his mind.

“How unmanly,” Reverend Grisham spat.

Carver’s frayed nerves snapped at the minister’s cruel words. “Book of Saint John, eleventh chapter, thirty-fifth verse.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Grisham snapped, his eyes locking with Carver’s.

“Jesus wept,” Carver replied quickly. “In this darkness, you seem to be so much less a man of God as a coward.”

The minister fell silent as the harshness of his own demeanor was rounded upon him. He stepped back, grinding his teeth.

“And what?” Barker asked, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

Peter’s face twisted itself into an expression of such anguish that Carver was momentarily overpowered by pity and placed an arm around 47

the poor soul’s shoulders.

“And…” Peter sobbed. “And it followed me here.”

5 Outside Carver’s arm slowly removed itself from the man who had brought forth such a pity from him only moments before as Barker’s hand quickly left his shoulder.

The minister did not waste this momentary shift in affairs.

“Wretched outsider!” Grisham barked, feeling his position strengthened by the shock of Peter’s revelation. “Cast him out! Send forth he that brought this…this abomination of Satan upon us!”

“I seem to remember you being the one to call the word,” Barker bellowed over the commotion of the colonists, silencing them instantly.

“You, Reverend, not him.”

The reverend’s face was ashen, his eyes wide in horror as his hand came over his mouth.

Barker felt the silence of the room growing intensely heavier as every set of eyes came upon him. Or were they upon him?

“Quincy,” Carver whispered, his voice hoarse in its fear. “Quincy… come…here.”

Barker pivoted slowly to see the shape looming over him from where he stood near the entrance. Before he had been allotted the time to make even the smallest of sounds, his body vanished in a plume of what appeared to be smoke, pitch black wisps gliding through his clothing and then upward to the solid wall of black that had become the sky and consumed their world.

The shape had gone as well, fading silently into the darkness as simply and quickly as it had appeared. Had it ever been there? Had the squall simply played a trick on their minds?

“Papa?” Molly’s head poked from the pew where she had been placed.

“Where is Mr. Barker?”

Carver’s lips trembled. “He’s…he’s gone, Molly.”

Molly’s eyes streamed tears. “To Heaven? Like Mama?”

Carver could not bring himself to tell her that he was unsure, and so he simply nodded.

Peter inched forward. “I’ll see if I can lead it out. I’ll close the doors behind me and you should be safe for a time.”

48

Architecture Nada Aleryani

49

Grisham scoffed, “Be quick about it.”

Peter nodded, breaking into a run as he left the entrance, quickly slamming the doors closed behind him.

The room was silent for some time, all eyes leaving the door to close themselves in silent, but fierce, prayer for salvation from the predatory darkness.

As they prayed, the doors opened so slowly as to prevent any sound from escaping.

Only Molly’s little eyes took notice, looking out into the darkness to see a figure she had only the faintest memories of having seen before.

“Molly?” Madeline’s voice was not muffled in the slightest.

“Mama?”

The woman smiled, a warm and pleasant smile. “Won’t you come and show me your new dolly?”

Molly stepped out the door, pushing it slightly more open on her way…

6 Protection Carver turned his head as the door creaked open further to allow the weather inside.

“Molly?” He asked, his eyes scanning the room and the outside area for the missing girl. “Molly!”

He ran for the door, Grisham hurrying to pass him and slam it violently shut.

“Out of my way!” Carver roared.

“Both doors are to remain closed until the Lord sees it in His infinite mercy to send the devil back into its pit,” Grisham hissed. “Would you bring it in here? Place all your brethren in the bowels of Hell?”

Carver’s rage ignited a fire within him that he had never before felt.

“Damn you, Grisham, my daughter is somewhere out there with that… thing! And if you don’t get out of my way this instant, I’ll send you to Hell before it gets the fucking chance!”

A hush came over the entirety of the group.

“Such profanity in the house of God…” Grisham shook his head sadly.

“I pity you, Nathaniel Carver, I do. Go then to Hell on your own accord.”

Grisham pressed lightly on the door, but it flew open violently to give Carver his first clear sight of the shape that had stalked them this whole time.

It stood easily four heads above Grisham, its body resembling something human, though far too long and slender in its torso and limbs.

50

Its bald head had no ears and was a sickening, slimy pale shade of grey, having only slight curves in place of facial features such as a nose and lips.

What he most noticed was that rather than eyes, it simply had rough black pits, orbital entrances to a shade of black that, in comparison, made the darkness outside appear as bright as day, that same black, oozing smoke flowing endlessly from them. There was nothing in those eyes, nothing whatsoever but soulless, empty darkness.

Grisham stared at it, a single long, monotone cry escaping his terrified lips as it lowered its face to his with a slowness so foreign that it appeared to have never moved at all.

Grisham’s face appeared blurry, as if a fresh painting smudged by the artist’s hand by mistake. The blur of color seemed to stretch itself, flowing left and right from the body to which it belonged. Suddenly, Grisham vanished in a cloud of that same blackness that filled the shape’s eyes.

It turned its face, its eyes the perfect image of Grisham’s as it gazed at Carver. It had done it: it was real to them, a being with a soul and existence.

But as it faced them, its eyes began to turn black and run thickly from their sockets, black sludge inching down its face. Its incredibly long fingers touched the liquid that it knew to be the sign that it still did not have life, and it faded into the darkness, clearing the way for Carver to race after Molly…

Peter ran blindly through the trees, catching glimpses of it here and there in the corner of his eyes. It had always been so still, how was it moving so fast?

He dodged around one tree and another, circling around and heading back toward the colony in hopes of throwing it from his trail.

He could see something in the rain…a little girl. Why was she out there? No, it was a trick. It could trick him, he knew that.

He turned his path and abruptly halted. He could see it in the trees, high up as though it were a branch itself. And then it was gone.

He knew what had happened: he had been trapped, manipulated into the very position where it could take him on its way to the little girl.

Peter Thompson turned his face, his bloodshot eyes and bleeding lips, to the little girl, but all he would see were those empty pits, crevices that led to a darkness blacker than Hell itself…

The remaining colonists were silent in their prayers, praying endlessly for protection with every fiber of their beings.

Upon the cross which stood in the front of the room, a blackness began to bubble and writhe, giving physical form to an abomination of 51

nature, its arms outstretched in mockery of the man that it knew them to be seeking protection from.

As one set of eyes came upon it, a high-pitched shriek erupted, followed by the terrified voices of each colonist, until a rhapsody of horror sang out to it.

And then all was silent…

Carver heard the haunting cries from the church behind him as he ran.

“It buys me time.” He gasped, running as quickly as the waning strength of his legs would allow.

The rain pounded against his face, stinging his eyes as the roar of the downpour deafened his ears. He knew where Molly would have gone, knew where he had to go, and knew how this would end.

He was nearing his home, and as expected, he could see Molly sitting in the mud. It was behind her, looking down at her with what he imagined to be an extremely keen interest.

This was not terror that he felt, not fear nor worry. It was a pure desire, a primal instinct to give his very last effort to offer protection to his little girl.

The unknown emotion sent new life surging through his body and he reached her easily, sliding to hold her to his chest in the tightest embrace he had ever offered, tears of joy rushing from his eyes.

“Papa?” Molly spoke quietly into his chest.

“Yes, baby.” Carver wept. “Papa’s here, and I won’t let anything get you.

Nothing’s going to take you away from me.”

Molly’s voice was barely audible over the rain. “I saw Mama. She asked if I would show her my dolly. But when I ran outside, she wasn’t there.”

Carver nodded, not understanding, but simply accepting. “It’s alright.

We’ll see Mama soon, I promise. And we’ll all be together again, like we used to be.”

Molly pressed her head to his chest as she had as an infant to sleep, placing the last of her candied yams in her mouth and savoring its sweetness and Carver’s arms tightened their grip around her defensively.

Carver felt his blood stop flowing, darkness washing over his world as his lungs stopped breathing. The world was fluid now, not solid as it had been an instant before.

But none of that mattered because he could still feel Molly in his arms.

“Happy birthday, Molly.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

52

7 Peace The sun cast its pale light quietly across the earth. The wind whispered quietly through the trees as it wound its way throughout the island of Roanoke. The sea surrounding the island rustled gently against the banks.

Across the island, there was peace. A ship quietly docked itself on the beach nearby, its passengers carrying their cargo carefully as they made their way through the island trails, weaving between trees on their way to the colony.

They arrived to naught but silence. Each house was checked, the church, the store.

Nothing and nobody.

The only sign of life that could be found was a word carved on a fencepost near the church.

And from the darkness, it watched on. Quietly, it followed each passenger, traced each shadow, matched each footstep.

It was patient, it always had been. Someday, it would exist and be a part of their world. It would know the joys of Life and step out from Darkness and into Light‌

53

The Actress Carl D. Jones

54

Drumming Cody Robb

Do you believe in order? Do you believe in chaos?

Don’t we all start out a little shaky, feel a little foreign, When we first pick up the sticks; But eventually, after a long and awkward introduction, Beat out some kind of rhythm?

55

Cowboy Cody David Thomas Cauthen

I look into his face and wonder, What are his thoughts?

What are the important issues that cloud his tender mind?

Does he understand the problems that surround the safety of his home?

Does he know that one day very soon he will be responsible for everything he sees?

Can he comprehend the meaning of life?

For now, it is cowboy boots and cowboy hats, cowboy guns and rifles.

There is no need for the seriousness of life; there is no need of anything.

Someday he will grow up and he will understand.

But until that day, I will protect him.

I will defend him from all that is evil.

I will teach him all that is pure.

Now he rides off into the sunset, on a horse that Daddy made.

And with a twinkle in his eye He’ll look at me.

And I will say, “Ride on young man.”

“Ride on!”

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I Just Can’t Wait to Be King Haley Imhoff

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Wrought Iron and Spider Webs Christa S. Martin

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Mrs. Tiny Casey Leeann Lane Mrs. Tiny Looks up at the sky and blinks twice at the harsh, setting sun that has begun melting away behind the hills as the seductive, silky black sky starts to make its grand appearance.

Mrs. Tiny Loves the beautiful songs of the silent night with only the sweet wisdom of the moon’s cast to gently light the grounds for the haunts that live in the shadows to come out to play. The sun – or as Mrs. Tiny Refers to it, the Fire Demon – finally gives up and surrenders; Mrs. Tiny Smiles – if only she could – as the bright stars begin to freckle and distant choirs of coyotes howl in perfect unison.

Mrs. Tiny Looks over at her many children asleep close together in a bed that she handcrafted herself and she thinks, “Only dinner could make this moment any more wonderful.” Just then a small disturbance in her home causes her to glance left at a large June Fly caught in her labyrinth. “Perfect,” she sighed, as she danced across her web.

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Mountain Brook Stan Dickens

Change is constant Cool flowing ripples.

Gently nudging forward Tapping softly on pebbles.

The breeze of renewal.

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Thoughts Chelsea Marie Smith

My thoughts consume and change me.

Running wild, barefoot and dirty.

Weaving in and out of dark spaces of my mind, searching.

My thoughts are limitless and reckless.

They are heavy and inconceivable.

The weight crushes my shoulders, and I break at the knees.

I can’t control them, I can control them.

In the space of my mind, the darkness grows wings.

However contaminated and disheveled, They are Mine.

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Phoenix Friend Carl D. Jones

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The Notebook Chelsea Marie Smith

The notebook is jet black, spiral bound, beautiful. The crisp pages are empty, but inviting, and make me feel as though there is something waiting to be created there. As I run my hand over the first page, I hesitate to write. Will the words that I write be as beautiful as the idea of them? Will I be able to make these pages more beautiful with trails and teases of words and phrases? Or will the ever constant rambling that always seems to conquer take over and tarnish this notebook with uncontrollable and foolish thought? The notebook is so new and fresh. It is ready to absorb the words of its author. How could that possibly be me? The notebook stays empty and sits on the shelf, collecting dust. It is far too beautiful a dream to be mine.

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Tea for Two Chelsea Marie Smith In a small yellow kitchen in North Attleboro, Massachusetts, an old woman and an old man sit at a brown kitchen table. The old woman rises and walks toward the stove. Her tattered cotton night gown has faded to a barely-there shade of pink with age. She retrieves her teapot and shuffles to the sink, filling it to the brim before placing it on the stove. Her matching pink slippers are worn and scratch at the linoleum with each of her ritualistic movements. The old man is still sitting patiently at the table.

She then moves to the front door, retrieving their newspaper. She takes out her section, hands the old man the rest. He sits still. She looks at him, then moves off into the living room, emerging back into the kitchen with a pair of thickly-lensed glasses. The old man puts on his spectacles, crosses his legs, and begins to read his paper. The whistle blows and the old woman takes out two matching white teacups. She puts in two teabags, fills the cups and brings them to the table. She then moves to the freezer and gets two ice cubes, plopping them into the glasses. She sits back down with her paper. The old man remains fixed on his newspaper. They sit silently. The old woman then removes the teabags. She adds milk and Splenda to her cup and three tablespoons of sugar to the cup for the old man. She scoots his tea in front of him and gives him a spoon. She moves her tea in front of her, stirring, and looking at the old man. He pretends not to notice for a moment. Then, he folds the newspaper and puts it down on the table. They meet eyes and smile, both picking up their cups and waiting until the very same moment to take the first sip together.

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Baby Birds in Shoe Linda Hayes

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Untitled Jolina St. Pierre

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