Montage 2012 by Emmanuel Montage

form M O N TA G E M A G A Z I N E

TWO THOUSAND A N D T W E LV E

EDITORIAL STAFF Caleb Milligan Editor Jeanine Kleckley Co-Editor April Toney Assitant Editor/Layout Editor Chris Hair Faculty Sponsor Nathan Gilmour Faculty Sponsor Jessica Preskitt Layout Editor Jesse McDowell Prose Screener Julie McBath Prose Screener Sarah Major Poetry Screener Russell Whitehead Poetry Screener Saron Williamson Art Screener Carley Guillorn Art Screener

JUDGES Reginald McKnight Writing Judge Brent Chitwood Art Judge

S R E N IN POETRY

1ST PLACE: Me, The Mirror 40 2ND PLACE: Earth 22

PROSE

1ST PLACE: White Death 43 2ND PLACE: The Stranger Side of Rock and Roll 10

ART

1ST PLACE: Layers 64 2ND PLACE: Persistence 52

TA B L E O F CO N T E N T S

The Stranger Side of Rock and Roll

Never Took A Chance

Perspective

The Traveler

Perspective

Earth in the End

Burn The Barn, The Surplus Would Be Wasted

Alphabet Poem: S

Earth

I will lift my eyes

Psalm

The Beach

Crystal Dewdrops

Bloodsong

Conversations of a Coffee House

The Carcass of an Animal

Memories of the Dance

Pageant Night in Upset, Texas

Me, the Mirror

O Hollow Tree

TA B L E O F CO N T E N T S Droplet

White Death

What Else?

Fast as Summer

Nocturnland

Sea of Galilee

A Simple Offering

A Deathbed Conversion

Persistence

The Old Oak Tree

Past and Present

Delighted

To make sense of it all

Davidâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Wife

That time we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember yet

Layers

The Visitor

For the lost words

Unsure

Meditation

His Masterpiece

Up and Down the Jot Em Down

Fragments

Never Took A Chance by Alisa Dunn

Fractures and fragments Of opportunities lost, seen in my mind’s eye.

The Stranger Side of Rock and Roll by Alex Genetti It is generally accepted by fans of the progressive psychedelic post-metal jazzfusion neo-folk band Slave Labor that Slave Labor is the best progressive psychedelic post-metal jazz-fusion neo-folk band in the world today. The fact that no other such bands exist does not deter the group’s loyal fans in the slightest, who insist that the only reason that no other bands play Slave Labor’s style of music is that no one else is willing to make the sacrifices necessary to do so. If one intends to play PPPMJFNF, he must do so realizing that he will achieve neither popularity nor financial success. Slave Labor’s average yearly earnings from record sales is usually enough to buy the band a drink (to share), and their entire fanbase is small enough to fit into two school buses (or one, if some of the fans could be convinced to go on diets and surrender their personal space). The group was founded in the early 1990s by a man named Donovan Norlander Paramenter III, the son of immigrants from a European nation that almost certainly no longer exists. Curiously, his birth record indicates that he was “born in a coal mine,” but provides no other details regarding his origins. Nevertheless, at age nineteen, Paramenter enrolled at an obscure small college in upstate New York called “The Institute for Higher Learning, Man.” Biographers are largely in agreement that most of what we hear on Paramenter’s records is a direct result of his time spent pursuing “higher” education at said institution. In 1995, after somehow obtaining sufficient credit to transfer to Berklee College of Music in Boston, Paramenter gathered together a group of his musically adept colleagues and proposed that they form a band. The original line-up, which remains unchanged to this day, included: vocalist Danny “Air-Raid Siren” Hamilton, guitarist Tommy “Look-HowFast-I-Can-Play” Vincentino, keyboardist Richard “The Wizard” Walkman, saxophonist

and flautist Allan “Kazoo” Kazue, and drummer John Jonathan “No-Nickname” Johnson. Paramenter himself played the accordion. With the line-up in place, debates began to rage amongst the members over what to name themselves. Suggestions such as “Dr. Hat” and “The Club of Cancelled 28th Birthday Parties” were rejected on the grounds that they were not indicative enough of the band’s overall sound. Paramenter suggested something more straightforward instead: “Donovan Norlander Paramenter III and the Musicians,” and suggested that their debut album cover feature his own name in large bold letters, with “and the Musicians” in small print directly beneath it, as though dutifully and tirelessly supporting the bulk of their leader with their own flesh and blood. The name “Slave Labor” was later coined by “No-Nickname” Johnson as a joke. Slave Labor labored for five months on their self-produced debut album, A Disaster In The Making. Production repeatedly was delayed for long periods of time due to Paramenter’s peculiar idiosyncrasies, many of which the band still refuses to discuss publicly. When the album was finally released, critics reacted to it in much the same way that a cow might react to being set on fire. To say that it was not well received would be an understatement of the grossest proportions. Initial reviews were overwhelmingly negative. Later reviews were overwhelmingly negative as well, but the early ones were by far the more entertaining. One review by a clearly traumatized critic consisted entirely of the words “This album should not be” repeated forty-seven times. Another critic began his review with the following quotation: “The Devil exists. I know this for certain because I just listened to his debut album.” And on they went. When the music community finally finished reeling, a few more serious responses emerged, although they spoke no more highly of Slave Labor’s freshman outing than their predecessors had. “A Disaster In The Making begins with four minutes of what sounds suspiciously like a pair of refrigerators humming,” quipped one reviewer. “This unfortunately is the highlight of the entire record.” Musically, Slave Labor sounded like someone had taken the greatest recording artists of jazz, rock and roll, classical, folk, and heavy metal and attempted to splice their genes into a single new organism; general consensus was that they had succeeded, but in doing so had created a monster. Even fans of avant-garde music thought Slave Labor’s style was absurd. For instance, the album’s fifth track, a twenty-two minute epic entitled “A Solace of Interminable Awareness,” consisted entirely of a three/four-time jazz-style drum pattern combined with heavily distorted guitar riffs, stately church organ interludes, and the occasional polka beat-driven accordion solo. The lyrics also received intense hate. Most of them were written by vocalist Danny “Air-Raid Siren” Hamilton on a roll of toilet paper over the course of a four-hour bus trip across the state of Massachusetts (traffic around Boston was especially awful that day). The precise meaning of Slave Labor’s lyrics, according to Hamilton himself, is “perhaps the

best-kept secret in all of prog rock; even I don’t know what I’m talking about.” The unfortunate result is that the listener is left to navigate through such impenetrable lyrical thickets as, “And if the sun collapses while the scarecrows still roam free / My soul will be devoured by a sentient willow tree” without a guide. Others criticized the astoundingly poor production values. During a live interview with the band, one radio DJ said that the saxophones on A Disaster In The Making “sounded like kazoos.” Saxophonist Allan “Kazoo” Kazue mistook this as a compliment (he heard it as “sounded like Kazue’s”), believing that the DJ was actually saying that he immediately recognized Kazue’s signature playing style. No fewer than twelve reviews described the album as sounding as though it had been recorded “in a tin shed in the middle of a forest at night during a thunderstorm,” which, it turns out, is precisely where the album was recorded. Among Donovan Norlander Paramenter III’s numerous quirky demands was that the music be recorded as far from civilization as possible in order to avoid, as he put it, “contamination by industrialized human society.” The thunderstorm, he would later claim, was entirely coincidental, although he does note that the sounds of the storm drown out his drunken swearing that had accidentally slipped past the editing process and onto the finished product, for which he was grateful. Despite garnering overwhelming critical hatred, A Disaster In The Making struck a chord, albeit a hideously dissonant one, with a small but dedicated group of listeners. These fans, commonly referred to as “Slave Labor-heads” for want of a better nickname, were so enamored with the band that many of them attempted to stage a break-out and attend a Slave Labor concert, only to be caught by the asylum’s perimeter guard and returned to their rooms under heavy sedation. Slave Labor somehow managed to procure funds to produce a second album the following year. It was titled A Perfectly Innocuous Collection of Pop Songs as a desperate and blatantly dishonest attempt to avoid scaring potential listeners away. Compared to A Disaster In The Making, their second release sold remarkably well, although critical reception was, to their great surprise, even worse. Many critics claimed that their CD players outright refused to play Slave Labor’s new album, and that repeated attempts to make them do so would simply break the devices. One reviewer managed to get his copy of A Perfectly Innocuous Collection of Pop Songs to play for about eight minutes before his CD player simply shut itself down. His review described Slave Labor’s latest offering as “a parade of hideous, abrasive sounds spewing forth from [his] speakers as if from the maw of hell itself,” and noted that the CD seemed to have disintegrated by the time his player stopped. “I have no doubt in my mind,” he wrote, “that the creation of A Perfectly Innocuous Collection of Pop Songs by Slave Labor ranks among the greatest atrocities ever committed by human beings. It is truly wretched and abominable.” Much to his surprise, he received a letter from Paramenter himself shortly after said review was published. The letter consisted of a single question: “Yes, but did you enjoy it?”

Perspective by Julie McBath

The Traveler

by Jesse McDowell

“Let me sleep in the Rolling Hills of Georgia.” The Sun once said to me, “Why are you walkin’ and travelin’ and seein’ things?” I said, “Because the world is my playground, and I would like to see What it would be like if I wasn’t me.” If I wasn’t me, I could see everything differently. I would see things the way they would be So that I could be me, so that I could know me I could if I would only be someone else differently. The Sun said, “Why would you wish to be differently? I see everything and I am me. People are the same, they live and they see That eventually things are free. So why is it That you don’t see the world as frivolous As me?” “I want to find something,” said I. The Sun replied, “Oh the story finds me time after time: The idea that a man must search The world to find a sign. You want it all, you want it now, A way of knowing, knowing how, How to live, how to be free, More of an idea than a feat, to me. This can’t be found. It’s more than a sound.” “Well. Than how can I have it? How can it be That all the people are happier than me?” “Because they see! They see,” yelled the Sun,

“That their hearts are free! They prevail because they can be Everything they want to be You are everything you have ever dreamed From your birth to your grave. Your fathers spoke, on bended knee, Life into your body and breath as alive as the sea. They spoke into you a free spirit Who you are is not what you see But what you were and what you will be. You are such a miracle, being alive and things That you leave this behind And ask of better things. You have never spilt blood over toils And things that I have seen. A fight for happiness is one not so bright When the light that shines Is what keeps you alive. Let Faulkner tell it true: Your heart prevails, So travel the world, dear one, but only one thing— That you have one wish, only the best I will bring.” “I want this idea, I want it now. I want to run and work and break my back Over my father’s plow. But why is it that I hate myself? Do I love toil and blood on my brow? Self. I do it for myself. You, Sun, you speak of beautiful things, Innate happiness and the free spirit it brings. I cannot see this idea, It has not seeded in me As I have pleaded. The truth is outside, it has to be For me to feel as terrible as me. For I have killed the ones who loved me. I feel alone, and all I can see Is how in my absence it was all because of me. The world that I know is the one that I can love,

The dismal, the rank, and the rough. I can only have one wish in these woes, one that Is not worthy Of challenge and robes. The sign that I want, The last thing I would give Is to one last time— Why should I give Him this? It is my soul. Why should I give Him this? It is my power. What is the chance I shall live again? Where do we find men like this?” So I said, “See the world, It’s not so dim When the end of it is passed on a whim. My one last gift is of love: I have to die I will die For my son. And I will sleep in the rolling Hills of Georgia.”

by Stephanie Canady

Perspective

Earth in the End by Julie McBath Empty. Tired. Alone. I have no one, and no one has me. The freedom for which I’ve thirsted for so long, the overwhelming desire to be able to care for myself away from the clutches of humans is finally granted to me, and the joy that I thought I would instantaneously experience is melted away as in the burning path of an exploding volcano. It erupted, blazed, and died. The worst part is the lack of feelings, the hole where emotions used to be, hollow like a crater chiseled out in my skin. Nothing happens to me, so I can no longer become angry, cursing through winds like a seething hurricane or pummeling down on the land like a raging tsunami. I can no longer feel happiness or joy because no one walks my paths anymore, no life inhabits my lands, and I cannot smile anymore like the glistening dew drops in the morning sun on a brilliant, purple morning glory or like the luscious fields of grain blowing gently in the wind, shining like pillars of gold in the autumn evening. I cannot even feel sadness, though it seems like I am, indeed, sad. I’m just empty. Numb. I almost wish I could be sad because then I could feel something like the quiet wake left after the rage of a blazing tornado, the trees broken and battered in its aftermath. The numbness, though, is like a silent pain pulsing through my core. It’s not an emotional pain, but like a physical, scarring pain in the way that earthquakes left scars in the land, erosion left scars in the mountains and the rocks, and forest fires left scars in the charred ashes of the trees. After millions of years of relationships, creations, seasons, and changes, I was left desolate and destitute, the only company I found with the rotting corpses left to litter my open canvas of dried land and murky seas, the only ones saved from the wake of destruction and pain carried safely to the Heavens above me. I endured murderous wars that left blood flooding over me, heaps of trash cluttering my clear forests and open lands, and gaping holes in my very being, dirt and rocks caving in and uprooting plants around me. Broken. I am so broken. The fear and anxiety that gripped the people in all nations, all continents, left them terrified and running from fabricated solution to fabricated solution, which of course affected me and how they treated me. To have advocated for such “green”-ness the last few thousand years, they lost such care of me, ripping scars through my flesh and smothering the air I give and that they breathe. Recycling? No, not anymore. Trash lay everywhere, piling up where beautiful flowers used to bloom and love used to blossom. Streams no longer flowed, their sources stopped up with uncontrolled oil spills, garbage, and dead and dying fish. I remember the last couple, a husband and wife. They tearfully stabbed a shovel

in my side, digging a tiny hole for their baby, unplanned both in life and death. The woman wept, clinging to her husband desperately for reassurance. It broke my heart listening to them talking, the fear so evident and overwhelming. “Jon, please, one more look, just one more look,” the woman cried, weakly reaching for the tiny body wrapped in old newspapers for lack of decent resources. “No, Kirsten, it won’t help. You held her all last night…”. “Please, please, Jon – she’s our last hope –“ “Was, baby…she was our last hope, but that’s neither here nor there now. We should just accept our fate.” Kirsten crumpled down to her knees, my dilapidated arms of dust and dirt with scattered dead plants reaching out to comfort her, though only reminding her of the exact hopelessness that was rapidly becoming a reality. I drank her tears hungrily, the dirt slowly turning to mud around her knees, but I felt thirstier than before as I sympathized with her sadness, though then numbness was then beginning to set in. Jon laid the tiny corpse into the ground, silent tears streaming down his cheeks as he piled shovelfuls of dry dirt onto the newspaper-wrapped baby. Patting the tiny grave, he scrounged through the trash and found another newspaper, the headline announcing more disappearances that the government couldn’t explain, and a moldy box. While Kirsten sniffled and watched, trying desperately to control her crying, Jon slowly tore at the letters, dipping them carefully into a tiny puddle of mud he created with his own spit and loose dirt. He pieced the torn letters side by side on the box, his tears slowing and his face becoming sadly stonier by the minute. After several minutes, he stuck the last muddy letter to the box and laid it across the lumpy grave. Kirsten shakily stood, walking over to the grave and looking down at her husband’s work, a shabby, handmade, cardboard grave reading of the short life of their daughter: Hope Lily Myers, born in the world but no longer of it. Reading this, Kirsten began weeping again, throwing herself into her husband’s arms. They cried together, the last humans on earth. I watched them die slowly about a month later. Well, not really die – more like leave me. I watched them become emaciated, sick, and weaker by the minute. I desperately wanted to save them, them being my own last hope, but I couldn’t. I was just a place, dust under their feet, resources at their fingertips, their needs in their very breath I gave them to breathe, but I didn’t have to. After years of fighting, resisting, refusing, they lay wasted in the ruins of what used to be their home, the walls crumbling around them as they cried together on the dilapidated mattress where they first found love for the other and where they held their last tiny Hope in their arms as she withered away before them. Together, hands clasped in each other’s desperately, they tearfully whispered to Heaven, crying out in a sincere last resort, a heartfelt confession, knowing there really was nowhere else to turn. A flash of light, a winged ascent, and they were gone before the stars above me could blink, and I was left for good. Alone.

My waters are drying up, killing all the reefs, the fish, melting the glaciers, and thirsting the land. My lands are losing their breath, suffocating in the scorching heat of the sun with the clouds melting into nothingness as my own inevitable death draws near. The beauty of my greenery is turning to a dying brown and my flowers are shriveling under the lack of nourishment. I myself am suffocating under the remnants of what the humans left behind in the wake of their own destruction, swallowing the very breath of the air that gives me life, the waters that nurture my health, and diminishing the fires that burn inside of my core. Soon, I will be more than empty, more than tired, alone and broken. Soon, I will be no more, not even a memory living in the minds of a wandering stranger or a whisper in the winds blowing through the trees. I won’t even be the dust on someone’s feet. I will be nothing at all.

Burn The Barn, The Surplus Would Be Wasted

by Seth Edmonds

Burn the barn, the surplus would be wasted on me Glimmering future or well-paid jobs and family ties Education only cost me 3 nails and a hole in the side Job title standing, market on the rise “Future” and “Success” screaming to swallow the dreams inside “Just let them pass on...let them die...” Suburbia here I come Middle-class mediocrity, my new, unsatisfying high White powder and needles offer synthetic life As debt crushes my second home, third SUV, fourth mortgage and fifth wife My dreams are gone Fading memory can’t make out what they were My Savior, once real, fell to my idol of intellect My hope is gone I couldn’t “believe” with my brain So, with my dreams, I flushed You down the drain

Now all I can handle is dying with shame Had I never left You it wouldn’t be this way Gun cocked at my temple With my last nerve, I manage to say: “Like pouring acid on gorged-out eyes, I’ll never see again, not through all these lies (I promised myself so much more than this)...” But promises turn to curses for I cannot provide the demand Held for ransom at gunpoint, by my own hand Third party Savior, my only help left “Restore my vision, Eyes fixed on You...” And then I weep, feeling the dissipation of lies And He says to me, “We’ll make it through tonight.”

Alphabet Poem: S by Jeanine Kleckley

Sensual, Seductive S Incite in my hand a fiery passion Your curves and smoothness are provocative to my page The pen in my hand caresses your arches to create the visage of your beauty within my lines Creating words with you is a glorious sign of our love affair Oh, Sensual, Seductive S

I will lift my eyes by Beth Harper

Earth

by April Toney Green hair, Brown skin, Rough complexion, Slightly less put together than yours or mine. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s flatter than most but has her ups and downs. Not much for attention, Mostly stepped on:

Does she prefer it that way? She hides beneath what is beyond herself, Something planned, structured, With more iron and cement, Architecture. Houses, buildings, towers, bridges. She enjoys the company and supports them mostly. At times when the wind whistles through her hair, She wonders if her purpose is greater than this. If cultureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s magazine could have her on the cover, Instead of the ones who step on her, dig, and tear her away, But she rarely utters a word.

Psalm

by Caleb Milligan

I was water You turned into wine, But this world has watered me down again. I am salt robbed of Your savor, And I snow like ash on disappointed tongues. Am I worthy to be dressed in new clothes Or rich enough for fine rings? I am the prodigal leaving home over and over, Scared to even sully Your fields. I murmur paper-thin apologies That singe and disintegrate in the proving fire. I drown Your feet in perfume, But my wiping hair stabs like freshly forged nails. I send prayers only as high as the ceiling,

Only rehearsing for the part. I never leave a message when I rarely stop by For fear You are always away. But You pour stronger drink Over the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sad excuse for strong spirits. You season new flavor in me, Dramatizing drab meals for the hungry palate. You exchange every rag of my casual-wear sin For suits and rings of formal purity. You run to me every time I return to Your fields, Always beating me to the embrace. You hear all my humble whispers Like each confession was resounded by trumpets. You accept my alabaster box love And endure every pained pang of my toolkit betrayal. You reach down to me in my ashamed audition, Awarding me lead role as Your child. You find me with messages exactly where I am And assure me You are never away.

The Beach

by J.A. McDowell

The Sea was his favorite place. As he walked along its corridors, admiration was something far too taut for this. Maybe God lived in heaven. But heaven seemed too far away from the sea, as John had heard that God lives in the heart of man. But God is huge. Really, God is giant. How could He live in the hearts of men? Why would He? John thought a lot. Failure was an ever-ringing solace in the back spotted pits of his mind, all fallen asunder by the inability to think and perceive his memories as events that actually happened, rather than an ongoing slide show or movie being played back to him in his own head as a staunch resilience that he messed up. That would just be insulting, so John thought. He disliked a constant hypocrisy, meaningful paradox. The more he thought, the more he lost. How could he think and not remember? How could he remember and not think? It was all lost. It was all self. He felt vain. But John was at the sea today. He stood with his naked feet resting, then sinking into the sand

as the wind picked up and began to stick to his legs because of it. The one excluding factor for the sand to be on his right leg and not his left was how he stood. The blood had dried now to a custard, and the tide rolled beckoningly against his feet. John leaned into it, until he was on all fours. He stayed there, feeling the fresh salt water run against his bleeding face and arms. He opened his mouth and arms and eyes to breath in everything. His senses distracted him from his mind. Hopefully he could remember who he was. Maybe if he spelt his name differently. nJoh. Jhon. ohJn. no. Maybe if he took letters away. Jon. Noh. Jn. Joh. But why, Lord? It was a silly gesture, really. A broken old man laying back-up-belly-flat at his favorite place, writing his name in the sand. This was the kind of instance when you would find yourself taking a kind detour around this man, as he obviously appeared less sane than other children playing in the sand as they are supposed to, a kind fifty feet away from him in every direction. And a couple of them did. Hopefully John could live up to a few of their expectations. Hopefully he could remember how to spell his name right again. Maybe John could remember what happened in her complete form if he could reconstruct his. If John could live out his thoughts, maybe he could remember hers. But why? Walls were created in his mind. If John thought God was anywhere, the deity would certainly live in the mannerisms of the wind or the sea, not the hearts of man. That would be such a cruel place. John felt more decrepit as he sat in the sand, his billowy ass sinking into it like time itself, the time that he was running out of as every second went by. Would God be happy in the sea or the wind? They both flourished aesthetically and gave constant signs of movement. John didn’t want to go anywhere. God. John couldn’t escape Him, or at least His image. Whatever some televangelist would say, even if it reached the true depths of his heart, the place where emotions were molded by him and flowed out through his mouth or his brain, would inexhaustibly do nothing, even reaching the pit of his soul. And after this poetry, John tried to redefine God. He knew that once he faced Him later on that day, he would have no choice but to say,“I don’t remember. And I don’t care.” And walk deservedly to the gates of hell where Lucifer would invite him in for his everdeserved punishment. But he would say it boldly and proudly. God is all-caring. Man is God’s image. God is man. “Holier than thou.” If only now John could remember what his crime was, he would know how to recant it to the God he just redefined. So the only conclusion John could take from any of this was that if he ever wanted to do any thinking without his thoughts waging war on his memory, he would have to lay ass-up on the beach, waiting for the tide to drown his living carcass. “What a dismal thought,” he would say. All this time her face became like a scream. It was a sound that pierced time itself, and

it also screamed, but with toil. If he could only remember what put him to this, and why he chose to do it. Most would say John could claim innocence in this, that in most courts of the day, insanity was the best defense against murder. But did John…murder? He couldn’t remember. That faint image showed indecently in and out of his head; that scream that he couldn’t rid himself of. He was tired of thinking of the outcome or result of what happened and wanted to remember the act itself. Is the sand real? he thought. As he tried to do this, the slide show started again. It was just ambiguous enough to flash images of a rusted bucket or a peach cobbler, never the face or bodily features of the ones holding those cherished items. Maybe that was his downfall, he thought to himself. Maybe his mind always painted innocence to himself, lying to his own mind about what really happened. Guilt, holy and hated guilt, festered, and he consciously knew it, and remembered all of his guilt. In the distance, two mothers sitting with their children discussed the oddity that was John, a bloody man with ripped clothes almost middle-aged, lying on the beach and spelling something in the sand. “Charlene, do you see that man?” “Linda, I’ve been looking at him the whole time. I could’ve sworn he wasn’t here when we got here. Poor thing looks like he’s close to death.” “Maybe. He hasn’t moved from that spot.” “I know, it’s beginning to bother me. He doesn’t look well either.” “I wonder if he’s praying. Look how he’s on all fours.” Charlene whispered, “He seems like one of them. Should we call the police?” Linda looked at Charlene with her mouth open and her eyes rolled, in intolerance. “No, maybe in a minute, we’ll call an ambulance. But just wait a minute,” said Linda, with a big dose of reserve in her voice. She approached John. “Hi…I mean, excuse me. Are you okay?” she asked. John looked up at her slowly. His eyes were filled with sand. Linda turned away instantly. She repeated, “Are you okay?” forcing it this time. He looked back down. There was no reply. The wind had been moving in circles on the beach, making the sand twirl and then rotate around nothing. It kept moving forward toward them. Linda squinted her eyes to take the impact. John didn’t move one muscle at this nuance. With his hands he wrote in the sand, just a shadow. “Or what?” Linda asked. John cleared the sand. The wind would have done it for him. The Sun was setting into a hot pink and golden yellow. He wrote a vision. “You’ve done something.” She said to him. “I think so,” John said, gasped. “Can I help you?” “Is God okay with this?” said John. “What? Well, I’m not sure,” Linda yelled, as the wind swelled. Again, “Can I help you?” John looked at her. “No…why would you?...just, no.”

“Why would God care? I don’t know what you did.” “I don’t know either. I can’t help but not care. But I know it was something terrible. It always is.” Linda replied, “I’d like to know your name.” “Name’s John. I think. I think it was a car wreck. But I’m not sure.” “I’m sorry, back to earlier, what does God have to do with this? Oh, uh, sorry, I’m Linda, by the way.” “Because I’ve never given a rat’s ass about God, and I don’t even know if I’m going to die today.” “Wait…dying? You’re not going to die today.” “How do you know?” “Well, I don’t. I just don’t think that’s very likely.” “I never thought God was a very likely thing.” “I think God knows that what you’ve done is okay. Just, why are you asking about God?” “No, I don’t think so Linda,” said John, not directly answering her. “I don’t like God I like God I like the idea of God, but is He okay with it? Lookuplookuplookuplookuplookup,” John murmured over and over. Then abruptly: “I want to kill myself,” he said. The next thing Linda said came out of her, as if she didn’t mean to say it. It seemed like such an elementary thought. “Maybe you shouldn’t look up to God.” “What do you mean?” She backed down from her philosophy. “I don’t know really!” said Linda, becoming desperate with the challenge of trying to save John from himself. “You must know what you mean. I mean, I won’t kill myself if I don’t have any reasons to live here. I want to kill myself because I’m done here simply.” “Maybe you can have your life here still. I mean, it’s not that bad of a place. Look at that sunset! Maybe God doesn’t care if you think He exists. Maybe living your life here…looking forward…is the best way to know about God.” “Linda…are you religious?” “Well, no. I have never thought of myself that way. It never made sense.” Looking towards Charlene, Linda glanced at her children, her son and her daughter playing in the sand. “But if there is a God…I can’t think that He would want me to not look forward with my life.” “I can’t. I just know that I have done something. Something terrible. Look at me.” “I’m sure it can all be sorted! Just, don’t go into the water, please…John.” John sat, looking forward. He looked up at Linda, at the tears that formed so heavily in her eyes. He thought about what he had done. The slide show continued. Jack-o-lanterns. Polaroid cameras. Papers. Christmas trees. He motioned for her to lean down toward him. He came closer as his hand motioned. He whispered in her ear, “It’s not that I can’t remember. I likely can, I just don’t want to.” He stood up, and without reserve started to cry. He scribbled something else in the sand. “But I have to,” it read, and as she looked back up he was gone, with cuffed pants left where he stood.

Crystal Dewdrops by Stephanie Canady

Bloodsong

by Audey Walker

I am of the blood of the fighter In me is the will to face all challenges I will bear them head on I will never show my weakness, though it may press me at every turn In me is the blood of one who faces struggle It is my heritage to suffer It is also in me to overcome I will never show my weakness, though it may press me at every turn In me is the blood of the old ones Mine is a heritage that spans the centuries My grandfathers and those that came before me smile upon my endeavors I will never show my weakness, though it may press me at every turn In me is the blood of a proud people Though we have suffered many an injustice, we continue on Through the oppression of ages and in the face of conquerors I will never show my weakness, though it may press me at every turn In me is the blood of those that have starved I am of a people that were robbed of their own right to support themselves by the hand that oppressed In the mountains lie my kin that sought refuge and died of empty bellies But I will never show my weakness, though it may press me at every turn In me is the blood of a strong people Though invaders sought to bring us low, we stood strong We fought and won our own lands And I will never show my weakness, though it may press me at every turn In me is the blood of a warrior My veins flow with the spirit of Brian Boru, a warrior king and fighter unequalled My heart was born with a sword in hand to stand boldly against those who would rob me of what is mine by blood and struggle I will never show my weakness, though it may press me at every turn

In me is the blood of legends My spirit is made of tales of the great Cu Chulainn, Fionn mac Cumhaill, and Oisin The epics of my past echo through the ages And I will never show my weakness, though it may press me at every turn In me is the blood of great poets, artists, and scholars Their love of their native land flows from generation to generation I seek to make them proud in my own pursuit of knowledge And I will never show my weakness, though it may press me at every turn In me is the blood of rebellion Those that came before me sought to end oppression and see the rights of their people returned and for nearly six hundred years that battle was fought On the shoulders of Padraig Pearse, Sean Mac Diarmada, and Michael Collins was my future built So I will never show my weakness, though it may press me at every turn I am the blood of civil war In my heart beats the force of irreconcilable grief The pain of a nation torn apart by war and bloodshed cries throughout time to reach my ears But I will never show my weakness, though it may press me at every turn I am the blood of a passionate people Rich is our culture and far reaching is our history Deep is our wisdom and enchanting is our song It pulls me above my weakness, though it may press me at every turn I am the blood of Erinn I am a child of that land, and the struggle of its people gives me a strength and pride that will never be quieted Mine is a people that have lasted throughout the ages to emerge harder and stronger than any who ever stood to oppose us I will defy my weakness, even when it presses me at every turn I am the blood of Ireland I will stand in the face of time, pain, struggle, war, and oppression â&#x20AC;&#x153;Erinn go Brach!â&#x20AC;? is the cry of my heart, and will be the call of my children and their children after them I am better than my weakness; therefore, it will press me at every turn.

into

Conversations of a Coffee House by Julie McBath Chai latte! Chai latte on the bar! ...if we were only friends we would... ..hear about the short film festival on Saturday? It was so good... ...but it’s just so hard to want to... Americano to go on the bar! Americano to go! ...it’s unreasonable, absolutely unreasonable. He can’t honestly think... ...I called it Shadows of Uncertainty... ...but another rejection? Those letters just hurt so much... Turkey wrap and tea! Turkey wrap and tea on the bar! ...so no more guys? Hmm, ha, yeah, no more guys… ...yeah, yeah, it really captures that, that idea of breaking... ...anything? At all? What talent do I really have? Skinny cappuccino on the bar! Skinny cappuccino! ...not sure. I mean we’d have to think about the things that tie us together... ...the ending, wow, the ending, it really was captivating... ...thirty years old and nothing to say for my life... Espresso! Espresso to go on the bar! ...it was like a big part of my life that’s not gone but was taken out... ...well, I mean the way he left her lying on the floor, alone... ...worthless, absolutely pointless. I give up on it all! Macchiato and a bagel on the bar! Macchiato! ...someone a little older. I don’t want things to happen so fast that... ...it won the festival, yeah, but it was absolutely heartbreaking... ...the manuscript? Nah, I hated it. I threw it away at Dad’s... White mocha! White mocha to go on the bar! ...omigosh, that’s him! He’s, shit, he’s right there! I can’t... ...believe it only got an honorable mention! It was so beautifully... ...written with too complex of a plot and unbelievable characters... Ten minutes to closing! Last call for drinks! ...He’s with her. She’s right behind him. I can’t breathe...get…get me out of here... ...to California for the big one. I’ve been working on this one... ...for ten years. I’m spent. I’m done...I’m done...

The Carcass of an Animal

by Caleb Milligan

The building lights danced out from the surrounding black like binary code on a screen without data. The city was overridden by evening, smudgy dark sprinkled with droplets of neon from late night distractions. Citizens filed from pleasure to pleasure, libertines of efficiency jacking in to all the debauchery information highways could upload. Conservative decency had shut down for the night and would not restart until the new labor period dragged the begrudging sun back to its post. All was programmed decadence. Two citizens jacked out of a viral nightspot, maybe just a bit frazzled from a night of downloading, and routed for their respective pods. They happened to live adjacent from each other, so together they took the quickest shortcut through the city’s neglected alleys, off the indicated paths and deep into the darkness of a city behind the scenes. Their voices hummed on in conversation, the only sound bytes amidst sleeping silence. “I mean it, 634, there have to be better clubs for illegal frazzling. I am very bored with The Override. It is too commercial now and not the place where I wish to overclock anymore.” “Fine, 1098, you may be right. I am open to new outlets. I do not want to jack in to inferior narcotics scenes. We can search for something possibly more fun at tomorrow evening’s leisure period.” “It is only fair that we treat ourselves to the best that robotic units can find.” 634 nodded its head. The two robots filed on, networking in small talk. They had clocked in twelve-hour shifts debugging mainframes for the city. These two were like all other units in this city of machines; all work done for the efficiency of the masses. However, when given off work, the motherboard granted all robots their artificial intelligences to do as they pleased with, which for most meant jacking in to clubs for illegal frazzling. “Then again, it will be getting harder and harder lately. Were you informed the administrators are attempting to zero in on a lot of the illegal clubs? Shut them down?” “I was informed, yes, 1098. But to that, I submit that the administrators have threatened the same for some time now. They are too tied up in the bureaucracy of the system to perform any more highly above their given efficiency.” “Correct, yes. That is presumably comical.” The building lights stumbled on in the background like whispers against the louder darkness of these gloomy, black streets. Logged in to conversation, their talk suddenly dried up like fleeting moisture in desert air at the sight of something neither unit’s hard drive could prepare them for. “What in the world is this?” “I cannot tell…it looks so fresh.” “It is no robotic unit, assuredly. The composition seems to be very structurally unsound.” What they looked down on was definitely dead. A carcass, crimson and splattered, lay di-

sheveled beyond repair at their shoes like a beggar scratching for change. It was hard to describe; it looked without order, oddly built, more artistic than practical. No machine ever looked like this, so beautifully ugly. 1098 knelt down to examine the spoiled thing. “You know, I realize it now. This is one of those escaped animals.” 634 simulated a gasp. “From the experimental zoo?” “It has to be. This must be one of those…humans—now that is an archaic word.” “I hardly remember it myself. I congratulate your vocabulary.” “Thank you, citizen.” This…human…was quite the animal splayed at the cold probing of higher machines. It was clothed in nothing but a visibly scratchy hospital shift, bare legs protruding out from the fabric, awkward and pale from what could have been years of captivity. Its head was brutally caved, all its limbs haphazard in shattered directions; this body was abstract art with one color: fatal red. Humanity had become a word for yesterday once humans no longer held power over the word. Artificial intelligence soon became the only intelligence as humans invented themselves into extinction, mad scientist endeavors with regrettably irreversible results. Machines began to reason for themselves and very quickly reasoned humans out of the equation. Efficiency established itself as a new religion; the humans were established by efficiency as demons of lethargy and illogic. After vast exterminations, the remnant was busted down to caged animals, and the robots ruled as taskmasters. The long age of humanity crumbled to darkness, and the sun rose on a cold, efficient future. The two citizens, machinery and processors and hard drives and software, observed the foreign flesh and blood of a previous evolutionary dominant with indifferent pity and cool confusion. 634 and 1098 stood tall, both over six feet. Their dark charcoal gray steel was hushed black in the overwhelming night. They were towering sentinels of irony, sporting humanoid features, from their useless noses to their replicated purposeless muscles. These robots looked identical to all citizens in this city. All were unknowing reminders of the humanity before them long neglected. They were products made in the image of makers they had forgotten. 634 turned to 1098 and further analyzed the scenario at hand. “I wonder though: why have the police droids not already seen to this mess?” “Do not be silly, 1098. This animal is no robot. The droids are only programmed to pinpoint the permanent shutdowns of machines. Humans are more like trash to be forgotten.” “Your simile is impractical, 634, but vivid.” “Thank you, citizen.” The two machines felt inefficient in their dawdling and awkwardly traipsed around the carcass grasping for a new spark of topic. 1098 turned the body over on its back to display the gruesome ruin of its former composition. With a cluck of disgust, the robot lamented, “I will never understand the design of life-forms so foolishly constructed. Too easily damaged, too awkwardly programmed, too hideously drawn. I am thankful we are the higher intelligence.” “That gratitude is wise, 1098.” “Thank you, citizen.”

634 nodded and continued, “But what on earth could have shut down this animal so excessively? It met a violent deprogramming.” “Well, judging by the carcass’s current position, I would hypothesize it fell from one of these towering buildings.” The building lights sauntered seductively ahead of the austere night trying to keep pace with them, casting bright doubts on every surety of black. 634 shook its head and said, “No, 1098, all these damages were sustained in close succession, but not simultaneously. A fall would harm the whole all at once, am I correct?” “Correct, yes. I recant my statement. Forgive my inference.” “Nothing to forgive, citizen.” “Good. In that case, 634, I must say I am at quite a loss for further information. Could it have been forcefully deprogrammed?” “Murdered?” “What a strange word—yes, murdered.” “1098, do you think a fellow citizen did this? Would a fellow citizen be capable of this?” “Do not waste words on foolish fiction, 634. What machine would ever be this random, this inefficient?” “True. But now I hazard a new inquiry: who else could have done it then?” “I would shiver to process that this is not the only escaped animal out here…? But fear is not included in my personality drive.” “A wise programming choice, 1098.” “Thank you, citizen.” 634 nodded. “But does your question remain: is there another human out in the city?” That inquiry hung in the air, tacky and uninvited, an ugly apparition haunting the evening. 1098 shook its head, said, “That is hardly possible. I am actually surprised one specimen managed to escape our zoo. Now two? That must be uninformed conjecture.” “I must disagree, 1098.” “That is your choice, citizen.” “The motherboard is gracious to give us that luxury. But, I have to continue with the evidence at hand: if no robot would be this brutally zealous, that has to mean another human is out there. Someone must be responsible. No effect without cause.” “This line of conversation proves itself more ludicrous by the byte, 634. Animals are built for their cages and cages for their animals. A human could not be in our city.” “Yet there is an expired one here before us, 1098. You are too frazzled to reason. Give your hard drive time to reboot.” 1098 fumed visibly, but that was just as possibly a short from the frazzling as it was programmed anger. “I no longer wish to continue the current conversation, 634. Will you honor this sentiment?” “I must decline, citizen.” “Why are you so intent on solving this superfluous mystery?” “1098, I am a machine built to debug mainframes, therefore it was installed in my nature to solve problems. Curiosity defines my programming…as it should yours.”

“I solve the insolvable for twelve hours, 634. Our leisure periods are spent bugging our own hard drives before sleep mode till the next labor period. Leave your work at the office.” “But I must—” “Citizen! Until another human specimen falls from the sky to enlighten our circumstances, we can only leave this to your impractical curiosity.” The building lights marched forcefully toward the clarity of dark, meeting in the nightly clash of bright and black, expected and inevitable, conventionality without mystery. 1098 brought 634 down to functional reality, admonished, “If you wish to do your part, then report it to the appropriate agencies, and they will clean up this mess. Forget about this, and put your frazzled hard drive into its proper sleep mode.” 634 felt its very hard drive networking in polar directions. Curiosity dictated that every conundrum has its solution. But efficiency reminded the robot that this human had probably been forgotten for a reason, that a productive society ruled the creatures out of usefulness. The chastised robot reluctantly followed after 1098, and the carcass of another escaped animal was left to decay on the streets of this future that made no room for it. 634 attempted to compartmentalize its curiosity into its less urgent folders by reasoning that the human was hardly worth the trouble, that its murderer was worth little more. Content to forget about the unusual circumstances, the robots soon vanished into the darkness of a shadowed horizon, eaten by the obscurity of night. What brought the human into a city of machines and what killed it were both abandoned to the trash heap of questions never answered, for not every mystery is easily solved, gift-wrapped with a convenient bow. That body was just a bloody mess of history neglected and forgotten by a new race of intelligence with no need for the past. All that was necessary to the functionality of a city of machines was efficiency devoid of nuance, ambiguity, and conundrum, a protocol a human was easily incapable of, so they were better sacrificed to the amnesia of time. The building lights crawled gingerly toward their rest to sleep and forget—to leave the unnecessary anomaly of a dead animal to the cold indifference of dark.

by Desiree Wilson

Memories of the Dance

Pageant Night in Upset, Texas

by Madison Sanders

The town of Upset, Texas was getting too small for Essie Isa Faker. The pie was moldy, and Essie was ready for something new. The usually serene town was bustling with activity in preparation for that night’s pageant as it faded to nighttime, with the full moon looming overhead. Essie was not born with perfect black hair for nothing. She absolutely had to win the pageant, and she would destroy anyone to get it. Essie had one person flashing through her mind as she sat in the hair and makeup chair at five o’clock in the morning: Meenie Talon. Meenie came from a wealthy family with a stylist at her beck and call, but Essie didn’t care. Essie’s mother hired a personal assistant named Laura to coordinate her comings and goings every second of the day until the pageant. “How are y’all doing?” Essie said in a perky voice to the man and woman standing near her. “Couldn’t be better,” smiled Melanoma Melody, the personal assistant who looked like she just joined the circus with her orange tan and garish blue eye shadow. Essie rolled her eyes. “Let’s get this show on the road, then! There’s no time to be nice!” she said with an unsettling glare that shone through her brown eyes.

Melanoma Melody stood off to the side while Ken, the makeup artist, got ready to work his magic. He laid out his tools like someone preparing for war. Razor sharp tweezers ensured even the tiniest hairs wouldn’t escape Ken’s grasp. The curling iron sizzled as it melted Essie’s hair into submission. Meenie looked like she’d stuck her finger in an electrical socket as her freshly highlighted blond locks were being teased to reach the heavens. Hairspray was coming out of the hot pink can like an angry skunk’s odor, spraying everyone within mile of the backstage area. Essie was watching her out of the corners of her beady brown eyes. Meenie was standing there in nothing but her faded polka dot bra and undies that had seen better days. She huffed and puffed from exhaustion as her mama helped her into her red gown, sucking in her nonexistent stomach. No matter what they tried, the dress just hung on her waif-like frame. Her mama was folding her sequined dress to her in a flurry of pins and butt tape. “You don’t even look good,” Essie muttered under her breath. “In fact, you remind me of a red lollipop: a stick figure with a head full of air,” she said with a cackle. The pageant mamas and their underweight daughters didn’t pay her any attention. Meanwhile, Essie sauntered over to her rack and slipped into a gorgeous gold gown that sparkled like the sun, being careful that her long fingernails didn’t rip the dress. Her breasts looked fabulous and full thanks to her mama’s genius idea of the air pump she had tucked away in her little black bag. Meenie couldn’t ignore her beauty as she let a tiny gasp escape from her lips. “What are you doin’, Meenie?!” her mama exclaimed. “You can’t let her get to ya like that!” “You’re right, Mama. I didn’t starve myself and sweat away those last pesky pounds in Zumba for nothin’!” Meenie said, batting her eyelashes for dramatic effect. “Essie,” Meenie said with coolness in her voice. “I heard what you said, but it doesn’t matter, ya know why?” she said inches away from Essie’s made up face, not waiting for an answer. “Because the judges will see that I want this more than you. I dream about pageants when I go to sleep. I was meant to be queen, I just know it!” she said as she turned on her rhinestone heel to leave, clutching a homemade sash lined with pink ribbon that read “Most Beautiful.” Essie wasn’t deterred by that sickeningly sweet response. “May the best bimbo win,” she cooed, as Meenie stopped for a minute, then left her to her evil thoughts. Meenie walked the perfect pageant walk, sashaying and smiling at every turn. “She’s doing everything right, but I can do it better.” Essie said to herself. Looking out into the crowd, Essie could see the black stage glistening, thanks to the endless amount of polish that was applied before the big night. The lights were glaring, but she was used to it. Essie walked onstage with the confidence of a seasoned pro. Her black hair curled around her face in bouncy curls. She was having fun, and the judges were eating it up. As her silver heels clicked against the glossy black stage, it happened. Her breasts exploded, and coarse grey hair peeked out from beneath the gold dress. Her silver shoes turned into grey feet with coarse skin. “Oh no!” Essie fretted under her breath. “Not here, not now!” She tried with all of her might to keep her true identity a secret, but the grey hairs now covered her thin legs and torso. Her mama couldn’t let her baby endure this alone, so she came up on stage. By this

time, a hushed silence had fallen over the audience in the gymnasium of Upset, Texas. “Pie, honey?” Essie’s mama said as she offered her a slice of mincemeat pie. “I know how it calms your nerves.” “Mmm,” Essie growled as she snapped it away greedily, holding it in her paws. “You can always throw it back up later!” her mama said with a laugh. The other girls on stage laughed, unaware that Essie had changed before their eyes. They were all bubbling with excitement over which one of them would get that vacation to Hawaii. Essie hurried backstage to change into her outfit for the talent competition. Nothing was going to keep her from that crown, not even exploding breasts. Essie squeezed her long and lean body into a blue dress. “The blue silk complements your brown eyes perfectly, sweetie,” her mama said sweetly as she got into place behind the curtain. Her tail swished as she took her place behind the microphone. She’ll only come out at night The lean and hungry type Nothing is new, I’ve seen her here before Watching and waiting Ooh, she’s sittin’ with you but her eyes are on the door Essie sang this in a gravelly voice, baring her shiny white fangs for the panel of judges who were fixated on her every move.

(Oh-oh, here she comes) Watch out girl she’ll chew you up (Oh-oh, here she comes) She’s a womaneater (Oh-oh, here she comes) Watch out girl she’ll chew you up (Oh-oh, here she comes) She’s a womaneater She practically screamed the last lines into the microphone with her head tossed back. There was no doubt about it, Essie was in her element. Meenie was speechless. All of the girls huddled together as the judges took time to calculate each girl’s scores. Essie was holding her breath as the moments passed. “Essie Isa Faker is the newest queen of Upset, Texas!” came through the loud speaker. “Oh, thank y’all!” Essie growled in delight as they placed the crown upon her furry head. In lieu of roses, she was presented with one of her mama’s freshly baked sweet potato pies. “This is great!” Essie said, in shock of her win, needing tissues to sop up her tears. “Essie, how does it feel to be the first werewolf queen in history?” a reporter asked as countless microphones were shoved in her face. “Victory is just as sweet as one of my mama’s pies!” Essie said, careful not to let the crown get caught in her fur as she tilted her head back and let out a howl of happiness.

Me, the Mirror

by Julie McBath

I am the mirror. She finds me everywhere she goes. The long one at the end of her door, The one haphazardly hung on the bathroom wall, The stained and smudged one in the dressing room. I am one sided. She cannot see me as what I am, A piece of glass in a fancy setting, A pool of reflection bouncing off her eyes, A mere glimpse at who she is. I am unkind. I do not intend to be A crude image of larger hips, A spotlight on a single red bump, A pointing finger at protruding curves. I am not truthful, Not the picture she sees of herself, Not the image I plant in her mind, Not the unattractive girl she swears to see. I am a ghost. Somehow, I seem to haunt her. She sees me in her meals, She sees me in her running shoes, She sees me in the tiled walls of the bathroom floor. I am a lie. I show her what she is; she sees what she sees. A warped and twisted body; one oversized.

A pale and tearstained face; one afraid. A lonely little girl; one independent. I am the mirror. She sees what she wants to see. Me, the mirror.

O Hollow Tree

by Alisa Dunn

O Hollow Tree, what have you seen? Who has rested beneath the limbs of your youth? What children have eaten your fruit? What lovers have met under your shade? How many forgotten lives have lived and died beneath your leaves? And yet here I stand, Knowing I will share the same fate. I am nothing but one of your dead leaves, fluttering in the breeze. I live for a moment, but quickly am I pulled away, Like the dead leaf which flutters to the ground, landing among countless others. You are my story, but I am only one of your chapters.

Droplet

by Julie McBath

White Death

by Phil Hiott

White winds rush across the land, whipping clouds of snow into everything that dares to stand in its path. Forests, hills, rocks, lakes, all made white and lost in the powerful gusts of winds. Every living thing has made retreat and buried themselves deep where the cold does not bite as hard. From above, the white fades to a deathly gray that continues to grow darker as the night begins to seize what had already been a horrid day. The night would also bring with it death on its icy fingertips. All living things know this and dare not fight it, hoping that an early slumber will have them wake to a morning free from that unforgiving, murderous cold of the darkness. From within the gusts of snow, short, small pillars of steam can be seen. Sounds are made mute from the whining screams of the wind as it continues its vicious assault on the living. A nose: with frozen mucus, teeth: sharp and gleaming with coats of saliva, eyes: bursting in vivid blue against the white of its coat, all comes into view. The body heaves in breaths of subzero air. The paws sink, finding the dead ground beneath that ice, and pull each foot forward. Its teeth bite hard onto the broken leather harness that went around him when he pulled the sled with the others. But now they are gone. It is only him and his master. He pulls the sled alone. That old wolf dog pushes on. No longer does the voice of his master touch his ears. No longer does his master hold the reigns. No longer does his master stand on the sled. The wreck of the sled and the cold had already taken him out of the conscious world, and the man had collapsed, yielding to exhaustion, but still fighting death. That old wolf dog is his last hope. That old wolf dog of his he has called Sergei for 11 years. Sergei did not flee when the harness broke. Sergei has never quit before. Sergei will never quit. That cold beats on Sergei hard. That cold stings his eyes, but it is only weather. His master’s voice echoes in his head, words that have been burned into the old wolf dog’s head to fight the cold. Push on boy. Sergei fights hard. The old wolf dog does not understand the words his mind uses to fight that cold, but knows their purpose. So often were they spoken by his master that his soul finally became one with it, and no longer were they just sounds, but they became meaning. He clenches down on the harness straps harder, throwing his teeth upward, gaining a better grip. Again, he inches forward. Into the woods. The winds do not sting as hard, but the cold bites down into his skin further. He lets the leather harness straps fall from his mouth, and he returns to his master. He sniffs his scent habitually, bringing his nose close to the man’s face. From his face, he drops his nose down to the great furs in which his master clad himself. They were dry enough. The wound at the side of his master’s head, once red, had grown a deep purple. The sled had wrecked hours ago, striking a boulder during a turn…hours long lost and covered away in cold.

Sergei licks the wound and his cheek, trying to take some of the cold away. The man responds, looking weakly to his dog, and then losing consciousness again; his spirit slept, but refused death. The old wolf dog does not worry, and gives no whimper. His master must not die. Sergei’s ears stand up, and he raises his head to look into the beyond: white weaved into darkness. The woods did not provide hope. But beyond the cold, beyond the wind, what scents had not been numbed by the freeze, bring upon them the feint trace of smoke. Sergei fixes his eyes into that direction. He wraps his teeth around the clothing of the left leg of his master that had fallen off the sled and brings it back onto the sled. His master’s large knife falls during this act. Sergei reaches down, picks it up with his teeth as well, and lays it back onto the sled. Push on boy. Sergei goes back to his place. Home, take us home. The old wolf dog picks back up those leather straps into his teeth. Home. Sergei pushes on. He tracks through that path that he used to run; the cold had frozen the scent, but instinct guides him. Sergei continues on until a scent grows strong. He sniffs: the smoke scent is gone. A scent had grown keen, and his instincts already begin to respond. The harness drops, his teeth flare, and he digs his paws into the snow, his head lowered and his hind legs ready to spring. For the scent that has filled the air is that of a beast that could surely take his spirit into the next world. The beast, covered in white, bellowing steam as it roars, approaches on all fours. Sergei was huge for a wolf dog, but he is greatly dwarfed compared to this creature. The wolf dog lunges, feinting an attack with a deep growl, causing the beast to momentarily pause. Sergei’s growl grows greater and greater. The beast roars, engulfing all sounds from the wolf dog. Sergei is not fazed, but counters with another roar, snarling in the strong bass of indignation, challenge, and fortitude. Sergei had accepted death, but it will not be the white death, but the red death of battle, fighting with all his strength to defend his master. The battle is brief. Sergei lunges high, clawing at the beast, and slamming his teeth into the back of its neck. The beast writhes, standing on its hind legs, and knocks Sergei away. The beast turns its sights to Sergei’s master, still on the sled. Sergei lunges again, desperate and reckless in his attempts to distract the beast. The beast rises, and slams its front feet downward, attempting to crush Sergei. Sergei dodges, then moves to attack. The beast comes down on him. Bones begin to snap. As Sergei locks a final bite into the beast’s shoulder, his vision is lost into the white of the fur, then the black of the sky during the struggle. The white and the black. Then there is red. There comes a painful roar that becomes gurgled before dying away. Sergei breathes. Dead weight is on his hind legs, shattered, broken, and numb. His forelegs scatter to get free. His jaws are still locked into the beast’s shoulder, but the snow-covered fur had grown red. The blade of his master’s knife protrudes at the top of the beast’s head, and the hilt of the knife presses deeply against the bottom jaw. His master, alive, moves, shivering just next to it,

attempting to pull the knife out of the beast. Sergei ceases the bite, and lets his body lay, still trapped beneath the beast, but he is relieved. His master had saved him, his spirit now awake, and had buried that knife into the mouth and mind of the beast. He watches as his master pulls the knife free from the kill strike, and plunges it into the beast’s belly, cutting it open, and digging his hands into its bleeding warmth. His voice quakes in the cold, but he commands Sergei to get up. Sergei gathers what life he has in those exhausted front legs and tries to get up. At last, he pulls himself free. He drags his battered hind legs behind, pulling himself forward. The master and his wolf dog huddle against the warmth of the beast, but both know they cannot stay long. As the master moves to get up, so does Sergei, and the old wolf dog tries to crawl over to his harness. He hears his master say, “No,” and he stops in his tracks. His master then snaps his fingers: “here boy.” The old wolf dog then moves to the indicated spot on the sled in obedience. His master repeats the beckon, each time giving Sergei more life, and his pace grows faster until finally, he makes it to the sled. His master, still very weak, helps his body completely onto the sled, and wraps Sergei the best he could with a blanket. His master then takes up the harness, that very harness that every one of his dogs save for Sergei fled from all those hours ago. He slings the leather straps over his shoulder and begins to pull down that path that Sergei once walked. It would not be far now. His master would not quit. His master would not die. His master would deliver him to safety. Sergei can rest now. The old man pushes on.

What Else?

by Mark Goodwin To dream… sweet lulled by the lyric of your lips. To dance… treble-clef’d in the honey of your hips. To dwell… surrounded by the syrup of your song. What else is there?

Fast as Summer by Kyle Garrett

That time of the evening when the air —heavy, blue—makes high pop-flies clean disappear—fast as summer. A ball-field in the last minutes before dusk turns night—the saplings beyond the outfield fence no more than shadows. The brickdust and chalklines and bluegrass flood-lit—a dreamscape in hyper-relief beneath the midnight blue. Aluminum bleachers gleam bright as the moon. Can you see summer turn away? A red cloud of ghost dust floats scoreboard-ward after a dirty slide. An ump—gaunt, mustachioed— uppercuts the third out with fists flying and strides to the home dugout for a paper-cone sip from the cooler all in one motion, even before the batter unfreezes. Out. Gone.

Nocturnland by Jeanine Kleckley

Rain, Rain Hitting my roof My eyelids growing dense The world ceases to move with me I sleep. My dreams Haunt me with rage Hot tears pour down my face I awake in a shaken state Tortured I jerk With taunting fear Now amongst the living Aloneâ&#x20AC;ŚI feel his hand in mine I sleep. The hall Numerous doors A voice calls me darkly Beckoning me to grasp a knob My fears Hidden. Behind each door My greatest fears are stocked I hesitate but my Virgil Guides on Dante Prompts me forward My breath quickens all of a Sudden, my palms begin to sweat Door one.

Eight legs But multiplied Arachnophobia Closer and closer with a touch Door two. Blindness The dark poisons Not only my two eyes But my mind and heart as well Grasping Nothing My eyes and mind Begin a war of wits In the dark a nightmare is made Door three. A death But not my own Silver handles glisten On a coffin made of black wood Unknown One step Toward the box My palm compelled to touch To open the box releases Great pain Father Open, pale face Where is eternity? Pain in my chest, tears in my eyes

Door four.

Takes hold.

Another How many more? I can not bear much more Look, smooth metal, my pulse quickens The knob

My eyes Can not open “Look at me” the voice says “Call me into your dreams, so I’ll Be there

Turns to Reveal embers The scorching heat consumes Sweat beads on my brow suddenly The voice

To save You from the fear” “Navigate your dreams Name your power to vanquish fears” I smile.

Mocking Malicious, deep Laughing through my soul My faith is weak and uncertain I drop

Still scared Nestled tightly His arms let me drift This time safely into dreamland I sleep.

My knees Bending to pray A tight grasp of my throat Prevents the word from escaping Door five. I can’t Jerking violent I cringe, feeling the heavy Weight pressing on my uselessness A tear Slipping From my weak eyes Warms my face in the dark My body helpless in the night Lost again. Helpless Nightmares of pain Seeking escape again The warmth of a familiar hand

Sea of Galilee by Jana Mobley

A Simple Offering by Jeanine Kleckley I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill.

I hear people talk of a world where there is grass, blue skies, and happiness. I know nothing of any of these. I am surrounded by a mass of stone which seems to be the cause of everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s coldness. The sky looks as if the blackness could swallow you whole if you stared too long, for happiness left the world with the passing of the great prophet. The prophet was a man, just an ordinary man, who had a vision and expressed this vision through his powerful words. He wanted the world to live and bask in the humanity of mankind, but his dream was short-lived. War, poverty, and hate plagued the world, and to keep the hope of mankind alive, he placed the most precious ideal in a secret location. There are rumors about what is contained in the jar and where it was placed, but no one really knows. The prophet spoke of one being who would be blessed with the insight to find the jar. In his teachings he states that the jar is the core of the world and we are all around it, as if this particular jar is the heart of our people. The prophet spoke such powerful words. Many a man, or so they thought, has made an attempt to find this jar and be the hero of the world, but greed, fame, or envy have all trampled these men and their dreams to shambles. The people laugh when I tell them that one day, I will be the one who discovers the jar and restores the life of mankind back. I havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t told anyone that I dream of this jar and its location, and that I constantly feel a pull towards the center of the world.

It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill. The power contained within the simple glass object has amazed me from the time I was a small child. How could something so small be the greatest gift to the world? I feel as though our world deserves nothing because of the lives that we have created. My people are corrupt and feel as though there are no consequences for their actions. Murder, deceit, and greed are the basics of our people. Each night I look to the stars with hope that somewhere amidst this wilderness of life, there is some goodness left in the world, but unfortunately, I think itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hidden in the jar. Tonight is no different. I am staring up to those same stars as I drift off to slumber when the image of the jar invades my dream. I move as if motivated by something that is not of me. I feel my feet touch the cold stone and move hastily toward the gate that leads to the Neverlands. No one ever returns from the Neverlands, but I wake to find myself still on the cot where I first slept, but there is something in my chest that is telling me to proceed onward. I try to lie back down, but the jar is all I can think of. The jar invaded all my

thoughts and seemed to urge my body forward. I dress, pack my bag, and quietly slip out of the only home I had known for thirteen years. The bridge out of the village is more spectacular than I had imagined, but this sight does not make me lose my focus. The darkness surrounds me like a coat of heavy fur and I only have my heart to guide me. The coldness of the barren world makes me shiver, but soon I feel a strange feeling. At first, I think it is someone who had followed me and is going to try and destroy my attempt, but soon I realize that it was simply a rush of breath that seemed to be coming from the world itself. At that moment I see the most beautiful sight in all of my world. I see a large mass of color, the color of the leaves in the village. I know that is where I must go.

The wilderness rose up to it, And sprawled around, no longer wild.

With each step, I feel the prickles of the vegetation between my toes. I run up the incline in hopes I will soon come in contact with the single desire of my heart. The world is new and filled with life. The world seemed to be centralized at this point and through the inclines my calves begin to ache. I have to continue. I have to continue. The higher I climb, the lighter the sky becomes and seems to smile on my soul. The weight of all that my community had placed on me is dissolving into the air. The air is fresh and clear and is as pure as what the prophet had said. I feel for a brief moment that life is not so horrific, and that maybe I could turn back, but I know my job. No matter how much I doubt myself, I know that this is my life. This is why I am here. I begin to climb an incline that looks as if it disappeared into that clear sky. The climb is more brutal than any chore I had ever attempted, but I press onward. With each passing step, I feel as though all the unruly chaos is ceasing to exist around me. I continue to climb and as I approach the pinnacle point of the structure, I see a flash of light.

The jar was round upon the ground And tall and of a port in air.

The flash of light is a beacon that guides me toward that object. I want to make each step count as I approach the sacred thing. I finally found it, the wonderful jar that everyone had told me about. I hardly can believe it with my own eyes. I thought I might have passed out and this is simply the visions of a dying soul, but soon another rush of air brings me back to reality. I stand for a long time just basking in the sight of wonder, when I notice a slip of paper. That solitary slip of paper looms in the environment like a bad omen. As I look closely, I realize that it is the words of the sacred prophet. The note is simple, yet makes my heart sink as I read the words, “You free man, but surrender yourself,” and with that I feel as though my trip has been for nothing. I wandered all this way to have to surrender myself. I don’t know if I have that power. As I have said, I might be different than most of the people in the world, but I still hold onto the pride contained in myself. I don’t want to surrender. I want to live and see the joy of man, the happiness of a people, and experience a love. I want to be part of the future.

It took dominion everywhere.

After much introspection and tears, I place my hand on the lid of the jar. The coldness seemed to warm with the touch of my cold clammy hands. Shakily, I begin to twist the lid slowly. I am really going to instill a future for all the people who had doubted me. In my mind, I want to turn back and show them that I had found it and that they should be in awe of me, but that was not the case. My heart tells me to remain and finish what I had started. I am not supposed to live, but I will grant them a life they have never experienced. Just one simple twist and the lid of the jar loosened. I want to relish in the moment and make it last, but there is a force behind it that makes my hand ache with pressure. I continue to turn the lid, scared that I will regret my decision and try to change it. If I stop, it would be done and the world would remain the same. I have to do it. With a final twist, I give into the pressure, and a faint wisp of light escapes and floats up into the blackness. Is that it? Is this how I am to surrender, to a wisp of light? The jar was gray and bare. I look down to see the empty jar sitting on the hill where it had been placed by our wise prophet thousands of years earlier. I was in doubt as to what had happened. The note said to surrender myself, but I’m still here, aren’t I? I was not granted time to even consider what the people must be experiencing for at that moment, a great heaviness begins to push on my heart and weigh so heavily as to block the breath from entering my lungs. Gasping for air seems to be futile, for my lungs begin to tighten. The world starts to slowly tunnel into a small opening, and I feel the world disappear from around me and feel my pulse growing weak. The beating of my own heart is the only sound to keep me company. I know the end is near and I’m surely surrendering myself at this moment. That is the moment that I die physically, but my soul continues on in cognitive thought. I view down upon my people with hope that they will change.

It did not give of bird or bush, Like nothing else in Tennessee.

The land returns to some splendor of the olden times. People begin to care for one another and realize the greatness within them. I understand, only now, what’s contained within that jar. It is not a simple emotion of love, or caring, but it is humanity itself. The hope of mankind rests in a jar sat upon a hill.

Persistence

by Mandi Green

A Deathbed Conversion

by Caleb Milligan

A dying atheist counts down his last few seconds of certainty, Bedridden, spoiling like old produce, awaiting the inevitable. He looks for no cute comfort in pillowed clouds from heaven, Nor does he shiver fearfully at flame-forged shackles from hell. Rather, sick with cynicism, he welcomes nothingness intangible, And will give his body of mud and clay over to groundâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mystery. His lifetime of smug denial has confounded all hope of mystery, But, faced with fatality, his clock ticks away all previous certainty. A tangible mind struggles to grasp a world of ideas too intangible, And a skittish heartbeat pumps doubts at what was once inevitable. However, he will not allow any horror stories to convict him of hell,

For belief in an underworld would endorse an afterlife in heaven. Surely, only children can be coddled with fantasies of heaven, So why should he let his slipping brain crumble with mystery? The rational man cannot be riveted by superstitions of hell, But why then is he balking at all scientific logic of certainty? That death is only an end must of course be most inevitable, Yet still, he frets, is there some new beginning in the intangible? His fever finds some new fervor in this fresh fear of the intangible, And every escaping breath, like flags of surrender, hints at heaven. A passage into cold ground no longer assures of the inevitable, Leaving him abandoned by his disbelief, at the mercy of mystery. Years spent in refusal of faith topple, bereft of cemented certainty, The only stronghold cold reason could erect against haunts of hell. If these final moments pre mortem are all between him and hell, Then is hasty repentance too late to save him from the intangible? Now that death knocks not as a friend but a foe of paltry certainty, Can he yet find some narrow path to eek him into this heaven? Is there any way to safeguard against all the tortures of mystery, To devise some tactic that will redefine the meaning of inevitable? His deathbed is a textbook teaching that nothing is inevitable, When the staunch irreligious adopt the devout terrors of hell. A man finds himself victimized by the delirium of mystery, And sees faith as a lucky charm to protect from the intangible. He wants to see himself happy behind safe gates of heaven, Just to find some way to regain all the comfort of certainty. But does his false certainty alter what may be already inevitable? Will he be safe on clouds of heaven or safe from shackles of hell? He dies wondering, becomes intangible, and is left up to mystery.

The Old Oak Tree

by Sarah Major

We were two kids in love Playing in the leaves And making hidden forts Beside the oak tree A damsel in distress My prince with his crown Running wild and laughing Until the sun went down When we grew too old For such childish games We’d still meet by the tree Where we carved our names Study amongst the leaves Or so it would seem While really discussing Our hopes and dreams We planned to be married Under our old tree Such a beautiful place For a wedding to be And the day soon came Our graduation day We knew we were destined To go separate ways I was off to college And you off to war But I wanted you to stay Nothing I wanted more We knew we had to go

It wouldn’t be forever Because we shared a love That nothing could sever So we solemnly swore Under our old tree In a year, we’d be joined In matrimony. When we said our goodbyes It hurt my poor heart But the tree gave me hope We wouldn’t be apart The days felt so long Longer than I feared I awaited the day That it would be a year The months grew tiresome Anticipation grew The year began to close I would get to see you With just days to go I readied my gown Because I surely knew You would be homebound The day finally came And this impatient bride Went straight to the tree But what did I find? A letter was resting On the trunk of the tree Even more surprising

It was addressed to me Slowly pulled it open Not expecting this Soon my blank confusion Was replaced by sadness You’re never coming home You were killed overseas I’d never see my love A bride I’d never be The tears began to flow As I clung to our tree A memory of you Our carved names I could see…

Form

Past and Present by Jeanine Kleckley

Delighted

by Chris Hair

Eyes wide and shiny B o U n C i N g, giggling Look, Look A grasshopperâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; And the fresh lens of childhood.

To make sense of it all

by Hannah E. Smith

one night just one night it will never satisfy. how I wish I could feel your heartbeat against my back your arms around me your breath, your sweet breath, warm on my neck the smell of you gently lingering on my skin with the taste of you still on my tongue yet, that is not enough. you how I wish you were coursing through my veins that you and I were one in the same living, moving, breathing, being being beyond reality, beyond fate into being one heart, one soul how I wish others could know what this is like to be so deeply connected to one person to every person. did not my God intend for it to be? surely to feel His heartbeat, His arms

His breath. to have Him dwell in the depths of my soul our soul. what I would give to know the depths of Him. how He knew from the start how my decisions, my mistakes how they change my fate each day to make sense of it all would be pointless pointless. there are no words, no verses, no songs nothing. nothing to define Him, nothing to define us. we we are unique. we are, I am a person one person but He, He intended it differently. His intentions for us, all of us to function as One in a world of individuals to each his own occupation, his own purpose without each there would be no progress, no functioning. against your belief we need one another.

David’s Wife

I cannot progress you cannot function. just as One cannot function, cannot progress without Him do you not see how we should be? how I wish I could have all of the answers to help you see to help them see, to change this dying, decaying world defeat the fates to dream and live in a life full of cliché of happiness of never-ending, noncircumstantial joy with you. you you have changed my life drastically just as He, He changed my heart my soul, my being, my existence. those which I share I give to you maybe one day, one year, one lifetime to you you.

by Julie McBath

It was my fault, really. I was stupid enough to love him, trust him, think he would want me in my old age and withering looks, though I’m only late thirties. I’d tried wrinkle and under eye creams, scrambling to become the ultimate Covergirl of the up and coming royal brothel with the wives outnumbering servants and these other women consuming our royal wine and wearing our royal gowns. Polygamy—such a cruel word. He would make love to me, declare me beautiful,

then run off to be king—buildings, wars, laws, final words; or to a concubine—royal prostitutes, fed from my royal plate, cared for by my royal hand. The man after God’s own heart…maybe God’ll leave me, too. I saw it all from my window, him running through the streets in the moonlight, her naked body shining on the roof under the same stars that he and I used to look at together, back before the numbers of women consumed his lust and overwhelmed his desire. I lit a cigarette from my window perch as he emerged on the roof and took her in his arms, pulling her close, kissing her softly, unaware that two stories above him, his faithful wife watched, broken. I couldn’t see her face, but he said it was all his fault, that he seduced her, that she wanted to refuse, that she screamed for her husband. He wasn’t there by his royal order to fight. She really had no choice, I guess. When the king calls, you do as your told; I guess that’s why it’s an affair, not rape. The stars looked like glass—shattered—like his broken promises that seemed to lay scattered at my feet like the happiness that used to exist in our marriage. A week later, he was on his knees at my feet, begging forgiveness when he got a message banging on the door, shouting its urgency from the lips of a frightened little boy. I rolled my eyes, gesturing furiously at the door. He stood up warily, waiting for an angry outburst which dangled on the tip of my tongue until it was ripped from my throat at the little boy’s announcement: pregnant. Bathsheba was pregnant by my husband, by his adultery. I watched him frantically try to cover his mistake, begging her to see a doctor, swearing God forgives. She refused, being one of the pro-life activists who graced the palace steps. My husband grew desperate, his pathetic tears daring to enter my bedroom, falling mercilessly down his cheeks lying next to mine, his lips begging to be kissed lovingly and reassuringly. I rolled over, the folds of my lingerie tauntingly rubbing against his arm, reminding him that he couldn’t touch me ever again. Not that it did any good, but at the time, I felt his chest rise and fall as he fought his desire to hold me the same way he used to. He killed her husband a week later and never saw me naked again. My ladies-inwaiting stood guard at my bedroom door and turned him away on his midnight calls, laughing callously at his adulterous tears and his unfaithful pleas. I remained in my room, not daring to let him see me cry, humiliated and hurt. I avoided the halls, disgusted at the pitying looks from the others and from servants. I don’t understand; they shrugged shoulders like they didn’t care, like they hadn’t also been the victims of infidelity. Maybe I was the only one stupid enough to really love him, to believe his flowers and letters, to believe his words and touches, to fall for the promises that were too good to be true. She eventually took my room, the biggest one, to house her pregnant belly and later the little rat. She took my room, my jewels, my place, my husband, my love, my life. He eventually stopped calling at my door, being found more often wrapped in her embrace than in my accusatory glare. She always kept her eyes open when he kissed her,

and I swear I saw a tear slip down her cheek once, though I don’t understand. She was the apple of the king’s eye; what did she have to be sad about? I hear her crying sometimes, but I feel no pity for a common whore—another royal prostitute, though I smile and comfort her like the stupid woman I am, putting on the carefully chiseled face of the wife of the man after God’s own heart. I selflessly held her hair during her morning sickness, baked her cookies like a good housewife to satisfy her pregnancy cravings, gently wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead as the birthing pains screamed and moaned until the child was no longer a blackened image blurred on a screen but a tiny human being held in my own infertile arms. For a split second, I felt remorse for my hatred, like God was punishing me in my infertility for refusing to forgive, but though the child didn’t cry, he opened his tiny, vibrant green eyes, and I saw his father in him, my heart breaking that his affair gave him a baby when I, his loving and faithful wife, could not. Bathsheba, fearful for her child, was confined to her bed in her sorrow and mourning. When he took his final breath a week after his birth, it was my arms that held him tightly, gently soothing him into his afterlife with the just God with whose retribution I agreed. We lay the tiny body in the ground as his father entered the kitchen for the first time since his birth, finally eating with the Lord’s praises on his lips, sticky with sugar and breads. Bathsheba was like a ghost after his death, mourning her first husband and the death of her child, her susceptibility to forced sin and the necessity of losing her son to justice overwhelming her. She floated the halls gloomily, pale and emaciated from confining herself to her room. I began to feel sorry for her and found myself bringing her plates of food with a strange regret for my hatred on the side; she was always crying when she opened her door, and it wasn’t long before we spent hours together, weeping and talking as we watched the man who wrecked both of our lives slowly lose interest in us as his other wives and whores became more appealing than devoted love. Slowly, months crept by where we didn’t see him and the only company we found was in our wine bottles and cigarette smoke that enveloped our late night talks, tears, and strange bonding we somehow felt. He knocked on my door last night, a psalm and a prayer on his lips, his green eyes alight with desire and pleading. I opened the door slightly, very aware of my silky black slip, the lace lying teasingly against my skin, the candlelight in the background bouncing lightly off my hair, creating a halo effect, according to his pathetic compliments. He smiled and opened his arms warmly, saying how God forgives, God reigns, God sees all, God is always in control…amen! Amen to God’s love, God’s compassion, God’s healing, God’s forgiveness…but does God forget? I closed the door in his face, flipping the light switch and blowing out the candles that had been lulling me to sleep. I sat on my bed, wishing for the silk sheets I’d been forced to give his mistress, wishing for his warm arms that he’d given away will-

ingly, wishing for the fidelity and love that I had so willingly given to him, even after everything he did. The man after God’s own heart—an adulterer, a murderer, a liar, a manipulator, a sinner. God forgives. I can’t.

That time we don’t remember yet by Kyle Garrett

When we lie back on the floor of the barn —dust-wood overstrewn with hay— look up past the crossbeams high, studying things— at the weathered cracks letting slivers of white light glow from outside in. Oh how the long, uneven cracks above us might be mistaken for the silvery broken web of some supernatural spider—long gone and scrunched somewhere till night fall. And oh, how we mistake it.

Layers

by April Toney

The Visitor

by Caleb Milligan

“I’m sorry, do you have the time?” “Yes sir, it’s 9:30 p.m. Will that be all?” No longer listening, he wound his watch to match the truth and held his wrist to his ear. That familiar rhythm crept inside and tranquilized, terrified him. It was the ticking of the clock that gave him such hope, such dread. He was alive another second, alive long enough to fear his imminent death. His time would be up soon. Someone would halt his second hand. In his line of work, no one really retired. Everyone just waited for a visitor. “Ahem, sir, will that be all?” He was standing at the desk of yet another hotel, shirt and tie, track jacket, brown slacks. He sported a five-o’clock shadow and shaggy, barely trained hair, the result of only acquainting his locks with a comb, rather than fully befriending it. His black-rimmed glasses were sleek in design, but the smudged lens subtracted from their style. His appearance announced itself collected and disheveled. He was just the same, holding up the line. He barely registered that the desk clerk had said a word, that anyone was sharing this scene with him at all until a man behind him barked with impatience, “Come on, pal! Some of us want to stay in a room past the check-in counter.” Startled out of reverie, he looked up and simply mumbled an apology. He took his key card and walked on. “Yes, thank you.” The desk clerk called after him, “Enjoy your stay!” But he was gone before the sentence had finished itself. He had forced himself nomadic. He floated through hotel rooms, paid for under as many different aliases as he could forge. He did not accept housekeeping. He did not order room service. He did not talk to anyone, if he could help it. People who keep to themselves stay alive. Here in his hotel room, he took in his situation. Every room was a variation on the same theme. Warm tones, usually autumnal in color, which only made him feel colder. Two beds, both covered in floral patterns, perfectly made up and turned and tucked, the very picture of rest sculpted from sheet. Far too many lamps, of random size and assortment, attempting to offer mood lighting but clashing with every different glow. A sink inside the bathroom, a sink outside of the bathroom; such symmetry was superfluous. Every single room like a miniature home, equally smacking of some place too foreign for anyone to inhabit. He would sleep in this paradox for two days at most, alone and unhinged from everyone. He told himself that loneliness was therapeutic. He convinced himself every time he moved that he was making stop after stop on some grand vacation. He deluded himself to afford some scarce minutes of peace. But the man that thought everything was okay, that the trouble was over, always had to share his room with the same one who knew the truth. Loneliness was the worst form of torture; he spent each night with his only suitemates being

years of bloodstained regret. His vacation turned every resort into a safe house; each country blurred together as he ran away faster than he could settle in. And there was no peace; there was waiting: for a bomb, a bullet, some poison, some chemical, whatever means necessary just like they were taught. Hell is running from every heaven in sight, hoping to earn some distance away from angels. His hell was this hotel, and the next, and next, next. Working for a secret intelligence syndicate had obliterated his calm. Every room was bugged, set to detonate, filled with armed strangers around every corner—until he had searched and deemed there weren’t. Trained killers know that everyone and everything is dangerous. He could not afford to let his guard down. The world could not be taken lightly. His first measure was to scour the bathroom, the closet, this nook, that cranny. Killers like him were the priority of killers like so many others and could easily be wherever he least suspected them; therefore he must suspect everywhere. He removed his shoes and gently paced the room, pistol drawn from his back. He opened the closet and stepped inside. It was only big enough for him to barely tolerate, so he knew now that no one could be so well hidden. He slinked into his bathroom, took in his own image in the mirror, and then succinctly yanked the shower curtain, gun pointed. It pulled free from its rod. Quiet, inert, frazzled, he was taken slightly off edge by the discovery of nothing. Entering the main space of his room, he peeked under both beds with utmost stealth. He examined behind the curtains between him and sunlit balcony. No one. Anywhere. No one was here but himself. Relieved of this first scenario, he now subjected his quarters to absolute upheaval. The room must be searched for contraband. He wrestled the sheets off the beds, fingering every crease and fold for anything suspicious. He then upended both mattresses, seeking every corner of the skeletal bed frames. He pulled his knife from his pocket and sliced crucifixes into each mattress, feeling through the stuffing for anything explosive. People had engaged his own explosives by lying in their beds (weight displacement triggers the charge); he would not fall for his own tricks. He then dismantled the phone for wiretaps or plastiques, carefully…oh so carefully. A former colleague had bugged a phone into a bomb once and then subsequently blown himself up with clumsy fingers. He searched each drawer for whatever murder they may hold. With heart almost stopped, he crept his fingers to the very backs of these cabinet shelves, praying he would find nothing hoping to find him. One of his more clever murders once involved an airborne toxin in the drawer of the desk, not set to release until exposed to the higher oxygen level of the rest of the victim’s office upon pull out. When all he felt was the cooked leather of the top drawer Bible, he relaxed long enough to brace himself for the rest of his stay in this potential morgue. Eyes closed, he followed his pointer finger over the gold inlaid title. As his digit registered “Holy Bible,” he emptied his mind of the entire world, reveling in this oddly ceremonial intimacy with a book he held no belief in. And as quick as begun, finished. Jesus could not help him where he’d allowed himself to fall. Reacquainted with his worries, he tensed and continued his compulsions. He went to the counter. There waiting was a handsome bottle of some dark wine. Compliments of the hotel. He broke its seal and introduced its contents to the atmosphere. And then poured it down the guzzling drain of one of his sinks. Liquids were untrustworthy. There were many compromised, poisoned, and resealed

bottles of whichever alcohol their unlucky receptacles preferred. These were as many of the ways he could imagine a room was able to kill someone. He had played through every trick he had pulled previously. He must assume that his faceless enemies were as smart he was; that’s how he had stayed alive this long. These exhaustive measures saved him regularly, but had cost him dearly before. Before the life of danger around every corner of the known world, he had lived far from shadows. His detail was simple protective service. He—and other bottom rung grunts—offered security for high profile political prisoners and hostages that their agency needed alive. In this line of work, he fired his gun once at an anarchist protesting the detainment of some faceless diplomatic villain. He missed, but grazed the offender’s shoulder, immobilizing him long enough to be dead weight in his captor’s hands. After that, the agency probably made sure that poor soul ceased to exist. He knew nothing of it, because he was too low security level to know much of anything. Other than that, his position required little more than ample amounts of stern and indifferent staring. But then a mission came through that would derail the rest of his life. The agency wanted new faces, fresh blood. His name came up and was called upon. He was beaming with naivety and his record was impressive enough, so they trained him for their dirty work. He and a crack team were sent halfway across the globe to track and kill anyone with a target placed on their back by his handlers. They began to pay visits all around the globe, out to stop their victims’ clocks until the agency said time was up. At the time, he had taken the pay raise first and asked questions later. He had a wife and child; they would love the father who brought home everything that dirty money could buy. He thought he was being selfless, thought he was doing this for all their futures. But once the syndicate allowed him his first leave of absence, everyone found out how much harm had been done. Kill enough people, and realize how thinly twined the threads by which a life hangs can be. Hide in enough shadows, and barely tolerate the vulnerability of the light. Live in paranoia, and never rest easy again. Sitting alone on the hotel bed, now savaged and sloppily reassembled by his machinations, his watch’s quarter notes on the snare boomed like a bass drum in his ears. It was the only sound in the room—just that constant ticking, full of promise and unease. Chilled by his loneliness that drove him to personify wristwatches, he thought of the togetherness he had lost. His wife had never stomached his change. It never helped that he was not allowed to offer any explanation for it; he was a book of bloody secrets shut off from everyone. But everyone saw what had happened to him. He advertised it with his every tick. He bought triple locks for every door of his home. He never turned lights on and always turned lights off that others had switched. He hardly left the house and protested attempts to get him outside, always speaking in low whispers to his wife about everyone who could be watching. Anyone walking close to himself or especially his family was violently accused of tailing. His bed was hardly used for sleep, nearly never for sex. He no longer offered caresses, only received them. In constant need of comfort, in endless want of reassurance, he became a skittish robot of a

man. It was not long before his wife could no longer handle being the long-suffering tinkerer at his every short circuit. She left with their child, giving no more explanation than, “I’m sorry you aren’t the man I married anymore. He died somewhere out there.” Having swallowed this same bitter tonic that he swilled in his mind each day, he ventured a rare visit away from his xenophobic tendencies for some more literal tonic. He needed a drink. He walked the halls with caution; this was the same way he walked everywhere. Passing yellow light after yellow light, the summery hall felt labyrinthine, never ending. They were fixed like torches along dungeon walls, fitting for his constantly trapped disposition. When he finally arrived at the elevator, he felt his hand grasp the gun held at his back, by instinct. He pushed the “open” button and waited for the bell. His heart raced in anticipation, fearing whatever might wait behind the steel doors. When he heard the chime, his pulse halted as the metal divided. He peeked around the corner only to see a miffed woman with her sniffling daughter. He stepped in and waited: he, woman, child, and the tension. Looking at the small piece of family, his heart panged for his own, now lost. At journey’s end, the rest of the elevator emptied as he moved back to the corner, spying out for anyone in wait for him. Again realizing he was safe, he shuffled to the bar for at least a few minutes away from the world. Spirits could fight off his demons for a bit. He walked into the bar, surveying the evening destination. It was smoky and poorly lit, giving off the typical mood of booze and bad decisions. Everyone inhabiting this dead end spot mostly went it alone; alcohol was anyone’s only true friend. The entire room felt like film noir, black and white apart from color, all mood and atmosphere in its own world. He found an empty stool at the bar, making sure it was left alone on either side. The bartender, vested and in long sleeves, gave him the once-over and mumbled, “Whaddya have?” “Vodka. Your best vodka.” “Sure, sure. Comin’ at ya.” The barkeep placed the drink at his fingertips only to be shocked to find his wrist held fast by this stranger. He, clutching the wrist, nearly whispered, “Take a sip.” “The hell? Guy, you outta your damn mi—” “A sip. I’m careful.” “Fine, shit, fine. Leggo my wrist.” Hand roughly freed to its own means, the bartender took one succinct sip at the cruel tonic. Grimacing, he quipped, “Bleaghh, funny thing is I don’t even drink. There ya go, all safe. Anything else? Say no.” “Nothing else. Thank you.” Put at ease, he still took a cautious drink; mistrust was his preservation method. Alone (always blissfully and dreadfully alone) with his thoughts, he relaxed his jaw and let the drink work on him like a punch to the throat. He grimaced and endured. He peered down into the crystalline solution and saw his own frown mugging back at him. This was who he was now, personified loneliness, a specter passing over the world.

Feeling ghostlier and ghostlier as the vodka shook his grip on the room, he reflected on the rhythm in his chest, the rhythm on his wrist. He felt his very heartbeat entwined with his wristwatch’s constant suggestions; sometimes, he was sure without one, he would lose the other. Once he found himself wife-and-childless, he had taken every job, every suicide mission, every assignment he was guaranteed to never survive. He always came back, a little more of his soul eroded away like rock beaten by wave. Rather than mourn, he would kill. He had no time to pity himself; his world now hinged on ending others’. Rather than call anywhere home, he would only pay visits—a different kind of house call. He would fall into any bed that made him feel welcome for at least some minutes. He disappeared in one-night stands and pointless liaisons with every woman he could find that looked nothing like her. But, after the climax was spent, he always realized that he was only a temporary presence for her, with her, in her. He was forced to accept his fate as the visitor to worlds no longer his own. He had become some sort of amoral vagrant; he lived outside of law, conscience, feeling. But conviction finally caught up with him when he was drafted for something more sinister than he had ever anticipated. Dictatorships, autocracies, totalitarian states were all in need of heirs, so the plan was to remove the heirs from their rightful inheritance the only way he and his new team had been trained to. He made no objection. Trained killers cannot be squeamish to kill. But once assassination reached down into the crib and became infanticide, he had questions. They had killed teenagers, children, toddlers, even younger. They were conscripted to eliminate a pregnant woman for her precious cargo. These were not normal jobs; there was no fight, no thrill. They weren’t fighting bad guys; they were massacring children. There was too much blood, all of it too young to deserve this. He was kept up too many nights by the ticking of any and every second hand as he considered the man he was now becoming—apparently, he was hired to terminate clocks barely wound, to kill those far before any modicum of their prime. He finally made contact, said, “You never said a thing about kids. Fuck! Kids! What are we doing out here?” The voice in his ear, whispered from the other side of the world, replied, “These unstable governments need their successors; we remove the successors and then swoop in to cure their political upheaval. Without rightful leaders, they need us—they become dependent, we have evil dictatorships tucked into our pockets. You’re saving the world, technically.” “But…for what price? This is too—” “The price of a few brats you see once and never see again. We never asked you to play catch with them and then kill them. Don’t buy them ice cream. Don’t ask them about their favorite cartoons. You’re not their guardian, not their guest—you drop in uninvited and take care of shit. Just shut up, pretend they’re tiny adults or something, and do your job.” “All this is fuc—” “All this is fucking necessary. You’re paid to kill, so get paid. Look, I’ve said way too much by now anyway, so hang up before someone wiretaps this call. Do not call us again for your therapy sessions. Make contact when you’re finished.” He did not call again. The four left of the six that had taken the mission returned to headquarters. Three of the four turned in their papers. But, in their line of work, no one turns in their papers. Someone learned that quickly.

He shuddered, from the memory or the vodka or both, and gestured for a fresh glass. The bartender replenished his poison, took the obligatory sip without even being prompted, and smiled. He, sullen and wary, did not smile back. The agency could not afford to retire those who knew their secrets. Agents are meant to take every facet of their job to the grave. Someone discharged to the rest of the world was seen as an open mouth, full to brim with sensitive information, set to spill. He was working as a security guard, trying to regain some semblance of normality, when he had received a phone call. “Is this your secure line?” “Who is this?” “Who do you think? We traveled together, sowing regrets.” Cryptic talk. Agent talk. This voice on the phone belonged to one of his colleagues, the poetic one, from their unspeakable mission. They had both turned in their papers afterwards, them and one other. “He’s dead. Taken care of.” “What?” “He had secrets; they killed him for them. They let us ‘retire’ long enough to get rid of us. People who saw what we saw don’t have the luxury of normality. We know! They know we know! We’re stuffed with their unmentionables and they want us cleaned out. Clock’s ticking, enjoy the sound. We have to be removed from their agenda. We’re next. You know we’re next.” All he knew was that he would have to leave. So here he was, hundreds of hotels away from that conversation now. He had not received another phone call since. So he assumed he was it; last man left on the list. He had left and he had never stopped leaving. His presence anywhere was completely transient. He barely left a mark behind, save roughed up suites. He would circle the globe for however long it took to keep at least a few countries between himself and anyone in pursuit. Regardless of whatever he had wanted, this was who he was now: a non-entity as far as the rest of the world was concerned. If he was good at this. Brooding, as usual, he was startled to hear a woman’s voice, sultry and unassuming. It asked simply, “You saving this seat?” like anyone would urge, “You going to kiss me?” He had not allowed himself the privilege of women since he had lost the privilege of trusting anyone. Hearing her now, picking up on her clumsy flirtation, he was strangely invigorated, oddly terrified. “No, I’m not. But I prefer to drink alone.” “Oh—well, I’d never want to stand between a man and his mood.” “Thank you.” She stood there, stewing in the awkward ambience, almost conceding the moment. She was not tall, maybe below average height. She had brunette hair framing a fair complexion, and her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment and loosened inhibition. She sported a strong face; it was cute—courageous. Her body was thin, but curved—nothing worth hyperbole, but attractive, almost handsome. She was dressed for the evening, a simple dress that accentuated her imperfections but heightened her attempts at sex appeal.

He risked a glance at the receiving end of his curt rejection and balked. The pretty woman looked so overdressed compared to himself and his hastily outfitted, well-traveled clothes. Like she’d dressed up expecting something. He couldn’t leave her so bereft. There was still some form of gentleman hidden in his mazelike paranoia. “Wait…” “That already sounds more promising.” “I’m not very talkative.” “Maybe I don’t wanna talk.” “You don’t want anything like you’re thinking.” “You know what I’m thinking?” “It used to be my job to know what people were thinking.” “What line of work?” He realized he had said too much, hit too close to what he once called home. “Er…salesman. Yeah, I had to feel out the customer to know if they were even worth pitching to.” “Well, I’m not sure you’ve felt me out nearly as well as you think you have.” “Forward tonight, aren’t we?” She faltered. He had struck a nerve. Her veneer unraveled before him as he caught her by the seam. She scrambled for a recovery. “Is it that bad? I’m so not like that. I just told myself, ‘You’re here once, he’s here once, do it!’ Well not literally, ‘Do it…’” “That wasn’t where this was going?” “Oh, erm…well, I guess that’s what I had in mind. Omigod, I had no idea I was this bad at picking up a guy.” “Well, it was wise to practice on me. I’m really not worth the effort. Better a cipher than someone you may have actually wanted to spend the night with.” “But, that’s not—” “For both our sakes, good night.” He left her there, standing wounded like a confused little girl in her mother’s clothes. He chided himself for being so uncharacteristically talkative. It was dangerous to connect. On his way back to his hotel room, away from the life of the lobby, the heartbeat of the world, he had the same fear that iced his veins every evening. As his watch ticking taunted him, he realized this apprehension held for him more horror than any masked man after his life ever could. It was the anticlimax that no one was looking for him, that they’d given up, found other dangers, forgotten the one loose end from years past. For some reason, he could find no relief in this hypothetical release. Driven by such fear of being found had become the pulse of his very existence. He had been reduced to running; his only purpose was this idea that he worthy of their pursuit. As much as he dreaded his inevitable end, he was determined that it would end with a bang, not a whimper—the bang of whatever weapon the trained killer they sent would use to kill him. He wanted to die with some honor; he could not handle this being taken away from him. He’d rather run waiting for it to end than know there was no need, for it had never begun. The hall had dimmed by the time he found himself back there, giving its dungeon aesthetic more gloom and doom to chill his soul. The dusk of the hall, the thud of his heartbeat,

the creepy crawl of sweat down his brow, the gun jammed in the belt of his slacks—all this typical imagery reacquainted him with his usual brand of paranoia. He was convinced someone had to be out there after him. He did not want to be found, but to at least know he was the object of some sort of pursuit gave his mind something to dread and embrace. He put his ear to his door for any hint of stress. Hearing nothing, he slid his key card through its slot and opened his door. The hallway offered the room’s pitch black one solitary sliver of light to pierce the shadow. He let the door close on him and his now drawn pistol, allowing darkness to wash over him. Maybe it was alcohol, but he felt strangely comforted by his routine. The watch chanted encouragement in his ear. He would keep running. No one would find him. This was just another night, another bookend to his daily visits to the land of the living. Tomorrow would be the same. This would be his every day until— The silenced pistol mewed one bullet through his shoulder before he even realized there was anyone to shoot at. With a sharp groan, he slipped down to the floor. The pain was brilliant red, throbbing like blossomed flame from its entry. He pointed his gun right at the dark figure above him. “That’s my shadow, you know. I’m over here, pistol pointed at your skull.” He knew that voice; it was the voice of his only partner who had remained from their last mission. He, the lapdog for their agency, stood above him ready to make all hopes for that bang come true. “The pain’s really fractured your brain, eh? You don’t know down from up; you can’t even tell me from my shadow.” This agent walked into his view, never taking eyes or pistol off him. He just lay there, rememorizing his old friend’s features as they found dim definition in the moonlight flooding the crime scene. His former partner was tall. Even shrouded in quiet clothes—coat, pullover sweater, jeans, slip-on loafers—his muscles demanded attention. The moon glinted off his face, rendering him just as clean-shaven now as he had been then. Every day, that man took a razor to his face, cleansing himself of yesterday’s hairs and cares. The ritual had lived on. This man was handsome, dangerously attractive. A smooth, cut from glass exterior covered an interior devoid of humanity. He was the perfect assassin. Pinned to the ground with a bullet in his shoulder, the forlorn agent realized how scraggly he was in comparison. “Shit! It hurts.” “Well, one to hurt and one to kill. I just wanted to get your attention. Have a chat.” “How’d you find me? Was it the bartender? The woman? Who’ve you hired?” “The entire hotel…if you’d believe it.” “Oh God, you’re serious! I should have known. I shouldn’t have spoken to anyone, shouldn’t have gotten a drink—” “Just shut up, you paranoiac. I didn’t hire anyone. Forgive me for thinking you’d find that joke funny.” “Wait! B-but, no—So you’re saying…” “I’m saying I have a list of every hotel you’ve stayed at under every name you’ve faked. I’ve been following you for months and months, just inches out of your hawk eyes’ domain. I’ve been in every room you’ve ever manhandled, sat in every bar you’ve ever brooded in, kept

pace with your every step around the globe. You’ve been quite the interesting homework assignment.” “How? How the hell?” “Because I’m a better spy than you were. The one reason you never realized is because you were convinced you had your principles. All you’ve ever had is a ‘holier-than-thou’ complex. You run long enough to face facts?” “I’ve run long enough to face a lot.” “Well you didn’t run far enough to open your eyes to the best game of cat and mouse I’ve ever played.” “Fuck you.” “Well, fine. Guess you haven’t had nearly as much fun as me. But the mouse never does, I’m sure.” “Are you going to shoot me?” “Are you going to keep rushing me? Don’t take the fun away now.” He was on the floor, looking into his assassin’s eyes, dark pools untroubled by ripple. Somehow, his anger, dread, unease melted from him. He couldn’t help but feel the most serene peace he’d ever experienced. The fear that had motivated him to run from his very existence, the adrenaline of being caught and pinned and toyed with, all of it—none of it could shake the calm that had just enveloped him like silk. All any paranoiac wants is to know he was right: they were looking for him. All any visitor wants is to eventually find somewhere called home. He’d visited his own life for far too long. His visitor, his houseguest with the interesting way of greeting people, had just bought him a ticket to wherever was far away from his own existence. How freeing. “Actually…take your time. This is the best I’ve ever felt in a long time. I’m so glad you found me.” “Sure, you damn weirdo. I never had to find you, only to convince you that you’d been found. Enjoy whatever twisted calm you can. It’ll be over soon enough.” “Wait—do you have the time?” “Yes, I do. But you don’t.” The assassin crushed a foot down on his wrist, pulverizing the watch and clipping its pulse dead. He cried out once, in pain and surprise, but the feeling did not last long as something far better permeated within. In that distressed room, two slashed and beaten beds, shower curtain ripped from its rings, wine bottle shattered in the waste bin, his own blood beading on the carpet, heartless killer looming over him, he felt more perfect than he could have ever anticipated. The wait was over, one that he had run from for so long had finally caught him, and he just felt glad to know he had nowhere else to go. He was so tired of running. He was so bored with regretting his past. He was so glad to be done. He was sure he had only seconds left. But finally without his wrist’s never ceasing soundtrack, it felt like limitless time lay before him. He had immeasurable moments more to appreciate how wonderful it felt to— The pistol gasped one last breath. The hotel room suffocated in fresh silence, more quiet now than it had ever been.

For the lost words

by April Toney

If my words die and I can write no more, I hope Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve written of peace and war, A broken mirror and a powdered face, A well-kept secret, a warm embrace, Ink on pages, ink on skin, Forgiveness, sunshine, purity, sin, Mountains, plains, valleys, seas, A God of wrath, a God that frees, Missing people, a hopeless love, Masterful artwork, a broken-winged dove, A patient mother, a hopeless son, Island vacations, a 10K run, Regret, loss, strength, power, Mexican food and happy hour, Birds, bears, rain, abuse, Childhood, marriage, death, youth, Grandparents, mother, father, sister, A newborn child and kitten whiskers, Individuality, shoes, and dresses, All of the pointless unnecessary stresses, Inventors, thinkers, the world in motion, Trips to Europe, the Arctic Ocean, Love, love, and love again, The meaning of a timeless friend, Death, decay, and a dungeonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s walls, Agony, pain, never-ending halls, The most difficult feat to overcome, The taste of chocolate on the tongue, Intense desires, extreme hate, Stars, the moon, serendipity, fate, Blood, bleeding, angst, fear, A poem about every day of the year, Melancholy madness, unlikelihood,

Unsure

by Jana Mobley

All the words I never should, Grasshoppers, frost, lust, seduction, The coffee that I require to function, Why church makes me queasy, Why math and science are never easy, Parenthood and anniversaries, A honeymoon, and painting nurseries, Weddings, my sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s and mine as well, Hopes of heaven, fear of hell, The moments that make lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stories, The misery, and the glory.

Meditation

by Taylor Collins

How the Silence weeps Longing to be found, And cries a tear or two Smothered by the Sound. And men they come and go And travel as they please, But only few are seeking And find Silence with ease. When Silence then is found And treasured then by men, A path to understanding guided And followed to no end, He will have his meaning And purpose in his hold, And see that he possesses Something valued more than gold: For he who knows Silence gains wisdom And he who has wisdom gains everything.

His Masterpiece by Sarah Major Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d heard of the painterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work before, Noted his expertise, And sought to utilize His talent To make her masterpiece. His art could be witnessed all around. Fearfully, wonderfully made, And though hesitant, anticipation Made all of her worries fade.

She surrendered to Him her new blank canvas White with innocence. She began to question the artist’s talent. In her eyes, He noted reluctance. But of course, He held no doubt in His mind As he readied His easel, worn From the multitude of paintings come and gone Where beauty itself was born. A world of colors lay before Him. His mind began to race With possibilities, armed with His tender brush of grace. But doubt began to cloud her mind. How could He know what’s best For her particular piece of art? In fear, she was possessed. She ripped the brush from the painter’s hand, But He was not surprised. She was not the first to express such doubt Of the vision in His eyes. And ever so rashly, she dipped into black, The color of poor decisions, And splattered her canvas with blots of sin, Delved in with no clear vision. Confident in herself, she took a step back To look at what she had made. Her heart filled with fear as she couldn’t decipher The horror she couldn’t evade. Panic-stricken, she continued to paint Blotches of pain and sin, No longer able to see the white. Unable to start again. The longer she painted, the more confused she became.

She begged to understand As the blotches of pain became bigger and bigger. The brush shook in her hand. Soon she discovered sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d run out of white, The canvas completely dark, Full of pain and regret of decisions sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d made, A life damned from the start. The brush fell from her hand, and she fell to her knees, Tears swelling in her eyes As the paint became dry, a permanent darkness. Her pride had caused her demise. And with a smile, He picked up His brush, Wiped out all the black. With a stroke of this brush, the sin disappeared. His inspiration was back. With yellow, He gave her vibrance, A sunny yellow disposition. And then gave eyes of brightest blue, Full of expectation. Rays of purple confidence Streaming from her spirit. Rosy pink cheeks full of life, Face free from black regret. Orange words of happiness from her graceful lips, Brighter than the brightest sun, A mark of beauty that transcends all The colors of His spectrum. And where He painted her red eager heart, He signed His famous name. Masterpiece complete, His greatest one Devoid of any black pain.

Up and Down the Jot Em Down

by April Toney

When the road was only winding dust, and the fields were row upon row of thick white cotton, I drove a flatbed truck, without even having a driver’s license. The policeman just drove by, lifting his finger to wave in approval. I explained this to my granddaughter as I drove her down Jot Em Down Road, my childhood home that rests somewhere between lost and nowhere in the upper right corner of Georgia. I used the rusty flatbed truck for two reasons: to work and to get into trouble. The two occurred often enough that they almost blurred into one but were slightly separated by one thing: my dad saying, “Jimmy Donald.” If he called me Jimmy Donald, I knew I was in trouble, not being called to work. The truck wasn’t life for our family, but it did keep us going—as constant as the ever-present skipping noise made by its engine. It made work bearable, transportation possible, and mischief not far out of reach. As the oldest of what became an eight-child household, I sometimes felt as important as the truck, depended on heavily to make life go. Yet, I was young and the truck was old. I had much to learn about running through life, and the truck was already experienced at that sort of thing. Day began in the earliest hours of the morning, still dark, before the sun had any intention of appearing in the sky. God only gives so many hours of day, but on days when there was work to be done in the fields, we’d make our own day, waking up before the sun suggested. I drove the truck thirty miles into Athens to pick up workers for the day, different men each day, all needing a day of pay. Though I was just a child, I was never scared of the strangers; I don’t remember being scared of anything much. Workers sat on the edge of a street by their neighborhood, waiting for anyone to come by and offer work. I pulled the truck over to the side of the street and asked them if they needed work for the day. The takers all climbed onto the flat wooden panels of the truck—no sides to hold in cargo, no gate to close the back. I drove back to the fields, as they rode on splintery, flat panels. It probably wasn’t the safest way to travel, but it never seemed to matter to the workers, as long as there was money at the end of the road. We’d work all day—the workers, my brothers and me—picking cotton and placing it on thick burlap sheets. When the dark began to touch the horizon, we picked up the sheets by their corners and weighed them. Because we paid the workers based on the weight of cotton they picked that day, we always checked the sheet for rocks that might have been added to the cotton. Sometimes the workers were tricky like that. After kicking the sheets a few times, we’d weigh them and pay the workers for the day. Then, everyone loaded back onto the truck and I’d drive them back to their neighborhood.

Further down Jot Em Down, between our farm and the dirt hill, there’s a Fire Baptized Church. My father was the preacher of the small church. It was made of wood then, it’s covered in brick now. I suppose it has air-conditioning now too. I never knew the luxury of air conditioning as a child. When my father was the pastor of the Fire Baptized Church, they had to crack the windows of the church in hope of some relief from the summer heat. He was a scary man when he preached in a very determined fashion. He started preaching and sweating, and the congregation started amening and fanning. As soon as no one was looking, my brothers and I would sneak out of church and take the flatbed truck down the road a ways to a large patch of dirt. We’d ride the dirt like a racetrack, around and around, until the dirt was as thick in the air as the ground. We always rounded up a group of people after a while. Riders entered and exited the created track as they pleased, never worrying about who we might hit. I don’t know how we never got hurt while driving around the dirt—guess it was just the grace of God. One Sunday when we arrived home from church, my father called me over. He looked at me with his stern, dark eyes with his tall figure peering down at me. “Jimmy Donald,” he said. His eyes didn’t lighten; they remained as dark as the black hair that surrounded his face. “Yes sir?” I knew I was in trouble. “Didya take the truck out to that dirt patch durrin church today?” “No sir,” I lied. “Don’t lie to me, Jimmy Donald, I heard that truck skipping from all the way down the road.” That was the problem with not having air conditioning—the windows were always open, always at the wrong times. I don’t think that was the only time I got in trouble from sneaking out of church. I seemed to attract the authoritative voice of my father more than my brothers and sisters. I paused my story and continued driving down the road. My granddaughter and I were now approaching the end of Jot Em Down; I put on my blinker to turn right. Driving a few yards, I turned down toward Cromer’s Mill covered bridge. It’s not in use today, but it’s still standing. When I was a teenage boy, I drove down that covered bridge into Royston to see Hazel, the girl I was dating at the time and my wife of more than fifty years now. The same flatbed that took me up and down Jot Em Down, back and forth to pick up workers, took me out of Jot Em Down as well. I became a married man and later gained a daughter, not too far from Jot Em Down but far enough that I was unable to call Jot Em Down my home anymore. I drove the old flatbed, always skipping but never beyond fixing, until I became as dependable as the truck, running through life, through the work and the trouble. I kept us going—as constant as the ever-present skipping noise made by the flat bedtruck’s engine.

Biographies Fragments into Form 2012 81

Alex Genetti is a sophomore at Emmanuel College, and is currently nineteen years old.

He is attending college in his hometown of Franklin Springs, Georgia. Alex is pursuing a major in English Literature and has yet to settle upon a minor. His feature work, “The Stranger Side of Rock and Roll” is an affectionate send-up of progressive/avant-garde rock in general, poking fun at the excesses and oddities of the genre; although it is a parody, it is meant to be a humorous tribute to the style of music he enjoys, rather than a condemnation of it.

Alisa Dunn was born in Athens, Georgia, but she spent her childhood in Sandy Cross,

Georgia. At the age of 21 she currently is living in Carnesville, Georgia, and she attends Emmanuel College with a class standing of sophomore. She has the intentions of pursing a major in International Affairs, Animation and Art. She has two poems featured in this edition of Montage, “O’ Hollow Tree” and “Never Took a Chance.”

April Toney is a junior at Emmanuel College majoring in English and minoring in writing.

She is originally from Royston, Georgia—a town next door to Emmanuel. She has four works featured in this year’s edition of Montage: “Up and Down the Jot Em Down,” “Earth,” “For the lost words,” and “Layers.” The prose piece, “Up and Down the Jot Em Down,” is inspired by stories her grandfather told her while they were driving down the road of his childhood home. “Earth” is a poem inspired by an earthquake that took place in Japan drawing upon the idea that the Earth usually acts as a stable home, but there are rare occasion when that balance is upset. “For the lost words” is a poem inspired by life’s simplicities that make up our stories. The linoleum cut print, “Layers,” is a self-portrait using differed layered colors of ink.

Audey H. Walker is twenty-four years old and a junior at Emmanuel College. He is pur-

suing a degree in History Education. He is from Elberton, Georgia. His featured poem, “Bloodsong,” is inspired by his study of the history of Ireland. Looking at the struggle that the nation has faced throughout the centuries, it caused him to gain an appreciation for the struggles he and his family have gone through, making him proud to have descended from such a strong people.

Beth Harper is originally from her hometown of Sandy Cross, Georgia. At the age of twen-

ty-two she is a senior at Emmanuel College. Her photograph, “I will lift my eyes,” is inspired by her love for dancing and watching others dance. She enjoys dance not only as an inspiration, but also a form of worship. Her friend, Rachel Fenters, is the subject of the photograph and was able to help her capture the essence of praise dance against the stained glass window of Emmanuel’s own Taylor Chapel.

Caleb Milligan is a senior English major and the current editor of Montage. He is proud

of the four entries he offered to this year’s edition, and hopes to continue writing better and better pieces of prose and poetry even after he graduates this May and heads to Clemson University for his Master of Arts in English. When not writing for class or for fun, he is active in Emmanuel’s theatrical productions and plays drums for many on-campus worship teams. He thanks God for it all.

Chris Hair is a faculty member at Emmanuel College serving as an Associate Professor of

English. He is originally from Austin, Texas, but at thirty-nine he currently resides in Franklin Springs, Georgia. His work featured in this edition of Montage is “Delighted.” He wrote the poem after seeing how excited my 2-year old daughter became when she saw a grasshopper on a window. Sometimes he wishes he could see life through a child’s eyes again.

Desiree Wilson, originally from Brunswick, Georgia, is a senior at Emmanuel College at the age of twenty-seven. She is pursuing a degree in Middle Grades Education. Her artwork, “Memories of Dance,” is a piece she painted to portray the enjoyment of dance with her creator.

Hannah E. Smith is originally from Belton, South Carolina.

At the age of 21, she is a junior pursing a major in Vocal Performance at Emmanuel College. Her featured poem, “To make sense of it all” was inspired by a reflection on all of her relationships and her current relationship with God.

Jesse McDowell is twenty years old and was born in Charlotte, NC, but because he

was a military kid, he has lived many different places. At the age of twenty, he is a sophomore at Emmanuel College earning a BA in English. He has two featured works in this edition of Montage, a poem, “The Traveler,” and a work of prose, “The Beach.” “The Traveler” is derived from his desire to incorporate narrative into poetry with surreal imagery to depict the spirit of a lost traveler. “The Beach” is inspired by the consciousness of Eliot and Lewis, concerning the possible hope of a guilty rogue.

Jana Mobley, originally from Savannah, Georgia, is a senior at Emmanuel College.

At the age of thirty-one, she is pursuing a major in Middle Grades Language Arts and Social and Behavior Science. Her two featured photographs, “Sea of Galilee” and “Unsure,” are inspired by her enjoyment of seeing Christ in all that is here on His Earth.

Jeanine Kleckley is a senior English major with Writing minor.

She is originally from West Columbia, SC, but is proud to call Athens, GA her home. “The Alphabet Poem” was actually written for a class and “Past and Present” was done for an art class, but the work that she is most proud of is “Nocturnland.” Through writing this poem, she overcame a number of personal demons in my life. Writing about it made the nightmare stop and for that she is happy.

Julie McBath, originally from Carnesville, Georgia, at twenty-two is a senior at Emmanuel

College pursuing a major in English and a minor in Writing. She has two featured poems, “Conversations of a Coffee House,” and “Me, the Mirror,” as well as two works of prose, “David’s Wife,” and “Earth in the End,” and two photographs, “Perspective,” and “Droplet.” “Conversations of a Coffee House” was written while trying to do homework in a coffee shop in Atlanta and she became caught up in conversations around her. Pulling sentences from each, they somehow became a poem. “Me, the Mirror” is simply inspired by that great fear that every girl struggles, looking in the mirror and seeing if we like what we see. “David’s Wife” is an expression of what it must have felt like to be David’s wife when he fell for Bathsheba and wondering about the pain he caused his wife, which is never mentioned in the Biblical story. “Earth in the End” was inspired because of the way the world sometimes seems to be going downhill, and she wonders how much longer it can hold up under man’s pressure. The photographs she simply took for their beauty.

Kyle Garrett is an Assistant Professor of English at Emmanuel College at the age of twen-

ty-seven. He is originally from Gray, Georgia. This edition of Montage features two of his works of poetry, “That time we don’t remember yet,” and “Fast as Summer.” “That time we don’t remember yet” was inspired by a fragment of foreknowledge of a hypothetical event in a very real place surrounded by imagined images. Beginning as a poem, transitioning into a lyrical essay, and then re-forming itself into the published stanzas, “Fast as Summer” derives its light from memories of summer evenings at the ballfield in Macon, Georgia.

Madison Sanders lives in a small town not too far from Emmanuel College, where she currently attends as a senior. At twenty-two, she is pursuing a major in Corporate Communication. Her prose piece, “Pageant Night in Upset, Texas,” was written as a parody of pageants and to have fun exaggerating some common elements while providing the reader with an unexpected twist.

Mandi Green is twenty-two years old and is a senior this year at Emmanuel College.

She is pursuing a major in Christian Ministries with a minor in English. She is originally from Macon, Georgia. Her work featured in this year’s edition of Montage, “Persistence,” is inspired by her enjoyment of taking pictures that stand alone to tell a story. She attempted to capture this aspect in her photograph.

Philip Hiott is a senior at Emmanuel College with a major in English and is twenty-seven

years old. His hometown is Hartwell, Georgia. His prose featured in Montage, “White Death,” has been drawn from the inspiration given by a weekly writing assignment given by Kyle Garrett in the Advanced Prose class that Philip took the past fall.

Mark Goodwin, or as known around campus Dr. Goodwin, calls himself a professor of

an advanced age. He teaches a variety of classes in the music department, including hymnology, music theory, orchestration, conducting, Instrumental Ensemble, and Instrumental Techniques. He was born in Flagstaff, Arizona. His poem, “What Else?” was written for his lovely wife, Barbara, and was inspired by the great poetry he has enjoyed reading. He wanted to see if he could write something that was at least presentable. The present poem is the result of dozens of revisions.

Sarah Major is originally from Commerce, Georgia. At twenty-one, She is a senior at Em-

manuel College pursuing a major in Mathematics and a minor in English. Her featured work consists of two poems, “The Old Oak Tree” and “His Matserpiece.” “The Old Oak Tree” was reflecting on war and its effects on a more personal level, and “His Masterpiece” reflects her spiritual journey as a Christian.

Seth Edmonds at the age of twenty-eight is a senior at Emmanuel College pursuing a

major in School of Christian Ministries. He is originally from Bridgewater, Virginia. His poem featured in this year’s edition of Montage, “Burn the Barn the Surplus Would be Wasted,” is inspired by experiencing the struggle between intellect and personal desires versus his hopeful grace and the sacrifice associated with it.

Stephanie Canady is originally from St. Paul’s, North Carolina.

At nineteen, she is a freshman at Emmanuel College pursuing a major in Psychology with a minor in English. She has two works featured in this year’s edition of Montage. Her works, “Crystal Dewdrops” and “Perspective” were taken with the inspiration to remind herself to slow down and enjoy the little things during all the chaos of life. She believes that sometimes we need to just make a point to change how we look at the situation, and she hopes her picture will portray that there is a positive and beautiful side to each circumstance.

Taylor Collins is a nineteen year old freshman at Emmanuel College.

His hometown is Alto, Georgia. At Emmanuel, he is majoring in Christian Ministries. His work featured in this edition of Montage is entitled “Meditations.”