Embers Igniting 2014 by Embers Igniting

Embers Igniting 2014

Embers Igniting Volume 1

Printed by abqGrafix, Albuquerque, NM Copyright ÂŠ 2014 Embers Igniting www.embersigniting.com embersigniting@gmail.com All rights revert to contributors upon publication.

Note from the Editors byTracy Buckler & Madeleine Mozley

Thank you for reading the very first volume of Embers Igniting. In April of 2011, we discovered that we had a similar vision for a literature and fine arts magazine. Our dream was to publish pieces that go a step further than mainstream Christian art—pieces that look at the many dimensions of God, our relationship with Him, and this world we live in. Now, three years later, our vision has become a reality. Our goal with this volume was to give you a glimpse of the kinds of works we want to publish: pieces that are honest, artful, and that resonate with the reader. Some of the pieces were written by us and were published not for

our self-promotion but to show writers the types of submissions we hope to receive. It’s our joy to sit in the editor’s seat with your work. Thank you to our submitters; you made this possible. As you read this volume, you’ll surely take what you want from it. You may sense a dark theme connecting the pieces, or perhaps you’ll take away an entirely different feel. No matter what you see in it, our hope is that it ignites you in some way. May you feel a spark spurring you to action: seek truth, rise up, speak out, create. The reason this magazine exists is because of the God who put a passion in us to create, and we hope that our passion is passed on to you.

Table of Contents Poetry 01 19 14 42 15 49 31 02

Bella Donna Requiem Broken Window Fine Print I Never Understood Ink Out of the Mouth With Light Woman’s Head—A Picasso Sketch

Nonfiction 43 Find Me in the Dirt 16 Henhouse

Art 03 Ideas 32 Obsession 22 Wings

Fiction 04 30 20 23 33

Feed the Machine Floating Rich Man The Voice Wilting

Bella Donna Requiem by Tammy Boehm This peace you offer Pinioned prayers and platitudes Scry in the mercury shattered Your brittle whispers snap in the rarefied air This madness is thunder at the back of my throat Ragged and storm weary I tread water in your wake Spin my tahrihim and trim the fringe I am the terminus of fragile breath Falling away from you Benedicimus Deum meum adventum et egrediente There is solace in the blind blue moments Let me surrender To the baptism of despair The upwelling catechism of deliquescence Souls fall clutching the flesh Gasping for one more shredding dream Fill the spinnaker and set sail I am no longer a seaworthy vessel This tethered hope you offer Stinging nettles in my mouth On flitting wings Is the drone of hornets in my hair I crave Oblivion And you are bound to your promise It is my free will To let go

— Woman’AsPicasso Head Sketch by Elise Mouchet

Seventeen lines—arbitrary scrawls of the artist’s hand sealed my fate and brought me to you in this form. In those seventeen lines you can see the soft curve of my back, my cropped hair as it brushes the nape of my neck, and my demure, downcast posture. Some say my image is like grass, beautiful today but gone tomorrow. Some say my image is the soft light breaking through yonder window. Some say snow, always changing, all at once comforting and silently dreadful. Still others say my image is that word spoken in the dark, meant only for the one close enough to hear it. Seventeen lines all curved, one part of me flowing seamlessly into the next. You can find me anywhere—in water, in air, even in lines.

But I am imperfect. A blotch. One careless blotch— a blight in my endless story. Was I shot? Did you simply wound me with your disregard, your ignorance of my fragile form? Am I not woman after all? Why do you see me? I exist only as a feeling— a memory of something real. Your mind created me in a desperate attempt to organize the unfamiliar, the strange, the random. You see my back in these lines. You see only my back. I cannot face you. I can never face you. I have no eyes to see, no arms to hold, no mouth to express. Seventeen lines and a blotch. And yet, how is it that I am able to haunt you?

Ideas

by James Schlavin

39˝ x 27˝ ink wash on paper

Feed the Machine by Madeleine Mozley

A large, opulent office. Mr. Chambers, a big man in his early sixties, sits behind the desk. He wears only boxers and is completely hairless—he exudes confidence. Killian, a young man in a suit that’s just slightly too big, walks in and sits in the chair in front of Mr. Chambers’ desk. His mouth is slightly open as he stares at Mr. Chambers, running his gaze up and down to make sure he’s seeing correctly. A massive, silver block of a machine, complete with blinking lights and a whirring sound, takes up half of the office space. It looks hungry. Mr. Chambers Yes, your grandpa sure thinks highly of you, uh… Killian (Sputters at first) Killian, sir. My name’s Killian. If this is a bad time, I can come back another day— Mr. Chambers A bad time? What’s bad about it? We have an appointment, don’t we? Killian shakes his head and tries to straighten his posture. Killian Yes, sir. Killian sees the machine but doesn’t acknowledge it. Mr. Chambers All right then, Killian. Huh. Strange name. A bit too long—difficult to remember. I’m going to call you Ian. Now, Ian— Killian I thought its uniqueness made it more memorable than some names. Mr. Chambers Not in the business world, it doesn’t. Beat. Mr. Chambers laughs loudly. The machine growls.

Killian starts to look over his shoulder, toward the machine’s growls, but Mr. Chambers interrupts him. Mr. Chambers Now then, your grandpa says you sure are good at crunching numbers. Killian I think so. Mr. Chambers You think so? Well, here at Wilcox Manufacturing, we like to hire people who know things. People who are damned sure of things. Do you still just think you’re good with numbers? Killian I know I am. Mr. Chambers That’s what I like to hear. You’re beginning to sound a lot more like your grandpa, my boy. That’s good. He was one of the best accountants we’ve ever had. A wizard with funds; he had, shall we say, a certain creativity that saved us millions. Your father, on the other hand, what did he end up doing? He was into acting or music or some sort of mumbo jumbo, to my recollection. Killian My dad’s a writer. He’s a journalist for a couple of the local newspapers, though he’s also come out with a few books— Mr. Chambers Yes, he never was one to follow the family trade, was he? Sad, but it happens. But you’re here—perhaps you want to reclaim the traditions, eh? Beat. Killian I’m just good at math, Mr. Chambers. Mr. Chambers (Looks at Killian’s résumé that sits in front of him) And what a good skill that is, Ian. Seems you graduated from Princeton just this past spring—4.02 gpa. Impressive. Scholarships pay for your higher education? Killian No, I did. I worked full-time. Mr. Chambers (Consults the résumé again) Worked as a waiter at Chili’s and as a cashier at the campus bookstore. Then you’re still paying your loans off, I’m sure. Killian As fast as I can, yes.

Mr. Chambers Um hmm, um hmm. Of course, of course. But I’m sure your need for income is not your only motivation to become a member of the Wilcox Manufacturing family. Killian clears his throat. Mr. Chambers Son, just a word to the not-so-wise: if you think of this job as a short-term thing, just a way to make some cash to pay off your little loans, you’ll regret it. You’d work here for twenty-five years, all the while telling yourself it’s temporary, that you just need a little more money before you go do what you really want to do. That can’t be your mindset. You need to dig deep; find your fulfillment from good oldfashioned hard work and bringing home bacon. Think on that for a second. Killian bites his lip. Killian I nee—uh—want this job, sir. I do. Mr. Chambers stares daggers at Killian before his expression changes in an instant to a smile full of teeth and goodwill. Mr. Chambers Did you enjoy school? Killian I enjoy the learning process. Even when I struggled with material, I liked working through that struggle and seeing myself improve. And I’ve always loved to read, so that helped. As Mr. Chambers responds, the machine rips the books from his shelves. The machine takes them in through a large slot in its front and swallows. Mr. Chambers notices nothing while Killian sees what’s going on. Killian looks at the machine warily but says nothing. Mr. Chambers I didn’t care for school. It never seemed useful to me. All I’ve learned, I’ve discovered through my experiences. Books aren’t worth the time. Did you have any favorite classes? Killian Philosophy was definitely near the top of my list. It’s rewarding to expand your perspectives and find simple truth in what other people find confusing. Mr. Chambers Sounds to me like you’re talking about God. Are you telling me you believe God exists? Killian It would take more faith for me to believe that He did not exist, sir.

The machine shakes with anger. Its internal gears screech unpleasantly. Killian winces.

Mr. Chambers Well here, in the real world, you have to be God. You have to build things, take them out when they disobey, and start over again. Like the baggage system in Norfolk. Killian Sir?

Well here, in the real world, you have to be God. Mr. Chambers Ah, maybe you’re too young to know. Back in the mid-nineties, they thought it would be a good idea to make the baggage sorting system in the Norfolk airport completely automated. Take man out of the equation. Brilliant idea. However, the engineers designing the new system made a programming error; the sports bag of some pro-athlete headed to Chicago ended up in Iceland. The error set the project back a decade. They’ve got it going now, but they had to have the conviction to start over and do it right. They had to judge without remorse. Can you do that? Killian uncrosses and recrosses his legs. Killian I hadn’t thought about it. The machine runs more smoothly; its tantrum ceases. Mr. Chambers points at Killian. Mr. Chambers You had better start thinking about it, my friend. Anyway, I suppose I should get on with some of the other traditional questions. What do you have to offer this company that nobody else does? Killian I’m a detail-oriented hard worker. I’m good at what I do. I will budget for this company like nobody has in the past; I won’t let money slip through the cracks, and I won’t let it just sit somewhere unless it’s growing exponentially— Mr. Chambers Very good, Ian. That’s all very important. But are you as creative an accountant as your grandpa? We wouldn’t want this company to be painted negatively in any way, as if it were losing money. Beat. Killian fidgets. The machine grins. Killian Of course I want this company to succeed, but sir, are you asking me to—

Mr. Chambers I’m not asking you to do anything, son—I’m asking what you can do. So what about kids? You do at least have a special lady in your life, I assume? Killian (Caught off-guard; blinks to regain his composure) Sir, forgive me, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Mr. Chambers It has everything to do with being a businessman! Oh, come on. We’re both men here. I’m just trying to get a feel for your priorities, Ian. Mr. Chambers points to the various family photos in shining frames on his desk. He and his wife are in one, his grown children are in others, etc. Mr. Chambers You see? I’m a family man. Family’s important. A man with a family can be trusted—trusted with responsibilities, trusted with money. A family man can be promoted. You know what I mean? Killian Not exactly. The machine takes Mr. Chambers’ family photos from the desk and his wedding band from his finger. It chews the metal frames and ring like a handful of Crunch ’n Munch. Mr. Chambers My wife loves it when I come home with a big bonus at Christmas. I buy her something expensive, something that fits in a tiny box, and she’s happy for the next few months. She looks damn good in her blue cocktail dress at the office parties. When my sons were young, we’d go to company picnics and play catch; I gained a good reputation with my superiors. Now do you understand? Killian (Holds up his left hand to show Mr. Chambers his wedding band) I have a wife, sir. Her name’s Colleen.

The machine takes Mr. Chambers’ family photos from the desk and his wedding band from his finger. It chews the metal frames and ring like a handful of Crunch ’n Munch. Mr. Chambers Ah, an Irish gal. Does she look good in blue cocktail dresses? Killian I’m…sure she does.

The machine pops the wedding band off of Killian’s finger and swallows it whole. Killian flexes the fingers of his left hand, but he pretends not to see the machine and refuses to acknowledge what just happened. The machine giggles through alternating beeps and boops. Mr. Chambers (Claps his hands together and laughs) Perfect, son, perfect! You’re on your way. Mr. Chambers stands up and takes a crystal bottle of amber alcohol and two glasses off of the shelf behind him. Mr. Chambers Care for a drink? Killian Thank you, but I don’t drink. Mr. Chambers pours two glasses and slides one to Killian. Mr. Chambers Don’t drink. Please. You’re in business! Everyone drinks. To Wilcox Manufacturing and the fat, white bastard who founded it eighty-two years ago. Bottoms up! Mr. Chambers downs his. Killian gets half of his down before sputtering and gagging. The machine takes the bottle and Killian’s half-full glass; it guzzles the liquid and swallows the bottle and glass. The machine’s lights burn with the flush of intoxication. Mr. Chambers Careful! You got some on my suit, friend! Mr. Chambers runs his hand down the front of his bare torso, as if checking the smoothness of a suit. He sits back down while looking over Killian’s suit. Mr. Chambers I take it that wasn’t custom-made. Killian clears his throat and straightens his tie. Mr. Chambers Would you mind standing up, son? Beat. Killian hesitates. Mr. Chambers Come on now, I’m not going to tell you to turn on “The Stripper” and dance around. I’d just like to get a closer look at your suit. Killian stands and tucks his coat closer around his torso.

Mr. Chambers The arms are too long, the pants are outdated, and that tie is ghastly. Checkerboard pattern went out of style a long time ago, my friend. We’ll need to get you outfitted properly if you’re to work here. Killian (Sits back down) I’ve never had a suit made. I didn’t wan—need—one. Mr. Chambers I bet a nice, black jacket and pants with simple lines would change your whole perspective on life. A proper tie—paisley, bright red, tightened just right—would bring out the businessman you can be. Killian (Points to Mr. Chambers as he speaks) If I get this job, I’ll take down the name of your tailor and go for a fitting. Mr. Chambers (Nods slowly while speaking) That’s what I like to hear. Motivation! Drive! There’s power in it. A solid, healthy bank account and numerous investments are worthy goals in life.

And what else could be more important than survival? Yet, some people spend years doing just the opposite of surviving…they’re oblivious to the fact that someone will always be better than them, smarter than them, more attractive than them. Mr. Chambers reaches for the crystal bottle of alcohol and finds it’s gone. He looks puzzled for a moment but then shrugs it off. He sits back down. Killian I agree, sir. Savings are something we need to survive. Mr. Chambers And what else could be more important than survival? Yet, some people spend years doing just the opposite of surviving. They throw themselves into traffic when they yearn for more. All the while, they’re oblivious to the fact that someone will always be better than them, smarter than them, more attractive than them. They stop to wonder about how the earth just knows to go around the sun, and the go-getter, the survivor, soars over them. The triumphant, Galápagos finch. Thank you, Mr. Darwin! Mr. Chambers laughs loudly—a big, tear-producing laugh. Booming noises, like fists on metal, come from the machine. The laughs and booms ripple throughout the room and reach Killian; he laughs and the sound echoes back to Mr. Chambers.

Mr. Chambers (Wipes underneath his eyes) They fill their heads with the idea that they are unique, that they were born with a “purpose.” They try to find some higher meaning; it’s one great fantasy, just epic dreams. I prefer to have mine when I’m asleep, and my family has sure appreciated that. Perfume on the anniversary, the newest video game machine on Christmas, and steaks every Friday will save you a lot of pain in life. And you pay for all that with money, not dreams. Killian I’m not afraid of hard work. Mr. Chambers You had better not be! I’ve been in this business for over forty years. I climbed and climbed that corporate ladder—I have calluses from the rungs! Mr. Chambers shoves his hands toward Killian’s face. Mr. Chambers (Whispers with the back of his hand to his mouth) I started out getting some bigwig’s coffee. The machine’s gears grind. Mr. Chambers snorts and shakes his head. He leans forward on the desk, holding Killian’s eyes. Mr. Chambers One cream, three sugars, and a twist of lemon. I still remember, you see? And now, look at me—people get me coffee now. Without lemon. Lemon in coffee should be a crime. A five hundred dollar fine to anyone who puts citrus in coffee!

They try to find some higher meaning; it’s one great fantasy, just epic dreams. I prefer to have mine when I’m asleep, and my family has sure appreciated that. He picks up a round, gold paperweight and slams it on the desk twice, his gavel to judge humanity. Mr. Chambers Ah, but I digress. Now, where were we? That’s right—the usual questions. What weakness would you bring into this office, and how would you overcome it? As Killian responds, the machine takes his watch, the clock on the wall behind Mr. Chambers’ desk, and the small, wooden clock on the desk. It eats them and ticks, ticks, ticks. Killian My greatest weakness would have to be working too much. I sometimes lose sight of the rest of my life. During school, I would get as much done as I could ahead of time; I would be weeks ahead in my

classes and find I had nothing else to do. So I did it all over again and better than I did the first time. I will overcome this weakness in the workplace by scheduling breaks into my day so that I won’t burn out. Mr. Chambers stands up and walks around to the front of his desk. He leans against it and looks down at Killian. Mr. Chambers That doesn’t sound like a weakness. That’s a strength if I ever saw one. And if your greatest weakness is a great strength, we would be remiss to ignore your potential for this company. Killian (Looks up to meet Mr. Chambers’ gaze) Thank you, sir. Mr. Chambers (Makes his way back around the desk and takes his seat) I’d like to warn you though, if we do take you on, it will be years before you get where I am. Maybe you’ll move faster than some with that motivated spirit of yours. But initially, you’ll spend days, months, an eternity in a cubicle. I suggest hanging up pictures of faraway places you’d like to go to but probably never will. Like Australia or Puerto Rico. I’m going to go to Turkey when I retire; I hear they have good coffee over there. Killian That sounds like an adventure. You’ll retire soon? Mr. Chambers (Looks around at his office and leans back in his chair, resting his head in his hands) Honestly, Ian, I don’t know. I’ve decorated this office myself; I’ve lived here for over half of my life. Beat. The machine zooms around the room grabbing items: diplomas, art, the rubber tree plant in the corner, etc. It takes everything off of Mr. Chambers’ desk, from paperweights to lamps. It consumes it all. Mr. Chambers I can’t imagine not putting on my suit in the morning. My wife picks out my tie for me every day as I eat breakfast. She likes picking out my tie, makes her feel like part of her is always with me, around my neck. I always look sharp here. Always. The machine snorts as it holds back laughter. Mr. Chambers But what is more important at this juncture is your future. Where do you see yourself in ten years? Twenty? Thirty? The machine strips down Killian, leaving him in his boxers like Mr. Chambers. It eats his clothes in one massive bite. The clamor of the internal workings of the machine grows in intensity as Killian speaks.

Killian I see myself here, at Wilcox Manufacturing. I see myself sitting in a desk much like yours, in an office of my own, typing numbers into a program and watching as they come out exactly as expected, without

surprise or risk. I see myself with two children, a boy and a girl. The boy’s name will be John and the girl will be Jennifer. My wife will stay home with them; she’ll take them to school, feed them, bathe them, and put them to bed, then do the same thing the next day and the next. The noise of the machine drowns out all else. It goes up to Killian with a pair of electric hair clippers and shaves his head. Killian (Yells over the noise of the machine he refuses to hear) I’ll be rich, the richest man on my block, with a four-car garage and all the cars to fill it. I’ll drive a hybrid car in an ugly mint green color. I’ll join the company softball team, and we’ll win the championship. I’ll wear a tie and watch my savings grow but never touch them. This will be my life. And then I’ll die. The machine falls silent. Mr. Chambers My friend, you sound like a man who knows what he’s doing. I can’t do it officially at the moment, but off the record, I’d like to offer you the job. What do you say? Beat. Mr. Chambers and Killian stare at each other. The machine groans in anticipation, and its lights blink with possibility. Mr. Chambers stands up and sticks his hand out to Killian. Killian Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it. Killian stands and shakes Mr. Chambers’ hand. They smile the same smile. The machine’s lights burn with life as it moans its pleasure with being full.

Fine Print by Tracy Buckler

Old Can Wait! Reduce Wrinkles by 57% Try it Free* Simulated imagery, Baggy desert skin transformed With a roll of your mouse To an airbrushed oasis like magic (Results not typical) New! Works in Just Six Days† †May Cause Blindness. Without, you’ll wither past Your prime and one day see Your grandma’s sagging eyes Squinting at you in the mirror And scream *Shipping and handling apply

Ink by Rachelle Clifford

Henhouse by Melissa Blakely

I opened the door to my bedroom and glanced in the box to the left. I did a quick count, just as I had done every day for the last two weeks. I froze as I realized there were only six. Where was the seventh? My eyes scanned the room quickly—nothing. I heard a faint cheep off to my left. I followed the sound into the small bathroom and there, perched on the edge of the toilet lid, was Austen, the seventh chick. “Come here, little one,” I said, gently scooping her up and returning her to the box. They’d been learning to fly this week, finally making it up to the edge of the box and apparently beyond to places like the toilet. My stepmom Lorraine and I bought the chicks at a feed store in the neighborhood where I used to live. When I was growing up, I made frequent trips to this same store with my parents. We had sheep, goats, rabbits, and peacocks then, not just chickens, but that was before we moved into the city. I loved coming here as a child, and as I walked in eight years later, it had the exact same smells: old leather, dust, hay, and a hint of manure. The same selection of halters, bridles, and saddles lined the aisles, and on the counter sat a bowl of unshelled peanuts. Back then, my dad let me eat some while I waited, and I always tried to take the red, papery seed coat off because it stuck to the roof of my mouth. A miniature tower filled with newly hatched chicks stood off to the left of the counter as it had every spring. It reached about six feet high, with each level about eight inches tall, encircled

by small troughs for food and water. Dozens of chicks filled the air with their tiny cheeps. My five-year-old nephew, Joseph, came with us to pick up the chicks. After the owner picked them out of the tower and placed them in a box, she closed it and asked Joseph, “Can you hold on to these?” He put his hands out, and she placed the box in them. He cradled it to his chest, watching the floor as he walked slowly to the door. I woke up half a dozen times that first night to check on them and make sure they were still breathing. Sometimes they would sleep with their necks outstretched as far as they could go, their heads turned to the side, and their wings spread out. I didn’t want to wake them up, but their breathing was so slight I would watch for a couple of minutes to make sure they were still alive. I refilled their food and water every morning before I left for work, and when I came home, I went into my room and all of the chicks got up and ran cheeping to the edge of the box. As they got older, wing feathers grew over their fluffy bodies, and they flew up to the edge of the box to say hello. Charlotte was the friendliest. She was buffcolored and particularly fluffy and was usually the first one to come greet me. Charlotte and Emily were the leaders, always the first to try something new or to venture into unknown territory; sometimes Austen would join them at the forefront. Emily was a sleek, white chick while Austen was a dappled brown, gold, and

black, like her sister Jane. We named them after female authors: Jane and Austen, Charlotte and Emily for the Brontë sisters, and then we had Louisa May, Ollie May, and Lily May for Louisa May Alcott. The May sisters were pure black with a white spot on top of their heads when we bought them, but as they grew they became spotted black and white from head to toe. The cardboard box which had been spacious when the chicks fit in the palm of my hand quickly became cramped. I pulled a coarse, wool blanket—probably older than me—from the backseat of my dad’s truck. We had used it as padding for moving furniture or as a picnic blanket and repurposed it once again as a chicken rug, holes and unknown stains included. I spread it out in the middle of my floor and knelt beside the box, reaching in, scattering the chicks as I caught first Charlotte, then Emily, and finally their sisters and placed them in the middle of the blanket. They huddled there, not moving for a couple of minutes until I grabbed a handful of their food and spread it out on the blanket around them. Soon they were running around as happy as chickens could be, with their spindly legs

me, and Charlotte wandered over and hopped up on my thigh. She, and often Jane, would come sit on my lap and let me pet them. They all wandered over and hopped on my legs, jostling and knocking each other off as they settled down together to sleep. I let them rest for a while before I lifted them back one by one into the box. In the evenings, Lorraine and I took them out one or two at a time and held them. We cupped them in our hands and cradled them as they slept. As they got older, they slept less and explored more, hopping and flapping their little wings to sit on our shoulders or the back of the couch. Sometimes, as the chicks were exploring they would spot an interesting wrinkle in our clothes or a freckle and decide it looked particularly tasty. As they became bolder and more curious, I would catch them gazing a bit too intently at my eye or my ear and have to move them a safe distance away before they decided to taste test. We have two dogs and a cat that had to be locked outside when the chicks were out in the living room. Heidi is my Maltese–Yorkshire Terrier cross, weighing not even five pounds. She licked the chicks at first, but her licking soon

Sometimes, as the chicks were exploring they would spot an interesting wrinkle in our clothes or a freckle and decide it looked particularly tasty. and stubby wings, led by Charlotte and Emily. Charlotte ran, neck stretched up and wings spread out as the others raced after her, back and forth across the floor. They ran off the blanket, slipping and sliding on the dark wood, their legs not quite strong enough yet. As they raced across the wood, the seven chicks made a raucous clattering. I stretched out my legs in front of

turned into nipping. Heidi always sleeps on my bed, but she started whining and peeking over the edge of the box in the middle of the night, trying to reach them. She had to be banished from her own room. During the day, the chicks flew out and explored, following Austen’s toilet expedition. After a few weeks, when I came home and

checked the box, it was empty. The first time it happened, I found them curled up together on a towel against the wall. As they heard me moving around, they raced toward me, skittering across the floor. I had to step carefully to avoid the chicks, not to mention the little presents they left scattered across the floor. The chicks would usually move, but if I walked too quickly they squawked in alarm and frantically flapped out of the way. I learned to move in slow motion to avoid causing a ruckus. Keeping chickens in your bedroom for a month is not something I recommend and not exactly how we intended things to go. By the end, even I had to move out of my room. Unfortunately, it was easier for me to move than to find another place for the rapidly growing chicks to live, with three other animals needing space.

around on the floor. As I was reading, Charlotte flew up beside me onto the bed. She clambered up to my chest and lay down, her head on my collarbone, and slept while I read. We were naĂŻve to think we could finish the coop and run in two weeks, which was our original plan. By the end, we were scrambling to put up a makeshift run so they could begin their lives outside and we could return to ours inside. It was made with a sturdy plastic mesh wrapped around green T-posts. When we first moved them out, I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sleep any better than I did the first night they were in my room, wondering if they had made it onto their roost, if it was too cold, if the heating lamp was too warm. We had closed the door to their coop, and when I let them out early the next morning, still in my pajamas, they stretched their wings and

Keeping chickens in your bedroom for a month is not something I recommend and not exactly how we intended things to go. After I started sleeping on the couch, I would come in my room in the afternoons to sit with them. Their wings were growing, and the last couple of days inside they could just make it onto the bed. I covered all of my furniture in case they decided to make my bed or desk their new perch. One afternoon, I brought my book and lay down on my bed to read for a while as the chicks ran

ran down the ramp. Their permanent run was finished a few weeks later, this one crafted from metal and wire built around the makeshift run. The nest boxes were finished the day after the first egg appeared. The chicks, no longer chicks, have grown used to living outside in the wild backyard, but they still run to greet me when I go out to visit.

Broken Window by Tracy Buckler

The empty church filters light and shadow As he walks down the aisle. Beyond a broken window. Sheep and goats, true and hollow Intermingle on Sundays, while The empty church filters light and shadow. Remnants of children dancing through meadows Now shattered adults, hard and defiled. Beyond a broken window. Voices resound with the genuine credo Others force their faces to smile The empty church filters light and shadow. The storm winds gust through the echo As he gathers glass pieces into shard piles Beyond a broken window. With bloody hands he repairs the deathblow In the hole a new prism worthwhile. The empty church filters light and shadow Beyond, a broken window.

Rich Man by Madeleine Mozley

The sanctuary of the church was long and rectangular, full of sunshine pouring through tall windows and packed with people gathered to mourn the death of Howard Brighton. However, there seemed to be little mourning actually taking place. “Upon my last visit with Howard,” the pastor said through his book-cover smile, “during which we sat on his lovely balcony and drank dark, exotic tea from one of his trips to Kenya, he said he was not afraid to die. He was ready for something new; he requested that I tell you all this, that he was ready, and that you should rejoice for his new adventure.” And so, there were sunflowers, yellow tulips, and white lilies everywhere—to remind everyone that Howard had moved up in the world, all the way into the next one. After the ceremony, the guests swapped stories. Howard once rolled across the continental us in a Zorb ball to encourage the sharing of cultures. He gave a fleet of Segways to a small, middle-of-nowhere village in Chile and taught the locals how to use them to get around. He adopted all of the cats and dogs from three local animal shelters and opened a ranch for them to live on, which was then visited by mentally-challenged, paraplegic orphans who posed with Howard and a kitty for the cover of Time. These stories and more flew around the church, the laughs rose, and all but Daniel chatted it up.

Daniel waited at the base of the stairs for a married couple in their fifties to finish saying their final goodbye at the side of Howard’s casket. It was all so inappropriate to him. The whole thing: sunflowers, sunshine, sunny people—inappropriate. They were all just happy, rich people reveling in a happy, richer man’s life. Daniel had worked as Howard’s personal assistant for fifteen years, running his errands, getting his coffee, even rubbing his feet. He spouted encouraging anecdotes when Howard drank too much Scotch, shredded the evidence from the embezzlement scandal with the autoparts company Howard ran on the side, and paid off the secretary Howard had run to for comfort and nonconsensual sex after the death of his wife. As thanks, Howard would give Daniel a solid slap on the back, or a screaming, spittle-flying warning to keep his mouth shut. And there was always his classic, “I ought to give you a bonus next year, Danny.” Always next year. The couple left and Daniel stepped up to the casket. There he was, the old bastard, with his Hemingway mustache and a contented expression. Daniel had no words to say; he didn’t know why he’d come. He was about to leave when he saw it—the old man was wearing that watch. His favorite Rolex with the gold details, crystal face, and platinum band. A fifty-two thousand dollar watch. They were going to bury him in it.

Daniel checked for onlookers, all the while pretending to admire the artists’ renderings of Howard’s face that stood on easels at both ends of the casket. He bent over as if to hold

him. Standing there was an old woman in an orange and pink sundress. He opened his mouth to reply, but she spoke before he could. “Oh! You must be Danny. I recognize those

A fifty-two thousand dollar watch. They were going to bury him in it. Howard’s hand and went for the watch clasp. It came unhooked without a fuss; he knew exactly how the contraption worked since he’d put it on Howard many times. He palmed it. “Did you know Mr. Brighton well?” He turned around when he heard the voice, and his hand that held the watch flew behind

crooked glasses. Howard was very fond of you.” She went up and pat his arm. “We’ll miss him, but he’s going to cocktail parties in Heaven, let me tell you.” He dropped the watch into his back pocket and gave her hand a little squeeze. “I’m sure he is.”

Wings by James Schlavin

19Ë? x 27Ë? charcoal on paper

The Voice by Madeleine Mozley

A small, steamy bathroom. The shower is running with the curtain pulled. The bathroom door sits at center stage, concealing the bedroom on the other side. Annette, a tall, thin redhead in her mid-thirties, steps out of the shower. She’s pretty but looks tired. Her smile lines sit unused. She dries off and then wraps the towel around her body. She uses another, smaller towel to dry her hair. She finishes with her hair and shakes it out in damp waves. She throws the smaller towel on the toilet and rests her hands on the sink; she stares at the drain for a moment and then sweeps her hand across the foggy mirror. She looks at herself in the streaky glass. She’s so tired. It’s steamy and close in the bathroom. The steam might swallow her. She reaches for the doorknob. The Voice (Whispers) No good. Annette freezes with her hand on the knob. She shakes her head and leans toward the door. The Voice I said you’re no good, Annette. No good at all. The source of The Voice is on the other side of the door, out of sight, but his words are clear. Annette locks the door and tightens the towel around herself. Annette Whoever you are, get out of my house! The Voice No, I think I’ll stay. I think you want me to stay. Annette Get out! The Voice You’ll never be good enough. Not for this life—you don’t deserve it. Not this house, not Lance, not your kids. Annette loses her breath but finds it again, full of panic.

Annette Stay away from my kids! The Voice I’m not here for them. They’ll stay asleep, just three rooms down, their doors cracked to let just a sliver of comforting hallway light in. They’ll stay asleep for now. That’s how I like them. Asleep. Annette Who are you? The Voice I’m the voice in the air, the king of this earth. I consume, I hunt, and I play. I go by Dragon when I’m feeling really frisky. Annette stares at the door. It’s white, with a hook on the back, and just a bit of paint chipped off where damp towels touch the finish. The gold doorknob with the vertical lock, average as can be, glints in the vanity lights.

He may not come back. Or maybe he will, briefly, and then he’ll take the children and be gone. For good. Annette Why are you here? The Voice You need to understand. You need to see what you’ve done, to realize the truth. You’re alone, and it’s your fault. Annette My husband will be home any second. If you’re here when he gets back, he’ll— The Voice But he’s not here. And who knows? He may not come back. Or maybe he will, briefly, and then he’ll take the children and be gone. For good. Annette sits on the edge of the bathtub. She pushes back the hair stuck to her face. It’s so very hot. Annette They love me. The Voice For now. You tricked them into it. You got them to believe lies. That’s what you are—lies. Annette I’ve lied about nothing! Lance knows everything about me. He knows where I’ve been, and who I am now.

The Voice Oh, but he doesn’t know details, does he? He doesn’t know about what you did to your father. It was so cold that the keys in your hand bit into your palm. The driveway was dark, but you found the keyhole. And then there he was behind you, asking what you were doing in the cold with his car. He offered to go get something for you, whatever it was you needed. You screamed at him, your throat burning with accusations; it warmed you up. When he went for the keys, you shoved him. Hard. He fell back on the asphalt. There was a crack. Then it was his turn to scream. You threw yourself in the car; your backpack bounced on the passenger seat. And then you were gone. You can still hear his cries. And he didn’t press charges. Annette closes her eyes. The Voice Lance doesn’t know how you used to pay rent. Remember Mike in the Walmart parking lot? He’d just eaten McDonald’s inside the store—he tasted like chicken nuggets. And Eric in the motel with roaches the size of a silver dollar? He shorted you a twenty and left his cigarette butt on the bed to burn through the comforter. And then there’s the guy in the alleyway, who shoved you so hard against the dumpster that its jagged edge sliced into your thigh. He didn’t stop when you told him you were bleeding. You never got his name. Annette starts to cry. She doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t wrinkle her face up and heave. The tears just come, warm and constant. The Voice Thank God your kids don’t know who you really are. Not yet, anyway. Do you think they’ll still respect you when they find out? That they’ll actually still love you? Annette bites her lip. Sweat begins to ruin the work her shower accomplished.

Remember Mike in the Walmart parking lot? He’d just eaten McDonald’s inside the store—he tasted like chicken nuggets. The Voice They’ll probably just stop talking to you. When they get home from school, they’ll pass you in the kitchen on their way to grab a Pop-Tart. You’ll ask them how their days were, and they’ll say fine. Always fine. Just fine. Annette I love my children—they know that. The Voice And they’ll “love” you back, because they have to. Until they move out.

Annette If I tell them what I’ve done, they can learn from my mistakes. The Voice Oh, because telling people about yourself always goes so well. You don’t have any friends to confide in. Other women can’t stand you. Every time you start a friendship, it goes wrong. Fast. Seems to be happening faster and faster with each attempt. You trust them with something, something small, and then they tell you they can’t make it to lunch. They’re just so busy. They’ll try again next week. Annette sinks to the floor. The Voice Nobody can really love you. Not after what you’ve done, who you are. Annette stares at the door. The Voice You’re so tired, Annette. Just let go. Stop fighting. Don’t you want to just relax now? Isn’t it time? Annette I don’t know. The Voice Yes, you do. Annette sobs. Her body shakes. She can barely speak. Annette What do you want from me? The Voice (Whispers seductively) I want you. I want all of you. I want your body, your soul. I want everything. Annette wipes her face on her towel. She slows her breathing.

Other women can’t stand you. The Voice I’ll have you forever. Forget everything else, everyone else. Let me have you. She stands up slowly and walks to the door. The Voice Open the door. I want you. Now.

She rests her forehead against the door.

The Voice Annette, open the door. She reaches toward the doorknob. Her fingertips trace the lock outline. It’s far from impenetrable. The Voice Open it. Annette No. The Voice What? Annette No. I won’t. The rattling of a door handle quietly fills the air, but the doorknob is still. The Voice I said, open the door. If you don’t, I’ll— Annette If you could get in, you would have already. Get out of my house. Leave. Now! She pounds her fist on the door once. Rattle, Rattle! The doorknob is still, but the rattling is incessant. She shakes her head and presses her palms to her ears. The Voice (Deepening tone) I’ll separate your skin from your flesh. I’ll make you burn. It will be slow. Let me in! Annette Fuck you! Go away! The sound of pounding, like a sledgehammer on concrete, fills the bathroom. Pound, Pound, Pound! With three powerful tugs, she yanks a towel rack off of the wall next to the door. The Voice (Deep and manic) I’ll cut your husband’s throat and make you watch. I’ll make your children scream until their lungs give out. Let me in! Annette No! The rattling stops. The pounding stops. It’s silent. The steam in the bathroom has faded. Beat.

She waits for a moment. She takes in a shuddering breath and opens the door as she holds the towel rack overhead, ready to swing. Nobody’s there. Her bed sits across the room with her robe and pajamas laid out on it. There’s the dirty clothes hamper against the wall, her half-finished cup of tea on the bedside table. The remaining steam slips out of the bathroom. Her skin grows cool as she sinks to her knees. Lance (Offstage) Hey babe! I’m finally home. Sorry it took so long—brought us something to share to make up for it though. Annette pushes her hair off her face again and stands slowly. Footsteps move down the hallway toward the bedroom. Lance, a tall man with short blond hair and a sprinkling of freckles, opens the door. Annette jumps. Lance Sorry, did I scare you? Annette (Clears throat) Yeah. Lance goes up and kisses her. Lance It’s just me. Wanna share? He holds up a pint of pistachio ice cream and two spoons. He waves them back and forth, taunting her. She tries to smile. He sees the towel rack in her hand. Lance Uh…what happened? Did that come loose? She realizes she’s still holding the towel rack. Annette Oh. Yeah. I’ll fix it though. Lance Nope. That’s a man job. I’ll do it later. He takes it out of her hand and sets it on the dresser behind him before turning back to her.

Lance But now, it’s ice cream time. Annette I’ll just get dressed. Lance Or not. I’m fine either way. He winks and slaps her butt on his way out. She stares at the bedroom door for a moment before turning back toward the bathroom. The bathroom door is unharmed, seemingly undisturbed. She slowly walks up and opens it. She toys with the lock on the inside, playing with the handle, testing it. Lance (Offstage) Come on, honey! It’s melting! Annette Coming! She heads to the bed, grabs her robe, and leaves the bedroom. The bathroom door is still for a moment but then moves a few inches, as if pulled by a draft, until the latch slides home.

Floating by Elise Mouchet

It’s the midway point. You’re no longer sure which way you’re going, but you know it’s somewhere. Up or down is all you have, and you have to make a choice. But you’re so far in—you’re in so deep—you don’t know which way is which or which is right. You want the light; you miss how warm it felt at the start. But you remember what it feels like to see, and the memory hurts your eyes. You remember what it feels like to breathe, and the memory hurts your lungs. Your legs have been treading water for so long. You remember you can feel those, too. You remember so much, but what good is it doing you? You’re afraid to move because you don’t know how. If you open your eyes you might be able to find the light, but the salt will hurt so you keep your windows locked. Nothing gets in, but nothing gets out either. Maybe a hand—that’s safer. Feeling is easier than seeing. Something warm. It reminds you of the light. It envelops your hand in its warmth. You can stay here now. Feeling warm. That’s all you needed from the light anyway, right? You’re so happy in the mutual warmth that you stop moving your legs. You’re going deeper, but it’s okay. It starts to get cold, but your hand at least is warm. You haven’t gone far. Just a little more. But it only gets colder, and your fingers go numb. You know there’s something there, but you’ve never felt more alone. You reach out and strike the other hand, the one that used to keep you warm. That hand brought you here, didn’t it? But the more you strike the deeper you go until you’re too cold to move. You drift here in the cold and feel your hands go numb and your feet go numb and your stomach go numb and your lungs go numb and your heart go numb. But your mind refuses to go numb, and it won’t let you sleep. It starts doing the last thing you want it to, and it remembers the light. It remembers, no matter how hard you try to forget. You hate remembering because you know you can’t get back. Shut it out. Float. Sleep. You feel something warm on your shoulder. It slides under your armpit and pulls. It’s uncomfortable. You just want to sleep. But it keeps pulling. It slides under your other armpit. Suddenly, your stomach wakes up and feels the shift in your position. It’s something new. The rising starts to slow, but your stomach liked that feeling, so it wakes up your legs, and they start to kick. You kick, and now you’re the one pulling, and it’s exciting. You want to keep that feeling. Your foot hits something hard and you begin to bleed. It hurts, and you gasp. But it feels so different when you gasp that you forget about your foot. Your face feels hot and cold at the same time—it feels dry. Air is taking away the water, and the sun is drying the salt on your face. You open your eyes to see where you are, to see if it’s real. You only see blue. Light blue. Like the sky right after it snows. And you feel the light on your head and your heart beating in time with the blue. You want to stay here forever. But his blue eyes widen, and he lets go of you. It’s too much. The light hurts his eyes, and he can’t handle feeling two heartbeats. He wants the warmth of your hand. Just your hand. That was enough, and this is too much. He flees back to the security of the water. No matter how far you reach, no matter how loudly you call out, the blue eyes are gone beneath the surface. You’re left bleeding on the shore, alone. The light stings your raw and tender flesh. It has to. If the wounds are ever going to close, it has to.

With Light by Tammy Boehm Are you with me At the cusp of the torrent Gray skies ragged And the hungered earth Beneath my tread-worn feet My veneration sanguine Etched in weathered stone As the birds of the air Snatch your sustenance from My blistered tongue Bring me to my knees Scrabbling at the door That never opens I see past my imagination To eternity I am but damp breath Panting for you in the gathering storm Time is a finite line Destiny a place where the promise Of your arms surrounding My fractured soul Is the transient fragrance Of crushed petals that bleed out Through my clenched fists Token moments canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sustain I need you now To touch me with light Again

O bs es si on

by James Schlavin

27Ë? x 19Ë? graphite on paper

Wilting by Rachelle Clifford Andrea had hidden beneath the covers of her bed for days. The curtains were drawn tight, cloaking the room in darkness but for the tv on the dresser. She pulled the covers up to her chin, and her eyes drooped as her cell phone rang, interrupting the incessant laugh track from another rerun of Friends. She let it go, and the number of missed calls flashed from sixty-five to sixty-six. She sighed and turned onto her side. She didn’t even know what day it was. The doorbell rang once, then twice. It rang again, now three times in rapid succession. Andrea sat up and stared at the curtains as the ringing continued. She slid out from the warmth of the sheets and stood, her toes gripping the rug as if that would steady her, and wound her way to the window, around the dirty dishes that littered her bedside. The hair on her arms and legs stood on end at the cold air’s touch; she wore nothing but spandex boy shorts and a white oversized button-down shirt, buttoned only once and in the wrong slot. She tugged the curtain aside, and the barest scrap of light forced its way into the room. She squinted into the daylight and could just make out her older sister over the white rosebushes lining the walkway to her front door. She held her breath, as if the stillness could convince the woman that the house was empty. But her sister turned, staring at the very window Andrea hid behind, her red hair waving in the wind. She lifted her cell to her cheek, and

the phone on Andrea’s nightstand responded. She ignored it again. But her sister was persistent, and on the third attempt, Andrea snatched the phone. Her hands shook as she tried to push the answer button, and the phone slipped from her grasp, landing in a bowl of day-old macaroni. She recovered it and answered, cursing under her breath as she did so, and returned to the window. “Well hello to you, too,” said her sister. Andrea was silent, her stubbornness draining any response from her mind. “It’s me. Leslie.” “I know it’s you. Can’t you take the hint? I’m not home!” “Your car’s here.” She sounded bemused. “I took a walk.” “Then you’ll understand that I had no choice but to let myself in.” Andrea watched as Leslie picked up a flower pot and raised it to the window by the front door. “Okay! Geez, I’m coming.” She hung up the phone and hustled to the front door, fumbling with the dead bolt. She opened the door to see Leslie cradling the flower pot and smelling the red roses. Her sister smiled and set the flowers down. “Your garden’s as good as Dad’s was.” Before Andrea could respond, Leslie engulfed her in a hug. Every inch of her body stiffened as she breathed in her sister’s sweet perfume. “Why haven’t you answered any of my calls?” Leslie whispered, her voice brimming with a concern that fed the guilt in Andrea’s chest.

“I don’t know,” Andrea mumbled and awk wardly tried to step away. Her sister released her grip only to grab Andrea by the shoulders and give her a long appraising look. Andrea struggled to keep her embarrassment from showing, her dignity crumbling enough as it was. Surely Leslie had seen the stack of newspapers in the driveway, the mailbox so stuffed it was half open. Even her Christmas decorations were still up, though the holiday had passed months ago.

“If you really want to know,” Leslie said, “your boss called Mom, and she told, you know, everyone. Grandma, Aunt Mary, Dylan. I see you never returned his shirt by the way.” Andrea almost smiled, remembering when she had borrowed her brother’s shirt indefinitely. He had been too nice to say anything about it. “So, what? Are you their ambassador?” “I didn’t tell them I came.” “Oh.”

Andrea tuned her sister’s voice out as easily as she had the ringing phone for the last week. Leslie hesitated and chewed on her lip. “Everyone’s been so worried about you.” She shook her head. “Well, thanks for letting me in.” “I’m not—” But Leslie had already shouldered her way into the house, heels clicking on the tile, her cardinal-colored luggage, so large Andrea thought she could fit inside it, rolling behind her. “Have you eaten?” Leslie strolled into the kitchen. “I’m starving. Why don’t you take a shower, and I’ll make something? You really… well, you stink.” Andrea leaned against the doorframe as her sister ransacked the fridge. She was surprised there was anything left inside it; she couldn’t even recall the last time she’d been to the store. “Who’s everyone?” “What?” Leslie’s voice was almost lost inside the fridge. “Who’s everyone? And how did you even… how did you know?” Leslie withdrew from the fridge and looked her in the eye. Andrea’s gaze shifted to Leslie’s cherry stilettos.

Leslie abandoned the fridge and turned to the pantry instead. “Don’t worry, I’m just here to help out. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll clean up, make the meals…” Andrea tuned her sister’s voice out as easily as she had the ringing phone for the last week. Her family was worried about her. When had she last talked to any of them? The day her father died was the last time they had all been together. Had that really been five years ago? “Andrea?” She blinked as her sister’s voice returned her to consciousness. “When do you need to go back to work?” Leslie enunciated every word. She must have been repeating herself. “They said to take as much time as I needed,” Andrea sighed. “Good,” she said. “Hey, how does spaghetti sound for dinner?” “His funeral is tomorrow.” Leslie turned to face her, a bag of noodles in one hand and a jar of sauce in the other. She set them on the counter and hurried forward, taking Andrea’s hands and gripping them tightly.

“We don’t need to talk about this now if you’re not ready,” Leslie said. “We’re not going to,” Andrea replied, a sting in her tone. “Look, you’re not welcome here. I appreciate your concern, but I’d like you to leave.” Leslie stepped away, her eyes wide. Andrea turned on her heels and retreated to her bedroom, hiding under the covers once more, guilt her ever-present companion. Her mind was torn. One moment, all she could think of was the image of her mom the evening after her dad’s death, breaking into tears and admitting to her and her siblings that their dad had been cheating on her for years. The day of his funeral, Leslie and Dylan hadn’t shown up, and at the reception Andrea discovered her mother crying into the arms of what turned out to be her on-the-side boyfriend. The rest of her family had accepted this man within a week, as if her dad’s supposed

Leslie’s weight as she tugged gently on Andrea’s hair with a brush. “I’m tired,” Andrea said finally, lifting her head so that Leslie could retrieve some of her hair. She didn’t have the energy to try to kick her sister out again. “Well you’ve slept the week away by the looks of it.” “I have. It doesn’t hurt when I’m sleeping.” The brush paused in the middle of a knot. “What doesn’t?” “Everything, I guess.” Leslie stood up and yanked the sheets off of Andrea. “That’s it. You’re taking a shower. You seriously stink.” Andrea did little to resist as her sister grabbed her wrists and pulled her upright. Leslie shoved her gently toward the bathroom door and smacked her on the butt.

What would have happened had she not been carrying her father’s pocket knife that night? affair justified every bit of it. Andrea had been disgusted, and the minute she graduated two months later, she moved across the country. The next moment, she thought of the events from a week ago, wondering, as she had ever since, if she had made the right choice. What would have happened had she not been carrying her father’s pocket knife that night? The regret continued to gnaw at her chest. She had thought there was nothing left for it to devour, but her heart continued to beat, pushing the numbness away with every breath. A knock sounded on the bedroom door, but Andrea didn’t say anything. The clicking of her sister’s heels crossed the room until the rug muffled the sound. The bed shifted under

“And don’t come out until you smell like roses.” When Andrea emerged from the steam with nothing but a towel wrapped around her head, she was welcomed by a room free of the maze of dishes, a bed made fresh with clean sheets, and light that poured in from the open windows. She leapt back into the bathroom with a startled squeak and pulled the towel from her hair, wrapping it around her body instead. Draped on her pillow was a purple silk slip. She pursed her lips and ran her fingers along the soft fabric. She closed the curtains and put it on. The silk felt like feathers tickling her skin. As she dried her dark hair with a towel, she followed the sound of the indietronica music

and clinking dishes to the kitchen, where she found Leslie. “Is there a reason I’m looking sexy?” she asked, crossing her arms and scowling away any attractiveness she may have had. Leslie grinned proudly as she scrubbed at a plate. “Look better, feel better.” “I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t put me in stilettos,” Andrea mumbled. Drawn by the smell of the food, she sat down at the table and dished noodles onto a plate. “Comfort is important, too.” Leslie turned off the faucet and sat across from her. “Hey, I’ve been thinking. We should get you out of the house tomorrow. We could go out to eat, maybe see a movie. Oh, we could get our nails done.” Andrea scooped the sauce, and then folded her hands in her lap, staring at her plate. “I have other plans.” “Oh really?” She could hear the skepticism in her sister’s voice. “And those would be?” “I’m going to the funeral.” Leslie dropped her spoon into the bowl of spaghetti sauce, staring at Andrea with eyes larger than the meatballs. She hurried away to

“I know it’s not.” “That man doesn’t deserve your respect, Andrea. He assaulted you. And how do you think his family’s going to react when the woman who killed him shows up?” Andrea was momentarily taken aback by her sister’s bluntness. She picked up her fork and twirled the spaghetti, taking a big bite and glaring at Leslie as she chewed. “I won’t let you go,” Leslie said. “They don’t know what I look like. I’ll just say I worked with him.” “Andrea—” “I’m going.” Leslie sighed and rested her forehead on her hand, showing weariness for the first time. “Why?” she demanded. “Why do you need to go?” “I know you don’t understand.” She met her sister’s gaze. “But I need to find closure.” Somehow, she had to make up for what she had done, and it was the only option she could think of. Her sister stood up and walked to the kitchen sink, crossing her arms and staring out the window. “Okay,” she said finally. “What time do we leave?”

That man doesn’t deserve your respect…And how do you think his family’s going to react when the woman who killed him shows up?

a drawer and returned with a new spoon, trying to fish the other one out. “Why would you even want to do that?” Her voice was strained. “To pay my respects. That’s what funerals are for.” Leslie’s eyes narrowed into a glare. She sat in the chair across from her, dropping the spoon on the table. The sauce splattered across the wood. “This is not about Dad.”

Hurrying over to Leslie, Andrea hugged her. She hated to admit it, but she knew she wouldn’t have had the courage to go alone. Leslie pulled away. “There’s a condition, Andrea. After this, we’re done. No more sleeping away the pain, no more hiding from the world. You’re moving on, with me.” Andrea nodded her promise.

§§§§§§§§§§§§ The funeral service was held in an oldfashioned chapel with pews, and as Andrea walked through the doors, she was alarmed by how many people were seated. Given the circumstances, she had expected the chapel to be mostly empty, but the rows were filled. This man had been loved. The thought struck her as harshly as his slap had. Leslie’s hand took hers—it was hot, almost sweaty—and pulled her toward the end of a row in the back of the room. She kept her eyes on

young man whom we will never forget. But we are also here to celebrate, knowing that he is home with the Lord.” Beside her, Leslie crossed her arms and legs. Andrea hoped that no one would look back and see the scowl on her sister’s face. The pastor continued. “Geoffrey will be greatly missed. He was the most passionate member on the worship team. We watched him every week show his love for the Lord. He was always there for others, always willing to lend a helping hand or offer a bad joke.” A half-hearted chuckle reverberated through the room.

She had come to try to redeem herself, but this was only making her guilt grow like a weed that couldn’t be removed. the floor as they walked. The heaviness in the air pressed against her. It was silent, filled only with the occasional cough or sniffle. Her dad’s funeral had been packed, too. As they sat, her gaze shifted to the front of the room. In the center was a table covered with a black cloth. On it, surrounded by fake blue flowers, was a small urn that was the color of the sky. Andrea glanced at her sister and noticed that she had a program. She took it and turned the cover, coming face-to-face with her attacker again. He looked friendly in his picture, almost kind. Below the photograph was a chapter from the Bible. Psalm twenty-three. The Lord is my shepherd. She read every word with a heavy heart. “Welcome.” Andrea looked away from the program. Standing behind the table was an older man with gray hair dressed in a black suit. He spoke with a booming voice. “And thank you for coming to remember and say your final goodbyes to Geoffrey Rogers, a

Andrea’s heart pounded. The temperature seemed to spike, and she put all of her concen tration into trying not to sweat. This wasn’t working. She had come to try to redeem herself, but this was only making her guilt grow like a weed that couldn’t be removed. The man was retreating from the stage. She had missed the rest of his speech. A young woman with curled blond hair took his place. “As most of you know,” the woman began, her voice clear, “Geoff and I started dating two years ago. All of my friends teased me that he was going to propose soon.” She stopped and looked down. The room was so still, Andrea held her breath. “I’m sure many of you have heard the rumors of how he died. Don’t believe them for a minute. I believe in the man I knew, and I hope all of you do, too.” Andrea kept her head bowed as she went over everything that had happened once again. Two weeks ago, too lazy to make her own lunch, she’d decided to splurge and consume as many carbs as possible before going to work at the

yoga studio, so she’d gone to Marcello’s. When the manager had asked how her meal was, he’d stayed a bit longer than usual, his blue eyes lingering. He made a point of making sure she had everything she needed, and, when pressed, she finally asked for a refill of her water. He took care of everything after that, trying to strike up conversations with her. When he brought her the bill, his phone number was written on the receipt. In her mind, she was too busy for a relationship, so she left it on the table. But as she tried to leave, he caught up with her, holding the forgotten receipt out to her. She apologized, told him flat out that she wasn’t interested, then forgot about it. At the end of the week, she bumped into him on her morning run at the park a few miles away from her home. He seemed so surprised and struck up what felt like a normal, uninvolved conversation. When she tried to leave, he said that seeing each other again couldn’t be a coincidence and asked her out for the second time. She told him no, and was so spooked that she took a bus a few blocks past her house, then walked home. The next day, she taught the late class at work. She’d been held up by students asking questions before she could close the studio. At half past ten, she made her way to her car in the almost empty parking garage. He called her name, and she turned to see him approaching her. He was wearing the hood of his jacket over his head, but he smiled so genuinely. He tried the whole routine again, but when she refused, he grabbed her. He dragged her roughly to her car, yelling at her to open it, and slapped her when she struggled. She couldn’t think straight. She screamed, but no one was there, and he hit her again. He kept telling her to open her car door but finally reached for the keys himself.

She threw them as hard as she could across the parking garage. The look he gave her at that moment was still clear in her mind as she sat in the church. He was a stranger compared to the man in the picture. He shoved her onto the ground, and as he pinned her with his body, her hand found her father’s pocket knife. She pulled it and held the blade against her attacker’s throat. At that moment, they were flooded with light. A car had pulled into the garage and stopped behind them. Terror compelled her decision, and she took her chance. She slit his throat. Everything became a blur after that. She pushed his body off of her. His blood covered her. The driver of the car got out and ran to check on her before he called the police. Police cars and an ambulance arrived shortly after. The paramedics checked her out, tending to the minor scratches and bruises, asking her questions she could barely answer while the police waited their turn in line. The case was ongoing, but her injuries and the driver’s testimony made it pretty clear that it was self-defense. She had defended herself, but there must have been another way. The concern that the paramedics, police officers, driver, and even her lawyer had shown forced her to take everyone’s word for it that she had been justified. But what right did she have to kill someone? Person after person, family member after family member, friend after friend filed onto the stage, declaring their testimonies of the wonderful man that Geoff Rogers had been. Leslie grabbed hold of her hand. Andrea looked down at her lap and saw that her program had somehow become a folded, wrinkled mess. All she could think was that it wasn’t enough. Attending this man’s funeral service was not the atonement she’d thought it would be.

As she smoothed out the program, the sol ution became clear. The last page had a picture of ocean waves and read, “Geoffrey Rogers always wanted his ashes to be spread over the ocean. When the time is right, his family will fulfill this final request.” Andrea was jolted by her sister’s elbow jabbing into her arm. Everyone was standing up and making their way out of the room, forming a line in the foyer to give condolences to the family. Leslie touched her arm. “Time to go.”

Leslie nodded and shifted the car into drive. §§§§§§§§§§§§ That evening, Andrea sat with Leslie in the front yard garden. They shifted uncomfortably in the lawn chairs, but neither wanted to move. The sun was setting, and the air was still warm and pleasant. Andrea stared into the glass of red wine that Leslie had given her, yet to take a sip. Somehow, she wasn’t in the mood. “Did it work?” Leslie asked after some time had passed. “Do you feel better?”

It was small, just big enough that she had to hold it in both hands, and lighter than she expected. She slid it into her purse. Andrea touched her fingers to her forehead and closed her eyes, as if dizzy. “Can you pull the car up? I’m not feeling well.” Leslie looked at her intently for a moment before nodding. She stood and hurried from the room; Andrea waited as it cleared. Slowly, she stood and walked toward the table with the urn. There was another table she hadn’t noticed before covered with photographs, and she pretended to look at them, glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching. But the chapel was almost empty, and everyone was facing away. She hurried to the table with the ashes and delicately picked up the urn. It was small, just big enough that she had to hold it in both hands, and lighter than she expected. She slid it into her purse. Her breath caught in her throat at what she had just done, and she hurried into the foyer, past the line of people, and out the doors into the sunlight. Leslie was already waiting in the car. Andrea forced herself not to run, to look calm as she opened the door and sat. “Are you okay?” her sister asked. “I just want to go home.”

Andrea swished the wine in her glass until it turned into a tiny whirlpool. “Not really.” Leslie didn’t respond until the last of the sun’s rays had been pulled beneath the horizon. “I regret it, you know. Every day.” She looked at Andrea. “Not going to Dad’s funeral.” Andrea was at a loss for words, and her sister continued. “I just felt so betrayed. Out of all the people you think you know, to discover that your own dad was faking who he was.” “Mom was faking it, too.” “Everyone fakes it. And everybody chooses to believe it.” Leslie sighed into her glass. “Like those people at that funeral.” Andrea hesitated, wondering if her sister realized just how much she was faking every moment. She’d tried the second her sister had arrived to appear composed, but her façade was swiftly crumbling. She kept telling herself that someone had to know, and maybe Leslie was the safest person to try with. “Those people were right. I murdered him.”

Her sister glared at her. “It was self-defense, Andrea. You didn’t have a choice.” Andrea bit her lip and closed her eyes, afraid to speak. “When the car showed up, he actually smiled at me. He told me, ‘That’s okay. I’ll come back.’” Andrea shuddered and kept her eyes closed, unable to look at her sister. “He was starting to get up, Leslie. He was going to run away. That’s not self-defense.” One moment of silence followed the other until Andrea was convinced hours had passed. She dared to open her eyes and look at Leslie. Her sister was staring into the rosebushes. Andrea stood and walked to the door, stopping by the flower pot of red roses. She dumped her glass of wine into the flowers and then kicked the pot over before going inside. For the rest of the night, the two didn’t share another word. §§§§§§§§§§§§ The next morning, Andrea crawled out of bed. The house was silent. She checked the guest bedroom, but her sister wasn’t there. She wasn’t in any other room in the house. She had scared her sister away. She took a long, hot shower trying to stuff her guilt down the drain along with the grime from the day before. It didn’t work, and she didn’t think it would until she fulfilled Geoff’s wishes and spread his ashes over the ocean for him. When she finished, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a dark blue shirt and walked into the front hall, determined to see it through. She pulled her keys and the urn from the purse and opened the front door, shutting it slowly behind her. Surrounded by the fragrance of her white roses, she made her way down the walkway, stopping at the sound of a car door slamming. Quickly, she turned to go back into the house. “Andrea? Were you going somewhere?”

She didn’t move. “I just went on a walk. That’s all.” Her sister’s footsteps approached her, and Andrea knew there was no escaping. So she turned around, and the look of shock on Leslie’s face at the sight of the urn in her hands caused her to cringe. “What are you doing?” Leslie’s voice was strained and urgent, and she dropped the grocery bags she had been holding. “He wanted his ashes scattered over the ocean.” She tried to sound as calm as she felt, wanting her sister to see how much she needed to do this one act to make up for what she had done, to finally rid herself of the guilt, but her voice wavered with every syllable. “I have to do this.” “You don’t owe him anything. It wasn’t your fault.” “But I already told you—” “It doesn’t matter,” Leslie snapped. Her sister rushed toward her, and her hands wrapped around the urn before Andrea had a chance to back away. Andrea held on tightly as Leslie tried to pull it from her grip. “Even if you did have a choice, you were protecting yourself. I would have done the same thing.” Andrea relented for a moment before pulling again as hard as she could. The urn slipped from Leslie’s grip too suddenly, and Andrea fell back into the rosebushes. The thorns tore at her shirt, and she threw her arms back to try to catch her balance. The urn fell and shattered on the walkway. Leslie took Andrea by the shoulders and pulled her out of the thorns. They stepped away delicately, trying to avoid the ashes. Andrea’s hands covered her mouth in shock, several scratches on her arms leaking blood. “What am I going to do?” her muff led voice shook.

“Go clean yourself up,” said Leslie softly. “Let me take care of it.” Andrea looked at her sister and wondered at how calm she was but mostly at the fact that she was still there. “I shouldn’t have left,” she said suddenly. “All those years ago. I’m sorry.” Leslie’s response was to turn her around by the shoulders and gently push her toward

the door. Andrea wound her way back into her bedroom and looked at herself in the mirror. The cuts were minor, and she let them be. Pulling off the torn blue shirt, she replaced it with a white tank top and brushed out her hair. When she finished, she walked back to the front door and watched as Leslie swept the ashes into the rosebushes.

I Never Understood by Tammy Boehm

Crisp pinafore dress Confection in lemon Sunday-best lace gloves I sat carefully in my ruffled bloomers Picture perfect girl Daddyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s darling Round cornflower eyes reflecting Baby Jesus on felt boards Singing about the Blood of the Lamb And thinking of Santa at Christmas I never understood Amidst the cool wood pews And blue hymnals Where women in polyester blends Dozed politely That sweaty man in embroidered vestments Screamed damnation on my soul Fists gripping the Good Book Thees and thous abounding I never understood

Shedding tears for butterflies and puppies Skinned knees bled while grownups prophesied Mediocrity of moments Homespun litanies of limits Whispered tragedies hushed behind closed doors I veiled my cornflower eyes Learning to cry politely at Hallmark commercials And sad pop songs My unborn spirit numb I never understood Future dreams slip by As I build my nacred shell Housing for my hollow soul Jesus loves me echoes a sad refrain This body a walking memorial What could have been Apathy my singular epitaph Religion a mistress to the father of lies My undertaker No surprise that I never understood Love

Find Me in the Dirt by Madeleine Mozley

“Hey, how would you winter over geran iums?” I asked. “Meemo kept hers in the garage. Do you have any newspaper?” It was a typical gardening call to my mom, and as she walked me through the process on the phone, I stared at the group of large pots full of bright red geraniums, huddled together in my living room like a herd of sheep come in out of the cold. Their dark green foliage clashed with the scarlet flower bunches like Christmas in spring. I grew up with geraniums. My mom and grandma have grown them for years, and I fell into the practice myself after I got married and moved in with my husband. The emotional symbolism of the scarlet geranium is either comfort or stupidity, depending on who you ask; I prefer the comfort meaning, but there’s definitely a bit of stupid in there, too. These flowers don’t smell particularly nice, have to be pruned regularly, and drop red petals all over the place. When I brought them into my condo as the weather turned cold last year, my dining room floor looked like it was covered with tiny, tissue paper hearts. Not to mention that when my family and I pot geraniums, we often pair them with alyssum, white flowers about the size of a pinhead that grow in poofy clusters and spill over the edge of the pot if they get a good amount of hot sun. The white petals of these flowers fell like snow and mixed with the little hearts. I swept the floor constantly.

Now that my husband and I are in a house with an attic, I’m hopeful that the geraniums will be happy to go dormant up there and come back next year. They’re technically annuals, but if you store them correctly over the cold season, they’ll come back year after year. Some people just start over every spring, but I have a hard time letting go of something that beautiful, something I’ve kept alive for so long. To succeed at this, I needed some how-to tips on the process from the gardening pro that came before me. But even before my mom there was her mom, my Meemo. Meemo was a flower grower extraordinaire. This lady’s house could have been on a tour of home gardens. There’s a ton of beautiful foliage in Albuquerque—don’t let the desert climate fool you. We get sunshine pretty much all year round, and although we get little rainfall, that only makes us gardeners all the more practiced in using just the right amount of water to get our plants to grow. Our gardens can last from the beginning of April to the midd le of October, maybe even to Halloween if we’re lucky. This means that we can go through waves of flowers and crops. We can plant three rounds of certain vegetables by seed, depending on the strain. We enjoy petunias and pansies in the early spring, and when they die off, we replace them with snapdragons and Gerbera daisies. There’s so much freedom in what we can grow here that it’s often hard to decide year to year. But Meemo had her garden pattern down to a science.

Outside her house were tiered flower beds and pots all over the backyard like bright bows dotting the top of a birthday present. Impatiens, tiger lilies, tulips, and geraniums brought color and life to the yard. A couple of years ago, Mom planted an herb garden for her right outside her kitchen door. It was Meemo’s first true foray into the world of edibles, and she loved them and bragged on my mom constantly for keeping her garden up to snuff when she wasn’t as good at getting around to tend it. Before she’d fallen and broken her hip, in the garden no less, Meemo would haul a great big hose all over the yard. She always watered by hand—no drip or sprinkler system, not even for the grass—and you could see her short self marching up and down that yard and climbing around on the tiered beds just about every day. If she was in the back garden

When I was little, no more than five or six, I helped Meemo water in the atrium. She had a tiny, yellow watering can for me to use. It probably didn’t hold more than a cup of water, which it dispersed slowly from the perforated nozzle. I now realize that it was a child’s can, a safety can if you will. I really couldn’t mess up any of the plants by over watering or digging small holes into the soil with the water pressure. I loved it because I got to follow her around as she watered; she tipped over her tan watering can, which had a spout like a graceful swan neck. Hers didn’t even have a perforated nozzle. She whistled in a way only she could—through pursed lips, pushing air out gently, not to make a whistling sound as much as wind with a melody. Every once in a while, I strayed from where she was watering.

She whistled in a way only she could— through pursed lips, pushing air out gently, not to make a whistling sound as much as wind with a melody.

and you were on the opposite side of the yard, you could see the top half of her behind a row of bright yellow forsythia, her white hair almost translucent in the sun as she bobbed up and down to move the hose between the beds. And then there was the inside of Meemo’s house. She and my grandpa had added an atrium onto their house years before I was born; hers was a room with a ceiling of glass and large windows to let in sunlight, where plants could grow all year round. In the atrium, she grew angel wing begonias and rubber tree plants set into beds beneath the floor line. She grew orchids in almost every color, African violets, and Christmas cacti. And she grew geraniums in shades of red, orange, and pink.

“This one?” I asked, pointing to a bright red amaryllis. She turned. Her glasses were like clear coasters, amplifying the light blue of her eyes. “No, but that one might need some,” she said, pointing to the large rubber tree plant in the lowered bed; I would give it a haircut a couple of years later so that I could see the thick sap spill out of the furled, red leaves like milk. I emptied the rest of my watering can completely, and although it looked like my little sprinkles didn’t even seep through the surface of the dirt, I felt accomplished. And I’m sure that was the goal—build me up with an appreciation for growing things and the assurance that I could keep them alive.

Meemo’s atrium residents are still alive. Well, mostly alive, for now. Mom goes to the house every week to deadhead and water. She constantly reminds my grandpa how many ice cubes to put at the base of the orchids and how often. For a large orchid in partial sun, it’s just four ice cubes once a week. Not that hard. But it’s probably not only a lack of water causing the plants to do poorly now; it’s a lack of Meemo. When we lost her last spring, her plants lost her, too. I genuinely believe that my grandma had the touch with all things growing. She could take the sickest plant and bring it back to leafy, flourishing life. She could take cuttings to create little clones of her favorite flowers, and they’d always take. I’ve already killed succulents and a begonia by doing cuttings. I’m hopeful that we grow the touch as we get older, that it’s mostly a matter of experience and trial and error that brings us up to that skill level. Trial and error and I are intimately acquainted, from the first time I helped my mom spread fertilizer in her vegetable garden at age six and my little hands reacted badly to the substance. Mom probably would’ve admonished me for not wearing gloves like I was supposed to, but I

And weed, and weed. Keeping the invaders at bay, the mars of otherwise earthy, nutrient-rich perfection, was a regular chore. But I learned quickly that if you kept putting off the weeding, it would only be twice as bad the next week. It would be hot, boring, and take way longer than if I just did a little at a time. A lesson I’m still trying to fully embrace. But the produce we got out of that little plot of dirt was worth the effort. I’d get to eat fresh baby carrots, sweet strawberries, and even the spicy petals of nasturtiums. I’ve yet to discover a homegrown vegetable that far surpasses the store bought version as much as tomatoes. In the store and at McDonald’s, you buy half-white, tomatolike fruit that when sliced is about as appetizing as a mealy hockey puck. Homegrown tomatoes are meaty yet buttery, a different plant entirely. Back then, the tomato plants were taller than I was. Their foliage is the perfect shade of bright green for hiding the nasties of the home garden: tomato bugs with horns on their butts, katydids like mini humpbacked dinosaurs, and grasshoppers that jump out if even slightly disturbed, and they of course always seem to go for your face. And then there are praying

The carrot seeds were like flecks of skin, so delicate that a gentle gust would blow them out of your hand and you’d end up having to go back to the store for more. think the red rash on my palms was punishment enough and a reminder to do it the right way the next time. We planted carrots and radishes from seed. The carrot seeds were like flecks of skin, so delicate that a gentle gust would blow them out of your hand and you’d end up having to go back to the store for more. And from start to finish, spring through fall, I would weed.

mantises, which as any gardener knows are wonderful for your plants and kill the smaller nasties such as aphids and white flies. But if they surprise you, it’s easy to forget they’re the good guys. When I was about eight years old, Mom bent over a Big Boy tomato plant sprawling all over the place. I stood behind her, ready to hold

whatever fruit she came back up with after her dive. That’s when I noticed the praying mantis on her white T-shirt, with a butt the size of a man’s thumb. It was just between her shoulder blades, where her long blond hair would hang when she stood up. “Uh, Mom…there’s a praying mantis on your back,” I said quietly. “What?!” She shrieked. She leapt out of the garden with the spring of an acrobat, tore off her shirt, and cursed all the way back inside. The next five minutes were spent with me picking up the T-shirt and her having a cigarette at the back door in her black bra. That may have been when I started getting creeped out by bugs, which is unfortunate for someone who wants to spend time in the dirt and vegetation of the outdoors. Before then, I’d caught grasshoppers for fun. My best friends at the time were little hippie sisters named Mesa and Maya. The main way you could tell us apart from a distance was our hair color; mine was white blond, theirs a dirty blond that was really closer to brown. We’d wear purple and pink sundresses, play in the mud, and get all sweaty and tired, and the dresses would come home brown and most likely ripped. They had an herb garden in their backyard. Great big sage, mint, and lavender bushes served as the fragrant homes for grasshoppers of all shapes and sizes. We’d catch them with our bare hands, and then peek between our fingers to see who’d caught the biggest, cutest, etc. We’d end up smelling like a spice cabinet with grasshopper spit stains on our fingers. We’d catch crickets, too, and anything that flew as long as it didn’t have a stinger. But after the praying mantis incident, I began to grow wary of the insect kingdom. As my mom would say, “They’re all fine, unless they surprise me.” An understatement, but an accurate one.

Mom’s garden has expanded since those days; she and Dad added more raised beds in their backyard. She could probably grow enough produce to sustain them for a long time, should the zombie apocalypse happen. But my favorite bed is the original bed in which the praying mantis scare occurred—the square bed facing the driveway, framed in geraniums, near a path lined by purple bearded irises that my great-grandfather planted. That bed is still full of tomatoes, basil, and green chile. A wall of zinnias lines the back like a fluorescent forest in a Dr. Seuss book. At this moment I have a vase of zinnias on my desk, in pinks, oranges, reds, and yellows; they remind me of Skittles. This little square garden has survived puppies frolicking through it; cats sleeping on the bases of plants, smashing them down until they’re comfortable enough for the cat to reach Zen mode in the summer heat; and the great hailstorm of 2008 with hail the size of marbles. My experiences in that resilient dirt inspired my current veggie garden, but I haven’t always been fortunate enough to live in a home with a yard. When my husband and I were still living in our condo, gardening was a challenge. But we got very creative with potted plants. We bought a metal, multi-tiered stand just to increase the surface area of our balcony. I have pictures of our potted garden days. It looked like a much less lavish version of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Geraniums, green chile plants, and Topsy Turvy tomatoes filled the space to nearly overflowing; I was a little kid at a jelly bean bin, filling my bag carefully to the top. One more bean and my bag would burst. Our cat, Wallace, loved the jungle that was our balcony. He would get to go outside and lay between the pots, looking out onto the sketchy parking lot. From between the metal stand and

the Gerbera daisy pot, he’d watch the wannabe gangsters on their mini bikes, the half-dressed women in too much makeup getting out of their beater cars, and the children running amuck like a litter of puppies whose owners don’t much care if they come home or not. And I think Wallace was at peace watching the pandemonium, because it was somehow quieter where he was, in his jungle. Our neighbors below didn’t appreciate the beauty, however. Maybe that’s because when I watered, I didn’t take special care to keep the water from spilling down onto their patio. But maybe that’s because their patio was filled with faded, disgusting children’s toys, broken patio furniture, and trash, and they didn’t mind playing crappy music at midnight on a Tuesday and screaming at their kids constantly. But I digress. Thank God that we’re now in a beautiful, one-story brick home, nestled into the back of a cul-de-sac, with honest-to-goodness yards. One of the reasons we picked this house was for the large plot in the northeast corner of the backyard, separated from the grass and patio

the soil ourselves. I’ll never forget my husband’s reaction when we began dumping the topsoil and fertilizer in alternating wheelbarrow loads into the raised bed. “So after this is all in, we’ll need to turn the soil to mix and aerate it,” I said as I leveled out the pile he’d just poured into the bed with a shiny new rake. He paused, leaving the wheelbarrow standing on its nose. “But we already turned it. We rototilled it.” “We tilled the ground to get the grass out and loosen up the earth, yeah. But we’ll need to turn the dirt again to mix the fertilizer, topsoil, and ground soil,” I replied. He stared down at me, his blue eyes having lost their gleam. He looked like a grade-schooler just told he’d have to go play with the neighbor boy who smelled funny and didn’t share his army men. But he was a trooper, and with the help of some slaves—also known as family members— the earth was ready for planting. We had more vegetables than we knew what to do with and

He looked like a grade-schooler just told he’d have to go play with the neighbor boy who smelled funny and didn’t share his army men. area by a wrought iron gate to keep out dogs and future toddlers. Mom refers to it affectionately as “the back forty.” Our garden sits there now, our first attempt this year being a success. We had to start completely from scratch. The lady who lived in our house before us was a single mom with a bunch of kids, and tending her yard didn’t appear to be at the top of her priorities. We created a raised bed, bought a truckload of topsoil and fertilizer, and tilled

enough hot peppers to roast and freeze for later. While we were able to get the most out of our vegetable garden, we didn’t plant flower beds this year. We didn’t have the energy, and after buying a house, we didn’t really have the funds to use even more water than we would for the veggie garden. But I still had potted geraniums framing my patio. I finished wrapping the crowns of the geranium pots gathered in my living room with

newspaper. When my husband got home, I asked him to help me relocate them to the attic so we could enjoy them next year. I wanted to know what they would look like when they came out of the dark, back into sunlight and the promise of a new season. They would bless me with their color, and I would refresh their roots and my spirit by tending to them. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s in the

dirt, in the feel of it under my nails and caked in the lines of my hands, that I take comfort. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s there, smeared with sweat as I bend over the weeds, that Mom, Meemo, and I find each other. We drink in the sun and the labor like draughts of cool water as the things around us grow. And grow.

Out of the Mouth by Tracy Buckler

I have killed many times with my dagger drenched in poison. My family taught me well. Attackers raise their blades, but Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m quick to slash them first. My poison irks their blood and makes the red turn green, a shade that lurks below the cut and slinks around the scab. Cures are hard to come by; doctors sometimes find a way. But even then, it takes a hundred soothing treatments or more to counteract one harsh cut from me, and there will always be a scar. I have killed many times, and all the while, my own blood crawls green beneath my skin.

Contributors

Melissa Blakely is an Albuquerque resident who enjoys writing true stories about real people. She spends her days pouring tea; her hobbies include feasting on decadent chocolates, meandering through intriguing books, and devising globe-trotting travel ventures. Tammy Boehm is an avid writer who published her first ya Christian fiction novel Bethany’s Crossing in 2008. Her nonfiction article “Coyote, Singing Dog” is currently printed in the September 2013 issue of Spider Magazine. Wife, mom, and professional accountant, Tammy has been a New Mexico resident since 1979. Tracy Buckler is a slacker who didn’t write her bio until the very last minute. She worked on Scribendi magazine for two years during college. A poem of hers has been published, and she’s currently working on a novel with Rachelle Clifford as well as a novel of her own. Rachelle Clifford graduated from the University of New Mexico in May of 2014 with a ba in English and a bs in signed language interpreting. Recently, she finished co-authoring a novel with Tracy Buckler, and the two of them will begin pursuing publication. Elise Mouchet is a senior at the University of New Mexico, studying creative writing. She hopes to pursue a career in writing and editing, particularly with screenplays. However, there are many other starving-artist things she can do with her life, including but not limited to singing, acting, dancing, drawing, painting, cooking, sewing, and playing violin, viola, mandolin, and flute. Madeleine Mozley is a writer fascinated with what it means to be a Christian artist when the label has a stigma attached to it. She wants to challenge the stereotype. A short story and short screenplay of hers have been published, and she’s currently working on a novel. When she’s not writing, she works as a technical editor.

James Schlavin is a student at the University of New Mexico working toward a bfa in studio art. His life is full of explorations into what it means to be a student, an individual, and most importantly a Christian in the world of art. Soli Deo Gloria.

Special Thanks The editors would like to thank the following: David Mozley, for his web design expertise and support of this magazine, even when it was just a wisp of an idea. The members of The Walking Dead Bible study, for bathing this effort in prayer. Melissa Blakely and Grant Jones, for helping us do one last proofread of the magazine. Robyn Carrillo, Roger ParĂŠ, and the entire abqGrafix team, for enabling us to see this volume in print. Everyone who submitted their work, for giving us the privilege of being readers and viewers of their creations.

If you would like to submit your work for the 2015 volume of Embers Igniting, go to our website www.embersigniting.com and click on the Submit page. The deadline for submissions is September 15, 2014.