Wingspan 2003

A Magazine of Poetry, Fiction, Drama and Photography

2 VOLUME 5 FALL 2003 Staff Editorial/layout assistant……………. Anne Cutler Photography assistant ………………..Woody Cutler Submission staff Lorraine Blythe, Anne Cutler, Woody Cutler, Ann Loring, Mary Ellen Marko, Kat Rich, Verice Smith.

Faculty advisor………………………..Brian Ingram Photography JENINE LARSEN WOODY CUTLER LORRAINE BLYTHE

Cover photos pages 7, 14, 44, 65, 67, 72. pages 11, 68, 70, 71, 109. page 110.

Clip Art /photos

Microscoft® 2002 Editorial Policy

Wingspan is an annual literary and visual arts publication of Jefferson State Community College in Birmingham, Alabama. Its purpose is to act as a creative outlet for students, faculty, alumni and residents of the surrounding area, thus encouraging and fostering an appreciation for the creative process. The works included in this journal are reviewed and selected by a student editorial staff and faculty advisor on the basis of originality, graceful use of language, clarity of thought and the presence of an individual style. The nature of literature is not to advance a religious or political agenda, but to raise universal questions about human nature and to engage reaction. Therefore, the experience of literature is bound to involve controversial subject matter at times. The college supports the students’ right to a free search for truth and its exposition. In pursuit of that goal, however, advisors reserve the right to edit submissions as is necessary for suitable print. Appropriateness of material is defined in part as that which will “promote community and civic well being, provide insight into different cultural perspectives and expand the intellectual development of students.” The opinions expressed are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of the college administration, faculty or staff. Letters to the editor or information on submission guidelines can be obtained by e-mail at bingram@jeffstateonline.com. All rights revert to the author upon publication.

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4 CONTENTS Poetry ELIZABETH HEWITT Dew Point…………………….. 6 Mi Casitas Mexican Restaurant 8 MICHELLE BRADLEY First Milking………………….10 ANTHONY BUSH Cruising with the Holy Ghost...12 CHRIS THOMPSON Numb Tongue………………...15 Pop’s Word…………………...86 DIANA RUEDA Voices That Sing Colors…….. 18 EMILY MCCARLEY Your Last Regret……………..20 DORCUS KOMO Waiting…………………...…..32 JENINE LARSEN Concert for the Fall Trees at Dawn………………………….66 MARY ELLEN MARKO Powerful Perennials……..……67 I See You……………………..69 Clay Pots……………………...69 WRITERS’ ROUNDTABLE Selected Haiku………………..70 Anne Cutler Jenine Larsen Woody Cutler Anne Loring ANN HECKLINSKI Daydreaming………………....73 SUSAN SWEENY The Violin …………………....74 ANNE CUTLER Fair Warning…...…………….75 Jilted….……...………………..76

5 CONTENTS MARLA SELF Seasons....………………….…...77 MURAT YAYMAN The Guitar………………...…….96 L. B. WATKINS Crocodile Trust………………..110 KAT RICH Hope...……………...…………112 Why I Hate Poetry…...………..113 BRENT HAND How To Spend Your Youth…...114 KIMBERLEY ROBERTS Camp….……………………….116 Fiction ELIZABETH HEWITT My First Naked Lady…20 ANNE CUTLER The Skeptic.…...……...27 KRIS WALDEN At Arm’s Length……...34 MARY ELLEN MARKO Crimes of Passion……..45 KIMBERLY SOMMERVILLE Roberta’s Baby………..78 KAT RICH The Good Girl………...88 CHRIS THOMPSON Broken Bricks………...98 Drama BRENT HAND Just a Cheeseburger?.....51 MICHELLE BRADLEY Backwoods Bonanza...117

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DEW POINT Come in out of the night air away from wild hedge, sweet shrub, jasmine whippoorwills and cats singing like lost children.

The rooster beats his breast settling into the magnolia, in whose glossy leaves the moon preens.

The sudden surprise of naked moisture gathering on blades of grass swelling and then falling like stars.

In cover of darkness, what ideas the body covets, the arch and bend soothed by shadow.

Knowing no separation between the homely and the beautiful, simply warm bodies.

Forgetting all but the pressure of lips hot breath, hand in hair, and eyelashes on a cheek.

Get out of the twilight dampness, you hear, where enigmatic footfalls climb up the spine and the cold aura of a haint hovers.

From far off a drumbeat, a train, a hoarse hound.

Fools and drunks prowl with power and lovers in graveyards show the dead what’s alive.

Elizabeth Hewitt

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Untitled Jenine Larsen

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MI CASITAS MEXICAN RESTAURANT No one is dancing To the exuberant Mexican polka.

Absurd, but everyone sticks Against their vinyl booths masticating.

Waiters work, bus the tables, bust your heart.

All around fiesta icons, sequined sombreros, Nervous pi単atas, paintings of senoritas lifting Their skirts against a black velvet void.

In shadowed corners grow superficial ferns.

A plaster-hearted Jesus with cheap makeup pouts, His feet in the air.

While the Virgin Maria in her sky blue robe Stands firmly on the earth.

Surrounded by walls of delusional peach and turquoise Chicanas kneel in the trash And sweep under tables for pieces of rudeness And pray, not for anything but for nothing, For the absence of filth.

The kneeling one with a dustpan holds back Her midnight hair to stare at the Virgin mother.

Only one woman per planet can claim To be the impossible, you lucky bitch.

Pressed beneath the glass glare Emiliano Zapata hangs on the wall Watches it all, seriously, in disbelief.

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Hand on holster a vow once blasted From his revolutionary gun.

Cocooned, his echo rests at the bottom of a poster: “I would rather die fighting than Die being a slave.”

And the people emerge from Zapata’s chrysalis Thirsty immigrants Wetted by the Rio Grande.

Elizabeth Hewitt

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FIRST MILKING For the first time, on the knoll of Bradley Drive I felt the warmth of the smooth udders as they yielded their cascade of purest milk.

I was seven. I knelt by her side, my cheek brushed lazily against the coarse black hide, while her stubby grey tail twitched nervously.

I watched, amazed, as frothy streams flooded my plastic pail.

Milking a goat wasn’t such a bad chore.

“How do you know when you’re finished?”

I consulted my father.

He knew everything it seemed.

With a mischievous grin he answered, “She’ll let you know when she’s done.”

Now grown, I think of the milking, of the political etiquette I learned, to sense taxpayers’ and interns’ boundaries, exactly how much they’re willing to give.

I seek votes to hold public office, I press palms and kiss fat babies’ cheeks, then I smoothly caress my constituents to their absolute limit and no more.

Michelle Bradley

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Cows Woody Cutler

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CRUISING WITH THE HOLY GHOST (for Allen B. Lennon) Red leather seats with white trim Eight track player with the sweet sounds of Al Green White exterior, a 1967 Galaxy 500 A. k. a. “The Holy Ghost” The Holy Ghost could take you anywhere Two dollars worth of gas you ride all night Under the neon lights of “the murk” Down on Hay Street where the pimps and hookers played The Holy Ghost was our sanctuary, our fortress, Our soul train party on wheels The Holy Ghost could get us out of a bind The Ghost stopped us from doing time The Holy Ghost was afraid of nothing Gun barrels flared but the Ghost was untouched The Holy Ghost carried us to school like a bus Even took friends to funerals like a hearse Lord knows the Holy Ghost seen a lot of those But when the Holy Ghost died, there was no choir No flowers, not even a damn Baptist preacher The Holy Ghost left no promises, no hopes of ruling the streets Just memories of a youth well spent

Anthony Bush

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Untitled Jenine Larsen

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NUMB TONGUE I’d like to try and talk to girls, but every time my voice goes dim. ‘Cause in their hands they hold my life like a grenade that lacks a pin.

Yesterday, there she stood, under a budding plum tree, as if she were my only chance. So I settled around her like the ocean breeze to offer her my word as good: she could do with me as she pleased.

But the words I chose came stuck to my tongue: a web of silken shame.

Like a child, like an old man, my lack of skill was to blame.

She stared, half amused, patiently waiting, for the dam holding my breath to break.

My brain went numb-hesitating: dead like a wino in a coma or Van Winkle fast asleep.

Chris Thompson

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VOICES THAT SING COLORS Columbia, My far away home, I still hear the echo of her voice Songs of colors, songs of mountains, green, green, green Songs of sunsets, orange, red, yellow, orange, blue Words of flavors, memories of better times Memories of better places, baskets full of red fruits Baskets full of sweat drops Baskets held by old looking hands Rough skin and arms burned by the sun The same sun that will burn the fruit That will toast it and dry it Baskets full of little red marbles that will soon become The pride of my country The symbol of hard work The reflection of my people The image of my region: coffee.

My corner of the world, painted in those songs In the sweetness of that voice The wind’s voice The coffee picker’s voice Singing the rhythmic steps of the mules As they carry the sacks of coffee Down the slippery Andes plantations Painted in those songs In the strings of the guitars The romantic yet nostalgic whisper of the bambucos Played by the drunk coffee people Drunk on aguardiente and rum Drunk with the beauty of the mountain Drunk with all the scents, flavors, colors Drunk just as the sun touches the earth Yellow, orange, red, green, green, green Green plantations that now lay to rot Green pastures where the working mules now sleep Green mountains that hide legends and myths Of crying women that you hear at night Green, orange, yellow, red, red, red Red marbles filling those baskets Red coffee fruits put out in the sun to dry Red skin with rotted scent, but as they dry The decaying scent will become the most pleasurable one

17 The smell of the best coffee in the world The smell of the sun touching the mountain The smell of the kitchen coming out of the open balcony windows Red, red, red Red cocoa fruits lying on the ground Red fruits turning into brown paste The smell of morning The smell of chocolate The smell of a new start The smell of a birdsong of hope Forces that claim lives Green uniforms with hidden faces That spread death and terror as they go Red, red, green, green, green Green uniforms carrying guns Revolutionary forces that claim equality Revolutionary red, red Red skin full of blood The smell of tragedy The smell of sadness The smell of fear flying from the no longer open balcony windows Red as the blood of Columbia Victim of a war with no reason Blood that runs through these mountains The cry that you can hear at night The cry of the woman of the legend The woman in search of her dead children Is no longer a legend Women are crying for their dead children They cry for different colors They cry for yellow, green, blue They cry for the coffee times For memories of better times For memories of better places For hopes of a future Columbia, my far away home Is waiting.

Diana Rueda

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YOUR LAST REGRET Flames emerge from your mouth when you speak.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

You’re an uphill battle And I can’t breathe.

Just so you know: I’m confused.

Your words tumble inside my head.

Clarify your thoughts before you speak.

I don’t have the time.

Just so you know: I’m hurt.

Your words blindside me like a freight train.

Weigh your words before you speak: I don’t have the strength.

You say I come and go in a cloud of hazy mist.

I’m not as magical as you want to believe.

I’m usually hiding in the shadows And you can’t see.

Just so you know: You’re lost.

You waste your breath on those who worship you.

By now your words are hollow: Learn what “sincerity” means.

You want me to be something else, something more.

It’s too bad I’m not enough.

I’ll be gone before long And you can’t stop me.

Just so you know.

Emily McCarley

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MY FIRST NAKED LADY “Bart, when are you going to get some?” Shane asked as we walked home from school.

“Check it out. I know some silly chick, she’ll go down. No reason. Just to prove she’s crazy as the other little whores.”

We were just fourteen, but Shane and Ollie had managed to get blown by two girls. They had stolen performances from little divas with dirtyblood lipstick and pencil-thin eyebrows. Shane said that Diamante had gagged, but giggled and continued to the bitter end. Ollie swore Sheree was a “pro of a ho.”

Shane grabbed my arm and squeezed, “Listen it’s fixed. It’s done. I took it into my own hands,” he smiled triumphantly. “She’s coming to you.”

The leaves rustled in the gutter and the naked trees lining my street seemed suddenly ominous. I couldn’t imagine how I’d explain about my mother. Shane knew she was bedridden with Multiple Sclerosis. But he didn’t know why I had to go home straight after school and stay there.

“Those girls look like their in a gang,” I said as we stood in front of my tired brick house.

“It’s just a look. But listen, this girl is new.

Only been in school a week. Her name is Shannon. She’ll be in your backyard at 4:30. Don’t mess it up. I’ll call you later for details.” Shane slapped me on the back and jogged down the street.

Shane and Ollie said my parents were too hard.

They wanted me to run off with them and go home Elizabeth Hewitt

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when I felt like it. The fear on my face always shut them up. I just couldn’t bring myself to tell them I had to go home to carefully spoon soup into my mother’s mouth. That afternoon after lunch, I checked her auburn hair. Usually, it tangled at the back because she lay in bed all day. I took her tortoise shell comb and slowly, slowly so I wouldn’t hurt her, found the beauty so nearly lost. She closed her eyes and smiled as I brushed.

It feels just like when I was a little girl,” she said. “My mom brushed my hair every night.”

When she could get a good breath, she nervously questioned me.

“How was band practice, Bart?”

“I decided to try out for the drum corps.”

She hugged her blanket, embarrassed about what came next. Some women are helplessly selfconscious, I guess. They never find mastery over their own bodies. Mom had always been modest, but now her body was rebelling. It was the enemy.

And in these awkward moments, I felt like the enemy too.

The first few times I had helped her with this task, she was stiff and uncooperative, but now she lay like a rag doll, never looking at me. She blushed. I felt like a criminal as I exposed her shoulders. Though I didn’t want to look, her small breasts were familiar and I couldn’t help glancing at their cinnamon tips. Her thinness shocked me, especially the ribs with their hills and valleys. The skin below her belly button was wrinkled. It was hard to believe that her abdomen had once held me inside, that I had once been part of her. I guided Elizabeth Hewitt

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her arms through the pink flannel hospital gown.

“Pink with red hair, I don’t know. It’s a bit much,” she mockingly complained.

How could I have explained to Ollie and Shane that I had to change my own mom’s diaper? That she might get sores, an infection and then die.

Could I tell them I was positive I knew more about the female anatomy than they did? I had seen.

My mom chewed on her thumbnail and bit her lip. At some point, she needed to let go of the embarrassment as I had decided to do. Sometimes I would think that she was not really grown up. I felt stronger and more mature than her. I was prepared to face my task. But I could see when she trembled.

I was down to changing her socks. I tickled her feet and she laughed. The difficulties were over.

Finally, I let my mind wander to the backyard where Shannon might be waiting for me.

“Mom, I’m going to take out the garbage.”

“Okay,” she sighed.

I turned on the television and found the re-runs she liked. M. A. S. H. was on. Hawkeye was in the supply room laughing with a blond nurse. His gangly arms were wrapped around her, but somehow they managed to hold onto martinis.

I went to the kitchen and grabbed two cans of Orange Crush. Looking out the kitchen window, I could only see the tool shed and the clothesline.

For a moment after I crept to the backdoor, all I could hear was my own heartbeat. As I stared at the white door, I heard a girl’s voice singing.

I opened the door and she was sitting on the top Elizabeth Hewitt

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step holding papers in front of her face. I gripped the sodas and sat down on the next-to-bottom step.

I stretched the soda across the two steps that separated us.

“You’re Shannon?” I asked. “Would you like a drink?”

She lowered the papers and looked at the drink.

My arm was already beginning to ache.

“Shoshanna,” she said with suspicion, and took the drink, careful not to touch my hand.

Shoshanna? They said your name was Shannon.”

I quickly scanned her face as she opened her can. She had nothing on her olive-skinned face except pewter-colored, wire-rimmed glasses.

“Well, are you Bart?”

She looked at her papers again and took a sip.

Suddenly, I felt a nagging need to check on my mom.

“I’ll be right back.”

I tiptoed into the house and peeked into my mom’s bedroom. She was sleeping and a Big Red chewing gum commercial extolled “kiss a little longer, say goodbye a little longer.” I strained to see my mom’s chest rise and fall. Satisfied, I went back outside where Shoshanna still sat on the steps reading. This time I sat next to her.

“What are you reading?” I asked the curtain of black hair that hid her face.

She put down her drink and stuffed the papers into her purple book bag. “I just joined the glee club. We’re doing a medley from The Sound of Music.”

Elizabeth Hewitt

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She finally raised her eyelashes and appraised me.

“Strange,” she said in a low voice.

“What?” I asked, feeling a sinkhole grow in my stomach.

“You have brown eyes and red hair and no freckles. Not many redheads have brown eyes.”

I watched her lips form every syllable. Sweet and sour swirled in my chest. And then a great wave of adrenaline rose and drowned my hesitance. I moved even closer and her slight torso bent away from me. But I decided that’s where my arm should be, and she froze as I hooked her around the waist.

“Why did you come here?” I breathed into her hair.

I felt her resistance as I uncovered her small ear. It was flushed a dark pink.

“You know,” her voice was a high quaver as she tried to undo my belt buckle. She couldn’t, and I felt my pulse throb in my abdomen.

“Yeah, I know why you’re here.”

I took her glasses off and she reached instinctively for them. Quickly, I threw them in the grass. She squinted at me. Then Shoshanna’s eyes grew larger and I saw the amber and sienna flecks. I held her jaw and lightly touched her lips with mine. Her lips parted. So I gave her a Big Red chewing gum goodbye.

After our kiss, Shoshanna looked stunned. She didn’t say a thing. I released her waist that was no longer straining away from me and retrieved her glasses. I wiped them off with my shirttail.

Elizabeth Hewitt

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“Your glasses are okay,” I said handing them to her.

“Why did you throw them?” she asked wrinkling her nose as she adjusted them.

“Why did you come here?” I asked again.

She looked at her feet and slowly retied one sneaker.

“Never mind,” I said. “I just wanted to see your eyes.”

Shoshanna began adjusting her backpack.

Could Shane truly have thought she was like Dimante or Sheree? Shoshanna threw her backpack over one shoulder and trudged down the steps. She threw up her hand.

“Bye,” she said quietly with a smile that looked like relief.

My first kiss walked away. As she reached the corner at the edge of my yard, another desperate wave crashed inside me and surged into my throat.

“Shoshanna!” I yelled louder than I wanted.

She didn’t turn around and I felt silly. I went in the house. When I reached my mom’s room, I saw she was awake and had turned off the television.

“Sorry it took so long,” I said.

“You’ve grown so tall,” she said and smiled.

Then she asked if I had done my homework.

I knew she wanted me to read aloud while I studied. She always begged me to. So until Dad got home from work, I sat beside her bed. She fell asleep as usual, but as I was working on algebraic equations, she awoke with frightened gasps. Her breathing often became difficult and she would reach out search for anyone who could hold her.

Elizabeth Hewitt

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I cradled her head in my lap and watched as terror melted from her features into sighs of relief.

I was able to calm her. If I hadn’t been there, my mother would have suffered longer. A strange power surged through me. The silly debauchery of my friends Shane and Ollie was merely weakness, I knew now. Of course, I wasn’t invincible, but I felt my strength. I could make a difference. Flesh was mortal. I held my mother. I had kissed Shoshanna.

Elizabeth Hewitt

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THE SKEPTIC Harriet shooed everyone out of the library at five, shut the door, turned the lock, and hung up the closed sign. She had spent her whole adult life as a librarian. Checking out books, checking in books, returning books to the shelves. Some of the books were new-cover bright; some were faded and timeworn; some were dog-eared by careless hands. She kept a stack of bookmarks on the counter, free for the taking, but they were mostly ignored.

Walking down the main aisle the scent of new leather stirred her memories and the ghost of girlhood took her back to her college days. As a student, she had worked in the college library to help pay her tuition. Her zeal for knowledge was like an eternal flame and on slow days she went to the storage room to read. Sitting in a quiet corner, she explored the pyramids of Egypt, the jungles of Africa, the frozen tundra of the Northwest, the polar icecaps of Antarctica. Egypt held a special fascination for her. She pictured herself visiting the museums of Cairo, the Great Sphinx at Gizeh, the Obelisks at Karnak. Her body trembled with excitement. After I graduate, she told herself, I’ll go there and see them in person.

After graduation she took a job in the local library to pay off her student loans and, by the time she was debt free, the dream had faded. She stayed on. When she was close to retirement the dream resurfaced, and she booked a trip on an ocean liner. Then the war missiles started flying Anne Cutler

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and bookings to the Middle East were put on hold.

She had counted on the trip to help her make the transition—now what was she going to do? There was no husband to cook and clean for, no grandchildren to baby-sit, and no feeble family member to spoon-feed and diaper. And she wasn’t one to join clubs.

The library staff gave her a grand sendoff.

There was a chocolate cake in the shape of a book with her name lettered in pink icing, and a big stack of gifts. They hugged her and wished her well and she smiled and made polite remarks. But there was a sickening sensation in the pit of her stomach. The library was her whole life. With nothing to look forward to, she felt old and useless.

Harriet woke early the next morning; it would take time to break old habits. By eight, she had showered, dressed, tidied the house and read the newspaper. With nothing left to do, she carried a cup of coffee out to the patio. She had barely sat down when the forsythia bushes that marked the boundaries of her lot and her neighbors’ began to tremble. A large hand appeared…then a head of white hair…then a broad torso.

“Good morning, Ms. Fulton,” Mr. Burger said with a friendly nod. He was smartly dressed in khaki walking shorts, a blue golf shirt and blue Nikes.

“You gave me the fright of my life sneaking through the hedge like that,” Harriet scolded.

“Sorry. It’s such a lovely day, I thought I’d stop Anne Cutler

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by and ask if you’d like to go bird watching.”

What nerve! She hardly knew the man. “I’m not a bird watcher,” she said crisply. If he noticed the sharpness in her voice, he didn’t let on.

“Bird watching is a great hobby,” he said bristling with enthusiasm. “All you need to get started is a pair of binoculars.”

She loved birds. Anyone could tell that by the birdbaths and the feeders scattered throughout her yard. But she didn’t want to go traipsing off in the woods looking for some extinct species with a man she hardly knew. “I don’t own a pair of binoculars.”

“I’ll loan you a pair. Laura’s are in the den just gathering dust.”

How dare him take her for granted! She hadn’t accepted his invitation. She started to protest, but Mr. Burger was already pushing his way back through the hedge.

Harriet wasn’t sure she’d feel right using Laura’s binoculars. Not that Laura would mind.

She’d been dead over six months.

Mr. Burger came back with the binoculars slung over his shoulder. “Here you go,” he said, laying them on the table in front of her. “The strap’s extra wide and it’s lined with fleece so it won’t chafe your neck.”

Harriet ran her fingertips over the fleece lining.

She had a parka lined with fleece.

“They have an image stabilizer, too,” he said proudly trying to pique her interest.

“Image stabilizer?” she said, confused.

He pointed to a button at the top of the Anne Cutler

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binoculars. “You just press this button down and it holds your image steady.”

She hadn’t looked through a pair of binoculars in years and she was afraid she’d make a fool of herself. He seemed to be tracking her thoughts.

“Go ahead and put them on. I’ll show you how to adjust them.”

She lifted the binoculars from the table and pulled the strap over her head.

He talked her through the adjustments—the right eyepiece, the left eyepiece, the angle of the barrels.

“Do you mind if I call you Harriet? Ms. Fulton sounds so formal.”

“Who told you my first name?” Her voice was curt, demanding.

“No one. I saw it on your nametag at the library. My name’s Elliott. But you probably know that already from my library card.”

“I don’t work at the library now; I retired yesterday,” she said bluntly.

“Yes, I know.”

Harriet pursed her lips. “Really? The announcement doesn’t come out in the paper until Thursday.”

“I’m not psychic,” he said with a cautionary lift of his hands. “I just happened to be at the library yesterday when you were cutting your cake. Now that the binoculars are adjusted, slip on your walking shoes and we’ll be off.”

Elliot sounded much too eager, as if bird watching wasn’t all he had on his mind. She went inside, slipped on her shoes, and tucked a can of mace in Anne Cutler

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her handbag. If he had in mind driving down an old logging road and taking advantage of her, she’d set him straight. Would they need food? she wondered. She went back outside.

“Shall I make some sandwiches to take along?”

“We’ll be back before lunchtime. We’re just going to the park.”

Harriet felt the blood rushing to her face.

“We’re not going to the woods?”

“No need going to the woods when Moody Park’s full of birds,” he said, pulling his sunglasses out of his pocket. “A couple of days ago, I spotted a pair of blue herons on the marsh. Maybe they’ll be there again today.”

Harriet walked beside Elliot, careful not to let their arms touch when the path narrowed. She was there to bird watch, nothing else. She thought about the chocolate cake she had brought home from the library. Perhaps she’d invite him in for a slice when they got back. She’d never eat it all, and it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.

Anne Cutler

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WAITING I am a rock Sitting on a river bed, grayish-green Graying with age, green with moss Shaping the course of the river Yet moving none for myself Sitting impotent waiting for stars To change into blood, hoping The blast of trumpets will come soon.

I am a rusty pair of scissors Mothering cobwebs on a broken blade Long abandoned in a damp closet Partner to a broken thimble Staining paper a red and orange hue Waiting for the final journey To the smelter’s cauldron.

I am a book Clamped shut with the vices Of illiterate ignorance Nurturing mold and mildew inside.

The outside, dog eared, like an ignorant mind, I am content to sit on the dirty shelf An offering to those that need me And to those that do not Until the world recycling day.

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And so it is with the human mind Waiting, waiting, waiting For some meaning to be Reading, loving, living each day No less beautiful, no less mysterious Than a rock on the river bed A shut book clamped by vices Or a rusty pair of scissors.

Dorcus Komo

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AT ARM’S LENGTH It was her first trip to Kamen’s apartment. She had met him once before at a café across from the park, a brief, uncomfortable encounter with no tentative plans to meet again. But here she was, poring over the books on his shelves.

“Have you ever been married?” the girl asked.

Kamen said nothing. He felt the warmth of the teacup in the palm of his hand and moved his foot into the sunlight that had found its way onto his hardwood floor.

She turned and looked at him, seeming much younger than her twenty-two years. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s okay,” he said, raising a hand and shaking his head. “You have every right to ask.”

The girl gave him a smile and stepped to the window by the bookshelves that looked out to the street. “This is such a nice city,” she said, and ran a finger along the pane. “I’ve really enjoyed going to school here. There’s always a play, a baseball game to go to, or a museum exhibit to check out.

There’s always something to do.”

He smiled and scratched his beard. “I didn’t tell you this last time, but I’ve seen you twice in the city. Once at the park and once at a bookstore.”

For a moment, she looked astonished. “And you never came up to me to say hello?”

“Well, I felt it wasn’t my place. I wouldn’t want to intrude.” He sipped his tea and then cleared his throat. “You know, you can sit down if you like.” He waved a hand to show that the sofa Kris Walden

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and the chair across from him were open.

She stood behind the upholstered chair across from him with a twinkling in her eyes. She looked both excited and proud. “Do I make you nervous?

I’m only taking in what I can see of your life.” In a mimicking gesture, she used a hand to display the room.

He chuckled and sat his tea on the table beside him, using the napkin there to wipe his fingers. “I was nervous when we met at the café, but you surprised me today. You didn’t give me any time to be nervous.” He looked up and realized that the girl was almost a carbon copy of her mother – the slope of her jaw, the curve of her nose, and her petite, elegant ears – but her eyes had without question come from him. “I’m very happy you came by.”

The girl had her head tilted to one side and was staring at him, and Kamen wondered if she heard anything that he had just said. She moved her hands over the wooden frame of the chair, and he was again reminded of her mother and of how he enjoyed watching her play piano.

“Do you know how I found you?” she asked.

“How?” “I looked you up in the phone book.”

They both laughed. It felt good to laugh with her, and, as she covered her mouth with one hand, he wondered why she would hide such a beautiful smile.

“I did. I opened a phone book and was going to find you, all the while thinking that either you would be unlisted or I’d have to go through dozens Kris Walden

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of numbers – but you know something? You are the only Kamen Exley in there. Did you know that? The only one.”

“Out of six million people?”

“Yes,” she said and nodded her head as if in a trance. “Out of six million people.” She sat in the chair with her hands between her knees and leaned forward. “So, I wonder what you would have done, had I gone to your school and taken one of your classes.”

He picked up his tea. He didn’t want to think of her doing such a thing. “You wouldn’t have done that.”

“No. But I would have liked to have had you as a teacher. I bet I could learn a lot from you.”

“You don’t have to take my classes to learn from me.” He placed his cup on the table and got up from his chair. “You can come by anytime. Or just tell me when and where you would like to see me, and I’ll be there.” He walked to the bookshelves and bent and picked out a folder from the bottom shelf. “But, if you’d rather wait a while, I’ve got something for you.” He opened the folder and gazed at the slanted handwriting and sloppy typing of the stories and memoirs he had created long ago. He closed the folder and walked over, handing it to her.

The girl did not open it. “What’s in here?”

He sat on the edge of his chair with his elbows on his knees. “Some of the letters I’ve written to you over the years. Some are unpublished stories and first drafts, but most of the stuff is written to you. And there’s more from where those came Kris Walden

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from.”

She started to unwind the string to open the folder, but he put his hand over it.

“Not yet. Wait a while. Later maybe, but not just now, okay?”

“Okay,” she said and gave him a small smile that resembled the ones her mother would show him after she was a little disappointed. He took his hand away and she rewound the string.

He stood up and walked to the window. Outside, most of the people casually walked along the sidewalks. He noticed a mother and father pushing a baby carriage with two tiny blue feet kicking out. “Would you like to go for a walk? It’s a nice day out, and there doesn’t seem to be much traffic.”

“I think I’d rather stay here, if it’s all right with you. It’s nice here. I like it. That is, if it’s all right with you.”

“It’s perfectly fine with me.” He let go of the curtain.

“You could walk me down to the subway when it’s time to go, if you want.”

“I will do that.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?

It’s about a quarter after three. It’s Sunday. It’s not too early for you is it?”

“I will have a drink now, I think. A bourbon and coke. But just a small one.”

“Alright,” he said and went into the kitchen.

Kamen prepared the drinks as she sat on a stool at the bar in the center of the room. He could hear her sandals lightly tapping the rungs of her stool, Kris Walden

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and, as he brought down two glasses from the cabinet, she was propped with her elbows on the counter. He thought she looked playful as he reached into the freezer and brought out the ice tray.

“How many cubes do you take?”

“Fill it up.”

He twisted the tray to break the ice free, and packed the glasses with cubes. He refilled and replaced the tray and took out the bourbon. “How much do you like?”

“Halfway.”

“I thought you wanted a small one.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Changed my mind.”

“Fair enough,” he said and poured the bourbon.

He capped the bottle and reopened the freezer door.

“So – did you ever marry?”

The frigid air felt like spirit fingers caressing his face and neck. “Back to that,” he said and closed the freezer and opened the refrigerator to bring out a coke. “I married your mother, as a matter of fact.”

She straightened in her seat and blinked. Neither of them said anything as Kamen opened the can of coke and poured it into the glasses. At last, she said, “You two were married?”

He nodded as he poured in the last of it. “We got married about two years after you were born.

Letting you go turned out to be very hard on both of us, and Sarah and I really had to lean on each other just to survive.” Kamen sighed, rested his Kris Walden

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palms on the counter, and briefly studied the backs of his hands. “And then my brother died only days before your first birthday and we just couldn’t let each other go. I don’t know how I would have made it through without Sarah being there to hold me up.” The girl said nothing as he took a knife from the drawer to stir the drinks. “You had a lot to do with us staying together. Your parents would send us pictures of you, and letters telling us how you were. I never believed in my life that I was capable of creating something so beautiful.

Sarah and I loved you then as we do now, I want you to know that. We never didn’t want you, and we never didn’t love you.” He handed her a drink, and she held it in both hands but did not drink.

Her eyes worked over the bare tile top of the bar as her mind processed this new information. He knew he had to finish before she thought to stop him. “We have always loved you – your mother and I. But we realized we couldn’t take care of you the way you should have been cared for. It’s just a miracle we met your mom and dad-" “Please let’s not talk about this right now,” she said, shaking her head. She stared into her drink, but Kamen thought she wasn’t really looking at it at all. Her face had lost some of its color and looked weary. “Let’s not talk about us.” She closed her eyes and held onto her glass.

He sat his drink on the counter and studied her.

“I guess that was a little more than you expected.

I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

Tilting her head back with her eyes closed, she drew in a deep breath. “I guess I’m just not ready Kris Walden

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to talk about that. Not right now.” She looked at him for a moment and then took a drink.

He followed her lead, taking a sip from his own cocktail. On the kitchen table sat a stack of unopened mail, and he remembered that he needed to pay the power bill. What an odd thing, he thought – to think about the power bill at a time like this.

“I’ve read two of your books,” she said. “The first one I read twice. A friend loaned it to me in high school and I read it. After Mom and Dad told me who you were, I read it again.” She stood up from her stool and went into the living room.

He felt a smile spread over his face. He was glad to know she was interested. “Did you like them?”

She sat on the sofa Indian style, holding her drink in both hands, looking ready to engage in ‘peace pipe’ negotiations. “You inspired me to write more. I think I’m pretty good. All my friends have liked my stories.”

Settling into his chair, he said, “It’s in your blood. My brother, your uncle, was a brilliant poet. If you’re like me you’ll write ‘till you’re in the grave.”

She let out a laugh and said, “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen for a long time. For either of us.”

He leaned over the arm of his chair and held his glass out to her and she touched it with her own.

“To holding back death,” he said.

“To living forever,” she said, and gave him a wink as she drank. * * * She told him of her plans after the semester was Kris Walden

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finished to fly home to Los Angeles and visit with her mother and father before the start of the next term. He shut off the air conditioner and opened the windows, causing curtains to inflate and deflate with each gentle breeze. She stretched out on the sofa, and Kamen sat in the one chair with his feet propped in the other, his shoes off and lying by her sandals on the floor between them. He picked his glasses off the table beside him, rested them on his nose, and leaned forward, examining her feet. Her toes were extremely long.

“What are you doing?”

“Those are my toes,” he told her.

She looked from his feet to her own. “They do look similar.”

“I’ll be damned if those aren’t my toes.”

She pulled up her pants leg. “What about my ankles?”

“Mine too,” he said and showed her his ankles.

“I believe you’re right.”

“Damn straight,” he said and she laughed. “But your hands are definitely your mother’s.”

The girl held her hands at arm’s length and spread her fingers. He admired her long, well manicured fingers. “Your mother had beautiful hands at your age. I’d know those hands anywhere.”

She held her right hand in her left, twisting a ring on a finger.

He pointed to what she was doing. “I used to do the same thing with my wedding ring.

An almost apologetic smile came over her face.

“My mom has done this since I can remember.”

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He nodded his head and downed the last of his drink. After a pause he said, “Well, hey. I guess you had to pick up a thing or two from your parents.”

“Yeah, I guess.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “I should probably be going. I have a final in the morning that I should brush up for.”

“Do you think it’ll be tough?”

“No. I know the material, there are just a few things I’d like to go over.” She sat up and placed her glass on the coffee table.

“Okay. If we have to.” He took his feet down and sat up in his chair.

“Yeah. I think we do.” * * * In the subway station, he paid her fare and waited with her for her train. As they stood close to the tracks, she pushed the folder he’d given her to his breast.

“Here. I don’t want this yet. I mean, I do want it, but not right now. Its not quite time.”

“Okay,” he said and put his hand on the folder, holding it where she placed it.

“You know, yesterday I would’ve taken these things in a heartbeat.”

“I know. I understand,” though he wished she would take them, anyway. He knew it was just too soon, too early for her to get very personal with him. It was different for him. He had wanted to get to know her for twenty-two years. He wanted to tell her again that he loved her unconditionally – that he always had and he always would. He supposed he would just have to wait. Today was a Kris Walden

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good start, though. A good beginning. He put a hand on her shoulder and she looked up at him.

“Elizabeth, I want you to know something,” he told her, “If you ever need anything, you know where to find me. Take advantage of an old man.

It’s perfectly fine.”

“I know,” she said, “and I appreciate it.”

Her train pulled into the station and slowed to a halt in front of them.

“Okay then,” he said and let her go. “Anytime you want, you come see me.”

“I’ll be back.”

“Good luck on your test, and be sure to tell Mark and Jennifer ‘hello’ for me.” He took her hand and pressed in the extra fare. “Here, you might need this.”

She turned the folded bills repeatedly with her fingertips. She looked at him and said, “I will. I’ll tell them you said hello.”

“Go on, now. You’ll miss your train.”

“I’ll see you.” She turned and walked to the train.

He intended to tell her that he loved her, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was ‘goodbye’.

She boarded the train and took a seat by the window. She looked at him through the glass and waved. He, in turn, waved with the folder in his hand.

The doors closed and Kamen watched the train speed out of sight. He lingered there for a moment, becoming suddenly aware of the other people around him. People made their way into, and Kris Walden

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out of, the station. He watched a young couple walking, their daughter riding on her father’s shoulders, until they were out of sight. There were a lot of families, he noticed. Of course, that was what the weekends were for- families. Before joining the flow of people heading for the exit, Kamen paused beside a trash can. He tapped the folder on the edge of the opening as he looked in.

It was full of cans and wrappers, partially eaten food, paper cups, the regular discarded refuse.

Used up empties. He held the folder above the can for a moment , then pulled it back, slapping it to the side of his leg. Finally, he turned and made his way to the stairs and walked up, into the last light of the day. Kristopher Walden

Possibility Lies Ahead Jenine Larsen

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CRIMES OF PASSION When I was five, my mother died of lung cancer brought on by my father’s second hand smoke, and my father, Lester, in a futile attempt to conquer his bewilderment and rage, turned wholeheartedly to alcohol. It would have been better for me if the social worker had placed me in that foster home from the beginning. I spent the next ten years wondering if every little girl had this vile assignment, or if I had somehow displeased God so that He played this cruel trick on me. I especially remember that day in early spring when I was in third grade at St. Bartholomew’s. It was Ash Wednesday, and the day after that first time my father robbed me of the one thing my dead mother cherished most—my innocence.

It was as cold and damp outside as I felt on the inside. The sun was hiding behind grey clouds, and my class had just been dismissed from Mass where we had received our ashes. There I knelt on the crimson velvet cushion at the long, brass communion rail. I saw Father Kennedy advancing toward me in his long white robe and purple stole, carrying a little silver pot in his hands, white haired and a little hunch-backed. As an eight-yearold barely able to peer over the cold top of the brass rail, I thought he must be as old as God. He came down the line repeating the words like some incantation over each of my classmates as they received their ashes. “From dust though art, and to dust thou shall return.” As he came to me, I felt suddenly shy and averted my eyes toward the Mary Ellen Marko

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bigger-than-life crucifix hanging on the wall behind him. There hung Jesus, dead on the cross with arms seemingly outstretched towards me. I wondered if he knew how I felt. Father Kennedy looked hard at me and I wondered if he somehow knew. I felt like dust. Or maybe I wished I had turned to dust on the spot. I remembered my dead mother, and I wondered if she was now dust. I imagined that the little smudge on my forehead was her.

At recess, I shivered in my too-small, blue plaid winter coat as I watched my classmates play.

They were jumping rope in the playground, barelegged and laughing and chanting their rhymes as they jumped in rhythm to the cycling rope.

“Hey Theresa, come to play with us,” Maria Lopez called to me in her broken English. Still jumping and not missing a beat, her black braids bobbed in sync with her jostling red coat and spongy black rubber boots. She was the Hispanic girl who had just moved into the neighborhood with her mother and five brothers. No one knew where her father was. I remember thinking how lucky she was that she didn’t have one. I declined, so Billy Watson jumped in. He was the fat blond boy with the crew cut that none of the other boys would play with, so he played with the girls. We liked playing “Blind Man’s Bluff” with him. We would cover his face and spin him until he could hardly stand up. He never could catch us.

We all took advantage of him, playing him for the fool. He never seemed to mind, but a cruel childhood can take its toll. Years, later, he stole a Mary Ellen Marko

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gun and robbed a gas station in Jersey City, killing the part-time clerk, a twenty-five-year-old graduate student working on her Masters in Psychology.

On this cold Wednesday, I ran to the other side of the playground to get away from everyone, even though they continued to call after me. In time, this had become my ritual, always refusing the playmates whose company I enjoyed. Alone with my thoughts, I sat on the swing and meditated on my happier days at home when Mom was still alive, baking Christmas cookies with her for the poor family down the street, or watching her sew clothes for my doll collection. Seemingly, I was singing and dancing my way through my preschool years, a Shirley Temple in the eyes of my family, complete with blond ringlets and soulful, blue eyes.

The Christmas I was four, I belted out my version of “Good Ship Lollipop” for Grandma and Grandpa O’Hara. Grandpa, with his scratchy cheeks and red nose, dozed in his chair, and Grandma, her long white hair pulled in a stark bun low on her neck, laughed and called me her “little butterfly.” But the case or two of beer Lester brought home from the brewery—the one fringe benefit, he said, for the long hours spent there— always changed the mood. “Holiday time is beer time!” the men agreed and, usually, at this point Mother would scurry me off to bed so they could engage in “grown-up” talk.

Sitting on the swing hurt my swollen bottom, so I moved to the worn, wooden picnic bench. I pulled my coat around me as best I could and sat Mary Ellen Marko

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gingerly, kicking the at the slushy dirt with my bulky brown Oxfords. Things sure had changed since Mother died. I remembered the weeks before when I couldn’t play outside at home anymore because Mom was always sleeping. No one ever told me how sick she was or I would have tried harder to be good. The New Year’s before she died, I awoke to find that Mom had a black eye and a stitched lip. That was the last time she looked me in the eye.

The night before this dank Ash Wednesday, my father had come home from work early. It was Tuesday and he was supposed to work the evening shift like he always did on Tuesdays. He would have Grandma O’Hara watch me, but she didn't come this time. Instead, he came home early. He looked different somehow. I didn’t feel good about that look. I had no idea what he was about to do.

“Come here, Theresa,” he slurred. As I drew nearer to him, I smelled the whiskey. He could never handle whiskey. Just that week, Grandma O’Hara tried to tell me to stay away from Daddy when he drank. I didn't understand what she meant. Now I did. Lester grabbed my arm and slinging me over his shoulder, carried me off to his room.

My cries to stop him did no good, and when I cried for my mother, he cursed me. I remember the dead weight of his clumsy body on top of me.

When he finally slumped over in a drunken stupor, I lay still, amid the stale odor of the sheets. I asked myself if this was how mother got a black Mary Ellen Marko

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eye and a busted lip. On some level, I understood what had happened, and I gingerly slipped off to take a bath. I could hear the kids playing joyfully outside, carefree in the cold March dusk.

In New Jersey, Spring doesn’t come until April, so we kids just made the best of it. Red headed Marsha Cooley called me to join them in the continuing game of “Blind Man’s Bluff” with Billy Watson. She was always the ringleader in that game. It didn’t seem fun anymore, so I shook my head. Before long, they gave up. By the time third grade was over, they quit including me in their play, and I had grown accustomed to watching from a distance. I felt too old to enjoy, but I kept watching. The girls would spin Billy wildly, laughing. Maria Lopez, always the last to duck and spin away from his clumsy advances, ran in circles.

“Hey Theresa,” she called out now and again.

“Don’t be no stuck up. You’re it.”

Mary Ellen Marko

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51

JUST A CHEESEBURGER? Characters: all the characters are in their twenties.

Derrick—athletic, wearing a football jersey, carrying his books with him.

Mona—extremely attractive, comes off a little strange, wears pink sweater and jeans.

Gil—fat guy with long hair, wearing a Hawaiian print shirt, khaki shorts, and an apron.

James—tall, lanky, thick-rimmed glasses, hair short and slick, wears black vest and slacks.

Harry—strange guy, hair goes everywhere, strange look on his face, wears a tee shirt with the word “cheeseburger” written in marker across the front, tattered shorts and two miss-matched socks.

Scene: the living room of an apartment. There’s a big window in the back full of trees with a stool directly to its left. A love seat is center stage, a beanbag to the left of the love seat, an elegant armchair to the right. A card table is set up in front of the couch, and a podium to the right of the back of the stage. There is a doorway on each end of the stage leading off stage. The door on the right leads to the ‘kitchen’, the door on the left leads ‘outside’.

The curtain rises. It’s mid-afternoon. Harry sits in the corner by the window on a stool. He shakes a little and stares with unblinking eyes through the floor. James sits in the armchair; legs crossed reading a thick book. Joanne skips into the room leading Derrick by his hand in through the front Brent Hand

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door.

Derrick: This is where you live, Mona?

Mona: Yeppers! This is my home sweet home! Hi guys! (Waves to James and Harry) This is Derrick!

Isn’t he the cutest! (To Derrick) This is James (James seems to ignore both of them and just reads his book. Then Derrick follows Mona—who is still skipping—over to Harry) and this is Harry. (Harry keeps staring through the floor. Derrick extends his hand but Harry doesn’t move.)

Derrick: Nice to meet you, Harry.

Mona: Have a seat sweetums! I’ll be right back.

(Mona goes off to the right of the stage into the ‘kitchen’. Derrick sits on the side of the love seat furthest from James.)

James: (dully) Welcome, Derrick. What brings you here, on this exquisite day?

Derrick: Just came over for a cheeseburger.

James: (looking at his watch) Is it Thursday already? My, my, it is Thursday. Well I could probably use a cheeseburger, anyway.

Derrick: You guys have cheeseburgers every Thursday?

James: (rudely) Yes, as a matter of fact we do!

(Stands and speaks louder) It is a free country, you know. It’s not like we are forcing you to eat a cheeseburger. If a cheeseburger does not sound appetizing to you, then you should probably nourish yourself elsewhere!

Harry: (at the sound of the word ‘cheeseburger’ looks at James) CHEESEBURGER! Derrick: No, No. I knew we were having Brent Hand

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cheeseburgers. That’s what Mona said.

Harry: cheeseburger cheeseburger cheeseburger.

(Stares at ceiling) James: Oh, that’s quite all right. (James settles back into his chair and his book. After a moment of silence) How do you know Mona anyway?

Derrick: We’re lab partners at school, and I asked her to go grab some pizza with me this afternoon and she said— James: (rising again taking off his glasses) Pizza!

On Thursday? What are you, a heretic? (Derrick looks confused) It is the cheeseburger we partake of every fourth and seventh day of the week (and the second Tuesday of every month that starts with a ‘J’). Are you not aware of this?

Derrick: I really don’t know what you’re talking about.

James: (muttering as he takes his seat) Infidel.

Mona: (coming back from kitchen) Alrighty!!

We’re just about ready for our cheeseburgers!

Harry: (looks at Mona, gets excited and begins to sing insanely) Cheeseburger cheeseburger (mumbles something loudly) cheeseburger!

Mona: The meal is almost ready, guys! (Skips across the room and dims the lights) Is everyone ready for this?

James: (puts his book on the ground next to the chair) I suppose. (Takes off his glasses and lays them on top of the book. Drags the podium over to a place behind the love seat, as Gil enters from the kitchen holding a cardboard box that he drops to the side of the love seat. James returns to his seat and Mona sits next to Derrick) Brent Hand

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Gil: Greetings and Salutations and other stuff to all who are present. We have gathered once again to consume the great cheeseburger as is stated in the book of the Burger chapter one, verse three and a half. (He pulls a small yellow book out of the box and opens to read) “And all of you have known the great burger shall partake of it every fourth and seventh day of the week (and the second Tuesday of every month that starts with a ‘J’).” Will you all please bow your heads in reverence? (All bow their heads and fold their hands except for Derrick who just looks around as if he doesn’t understand) Mona: We’re going to pray, sweetums.

Derrick: Like...saying grace or something?

Mona: I guess you could say that. (Derrick bows his head) Gil: (In prayer) Oh Mighty Cheeseburger, we have gathered here today to consume a portion of your bountiful blessings of beef. We thank you for thy grilled flavor and thy high amount of calories and fat. And we pray that ye shall be well done and with no sign of pink in thine center and that ye shalt smile upon us and not curse us with thine dreaded E.coli. And we ask that ye shall taste good and we shall not get indigestion and spend many hours in the bathroom cuz that would really suck. And we pray that ye shall not clog our arteries, lest we shalt die an early death of thirty-two and enter into your eternal drive-thru in the sky before the elected time.

And we shall endure the tests of time until the second revelation of your beefiness. As in the words of the prophet Todd upon the first revelation, “good bread, good meat, good god, lets eat!” (All look up Brent Hand

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except for Derrick who Mona nudges. He then looks up quickly. James picks up his glasses and book and continues reading, still however paying some attention to the conversation.) So now it appears to I, the great Gil, that we have a newcomer amongst us. Who is this visitor? (Derrick just stares forward. Harry is examining his fingers as he wiggles them in front of his face. The other three stare at Derrick.)

Derrick: What?

James: (looking up from his book, obviously not amused) State your name.

Derrick: Oh, Derrick...My name’s Derrick. (James returns to his book) Gil: Welcome, one who is called Derrick. Now will the one who brought this ‘Derrick’ to us please come and tell us how she came across this one who knows not of the ways of the trinity of grilled beef, curdled dairy, and sesame-seed bun. (Gil walks over to the beanbag and sits Indian style in it. Mona stands and skips up to the podium) James: Here we go. (Rests the book in his lap and sits back. He’s rather bored and aggravated by Mona. He rests his elbow on the arm of the chair and his head rests in his hand. His disgruntled face is facing the audience.)

Mona: Okay, so here’s how it went. (She takes a breath then begins speaking quickly) I was in the biology lab and we were dissecting frogs. It was totally gross and just...eeew! And then this guy walks up and he’s like really dreamy and he has really big brown eyes and I’m like all giggly!

(Giggles) And he says ‘hey, Mona’, and I say ‘hey’ Brent Hand

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back, and he says he likes my green sweater, and I say ‘did you say green, ‘cuz this sweater is pink’.

And I giggled and he said he liked my laugh and I said it’s more of a giggle. Then I said my mom always says that this guy on TV says that pink looks good on girls with my complexion, and he said that his mom always says that too and I said what are you saying, and he said he wasn’t sure what he was saying. And then I giggled and he said he totally liked my giggle. And I said that I heard the instructor say that you said that people usually say that in Switzerland— James: (yelling) Please, for the love of all that’s beefy and wholesome, would you just tell us what we need to know and just sit down before we all go insane?

Harry: (cheers) Insane!!! YEAH! WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP!!!

Mona: (looks shocked) Uh…(emotionally and even more rapidly than before) He asked me to go for pizza and I said we’re having cheeseburgers at my place and he said okay and I said okay and we came over. (Breaks into tears. Begins yelling) and that’s how it went! (Politely) Excuse me. (Runs out of the room towards the kitchen. Gil approaches the podium) Gil: Dude! What’s up your butt, James? Doeseth thou bareth something thoust would like to talk about?

James: Could we just eat the blasted cheeseburger!

Harry: Cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeseburger! (Looks eagerly at Gil) Gil: Dude! Chill! You know that “he who speaks in Brent Hand

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anger about the holy meat shall perish with those who know nothing of the great and mighty sandwich.” Chapter six, verse 31.8. So you must watch your mouth and not speak bogus words such as you have just uttered or else you too shall suffer the unbeliever’s fate.

James: (apologetic) I know Gil. I know. Pardon my anger.

Gil: That’s more like it, Dude!

Derrick: Wait a minute...what is the fate of the “unbeliever?”

James: Upon death, those who have not eaten of the mighty burger shall be marinated in a tomato baste and placed between two pieces of bread and then served with a side of fries to fulfill the hunger of the evil duck demons for the rest of eternity.

Derrick: (pauses and stares) Really?

James: Well, the tomato sauce part is just a theological theory.

Gil: Yeah, duck demons don’t like the taste of bland human flesh.

Derrick: (pauses and stares) That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.

Gil: It’s all right here in the book of the Burger of the cheese. (Tosses another yellow book into Derrick’s lap. Derrick begins flipping through the book.) Have you never been to a place like this?

Derrick: I don’t think there are any other places like this.

Gil: There is a place across town called the ‘chicken finger faction’ and that group up in Toronto...what was their name?

James: Toronto Sacred Union of the Happy Meal.

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Derrick: And what are you guys? The Wicksburg First Church of the Cheeseburger?

James: No. (Mocking) Ha ha ha! You think that’s pretty funny don’t you?

Derrick: (still flipping through the book) Actually, I think all of this is pretty funny.

Gil: Actually, you were pretty close. (Spoken with great pride) We’re called the Wicksburg Cheeseburger Order. (Mona returns, sits next to Derrick on the couch, wiping her running mascara with a Kleenex.)

Harry: Cheeseburger? (Anxiously as if anticipating the meal) Derrick: Wait, what is this? (Points to a page in the book. Gil and Mona stare for a second.)

Gil and Mona in unison: The revelation of the great Burger.

Derrick: What?

Gil: It is a picture of the day the cheeseburger first revealed himself to mortal man. (Pointing to the picture) This is the first of the prophets named Todd who the Burger first appeared to in 1989.

Derrick: 1989? Cheeseburgers have been around a lot longer than that.

Gil: 1989 B.C., my friend, not A.D. This was about four thousand years ago.

Derrick: So the cheeseburger has been around for about four millennia?

Gil: No. The vision of the cheeseburger was placed in the heart of man four millennia ago and was carried by all of Todd’s descendants up until the present.

Derrick: This is like a bad episode of the Twilight Brent Hand

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Zone.

Mona: Oh sweetums! What’s wrong?

Derrick: All of your friends are freaks!

Mona: What...What...I don’t understand?

Derrick: They’re all sitting around worshiping a sandwich, need I say more?

Mona: And...what’s wrong with that?

Derrick: (Gets on his knees beside her as if to plead with her) Look, Mona. I think you are a very attractive girl. Of course you’ve got the I.Q. of a brick and the personality of a hyperactive teletubbie on acid, but don’t get me wrong. I can get past all that stuff and love you. Love you not for how much fun you may or may not be, or how hearing you speak makes me want to throw myself off the top of a building onto a pile of unimaginably sharp objects. I’m talking about real love, baby. Love that can last as long as your figure holds up. You have to understand Mona, it doesn’t matter what obstacles are in my way. I’ll do anything for you. Not because I care about you or because you complete me, but because I’d really like to get in your pants. (Mona seems flattered. Derrick seems to ignore it as he stands up and begins pacing slowly around the stage.) But this whole cult thing is just...not attractive. I mean I’ve seen some pretty pathetic cults in my life drinking poison or dancing through the woods in the nude, and it kind of scares me to see how brainless some people act when it comes to religion. But this...it’s not scary at all. It’s just...SICK! To worship a god...or the earth, or a pine tree, or a cow, or an insect, or a three armed sloth named Virgil is fine; in fact, it’s almost Brent Hand

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normal. But to exalt a sandwich? (Pauses and looks around at the other four) A cheeseburger? Come on, you guys. (Looks around again. Yelling) It’s a cheeseburger. Just a cheeseburger!

Harry: Cheeseburger!!!

James: (stands pointing a finger at derrick) Will someone silence the heathen?

Mona: Shut up, sweetums. (James sits back down.

Derrick goes back to Mona’s side) James: Thank you, Mona.

Gil: Now if you would all simmer down a bit, we’d get to the main event. Harry, go and get the burgers.

Harry: Cheeseburgers?

Gil: Cheeseburgers. (Harry runs out towards the kitchen.) Will all rise as we sing the Hymn of the Burger?

Mona: (to Derrick) Page 470.

Derrick: (flipping frantically) Thanks. (All begin to sing in unison except for Derrick who stumbles through the words. Harry hums the tune loudly from offstage and sings the word “Cheeseburger” During the song, Harry brings in a silver platter covered by a huge dome lid and places it on the card table.)

Unison: Oh, Mighty Cheeseburger We wish to taste thy flavor We wish to chew thy ground beef And thy cheese to savor Oh Lovely Cheeseburger We praise thy beefy-ness We love you with all our hearts No more and no less Derrick: (to Gil) That was beautiful.

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Gil: Thanks, Dude! I wrote it myself. (To James) Do the honors, James! (James lifts the lid off the plate to reveal five burnt burgers. All look astonished.) Do not panic my brethren— Mona: (disgusted at Gil) HEY! Gil: Excuse me my brethren and...uh...sistren!?! Do not lose heart for we shall embark on a journey to the land of the whopper! (All start for the door except James) James: Not so fast! We have not dealt with the one who has transgressed by creating this abomination!

Mona: What are you talking about, James?

James: Your new boyfriend! He...he...kept us arguing and prolonged the service and...ruined the burgers!

Gil: Dude! Ye art being a total spaz today! In the words of the mighty prophet Todd on the day of the revelation of the great Burger, “So what?” He burnt the burgers; it’s just one little mistake. It’d be ungnarly of us to punish him over such a minor transgression.

James: Need I remind you that he also spoke from the very edge of blasphemy? He defiled our chosen meal, and made a mockery of our sacraments. Need I say more? (Looks to Gil) He ruined the holy feast and has spoken atrocities concerning the Burger, which we all love. And we all know what the book says about that!

Gil: Dude the book doesn’t say— James: Why, it most certainly does! You of all people should know you wrote it!

Gil: Are you talking about chapter 66, verse 12 section 3b?

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James: I am indeed referring to chapter 66, verse 12 section 3b!

Gil: The most humiliating chastisement?

James: The most humiliating chastisement.

Gil: But verily I say unto you, if you continue reading in chapter 66 down to verse 12 section 3c, it says, “prior to the most humiliating chastisement, he who has committed these sins must be given a chance to denounce his ill-chosen words or most bogus actions.”

James: Well fine then! (To Derrick) Do you withdraw your statements about our unhealthy and most sacred traditions of worship?

Derrick: (apologetic) I guess so. Sorry if I offended you guys.

James: And do you confess that you (pointing to the burgers) were the one responsible for this disgrace?

Derrick: Yeah.

James: And finally do you admit that you made comments that made our practices seem idiotic and preposterous?

Derrick: Of course not! Your practices seemed idiotic and preposterous before I said a word.

James: That’s it, Gil. You know he deserves to undergo the most humiliating chastisement.

Gil: But we can’t do that to him!

James: Why not?

Derrick: (looks very worried) What are you guys talking about?

Gil: We’re completely out of mustard!

James: I’m sure we could use mayonnaise or Thousand Island dressing.

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Gil: But I don’t feel up to it today!

James: Oh, alright…(Derrick looks relieved)...let’s lock him in the pantry until you feel like it!

Gil: Okay! It’s fine with me if it’s fine with everyone else. (Everyone nods or agrees somehow.

Derrick looks scared) Okay, it’s settled. We’ll lock Derrick in the pantry until we feel like carrying out the most humiliating chastisement!

Derrick: I’m getting out of here! (Derrick leaps for the door but Harry blocks the way with a crazy look on his face. James jumps Derrick from behind, while Gil gets a rope and binds his hands and feet.

Derrick screams for help the whole time) Mona: Wait! Wait! (Harry and James hold Derrick in place on the ground and everyone stares at Mona.) I loved you, Derrick...Derrick???...What’s your last name?

Derrick: (confused) Schwartz.

Mona: (emotionally) I loved you, Derrick Schwartz. (She leans down on the ground and gives him a long passionate kiss. Gil and Harry laugh, James looks disgusted. Stands, looks at James and Harry) There I’m done.

Gil: Take him away! (James and Harry start to take him to the kitchen.)

Derrick: (yelling) No, wait!!! (Harry and James stop in their tracks and look to Gil) Gil: Let the newcomer speak! (James looks sickened) Derrick: Look guys, sorry I screwed up your burgers and made fun of your cult. Okay? Now will you let me go? (They untie him. He walks over to Gil) Gil, you seem like a pretty nice guy. You were Brent Hand

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probably trippin when you wrote this (Holds the yellow book up. Gil grimaces for a second then nods in agreement) but I think this crazy cult stuff could be fun. (Walks over to Harry and puts his hand on his shoulder. Harry stares at the arm in fear) And Harry...you’re...you’re...an individual.

Harry: CHEESEBURGER! (Grabs Derrick’s arm and bites him in the middle of the forearm. Derrick backs up into James) Derrick: James! You know James when I met you, I thought you were just an...arrogant, stuck up...turd.

James: (laughing) A turd? Really...me?

Derrick: Yeah...I mean don’t get me wrong. I still think you’re a turd.

James: Splendid! (Gives him a pat on the back) Derrick: And Mona, if I join in and become part of this insanity, can we get it on later?

Mona: Sure.

Derrick: And I just want to apologize to everyone.

Sorry I made such a big deal about how stupid your beliefs are. So am I in? Can I be part of your completely ludicrous cult?

Gil: Why of course, new believer! Ye shall be known from this day forth as Derrick and when we see thee upon the street we shall say unto thee “Hello, Derrick!” And in return ye shall say, “Hello.” But as for now let us press onward!

James: To Burger King?

Gil: To Burger King!

The five march out the door singing the ‘Hymn of the Burger.’ Their voices fade and the curtain falls.

Brent Hand

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Lone Tree Jenine Larsen

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CONCERT FOR THE FALL TREES AT DAWN We must look forward now, never back If only to see the colors grasp This moment in eternity Red, purple, burgundy, gold From treetops’ warm splendor Spiraling down the path Autumn’s blazing cinders Indian blue skies Transcend your eyes No difference to be seen Fiery brown hair A cool wind blows Whispers of winters coming Great artist the sun Paints her last intensity In shades so rich and deep Felt so strong, in a dream, she comes While you’re fast asleep Concert for the fall trees at dawn In a flash will move on Like the night, the winter’s summoning Follow your dreams while there is still time Before the light is gone

Jenine Larsen

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POWERFUL PERENNIALS The Cyprus standing tall in the water reaches tender fronds toward heaven, roots growing deep in the swamp murky with seaweed, small fishes nursing at its many tributaries drawing life.

The whirlwind comes and shakes and rips the branches. It digs deep and holds on its depth steadying it, undisturbed.

The oak tree standing big and strong reaches massive arms embracing the sky.

Creatures nesting in its dark expanse unaware of danger as the whirlwind blows and twists, taking the giant into its calm center.

The creatures scatter, some destroyed with this powerful perennial that has no depth to hold it steady in the storm.

Mary Ellen Marko

Hope Jenine Larsen

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Weed and Web Woody Cutler

The bonsai— Little maple destined for greatness Sister to the great one with sweet blood in her Cellophane veins, providing shade and sugary treasures Is taken by the Shaper and dwarfed to his whim.

An illusion with arms twisted and held fast against her will A specimen forever subdued in her little gold dish.

Mastered, an ornament to gaze at, small beauty evoking pity, Hinting at small wisdoms, granting shade to an ant.

Mary Ellen Marko

69 I SEE YOU

I see you squirming at a snail’s pace Then you’re running at the rat’s race.

Then you’re like a she-bear seeking Then you seem a hoot owl peeking.

On the beach I see you sunning Then you’re like a race horse running.

When I see the slippery slope I offer help and you say, “Nope.”

While you’re on this downhill slide Why must you cling to all that pride?

CLAY POTS Red dull lifeless lusterless Pots Ready for the potter to Throw Into the trash heap Broken Instead he takes them and Grinds Them to a powder and begins Anew.

Clay pots. Beautiful clay pots of Different sizes and shapes and Colors and holding different Configurations of the same Stuff on their insides so As not to become Mundane Mary Ellen Marko

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WRITERS’ ROUNDTABLE Selected Haiku Bursting milkweed pods Ruffle the pebbled roadbed Spill tufted cargo.

Anne Cutler

Milkweed Woody Cutler

By the red dogwood A green jelly jar teeming With captive fireflies Anne Cutler

Stalking stray cat Under the songbird feeder One less cardinal.

Anne Cutler

Inside my kitchen Pigmenting tables and chairs Yellow pine pollen.

Anne Cutler

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Auto parts reborn From scrap to Triceratops Chromosaurs anew.

Woody Cutler

Triceratops Woody Cutler

Brown leaves end season Frosted leaves lay close to ground To reclaim the future spring.

Ann Loring

Oak leaves Woody Cutler

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We danced in the night On gigantic rocks Skipped and spun amid Desolate cactus gardens Nothing to be heard but Our laughter and the wind And the stars winked at us Jenine Larsen

Spirits of the Desert Jenine Larsen

Writers’ Roundtable

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D

E A

R

G A

YD

N M I

Impatiently waiting at second base, I saw the trees waving their branches behind the fence.

My mind fell into a daydream.

Beyond the field the river expanded, swollen with spring run-off.

The wind ruffled the grass between the bleachers.

Reality.

I felt the air whisk past my ear as the ball zipped by, landing in the outfield yard.

Another run, another loss.

Discouraged, I hung my head.

A swift kick sparked by frustration, sent clouds of dust whirling around my ankles.

No excuses, no self pity, only voices in my head that swirled like the dust,

“Stop the daydreaming�!

Ann Hecklinski

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THE VIOLIN When I place my Hand upon your Neck and my Fingers caress your strings, I rest my chin upon your body As a song you Begin to sing.

Only a piece of wood and four Strings, you’re an instrument that Speaks to my heart.

You’re The translator of my emotions; You search out my deepest parts. When I can’t find the words to express the feelings that I have each day, you somehow reveal my passions in a Wonderfully amazing way. When I am happy and elated From what a day may bring, you release my untold joy as You sing, and sing, and sing. And when my heart Is troubled or burdened with cares of life, Your sweet melodies sooth my Aching soul with a peace that Calms all strife. I love the song that you Create, the beauty of your voice. I love the way You speak to my heart in a place no human voice can Touch. I desire to emulate the essence of who you are, With your unmistakable character, integrity, and charm.

Each time I hold you in my hands and embrace Your very being, I long to master you the Way that you have mastered me. I always begin by playing you but in the end I know, that it’s you who is playing me as the conductor of my soul.

Susan Sweeny

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FAIR WARNING

Don’t get too close To the potbelly stove My mother warned You’ll get heat-scorched.

I stood back Watched the flames whir and lick Counted the numbered holes on the grate Ate warm buttermilk biscuit Leaking blackberry jelly.

In May I went to the beach Fell asleep on the soft, white sand Awoke sun-baked and tingling Howled a high pitched melody When the blisters broke.

Anne Cutler

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JILTED She sits by the window Eyes veiled in sorrow Lonely Bewildered Remembering Picnics on the Warrior Boat trips to Tahiti Elvis concerts A quaint English cottage Sons...daughters Growing old together When moonbeams Inch across her pillow The breathless wonder of his lips Smother her with desire In her dreams he is Don Juan Romeo Casanova Daylight stabs the crystal panes Shattering the fantasy Kindling the pain

Anne Cutler

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SEASONS I step into the morning’s heat The humid weather brings tiny beads Of sweat on my skin.

The bright sun glimmers off the water My eyes open, I awaken I breathe…

Orange leavesfalling off the trees The gray clouds in the skies shorten the days Thunderstorms come more often now My jacket slides over my shoulders My eyes open. I awaken I breathe….

Cold days darken into freezing nights I sit wrapped in a wool blanket by the fire The snow falls, trees seem to be reaching For the warmth of the sun. My breath lingers in the air My eyes open, I awaken I breathe in life...

As the days lengthen As the rainstorms twist into wild tornadoes As the showers surrender to the sun, and flowers become Pastel hues as beautiful as the days.

Marla Self

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ROBERTA’S BABY Roberta was always something strange, but nobody ever thought she would do something so crazy. Ophelia, her sister, called Mama day before last and told her she guess Roberta done lost it.

She said she’d been locked in her dark room since Tuesday of last week and hadn’t come down or spoke a word to nobody since the social work lady came. She told Mama how Roberta was yelling and howling like somebody had taken a stick to her behind and she couldn’t take her carrying on anymore. Mama said nobody imagined she would take a spell like that after losing Bobby Jean, but everybody knew she wasn’t right to raise that child. Roberta was thirty with the mind of a tenyear-old and had no business having a baby. It done her good when social service came and got Bobby Jean, she said, cause Lord knows she and Ophelia couldn’t take care of her.

Roberta and me grew up together and, even as a little girl, she wasn’t right. We would all go down to the river during the summer and swim or just hang out, cause there was really nothing else to do in our small town, and she would just sit under this old dogwood tree and play with her braids.

She never did click with the rest of my friends.

Me, Paulette, Rachel and Sara were members of the softball team and the drama club, and we hung out with the rest of the kids in our class. You know. But Roberta always stayed to herself, mumbling things nobody understood and looking around like somebody was calling her and nobody Kimberly Sommerville

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was ever there.

She was a sweet girl though. She would call me Beca, being she couldn’t say my real name Rebecca, and I guess I kind of felt sorry for her, that’s the reason I took up time with her and all.

She reminded me of a mole, cause she was a tiny little something, with a little head, beady little eyes and a nose that looked like a muzzle, and cause of the way she would kind of scrunch up as if she was hiding in her little hole when somebody tried to talk to her.

I would even let her come to my house sometime and spend the night and, to tell the truth, I liked being around her. I didn’t have to act a certain way when I was with her. I could just be myself. I remember long nights upstairs in my room playing house, just me and Roberta. She would always want to be the baby and I would let her, since she acted like a baby anyway. In a squeaky little mouse voice she would ask, “Beca, am I your baby?” and I would say, “Yes, Roberta you my little honey cup,” and she would burst out laughing saying, “Berta’s, Beca’s little honey cup.” She loved to wear pajamas that had the feet in them, and she would walk around the room flopping her feet like a duck until Mama called up to say we were making too much noise, and we would jump in the bed and pull the blanket over our heads.

When we grew up, I went off and got married to Randy and she stayed home with her folks. On occasion, I would ride by her house and see her sitting on the porch, swinging in the swing, like she didn’t have a care in the world and, to be Kimberly Sommerville

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honest with you, she didn’t. She would still be playing with her braids.

Her folks were sorta old and everybody said that’s what made her the way she was. My mama said they shouldn’t have never had Roberta at the age of fifty-five. She said old folks’ babies just don’t turn out right. I guess that’s true, cause Roberta wasn’t right. They took real good care of her though. They didn’t let nobody come near her.

Wherever you saw Roberta, her mama was somewhere close by. After we graduated from high school, they sent Roberta to the Waldo Home for Girls, for girls that were mentally challenged, and she seemed to be getting along.

Often I would stop and chat with Roberta and we would sit and talk about any and everything, it didn’t matter with Roberta as long as you stayed and listened. She would talk and I didn’t mind.

She was like the child I never had, since my husband Randy and I couldn’t have children. I enjoyed hearing her stories. Randy would always tell me I was taking up too much time with her, but I didn’t pay him any mind. I liked spending time with Roberta.

After Roberta’s folks died, her sister Ophelia took her and things went bad after that. She stopped going to school and Ophelia wouldn’t take time to do anything with her. I didn’t see her as often as I did when her folks were alive, but Ophelia talked with my mama on occasion and Mama would tell me how Roberta was doing. She told me that Ophelia said she couldn’t do anything with Roberta, that she was awful ornery and that Kimberly Sommerville

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she’d taken up with some old man that lived down the road from them. We knew that meant nothing but trouble for Roberta.

One day in late July, Mama called and told me that Roberta had a baby and, not thinking what I was saying, I asked her where did it come from.

“What do you mean, where did it come from? I know you know where babies come from,” she said.

“What I want to know is where did Roberta get one from, cause Lord knows she didn’t have one,” I said.

Mama said Roberta had gotten pregnant by that man she’d took up with.

“Mamma, how did that happen? Roberta can’t have no baby, she’s merely a child herself. Lord, I know her folks are turning in their grave as we speak.”

With a loud sigh Mama said, “I was just as shocked as you when I heard it.”

“So what are we going to do Mama?” I asked.

“Excuse me? We are not going to do anything.

This is not our problem and don’t you go over there sticking you nose where it don’t belong,” she said.

“But Mamma.”

“No buts, Rebecca. Stay out of it. This is not your battle,” she said.

I wanted to go over to Ophelia’s and shake the life out of her for letting this happen, even though I knew Mama was at least partly right. It wasn’t my problem. But for some reason, I still felt I needed to do something. Roberta had always been Kimberly Sommerville

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a part of my life. She always made me feel good and I guess she filled a need I had from not having children of my own. I’d always wanted children and when I found out I couldn’t have any, I guess I clung to Roberta even more. My husband never said anything about it, but I knew from his reaction when I would tell him I’d visited Roberta, he didn’t like it. He thought I was making things more difficult than they had to be. He wanted me to get over the fact I couldn’t have children and for us to focus on our lives together.

A week later, I decided to go see how Roberta was doing. As I walked up to the house, Ophelia met me on the porch. She was standing at the door wearing a sundress and tennis shoes with a baseball cap on with her back against one side of the door and her foot propped on the other side. I told her that I’d come to see how Roberta and the baby were doing. She didn’t seem to like the idea cause she slid her foot down off the door slow like and put her hand on her hip. “You shoulda called first,” she said. I told her I didn’t have a number and since I was there I wanted to see her. At first, she seemed like she wasn’t going to let me in. But after I told her I wasn’t going to leave until I saw Roberta, she sucked her teeth and moved to the side. When I entered the house, I couldn’t believe my eyes. There were clothes all over the floor, dirty dishes piled in the sink and the house smelled like some animal had died and rotted. I asked her where was Roberta and the baby. Nonchalantly, she pointed up stairs.

As I walked up, I could hear the baby crying. I Kimberly Sommerville

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knocked on the door and went into the bedroom.

The room was filthy with dinner plates stacked on the floor, the trash pail was filled with dirty diapers that were smelling, newspapers and clothes were scattered over the floor, and the linen on the bed was soiled with puke. Roberta was sitting in the middle of the bed wearing nothing but a old tshirt that had holes in it, and the baby was lying beside her wearing only a diaper that looked like it was two sizes too big. Trying to hold back tears, I asked, “How’s my little honey cup?”

Roberta looked up at me with a blank expression on her face and didn’t say a word.

“Do you know who I am?” I asked.

“Mama,” she said.

“No, honey cup, its Beca, remember me?”

She didn’t say anything else. The baby was still crying and, as I went closer and reached for the baby, Roberta started to scream and yell, “Berta’s baby, Berta’s baby.” I jumped back almost tripping over the plates stacked on the floor and held both my hands to my chest. My heart pounded like someone was beating it with a sledge hammer. I was surprised by her reaction, I guess.

She was scaring the living day lights out of me.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt Berta’s baby,” I said.

She snatched the baby up and began to cradle her, rocking back and forth. I told her I just wanted to see how she was doing. She didn’t speak, still rocking back and forth. I’d never seen her like that and, at that moment, I got so damn mad at Ophelia I could have spit bricks. I couldn’t believe she had Kimberly Sommerville

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Roberta living like that.

After a while, Roberta calmed down and we began to talk and I made my way to the bed and sat next to her. In her squeaky little voice she said, “Berta’s baby crying.”

“Can Beca hold Berta’s baby?” I asked.

“No, Berta’s baby.”

I kept talking to her, putting my arms around her shoulders. Eventually, she lay her head on my shoulder.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“Okay, Baby Jean cry,” she said.

“Can I hold Baby Jean,” I asked.

Slowly, she gave me the baby and we sat and sang Rocka Bye Baby until the baby calmed down too. Holding that tiny body in my arms was the best feeling I’ve ever had.

When I got ready to leave, I asked her if she would like for me to visit her again. With her unclean, slender face and her hair ruffled all over her head, she looked up at me and nodded, giving me the okay.

Back downstairs, Ophelia was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper. I asked Ophelia what had happened to Robert, and she said since Roberta had the baby she’d been a different person and she couldn’t handle her. When I suggested maybe Roberta needed to see a doctor, Ophelia threw the newspaper she was reading on the floor and jumped off the couch. “Get out of my house,” she hissed.

Even as I was walking to the door, she was behind me waving her arms in the air yelling. It was Kimberly Sommerville

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none of my business, she kept saying, and she was tired to people telling her what she needed to do.

She went on to say she didn’t want Roberta anyway. She was tired of all the problems Roberta caused and she wished she would die. As I was about to turn around to apologize, she slammed the door in my face. Outside, I could still hear her ranting and raving about me trying to tell her how to run her house.

A week later, I talked to Mama and she told me that Ophelia had called and told her that Roberta had lost it. She said someone had reported her to social services and they’d come and taken Roberta’s baby and Roberta had locked herself in her room and wouldn’t stop screaming. Ophelia said she couldn’t take Roberta’s carrying on anymore and she’d called the police to come get her.

After they picked Roberta up, Mama said they took her to Bates Mental Hospital. I never heard anything else of Roberta or her baby.

Kimberly Sommerville

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POP’S WORD When I was fourteen My mother grabbed a broom And set to cleaning cobwebs From the closet in my room And found a bag of weed All that day she didn’t look at me or smile Nor utter a single word So I felt out of place Like a gopher growing wings Pops came home from work And asked me to come outside Like the first soldier to storm Normandy, I should have tried to run He watched me with a casual smile Barely visible under his dark mustache “Never carry this in a car,” he said, As he laughed and handed it back For a while I sat motionless Stuck to the metal armchair No longer frightened, just stunned But that night I took that bag And bong from under my bed Heading out with my friends to the strip pits To get stoned and filled with beer The night sky was cloudy The limestone wall, our chair As we sat drinking and talking Bongs loaded for bear

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When over a small hill Hidden by a Manitou crane Came four cars on fire With red and blue flame Arms, legs spread Palms on the tailgate Cold metal bracelets on our wrists Connected by a chain At the station we called our parents Then waited in a cell While burly men laughed at us With beer breath gone stale Dad strode into the station Embarrassment on his face like a proud chief of the Sioux Nation Thrown off the Dakota plains In the truck he drove Drinking a cherry coke As I sat fearing a beating Though he was known to joke He looked at me with my own eyes, The color of gray broken glass As clear as the cloudless skies, Then smiled and said, “DumbAss�

Christopher Thompson

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THE GOOD GIRL Felicia looked out the window at the dark street. The narrow tree-lined road frightened her at night. The house was isolated from the other homes on the block; it was in a curve and set far back from the road. It was an older home, built sometime in the late 1940’s and the wind whistled through the walls and the wood groaned in protest.

As far as she could tell, none of the neighbors could see the lights coming through the windows because she certainly couldn’t see theirs. She would not have been the least bit surprised to see a madman with a chainsaw walk slowly around the bend, intent on killing her and everyone else he might fancy. She was already jumpy because, somehow, her boyfriend had convinced her to let him come over while she baby-sat. She agreed, reluctantly, because her friends had been giving her such a hard time about being a ‘good girl’, doing exactly as her parents expected her to do. She was the only one of her group who was still a virgin, a fact that had not gone unnoticed. She arrived at school this morning to find at least twenty condoms taped to her locker with a how-topamphlet. “You know it’s time...It only hurts for a minute...What are you afraid of?” her friends taunted. She was mortified. At the tender age of seventeen, she was still in her formative years and could quite possibly become horribly screwed up by the well-meaning pranks of her fellow classmates. At least, that’s what she would say when later confronted by Mr. Anderson, the principal, Kat Rich

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who was demanding an answer she wasn’t willing to give. Tears and vague emotional outbursts usually ran him off without anyone getting detention.

“Would you calm down already? They’re not gonna be back for hours.” Felicia’s boyfriend Chris stood behind her tugging at the waistband of her jeans, trying to get her to join him on the expensive, leather couch the Patterson’s were so fond of. She really wished she hadn’t agreed to let him come over. He was expecting to have sex and she had allowed him to think that, but now she wasn’t so sure. She stared at his reflection in the dark glass and thought, “What am I doing! I’m not even remotely attracted to this guy. The only reason I’m even dating him is because my friends pressured me into it. He was still wearing the clothes he had worn to baseball practice, red sweatpants and a gold t-shirt with the school’s logo emblazoned across the front. His hair was greasy and his fingernails were caked with dirt.

Couldn’t he at least have showered first?

He was in complete contrast with the rest of the room. Felicia looked around at the Patterson’s nice things; there were tiny glass sculptures of ballerinas dancing and swans in flight. Brightly colored oil paintings that Felicia knew Mrs. Patterson had painted herself hung in walnut frames with gold edging. On the mantle, an old vase marbled with red, yellow, blue, green, and purple stood alongside brass candlesticks and a dimpled pewter bowl. The furniture was at least five years old but still looked brand new. In addition to the couch, there was a matching loveseat, two walnut end taKat Rich

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bles and a walnut coffee table topped with glass with gold leaves etched into the corners. The room was magnificent as far as Felicia was concerned.

“If they catch you here they’ll never ask me to baby-sit again,” Felicia replied, once again looking out towards the road. “Maybe you should go.”

“Go! I just got here. Listen, let’s just have a seat and talk awhile. I’m sure you’ll relax in a few minutes and we can have some fun.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and started walking backwards into the living room, pulling her with him. She cringed, but allowed him to move her.

“Shhh, settle down. Let’s just cuddle awhile, hmmm?” As he spoke, he used one hand to brush her hair back out of her face.

They ended up on the couch with her in his lap.

He began kissing on her neck and mumbling something about love that Felicia couldn’t quite understand. When she felt his sweaty hand inching its way up her t-shirt, she bolted to her feet.

“I’m sorry, but I really have to go to the bathroom,” she said and fled into the downstairs guest room and through to the bathroom beyond.

“I didn’t drive all the way out here for you to run from me all night,” he called after her.

Lord, if you’ll get me out of this mess I promise I’ll never ever have sex! She splashed her face with water and, once she’d toweled off, she slowly opened the bathroom door and eased into the bedroom. The lights were off, but Felicia could still make out the shadowy shapes of the furniture well enough to navigate around the queen size bed. She Kat Rich

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tiptoed across the plush carpet, not really sure why she was sneaking but doing it anyway. It made no difference. Chris walked into the room as she was rounding the bed. Crap! Before she had a chance to move away from the big brass bed, Chris had closed in on her.

“Nowhere to go now.” He leaned in for a kiss and Felicia turned her head to the side faking a cough. He wasn’t deterred; instead, he started nibbling on her earlobe. His big, wet, nasty, tongue worked its way into her ear. Ewe, ewe, ewe!

“Chris, why don’t we go back to the living room for awhile?”

“Uh-uh.” He was leaning forward so much that Felicia had to sit down to keep from falling backwards. He was on her in seconds. Before she knew what was happening, he had one rough, calloused hand on her left bra cup and she didn’t want to know where the other one was. She could hear the soft ping of metal on metal.

“Slow down, okay. You’re not running a race.”

“Uh, sorry.”

He continued pawing her and mumbling incoherently. Lord, you can move mountains, so I know that you can get this little troll off of me!

Yeah, I know, you help those that help themselves.

FINE! “Okay, stop! Chris I’m really sorr…”

“Shit! They’re home,” Chris jumped up and pulled her to her feet so fast her head spun.

She glanced out the window and saw the headlights as they turned into the driveway.

“Go out the side door! Hurry!” Felicia pushed Kat Rich

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him toward the door, plucked his baseball cap off the couch and threw it after him. Thank you God! Then she raced into the kitchen to greet the Patterson’s.

Mrs. Patterson was pulling her black heels off as she walked into the living room. “Good Evening, Felicia. How was our little Jason tonight?” .

“An angel, as always. Where’s Mr. Patterson?

You didn’t ditch him at the restaurant did you?”

“No, not this time. Maybe next weekend I will.” She had a devilish twinkle in her eye, but both women knew it would never happen. Poor Mr. Patterson wouldn’t be able to survive on the streets of Mayberry, much less on the Carolina coast. “It looks like it might start raining and Jason left his bike on the side of hous—.”

“Call 9-1-1! Call 9-1-1! We have a burglar!”

A very red cheeked and wild-eyed Mr. Patterson came through the kitchen hollering, his gray, Armani jacket flapping behind him. “Don’t just stare at me, call 9-1-1!” Mrs. Patterson picked up the phone and dialed the number, not exactly sure of what was going on but obeying her husband nonetheless.

Ohmygosh! Ohmygosh! Ohmygosh! Felicia’s pulse was racing and she was afraid that if her heart beat any harder it would crack her ribcage. If that idiot gets caught I’ll be grounded for a month and worse than that, the Patterson’s won’t be able to trust me anymore. The next ten minutes were agony for her. Mr. Patterson paced by the window, looking out the street then at his watch, than announcing how many more minutes have gone by Kat Rich

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since the police were called.

“What is taking so long? Don’t they know that my taxes pay their salaries?” He reminded Felicia of an expectant father pacing the hospital waiting room; under different circumstances she would have laughed. Mrs. Patterson was sitting on the stairs with Felicia trying to comfort her and begging Mr. Patterson to please come away from the window.

“Honey please, come over here with us. We’re scared and you’re not making it any better.” She just knew he was going to be shot. Felicia was in a state of near shock, paralyzed with the fear of getting caught. Please, please, please let him get away!

The police finally arrived (nine minutes and forty-two seconds late, according to Mr. Patterson’s calculations), but they found no one lurking about the house and no stray baseball caps. Felicia could breath again. They questioned her at length, but she was unable to do more than just mutter that she hadn’t heard a thing. After a lengthy discussion with Mr. Patterson about the importance of an alarm, the cops left and the three of them sat on the stairs dazed. Finally, Mr. Patterson stood up and inquired if Felicia was ready to go. I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life!

“Yes sir, if you’re ready to take me.” Always a good girl. They got in the car and pulled away from the dark spooky house. *** “Are you crazy! Last time I tried to have sex the police were called, there is no way I’m doing it Kat Rich

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now,” or anytime in the near future. Felicia was sitting on her bed reading a teen magazine and chatting with one of her friends on the phone.

“Hold on a second Stacy, I’ve got a beep.” She hit a button on her phone. “Hello…Yes, Mrs. Patterson, she knows! Please don’t let her know!… I’d love to baby-sit tonight. Thank God…an alarm; wonderful…you bought me a present? Noooo!

Why? … You guys didn’t scare me, it wasn’t your fault...No presents, I don’t deserve a present…yes ma’am… alright, but I still say you shouldn’t have gotten me anything... They know, they’re trying to guilt me into a confession...No ma’am…See you at six, Bye.” She hit the button on her phone again.

“Stacy! They want me to sit for them again. They have no clue that I was responsible for their ‘burglar’, and they bought me a present because they felt so bad about scaring me…no, I’m not kidding why would I joke about that?…no, I wish I could, but they’ve had an alarm installed, cameras and everything. Well, maybe not that extravagant…I’m sure I’ll get another opportunity some other way, not on your life…Gotta go, supper’s ready,” she lied. She hung up the phone and wandered down the stairs looking for her mother. She was sitting at the computer figuring the monthly bills.

“Hey Mom.” Her mother turned away from the computer and gave Felicia a tired smile.

“There’s my good girl. Are you hungry?”

She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes “A little, but you don’t have to cook for me.

Pizza is just fine.” They’d had pizza the last four Kat Rich

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nights in row. Her mother had taken a second job while her dad was ‘away on business’ and she was so exhausted Felicia didn’t have the heart to complain. If I hadn’t been banned from the kitchen I would cook, but no, you don’t want me catching the house on fire again. You didn’t like those curtains anyway. You really should be thanking me.

“How was your day?” her mother asked, truly interested.

“Pretty much the same as yesterday. Boring and uneventful.” With that Felicia left the room and went to order a pizza, again.

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THE GUITAR Sitting in the dark A blind man gently strums A guitar It is scratched and old Like it has endured Hell and more And perhaps it has Any who would look on Hear only the strumming in the dark He has played so long He looks like his guitar Like he has endured Hell and more And perhaps he has His calluses broken, The strings cut deeply Spilling blood His eyes stare blankly Seeing only shadows His piercing gaze Looks deeper, seeing What we cannot As bitter tears drop Filling the dried rivers That line his wasted cheeks Still he plays on Such a sweet song While strumming in the dark

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Playing so sweetly He fills the many holes That riddle his bleak world His split digits Drip and dance Along the smooth frets Worn to nothing With natural confidence He plays as if the guitar Were a part of himself Blind salt rain falls Mixing with his redness Gently forming A river of sorrow The guitar begins to bleed Yes, it bleeds Yes, it bleeds The song he plays is sanguine sweet Full of pleasure and pain Rich and bloody And wholly true Sitting in the dark A blind man gently strums A guitar It is scratched and old Like it has endured Hell and more And perhaps it has

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BROKEN BRICKS Istin stood alone in the park waiting, facing the broken brick wall that served as a boundary for their makeshift football field. It wasn’t much of a football field, but it wasn’t much of a park either, just the remains of the town’s old tire factory shut down some thirty years earlier. What was now no more than forty or fifty yards of sparse clumps of crab grass struggling to grow through twenty tons of overlaying sand and gravel had once been a courtyard where employees would gather on nice days to eat lunch and relax. Although the majority of the buildings had been demolished soon after the plant closed, a portion of the stubborn walls remained upright, like the mighty guardians of Argonath standing in defiance of decay. Istin wondered how the wall had looked when it was new, unmolested by time and man. Gently, he touched the tip of his nose to the hard cool surface, staring cross-eyed at the thousands of tiny chips and dimples scattered throughout. Vainly, he tried to imagine how it had looked before, when it stood tall and solid, protecting Messina from the overwhelming stench of burning oil and melting rubber. He couldn’t do it while looking into its now scarred and chinked face.

As he turned, a plump, calico cat darted out from behind the wall, stopping as it caught sight of him. The cat cocked its head to the left, looking at Istin with suspicion written in its pale yellow eyes.

“It’s okay kitty. I won’t hurt you,” he said, in the soft high-pitched voice he saved for talking to Chris Thompson

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his two-year-old niece. The cat put a paw cautiously forward, then withdrew it. Istin kept the sheepish, innocent smile on his face. Still calling.

Eventually, the cat inched forward, never taking its eyes from Istin’s. As it came within reach, Istin snatched it up into his arms, diligently scratching behind its ear. The kitten purred, stretching out its neck, lifting its chin, closing its eyes. Istin gripped it more firmly around the neck. The cat’s eyes shot open. He saw the fear register in the wide yellow eyes, and the claws dug into his forearm. He slung the cat at the broken wall. Its head hit first with a loud crack on the wall, followed by a soft thud as it fell to the ground, lifeless.

He stood for a moment, silent, looking down at the kitten’s body. Its tiny pink tongue jutted out from one side of its mouth, like Foghorn Leghorn's when Barnyard Dog hit him over the head with a shovel. Only this wasn’t a cartoon. The cat wouldn’t wake up and shake away the stars circling above its head. It wouldn’t get up to chase him. It was dead. Istin felt sick. His stomach convulsed, bringing with it the taste of sweet onions from the kabobs his mother had cooked him for lunch.

He threw up.

When he turned and started for the field, he saw Frank and Gebu standing across the way watching him with wide eyes, Frank with his mouth hanging wide open. Istin hadn’t heard them coming. He wished that he had. Maybe that would have stopped him.

“Why’d you kill the cat?” Gebu asked, his thick eyebrows slanting sharply downward.

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Afraid, Istin couldn’t convert his thoughts into words. Not that his thoughts were making much sense. They never did when he was confronted with Gebu’s hard face and full-grown muscles.

Gebu had started, and ended, a fight with Istin once before and he had no intentions of repeating that.

“It scratched me,” he said, trying not to let the guilt show on his face.

“So you killed it?”

“I didn’t mean to. It scared me and I threw it.

Gebu was biting the inside of his cheek, the scowl still firmly in place. The look on his face told Istin that it wouldn’t make much difference whether he was telling the truth or not. Gebu already disliked him. He was just looking for more coal to add to the fire.

For the first time, Istin was relieved to see Bailey, Podie, Astin and Rand walking across the field toward them. Bailey’s crimson hair and yellow teeth seemed to shine like a street light on wet pavement. Though Istin had yet to have a chance to really get to know them, he felt that he would get along with everyone pretty well, if it weren’t for Gebu. But they all followed along with whatever he said. Gebu threw one last hateful glare at Istin, turning with a snort toward his newly arriving friends, and tossing his Nerf stick and spin football in the air. It was the same football they used the last two times, the one made of felt. If you had the Velcro gloves that went with it, you could hardly miss. Gebu had on those matching gloves.

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“Alright! Listen up!” Gebu shouted, yanking off his Troy State baseball cap and running his fingers roughly through his blond hair. “Bailey, Astin, Podie are on one team; Frank, Rand and Ferret Face are on the other.” Istin wanted to object but took one look at Gebu’s strong jaw and thought better of it. “Since there are only three players on each team, and seven of us here, I’ll be the all-time quarterback.” He paused long enough to gauge their reactions. “Is that alright?” he asked. The whir and hum of a far off helicopter was the only sound. “Since we got no coin, Frank, your team can have the ball first. Y’all go get ready for kickoff.”

Annoyed, Istin walked to his side of the field, kicking rocks along the way. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be on Frank’s team. Frank was the only one Istin really knew. He was a skinny kid with brown hair evenly parted on both sides.

Frank was the kind of guy who thought that the most important thing you could do was to stay in style. Even on the football field, he looked as though he just stepped out of a J C Penny catalogue. Navy blue athletic shorts (drawstring untied), the kind with dozens of small holes in them for better air flow, a sparkling red and white 49’er’s jersey, and a pair of black, high-top Nike cleats, the tags still stuck to the tongue. Istin liked all that about Frank, even though he felt awkward in his hand-me-down t-shirts and thrift store shoes.

He also liked the fact that Frank never made an issue of how he dressed. Istin was just as irritated at how Gebu made all the decisions and no one Chris Thompson

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ever argued with him. He stopped ten feet from the empty oil drums that marked their end zone and stood waiting for Frank and Rand.

“Why does he get to make all the rules?” he asked when they were in earshot. Frank and Rand just looked at each other and shrugged.

“It’s his ball,” said Rand. “I don’t want to tell him he can’t.”

“Me either,” said Frank.

If Frank looked like a child model for department store magazines, Rand looked like one of those “Out of Control” kids that Jenny Jones paraded on stage every other week. His dad played bass in one of those eighties-metal-tribute bands, so Rand dressed the part of the typical rock and roller. His hair was dyed green and blue and done up in braids. Like Bart Simpson, he must have owned only one outfit: a pair of forest green, cutoff work pants, a black Rage Against The Machine t-shirt and a pair of black combat boots, two sizes too big. In spite of their physical differences, it was obvious that the two shared the same fear of Gebu.

Exasperated, Istin turned his back on the other team and dug into the storage pocket of his khaki shorts. From it, he pulled a pair of Velcro gloves exactly like those Gebu had on. With a quick smirk to Frank, Istin pulled on the gloves.

“Tell me when it’s coming,” he said.

“Here it comes,” Rand said just as Istin managed to strap on the second glove.

“Let me get it,” Istin said, pulling the straps tight around his wrists and looking up into the Chris Thompson

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blinding sun, waiting.

The ball landed with a scratching sound in his hands, sticking firmly. Istin darted across the field, dodging Podie who was a blur of thick, black hair and long lanky legs stretching out into the air, blew past Astin’s portly body and barely broke Bailey’s tackle. Having passed all defenders, Istin snuck a look over his shoulder, and slammed into a wall. The air was gone from his lungs, a shoe knocked off. He lay four yards from the end zone, four yards from retribution.

Gebu stood over him, glaring down, eyes squinted against the sun, with a wide, toothy smile.

Whatcha doing with them gloves on?” he asked, nodding at Istin’s hands.

Istin struggled to his feet. “Why are you tackling me? You’re a neutral quarterback, you can’t tackle me.”

“Technically, I’m on their team until ya’ll gain possession of the ball.” He smiled and stuck a finger in his nose, then studied the slimy booger on the end of it. “You ain’t supposed to have them on.”

“You’ve got some on,” said Istin. “Why can’t I?” By now everyone was beginning to form a circle around them. A feeling of deja-vu crept down Istin’s spine like an icy grip. All he could see was Gebu’s large frame on top of him, the bloody nose and the busted lips that followed.

“Cause it ain’t fair. I only got them ‘cause I ain’t on nobody’s team. I won’t use them to hurt you and help them. Or the other way around. But Chris Thompson

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you having them on is cheating.” Faster than Istin could react, Gebu wiped his finger across Istin’s cheek and began laughing hysterically.

Recoiling, Istin took the tail of his shirt and wiped off his cheek. Jawbone clenched, he stood toe to toe with Gebu, his fists closed so tightly that his fingernails were cutting into his palms. Gebu towered a full head and half above him, the arrogant smirk still firmly in place. Istin wanted nothing more than to punch him in the nose. Just once.

Gazing into those cocky blue eyes, he began to feel that another beating might be worth one good hard shot at Gebu. He couldn’t win, he knew that.

But he had to do something.

“Maybe you should take the gloves off Istin,” Frank said with Rand standing to the right nodding his ascension. He cast his eyes down nervously and picked imaginary dirt off his jersey.

“If you’re not on anybody’s team, then how come you tackled me?” Istin asked, ignoring Frank’s plea.

“I’m on the other team until after the kickoff, jackass. Now take them gloves off.”

“No.” “Tell him to take them gloves off,” Gebu said, looking at Frank and Rand.

Frank and Rand silently conferred with each other. Bailey, Astin and Podie stood patiently behind Gebu whose face said that his patience had already run out.

“Look y’all, it ain’t fair for him to get to wear them gloves and nobody else can. That’s cheating,” Gebu said.

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“But you’re wearing them,” Istin protested again. “How come you don’t have to take them off?”

“Because I won’t cheat. Everyone knows that.”

“Istin, just take the gloves off. I want to finish playing,” Frank said.

Reluctantly, Istin pulled one of the straps that held the gloves tight on his hands. He pulled gingerly at the tip of each finger, barely moving the glove an inch. After each small tug, he skipped to the next finger, then the next. Gebu’s face looked as if it were going to explode. A full minute or so later, Istin had the first glove halfway off.

“Just take the damn gloves off,” Gebu demanded. “Why do you have to be such a dork?”

Istin said nothing, still idly pulling at the glove.

Doing as he was asked, but not giving what was wanted.

“Alright,” Bailey said. “How about we compromise? We’ll do it over. Ya’ll go back down there by the oil drums and we’ll kick the ball again.” Frank and Rand began to walk down the field with Istin following, still picking at his glove.

“Hey Frank!” Gebu shouted across the field, “Make sure your friend has them gloves off buy the time I kick the ball. If he don’t, I ain’t gonna ask him again.” Then he kicked the ball before anyone had a chance to get in position.

It bounced and landed near Istin’s feet. He looked down at the felt covered ball, uncertain of what to do. One glove was still fully on, the other half off. Frank ran in front of him and scooped up Chris Thompson

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the football. He was brought down ten yards away

by Bailey, Astin and Podie. Gebu marched right past them, heading straight for Istin. Afraid, Istin didn’t move. Instead, he quickly yanked one glove off and started working on the other. Gebu arrived before he could finish. Without checking up, he shoved Istin into the empty oil barrels, causing one to roll on its side behind his knees. He crashed to the ground. Tiny pointed rocks jabbed in his back, his neck and his elbows. Gebu was still coming.

Istin scrambled backwards. Just as Gebu was on top of him, Frank grabbed his arm from behind spinning him around.

“What are you doing man?”

“I told him to take them gloves off by the time I kicked the ball!”

“He was taking them off. You didn’t give him enough time.”

“Why are you always taking the new kid’s side?”

“Because you’re not being fair. He was taking the gloves off. He just needed more time.”

Istin slowly got to his feet, careful to keep his distance from Gebu in case he needed to run.

Frank turned to him. “Take the gloves off, Istin,” he said.

Istin did as he was told and tucked both gloves back into his pocket.

Happy now?” Frank turned back to Gebu.

“No,” Gebu said flatly. “He still has them.

What if he decides to use them again?”

“We all have them,” Frank said. “But we don’t use them.”

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“He might. I don’t trust him.”

Bailey stood slightly to the left, behind Gebu, a cheddar cheese grin on his freckled face. Far to his right was the shaggy, elongated frame of Podie, his demure expression ever in place. Between the two, the rotund Astin was still struggling to regain his breath from his twenty-five yard sprint. Green and blue braids concealing Rand’s face, he walked deliberately to Frank’s side.

“If he throws the gloves away, I’ll drop it,” Gebu said, scowling at Istin.

“That’s not right man,” Rand said.

“You two are going to side with Ferret Face over all of us?”

Gebu’s last comment enraged Istin. He took the gloves from his back pocket and began pulling them back on. Gebu watched him. When the last glove was strapped on, Gebu suddenly shot towards him. Fearing for his life, Istin swung wildly, landing a lucky punch on the side of Gebu’s head, momentarily stunning him. For a split second, Istin thought he would win the fight, then Gebu was sitting on top of him, punching his face. Bailey, Aston and Podie joined in, sometimes catching him in the ribs with sharp kicks, but mostly they cheered Gebu on. Frank and Rand pleaded with them to stop, but they didn’t.

Finally, when Istin could no longer feel the punches, it was over. The punch he had wanted so badly to land, the punch that would have made the beating worth it, didn’t happen. He couldn’t breathe from all the blood clogging his nose; a tooth was missing from his mouth. He lay there Chris Thompson

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feeling sorry for himself.

Frank and Rand helped him to his feet, steadying him when it seemed he would fall. His nose throbbed. His jaw ached. Eventually, Gebu asked if he was alright. Istin put a hand over his eyes and nodded. Both Frank and Rand turned a deaf ear to Gebu as he tried to explain himself until, with one last hard push and shove to Istin’s already sore face, Gebu turned and stomped off across the field. Shaking his fire-colored head, Bailey soon followed with Podie’s lanky form striding along beside him. Astin started to speak, then only pursed his lips and waddled after his friends.

“Come on. We’ll get you home,” Frank said as Istin bent over and spit up more blood.

Frank hooked him under one arm, Rand the other, and they led him off in the direction of the broken brick wall. Against the wall lay two tiny calico kittens huddled around the body of their dead mother. Istin watched sadly for a moment before breaking his friends’ support. He picked up the kittens, cradling them in his arms as if they were his mother’s fine china. He used the front of his bloody shirt as a basket to carry them home.

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X-mas Candles Woody Cutler

Colored candles light the night Red, green and gold radiate The joys of the season.

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CROCODILE TRUST (For My Globe-Hopping Mama)

I’d like to meet a crocodile And swallow all my fears I’ve always thought they’d like someone To help them dry their tears My wish is likely all my own Most tell me it must be Nobody trusts a crocodile when smiling says TRUST ME Of all the folks I’ve met in life So many have beguiled The repercussions are profound I’d rather trust a crocodile.

L. B Watkins

Crocodile Loraine Blythe

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MY HOPE I am accused of loving too much as if I had a choice as if I could control the flooding of my heart, with my own eyes looking back at me. I fell this February day, was enraptured when I learned of my fulfillment, a secret promise that was mine to keep and I with wistful dreams of sweet laughter and cherubim smiles took my joy, held it close and named the soft whisper of life Hope.

He came into the world with tears and whimpers tiny feet, tiny hands silky skin and fair downy hair.

He is love personified, my love.

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WHY I HATE POETRY Largely fragmented and scattered thoughts Run‌.far and fast...nowhere.

Hollow, yet somehow self-important, introspection, I see, I touch I hear, I imagine.

Vague but disturbingly symbolic imagery, Tainted by the fruit of the world.

Always somber and deceptively melancholy Tears, heartache, loss.

Draining my soul with its emotional vampirism Ravaged by grief and sorrow.

Shattered and scattered words, Slammedtogethertomakelines Slammedtogethertomakemeanings Slammedtogethertomakepoems.

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WHERE TO SPEND YOUR YOUTH He had chosen a thief’s life at sixteen Said no goodbyes the night he left, The memories like broken windowpanes Of hollow years, shattered in his mind.

Though his hope of saving himself was gone, He reached out to salvage me.

His hand fell heavy on my shoulder The thought of his past mistakes Stripped him of his smile His face sun beaten, his skin weather worn Though his cliché words fell faint on my ears His rigid voice muffled like waves echoing On some distant beach, I heard.

“Spend your youth on living,” he said.

Locked away behind bars, he had only Tales no one bothered to hear, of nineteen years The blur of bullets and pillaged liquor store shelves The faulty getaway car and a sprint through the woods until sunrise Hiding in gutters and dumpsters and worse Holding his breath, the pounding in his chest The flash of blue lights and a siren Handcuffs and short trials The familiar stench and stuffiness in the back seat of a squad car.

He had buried his lifestyle long ago And built a new one in its place Detailing cars down at the dealership

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To support a plump wife and three boys But it was too late.

They came for him Took him without asking To carry out a sentence he fashioned for himself long ago Leaving a pregnant mother in tears And three white faces peering from behind the curtains.

The years since have made it hard to recall his name But I will never forget those words I bumped into one of his sons the other day He gazed at me with his father’s blackberry eyes As I told him where to spend his youth.

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CAMP We are back at camp now Pines and oaks hide the blue from above Yet the bursts of a late sun peaks through the holes As I pass through the gates, the memories surface.

The bridge looms over the river Standing strong for so many years Old friends are waiting for me there Time has changed us, but the past remains.

I see the old canoes, sitting unused I remember the fun of paddling out too far The currents taking us down the river to the grassy shore The worry on the counselors' faces.

The dusty red building looks abandoned now Once upon a time, the horses would peak around their stalls As if to say “hey� to all the new faces Always ready to get on the trails.

The horses are all gone It feels much smaller now And I'm not the little kid with braids and freckles who had to jump to reach the top of the doorframe.

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Backwoods Bonanza Characters Leslie (Literature Teacher) Katie Lynn (Redneck) Hank (Rodeo Clown) Donnie-Joe (2nd Rodeo Clown) Scene: A small country kitchen. A round wooden table sits directly in the center. There is a large bowl of fruit in the center of the table. It is about 7:30 a.m. Leslie is sitting at the table, reaching for the lone banana in the bowl. Katie Lynn is standing at stage right, in front of Leslie, looking into the refrigerator.

Leslie: It’s the last banana.

Katie Lynn: (In her heaviest southern drawl) You eat it. I ain’t hungry this mornin’.

Leslie: I don’t really want it. Why don’t you have it?

Katie Lynn: I ate a bunch last night after the rodeo...you shoulda seen them horses. Hank’s Snowatch woulda won first place if it hadn’t been for Lucy Christianson. She pranced around the ring like a princess or somethin’...all the judges were google eyed.

Leslie: (Sarcastically at first, rolling her eyes) Hate I missed that! You know how I just love a good horse show. Really, eat the banana. I know how you love them. I’ll have a bagel.

Katie Lynn: (She pours herself a glass of milk Michelle Bradley

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from the fridge, grabs a napkin, and sits at the table opposite Leslie) I sure wished you’d eat that thang. You was reachin’ for it when I come in. I saw ya.

Leslie: (shrugging her shoulders) But we have bagels. I’ll just have one of them. You always have a banana for breakfast. Besides, how will you have your peanut butter if it isn’t stuck on the end of a banana?

Katie Lynn: It’s real ripe, ain’t it? One of us is gotta eat it today.

Leslie: Yes. It’ll be too ripe to eat soon-Katie Lynn: (shaking her head) Like I said, I really ain’t all that hungry. Go on...you eat it.

(She shakes a finger at Leslie) Leslie: Why do you love bananas so much?

Katie Lynn: ‘Cause I love peanut butter.

Leslie: I like them because they’re so soft. I don’t like hard fruit...

Katie Lynn: Like apples and pears?

Leslie: Right...apples and pears...

Katie Lynn: Do they hurt your teeth?

Leslie: (shaking her head) No. I just don’t like rough consistencies on my tongue.

Katie Lynn: So then how can you stand to eat grits?

Leslie: Grits are different. That’s not the point.

Katie Lynn: Well, I don’t see how you can like grits and not like apples and pears...don’t make no sense to me.

Leslie: I wish you’d go ahead and eat that banana before I’m forced to.

Katie Lynn: Why would you give me the last Michelle Bradley

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one? You shoulda been at the rodeo last night.

Hank did real good. That Lucy messed him up...

Leslie: Because I know how much you love bananas. You know I detest those ridiculous rodeos you love so much. Are you going to eat the banana or not?

Katie Lynn: What’s wrong with it?

Leslie: (standing abruptly from the table) Wrong with what? The rodeo or the banana? What do you mean?

Katie Lynn: Well, the banana, for goodness sake.

Why would I care what you think about the rodeo?

It’s your own business if you don’t like to have no fun. Why don’t you just eat the banana and be done with it? Why you so all fired anxious to be nice to me?

Leslie: Look, if you don’t want the stupid thing then I’ll eat it.

Katie Lynn: Why can’t I be nice to you and let you have it? Why are you always the nice one? I can be nice when I wanna, ya know--I never have understood it. Why you and me ended up so close is beyond all figurin’. A rodeo queen and a lit teacher. What a pair! Ever since we was kids we been like daylight and dark, truly. How did we ever come to be such friends? Just tell me that!

You always had your nose in a book. You never wanted to go out drinkin’ or nothin’. Still won’t!

Pure boredom! That’s you! Nope...I never will understand it. (Exaggerated sigh) Hank knows plenty of fellas who’d love to spice up your life some. He’s offered to set you up a dozen times.

Why don’t you live a little, Lessie? Why don’t ya Michelle Bradley

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break outta that borin’ life of yours? School and home, school and home...little Miss Professor Lady, ugghhh! Good thang you got me for a pal.

You should be livin’ it up these days, girl! One day you’ll be old and grey and tired and lonely for sure...with nothin’ to snuggle up to but a book or a term paper! You and your nice, polite ways...they never did match none of mine. But that brangs me back to that banana. I can be nice when I wanna be. I intend for you to eat that thang!

Leslie: (Grins and with mock sarcasm) Oh! I give up. In answer to why we could possibly survive as friends for so long, that’s easy. Aside from the fact that we’re cousins, I can honestly say we’ve stayed together by the Grace of God! He’s given me the patience to put up with you! Do you know how I keep from cracking up every day? I just pretend I’m playing in a television special. Imagine an episode of Bonanza and a day in Redneck, Alabama makes perfect sense. I don’t have to correct your horrendous vernacular because you’re just another one of the actors, playing your part very well. But most often lately, it’s like an episode of the Twilight Zone. You make less and less sense to me, the older we get. And don’t even think of going with the “setting me up” angle again! I’ve told you, I’m fine just as I am. You want the truth? Yes, I want the stupid banana. No, I don’t want you to eat it. But I know how much you love them and I just wanted to make you happy this morning...forget it! I’ve spent too much time on you already! Now I’m going to be late.

Katie Lynn: One day you’ll wake up and smell Michelle Bradley

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the coffee! I may live in the Twilight Zone, but you gotta admit, it’s a fun zone!

Leslie: Goodbye! (She rushes toward the front door-stage right) Katie Lynn: Mmmmm! I knowed if I got her mind hung up on somethin’ else she’d leave the banana to me! She’ll be studyin’ on that other stuff I said all day now! Banana and peanut butter.... yum!!!

Hank enters from stage left. He’s wearing a dirty, white cowboy hat, bright blue t-shirt, and torn jeans. He has a huge red handkerchief holding his pants up like a belt and his face still bears the bright rodeo-clown paint from the previous evening. He takes his hat off as he comes through the door to reveal a head full of dark hair. Another door slams as Hank enters. Leslie has just exited through the front door (stage right).

Hank: (He playfully ruffles her curly hair) Hey, Katie Lynn. How goes it?

Katie Lynn: (She points toward the front door) I’m worried about that one...that’s how goes it.

Hank: You don’t say! What kinda problem has Les got now?

Katie Lynn: (She glares at Hank, obviously impatient) Can you believe she was about to eat the last banana? She knows how I love ‘em. And she’s gittin’ old, ya know. You men don’t never get it. She’s lonely, poor pussycat! She needs us to git her a good man. She don’t never do nothin’ fun.

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Hank: Yeah, thirty-five and when’s the last date she had? I used to have a thang for ol’ Les. But that was a long time ago. You gotta admit, Katie Lynn, she is good-lookin’. Always has been.

Why do ya thank she’s can’t get a date? I just don’t understand it. (Shakes his head. He picks up the half-glass of milk that she has sitting in front of her on the table and gulps it down) Say, I was thankin’. Saturday night let’s go to the Catfish Cubbard for supper. It’s been a good spell since we had a real date of our own.

Katie Lynn: (She stands, shoves the last bite of banana and peanut butter into the trash and moves upstage, away from Hank) You’re kiddin’, right? I can’t think of leavin’ poor Lessie all by herself no more. We gotta figure out a way to git her a life. I can’t concentrate on a date knowin’ she’s all by herself! How in all that’s good and decent am I supposed to go out with you and have a good time, knowin’ poor Lessie’s stuck here all alone and bored? Maybe oncet I coulda done it. But not now. I’m tryin’ to convince her to get a life these days. She ain’t as young as she used to be. I can’t very well leave her to herself while I go out and have fun with you, now can I? Hank: So it ain’t that you just usin’ her as a reason to not go out with me? (He runs his fingers through his hair in an agitated fashion) Katie Lynn: You don’t know her the way I do.

She plays all independent and secure. She ain’t.

She’s havin’ a rough time bein’ the only one of our bunch who ain’t got no social life. Imagine! She won’t even go to no rodeo! I think she’s got some Michelle Bradley

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serious problems, Hank. What do we do? How can we help poor Lessie outta this mess?

Hank: Well, ain’t you all carin’ and thoughtful! I guess it wouldn’t be fittin’ for us to leave her in the dust like that...I have a idea! We’ll have a date together! The three of us!

Katie Lynn: Hank! Have you lost your marbles?

Hank: No, I guess that won’t work...(exaggerated grin) but it sounded fun to me!

Leslie rushes back into the kitchen, entering at stage right. The other two are jarred out of their intense conversation by the slam of the front door.

Leslie is obviously shocked to see Hank still in his clown make-up.

Leslie: Have you seen my keys? I can’t find my keys! I’m late!

Katie Lynn: Lessie, we wuz just talkin’ ‘bout ya.

We been thankin’-Leslie: (Searching the kitchen counter) I have no idea where I left them. They aren’t in my purse or my book bag...

Katie Lynn: I said, we been thankin’. (Winks at Hank) You got plans Saturday night, Les? Leslie: (Hesitantly, still searching the kitchen counter) Well, I’ll have papers to grade...no. I don’t have plans, yet. Why? Katie Lynn: Keep your schedule clear. We’ll let ya in on the plan later in the week. Just don’t schedule nothin’ for Saturday night.

Leslie: Here they are! Why on earth did I put Michelle Bradley

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them in the sink? I’ll see you tonight. (She rushes out the front door) Hank: What plan? I thought it was a bad idea for the three of us to go out!

Katie Lynn: You are so numb-skulled sometimes!

(She smacks him in the back of the head with her hand) You work with the rodeo, right? Where does a body find men? At a RODEO! Why didn’t I think of it before? We’ll find a nice fella to set Lessie up with. Now, let’s thank about it. Who you got in mind?

Lights fade completely to black over Katie Lynn and Hank as they put their heads together in planning. Leslie re-enters the stage and a spotlight illuminates her. She addresses the audience.

Leslie: Don’t worry. I’ve thwarted plans like this all my adult life. Well meaning friends come up with people who have absolutely nothing in common with me and then force me into social scenarios with the poor guys. I’m usually polite and live through the event, only to be reminded of how unlike my peers I really am. Do you know what it’s like to be different? To be different in a world of people who just don’t understand? I’m not sure whether I was born in the wrong time or the wrong place...maybe both. Maybe I’m just on the wrong planet...that would explain it. Whatever the case, I wish they’d just let me be happy in my solitude. It would be different if there was actually someone on earth who shared my interests. But so far, men are from Mars. Oh, I understand that my friends Michelle Bradley

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only want to help me...but really...I don’t want to be helped! Their help is terrifying! It’s scary how little the people closest to you actually understand you. That is illuminated for me every time I meet another potential beau that they’ve hand picked.

Where on earth do they come up with these guys?

Spotlight over Leslie fades to black and she exits stage right. Katie Lynn and Hank are once again illuminated and pick up as if they’ve never left off.

Hank: What about Todd Christianson? He’s a purty good fella.

Katie Lynn: I don’t know. There’s too many of them to decide. We need to get ‘em all together and just let her choose. That’s it! Let’s have a cow-poke rodeo! We can prance them all through here and let her decide! What do you think, Saturday night? We’ll invite all of ‘em that ain’t datin’ somebody now. She can’t refuse if we have it here! We won’t let her in on the big plans till everyone arrives. ‘Course, we can’t tell all them men what’s goin’ on, neither. They’ll all have to think they’re the only one comin’. They won’t like the idea of being paraded around. Let’s see...we need to make a bunch of plans. Let’s make a list...

Curtain closes. Hank and Katie Lynn change to party attire. Hank still wears his clown-makeup.

At the beginning of the scene, he and Katie Lynn are once again in the kitchen, awaiting the first guests. It’s Saturday evening around 7:00 p.m.

One at a time men dressed like cowboys, all with Michelle Bradley

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clown paint on, filter across the stage. They begin to mill about and talk quietly together in small groups. There are ten men in all.)

Katie Lynn: Surely with this many of ‘em she’ll spot somethin’ she likes!

Hank: (Shaking his head in agreement) There’s plenty of ‘em here...that’s for sure! We ain’t providin’ drinks for this many, are we?

Katie Lynn: (Ignoring his question) How did ya get ‘em here without ‘em knowin’ what for?

Hank: Easy. Free food. And I went to each of ‘em private like and told ‘em that Les wanted me to invite him like she specially wanted to see him or somethin’.

Katie Lynn: Good thankin’. That way some of ‘em is sure to go talk to her as soon as she shows herself.

Leslie enters stage right, obviously shocked at the crowd that has gathered.

Leslie: What on earth is going on, Katie Lynn? I wasn’t aware you’d planned something with Hank’s friends tonight. I would have made plans to be out.

One after another the men begin approaching Leslie and shaking her hand. They file past her as if they’re in a buffet line, mumbling introductions and hellos. The last one in line speaks loud and clear.

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Donnie-Joe: Hey, Leslie. You and me met before.

Remember? When we was twelve in front of the liquor store. I been wantin’ to talk to you since then. Never could come up with the nerve. Good thing I found out you had a hankerin’ for me.

Thanks for invitin’ me specially to this here shindig. I’da never knowed you was interested in me had you not had ol’ Hank to say somethin’.

Leslie gives an exasperated look at Katie Lynn and Hank and then steps forward, away from the group, addressing the crowd. Lights fade except for one spotlight on Leslie. Leslie takes a book from the kitchen counter and begins to read aloud to the audience, while the rest of the cast remains completely still and silent.

Leslie: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women are merely players. They have their exits and their entrances”...hmmm...it’s Bonanza alright! I think it’s time for my exit.

Curtain.

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Cover photos: Jenine Larsen