Wingspan Magazine 2011

Wingspan Fall 2011

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VOLUME 11

Editor………………………..Sharon DeVaney-Lovinguth Assistant Editors……………………..Jeremy Burgess ………………………………………………...Gail Braswell Cover Photograph & Art Front Cover Art by Molly Hand Page 3

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 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 lovinguth@jeffstateonline.com

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Wingspan Volume 11 Fall 2011

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Poetry Cecelia Thompson………………………………………………..8 Christopher Kelly………………………………………………….9 Jeremy Burgess…………………………………………………..10 Amy Robinson…………………………………………12, 13, 14 Lisa Stewart…………………………………………………………15 Dennis DeShazo……………………………………………16, 17 Mohamed Elbadawi………………………………....19, 30-31 Tim Oakley…………………………………………….……….20-23 Kaylee Fleming………………………………………….………..24 Heather Mitchell …………………………………………….26-28 Tony Lovell……………………………………………………..32-33

Art Vance Wesson……………………………………………………….7 Greg McCallister……………………………………...11, 25, 81 Jessica Gomer………………………………………………………18 Benjamin Clark…………………………………………………….29 Sarah Luckadoo…………………………………………………..35 David Greene…………………...……………………………41, 54 Taryn Hand…………………………………………………………..65 Erica Glover…………………………………………..…3, 66, 111 Monika Mueller……………………….…………………………...73 Amanda Owen……………………………………………………. 95 Molly Hand ……………………………..Front & Back Covers

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Fiction Fred Bonnie, Jr……………….36-40,42-45 L. E. Richey………………………………..46-53 Timothy Nalley………………………..…55-57 Bethany Mitchell………………………..58-64 Whitney Echols…………………………..67-71

Non-Fiction Conrad Duncan………………………….74-80 Lora Whitehead………………………….82-89 Susan Yager……………………………….90-94 Justin Fisher………………………….….96-101 Zac Alexander………………………..102-110

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Poetry

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Vance Wesson

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Holy Fail

Emotionless bliss teases clear Parted waves swell past my pursed lips Scorned eyes pleads of less kiss Thoughts scoffed, swearing Delivery of burdened, broken crosses His endearing hearts piercing Ribbed by the beating Of which Eve left us bleeding High mourning Conceived from stoned meeting evenings

Cecilia Thompson

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Lost at Sea

A depression deep under water Light obliterated by unspeakable darkness Breathing never was discovered Only a myth I want to believe Through fears that weigh heavy And a dread that drowns out the relic, hope The pressure no human can survive The battle belongs to the unknown The thing that questions existence As my soul lies somewhere beyond sorrow The search for an angel is in vain Only demons that wear halos and jeer The temperature is at its coldest And I replay the image of the sun Reaching out one last time

Christopher Kelly

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Louisiana Truck Stop, March 2011Midnight drive Eight hours from Austin, seven hours from Birmingham A Pilot with an Arby’s A large man takes my order French dip, curly fries “Small, medium, or large?”

Medium I fill my cup and wait Nickelodeon sitcom in the corner A metalhead orders food Black beans with a halo tattooed on his calf Holy Frijoles A young woman brings out a sack She says my name But I never told them my name American Express did Fellow man’s got your back I check the order Everything’s cool There’s a golden bell mounted by the exit “Ring this bell if your service was great” My service was just okay I don’t ring the bell I stare at it, briefly The door chimes when I push it Jeremy Burgess

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Greg McCallister

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Balm A train whistle sounds from the tracks in the distance The loneliest cry in the quiet of night The wind brings the sound along silvery wings Surrounding me in the darkness As I stand atop these towering bluffs The city below me in silence lies A blanket of glimmering fallen stars And the moon it’s soft admirer These days are flowing, rushing by A river swollen with memories But a moment must be stolen Just to heal my haggard soul I use this quiet as a balm Before I must return to life Return to that which often screams And then whispers words of love Day to day, breath to breath Through webs of laughter, veils of tears I walk this path, inevitably Ending up on these bluffs alone Here I breathe the frosty air Wrap myself in the silk of moonlight My eyes on diamonds no one wears But are there for all to see While in the still and quiet night My soliloquy begins Amy Robinson

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And whispering my dreams It seems they may even come true Tranquility becomes my friend The only one I really need At least in this one moment There is no one else to please My life below - my home, my loves Are waiting when I do return It is that which binds my heart No matter what my life may bring The path remains a constant And as long as I can climb I will live and I will die a woman, healed

Amy Robinson

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The Walk

Walking tonight in the cold Little white clouds preceding my steps With each breath I take and let go I wonder at the path I’m now taking There is so much for me to see Beyond the smallness of my old life I feel overwhelmed by the vastness of this world Where once I would not have taken the first step I now have begun the journey Where I will go, I never know And there’s really no reason to even guess So for now, I’m just going to enjoy the walk

Amy Robinson

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Sleepwalker Most people do what they do because it’s what they have always done.

They give no thought to the personal meaning of their life in this world.

Following the directions of what they were taught.

They do not dare step out of the boundaries of conventionalism to explore.

Following the conscience of the collective.

Sleepwalking through life.

Resenting others who are unconventional and seeking their own truths.

Resenting those with courage who are not afraid to wake up!

However, they will take a moment to ponder death because they are afraid to die.

Accepting a religion for the false sense of security they receive.

Fear masquerades as self righteous indignation.

The need to feel superior to hide the shame of error.

Blindly believing they are in control.

To reveal in the end, they are the fools.

Realizing life is gone and they slept through it all.

Lisa Stewart

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Without You

Being without you The emptiness that tries to fill Holding on to dream that never comes true Wondering if you coming back is real

Standing on the corner at midnight Being by yourself is the darkest hour Don't know if I can make things right I know that is not within my power

The pain of uncertainty covers me Like the brutal numbing chill of December I just wish you would come back, come back to me I want it like it used to be, I still remember

Those nights when you held me close Your soft brown hair lying across my chest Those are the times I miss the most It is then, when I was blessed

Dennis DeShazo

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If I can't have it the way it was in the beginning I will live with the memories If you can call dying, living but my heart can't keep giving.

Being without you...

Dennis DeShazo

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Jessica Gomer

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Fallen Leaf In the tree of love I am a leaf that hangs by a thread on the branch of ancestry You are the wind of love that will carry me eventually, To my fate and destiny In the season of fall When the leaves change colors and the rains of life fall And your wind shakes the tree of love firmly, Some leaves stay and some leaves fall I’m a fallen leaf The time has come for me to leave My roots detach very slow The tree of love reluctantly let me go I’m leaving the only root I know The wind finally carries me away from the tree Am I free?

Or A prisoner in the hands of destiny Maybe the rains will wash me to the sea Maybe the winds will send me to heaven’s mercy But, Your hands catch me And Plant me in your heart gently Yes Your heart is my root Your love is my fruit I am a fallen leaf from above I am falling free in your love.

Mohamed Elbadawi

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County Road Eight

The cold oil staggers in the crankcase Then within seconds it becomes fluid and flows smooth Battered by pistons it shuffles through O rings And cast iron membranes My confident stroke down past “N” to “D” I drive away

The road lies level for a mile Then falls and tumbles like a charcoal ribbon Along the hillside The hard smoky frost blanket an open field Taken from the night

The roar of notchy rubber in constant Hard collisions with asphalt The familiar lazy structures the tilted wounded A frames Weather hardened and taut

So I float in suspension a somewhat rhythm Along county road eight My mind does love to dance A shift and swagger across the big stage

Tim Oakley

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On that one day when time runs true Like the thought of summer when it’s cold On that one day in the A.M. You feel the sun break through And you’re in stride and you’re fluid and you’re bold

Tim Oakley

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Lateral Frame The girl modifies her thoughts turns the corner And walks out of sight For intrigue in every moment she traded anger Anxiousness and strife She then greets the hectic city with natural pulsing Swaggers to the new born day She was born and raised in Harting a country town Outside of Jackson in 1967 early May I’ve watched her from her childhood grow to a Dangling lanky change Her world was won and lost in Memphis on a long One-sided game Her prominent high cheeks the spectacled green eyes The lateral never ending frame

I’ve often seen the wind rip through the morning You know that I know that you know we’re not the same On the streets the instant cell phone conversations The angled metal awnings the cold the young the aged She stands confident in the present to the pressing change The urgent frequent flow of life How can marrow joined into blood and tissue Covered over with freckled skin exist like this I’ve watched her from the cradle Tim Oakley

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I knew she was special Now she’s moving through the city Now she’s moving to the city In her lateral frame

Tim Oakley

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Just Believe There it stands- always awaiting, oh speculation.

There it floats- forever will be an ideal. People say you live in your imagination. Then we are doing something right, any action must first be imagined. You know what you know- wonderful experience. This happening in life forever remained. To be returned in a double fold by sharing with another's soulful journey. Leaved me be with the power to grow - deep love. Received in the freeing of fear- sweet capacity. Above those in which once were; opinions just unperfected belief. Perfect love. Oh fantastically made you are. Reach out to live presently and beyond- ability. The chaos tuned out but yes to hear the music of your soul- endlessly. Created to be dreamt; felt from this heart~ full of endless possibilities. Up` see the clouds in the sky; resemble each dreamawaken. No matter where you go or see, she stands aimlessly- creativity. Your feet on the ground this mind soars high- belief in you.

Kaylee Fleming

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Greg McCallister

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A Dale Earnhardt Elegy You were able to see the wind, able to put a car where no one else could, capable of wielding a 3400 pound monster with more skill than your competitors on any given Sunday afternoon; 5 those were the praises you heard from competitors and your fans in the stands while sitting behind the wheel of the Black #3.

You were reckless, a maniac, not able to race clean, 10 willing to wreck anybody just for a win; those were the nicer complaints shouted by competitors and other driver fans in the stands that hated your aggressive driving.

Whether they loved you or hated you, 15 they admitted their respect for you.

The Man in Black, The Intimidator, Ole’ Ironhead, You are a NASCAR legend, 20 a hardnosed competitor from start to finish.

You were a racer for the working man, Heather Mitchelll

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having come from a blue collar family in a small rural town.

Up through the ranks of racing 25 to the spot-light, to become a seven time NASCAR champion.

Bestowing hope to those Saturday night kings of the dirt, hope, that they too, may one day 30 mount up on their sheet-metal horses, and make the move from the dirt of Saturday night to the pavement on Sunday afternoon.

Your climb to the top of NASCAR was not easy, there were many a twist and turn.

35 At every fork in the road, Lady Luck guided your way.

During the race at Daytona in 2001, the luck of the lady was not with you.

The wreck appeared minor compared 40 to many before.

While the team you owned, went on to victory; all that were watching, waiting to celebrate your victory, 45 Heather Mitchell

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waiting for the moment you would drop the window net, just waiting...

There was no dropping of the net.

There was no applause as emergency personnel extracted your limp body from the car.

Silence.

There was a blue tarp shrouding your car.

50 There was a helicopter taking your broken body away.

The celebration was cut short, and more waiting…

Then came the words that will live with all race fans forever, “After the accident in Turn 4 55 at the end of the Daytona 500, we've lost Dale Earnhardt”.

Heather Mitchell

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Benjamin Clark

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Virgin Island Your eyes are oceans that have no shore Your heart is the virgin Island that I’m looking for I’m on an epic journey to the never land, between two points that are far a part I’m sailing the ship of love from your eyes to your heart Your heartbeat is an ocean wave that carries my ship closer to your shore When you close your eyes, the ocean is calm and the ship flows faster even more I see the dreams in your eyes Your heart is a virgin, never been with lies When you breathe in, your breath is the wind that pulls my ship towards you But… When you cry, your tears are the rainstorms that push my ship away from you Don’t cry…please don’t cry Open your beautiful eyes Let the sun of hope rise Let me navigate my love safely to your heart Your sadness will push us apart Laugh and inhale the breath of life You are the reason that I’m alive

Mohamed Elbadowi

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Let the wind carry the ship of love to your virgin Island Let my heart walk around your wonderland Let my feet feel your golden sand Let my hand hold your hand

Mohamed Elbadowi

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Borrow Your Hate: An Open Letter to Prejudice Dear every homophobe and racist bastard.

I love you, simply and dearly.

Forever and always, because that is how we all should be.

That is how we all should live-wrapped up in the arms of one another living life to the fullest and loving our neighbors as we love ourselves.

But I must tell you-Damn you and your soapbox!

I need to borrow your hate for a day or two. Maybe even just an hour, just long enough so that I may feel what it is to live inside your skin. You know you have a problem when you are reduced to a fate of borrowing another man's hate and running wild through the doors that have no locks, no chains, and no guards to keep out the fear.

I need to borrow your hate so I can pretend to have an emotion like you-so I can text you greater-than colon dash closeparenthesis L-o-L F-T-W exclamation point-because, today, that is how the world speaks-in symbols and gaps, because we're all in a hurry, and hate can be fed like a slice of cake when the person you're speaking to only has a phone to receive your bullet.

I need to borrow your hate so that when I look in the mirror, I see what you see much clearer-the way sweet must no longer cling to my eyes,

Tony Lovell

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the way disgust is painted across my lips.

I will know that face in the mirror so damn well, and I will call him "queer"!

Let me borrow your hate, and crumble it up like every bad idea you ever had!

Let me borrow your anger and your fear, that which you wear like a necktie, and sometimes like the noose that people like you use to wrapped around the necks of the beautiful souls of black men, women and children, and I will baptize them anew with love that you can wear like your own skin.

Let me borrow your hate so that maybe I'll see just how my kissing a man could have any fucking impact on your daily life.

Maybe I'll see how the world could be affected by true love, and not your worthless definition that marriage is simply meant for a man and woman.

Why shouldn't two women or two men, who love one each other truly be allowed to unite their lives openly and freely?

Maybe I'll see how the color of her skin could reach inside your home and set your world on fire, or how the word "nigger" could ever find its way inside the micro-mind you seem to possess.

Maybe I'll see how your tiny, self-loathing, self-righteous atmosphere could find a place in this great big world.

Let me borrow your hate so maybe I'll understand within all this fog and confusion exactly what it is that we did to you!

Adieu!

Tony Lovell

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Fiction

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Sarah Luckadoo

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The Thief I knew it was wrong, but I had to do it. They were so cool that my instincts overwhelmed me, and because of my recklessness, I lost a friend.

I sighed as my friend (or used to be) Logan stormed away from me, taking his basketball, which was what we were playing before I told him that I had stolen Mr. Charles handcuffs. Mr. Charles was Logan’s father and a cop, so the moment the words came out of my mouth, I knew I would probably be in prison the next morning. Logan was so infuriated that I swore I saw steam come out of his nose and ears. It was a daze, but I knew I saw Logan riding his bike away from me, no longer my friend, and this was no dream.

Logan was getting smaller and smaller, and the smaller he got, the more lonelier I felt. I realized there was no more use for me being here, so I hopped on my bike and rode slowly to my house. I dreaded the moment when my parents found out that I had stolen something of a cop’s. As I rode, there were other kids from my neighborhood playing outside, but they had a friend to play with, leaving really sad. I pushed the thought from my mind.

I was home, finally, and I kicked the kickstand down in the garage and picked up a soda can at my feet. I threw it as hard as I could at the wall, making a loud THUNK. I entered the living room and the scene of a usual Friday night developed before me: My little brother Jason was playing the Wii, Mom was cooking Hamburger Helper for dinner, and Dad was researching something for work on the Macintosh computer.

“Hey honey, go to the bathroom and wash up for dinner, it’s going to be ready in about five minutes,” said Mom pleasantly.

I didn’t say anything, but proceeded to the bathroom and washed my hands, and then took about five seconds to get to my room and close the door. I thought about my situation, thinking that any second now Mom and Dad would figure out about me stealing the handcuffs. I realized that I would have to return them somehow before they found out, and then say I never stole them and Logan and Mr. Charles were losing their marbles. But I knew I could never do that. I felt under my pillow and there they were, the handcuffs.

Fred Bonnie, Jr.

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I knew I had to return them, but they were so cool! With the shiny metal chrome and the way it clicked when you closed the circles, but I was being stupid. I mean, you could probably get handcuffs for about five bucks at Walmart, so what was the point of stealing them from your best friend’s dad?

Well, you wouldn’t have to pay, I thought, but that made me feel guiltier, thinking of stealing as a good thing and not a bad thing, because I didn’t have to pay.

Yes you did, you had to pay with a friend, said a voice in the back of my head.

“I know, I know, shut up,” I said to myself.

Soon enough, I pulled a book out of my bedside bookshelf and started to read. I like reading in my room because it’s comfortable. Well, the bathroom is too but sometimes it’s embarrassing to do that, because if you get caught, there’s going to be some issues, but I’ve always wondered whether Dad reads on the toilet.

“Ethan, time for dinner!” Mom shouted to me.

Ethan, that’s my name, but in my case, I mostly hate my name. I even want to be a totally different person sometimes.

Would it have killed you Einstein, to create a potion that allowed you to be a totally different person at will?

I trudged down the stairs, as slow as a turtle. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the hare won this race.

When I made it to the Dining Table, I couldn’t see faces.

All of them were over their Hamburger Helper. Even our dog, Autumn, seemed to be joining in by plunging her face into her dog food.

I had barely eaten when everyone else was on second helpings, and Mom kept sending suspicious glances at me, so she knew something was wrong, and my fears were confirmed when she asked, “What’s wrong Ethan?”

Great, I have to actually tell you what’s wrong?

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. I swear if she uses her most feared weapon, I’m going to die, because it’s going to get ugly when she uses it.

Fred Bonnie, Jr.

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“It would be better to tell me,” Mom said.

Darn it! I swear Mom, stop being so nosy, okay, but it wouldn’t kill me to tell her what kind of happened.

“Fine, Logan said we weren’t friends anymore, happy?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, mister, now how did you lose Logan?” said Mom, her eyes narrowing, because she knew the answer was going to be interesting.

Well, this was it, the big decision. Am I going to tell the truth and face two weeks of grounding, or am I going to lie and face two months of grounding?

“Uhhh, I told him something,” I said.

There, I said the truth.

“What did you say?” came Mom’s voice.

“I, umm, stole Mr. Charles’ handcuffs,” I said nervously, my voice shaking.

“You what!” shouted my mother, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole neighborhood heard it, it was so loud. She shot out of her seat; the chair fell down behind her with a loud bang, and glared at me as she approached.

For the first time, I started eating as fast as I could, because I knew I was going to be sent to my room for the night, and I was not going to be hungry, and by the time my plate was empty, I was being dragged to my room.

The door shut behind me with a slam. The mountain sized pile of guilt seemed to have an avalanche and lighten, probably because I had told someone else about it, but I still felt guilty: I hadn’t confronted Mr. Charles yet, and he might know by now, thinking of what to do with me.

As I sat on my bed, the theories of what Mr. Charles would do to me built higher and higher, and I grew more and more fearful. I took the handcuffs the handcuffs out from under the pillow and felt them again, and slowly, I got drowsy, and as I was slipping off, I vowed that I would return the handcuffs tomorrow, even if it mean sneaking out.

When I woke up the next morning, I hadn’t forgotten about Fred Bonnie, Jr.

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the vow about returning the handcuffs, so I dressed and slipped the cuffs in my pocket. Then quietly and cautiously, I sneaked down the stairs into the kitchen. Thank goodness it was Saturday, the day everyone slept in. I walked out the door and climbed onto the bike, and set off.

I was passing the Deavers’ house when their dog Oscar started barking at me, so I sped up, I didn’t want to wake up the whole neighborhood, did I? It didn’t take long for me to get to Logan’s house, because we live in the same neighborhood. I walked up to the door and placed the handcuffs on the welcome mat, and then walked away, and rode home.

I was eating breakfast when the doorbell rang.

Mom answered it and I was surprised to see Mr. Charles, and then I noticed he was holding the handcuffs. I knew what this was about, but then I suddenly was filled with questions when I saw Logan come out of hiding from behind his father.

“Ah, Mr. Charles, what a pleasant surprise,” said Mom. “Thank you Mrs. Holden, but it seems I have found my handcuffs sitting on my welcome mat when I walked out to get the morning paper, and when Logan saw me with them, he told me that Ethan had stolen them.”

I was more nervous than I’d ever been before. more nervous than the minute before you were going to take a math test.

Mom glanced at me and then turned back to Mr. Charles.

“Well, I didn’t know that, but, what will happen to him?” she lied.

“I will have to arrest him,” replied Mr. Charles.

He approached me with the handcuffs I had stolen from him and as I was being put under arrest, Logan said something that surprised me but made me happier than I had ever been before. He said, “No.” “What do you mean Logan?” asked Mr. Charles.

“I won’t let you take him,” answered Logan defiantly. his.”

“I have to take him Logan, he stole something that wasn’t Fred Bonnie, Jr.

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“No, you can’t. You can’t take my friend away. Besides, he brought ‘em back.”

I couldn’t have been happier. I had my friend back.

“Well, I suppose I can give him one more chance,” Mr. Charles said, and then winked at me, and he left the house with a smile on his face, and Logan didn’t go with him.

I looked at Mom. She was smiling too.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“I called Charles last night, and I told him, that you would return the handcuffs, and if Logan saw you being arrested, you two would make up.”

“Well, it worked,” Logan and I said together.

“You want to go play basketball?” asked Logan.

I gave him a grin. I had expected him to say that, and after all, basketball was Logan’s favorite sport.

“Let’s go!” I shouted, and we ran out the door.

Fred Bonnie, Jr.

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David Greene

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Jason Parker: The Trip to the Underworld Chapters 1 & 2 of the Novel Chapter 1 Jason He was just an orphan, an orphan who had nowhere to go, and he was cold, hungry, and exhausted from traveling for a week by foot with little sleep.

It was raining, and as the drops of rain bounced off of the road, it made a soft pitter-patter, but the sound of it was overwhelmed when a blinding flash of lightning, and a deafening boom of thunder came.

Jason Parker was an eleven-year-old who, unlike the other kids in Birmingham, Alabama, was on the run from the police, because they would give him to foster parents. He had lost his parents in a car crash that he had survived, and he had to bring himself up on the street, with no one to look after him, but the crash had happened more than a year ago, so Jason was used to being alone and grimy.

Sometimes he wished that someone would save him, bring him up and help him survive, but he would never go to a foster home, because he didn’t even know those people, and he wouldn’t be able to live peacefully under those circumstances.

He continued his journey, and in about five minutes he was in the parking lot of a small store called Easy-Breezy Quick Shop, where there was food. Hopefully he would be able to sneak in and have a feast, but he had to do it quickly and silently.

He waited until the door was open, and then he sneaked inside, and when he entered, he was engulfed with a bunch of stares and looks of disgust at the sight of his face, which was covered in dirt, and his brown hair, which had once been nice and clean, now all scraggly and nasty, but his clothes were the same ones he had worn on the day of the crash, and boy were they in bad shape: too short with holes where the knees would go, and several of them on his shirt, so what used to say “Alabama” now said A __ba_ a.

Jason ignored the looks and hastily walked over to the nearly empty bread aisle and slipped a loaf out of it’s bag, and began Fred Bonnie, Jr.

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tearing it in little dinner roll sized pieces, and ate them one by one.

After he finished the bread, he headed over to the sweets, and sneaked a dozen sized box of cream filled cupcakes and ate them all, and while he put the box down, he noticed a light green slip of paper on the floor.

He picked it up, and realized it was a ten-dollar bill, and he smiled.

As he thought, he noticed that a woman was looking at him with a smile on her face. Jason knew he was supposed to be freaked out, but he noticed how pretty she was, how she didn’t curl her nose when she saw his hair or torn clothes. Jason looked at her and saw her name-tag, and he saw that her name was Jane.

“Need help finding something dear?” asked Jane nicely.

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” replied Jason, feeling his face go red, and he kept on going.

He headed down the aisles and bought some peanut butter, saltine crackers, a box of Oreos, and a three liter bottle of coke, and headed to the counter, and bought the food. He left the store with only a dime for change and stopped in an alley close to the store. He ate some of the peanut butter and crackers and some of the coke, and almost immediately, he fell asleep, and it was a dreamless sleep, which he always loved.

Chapter 2 The Mirrored Room When Jason woke up the next morning, he had some more food and drink for breakfast, and set off down the street, carrying it with him. After about twenty minutes he stopped and his jaw dropped.

Another ten dollar bill, was sitting on top of a parking meter, waiting for him, and he grabbed it. It was amazing, at how for the second time in twenty-four hours, he had found a ten dollar bill, and he slipped it into his pocket.

On and on, he kept finding ten dollar bills, and in less than an hour, he had one hundred-twenty dollars, and he knew what Fred Bonnie, Jr.

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he was going to do with it.

He walked into Old Navy, to buy some new clothes, hopefully a shirt, some pants, underwear, socks, shoes, and a thin jacket.

It was crowded for ten o’clock, but nevertheless, he found some clothes that actually fit him, and he tried them on.

His shirt was plain, and green, and his pants were jeans, of course. He also got some new underwear and a thin jacket, which was red that had a wildcat on it, to carry the coke, peanut butter, saltine crackers, the Oreos, and other things he might have as he went.

Then he found something very peculiar. The mirror, which used to be a reflection of him, but now the glass was swirling, and then it created what looked like a whirlpool, which Jason found very odd, and he made the biggest mistake of all, and touched the glass, and the dressing room was gone, and it was pitch black, but then he saw something else that made his jaw drop.

He was standing in a strange room, where there were mirrors surrounding him, so it looked like there were a hundred of him.

There was also a mirror door at the end of the room, which Jason found pretty odd, but nevertheless, he approached it, went inside, and he gasped.

A glass tank, with a brain inside of it, was standing in the center of the room. It was a clear tank of course, but there was also liquid and it helped the brain float. The color of the liquid was green, and just looking at it made him feel sick.

He wondered what he should do, and wondered if it was stupid if he asked the brain what to do. Yes, it was stupid, but there was nothing else in the room because the mirror door had vanished.

“Ummm, Mr. Brain, what am I supposed to do?” Jason asked it.

In a robotic voice, it answered.

“Answer this riddle, and you may pass, but if you are incorFred Bonnie, Jr.

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rect, you’ll be stuck here forever.”

Mr. Brain began the riddle.

“The people who make it don’t use it, the people who buy it don’t want it, the people who use it don’t know it. What am I?” Jason had no idea what the answer was, and the fear of having to be stuck in here forever wasn’t helping, but he knew he had to try.

“Well, if they make it, they could be construction builders, but the people who buy it don’t want it, so it’s not a building...” and Jason kept on thinking.

“Well, if they use it and don’t know it, they might be dead, so what do dead people use?” Jason asked himself, and then it hit him.

“A coffin!”

“You are correct,” Mr. Brain said in his robotic voice.

Jason noticed a trapdoor appear at the foot of the tank. He opened it and saw blackness. He took a deep breath, ready to jump in.

Fred Bonnie, Jr.

46 Am I Pretty?

The man juggled the keys in his pocket, caressing the etching along the backside of the key. His mind was lost in subconscious thought, his hands numbly following the ridges from the head to the pointed tip. His fingers scratched aimlessly, becoming tender under the endless pressure, his tissue deteriorating above his finger tips. His middle finger was pricked, a strip of blood oozing from the scar dripping down the inside of his finger into his pocket. The scar was always there, a constant reminder of his dread. It had not always been there, but over the years it had developed into a blemish that he never had been able to escape. The prick hurt, but the pain was drowned by his thoughts, his unrelenting despair ripping at his insides. He wished he could die, just to let go of the pain of the scar, of his eternal suffering. He knew that wish would never come true. He would die an old man always standing at his doorstep scraping away at his keys. He had a blank stare on; his eyes were glassy and glazed over by the effervescent tears. His mind was numb, chilling silence reverberated throughout the void; cascading blackness swallowed any hope emitted from his brain. Why couldn’t he end it? Did the gods hate him that much? He cursed them under his breath, letting the soothing anger flow through him, embellishing his need for spite. His dead eyes dropped to the door handle, coldness shined golden flashed back at him. He saw his reflection, a decaying mass of a man, unkempt, barren; unfeeling. He cried to himself, quiet sobs ringing out from his throat. He tried to stop, but his sobs choked him, blinding tears fell to his hands.

His self pity soon turned to loathing, revisiting him as it always did with insincere vengeance steering him forward. He let out a choked gasp, fresh breath filling his lungs, and as he did so it recoiled to a haunted sigh. He gripped the keys tightly, more blood gushing from the inside of his palm, relishing in being called forth for the sacred ritual. He religiously slid the key into the lock and turned with consuming force, calling forth the anger bubbling inside the burning chasms. With ferocity, he pushed the door open, revealing his modest and relatively ugly interior of a house.

His couch was worn out, the dust collecting underneath the patched fabric. His rocking chair was pointed at his humble television, calling for him to sit and relax, to rejuve-

L. E. Richey

47 nate. He whispered a promise that he would; he just had to take care of some business before he could slip into it, taking his mind to a wandering dreamland. His ragged pajamas were thrown across a small desk in the far corner of the room, enticing him with needed and restful sleep. He absentmindedly smiled at the thought. His smile disappeared as he entered the next room, his eyes beholding the stuffy kitchen. A stench had risen, he glanced over at the pot coming to a boil; dinner was being prepared. His tear-jerked eyes withdrew from the filthy pot, encircling the rest of the morbid room. This is what he came home to. He knew, though, that it would only get worse; he mentally prepared for the inevitable onslaught yet to come.

His mind became a mush of matter; glass washed over his eyes, his thoughts retreated into the far corners hiding from the ever present danger. A voice arose from the bedroom, a driving screech that of a banshee, or maybe a witch demon. He chuckled at his thought, but then it instantly receded leaving him with the feeling of emptiness, an unending hollow. “Oh, John, you’re home.� The woman in front of him said. She was relatively beautiful, although she had a more modest complexion. Her face was flawed, freckles dimpled across her cheeks. Her mouth was sweet, an indented curvature outlining above her subtle chin. Her nose wiggled when her mouth moved, issuing the words off her pink hued tongue.

Her hair was sandy brown, a little plain compared to the rest of her features. It laid there on top of her head, almost as if it was a dead animal resting on her. It had no life, no curls only placid existence. His gaze descended lowering itself to her body. Her bosom was shapely, extending itself beneath her brown apron.

Her legs were defined, but worried with toil and domesticate labor. His gaze lifted to her head once more, settling on her eyes. There was something disturbing in those eyes, those two brown, murky pools. He had seen it many times before, for nearly nine years this surreal craziness had occupied those brown pupils, a vile swamp creature lurking, writhing underneath the decay of the sunken bog. The creature was soon sure to be hungering for its daily prey, lashing at its victim vehemently, sinking the poisonous fangs into the tender underbelly.

His sullen eyes elapsed into ethereal thoughts; time seemed to vanish; mere instants turned to innumerable eternities. His phantasmal thoughts were jerked to present time with a sharp

L. E. Richey

48 perturbation echoing from his wife’s soft but stern voice.

“Dinner will be ready soon.” She said unconcernedly.

She fumbled with the strings on the back of the apron, tightening the knots and adjusting the slack. She smoothed out her apron, evaporating the wrinkles billowing along the folds. “How was work?” A wisp of hair unhinged from her head, sweeping across her forehead to her soft cheek. She gently rolled the hair back across her face, and tucked it behind her left ear.

He only half heard her. “Same as it was yesterday, not good, but not terribly bad.” It was grueling talking about his day; his mind had already blanked out that instance of his life. He always knew this small talk was only leading to the impending demise of his evening. All he wished for was to soak in a hot bath, layer himself with his dirt-ridden pajamas, and to experience the rapture of a deserving sleep.

A fictitious smile slipped onto her face. “Well, at least, it wasn’t terrible…” “Did anything exciting happen today?” A conscious, but distinctly uncaring smile surfaced, uplifting the corners of her mouth. It was well practiced, almost a benevolent recital. It burned him.

“No, nothing terribly exciting.” Rage built up in his chest, swelling it to two times its normal width. It smelted in him, a roaring blaze of heat. His nostrils flared, slightly wiggling in agitation. After a few seconds, his insides cooled, diminishing his inflated chest.

“Oh, well hopefully tomorrow will be better, more exciting.” Her face bubbled with enthusiasm; then sulked to pasteurized unconcern. Very well practiced he observed, but continually flawed with unconvincing breaches in persona.

He grunted a response and stretched to the refrigerator eagerly gripping two bottles of whiskey, his defense against the onslaught of his wife.

“You always go for the whiskey when you come home, are you a drunk?” “It’s like you never want to talk to me. I always ask about your day and you never ask about mine.” Her brown eyes glared with vehemence, the swamp creature snaking its way to the vulnerable shore.

L. E. Richey

49 “I talk to you. It’s just… I need a relaxer after a hard day at work, that’s all.” His breath hung cold, waiting to escape the unrestrained questioning.

She gave him a hot look, discerning whether or not he was telling the truth. Her glower scorched through him, he wanted to retreat into his rotting shell. Finally her gaze abated, relinquishing its iron grip on his form. She gave him a slight smile, an easiness registering in her thoughts.

“You know, you are a pretty handsome man.” Her fingers glided to his face, stroking the contours shaping his tight jaw. “Maybe after dinner, you’ll get lucky.” Her hands lowered to his shoulders, sliding to his chest, squeezing his fine, taught muscle. Her eyes lowered, hovering, then returned to his face. Her smile was wide, now, wickedly showing her teeth.

He hated when she looked at him like this. It was a painful ceremony, a cryptic covenant between man and woman, leaving him exhausted and unfulfilled. He would rather endure her impervious questions, then the daunting task of trying to please this abhorrent woman. Execrable bile filled the inside of his mouth; a detestable taste flooded his tongue. His stomach lurched. He was going to throw up. He made his breathing slow, gasping long breaths of filthy air. His stomach settled, the nausea subsiding. It was ghastly to think of this concubine having her way with him. He hoped she had not noticed the revulsion spotted in his complexion.

Her eyes went out of focus. She absently turned to stare out the window, the last shimmer of pinkish light fading behind the great pines. A dead tone of sound escaped her mouth, a muddled thought trying to bubble to the surface. His nostrils flared, filling with the scent of burnt air. He turned towards the stove, seeing the boiling water overflow over the rim of the pot. He hurried for a rag, and reached for the knob turning it to the off mark. He wiped the stove, hot water splashed onto his rough hands. He let out a small yelp of pain, instantly comforting his terrorized hand. He silently made his way back to his wife, dodging a chair in the process. She still looked out the window, totally undeterred by the previous event. He knew where she was, he had visited many times before. She was in a

L. E. Richey

50 dream warp, an alter reality, an escape from life. Her vision was in a mental fog, gliding along the paths of her wildest dreams and imaginings.

“What was that, honey?” His curiosity had gotten the better of him. He was fascinated by what he saw, by this unearthly connection to his wife.

Her expression was completely blank, an inhuman glow radiated about her. Her soft words finally entered the veil of reality. “Am I pretty, John?” Her mind still focused intently on the garden brush lying on the outer side of the porch.

He was stunned by the question. His face took on an expression of pure puzzlement; he simply had never been asked that by her. “What?” His sullen look had entirely vanished.

“Am I pretty?” “Am I still sexy to you?”

“Well, I uh… well, we are married.” His words were stuttered and drawn out. He was baffled not just by the question, but by the complete sincerity in her voice.

“That’s not what I asked, John.” “I know that we are married.” “Am I attractive to you?” “Are you interested in me, well, sexually?”

“I’m sorry; I’m just not used to this type of question.”

“Why are you asking me this?” His eyes were locked on his wife, searching the depths for some sort of kindness, of humanity.

“The girls up at the club, the Corra Vista, were talking.” “That’s all.”

“About?”

“Oh you know, just chit chat, like when their husbands said they were pretty.” “I felt so out of place, because I couldn’t remember the last time you called me pretty.” Her eyes, puffy, lifted to her husband. “Am I still the girl you married?” “Am I still pretty?”

“You know as well as I do, Anne, that that’s not all there is.”

L. E. Richey

51 “Well, of course, I just wondered if you still thought I was pretty.” Her murky eyes sagged with tears, streams started to well and drip.

“I… that was a long time ago, Anne. Why are you so hung up about what other women think?”

“Long time ago for what, John?”

“Nothing, just forget what I said.”

“How can I, John?” “How can I look so lovingly into your eyes, and you look at me with complete revulsion, complete contempt?” Her eyes pleaded with him. Pouting tears poured forth flooding her cheeks in a facial reservoir.

“That was not a love look, Anne that was lust.” “I’m not even sure you know what love truly is.”

“I can’t believe you would say that.” “I’m not some school girl, I know what love is.” “Maybe if you started feeling something for me, again, then you would see that.”

“I did love you, Anne, with all my heart I did.” “You tore my soul apart, and now every day I have to endure your hideous shape, even though it is appealing.” “It’s your heart, Anne that repulses me; it is ugly in my eyes.”

“Why, John?” That was all she could muster, from beneath the choking tears.

“Your interrogations.” “You’re constantly bickering and fighting with me.” “You never trusted me; you always believed that I was with other women, more attractive women.” “All I wanted was for you to see that I only loved you, I only had eyes for you.” “You are blind, you have always been blind and you will never see!”

“No, that’s not true.”

“It is, Anne. Even now all you care about is if you are pretty. You have always been artificial, trying to coast through life with looks. I see how you bat you’re eyelashes at other men, trying to get what you want. Are you that eager to jump in bed with another man?”

“No, John, that’s not true. Please… stop. Just stop.”

L. E. Richey

52 “No, Anne, I want it all out. I know you slept with Harvey Shriver. I knew he was eager to get his hands on you and you let him. Jess told me you slept with him, but I didn’t want to believe him. He told me to leave you but I didn’t. That was the biggest mistake of my life, besides marrying you.”

“John, I… I… I’m so sorry.” “I didn’t mean for it to happen like it did, honest.”

“You expect me to believe these lies, the bull shit that comes from your lips?” “You expect me to easily lie with the woman that committed adultery with another man, to receive the pleasures that another man also was given?”

She slumped to the floor, a mask of fingers hiding the shame of her face. Tears riddled her fingertips, falling to the rough marble floor below. She wailed with endless despair, sinking like slime to the floor. “I love you, I really do. I’ll do anything so you’ll believe me; I’d rather die than carry this shame.”

“I really wish I could believe you loved me. I really wish I could, Anne. I think you are more worried about your image, your standing with your friends than you are about loving me. I’m leaving, Anne, and I’m not coming back. I’ve lived in this lie for too long.”

“No, please, John don’t leave, I love you. I love you more than life itself. Please. Oh God, Please don’t leave me.”

“Anne, you should have thought about that before you dove into Harvey Shriver’s bed, giggling about how bad of a husband I was. How I couldn’t fulfill your needs, and that only he could. Harvey told me the whole thing. He even gloated.”

She shuddered violently. “Go to hell, bitch. I hope you and Harvey have a wonderful time in it.”

John turned from his wife sprawled on the floor, and entered the living room. His pajamas still sat on the small desk, but no more invitations emitted from them. He looked at his old worn out couch, envisioning how the couch coincided with his marriage. His gaze shifted to the rocking chair. His chair. It was no longer warm to him, only the feel of death’s touch sprang forth from it. His eyes beheld the door knob, shining with a renewed vigor, vigor for life. He opened the door, and walked

L. E. Richey

53 outside onto the porch overlooking the swirls of bushes leaning against the home. He gently shut the door, and took a deep breath of the fresh night air. A slight drizzle was pouring, a mist of apprehension and anticipation. He subconsciously patted his pocket, feeling the familiarity of his jingling keys. He reached into the warm folds pulling out the silver ridged keys.

His hands swept over the bottom lining, gently stroking each jagged edge. A smile dawned on his face, spreading like rays of sunshine. He gripped the keys with his powerful fingers, and then released the keys with a forceful throw watching them descend to the forest floor. He stretched his arms out wide, letting out the powerful strain that had filled them. He brought his hand up to his head and stroked his fingers along his hair, curling them from east to west. It was a new day. He laughed heartily, more heartily then he had in nine long years, and great tears rolled down the side of his face that tasted sweet against his lips.

L. E. Richey

54

David Greene

55

One Green Leaf Surrounded by Brown In a boring, rural, nowhere town like Davis, Alabama, I stood out like summer's last green leaf surrounded by the browns and rusty reds of autumnal dying.

When I met you, your edges darkening inward, you saw me in your favorite shade and said: “Show me how to be like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“To be unique. How to be so unlike everyone surrounding you.”

“No one likes unique.”

“Yet you don't seem to care. I want that.”

I wanted to be good to you. To show you how to truly set yourself apart. Instead I put on my most charming grin and said: “Punk rock is all about the sex.”

Over and over you gave yourself to me like all Timothy Nalley

56

the good little high school girls. Then one night, naked as you should be you turned to me and said: “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I replied. I didn't really love you. The sex made the falsity a bit easier.

The truth? The truth is my edges were just as dark as yours. I just hid it better. I woke every morning pulled out my green marker and colored myself individual.

But every night, when it was just me alone and the green had been washed away I stared at the ugly dry brown of my assimilation.

You might have saved me. You were more vibrant and unique than I could ever imagine. I took that away from you. You were smart, though. When you realized what was happening you dropped me like a tree shedding her leaves in fall.

Leaves that hold no weight, floating in the wind without a sound, falling unhurried to the earth.

Timothy Nalley

57

Not like you. You fell fast, hard and loud.

When I finished with you, you learned to embrace the darkness. You made the darkness your individuality.

When summer came and the pretty greens returned, you persisted dark, dry, dead.

That's the heart of the matter isn't it. Being unique is about being who you are and being okay with it. Not covering it up with pretty colors like me, but existing within the languid.

Teach me to be like you.

Timothy Nalley

58

Envy I couldn’t be like Amanda. Baby-face, boy-catcher, blonde. The bitch. But every guy wanted her, and I was unseen against the lockers, wistfully imagining I was daring enough to prance like her down past the hallway of admirers. I twirl a strand of mousy hair around my finger and slink through the crowd with my head down, only an apparition to those who manage to get a glimpse of me. **** The unlucky day my car broke down, Amanda and Jeremy picked me up. It wasn’t unlucky because the tire blew; it was unlucky because they were the only ones who could get me.

They started kissing in the front seat while Amanda was driving. I shuddered in the back seat and looked away, but secretly watched them from the reflection in the window. Eric never kissed me that tenderly. **** There’s Eric at the front desk with the office phone up to his ear. He doesn’t notice me entering yet and speaks playfully into the earpiece with that coy, boyish grin. Who? Who? Who? Who can make him smile like that when I can’t?

“Hey babe,” he says when he spots me then puts his back to me to end his call. I glare at his back, but I let him hug me moments later. “Glad you’re here. It’s been more drag-ass than usual today.” He smiles, but it’s not the same. It’s not the same. **** Amanda is a glory of white. Jeremy guides her down the aisle with his hand encasing her delicate fingers. All have big beaming smiles as they rush through the crowd, rice raining down. My smile is plastered, caked on like my makeup. You would think their happiness would infect me, but I’m immune. I sprinkle my handful of rice beside my shoes because I had forgotten to throw any as she went. **** The heat’s up too high. I twist the ring around and around my finger as we sit in the stuffy room. The diamond doesn’t glimmer like Amanda’s, no matter how much I polish it. Eric could have done better.

“Mrs. Stevens, I asked you why you feel your husband has not fulfilled your expectations.” The counselor looks at me with her serious brown eyes then slips a glance at Eric in the chair next to me. Neither of us will put our arm on the armrest between us.

I stare at the clock on the wall. “He could have done better,” is all I’ll say. A lock of hair falls in front of my eye from the breeze as Eric jumps from his seat and heads for the door.

The counselor half rises, her hand coming up with the

Bethany Mitchell

59 pointer finger half-raised. “The session just started. Please sit back down, Eric, and let’s keep sorting through this.”

This stops him. I don’t know why, since nothing I ever said has.

“That’s right.” He turns and looks my way. “At least someone in here knows that my name’s not Jeremy.”

The door slams, and the counselor sits perched on the edge of her chair a moment before saying something to me.

But I don’t hear her anymore. I twist the ring around my finger over and over.

Bethany Mitchell

60

Dirty Laundry Creepers were at nearly every washer and dryer in this place. One was leaning against a chugging scratched washer as it shook the floor slightly, eyeing the woman putting detergent in her washer at number 5 like she was about to go skinny-dipping with the churning Tide water. Another guy hovered in the corner by the drink machine, just standing there watching everyone else. His bearded face didn’t bother me, but the smacking of his wad of tobacco did. It was like the ticking of the clock on the wall above one of the super-sized washers: constant and precise. Then there was this old man without any belongings by dryer 2. He kept peering through the clear door of the open dryer down at the rows of other humming dryers, waiting for the first one to stop even though there were plenty available. I stood by my dryer the whole 45 minutes because of him. I wasn’t willing to jeopardize the security of my favorite towel, the one that I stole from a really nice hotel in Tampa.

It was all very sketchy, but it was my fault the dryer broke so here I was trying to finish my folding as fast as possible in the nearest Clean N’ Dry. I owed mom car insurance money too—with no way to pay it this month thanks to the money-sucking college bookstore—so I felt obligated to help out somehow. I didn’t realize that I might need to bring mace along with my basket of washed laundry. Isn’t that sad?

The cowbell above the smudged glass door jangled,

Bethany Mitchell

61 an unwelcoming signal of the arrival of a new creeper, and the dude’s eyes seemed to fly right to me the moment his shoes stepped onto the sticky tile floor. What was with this place?

He started jabbering in Spanish with a Hispanic family sitting in the cracked grey plastic chairs at the front of the laundry mat, adjusting the grip on the garbage bag over his shoulder, and I relaxed. When he gestured towards me and smiled when I noticed, I froze with my dad’s overstretched diabetic tube socks half-rolled in my hands. I tried to cover my more embarrassing belongings—tossing them in the laundry basket even though I hadn’t folded them yet—as he weaved his way through the crowd of homeless-looking guys by the dollar changer machine. I stared at my dad’s Hanes undershirts with all the holes, the “wedgie-free” nude underwear, the stretched out Fruit of the Loom elastic bands of my brother’s briefs all piled across the table in despair. I would never finish folding in time. I was stuck.

Trying to look natural and not as paranoid as I felt, I picked the socks back up and finished rolling the sock upon itself. The process reminded me of the rattlesnake congesting a rat I had seen on Animal Planet last night when I didn’t feel like getting up to brush my teeth. I dropped the sock roll in the laundry basket, scowling.

Of course his clothes were already dry. Of course he decided to fold them on my table. I scuffled behind my wicker

Bethany Mitchell

62 basket. Fold. Fold. Fold! Feeling the heat of a staring pair of eyes from across the table, I dipped my head so that my bangs fell in front of my face. I would have preferred a wall of spikes to a wall of hair. Perhaps a cage would have worked best for him, seeing the way his eyebrow kept arching as his eyes magically gravitated toward a thong sticking out beneath a tangled wad of socks. I didn’t find it fair how I had missed it in my scramble to hide everything, and yet he spotted it immediately. I considered chugging myself into the nearest dryer.

He started stacking his folded clothes farther and farther away from him, hands stretching out as he leaned across the table to line his piles up in the center. My side of the table began to shrink disproportionally as I scooted my stuff towards the edge to avoid him. A few rows later, his piles were on MY side. I shoved a folded shirt in the basket, hammering my weight against the growing pile of clean clothes beneath even though there was plenty of room in the basket for it. Ugh, go away!

He begged to make eye contact with me as he leaned across the table again, his shoulders hovering over my ankle socks and just-folded sports bras to place his undershirt down with a peppy slap. I pulled intently at a loose thread of my towel, my eyes not resurfacing until he backed away to grab a pair of navy blue boxers to fold. Did he really have to shake them in the air like that? I highly doubted his flamboyant, mus-

Bethany Mitchell

63 cled-armed thrusts were going to get the wrinkles out. He didn’t seem like the type to care about wrinkles on his boxers anyway, considering his Dr. Pepper t-shirt had what looked like cheese whizz encrusted on the collar. But that’s not fair; he could just be a messy eater. Oh, and on his sleeve too. I tried to block the image of him using his sleeve as a napkin from my mind.

While turning an undershirt right side out, I snuck a glance and caught him gazing narrow-eyed at my black bra sitting abandoned on the table right side up, like two burnt anthills. I snatched the bra I had forgotten about and tossed it in the basket before he could decipher the faded letters—in English and Spanish—on the clasp. Caught you! He scratched his nose and kept folding.

I decided right then and there it was crazy Aunt Dole’s next time for drying. She might be half deaf, half narcoleptic, and full nuisance, but at least she didn’t make me feel like I needed to re-wash everything again.

The man’s callused hand swept the tabletop to pick up the loose thread I had dropped. He put it in his jeans pocket, which bulged out like a cancerous tumor on his right leg. I wondered what else he had in there. I think I must have made a tortured face, because he grinned at me.

Bethany Mitchell

64 “Seem endless of folding, yes?� The piles of clean, neatly folded clothes before me were nothing but dirty laundry beneath his stare.

Bethany Mitchell

65

Taryn Hand

66

Erica Glover

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A Soul and a Song “It was a beautiful letdown, when you found me here,” a girl sings. Her black dress and white jacket are smudged with dirt and slightly tattered from her journey. She walks down a path in an open field, trees lining the outside perimeters. Brokenly humming a tune while on her journey, she notices a few patches of dirt and rock that appear randomly on her path. The worn patches of earth seem to have swirls in them as if someone has swiveled around and returned from where they came. The atmosphere is smothered with clouds, with the sun occasionally glimpsing from the other side.

“In a world full of bitter pain, sniff, and bitter doubt.

Sniff, I was trying so hard to fit in, to fit in, until I found out, sniff, I don't belong here,” she brokenly sings to an imaginary audience. The clouds cut off the sun, only allowing a hollow glow to come through.

With the darkness becoming heavier, she nervously pulls the hood over her head. The black hair that escapes brushes her tear stained face as the wind begins to grow. She stops and looks around, as if she's waiting for someone. When no one appears, she kicks a rock with her bare foot, drops her head, and resumes in her journey. Every once in a while the wind picks up, throwing the left part of her white jacket off her chest. A scar slightly peaks over the top of the lace of her dress. A light shade of red, the scar seems to have been there a while. She rubs it and replaces the jacket.

Up ahead, a shadowy figure looms along the treeline.

As she gets closer, she realizes it's a man. With a smile on his face, he asks, “You mind if I join you?”

The girl shrugs and continues walking. After a few minutes the man says, “ I'm Seth, by the way. And you?” The girl looks at him for a moment, studying his face. He seems to be trying to befriend her and make her comfortable with him being there. Looking away, she replies, “It doesn't matter.” Resuming her Whitney Echols

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faint song, they continue down the path. “I'll be a beautiful letdown,” she softly sings, “and though it may cost my soul, I'll sing for free.” The girl stops and looks around again. No one else appears from the treeline. She seems to be holding on to hope that someone will appear. With each rejected stop, her hope seems to tremble a little more. Wiping her eyes and rubbing her hidden scar, she starts off again.

“Are you looking for someone?” Seth asks. “No. I'm waiting,” she replies. “For who?” “A reason.” “For what?” She stops again and looks at him. He's dressed in a black t-shirt and dark jeans. He has no shoes, yet there isn't a speck of dirt on his feet. She looks in his eyes and sees nothing, which is odd considering nothing isn't a color. “Is there something wrong?” Seth asks. The wind begins to get stronger and a rain drop lands beside the smeared eye liner on her face. “I don't know why you've been crying, but I would like to help if I can.” “You can't help me,” she says. At that moment, a gush of wind attacks them, blowing the girls hood off and exposing her red scar.

“What's that?” Seth asks. Walking away she says,“You ask too many questions.” “I'm sorry,” he says as he catches up.

After a while of silence the girl asks, “Where did you come from and how did you know I was here?” Seth smiles, “Somewhere far from here. I've been traveling a while. I heard you crying and came to see who it was.” “I wasn't crying,” she replies, stopping and becoming suspicious. Yes, she had tears going down her face, but she never let out a sound to bring attention to them. “I have very good hearing,” he said, “I like to help people. I know this place like the back of my hand, so I can help you look.” “You can't help me.” He slowly takes her hand and with sympathetic smile he says, “You're looking for something that can only be found on the other path you passed a while ago. A lot of people have come this way, searching for the same thing, a reason for this life. I wait for them because so many people are deceived into thinking that this barely traveled road leads to someWhitney Echols

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thing greater. And by seeing your tear stained face, I'm assuming you have realized that this path only leads to trials and hardships.” Looking into the nothing of his eyes, she begins to feel uneasy. She slips her hand out of his and begins walking. “Vera, don't walk away. I know that you are afraid of me, but if you give me your trust, I can show you life.” How he knew her name, she did not not know. Without looking back she simply replies, “ This path has given more happiness than hardships. Yea, it's hard right now, but not always. You are anything but a helper.

The nothing in your eyes gave you away from the beginning.” “What are you talking about? I'll admit that I'm unlike normal people, but I have a gift for helping. The joy I get out of helping is unexplainable.”

The sky became as dark as the lies that hissed from his mouth. Vera was curious to see if there was truth, but in her scar covered heart, she knew it wasn't possible. Vera stops and turns to look at the nothing staring back at her. “You do not help, but deceive.

You are here looking for something as well. I don't own what you're looking for anymore. I haven't for a while now.” “You can always get it back. I know you've wondered if this life is truly what that book says it is. I can tell you, it isn't. I can show you the truth.” The clouds that had been looming all day burst open and allow rain to consume them, equaling the amount of tears that Vera had cried, it seemed.

Wiping the hair that had stuck to her face she says, “All you have done is lie to me since you appeared from the trees. I too have a gift, the gift of truth.” His face grows hard, and his eyes turn to slits. “You think you know truth, but does it even make sense? Everything you have read in that book does not prove itself in the real world. If it was true, the world would be a better place.” She thought for a moment and replied, “If everyone followed what was in that book, it would be. The love shown from those words are more powerful than any human being can express.” He stands there motionless for a moment, then says, “You doubt it in you heart. If you didn't, you wouldn't be Whitney Echols

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here.” She will not be swayed into doubt. “I'm here because I have to be. I chose this and everything that comes with it.” “Yet you were searching. If you chose this, then why were you searching?” he says, glaring at her with accusing eyes. “I'll admit that I have struggled on this path, and I am tired. But that does not mean that I have lost faith.” “You have allowed a book to define your life. Men wrote those 'powerful' words to define life. Truth is, life is simple.

You live, you love, you die. If you truly believe it, then you are a letdown to your own heart.” She stares into the nothing before her. “ I am a beautiful letdown,” Vera simply replies. He scoffs, “Yea, I heard you say that in that broken song you were singing.

There is nothing beautiful about a letdown. The letdown is that you believe in something that isn't true.

I can show you true beauty, without a letdown.”

Lightning strikes close to them, making Vera jump back. She looks up to the sky that seems to glare back at her. But instead of glaring back, she closes her eyes, and breaths in the scent of the rain falling on her face. For Vera, the rain is cleansing, and a sign of love. “What are you doing?” he asks, staring at her. “Reveling in love.” He looks at her as if she's given way to insanity and says, “Love is not in the rain, Vera. Love comes from other people and yourself.” Without opening her eyes she replies, “You have no idea what love is. I gave my heart away a long time ago to someone who defines the very essence of love,” opening her eyes and looking at him she continues, “That's what you are looking for isn't it? My heart? Or is it my soul you're after?” “I don't need your heart or soul. Nor do I want them. I only want to show you true love, true life.” “ And what is true love and life?” she asks. “Love is something you show to others and receive from others. It's a great thing to experience, but it doesn't come from the clouds. And life doesn't have a deeper meaning. However, it is a great thing. You should live life to the fullest, allowing yourself to enjoy everything you want. You have to always keep yourself first, Vera, Whitney Echols

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because at the end of the day only you can give yourself true happiness.” After a moment of silence, she says,“You may have been able to deceive many, but you will not capture me with your lies.” “If the love He has for you is so great, prove it,” he says. “The absence of my heart is proof enough. How else can my heart be taken and I be more alive than I ever was before?” “From the looks of that scar, I would say it was a brutal confrontation,” he says with a smirk.

Looking down at her cross-shaped scar, a slight grin appears on her face. When she looks up, she says, “ He did so much more.” He begins to laugh, “I doubt it. Vera, I'm trying to help you. Will you please let me help you?” Thunder slams against their eardrums, echoing of the mountains in the distance. After the last echo goes silent, a voice takes it's place, “You've done enough. Leave her to rest, she is done for now.”

At that moment, every sound becomes muffled. The man dissipates into a black mist and a blinding blanket of white consumes everything. The white blanket, only lasting a few seconds, lifts, revealing a meadow and allowing the sun to come through the clouds in it's rightful place. Vera falls into the grass in exhaustion, realizing that her path had ended at a stream she hadn't noticed before. She feels sleep beginning to seep through her body. Before it takes over, she hears a soft voice, making her scar tingle, “You've done well, Vera. I have wiped your tears away, and I will heal the wounds in your heart. Rest, my child.”

Her jacket disappears and her dress turns to a perfect white. She feels her body lifted and feels arms wrap around her in comfort. Her trial is over, and she rests in her Father's arms. © Whitney L. Echols

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Non-Fiction

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Monika Mueller

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Chapter 9* The Day of the Fallen “This just in. You are looking at..obviously a very disturbing live shot there, this is the World Trade Center and we have unconfirmed report this morning that a plane has crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center” [ CNN world news report: 8: 50 ET—Tuesday September 11,2001] I rose early in the morning, took a shower and sat down to have my breakfast. This was the beginning of a brand new school year, and I was beaming with excitement and anticipation. I was a chemistry teacher at the Kingsway High School and my students did well at the regional exams. As I thought about the next batch of candidates, I entered the front room where the ironing board was and began to press the suit that I had prepared to wear.

As my custom was, I turned the television on and tuned in to the early morning CNN news report. At around 8:50 ET there was a news report about smoke coming from one of the towers of the World Trade Center. Two of my brothers have worked in this building since the 1980s and my oldest was still employed to IBM. For the first couple of seconds I thought about calling him to warn him that someone had forgot to put out a cigarette and the building was on fire.

The Dow was up near 50 points when reports began to come in, that a small plane may have crashed into the side of one of the towers. CNN vice president, Sean Murtagh reported that he witnessed what apConrad Duncan

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peared to be a two engine plane, possibly a 737, flying at lower than normal altitude as it crashed into the side of the World Trade Center. This jolted me!

My brother Barry would normally be at work during this time and he was stationed at the upper floors.

A few minutes after, Joe Trachtenburg, an eye witness from Chelsea backed up Sean`s account when he reported that he saw a small plane, flying low as it line itself up to crash into the side of one of the towers. Still holding on to the hot iron in my hand, I stood as I watch the towers burn on national television. My initial reaction was that ; maybe I was having a bad dream. Sometimes we wake up from nightmares which seem so real but this time I was not so lucky! One reporter hinted that it could be a missile but reports of a plane kept coming in.

Sean talked about flames coming out from the sides of the building and hinted that jets, after take off from La Guardia International, do not fly over Manhattan. From the ground, eye witness Jean Yurman said that she experience a sonic boom that temporarily turned the television off, followed by an explosion.

She said that, on peeking through her window, the top part of one of the towers exploded, sending tones of debris to the ground.

My glance changed as my thirteen year old niece, Kenisha entered the room. I tried to fix my face but my eyes betrayed me. What happened? , she asked as she sharpened her focus on the television screen.

Shhh, don’t let Mamma find out, I replied. My mother, who lived with during this time, likes to worry about her boys. She had not seen Barry for many years but knew that he worked in a famous building in New York. I was not very concerned about Conrad Duncan

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Barry, but I kept thinking about Mamma. What would I do for her, if something happens to her first born? It was not my custom but with one hand on my niece`s mouth, I began to pray.

My niece decided to cooperate and gently closed the door leading to the room. I started to panic as I watch but knew that the ladies are going to need a strong man in the event of the worst scenario, and this gave me a little composure. I turned to continue watching as I heard one of the news casters saying that he had lost contact with Dick Oliver. Apparently one of the CNN transmitter was damaged on top of the building. CNN tuned into it`s WABC affiliate, while they interviewed Winston Mitchell, an eye witness in a restaurant. Winston reported that a huge hole, six to eight floors wide, was dug into the sides of the building and that the jet was still inside.

Within a few seconds of this report, all hell broke loose in my house as a two engine jet from out of nowhere crashed into the number 2 tower! My niece was uncontrollable! As she screamed at the top of her voice, my mother came running into the room as if the house was on fire. “ Jesus, Jesus, Jesus she shouted, is that the World Trade Center�? I tried to lie but my little niece got in the way. I held on to her and begged her not to worry. My mother suffered Conrad Duncan

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from a case of high blood pressure and I knew that things were about to get nasty. She worries a lot. I can now reflect on a time in 2003, when she suffered a massive stroke and I had to resign my job to stay home with her. I have tried, feverishly over the years to keep her away from bad situations that would cause worry or anxiety.

Shock and awe took over CNN as news casters and those being interviewed grapple to explain what eyes could hardly believe. “I can not find the words�, groaned one reporter as the south tower burst into a ball of red flame. What many had thought was a missile, was now confirmed on national television as millions of people from around the world watched in disbelief.

As I tried to create a level of calm in my humble, rented apartment, many thousands of miles from this massive firey grave; I tried desperately to call New York. Speculations run wild as to what had gone wrong. At the moment, major concensus was that : laGuardia was experiencing a massive navigation system failure and it had to be the reason why two commercial aircraft crashed into New York`s tallest buildings on a clear September morning, 18 minutes apart. Within few minutes two major concerns permeated the airwave; were there passengers on these misguided aircrafts and what would be the death toll in the after math.

I do not want to bear false witness to my readers but when I first started tuning in to this report, there were reports that someone in the south tower, on the intercom, told the workers in the building not to leave their posts because the fire in the other tower was a

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minor scare. I remember thinking that it would be foolish to remain in a burning building, no matter what. Memories of these events are sketchy but I still wondered why did so many people died in the south tower. Why did they not try to run when they saw the flames, knowing that fire loves paper and dry wall.

Reports of a possible car bomb came in as NTBS spokesman, Ira Furman was being interviewed. He suggested that the normal operations of jets, taking off at the La Guardia International airport require them to clear the almost 1370 feet tall towers, by at least two miles. He went on to say that, given the great visibility, no pilot needs a navigation system to see the ‘great beacon of fire’ that the north tower had become. Reports came in about a possible hyjacking and after Ira`s report, speculations of foul play ran rife! By 9:18 ET, there was an unconfirmed report that the events could have been part of a terrorist plot.

While still in shock, I reflected on something I saw a few moments before as people on the top floors started to jump. The cameras caught a light skinned Conrad Duncan

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lady in a blue dress as she flew to her death. By means of high resolution photo equipment and historical analysis, it was discovered that one of the jumpers may have been a young African American, Jonathan Eric Briley. He was captured on camera as he fell to his death. Though his death was so tragic, many people still honour him today as one of the heroes of 911. Dubbed the ‘falling man’, his photo will go into history as one of the great ‘relics’ of American history and I hope that his family was blessed by the outpour of love that New York experienced in the aftermath of this horrific tragedy.

By 9:20 ET, report reached CNN that President Bush was briefed. He chose not to make an immediate comment. He was on a visit to Sarasota, Florida where he had spent the morning reading stories to children and he did not want to scare them at a time when America was being attacked. Massive plumes of smoke covered Manhattan as CNN producer Rose Arce covered the ground. I was concerned that the burning towers would fall on other buildings and create a chain reaction. Arce reported a huge flood of people, running away from the giant inferno. I could here sirens in the back ground as emergency workers and police personnel worked hard to evacuate people from Manhattan.

A report came in that confirmed that the human torpedoes were the works of terrorists. It went on to say that the Pentagon was also hit and the U.S. was under attack as part of a terrorist plot. The national Aviation Authorities began to divert flights to Canada as warnings of possible terrorist attacks in different parts of the country.

One of the most horrific scenes took place at about Conrad Duncan

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10:30 ET, as the north tower collapsed. It was then that I was fully hit by the gravity of what I`ve been watching. Before this, I spent every horrible moment wishing that the fire would go away and the building would be eventually saved. But it was now clear that New York would never be the same again. Reports of a car bombing at the State Department came in as I worked hard to keep my family in check. My brother placed a call later that day to reassure my mother that he was still alive. He told us that he was on an errand in New Jersey when the planes struck the build.

In December 2007, My brother and I went to the site where the towers stood, in order to pay our respects to the many friends that we lost in this tragedy. Many of those who died had helped my two brothers to adjust to life in New York, when they migrated from Jamaica in the early 1980s. My Brother wept bitterely as I watched for the many memories that he had made working with Chase Banks and eventually IBM. No one is really sure about the true number of people that died innocently. Osama Bin Laden, who flatly denied participation in this gruelsome act, will one day have to give an account to one who sits high and looks low; He who is higher than the highest.

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Encounter at Caen The rain falls softly at Le Memorial de Caen.

The sound is completely drowned out by the pounding surf of the English Channel. It is unusually cold for early June, even in the North of France. “61 years,” I say aloud, “61 years ago today.” I had not realized what day it was. I tug at the collar of my dark rain jacket and shiver as I zip it closer to my throat. The jacket is thin, and only succeeds in keeping the cold rain off of my body. It is a difficult task to keep my camera dry, I find myself flicking water of off the lens every few minutes. I lean over a rather slick railing and gaze out across the Channel. The wind is blowing so strongly, that the smell of salt and sand lingers throughout the air. The gusts of wind strike me in the face, harder than any human ever could, and leave the taste of salt water on my tongue and in my nose. I tighten my grip on the rail for fear of falling. There are no trees of any kind near the beach; only high cliffs and rock-covered shores. As I stand there snapping pictures of the sight, the wind Lora Whitehead

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punishes me, hitting me like a well-trained boxer; sending my whole body reeling in a cold shock. “E.J. had better believe that I love him,” I grumble to myself, “I wouldn’t do this for just anybody.”

In the distance, I can see small fishing boats; carrying the fishermen from Caen and the surrounding villages. The red and green lights from their vessels blink brightly through the mist, making it impossible to ignore them. I bring my camera up to my face and zoom in close to catch the boats in the distance. I can’t hear the soft click of the shutter as another sudden gust of wind causes me to turn away. I mumble a curse as I realize that this is not excellent weather for photographs; but photos are all that E.J. asked for, and I will try to comply, even if it kills me.

I squint through the rain and scan the beach for any sign of shelter; and a chance to take my camera apart to let it dry out. The rest of the tour group is inside the museum, shopping for souvenirs. My classmates are not willing to brave the elements; they would rather buy a postcard than take their own pho-

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tographs. I notice a bunker, leftover from the war, and begin to jog towards it. As I make my way down the concrete stairwell, I hit my head on a lowhanging pipe. “Slow down. You must tuck your head.”

I hear a heavily-accented voice say from above me. I look up with a grin and a wince as I furiously rub the top of my now aching head. A thin, wiry man wearing an antiquated Royal Navy uniform and a smile gazes down at me through the grate. He is dressed for the memorial ceremonies that took place earlier today; the uniform probably belonged to a relative that served in the Royal Navy. “Thanks,” I say, still laughing, “I’ll keep that in mind.” The man chuckles and walks away, muttering something about “Bloody Americans.” I continue my descent, rubbing my head, and muttering curses under my breath. “Fine time for a moment of pathetic coordination,” I say quietly aloud, “A knock on the head is nothing, though.” I look around the long-empty bunker. It is a very simple, but very cramped space. It is difficult to imagine two or three full grown men occupying a space that Lora Whitehead

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small for hours on end. I lose all sympathy as I realize that German soldiers were posted here. There is a large open balcony that overlooks a good stretch of the beach. I trace my hand across the concrete that is marred by gunfire and errant shrapnel. There are still rivets left from anti-aircraft guns that mounted onto the balcony. They are rusted with years of exposure to the elements, but they’re still holding fast. I look out once more over the Channel and marvel at the sheer size of the beach. “E.J. might have climbed this bluff,” I say to myself, “He could have charged at this bunker.” It is a humbling sight, one that no photograph ever taken could possibly do justice to.

I make my way back up the stairs and poke my head up from underground to scan my surroundings. The rest of the group is leaving the museum, and is moving towards the Memorial Gardens. I’m still shivering against the cold as I rush to catch up with the group. We make our way up an intricately paved walkway. Trees and grass begin to appear as me move further up the hill. We pass through a marble

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colonnade and pause in quiet reverence at the sight.

The structure is fairly simple, yet elegant; complete with statuary. I opt to skip the statues for now, too many people are crowded around them. The final resting place of 1,557 Americans is truly a sight to behold. It’s a view that causes my heart to skip several beats. The rows of white crosses and Stars of David are aligned in near-perfect symmetry, each one bearing a name, rank, hometown, and dates of birth and death. The other members of the group scatter and begin walking along each row of graves. I follow suit and begin to make my way along the very last row, closest to the beach where E.J., one of our oldest family friends, landed so many years ago. I glance at each name: Private, Corporal, and Staff Sergeant; each one a father, brother, son, and friend to someone back home. As I trudge through the damp grass, I see medals resting atop the markers and wildflowers and wreaths adorning the grounds before them. I stop short as I notice a grave marker of a different kind; one that rests over the remains of

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an unknown soldier. The epitaph reads: Here Lies in Honored Glory a Soldier Known Only to God. At this, I feel a lump rise in my throat. His family may have never had any closure; they may only know that he died on some foreign shore while fighting for his country. Tears fill my eyes and mingle with the rain that soaks my face.

I turn with a start and rub my eyes, as I hear shuffling footsteps behind me. I look around and then down. Before me stands a very small, very old woman. She must be nearly 90, perhaps even older.

The lines on her kind, smiling face are deep and pronounced. She is hunched over, her back bowed from years of work and toil; her hands knotted with arthritis. I smile back as, for a moment, she reminds me of my own sweet, great-grandmother. She holds a small bouquet of wildflowers and a small American flag. “Parlez-vous Anglais?� I ask, trying to hide any trace of sadness in my voice. She laughs a friendly laugh and smiles a toothless smile. She groans as she bends down with much difficulty. She plants the tiny

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flag before the marker, and gently arranges her flowers around it. I smile; it is almost like watching a child play in a flower bed. She remains on the ground, mutters a short prayer, and crosses herself.

She cranes her neck to look at me, and extends her hand. I extend mine and help her rise to her feet.

“Someone’s son,” she says struggles to say in English, “Someone’s son…now Normandy’s son.” I am touched at once by her kind reverence. “Merci beaucoup,” I say as a few stray tears stream down my face. She kisses my hand before she lets go, “Dieu benisse les Americains.” She slowly turns to walk away. “Wait,” I say. She turns back, I hold up my camera and point to it. She politely declines, covering her face and blushing. I let my camera fall back to my chest, in slight disappointment. For a moment, I regret that I ask permission before taking pictures.

She only chuckles and makes her way back up the path. I watch her as she shuffles away. I smile; she and I are many years and worlds apart, yet we did not have to speak to each other to feel a similar con-

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nection to this hallowed site. I turn back to the marker and snap a few parting shots with my camera. I rub at my eyes once more to brush away a few stray tears, tuck my hands into my jacket pockets, and begin my descent to the beach.

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The West Memphis Three Recently, the 3 young men known internationally as the West Memphis 3 were released after 18 years of imprisonment. They were arrested and later falsely convicted for the murder of 3 eight-yearold little boys in West Memphis, Arkansas. Two of the boys, all 3 being teens at the time of their arrests, were given life sentences, and one has spent the past 18 years, 23 hours a day in solitary confinement. No physical evidence was presented at the trials for any of the three, although one boy, with borderline retardation, was coerced into a confession that was riddled with inconsistencies and just plain wrong information.

He was tried separately and recanted the confession a number of times. He also refused to testify against the other two in order to get a shorter sentence.

These three young men were convicted with nothing more than fear, erroneous expert witness testimony from a man who attended an online college to receive his degree in the Occult. He stated on the stand that he did not attend any classes in order to earn his degree. Yet, during a period in our history when satanic rituals were rumored to be taking place in daycares (I am referring to the McMartin's case), and although the FBI has asserted they have never found evidence to prove there has ever been a satanic ritualistic murder in the US, these boys were found guilty. Jury misconduct was the only reason the second trial of the other two boys ended in a guilty verdict. Since the boy who confessed refused to testify, that confession was not allowed to be presented to the jury. When the jury foreman realized the rest were about to acquit the boys, he brought up the confession and changed their minds.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because so many people from around the world have supported these 3 from the beginning. A good number of celebrities revealed their support over the years and that number grew as time went by. Johnny Depp, Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam, Natalie Maines of the Dixie Chicks, Will Ferrell, and Marilyn Manson (who kept his Susan Yager

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support secret for many years for fear his own negative publicity would do more harm than good.)

Wynona Ryder, Margaret Cho, Henry Rollins, Michael Graves of the Misfits band, Robert Smith of the band the Cure have all supported and helped to raise needed funds to pay for expert witnesses, DNA testing, etc to attempt to exonerate the men. The only DNA found was from one of the deceased children's stepfather and the father's best friend. However, the judge that sat on the bench during the original trials refused to take any new evidence seriously. It took the Arkansas Supreme Court to rule that there was enough new evidence to remand the case back to the circuit court level and an evidentiary hearing was scheduled for this December.

However, to everyone's surprise, a deal was made between the State and the 3 men that if they pled guilty under the North Carolina v Alford ruling (which allows a convicted person to state they are innocent but are pleading guilty in an agreement with the state), they were set free Friday, August 19, 2011. Per this agreement, the men cannot sue the State of Arkansas for false imprisonment in civil court. This I believe was very important to the DA's office; they had no evidence that would bring a guilty verdict once again. And that bench judge that refused all levels of appeals? He is a Senator now, who was elected because no one else ran against him.

Now I will get to the reason I am writing this in the first place. You might think that spending 18 years in the toughest prison in Arkansas would destroy any man's spirit, but this statement was released yesterday, and it moved me so much that it was the first thing I thought of when I received email asking for contributions to the literary magazine.

This is what each of the young men had to say concerning their new found freedom on their recent blog postings:

From Jessie Misskelley, Jr. (who was coerced into Susan Yager

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confessing so many years ago): Hello friends!

Let me start off by saying that I am forever grateful and appreciative of every single one of you who has supported us now and in the past. I call each and every one of you my friend. I am beginning a new life for myself and enjoying spending time with friends and loved ones. Meeting new family has brought so much joy to my heart as seeing those I haven't seen in 18 years. I am taking time to relax and learning about things that have changed. Thanks again to everyone who has welcomed us back into society where we belong and have belonged for 18 years. This feeling is like no other I never imagined... walking out a free man and it's because of all y'all that I kept the faith that one day I would get to start and continue my life again. Thanks you all I love each one of you! Have a good life, I know I sure will!

Love, Jessie -Aug 23, 2011

From Damien Echols (who was thought to be the leader of the imagined cult of Satan worshipers because he wore black, read Stephen King novels and listened to Metallica): August 19th, 2011:To all my friends and family, my attorneys and advocates, and to those of you from every corner of this earth who have stood beside us these long years, please know that I will forever be indebted to all of you for helping me to become a free man. Each day I was the beneficiary of acts of kindness and humanity from people of all walks of life, of all ages, nationalities, religions and political persuasions. The enormity of the support Lorri and I received throughout this struggle is humbling.

I have now spent half my life on death row. It is a torturous environment that no human being should have to endure, and it needed to end. I am innocent, as are Jason and Jessie, but I made this decision because I did not want to spend another day Susan Yager

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of my life behind those bars. I want to live and to continue to fight for our innocence. Sometimes justice is neither pretty nor is it perfect, but it was important to take this opportunity to be free.

I am not alone as there are tens of thousands of men and woman (sic) in this country who have been wrongfully convicted, forced into a false confession, sentenced to death or a lifetime in prison. I am hopeful that one day they too will be able stand with their friends and family to declare their innocence.

This whole experience has taught me much about life, human nature, American justice, survival and transcendence.

I will hopefully take those lessons with me as I embark on the next chapter in my journey and along the way look forward to enjoying some of those simple things in life like spending Christmastime, Halloween and my birthday with those I love.

From Jason Baldwin (who made good grades in school, helped his mother raise his little brother and had never been in trouble before his arrest- guilt by association): Good morning, everybody! I want to say that this is the most joyous experience: learning to live, to love, and to soar higher than any past expectations.

We live in a world where sometimes living is not about loving. However, all of you have shown me that the parts of the world you inhabit are about loving.

What happened to me happened without my consent. What all of you have done, you chose to do.

You chose to step in and eliminate some of the darkness in this world. I find you all to be heroes, and I am glad to call you all my friends.

These new days have been a blur, full of hard -won and much-deserved fun, revelry and just getting to know one another and ourselves. I have probably said this countless times these past few days, but I've felt like a dandelion seed in the wind-pulled from one friend's arms to the next, to dance Susan Yager

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to the sweet tune of freedom. It is a beautiful sound.

Love and libre!

Jason Baldwin ***

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Tender Moments

Kelly and I were married May 26, 2006. The events surrounding that date are mostly a blur. Any one of them would be enough to stress out most normal people. On May 18th, just 8 days before the wedding, we closed on our house. Neither of us had ever owed a home, so to say we were a bit nervous would be an understatement. The next day, the 19th, Kelly graduated with her Master’s degree. Big commencement ceremony. Family in town. You know how it goes. The following Tuesday out of town guests began arriving for the wedding. The rehearsal supper was on Thursday. The wedding was on Friday night.

Then, after a brief 3 night stay in a local resort, we moved into our new home on Monday, Memorial Day. We had to get everything done on Monday, because Tuesday, I had to be back at work!

Needless to say, we postponed our “real” honeymoon until the end of the summer. We opted for a 6 day cruise through Alaska’s Inner Passage. It

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was absolutely beautiful, and well worth the wait. At one of our ports of call we were informed we would be “tendering”. As you will soon learn, I found this to be quite the misnomer, as there was nothing tender about this ordeal. Tendering, if you don’t know, is the process whereby the ship does not dock and allow passengers to walk the gangplank, instead you board smaller boats called tenders, and they shuttle passengers across the bay. I suppose this practice is used when the bay is too shallow to allow the cruise ship to pull close enough to dock. Now, I’ve never tendered in a little boat across part of the ocean, because, well, we don’t have an ocean in Conehatta, Mississippi.

Getting on the tender and ferrying across the bay went smoothly. Getting off the tender even worked fine, and Kelly and I enjoyed our excursion in Sitka, Alaska. The return trip is where circumstances began to conspire against us. I believe there were two significant factors that contributed to our troubles. First, the wind and waves had picked up while Justin Fisher

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we were in port. Secondly, our tender crew must have been the B team. These guys did not run the well oiled machine of loading and unloading disabled passengers that our original crew did.

When the tender tied off to the platform on the cruise ship was when things started to concern me. The crew ordered all of the able bodied passengers off first. I think this was a mistake. Picture in your mind a small boat full of passengers. If it has 35-50 people in it, it will sit lower in the water and be more stable than without those people. My new bride disembarked as well. Oh, the love this woman has for me! Inseparable through good times and bad we are.

After all of the able bodied passengers had unloaded, the crew decided to try to pull the tender closer for the unloading of the wheelchairs. This proved exceedingly difficult, again because of the higher waves, the lighter vessel and the incompetence of the crew. Before the tender was close enough to the platform and before it was tied propJustin Fisher

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erly, one of the crew tried to connect the wheelchair ramp from the tender to the platform.

Does the

phrase “fell off in the ocean” mean anything to you?

There was another gentleman in a wheelchair on the tender with me. When he witnessed this event, he turned to me and said, “I’ll be glad to let you go first.” I’ll bet you will!

Let me pause here to

say there is not a selfish bone in my body. Unfortunately, I was closest to the door. When all was apparently set, one of the crewmen got behind my wheelchair in position to push and said, ” When I say ‘Go!’, you go really fast!” You bet I’ll go really fast!

I’ll look like Evil Kinevil coming out of this boat.

At this point I looked out on the platform to see my wife, not on her knees praying as a good Baptist wife should have been. No, friends, she had her camera out, aimed to take a picture. Apparently this was a photo opportunity she could not pass up.

Later, when I asked her about this behavior, she admitted that she intended to capture the moment for fear that she would need conclusive proof of this seJustin Fisher

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ries of unfortunate events to collect on my life insurance policy.

We all want proof, don’t we? We like to have significant evidence supporting our case. Kelly wanted proof that she would be financially secure in the event of my death. However, there is something significantly more important than financial security during a time of death. It is the eternal security of one’s soul. Do you know Jesus himself gives us this guarantee? Or, I should say he is our guarantee.

First Corinthians 1:21-22 says, “Now it is God who makes both us and you stand firm in Christ. He anointed us, set his seal of ownership on us, and put his Spirit in our hearts as a deposit, guaranteeing what is to come.” In Christ we have both a seal and a deposit guaranteeing God’s ownership of us. A seal was used in ancient times by kings usually in the form of a signet ring to declare things into law. Deposits have been used in more modern times to insure that people will follow through on what they’ve promised. I have a lawyer friend who explained to Justin Fisher

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me that, legally, only one is required.

Our God gives us both. How great is our God!

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Greetings From The Farm: One Concertgoer`s Experience At Bonnaroo 2010

Part One: My Background As A Concertgoer:

My name is Zachary Hoke Alexander. I love few things in life more than live music. I have literally, in 31 years of life, been to several hundred concerts.

These have run the gambit from rock to rap, classical to country, and everything else one can imagine. That said, for the vast majority of my life, the ideal concert experience reflected my modern suburbanite social upbringing. Generally speaking, I like viewing live musical performance in comfort. I prefer air conditioned arenas, comfortable evenings at an outdoor amphitheatre, acoustically sharp indoor theatres, and the up close views that come from preferred seating.

Until very recently, I have never been a grand fan of one of the true staples of live music, the music festival experience. Upon turning 30 years old, I decided this was a new bridge to cross and made the goal of seeing as many major music festivals as I could in the years ahead. As such, I will in the forthcoming pages be giving you insight on my first foray into the world of festivals: Bonnaroo.

Part Two: The Farm and I

A good friend of mine had worked the Bonnaroo Festival for 5 years of its 8 year existence. My friend, Kermit, had worked as a “Bonnaroo Busker�.

He did everything from carnival performance to set creation. In exchange, he received a nominal fee, high level food, shelter, drink, and access to a lot of good live music. Upon the line up release of Bonnaroo IX, he and I decided to take on the challenge of exZac Alexander

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periencing the festival from the fan point of view. Being a festival novice, I took advantage of his wealth of Bonnaroo knowledge. He would be my guide into a place longtime Bonnaroo goers lovingly call “The Farm.�

Bonnaroo, a joint production of AC Entertainment and Superfly Productions, takes place on a 750 acre plot of former farmland in Manchester Tennessee. To give you a geographical vision, it fits nicely halfway between the more populated areas Nashville and Chattanooga. In short, it is a rural area about an hour east and west of what a suburbanite like my self would consider modern society. In its eight year existence, Bonnaroo had evolved from a jam band style hippy rock fest into a commercially viable and world renowned exposition of music, art, and comedy. For Bonnaroo IX in June 2010, this evolution would continue forward. Corporate sponsors, multi-million album selling radio friendly musical acts, and mainstream comedians were all in attendance. But, to its credit, the festival continued to demonstrate its roots with a proper mixture of jam bands, folk art, and many happy hippies. Also in attendance would be me, a festival novice. The experience proved a memorable one.

There are three ways to experience Bonnaroo. First, you have general admission. The vast majority of attendees choose this route. It often involves camping for four days on the festival grounds in conditions resembling a medium security prison, walking between thirty and ninety minutes from your campsite to the main gate, and waiting in two to four hour daily lines to get in the festival itself. On top of these hardships, one must endure a first day traffic wait ranging from five to ten hours of sitting on the highway only several miles from the main Bonnaroo vehicle entrances. In addition, the festival is infamous for unpredictable weather ranging from dust storms, torZac Alexander

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rential rain, high humid heat, and even chamber of commerce worthy perfection. In total, the general admission experience is for hardcore festival goers or, as I put it to Kermit, folks who like re-enacting scenes from Lord of the Flies.

The other two ways to experience Bonnaroo is through a two tiered VIP system. The basic VIP, which Kermit and I signed up for, gives you preferred driving, parking, and walking access. This avoids the previously mentioned mind numbing waits and gets you right in the door without fuss or muss. You also get elevated and shaded views of the two main stages and dedicated concessions. For an extra premium, you can get a catered meal plan. Given the unpredictability of festival food and seeking a reasonable daily nutrition allotment, we sprung for this additional perk.

The third way to experience Bonnaroo is the Total Access VIP plan. In short, if you have the amount of money most people would spend on a new car, you get a four day experience in a rock star stocked party bus. All you can eat, drink, and enjoy is the aim of the plan and all your needs are catered to during the festival. This package also includes front row stage viewing and concierge services. Plus, like a traveling rock star, you get your own tour bus to sleep in during your time on the Bonnaroo grounds. Kermit and I loved this idea but sadly we could not figure out a way to sale enough blood or non-vital organs to swing the price.

After settling into our hotel, we arrived at the festival Thursday evening around 8:30 pm. It was a site to behold. Entering the VIP vehicle checkpoints was easy until we got to the main parking area. We were told at an earlier checkpoint that the volunteer at our Zac Alexander

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parking area would give us a hang tag and mark our car in a proper fashion for four day access. However, upon arriving at the parking area, we were met by rather spacey hippy that happily greeted us with “hey man we gotta check your car.� Either due to his current condition or normal state of being, he had misplaced the aforementioned hangtags. He instead finger painted the letters VIP on the car windshield. The color of said substance was brown, so we hoped it was paint.

After parking, Kermit toured me around the festival grounds. We met several of his Bonnaroo Busker friends and even had a brief conversation with the head of stage design. Our first and only show of Thursday was a foray into the Bonnaroo comedy tent.

The main attraction was acclaimed comic Margaret Cho. She had two warm up acts, but neither one was a challenge to her main event status. Cho performed in a hilariously smart and, at times crude, comedic manner for an hour. Indeed, she left the capacity audience in stitches and demonstrated her well earned reputation as a top notch comic performer.

On Friday, we arrived at Bonnaroo right around 11:00 AM. After eating our VIP lunch at the catering tent, Kermit and I set out for musical enlightenment. The first show we viewed was the folk blues group the Carolina Chocolate Drops. The concert took place at a large performance tent, named the That Tent. A one woman and two man band, the Chocolate Drops performed a fun mixture of diverse Americana music and storytelling in their hour long performance. They deftly mixed a plethora of acoustic instruments ranging from guitars and mandolins to washboards and cider jugs to make the first show of the day a true delight.

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One interesting side note about Bonnaroo is their main performance tents and stages eschew corporate labeling, common among most festivals, in favor of delightfully basic description oriented names. Specifically, the three main music tents are called This Tent, That Tent and The Other Tent. The two main stages are What State and Which Stage.

The 2nd and 3rd performances I viewed on Friday also took place at the That Tent. The 2nd show was folk rock staple the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. Performing for ninety minutes, this legendary unit brought a high energy mix of their own familiar hits, solid new material, and some eclectic covers. The following show was done at a slower more acoustic pace, but it was also filled with sharp humor. The talents on display were those of legendary comic performer Steve Martin and his newly aligned partners in music making the Steep Canyon Rangers. The Rangers, an acclaimed bluegrass band in their own right, proved more than capable musical accompanists for Martin`s trademark mix of sarcastic well timed humor and original songs.

After a dinner break, I met Kermit at the elevated viewing area for the main stage headliner, Kings of Leon. A group of 4 brothers from Tennessee, Kings of Leon entered Bonnaroo IX as a fast rising arena rock band. They began their show with a high level pyrotechnics mix of smoke and laser lights. Then, for the next 2 hours, they rocked the Bonnaroo What Stage crowd into a frenzy. It was a show worthy of headline status. However, it would not be the highlight of night one. That would be reserved for late night act the Black Keys.

While exploring bands that Bonnaroo announced as part of their lineup release, I became a Black Keys fan. In their decade plus existence, the two man group had crafted a reputation as a talented and critically acclaimed blues rock act. With the May 2010 release of the landmark album Brothers, they became mainstream success stories. As part of this rise, they Zac Alexander

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were given a coveted late night headlining spot at Bonnaroo IX. The concert took place in the That tent, and was a ninety minute blues explosion enjoyed by thousands packed together, shoulder to shoulder, jumping and dancing to the command of the world`s most energetic musical pied pipers. The set became, and remains, one of the greatest shows I have ever witnessed. Its remarkable sharpness and high level of musical grandeur cannot be described in any proper way with words alone. Simply put, you must see the Black Keys live before you die or you will regret it in the afterlife.

After a long and extraordinarily fun Friday, Saturday brought a smoother and mellower vibe. First up, at the That Tent, was folk-pop singer Brandi Carlile. A gifted and versatile musician, Carlile performed on several instruments with great ease for well over an hour. Her band backed her soul spilling and beautifully wound musical efforts with a tight musical effort honed by years on the road together.

The next performer was the Dave Rawlings Machine.

With a name that is a sarcastic shot to bad metal band names, Rawlings performed a spirited and acoustical guitar tinged hour and fifteen minute set of original music and folk standards. As part of his Bonnaroo IX show, he shared lead vocals with folk star Gillian Welch, and he was backed by members of acclaimed Americana musical group Old Crow Medicine Show. The level of musicianship and fun filled nature of show was one that could have gone on all day without disappointing a soul in the audience.

After a break for dinner, I ventured back to the That Tent for acclaimed folk performer John Prine. With enough awards and acclaimed musical pieces to fill a library, Prine has earned his stripes as a legend in folk music. His ninety minute set was an excellent mix of familiar crowd favorites and solid new songs.

Prine`s status secured the presence of no less than country music icon Kris Kristofferson to play the last Zac Alexander

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portion of the set. Kristofferson, who was set to perform on Sunday, came in a day early to perform with his colleague. It was a magical pairing.

After the joyous combination of Kris and John, I caught up with Kermit at the What Stage VIP viewing area to see the evening`s main headliner, Stevie Wonder. A true legend in all circles of music, Wonder delivered a near two hour set of his greatest hits and a few wonderful covers. He also jammed for a decent portion of the set on several well constructed instrumentals. His band, with around a dozen backing musicians and singers, lifted these pieces to the top of the musical heavens.

The evening`s finale for Kermit and myself was a vaudeville-style musical comedy burlesque show put on by some of Kermit`s Busker colleagues at the Bonnaroo Sonic Stage. It appropriately capped the evening in a joyous and humor filled manner. After a late night arrival back at the hotel and some much needed sleep, Sunday would bring a full day of rock and roll.

We arrived for the final day of the festival in time for lunch. After filling our gullets, Kermit and I voyaged off in different directions to enjoy a day filled of music. Kermit ventured to see as many, or at least parts of as many, shows as possible. On the other hand, I meandered to the What Stage VIP viewing area to begin a four band all day rock and roll super show. I would not stray from the area at all on Sunday, and after battling the heat and mass humanity of the previous several days, I enjoyed the comfort of staying in one place.

The John Butler Trio was at bat first On Sunday. A folk rock trio from the distant shores of Australia, they woke up the crowd with a blues and electric guitar tinged set. Butler, the band`s leader, demonstrated his well earned status as a rising God among rock guitarists. Next on the agenda was legendary rocker John Fogerty. Fogerty had been the creative force behind 1960s and 70s rock icons Creedence Zac Alexander

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Clearwater Revival. After a nasty band break up and years of fighting record label executives over musical publishing issues, Fogerty had lost his taste for music. I had heard him in an interview state that it took a graveyard visit to the final resting place of blues great Robert Johnson to reignite a love of his craft.

This rebirth, now several decades in the making, was very much on display at Bonnaroo. Fogerty gave a rousing performance that spotlighted his status as a rock icon. His set included blues standards, new material, and past hits. Moreover, ever the showman, Fogerty leapt about the stage at the rate of a rabbit on amphetamines. His backing band provided the perfect compliment and supported their leader with a grand wall of sound.

As the sun began settling down for the day, the Zac Brown Band took the stage. Bonnaroo veterans, ZBB had recently achieved country rock crossover success. They cemented their growing star status with a cover and original filled set on the What Stage. The band brought an exceptional level of musical chops to great classics such as The Band`s “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” and Charlie Daniel`s “The Devil Went Down To Georgia.” Indeed, the ZBB demonstrated that few bands around could match their music improvisational skills.

The grand finale for Bonnaroo IX, was The Dave Mathews Band. DMB had long before achieved rock super stardom. They had also gained a well earned reputation as one of the great touring acts in the world. With a Dead-Head like following of loyal fans, they delivered a rousing session of musicianship and showmanship. Mathews, the group`s leader, interspersed delightfully sharp humor in between the band`s deep collection of songs. However, the highlight of the entire performance was lead guitarist Tim Reynolds. A well noted virtuoso, Reynolds shined throughout the concert, in typical great performer fashion, stood out the most on a marathon cover of “All Along The Watchtower.” Dylan and Hendrix would Zac Alexander

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have been proud of such a grand rendition of their shared iconic musical piece closing out the festivities.

Part Three: Closing Thoughts: I hope in reading this piece you are able to grasp some of the unique parts of what makes Bonnaroo a special music festival. It is not a place to just experience some good music. Indeed, it is a location to experience great music. However, it is really more than that to its legions of loyal supporters. Bonnaroo is a home away from home for hippies born a generation too late to experience the beauty and intrigue of Monterey Pop, Woodstock, or even sadly, the Grateful Dead in its sharpest form. Bonnaroo is a tribute to these great musical institutions, and at the same time, a great gauge for mainstream music`s present and future. It is an event unlike any other and very well worth a visit.

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