Wingspan 2014 by Jefferson State Community College

W i n g s p a n 2014 1

Volume 14 Fall 2014 Jefferson State Community College Editor: Sharon DeVaney-Lovinguth Production & Design: Greg McCallister Assistant Editors: Karjiana Cadet & Amelia O’Hare Front Cover Art: Rebecca Jackson Back Cover Art: Taylor McCullough 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 All rights revert to the author/artist upon publication.

Volume 14 Fall 2014

Sigma Kappa Delta is the national English honor society for two-year colleges. The purpose of the society is to reward and encourage outstanding student achievement in English language and literature. Sigma Kappa Delta provides opportunities for advancing the study of language and literature, developing writing skills, meeting scholars and writers, attending conferences, submitting work for publication, and winning scholarships and awards. Students also receive recognition of their membership in Sigma Kappa Delta on their transcripts and at graduation by wearing honor cords.

Each year, SKD members assist in the production of Wingspan by soliciting, reviewing and selecting submissions for publication.

Poetry

Depths of Myself-Bailey Barrow 4

There is Rain There is rain falling as if heaven felt the heaviness of my sorrow because my heart is aching the sky opens, releasing great tears I see the graceful trees swaying bowing wooden faces to the earth leafy tendrils caught in the changing winds like a strange dance to welcome dawn the smell of damp earth and moist soil soothes the hot turmoil in my soul and I walk on Heaven, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re not so far above your light penetrates the mist like daggers through thick gloom and each precious droplet of rain wets my cheeks like a loversâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; gentle kiss the whisper of my voice is caught trapped, echoing within each liquid orb till splashing down upon the world the secrets of my heart are finally heard soaking into earths parched memory seeping into natures ears i was amazed to see when I returned to walk in my secret bower happening upon the place where my secret fell I discovered a beautiful flower... -Tiffany Abbott

1 more blog you are what you are from all the things you have seen living all the days of fear i am who i am because of who you have been my life just a reflection of what i see in your dark mirror. bitter soul never made whole i dont see dont know the real me -Tiffany Abbott

Getting My Mojo Back Sista of voice with your blackberry smile Who told you to coward under a Cloud of spiraling doubt? Mother wisdom says take a whir Walk on the beach and celebrate The sands of joy. Life is sometimes full of needles and pain Set a course in a different direction It’s never too late to lick despair. Though you may hear a lonely voice Don’t concentrate on the outer being by the inner ear. Tread into the black deep waters and take a chance Succeed in life, now is the hour Set your sail to your new found power. -Alecia King-Harper

Perspective Divine is the one who dances Outside the light of time Loving all that is within Never stopping when they’re old Never stopping when they’re old Living each day for more To leave this world undying Always living in the soul Always living in the soul May we always dance in life To all that is inside To the beat of a different drum Forever giving more Forever giving more -Nate Abbott

Poetry of the ID I am. Reverse rain drops on water. Pebble skips across consciousness Makes notes Swell to A Sea of Sounds Harmonizing different colors Elements succumb, Staccato stain-blots Of Noise upon the atmosphere. EGO Gaudy tyrants of roaring waves Strictures of our unlived sins. Inert placations of pain behaves Sirens of sound within our soul. Spinning camera slows Still images of this our Living LightAn Ethical Correspondence To emit the voices of our Night. ID Whispers, echoes across Broken stairs Descend Rumours Our shadows before Us Rise up as we fall. -Bracken Sallin

The Bardic Vision Now let us speak last, but not least Of Mortal Men whose fate is strange. Youngest children, short-lived lives Hearts of Pity mastered by Wrath. The fire of immortality gone into Their passions, the envy of all others The Deathless shall envy the Dying. The Ages shall wear on, men released, But Angels and All worn by torment of time. And no passion nor spark of divine so radiant And pure as buried beneath dark layers of Human Hearts shall ever be found Amongst the deities save the Divine. -Bracken Sallin

Half a Thought Might wolf howl, man vex, or turm’gant shrew Might poet write, physician play or Nature incline Without th’ unkempt bitterness of debts accrue? No? Each prison its own – our nature ours refine Grow more comfort when world is a’ weary ache Though like grapes yielding of ambrosial’d wine A self chamber – subsist itself and madness make. -Bracken Sallin

Celestial Orb or Pantoum for Aidan My son grabs my hand; He wants to walk to the moon. I love the way his hand feels in mine— I love being Ma-Ma. He wants to walk to the moon. He can see it right in front of us. I love being Ma-Ma. Childhood wonder! He can see it right in front of us. He looks for the moon every night. Childhood wonder! Maybe he’ll get to go to the moon someday. He looks for the moon every night. I love the way his hand feels in mine— Maybe he’ll get to go to the moon someday. My son grabs my hand. -Connie Caskey

Here, bubbles rise like blessings* Here, bubbles rise like blessings as they surrender themselves for two girls clasping memories. The big sister captures a smile that hugs the younger. Blushing, the little sister calls the wind for more bubbles. Here, sisters catch dreams in the clouds as they hum a lullaby. The older sister blows another wish that calms them like a prayer. Here, the clouds fogged. The bubbles vanished; the big sister vanished. The little sister, misplaced as an orphan, waits to float again like bubbles, she desires as much as air. *inspired by â&#x20AC;&#x153;Early in the Morningâ&#x20AC;? by Li-Young Lee

-Amy Dove

Diego y Frida Inspired by Lucille Clifton’s “brothers” Diego Rivera confronts his furious wife, Frida Kahlo, soon after his affair with her sister. We dry together On the canvas of our permanence With each brush stroke, With its texture. The oils blend our inheritance As the colors fade, Familiar light tempts me And creates toxicity between us. Paints from your palette Taint primaries, Build foundation. The yellow won thirty silvers From the red As it burned into sienna. The secondaries deceived me Like Judas. Water soothes us With brushes That brush against our rough panel Against the tuscan fiber. As the acrylic bathed, We swam in the warmth. Monkeys live in you under smocks that hide from stains hide from me. They seduced the ink That bled through, while my skirt painted over indigo. -Amy Dove

The Waters You Once Splashed In How often did you pass by me, unobserved? How often due to you was my trajectory ever so slightly curved? Were you on a train I anxiously waited to pass A blurred image sipping coffee through window glass? It is this wonder that I ponder as I ride along the rails Before our lives coincided, did I bask in your contrails? And were this true, if I was minutely changed by you Did I in passing blindly do the same to you? How many times did the flapping monarch of a choice of mine Result in a terrific hurricane to affect the life of thine? Did we ever both momentarily own the same dollar bill Which I did use for cab fare, and you for a refill? The lovers we are now were once true strangers And while today we are truly game changers We were merely ensembles on each other’s stages ‘Til each burst into stardom in the other’s pages. It is strange to wonder this, to wander off in my own mindWere I to really look, what small connections could I find? Have the waters you once splashed in ever dripped into my sink? It is times like this, in hours of mist, which of this make me think. -V. Menlo (Lily Elmore)

Forward into Persia The world is

but

a mosaic

behind you backdrop splattered across crumbling rock the work of a thousand men sprawled across time their memory but withering continue where your father halted wrap the fabrics of their being across your body and paint your chest with the blood of newly fallen saints and priests and prophets for behind you an army stand at the ready the phalanxes are restless trembling breathlessness with pride that gleams off their armor and ricochets off the blades atop their spears and they look to you eagerly awaiting the shriek of war take a deep breath. Cast away any second thoughts raise your sword Part your lips howl your mightiest battle cry and lead your men forward into Persia. a scenic

stone

-Katie Hargett

A Butterfly’s Battle Butterflies don’t learn the rules Of metamorphosis’ pull No caterpillar training school Explains the use of flying tools The other worms must think it strange When a caterpillar weaves a cage And locks itself away for days The ultimate social disgrace What sort of worm forsakes the dirt And climbs away from God’s brown earth To hide away from earth and sky And every kind concerning eye? According to the well-known code Worms were born to trod below And ordinance 54 is sound: Critters crawl upon the ground! But the ill-reputed slug Depends on his own inner tug To separate from all the bugs And wrap itself in a cozy rug Until a Voice says, “Break free! And rise on wings of Liberty” -Elisabeth A. Kannon

Ghost of Mine You might recall the time that I looked so far into your eyes I cringed from my irrational fear of drowning. You may have thought I looked disgusted. But, there is a difference there between you and the ocean – it’s that the water’s only roughly 70% of the world to me. And water only goes as deep as the skin over this planet, but oh, your words, they weigh me down, and seep deep down into my center scalding from the inside out. And water, it fits any form but you, how were you wrought? An apparition formed its own mold saying, “this is who I am.” And water, oh, it’s all so real, and painfully and slowly it can steal a life, and turn right round and give it back. But you, imagined in perfection, are not and never will be even real at all. A figment of my mind. And that’s the biggest difference. -Ian Kewish

Light Wave after wave crashing into my mind Darkness beginning to prevail over my heart in ways never experienced But as I see the horizon of the next wave I look back into my young mind At words I spoke to my brother “Keep your light I told him and don’t lose sight of it” Those words from years before hit me at that moment “Keep your light and don’t lose sight of it” I then saw how I had been making mistakes I was being the darkness crashing over me Trying to escape Escaping myself Where in fact I needed to talk to myself Face to face What we needed to do was break our chains No longer be afraid No longer let the pain stop us Make meaning out of every part of life Defeat our anxiety with optimism Stop the ones who hold us back in their tracks Hurling their words aside and taking away their strife We and I must look at the day as a battle against everyone A day where even if they are with me It will be for them and I should be with me Who will be if Im not? Putting my light in them? I think not There must be a line where I can put trust Not in the many But in the few Those who earn it truly Who understand my plight Against the waves of darkness Against all who stand against me Trust with those who share my same light -Austin Gibbs

Lines Upon Watching a Mother Protect Her Children the space between the breath is the space between the killdeer and her grounded nest. she hobbles away a space: body limp hollow bones bending violently luring the predator away a space, a breadth from the hatchlings that will soon know her craft -Ashley Harlan Kitchens

That Novel father, it was like watching The Great Gatsby in real life, like a movie reel flapping over and over. Did you ever read that novel? Did you set out to be the character who lost it all? Scenes run through my mind in sepia tonesNew York – always New York: The city that never sleeps. you were its kin, or maybe its lover. Inebriated: Money Fine Wine Sex Delicacies In that order, or maybe not. That winter was full of records: The women were hollow, but beautiful, and they stood like trophies at your side – Not by your side. Addicted to what you had. That winter was full of records: The drugs were beautiful, but expensive, and they held you up – Not high enough. Never high enough, because at some point you had to come down. That winter was full of records: The Montrachet burgundy was expensive, but soft, and always complemented a meal – Not expensive enough. Nothing was ever expensive enough. That winter was full of records: The legendary snowfall was soft, but suffocating, and a reminder of the white powder you longed for Not suffocating enough. It whispered its seduction: come and place your tongue on me.

Scenes in sepia float like snowfall from the heavens: snapshots of life in action. Where did you go? Was this your plan, or was it the beautiful white crystals tempting you? Scenes in sepia: Enveloped in your high, and at your side, she: tramp-ling in the white powder, now frozen crystals nipping up to your knees. Do you know how snow longs to touch bare skin and own it? She trips and her knight mightily rescues her. She is in the arms of someone she loves: for tonight. Do you know the heroic deed only looks like two drunks stumbling in the frigid night? The white powder hides the black secret frozen underneath. Her hair tossed back as she laughs and the black ice under your feet blend a deadly cocktail. Do either of you know you are falling? From the sidewalk, you fall effortlessly onto the blacktop which offers no remorse: The white comfort has been plowed away into slushy grey heaps. Do you know New York never sleeps? your scene turns to sepia through your own eyes, as life runs out of your body streaking the dirty mounds a crimson-black. Did you ever read that novel? Did you set out to be the character who lost it all? -Ashley Harlan Kitchens

With Our Pen and Paper With our pen and paper, we shall evermore define, The beauty of all writings and of ecstasy divine. The power of the written word, the power of the pen, Seizes our imagination, beckons us, “Begin!” Those of us who hear this charge, heartily comply, We write to teach our fellow man, Though often know not why. For what have we to give mankind but poetry and rhymes? Simple, little works of art that are shunned by most at times. Yet what can be so lovely as to best our witty rhymes? What is there to contemplate without our sincere lines? We who have the gift to write, do so to impart, Words of deep reflection that cascade from the heart. For the power of the written word, the power of the pen, Seizes our imagination, beckons us, “Begin!” -Cortland Lancaster

I Dream I dream of yesterday and all its glory divine, looking past all hurt and sorrow to see the beauty and recall the marvel of that time. I dream of tomorrow and wonder of the things to come questioning, searching to find where I belong. Tomorrow is unknown, unfulfilled and is the mystery of life. Yesterday is gone leaving memories, joys, and tears. But, Today is the moment of opportunity, the chance we seek all our lives. It calls to each of us saying, “Use me wisely and cherish my presence with thee, for I am here only today so do not misuse me.” The Past is our Foundation, Tomorrow is our Hope, Today is our Reality And should not be ignored. -Mildred Lanier

Standup and Live! •

It’s time to Standup and Live and make a new start in your life. Press toward the prize of a new beginning and do not allow yourself, others, or your past to prevent you from moving ahead.

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It’s time to Standup and Live and not be afraid of your past. Today is the time to start living again.

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It’s time to Standup and Live and dream new dreams. Set one goal at a time and commit to achieving that goal before moving on to another.

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It’s time to Standup and Live and be concerned about your wellbeing. You can only truly love others when you first learn to love yourself.

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It’s time to Standup and Live and appreciate who you are now. Stop looking back and set your sights toward your future.

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It’s time to Standup and Live and make choices that give you personal power. Do not wait for others to give you permission to move ahead.

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It’s time to Standup and Live and speak words of strength to yourself. Do not wait for others to tell you how special you are.

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It’s time to Standup and Live because if you do not, you will live a life full of regret.

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It’s time to Standup and Live because you are fearfully and wonderfully made.

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It’s time to Standup and Live because you were created a unique person with special gifts and talents.

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It’s time to Standup and Live and live out who you were created to be.

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It’s time to Standup and Live… -Mildred Lanier

Iscariot Probably she used her phone to call him the night I dropped her off at her car, alone. Fine, maybe it wasn’t as swift as a manhunt moving through Gethsemane - torches and weapons and warrants enclosed in sweaty fists. But, then again, there might have been secret meetings and whispers of treason long before she kissed me on my bearded cheek that last time. Her eyes unclosed, fixed upon the bag of silver waiting near the doorway. -Jeff Martin

Pearl One more low moon echoes wildly through her tenuous veins and she knows there will be no stilling of its raging magnetism. No shade will halt its lure. No gate will hold her abandon. She is ultimately discovering who she is by discovering who she is not. She’s a drowning candle under current. She’s the yet cocooned. By easing an inch away from the watchman’s voice, she leans her weight into the soulless form of night. Her delicate tides crash into shores of blackness, forming compounds volatile with chemicals secret. And I, rudder and helm, salt and wind, must choose. Shall I listen to hear her fold and break apart, or shall I tow her in where she will forever be treasured and kept? -Jeff Martin

Short Comings Understand I’m just a man So I’m far from being perfect Supremely confident but sometimes I get nervous See I’m only about 5 foot 10 inches And I’m a little bit over weight I go to the gym often but it’s kind of hard to stay in shape A victim of prescription glasses because my vision isn’t the best Now my hearing is pretty good but my ears are somewhat small And if I continue listening to loud music my hearing won’t last that long Got some clean pretty white teeth But there just a tad bit crook it I smile almost a lot but secretly I hope nobodies looking With a dozen tattoos I’m sort of opened up for judgment But my body art is simply a form of expression So feel free to ask questions I’m very much employed But I wouldn’t say I’m rich I like to make smart purchases But you might know it as being cheap I have a really nice car Nothing to fancy When you’re living on a budget you have to itemize your transactions Even with all of my short comings I still manage to seek happiness -Gerrymi J. Norris

The Blue Haired Angel I see you walking through the halls admired from afar. You inspire others to be original there’s no mistaking who you are. Your charismatic, fun loving attitude is contagious to us all You are noticed by more than you think, and you help inspire them all. I write this only to convey a compliment or two Though some may look but never say, they look up to you. Your hair is something beautiful, alluring, and unique You are the Blue Haired Angel and can bring most men to their feet. I will say this and say no more for we may never meet. You are the Blue Haired Angel so mysterious, so complete. And if your name is Calie you are the angel that I speak. -Jason Robbins

I Never Forgot My childhood home was the wilderness An almost forgotten time of memories and happiness. They tricked me into attending the school, I was imprisoned and made to follow the rules. All over the southwest I travel, My bed was a road of gravel. I watched sheep as a sheepherder, I began to find myself in the pasture. I returned to my childhood home, I no longer wished to roam. I returned to my childhood home in the mountains, My happiness flowed in me like a fountain -David Ricardo

Of all the things Of all the things I’ve done, All the things I’ve said, In this daze that I’m in I can never clear my head Stuck in a black hole, lost in the dark, I wander without thought Never seeing any spark Long abandoned by the light, I see nothing but black, I feel nothing, And I fear there’s no turning back Will I ever wake from this hell? Will I ever feel well? Though September is over, Will I really wake again? -Brianna Rodgers

Who is God Do You Know Who is god do you know? Is he the sun, moon, stars, rain, or all the earthly things. Maybe he is your car, house, husband or even your spouse, but the truth of the matter is” he is a spiritual being the creator of all things.” His limits are unknown like the sea; we will really never know what’s underneath. The earth is his footstool and the sky is his lap, so get to know him, because one day it’s going to collapse. My question is who is god do you know? Some people say he don’t exist, some think it was a myth that we evolve out of monkey’s that swing in trees, but how did they get here you see. Does he sit high and look low discriminate between the folks; saying wealth here, poverty there let them fight among themselves, because I don’t care. Have he heal the sick and gave sight to the blind, even cured those that were out of their mind or did he give you a gun and say kill, or a drug and say swallow that pill. My answer is not for thee you have to judge for yourself, because my god lives within me. Who is god do you know? Have you ever heard the doctor say there is no more hope, but out of nowhere your life was made whole. Have you ever seen miracles and lighting running across the sky stars fallen down to the ground, but you just don’t know why. Is he of order and of peace or is he of chaos and deceit. Is he real or fake you have to decide which one to take. When you die where will you go; will you see god or you just don’t know. So my answer to you and to me if you don’t know god; simply get on your knees and say “ruler of the earth, mother of the land” I have been ignorant and rebuking your plan, I’m calling out to thee seeking for you to live within me. A-men -Deirick Sanders

Fanatic The air swirls, The drums begin to pound. The crowd is growing, In size and sound. The whistle blows, We huddle round. For the Love of the game we play. With blood and sweat we pay. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! -Dave Edmonds

Brass Knuckles and Paper Planes Shoulders, as slender and lithe as the sunlight that graces them, stand, strong and broad, yet as delicate as sand, moving in ever-present motion and vigor. Her unkempt hair gleams, golden rays piercing its confines, beautiful and powerful, as it adorns her head like a crown, and rests itself upon the length of her neck. Her pose is stark, and rigid, her body screaming her emotions tenfold, and launching its fire miles ahead, as she would do the same, gladly swinging fist and fury, bone and blood, and standing tall and vindicated, against all who would dare oppose her and doubt her will to survive. She looks out to the world, the land beyond her glass prison, and revels in the wonder of it all, and though she is moved, she is not impressed, nor is she softened. Her guard is still as solid, and justified, as the day she surrounded herself with it, and locked her pain away, behind walls of steel and stone, and though sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d deny it, somewhere deep within her rests a horizon, one littered with an army of floating lanterns Levitating amidst the evening sky a barrage of hopes and dreams in tow, long forgotten, and left out in the rain, to die, or succumb to evils far greater. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a warrior, with thousands at her back, as she strolls right along, no fear in her arsenal, and no hesitation in her actions, throwing her mighty voice about, with rage upon her eyes, brass knuckles at hand, and paper planes overhead. -Alex Scott 26

Silence Your silence hits me like hail in a rain storm; like trying to climb down from the canopy without harm, like you wanted to be gentle but that wasn’t working. Because you know, as well as I do, that your silence is a killer; making its way into my ears like percussion’s banging on my heart, to make its presence known. And you know as well as I do, that your silence chills my soul, making every move without you unbearable. So, when I cry my tears begin to flow in the shape of your name; because that’s all that’s bouncing around my cerebral walls. Because I’ve been sitting up for the past two weeks praying for a text or a call but you would prefer to be silent. Silence, draining me like a hot summers’ day in the safaris of Africa. Ripping me apart like a pack of hungry lions on a gazelle. You do this purposely, to see how strong I am and I must be quite weak from what you can tell. Since, you remain silent, waiting for me to break like a sweat from a fever and although I don’t want to talk either I find it quite inconsiderate for you to keep control of me like this. Yet, more inconsiderate of myself to allow you that control. You’re controlling, you want me to stay here and fight for this nothing. This silence speaking to me like a snare drum, banging in my ears like percussion’s, ringing like cymbals reminding me always that your presence is still apart of mine. And I don’t understand how, through all this chaos and clamor, your breathe tapping on my ear drums like hammers, you still remain silent. -Jessica Sewell

On Campus Colors-Greg McCallister

The Majesty of an Autumn Day Colors change from greens to red and gold. The weather shifts from warm to cold. The world gets ready for its slumber. Soon Winter will come and this beauty will be snowed under. Take in this moment to reflect. Take time to give thanks and do not neglect, The blessings of your past. These moments do not last. The change that is coming on the wind, That brought these blissful days, Will turn these colors red and gold to melancholy greys. We live in the cycle of our seasons, That is the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s true way. We will have this beauty once again, Thank God for Autumn days. -Dave Edmonds

Art

Target Practice-Aidan Caskey

Funny Peacock-Aidan Caskey 30

Starry Night-Aidan Caskey

Lucifun-Lauren Hilgarten

Serenity-Katharine Thornton

Trey Songz c. 2010â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Karjiana Cadet

Imani Abdulhaqq

Selene Brito-Estrada

Rin-Monique Villasana

Jimmy Truong

Pulmonary Health-Liz Harding

Chanel Keitges

Poppy Field-LucindaCaldwell 40

Karjiana Cadet

Amelia O'Hare

Lucinda Caldwell

Emily Sharp

Virginia Trawick

Andy Sullivan

Maddie Hall

Sunny Nguyen 48

Sunny Nguyen 49

Fiction

Madelynn Hogg 50

Karjiana Cadet “Keisha and Rodrick” Keisha Rodrick just got out of prison! Mom is not having it. The thought of us dating worries her. She should give him a chance before she starts worrying. I have a good judge of character and she knows this. She should give Rodrick the benefit of the doubt and assume he has some redeemable qualities that initially attracted me to him. He was sent to prison for a white collar crime. His identity was stolen and the embezzled money from the company he works for. But due to a loophole in the system, Rodrick was sentence to eight years in prison for the thief’s crime. I have told her this and her mentality remains “once a criminal, always a criminal”. I am hoping he will get a job soon which will lead to a career so my mom can see his incarceration was an isolated incident. It has been almost a month since Rodrick was released, but with the crime he was convicted for being white collar—a financial crime—advertising companies will not hire him for positions higher than entry level. Mom thinks I am making excuses for him, but his current unemployment status is caused by a valid circumstance that is not his fault. She thinks I am being too optimistic and naïve by holding onto hope that he will get a job, but I know that Rodrick is a good man and circumstances have conspired against him. It has been two months now. Rodrick got a job! Good things really do come to those who wait. He is only a theater attendant but once his superiors see his character and work ethic, I know they will promote him. **** Rodrick Freedom! I am out of this piece. I was sent to prison despite being innocent. I did my time with my head down and caused no problems and got out in two years with good behavior. I know lots of convicted felons who are guilty claim and maintain they were innocent, but I really was. One day at work, I was having a meeting with a client, in my office. I left my brief case unattended for less than 51

two minutes, when I got back, I did not notice anything different. A week later I saw an unusual charge to my credit card. I immediately suspected the client left with my briefcase alone the day before the unusual charge. I checked with the surveillance team at my job and they could not get a good look at the thief but could tell it was not my client. After that I continued trying to find my identity thief. Meanwhile the unusual account activity continued over the next of six months. Then I heard a man was charged with embezzling $6 million dollars from the manufacturing company he worked for and his name was Rodrick James Johnson. That can’t be right, I thought to myself, I don’t work at a manufacturing company, I’m an advertising executive. I’m also pretty sure I haven’t embezzled $6 million dollars lately. One month later I get charged with embezzlement, sent to trial and sentenced to eight years in prison. Keisha, the girl I was dating for about a year at the time, told me her mom heard about the charges against me and told her to end her relationship with me. She disapproves of me despite knowing that this is a misunderstanding, and that I am innocent. Lucky for me, Keisha has a good judge of character and did not listen to her mother. We continued to date while I was incarcerated. It has been a month since I was released from prison and I am still unemployed. I have gone to few interviews at advertising firms, but I never get the job due to the nature of the charges I served time for. But I remain optimistic. I interviewed for a job at a local movie theater as a movie attendant, and got hired! Now I can try to rebuild my professional reputation and maybe get a job similar to my old one, in the future. **** Keisha Two years have passed since Rodrick’s release from prison. He worked had at his movie attendant position—like I knew he would— which earned him continuous promotions, all the way to the theater manager position. This created a great professional reputation for him and white collar careers possible for him again. Rodrick just had an interview at a local advertising firm and got hired! His hard work paid off. Even my mother respects that he stayed focused towards his goal of returning to work at an advertising firm and achieved it through a strong work ethic.

After three months of work at his higher paying job, Rodrick proposed! Everything is perfect now! We deserve this. *** Rodrick Two years after my release from prison I am working as the manager of the local movie theater I started working for. My manager, his manager, and his mangerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s manager continued to notice my work ethic and great people skills then continued to promote me until I was the manager of the entire theater. I have created a strong networking opportunity rebuilt my professional reputation. I am now confident enough to apply for a position at an advertising firm. I interviewed at several firms, but finally landed a position at a small advertising firm! Even Keishaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mother approves of me now. She has grown to respect how great I treat Keisha and how hard I worked to rebuild myself professionally over the years. Now that I have a job I like which also pays well, I can finally do what I have wanted to do since my release from prison. I can ask Keisha to marry me. She stayed with me after I was charged, while I was in prison, and after I was released and unemployed for a few months. She loved me for better and for worse. I am so grateful for her patience and support and would love nothing more than to make her my wife. She said yes! After all we have been through, I cannot think of a better ending to our story.

Wendy Reed “Shut Up, Delores”

Daddy never liked to stop on trips. My eyeballs would have to be swimming in their sockets before he would stop, and by then there wouldn’t be any bathrooms around. Only highway and trees and bushes. Certainly no toilet paper. That’s when mother would fish in her cavernous black handbag and come up with a wadded pathetic piece of Kleenex. “Here. This’’ll have to do. Either that or drip dry.” I was glad we didn’t travel all that much. Mostly we went to Bigmama’s once a month to spend the day eating fried chicken. It wasn’t so far, about an hour and a half, but that was longer than my bladder could hold out. As I got older things got worse. I became modest. I couldn’t bring myself to squat in the weeds. And then feminine hygiene products got tossed into the equation. I thought that was the reason Daddy surrendered one Sunday. I don’t mean he planned ahead and stopped at one of the few gas stations between here and there. No. What I mean is he put me behind the wheel and said, “Now you can stop when you need to and I won’t have to hear about it.” I was barely 14. I had no idea then that Mama and Daddy had been fighting, or that they were talking about divorce. I had no idea that while Mama was making her usual corn casserole that morning (I was showering and hot rolling my hair), Daddy was threatening to fight her for custody of me if she left him because he thought she babied me too much. I only knew that I was supposed to drive because Daddy said to. I wish I could say here that we lived on a farm and I had begun driving at a young age. Tractors. Horses. Any drivable farm thing. But we lived in the city, a block from two different malls. The closest thing to pasture we had was the K-mart parking lot. We were already several miles down Hwy. 78 when the idea struck him. He stopped. “Thurman! You’re outta your mind,” Mama said. “Shut up, Delores, and get in the back.” “She’s just 14. She’s not even good on her Schwinn.” “Shut up. She drives fine.” Mother opened the car door and leaned her half of the front seat forward. She didn’t 54

really have to because I was skinny enough to climb out with it straight up. The seats were mostly vinyl except in the very center and on each side where they had material that looked like you could feel a pattern of roses on it, but when you ran your fingers across it, you couldn’t. “Thurman. You’re gonna get us killed.” “Shut up, Delores, and get in the back.” She climbed in and I walked around to the driver’s side of the car. Daddy and I passed at the right front tire, but I was too busy staring at the gravel to look up at his face. Technically, he had pulled off on the shoulder of the road but not all of the LTD had made it. His side of the car still jutted out onto the highway a little. I say ‘his’ because that’s how I thought of the left side of the car - ‘his’ because he always drove. Mother never did. And before now I sure didn’t. The shoulder was covered more by red clover and milkweed than gravel and could have easily been the part of Bigmama’s front yard where her mailbox stood, rather than a highway shoulder. What gravel there was, reminded me of the birdseed that we had thrown at Aunt Wanda’s wedding, round dots of gray and brown and white. I traced the larger ones with my eyes and then stomped on them bringing both feet together and down, hard at the same time. “Valerie, we don’t have all day. Mama’s serving dinner at noon,” Daddy said. I picked up my pace but still stomped three more times before finding myself at the open door on the driver’s side. It was June and felt it. Even thought it wasn’t 10 o’clock yet, the heat from the pavement rose in that invisible wavy motion that used to make me think I was seeing things. Dad explained it was heat. “The air gets so hot on the surface of some things that you can see it.” “But how?” I had asked. He tended to limit me to one answer per topic. I liked to watch the heat dance on the shiny blue hood and as we drove along, sometimes I pretended I was drunk. I thought that’s what things had to look like. I had never been drunk but I had seen plenty of people, including Dad, when they were. They walked sorta like the heat, thick and wavy. The heat wrapped itself around my bare legs and pressed. I felt like the ironing that mother attacked every Thursday morning. Even my legs felt damp and sticky like the starch. I couldn’t get a good deep breath without swallowing the burn. I slid in behind the wheel and was glad Dad had left the car running. I wouldn’t have to 55

figure out how to start it. He was looking straight ahead. I reached beneath the seat like I had seen mother do to move it forward, but I couldn’t find any button that I assumed she mashed. I could feel the cold hard steel frame of the seat and a few rough edges that scratched my fingertips, but I couldn’t locate a button. “Thurman, she doesn’t even know how to move the seat up. You can’t sit there and tell me she drives fine.” “Shut up, Delores.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see him looking straight ahead. I swiped under the seat in larger and larger circles. Finally, I felt it. It was not a round button like I thought it would be. It stuck straight out and had a smooth rubber covering over it. I pulled it and nothing happened. I could feel my fingers starting to tremble. “Thurman, this has gone far enough. If you don’t stop this nonsense, I will.” “Shut up, Delores.” I pushed, and the seat lurched forward. It didn’t stop until my chest— or lack thereof — was almost touching the steering wheel. This created a gap between my half of the front seat and Dad’s. I considered trying to correct it, but decided it was okay. “You know the gas tank isn’t bottomless,” Dad said. He was feeling in his pocket for a cigarette. I searched for the clock. From this side of the car everything seemed new, almost foreign. Normally to see the clock, I had to tilt my head down and slightly to left, just over Mom’s headrest, but now when I tilted down and to the left, I saw the emergency brake lever. I was glad the car was running so I didn’t have to crank it. I tried not to wonder what time it was. Gas pedal, I thought. Press the gas pedal. I pushed it with my right foot and a loud roar erupted from beneath the hood. “Thurman, she doesn’t even know to take it out of park.” “Shut up, Delores.” I gripped the shiny, gear-shift stick that was behind the steering wheel. Miraculously, it slipped right down to the next letter “R” easily. I pushed the gas pedal again and this time we moved, only it was backwards. I saw Dad’s head bob forward, but he never turned my way.

“Shit, Thurman, you’re gonna get us killed. Is that what you’re trying to do? This is one heckuva way to avoid court.” “Delores, for the hundredth time just shut up. Sit back and shut the hell up. I know better than you what’s going on here.” He looked my way and nodded. “We’re fine. “ I re-gripped the gearstick and studied all of the choices. Some were letters and some were numbers. I chose “2,” and pressed the gas again. The car shot forward and the tires found the few bits of gravel that were there, slinging them against his door. I kept my foot on the pedal and aimed the steering wheel at the center of the road. Ahead I saw an oncoming vehicle. It was growing at an alarming rate. An eighteen-wheeler flashing its lights. “Get on your side of the road,” Mother whispered. I squeezed the steering wheel as if applying pressure might make it obey, but we kept heading toward the wrong side of the road. “Thurman, help her,” she said a little louder. The semi was bearing down on us. I knew there was something I should do to make the car change directions, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think what it was. Mama started shrieking and I thought of that singer known for shattering glass. I fully expected the windshield to fall out. Daddy kept looking straight ahead. He didn’t say anything. Not even shut up. I let off of the gas pedal and began to choke the steering wheel. It was no use. I was still rolling into the middle of the road. I could hear the whine of the truck’s horn. The car was slowing so I thought I should push the gas again. Maybe I could at least beat the truck to the other side of the road. Only I missed. I hit the brake instead. Mother came flying over the front seat, arms and legs flailing. “You are trying to kill me, Thurman Wilson. Why don’t you just throw me in front of the car and run over me?” Daddy scooped mother up and tossed her back. “We’re gonna die, Thurman, and I forgot to feed Milt.” Milt was our black lab. The truck had begun to slow and I couldn’t see the driver’s face clearly, but I could see his sunglasses bobbing up and down, side-to-side. His hands seemed to plow the empty air. I slid my right hand down to the bottom of the steering wheel feeling the soft rubbery grain as it went. I turned the steering wheel, leading with this hand and pushed the gas pedal slowly. I managed to get into my lane and continued past the truck with the broken yellow lines to the left. Mama’s not even Catholic, but she was crossing herself and muttering. 57

The next hour went pretty smoothly. Mother was quiet and I gained confidence. I even found the clock. I had glanced at Daddy from the corner of my eye a few times but I decided to turn and face him. I smiled, hoping he would smile back. After all we were doing it. I was driving like he said I could, and Mama had shut up. She had even started her cross-stitching. Surely he would be proud. He might even offer me a smoke. But instead, I watched as he shifted in the seat and removed his pocketknife from his front pants pocket. He flipped the shortest blade out, not once looking my way. We crossed the bridge over the Tallapoosa River to the scraping sound of my father digging dirt out from under his fingernails. He was still working on them when we pulled into Bigmama’s driveway. Mama started humming as she scraped up what she could of the corn casserole from the trunk. I don’t remember what song it was, but I remember the way she used the tinfoil like a spoon. Daddy had gotten out of the car and was grinding a cigarette butt into the red clover. She walked right over to my father, cocked the white Pyrex dish back behind her, and slung the soupy yellow mixture into his face. Daddy raised his hand, and for a second I was afraid he was going to hit her. But Mama shoved a potholder in his fist first and then walked into Bigmama’s house. Daddy wiped his face with the potholder and pulled out another cigarette. He looked at me for the first time since I got into the driver’s seat and smiled. An odd smile. One that was almost relieved to get across his face. Then he raised his eyebrows, which dislodged a piece of corn that the swipe with the potholder had missed. He held the red pack of Pall Malls out for me to take one and cleared his throat. I thought he was going to say something. But he didn’t. I wanted to take one. I had wanted to smoke since my friend Paula had started before Christmas. I even asked Daddy a few times before if I could, but he had said I wasn’t old enough. Somehow this didn’t seem like the right time, though I didn’t know why. He tapped the pack onto the back of his hand three times and one came out of the hole. I could see the brown tobacco end as he held it out to me. “I’ll light it for you,” he said. I felt like I was in the middle of the highway again and the truck was fast approaching. I was supposed to do something, but at the moment, I couldn’t think what.

Dianna Hyde “The Blue Station Wagon” Ila Grace Jewel was a proud woman, but this was too much. She was strapping and strong and had resolved to get through this with her customary dignity, but after twelve hours of seizing punishment to, as the old women said, her “gut, butt, and cut,” she was about to come apart, maybe literally. She had clenched her back teeth into such a desperate impasse that she could almost feel them boring deeper into her gums. She was strangely consumed with thoughts of her embattled jaws when the baby came. She heard no noise. She knew the baby ought to be crying, but all she could think of was that if it wasn’t going to, then she was. She had paid for the right for one of them to cry. Dr. Blaylock placed the tiny, brown baby in her arms. He was as small as a hickory nut, with big, searching eyes that unblinkingly probed hers. Well, look at you, she thought, wrung out. Big pain for such a little boy, and old eyes for such a new face. As if reading her thoughts, Dr. Blaylock said, “Strangest thing I’ve seen in a while, a baby born with his eyes open. You better watch that boy, Ila Grace, because I get the feeling he’ll sure be watching you.” And he did appear to take in everything, with none of the cross-eyed, unfocused wanderings of little babies. Even as an infant, his solemn stare seemed purposeful and vaguely accusing. The church ladies who came to the house to visit shortly after his birth took to pressing him to their chests instead of cradling him in their arms, trying to escape his reproachful gaze. “You must be so proud, Ila,” they said to her, over his shiny, bald head. “He’s just like his daddy.” “Oh, he couldn’t be just like his daddy,” Ila Grace replied evenly but with heat, “or he’d be down at the tavern or laid up with something trashy over on the west side of town. Since he’s home with me where he ought to be, I guess you can’t really say he’s just like his daddy, can you?” The church ladies were taken aback by the quiet ferocity of Ila Grace’s retort. They were just trying to make pleasant conversation with her, after all. Nobody was trying to signify on Charles, her shameless old alleycat of a husband. What—you couldn’t even pay her little gawking baby an innocent compliment? She ought to be glad they bothered to come visit, not mention the bundle of Birdseye diapers they brought her—decently thick, too. These weren’t at all the thinnest ones they could have purchased. Maybe Charles’s mama was right when she said Ila Grace thought too much of herself, was hard to live with, and would make even a saint go upside her head. “Now, Ila, we didn’t mean…,” one of them said after an awkward silence, but by that time, Ila Grace was already showing them to the door. “I know you didn’t,” Ila Grace cut her off. “And when you pass back by Miss Annie’s house on 59

your way home to give your report, you can tell her everything I just said about her no ‘count boy and that she’s got a grandson, if she gives a damn.” And Miss Annie certainly did give a damn, especially when she found out that her baby boy now had his own baby boy. She thought her son was The Son, nevermind that Ila Grace accused him of being a head-knocking, whore-hopping, huckabucking nigger. Miss Annie knew that Ila Grace brought all that on herself, what with her brazen mouth and her hands always defiantly on her hips, so she forgave Charles these sins, if you could really even call them sins. He was so easy to forgive because he still came by the house every Sunday for dinner—dinner, he said, like only Mama could make it— and because he brought her a little piece of money every time he got paid, and not least, because he was her prettiest child. Really, he was more boyish scoundrel than no ‘count nigger. Annie Jean Jewel was a handsome woman in her middle age, but back when she was young and having babies, she was as delicious as a chocolate Easter bunny— rich, sweet, liable to melt in your mouth, and not available to common folk but about once a year. You can imagine her dismay, then, when she had three plain little brown girls in a row. Dark brown, too—not like the milk chocolate candy Annie Jean was—with skinny legs and coarse, resistant hair. She blamed these daughters on the envious incantations of her enemies, whom she delightedly counted, and on their daddy’s side of the family, known for its clean but homely women. If she had it all to do over again, Annie Jean might not have married ordinary Rupert Jewel and his unremarkable genes, but then again, he had been too hard working, unassuming, and grateful to have her to let him get away. Besides, her grandmother had pushed her to marry Rupert, declaring him mannerable and decent, while at the same time declaring that she was too old and tired to be watching all the boys who were watching Annie Jean, who herself was watching all the men, and that Annie Jean could be Rupert’s problem now. If only Annie Jean had any such young men, or old men for that matter, to urge either her oldest or her youngest girl to consider. The middle girl, Pearl, had married a fellow who worked at the seafood processing plant in town until he was suddenly “called to preach” and left, with Pearl in tow, in search of a congregation. Annie Jean had vigorously protested Pearl’s marrying beneath her, to a man who stank of fish and failure, besides, until she began to notice Pearl’s flowering chest and her spreading behind. She then decided that perhaps an itinerant preacher should be more rightly called a traveling preacher and was just as anointed by the Lord as a preacher who had his own church and his own car. She was still customarily haughty around town back when she was trying to proclaim that the remaining Jewel girls were highly particular and wouldn’t consider marrying just anybody, 60

but once her jealous-hearted adversaries quit bothering to even disguise their eye-rolling or the set of their jaws that said You’s a lie, honey, she had been quite silent on the subject. She would not be reduced to the level of these garden variety wash-women, with their limp dresses of cheap cotton and their hands roughened by other folks’ mopbucket water. Her daughters were still Jewels, after all. But even she realized that they were costume jewelry, at best, so she felt vindicated by Charles, her beautiful son. He was tall and rangy and strolled everywhere, like time was no object and his hip joints were well-oiled. He had a high kind of forehead, but just high enough to give him the look of a man’s man—no soft, feminine contours. His skin was light brown over red and reminded Annie Jean of a pair of cordovan shoes, pointy-toed and patent leather, that belonged to a slickhaired fellow she had desperately loved long ago. Charles’s top lip was always curled in a rascally near-sneer, and his hair was good enough to lay down with just a little vaseline and water. She loved him so. And, damn—is it a crime for a mother to love her son? Even his daddy said she had ruined the boy, but what did ordinary Rupert Jewel know about what an extraordinary boy needed? Charles was all Annie Jean’s and never once got mad when his boyhood friends took to calling him, with something like envy, Mama’s Boy, a nickname he still answered to. She knew Ila Grace blamed her for the man her son was, but what Ila Grace called worthless, Annie Jean called wonderful. Charles Jewel showed up to see his son for the first time when Man was four days old. Ila Grace had nicknamed the baby Man because of his old man’s way of seeing and his old man’s eyes, eyes that he cast somewhat disparagingly on his daddy the first time they met. “He sure does have a strange look on his face, Ila,” said Charles. “And he don’t really blink much, does he? Are you sure he’s…right?” “Oh, he’s right,” Ila Grace fired back. “He probably doesn’t like the smell of cheap liquor and cheap tail that’s all over you. And give him back now. I just didn’t want you to be able to say that I wouldn’t let you see your son. So now you can head on back to wherever you’ve been all this time, you hear? Just make sure you leave the rent for when Mr. Walker comes around to collect it on Saturday.” “How in the hell you gonna ask me to leave some rent for a place you trying to put me out of?” Charles flared suddenly. “Don’t get beside yourself, bitch. This is still my house, I don’t care whose bed my shoes is under come nightfall. Don’t you ever talk to me like you don’t know who I am.” He advanced on Ila Grace with his neck muscles tightened in fury and his fists knotted to straighten her out. After several purposeful steps, however, he abruptly softened and slowed his stride and his tone. “And you know I ain’t really studying about that woman, nohow. Her legs are skinny, she don’t 61

half keep her hair done, and she ain’t but a little bit of a cook, neither. I’m not a bit serious about that gal. It’s just that she likes a little fun every now and then, and so do I. You always so serious now, Ila. You and me used to dress up on Friday and Saturday nights and go down to the tavern and have a good time, laughing, dancing, and drinking around, raising a little sand. We used to be the sharpest couple of hellcats in the place. But you haven’t been like that for a while. All you want to do these days is fuss and keep up commotion, always telling me what I need to do different. You ever stop to think that maybe you need to do something different? A man needs some fun, and you used to know that. And that other woman sure ain’t nothing to keep up no fracas about.” Charles continued toward Ila Grace with his top lip breaking into that rascally sneer that always greased the way for him with everybody, even with Ila Grace most times, although she tried to resist. “Let’s be a family,” he said, his hands having transformed from threatening to cajoling. “I’ma do right by you and this boy. I’ma go to work every day, come home every night, bring you my paycheck on Friday evenings, and help you with the baby. You’ll see what a do-right I can be, and then you can quit all this needless ruckus. Whatcha say, old girl. Doesn’t that sound good?” And to Ila Grace, just up off the childbirth bed and tired of being alone, it did. So she ignored all the talk in the streets that said Charles had only come home because the skinny-legged woman’s husband had gotten back early off his railroad job and caught Charles’s shoes under his bed. Word in the street was that the man had snatched his wife from under the covers and blacked both her eyes, giving Charles time to grab his pants and hit the door running, leaving his good-time girl to fend for herself. Charles didn’t worry even a little about the woman’s husband pursuing him further. The man knew Charles was bigger than he was, and he had also heard that Charles would drop the corners of his easy grin and fight like a junkyard dog at the drop of a dime. Case closed, then. Life in the Jewel household was tranquil, if cautiously so, for about a month after Charles’s declaration of devotion to Ila Grace and his new son. Just as he had promised, each morning Charles left for work at the fertilizer plant with a whistle on his lips and a lunch pail packed with Ila Grace’s fresh, filling food and her hope for a fresh start at life together. He dutifully came straight home again each night, often with a couple of hot fish or fried chicken plates from the juke joint on the corner, which sold food from the kitchen at the back of the place. Ila Grace was glad not to have to stand on her feet and cook on those nights, since the old women had told her that a mother’s body only closed up good by resting as much as possible immediately after having a baby. She was also tenderly reminded of a long past time when Charles had courted her with his roguish good looks, his velvety, 62

slick-as-okra promises, and his gifts of crisp fried things wrapped in brown paper and shared at dusk on her great aunt’s front porch. When Charles got home, he would immediately relieve Ila Grace of Man, from whom she wanted no relief at all because he wasn’t a difficult baby. Charles made a great show of fussing over the temperature of Man’s bath water, carefully handling him during his bath in the sink, diapering, lotioning, and powdering him just the way Ila Grace did, and warming his bottle for the evening feeding. For his part, Man tolerated his father’s elaborate attention stoically, although his small body stayed rigid throughout the performance, causing his daddy to once again wonder if he was “right.” Much to his surprise, Charles found that he rather enjoyed taking care of Man in the evenings, although it did not occur to him that it was his habit to delight in new things that would have no chance to get old to him. For just about thirty days, the Jewel family sparkled. But the thirty-first day tested the permanence of Charles’s metamorphosis and found it as fleeting as Friday afternoon’s pay envelope at the bar of Saturday night’s gin juke. Ila Grace grieved, but she had seen many things over time change from sugar to shit, so she was not altogether undone. Besides, each of the preceding thirty nights when she had picked Charles’s crumpled pants off the floor next to his side of the bed to wash, she had relieved him of as much money as she could against a day like this one. At least the rent would be paid for a little while until she saw what kind of fool Charles was going to act about the three cardboard boxes of clothes, shoes, and tools of the lady-killer trade she had put out on the front porch. In preparation for a brawl with a junkyard dog, Ila Grace had taken to keeping an axe handle in her work bag and carrying Man home from the sitter’s on her left hip to keep her strong arm free. For days she expected, even wished in a way, for the blast that would finally clear the slate, but none came. She came home one evening after a long day working at the laundry to find the boxes gone and the screen door torn off its hinges, but that was all. Annie Jean let Ila Grace know, by way of the neighborhood grapevine, that her son had grown tired of small town life and a certain small town woman and had taken off for Chicago. So, Ila Grace and Man settled into life, just the two of them. Well, it was not really just the two of them. Just as Ila Grace had done as soon as she was able, her younger sister Isabelle married herself up out of the red clay backwoods of their great aunt’s home and into town, settling with her new husband just up the block from Ila Grace. Isabelle’s husband was some years older than she was and was grateful to have a young, sturdy, pretty wife, having watched his first wife die slowly, by inches, from female trouble. Her sickness, instead of granting him license to cat around, had wrung the waywardness right of out him and left an upright man in its place, a man who dutifully went to 63

work, came right home, and let Isabelle buy a house full of new furniture on time from a store that sold to only the most respectable Negroes. Harmon and Isabelle had no children yet and Isabelle did not work, so Man spent many contented days and nights up to Auntie’s place, the center of their attention and affection. Isabelle, sweet-smelling, shapely and glad to have scrubbed herself clean of the red dirt she had so long known, was an indulgent surrogate to her nephew. He softly but insistently crawled, then toddled, then walked behind her, and she basked in his intent focus, in the silence that allowed her to talk unfettered, in the clean hands that never left greasy stains around her carefully-kept house. He watched her while she cooked; he watched her while she cleaned; he watched her while she planted neat beds of vivid flowers in front of her porch to soften its hard, concrete look. Man’s eyes took it all in. Although Harmon and Isabelle helped Ila Grace insulate Man against the deficits of fatherlessness, Ila Grace still made sure Man saw his grandmother, Annie Jean, regularly over the years. For one, Ila Grace was a good, Christian woman who wouldn’t punish a grandmother, although haughty Annie Jean hated to be called that, for her son’s misdeeds; for two, Ila Grace enjoyed hearing Annie Jean fumble for an answer ever since Man, at age four, suddenly began to ask on every visit, “Do you know where my daddy is?” Man was such a gift to his mother, and Ila Grace loved him fiercely. But he was a mystery to her, too. He saw things out of heavily-lashed brown eyes, which drooped just slightly at the corners, that aged him relentlessly, things his mother either did not see or did not care to see. And while Man was not a grim or humorless child, he had a solemnity about him that Ila Grace worried about. He enjoyed, of a sort, interaction with other children his age, but he seemed to spend more time studying them, as if under a microscope, than romping or tumbling with them. Something about their wide openness threatened to overwhelm him, so he took refuge in precision and detail. When Ila Grace walked him to school the first day of first grade, she tried to convince him that all he needed to take was his new lunch pail, but he had insisted on also taking the little stack of books from which he had taught himself to read more than a year earlier. As other children raced all around them up the dusty road toward the schoolhouse, she urged him to join them, tugging at the books he had clutched to his chest like a shield. With uncharacteristic tears welling in his eyes, he pleaded for something from home until I can see you again, Mama. She let the books go. Man loved to sing and was the anchor of the Greater Olive Branch Baptist Church children’s 64

choir. He had a full, pure voice that was impervious to the croaking and quavering of the very young, and he was closest to being unguarded in the choir stand. Ila Grace was relieved that he had an interest in which his gravity was celebrated, rather than disparaged. She loved to hear the lusty cries of Amen and watch the contorted faces of the righteous and sinners alike as they submitted to his Sunday morning call. Ila Grace was so proud of him that she made sure her scant salary stretched far enough to pay for voice and piano lessons from Miss Dorothy Chapman. Miss Dorothy Chapman lived across town, which required Man to catch the bus alone to get to his lessons, but Ila Grace felt she was a more talented teacher than Miss Lucy Dean Crane, who, although she lived right in the neighborhood, was a self-taught instructor who sang with more volume than voice and taught children to beat on the piano keys in blam-a-lam-a-lam fashion. Miss Dorothy, on the other hand, attended and played for the town’s only Catholic church for Negroes and would modestly report, if asked, that she was a trained vocalist and accompanist who taught children to sing and play the piano reverently. It was on a day when a pipe burst down at the laundry, causing flooding that sent all the workers home for the afternoon, that Ila Grace went to meet Man at the bus stop as he came home from a voice and piano lesson. He was gleeful to see her, as if he had won a prize that only he wanted, and his surprise happiness showed in an uncharacteristic babble of talk. Down the hard-packed dirt road they went, ambling almost, and Man reprised everything Miss Dorothy taught, said, and thought as they walked toward home together. They had not gotten far when Man told his mother that Miss Dorothy had interrupted a hard piece to ask him how long his father had been back in town. Ila Grace stopped abruptly and, looking perplexed, asked her seven-year old son what he had just said. “Daddy,” Man repeated. “She wanted to know how long Daddy has been back. She said she has seen him three or four times in the last week coming and going from the house of a lady who lives on her street. She says the lady ought to be ashamed, letting Daddy stay there while she’s raising girls. Miss Dorothy said the surest way to raise a loose girl is to be a loose woman.” Man paused his rapid recounting of Miss Dorothy’s gospel to look Ila Grace in the eyes and ask pointedly, “Daddy’s not coming back to live with us, is he, Mama?” “We don’t even really know that was him, Man,” Ila Grace replied quickly. “Miss Dorothy probably saw somebody else, so let’s not even think about it anymore.” Instinctively, she grabbed Man’s hand and quickened their pace. “Well, Miss Dorothy seemed sure, even though she kept asking me questions like she wasn’t,” 65

Man said as he was fairly well dragged along. “But I didn’t answer because you have to really concentrate to play pieces out of the blue lesson book. She is always saying that to play well, you have to focus your whole self on the piano keys, so I did.” He didn’t speak for a moment. “Miss Dorothy sure is nosy, isn’t she, Mama?” he finally declared. So, by way of the same grapevine through which Ila Grace found out that Charles Jewel had left town, she found out that he was back. Strangely enough, however, she herself saw no sign of him, even though stage-whispered sightings spread from neighbor to neighbor like a disease. Even when she took Man by on his regular visit to see his grandmother, Annie Jean, there was no evidence—no stacks of clean, folded laundry waiting to be picked up, no elaborate Sunday dinners mysteriously fixed on Saturday, no scent of spearmint gum mingled with hair oil and musky aftershave—that Charles had come back and Annie Jean, for her part, gave no indication of such. Nevertheless, as Ila Grace had had to do many times since she first took up with Charles, she ignored the cackle of church hens, neighborhood hens and work hens and continued about her daily doings as if all were well. Still, she kept a wary watch for Charles, and the axe handle reappeared in the tote she took with her to the laundry everyday. One day about a month after Charles was said to have resurfaced in town, Ila Grace climbed the three sagging steps of her porch and fumbled to get her key in the lock of her front door. “Durn this ragged lock,” she thought in frustration, when a warm, familiar smell faintly revealed itself. She immediately processed it and swung around, dropping her keys in favor of freeing the axe handle. When nobody was there, Ila Grace felt foolishly paranoid, looking around to see who might have witnessed her reflex attack on nothing but a haint. She had been more than just a little on edge since she heard that Charles was back, so she chided herself for conjuring him where there was none. Shaken, she picked her keys back up and forced her trembling fingers to work the key into the lock, letting herself in the house and fastening up the door behind her. She counseled herself to be careful rather than fearful, but the smell wouldn’t leave her mind and after a while, she gave up trying to make it. Several weeks later, Ila Grace was deep in the midst of washing the clothes she had recently begun to take in when Man padded quietly in from one of his piano lessons. Ila Grace was in rolledup sleeves in their small kitchen, sweating over a pile of white clothes that she was about to dip, piece by piece, into the tin tub of bluing in front of her. “How was your lesson, Man?” she asked. “Fine, Mama,” he said, coming forth to kiss her. “Miss Dorothy said you were right to let me 66

start coming two times a week. She says I have real talent, maybe talent enough to take over playing at her church once she gets too old to play anymore. Mama, Baptists are Christians, right?” he asked seriously. “Yes, baby, we are,” Ila Grace chuckled irritatedly, “and I can see that I need to remind Miss Dorothy that the only thing I want her to teach you is voice and piano, understand?” “Yes, Mama,” he answered, fixated on the tub of milky bluing. “Mama, what color do you call that?” “It’s blue, Man,” she replied, a little puzzled. “Surely you know that, son.” “I know it’s blue, Mama,” he answered patiently, “but what kind of blue is it?” “Well, I don’t really know, Man,” said Ila Grace. “It’s kinda light blue is all I know, or maybe baby blue or blue like hydrangeas. Why? What difference does it make?” “Miss Dorothy keeps a statue of a lady on the piano,” he said, “and when I make a mistake, she tells me to ask the lady to help me play better. I asked her once if the lady was Mary and if it was Mary I should pray to, but she said the question was ignorant and that only a heathen would ask it. Anyway, the lady is wearing robes that color and I look at her robes hard when I’m concentrating. It helps me be steady. I really like that blue now, and I look for it everywhere. I’ve even seen a station wagon that color twice when I was walking home from school.” “A station wagon this color?” Ila Grace asked, pointing down into the tub. “An unusual color like this, twice? Where?” “Once at Miss Nettie Small’s house, and once at Miss Lillie Walker’s,” Man said. “Are you sure, Man?” Ila Grace questioned. “Not too many people around here have a car, so I notice when I see one in the neighborhood. Is anything the matter, Mama?” Man asked, noting her furrowed brow, the controlled coolness of her questions. “No, Man,” Ila Grace answered. “It’s just strange that you have seen a car that’s such a different color twice, and right in the neighborhood, too. It’s just odd, that’s all. Now go on and change out of your good pants.” Ila Grace turned her attention back to her work. She had to have these clothes ready for tomorrow and she had wasted enough time on inconsequential matters. Ila Grace Jewel was a woman who wasn’t afraid of hard work. It wouldn’t have done her any good if she had been because during the time she had been with Charles, she had gotten used to often having to pay the rent and the utilities herself. She had also gotten used to going down to Silas 67

Williams’s store to pay off Charles’ beer and fish sandwich advances so that she could count on being extended credit if she and Man ran short of groceries. It wasn’t that Charles wouldn’t work; he had long held a good job down at the fertilizer plant. But household bills didn’t mean much to him. Why worry about rent when you had so many other places to lay your head? What did a grocery bill matter when your loving mother, among other admirers, was happy to feed you? It was foolish to be concerned about paying the installment on your wife’s sewing machine when you didn’t want to wear homemade clothes in the first place. Money was supposed to make you happy, Charles had told Ila Grace on more than one occasion, and wasn’t no happiness in paying bills. Ila Grace was used to carrying a heavy load. But lately, the load was wearing her out. She sat in Dr. Blaylock’s office telling him how easily she tired now, how run-down and punk she had recently begun to feel, how she probably just needed something to build up her blood. She told him that after just a few hours down at the laundry working the presser, her arms and legs felt like concrete blocks and that she had lately been too exhausted to take in any extra washing. Man had immediately recognized that there were no longer regular tubs of bluing to gaze into, and that was even before he reported that Miss Dorothy had grumbled that maybe he wasn’t a serious enough student if he couldn’t continue coming twice a week. He grew anxious about her, and Ila Grace no longer had the strength to assuage his distress. “Let’s take a closer look at you, Ila Grace,” said Dr. Blalock, holding a stethoscope to her chest, “and see if we can find a reason you’re so beaten down these days. Any other symptoms?’ he queried lightly. Ila Grace shook her head. She was reassured by his touch, this man who had always been so concerned about her. As he rolled up her sleeve to take her blood, she thought of their long history together, of all that he knew about her, of the way he had sympathized with her problems, given her advice with no judgment in his voice, lent her money from time to time, seen about the health of her and Man. As an afterthought, she asked Dr. Blaylock to give her some salve before she left the office to quiet some stinging she had felt while in the bathroom lately. Time to change soap brands, she guessed; that Ivory seemed to irritate tender tissue. “Anything out of the ordinary going on at home, Ila Grace?” he asked, laying her back on the examining table and noting her uncharacteristic lack of resistance to being reclined. “Is Man alright? Sometimes stress can lead to this kind of fatigue.” “No, Dr. Blaylock, nothing unusual,” Ila Grace replied, struggling to sit back up, “and I don’t really have time for a full examination. I just need something to fortify me so I can keep up with my work. I’m sure it’s nothing.” 68

“Well, if you don’t have time for a full exam today, that’s alright,” Dr. Blaylock said slowly and heavily, “and I can give you some iron pills to help restore your energy, but they won’t do much. I’m almost sure you have something that’s going around the neighborhood and when your bloodwork comes back to confirm it, I’ll have to be more insistent about some things than I am today.” “Insistent . . . about what things?” inquired Ila Grace, taken aback by his sudden gravity. “I don’t think I understand.” “Ila Grace, I’ve seen two other young women in the last ten days who have also complained about…being tired and…maybe needing a little salve, and I think you all have something in common. Listen to me carefully, now. It will take five days for your bloodwork to come back from the laboratory, and once I get the results, you must come in for one shot and two tablets per week for the next four weeks. Within the five days it takes to get your results, you must also persuade the source of this problem to come in for bloodwork and the same course of treatment that you will get. I told the other young ladies the same thing, but they claimed not to know what I was talking about, which forced my hand on some things. You and I, however, we know each other too well for games, so I must let you know this: if he presents himself and starts treatment before your results come back, then I can handle everything right here in my office, but if he refuses, I am obligated to turn over your results and any associated names to the County Health Department. Once I do that, an officer from the Outbreak Division will make several visits to your home, none of them discreet, to ask you a lot of degrading questions and make you submit to further, needless treatment down at the Health Department. They’ll treat you with scorn, Ila Grace, worse than a leper, so see what you can do in the next five days. Perhaps you’ll be the one who can make him see.” Ila Grace left Dr. Blaylock’s office and with inspired energy, headed straight to Annie Jean Jewel’s house, where she let herself in. “Where is your whore-humping son laid up this week?” Ila Grace exploded at her, noting the crisply folded laundry tied up with string that sat on the arm of the couch. “I need to know where in the hell he is right damn now so I can talk to him about something urgent.” “Why, Ila Grace,” declared Annie Jean, bigg-eyed and righteously offended, “you know very well that he lives in Chicago. And don’t you burst into my house cursing like a common black mongrel. If my son was around and I did know where, I wouldn’t tell a cheap, ashy black monkey like you. I told him not to marry you. I told him you had nothing to give him.” “Well, let me tell you what he gave me,” Ila Grace thundered before catching and calming herself, her customary dignity restored. She paused a few moments and caught her breath. 69

“Nevermind,” she said finally. “You don’t have to tell me where he is if you don’t want to. You can wait and tell it to the Outbreak Officer in about a week. He’ll already have your damn address, and he’ll park the car that he drives to chase down blistered bastards right by your mailbox where everybody can see it.” “Outbreak Officer?! What in the world is an Outbreak Officer? I never heard of no Outbreak Officer,” Annie Jean Jewel hissed contemptuously. “Of all the ignorant, made-up…”. But Ila Grace was already letting the screen door close behind her, headed up the dusty road home. Ila Grace started taking her iron pills immediately, and they did seem to give her a bit more vigor than she had felt in a while. Man right away registered even the slight improvement and let the pleat between his eyebrows relax just a little, in kind. In spite of both her and Man’s tenuous resurgence, Ila Grace still felt terrible, regretting that her weakness had further encumbered her solemn, serious, beautiful son. She was almost glad the day he bounded in from school, panting joyfully, “Mama, it’s back, and it’s headed this way! The blue station wagon is headed this way!”

Katie Boyer “Weaning Marcus”

Jason had already marked in pencil the six places the nipples should go. The marks were barely visible against the soft gray fur, but he was sure Mari could still see them. He had already threaded the needle, too, so she wouldn’t have to waste any time with that, and he held it out to her while the other hand balanced the state fair-sized stuffed cat on the bed. But his wife wouldn’t look at him. She just sat there, arms crossed tightly, shaking her head. “Come on Mari,” he encouraged. “Please. Today’s the last day. Help me fix him.” “Jason,” she said firmly, and he knew she was losing patience. “Not only will this not work, but it’s a little sick.” “No, it’s not, sweetheart – it’ll be fine. Marcus just needs a good mama cat so he can re-do his weaning experience. That’s all that’s wrong with him, I’m sure.” Her head was shaking vigorously, her eyes drifting to a corner of the room. Her lips had drawn tight at the corners, like they did when she was waiting for just the right words to swell them open again. She was so intently searching for a response that she didn’t hear the first slipping noise in the closet behind her. Jason, though, glanced up to see what it was. He had just finished building the closet for her, a gift for their daughter’s wedding, and he hadn’t even put the door on yet. If something had come loose already, there would be no convincing her of anything. A second sweater in a plastic bag slithered from the top shelf and landed with a plop. Then an entire cascade of boxes, shoes, and sweaters rumbled down from the shelves. Mari sprang from the bed and had crossed the room in the time it took Jason to blink. There was movement at the edge of the rubble, under a pale pink sweater that had burst like an over-ripe fruit from the protective plastic Mari had zipped it into. She snapped up the sweater – and there was Marcus, blinking up at them with startled blue eyes. A bit of thread trailed from his mouth to the sweater in Mari’s hand. He shook it loose. Mari let out a cry, and Marcus leaped away with a scratching noise of claws in carpet, knocking open the bedroom door and galloping heavily down the hall. Mari pivoted toward Jason, sweater trembling in her hand. “Closet,” she said. “Marcus. Cashmere.” She lifted the spoiled garment toward him, as if to show what she could not say. 71

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” Jason ventured, softly. He took a breath. “This is exactly why we need the mama cat. Marcus just –” “Out,” she said. And more loudly, “Go.” Jason thought it best to comply. And to get the future mama cat out of her sight. Nodding grimly, he put the needle carefully between his teeth and gathered his materials. The box of nipples went into his shorts pocket, the thread on the other side. Scissors in hand, he wrapped an arm around the stuffed cat and lifted it onto his hip, repressing the dangerous urge to giggle when he saw that its soft, huge ears bounced with every step. “We’ll just be in the kitchen,” he said, turning as he reached the door. Mari waved him away without speaking, lips pressed tight. To be honest, Jason was surprised and a little disappointed that Mari was so resistant to accepting Marcus into their family. Jazz had been gone four months already, expiring after a respectable 16 years and now resting in the backyard. He was buried next to Lypsie, the beautiful, sleepy Persian Mari had already owned when they met and who had been such a perfect pet when Rachel was young. They had always had a cat in the house, and Mari had always spoiled them. Marcus was just the next generation. Sure, Marcus didn’t have Lypsie’s pedigree or come from an exotic pet store, like Jazz, but he had undeniable charm. Jason wasn’t even looking for a kitten when he found Marcus in a front yard between his antiques shop and the hardware store. A boy who couldn’t have been more than seven had set up a kitten dispensary on the sidewalk, like a lemonade stand. “Free Kiten’s,” the sign read, and Jason’s truck had stopped practically on its own. The boy had a dozen kittens in a box, mewing and falling over each other. One had crawled to the top of the pile and reached up to swat playfully at him. He was the deep gray of a storm cloud, with sunny-day-blue eyes, and there was no way Jason could leave him. He gave the boy twenty dollars for the kitten and made him promise not to tell his mother. The trouble, sadly, had started that night, when the kitten shredded the living room drapes. He had only been with them a couple of weeks now, but, in addition to the drapes, Marcus had sabotaged an entire roast chicken, clawed a big square hole in the laundry room linoleum, scratched up the laundry room door, and vomited – several times, in colorful piles – under their bed. Jason had pored over cat-training books and called veterinarians, and everything pointed to the same 72

diagnosis: he was weaned too soon. Jason was certain it would only take them a few weeks to re-do his weaning experience, but Mari refused to wait that long. If Marcus wasn’t gone today, she had told him, she would take him to an animal shelter. And she wasn’t likely to choose a nice one. Jason sighed, shifting the stuffed cat from his hip to the kitchen table. It sat on its haunches with stiff, straight front legs, grave as an ancient hieroglyph, with dark-flecked green eyes. Granted, its eyes were not the same color as Marcus’s, but the fur was an almost exact match. Jason was pretty sure it wouldn’t matter – kittens’ bonding with their mothers had little to do with eye contact and everything to do with warmth and milk. Sure, the size and sternness of the stuffed cat would make Marcus feel safe, but, with a few nipples attached, the whole thing would soften, become maternal. Jason could even pin back the huge floppy ears into a bun, like his mother used to wear. He laughed. Now that would be too much. He emptied his pockets and sat down to work. Marcus emerged from under one of the kitchen chairs and butted his head against Jason’s shin, purring loudly. “We can do this ourselves, can’t we, Marcus?” said Jason. The thread had slipped out of the needle somewhere along the way, and he considered going back to the bedroom for his glasses. It probably wasn’t worth it, though. Not with Mari still angry. He let out a length of thread and poked blindly at the needle, hoping it would simply go through. Suddenly Marcus was on the table. With a single swipe, he sent the spool of thread spinning to the floor, jerking the end out of Jason’s hand. He plopped down heavily, chasing it over the tiles. Jason reached for the thread, but Marcus batted it further away until, with one last tap, he knocked it under the refrigerator. “Marcus,” Jason sighed. “Why did you do that?” The kitten looked at him with bright eyes and stalked back and forth in front of the stainless steel doors, showing off his captured prey. Jason lowered himself to his knees and, scooting Marcus out of the way, pulled the thread. The spool was caught fast, however, somewhere near the back, and the more he tried to flick it loose, the more thread added itself to the tangle. Marcus pounced on it, rolling the wadded thread over and pawing with his back legs as he chewed. “Well, I’m not one for sewing anyway,” Jason said after a moment. “We can do better than that.” Groaning, he pulled himself up by the refrigerator door handles and crossed the kitchen to the garage. Most of his specialized tools were in his workshop across town, but he had gradually built up a smaller workbench with the fundamentals at home. It meant his half of the garage was full and 73

he had to park on the street, but he didn’t mind. Building had always helped him make sense of things, even when he was very young. In college, he had majored in engineering because he assumed it would be just like building, only with more money, but he discovered quickly that he hated the abstraction of it. He had only kept his engineering job so Mari could afford med school, and he’d been immensely relieved to leave it behind. Marcus was scratching at the door, so Jason didn’t linger. He found the staple gun and went back to the kitchen. Fingers on the trigger bar, he lined up a nipple over the first mark on the cat’s chest and squeezed. The staple pierced the rubber without too much trouble and held fast in the fabric. Steadying the cat by a shoulder, Jason added two, three, four staples in a square and held it back to survey his work. The staples glinted dully against the flesh-colored rubber of the nipple, looking sturdy if not lovely. Jason tugged it to assure Marcus wouldn’t be able to pull it off. Satisfied, he quickly attached the other five nipples. The cat still looked strong, but now she was decidedly softer, more maternal, and Jason almost kissed her. “You see, Marcus?” he said to the kitten winding around his legs. “We didn’t need Mari’s help after all.” Lighthearted and proud, Jason took the milk from the refrigerator and Mari’s turkey baster from the second drawer. He dropped the tip of the baster directly into the jug and was peeling back the edge of one of the nipples, to get the milk inside, when the front door opened with a whoosh. No doorbell. That could only be Rachel. She was calling for Mari before she even closed the door. A sudden vision of himself at the table stapling rubber nipples to a giant stuffed animal flashed through Jason’s head, and he knew he must look ridiculous, but he had no time to hide the mama cat. He dropped the turkey baster into the milk jug and set the red lid on top, straightened the staple gun. The cat, though, he turned outward, where Rachel couldn’t miss it. Turn into the skid, he thought. She paused for only a split second in the kitchen doorway, just long enough for Jason to realize that she had seen everything, but, in that way she had, decided not to notice it. “Hey, Dad,” she said casually, kissing his cheek. “Where’s Mom? You know we’re having lunch?” Her eyes rested on the rubber nipples, the milk jug, the staple gun, but she didn’t mention them. “She’s in the bedroom,” Jason said. “We’ve had kind of a busy morning.” 74

“Right,” she nodded, as if that explained everything. She went to the refrigerator, and Jason watched her carefully for any sign that she would ask what he was doing. “You guys have any mineral water?” she asked instead. She stepped on the wad of thread in front of the fridge, but swept it aside with the tip of her shoe. Jason looked around for Marcus who, startled by the unknown visitor, had hidden behind a potted plant in the window. He rubbed his fingers together to call the kitten, but Marcus stayed where he was. He turned back to his daughter. “So, married life’s going well?” he asked. “Brent over that infection yet?” “Oh, he’s fine,” Rachel answered, opening the door and peering in. “He’s acting like a big baby. Making a huge fuss about practically nothing.” “Your mother’s been anxious about everyone lately,” Jason said. “Probably because Jazz got sick so suddenly. She knows better than any of us that even a routine procedure is risky. But I’m sure he’ll be all right soon.” Rachel had found a bottle of water and poured it, fizzing, into a glass. “Dad, Mom cuts open little babies and sews up holes in their hearts. She doesn’t do anxious. Especially not over a simple infection.” She took a sip. “Besides, Jazz was 16. You guys had to see it coming.” “Of course we knew we’d lose him sometime,” Jason answered, feeling unexpectedly sad. Jazz had been Rachel’s cat too, after all. “I could just see how lonely your mother was when it suddenly got so quiet around here. We’ve had a cat in the house for as long as we’ve been married. That’s why I got her a new kitten. Marcus.” He rubbed his fingers again under the table. “Yeah, I heard about that,” said Rachel, with a short laugh. “Mom says he’s an absolute terror. He’s eating drapes and vomiting all over the house.” “He can’t help what he’s doing, honey,” Jason said. “He was weaned too early, and he’s just trying to find some comfort. He’ll be like family once we get him settled.” When Rachel rolled her eyes she looked exactly like Mari. “I bet,” she muttered. She refilled her glass and put the bottle back in the refrigerator before coming to the table. “I’m going to find Mom,” she announced. “Good luck with...whatever this is.” “It’s for Marcus,” he called, but she was already halfway down the hall. He watched her knock softly on the bedroom door and slip inside, mineral water in hand. How had she become such a humorless adult? As a child she had been so different, open, always laughing and making up little stories for her dolls. Her favorite doll had been Lypsie, the laziest cat Jason could 75

imagine. She would let Rachel comb her and put bows in her fur and dress her in clothes. The only thing Lypsie wouldn’t let Rachel do was rock her in the narrow plastic cradle she stuffed her baby dolls into. Rachel would try over and over to stretch the cat out and get her to lie still, but Lypsie would curl up and jump out and, unheard of for her, actually run to get away. As a surprise for Rachel’s seventh birthday, Jason had built an oak cradle wide enough for a cat to curl up in, with low rockers on the bottom. It had been such a relief to work with his hands after years at the drafting table that he invented new tasks to stay busy. He had carved a different scene from Aesop’s fables, Rachel’s favorite bedtime reading, into each of the side panels. Her brown eyes had widened excitedly when she unwrapped the cradle at her party, and Lypsie was napping in it that very afternoon. But what had surprised him was how, before the cake was even cut, several mothers had cornered him and begun begging him to make cradles for their daughters. They offered to buy the materials, to bring story books, to pay for his time. At first, Jason had built on the weekends and made only cradles. When demand kept growing, though, and people had begun to ask for cabinets and dressers and bookshelves, he had suddenly found the courage to quit his engineering job. This, he realized he should have foreseen, caused a nearly volcanic upset with Mari, who was in her last year of medical school and had at least a year of residency left before she would make enough to help with the bills. But Jason convinced her – he added up how much they would save on daycare with Rachel at home after school, showed her the stack of orders that would take months to complete and, reluctantly, agreed to raise his prices ten percent. Those had been good days. Mornings he spent building, and afternoons he spent with Rachel, helping her with homework and teaching her to handle a hammer. It was the most concentrated amount of time he had ever spent with her, and he was delighted with how bright she was, how careful and orderly. He had worked 50- and 60-hour weeks during her first few years, and he hardly even remembered her as a baby. Regretting the time lost with Rachel, he had pressed Mari to have another child. She had laughed, assumed he was joking, in fact, but then she got angry. She told him she had decided to specialize and would need another two years of school. After that, she’d have to work like mad to get established, and she didn’t have time to be pregnant again. “Any idiot can reproduce,” she had said, “but I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to sink my career before I’m exactly where I want to 76

be. You’ve found your little niche – why shouldn’t I?” Jason had never been able to fathom why she was so angry, but it was the only fight in which she had ever threatened to leave him. So, he had conceded. He had driven to the most exclusive pet store in the phone book and bought Jazz, a fluffy Norwegian, as a peace offering. Mari had accepted his apology, reluctantly at first, then more completely as Rachel grew attached to Jazz. Rachel used to chase him all over the house, giggling, a skinny dark-headed blur tearing after a poofy chocolate and white one. But all of that was years ago and probably didn’t matter anymore. Rachel, for one, didn’t seem to remember those days. By the time she had finished high school, she was more interested in debate team than wood shop, and Mari had become her closest confidant. Right now, Jason’s job was to take care of Marcus. He knocked the milk cap off the turkey baster and squeezed hard to get all the air out, filled the tube slowly. The tip was almost touching the cat’s chest, but then he stopped. There wasn’t room to get the milk inside. The blasted staples were too tight. He sprayed milk back into the jug and threw the baster down. Marcus twined around his feet, and Jason scratched his head, roughly. Claws out, Marcus swung at him and drew blood on the back of his hand. “Oh, for pity’s sake,” Jason cried. He snapped a paper towel off the roll on the counter and blotted. “Won’t anyone just cooperate?” The mama cat perched quietly on the table, chest out, rows of nipples waiting to be put to use. Jason went back to her and looked more closely. He rolled the fabric on her chest between his fingers, testing its thickness. “This isn’t over, Marcus,” he said quietly. He hefted the stuffed cat and took her and the staple gun back into the garage. Marcus was left in the kitchen, and for a while he played with the thread under the refrigerator. Something floated above his head on the door and he jumped to see if he could reach it. The magnet clattered down and he batted it under the refrigerator with the near-empty spool of thread. From the garage came a drilling noise and sounds from the staple gun, and Marcus pawed at the bottom of the door, trying to make it open, but he was soon tired. He leaped onto the counter, where he found a potholder in a spot of sun. He curled up and went to sleep. In the middle of his nap, the two women came into the kitchen. Mari ran him off the potholder 77

and called “psst!” after him as he ran down the hall to hide in the laundry room. Rachel leaned against the counter, chatting as she watched her mother lay out the makings of sandwiches. As Mari was spreading the mayonnaise, Jason came in the garage door. “Mari,” he said, swinging the stuffed cat so its haunches rested on his stomach. “Look at this.” “What have you done to that thing, Jason?” she asked, laying down the knife and unsuccessfully repressing a smile. The cat’s chest was now stiff and square as a cereal box, and the rubber nipples bounced in two straight lines. The cat’s head and huge ears were intact, but the shoulders had shifted downward and the arms flopped uselessly. Jason’s belt was drawn tight around its middle, outlining a boxy square in front, but pinching little wrinkles into its back. “I made a mama cat, sweetheart,” he grinned, “just like I said. See, the nipples I got on with a staple gun, but I couldn’t get the milk inside. So I opened up the cat’s chest fabric, slid in a piece of plywood, drilled some holes, and voila!” He bounced the cat happily. “Guess you’re not the only surgeon in this family.” “Wow,” Rachel said softly. She came closer and, with a finger, lifted one of the cat’s front legs, which had been detached from the body and stapled onto the plywood. When she dropped it, the leg bounced heavily and made the cat look like it was trying to back away. She laughed. “Dad, what is this thing?” “It’s a mama cat,” he said patiently. “For Marcus. He needs to re-do his weaning experience so he can settle down.” Rachel looked at Mari, as if for confirmation. Mari only shrugged. “Seems like a lot of bizarre trouble to go through,” said Rachel. “Why not just take him back where he came from and get a better kitten?” As usual, she refused to admit he might know something she didn’t. It irritated him. “I can’t just ‘take him back,’ Rachel. I’ve brought another living being into this family and made a commitment to care for him. New life is a valuable thing.” She smiled. “I think you’re over-dramatizing here, Dad. You can’t get stuck with a kitten. If you get a bad one, you just swap it out. There’s no sense adding something to your life that will only make it harder.” Jason calculated his tone before speaking. He asked calmly, “Is that what you told your husband when you sent him for a vasectomy?” 78

“Dad!” she gasped, off balance but, unfortunately, not angry. “We’ve been over this a thousand times. I’ve never wanted children – and neither has Brent. A vasectomy was the easiest way to make sure. It’s that simple.” “It’s a serious decision not to have children at all, sweetheart, whether you realize it now or not.” “I think we’ll change the subject,” said Mari, firmly. “Rachel and Brent are adults, and this was their decision. There’s nothing to be gained from another fight about it.” “We’re happy with just the two of us, Dad,” said Rachel, recovered enough to use her most grating debate team voice. “There’s already an overpopulation problem, and I don’t want to add another hungry mouth to the planet.” “We have plenty of food, Rachel,” he said. “Jason,” Mari said, swallowing what might have been a laugh. “The subject has been changed. Now, would you please take that thing out of the kitchen? It’s a little unsettling.” “Just let me show you how it works, ok?” he answered, determined. He sat at the kitchen table and balanced the mama cat in his lap. The jug of milk was still out, turkey baster alongside. He opened her up, plywood across his knees and one back leg held with his chin. Slowly, carefully, he filled each of the six nipples with milk, then closed the cat up again and reached for his belt. When he tightened it, tiny white droplets squeezed out and fell between the straps of his sandals onto his toes. Marcus had been watching curiously from the hallway and, when he saw the milk drip, darted over and began licking it off. Jason laughed. “This is going to work!” he said happily. He glanced at his wife and daughter, then quickly away. Mari was more amused than before, though she seemed to be resisting, and Rachel was flipping through a magazine, ignoring him. “Come on, Marcus,” he said. He dangled the stuffed cat, dripping milk, in front of Marcus and led him toward the laundry room. The kitten trotted behind him, mewing loudly. Marcus was still trying to lick the milk from his toes, but Jason set the stuffed cat on the floor and lifted the kitten to one of the nipples. He lapped at the white droplet. “This is going to work,” Jason whispered. And to Marcus: “I’ll leave you two alone.” He was practically dusting off his hands when he went back into the kitchen, but Mari and 79

Rachel were pointedly not talking about the mama cat. That was just as well, he thought. Humming a little, he helped them carry the sandwiches out to the patio, where he stayed long enough to finish his lunch. Then he found it hard to sit still. He gathered the dishes and loaded the dishwasher, trying to ignore little visions of Marcus snuggled up to his mama cat, while Mari and Rachel finished their tea. “It hasn’t been long enough,” Jason said firmly, and marched himself out to the shop to keep busy. ‘Rachel will be so surprised,’ he thought as he hung up the staple gun, ‘no, she’ll be embarrassed when Marcus settles down. She might even apologize.’ For the first time in a month, since he’d heard about Brent’s surgery, really, he lifted the tattered quilt that was hiding Rachel’s cradle in a corner of the garage. As soon as she had told him she was engaged, he had started rebuilding the one from her birthday all that time ago, taken it apart and widened it for a human baby. Now it only needed some touch-ups on the figures carved into the panels, maybe a fresh coat of stain, and it would be finished. Of course, there was no reason to work on it now. Lypsie and Jazz were gone, Mari was surrounded by all the children she could ask for at the hospital, Rachel was married and gone – and there would be no more babies. He let the quilt drop. Marcus was it for the next generation. When he went back into the house an hour or so later, Rachel had gone home and Mari was peeling carrots to go with a roast for dinner. She looked up as he opened the door, but he didn’t meet her eyes. He just walked quietly around her on the way to the laundry room. A smell of souring milk hung in the air, and Marcus was nowhere to be seen. Droplets of milk still dangled promisingly from several of the mama’s cats nipples, but she lay helpless on her side. Her wide, floppy ears had been chewed down to nubs, and a tattered bit of string trailed off to one side. A long pile of vomit lay forlornly at her feet. Jason sighed. There was a rustling noise behind the dryer and Marcus came out sleepily. He yawned, stretched, and nuzzled up to Jason, already purring. Jason lifted him sadly and scratched his head. That was it. Mari would insist on condemning him to a shelter. Unless Jason took him away first. “I wish you had let the mama cat help you,” Jason whispered. “I really wanted you in the family.” Marcus blinked up at him with bright blue eyes, his purr growing louder. But Jason reached for the cat carrier. 80

When he got back home, Jason stowed the carrier in the laundry room and went to the kitchen, where Mari was chopping tomatoes for salad. “Well, Marcus is out of the house,” he sighed. She stood on tiptoes to kiss his mouth and nuzzled briefly into the curve of his neck. “It’s for the best,” she said. “For all of us. And my sweaters.” She smiled, the first calm smile she had given him in weeks, and poured him a glass of wine. Jason tried to mute his answering smile, to look suitably bereaved. But, as he took the glass, he was thinking about the cat gym he would build for Marcus at the shop. And hoping he could keep him away from the Persian rugs.

Photography

Peter Mujica

Madelynn Hogg 83

Keenan Mixon

Virginia Trawick

Keenan Mixon

Greg McCallister

Emilie Elliott

Haley Steele

Kyle Sullivan

Lillies-Greg McCallister

Falling Waters-Greg McCallister

Ashley Harlan Kitchens

Olivia Haught

Amelia O’Hare

Kyle Sullivan

Ronda Charping

Nonfiction

Greg McCallister 96

Zac Alexander “14 For 2014: A Year In Concert Pictures From One Music Fan`s Perspective.” This is a photo essay, capturing various concerts I attended. The shows all took place in 2014 and as such, I decided to go with a format of my 14 favorite images from the year 2014 in concerts. These are amateur images but capture a variety of talented musicians in intriguing, odd, humorous, and cool snapshots and doing what they love: performing music! I hope you enjoy these pictures as much as I loved taking them.

Kings of Leon is a group that has been on the musical scene for several years now. The band hit the Phillips Arena in Atlanta this past February 5th, 2014. In the show they demonstrated a great mixture of musical versatility and grand showmanship. The band‘s stage show was full of unusual lighting and movie clip style vignettes for each song. This photo of the phrase The End came after their song “Supersoaker” and a visual tribute to old school burlesque films.

The Hangout Festival took place in beautiful Gulf Shores, AL this past May 2014. One of the many highlights from the festival was the epic performance of blues guitar virtuoso Gary Clark, Jr. Clark is shown in this stage to audience picture rocking out in full solo mode as his devoted fans exalt his dizzying genius.

Prince rocked the New Orleans Superdome on July 4th, 2014 at the Essence Festival. In this picture we see a vast array of lights cascading down through the audience and at the center of it all is the unique iconâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s well known symbol.

Prince is shown in this image in the middle of a harmonious vocal. Throughout the concert the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Purple Oneâ&#x20AC;? shifted from instrument to instrument and vocals to full on dance mode in a superb performance.

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Alice Cooper has shocked and delighted a legion of dedicated fans for many decades. In August 2014, he took his ongoing tour to Oak Mountain Amphitheatre in Birmingham. In this image, Cooper is captured on screen in his famous straight jacket costume and is backed by a stage size visual of his haunting eyes and painted face.

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Linnzi Zaorski is a throwback to an earlier and grand age of jazz and blues music. Shown at her June 2014 show in New Orleans, Zaorski serenades a club audience with a fantastic mixture of ballads and up tempo musical zingers.

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The Black Jacket Symphony has a mission of recreating note for note the modern classical music of great rock and pop albums. In this image, taken at their Spring 2014 Work Play Theatre show in Birmingham, the group plays harmonious tones from the Legendary Beatles during a concert reenactment of the classic albums Revolver and Rubber Soul.

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James Taylor has serenaded audiences for decades with acoustic ballads and upbeat folk pop compositions. However, in this image he breaks out the electric guitar for his offbeat take on blues music, the longtime concert staple â&#x20AC;&#x153;Steamroller,â&#x20AC;? in an August 2014 Atlanta concert.

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Bluegrass folk band Nickel Creek reunited in 2014 for a much anticipated album and tour. After a multiple year absence, the band‘s opening show was at a sold out Alabama Theatre in Birmingham in April 2014. This image captures the opening song of that concert “Destination.”

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The Cult brings an intriguing mix of rock, blues, and punk elements to their live shows. They also have a flair for mixing in historical and artistic elements during shows. In this image from their Spring 2014 show in Biloxi, MS, the band uses a stage size artistic rendering of historical martyr Joan of Arc during the upbeat rock anthem â&#x20AC;&#x153;Sweet Soul Sister.â&#x20AC;?

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George Strait will be forever known as the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Texas Troubadour.â&#x20AC;? However, even the most productive music travelers must retire at some time. Such is the case for the country western music legend as Strait hung up his guitar and cowboy hat this year. This image is shown during the March 2014 Atlanta concert on his farewell trek.

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Forever known by the moniker â&#x20AC;&#x153;Slow Hand,â&#x20AC;? guitar genius Eric Clapton has earned musical icon status. In this image captured at his May 2014 show in Birmingham, Clapton`s famed appendages are in full throttle motion during a powerful guitar performance.

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Paul McCartney has entertained audiences around the world for many years. At an October 2014 performance in New Orleans, the Beatles icon is captured with his fellow band members in a full front to back action shot. The number being performed, Beatles’ classic “Eight Days a Week,” rocked the sellout crowd.

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At a March 2014 Atlanta show, Sheryl Crow is shown rocking the audience during a strong and energetic concert session. This image captures the acclaimed artist from front to back and in full performance mode.

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Justin Fisher Goldilocks and Highway 492 Anyone who does not believe that God has a sense of humor has never had any dealings with the combination Shetland ponies and children. I really believe that Shetland ponies are one of God’s great jokes on humanity. I think that we as humans, in our finite wisdom, have looked at children, little people, and looked at Shetland ponies, little horses, and in our ignorance paired the two. Shetland ponies are evil. There, I said it. I’ve never met one that wouldn’t rather bite you than look at you, or that wouldn’t rather kick you than let you ride. And for those ponies that did allow a child to sit in the saddle, rest assured they were looking for a clothesline or a low hanging tree branch to drag them off on. Shetland ponies should come with a warning label: KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN. But it’s worse than that. I really think that if God had not chosen to represent evil in the Garden Eden in the form of a serpent…His second choice was a Shetland. We had a Shetland pony growing up. Her name was Goldilocks. Talk about irony! She fit the mold; just mean as a snake. But somewhere in all of his trading, Papaw Fisher had come up with a two-wheeled buggy for Goldi to pull. And, believe it or not, it worked pretty well. That was probably because the children, when seated in the buggy, were far enough away from her head that it prevented her from biting, and the metal frame of the buggy was between you and her hind legs, and that prevented her from kicking. Oh, it wasn’t a perfect system. Maybe one day I’ll tell ya’ll about the time my baby brother, Cody, got out of the buggy to open a gate, and Goldi grabbed him with her teeth in his chest muscle, and picked him up as high as she could over her head before dropping him to the ground. Then there was the time, with my sister, Sharman, driving, that we came around the big live-oak tree in the front yard much too fast, and the entire buggy, pony-and-all, flipped upside down. Imagine a turtle on its back, unable to right itself…but six hundred pounds with flashing teeth and hooves. Other than those instances, along with a handful of others, we spent many a happy hour with that horse and buggy. One of our favorite things to do was ride up the paved road, about a half mile or so, to Uncle Rudy’s house. Uncle Rudy is Dad’s brother, and his two boys, T.Y. and Brandon, were some of mine and Cody’s favorite playmates growing up. We would all take turns driving and riding in the little buggy around and around Uncle Rudy’s yard. One Sunday afternoon as T.Y. got out of the buggy leaving me to hold the reins, something spooked Goldi. It could have been a screen door slamming. It could have been a kid stepping on a limb or a toy in the yard. Heck, it could have been Goldilocks own meaness that scared her, who knows? Anyway, she spooked, bounded down the steep hill in Uncle Rudy’s front yard, and made a hard right turn onto State Highway 492.

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Highway 492 is the busiest road connecting Union and Sebastopol, Mississippi. I mean, there may be eight or ten cars a day that drive up and down this road. But do you know how many cars it takes to have a real bad accident with a little crippled boy and a Shetland pony buggy? Not but one. To add to the tension, Goldilocks had two young foals back in the pasture at our house, and she meant not to be deterred in returning to them. As we turned onto the blacktop and picked up speed, Dad came racing down the driveway to try and intercept us. (That is a wonderful picture of a loving father, who, seeing his helpless child in a desperately impossible situation, springs into action.) But Goldi, as we say, was huntin’ some yonder, and Dad couldn’t quite get there in time. As we passed, he said the only thing one could say in a moment like that, “Hold on!” Now, if Shetland ponies are one of God’s great jokes on humanity, Dad yelling, “Hold on!” in that situation had to have been one of the most obvious statements in all of human history. “I am!” was all I could manage in response. Now, Goldilocks had traveled Highway 492 so many times that she not only knew her way home, but she even knew to stay in the right-hand lane. We even met several cars headed in the opposite direction. As I waved feverishly for help, they waved right back…just being friendly, ‘cause that’s what Southerners do. I wish at this point in the story that I could say that it was I who sprang into action. And that, just like a scene out of some John Wayne movie, I leapt from the seat of that runaway buggy onto the pony’s back. Then, I grabbed both reins, twisted her head to side, bit her ear, wrestled her to the ground, and ended the whole fiasco. But that’s not what happened. I have cerebral palsy. I was utterly helpless. What happened was, Uncle Rudy jumped into his 1970-something Volkswagen van and chased us down. Do ya’ll remember Roscoe P. Coltrane on “The Dukes of Hazzard” saying “I’m in hot pursuit!”? Well, Uncle Rudy was! He passed me and Goldilocks on the left-hand side, positioned the van in front of us, then slowed and slowed, until an impatient Goldi tried to re-pass him on the lefthand side. Then, in one fluid motion, Uncle Rudy slammed the van in park, jumped from vehicle and grabbed the reins, saving me from what could have been a tragic ending. Now the punch-line to the story is that when Dad arrived on the scene moments later, the first thing he said when he got in the buggy was, “Don’t tell your Mom.” Ya’ll also must know that Mom knew everything before we got home because Sharman saw the whole thing standing at the end of our driveway. But the moral of the story is much greater. When it comes to our sin, when it comes to our great debt, when it comes to our right standing before a holy God, we are all much like my situation in that buggy. We are all on a runaway evil Shetland pony buggy ride bound for hell, and utterly helpless to do anything about it. And if we are no longer so destined, it is not because we with determination and strength have grabbed the reins and taken control. It is because we have been rescued. It is because we’ve been saved. Ephesians 2:8-9 reads, “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— not by works, so that no one can boast.”

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Jonathan H. Scott Excerpted from a journal entitled Furtherest Thoughts and Fartherest Adventures in which I chronicle my experience with glioblastoma multiform—a typically terminal brain tumor. *** 10/ 10/ 13 I can count on one hand the books I have started and never finished, and the other hand would probably suffice to count what others in that category have slipped my mind. (I might need Hands Across America to count the ones I should have let slide past my pride.) Thumb: Finnegan’s Wake, James Joyce. The crown jewel of my forfeitures—started and abandoned three times. Pointer: The Defenestration of Bob T. Hash III, David Deans. Oh, how I tried. Switched to my secondary book, came back and tried again. It became more unfinishable the closer I got to finishing—an asymptote of reader x and story y, perhaps. (On the upside, I had never heard of the word “defenestration” before and within the year it made a useful appearance in a poem I wrote.) Birdie: Barchester Towers, Anthony Trollope. In my defense, it was the second novel of a two-novel volume the first novel of which, The Warden, I did finish with the intention of returning to the second just as soon as I finished a less yellowed, less tiny-typed, less 1850s-y book. Still my favorite kind of book, mind you, since my early teens; but there are a finite number of books by dead authors, naturally, and practically an infinite-supply of books (A-Million, let’s say) to be enjoyed in which the characters bear some resemblance to you and some connection to modernity—which is to say that they relieve themselves at least once every three hundred pages and that the rumble approaching from ahead is not likely a coach and four horses but a sub-woofering Mustang coughing and hopping in your direction. Ring: no fourth comes to mind, ergo . . . Pinkie: no fifth. I’m sure there is a book or two that would fill those slots, but I’ll have to come back if they occur to me later. Maybe I’ll admit a special ilk. Books I’ve bounced around in but have no compunction for never having completed. Here might be resting in peace such giants as: Virgil’s Aeneid, Homer’s Odyssey, and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Now the tally is six. Call me Count Rugen—a six- fingered man, preparing to die. Hello! Now I’m certain I had a point when I started this entry, but now I’m not so sure. At any rate, I don’t think I guaranteed points, just thoughts, which more and more begin strong, coast a bit on momentum, start to meander, then peter-out. If I had to guess, the thought probably began: This book I’m reading (Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood), will I even finish it? If not, why’d I even start it? In all my days of avid reading it had never occurred to me, though, that these are valid questions in each instance of starting a new book—or any enterprise, really. Then coasted: Besides, it’s not like I’ve finished every book I’ve started—much less every enterprise, any one of which, let’s face it, probably (certainly?) would have contributed to society more meaning113

fully. Seriously, just think, what difference would it have made if, say, I’d finished, say . . . Then meandered: Finnegan’s Wake or what else? . . . oh, oh . . . What was that Bob the Third book?. . .like a novel-length parrot joke . . . what else? . . . ha! I said “birdie” instead of “middle”. Then petered-out. ***11/ 18/ 13 There was a point to the unfinished book discussion which I have come to terms with; rather, I have come to terms with coming to terms with. I was getting there before I meandered and petered out. If confessed, is denial still denial? Strictly speaking, it would lose its most vital characteristic—its unconfessedness. So, for the time being, I’ll maintain that I am not afraid of death until such a time that the bejeezus squeezes through my pores and/ or sneezes full-bore through flared-out nostrils, scared-out at last, itself and its apostles: all-living-hell and holy-crap. But for now let me confess: back on 10/ 10, there was an element of denial that kept me from disclosing my point. (To be fair, there is also an element of denial that keeps points undisclosed to one’s own mind. But I don’t think that was the case on 10/ 10.) It’s not death that has me sweating, it’s the thought of unfinishing that’s got me bothered. I know that elsewhere I’ve said that forty-ish is as good and fair age to shuffle off as any— to think otherwise would ungenerous. This is not that kind sweat, not the cold one occasioned by the faceless reaper double-checking his Google Map just outside your door. It’s just a cool a sweat, really, the kind that annoyingly plips from your pits to your obliques while waiting alone in your boss’s office. Not finishing what, though? Life? Sure, but not in an ungenerous way. Something less abstract than “life”; as such, life strikes me as just a vague sense of forward progress and air. So . . . less abstract how? I think I mean . . . less “air” and more photosynthesis. Fewer Pan-boys and more sweet-gum shadows on the wall. As a compulsive metaphorist (and nonce-wordulator, by the bye), I am given to panning abstraction for real, faux gems. In a manner of speaking. To flicking a willow’s worth of lightning-bugs into a lidless jar in order to watch which ones will simply go on glowing and which will remember they can fly. In a manner of speaking. However, “metaphor” is nearly as abstract as life, and it’s not some Grand Elusive Moby Dick of One which I fear I will never spear. It’s more like I’d trade in whatever is left of my figurative poetics for the assurance that a certain box of Sam’s-Club trail-mix will not be listed amongst my survivors. More like, you can keep the taut conclusions of my lifelong pondering if you’ll just give me long enough to bore-through these final filaments of cotton between my craggy big toe and its last disturbing hoorah.

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Speaking of old clothes, I needed new ones. I have always been stubborn when it comes time for a new wardrobe [read “a pair of jeans and a shirt that buttons”]; recently, I had to buy new pants when I intentionally lost 25 pounds at beginning of the year. When I unintentionally lost another 25 (very funny, Fate and Irony, you hunchbacked, hag-twins!) last Spring, I reluctantly bought a new belt. Our Birmingham summer rained itself out, my new jeans served well five days week, on one or two of which I would actually venture outside, thus subjecting them to only elements of a mild autumn. Now late fall has brought its customary chill to our Birmingham days, dragging its disproportionate overnight brrrr-freezes in tow. My newish jeans remain dutiful and most capable. My closet is plenty packed with 20 years-worth of perfectly functional overcoats, which is to say stubbornly amassed, long sleeved grunge flannel and the immanently more timely and chic (ha!) long sleeved earth-and-clay-toned button-down corduroy. And this apparel also remains dutiful and most capable. So, with winter on its way, I needed new clothes. Well, pajamas, stocking caps, and socks. Pajamas because my legs are practically meatless and no match for the cold, stocking caps because my big, bald head plumes body heat like a factory smokestack. Socks in case those filaments of cotton soldier through the holidays and continue to worry me, who knows, clear to next Halloween at which point I will cut the hole myself and frighten trick-or-treat urchins with my unwholesome big toe. Not finishing what? Let’s go ahead and add this entry to the list. Better wrap it up. Looking back on what I’ve just written, maybe my unfinishphobia is just a type of miserliness, monitoring my goods, wasting little, wanting little—worried that I’ll be scootched against the wall on my deathbed, crowded by unneeded miscellany, unwanted trail mix, and (I confess) unread books. Then again, maybe I’ve failed in letting the “air” out of these particular thoughts and my “miserliness” is just a metaphor for an actual fret of dying, of leaving without finishing. Life? Sure, in a vague sense, in a manner too close to ungenerous for my liking.

Editor’s Note: Jonathan H. Scott passed away on October 16, 2014. Thanks to his friend, and our colleague, Connie Caskey, we were able to publish these journal excerpts from a writer, who, in our humble opinion, gives James Joyce a run for his money. Peace. 115

Index Aidan Caskey .......................................................................................................................................................................... 29 Aidan Caskey .......................................................................................................................................................................... 30 Aidan Caskey .......................................................................................................................................................................... 31 Alecia King-Harper ................................................................................................................................................................. 6 Alex Scott ................................................................................................................................................................................. 27 Amelia O’Hare ........................................................................................................................................................................ 93 Amelia O’Hare ........................................................................................................................................................................ 93 Amelia O’Hare ........................................................................................................................................................................ 42 Amy Dove ................................................................................................................................................................................ 10 Amy Dove ................................................................................................................................................................................ 11 Andy Sullivan ......................................................................................................................................................................... 46 Art ............................................................................................................................................................................................... 29 Ashley Harlan Kitchens ....................................................................................................................................................... 17 Ashley Harlan Kitchens ....................................................................................................................................................... 19 Ashley Harlan Kitchens ....................................................................................................................................................... 91 Austin Gibbs ........................................................................................................................................................................... 16 Bailey Barrow............................................................................................................................................................................ 4 Bracken Sallin ........................................................................................................................................................................... 7 Bracken Sallin ........................................................................................................................................................................... 8 Bracken Sallin ........................................................................................................................................................................... 8 Brianna Rodgers .................................................................................................................................................................... 24 Chanel Keitges ....................................................................................................................................................................... 40 Connie Caskey ......................................................................................................................................................................... 9 Cortland Lancaster ............................................................................................................................................................... 20 Dave Edmonds ...................................................................................................................................................................... 25 Dave Edmonds ...................................................................................................................................................................... 28 David Ricardo ......................................................................................................................................................................... 24 Deirick Sanders ...................................................................................................................................................................... 25 Elisabeth A. Kannon ............................................................................................................................................................. 14 Emilie Elliott ............................................................................................................................................................................ 87 Emilie Elliott ............................................................................................................................................................................ 87 Emily Sharp ............................................................................................................................................................................. 44 Fiction ....................................................................................................................................................................................... 50 Gerrymi J. Norris .................................................................................................................................................................... 23 Greg McCallister .................................................................................................................................................................... 28 Greg McCallister .................................................................................................................................................................... 86 Greg McCallister .................................................................................................................................................................... 89 Greg McCallister .................................................................................................................................................................... 90 Greg McCallister .................................................................................................................................................................... 96 Haley Steele ............................................................................................................................................................................ 88 Ian Kewish ............................................................................................................................................................................... 15 Imani Abdulhaqq .................................................................................................................................................................. 35 Jason Robbins ........................................................................................................................................................................ 23 Jeff Martin ............................................................................................................................................................................... 22 116

Jeff Martin ............................................................................................................................................................................... 22 Jessica Sewell ......................................................................................................................................................................... 27 Jimmy Truong ........................................................................................................................................................................ 38 Justin Fisher ......................................................................................................................................................................... 111 Karjiana Cadet ........................................................................................................................................................................ 34 Karjiana Cadet ........................................................................................................................................................................ 41 Karjiana Cadet ........................................................................................................................................................................ 51 Katharine Thornton.............................................................................................................................................................. 33 Katie Hargett .......................................................................................................................................................................... 13 Keenan Mixon ........................................................................................................................................................................ 84 Keenan Mixon ........................................................................................................................................................................ 85 Kyle Sullivan ............................................................................................................................................................................ 88 Kyle Sullivan ............................................................................................................................................................................ 94 Kyle Sullivan ............................................................................................................................................................................ 94 Lauren Hilgarten ................................................................................................................................................................... 32 Liz Harding .............................................................................................................................................................................. 39 Lucinda Caldwell ................................................................................................................................................................... 43 LucindaCaldwell .................................................................................................................................................................... 40 Maddie Hall ............................................................................................................................................................................. 47 Madelynn Hogg .................................................................................................................................................................... 50 Madelynn Hogg .................................................................................................................................................................... 83 Mildred Lanier ........................................................................................................................................................................ 21 Mildred Lanier ........................................................................................................................................................................ 20 MoniqueVillasana ................................................................................................................................................................. 37 Nate Abbott .............................................................................................................................................................................. 6 Nonfiction ............................................................................................................................................................................... 96 Olivia Haught ......................................................................................................................................................................... 92 Peter Mujica ............................................................................................................................................................................ 82 Photography .......................................................................................................................................................................... 82 Poetry .......................................................................................................................................................................................... 4 Ronda Charping .................................................................................................................................................................... 95 Selene Brito-Estrada ............................................................................................................................................................ 36 Sunny Nguyen ....................................................................................................................................................................... 48 Sunny Nguyen ....................................................................................................................................................................... 49 Tiffany Abbott .......................................................................................................................................................................... 5 Tiffany Abbott .......................................................................................................................................................................... 5 V. Menlo (Lily Elmore) ......................................................................................................................................................... 12 Virginia Trawick...................................................................................................................................................................... 45 Virginia Trawick...................................................................................................................................................................... 84

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