Wingspan 2015

W i n g s p a n 2015 1

Volume 15 Fall 2015 Jefferson State Community College Editor: Sharon DeVaney-Lovinguth Production & Design: Greg McCallister Assistant Editors: Alicia Tate, Margarita Duran and Blake Williams

Front Cover Art: Aiden Caskey Back Cover Art: Aiden Caskey “Color Wheel Bird” 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 15 Fall 2015

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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.

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Poetry

Morgan McLain 4

Skyler Collett “The Expression of a Moment�

Tick The figure looks at the pocket watch.

Thinking. Waiting. Observing.

Standing, strangely, alone.

Tock Thinking about the moment.

Waiting for the time.

Observing the endless symphony.

Tick Gazing out at it all. In childlike wonder.

A thing that very few of us can do.

At least, not anymore.

Tock As the hand passes 11. He tries to see.

To gaze out at the entire symphony.

From the largest planet, to the smallest pebble.

Tick Intense heat, primordial matter, Flowing, growing, changing, The First waves begin.

Tock Impossibly dense to impossibly empty.

The entirety, uniformly massive.

A small hiccup, and order fades.

Tick The fabric pressed, slightly is more than enough.

And the whole thing begins to stir.

The storm begins, a from dust first light.

Tock The push and pull, chaotic and orderly, A simple rule being followed.

To pull is to push, and to push, pull.

Tick The entirety, singing, melodious enchantments.

Each little spark, the beginning of a story, All and every, told at once.

Tock And finally, some stories end, the spark fades.

Some in a spectacle, others in rage,

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A spark dies, and so begins another.

Tick Dust flowing, pushing and pulling, Popping to and fro, without warning, Until the 9 were formed - oh, sorry, 8.

Tock The Third was special, unique and moist, The heat not too hot, the wind kindly fierce, A cycle within a cycle within cycles is born.

Tick And so they came from dust, bewildered, confused.

The madness of the fire, overwhelming.

Tock They didn’t understand, the symphony unheard, To madness they responded in kind.

Trading beauty for insanity.

Tick Until one of them gazed on, he watched.

Thinking. Waiting. Observing.

Standing strangely alone.

Tock Thinking about the moment.

Waiting for the time.

Observing the endless symphony.

Tick Gazing out at it all. In childlike wonder.

A thing that very few of us can do.

At least, not anymore.

Tock As the hand passes 12. He stops and listens.

The watch is closed, the dream understood, The symphony is heard.

Tick The river flows onward, the wave continues, For every action, a reaction.

Time continues, the dreamer awoken.

Tock

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Katelyn Adkins Haiku Leaves and hot water Swirling dark in a teacup Taste of earthen rain “Sleep Paralysis” To the kindling ribbons of dawn I’m numbed by taunting falsehoods The dreams form a dense prison ring; A shade cell my mind can’t escape.

The untruths seem, I strain, reaching To the kindling ribbons of dawn.

But surge after surge of breathless Darkness buries me in its shroud.

Fighting, running, letting loose an Immovable scream that echoes To the kindling ribbons of dawn, Unstopped by the silent dark.

Terror yields and the shadows still Till finally an upward rush Sends me churning and I wake To the kindling ribbons of dawn.

Sam Musaed Untitled Borders, Madam, You were the most important woman in my history Prior to departure You are now the most important woman After the birth of this year You are a woman who does not calculate The hours and days You are a woman Made from fruit hair, And golden dreams You are the woman that used to inhabit my body Millions of years ago Haiku Love is suicidal Her statue stands in a park A painful memory 7

Jessica Sewell Untitled I never wanted to know you more intimately than conversations that would irritate me to a point of healing.

But, you were so expectant of a response, that would leave you thriving; I never wanted anything further than late night conversations over meals, And possibly sailing on clouds with four wheels Leaving hopes left intertwined in bed sheets.

And early morning texts, promising that we’d meet And, I was okay with that.

I never expected to be rejuvenated so quickly Replacing love with the hate that resided inside me Expelling hurt Regaining strength From someone, I would have never met, without such a heart break And, yet you, seemed so sure of yourself, Concealing nerves with kind of acts of help And it seemed you’d had a plan, To capture my heart with the palm of your hand, To sail on a quest in hopes to find land.

And you did.

With arms stretched out & sails cast up Declaring love in prospects of luck And, here I stand, still here Holding on to faith that you’ll return from your sails, And remember the path you took on your trails, to find me And find me again.

Here I am, Still here waiting, To begin.

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Eric Phillips “Unredeemed Surface” Stranded out into the mist of the garden The Moon is out and the hills are steep.

Away from civilization, paranoia has grown as well as my hunger Voices feeding me options, wanting my soul to bargain.

The stress has doubled, even countless loss of sleep Searching for my shepherd, to regroup with the rest of the sheep.

Questioning existence, so my mind has pondered.

The heavens reposted with strength and hope through the claps of thunder.

Wanting revenge, only in exchange for my ideas I comfort These golden thoughts held me together, as the past begins to fade I wonder.

It’s time to stop fearing, so that progression can be made, no slumber.

Hunting the undisturbed to survive, or to prevent from being haunted Stalking the hunter who pursued my people, though the frantic memory remains haunted.

Standing still as a pillar, blocking the negativity between the wrist of my gauntlets Worries for the nonchalant, not knowing the dangers of this world Clueless of the whisperer of the winds who misleads countless boys and girls Reconfiguring my opinion on life, contemplating whether I should rejoice with the rest of the world.

So much can be discovered, only there is a limit on time to discover the truth of existence.

What lies beneath the feet of the pillars is the ground for which I stand So I accept the brutality and challenge amongst the essence of man Only in favor for you to understand the value and meaning of words that transitions from my thoughts to the pen in my hand The thoughts will remain forever while the records will be consume by the laws of the land.

Harrison Wiygul “Reincarnation” Pain as rich as Eden’s fruit.

We try all our lives to avoid it, But to our dismay It always seems to catch up—eventually.

Where does happiness go?

Happiness—like a butterfly in a spring breeze Is eventually struck down like A bug crushed beneath the hunter’s boot.

I wish to see and feel that happiness again someday, Enamored of all its warmth.

When that day comes, I wish to be born again. A Reincarnation.

A new chapter. A new life. Finally, A chance to live.

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Harrison Wiygul “Winter Reading” It’s winter tonight.

Books are on my shelves.

I read them with thought.

I often hear the voices of many, From this domain. One voice Says his name is Vonnegut. He Tells his story of a children’s crusade.

Another says his name is Pynchon.

Reminiscent to me of a Mr. Murakami.

Of course, my ears could not help But have the sounds of Garcia-Marquez and Bolano Attracted to them. Rushdie is there as well, As is Faulkner.

I have many voices, on these shelves To keep me company as the cold wind blows.

Cortland Lancaster “On Inspiration” The lifeblood of creativity parades past us daily, hardly noticed. Its effects are monumental, yet its presence is mostly unacknowledged. Still, it waits for us to take notice of it, pat it on the back, and say, “thanks.”

For were it liquid enough, I might soak it up, Were it solid enough, I might anchor my dreams to it, Were it cold enough, I might become numb to it, Were it hot enough, I might purify myself with it, Were it soft enough, I might rest upon it, Were it strong enough, I might hide in it, Were it large enough, I might store my hopes in it, Were it quick enough, I might ride upon it, Were it real enough, I might live in it.

For where might I find fertile ground for my thoughts? A facet for reasoning? An embellishment for notion?

Indeed, some day I hope to write, but first I have to read, I hope to teach, but first I have to learn, I hope to find rest, but first I have to work. I hope to do all these things, but first I have to conjure up creativity. To do that, I have to call on my old friend Inspiration.

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Jessica Sewell Untitled Lately, I’ve not had much to say; My words have been few and far between And everyone is looking for inspiration from me, like a beak of sunlight on a rainy day.

Only to be disappointed with a lack of what I have to say.

I’ve said everything my loves, My pencil led is running out.

And all of the people I used to run to are now just running mouths Spreading lies, sprinkled with truths, showing the world every inch of their youth attempting to smear character.

Allowing whatever four letter verb they felt for me, to be dictated by the fact that I’m not there enough.

And I make no apologies for the distance I’ve placed between myself and you…

Because, whether you’d like to admit it or not, you’ve placed a distance there too I guess, as of lately my words haven’t been meaning that much.

I’ve been putting so much action behind them I’m feeling out of touch I write sentence on sentence, of things I’ve already accomplished Sharing less and less information with my “so-called” accomplice See, I’ve worked it out in my head that, I don’t really need that many people And I find myself going back and reminiscing on when I was little Like, I didn’t have much of anybody but my pencil and paper So, why am I so intent on adding to my foundation when all along I’ve had the staple?

Jason Robbins “Life” My friend said it best To live life is a test Don’t just follow the rest Your free will is the test That leads us down a path One may look at it and laugh The things we want but cannot have Life is funny yet sad Don’t look at the past about things you haven’t had A life without money isn’t that bad To live without god, is a life that is sad Trust in his commandments and see what is in store You never know once you open that door God’s plan for you is awesome for sure Trust in that and nothing more.

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Jason Robbins “Something Special” Anything worth doing is worth doing passionately When one only takes time to see And lets the mind rest and be Think beyond the walls we see Improving endless possibilities Don’t settle for how things work Look outside the box you jerk Have an idea to make an improvement Plan a date and start the movement Inspire a nation to help improve it If they ever ask how’d you do it Tell them your secret—there’s nothing to it.

Tanner Lyons Untitled I’d known her in old beige houses along furry grandma streets in pale yellow scenes of still sun white carpets white slabs with blue depressed mats proving to be the same ground time in time out I’d known her in stale parking lots a thousand crossing cigarette odors burning low like gray coals in wiry nose hairs I’d known her in the running in the cell deep erroneous fantasies soothing bits of brain matter electrified in anxious current running in the end of the world a purple bezel encases the whole thing and here we’d go falling deep eternity But where is she on the other side of gray doors veins and loins aching from a thousand years ago?

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Astrid Novak “Keep Walking” The leaves fell And there was nothing I could do to stop their falling.

I could not stop it.

The skies turned gray And there was nothing I could do about it.

One last tomato clings to the vine.

Everything else is dead.

Turn your face to the wind and walk.

Keep walking.

Feel the wind beat against you.

It’s like being underwater You can’t hear anything but your own thoughts.

But keep walking.

You can’t get there unless you keep walking.

I am cold Cold and tired And I am so tired of thinking about it.

And I can’t change any of it I wish I could sleep But there is too much to do And I have gotten nothing done.

Tomorrow is tomorrow And the day after that And every day that follows.

They all march into the same oblivion And with them, everything, good and bad Will fade and be forgotten.

Or harden into stone.

But keep walking.

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Laura Cook “Flipping Burgers “ I have worked in restaurants “flipping burgers” for over 25 years and I am proud to say, Not only was I able to raise a family, but I’ve met some amazing people along the way.

I’ve worked with mothers, and grandmothers, fathers, and sons.

I’ve worked with people trying to feed their children and kids paying for graduations.

I’ve seen co-workers struggling to pay their own bills take collections for young people who have died I’ve seen co-workers sleep on the floor of a store during a hurricane so strangers have a place inside.

Somehow, you think that if we work in food, that we are all just “flipping burgers,” But no one thinks what else is involved, in being your wonderful servers.

Somewhere along the way it became okay for you to think we are beneath you, But I think the time for acknowledgment and respecting us is way past overdue.

I have seen people with PHDs not last a day and walk out in tears, And people who are labeled with disabilities thrive and overcome their fears.

I have seen teenagers take this job and learn responsibility and pride, And I have seen grown people think it is so beneath them that they have sat around and whined.

You seem to think because I work in food that I am uneducated or just a plain old idiot, But you seem to forget everything you expect of me when you come out for your visit.

You expect me to handle your family when you were too tired to deal with them at home.

Add yours the 6 others families I attend and let’s see if you could handle them alone.

You think I should remember you out of the hundreds of people I see each week, And I can never have a bad day but if you do, you will probably want to take it out on me.

I learned over 50 different bar drinks we can make and all that the kitchen can cook, But you get angry we can’t make you something you saw while you were freaking around Facebook.

I can never be busy when you want that tenth ranch cup and or to send the fourth salad back, And I am expected to entertain your children that I secretly think you might have put on crack I make sure you never run out of drinks and I clean up after your spills.

And I have to agree you are always right because you are paying the bills.

I can’t laugh when you ask me if the clam chowder has shell fish in it or if the chicken and shrimp pasta contains meat, But you are allowed to act like I am beneath your notice or something to scrape off your feet.

You ask things of me you would not ask of normal strangers. I mean really have you lost your mind?

You do all this while enjoying yourself but not bothering to tip me a dime.

I have been asked to change baby’s diapers, and take bites off of people’s plates.

I’ve been asked to lie to spouses and had food thrown on in acts of hate.

I’ve been yelled at for things I did not personally cook.

I’ve had to clean up after strangers pee, poop, and yes, puke.

I have had to pay for meals for teenagers who have dined and dashed.

I have witnessed a robbery where someone died over a crazy small amount of cash.

I have been grabbed, pinched, grouped, and assaulted, And I am not even one of the usual cute younger targets.

I have had to work 12 hours straight without a break, And had hot coffee thrown on me for bringing out a wrong plate.

And yet in spite of all this I like being a server, And who cares if you think that I’m just “flipping burgers,” 14

I have gotten to deliver a baby and tied its tiny cord.

I have witnessed people getting married looking for their evermore.

I have seen soldiers being welcomed home and people being able to retire.

I have given CPR to a grandpa who fell out when the kitchen caught on fire.

I have gotten to play counselor, teacher, maid, and cook.

I have met movie stars, local heroes, and the guy who wrote my favorite book.

I am a mother, and a grandmother, and a student, as well as your server.

If you don’t think this is a job worth respecting then why don’t you stay home and flip your own burger?

(I wrote this as a way to vent about the way food service workers are being treated today as well as to honor them for all of the things that they have to put up with living in this life.)

Astrid Novak “Helsinki” It’s the cold.

The greyness of everything...

And the vodka.

I am here in this city.

My grandmother had a sauna.

You could smell the juniper and cedar.

This is the city.

It is cold.

It is dark.

It does not smell like juniper.

I am so cold.

And now this vodka is making me colder And sadder.

My brother and his wife have two boys.

They have red cheeks and they are laughing In all their photos Up north with the reindeer.

It is cold here and the walls are clammy.

No one is laughing.

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Andrew Edgett “A Prayer For The Captive” With a longing heart, I pray to Thee, For the release of all, In captivity.

Loose their chains, And warm their hearts, For You alone, Grace impart.

The paths they’ve worn, Are wrought with sorrow, Their pride and tears, They’ve had to swallow.

I wish their burdens, I could take, And their crosses carry, For Your namesake, I am Your servant, Your will be done, And if it’s possible, Lord free Your sons, And daughters also, That are enslaved for greed, Those being tortured, And Your help need.

Thank you Father, For hearing me, I’ll continue to help them, til they’re all free.

It is all for your glory, From now until then, In Your wonderful name, I pray this, Amen.

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Matt Davis “Redemption” I am evil, as evil as can be I wrong all the right and I like to be me I wish I could drown y’all to the bottom of the sea I wreck, I break, and it’s my destiny I am evil, as evil as can be Oh how I enjoy hatred against thee!

I toss, I turn, and crime is my glee I climbed up the ladies’ confidential tree.

I am evil, as evil as can be I fought the law and he’s caught with me!

I cry and I cry and I cry and I plea I’m in a deep pickle with a giant costly fee!

I am evil, as evil as can be I’m a menace to the peaceful pleasant community They beat, they broke, and they struck against me ‘cause I am evil, as evil as can be…

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Leopoldo Sanchez “Revive” Solitude’s got me thinking too much on my mind. Life keeps on living while I’m stuck in time. Slowly overcoming fears with a tears in my eyes. But if I don’t overcome it, I’ll be swallowed alive. Next step is to embrace the changes before what changes is my mind. The only way to survive is to take what killed you and revive.

“Rain drops” Raindrops as they fall from the sky. Put a smile in your face as they pass you by. Calming the moment bringing the peace. The best time to let your dreams be dreams. And carry you to places you never imagined to see. Where the rivers flow down to the lake of mystery. Where you can understand who you were meant to be. And get a glimpse of what the future holds. And how your deepest desires unfold. Before you open your eyes and forget what you realized.

“Secrets” We all have secrets, things we choose to hide. Will I ever know the real you, will I ever get inside. That beautiful mind. Will you ever get to know me, will you ever get to cross the line. Into my deep endless maze, that I call my mind. If I let you in will you survive. Will you be alive? And if you are will you see me as a monster from the hills or will you look past and see the pain that I feel. Will you leave like most who get close? Or will you stay and hold me close.

“4 AM thoughts” It’s about 4 AM and I’m stuck in a trance. Arguing with my thoughts like an intricate dance. Decisions, decisions what will I do. Shouldn’t even matter what I choose. Many people’s head will turn in shock.

Should I really care what the word is in the flock? Time is running out tick tock. Better hurry, kept screaming the clock. Maybe I’ll just forget it, better to leave things alone than to later regret it. What am I thinking? Does it really matter what other people have to say. If something makes you happy and makes your day. Ignore the ideas of others and continue on your way.

“A dance” Soon the mystery and my questioning will all make sense. I’m going to open up my mind, let you through my fence. Bring to light my reasoning and finally ask you for a dance. A dance to the song of chance. To see how far the horizon really is. To see if being on a mountain with you is really bliss. To see if the world can really stop with just one kiss. So I ask you miss. Will you take a chance? May I have this dance?

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“Dream of a fire” I have a deep mind with deep thoughts. But why do I end up with deep scars near my throat? I should just abandon all hope let myself drift away in a boat. And float away to mid sea. Maybe that way I won’t shoot myself in the knee. I’ve said too much and I can’t take it back. You’re not supposed to show all your crazy back to back. But I don’t think and I do it anyways. Just another act of your selfsabotaging ways. The third voice in my head won’t let me be. Set me free! My heart needs to see a different ending. I have walked too many trails. So many bridges that have failed. But I have no regrets. All are lessons learned to make the best out of the situation before the candle in the cave gets blown. And the dream of a fire is gone.

“Where we came from” This is where we started from, this is where we came. This is where we are, things are not the same.

Starting life at the rotten branch of a tree. No one thinking I can ever be anything. But look at me and where I stand. Not because of my own strength but from my father’s hand. Who guided me from the beginning, and because of him every day I’m winning. Started in the gutters looking up at the stars.

And now my spirit flies higher than Mars but my flesh still bears these scars. Just to prove that nothing can kill me as long as I have you in my heart.

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Chase Coats “I Dreamt of Home” I hear seagulls in my dreams, Soft caws welcoming me home.

Truly, its been too long.

These soft, white sheets feel cool beneath my naked back, As suds of broken waves bubble and fizz under my spine.

Where the dust upon these hardwood floors takes a new shape, In the form of sea shells and broken sand dollars, Coating my feet so familiarly.

How these shadows that dwell within the corners, Begin to resemble the silhouettes of schools of fish.

That dart from corner to corner, Plaguing my peripherals as the light clicks to life.

I hear seagulls in my dreams.

Truly, it’s been too long.

“Career Choice” Do not shackle me inside of your box, That is one of a never ending row.

For I must roam With plenty of leg room.

Do not ache my bones, And stain my knuckles with oil and grease.

My words were never meant to fall deaf among cogs.

I must connect with the people.

What if these scribbles were to be scriptures?

Do not lose me in the fog of routine, Only to find my lifeless body cold with security.

The unknown warms me, A life to call my own is my fire.

If I may burn, Let it be.

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Anonymous “All in My Head and Out of My Mind” Maniacal smile Soul crushing sadness Simultaneous expression With an ego smashing gladness It is the momentarily eternal session Sensory confusion With an optical illusion Catatonic for a while Feeling enlightened but vile Sum of all experience None of it makes sense Yet I learn a lesson

Anonymous “Save This Life” When you hit that pipe you offered your life Opened it up to unbearable pain and strife Risked your friends, family, and very soul I know it feels it will make you whole But the reward of refrain is tenfold I know you’re not sold Not too far gone You’re always so bold Keep on keepin’ on You can make it back home

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Fiction

Lisabeth Barton 22

Jacob Dornan Untitled The dissolution of our family was a shock to many in our community (practically a hierarchy in our decrepit town; we had been known as the Good Ol’ Entons since before the Civil War), but no one was as severely affected as my mother, Sara. Her supreme social status overturned by her husband’s own affair, accompanied by his decision to leave myself and my mother behind. All for a futile attempt to woo back whatever woman he had chased away. Mama’s ability to destroy or sustain the social lives of those involved in her beloved Sugartree Community Church . . . shattered.

When my mother was atop her insular world, there was no questioning her strength. She was deemed a blessing from God by many in our church. Mama’s reputation and her wavy strawberry blonde hair and hazel eyes made many of her colleagues envious. She was a near perfect portrait of a True Southern Woman. Charitable and hospitable; not too chatty or intrusive when the men start talking; full of hot gossip, local rumors, whenever the women gather around—always suitably poised in any group. The queen bee amongst the worst workers imaginable.

First and foremost, though— as all True Southern (& Christian) Women should be—she was a mother. She encouraged me to follow her suit and reach out to the elderly and sick in the community.

But she also encouraged me to preach to those less religious than our family, with the help of others “more matured in the Spirit.” She was especially fond of “that poor black family down the road,” and was never able to recall the rather simple names of the heads of the family: Alicia and Robert Smith. (The Smiths were Catholics who went to a church a few towns away, though my mother never believed this when I repeatedly informed her.) At my mother’s behest, I hung out with their son, Jeremy. Evidently, my mother thought that “His poor soul needs an influence like you, Matthew . . . and the Lord.” While I can’t speak for the Lord, my influence on Jeremy included recommending some music and an inexpensive weed dealer.

My parent’s relationship never seemed strained; they were always caring, though lacking in passion. They often created a united front to dissuade me from committing any illegal activities or heinous sins. I can’t say I appreciated their obsessive concern, Before the affairs, my father was well respected in the community. What I saw as chauvinism and arrogance, others called chivalry and charm. He was especially revered by the young women (which, in retrospect, probably should have been some indication of his behavior to more matured citizens). But his interest in us was long gone, and when he saw a shiny new opportunity, he took it, as if it were his possession, and the last one could be easily discarded without a second thought.

The news of my father’s departure was a severe shock to my mother. How could he leave behind this loving family for a younger woman? But my mother did not take much time to grieve. Her focus was fully fixated on maintaining her reputation. My mother’s closest competitor for the crown of most influential churchgoer, Elle Maxwell, was hosting her well- renowned Easter party about three months after my father left. This was, in my mother’s mind, our last chance to rejuvenate the family name, to restore to balance she so desperately craved.

Ms. Maxwell, a middle aged widow, had recently acquired a lump sum, from a dead relative, according to the rumor mill. Her main goal was to use that money to build the town into a larger force, and most especially the Sugartree Community Church’s reputation and member count. The goal of the picnic, as Elle would tell everyone with the sincerity of a top Mary Kay saleswoman, was to “act as a haven for old friends, new believers, and all those searching for God.” Seeing this party as a last chance to boost my mother’s morale, I offered to escort her to the party, unaware that I would be complicit in her actions that day.

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Elle’s exterior Easter decorations were as goofy and off-colored as they typically are, with muted yellow ribbons covering the mailbox, while giant eggs and strangely spotted bunnies decorated the rest of the yard. The interior, however, was about as inviting as Jesus’s tomb.

Littering the walls were Bible verses that ranged from inspiring to damning, and the guests looked as if they had all arrived from a memorial service, not a celebration of rebirth.

This effect created a deceptive cocoon, and while many new guests entered they were quickly chased away by the writings on the wall.

While the party droned on, I noticed something odd about Elle’s composure. She kept throwing my mother strange glances, as if waiting to see how she would react to . . . something. My mother continued to blabber about the power of Jesus and how “she prayed for that poor man every day.” Elle tapped her glass, and announced that she would like to make another announcement (and laughed at her own presumably witty line, while I tried hard to make sure my eyeballs came back around to the outside of my head). “As some of you know,” Elle continued, in her extremely affected southern accent (Elle was from Michigan), “I have been seeing Tom for quite some time.” No one answered, or appeared to recognize Tom. I certainly didn’t. “I thought it would be appropriate to announce our marriage to each other, with the wedding to come in September!” This was met with loud cheers, and I turned just in time to see the just-as-fake-as-Elle’s-accent smile evaporate from my mother’s face. “As we all know, God believes it is necessary to be led in the community by strong, mature couples. While Tom and I haven’t been together for very long, we have so much experience walking with Christ, and we can’t wait to help lead circles of fellowship and worship outside of the church.”

My mother’s eyes scanned each face, as if she were looking for a suitor to whom she could propose. Her internal strength seemed gone, the determination and crowd working savvy replaced by a fear of the crowd surrounding her. Suddenly, she was no longer the center of attention, the cultural mastermind behind the plan. She felt hopelessly, utterly alone. As I went after my mother, who stormed out, I caught a glimmer of triumph in Elle’s eye, as the congregation began singing a song in honor of the church’s newly crowned power couple.

As I drove away from Elle’s place, my mother muttered things under her breath… “Yes, I’ll go out again! That’s what I’ll do! With someone who is ready to fully commit… perhaps an old beau.

Would they take on the Enton name? I bet if I called up Allen . . . . “

24

Elizabeth Little “Mia”

Her parents died on a Tuesday. It had happened suddenly, unexpectedly, like a bolt of lightning from a clear blue sky. She couldn’t blame it on any one particular thing; rather, it was a culmination of events spanning years. Perhaps it had been the cold winter encouraging the building of fires in otherwise barren fireplaces, or the rambunctious child who had just learned how very fun it was to be contrary. It might have even been the last-minute snowmen that a three-year-old boy demanded his older sister help him build right that very minute.

They had just completed their second snowman— “Miiiiaaa, that’s not how you make a snowman!”

“You’re just jealous ‘cuz your snowmen are all ugly.”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

—when their world ignited around them. Ash and shrapnel choked the air as a veritable wall of flame scorched frostbitten faces, the inferno reaching up to kiss the sky. The force of it threw them across the yard like so much kindling as the tranquil winter night was shattered by the unnatural roar of a house aflame. Glass exploded outward in a wave from broken windows, the jagged shards missing them both by inches, and impacting harmlessly on thick coats and mittens where they had thrown their arms up to protect their exposed faces. Mia watched through horrified blue eyes as the house groaned and strained as old supports gave way with a sickening series of cracks, the snowmen they had spent an hour making melting into sleet in the wake of the fire.

Their home had been old, held together more with luck and prayer than wood and metal, equipped with a gas stove whose knobs were a great temptation to curious, questing fingers. Her brother had been told time and time again not to touch the stove— “David, how many times have I told you? Don’t touch the stove!”

“But mooom!”

“No ‘buts’ young man. It’s too dangerous, sweetie. You could hurt yourself!”

“But Mia can touch it.”

“Listen to your mother, David.”

“Yes daddy…”

—and David, all of almost-four-years-old, delighted in disobeying their parents. Playing with the stove was the most daring, rebellious thing he could think of. The best part to the budding troublemaker was that the stove took a while to turn on right, so even if he messed with the knobs it would take their parents a long time to notice. Usually their mother would become suspicious of the too-innocent expression on her youngest child’s face and, with the pinpoint accuracy only a mother could have, would head right to the stove.

“David,” their mother sighed, exasperated. “You have got to stop playing with the stove!”

“It wasn’t me!” he protested, eyes wide and face angelic.

Their mother simply smiled tiredly, knowing the truth even as her only son lied straight to her face.

“Promise me you won’t mess with the stove again, David.”

“But mom—” “Promise me, David.” “…I promise…”

25

The old house, heated by a fireplace barely five feet from the tiny kitchen, had lit up like a bonfire. They only had enough time to feel the shock of sudden heat before the old stove exploded and brought the house down with it. Mia shoved her brother to the ground and landed on top of him, feeling shards of broken wood hitting her back even as David screamed beneath her and she covered her head with her arms. She felt something heavy hit her on the shoulder and peeked out from beneath her arm, only to see an old wristwatch lying in the grey snow. The face had a huge crack running across it, and Mia recognized it—despite the soot and scratches—as the one her father always wore when he went to work.

She didn’t know how long they’d lain there in the snow before the faint sound of sirens echoed out over the sound of fire and sobbing. Mia DeMoss had been eight years old, old enough to know—with the utter certainty of childhood—that her parents were gone. Nothing remained of the home they’d grown up in but a pile of broken timber and a framework of warped metal and plastic.

Mia pushed herself upright and kept her arms tight around her brother, kneeling in the snow, face streaked with ash and quiet tears as she kept her screaming, hysterical baby brother from running straight into the fire.

“Momma!” he cried, his voice a choked, sobbing scream rough from smoke and the cold.

“Momma!” David coughed, his crying loud and in opposition to Mia’s own silent, disbelieving grief. “I’ll be good, Momma! I promise I’ll be good!”

Mia just hugged him tighter and watched it rain ash and snow. She looked down at the broken watch, reaching over and pulling it to her chest even as she alternatively restrained and comforted David. She would let herself cry later, when her baby brother didn’t need her to be strong.

Later she would scream and cry and throw things. Later she would wonder what would happen to them now, where they would live, how they would manage without mom to make food for them or dad to awkwardly encourage them to do their best. Later she would do all those things… but not now.

Her parents died on a Tuesday, at 6:27 in the evening. She would never forget that date for the rest of her life.

26

John Majors “Michael’s Unfortunate Incident” Michael Duffton counted down the time through the last couple minutes of class. Most of the class content he found interesting, and the notebook in front of him was filled with pages of attentive commentary on the daily lecture, but he could not help somewhat drifting off at the end of a very long day.

Thank goodness I don’t have work tomorrow, he thought. Michael worked at a local grocery store during the day. He then went to the local law school for night classes. He was at the end of a long day in which his schedule included both.

The clock at the front of the room ticked down slowly, much to his dissatisfaction.

Come on. Come on, he silently urged the clock. To Michael, it seemed that time was only slow when he wanted it to pass by quickly and vice versa. If he was on a cruise in the Caribbean for a full week it would have gone by quicker than the last hundred seconds or so of this class.

He arched his back slightly in his desk, not popping it but stretching it a little. He then put his left hand on the back of his neck and scratched, an awkward habit he had formed for when he was bored.

Just one minute left and he was home free! He was not too worried about missing any crucial details. The professor was going over a project he had assigned for the next couple weeks for the third or fourth time, and even though it was pretty repetitive, Michael forced himself to not completely tune out in case there were some details he had missed.

Michael had a brilliant skill which was especially valuable for somebody with an easily distracted mind. He was a daydreamer, yet he could focus on both school and his random fictions simultaneously, making him multitasked, though not appearing so to anybody else. Otherwise there was no chance of him graduating.

Finally the class ended. Michael gathered his things as the professor said a few last second reminders about the upcoming project and the final exam. Students were already hurrying out of the classroom as Michael stood up and walked toward the door. He then turned and began his walk toward the exit of the building.

He noticed a presence right beside him and ignored it for a second. Then he looked out of the corner of his eye and noticed the cute girl that sat behind him!

She was a few inches shorter than him and had long, brunette hair and luscious brown eyes to match. She had killer legs, wore jeans and a blouse and had a white smile that could melt even a heart made of stone. She turned toward him and smiled, not that amazing smile but a close lipped, slightly awkward one. She was still gorgeous. He turned and smiled back.

“Hey,” she said, almost laughing as she did so.

27

“Hey,” he said back, not sure what else to say.

She winked, then turned back and kept walking. Michael would have tried to stay next to her, but there was a group of students talking in the middle of the hallway, so he was forced to stay behind for a moment. He got outside, and he suddenly noticed a cold breeze along his lower back.

He reached with his hand and lowered his long-sleeve shirt, and that’s when he noticed his underwear had slipped down the slightest bit. He had been showing off the very top of his butt crack the entire class. Mortified, he pulled them up.

Oh my gosh, is that why she was smiling at me!? He thought desperately. He got to his car and noticed that the girl was parked on the opposite side of him.

“Hey,” he said, not knowing what else to do, “why did you smile at me in the hall?”

She turned, her long hair blowing across her face in the light breeze. Her eyes glittered in the parking lot lights.

“Maybe I think you’re cute,” she said while flashing her radiant smile. Then she got in her car, turned on the ignition, and drove off.

Michael stood dumbfounded for a second, and then he got in his car so he would not look like an idiot. He was no longer tired of this day.

28

Darian Aderholt “Eye of the Hurricane” A huge oak tree lay across the road. I swore and slammed on the brakes. For a second, the car refused to stop, but then the tires caught and held on to the wet cement, skidding to a halt just a few feet from the first splintered branches. I sat there for a moment, breathing hard and glaring out at the storm around me while the rain continued to pound on my car. Visibility was getting worse. Even with the windshield wipers working furiously, I hadn’t seen the tree until I was right on it. I tried not to notice the slight tremble in my hand as I grabbed the radio tuner and began searching for a station.

Static – nothing but static - and I swore again. Here I was in the middle of backwoods Florida with a hurricane bearing down on my ass, a tree blocking my path, and no reception for the radio.

I reached behind me and pulled on the heavy rainproof jacket. There was mud and water pooling onto the road and I knew I didn’t have much time to figure out a solution before flood waters would be on me. Muttering angrily under my breath, I left the warmth and dryness of my car and went to investigate the fallen tree.

It was an old tree and it was huge with thick branches that spread out across the pavement.

The leaves were scattered everywhere, making the road even more slippery. The top part of the tree had crashed into a steep embankment and on the other side of the road the roots reached for the sky while rain and mud steadily worked to fill in the crater left behind. There was no way this thing was going anywhere without a chainsaw.

I stomped back to my car and slid inside. I was soaking wet despite the fact that I had only been outside for a minute at the most. For a moment I just sat there contemplating my next move in cold, damp solitude. If I turned around and went back to the highway I would be stuck there in traffic with all the other procrastinating idiots and would never make it out before the heart of the hurricane hit. My car might make it around the tree on the roots side, but off-roading didn’t exactly seem the best idea in my tiny, dinky car. I could also backtrack to the city and take shelter in a hotel, but I shuddered at the idea of being trapped in a tall building during a category five hurricane. I was screwed.

I had no one to blame but myself, of course. I shouldn’t have delayed evacuating in the first place but I had been convinced that it wouldn’t get as bad as everyone was predicting. “The Storm of the Century” indeed – every storm was the storm of the century according to the TV. How was I supposed to know that this one might actually be The Storm of the Century? So when Tyler & Stephanie had decided to high-tail it out of Cape Coral the second the town showed up in the projected path, I had told my boss that I would take their hours at the café. I wasn’t worried at all.

Even after my boss called and said he was closing the shop until the storm passed- my first thought was ‘ooh more time to watch Netflix.’ Not ‘Huh maybe I should leave.’

The frantic phone calls from my mother had started this morning at 4:33 AM. By 5:00 I had given up on trying to sleep and by 6:00 she had worked me up enough that my bags were packed and in the car. Unfortunately, that only gave me 2 hours to get as far inland as I could before the outer bands made it ashore. And now here I was stuck somewhere in the middle of nowhere and running out of time. Just brilliant.

Finally I decided forward was better than backwards. I accelerated the car carefully toward the road’s edge where the mass of tree roots lay. There was about 5 feet of level ground between the hole where the roots had been and the start of a natural slope that went downwards to where I could make out a swollen creek in-between flashes of lightning. Piece of cake. I hoped. I took a deep breath and crept slowly around the roots, mindful of where the edge was.

29

It only took about a minute to make it around but when I felt the car shift back onto the paved road I breathed out shakily and grinned to myself. I pushed the car harder and faster, away from the tree and the oncoming storm. As I progressed deeper into the marshy forest, the wind and rain picked up. I could feel the car shuddering against the gusts and sliding along the road. I growled low in frustration and again fiddled with the radio to get some sort of update on the storm. Finally, I picked up a fuzzy channel that was thankfully talking about the hurricane. “…Should have evacuated by now. This is an unprecedented event and no one should be on the coast tonight. Even inland areas could feel strong effects such as SUSTAINED winds in excess of 100 mph and gusts even higher than that. The sheer size of this storm is unlike anything we’ve seen before which is leading to an increasing threat for total destruction of costal parts of Florida and impacts further inland. To anybody who is still out there trying to evacuate: You need--“ and of course at that point the signal faded back into static. I swore and hit it with my fist.

They aren’t kidding when they say even the smallest distraction can cause an accident. While I was busy going cave-woman on the radio, the road had apparently made a sudden turn. When I glanced up and saw I was going to miss the turn, I yanked on the steering wheel as hard as I could.

The car began to slide and then rolled. There was a heartbeat of silence and then there was nothing but sound and color and pain, around and around and around until darkness took me and everything was silent again.

30

Amelia O’Hare “Travelers” The cold, prickly winter air sends chills up my back, and hunger starts to creep over like a dark cloud that hides the sun. I stare, hypnotized by the fire my family sits by. Surrounded by big dark woods, I hear wolves howling nearby. Separated from society, we all huddle together, wrapped tight in old thin blankets we found. Mine is deep blue, like the sky on a clear night. My cat stays buried in my lap, sleeping as I pet him gently. As we were forced out of our last little bit of land, I heard a noise, and saw the cat. The day the police burn the forest, our home, still burns in my mind. What did we ever do wrong? There was no warning. My parents woke me early in the morning as smoke and screams of terror filled the air. I was told to stay in the caravan and wait while my parents gathered what they could from our tents and help the other escape the flames. Not everyone made it that day, many of my cousins, aunts, uncles and friends were burned. As the caravan was being loaded, I heard a small noise. I looked around, and under a burning log was a cat. Quickly, before anyone saw me I went to it and carried it back. I hid him under my coat so my parents wouldn’t know. The trees were crashing to the grown, and the smoke was starting to make me choke. Mama got in the back and Papa made the horses run, to take us far away. I cry into my mama’s lap as we drive away. My home, my friends, all gone. The sun begins to rise as the smoke fades from our view.

Suddenly my daze is broken as someone around our fire begins to play a song on the accordion. We look up, as if we had all been somewhere else and where being brought back to the moment. Then my little sister stands up to dance, and comes over to me to make me join her little fairy dance. For this moment, our spirits have been lifted and the fires in my head have cooled as we dance to the music in the soft moon light. For now everything is the way it should be. Joy has returned to the faces around our circle, and I forget about how hungry and cold I was. After we dance and the music comes to an end, we gather around the fire as my father tells a story. As we listen to his tale, I lay back on the cool ground and stare at the perfect sky. Millions of stars sparkle above, almost dancing around the moon. I begin to slowly drift into a dreamlike state, until finally I am asleep.

31

Philip Theibert “The Genius” It was known for quite a while that Willis B. Smith was a genius. When he walked the hallways at Big Phone, people would whisper, “Look there goes Willis B. Smith, the genius.”

And Willis B. Smith needed no business cards. But if he did have business cards, they would have featured a light bulb powered by a perpetual motion machine. What else could you put on a genius’ card?

Willis B. Smith never really talked to anyone. He wasn’t the type of guy you could hang with by the water cooler and say, “How about those Yankees.” It would seem out of place, like discussing bowling with Einstein.

No one ever instigated a conversation with Willis B. Smith; not even to venture, “Nice day isn’t it?” Willis B. Smith appeared content with his thoughts and discontent with conversation. Willis B. Smith only talked at the Big Meeting held every year. There, Willis B. Smith, genius, enjoyed showing off his latest creations.

In fact, it was at the big meeting of Big Phone that Willis B. Smith’s reputation was about to be firmly cemented. He stood in the spotlight and held up the latest Big Phone product, which, being a genius, he had invented. It was the Genius Phone, a step ahead of the Smart Phone.

He put the phone through its paces to the “oohs” and “ahhs” of the audience. No more small screens on phones. Hit a button and the screen floated in space in front of you. Yes! Willis B. Smith had invented a phone that could also double as a big screen TV. Who cared if it pissed people off when you watched the Phone/Big Screen on the bus! You could sit there and watch big screen TV from anywhere.

But Willis B. Smith, being of course, Willis B. Smith and a genius, didn’t stop there. He pushed a button and a banana appeared n front of him. This was not a picture of a banana; it was no visual illusion, but an actual banana. He grabbed the banana out of the air, peeled it and ate it. Willis B. Smith had invented the ultimate app: The Snack App. It was amazing – no, astonishing. Push the Snack App button and candy bars, and fruits and cookies and Twinkies would appear in front of you – reach out and grab what you want.

Willis B. Smith further astonished his audience. Willis B. Smith announced that the Snack App was just the beginning. In the future, the Genius II phone would feature a meal app, where a meal would appear. Imagine that – steak and potatoes complemented by a glass of red wine -just by pushing the meal app button. A lesser man might have stopped there. But not Willis B. Smith, who, by the way, was a genius. He pushed a button and a red glow appeared. Willis B. Smith ran the red glow over his body and, well this was beyond astonishing, this went beyond amazing, this crossed entirely through Stupendous Land, in fact, splenderific, might be the only adjective to describe what the audience saw next.

As he ran the red glow over his body, the audience didn’t see Willis B. Smith standing on stage with his glasses and scraggly beard and rumpled hair and rumpled shirt. They saw the inner workings of Willis B. Smith. They could see his organs beating and thumping and processing and doing what organs do. The audience gasped. A cell phone that was a body scanner. And just when the audience thought it was over, Willis B. Smith announced that this phone, this Genius Phone, could predict 32

when you were going to die.

Yes, Willis B. Smith, explained in his high thin voice that after the phone scanned your body, it could take all the variables ranging from the condition of your liver to the condition of the libido and predict the day, date and time you were going to die, as your body continued its current rate of decay. Then, Willis B. Smith, calmly placed the cell phone against his face, and shaved.

This phone could also be used for personal hygiene. What couldn’t this Genius Phone do? The audience sat there quietly. They were in the presence of Willis B. Smith – THE GENIUS! Way in the back, a little man raised his hand. And Willis B. Smith, the genius, in his crowning moment of genius glory, condescended to take the little man’s question.

“Can you show us how it can make a phone call?” the little man asked.

They say it was one of the saddest sights they have ever seen. The glow around Wills B. Smith seemed to dim. He seemed to shrink and in his sad little scuffed shoes and in his sad little rumpled clothes, Willis B. Smith shuffled off stage.

Now, there are rumors that he might have moved to Montana and lived in a shack and spent the rest of his days sending off obscure scientific articles to obscure scientific journals, signing them, Willis B. Smith, former genius. Nobody knows for sure, but we all do know that Willis B. Smith had invented the cell phone that could not make a single phone call.

33

Matt McDonald “The Brewery” It all started with Hops, Malt, Yeast and Water. I brewed my first beer when I was 18, I landed my first brewing job at 22, and by 27 I had created my own brewery. I was on the top of the world.

People lined up around the block to taste my beer. Looking back, I should have stopped it before it got out of control. And now as I watch the flames dance across my brewery all I can think is, What have I done?

My business partner Ryan was a lifelong friend of mine. He didn’t share my passion for brewing, but shared my passion for success. His goals were different than mine. He wanted my beer in every household around the country, while I just wanted to serve those around me. It worked for a time though. I created the art, and he sold it. While I was brewing, he would spend his time taking care of the business, or so I thought. I never knew about Ryan’s habit until it was too late. I lost him when I was 29, about two years after we opened our doors.

The next two years were overwhelming to say the least. Instead of finding another person to take over for Ryan, I took on all the work. Slowly the quality of my product was decreasing. I knew it and the customers knew it. I should have stopped there, packed up my bags and called it quits, but I kept pushing through. I tried telling myself that things would turn around again, but secretly I knew better. I had no money to hire new employees, and I could barely pay the ones I had. I knew it was the end.

I stood across the street watching my Brewery burn to the ground. Rain was pouring down, and all I could hear are the firetrucks roaring my way. I know what you’re thinking, but I didn’t do this for money. To tell you the truth, I don’t know why I did it. It seemed like a noble thing to do for something I loved so much. The firetrucks arrived, and the men flooded out like ants, in a desperate attempt to put out the fire I worked so hard to create. I almost feel bad for them, but shouldn’t they feel bad for me?

So what I’m saying officer, is that I didn’t have a choice. I did what I had to do, but put in my situation wouldn’t you do the same?

34

Spencer Hyde “Afterwards” I left the A&P. Handed Lengel my stuff and walked out. It was a bum job anyway. I never liked any of them. How did I not realize until I walked out of the door that all of them were bums? I was looking right when I walked out. The girls aren’t to the right when i walk out. Not Queenie, or Plaid, or Gooney times two. I shouldn’t be surprised. Girls like Queenie don’t want nothing to do with guys like me.

But . . . “I heard what you said.” comes the low, voice I suddenly love. I jump. It scares me, and yeah I know that, as a guy, nothing is supposed to scare me, but it does, but then, quick as anything, I get happy too.

Queenie is leaning up against the wall when I whip around, twirling a oaky strand of hair from that messy bun (messier now) around her naked fingers. Her blue eyes aren’t anywhere near me, but that doesn’t matter. She’s here. She heard me. Her cheeks are still red, and for a second I want to go back in and deck Lengel right in his wrinkly mouth and suffer my parent’s anger with pride, but that’d mean I’d have to leave Queenie, Queenie and her very blue eyes and her nubbley bathing suit top and her beautiful sheet metal skin, so I stay.

Like a real Queen, I wait for her to speak, to move, to grace me with anything she wants to give me. She could have ordered me to walk straight ahead into traffic and I would have. She didn’t say anything like that though. Instead, she looks me straight in the eyes, the expression there is something I can’t read. “I heard what you said. When we were walking out, me and Molly and Sara,” she says quietly, gesturing to the car across the lot. I can see the frizzy black hair of Goonie in the window.

I’m guessing she means Plaid and Gooney, but no matter, the pit of my stomach gets all hot and heavy like when Queen turned real slow and proud back at the store. I gotta say something.

“What’s your name then?” Yeah. I’m a real kinda professional conversationalist, but she doesn’t get annoyed, or at least I don’t think she does, because she ends up answering me. “Jessica.”

It fits her perfect, a Queen’s name for Queenie, for Jessica. “I’m Sammy.” I say. She smiles, and it’s like someone took the sun beating down on my head and mashed it into her perfect mouth, white straight teeth in a perfect line and her shell pink lips and those dimples lurking in the corners of her cheeks, and the hot and heavy in my stomach burns hotter and heavier and I have to look away because somewhere I read that you’ll go blind if you stare a t the sun too long. “Well, hello Sammy.”

She says, and then the blush on her cheeks gets redder, and she brings her naked hand up to back the back of that long neck. “Thank you, then, Sammy, for what you did, sticking up for us. Wish I’d stayed and see that prune’s face when you quit. That was for us, right? Because of all those men, saying we weren’t…” She blushes harder, prettily though, and there’s a glint, hard like flint and just as likely to start a fire, in her eyes. “Saying we weren’t decent.” She snips the end of her sentence hard.

I nod so hard it has to look like I’m a puppet with broken head strings. “Yeah! Those bums back there, they didn’t have any right to treat you like that. You, you three were decent. Just wanted some herring snacks and Lengel wants to start a scene. It’s just rude. I couldn’t, uh, I couldn’t let you girls just, without helping y’all, I couldn’t…” I’m getting tongue-tied, tripping over my words because I know what I want to say and at the same time, I remember how they were staring at the three girls, and that’s how I was staring too, and I don’t want to seem like some kinda giant louse for it. Lucky for me, she doesn’t press.

“Yeah, well, I just wanted to thank you for that, Sammy.” She smiles again. Then she looks at her car and at the bag in her hand. “Oh, I have to get back to Mother.” She murmurs again, looks at me, and back at the bag. “Would…” She starts, looking at her hands like they’re suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “You . . . you wanna meet us, in four days, here, not the store here but the beach, here, maybe? We’ll, me and my friend, we’ll be here, and you know, I’d like you to come.

Maybe, I can tell you thanks a little better then.” She says, all her words tumbling out in a rush and I 35

can’t believe she’s saying this to me and my brain screeches to a halt like Qu—Jessica’s car. The words are out before I can think to say them. “I’d love to.”

I didn’t think it was possible for her smile to get brighter, but it does, and then, she leans forward real quick and pecks me right on the cheek and my mind has quit working altogether so I can barely understand Queenie’s next words. “Excellent!” She chirps, and runs back to her car and the memories of those lips on my cheeks bear me through the walk home and my father’s anger at me losing my job (that turns into grudging respect when I tell him about the girls), and my mother’s proud smile and the hand on my cheek as she beams at me, “her little hero,” and I know but don’t really know why she’s so proud of me but suddenly I find myself thinking that all girls should be treated like Queenie because all girls are someone’s Queenie and I tell my mom this later that night when she sits on the edge of my bed kissing my forehead, telling me that the A&P job was just a job and I can get more. She beams brighter that Queenie when I say this, after telling her everything (because I think that she of all people deserves the full story), and nods, says, “That’s exactly right, Samuel, sweetheart, exactly right.” *** I started talking to Jess and Molly (who’s the coolest girl sans Jess I’ve ever met) and Sarah (who the second coolest, who can play ball better than every guy I know, knows so much stuff about everything that I’m still kinda surprised her head’s not the size of a blimp) way back then, and I began to realize some truths that stayed with me forever after that. Girls get treated like crap, all the time. I remember thinking that girls didn’t really have minds up there in there bubbleheads, I was quickly, after getting to know Jess better, proven wrong. Girls are smarter than boys 9 times out of 10, and about so many things. I used to think girls were weak, but one day when I was walking down the street with Jess, and her little buzzer bees were trailing by her, some putz whose name I can’t remember starts running his fat Jersey mouth, saying stuff I can’t think about right now because I have no one to punch in the face. I was mad, Jess was madder, but Sarah tall, gangly, frizzy-haired Sarah she was the maddest. Sarah opened her mouth and cut this greasy sleazeball down before three witnesses. It was a gruesome massacre and I couldn’t help but laugh so hard my sides hurt. At first, the greaseball cowered under Sarah, but then, he got mad, grabbed Sarah by the wrist, called her a rude term for a girl dog. “Say that to my face again and I’ll beat you bloody, “ he said. Sarah didn’t take to kindly to threats. Molly didn’t take too kindly to Sarah being threatened. (She and Sarah got closer to each that they were to Jess after I came up on the scene, at their wedding I realized why) and I don’t know how she got my car keys out of my pocket but the next thing I know, greaseball has my keys rammed through his hand and Molly up in his face, growling like some rabid dog.

It is then that I realize this guy’s starting to take the prospect of a fight (three again at one, he’s not a smart guy) very seriously, and while I have no doubt the girls could take him with both hands tied behind their backs, I feel like I should step in, offer my help like a gentleman. So I step up, trying to choke back snickers, take back my car keys (The greaseball isn’t real happy I do so, but hey, they’re my keys) and tell the girls that I have this, they can go back to the car. They walk away, reluctantly, and this guy’s leering at them even as they go, “That’s right! Run away! Let the man handle this!” He says, sneering at me and Molly’s (still excellent) backside.

Then he looks back at me, “Ohh, the knight in shining armor’s gonna fight me. I’ll kick your ass kid, send you back to your whore girlfriend and her bitch friends bleeding and sniveling.” The soft stuff that keeps his nose structured right crumples under my fist.

No one insults Molly or Sarah to my face. No one even thinks about insulting Jess to anywhere, but especially not to my face. After a few more punches in strategic areas (I would have stopped after the one, but he wanted a fight, so, being the kind person I am, I gave it to him), he’s on the ground and it’s him who’s sniveling, but his lesson still hasn’t been learned. I pick him up by the collar, push him against the brick wall. “Girls, all of them, don’t appreciate being called things like that. It’s really insulting. You make them uncomfortable, make them feel dirty. It’s a really shitty thing to do, and 36

then, trying to hurt a girl who’s standing up for her friend? That’s worse. Girls deserve respect, you putz. You owe it to them to give it to them.” And I drop him and walk away.

Then days later, as we all sit sipping drinks at Sarah’s house, I hear that Jess knows this greaseball’s girlfriend (I was surprised that he actually managed to get one to be perfectly honest) and told her everything that the greaseball didn’t tell her (why he had a bloody wound on his head, and his face) and she ended up dumping him, kicking him out of her house, and even told his mother on him. The carnage, to hear Jess tell it, was beautiful. Girls are the least weak species I know. *** It really makes me mad when guys think that girls only exist to please them. That’s what they think, be it to be their eye candy, housecleaner, sandwich maker, intimate companion. It really annoys the heck out of me that guys think a girl has one purpose on this earth and that purpose is to cater to them. Which is why I’m running up the street on a little detour from running to the convenience store up the road from me and my Queenie’s apartment to get some more herring snacks (she loves those things), to help out this mousy little girl with black hair and pretty, brown skin, currently surrounded by guys. I can tell what they want, can smell the booze on them from down the street. They want her.

They won’t take no for an answer even when they’re sober, which pisses me off (what kind of idiot can’t understand the word ‘no,” when dogs know it better?)

They’re pigs. Dirty pigs. Dead pigs, Bacon.

After I get done with them (they were drunk and I take martial arts classes with my queenie and the girls) I turn to the poor girl. She’s kneeling on the ground, crying and hiccupping, shivering in her jacket and I get so mad at the pile of no-good mooks at my feet that I nearly kick one in the ribs, but I don’t. She stands up after a second, wipes her tears away, looks at me with watery brown eyes.

“Are you ok?” I ask first.

She nods, looks at the grounding men at her feet and sneers suddenly, all the fright melting away to anger. “Pigs.” She spits. I know they are. “Most definitely. Guys who can’t have the common decency to leave a girl alone when they know good and well she doesn’t want their company should be punched on a daily basis, but I’m not a punctual guy. I’m sorry.”

She shrugged, rears a leg back and kicks a guy square in the chest. I can hear him grunt. She continues, giving them all a little attention, for a few minutes. “It’s alright now, I guess. Thank you.”

It’s my turn to shrug. ”I couldn’t let what they wanted happen to you. No girl deserves that, ever.”

She nods, thanks me again, we part ways, and I walk back to the apartment complex thinking about all the girls that have had that happen to them, and all the girls who didn’t have a Sammy to save them. It’s really crappy that guys do that. It’s even worse when the guys get away scot free. I’ve talked to my Queenie before about how crap that is. She feels it deeper than I do; she tells me her stories, how she’s had some calls too close for me to feel relieved about.

I wonder what I can do about it. *** I end up becoming a lawyer, or as Queenie calls me “A Feminist Vigilante,” and to be honest I like that a lot better. I protect girls, with the law, using it like it’s actually supposed to be used. Some poor girl gets beaten by her husband, I help the girl slap the cuffs on his sorry butt, take the kids away from him, and help the girl get back on her feet. Some poor girl gets mistreated by some guy she thought she knew, I put his sorry kiester in jail for as long as I can, Some highly qualified woman gets turned down for a job, or harassed at that job, or only serves as eye candy and a pin cushion at that job, or gets paid less when she deserve thrice as much—the girls get everything they deserve and so do the guys. It gives me a vindictive sort of pleasure destroying awful men. It gives me a much nicer kind of pleasure helping, empowering, saving these girls.

And to think that this is all because of Queenie. Man, what’d I ever do to deserve my wife?

37

Drama

Annette Shunnarah 38

Elizabeth Little “DEATH AND THE BOY”

Characters BOY MOTHER DEATH Scene (The boy and his mother are walking towards a house, hand-in-hand. The boy is frowning, wanting to be anywhere else.)

BOY: Mooom… why do we have to visit today? We just saw grandma last week!

MOTHER (looking harried): We’re here for grandpa, honey. He isn’t… feeling well.

BOY (his face scrunches up): Ew, is he sick? Do I have to hug him if he’s sick?

(They arrive at the door.)

MOTHER (exasperated): No, sweetie. You don’t have to hug him if he’s sick. Just be nice and use your inside voice, okay? (She knocks on the doorframe as she pushes the door open. It’s unlocked. She pulls the boy inside.) Mom? Dad? (Pause.) Wait here honey; they might still be asleep.

BOY: Why’d we come if they’re sleeping? (Mother leaves down a hall without answering.) (The boy grumbles.)

Why do old people sleep so much anyway?

(The boy jumps when a voice answers him, looking around wildly.)

DEATH: Their bodies are too frail to remain as energetic as they once were.

BOY: Whoa, who’s there? (Whirls and sees a tall, hooded figure standing quietly to his left, only feet away.) Who’re you? Why are you in grandma’s house? Are you a burg-ler?

(The figure tilts its head but otherwise does not move.)

DEATH: No. I am here to collect what once belonged to me, and that which shall yet belong to me again. (There is a heavy, expectant pause.) I am Death.

BOY: That’s a weird name. Are you here to visit grandpa too? Mom said he’s sick so we had to come visit even though we just saw him last week!

DEATH: Yes. I have come for your grandfather. (Death leans forward curiously.) This does not upset you?

BOY: Well, I’d rather be home watching TV, but mom pretty much forced me to come.

(Death is silent a moment before straightening again.)

DEATH: Does your mother expect your presence here to stay my hand? (Death almost seems offended, but his words come out mostly curious instead.) What is the purpose of this… “visit”?

BOY: I dunno. We’re supposed to visit sick people so they feel better faster, I guess. Nobody visits me when I get sick. (The boy crosses his arms petulantly.)

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DEATH (sounds vaguely amused): The illnesses you suffered are vastly different from what ails the elder mortal, child.

BOY: So? (Pouts.) Mom got me ice cream once when I was sick. Do you think grandpa gets ice-cream? Will he share? Can I have some?

DEATH: Your grandfather is barely responsive. He could not partake of sustenance even should it be given to him.

BOY: So he’s super-sick, then?

DEATH: That is… one way to put it, yes.

(Mother reenters the room, looking pale and worried.)

MOTHER: Honey, who are you talking to? (She looks around the room and sees nothing.)

BOY: Oh! I was just talking to Death (Mother tenses) about ice cream. Mom, can I have some ice cream when we get home?

(Mother relaxes again, dismissing her concern.)

MOTHER: Not until after dinner. Now, grandpa’s really tired so when you see him be nice and quiet, okay?

BOY: I will, I will. I still don’t have to hug him if he’s sick, do I? What if he’s all gross and snotty?

(Mother makes a strangled sort of sound before clearing her throat.)

MOTHER: You should give him a hug, honey. It might… (She clears her throat again) be a while until we see him again.

BOY: Why? Is he going on vac-ation? (Looks questioningly at Death.)

DEATH: Your mother is ineffectively attempting to withhold the severity of her father’s condition from you.

BOY: What does that mean?

DEATH: Your grandfather has little time left on this world. (At the boy’s continued confusion, Death elaborates.)

He is dying.

(The boy gasps and whirls to look at his mother.)

BOY: Mom, is that true?!

MOTHER (furrows her brows): Is what true, honey?

BOY: That grandpa’s dying!

MOTHER (makes a strangled sound again): Of c-course not, sweetie! He’s just very, very sick and needs some sleep, all right? (She pets the boy’s hair.) Where’d you get such a s-silly idea?

(The boy looks doubtfully at his mother.)

BOY: You heard him, mom. (Points at Death. His mother follows his finger and sees nothing.) He was right there!

MOTHER: Oh. Of course, sweetie. (She pats him on the shoulder before gently pushing him along down the hall.

They stop at a closed door covered in faded white paint.) Hang out here for a second honey; I’ll go see if grandpa’s awake. (She vanishes into the room.)

(The boy turns to stare accusingly at Death, who had followed them silently down the hall.)

BOY: She can’t see you. (He says this as if it were a grave injustice.)

DEATH: I would be surprised if she could.

BOY: But I can see you. So you’ve got to be real.

DEATH: I do not exist merely because you can perceive me with your eyes. You do such because I allow it, and I allow it because I exist.

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BOY (frowning): Is that a long way of saying that I’m right?

(A noise emerges from Death’s hood that might have been a quiet laugh.)

DEATH: Yes. (The two are quiet for a moment as the boy shuffles feet and glances at the faded door.)

BOY: So… where are you from?

DEATH: Nowhere. Everywhere.

BOY: Those aren’t places.

DEATH: I am from nowhere, and everywhere, and here, and there. I am from all places, and all times, all at once.

(Death peers down at the boy.) If you were inquiring as to my place of birth, I must inform you that I was never born. I simply was.

BOY: But you have to be from somewhere. Like, I’m from my house, a few blocks over. You can’t just be from nowhere, that doesn’t make any sense.

DEATH (pauses): Imagine a room with infinite space. You could walk for innumerable mortal lifetimes and never touch a single wall. It is cold there, and dark, and empty, but you are never cold or blind or alone. Mortals pass through it and stay for years, and days, and months, and weeks, and remember nothing.

BOY (frowns): That sounds really boring. Do you have TV there? Or internet? Or (gasps and lowers his voice to a whisper) ice cream?

DEATH: No. BOY: Oh. I don’t really want to visit you then. It sounds awful.

(Death’s head dips in a conceding nod.)

DEATH: You will see it one day. When that day comes, you will not notice the cold or the dark or the vast, formless space. (Death’s voice gives the impression that he’s smiling.) You won’t even notice the lack of ice cream.

(The boy opens his mouth to deny this statement when Mother exits the room, looking pale again. She pastes on a plastic smile.)

MOTHER: All right. Grandpa’s still sleeping but we’re going to go and see him, honey. Be quiet and try not to wake him up, all right?

BOY: I won’t, mom.

(They enter the room. It is dark, and the curtains are pulled. It smells like moth balls and soap, and the boy’s face scrunches. The boy’s grandfather is motionless on the bed, save for somewhat raspy breathing. They approach the bed.)

BOY (at a normal volume): He doesn’t look sick.

MOTHER (in a whisper): Keep your voice down honey. And no, it’s not that kind of sickness, sweetie. This is a kind of sick that doesn’t show itself on the outside.

(The boy, at his mother’s prompting, leans up on the bed to hug his sleeping grandfather, making a face.)

BOY (in a lower voice): He’s really cold. Does he need more blankets? (Looks at Death.) When I’m sick I like lots of blankets, sometimes.

MOTHER (pulls the heavy comforter up to her father’s chin with trembling fingers): No, honey. He has plenty of blankets.

DEATH: Cloth will not warm your grandfather now. He has one foot in my realm already.

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BOY (makes a noise of realization): Oh! And you said it’s really cold there, right?

DEATH (amused): Yes. MOTHER: Honey?

BOY: But… he won’t feel it, will he? You said they don’t notice the cold there.

DEATH: No. He will not notice the cold.

BOY: You promise?

(Death is silent for a moment.)

DEATH: Yes. MOTHER (looking concerned and red-eyed): Honey, who are you talking to?

BOY: And… and you’ll take care of him, right?

(The boy stares intently into Death’s hood.)

DEATH: For as long as he is with me, yes. Mortals do not tend to stay in my realm for long.

BOY: Then where will he go?

DEATH: It is not my place to know, or to question. Only to act.

MOTHER: Honey?

BOY: But you’ll watch out for him? While he’s visiting?

(Death is motionless for a moment, but then settles one gloved hand on his grandfather’s chest.)

DEATH: Yes. (The boy looks away and up at his mother. He sees that she is crying quietly, staring at the man in the bed.)

BOY: It’ll be okay, mom. (He hugs her around the waist.) Death will watch out for him in the cold place.

(His mother freezes in his arms, her hand stopping mid-motion as she reached for his hair.)

MOTHER (her voice is nearly inaudible): What did you say?

(The boy turns to Death in time to see him lift his hand from his grandfather’s chest, a thin trail of smoke following it, and vanish into thin air. On the bed, his grandfather stops breathing.)

BOY: He didn’t say goodbye. (The boy frowns at the spot where Death had been, while his mother shakily steers him out of the room, still crying.)

MOTHER (wipes at her eyes): We’ll… we’ll see him again someday, sweetie.

(The boy looks back at the door in time to see a hooded figure push it closed from the inside. The boy smiles.)

BOY: I know.

42

Non-Fiction

Michael J. Brooks 43

Michael J. Brooks “Jimmy Carter For Cancer Survivors” I don’t know that I’ll ever see this again. It was 7 a.m. in Plains, Georgia and a line formed outside Maranatha Baptist Church for the 10 a.m. adult Sunday School lesson. And it was drizzling and cool in the early morning.

I attended the 28th annual convention of the Jimmy Carter Political Items Collectors last weekend. This event coincides with Plains’ annual Peanut Festival the fourth Saturday in September.

President Carter is a fixture at weekend events and many tourists remained for his Bible lesson at his church. With overflow seating some 400 can hear the president teach the lesson. It seemed to me that the number was well on the way at that early hour last Sunday.

For the past several years I’ve returned to my pulpit on Sunday mornings, knowing if I can leave by 6 a.m. I’m OK. When I drove past Maranatha it was 7 a.m. in Georgia. It would be great to see lines forming at other churches early on Sundays!

I read about a fish fry fund raiser in Plains in 1995 to raise money for the refurbishment of the Plains High School, now the Jimmy Carter National Historic Site’s Visitors Center. My son and I attended and I’ve been back every year for the past 20.

President Carter attends our annual Saturday banquet, and we’ve had many Carter administration officials as speakers, including Andrew Young, Peter Bourne, Jody Powell, Bert Lance, Bob Lipshultz and Stu Eizenstadt. This year both Carters agreed to be our speakers and to take questions on life in the White House. After the president’s announcement on Aug. 20 about his cancer, we feared he wouldn’t be able to fulfill this commitment. However, he maintained a full schedule all weekend.

We saw placards all around Plains that read, “Jimmy Carter for Cancer Survivor.” His hometown has rallied in support and prayer. Our club president asked President Carter to sign one of these posters to auction at our banquet. One of our members paid $2400 for the unique document and all proceeds went to the Carter Center’s guinea worm eradiation project in Africa.

Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter’s commitment to serve includes more than their Bible study class. I’m not sure if they still do at their advanced ages, but at least for many years they signed the rotating list in their church for janitorial work and grass cutting. How unique to see a former president mowing grass and a former first lady cleaning restrooms!

Whatever one thinks of the politics of President Carter, it’s inarguable that he’s raised the bar for the post-presidency. He’s given his life in service to his church, his community, his nation and the world.

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Valerie B. Richards “Staying Anchored” It’s easy to get adjusted to the usual aggravation when it is constant and keeps coming along.

When your clothes disappear from your closet on a weekly basis. When you act as a therapist every time she comes to you venting about arguing with your mother. Consoling, carrying, dragging the other through breakups. It was all constant, scheduled, normal.

For the first nineteen years of my life, she was there, getting under my skin as easily as I got under hers. As she was two years old when I was born, she was the first best friend I ever knew. She was my mentor, and I was her sidekick ready to learn. Her name is Kristen, and she is my sister.

“Everyone was laughing! You shoulda’ been there, Kris! I mean, I cracked the best joke on this kid.

Now all the big kids want me to sit on the other end of the bus with them, because I’m cool!”

“Valerie, making fun of someone is never okay.. Even if the ‘cool kids’ want you to sit with them. The truth is, you never know what someone is going through. You have to treat everyone with kindness. You need to get on that school bus tomorrow and apologize to that boy. I promise, you’ll be much happier doing the right thing.”

Kristen was certainly born to be a big sister. She instilled in me the values of being a helping hand, being a respected woman, and being a kind friend. However, as all sisters do, she needed me just as much as I needed her. Kristen struggled with anxiety, depression, and a dependent personality. Since I can remember, I’ve always beared the weight that Kristen carried all her childhood. It started with me ordering for her at restaurants because she was too shy to speak to the waitress. Then, continued to me waiting at her locker with her, so she wouldn’t have to stand alone.

The innocence was followed by a deepening worry and a lack of self esteem that was far too heavy to be lifted by only her. I defended her, held her when the nights got too dark, fought tooth and nail when she just couldn’t keep her lips off the rim of the bottle. The exertion from a mother, father, and a worried sister finally started to show signs of working.

Things started to turn around for the better. Her eyes cleared up, and so did ours.

Kristen: Val can I tell u something? Promise u won’t tell anyone yet.

Valerie: Sure Kristen: I’m joining the Navy. This is something that I have wanted for a while. I know this is hitting u from nowhere and im sorry to tell u over a text. I just wanted to let u know first Valerie: . . .

I came home from class the next evening to my mother crying into a pillow. The rest of that night consisted of teary-eyed talks about how suddenly this was all happening. Having an immediate family member join the Armed Forces is the tug-of-war between being as proud as you’ve ever been and knowing that you will have never missed someone so much in your entire life.

As a sister, I wanted to protect her, as I have all my life. Next thing I knew, she was on a plane to Chicago, where she would train for two months. Graduation is scheduled in October. Then, she is off to “A-School”. After that? We aren’t sure, but wherever it is, she will be there for the next four years.

Writing Kristen was easy and hard. Easy as in I’ll always have so much to tell her, so much to fill her in on, so much to help keep her updated. Hard as in when you write someone and don’t hear anything back until two weeks later, there’s not a lot of room for genuine conversation. I’ve written the words “I miss you” a million times if feels. It’s true. I miss her. You never realize how much purpose, how much meaning someone holds in your life until they are completely missing from it. Hard as in

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having to get a new sheet of paper and start over because your tear fell on the the page and the ink ran. Hard as in you would do absolutely anything to be sitting in a Panera Bread with your sister, your best friend, talking about anything. Anything.

I try not to come off as selfish. There goes my sister doing something so honorable with her life. I guess, at the end of the day, it just goes to show one thing. Everyone is different. For Kristen, in order to rid herself of dependency, she had to do something big. Something that meant something to her. Something she took pride in.

As a family, we had to stick together. We read her letters out loud in the living room, laughing at her quick-witted jokes. We have to support her from afar. We have to know that she is more than the town, more than the experiences, more than the Kristen that she left behind. Coping as a protective, worried, loving sister was hard, but it’s coming along. I’m so proud of my sister, Richards, or “BAMA” as her boot camp mates call her in Chicago. Thank you, Kristen. You have not only changed your life, but mine as well.

Margarita Duran 46

Essay by Zac Alexander Pictures by Andrea Connell “The Rolling Stones Invade Atlanta” The Rolling Stones have proven to be a half century-plus musical tradition. Throughout their existence, the group has under gone a few lineup changes and musical progressions.

However, the soul of their rock and roll being remains at full strength. I write this essay as a great fan of the Rolling Stones. This article focuses on a concert from their most recent tour. The event took place on June 9, 2015 in Atlanta, Georgia at Bobby Dodd Stadium on the campus of Georgia Tech University.

I attended the event with my father and several close friends. To give you an idea how deep the Stones are in my past, my mother saw the band on their first U.S. tour. In addition, my dad saw them so long ago that a young, “Little” Stevie Wonder was the opening act. I have been able to catch them several other times. The most memorable was in late 2012 during an all-star packed 50th anniversary show in Newark, New Jersey. Bruce Springsteen, the Black Keys, John Mayer, Lady Gaga and others played and sang with the Stones in a series of musical tributes. In doing so, each artist demonstrated his or her own great respective affinities for the Stones.

This 2015 show in Atlanta was not a star-studded affair, but it proved to be quite a memorable evening. The band was led by their current core four members: Mick Jagger on lead vocals, Keith Richards and Ron Wood on guitar and Charlie Watts on drums. They were joined by a stage full of experienced musicians and singers, many of whom have traveled the world with the Stones for the better part of multiple decades. The veteran standouts include the gifted Chuck Leavell on keyboards, the powerful Darryl Jones on bass, and the soulful Lisa Fischer on backup vocals. The most extraordinary new addition was horn player Karl Denson, and like his musical colleagues on stage, he added a grand contribution to the show.

The band ripped onto the stage for what turned out to be a magnificent and mainly high energy performance. The hard charging rock numbers included: “Start Me Up,” “It`s Only Rock and Roll (But I Like It,” “Tumbling Dice,” and the set closer “Satisfaction.” There was a touch of the band`s blues roots with “Can`t You Hear Me Knocking,” “Midnight Rambler,” and a cover version of Mississippi Fred McDowell`s “You Gotta Move.” The band even mixed in some rock mini-epics with: “Gimme Shelter,” “Sympathy for the Devil,” and the choir-backed “You Can`t Always Get What You Want.”

Throughout the evening, it was easy to be impressed by the continuous high energy of Mick Jagger.

However, the most amazing display of athleticism of the evening may have been Keith Richards

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running the length of the stage ramp and slapping the hands of fans in-route to his two-song turn on the lead vocals spot. Given his rather lively past, the fact Richards is alive and well much less running anywhere is a miracle.

Perhaps it is also a testament to the power of making good music for over a half century. In any case, this proved a fabulous evening with what is truly “The World`s Greatest Rock and Roll Band.� In closing, the saying of a picture being worth a thousand words is quite true. Thus, please enjoy these action filled concert shots of the night by my good friend Andrea Connell, and let us all wish for many more years of these timeless rock and roll legends.

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Art

Mary Swicord 49

Mohommad Dolatabadi

50

James Allen

51

Savannah Cleckler

52

Brenda Mathis

53

Trey McLenore

54

Kayla Maz

55

David Jordan

56

Juan Esparza

57

Chris Majerik

58

Lillian Shurbet

59

Kami Beutler

60

Steve Putnam

61

Steven Putnam

62

Adeline Benoit

63

Winston Webb

64

Kandi Minatra

Mackenzie Newton

65

Courtney Garrard 66

Mary Elizabeth Gray

67

Photography

Morgan McLain

68

William Dunning

69

Kami Beutler

70

Bethany Forsythe

71

Margarita Duran

72

Patricia Tate

73

Margarita Duran

74

Foster Jackman 75

Foster Jackman 76

Alicia Tate

77

Lauren Hallmark

78

Reflection-Greg McCallister

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Index

Adeline Benoit .......................................................................................................................................... 63 Aiden Caskey ....................................................................................................... Front and Back Cover Alicia Tate ................................................................................................................................................... 77 Amelia O’Hare........................................................................................................................................... 31 Andrea Connell ........................................................................................................................................ 47 Andrew Edgett ......................................................................................................................................... 16 Annette Shunnarah ................................................................................................................................ 38 Anonymous ............................................................................................................................................... 21 Anonymous ............................................................................................................................................... 21 Art ............................................................................................................................... 49 Astrid Novak .............................................................................................................................................. 13 Astrid Novak .............................................................................................................................................. 15 Bethany Forsythe..................................................................................................................................... 71 Brenda Mathis........................................................................................................................................... 53 Chase Coats ............................................................................................................................................... 20 Chris Majerik ............................................................................................................................................. 58 Cortland Lancaster .................................................................................................................................. 10 Courtney Garrard..................................................................................................................................... 66 Darian Aderholt ....................................................................................................................................... 29 David Jordan ............................................................................................................................................. 56 Drama ......................................................................................................................... 38 Elizabeth Little .......................................................................................................................................... 25 Elizabeth Little .......................................................................................................................................... 39 Eric Phillips................................................................................................................................................... 9 Fiction......................................................................................................................... 22 Foster Jackman ........................................................................................................................................ 75 Foster Jackman ........................................................................................................................................ 76 Greg McCallister ....................................................................................................................................... 79 Harrison Wiygul .......................................................................................................................................... 9 Harrison Wiygul ........................................................................................................................................ 10 Jacob Dornan............................................................................................................................................ 23 James Allen................................................................................................................................................ 51 Jason Robbins........................................................................................................................................... 11 Jason Robbins........................................................................................................................................... 12 Jessica Sewell .............................................................................................................................................. 8 Jessica Sewell ............................................................................................................................................ 11 John Majors ............................................................................................................................................... 27 Juan Esparza.............................................................................................................................................. 57 80

Kami Beutler .............................................................................................................................................. 60 Kami Beutler .............................................................................................................................................. 70 Kandi Minatra ........................................................................................................................................... 65 Katelyn Adkins ............................................................................................................................................ 7 Kayla Maz ................................................................................................................................................... 55 Laura Cook ................................................................................................................................................. 14 Lauren Hallmark....................................................................................................................................... 78 Leopoldo Sanchez .................................................................................................................................. 18 Lillian Shurbet .......................................................................................................................................... 59 Lisabeth Barton ........................................................................................................................................ 22 Mackenzie Newton ................................................................................................................................. 65 Margarita Duran....................................................................................................................................... 46 Margarita Duran....................................................................................................................................... 72 Margarita Duran....................................................................................................................................... 74 Mary Elizabeth Gray................................................................................................................................ 67 Mary Swicord ............................................................................................................................................ 49 Matt Davis .................................................................................................................................................. 17 Matt McDonald ........................................................................................................................................ 34 Michael J. Brooks ..................................................................................................................................... 43 Michael J. Brooks ..................................................................................................................................... 44 Mohommad Dolatabadi ....................................................................................................................... 50 Morgan McLain .......................................................................................................................................... 4 Morgan McLain ........................................................................................................................................ 68 Non-Fiction ................................................................................................................ 43 Patricia Tate ............................................................................................................................................... 73 Philip Theibert .......................................................................................................................................... 32 Photography .............................................................................................................. 68 Poetry ........................................................................................................................... 4 Sam Musaed ................................................................................................................................................ 7 Savannah Cleckler ................................................................................................................................... 52 Skyler Collett ............................................................................................................................................... 5 Spencer Hyde ........................................................................................................................................... 35 Steve Putnam............................................................................................................................................ 61 Steven Putnam ......................................................................................................................................... 62 Tanner Lyons ............................................................................................................................................. 12 Trey McLenore .......................................................................................................................................... 54 Valerie B. Richards ................................................................................................................................... 45 William Dunning ...................................................................................................................................... 69 Winston Webb .......................................................................................................................................... 64 Zac Alexander ........................................................................................................................................... 47 81

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