Wingspan
Fall 2013
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Volume 13 Fall 2013 Jefferson State Community College Editor: Sharon DeVaney-Lovinguth Production & Design: Greg McCallister Assistant Editor: Helen Companion Front Cover Art: Greg McCallister Back Cover Art: Greg McCallister
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 13 Fall 2013
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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. As Wingspan Editor, I would like to thank the members of Sigma Kappa Delta English Honor Society who served as assistant editors this year. Their editorial work brought a fresh, student perspective, and their excellent and thoughtful contributions shaped the magazine in new and important ways.
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Poetry
Anna Greer 4
charred wind bristles ash branches, the leaves sing their charcoal song the earth is grey tonight. too close to winter for words. evening, the sky ignites, and by nightfall, the icy earth is layered in grays: cobalt, steel, aluminum, charcoal. the moon casts a shady light over the trees and icy ground emits something colder than black. listen: the wind leaves ash on the ground, as if someone recently put out a fire. come morning, the ground will steam from the heat: look as it smolders. and the sun will rise, ignite another fire. the sky will dance with dancing flames, the clouds will glow, and the ground will gleam red. in a couple of months, it will rain. no more snow. and the wind will pack up the ashes and scatter them to another land, somewhere where winter is soon to start. the wind will sow its ashes there. snow clouds will gather, long nights will smolder the daylight. grey will smother the earth. and what is here but summer now? thick, wet heat wraps around arms, we desire somewhere to swim and a dry day to dry off. we want the leaves to chase our feet again, the wind to carry the ashes back here so we can don our black leather and crave another body to keep us warm. -Helen Companion 5
On the Anniversary of my Father’s Death The red oak in my backyard is cracked from lightning. Kudzu twists between the split trunk, clinging to charred edges. It’s evening and the sun casts fire over the lake. From my porch, the leaves and purple flowers look like gauze obscuring the view of the bloody water. It’s been a year now and I still hear your voice in the pollen that forms a blanket over my car, in the rain bouncing on the tin roof, in the cracked walnuts on my driveway. Grass and rocks are a rough carpet as I walk to the lake, the cool air wrapped around me like a sleeve. I sit on our dock, my legs like two small trout in the water. In the sand below, I see a fish washed on shore and a water-lily, petals stretched for something it can’t reach. -Helen Companion
Daniel Senko 6
OBJECTS. I could never do so much, But see you as an |object| Your volume is so apparent. You have a [surface tension] So strong against existence. They buy you drinks; you never giving an inch. (We used to sit at the edge of a lake skipping pebbles against the water.) Against this fabric |I can only view you as an object| I feel your mass on top of mine Creating a whole other entity. You’re not giving an inch, but they plead wholeheartedly. An object at rest stays at rest. {Unless (acted) upon by an opposing force}” Entropy is constantly increasing. [I] can’t help but see [you] as an object. An object at rest beginning in order, Slowly entering a more 0entropic0 state; you shake and begin to move Against existence, you can’t help, but give a singular inch To all the forces acting on you. (If only we could exist again at the edge) Then [I] wouldn’t view you as an |object| any longer. -Ulric Cowley
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OEDIPUS REGAINED: A RECONCILIATION. Words wrecking our world; spit filled with anger fly from your lips. We battle like war torn ships, likely to drown in the depths. You hear, “Become the plastered plan that he so desires for you.” Yet, There’s no need to relive Oedipus’ fate in such a way. As the warmth of spring can melt away the snow covered grounds of white winter even love; can arise between such separate men. Steady breath breaks down age old barriers between tradition and progress. Anger no longer clouds the way in this new Dawn. A fissure healed with the quiet light of understanding. -Ulric Cowley
Daniel Senko 8
Freedom A woman sits by an open window She sees the dark cold world for what it is, Lonely, scared, and hurt she cries. Silently weeping she can feel the salty tears fall on cuts and bruises. The wind beats at her just as she remembers being beaten once again. Her Soul torn by the very existence of mankind and nature. Outside the howling wind masks the cries from inside. Screaming with primal rage, the woman slumps in the Slumber of death. The wind dies and the womans’ Soul rises in the air. FREE! -DeAnna Haase
Greg McCallister 9
Kintsukori The light will falter, It will flicker and go out; Your shadow will grow cold. whispers call out to succumb to the blackness now numb. Fear and Pain will fall away, The trumpeted cry of relief Of a new world lit up When abjected Fates wail their defeat. So know of the flames return, and the warmth within beckoning: Courage! Thy will be done No more. Anew! The field glistens. Believe in new days, And bright thoughts, And the absolution of Sorrow’s ways -Scot P. Langland
Quite Right It was her back that I saw most, Sauntering away from me Further and further until it was just shadow. Coast upon the air, Blow into the soul, The void is no longer empty. It swirls and lifts us to fly. Blue within blues forget All that is white. Pour slowly out, the grains and the dust, only to leave Space and Breath in one simple rite. -Scot P. Langland
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weightlessness I cannot help but love the night, Simply is the absence of light. Fare thee well dark charity, Apollo rise mysteriously. Steed and flame captivate me; A sun brighter than all the best, To lead us away from our rest. Know not why you cry so soon The lamp not dead, burns anew Scattered parts surround our Moon. -Scot P. Langland
Lab experiment I burned down the lab It wasn’t my fault The flame so enticing In its grip I was caught
So alone there I stood With burner in hand To burn down the lab Yes, this was my plan -Jason Leach
Writing while standing Can’t sit still Sitting still is death Pacing is the only solace Standing here writing What is there to do? What to ponder So many different things Too much to contain in a seat Yet not enough for a throne -Jason Leach 11
“After Leaving the Kudzu Kingdom” We were —at one time pecan tree patriots, living in a kudzu kingdom. Our way of life was commonplace. Scattered neighbors on our harbors, while we floated on the river that was our driveway in heavy rain. Honeysuckle sweet, we danced to our own hummingbird beat. The sticks was our stomping ground. We never talked about desires, never spoke of daydreams on stage, stretched out sucking in applause like oxygen. We never talked about troubles, since we never acknowledge any hardships other than work. And we were happy, hidden behind tree trunks and foliage —that means leaves and shrubs. (I never did remember not to use big words!) Life was slow, (no need to rush things), and there was no thought or need of leaving, but I dreamed, while laying on cotton, brimstone hot. I dreamed of flying, of swinging, of jumping from trees to trains, walking sidewalks beneath skyscrapers. But you didn’t know this, or didn’t care, squashing these thoughts with obligations, and forcing fear upon a young mind. We were —at one time happy, or, perhaps, content, living in a misconception. Your way of life was law but I disobeyed when I met a warrior— emblazoned with emerald eyes and oranges protecting his heart. He taught my tongue to dance to the beat of honesty, but you heard the cry of war and burned all your flags of white. -Tony Lovell
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We never talked about desires, never spoke of daydreams in love laid out sucking in ocean air on the coast of a lover. We never talked about thoughts since we never acknowledged any hardships other than me. And you were happy, hidden behind stopped time —that is, in a shrine, (an ode to the life we all once lived.) You don’t have any pictures of me on your wall. That bottled up boy, with too curly hair on one side and too long eyelashes, That scared little boy who sits framed on your wall, wearing a naive smile, is a ghost of high school past. I don’t know him anymore. I left him in that closet when you grabbed my hands and pulled me out. You didn’t know that’s where I was— had hoped I was swimming in heroin— a girlfriend bearing my child. But you chose to bury the memory of that boy —too since that day in your kudzu kingdom —LA REVOLUTION! I declared my freedom, and you don’t have any pictures of us on your wall, —my husband and me. My existence is a stain on your life, on the way others view you, as if I am the looking glass, shattered and scattered on your living room floor, that the world is looking through to your soul. -Tony Lovell
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I assure you, I am not whining up here on my soapbox. We never talked before, not with one another, only at faces— our words like flies hovering over the manure of the elephant in the room. You never taught me how to listen; perhaps you never knew how to yourself. Always waiting for your own troubles to subside. And I never asked to learn, never yearned for your ear, only your understanding, thinking maybe these daemons inside me, their screams clawing away at my head like white noise, could be washed away with the cleanse of your acceptance. We never talk, so if I don’t pin these words to paper, hold them down while they writhe on my tongue, if I don’t spill them over strangers like milk, then these words will go unknown outside my head. We never talked before, so why would we start now? If neither of us will listen, then why talk at all? -Tony Lovell
Daniel Senko 14
The Tower Empty to full to empty The shimmer waxes and wanes Silhouettes glide idly past Tormenting without intent Longing for eternal warmth Led to slaughter by ideals Forever chained by morals Cataclysmic vision Daedulus! I declare Your directions defective
- J.C. Patterson
Happy New Year. Another day another year Will my heart and knees last is my greatest fear I have given my all to whom that I have talked If you only knew the miles I have walked So people hold all those you love near And tell them “Happy New Year!� -Greg McCallister
Skin I am happy to be in my own skin If you do not like what you see when you look at me, or if my looks offend Then the problem is yours, for me, I no longer have to apologize or defend I do not break, and I do not bend After all, it was basing my life off pleasing others that nearly brought me to an end I have recognized the error in my judgments since then I do not have to be fake or pretend From this day forward, I have decided it is best for me not to try to blend in Therefore, if you cannot accept me for who I am then I am better off without you as a friend. -Kenecia Russell
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Greg McCallister
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Ode to My Dying Mother “Villanelle from a Daughter!” Inspired by Dylan Thomas’s “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night” It is not time for you to say goodnight, Hard as it may be to watch you decay; Please do not go I have to make this right. It is stubborn that I am, you were right, Please sit up and annoy me as you have from day to day It is not time for you to say goodnight. When I could not see you were the eyes that gave me sight Having taken you for granted is this the price I must pay, Please do not go I have to make this right. The next disagreement we have my tongue I’ll gladly bite, Surely I would listen to whatever it is you have to say, It is not time for you to say goodnight. As I walked through darkness you were my light, Your smile as bright as a summer’s day, Please do not go I have to make this right. As long as I can remember you have always been the type to put a fight, To GOD this solemn plea I pray. It is not time for you to say goodnight. Please do not go I have to make this right. -Kenecia Russell
Drifting Drifting down the old red mud dirt road, that lies loose between my toes. The suns sizzling waves tighten the dark tendrils that lay upon my glistened neck. Breathing in air so dry filled with dust. I know my lungs are red! Covered in that damn dirt I love so much! I tried so hard to runaway, yet I come back to this place. No one’s here, there’s nothing around, but I’m never alone even though there’s not one face to be found. There’s peace here, except for my soul, maybe that’s why I run through these damn hills of nothing but old red dirt road.
-El Wood
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Blockade The week of October 6, 2013 truckers enroute to destinations throughout the United States changed course according to plan diverting rigs towards Washington, D.C. A deliberate traffic slow down began as thousands of trucks converged on the city. Forming long, slow-moving caravans, a ring of trucks enclosed the city. On October 11th amidst sporadic violence, all trucks stopped, a great ring was closed, the blockade complete. The truckers came prepared if necessary to cordon Washington for days. Their object was to prevent all movement of traffic into and out of the city thereby immobilizing government and industry. Air traffic was halted by ground service vehicle drivers’ refusal to refuel planes. By the week of October 13th the truck stoppage had spread to other parts of the country, and within a week government had virtually ceased most functions. The truckers felt victory was certain. On October 18th the President called on the military to break the cordon. Reluctant clashes ensued between militant truckers and the National Guard. The military penetrated the cordon and the blockade was broken. -William T. Squires
Chronicle of the Hours Headline “Rigs to Stop” no potatoes, no tools, no freezers no spuds to shuck ground no rumble of Russets no roar of tumbling Idahos no shuttle to plates, to sour cream all fruit grounded no starch to Uncle Ott no starch to pregnant Marys no starch for castored babes no starch to burping bama chicken shacks no tuberous tunes to blow rigs shut down “Trucks Stop” The First Hours Rolling five then ten drivers proudly sit a great batallion swelling in rising fumes and heat a blockade is on axle to axle chesty, hairy, hauling bucking, grinding, rigs abreast a thousand miles and more an inching vast communion in rising heat hours lose themselves rolling five then ten the blockade is on rigs abreast axle to axle bucking, grinding, rolling, inching a thousand miles and more 18
The Violent Hours The creature shudders a few good men strike pain cool bones break violence rules trucks stop roads blocked five thousand rigs a million tons stopped the work is done truckers raise rebellion Washington cordoned convergence fixed the knot tied trucks meet Union Pacific faces Portland the circle closed truckers east meet west hot and cold continuum broken arrows fixed spears unshared truckers risen alone in many numbers at once always alone together one in many alone bound by pride and union The Final Hours The sun fakes a Sunday across the grey beltway here and there it fades in and out of red clay cuts there rolls a slow caravan with horns sounding long, loud, troubled through streets sounding angry voices, subdued, sad truckers laid low burning rigs fallen sons and fathers fallen passing now to ground my own heart pounds hollow longing makes and empty sound -William T. Squires
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Art
Frank Sutherland
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Izzy Insane 21
Greg McCallister
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Brandon Kimbrell
Brandon Kimbrell
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Brandon Kimbrell
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Izzy Insane
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Sonceria Tucker
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Izzy Insane
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Photography
Anna Greer
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Greg McCallister
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31 Greg McCallister
Daniel Senko
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Daniel Senko
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Greg McCallister
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Greg McCallister
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Greg McCallister
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Greg McCallister
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Greg McCallister
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Greg McCallister
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Greg McCallister
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Greg McCallister
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Anna Greer
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Anna Greer
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Bonnie Bailey Self
Bonnie Bailey Self 44
Bonnie Bailey Self
Bonnie Bailey Self 45
Fiction Fairy Clock Aisle twelve is a wall of color. Stacked neatly on either side are boxes in bright shades, each with their own promises: all day dry, warming, cooling, intimacy. In the center of the aisle, sitting at eye level as if to stare at Jessi, are the pregnancy tests; blocks of blue and pink, each proclaiming to be more accurate than the last. She reaches out to grab the least expensive one, a single test with glaring plus and minus. “Clean up in Aisle three,” blares over the intercom. She turns the box over in her hand, once, twice. For a nearly empty box, it feels both heavier and flimsier than she expects. She puts it back, thinking that she needs to be sure, she should get two and after all, the price difference is only a matter of cents. Results should always be verified, after all. “Assistance in aisle seven.” “First Response,” she rolls the words over her tongue. That sounds good, knowing early. She chooses a box with a digital test and a gold ribbon plastered over the front, thinks to herself that it seems appropriate to consider it a gift, after all it was given to her by someone else. She wonders for a moment if she can return it. The walk to the front seems like a long one and hides the test in the crook of her arm without realizing. The wait at the register feels infinite; the line that looks the shortest is currently occupied by an elderly woman searching the depths of her purse for exact change. She places the test on the belt, then turns it over, hoping the other side will be less obvious. It isn’t of course. The cashier slides it across the scanner, as if skimming a cloud. “What are you hoping for?” the cashier asks. She flips her blond hair over her shoulder. “Not really sure.” Jessi pretends to focus on the pin pad. “I just need to know.” The cashier hands her the bag and Jessi pulls the box out and slips it in her purse, crosses the aisle and enters the bathroom. Grey stalls are lined against the back wall with a solitary sink opposite the door. She opens the door to the handicapped stall and jumps back when it squeaks at her. She thinks it sounds like a mouse and remembers the lace of the mouse’s tail as she dangled it over the cage of her pet Python, Marie, when she was nine. Only Marie’s head was above the fake grass and it hung, levitating, waiting to strike. She waited too long to drop the mouse and the snake missed, curling around her hand, a black and yellow bracelet that she had to run under water to release. The stall is comfortingly barren; only a toilet, an oversized black toilet paper dispenser and a tiny metal box on the wall are her company. She pulls down her jeans and panties in one motion, lets them fall in a heap on the floor and carefully opens the box: one flap, then the other, then pulls out the white, foil wrapped bar. She takes a deep breath and the urine falls like a waterfall over the test. “Yes,” it says. She shakes the test again, stares to be sure. “Yes.” “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” she says to herself and drops the test in the metal box, the paper crinkling in recognition. She pulls up her pants, places the other test in her purse and tosses the box on top of the test, the flaps exposed from where the metal lid doesn’t close. With the heater broken everything in the apartment is freezing. Jessi kicks her sandals off beside the door and makes her way to the bedroom. Matt is already asleep, curled up tightly in a white comforter they had bought when first rented the apartment. She slips her clothes off, letting them fall to the floor and places her purse on the dresser. Slowly, she crawls into bed, careful not to wake him. 46
“Missed you,” Matt says, his words half language and half drool. Still asleep, he rolls close to her, draping his arm over her naked body. She kisses him on the forehead, says she loves him. Lying there, head pressed against his chest, hair creating a fuzzy pillow around her face, she thinks to herself that it’ll be okay, we’ll be okay. She brushes her hand against his thigh and he twitches. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to sleep. It was a cool spring day when they met and the unopened buds on the maple trees glittered in the sunlight, like snow. The park was busy, but Jessi found a corner near the basketball court and threw a green blanket down on the grass, under a red oak. The shade from its wide branches surrounded her like an embrace. She sat with her legs laid sideways and a little glimpse of her slender legs peeked from under her long black skirt. Her cardigan fluttered in the wind like wings and she admired the stitches on the hem, remembering each stitch as it fell off the needles. She pulled out her book, but just as she started to read, she heard the bounce of a ball against the rim and “Booyah!” echoed across the park. He was a tall guy, with brown hair that was matted with sweat over his brow and beads of sweat that glinted like dew. He high-fived one of the other guys there and Jessi shook her head, returning to her book. Immersed in stamen and petals, she didn’t notice he’d walked up to her. “Here,” he said “a pretty flower for the most beautiful woman in the park.” The line was so corny that Jessi had to laugh. Between his thumbs and forefinger he held a dandelion. “A dandelion as a pick-up line? That’s a first. They’re just weeds.” She pulled at the sleeve on her cardigan and remembered twisting the stitches to make the cables on the cuff. “We always called them ‘fairy clocks’.” H e leans down and picks up one that has already bloomed and is now covered in strands woven together like a soft sculpture. “After they’ve bloomed, you can make a wish on them. Watch.” He brought the flower to his lips and gently blew, scattering the seeds. “Make a wish and every seed that falls will help it come true.” She was hooked. There were who appreciated flowers the way she as an aspiring botanist did. They spent hours talking that afternoon about their lives, their families and dreams. And at the end of the day, she forgot her book. One day, he told her had a surprise for her. He blindfolded her, sat her gently in the passenger’s seat, saying “Don’t peek!” The silk of his tie against her eyes and the faint smell of his skin lulled her to sleep and when the car stopped, he got out, opened the door and took her hand, gently leading her. “Watch your step,” he said as she stepped over a pile of rocks. It was fall and the crumbling leaves were melting into the soil, giving the whole place a musty smell. The air was still, as if even the wind was waiting for this moment. “Sit here,” he said, and she sat on the blanket, eyes still obscured. When he pulled the tie off her eyes, she was surrounded by flowers. Four dozen black magic roses held the blanket down, one on each corner and concentric circles of vases of lilies and peonies surrounded her, with baby’s breath and lilac buds scattered between. The air was sweet enough to take her breath away and immediately in front of her was a rare ghost orchid, with him kneeling in front of her. In the center of the orchid, she saw a tiny fleck of gold and the light reflected off the diamond nestled in there. “Will you marry me?” She said yes and they ate a dinner of apples and brie while talking about plans for the future—the Ranch style house off Puget Sound they dreamed of and Matt wanted a Great Pyrenese named Bo. Jessi wasn’t sure about pets. And they never talked about children. His snores vibrate in her ear and his breath covers her face like a muggy afternoon. A glimpse of light from a streetlamp highlights a photo she took at the Morrocan Rose Festival a year prior. A red rose with pink veins is tightly closed, with just two petals emerging on either side. A baby would make traveling impossible; she’d be stuck with the local flora she’d been watching her whole life. She rolls over, first on her back, forcing his heavy arms off her and then on her other side, facing away from him. He reaches out towards her to pull her close. “It’s too hot,” Jessi says, and scoots to the edge of the bed, putting distance between them. 47
The morning sun slips through the blinds, casting cream colored stripes over the black marble bar. Matt flips to the comics and stops on an old strip of Calvin and Hobbes, reprinted for posterity. Every Sunday, his mom would walk to the gas station across the street from his home and bring back a paper. Together, they would read the strip over cereal, just like this morning. He’s bought a comic every Sunday since his mom’s death; it keeps her memory alive. He smiles as Calvin attempts to confront the monster under his bed, waking his father in the process. The light gets brighter and too early. Outside, pine pollen coats everything in a haze of yellow. He reaches into Jessi’s purse for some Tylenol, knowing a headache is coming on and sees the pregnancy test lying casually on top of her wallet and picks it up. “What are you doing?” He turns and sees Jessi, hair matted to the side of her face and still barely awake. “Just needed some medicine” he says and stuffs the test back in her purse. “I didn’t know you were late?” “It’s probably nothing.” She turns her ring, so the diamond faces her palm. “Probably just the stress from that new hybrid we’ve been working on.” She isn’t ready to tell him yet; still wants some time to process it herself. He folds the paper up, puts it on the table and walks over to give her a kiss. “Let’s take it together!” He reaches for her hand, trying to stay calm. “And either way, you know I’m here for you.” “That’s okay, I’ll take it later.” Jessi says and grabs her purse with her free hand. “I need to go for a run anyway.” But when she looks at him, she sees the softness in his eyes and the comic on the table. He says its okay, but drops her hand and she feels guilty. “Tell you what, we’ll do it when I get back.” He hugs her and kisses her on the forehead and she changes into a pair of sweats and leaves. And just before she gets back, she stops at the corner store to use the restroom, hoping that when she takes the test, there won’t be enough for a result. At home, the bathroom is lit up in corals and creams, soft colors that seem too much like a nursery. Outside the bathroom door, she can hear Matt pacing and she can’t decide if he’s nervous or excited. The blinking hourglass on the display seems infinite. “What’s it say” he says, his words bouncing sharply against the door. She hopes for a different result, hopes this time it will say negative, just to give her some time to think. “Yes,” the test says, but she waits a few moments more before opening the door. Matt appears to be bouncing and reminds her of a puppy or a kid on Christmas—no control. Without a word, she hands him the test. “I’m going to be a father!” He jumps up and down and gives her a big hug. “We’re going to be parents!” He picks her up, spins her around and she feels like she’s on a roller coaster that won’t stop. “We should celebrate! I’m going to be a Daddy.” She smiles, says she needs a shower first and he agrees. The water is like rain and she wishes it would wash her away, to take root in some distant place. When she comes back out, he’s in the spare bedroom, muttering about crib placement and colors. Outside of the car, the world is a blur. Jessi watches as the clover and thistle in the median mixes like an impressionist painting. On the side of the road, she sees an abandoned Sportsman RV hitched to the back of a beige Chevy truck. She remembers her father packing his clothes neatly into boxes in the back of an RV just like it after their divorce, as the only commitment he ever made crumbled. “I’m just going for a drive,” he said. “I’ll be back before your birthday.” He wasn’t, of course. Two days after her twelve birthday, Jessi had gotten the news from a teacher that his RV had been found in the river, her father still inside. “We need to start talking about names,” Matt says, the pitch of his voice growing with each word, “I like Irene for a girl—after my grandmother, how about you? But, whatever we choose, she’ll carry it
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with her for the rest of her life.” The rest of her life, Jessi thinks. For the rest of my life, it’ll tie me to Matt. For the rest of my life. Forever. “I can’t believe you’re so excited. You never mentioned wanting to be a father.” Jessi tenses her body, as if bracing herself to strike, “Hell, we don’t even know if it will survive. The chance it’s not viable is still well over 20%.” Already, she thought, it’s taking over my life. Matt hated to travel; his mother had lived only a few miles down the road. He’d never been anywhere interesting in his life. He jumps back, startled. “What’s wrong, Jessi. I thought you were excited?” She tugs at her sleeve, the holes in the lace revealing the skin underneath. “That’s you. I don’t know what to feel.” “It’s okay, whatever happens we’ll do it together. I’ll always be here for you, you know that.” He turns away from the road for a moment. In the distance, a river peeks over the horizon. Always. Forever. Those words again. Could she stay with him forever? “I just don’t know if I’m in love with you. “ For a moment, the only sounds in the car are the wheels grinding against the pavement. Outside, the grass in the median is high and Jessi wishes she could curl up in the grass and disappear like a snake. Matt clenches his fist against the wheel and pulls off a nearby exit. “Do you want to be?” Jessi looks at him. His eyes are intently focused on the road, as if avoiding her. The car comes to a stop. She tugs at her sleeve again and then pulls her ring off her finger and puts it back. “I guess.” He takes a deep breath and reaches for her hand. “Then I’ll just have to make you fall in love with me again.” “I don’t know, Matt. I just don’t think this is going to work.” She pulls her hand away. His features crumble like a ruin falling to pieces as he chokes back tears. She reaches out for the handle on the door. “I’m sorry, babe. I think maybe I just need some time to think. I’m going for a walk.” His hand brushes her side as she steps out. The humidity is stifling and Jessi walks until she no longer knows where she is. She sits by the side of the road and notices a dandelion, fluffy and white. She grasps it between her fingers, takes a deep breath and blows the seeds, not really sure what to wish for. Helen Companion
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Fear Fear the unknown. Fear my future. Fear the consequences of my actions from years ago. I fear what I cannot change and I fear what I do not understand. To conquer this I have to look within myself for strength. What is inside me? When I do this all I feel is God. The God of my understanding fills me with courage and strength and love. So why do I fear? I fear because I do not fully trust my God at all times. I trust him when things are going right in my life, but when something happens that I do not understand or like I question. To question is human, but what is it called when you question God? Agnostic is what most would call it but it’s deeper than a label. I label things I can place into categories. I cannot place my feelings and ideas on God into set categories, they run together and collide and form new opinions after my experiences. I do not need a clear cut answer, no black and white. It is not that simple for me. These ideas and feelings come from my upbringing, from my experiences, from the times that have me question who I am and what type of person I will become. All I need is faith. To me faith has me believe in the unknown. So that when I do fear, the mystery of the world, I can let go of my fears. I can give them away. What will happen to these uncovered fears? I know what happens to them. They are taken away and seem but an afterthought of the momentous entities they once were. Is it that simple? Do I question once more, or do I let go of these questions and put faith into practice. I choose faith. It is a choice I am entitled as is everyone. I will let go of these questions and believe that I will not ever give these questions logical answers. There is not an answer to them. They are only theories and feelings. Theories and feelings are not fact and neither is faith. Choosing faith is choosing to let go of reason and of fear and accepting what will, or Gods will as I call it. -Cassidy Dillingham
Marthalena Alsbrooks 50
Desperate My heart was pumping and adrenaline was rushing through my veins. As I was speeding off, I looked in the rear-view mirror at that stupid yuppie I had left behind. I looked to the left and noticed a middle-aged woman on her phone. She was looking right at me with a worried look on her face. I stepped on the gas to get out of there. I needed some money to pay back my dealer who fronted me and ounce of dank and an 8ball. Lately, he’s been getting angry because I haven’t been paying him back on time. The other night I messed up. I went to the beach to party with the spring breakers, met some hot chicks, and blew the rest of my supply. I’ve been up since then. I smoked my last joint this morning to help out with the crash. I just needed to get out of the neighborhood, pick up some other things, and go to the pawn shop. Then I can get enough money to pay back my dealer, pop some xanies and go to sleep. My heart was beating so fast; I was driving like a lunatic. Then I saw the flashing lights behind me. I didn’t know whether I was being pulled over for speeding or if that bitch had called the cops on me. I reached for the roach I had stashed in my ashtray and swallowed it. I took some deep breaths and pulled over. “Why are you so nervous?” “I just don’t want a speeding ticket,” my voice cracked. I had tried my best to sound calm. “You look like you’re up to no good. Why don’t you step outside the vehicle, and let me look around. You don’t have anything to hide, do you?” I stepped out of my car. I was watching in terror as the police officer searched my Seville. I was trying to think of excuses for anything he might find. He found some seeds on the floor, but we both know he can’t do anything about that. He finds the lever for the trunk and pops it open. He looked in the trunk at the suitcase and smiled. “You’ve got drugs in here, boy?” “No, it’s a family heirloom,” I remembered. We were both in anticipation to see what was inside the trunk. I stepped forward and craned my head to get a better look. The cop flipped the latches and opened the suitcase. There was an immediate stench wafting out through the hot, afternoon air. The police officer’s face turned white. I stepped closer to get a better view of the mangled horror in my trunk. I was in shock. My heart dropped, my already exhausted brain quit working. How am I going to get out of this? -Kaitlyn Lee
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“The Criterion Paradox” (Excerpts from the Story) Time merely meandered on. The world spun through Space. Mass slowly wound itself together to generate more mass. Energy lit up all of existence, and Life pooled all of this together. In instances all across the Universe, there were places and times where the veil of all these things could be lifted. In one particular galaxy, closer to the center of the Universe than most, there were over two hundred billion stars alone. In this galaxy there happened to be almost sixty billion planets spinning about old, dwarfed stars. Some of these planets spiraled through space on a perfect enough orbit to retain enough light, energy, and gravity to incubate these pools of life. One such rock in this galaxy was known by its sentient inhabitants as Earth. These life forms called themselves homosapiens and reasoned that this spinning, massive sphere was their home. The Earth, being of sound body, fostered and nurtured all varieties of living organisms on one simple condition – Time would return all of them back to where they came. Time rose above all of this with an exacting glee. Homosapiens found this to be particularly disappointing. All this development and awareness had been gifted to them, only to be taken away once they gathered how to realize it. They were only allowed a minute fraction of Life before Time ground their matter back into the Earth. They called this a ‘lifespan.’ This perceivable duration was seen as an unfortunate limitation. As this world grew, so did its children. They began to create worlds within worlds and name such concepts as ‘humanity’ and ‘society.’ The homosapiens became ‘humans’ who lived in ‘civilized societies.’ Time meandered on, unconcerned. None of these worlds or words could stop him. After tens of thousands of years, Mankind eventually began to realize how truly infinitesimal it really was. They began to wake up. . . . one last step towards the door and then all of the sudden – it hissed open. Light like none of them had ever experienced before broke the blackness of the stone stairwell. Each one of them stumbled up, through the entranceway. What they saw was impossible. The Universe lay before them. A million billion galaxies whirling without weight, innumerable amounts of burning stars borne back ceaselessly throughout infinite Space. All of time was before them. The beginning, end, and all of possible existence prevailing all at once was what the strange, old man had wanted them to find. Nothing had meaning in front of something so whole. The three strangers had emerged onto a plateau apart from anything that they had left behind and unlike anything that was imaginable before. They were home. Time merely meandered on. -Scot P. Langlan
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Vigilante The first time I heard “Sympathy for the Devil” by The Rolling Stones , We were driving to the ridge. We both knew what we would find up there, or rather, who. I was in the passenger seat, loading my .44 one bullet at a time until the cylinder was full. I looked left at my accomplice, his pistol sitting on his lap, a steely expression on his face. “How much farther?” I asked. To which he replied, “Not far.” We rode in silence for a few minutes until we came upon a rod seldom traveled by walkers or joggers, and more commonly frequented by gangsters and criminals. We parked the car and got out, concealing our weapons. As we marched toward the ridge, I could still hear the lyrics “Pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name, but what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game.” A light fog set in as we neared the ridge. “Safeties off,” I said drawing my pistol from my jacket and donning my mask. Up ahead, we saw a couple of figures in the fog. We recognized them easily; they were low raking mobster grunts, the scum of the earth really. We slowed our advance as a third man approached them, spotting us. Perplexed by our appearance, he asked “Who the hell are you supposed to be?” I had to fight the urge to grin as I heard the lyrics to the song again. “Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name, but what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game.” He looked dumbfounded by my grin as I drew my resolver. Wide eyed and alert, the thug fumbled with his jacket in an attempt to draw his weapon. His eyes leveled with the barrel of my gun , a thousand regrets running through his mind as he realized he was about to die. As my finger pressed harder against the trigger, he tried to voice his astonishment. “Holy shi-“, the roar of my gun cut him short. The other two goons span around, a similar look of shock on their faces. As if on cue, my partner fired his pistol twice, the shots piercing the chest of one of the thugs, and wounding the other’s knee. With a yell, he toppled over, clutching his leg “Son of a bitch shot me!” Scoffing, my partner leaned over and told him, “Stop crying, you’re in better shape than them,” as he motioned to the two men we’d just killed. I leaned in and picked him up by the collar of his shirt and shoved him away. He stumbled and cursed, struggling to keep his balance as I said to him with a grin “Run along now, go get your friends.” And so he went, crookedly into the fog, shouting for the aid of his remaining comrades. I wasn’t listening to him, I was humming aloud “Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name, but what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game.” “Time for the final act.” My partner said as he wandered off the beaten path to the left of me, taking cover behind some small foliage. I took off my mask and laid down perpendicular to the bodies we’d made, staying deathly still as I heard footsteps approaching in the fog. “Where?! You said they were right fuckin- here, waiting for you, so where are they no-,” The shotgun toting braggart slumped over with an audible thud, a noise unheard over my gun. I raised myself up to a sitting position and watched as the other two new idiots failed to kill the reanimated corpse of their attacker, instead being dropped by a flurry of successive shots from the bushes to their left. Down they fell and all who remained was our returning victim, the wounded one. A look of utter defeat was upon his face, he didn’t even scramble to pick one of the dropped guns, he just fell over looking at me. I moved over to him and leaned down to his face, mere inches away from him, grinning wildly. As he stared at my unmasked face, he asked me, “What the hell are you?” Nearly cackling with laughter, I leveled my gun to his heart and sang. “Pleased to meet you! Hope you guess my name! But what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game! Isn’t it?!” I fired. -Tyler Townsend
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Nonfiction “Why do we love the movies?”
Somewhere in my parent’s house there are pictures of me a child. A little boy looks out into the camera’s lens caught in a moment of wonder and perhaps of surprise. That child, I know and as I regard him, is me. We are one in the same across the gulf of time. He hasn’t discovered the world yet, the joy and the disappointment that life has in store for him. He has yet to discover the things that I know. He is there as a marker for me, a moment captured forever in time. We can all regard our photographs in this way. I think the movies do the same thing. They are a window into the attitudes of personalities of times and people who are long gone, a record of what has been and how they felt. The movies are well over a century old and we have now passed into a time when most of the living population doesn’t remember a time before the movies. Movies are the most approachable of all the mass arts and most emotionally engaging. Art, music, theater, literature, those all have their merits, but movies encompass elements of all those arts, sometimes at the same time. We can get a visual, an auditory and an emotional pull from a movie that we can’t get from another medium. They work on our brains like nothing else. Plus, they bring about community like nothing else. There’s something magical about seeing a movie in a space with as many people as possible. From my vantage point, the movies are a picture window onto a world that never existed. They present a visual time-stamp of attitudes and ideas of a time long gone, never to be retrieved. You can complain about the racism of The Birth of a Nation with its positive portrayal of the Ku Klux Klan, but what you cannot deny is how invaluable it is historically. Right or wrong, It speaks to attitudes and feelings that a lot of moviegoers had at the time. Movies do that, they record for all time the moments in history. There, on the screen, is a visual record of a moment captured in time for future generations to see. Look at the classic It’s a Wonderful Life, and reflect that we are looking at a moment captured by the camera in 1946, only a few years before most of us were born. That movie, that glorious American classic, captures forever a time, a mood, an attitude about America that has passed us by. All movies, in a way, do that. Like a moving photograph they capture people and events that are long gone. Watch an old newsreel sometime, maybe from the 30s or 40s and you will see people passing in and out of the frame who were alive then, now most likely dead, captured forever within the tiny scope of the camera’s lens. You can recreate the Hindenburg with special effects, and you can tell your grandchildren stories about it, but we have it on film for the entire world to see, a terrible event captured on film that took place generations before many of us were even born. Movies have been around now for well over 100 years and it is pretty good bet they’ll be around for another century, maybe more. There’s just nothing like it. Nothing else has quite the same impact. Dick Clark said the “music is the soundtrack of our lives”, meaning that we can be taken mentally to a different point in our lives just by revisiting them. Movies do the same thing. We remember where we were and who we were with when we experienced the great movies. They’re always there and hopefully they always will be. -Jerry Roberts. 54
“’Gone With the Wind’: Fact, Fiction, Feminism, and The Elephant in the Room.” “Gone With the Wind” represents a vision of The Old South, not through factual history, but through the romanticism from which great stories are born. Nearly 75 years after its initial release, the movie is still loved and beloved, offering a portrait of a stubborn woman’s sexual adventures backed up by a war whose sad legacy remains with us even today. Many different people see this film in many different ways and yet the balance between fact and fiction is tricky. Here is a story that tries to deal with a romantic story of lovers caught up in the most crucial moment of America’s history. Yet, it is a chapter of history that has to be softened up to fit the romance. The movie propels forward its feminist message while subduing the larger issue for which The Civil War was fought in the first place. From the outset, it might seem to just a simple romantic adventure about a stubborn woman’s attempts to find her own measure of sexual freedom, but there is something deeper. The backdrop of “Gone With the Wind” is a war that completely restructured the American landscape and created social legacies that we, in the 21st century are still dealing with. At its center is a character who reveals the nature of being able adapt to the enormous changes that would follow. Scarlett O’Hara, in her own way, represents the future. When the war ended, the rigid tradition of The Old South would die away as old traditions and the southern economy were essentially destroyed by the war and by the passage of The Thirteen Amendment abolishing slavery. The new social strata would present southern Americans with the information that they could either adapt or die. Scarlett, even before the war, won’t be pinned down by that tradition. She is the antithesis of the world in which she exists. She is stubborn, independent, man-hungry and pursues a man, Ashley Wilkes, for no other reason than that he is promised to someone else. Scarlett was ahead of her time. She is more aggressively sexual than the social order of even the 1930s might have allowed. She marries to keep from being an old maid, and then pursues one man while resisting the advances of another. She turns away the marriage bed for fear of losing her figure to childbirth. She sees what she wants and takes it; she is keen but not perceptive. If she had been at all perceptive then she might have seen that the roguish Rhett Butler, whom she resists, is almost her exact equal. He is no gentlemen, he visits Miss Watling’s house of ill-repute and openly admits that he runs blockade only for profit. Yes, they are perfect for one another and the reason we are so willing to fall into their romantic struggle is because we know that their attitudes will be the social norm, set in place in the years after the Civil War. Morality and the social rigors will begin to soften as the world turns rapidly into the 20th century. What is most unexpected is the way in which Scarlett casts off the role of southern lady and begins toiling in the dirt to save the family farm. Her sisters complain about callused hands and sore backs but if you step back and compare Scarlett with the other women in the movie, you will see a woman that will survive once the war has ended because she has learned how to face it head on. She is a survivor who has learned how to scheme and manipulate to get what she wants. In a way, her passion in life is paved by the risky pursuit of handsome Ashley Wilkes, not because she loves him but by virtue of the fact that she can’t have him. Strangely enough, it takes a man to make Scarlett so fierce. When we first meet her, she’s sitting on the porch at Tara, her face bright and cheery in the Georgia sun. She is surrounded by a flock of potential suitors. This would be the position she would seek to find again in life, the option of having her pick of the man she wants even when he belongs to someone else. 55
As fiction, “Gone With the Wind” is just about perfect, setting a fictional narrative atop history in a way that doesn’t trample it. Yet, it does this in a romanticized, not a realistic way. Scarlett provides the narrative and the entire business of the war is seen through her eyes. There are no battles to be seen. We only hear the news second hand. The reality of those battles arrive when wounded soldiers are flooded into town in such vast numbers that the streets are lined with wounded and the dead. That point of view allows us to see Scarlett grow over the course of the movie, from winsome southern belle, to frustrated widow, to a woman who rises from the ashes of the war, determined to never be hungry again. After that lies her transformation to revolutionary as she determines to return Tara to its former glory by working the field herself. By the time she arrives back to Tara to find it plundered by Yankees, we know that Scarlett’s stubbornness will take hold and she won’t give up until she gets what she wants. We know she will prevail even when others give up in distress. In this sense, Scarlett O’Hara is less a lady of that era then a woman of the early 20th century, an heir to the suffrage movement, the jazz age and the flapper era, an age that gave women a great deal more freedom even while they still couldn’t vote. Late in the film, when Scarlett is forced to work her own fields, she represents the kind of woman that would go to work in factories during World War II. At the time (this was 1939) America hadn’t entered the war, so in that way she was ahead of even the film itself. That “Gone With the Wind” allows such a progressive feminist story is impressive. Yet, one could argue that the film manages to avoid the elephant in the room. The movie deals with slavery simply by not dealing with slavery. We know that the war was about the struggle to free the slaves, but it remains at the outer edges of the film. In seeming to avoid the horror of slavery, the movie is a product of its time. In the 1930s segregation was still in full force around the south. The book had been part of a long series of literary works known as “Anti-Tom Literature”, books that came after the fire and devastating reality of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” that attempted to downplay the harsh reality of slavery by focusing on the good-hearted white slave owners while sectioning off the slaves into supporting roles in which they were portrayed as docile and apparently happy. In Mitchell’s book, following Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, Scarlett regards the slaves in internal monologue, “There were qualities of loyalty and tirelessness and love in them that no strain could break, no money could buy.” The issue of slavery has always been such a touchy issue (now more than ever) that most films avoid it. Note that most films about The Civil War take place from the point of view of The Union so as to avoid the issue of fighting in favor of keeping slavery alive. “Gone With the Wind” follows the AntiTom ideal by dealing with the slaves only very briefly. The male slaves are seen very briefly while two female house servants, Mammy and Prissy, supply key supporting roles – again holding up the film’s feminist slant. Mammy (Oscar winner Hattie McDaniel) is a mother figure; always the conscience over Scarlett’s shoulder as she propels herself forward into wreckless sexual adventures. Prissy, the younger house servant, portrays a somewhat comic role. The movie avoids controversy by glossing over the harsher tones of what was reality for the Old South. Margaret Mitchell’s book had a subplot in which Scarlett’s former husband Frank Kennedy turned to the KKK after she was attacked, but in adapting the film, producer David O. Selznick omitted that element. He wanted to avoid the same controversy that unpinned “The Birth of a Nation” 24 years earlier, a film that glorified and made heroes out of the Ku Klux Klan and thus has cast a controversial pall over its legacy.
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Perhaps dealing with the issue in the cold light of day might have unpinned the story’s romantic fire. This is a story about a Southern woman’s full-force sexual adventures at a time when her home and her way of life were coming apart. Slavery doesn’t seem to be a part of this story, only the provocation of the war that surrounds it. We are asked to admire “Gone With the Wind” for how it portrays women while at the same time forgiving it for how it avoids the larger issue of slavery as a means of still providing escapist entertainment. That’s a lot of weight to carry, especially in our politically correct culture. It is a movie that can be blamed for pushing aside the issue, but at the same time we can think of it in these terms: “Gone With the Wind” is a product of its time. It focuses on ideas and attitudes that were prevalent in the 1930s. In that way, the movie is a time stamp, a window into the attitudes of a time gone by. The Civil War is not presented here, only an interpretation of the way we all heard about it, so maybe we can look on this movie as a manner of how the devastation of this war came to be so romanticized. In that way, the movie is invaluable. -Jerry Roberts
Bonnie Bailey Self
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Index
Anna Greer ......................................................................................................................................... 28 Anna Greer ............................................................................................................................................ 4 Anna Greer ......................................................................................................................................... 42 Anna Greer ......................................................................................................................................... 43 Bonnie Bailey Self ............................................................................................................................. 44 Bonnie Bailey Self ............................................................................................................................. 44 Bonnie Bailey Self ............................................................................................................................. 45 Bonnie Bailey Self ............................................................................................................................. 45 Bonnie Bailey Self ............................................................................................................................. 57 Brandon Kimbrell .............................................................................................................................. 23 Brandon Kimbrell .............................................................................................................................. 23 Brandon Kimbrell .............................................................................................................................. 24 Cassidy Dillingham ........................................................................................................................... 50 Daniel Senko ..................................................................................................................................... 14 Daniel Senko ..................................................................................................................................... 32 Daniel Senko ..................................................................................................................................... 33 Daniel Senko ........................................................................................................................................ 6 Daniel Senko ........................................................................................................................................ 8 DeAnna Haase ...................................................................................................................................... 9 El Wood .............................................................................................................................................. 17 Frank Sutherland .............................................................................................................................. 20 Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 15 Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 16 Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 22 Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 29 Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 31 Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 34 Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 35 Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 36 Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 37 Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 38 Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 39 Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 40 Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................ 41 Greg McCallister ................................................................................................................................... 9 Helen Companion ............................................................................................................................. 49 Helen Companion ................................................................................................................................ 5 Helen Companion ................................................................................................................................ 6 Izzy Insane ......................................................................................................................................... 21 Izzy Insane ......................................................................................................................................... 25 Izzy Insane ......................................................................................................................................... 27 J.C. Patterson .................................................................................................................................... 15 Jason Leach........................................................................................................................................ 11 Jason Leach........................................................................................................................................ 11 Jerry Roberts ..................................................................................................................................... 57 58
Jerry Roberts. .................................................................................................................................... 54 Kaitlyn Lee ......................................................................................................................................... 51 Kenecia Russell .................................................................................................................................. 15 Kenecia Russell .................................................................................................................................. 17 Marthalena Alsbrooks ...................................................................................................................... 50 Scot P. Langlan .................................................................................................................................. 52 Scot P. Langland ................................................................................................................................ 10 Scot P. Langland ................................................................................................................................ 10 Scot P. Langland ................................................................................................................................ 11 Sonceria Tucker ................................................................................................................................. 26 Tony Lovell ......................................................................................................................................... 12 Tony Lovell ......................................................................................................................................... 13 Tony Lovell ......................................................................................................................................... 14 Tyler Townsend ................................................................................................................................. 53 Ulric Cowley .......................................................................................................................................... 7 Ulric Cowley .......................................................................................................................................... 8 William T. Squires .............................................................................................................................. 18 William T. Squires .............................................................................................................................. 19
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