the Review by Lander University

a journal of art & literature

LANDEREVIEW

I am proud to commend this student organized and produced 2008 | 2009 edition of the Landereview, the Lander University’s annual journal of art & literature. This production has had a particularly ambitious student staff to solicit a record of over 300 original works of art and more writing entries than ever before. The judging was rigorous leaving the finest works for your enjoyment. The art students represented in this publication are future graphic designers, art teachers, photographers, graduate students and studio artists. Lander’s 36 year old major in art has produced many successful practitioners of art and gone on to make us very proud. These students have shown that they too promise to be exceptional. The poetry and short stories exhibit the written creative talent of students not just from our english and journalism programs but from other majors as well. I hope that any high school students seeing our publication will aspire to join us in finding Lander a great place to nurture creativity in any form.

alan c. mactaggart

dean | college of arts and humanities I would like to give a special thank you to Dr. Ball, Adam Taylor, Jack Steinberg, Randy Bouknight, Jennifer

Mathis, Charlotte Cabri, Robert Stevenson, Jon Holloway, Jim Slagle, Gene Ellenberg, Vitaly Odemchuk, Brock Scott, and many other departments within the Lander community. The Lander Review Publication would not have been possible without the current team’s talents, energy, creativity, efforts, and time shown collectively throughout the publications process. It is a true honor of mine, to have been part of this team, and work with individuals of such an excellent, and productive caliber. Our wonderful journey through the creation of the 2009 Landereview, will genuinely exhibit the potential and significance of all the persistence within the Lander University faculty, staff, and rapidly developing student body.

michelle amerine

landereview editor

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ART

art judges jeffery callaham painter mccormick, sc

Jeffery Callaham was born in Lincolnton, Georgia, and has lived in McCormick, SC most of his life. Following an eight-year career in public education, Jeffery now works as a fulltime artist in his studio at the McCormick Arts Council at the Keturah.

ivy ware curator due west, sc

Ivy Ware grew up in Due West, SC. She attended Lander University from 2002 2004 and finished her bachelors of fine arts degree in visual arts at Clemson University in 2006 where she specialized in painting and printmaking techniques. Ivy currently works as the programs coordinator for the arts council of Greenwood. She teaches childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s art classes throughout the year and co-curates for the gallery space. She continues working with printmaking as an artist and is eager to explore other avenues for emerging artists to create and exhibit within the Greenwood community.

kristen beals gallery owner abbeville, sc

Kristin Beals moved to the upstate five years ago from her hometown of Charleston, SC. Having a passion for creativity and artistic expression she opened Trinity Street Market and Gallery two years ago in Abbeville. The Artisan Gallery has featured a wide variety of talent from South Carolina, North Carolina, and Georgia. A very impressive selection of artwork covering a wide variety of mediums. Many pieces achieve the level of quality that I look for when selecting artwork in my gallery.

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jessica seawright donalds, sc

untitled prisma color

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ross mactaggart greenwood, sc

ecstasy: extravaganza mixed media

daniel camak

ware shoals, sc the messenger giclĂŠe print

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kimberly willis

kingsport, tn not like yesterday pencil

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tanya brown

columbia, sc one body, two heart beats silver gelatin print

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brandon bradberry

laurens, sc girl pencil

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jamison cox

greenwood, sc spinning ceramics

gabriella contreas tucson, az

moving forward giclĂŠe print

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natalia brown

greenville, sc renaissance charcoal

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jalissa richardson

mt pleasant, sc on the hill charcoal

gene ellenberg

greenwood, sc a story from my father giclĂŠe print

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vitaly odemchuk

dubno, ukraine, europe blameless bride giclĂŠe print

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lizzie king

laurens, sc selections from the past silver gelatin print

lindsey groomes seneca, sc

untitled acrylic on canvas

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brandon winchester

ninety six, sc abyss wire

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vitaly odemchuk

dubno, ukraine, europe detailed cleaners identity illustrator

ashley burns

edisto island, sc naga mug terra cotta

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jessica seawright

donalds, sc

bird of paradise acrylic on canvas

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tanita jefferson

fountain inn, sc untitled reduction block print

wendy coad

valles city, slp, mexico

aunt maryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s palapa water color

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kayla baker

greenwood, sc moon & stars mixed media

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john warren townsend laurens, sc

what i think death is like acrylic on corduroy fabric

patrick lutz

greenwood, sc lugubrious dichotomy digital art

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nena mcconnell

greenwood, sc natalia in pastel oil pastel

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chelsey ashford

whispering pines, nc two sisters silver gelatin print

kyle chanko

greenville, sc mill giclĂŠe print

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lindsey groomes

seneca, sc

mausoleum zinc plate etching

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jennifer smith

greenwood, sc untitled giclĂŠe print

brenda langston

honea path, sc nurturing spirit paper mache, plaster

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LITERATURE

literary judges jenn blair creative writer yakima, wa

Jenn Blair is from Yakima, WA. Currently she is a Park Hall Fellow at the University of Georgia where she teaches Creative Writing and British Literature. She has published in The Tusculum Review, SNR Review, Fairfield Review, MELUS, and EL Jadid among others. She and her husband Dave live with their daughter Katie in Winterville, GA.

amy loftis alley creative writer abbeville, sc

Amy Loftis Alley, B.F.A., M.A.T., is an artist, writer, poet, educator, mother, free spirit and tree-hugging lover of nature who resides in Upstate South Carolina. Her art is in public and private collections nationally and abroad. Her award winning poems and essays have appeared in numerous publications throughout the state. Her first novel, The Absence of Anyone Else, is due for release Spring 2009. Originally from Abbeville, she is a 2003 Lander University graduate. For more information or to contact, visit www.panpanstudios.com

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frosted glass Mother, remember how I loved your hair And the braids you would often wear. Mother, remember how I loved your hair In the morning light. Mother, remember how we scraped the glass And how it stung our fingertips. Mother, remember how we scraped the glass In the morning light. The ice on the road and dying grass in the snow, I still remember the windshield and cold.

bart hanna

mccormick, sc frosted glass poem

Mother, remember… Mother, remember my broken cheek And how you prayed so desperately. Mother, remember my broken cheek In the morning light.

for every little monster Honey, don’t you worry; I’ll be there tonight. There to hold you closely and to ease your eyes. Every little monster underneath your bed... I’m giving them a scare. Every little monster beware. Whatever you thought you heard in the hall, Don’t let it bug you at all. Every little monster that bothered you before With creeping ‘round your door is no more.

bart hanna

We trapped them in mason jars and set them on the dresser. By the morning sun, they all turned to dust, and you felt better. We took them into the yard and sprinkled them in the garden. And by the evening come, they were no more fuss.

mccormick, sc for every little monster poem

You can sleep sound, my darling. Every little monster ever comes to see you will see what I’ll do. Every little monster, I’ll get you.

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doors

michael scott

greenwood, sc doors poem

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shy girl Shy girl with the quite smile, Eyes that cross mine every once in a while, I’ll lead the dance, but she still must follow, Hollow conversation is always hard to swallow, Her posture says leave but I do not believe, She purposely sends the messages I receive, Plus to recede is to admit defeat, Seventy beats per minute is enough for me, And yet my heart still feels one beat shy of victory.

jared l. pace

chapin, sc shy girl poem

So I plead, let our heartbeats coincide. Their rhythm drowns out the tick-tock of time. The clock’s hands will never be as warm as mine. And that second gone is far too long to be shy.

jack of hearts I know the loneliest story ever told, Of a man who wanders down every road, every Fold, every curve, and corner he seeks for the Sound, the pound, of his own heartbeat. Distant, yet always within arm’s reach To grasp is yet another contract breached And to hold is only to distance himself further Because to kiss is to break another promise to her. He knows she likes him, thinks of him at night. So should he quit now, surrender without a fight? His fear is the tear he leaves in her eye. He’d rather, himself, fade away than have her cry.

jared l. pace

chapin, sc jack of hearts poem

Diminish into more of what he’s become, If he can’t be loved, then held rather stay numb. Stay or continue? It’s the same without direction. Like be or not to be is the same without affection. So he wanders on, eyes on the asphalt He feels like an ass, and it’s all his fault. In his head he rolls over every solution, But the clearer the answer, the worse the resolution.

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her body is a bicycle Her body is a bicycle frame hung like a chandelier Marked up and down cheetah spot and gold Peppered face of freckles underneath smeared blush While she beats my drum with a stick of dynamite and a flu Ink black coils twist from her head Like telephone wire Like busted wheels And she moves And she moves with her hair and her hips Her arms fold and tie Around my waist And around my neck And every kiss tastes like wine and chocolate And she moves Back to where we started Back to home Where we are most safe

grant stone

greenwood, sc her body is a bicycle poem

53rd and 3rd Damn, what a beautiful son Draping an iron horse Oscillating down 53rd and 3rd With arms stretched out Like on a crucifix Like on a balance beam The rabid street holding no sunlight Except for where the whores weep on Christmas Eve Scratching, swirling, and snapping Shouting out poetry on a soapbox Professing how, “Jesus was born today, And He will save you if you just let Him in.” Standing taller than his father Carrying his mother’s tears on his coat No days of opulence No beginnings of triumph Except for an intended love letter Turned lousy limerick Tucked into his pocket full of holes Where he keeps all things of significance So they can fall down his leg And wash down to the sewers Beneath 53rd and 3rd

grant stone

greenwood, sc 53rd and 3rd poem

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the guitarist

mike going

greenwood, sc the guitarist poem

The buzz from the intercom shakes the insides “Wake up Mr. Branson it’s time to take your medication.” (A sweet childish voice) Lights flicker from the low ceiling; A glass sits prepared - full. Gulp. “Now was that so hard - isn’t it better?” (More distant than before - don’t leave) Fingers twizzler red, stretch to the floor. “Isn’t it better Mr. Branson?” (Closer but deeper also - why so serious child?) Pacing, feet softly touching - not on tips “It’s in the corner; don’t think I would leave you so empty” String-less body on wooden stool, A smile, thin but definite “Won’t you play something Mr. Branson?” Fingers, not quite choking - firm, stretched around the neck. The lights flicker and fade. Sounds of fingers slapping against the neck - string-less. “Now isn’t this better?”

behind the scenes of halloween Ghosts, goblins, witches, and campfire tales, Jack O Lanterns, costumes, and stories to tell. Of what do i speak, this holiday you know? But do you know the meaning, I really doubt so. Hallowe’en Hallow’s Eve, it was originally said, Was a day set aside especially for the dead. A great feast was planned for them to eat, And rejoice with their families this night of the week. Lanterns and torches set to show them the way, For their return to the living as some cultures say. Some groups see evil in this day of the dead, But commemoration is okay these people have said. What’s wrong with these people, do they see what they do, One belief is false but the other is true. The day is fun so who cares what they think, So to their level we must not sink. Now we see Jack O Lanterns sitting on the porch. Used to be carried in one hand and in the other a torch. It was for light on the path and to scare spirits away, Now to protect houses as some people would say. Kids dressed in costumes but adults did it first, But not as we do it now, it was much, much worse. The men and women dressed up as each other, To experience the rituals of one another.

brandon winchester

ninety six, sc

behind the scenes of halloween

poem

So now you know how this day came about, Put on your costumes and get ready to go out. It is night of mischief, horror, and fun, So just enjoy the night until it is done. But remember this night was originally for the dead, So when you get home at night, check under your bed!

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a letter to malcolm x Dear brother malcolm, It’s been a long time since 1965, so I’ll try to fill you in; You left us wanting a revolution and you should have seen the shape we were in. We were all so ready for change Brother Malcolm that we too lost our lives; Women leaving behind children and husbands leaving behind wives. Not too long after your death did we stop straightening our hair; And that was a beautiful sight afros way in the air. James Brown made a song that said, “say it loud, ‘I’m black and I’m proud!” And there was a confident black man and woman in every single crowd. We did away with the terms ‘negro’ and ‘colored’ and that word ‘nigger’ was the first to go’ And the Black Panther movement just grew tougher and stronger and the white man Could no longer say “no”. Brother Malcolm, you would have been so proud to have seen the way we lead; But like all good things, this came to an end and our bright fire burned out-dead! You see never before did a Black man think that he was better than the white; And the white man didn’t like this new found confidence, so now he began to fight. No longer did we find the gorgeous thick hair of our own beautiful and pretty, . But our God given hair became too nappy for us and the Jerry Curl took ~very quickly. Brother Malcolm, I tell you this was a conspiracy, all a part of the white man’s plan; To once again make Black an ugly thing and once again make him grand. He didn’t just stop with a nasty, juicy, product that uncoiled all of our beautiful hairs; But he decided to introduce a skin bleaching cream to make our skin more like theirs. He came up with coloring for our hair so that like him, we could be blondes and red-heads; While drugs and narcotics grew stronger in the Black community and at a faster rate, our People were dead. No longer were we confined to the southern ways of being beaten by slave masters and . Overseers; But our bondage was now mental and we were our own enemy-no longer were we believers. We only believed in their teaching and in what the white politicians had to say; And we would question a Black man twice before we ever gave him the time of day. The white man simply wasn’t pleased with this; red hair and bright skin didn’t satisfy his taste; But he soon came out with colored contacts and hair relaxers and in life, we lost our place. Our strong Black leaders stopped working hard and the Black Panthers soon went away; And you can bet your bottom that as soon as we got quiet, here comes the KKK. Our strong Black men lost faith in our women and we lost faith in ourselves; And we took to heat the words of Regan, Bush, and Clinton, while the words of Douglass, Dubois, and B.T. Washington sat dusty on our shelves. And Brother Malcolm, Just when you think things couldn’t get worst, just when you want to have a fit; Our Black men call our women ‘tricks,’ ‘bitches,’ and ‘whores,’ and what’s worse is they answer to it. No longer does the white man have to bring us down, no longer does he have to make Black an ugly thing; Because now we’re doing it to ourselves and it is we who we’re always self-degrading. Our children’s role models are no longer members of the NAACP; But their heroes are rappers who claim to be pimps; rappers like Snoop and Jay-z; Their fathers are no longer in their lives or at least not like a man should be; And their mothers take off their clothes stripping, working from 9pm until three. Our young men grow up to be drug dealers and some even get into gangs; And the education of our black youth is horrible and they graduate only knowing how to speak slang. I think that our people have lost hope and have given up on our Black reparations; While the white man continues to build ghettos and for us other governmental plans are In preparation. Food stamps, slums, and ghettos, are by no means repayment for all of our long suffering and hurt; And we constantly being stereo-typed for being Black doesn’t add to our self worth. The word those previous generations tried to stamp out and eradicate because it did everything but make us glad; Our people have begun to use it once more and the word ‘nigga’ is now “a fad.” Now Brother Malcolm, you’re a Muslim and I’m a Christian and I know that our religious Beliefs vary; “ But we have something in common our love for our people and the re-payment we will Get for us, “.. .By any means necessary!” And to all of my people who read this and think “she gotten to be way out of line;” Remember that being Black isn’t just being the color, being Black is a state of mind.

brittany d. lake irmo, sc

a letter to malcolm x poem

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embers into ashes Last night the charleston air was damp and heavy as I stumbled out of Wasabi, a Japanese steakhouse turned after-hours bar. Around me voices echoed, people coming inside, outside, some shouting, others whispering and giggling probably the women. I heard them but was too drunk to distinguish much; I should have forgotten their faces, voices, images, yet the memories remain vivid this morning. There was something about last night: Four hours, nothing more; another bar, nine or so drinks, more vapid conversations; but as I left Wasabi my mind was sizzling like a campfire of crackling embers; ideas exploded out of the fire into the night air suddenly orgasmic amidst the alley’s somber shadows. I remember I was walking down Grayson Street - the usual haven for the homeless. Their shaggy beards stringing down onto their stained shirts; their graying mustaches clotted with mucus and permeating a pungent stench. Somehow it smells pleasant, coercing inside me a desire to sit, join them, and hear their stories each night I pass. Last night i didn’t. In a languid stupor I stumbled beyond them, passing through several more alleys, crossing intersections busied only with the scattered blowing of litter. A car’s horn honked in the distance, followed by screeching tires then silence, no crash or collision, only the empty hum of stale air circulating in and out and around my ears. The campfire in my mind died as I tripped, then stood and gathered myself, before continuing my epic drunken journey. My vision worsened the farther I walked. The traffic lights blurred as I turned onto Monroe Avenue. I don’t remember the two remaining blocks to my apartment. I must have floated home like the pieces of litter blowing through the streets. It was another end to some weeknight - the fallout that turns the glowing embers into ugly pewter ashes. Life is harmony; life is chemistry; I fuck it up. I fell asleep in a splendor of incoherence. I awoke this morning lying naked in my bed with the sheets strewn across the floor. The candle on my desk I had somehow lit and left burning last night now sits waxless in its empty glass cylinder. Emptiness lurks in the dark recessions of my room. I shudder, my temples throbbing, nose stuffy; I don’t need a mirror to see my red-rimmed baggy eyes. Again I’m reminded that no drug has ever taken responsibility for this the morning-after. I’m always alone cursing myself like any addict does. My ignorant friends call me awesome; in the mirror I only see pathetic. “I’m done. I swear,” I mutter. I always mutter in the mornings. Then I scream, “this time it’s real. I’m done.”

brock scott

greenwood, sc embers into ashes

short story

But no drug has ever sympathized with desperation. No encouraging words have been passed my way in the early mornings when I cannot remove myself from the toilet for fear of vomiting on my bed. Why waste time washing sheets when I could be getting high? “I’m the only one sleeping in my bed sheets,” I say and slam down my fists. My left hand squishes something soggy and juices ooze through my fingers. I had slept on a wendy’s hamburger. Drugs tend to make me very hungry. My stomach lurches; I look across the room to the open bathroom door. I won’t make it, but no matter the nausea passes.

On my far wall a poster of Playboy’s Miss June glares down upon me. I look at my unshaven, neglected man-member and frown. Drugs tend to kill the sex drive like boll weevils kill cotton. One hit, I go limp, and turn into another kind of whore - a pill-munching fiend. “Bullshit,” I curse myself through clenched teeth. I reach to turn on my bedside radio but instead knock over a cup of melted strawberry milkshake. I watch it ooze onto Stalin, my German shepherd, who now licks the shake off his coat. “I just bathed you yesterday. I’m such an idiot,” I say and roll out of bed to grab paper towels from the kitchen. My feet hit the plush Berber carpet. Instant nausea. I don’t make it past the bathroom. Somewhere between the vomiting and diarrhea I pass out. I awake to a dog on a sugar-induced high chewing what resembles a chunk of my new black-leather sofa. If I had only got him a box of milk bones at the store yesterday. I forgot, I was high. “Stalin, you stop chewing that leather or I’m going to blow your ass away with a shotgun.” He pauses to stare at me; his blue eyes expressing either understanding or pity, I can’t differentiate. Everything is blurry. Tears pour down from my cheeks into my own vomit and defecation. “Fine. I’ll walk you in a minute,” I say. He barks. I yank open the shower curtain. “After I shower.” Minutes later I’m clean, pure, and trudging into the kitchen to grab his leash. I glance at the clock, it reads: 12:42. “And my saturday is half over,” I groan. Stalin barks and jumps on me and then onto the newly shredded sofa. I sigh and brush my curly blonde hair behind my ear. “Let me find my sandals.” He follows me into the bedroom and snags a shirt from a pile of dirty clothes blotting the floor. He tears it, too; my sofa wasn’t enough. I slip into a pair of khaki shorts and grab my keys from the dresser. My sandals peek out from underneath the bed. I nudge off a dead upturned cockroach from one. Stalin is waiting by the front door. I reach into my pocket and fish out an old pack of Marlboros. One cigarette remains. “Well it ain’t empty,” I say and latch the leash to stalin. “A good smoke will take the headache away, sober me up a little bit. Definitely about time for that. Huh, boy?” Stalin gnaws at my hand as I rub his head and open the door. Sunlight pours onto the front stoop overlooking the small patch of grass, my yard, and its lone rotten palm tree leaning over the sidewalk. At the bottom stair landing I grab my skateboard and light my cigarette. “Beautiful day, Stalin,” I say and look into the sky as the sun beams down and warms my bare face and chest. I take a drag, inhaling deeply, enjoying the moment, before riding onto the sidewalk. I wink at Stalin. “Pull me baby boy, pull me you son of a bitch!” Stalin pulls; I puff on my cigarette and skate; together we ride down the sunny Charleston streets. Absolutely beautiful thing it is to have this, this, this perfect life. Beautiful, absolutely. I flick my cigarette.

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the hook-up I ordered my second beer at the bar when I glanced off to my right and saw this woman sitting at the end. She was a hot, little thing. Her hair was almost jet black, her skin was nicely tanned. She sat there in that blue tube top, sipping her martini, just begging me to take her home. Of course, I couldn’t take her back to my place because that’s where Faith was. My wife was good to me, and I really shouldn’t cheat on her. It’s ironic I’d find a woman so true to me named Faith; wish I could be just as good to her. Yeah, I’m an asshole, and I never claimed to be anything different. I just kept staring at the woman until she finally caught me; I wanted her to catch me. “Are you going to stare me down until I ask you to buy me a drink?” she inquired. Her voice sounded kind of foreign, but she had perfect English vernacular. “Maybe,” I replied. I walked over to the end and sat down beside her. “What’s a sexy bitch like you doing in a dump like this?” “Trying to meet assholes like you.” What can I say? She had me pegged. I didn’t expect this one to have such a quick tongue. I hate it when they have a quick tongue; it takes longer to get them in bed. “ Well, I guess you found one. How bout we go somewhere quieter?” “I’m fine here, thank you. Did I ever give you the indication I wanted you to come over here?” “Actually, you did. You asked me to buy you a drink.” “No, I asked you if you were going to keep staring at me until I ask you to buy me a drink.” She signaled her hand over to the bartender for another beer and said, “I’ll buy you one, instead.” “Thanks,” I said. She handed me the beer. I felt her eyes fixated on me, and I could feel my face getting very flushed. “Are you a lawyer?” she asked. “How’d you know that?” “I’ve seen your type before.” “My type?” “What kind of lawyer?” “You know my type. So, you tell me.” “A divorce lawyer?” I cut my eyes swiftly in her direction. “What gave it away?” “Do you love your wife?” My eyes widened. I was wondering if Faith had hired somebody to do espionage work on my whereabouts. I felt a nervous twitch in my stomach and my hands started sweating. “I don’t have a wife.” “So, I guess you got that ring out of a cereal box. I thought lawyers were supposed to be good liars. I hope you don’t screw up like that in court.” The nervous feeling quickly subsided and my heart started beating at its normal rate. I usually take the damn thing off before I walk into a place like this. “Oh. Yes, I do.” She started laughing uncontrollably. I noticed she had a very odd sense of humor and I asked, “Is there something funny about that?” Her laughter stopped immediately, she turned towards me, and glared into my eyes and asked, “I don’t know. Is there?” She seemed very sincere and a little bit intimidating with her question. She had her legs crossed and turned in my direction. She leaned in close to me. For most guys, this would have been a definite go ahead, but this chick was too erratic, and I couldn’t tell what she wanted. “You’re a divorce lawyer yet you wear a ring? Don’t you think your living a lie?” “Actually, no. Divorce is a part of life just like marriage. Sometimes we get it right and sometimes we don’t.” “In that case, maybe no one should get married.”

Sometimes we get it right and sometimes we don’t.” “In that case, maybe no one should get married.” “Maybe not. Are you married?” “No, I’m not, but you are. You are part of the problem, and I’m part of the solution. See, you came in here hoping to get some quick action before you go home. Everyday millions of men come into these places, picking up stupid women, hoping to get a quick fix before they go home to their wives. They try to be sly, hoping their ploy is successful, but sometimes their plan backfires. See sometimes they find a woman craaazier than they are and that’s when whatever trouble they were going to get into, if their wives found out, pales in comparison to the trouble that is headed for them on the horizon.” Her face was just inches away from mine. She looked directly into my eyes with a smirk I’ll never forget. Her irises quickly changed from blue to red and back to blue. It must have been a reflection from the neon lights in the bar. “You can lie to your wife but don’t you dare lie to me!” I was really starting to not like this chick. She was like a movie that looked good from the preview but once I started watching it, I kept looking down at my watch, wanting a refund. “Listen, it’s been great meeting you, but I should really get going,” I said as I stood up to walk off. She grabbed my arm immediately. Her hand was really warm and her grip was stronger than any man I had ever met. It made me wince in pain. “Don’t you think it’s rude a girl buys you a drink and you don’t even ask her name?” I felt her grip tightening on my arm. I didn’t care what her name was. I just wanted to get out of there. “What’s your name?” My question seemed so insincere. “Why should I tell you? It’s not like you thought that up all by yourself.” “Okay well . . .” “It’s Stana.” “Is that Russian?” “How should I know?” “I . . .” “What’s your name?” “Jack.” “Short for jackass? I don’t really like that name. I think I should call you, Darryl.” “And I think I should call you crazy.” “I feel sorry for you, Darryl.” “Why do you say that?” I kept looking around wishing this conversation would be over soon. I actually wanted to go home and see Faith. “Look at you. You’re in a bar when you should be home nestled up to your beautiful wife, you’re a divorce lawyer who doesn’t believe in marriage yet he wears a wedding ring, you cheat on your spouse religiously, and above all else your name is Jack when it clearly should be Darryl. My what cruel injustices life has bestowed on you.” My fear was slowly turning into anger. “Listen lady I . . .” “Are you a betting man, Darryl?” “What?” “I bet we will see each other again very soon.” “I can promise you that won’t happen.” She took my hand and shook it firmly while handing me a slip of paper and said, “There’s my number. But I’ll find you before you ever find me. Tell Faith I said hello.” I was horrified when she said my wife’s name. My hands started shaking as I slowly opened the slip of paper and read it: 666. I raised my head and looked towards the door but there was no one in sight.

daniel camak

ware shoals, sc the hook-up short story 33

LANDEREVIEW

the path ahead There is a place I escape to every time life becomes unbearable for me. This place is the Heritage Trail in Greenwood. To me, it is “the bike trail” or “The Mathews Mill Trail.” For the past seven years, it has been my secret hideaway. This trail was the first one in Greenwood. There have been imitators such as the Grace Trail or the West Cambridge Trail, but those cannot compare to the heritage trail. Many residents may have forgotten this old, historic trail, but I haven’t. It is always there for me no matter what. My father introduced this trail to me when I was thirteen years-old and had just learned to ride a bicycle. I was so excited that I finally learned to ride, and my dad was very proud of me as well. He bought me a new bike, a green ten-speed from Wal-Mart. He took me and my brother to this trail and all three of us rode our bikes as a family. My first time on this trail brings back happy memories for me. Ever since that first time, I have returned many, many times to this trail to ride my bike, to jog, to talk, to clear my head, and to flee from the various demons in my life. On this particular Monday, October 29, I return to the trail since I am having a bad day. Well, what do you expect? It is, after all, a Monday. I managed to get six hours of sleep that Sunday night, and I have bags underneath my eyes. I had two cups of coffee with plenty of sugar to keep me awake today. I am overwhelmed with papers to write and projects to present. I am thoroughly aggravated with my life. I get easily upset on days like this. When I get home from school, my mother does not help matters very much. I get an attitude with her because it seems as if she has to know where I am going at all times. I have to get away for now or suffer another nervous breakdown. Believe me, I can’t afford another one of those. I grab my keys and head out the front door. I walk to the end of bond street. At the very end of the road is the bike trail. Today I am not on my blue, fifteen-speed bike since I have a flat tire. Just to let you know, I got pissed off over that minor issue as well. Once I get to the entrance of the trail, I notice all the litter covering the ground. I notice there are red and white KFC paper cups, white grocery bags, Gatorade bottles, and smashed aluminum beer cans. I follow the rocky path that leads into the cemented trail. There is an open gate and on the left side of the gate there is a black sign with these words written in orange, bold print: NO TRESPASSING. The trail splits into two routes. The one to the right leads to South Main Street of Greenwood. This path is much longer while the left path is much shorter and easier. Almost every time I visit this trail, I take the path to the right. Yes, I like the challenge. Today, however, I go straight. What’s straight, you may ask? It is not cemented, but it is muddy and dirty. It is not a part of the trail. Today I feel like exploring. I want to change my routine. I wonder what is back there. As I make my way forward, my New Balance tennis shoes crunch against the rocks. I follow this path up a hill. I notice brown barbed wire on my right. The sun beats down on me, generously spreading its warmth. At the end of this rocky path, there are transformers and power lines. This area is blocked off by a fence. On the fence there is the Duke Energy logo and all the warning messages say stay away. Surrounding the transformers are many, many trees I cannot even name. I know nothing about trees. I notice that some leaves are red, some are yellow and orange, and others are still vibrant green. Those leaves are still full of life. The wind blows my long, dark hair. The cool breeze feels refreshing to me.

veronica fuller

greenwood, sc the path ahead

short story

I continue on my exploration. Past the transformers there is a grassy path that veers to the left. I follow this path, and it takes me to a wide, grassy field. Off in the distance, there is a road. A gray car passes as I stand there taking in the scene. I think to myself, I am out here all alone at this moment. Right now, I have no cares, no worries in the world. I cut through the field and make my way back to the trail. I step over a big log which is behind an ant pile. Now I am back on familiar turf, the cemented trail I have known since the year I learned to ride a bicycle.

As I reflect on that memory, I notice the graffiti on the cement. Someone spray painted “Bobby G. And Jill E.” In black. Past this, I see “Bonnie and Clyde.” Within the trees and logs on both sides of the trail, there is more litter. This time I notice the Mountain Dew can and Chick-Fil-A box. I hear an ambulance siren off in the distance somewhere. I hear the sirens all the time. Disregarding that distraction, I deeply breathe in the fresh fall air. I admire the beauty of the trees, even though I have no idea what kind they are. At this moment, I think of how good it is to be alive. There is beauty all around me on this trail, despite all the litter on the green earth and those noises from afar. I used to come to this trail to talk with God. Now when I come, I usually keep quiet. I think to myself. Sometimes my mind is so overloaded with to-do lists and goals that I cannot relax and enjoy the moment. Today, I have to go out of my way to relax. The thing I focus on the most right now is the environment that surrounds me. On my left is a small pond. The water is brown and filthy. It reminds me of something a friend recently shared with me: “if the water is too clean nothing can grow in it.” I see mud surrounding the water. A line of rocks splits the pond into two sections. There is a shopping cart sitting on its side in the mud. Who the hell threw that shopping cart down there?, I ask myself. As I continue past the pond, I notice more and more graffiti on the cement. There is an “X” spray painted in black over “Scottie Loves Linda.” I think about one having loved and lost. Then I ask myself: is it better to have intimately revealed oneself to another and been completely exposed, than never to have opened up at all? Honestly, I still don’t know the answer to that one. We risk so much for love… Forging ahead, I step on the helpless leaves, crushing them with each step that I take with my size nines. The old, brown railroad tracks now appear on my left. There are cracks in the cement as I continue along my journey. I see a gray squirrel up ahead of me. He notices me and quickly runs back among the comfort of the trees. I also notice a black and white cat that crawls from among the trees to the right, but this little critter also disappears when he hears me. I hear the sound of the crickets, mingled with the sounds of the cars that pass over the bridge above the trail. A red van passes and one car after another follows behind it. Standing beneath the bridge in a sandy area, I reflect on how far I have come. It has only been a mile and a half to two miles, but I feel like I need to head back. I see someone up ahead on the trail, and think again: yes, it is time to go back now. I am no longer alone on this path. After turning around and walking back in the direction that I came from, four teenage boys cut across the trail from the apartment complex on my left. They are all carrying what seem to be branches or rods. They turn around and glance at me several times. Being away from all the irritations in my life, all alone with my thoughts and one with nature, are the reasons I came here. I did not want to meet others on this path, but I have no control over that. It is getting late. I have been out here for almost forty-five minutes. The sun will be going down soon. I know this trail does not go on forever and ever. It ends in another two miles at Uptown Greenwood, right behind one of the Palmetto Banks. This path ends in civilization, a return to society. The path will always lead back to a certain destination, no matter how many sidetracks there are. No matter how many small explorations exist, there will always be a path that leads back to the familiar, the routine, and the run-of-the-mill of everyday life. I leave my beloved trail and head back: back to the stresses of my life, back to the constant nagging, back to all the responsibilities I have… back to an uncertain future ahead of me. As I think about all that lies ahead of me, I notice the teenagers venture off in the dirt path I explored earlier on my journey. Good for them, good for them…

LANDEREVIEW

a river of tears A cluster of birch trees are scattered along the riverbank. Their autumn foliage drapes over the water like a veil over a bride. I squint my eyes while peering out at the orange horizon. The sun refracts its stunning radiance off the water and attempts to shine directly into my pupils. A flock of squawking geese sit on one of the many small islands along the river. I watch the cycling currents flow like the hair of a seductive siren. The menacing rocks are jagged razors waiting to slice through their next victim. The sweet, treacherous melody of the steady-flowing water enters my ear, and I lose myself in its deceptive trance. I glance over near the riverbank at a pink teddy bear propped up against a wooden cross. An assortment of artificial flowers is placed along the ground beside it. I look at the flowers and the cross with an unsettling grimace. I peer back towards the river and release a low sigh. The persistent currents meander their way around and over the slick rocks. I watch them as they wind their way downstream. There have been many lives lost in this river, but it still maintains its continuous cadence. It keeps flowing as if it has committed no crime. As my eyes fix themselves towards the ruthless monster, I begin to wonder how something so beautiful could be so deadly. The streams flow elegantly, but yet there have been countless souls consumed under its murky abyss. It entices so many to come see its deceiving splendor; and once they arrive, they fall into its fatal trap. There was a young pastor who once brought his children out for a pleasant afternoon on the river. He sat idly by while they played near a cluster of rocks. One of his daughters slipped and fell into the river; she started screaming for help. Her father heard her cries and he jumped in to grab her. As they began to resurface, his foot got sucked into a pothole at the bottom of the riverbed. He tried to jerk it away from the river’s powerful grip. He kept kicking his weary legs while holding his daughter’s head above water. The other two children alerted the police of the incident, and they came to pull the pastor and his daughter out of the river. By the time they arrived, it was too late. The courageous preacher had drowned while keeping his daughter afloat.

I peer out at the exact cluster of stones where the tragedy occurred. I examine each individual rock as I visualize a route for walking across the immense river. Crossing these rocks is a common recreation for most who live here. I have walked these rocks all my life, and I realize the perils one might face by not paying attention. So many people have died from slipping on these wet shoals. They are like a trap set up by the river as it waits to ensnare its next victim. I have never fallen in, or slipped, or injured myself on these rocks; and I can’t fathom how a person can be so careless as to not take each step with extreme caution. My grandmother’s brother was swimming years ago in this river one Sunday afternoon. He got near a powerful current that tried to pull him under. He tried swimming out of the current but eventually gave out of energy. He drowned in this very river on that warm afternoon. My grandmother was devastated. “He was a great swimmer, but the current was just too much for him,” she would always say. He drowned when he was only sixteen years old. There was a boy in my high school that slipped and hit his head on one of these rocks and also drowned. He was in his senior year, and his parents never got to see him graduate. There was a young girl around the age of eight who drowned only a few months ago. These people travel from all over South Carolina to visit such a breathtaking, natural wonder; and this is how it rewards them? Who should we blame for such disasters that have occurred on these rocky waters? Should we place blame on those who haphazardly amble their way across without taking heed to the risks that may occur? What about those who pass over the rocks with extreme caution and still fall victim to its treacherous jaws? I sit in disgust, because I realize we cannot blame the river. It would be satisfactory to blame a river, because the river is the one that stays in motion; the river is the one who feels no pain. We cannot blame a river, because it is a river. It is a natural creation painted by the hand of God for our own delight. We cannot blame its Maker for constructing something so lovely to our eye but so dejecting to our soul. We can only blame fate for bringing us to such a conclusion.

daniel camak

ware shoals, sc a river of tears short story

LANDEREVIEW

eyes see you On the large planet of Jupiter, under a blue blanket with yellow stitching, there was a group of alien children all going to a school that had no teachers. There were many students. There were tall ones with skinny legs and round arms. There were polka-dotted ones that changed colors. There was even one that could only talk when he sneezed, “Ah… AH… CH-HELLOOOO!”. My favorites were Vincent and Aeris. Aeris was a pretty little blue girl with yellow polka dots on her head. Vincent had hair on his head, but it was invisible. Unless you touched it, you’d never know it was there. They were really good friends; not only with each other, but with almost everyone at the school… almost. One fine day Aeris and Vincent were sitting on top of the monkey bars listening to their friends below tell jokes. “How do you make a tissue dance?… You put a little boogie in it!” Aeris was having trouble breathing she was laughing so hard. Vincent wasn’t laughing. He was staring across the playground at the bullies. “I think they are headed this way,” he said. “Did you say you were friends with one of them, Aeris?” “Oh, now… don’t go telling people I’m friends with Tifa. My mom is friends with her mom,” said Aeris. “You know what really bothers me about them, Aeris?” “That they think they’re better than us because they all have four eyes.” “No. That’s bad enough. What I really, really hate is that yesterday I heard some young one say that he thinks four eyes are better than any other number.” “Well, those three bullies say it so much that some of us are starting to believe them.” “Not me, though,” said Vincent. “Good. Not me, either,” said Aeris. Just then, their friend Yuffie was telling this amazing joke about two talking watermelons and their fight over a ketchup bottle. I can’t remember how it ended but it had to do with the stock exchange. But before anyone had the chance to laugh… “Get away from those monkey bars,” demanded Tifa. “Yeah. Only nice normal four-eyed kids can use these monkey bars,” said Cid. Aeris and Vincent, along with most of the others, couldn’t care less about the monkey bars. They wanted to hear more jokes and could do that anywhere on the playground. So they began to leave. But as the crowd migrated, a young one named Roth remained. Looking up at the bullies he questioned them, “Why are you so rude about it?”

james johnson

greenwood, sc eyes see you short story

Roth rejoined his friends, who were now telling jokes in a new location far away from the stolen monkey bars. Vincent explained to Roth that the towering creature he had seen was in fact a student named Bishop, friends with Cid and Tifa. Aeris excused herself to go to the restroom. She passed the many attractions one might find on any teacher-less school’s playground: the paintball courts, the swimming pool, and the Ferris wheel. As she passed the go-cart tracks, Aeris heard a loud yell. Turning to face the sound, Aeris saw the three bullies on their monkey bars and watched as Cid fell through the stolen monkey bars, landing face first on the grass below. He was obviously in pain and immediately ran off. “Such a bully isn’t even brave enough to cry in front of his so-called friends.” Cid ran straight to the bathroom, passing Aeris on his way. He must have really hurt himself, because he was covering his face like he was bleeding. Unfortunately, Cid couldn’t see very well covering his face like that, and he unwittingly walked straight into the girls’ restroom. “Cid! Wait!” yelled Aeris, but it was too late. He had entered into forbidden territory. When she got to the entrance, she paused for a moment. “Do I wait for him to come out?” she thought to herself, “Or do I tell him to come out?” Unfortunately she really had to go to the bathroom, and if Cid needed to go, he would be hidden inside a stall. But boys are strange. Maybe they don‘t close the stall doors, maybe he would even resort to using the sink. Time was running out for Aeris, so she slowly peaked her head around the corner. There was Cid. Standing at the sink. Fully dressed. But… Aeris gasped. “Oh my.” Cid’s jaw dropped wide open when he spotted Aeris. His feet scurried quickly across the tiled floor, leading him directly into a bathroom stall, where he locked the door. Aeris stood in shock for a moment at what she had seen. She ran back outside to find Vincent. “Vincent,” she screamed. “You have got to come see this.” “What is it?” said Vincent.

Just then the whole planet shook.

“You’ve got to see it for yourself.”

And then again.

Aeris led Vincent to the girls bathroom, and pushed the door open.

And on the third tremor, Roth’s eyes raised upwards. And up. And up.

And still further, until Roth could just make out the distant face of this skyscraper walking up behind Cid and Tifa. The monument’s eyes peered deep into Roth’s soul. His mouth quivered. His eyes widened. Then the creature came to halt behind the bullies, joining their brigade, and opened its colossal mouth to speak. Roth feared that upon hearing the beast’s tremendous voice, his ears would fold in on themselves, sucking his body along with it until every part of him imploded. Upon hearing the deep crack of an inhale before communication ensued, he kicked his nineteen legs into action as fast as he could to catch the others, yelling, “Wait for me! Wait for me!”

“Ugh… I am not going in there. I know what you girls do in there.”

LANDEREVIEW

“The same thing you do in the bathroom, Vincent. Everyone else is outside. It’ll be worth it.”

Tifa turned and looked up at him. “Of course not. They’re lying, Bishop. Making up stuff to hurt our friendship.”

As Vincent followed Aeris into the bathroom, he fought to keep his hands from grabbing the door and pulling himself back outside. Aeris proceeded past the wall that was blocking the view to outsiders. Vincent stopped and stared at the wall. “I wonder if any man has ever made it past this point without dying.”

“No they aren’t!” Cid’s voice was easily recognizable as he squeezed his way between the crowd of children that had encircled the uproar.

“Stop joking you ninny,” Aeris said as she grasped Vincent’s hand.

“It was fake. I wore it to be funny at first; but when you said I was your friend, I kept wearing it. But I shouldn’t have to wear an extra eye to be someone’s friend. I don’t want to wear an extra eye anymore. I don‘t want to be mean to everyone anymore.”

“I wasn’t joking,” he whispered while Aeris pulled him past the wall. “Cid? Are you still in here?” There was a faint crying sound coming from one of the stalls. “Cid, come out here. I already saw.” “Saw what?” said Vincent. “You’ll see.” With a snap the door latch unlocked, and the door slowly creaked open. The image of Cid crept around the stall door. His clothes were still dirty from the fall, especially his knees and his elbows. His face was dirty too, except for where his tears had washed the grime away. But Vincent counted only three lines. There were only three lines of tears. Vincent slowly looked up and saw that these three lines of tears were undoubtedly coming from… “THREE EYES!!!”

Bishop raised his massive hand, aiming his finger at Cid. “Your eye?” he asked.

“Well that sucks for you,” said Tifa. “Because only people with four eyes are cool.” Just then Bishop’s fist landed right on top of Tifa’s head. She was now sprawled out on the ground with five eyes and fear on her face. A piece of tape hung from above the previously hidden eye. Make-up could no longer concealing the evidence. The crowd stood motionless for a second, before someone spoke up, “Why would you do that, Bishop? I thought she was your friend.” It was little Roth. “Me not hate one eye. Me not hate two eyes. Me not hate any eyes. Me hate liars.”

Cid’s crying intensified.

“But you can’t hit people… for any reason, Bishop. You could have really hurt her. How would you feel if she was permanently injured?”

Aeris reached out her hand and rubbed Cid’s back. “It’s okay. Don’t cry.”

“That not feel good. Not for Tifa. Not for Me. No… Me not like that.”

Cid’s tears faded as he spoke, “I’m so sorry, you guys. I am so, so sorry.”

“And one day, you might meet someone bigger than you. If you only know how to work out your problems by hitting them, then someday they’ll hit you back.”

Cid proceeded to explain that he had worn the fourth fake eye as a joke on his first day of school. But when Bishop told him it was cool that he had four eyes, Cid felt like he needed the fourth eye to keep his new friend. So he never took it off. His fall had broke the fourth eye. As if this wasn’t shocking enough to Aeris and Vincent… Cid then told them that he wasn’t the only one who was lying about his eye-count.

“Me sorry. Me sorry to everyone.” Bishop put his big arms around the crowd that day and, with a deep grunt, picked everyone up for a nice Bishop-sized hug. The End It was dark when Tifa woke up.

“Tifa!” Aeris yelled as she swiftly made her way straight to Tifa across the playground. “You’d better hope I don’t tell your mom what you’ve done.”

There was no one around.

“You‘d better not!” said Tifa. She paused for a second, confused. “Tell my mom what?”

But she heard not a sound.

“That you’ve been lying to everyone at school about your eye-count.” Tifa had been found out, and she knew it. It was written all over her face, but she would never admit it. “That’s a lie, Aeris. I’m going to tell your mom that you’re a big fat liar.” “I’m not the liar here, Tifa. You are. And you keep on lying. Lie, Lie, Lie. Lie until you’re an old lady with no friends, because no one can trust you.”

She yelled for a friend,

Friends will be different: In Color, Shape, and Size. The people I won’t be friends with Are the ones that tell lies.

Bishop appeared from behind Tifa. His large dark shadow encompassing her. In a deep slow voice, “This true, Tifa?”

LANDEREVIEW

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