New voices 2017 by Lander University

Spring 2017 N E W

V O I C E S Lander

Universityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Student Journal

New Voices is a publication of the College of Arts and Humanities Lander University 320 Stanley Avenue Greenwood, SC 29649 Student Editorial Board: Delshawn Anderson Graham Duncan Carrie Floth Paige Fowler Chase Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Dell Sarah Rivers Faculty Advisors: Dr. Misty Jameson Dr. Amy England Dr. Andy Jameson Congratulations to Austin Costenbader, Winner of the 2017 Creative Writing Award, Donna Knight, Winner of the 2017 Dessie Dean Pitts Award, and Bri-Marie Ealy, whose painting Amber and Coffee, was selected as this yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cover artwork. newvoices@lander.edu www.facebook.com/newvoicesLU

TABLE OF CONTENTS Art Wayfaring by Lindsay Soto .......................................................................................................1 Fiction “Excuse My French” by Austin Costenbader .............................................................................2 Nonfiction “Losing Todd” by Donna Knight ...............................................................................................7 Poetry “A Summer’s Day” by Blake Timmerman ................................................................................14 Art Morelia by Molly Ott ..............................................................................................................15 Poetry “Just Visiting” by Graham Duncan .........................................................................................16 Art Over the Edge by Alexandra Grubbs .......................................................................................17 Fiction “Where Heaven Meets Earth” by Kendra LaGreca .................................................................18 Art Arrival of Paikea by Sam Robertson ........................................................................................30 Essay “Demons in Suburbia” by Adam Hoffman ...............................................................................31 Art Musical Passions by Hannah Hipp .........................................................................................37 Nonfiction “Etched” by Austin Costenbader ......................................................................................... 38 Art Forsaken by Lindsay Soto .......................................................................................................45 Nonfiction “I’m Out” by Kendra LaGreca .................................................................................................46 Essay “Romanticism—A Rebellion against the World” by Eden Weidman .......................................49 ACKNOWLDEGEMENTS ...................................................................................................56

Wayfaring by Lindsay Soto

“Excuse My French” by Austin Costenbader

Creative Writing Award Winner

I woke up to the sound of the mailman slamming the heavy sliding door of the mail truck, and I listened as I heard the truck hum and sputter away. Being at the end of the cul-de-sac, I counted to twelve or so before I heard him roll back past. I thought for a second about what had probably come in today: junk mail, coupons I always wanted to save but never did, and bills. There would not be many (bills) if any at all. I had done away with cable in April—I was far too busy. I was proud of this move, like I’d stuck to a New Year’s resolution. The truth is, I didn’t miss it. I walked through the hallway toward the kitchen, tapped on the glass of the fish tank, and sprinkled some yellow and orange pellets in. Occasionally, I liked to just stare at them for a second and watch the blue and metallic flash zip around through the water. At the bottom, toward the pirate ship, was a goner. My girlfriend had named the biggest one Spanky, and the other two were anonymous I suppose. In the kitchen, I started coffee and wrote on a pad: milk, dish soap, pet store—fish, and grade papers. I was almost done with my first school year as a long-term History and Literature substitute teacher. It was supposed to be 4-6 weeks, but one thing led to another, and I was now “long-term.” I had been there since the beginning of February. It beat roofing. The kids seemed to like me, and the job was easy enough—an under-paid, well dressed baby sitter was all I was. I eventually started to feel guilty about doing nothing all day and decided I’d try to teach them something. I felt guilty, mainly, because the

students did. This was a private school, and they wanted to learn or at least feel like they were doing something halfway productive. So, after three weeks of giving them bullshit worksheets and watching drool cascade from their mouths, I decided to try to make the money I was earning, and the money they were paying, worth it. The ninth graders during the first period class seemed to care a lot more about what I was saying than the seniors did, during anytime of the day. I integrated whatever I watched on the Bill O’ Riley show the night before into my History lesson. It was a longshot, but it worked. Lucky for all of us, I read a lot and the literature class was less painful. I would ask questions like, “What do you think the green light in the Great Gatsby represents?” or, when we finally got to Hemmingway, “What are some character qualities in Brett that are significant?” One morning while I was signing in at the main office, the principal approached me and told me she thought I was doing a fine job. She was a tall stiff lady with big white teeth; I had heard she was divorced. It did not upset me that she did not talk to me too much. I told her thank you, and she said that “within reason,” I could assign and grade homework assignments and in-class work with minimal grade value. I was not, however, allowed to give tests or major projects. I appreciated this trust from her, but I was not about to do full-time work for the peanuts they were paying me. I was very lenient about the workload I assigned because more work for them meant more work for me. I found, however, that giving lectures and assignments made the hours go by faster, and I believe my non-traditional teaching methods were a big hit with the students. I found that, when their attention began to linger, throwing out an expletive

or two would make their heads shoot up and make them smile. There was a cheerleader that always suggested that I “excuse my French” every time I said shit, ass, damn, or hell. I don’t want to sugarcoat it too much; I did have some assholes that tested my patience—the kids that talked loud and out of turn and drove nicer cars than me. You learn a lot in six months at a high-school—more than you’d probably like to. One day while in class, James, the local lawyer’s son, popped an over-weight girl in the ear with a rubber band. I believe his name was James; I’d like to forget him and his Mercedes. I heard the sharp slap and looked up to see her eyes beginning to water. “What the hell?” I said. I had seen this commotion out the corner of my eye, and now several were laughing. We had been rolling along, too, reading a poem. “What?” He said. “Oh, don’t even. I’m not sure if I should send you to the office or to the first grade classroom,” I said. This got a few snickers, and he scowled at me. He acted as if I was speaking a foreign language when I asked him to go to the office. He looked like a dog almost, rocking his head side to side, trying to decipher the foreignness of being disciplined for once. Everyone seemed surprised too, like I was out of line! This kid had been on my nerves since day one. Turns out, he was what I called an untouchable—dad makes a big contribution every year, starting quarterback, all that shit. I stood at the door while he gathered his stuff to walk out, and I handed him the little note I had quickly written up.

Right while he was leaving, I couldn’t resist. I tripped the SOB. He didn’t faceplant—he just looked like an ostrich on ice skates for a couple of seconds. I don’t believe anyone else saw it, thankfully. I’m pretty sure he just got a warning. I was never told, but the shit-head didn’t pop anybody’s ear on my watch again. Aside from the classroom, I didn’t get too involved with teacher lounge gossip and hanging out in the office like many do. I kept my distance, let each kid have a fresh start—many kids are often labeled too quickly. I ate lunch with the secretaries or at my desk. I often found myself thinking hard. I thought about how good the students had it, a step up from pampered dogs. Their life was easy now, for the most part. I wasn’t naïve enough, however, to think they all had it made. One of the girls in the literature class worked third shift at a gas station nearby. She grinned at me one night as I slid a 12-pack of Icehouse across the counter around 2:00 a.m. I thought about her, young and cute, working nights alone at a gas station. She had a look I believed only I could see. She was paying bills, probably her school bills, and growing up too fast. Then I thought about Mercedes. I thought for a second of where I fit in between them, if I fit at all. I gave her A’s on everything, not purely out of sympathy. I gave B’s and mostly C’s to Mercedes, and finally, he questioned me about an essay response. “I just don’t see very much effort, James, but you’re welcome to retry for bonus points,” I said. “If you would grade them fairly, I wouldn’t have to rewrite anything!” He said.

“Yeah, well if frogs had wings they wouldn’t bump their asses when they jumped.” I left him there in the hall just standing, wide eyed. Young people are funny creatures. I would hardly call myself a teacher during those few months, and I probably learned more than them. Magic can happen within those walls if the stars align just right. I decided not to corrupt them too much—the school wouldn’t ask me to teach again anyway, especially if they wanted their contribution from the big-wigs that I had pissed off. The students would move on, and so would I. They would forget most of what I had taught them, except the times where I incorporated “bullshit” into my lessons. Their old teacher would be back from pneumonia, broken legs, whatever the hell it was. Mercedes would never touch a rubber band or look at a frog the same again. My girlfriend was also getting tired of hearing my after-work stories. She said each day for me was like a movie, rewound by each passing night.

“Losing Todd” by Donna Knight

Dessie Dean Pitts Award Winner

Snuggled in my sleeping bag on our living room floor, I open my eyes in the morning daylight to see my mother sitting at our kitchen table. She’s crying and intermittingly lowering her head into the handkerchief in her hands. My grandmother is sitting across the table from her mumbling in a low whisper. The smoke from her cigarette ascends into her dark hair. Thoughts race through my head. Why is mom home? Why is she crying? Did she bring the baby home? It was the third day in August. Grandma told us the day before that our new baby brother had arrived and he and mom would be home in a few days. My younger brother Wade, little sister Sandy, and I got to sleep on the living room floor. That Sunday morning, I lay there on the floor, in my sleeping bag, staring at my mom and grandmother trying to decipher what was being said. I tried to read their lips, like my friends and I did in school, but their lips weren’t moving slowly enough. My attempt to eavesdrop was interrupted when my dad’s face suddenly appeared above my head. I looked up at him. His eyes were watery and red. He didn’t speak. I could see the ceiling behind him, like a cold gray overcast sky against his dark skin and coal-black hair. His head seemed to be detached from his body, floating in the air over me. He looked sad. I wondered why he wasn’t saying anything. At ten years old, I was a curious and cautious child, and also very observant, an ongoing gift from dad’s genetics. The eldest of my parents’ three children, I was the

epitome of the older sister, somewhat bossy, an avid tattletale, and a mother hen, from a very young age. In what seemed like several minutes later, Dad still had not spoken a word to me when Wade and Sandy started to stir. He moved over to their sleeping bags. My sister sat up. “Did you bring the baby home?” Again a long pause, then dad said in an unfamiliar cracked voice, “No . . . we lost him.” Her logical response was, “Can’t they find him?” My brother chuckled. Dad once again fell silent. Looking back, I wonder if my brother and I knew the significance of “losing” the baby. This was the first time we had been confronted with death. I don’t believe anyone ever discussed death in front of us. Did we realize the finality of death? In church we were taught about Heaven. When you die, you go to Heaven. There are angels in Heaven. I wondered if my brother was now an angel. His name was Todd, Todd Lynn. He was given the same middle name as me, only mine is spelled with an “e” on the end. I remember feeling a little proud, even though I had never set eyes on him. I still didn’t fathom all this was real. My father had told us we “lost” Todd. Why didn’t he just say Todd died? What a mystery. As a devoted reader of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew mysteries, I could make “a case” out of almost anything, just to solve the mystery. I thought maybe dad was joking and any minute he would bust a smile and say, “Just kidding. The baby’s asleep in the bedroom.”

I don’t know why I thought, or more likely hoped, dad was joking. He was not what you would call a jokester. On occasions, dad would sit around the kitchen table drinking a beer with family or friends, laugh at their jokes, and interject what he would call a “smart aleck” comment now and then. Everyone would laugh and take another drink of beer. But jokes? My dad listened to them more than offered them. Born in Nebraska, my dad was a World War II veteran who served as an Army paratrooper in the Philippines. Eight years after the war, at thirty-five and living in Santa Rosa, California, he married my sixteen-year-old mother. My parents eventually had three children, a modest home, and one car. Mother was a stay-at-home mom, not a term used back then, while my dad worked for the telephone company. They would later have three more children. Dad worked hard, loved his family, worried about his family, and took everything way too seriously. Whenever one of us kids would get hurt he’d say, “What’d you do that for?” As if we did it on purpose. The day of Todd’s funeral is somewhat vivid, but not the funeral. I don’t remember the actual service, only scenes, like movie clips, before and after. I remember my sister and I got new dresses. Sandy’s was pink, mine yellow. The tops of the dresses had one-inch straps on the shoulders with a checkerboard-pattern bodice, mine white and yellow, Sandy’s pink. The bottoms of the dresses were solid in color. Why do I remember those dresses so well? Standing by the front door of our home ready to go out the door, my mother told my sister and me to go outside and sit on the cement bench in our front yard. We were not to move until it was time to go.

The church we attended looked like it could have been the subject of a classic church painting. It was a little white church sitting on top of a green grassy hill. I don’t remember going in that church the day my brother was laid to rest. I don’t remember getting in the car. I don’t remember the grave site. My brother and sister don’t remember going to the funeral either. For all we know, it may have seemed like just another church service to us. What I do remember is walking through the front door of our ranch-style house after the funeral. The adults migrated to the kitchen while I, like a movie character in slow motion, walked through the living room, then started down the long hallway. My black patent leather shoes clicked on the linoleum floor with each step. My eyes stared straight ahead, focused on the bedroom door to the left at the end of the seemingly long hallway. When I reached the ominous door, I paused. I stood at the door, closed my eyes, and then twitched my nose like Samantha the witch in a popular television show. I wanted to see that my brother was asleep in the bedroom. With my hand on the door knob, I prayed that when I opened the door Todd would be magically asleep in his little bed. I slowly opened the door. There was the bassinet. It seemed like the only piece of furniture in the room. Still in my new yellow dress, I tip-toed, approaching the small, white-laced baby’s bed like I was trying to sneak up on a bird. I peered over the edge of the small bed. It was empty. Except for the small yellow blanket, the same yellow as my dress, folded neatly inside. It was not a joke. Ten years later, married and living in Kansas, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. I named him John Todd, after the brother I never knew. Todd had piercing blue

eyes, a bright smile, and a little gravely giggle. I was a young mother and not aware of the stages a baby should be developing. The following February, we discovered Todd was not rolling over or sitting up on his own as he should be at his age. He could wrap his fingers around mine, but he didn’t squeeze my finger like infants do. We took Todd to a specialist out of town. After a series of painful tests, the doctor told us Todd suffered from a rare genetic birth defect called Werdnig-Hoffman Disease, still rare today. His doctor said if he lived to be two years old, which was very rare, he had a possibility of survival, but he would be in a wheelchair the rest of his life. The doctor referred us to a medical university in Maryland where studies on the disease were underway. We were to wait to hear from Maryland. The morning of March 22nd, Todd woke up with congestion, and his lips seemed a little purple. Young and naïve, I thought he just had a cold. My husband was at work so I called my friend, Carol, and asked her to take us to the doctor. Carol’s husband worked with my husband; we became best friends and hung out a lot together. Older than I, she was also someone I depended on for advice since my mother lived halfway across the U.S. in South Carolina. When Carol arrived to pick us up, she took one look at Todd and said, “We’re going to the hospital.” At the hospital, the doctors put Todd under an oxygen tent in the infant intensive care unit. My husband left work to meet me at the hospital. We were under the mindset that Todd would be okay now. He’s sick, the doctors will make him well, and we’ll go home. About six o’clock, the doctors made their rounds. Todd’s doctor

greeted us at the door of his room, went to his bedside, then suddenly we were politely ushered out of the room. My husband, Carol, and I sat outside Todd’s hospital room talking small talk while the doctor checked on Todd. Carol was getting ready to take her three children to the skating rink, as she always did on Friday nights. Suddenly, the door to Todd’s room slowly opened. The doctor came out looking down at his hands as if he had to concentrate on taking his gloves off. My husband and I stood, expecting to go back to Todd’s side after the doctor let us know when we could take him home. The doctor looked at us and in a low voice said, “We lost him.” My husband crumbled to the floor and suddenly I was that little girl hearing my dad’s voice. But I didn’t have to be told the significance this time. John Todd was six months old. A week after his funeral, I received a letter from Maryland letting me know Todd had been accepted for their medical studies. A year later, my husband and I divorced. Eighteen years later, my sister, Christy, twenty years my junior, and her husband Todd, yes Todd, were getting ready to have their first child. Christy proudly announced to my mother and me that, should she have a boy, he would be named Todd, after his dad. I was terrified. I’m not superstitious or anything, but I didn’t want Christy to take any chances. I pulled her aside away from our mother. “Are you sure you want to name your baby Todd? Knowing where I was going with this, Christy said, “Don’t be silly. Everything will be okay.”

The day arrived when Christy went into labor. At the hospital, my sister Sandy, my mother, and I were anxiously waiting in the hospital family room. Christy had been in labor awhile when her husband came out of the labor room. “The baby’s upside down, feet first. The doctor has to operate to make a caesarian delivery.” He turned back through the double doors and disappeared. I just sat there staring at the doors. Panic set in. Here we go. I prayed and prayed that God would not take Christy’s Todd away from her. Christy gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Christy did name him Todd, after his dad. We called him “Little Todd.” For the next year, every time I held Little Todd, I checked to see if he could squeeze my fingers or hold his head up. I drove Christy crazy asking her of Little Todd’s progress, if he was rolling over and sitting up. As Todd grew, whenever he was sick, I worried until he got well again. In school, he played basketball and football, and I prayed each game he’d stay safe. Little Todd is now in his first year of college at USC. This time, we didn’t lose Todd.

“A Summer’s Day” by Blake Timmerman Eyes pried open To be lanced through By beautiful, blinding spears Of vibrant, blazing gold, Lacerating the skies. Bask in the heat, the pressure, The wondrously oppressive teeth Of the tyrant, bearing on the flesh Bleeding it of its salted nectar. And the humid air, long and heavy Hanging like an oversized coat.

Then, the song: That melodic concoction Chittering and humming Trilling and screeching A deafening, turbulent chorus Of cicadas from the trees And frogs down below. Their canticles of chaos Invade through the ears Incessantly, maddeningly Burrowing into the skull. And the taste of honeysuckle, Its sickening sweetness, That lingers in the air No longer the will, And never the right To fight the shadow, The fog that follows, The plague of flies that bite.

Though the tyrant will fly, It will cower before the void Its tails slipping into oblivion Giving way to the soft hues, Illuminated by stars and nebulas; Wafting tides of spectral brilliance Against a sea of darkness. The cool-aired gloom Its soothing caress of silence Stills the body, consumes it And the dreams uncoil.

Morelia by Molly Ott

“Just Visiting” by Graham Duncan "And what’s your reason for entry?" Crumbs fall from your lips As you stuff your face With sweets and pastries While doing your inspections. There’s never enough room In that little square To write it all down. So I pen out the words "Just visiting.” The ink from your stamp Smudged in my passport After you slammed it shut And handed it back to me Without time to dry. When on vacation, I often wonder as I pass by Thousands of individual faces Who's at home And who's "just visiting"? And when I'm home, I imagine those "just visiting" Are wondering the same of me: Am I at home, or am I just visiting? To be honest, I’m not so sure myself.

Over the Edge by Alexandra Grubbs

“Where Heaven Meets Earth” by Kendra LaGreca The first time I saw Miss Ida, I was ten years old. It was a Saturday, and I was sitting on the steps outside of Dill’s General Store eating a strand of black licorice. It was hot for May, and I was impatiently waiting on my mama to stop gossiping with Mrs. Dill so I could go home and jump in the river before supper. That’s when I saw her. She was marching through our small mountain town like a force of nature. Her hands were clenched, and in one of them she held a crumpled piece of paper. Her face was puffy and red, like she had been crying, but there were no tears in her eyes—only rage. A year or two earlier, a tree had been struck by lightning out in our woods during a storm one night. My daddy and I had raced out to see it, and it was burning from the inside out. That was how Miss Ida looked—like she was burning on the inside, and the fire was just aching to get out. I was so focused on Miss Ida that I didn’t even realize she had a dog until she marched straight past me and into Dill’s store. He was an ugly little thing. He had brown and black and tan patches of thick, long fur and a tongue that didn’t seem to fit inside his mouth. I liked him immediately. “Hey, lil’ fella,” I whispered to him. He jumped up the steps and sat beside me, wagging his stubby tail. I scratched his head. He must have liked it because he licked my face. Maybe he just liked the taste of licorice. I always wanted a dog of my own. Daddy always told me I could get one when I was ten, but daddy left to fight in the war a few months before my tenth birthday, and mama just didn’t see the point in dogs. Inside the General Store, I could hear that lady yelling, but I didn’t know what about. I wasn’t that curious, though, having just found a new friend. Next thing I knew, she flew out the door and stormed past me again. This time there were tears in her eyes. The dog stayed beside me until she turned around and glared at me, and then the dog. “Get over here, Jethro!” She commanded. She had a funny way of speaking. She didn’t have a Southern accent, but she didn’t sound like the Yankees that came around once in a while, either. Jethro took one last look at me and trotted over to her. She continued to glare at him until he reached her feet, as if accusing him of betraying her trust. Then without another word, she turned around and walked straight out of town, never once looking back.

On the way home that day, I asked my mama what happened. “Mama, who was that mean old lady screamin’ at Mr. Dill?” I asked. Mama raised her eyebrow at me. “You best rephrase that, boy.” “I mean . . .” I stammered, “who was that upset woman at the General Store?” “That’s better,” she said. “That was Miss Ida Taylor, and she is not a mean old lady. She was just upset, is all.” “Well, why was she upset?” “Miss Ida teaches classes at Mr. Dill’s from time to time, things like cannin’ and bakin’ and sewin’, and Mr. Dill told her she wouldn’t be able to teach there anymore.” “Why not?” “Well, Miss Ida is from Germany, and folk around here aren’t too trusting of her right now. They don’t want a German teaching classes to impressionable young women.” “Oh.” I said. I didn’t know what impressionable meant, but that explained everything in my mind. That must be why she’s so mean, and why she sounds funny when she talks, I thought. We walked along in silence for a little bit, and then mama stopped, grabbed my hand, and bent down to look me in the eye. “John,” she said, “I don’t want you to ever treat Miss Ida any differently than you would treat any other lady in this town. She’s just as American as you or me, ya hear?” “Yes, ma’am.” “I know she might seem mean, but we’re gonna be kind to her, even if no one else is, and even if she isn’t kind to us. It’s what Jesus would want us to do.” “Yes, ma’am,” I said. I determined right then that I would be nice to that mean old lady if it was the last thing I did, if only to be able to pet her dog again. ---------------------------------I didn’t see Miss Ida until a month later. Mama had sent me to Dill’s to see if they had any coffee. They didn’t, so I left the store empty-handed. As I walked back down the dusty street, I heard a bark behind me. I spun around, and sure enough, my new

little friend was racing down the street towards me with a stick in his mouth, his owner scowling at his back. I paid her no attention, though, and bent down to give him a good scratch on the head. “Hey buddy, Jethro’s your name, right?” His only response was to shake his rear-end and drop the stick from his mouth. He looked up at me as if to say, “Would you just play with me, already?” I grinned at him and picked up the stick, ignoring the slimy drool that coated it. I wagged it in front of his face a few times to make sure he was paying attention and threw it as hard as I could. He took off after it faster than a racehorse on a Saturday and was back in a flash. I reared back to throw it for him again when Miss Ida startled me out of my fun. “What’s your name, boy?” she demanded. I looked at her for a bit, taking in her icy expression and folded arms. Everything inside me wanted to be nasty to her. She was rude, and German on top of that. She didn’t deserve my respect. Then I remembered what my mama said about doing what Jesus wanted me to, and decided I better just be nice. Plus, mama was likely to tan my hide if she found out I disobeyed her. “My name is John, ma’am. John Wellington.” Her face seemed to soften for a fraction of a second, then she asked, “Grace’s boy?” “Yes, ma’am.” “It seems my dog likes you.” It wasn’t a question. I wasn’t real sure what to say about that, so I just nodded my head and prayed that she wouldn’t tell me to leave him be. She looked at me then. Well, it felt more like she looked into me. She narrowed her eyes and got a really thoughtful expression on her face. I could just imagine that she wanted to chop me up into little bits and feed me to Jethro. Gave me the squirmies. Then, just like she had done when she stormed out of town the last time, she turned around and walked away. I stood there for a second, both relieved to be done talking to that scary lady and confused at our conversation. I watched her walk down

the street until I realized she was walking in the direction of my house. That’s when I got scared. What was she gonna tell my mama? Had I offended her by playing with Jethro? I took off after her and Jethro stuck to my heels. By the time I reached my house, she was already inside and talking to my mama. I waited outside, tossing the stick to Jethro and wracking my brain to imagine what kind of trouble I was in. When Miss Ida came outside, she called to Jethro and left without saying a word to me. My stomach in knots, I went inside, already fearing the butt-whooping that I knew had to be coming my way. Mama heard me walk through the door and called to me from the living room. “John, come in here, please.” I did as I was told. “Yes, mama?” I said as I clasped my dirty hands in front of me in an attempt to look as innocent as possible. “You will be working for Miss Ida every afternoon startin’ tomorrow.” “W-w-what?” I sputtered. “Why? What’d I do?” “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, “or at least you better not’ve.” “No, ma’am. I didn’t. I swear.” “Good. Miss Ida said that she needs someone to help around her house and in her garden and asked if you’d be willing to help her for a few hours every weekday durin’ the summer. I told her you’d be delighted to.” “But mama,” I pleaded, my voice reaching a dangerous whine. “I don’t wanna go to her house. Please don’t make me. Besides, I’ve never even been to her house. She don’t live in town.” “I’ll drive you out there tomorrow, and from then on you’ll walk by yourself. It’s only a few miles.” “A few miles?! Mama, puh-lease don’t make me go. I’ll do anything you want!” Mama sighed and looked at me funny. “John, do you remember our conversation about Miss Ida that we had a while back? I told you that we’d be kind to her, and we’d treat her just like anyone else, and you agreed.” “Yeah, but I didn’t know that meant doin’ her chores.”

“Well, it does now.” The way she said it, I knew there was no point in arguing. I was going to Miss Ida’s whether I liked it or not. ---------------------------------------The next morning came, and mama didn’t say a word about me going to Miss Ida’s. Maybe she forgot. Or maybe she changed her mind. Just in case, I made sure to stay quiet about it. I did all my chores without complaint, and when I was finished I played outside in my fort until she called me in for lunch. I ate my roast beef sandwich as quick as I could, barely stopping to breathe. Maybe if I went back outside quick enough she wouldn’t remember. I finished my sandwich without a word, took my plate to the sink, and walked to the door. “Thank you for the lunch, mama.” I said as I reached for the door knob. “You’re welcome, dear.” I was halfway out the door when she said, “Grab your shoes, John. You’ll need them for the walk home.” My heart sank. -------------------------------------------The whole ride there, my roast beef sandwich felt like lead in my stomach, and when we got there, it took some pretty stern convincing from my mama to get out of the car. She told me I had better straighten up or she’d whoop my behind when I got home. “And if Miss Ida tells me you disrespected her or disobeyed her, you’d best pray to God that He comes back before suppertime.” I gulped and assured her that I would be on my best behavior. I knew better than to ignore a warning like that. Then I watched as she backed up and left, waving to Miss Ida as she went. As she drove down the long lane, I felt as if I were stuck out in the middle of the ocean as my boat floated away, leaving me to a certain blue-eyed, wrinkly old shark. “You ever weeded a garden, boy?” Miss Ida asked, startling me out of my misery. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” She turned around and started walking to the back of the house. When she noticed I wasn’t following her, all she said was, “You coming or not?” I followed her, and Jethro followed me. When we reached the back yard, I gasped. Green, blue, red, yellow, and orange filled my wide eyes. Rows of sweet corn, peas, squash, and tomatoes were on one side, and rows upon rows of flowers on the other. The garden was surrounded by a little white fence, and the whole backyard was dwarfed by massive pine, cedar, and oak trees. We could have been in the middle of a magical forest. It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. She didn’t even glance at me. “You start on the sweet corn,” she said. “I’ll work on the flowers.” “Yes, ma’am.” I hopped to work, and I immediately was put to ease by the dark, cool earth between my fingers and toes, the wind whispering through the trees, and Jethro lying beside me, offering encouraging licks every now and again. If I tried real hard, I could even forget where I was and pretend that this was my farm of magical vegetables and flowers. People from all over the world came to buy from me, I decided, and there was no war and plenty of money to go around. The hours ticked away in a steady rhythm of pulling weeds. Before I knew it, Miss Ida walked over to check my work. “Hmph.” She grunted. “You missed a spot. No time to get it today, you’ll have to get it tomorrow.” Heat flooded my cheeks at the tone of her voice. How dare she tell me I didn’t do a good job. Here I was helping her out, and all she could do was criticize me. I bit my tongue at the thought of mama’s promise, though, and replied sweetly, “yes, ma’am.” “Go home” she said. “And try to come back earlier tomorrow. It’s too hot to work in the afternoon.” “Yes, ma’am.” “Is that all you know how to say?” She demanded. “Yes, ma’am.” This time she smirked and waved me away. As I made my way home, I felt strangely good. Maybe working for Miss Ida wouldn’t be so bad after all.

---------------------------------------------The next month flew by in a flurry of activity. Every day, I’d get up, eat breakfast, do my chores, and walk to Miss Ida’s. Mama would pack me a lunch, and I’d work for an hour or two, eat, then work for another hour or two before walking home. Sometimes she’d let me get done early and play with Jethro for a while, and sometimes she brought me a glass of sweet tea or a cookie. Not often, but it was something, I thought. She wouldn’t always have me weeding the garden, either. Sometimes I’d push her little mower across her small front lawn, or water the flowers and vegetables. One time she had me dust her house. I hated that and complained to mama that Miss Ida made me do women’s work, then made me do it over again ‘cause I didn’t do it right. Mama just laughed and said, “Good.” Then one day, I came home from Miss Ida’s, and mama was on the couch, crying. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me that my daddy wouldn’t be coming home. He had been killed. A few days later, we had a funeral for daddy. And even though we didn’t have his body to bury, the whole town came to pay their respects— even Miss Ida. Afterwards, she told me that I didn’t have to come back to her house until I was ready to. As it turned out, I was ready to go back to her house after a few days. It was too sad just sittin’ at home. When I showed up at Miss Ida’s and started weeding the garden, she walked inside without saying a word to me. I didn’t really mind, though. I didn’t feel like talking to her. I was angry at her, for some reason. I knew that she hadn’t killed my daddy, and she hadn’t even lived in Germany for a long time, but I still felt like it was partly her fault that my daddy would never come home. A few minutes later, she walked outside with a picnic basket and two fishing poles. “We’ve done enough weeding for today, John. Let’s go fishing.” It was the first time she ever used my name. I was so surprised that I just sat there for a minute until I realized she was walking into the trees without me. I stood up and dashed after her. We walked in silence for a little while; the only noise was the crunch of our feet on the dry sticks and leaves and the birds chirping in the trees. I had never even noticed the little path we were taking through her woods. It was beautiful. It was steep in some places, and she had me walk ahead of her to help her up the slope. After a while, she stopped, handed me the picnic basket, and started walking once

more. The path was evening out by now, and I heard the sound of rushing water. When we reached the river, I noticed there was a path heading further up the mountain. “We gonna go up there, Miss Ida?” I asked. “No.” She said. “We’ll stop here.” “What’s up there?” “A very special place. Maybe I’ll take you up there one day, but for now, we’ll fish.” And fish we did. After a half hour and no bites, we decided to eat lunch. She opened the basket and pulled out the biggest chicken sandwich I had ever seen. I accepted it gladly and gulped it down. Afterwards, I went back to fishing, and she pulled out a book to read. “Whatcha readin’?” I asked. “It’s a book of poetry by a man named T.S. Eliot. Have you ever heard of him?” “Poetry?” I turned up my nose. “You don’t like to read?” she asked. “Nah. I only read for school. And mama makes me read the Bible for her sometimes.” “I see.” I could tell by her tone that she wasn’t impressed by my answer, but I didn’t know what to do about it. Maybe I should add something. “I know the Bible real well, though.” She didn’t answer. “I can recite Psalm 23. Wanna hear it?” “Not particularly.” “Oh.” I said. “How come?” “I don’t believe in God.”

“Oh.” I said. I was shocked. I had never heard of someone who didn’t believe in God. How could she not? “Why not?” “If there was a God, He wouldn’t let this world be like it is,” she said. “There would be no war. And if there is a God, would you really be okay with him letting your daddy die?” The words hit me like a brick. My daddy, the bravest, strongest man I knew was gone. He was my best friend in the whole world, and he would never come home. But did that mean that there was no God? I thought about it for a while before I decided that I just couldn’t think of an answer. Miss Ida just stared at me with a look akin to pity. Finally, she just stood up and said that it was time to head back. We didn’t talk on the way home. --------------------------------------------------I kept working for Miss Ida through the years. She taught me how to can vegetables and how to dry flowers. Sometimes we’d go fishing in the afternoons and sometimes she’d make me read her books to her. Never the Bible, though. She’d complain about how people treated her in town and said how much she hated them. She’d talk about politics and all the stupid mistakes the president was making. Sometimes she’d talk about Germany and what it was like in her hometown. I listened to all of it. I asked her one time why she moved to America. “I got married,” was her reply. She wouldn’t say more than that. I wondered where her husband was. I thought maybe he had left her because she was nasty to him like she was to everyone else, and then I felt ashamed of myself. When I was nineteen years old, I started working at Dill’s and didn’t have time to help Miss Ida anymore. She still got me to take her groceries every week, though. That way she wouldn’t have to come into town and see all the people she didn’t like. She got older and older, and finally she hired my mama to start helping out at her house. It became difficult for her to work in her garden, so I’d go over there every so often and help out. Jethro was too old to play with me, but always wagged his tail when I went to pet him. Then one day, my mama called up to Dill’s for me to go to Miss Ida’s. Old Mr. Dill let me leave early, and I ran over there. I was worried something had happened to Miss Ida, but when I got there, everything was fine.

“I need your help, John.” Miss Ida said when she saw me. “Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?” She explained that she wanted to go to the river we had fished at so many times, and she needed me to carry the picnic basket for her. Mama’s help just wouldn’t do, she said. She needed me. Mama had already put together a picnic basket, so I picked it up and we started down the path to the river. It was a lot slower going than it had been before. Miss Ida was fragile, and she had to hold my arm as we went. When we got to the river, I prepared to set down the basket, but she shook her head. “I need you to take me a little farther, today.” She was breathing heavily, and I couldn’t imagine that she would make it much farther. “Miss Ida, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “We’re going,” She insisted. I sighed. There was no changing her mind. Part of me was curious, though, as she had never let me come up the mountain with her before. She had always gone up by herself. “Where we goin’?” She smiled faintly. “To the place where Heaven meets earth.” I was baffled. She didn’t even believe in Heaven. Why would she say that? I didn’t ask, though, because she was having a harder time breathing and she needed to save her strength. After winding up the mountain for another half hour, the path widened and suddenly stopped altogether. There was nothing there but trees. I stopped, but Miss Ida kept going. She walked through the trees, and I followed her. Suddenly, we walked into a small clearing adorned with flowers of all kinds and colors. The clearing sat by the mountain’s edge, and we could see the whole valley below us. And there, nestled underneath a weeping willow, sat two gravestones: one large and one small. Miss Ida motioned for me to stay there and took the picnic basket from me. She crossed the little clearing and knelt before the gravestones. Lovingly, she pulled out two bouquets of flowers from her garden and laid them before each stone. She bowed her head for a little bit and whispered words too quietly for me to hear.

Then she looked at me. “John,” she said softly, “I’d like you to meet my husband and son.” My heart grew heavy with the weight of her words. I looked at the gravestones. They read, “George Taylor, beloved husband and father,” and “John G. Taylor, our beloved boy.” Miss Ida began talking, then. She told me of her son, how he was just a little boy when he had gotten sick and died, and of her husband who had whisked her away from Germany when she was only eighteen. They had met soon after the First World War, and they fell in love. “He loved this town,” she said. “And he loved this mountain. The first time he brought me up here, he told me he was taking me to the place where Heaven met the earth. He would come up here and talk to God, and when our Johnboy died, he’d talk to him, too. Then George died and left me alone. They were my everything, and they left me,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry” was all I could think to say. She let out a small laugh and pointed across the clearing. “Over there you’ll find all our Jethros. George always wanted a dog named Jethro, you see, and we never got one. Our plan was to get one for John when he got old enough to take care of it, but the time never came. After George died, though, I got us a dog named Jethro. Whenever one would die, I’d just get another.” I walked to where she had pointed, and sure enough, there were five little wooden crosses there, each inscribed with the name ‘Jethro.’ Tears filled my eyes as I thought of the life that Miss Ida had lived. “Why’d you bring me up here, Miss Ida?” “To be honest,” she said, “I don’t really know. You’ve come to mean a lot to me over the years, and I think it’s only fair that I tell you how I became the miserable old bear that I am.” She winked at me and smirked. I didn’t know how to respond, so I just grinned back at her. We stayed there for a while after that, just enjoying the late afternoon breeze before finally heading back down the mountain. -----------------------------------------------------I only saw Miss Ida a few more times before she died a couple months later. She asked to be buried with her family, so I found a few people to help carry the casket up the mountain for the service. It was only me and mama that stayed to pay our last

respects. Standing before the upturned earth, I struggled to find the words that expressed how I felt. Mama finally left, and I just stood there under the setting sun, thinking about the mean old lady that had come to mean so much to me. One week later, I found out that Miss Ida had left everything to me, along with a letter telling me that she hoped I’d keep tending to her little garden, and that maybe I’d go visit her once in a while. So that’s what I did. I’m old now, and I have a family of my own, but sometimes I still make a trip to the place where Heaven meets earth to talk to her. Standing in front of her grave right now, with my newest puppy named Jethro, I’m reminded of all those years ago when she told me she didn’t believe in God. “Ya know, Miss Ida?” I say to the air, “That day when we were fishin’ at the river, you asked me how God could let bad things happen. I didn’t know what to say to you then, but I think I have an answer now. I don’t know why God would let my daddy die or exactly why bad things happen, I just know that they do, and when they do, God helps us get through them. I think the main reason bad things happen is because if we lived in a perfect world, what would be the point of Heaven? It’s just like one of your flower seeds. A seed has to die before something beautiful can grow from it. And sometimes bad things happen so that good things spring from it. I’m sad that your family died, but I’m glad that I got to know the person that you became. I truly believe that despite your wrinkly, mean old shell, yours was a beautiful life.”

Arrival of Paikea by Sam Robertson

“Demons in Suburbia” by Adam Hoffman According to some of the most popular horror films that have been released in recent years, there is no greater threat to mankind’s existence than the various ghosts, demons, and eldritch abominations that roam unchecked throughout our world and prey upon the weak and innocent. Strange then, that the chosen representatives of humanity in these films are almost always white, middle-class, suburban families with steady incomes and spacious, comfortable houses. These picturesque families carry out their quiet, happy lives until some nightmarish being with supernatural abilities inexplicably decides to assault them. Of course, the family in question might not be as picture perfect as they may seem at first glance. Perhaps the father has a history of alcoholism, substance abuse, or infidelity. Perhaps the mother suffers from an anxiety disorder or the tragic memory of a miscarriage. The youngest child could be afflicted with autism, or possess some other form of mental or physical handicap. The elder sibling—who is almost always female— may have a sleazy, borderline abusive boyfriend, a serious problem with authority, or an eating disorder. Eventually, none of these things will matter, as the family’s day-today worries and internal strife quickly take a backseat to the horrifying antics of whichever hell-spawned monstrosity invades their tranquil homestead. The worst repeat offender for producing movies of this caliber is James Wan. While some of his films have been based on “true events,” the majority of them have been fictional and formulaic in terms of plot. Wan made his directorial debut with the

Saw film series, which has been described by both filmgoers and critics as “torture porn” or grotesque, bloody violence for the sake of grotesque, bloody violence. After the release of Saw 3D in 2010, Wan apparently developed a sense of class and tact and began churning out films which relied less on shock and gore to resonate with audiences. Instead, these films rely almost entirely on suspense and brief, startling moments with loud noises and disturbing visuals. The first of these to follow said formula was Insidious (2010). Insidious opens on a nauseatingly cute, white, middle-class family who have just moved in to their new home—a common horror movie trope. The eldest son in this family, Dalton, inexplicably slips into a coma one day. We learn later on in the film that this is because he is a gifted practitioner of astral projection—that is, the ability to leave his body in a spiritual form and go wherever he chooses. Apparently, his vacant body has attracted various ghosts and demons who seek to inhabit it. This is where the true formulaic approach to the modern horror film becomes evident. The first act will always involve one of the children in the family being targeted by the paranormal threat, inevitably brought about by the fact that said child has some defining attribute which makes them more worthy of attention than the rest of the family. Once this situation is well established, the mother, Renai, begins to experience frightening supernatural occurrences while her husband, Josh, is at work and so becomes a nervous wreck; she is unable to sleep, constantly stressed, and demanding that her husband allow the family to move to a new home to escape the haunting. This is the point at which the plot begins to thicken. With the strong, bread-winning

patriarch conveniently removed from the unnatural events, he is cast in the role of the credible skeptic. His calm and logical approach is sharply contrasted by his wife’s hysteria, and we are given the sense that the man of the house will always be the voice of reason when the frail and tender housewife loses her nerve and starts spouting nonsense about ghosts. However, there will come a point in the movie where not even the skeptical husband can deny the presence of the paranormal threat. In Insidious, this point is reached shortly after Josh and Renai learn of their son’s astral projection ability from a clairvoyant older woman (who is also white). The claim is not valid, however, until Josh himself is convinced. It is at this point that the film proceeds into its second act, where the father becomes the sole vanguard against supernatural oppression, acting as a both master and guardian of his household. The final act of Insidious reveals that Josh himself wields the power of astral projection (which is how his son obtained it), and he uses said power to venture into a spiritual nightmare world and quite literally do battle with a demon to bring back his son. None of this would have been possible, however, without the aid of the aforementioned clairvoyant. It is here the movie draws to its conclusion, having established the patriarch as the hero of the narrative and the wise old woman as his mystical guide—“Merlin to his King Arthur” if you will. This is considered appropriate because her unique system of belief exists outside the typical varieties of Christianity that many white Americans subscribe to. After all, most middle-class individuals can’t be bothered to attend church

on a regular basis, and this sort of situation calls for the unconventional skillset of what they consider to be a qualified expert in the supernatural. Of course, James Wan is not the only practitioner of this type of filmmaking. The Possession is a 2012 film directed by Ole Bornedal that follows this same plotline almost exactly and, again, takes place in white suburbia. In this instance the family is a bit less than picture perfect—the parents are divorced—but both of them seem to have an equal share in custody and visitation rights, and both are on good terms with their children. Trouble begins when the youngest daughter Emily discovers a mysterious wooden box with Hebrew letters on it. Unbeknownst to the family, the box is home to a malevolent spirit from Hebrew mythology know as a dybbuk. The dybbuk quickly makes itself known, however, by corrupting sweet Emily into a violent, socially withdrawn little monster with the disturbing ability to vomit clouds of moths. As anticipated, her father Clyde transitions smoothly from the role of credible skeptic into desperate, dedicated combatant. Naturally, he seeks out the help of a Hasidic Jew to help exorcise the spirit once he learns of its dubious origins. Here again, we see an instance of one with nonconventional (that is, non-Christian) beliefs being relegated to the role of mystical helper for the main hero of the narrative. Films like The Possession and Insidious ostensibly prey on our fear of supernatural monsters. Everyone enjoys a good ghost story, right? In truth, the essence of the modern horror film is no longer the potential for evil within mankind itself. We saw this in the era of 1980s “slasher” films, where maniacs and psychopaths were all standard fare and the victims were almost always irresponsible teenagers whose violent deaths were, in

some way, meant to seem justified. Now we no longer accept this sort of narrative. The white, middle-class parents of the day look out for their children and do not punish them too harshly. The teens of todayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s horror movies are riddled with angst and worldweariness. They do not seek out danger, and any attempts they make at partying usually stem from a need to squelch their own insecurities. Parents are no longer bumbling, overbearing authority figures. They love and support us and protect us from harm. No longer do we fear the knife-wielding maniac lurking in the shadows; we fear the shadows themselves. What fiendish creatures exist beyond the realm of our understanding? What incomprehensible horrors could we possibly be forced to face as we go about our cushy, suburban lives? The answer, of course, is none. But the essence of the modern horror film is to instill its primarily white and middle-class viewers with existential fear of a nonexistent threat, rather than prey on their actual insecurities. According to modern horror, we in suburbia no longer fear violent crime, rampaging murderers, or chainsaw-wielding hillbillies. We fear the dark, we fear the unknown, and the only way that we can be truly terrified is by being shown a world in which our perfect, comfy lives can be uprooted by the spawn of Satan and his minions and transformed into a waking nightmare. We no longer fear the tangible; we only fear what we cannot understand. If that doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sum up the attitude of the average white, middle-class, suburbanite, then what else does?

Works Cited Insidious. Dir. James Wan. Perf. Patrick Wilson, Rose Byrne, Ty Simpkins. IM Global, 2010. DVD. The Possession. Dir. Ole Bornedal. Perf. Natasha Calls, Jeffery Dean Morgan. Ghost House Pictures, 2012. DVD. Wikipedia contributors. "James Wan." Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, 19 Oct. 2016. Web. 19 Oct. 2016.

Musical Passions by Hannah Hipp

“Etched” by Austin Costenbader For “Ga”, who deserves a story. “1951” is neatly etched in the concrete of the second step, the best a pinky finger could have done. Not that finger concrete drawing has improved much since ‘51, but it’s impressive none the less. A miniature statue of a weather-beaten George Washington leans against the highest step, along with a large concrete bullfrog that is painted green. I imagine they’re friends. The surrounding foliage is lush, and the grass is that thick Charleston grass that swallows your shoes and pricks bare feet. Out back is the red oak tree that, when I was younger, might as well have held the world together. Black sugar ants and squirrels frantically run up and down it all day as if in a desperate search for something. My grandmother’s house is the first blue granite house on the right once you top the hill of Peay’s Pond Road. It sits low and heavy in the earth and hides behind several pecan and pear trees. Two beautifully done blue granite arches make up the front face. Rough stone steps lead up to a squeaky porch swing that hasn’t swung for a while now, and birds dance around a dry bird bath. Inside she sits, cigarette in hand, watching, and occasionally cussing at, Fox News. When most people think of grandmothers, they think of sappy talk and a soft, Betty Crocker type who speaks in an unnecessarily high-pitched voice. She is different. A product of hard times, she is resourceful, sympathetic, and flat out funny. She writes on everything: cabinet doors, the inside of drawers, books. Inside one cabinet door she

wrote: “Vinyl siding was a BIG mistake, want to replace with real wood—2006.” She is, at least in my eyes, smart as a whip and tough as a rattle snake, all the while being the nicest and most morally straight person I have, and will ever meet. One Sunday right after church, we got a call; my mother answered. “Mary Anne, there’s a damn squirrel in the pantry,” my grandmother said. It is only about a five minute drive, ten on a bike—if you’re fast—from her house to mine. When we got there, the massacre had already begun. In the pantry was none other than my grandmother, breathing hard and making a cheese grater out of that squirrel with an old rusty BB gun. She even had a little bit of squirrel blood on her God Bless America T-shirt. She had had it with the squirrels. They mocked her, tore up her petunias, and used her roof for what sounded like tap dancing. She had cornered the poor thing and went to town. She didn’t shoot it fifteen times to be mean; that’s just how many BBs it took. I used to be dropped off at her house every day from school. Ironically, this is where my real education began. It was not routine or boring. Every day would be something new, a new conversation, a new idea. I sat on the pitifully sagging couch and let my mind become a vacuum. “Alan, do you know what the definition of ‘soul’ is?” she asked one day. Before I could answer, she read me the definition: “the ability of a person to feel kindness and sympathy for others, to appreciate beauty and art, etc.” Then she looked

toward the TV, and I saw the headlines at the bottom of the screen of a shooting in California, Ohio, somewhere. We’d talk about foreign countries, when the pecans come in, and how the lady down the road is letting her grass get too high. She didn’t bake cookies, but she did, however, make excellent fried cornbread and taught me how to boil peanuts to perfection. One day when I was a lot younger, I spent the entire Saturday with her boiling peanuts and learning how to adjust the heat and apply just the right amount of salt. By the way, you can mess up boiled peanuts. Also, if I picked enough blackberries out back she would wash and then sprinkle them (liberally) with sugar. I’d come in with a small bucket, purple fingers tortured with little thorns and hand them over. One Sunday afternoon, we were fishing on the dock of my uncle’s pond. The bream were bedding, and you could catch them one after the other. Bream is the only fish she really likes for cooking. I was catching small bream and trying to catch catfish. They fought harder, and that’s all a young boy really cares about. “I don’t like catfish,” she said, “taste like mud.” “Larry said he wants them out; I’m doing him a favor,” I said. “Cast over there to the right, I see bubbles.” This whole time we were bringing in fish. The dock was small, and we had to tip toe around each other. “How many chairs and fishing rods you reckon are at the bottom?” she said. “At least two of mine,” I smiled.

About that time, she went to cast, something got tangled, and the hook ended up buried barb deep in the top of her forearm a few inches above the wrist. I think I was more worried than she was. She lit a cigarette while I twisted it around. I had read in my Boy Scout manual that to get a hook out you’re supposed to keep pushing it through, break the skin, clip the barbs off, and slide it back through. I told her that and she nodded and told me to try it. I tell you, that felt so weird twisting that thing around my grandma’s arm. It just bled more and more, and I started to feel hot. She carefully watched me for several minutes, no success. “To hell with it,” she said. “The fish are biting.” She grabbed my knife; cut the line, tied on a new hook, and kept fishing with an Eagle Claw #2 hook in her arm. I feel like she was just letting me do my fancy Boy Scout tricks for fun. And we all know what would have happened if that had been any other grandma. The family would have been called in, one pointless stitch at the local ER, and she’d be on the next week’s prayer list at church. Meanwhile, she’s twisted a cigarette into the dirt with ragged out Keds, waiting for the cork to go under. Beyond her slightly rough and tough exterior lies an artistic side. A musical mind and surgeon-steady hands. She plays the piano completely by ear and memory. She also does beautiful paintings on canvas that look like an experienced hobbyist did them. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you she used dime-store paint. The funny thing is she woke up one day and said, “I think I’ll paint some.” She has a really good one of a wine bottle sitting on a table surrounded by grapes, and I have one of a rainbow trout swimming upstream hanging in my room at home.

I believe she has only been mad at me once or twice in her life. I used to climb the big oak tree in the back like a monkey, and she had told me to quit, that it was only a matter of time before I fell out. One day I was way up. All of sudden the neighbor boy and his girlfriend came over and started making out behind the tea olive bushes not far from me. I had to keep quiet otherwise they’d think I was spying. I leaned against a branch. Crack! I hit the ground hard, head spinning, and my ankle torn apart. I mean really snapped, like chicken wings at a Super Bowl party. My eye glasses were broken and somehow managed to gouge me in the back upon impact. I crawled in the house crying. She was mad for a minute because I had not listened, and then she saw how bad the ankle was. Eight weeks on crutches is sometimes what it takes to learn that grandma knows best. It wouldn’t be fair to come this far and not tell my favorite story. I walked in the backdoor of her house one day after school, laid my book bag down and we started talking. She was in a good mood on this particular day. “I want to go get some chicken livers from that Kentucky place,” she said. “Alright, that’s fine, let’s go.” I said. I was excited because sometimes when we went out she’d let me drive on the back roads. My mom hated this because of the “legal ramifications.” I had my permit test coming up soon, and I needed to practice. We got the livers, and once out of sight from the main road, we switched places. I slid the seat up to reach the pedals and started going. I had been, since she mentioned the livers, thinking of excuses to drive longer.

“Hey, you wanna go see what they’re doing to the new football field at the high school? They’ve got a new road and bleachers and all that,” I said. She agreed, and I kept driving. It was about 5 pm on a Friday, and everyone was gone. I pulled onto the dirt road that led to the field and came up on the biggest black snake I’ve ever seen. It stretched the whole width of the road and was big around as a soda can. I slammed on brakes and jumped out. So did she. I had a system; I had done this a hundred times. I found a stick and tried to catch him. I grabbed his tail, and he spun around real fast and bit the hell out of my hand. Blood started oozing, but I kept dancing around with the stick like a fool. I started to pin his head while she held the tail and kept him stretched out. They can’t strike at you as good if they’re stretched out. I finally got him and put him over my neck; this was my signature move. I stood there holding the thing and looked at my grandma. “You ready to go,” I asked. “You mean you’re bringing that thing?” “Yep, I wanna show dad; I’ll sit in the back, don’t worry.” Surprisingly, it didn’t take too much convincing. After all, she did help me catch the thing. I crawled in the backseat and we took off. It was only a few minutes back to her house, but that thing decided he didn’t like riding in the back of a Jeep Cherokee under the tight clutches of some jackass. He wanted out and started moving. If you’ve never caught a rat snake, they’re strong as hell. Pure muscle. This joker took my hands, which were clenched together knuckle to knuckle, and spread my arms like I was trying

to fly. I was holding on as tight as I could. If he would have gotten loose we would have wrecked for sure. I go visit her as much as I can nowadays. Time fools you. You can’t fish and catch snakes forever. I do little errands—packs of cigarettes, prescriptions, and the occasional hamburger. I check the oil on the car and rake some leaves; I just sit and talk mostly. George Washington and the frog are still there. The blackberry bushes, however, are grown over. Everyone’s getting old, and that worries her. She loves to tell stories though her advice is repetitive, but that’s ok; it’s good stuff. She tells the snake story to most people. She got done telling it one day and said, “You know what, Alan? I wish you had put those chicken livers in the front seat before you got back there with that thing.” These experiences I’ve had have become part of me, ingredients of who I am. Unlike the salt in the peanuts, there could never be too much. All the memories priceless and tucked away for future telling. The house, tree, snake, and many more, are all etched in me, the best a grandmother could have done.

Forsaken by Lindsay Soto

“I’m Out” by Kendra LaGreca Dear Customers, We need to talk. We’ve been through a lot together, you and I. Many of you have seen me grow up over the years. You remember the days when I would sleep on the floor in the mornings and would spend my time playing in my mom’s car while she worked? Some of you played tic-tac-toe with me, or made endless amounts of paper airplanes for me to lose throughout the cafe. You teased me when I was grumpy, and you joked with me when I was happy; you became like family to me. This letter is not written to you. No, this letter is written to my other customers: the troublemakers, the complainers, the thieves, and the plain annoying. You know who you are, you know what you’ve done, and I want to tell you that I’ve had enough. To the man who always takes pennies out of the “take-a-penny” jar: I want to say thank-you. Thank you for teaching me that being cheap is an annoying quality. You take pennies from that jar every single day, and you never put any back. It’s not that you don’t carry around change. I know that because I’ve given you plenty of change over the years, and you always put it in your pocket and walk out of the door. No, you’re just cheap, and it’s disgusting. It’s also disgusting to me that you take ice from our ice machine every morning to fill your ice chest, but you have never once offered to pay for it. You assume that we owe you something. Maybe we do. Maybe we should be grateful that such an outstanding Christian man comes to eat at our restaurant each morning, one who never orders what’s on the menu, one who always expects his food to arrive immediately after placing his order. You, sir, are one of a kind. To the older lady who only wears housecoats: I have mixed feelings about you. I remember the very first day you came into the cafe. You were wearing your floral housecoat and moccasins, and you immediately began to complain. You ordered a cheeseburger with no bun, and you told me that it’s restaurants like ours that are making America fat. We give too much food, and it’s our fault. I knew then that you were a feisty one. I have to admit, though, I really liked you for it. I remember thinking to myself that I hoped that I would have as much spunk as you do when I’m your age. Then one day you came in and told us that everyone who works at our cafe is getting fat. I stopped thinking that you were cute and funny. I quickly realized that you were just a bitter woman, and that you just needed to make others feel bad about themselves. Do you know that I have never once heard you say a nice thing about anything or anyone? I’ve heard you complain about our government, about the younger

generations, about food products, and about other people. You even called an electric company and got some of their employees in trouble for eating breakfast at our cafe after fixing downed power lines all night. I want so badly to like you because you’re quirky, and the things that you say are amusing, but I both dislike you and pity you because you refuse to treat others with any kind of respect. And to the older gentleman who comes in every morning and orders the same thing every time: I have a bone to pick with you. Do you remember a few years ago when you were talking to me about black people? Do you remember what you said? Because I sure do. On that Saturday morning, you told me and my mom that “Martin Luther King, Jr. was just a nigger.” When you told me that, I was speechless. I had never seen such blatant racism. I wish so badly that I would have spoken up and told you that we don’t allow people to speak like that in our restaurant, but I didn’t. Instead, I turned around and walked away without responding. You’ve never said anything like that since that day, but it’s something I’ll never forget. You had no right to say what you said, and you should be ashamed of yourself. To the man who likes to touch me on the shoulder: I think that you annoy me most of all. You were one of the ones who used to build me paper airplanes, but the older I get, the less charming you become. It is my sincerest hope that, one day, you will realize that telling me the same joke day after day, year after year, is not funny. You always make the joke that it looks like nobody is working, put your hand on my shoulder, and expect me to laugh. I don’t. It may have been funny seven years ago, but I’m over it. The moment has officially passed. And another thing, you can stop trying to tell me how awful my generation is and how we don’t care about anything. If you don’t think we care about politics, start a club and try to get young people involved. Don’t sit at the same seat and complain about the same things every day and expect me to be sympathetic. If you want to see a change, go change it. Oh, and by the way, that time that you called me over to your table to show me that Miss America came out of the closet, and told me that you wished someone would “shove her back in,” that was also not funny. My generation may not be perfect, but at least we are learning to accept people who are different than us. To the older man with the watery blue eyes: I know what you did. Not only that, I know that you know that I know what you did. You pooped all over the bathroom. Twice. And the second time you did it, you had the audacity to look me in the eyes and smile at me. Now, I just want to say that I understand that some people might have a harder time holding it in, and that they might have the occasional accident, but twice? And you didn’t even leave a tip. I don’t think I have ever wanted to quit my job more

than the day that I had to clean up your shit. Even though you never came back in after that second time, I still haven’t quite forgiven you. And to the man who boycotted us for months because you thought we got your order wrong, you are a piece of work. The day you came in, you were on your phone. You weren’t paying attention to me, and you rushed through your order. I repeated the order back to you, and you nodded that it was right. I remember doing that because I thought to myself that you normally ordered your cheeseburger a different way. When you got your food, you brought it back to the kitchen (while still on your phone), opened the wrapper, shook your head at us in disgust, threw the cheeseburger onto the counter, and walked out of the restaurant. To you, sir, I say good riddance. We like to serve grown-ups at our restaurant, not spoiled brats. Finally, to all the ones who take advantage of us: I know about you, too. I have seen you try to steal candy from us, and I’ve seen tea in your glass when you payed for a water. Shame on you. I have given you brand new cheeseburgers because you have eaten ¾ of yours and then told me that it didn’t taste right. I have taken you French fries because you weren’t pleased with the macaroni and cheese, only to watch you eat both side items after I leave the table. I have listened to every single one of you who has complained about our prices, and to you, I say, “pack your own lunch.” Our prices are reasonable, and we give you too much food for the price you pay (at least according to housecoat lady). Complaining about our prices doesn’t do either one of us any good. So, to all the ones this letter applied to, I’m out. Our relationship has been toxic, and I just don’t see a future with you. And just in case there was any confusion, it’s not me, it’s you. I go into work every day, determined to be friendly. I greet you with a genuine smile on my face, and I do my best to make sure that you eat a good meal and you have a pleasant time doing so. I respond with kindness and respect, even when you can’t be bothered to respect me. I am a human being. I am not your slave, I am not your mama, and I am not your wife, so stop staring at my ass as I walk by. You are not the center of the universe, so start treating others with the respect that you demand to be given. As always, thanks for eating with us. Have a great day and we hope to see you again (or not).

Sincerely, ----

“Romanticism—A Rebellion against the World” by Eden Weidman Both godly innovation and worldly reason inhabited human consciousness for a time, yet both became problematic when they failed to fulfill human needs. Out of the catacombs of the 18th century rose a hunger for wilderness and a thirst for madness. A radical altercation answered this disparity between madness and reason: Romanticism (1790s-1840s). An odd movement in comparison to its Enlightened predecessor and its eventual descendants, “Romanticism was the new thought, the critical idea, and the creative effort necessary to cope with the old ways of confronting experience” (Kreis, “Lecture 16”). Nevertheless, the movement was not merely a coping mechanism to drastic changes. Instead, Romanticism subsisted as a rebellious outcry to remind society of its humanity as similar conflicts bloomed worldwide. Prior to the birth of Romanticism, the Age of Enlightenment (~1715-1800) blossomed as intellectuals, such as Jacques Rousseau and Voltaire, established individual philosophies and a higher way of thinking. The age pressed for the greater good of common society; unnecessary desires that produced chaos were tossed away in favor of rigid obedience. Out of this logical age rose another world-changing phenomenon: the Industrial Revolution. It crawled its way across Continental Europe throughout the 18th and 19th centuries from its British cradle. An explosion of technological advances brought forth an array of inventions and machinery that changed civilizations across the social spectrum. Both the Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution were powerful influences during their respected periods, yet it

would not be true to say that both brought flawless results. Many recognized the growing errors of each; this conundrum shaped the individuals known as the Romantics and Romanticism itself. During the 1700s, many cried for a political revolution where a socialistic government would take care of its people instead of devouring its population. This cry heightened following the American and French Revolutions. The Enlightenment thinkers challenged the ancient European regime, yet “few of them would ever agree on a specific program of action” (Kreis, “Lecture 9”). This lack of direction may have led to its flaws, further leading to a “mid-life crisis” Romanticism sought to quell. During the Industrial Revolution, the previous class immobility was shattered; a commoner now had the opportunity to become rich and change classes via machinery. Unfortunately, these innovations made manipulation over the lower classes easier. The Romantics craved varied means to put an end to a narcissistic monarchy; they urged people to usurp the aristocrats. They believed logical tactics ushered in only air and yielded little results. Chopping off the head of a king proved a much quicker way to overthrow him. “Dare to be!” the Romantics cried, urging for the people to live their own way beyond the control of government or industrial administrations (Kreis, “Lecture 16”). They roared for a social revolt and the right to govern themselves. The poet Percy Shelley wanted such a revolution in Britain. In “Sonnet: England in 1819,” he described the present British king—King George III— as “an old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king” (1). “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone…whose frown, / and wrinkled lip, and

sneer of cold command” echoed the sentiment of an idealized tyrant—perhaps the exact king mentioned earlier (“Ozymandias” 2-5). Ozymandias—the subject of this poem— was a real king. Thus, the message in this comparison becomes clear: the days of the monarchy are numbered. Like the ruins of the iconoclastic statue, the monarchy will topple and be buried beneath the sands of time. Shelley’s call extended to the common folk, asking the men, “wherefore plough / for the lords who lay ye low?” (“Song to the Men” 1-2) He claims these arrogant aristocrats turn their skills into nothing; the men of England can continue working but must learn to focus on development of the self. He warns that England will “be [their] sepulchre” if they fail to take back their individualism (“Song to the Men” 32). These transformations in political thought extended to beliefs about man’s relationship to nature. By the 1700s, “man believed himself to be the master of Nature and no longer its victim” (Kreis, “Lecture 9”). Mankind became the sole focus for intellectual knowledge. The sciences, mathematics, logic, and reason that benefit the sake of society reigned supreme. Anything considered medieval was tossed aside: Aristotelian concepts, previous movements like the Renaissance, and the Church represented barbaric debris as none proved standard methods of reason. The Industrial Revolution aided in man’s journey towards supremacy. Rising inventions paved new ways for scientific discoveries to occur with its gadgets. In the midst of all this, the Romantics perceived nature as a source for inspiration that stirred imagination. They discovered that imagination can power instincts and intuition.

However, intelligence from outside sources mixed with the imagination of an individual can blur morality. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818), a prototype of Romantic literature, warns against using knowledge for self-interest and mastery over natural elements. Romantics pointed out that humanity feasted on emotions and natural instincts; under the Enlightenment era, “imagination, sensitivity, feelings, spontaneity, and freedom were stifled—choked to death” (Kreis, “Lecture 16”). The main protagonist Victor Frankenstein laments, “if my father had taken the pains to explain to me that the principles of Agrippa have been entirely exploded… I [would] have thrown Agrippa aside and have contented my imagination” (M. Shelley 24). These unsaid explanations fueled his imagination into a rebellious frenzy; the opportunity of establishing a new being became an obsession. His sensitivity and feelings ultimately led to Victor’s downfall since “[his] duties towards the beings of [his] own species had greater claims to [his] attention because they included a greater proportion of happiness and misery” (M. Shelley 193). His scholarship did not bring him satisfaction—it was ultimately his family that did so. His spontaneous intuition rejected his anthropomorphic creation by appearance alone, causing him to abandon it without a name and a way to defend itself. His creation then enslaved Frankenstein’s own liberty by goading him into an endless pursuit. Pure knowledge failed to conquer the fragile morality mankind inherited, which conspired into a horrific ending to the story: a broken being surrounded by the blood of innocence (M. Shelley 193). Victor Frankenstein’s intellectual ambitions shredded the brilliant homunculus into an unmanly shell of his potential self.

The failures of Victor stemmed from the constant reminders of the past, which hindered his progress. Human progress can only be made by annihilating the past, according to the Enlightenment, because the past brought nothing but good riddance. The Industrial Revolution ensured that no one could retreat into the past. The Revolution brought innovated technologies that sped up productivity but at the cost of enslaving people to a never-ending work cycle. Rapid urbanization occurred as people left the countryside for the crowded cities, abandoning natural gifts for the dollar of man. Factories dehumanized people as “man no longer treated men as men, but a commodity which can be bought and sold on the open market” (Kreis, “Lecture 17”). This productivity raised conformity; identical ready-made materials and exact schedules blurred individuals into one contingent. Romantics saw society shifted into an artificial shell filled with mental and physical conformity. They pushed for a focus on the beauty of the sublime wilderness which affected human intuition, yet between being far too tired from work or too caught up with the distraction of technological pleasures, most individuals lost touch with nature. William Wordsworth was one witness to the switch in human pastimes. In Wordsworth’s “The World Is Too Much with Us; Late and Soon,” his nameless speaker contemplates the dire situation the Romantics saw for themselves, as he gazes out at an ocean. He cries “[he]’d rather / be a pagan” so he may feel less melancholy (Wordsworth 9-10). His heathen self would once again see wondrous nature and its supernatural elements, viewing gods Proteus and Titan at work (Wordsworth 13-14).

This sentiment reveals a longing to return to an era where an earthly equilibrium existed between man and nature. Howling winds and the obscene interactions between the moon and sea no longer stirred emotions (Wordsworth 5-6). His idea is that people once adored Nature for its riches, but now only find such richness in conspicuous consumption from manmade materials. The wish to see the wonders of nature echoed the cry for regression by reconnecting to the mystic side Earth first provided to people. Humanity “[wasted] [their] powers” and took too much for granted (Wordsworth 2). Their dependence on technology eroded their passion for simpler intentions. Romanticism existed as a short fuse in contrast to its counterparts; it burned out quickly in the 1840s. At this point, was Romanticism successful in its various rebellions against the tribulations of the Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution? No…and yes. The effects of both of these forces are still felt today, so Romanticism failed to completely banish their errors into oblivion. However, the movement highlighted attention to human nature in all forms—both its uniqueness and its terrifying aspects. The Romantics also succeeded in letting the common person express him or herself. Wild creativity revived itself from its rigid grave. Nature proved itself to be the ultimate sovereign through perseverance against manufactured ruination. These objectives formed attributes that created a world fit for humans. Humanity is what Romanticism ultimately strived for—the resurrection “of fantasy, intuition, instinct, and emotion—a human world” (Kreis, “Lecture 16”).

Works Cited “Effects of the Industrial Revolution.” Modern World History Interactive Textbook. http://webs.bcp.org/sites/vcleary/ModernWorldHistoryTextbook/index.html Kreis, Steven. “Lecture 9: The Triumph of Science and the Heavenly City of the 18th century Philosophe.” The History Guide: Lectures on Modern European Intellectual History. 31 July 2012. http://www.historyguide.org/intellect/lecture9a.html ---. “Lecture 16: Romanticism.” The History Guide: Lectures on Modern European Intellectual History. 20 July 2014. http://www.historyguide.org/intellect/lecture16a.html. ---. “Lecture 17: The Origins of the Industrial Revolution in England.” The History Guide: Lectures on Modern European Intellectual History. 12 Aug. 2011. http://www.historyguide.org/intellect/lecture17a.html Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein. Signet Classics, New American Library, 2000. Shelley, Percy Bysshe. “Ozymandias.” English Romantic Poetry: An Anthology. Ed. Stanley Appelbaum. Dover Publications, Inc., 1996. 147. ---. “Song to the Men of England.” English Romantic Poetry: An Anthology, edited by Stanley Appelbaum. Dover Publications, Inc. 1996. 149-50. ---. “Sonnet: England in 1819.” English Romantic Poetry: An Anthology. Ed. Stanley Appelbaum. Dover Publications, Inc., 1996. 150. Wordsworth, William. “The World Is Too Much with Us; Late and Soon.” English Romantic Poetry: An Anthology. Ed. Stanley Appelbaum. Dover Publications, Inc., 1996. 51.

New Voices is published with the financial support of the Lander University College of Arts and Humanities and the Department of English and Foreign Languages.

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