Venture Online vol6 by Creative Freshman

Venture Online Table of Contents

Poetry Humanness..............................................3 Autumn Smith, Oxford, MS Love..........................................................4 Anna McPherson, Atlanta, GA Freshman Year ........................................6 Meredith Ratcliff, Columbia, MS Our World, Our Planet of Life ...............7 Ciera Ouellette, Memphis, TN Life.........................................................11 Joan Floersh, Rutherford, TN Rejection & the Morning Thereafter ...12 Matthew Fernandez, Vancleave, MS Duty, Courage, Sacrifice.......................17 Nick Porter, Columbus, OH What Shall I Do? ..................................24 Taeisha Gambrel, Tupelo, MS Money ....................................................24 Cole Devilliers, Cypress, TX Heart Attack ..........................................25 LeaGia Brown, Gary, IN In Realization of Truth .........................26 Matthew Fernandez, Vancleave, MS Beautiful Eyes .......................................27 Gem Panicker, Vicksburg, MS Being Rich Means.................................28 Kaitlyn Jones, Eureka, MO Tradition Sickened ................................38 Keithdrick Mack, Coldwater, MS Summer, Don’t End ..............................39 Lindsay Christian, Bayville, NJ

Volume 6 - Spring 2012

It’s All Money ........................................40 Clarke Richard, Union, SC We Are Not the Same ............................40 Grant Jernigan, Columbia, TN

Prose Ashleigh Buntin ......................................1 Jonathan Carter, Blue Mountain, MS Decisions .................................................5 Jordan Whitley, Covington, TN Dancing with Demons ............................8 Harley Saxton, Water Valley, MS It’s Called Obsession.............................13 Autumn Smith, Oxford, MS The Beast Out There.............................15 Shomari Thompson, Collins, MS On the Back of Confidence ..................18 Virginia Henley, Madison, MS The Importance of Having a Riding ...21 Buddy, Jane Bashaw, Texarkana, TX Miswanting ............................................23 Kent Hill, Oxford, MS Letter of Confession..............................29 Wyatt Wicker, Bartlett, TN The Real World on $10-an-Hour .........31 Zinnetra Jeffries, Holly Springs, MS The Eighty-Foot Drop...........................33 Ryan Stone, Glen Allan, MS Just Another Average Girl ....................35 Angela Wolf, Baldwin, MS

Art William Chandler Craig, .................Cover, 5 Columbus, MS Autumn Smith, Oxford, MS ........................2 Madelyn Burkhart, Southlake, TX ........3, 22 Anna McPherson, Atlanta, GA ..............4, 39 Macki Hubbard, ..............................6, 27, 36 Vestavia Hills, AL Mackenzie Metcalfe, ............................7, 28 Powder Springs, GA Ashley Lock, Collierville, TN .............10, 17 Sharlea Lyles, Plano, TX ...........................11 Faisal Dakhel Alqahtani, .........12, 24, 32, 40 Riyadh City, Saudi Arabia Virginia Henley, Madison, MS ............14, 20 Lee Srebnick, Nashville, TN ...............16, 34 Taylor Sohn, Yazoo City, MS ..............23, 26 Gem Panicker, Vicksburg, MS...................25 Jessica Gullick, Myrtle, MS ......................30 Emily Johnson, Tupelo, MS ......................35 Taylor Walters, Rancho Mirage, CA .........38

Volunteer Readers

• Jane Gardner • Emily Cooley • Shanna Flaschka

• Amy Mark • Wendy Buffington • Griff Brownlee

Student Readers and Editors • Cindy Tran • Hannah Parker • Andrew Anderson • Autumn Smith • Steven Anderson • Mary Todd Student Editor: Cindy Tran Student Art Editor: Steven Anderson Editor: Milly West Designer: Larry Agostinelli

From the Editor Here it is â&#x20AC;&#x201D; our sixth edition of Venture Online! It may not look so different from the previous issues, but it is. This is the first edition in which almost every entry was chosen by a group of student editors with just a little help from several faculty members. I worked this year with some of the same student editors from last semester. As usual, we have been through a long and difficult process, having to leave out some work which was good, but not quite right for this issue. I have encouraged all the students to keep on writing. All teachers should be proud of their student writers. Memoirs abound, with tragic stories of lost love, humorous works of fiction based in childhood memories, and several stories of personal triumph. I want to whole-heartedly give praise to our designer, Larry Agostinelli from the Division of Outreach who continues to surprise us with a newness of style that makes all of our hard work come together. Our student editor, Cindy Tran read and reread every work of prose and poetry, and together with the other student readers, picked the work to be included. Cindy does not pull any punches. She is straightforward and honest in her reaction to what she reads. With her help, the other student editors found confidence in their own opinions and in their ability to add voice to those opinions. Our art editor, Steven Anderson was also a reader, but worked mainly on the choice of art for this edition. Once the selections were made, we all depend on Larry to make

Milly West, Larry and Cindy

everything fit and look good. In turn, he listens to our ideas and tries to accommodate what the students envision. I continue to be grateful to Bob Cummings, our director, and Alice Myatt at the Center for Writing and Rhetoric, for their support of Venture. I also thank Tim A n g l e, Janey Ginn, and Deborah Freeland at the Division of Outreach for their joint support of this vital project for student creativity. Venture is made all the more interesting and fun because of University librarian Amy Mark, our constant friend at CWR who works every year with The Mystic Krewe of Mykarma, a group dedicated to gender equality on campus. The group reads every prose and poetry entry and chooses a winner in each category. They also choose a winner in art. All three winners receive a gift certificate to Square Books. Thank you Amy and the Krewe for your support. Our magazine is printed each semester by University Printing Services, and as you see, the publication is professional and just wonderful. Thanks go to Gay Eubanks who manages to expedite our printing job for each issue. Thanks must always go to the consistent backbone of CWR, Glenn Schove, for going out of her way to make every launch party a success. Sincerely, Milly West, editor Venture Online can be found on the English, CWR, and Outreach sites at Ole Miss. http://issuu.com/literary_visual_art/docs/venture_vol1 http://issuu.com/literary_visual_art/docs/venture_vol2 http://issuu.com/literary_visual_art/docs/venture_vol3 http://issuu.com/literary_visual_art/docs/venture_vol4 http://issuu.com/literary_visual_art/docs/venture_vol5 http://issuu.com/literary_visual_art/docs/venture_vol6 Venture Online is a joint project between the Division of Outreach and the Center for Writing and Rhetoric at Ole Miss.

Ashleigh Buntin by Jonathan Carter With life comes growth, with growth comes experience, and with experience comes heartbreak. There is no greater heartbreak than the loss of a loved one. A youthful death is short of a tragedy, it will open the eyes and hearts of all who came into contact with that lost person. However, for some of us it does much more than that. The old saying, “Everything happens for a reason,” unfortunately guided me when I lost a girlfriend during my senior year of high school. I always found it odd that I had never lost a close family member or a beloved friend although I was about to graduate high school. My family was on the “older” side of the spectrum, and it seemed as if all of my close friends had experienced a tragedy. The lingering thought of wondering when such a thing would happen haunted me for my entire youth. I had no idea how I would handle the situation, I was fearful of who it would be and was not in any hurry to find out. On the evening of March 31st my home was the host to my mother’s 49th birthday party. All went according to plan, and eventually the driveway was a little less packed, and all the gossiping had ceased. Tired, we all went to sleep. I remember abruptly waking up to my mother leaning over me in my bed with the light from the hallway glaring through the open doorway. It didn’t take me long to realize that something was not right. I can still vividly remember the crack in my mother’s southern accent that came about only when she attempted to hold her emotions back. When I heard my mother say, “Ashleigh got burnt up tonight,” I quickly responded with “What do you mean, burnt up!?” She went on to explain that Ashleigh Buntin had died in a single car collision on Old Highway 15 after

getting off of the night shift at our local McDonald’s. It was official. I had awoken from a harmless dream to set foot into my worst nightmare. You might be wondering why my mother awoke me to deliver this news. Who is Ashleigh and what is she to this story? Ashleigh Buntin without a doubt was the most elegant and pleasant human being I had the pleasure of being around. She wasn’t one of the “popular kids” at school, but that did not take away from her outgoing and graceful demeanor. All of these characteristics were part of the reason I found myself in a re l ationship with her and even more significant to why it was difficult to cope with her death. There is really only one way of describing how I felt that night. Have you ever had a bad dream and wished it would end and then suddenly you woke up in the comfort of your own bed? For the remainder of the night I told myself it was simply a nightmare and all would be well when I woke up. As the clock crept closer to daybreak, I realized my tactic was hopeless. The events of the following morning did not make it any easier to cope with Ashleigh’s death. Numerous phone calls and text messages informing me of what I already knew only added to the cruel reality I wished I was not a part of. I eventually convinced myself I would go to school even after my mother asked me to stay home. For the first time since I began driving myself to school my mom dropped me off, not because she wouldn’t let me drive, but because my car would not start. For quite some time I have had a strong faith in Christianity and there is not a doubt in my mind that God was doing his best to grab my attention. He definitely had achieved that goal. As the weeks wore on and things started settling back to normal for most people, I found myself still as depressed as I was the moment I found out about Ashleigh’s death. As difficult as it was, I realized I still had important issues left to be attended to in the remainder of my senior year. An

unsigned football scholarship, a chance at being the first member of my immediate family to attend senior college, and the pending relationship I had with my former girlfriend Mairanda Hill. Mairanda and I dated for almost a year and a half throughout my junior and senior years of high school and had just recently broken things off before I began dating Ashleigh. The irony of the situation was that Mairanda and Ashleigh were the closest of friends up until Ashleigh and I started dating. The passing of Ashleigh left me with the responsibility to be there for Mairanda in her time of need. Did I think it was the right thing to do? For some reason, yes. Was it right to move on so quickly? I still ask myself that question today. The tro u bled times continued as the re l ationship between Mairanda and I faded once again, and this time for good. Continuous drama and heartbreak were the highlight of the remaining months of my high school experience, and there is not a day that I wish to experience that again. With all of the recent events in mind, my decision to accept a scholarship to the University of Mississippi came fairly easily as my altern ative was attending a local community college that didn’t offer the new scenery that I was in search of and needed. As much as I love the town in which I was raised, I finally decided that my calling was elsewhere. The emotions brought about by Ashleigh’s death are some that I never wish to revisit. However, without this series of events unfolding, I can’t imagine myself in as good of a frame of mind as I am in today. I hate to call her death a wake-up call or an intervention because it simply shouldn’t take the loss of a human being to make others realize that life is precious and should be cherished daily. I realize now more than ever that God has a plan for each of us, and I can rest assured that Ashleigh was definitely a part of my plan. The fact that she died on my mother’s birthday and was buried on my ex-girlfriend’s birthday didn’t make this a realization; nor did the fact that my car would not start

Autumn Smith, Poseidon’s Rising (charcoal)

the next morning or the sad truth that I still cannot bring myself to visit her grave. All it took was my father who had lost his beloved sister in a similar manner saying “It happened, there’s nothing you can do about it, but it’s left up to you to take what you can from it and make the most of it.” The relationship my father and I have makes this statement all the more significant. With this being one of the few times he would address a serious situation concerning me, I knew that what he was saying had a world of truth behind it and that everything really does happen for a reason, whatever that reason might be. Ashleigh, if I could see you one more time it would make up for all those painful memories; if I could trade spots with you I wouldn’t have to think twice about it; if I could express in words how much I miss you, I would sure as hell try; but the main thing I want you to know is that I never will forget about you and your loss will never be in vain. One last thing, even though I never had the chance to say it while you were here, I just want you to know, I do love you Ashleigh Buntin, and I always will.

Humanness by Autumn Smith I felt it. What was there, right beneath my skin, If I bled over Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d feel the freedom pouring in. Or was it the chains invading? Taking the revenge it sought because of so long ago, killing myself so many times. Oh, it is truly the damned of lives to love, To know what sweet sorrow is, never to come to me But love would shed wing and call me its host. Should I be grateful or endangered? Should I take the wings into flight of what element Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been fed Or destroy the world with the poison it has given?

Madelyn Burkhart, Cacti in Aruba

Love by Anna McPherson Where has the custom gone to have manners and sophistication in a relationship? Is love hopeless, a waste, a war between two instead of something meaningful? Has beauty and outward appearance become more important than faith? Is someone’s soul not enough to love? What ARE we falling in love with today—someone’s looks and not their heart? These are the questions we should not have to ask when in love. Love should not be doubted, deceitful, or unfaithful. Love should be true and unquestionable.

Anna McPherson, Red Surprise

Decisions by Jordan Whitley When I was a sophomore in high school, my Aunt died. She was young. She was an alcoholic with liver cirrhosis. Until this day, even as a student at the number three party school, drinking is not on the top of my priority list. I know that for me things would never get as bad as they were for my Aunt, but whether or not to drink is a choice that I deal with every time I ever go out with my friends. “Drinking” isn’t important to me. It’s as simple and as easy as that. For me it’s about making smart choices and having fun without being “under the influence.” Sometimes it’s more fun to just sit back and watch. Recently, one of my best friends was arrested due to the influence of alcohol. To hear news like this, it breaks all kinds of barriers. It’s hard to see your best friend waste away his life while making poor decisions. My morning started off like any other until I got a phone call from my friend’s mom crying on the phone saying, “I was told to call you. Is he in jail?” Getting this call at 7:15 in the morning and not knowing what to say or how to tell his mom that you have no idea what her son did last night is a hard thing to do no matter who it is. Do not get me wrong, I love my best friend and I would be there for him in a heartbeat, but picking him up from jail and seeing him in that state broke my heart. This should be the wake-up call that he has needed to get his life back in order, but if he does not see it now, I am not sure that he ever will. I would like to think I am a strong person—someone who is calm and handles certain situations with a level head. As I look back on the sad end to my Aunt’s life and the mistakes my friend is making, I can only keep my so-called “game face” on for so long before I break down. Don’t get me wrong, we all make mistakes that we wish we could take

back, but there comes a time when circumstances like these can either shape you, point you in the right direction, or send you hurdling down a path of destruction. Today, after I bailed him out of jail, I went back to my room and cried for an hour. I cried because he is my best friend and a good person who is making bad decisions. The guy making all these horrible decisions is not the friend that I grew up with. On one hand, I am sad for him, that he had to go through all this in order to (hopefully) realize that he needs to change his ways, but at the same time I am furious with him because I have had so many talks with him that never seemed to help him change his ways. I want to be able to enjoy my college experience and get the grades I want. When I turn 21, I will probably feel the same way I do now, but the fact of the matter is that I don’t need alcohol to have fun or be myself. Alcohol makes you into someone that you aren’t; it makes you lose control and puts you into situations that later you will regret. I am not writing this to tell people not to drink, but in my life I have seen people that I care about get hurt due to alcohol abuse and misuse. So I propose to anyone who reads this today to make wise choices. Just like I tell my friend, live your life to the fullest, do not let alcohol stop you from reaching your full potential. Live.

William Chandler Craig, Rough Draft

Freshman Year by Meredith Ratcliff From what I hear this is the best year of my life Who knew that all nighters would cut me like a knife? A lot of people think it is all about party While I am worried about not being tardy I was nervous, who was my roommate? People at home wondered who I would date The big question arises “Are you going to rush?” A question that always made me blush This year has been a lot of fun I can’t deny I have made friends that will last until I die Freshman year is not all partying and schoolwork, you see It’s about becoming the person you’re supposed to be

Macki Hubbard, Barnard Obscured by Spring

Our World, Our Planet of Life by Ciera Ouellette A hazy band of white light outside the night sky holds our barred spiral galaxy situated on a stream of stars. Our celestial universe — cradling planet Earth, encompassing everything. She gives life to all, like a mother to her young. The world — created for you and me, made of lush land and blue water, human and animal, turns slowly around the fire burning sun as a foundation for the miracle.

purifying the air, and providing fresh strength to all. Pebbles, boulders and old weathered hills just sit, silent and still as pleasure exists amid these pathless woods. Earth, with its years of bounty, survived through drought, famine and flood. In unison with the growth, death, and renewal of all life. Build humbly and live simply — There is rapture here in this sublunary world, a gift to be protected.

Oh green Earth, you bore us and sustain us. You feel delight in my bare feet, while breezes from the shore tousle my long hair. Waves crash onto gray colored jetties, and brackish water tarries in tiny estuaries overflowing into a deluge. Northerly lie your rich forests, surrounded by scents of bark, trees, and black soil. The lungs of the land, a breathing entity,

Mackenzie Metcalfe, Leaves of Change

Dancing with Demons by

Well did you pass?, Uncle Cecil asked. I looked at my mom, I did, I did!! My mom was so proud to hear Harley Saxton that. And so was my dad, but for personal entertainment. He knew how my grandparents were. So, off we went to Water Valley. All right! I did it! It was the last day of school and The ride wasn’t too bad, just hot. I love my Memaw I just found out that I passed the first grade. Aw man, I knew my parents would be so proud. Summer vaca- and Papaw. They are always glad to see me. We pulled up, got our hellos and hugs out the way, and it didn’t tion time! Oh yeah, summer vacation. Then it hit me. I passed and I get to go to my grandparents’ house for take Daddy long to do all that; then he was gone in a puff of smoke. the summer. The first couple of weeks went by fine. I worked My grandparents were hard-working, good Christian hard all day, went to Bible School every night for an folks. They worked in the garden every day, were at ch u rch every Sunday morn i n g, eve n i n g, and We d n e s d ay hour. Bible study was fine; I was in class with other night. The summer before, I went to visit for a couple kids my age. I came as a chunky little boy, but working out in the fields in the Mississippi humidity, it of weeks; it wasn’t that bad. I got off the school bus and ran as fast as I could to didn’t take long to shed a few pounds. All I could really think about was which one of these girls would tell the good news. I saw my Uncle Cecil was there. be my girlfriend. That was a hot subject with my grandCouldn’t mistake that ride with no one else’s — big rusty, baby blue, chromed-out rims, well, he had three parents. Sex and rock-n-roll. Sex condemned you to hell if you weren’t married, that matched. I busted open the front door, and that and rock-n-roll was the devil’s music and I knew all smell, oh I loved that smell. about hell. If I acted up, my Memaw would read the What are you so excited about David?, my uncle book of Revelations until I cried out of fear. Why is asked while smoke jumped out his nose. He passed rock-n-roll devil music? I asked Memaw. She said I’ll the lefty to my dad and my dad said, He better have show you. She took one of my uncle’s Madonna re c o rd s passed this year, if not, he gets to stay home for the and played it backwards. summer. You hear that, do you understand what they are I thought to myself, Self, keep it a secret that you saying? passed and you will get to stay home. No, I said. Then my mom came into the living room and You can’t understand what they are saying? slapped Daddy right in the back of the head, Damn it! No ma’m. I told y’all to smoke that shit outside, David was com Of course you can’t, she exclaimed, because you ing home. My dad just grinned through his long, fire don’t worship the devil! If you did, you would under red beard and chuckled.

stand just fine. I tried to calm the mood with humor; You tell me what they are saying! Oh Lord, I had to sit through a good four chapters of Revelations, and got my ass tore up when Papaw came home. You need Jesus, Jesus will save you boy!, my Papaw preached with every swing of his old, worn, leather belt. I would soon find Him. The church we went to was fairly small. It had a big white steeple. That steeple was so bright when the noon sun shined on it, that it hurt my eyes. The cross in the front lawn was large and weathered. The first time I walked in the door, I was in awe of the gorgeous stained glass in the windows. The church just had a lot of work done to it, so everything looked fairly new on the inside. That house of worship had a rock waterfall fountain in the lobby, and you could hear Mrs. Mary Jane Beard playing a hymnal on the organ. Mrs. Beard was always happy to see us kids at service; she called all of us her heavenly grandchildren. Her hands were small and always cold. She played with a slow hand that would move mountains. There was a center aisle, about fifteen pews on each side. There were two bathrooms and a kitchen down the hall in the back of the church. The altar was so beautiful. There was an old Bible, always opened half way in front, and lit incense candles in all the window sills. A couple weeks after we arrived, church camp started, and my skinny, big-eared little brother and my little sister made it up just in time. They were so excited about camp. I was too, until the very first night. All of us kids walked into the congregation room and all the adults were silent in prayer. We sat down in the

front four pews, and I saw that my brother was nervous. What are we doing now, David? He asked. I don’t know, but be quiet. We have gatha’d here today, brotha’s and sista’s, to REVIVE the Holy Ghost in ourselves. And to LEAD these chil’ren in to tha HANDS OF THA’ LAW’D!!, the country, dark, black preacher man yelled. He was a big man I tell you. When he spoke, Amens and hallelujahs rang out right afterward, then all hell broke loose. People began to rise up out their seats with a hand in the air. Some began to dance, some began to weep. So I looked at my brother and sister, and on my cue, we began to dance, but things didn’t stay a party. I looked at my Memaw, and her eyes rolled back, fingers in crinkles; I noticed everyone’s fingers were creased after I looked around; she started to sound like that record being played backwards. I stood in shock; I was awed by the fact, she might be the Devil. Ma’la bam sowa’lo yangdadamylawohumdinfa, was humming from her loins or somewhere. Everyone around us was chanting this propaganda. My sister was so scared she crawled under a pew. My brother looked up at me, with the tips of those big ears just’a burnin’ red, Bubba, what is wrong with ‘em? Young people don’t be AFAID! The Holy Spirit has taken over your souls and is SINGIN GOD’S PRAISE!!! Come up and talk to the LAW’D, da da, he will foe’GIVE you for all yo’ sins, He will SAVE YA!! He began to sing it loud, Come on up’a, come on! HE will save you, from eternal HELL; He will protect you from all the demons ON THIS EARTH’a!! Children took off to the stage like He was giving

away ice cream, and like everyone else, my kin took that offer right away. They all ran up there just to get a slap on the head with the preacher’s finger tips, and a little mist from his rain soaked lyrics. I didn’t buy into it. My Memaw just played this stuff to me, and they were all singing the song. I thought this is the Devil’s work; he had blinded everyone with his darkness, and in fact, had possessed my Memaw. I had to do something. So I sat there with my arms folded. I wasn’t scared of the Devil. I know how Revelations went; the Devil will lose. I just had to cure them all; I had to release their souls from the Devil’s temporary custody. I grabbed my brother and let him in on to my plan. Holy water, I thought, maybe would burn the demon’s skin and make him leave. I tell him to go and sneak a candle, and this shit-eatin’ grin he put on connected both ears. He liked fire. Go to the kitchen, when you hear me yell NOW, and put the flame up on the sprinkler head in the ceiling. He nodded with great anticipation; this was the same prank we pulled in the last apartment complex we lived in, in Vicksburg. OK! he said. I run up onto the stage, FINALLY this young man Da’sides to find JAESUS, praise the lawd, PRAISE HIS NAME, the now sweat-saturated, de-jacketed, loose necktie preacher praised. I love Jesus, I yelled, but y’all are a bunch’a ole demons in here, and Jesus ain’t workin, so I’m here to save you NOW! I’m here NOW! The sprinklers went off with little delay. Now everyone turned back to normal. They were yelling in a language that I could understand. I thought to myself, it’s good to be in Jesus’ Army. I saved everyone. Ashley Lock, Dark Road Home

Well, I didn’t save my ass. After all I did, my Memaw and Papaw didn’t seem very appreciative, and we didn’t get to go back to camp. My parents were called the same night to come and get us the next morning. I had never been so happy to see that puff of smoke coming, with ZZ Top blaring out of the car windows. We got our hugs and goodbyes out of the way, and never one to make haste, my dad was ready to go. We jumped in the car, and I took in that smell, that sweet, skunky, sticky, icky pot smell.

Life by Joan Floersh What is meaningful in your life Is your belief wrong or right Are you strong, will you hide Are you afraid, will you fight? Who are you in the eyes of your family Who are you in the eyes of your friends What does the world make of you Does it matter in the end? Are you kept away from your dreams, From your hopes, from your meaning Does it matter, who you are In this world of planes and cars?

Sharlea Lyles, Cherry Blossoms

Rejection and the Morning Thereafter by Matthew Fernandez You said “no” And Earth but entered into stop, as in an absence Of knowing, of place, of self. Where is the knowing? Ah, but you deem of only the grey: The middle ground, the comfort, the cut edge of end and finished. You are done and you do it with ease — with ease of self, for I see no comfort. To the going-world and the rush and the water as it pours, I see but stop and alone and befuddlement. But what I sense is anything but of time. Beat begging. I hear and know that they say a chant: To feel, to explain, to heal, But mostly to know. Dare I be and summon the courage to be. To be of anger or of sadness. Of something. Something is beyond: I cannot. I cannot respond. I cannot. I cannot know but of the alone and of the no and of — “You and I are not!” I guess there is the rain, the sun, the sky, the feeling, But I see only movement, and I must enter.

Faisal Dakhel Alqahtani, Winter Morning

And I must join the world again. I do. I do join again. Because the not is no. The not is me and vacuity, wedded alone. And I am not no. I am yes. I say “Yes” to me. Yes.

It’s Called Obsession by Autumn Smith The action in this piece takes place in the middle of an upcoming novel by the author. In it, a cyborg made for science discovers the outside world for the first time. Struggling to understand the human world he so desperately wants to live in, and emotions he can’t control, he finds love with a woman. What kind of man would perform such an act? Was I a man for this desire or a demon? Those feelings were planted in me. Somewhere deep inside I knew this was not my own idea, but something created outside of me, yet it possessed me so badly I felt it tear at my flesh from the inside out. My body was weak to these pleasurable thoughts, and I couldn’t escape that I sadly found this a thirst I wanted to quench no matter how much my heart struggled. Even as it tried to guide me away, better judgment and this sweet resistance was relaxing me in the shower of adrenaline as I planned it out in my head. I let it replay over and over; wondering to myself how such things could come into my head. Surely I wasn’t in my right mind. Maybe I was distracted, and then as the seeds began to grow. My frown receded, and I knew it was my obsession guiding me in the shadow of love. This was the most I could do to prove that loyalty. The largest vow of love would be my gift to her. There she slept, in my view, on the bed with her head softly placed against the pillow. Her mind dreaming something so vivid I could hardly stand to see her smile. I watched the shadows crawl back from the bed as the moon cast its light across her face. And yet… Suddenly I was sad… How could the world be so lucky to have her every day? When I… well, I was only graced with this presence when my eyes weren’t closed. Jealousy swept over me, and I felt the cold of the blade against my fingers. I stood over her. Quietly the minutes passed, and I thought alone in that darkness just how much I wanted this to continue. Once daylight broke, my happy moments would be over. There

was no denying the truth; I had to set her free. I felt it building up, speaking to me as my love blinded me, and this pondering just couldn’t go on. The longer I waited; the less she was mine— completely mine. I felt her blood flow beneath my hand; running under that delicate skin as I raised the blade over my shoulder. I couldn’t help but think just how lovely she looked… that warmth I craved, needed, and longed for as my breath was lost in her beauty; the burning consuming my breast. How much longer would I let her wait? Trembling, my body shook as my fingers caressed around her neck and thumb pressed to the source of her voice… I had to stop and listen one more time to her steady breathing, memories of the whispers she let touch my ear giving me chills—like the ones that were opening my pores to the cold of the room. And cold soon she would be, that warmth mine, her soul free. Finally, I’d know the true love I’d been longing for. But even as the blade came down, there was a gasp that escaped her lips, and I only grasped tighter to her skin. Finger tips cutting in, my nails were the first to wake her as the silver caught light from the window and reflected upon her eyes. Her image was hung in mine; I longed for the chase. She was in a maze with me following her the entire way. She’d be lost like she was now, staring in my eyes, wondering how this came to be, how our love had suddenly become this game of cat and mouse with her scared and fighting the grasp that love had for her. I wouldn’t let her spare a word. My hand clasped to cover her mouth; her lips pressed against my skin, and a second thought ran through my mind. I pressed forward, the blade swinging down upon her. She rose up to meet it. Love piercing her heart within that second, and even in the release I found I couldn’t smile. My hand fell from her as her body slid back to the comfort of the bed. Her raven black hair fell over her eyes narrowing with so little light that I leaned in. She tried to speak, and I softly hushed her. Kissing her one last time, love suddenly became cold. “I love you…” she whispered as the rose’s thorns pierced my flesh. So quickly I felt my heart leap into my throat, and her soft fingers stroke the reddened skin under my eyes. She touched

so lovingly; I savored it as I tried to catch the light’s mirror in her eyes and… It was gone. Love suddenly left me. My heart raced as the divine feeling was gone, and I could no longer stand it. It wasn’t enough. Her lying there, my end to her being my tribute to love; there was nothing more I could stand than this emptiness of ending. My mind raced, troubled and swimming, as I felt myself suddenly drowning. Oh my sweet, Keller, what had I done to you? I’d let you return home to heaven where now I surely will not go and here I’ll stay till the day comes for my own judgment… the blood was still warm. This obsession warming my mind’s thought, quenching that fervor, adding to my feverous sweat. But my greed, I was afraid, could not be stopped. It was ravenous, staring at love as she lay asleep, the blade having so deeply pierced her source. The reality struck my mind in sparks so fierce my eyes swelled; like a storm, the rain began to fall. Shivering, thunder clapped upon my face as the lightning struck outside the window moving with the beats of my heart. I swore she moved. It was so hard to see through the rain; I fluttered my eyes just to catch the outline of her taking the blade away from me. Tightness in my throat burdened like a knot, a pressure constricting like I had given to love. Yet she wrapped her arms around me from behind, that soft whisper in my ear breaking the screaming thunder that fell past my lips in my mourning greed. “What have you done my love?” This insatiable greed was holding my sanity ransom, and I longed again for that blade. My hands searched for it, and suddenly I became afraid. The adrenaline poured through my veins again. Reality struck my face as she disappeared from sight. No longer there, just a lifeless corpse; she abandoned me. There was nothing to feel, no senses to my lips, not a sound to hear; but, her sweet smell was tainted with the hatred blood ensued. That was what I saw, the crimson red love had promised me was nothing but a trick of hate, and yet I still felt that greed, needing to be enlightened again. I found the blade, resting myself at my beloved’s side. Love was there in me as I stroked her cheek and pulled my

Virginia Henley, Barbed Fences

fingers down her face allowing her heavy eyes relief. My warm lips touched the coldness of her cheek. Lovely white sheets stained with this pure innocent blood. The heartbreak was unbearable. I cried my love out again, the blade inching closer. I wanted to cry out more, and again I confessed to my love. I let greed take over, the words escaping me like a mad man; I was a mad man in love. With each cry, the blade grew closer. With her hand held over my chest, she released me... I was free. My body was quivering, hands gripping the sheets tight till my eyes opened wide. I held my breath for what seemed like a millennia. Feeling the softness of the bed under me made me question everything around me. There was something beside me, breathing, living, and the sheets I grabbed up so suddenly were white and silk, like when I’d rested my head so heavily upon the pillow. My hand crept over her chilled skin. Keller, my dear love. She was resting peacefully and, as I checked with a skeptic eye, unharmed. My breath calmed as I heard her softly hum in her sleep from my touch. As the heat drew her towards me, I laid back comfortably. I smiled, the crests of my lips rising in glee. Sweet relief swept over me like a wanted plague, and I fancied myself now. So happy it suddenly felt wrong, and unexplainable warmth swept over me.

The Beast Out There by Shomari Thompson I live in a time when education is mandatory, a time when it takes more than just a high school diploma for students to be successful. Since birth, I have been pushed by my family members to learn. By age four, I had learned how to read. By kindergarten, I thought that I had mastered the art of reading. I continued to conquer the English language throughout high school and eventually graduated salutatorian of my graduating class. Now, I am here at the University of Mississippi continuing my education. Nevertheless, some people in my family were not lucky enough to grow up in this time, especially my uncle Jimmy Ray. He was, in fact, illiterate. Uncle Jimmy Ray was born at the beginning of the Great Depression in a small town in Alabama. His father, Robby, was a poor farmer and his mother, Ethel, did whatever she could to make money. Uncle Jimmy Ray was the eldest of his parents’ six kids. During his childhood, his parents struggled to provide food and clothing for the whole family. There was barely any emphasis on education in the house because the parents were always busy. Robby woke at sunrise, tended to the fields and went to the market in an attempt to sell crops. He did not return until after sunset. Ethel, who was always at the house with the kids, engrossed herself in odd jobs to make money. She was too engaged in her work to encourage her children to focus on their studies. By 1941, due to the lack of drive and the dire family situation, Uncle Jimmy Ray decided school was too much for him. He dropped out, not knowing much more than how to spell his name, some elementary words, and basic arithmetic. Uncle Jimmy Ray realizing the hardships that his family was going through and decided he wanted to help. He went in search of a job in town so that he could help provide for his little brothers and sisters. After a tedious search, he finally found a job bagging groceries at the local supermarket. The job only paid $2.00 a week, but his family could use all the money they could get. Uncle Jimmy Ray worked in this store for years in fear that he could not find a better job due to his inability to read and write. He lived with his parents until his mid-20s because his low wages made it nearly impossible for him to save money to move.

However, many things changed in Uncle Jimmy Ray’s life when he met Miss Lou Cindy James, one of the prettiest women in town. The two had met in the supermarket and it was love at first sight. They courted each other for a while before they eventually married in the spring of 1954. She was a schoolteacher and at this time, Uncle Jimmy Ray was doing manual labor at the local wood mill. By 1959, the two had already had three children, twins Jessie and Jessica and a son named Adam. With all the time Aunt Lou Cindy was off work and the low wages Uncle Jimmy Ray was getting at the mill, putting enough food on the table for everyone was becoming difficult. Some things had to change and soon. Uncle Jimmy Ray hated his job. In his spare time, he was asking store owners about “help wanted” signs. He had always wanted to be a businessman that made a ton of money, but he had never had an opportunity. He was a master of persuasiveness; that man could talk a homeless person into giving up his box. One Saturday morning, while Aunt Lou Cindy was reading the morning paper, she ran across a Help Wanted ad at a car dealership. The ad stated that the owner needed someone with the ability to sell cars fast. Aunt Lou Cindy told Uncle Jimmy Ray. “Honey, there’s an ad in the paper about selling cars at Mr. Jenkins’ place!” she yelled. Uncle Jimmy Ray thought this would be his lucky break; he had sold things to people before with ease and thought that this could not be any more difficult. Mr. Jenkins was rich and successful and Uncle Jimmy Ray wanted in. Monday morning, Uncle Jimmy Ray put on his best suit. He had planned to miss work that day in hopes of getting the job at the car dealership. He was feeling lucky. He headed down to Jenkins’ Auto Sales and asked the secretary if he could speak to Mr. Jenkins. After a long wait, Uncle Jimmy Ray was finally called into Mr. Jenkins’ office. He told Mr. Jenkins about all the problems he was having at home trying to provide for his wife and kids. He told him he was in desperate need of making money to support his family. Mr. Jenkins, feeling sorry for him, offered him a job. He even promised a good salary with benefits, insurance, and paid vacation. He handed Uncle Jimmy Ray a contract; my uncle looked at it, pretending he could read and understand all the words. The only thing that was going through his mind was the money and the benefits. He signed the contract without hesitation. For the next nine months, everything went very well at the

new job. He was called “The Beast” at his job because of all his success. Uncle Jimmy Ray made enough money that his family could live a lavish lifestyle. He bought everyone new clothes, renovated and refurnished the house, and even bought a new allwhite 1965 Ford Falcon from Mr. Jenkins’ lot. However, tragedy struck in late November of 1967. Uncle Jimmy Ray developed sharp chest pains. Then he got a slight cough. After a couple of days, the coughing got worse, and Aunt Lou Cindy begged him to go to the doctor. The next day, Uncle Jimmy Ray finally gave in. He told Dr. Bruce about his symptoms. Dr. Bruce decided to do a chest x-ray. Uncle Jimmy Ray waited in the examination room for Dr. Bruce to return with the results. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Mr. Barnes, but you have a severe case of pneumonia,” said Dr. Bruce. “Pneumonia?” asked Uncle Jimmy Ray, shocked by his diagnosis. “Yes,” said Dr. Bruce, “and we are going to keep you here for treatment.” Uncle Jimmy Ray called his wife. He instructed her to go down to the car lot and ask Mr. Jenkins for his insurance information before she came to the hospital. Aunt Lou Cindy rushed to the car, barely getting to Mr. Jenkins before he left for home. She told him the situation and asked him for the company’s insurance information. “There is nothing I can do for you,” said Mr. Jenkins. “What do you mean?” roared Aunt Lou Cindy. “Your husband does not have insurance,” he answered. “But he said you had promised him insurance benefits when he got this job!” yelled Aunt Lou Cindy, speaking louder with panic in her voice. “Before Jimmy Ray was hired, I had many employees with pre-existing health conditions. Those employees would just use the health benefits until they were well and then quit the job, so I added the two year clause to all of my contracts,” explained Mr. Jenkins. Aunt Lou Cindy rushed to the hospital to tell her husband the disappointing news. He was even more shocked than she. “He said it was all in your contract. Didn’t you read your contract?” asked Aunt Lou Cindy. “We shouldn’t have spent all

Lee Srebnick, Late Night in the City

our money at once if you didn’t have the health insurance yet,” she continued. Uncle Jimmy Ray sat in silence for a moment. He finally confessed to his wife that he could not read that well. Sadly, he had to stay in the hospital for four and a half weeks. Aunt Lou Cindy had to get a job and sell the Falcon and most of the new furniture just to cover the hospital bills and living expenses. My uncle lost his job at the car lot due to his extended stay in the hospital. By the time he got out, his family was at square one—broke and struggling. Everything he had worked for had gone down the drain because of his inability to read a contract. Words are present everywhere: TV, newspapers, road signs, menus, everywhere. Not being able to read them is like not being able to experience the world to the fullest. In Uncle Billy Ray’s case, illiteracy kept him from knowing vital information. Imagine the times that he had to ask, “I passed that sign so fast, I’m not sure what it said.” Or, knowing he should never miss the 6:00 news because that would be the only way to know what the newspapers would say the next morning. He would always eat what the kids ate in restaurants: “Wh at do you kids want from the menu tonight?” he might have asked the school-aged young ones. Now, imagine, if you can, decades later, my proud Uncle Jimmy Ray missing a session from the local library’s literacy class. He was sitting instead, an hour earlier than anyone else, in the bleachers at The Graduation of the Class of 2011. He heard, “Shomari Thompson, Salutatorian.” Aunt Lou Cindy, next to him, yelled so loud people could hear her in the next county. “Do you see that sign on the side of the building over yonder?” Uncle Jimmy Ray asked her. “It says ‘College: The Place You Want To Be!’ Shomari, son,” he said, “you’re gonna go on, taking it one step at a time.” That’s the ride that’s the beast.

Duty, Courage, Sacrifice by Nick Porter Lace it up, tuck it in, tie it tight Another day of training for a fight Bad guys bump in the night U.S. Forces stop them right Salute the flag every day Even when the days get gray Honor is the glue that makes him stay Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll show respect in any way Years of training change his life Like the day he met his wife He was taught the ways of the knife Polished up to save a life Ready to fight to defend Defend his country, wife, and friend Out in the desert, he writes letters to send While he sits and rests with wounds to mend Growing old and tired He hangs up his boots No longer wired Memories dug in like roots Spending time with his kids in the shade And all his friends heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s barely seen He sees what he has protected And does not regret the sacrifices he made

Ashley Lock, The Faceoff

On the Back of Confidence by Virginia Henley Having ridden horses since I was ten years old, I had built up an unbreakable confidence that I believe I never would have achieved if it had not been for Spencer. In my eyes, Spencer was my safe haven. Through being thrown off and eating dust to racing around barrels, that horse made me tough. He challenged me and taught me to never give up. No matter how much I told myself I was not good enough, he forced me to get back in the saddle and to ride the best that I could. I started riding six days a week at Heavenly Hills Ranch under the instruction of Dorothy Terry. Mrs. Dorothy was always pushing me to be the best and she is the reason I am the rider I am today. She helped me through my frustrations and cheered me on as I became a better rider at each weekly lesson. Whether I was competing at barrel runs on the weekends, strengthening my riding skills or teaching horseback riding lessons, I always strived to be the best. The confidence I had on and within Spencer was almost a spiritual feeling. I trusted him more than anyone in the world, including myself. He had carried me through the rodeo arena and we placed almost everywhere we went. He ran his heart out for me and that is all I could ask of him. Through his kind, gentle eyes, strong muscles, and submissive yet bold nature, he encompassed the characteristics I desired for myself. The barn was where I felt in my element and on that strong horse was my comfort zone, and nothing could change that, or so I thought.

November 20th, 2010, was the day that everything changed. I decided to go out late one afternoon and ride Spencer bareback as I often did. I went out to the barn and grabbed his personalized â&#x20AC;&#x153;Spencerâ&#x20AC;? brown and turquoise halter then headed for the pasture. I coaxed him to me with a bucket of oats. After having put the halter on him, I immediately jumped on him and walked around the pasture for several minutes. He seemed normal as he always did. His head was low in submission and he was not fighting any of my commands. The wind was cool and I felt it trying to fight its way through my sweatshirt. The air smelled of fall and the trees were beautiful varied shades of yellow, orange, and green. I rode a while longer until I grew tired and decided to stop. At that time, I let go of everything and laid my head on that rugged mane of his and tried my best to soak in the moment: the moment of being one with an animal I trusted and of being able to be in my place of comfort. On the back of that sturdy horse was where I could be at peace, with no one to tell me what to do or when to do it. I could just be me on the back of my confidence. After few minutes, I began to ride again. We came to a ditch and I squeezed his big, round sides to speed up to a lope. As he began to lope, his strides seemed to become faster and faster. It was at that point I realized I was about to lose control all together. He bolted and I was helpless. With no bridle to stop him, I knew I was done for. I had two options: stay on and hope he stopped or jump off to the side. I decided to stay on and prayed he would run into the fence, but he kept running faster and faster. This situation had happened to me before and I was prepared for the feeling of being out of control; it did not scare me at all. What

did scare me was the unfortunately foreseen fall to the ground. He ran up a huge grassy hill and along a wooden fence. Suddenly, he jolted to the left and ran downhill, dodging ruts along a barbed wire fence. Whether he tripped or bucked me off, I do not know. I only remember flying through the air and hitting the ground on a cluster of hard tree roots. I laid there on sticks and fallen leaves with my head spinning hoping I had not broken anything. When I lifted my head all I could see was that dumb horse rampantly running away from me as if he were wild and free. Fearing to turn around to see the damage of what the rusty barbed wire had done to my back, I called Mrs. Dorothy. She picked me up on her John Deere gator and took me down to her house. We got in the car and she drove me home. It seemed like the longest drive of my life even though I only lived a few miles away. Not long after we arrived, we met my mother and sister. The decision was made that I was going to the Emergency Room. Suddenly, shock rushed through my veins. I was scared to death because I had never been to the E.R. before, but because the barbed wire ripped open my back, several stitches were necessary. After being so drugged up, I found myself at home with a total of sixty-two stitches in my back. All I could think about was how mad I was at that horse. I even contemplated selling him. As terrible as it sounds, I did not believe he deserved much more than being shipped to the glue factory. He made me so mad. From that day forward, a fear was instilled in me that I just could not shake. My confidence was shattered and after eight years of riding I wondered if I should just throw in the towel. I wanted nothing to do with him, I could only resent him.

I never experienced such a confrontation with fear as I had with the horse I loved so dearly. Since I worked at the barn three days a week, I still had to feed and take care of him. Just seeing Spencer made me mad. Over time, I knew in the back of my mind the whole experience was just a major freak accident. Although, it did not matter to me. I wanted to stay mad and I intended on doing so. Riding horses was like breathing air. It was easy and I did not have to think about it. After the accident, it did not seem like breathing air anymore. But the will power in me to ride was stronger than that of my fear. I was going to ride him again and I was going to overcome my fear. I credit that determination and confidence not only to Spencer, but also to Mrs. Dorothy. She pushed me to do things I believed to be suicide. When I first started horseback riding lessons in the fourth grade, she made me kick and be tough with these huge animals. The idea to me was crazy. I just knew that if I made a horse mad he would just kill me and my life would be over. She stuck by my side for years and every lesson I improved. That is when I got Spencer. In my eyes he was perfect. Mrs. Dorothy pushed me on him: to ride harder, to kick harder and to have nerves of steel. Those nerves are what made me know I had to get back on. It is not my nature to let fear stand in my way, especially in the way of something I loved more than life. After realizing what I had to do, I knew it was time to â&#x20AC;&#x153;cowgirl upâ&#x20AC;? and ride Spencer. To be perfe c t ly honest, I felt jumping out of a plane sounded like a much better idea. But it is not in my nature to be pushed around and walked on, even if by not physical means but by my own emotions. The fear had to stop because I was

not going to give up riding. Riding horses was and still is too much of who I am to give up. I do not know who I would be without them. Several months after the accident, I still would not ride him bareback. Out of frustration and anger I threw my saddle on him as soon as the stitches were out and rode him until he could barely walk. In my opinion, he had not been worked hard enough and needed to learn who was boss again. I began riding him daily, most days around 5:00 in the morning and also in the late afternoons. Being back in my dusty old saddle each day put me more and more at ease. My confidence with him grew stronger each time I rode. Slowly my fear began to diminish until it slipped my mind completely. Riding seemed easier once again, but bareback riding still had my nerves a bit on edge. Before I came to Oxford, I rode one last time. That night I decided I could not let the fear of bareback riding scare me any longer. So, I put a bridle on my barrel horse, Salty, and swiftly jumped on. Since Spencer had shattered my confidence in him when riding bareback, I decided Salty would be a better option. He was solid; I knew that. I walked him around the arena for several minutes just to get my nerves in check. With every step, my confidence grew and my desire to go faster did as well. After about an hour of walking and trotting, I was loping for the first time since that awful November day. Once I started, I could not stop. I felt as if I had to pry myself off of my horse when it was time for me to go home. I could have ridden for hours on end. Little did I know that my big, beautiful bay paint horse would forever leave an unforgettable mark on and within me. Although Spencer was the Virginia Henley, Spencer

root of my fear, he was also still that same sturdy pony I grew up on. I may never ride him bareback again, but I will never be scared of him. I am, however, more conscious of the unpredictable nature of horses no matter how well you think you may know them. It was and never will be my personality to give into any sort of fear that I may have. After all, the only reason I began riding horses was because I was scared to death of them. If I could conquer that fe a r, I could conquer riding bareb a ck again as well. To this day, Spencer has been and always will be my rock. He is the confidence that carries me through all of lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tough situations. After all, I figure if I can handle such a horrendous fall, rusty barbed wire and sixty-two stitches, then I can handle anything.

The Importance of Having a Riding Buddy by Jane Bashaw

“Estimated wait time: 11/2 hours.” I groaned as I looked at the mass of people in lines that weaved back and forth under the August sun. I should not have been surprised. The Maverick was the newest roller coaster at Cedar Point, so of course it would have a long line. With a deep sigh, I walked past the sign with the rest of the youth group and began to wait it out. It had been three years since I had last been to Cedar Point, an amusement park on Lake Erie in northern Ohio. The youth group at my church first went to this mecca for roller coaster enthusiasts the summer before I was going into 5th grade. My mom was a chaperone, so I got to tag along a few years early. I was terrified as we approached the park. Brightly colored metal roller coasters with steep drops dominated the intimidating sky l i n e. I quick ly decided that I would not step foot on any of them. Of course, I was dragged onto every last roller coaster, and I fell in love with them. For three summers, I endured the 14 hour charter bus ride filled with some of my best friends. We scarfed down candy, watched “church appropriate” Disney movies, and played endless games of cards before arriving at our roller coaster filled destination, where we would stay for two days. I became the expert of Cedar Point. I knew that Wicked Twister would never have a wait and was completely underrated, that the Disaster Transport was not worth waiting in line for, and that the corn dog stand in the southwestern corner of the park was the best bargain. I also knew that you always needed to find a riding buddy early. No one likes to have to sit by him or herself on a ride. Ideally, you would find a person and it would be understood that they would be your riding buddy all day.

This was preferable to scrambling to find someone mere moments before boarding the ride. Mine was Rebecca Meredith — we became best friends on our first trip toge t her. We were both fearless when it came to roller coasters, including the Top Thrill Dragster. No one in our group, including the guys, wanted to go near this one. In total, the Dragster is only 17 seconds long, but what it lacked in duration, it made up in intensity. Rebecca and I were shaking in nervous anticipation when we sat down on the ride. After getting strapped in, the train went out to a fl at landing facing a traffic light where it sat for a few minutes, revving itself up with fake engine noises. My palms began swe ating as Rebecca and I realized the enormity of what was about to happen. Even though I wanted to look around, I forced myself to look straight ahead at the 420-foot tall track; I didn’t want my head to be turned when we shot off. Suddenly, the traffic light changed from red to yellow to green within seconds. The train launched, accelerating to 120 miles per hour. I was in complete shock. I tried to scream, but nothing would come out. I felt like my stomach had been left back at the launch site. I couldn’t even register wh at direction I was going. All I knew was that I was go i n g inhumanly fast. And then it was over. The instant the ride stopped, Rebecca and I turned to each other and burst into a fit of laughter. We were instantly bonded by this shared adventure, and we soon became inseparable. During my third summer at Cedar Point, my dad got a new job in a town two hours away from my hometown. Because of my parents’ excellent planning, after an amazing few days with my friends riding roller coasters , I would step off the charter bus and drive on for two more hours to our new home. I tried my best not to think about wh at was going to happen when the trip was over. Luckily, my friends did a good job of keeping me entertained. Even when waiting in line, hours flew by as long as we played games, made fun of each other, and looked out for interesting people, who seemed to be everywhere.

On the ride home, I had a realization 30 minutes outside of town — this was it. When we would pull into to the church parking lot, I would have to start a new life that did not include anyone on this bus. I leaned my head against the window, getting lost in pleas and prayers that some how the end of the trip would never come. Of course, 30 minutes later it did. I saw my parents’ white Yukon waiting for me. I took my time getting off of the bus and unloading my things. I said goodbye to all of my friends, promising to keep in touch, but when I gave Rebecca a hug, the tears came. I reluctantly let go, and got in the car without saying a word to my parents. They understood. They just let me cry in the backseat until I fell asleep. Three years later as I was eating dinner in New York with my best friends on my high school yearbook staff, I got a text message from Rebecca. “Hey, we’re finally going back to Cedar Point this summer. You should come! It won’t be the same without you.” Rebecca and I had lost touch within the past couple of years, so I was surprised. My first instinct was no; it would be awkward. I had moved on, but suddenly, nostalgic images of long lines, The Dragster, and corn dogs appeared in my head. I responded, “Let me think about it.” After dinner, we made our way back to our hotel. I laughed as I watched my goofy group of friends weaving through the crowds of people in Times Square. My closest friend, Sydny, stayed back, though, and asked me, “ Wh at was that text you got at dinner tonight? You seemed preoccupied.” I explained everything to Sydny — how much Cedar Point meant to me, my desire to go back, and my concerns. “You should go,” Sydny said. “It will be fun, and it will give you a chance to reconnect with the people who meant so much to you.” I decided to take her advice, and a few months later, I found myself sitting next to Rebecca while munching on Sour Patch Kids and watching Aladdin in a charter bus on the way to Ohio. It was strange being back at Cedar Point for this fourth

Madelyn Burkhart, A New Day

time. Though the park had hardly changed, I felt like everything was different. While the group waited in line for the Maverick, I sat down on the rail that divided my row from the next. I listened to the familiar faces around me joke with one another. As we approached the front of the line, I realized I didn’t have a riding buddy yet. I searched for Rebecca, but she had promised to ride with someone else already. I went down the line, asking old friends if they had someone to ride with — they all did. Frustrated, I pulled out my phone, which had become a knee-jerk reaction over the course of the trip. I had a text waiting from Sydny asking, “How is it going?” I responded, “I have no riding buddy.” I knew she wouldn’t recognize the problem in this, and then suddenly, neither did I. As I sat down in the ride by myself, I realized I didn’t care that there wasn’t someone next to me to coordinate a silly little pose with for the picture that would be taken after the last big drop. It didn’t matter that there would be no one to laugh with once the ride was finished. I already had plenty of memories of that. Everything now seemed colored with artificiality. It was all just a poor imitation of what used to be. I was ready for the ride to leave its starting point. To move on. It was time to let Cedar Point become a happy memory.

Miswanting by Kent Hill Miswanting is the desire to possess an item that you determine will give you eternal happiness. The act of miswanting happens constantly throughout my life because sometimes I believe investing in material things will make me completely happy, when in reality, I should be looking in other places for joy. A vivid memory of my miswanting was with my first car. It was a black 2005 Mustang GT with black rims, dark window tint, tan leather seats, and an awesome audio system that could not be beat. Nothing was better than cruising down Jackson Avenue listening to T.I.’s hit song, “Whatever You Like.” That car had everything that a 16 year old boy could ever want. It sat at the Sky Mart gas station on College Hill Road for many weeks, and whenever we drove by, I prodded my mom with statements such as: “That right there would be my dream car!” I continued to beg and plead with her to get this car for me. I had to have it. After some time, and some more badgering, she surprised me by taking me over to the lot for a test drive. As I pulled out of the parking are a and pressed down on the accelerator, I could feel all that 370 horsepower coursing through my veins. It was as if I became one with that powerful and imposing vehicle. I knew in that moment this car would make me the happiest man on the face of the Earth. Finally, caving in to my desires, my mom bought that car while I agreed to pay her back in monthly increments. I was so joyous that I coddled this car like it was my child, washing it weekly and waxing it the second the paint seemed too rough. All my friends admired it, and the ladies loved it. I felt on top of the world. Nothing was better than me in this car. But then after a few years, and a couple of speeding

tickets, it began a cycle of acting up. The engine would not start, the tint showed scratches, and the leather seats began to crack and fade. Also, it had very little room. I never could take all my friends places, and there was no way to haul anything too bulky. Eventually, this car that was the love of my life became a perpetual nuisance. I wanted it out of my life. This vehicle that I felt would change everything had lost its gleam. Departing with it would be similar to breaking up with a girlfriend though. I knew I would feel guilty if I gave it up, and I also remembered how much my mother had sacri ficed to help me get it. The day ultimately came to rid myself of the Mustang, and there was no denying it. I decided to trade in the beloved black car and purchase a 2010 Ford F-150 pick up truck with mostly my own money. I treat this truck the same by keeping it clean and in great condition, but I will never forget my first car — the black Mustang GT. The new truck is more practical and has fewer mechanical problems. It hauls larger loads, and many of my friends and family can fit in it with ease. This realization of practicality is a part of growing up I suppose. I guess the truck would have made more sense to buy in the beginning, but once I saw that black gem sitting alone in that lot, miswanting took over and I was hooked. I am happy with my truck, and now when I wish to purchase that new and shiny item that I think I can not live without, I remember the Mustang. I find I can pause for a few days to consider if the purchase is really wh at I need, or if it is just another case of miswanting.

Taylor Sohn, Relic

What Shall I Do? by Taeisha Gambrel What shall I do when the money is gone? Do I just pack up and move back home? Lost and confused, trying to make ends meet While steady avoiding constant defeat. I see others happy with their fancy degrees, Yet I am stuck here with just a GED. What shall I do when I am all alone? Because the friends I had, have all gone on. Gone out of state, to a different place Yet I am stuck here facing constant disgrace. The life I use to dream about has been demolished. Simply because I dropped out of college. What shall I do when I have reached the end? I’ll dust myself off and I try again.

Money by Cole Devilliers In the grand scheme of things, it’s trivial It has a certain power that can make an atmosphere convivial But of course, that is not the most important aspect Relations always come before assets For sure, people and kin will always be above Because as John Lennon said, it can’t buy you love

Faisal Dakhel Alqahtani, Fountain & Web

Heart Attack by LeaGia Brown Ask Me To Breathe For You? I’ll inhale twice. Ask Me To Die For You? Well, I wasn’t really that fond of life. Ask Me To Marry You? You know I’ll say yes. I’ll put the ring on my soul, So that it may never be lost And when it’s time for me to die And my soul goes up to meet my creator I’ll still have a piece of you with me. I’ve been waiting for the one, for you. When we first met, you deleted the words from my tongue. I tried to backspace to make room for my heart For when you tried to give it back, you stole it… I filled out a police report for that. I’ve been waiting awhile now For you to bring my beat back…(Boom boom) Heart Attack.

Gem Panicker, Ceremony

In Realization of Truth by Matthew Fernandez It is but truth I seek — it is honesty. Of which that is freestanding from it cannot thrive. To lean upon a moment of understanding, to speak, To utter: Where? Where is truth? Plastic glued upon the faces. An endless supply of numbers, of facts, of measurement, of comparison. Where? Where is truth? Words are lashed — but more than words: Anger! Anger seeking to tell what is and what is not and what cannot be. Anger! speaking no. Anger! speaking: Here is your place. Here is your limitation. Here Here Here. Never there. Never beyond.

Truth — I remember. Truth is in the beyond. And in the aspiration. And in the struggle. For truth, always there is a challenge. There is battle: Truth versus fear. Deeds. And dreams. And choice. Arising! Beaming! And I know to rediscover truth, I must go into the tomorrow, Saying: There is dream, there is me, and there is the fulfillment. And I speak even now: Tear it down. Tear it down! There, even now, lies truth.

A mask of lashing to hide fear: I see it. I see Anger! but sense the terror beneath, That which lies absent from a realized dream. Where is truth?

Taylor Sohn, Break Through

Beautiful Eyes by Gem Panicker Eyes sparkling like the stars, Softly gaze into the night sky. They can see all the heartâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s scars. These gentle eyes hold not a single lie. Eyes filled with silent mischief Gleam with countless desires. Never will you see a sign of grief. These lovely eyes melt admirers. Eyes glowing with a sense of royalty Give every possible comfort and kindness. They have nothing to offer but loyalty. These delicate eyes only give happiness. Eyes with a look that is enchanting Shine softly without a single flaw. Quietly, I am blushing As they stare at me in awe. Eyes admiring every talent of mine Treat everyone equally with love. They scan the room not for wine But a peaceful friendship like a dove. By these very eyes, I am mesmerized. To be loved by them, my heart cries. So much imagination can be fantasized. Oh, these amazingly beautiful eyes.

Macki Hubbard, March Bud, Ole Miss

Being Rich Means... by Kaitlyn Jones Society tells you that being rich means... Money + Expensive Cars + Designer Labels + Purse-sized Dogs + Vacation Homes + Backstage Passes + Front Row Seats + Celebrities On Speed Dial + Mansions + Private Jets + Personal Trainers + = Happiness. ... Reality shows you that being rich means... Living Within Your Means + Optimism + Love + Friends + Family + Sarcasm + Support + Constructive Criticism + Passion + Humility + Sympathy + = Happiness. ...

Mackenzie Metcalfe, Sea of Possibilities

No equation is perfect. And no list is complete. Materialism does not guarantee happiness. Materialism guarantees comfort. Comfort leads to complacency. Complacency leads to arrogance. Etc. If you want to be rich, work for it. If you want to see the world, open your eyes. If you want to change the world, start now. If you want to be happy, Stop looking for an equation, Stop looking for a magic spell, Stop looking at this poem, And start being yourself. Start acting today like the person you want to be tomorrow.

Letter of Confession by

behind me as I scribble all this out. There was no need.

Wyatt Wicker

A woman in Arizona last year made me the same promise to double my usual payment to kill, I think it was either her boss or brother, or her boss’s brother or brother’s boss. It didn’t matter to me. Anyway, she didn’t even pay me half of what I usually get. The police found her the next day; she had a bullet lodged in her forehead. She’d been robbed, or as the smart person might call it, burglarized.

This small hotel room is too stifling for me. The year is 1887, the place is a small town called Red Rock; my name is unimportant. I am writing this letter as a way of confession. It is a confession for all the misdeeds I have committed over the years. I was born with a gift for shooting a pistol, which I discovered by shooting squirrels on the farm as a child. I always felt guilty for shooting the little things, my mother’s disapproval haunted me even when her rocker wasn’t in sight, but I always enjoyed the thrill of squeezing the trigger a helluva lot more.

I’m starting to stay longer in towns as well. I’ll arrive a week before doing anything, then wait a few days after the job, before I get out. I used to arrive on the day of the job and be gone before the body was cold.

Last week was when I rode into town, to meet a younger woman of no more than twenty. She got in touch with me through a friend of hers that I helped out a long time back. Seems she wants her husband dead. Seems she’s been told I can help.

I want to be forgiven by a priest or preacher, one from a religion I haven’t shot someone from, and then be punished for my misdemeanors. If I’m killed for my sins, then I’ll go to heaven, right? ‘Cuz I sure don’t wanna go to hell.

I began in my late teens; killing a man for money was no different than shooting a squirrel in my father’s granary, and shooting people made more money, so it was fairly obvious to me which direction my bullets would be going from then on. This woman, Bell, long black hair, always dresses pretty, always smells like perfume. She wants me to kill her husband, she didn’t say why. I’m not going to ask. She keeps saying how once it’s done she can pay me double what I usually get—and she will. As reassurance of payment or something, earlier this night she came to my room to prove she’s gonna make good on her promise. She’s still asleep in my bed right

I think I want to be caught.

A couple of weeks ago, I got a message from a pre a ch e r. He said he wanted his cheating wife killed. I met him the next day and he told me he’d pay the usual and pray for my sins. I told him I just wanted the money. Now I’m starting to regret that. He told me that his wife had been caught cheating on him and since he was a man of God he couldn’t do the deed himself. That’s why he called me. He paid half of it up front and told me I’d get the rest once the deed was done. I told him I’d do it that night. She was at the house that night and he was going to be staying at the church ‘till a little later so I had plenty of time.

When I walked into the house she was sitting by the fireplace in a wicker rocking chair. There was a huge cross above the mantle, adorned with a crown of thorns. She was just staring where the embers of a previous fire now lay. My pistol was already out so she knew instantly why I had come, but she was strangely calm about my presence. She just nodded like she had known it was coming for a while now and she just closed her eyes and spoke. “My husband has always preached that we must pay for our sins, either in this world while we live, or afterwards in hell. Personally I’d much rather pay here.”

Afterwards I thought she was crazy for saying that, but now I understand, and I know that my whiskey preacher father would be proud of me for making my ma happy. So now I will confess my slights in life and hope that someone will catch me and deliver justice before God decides to do it himself.

She then went on to tell me about how her husband was a righteous man who couldn’t love her for his own selfrighteousness and she couldn’t bear the solitude. She became jealous of the cross that he worshipped so fervently. While she was talking I heard the sounds of the evening church bells announcing that church was over. Instead of shooting her, for fear that others would hear the noise; I crossed the floor and struck her across the head with my pistol, sparing her a broken body. The husband came home later to find his wife hanging from the rafters above his fireplace, like a sign that her redemption, and his, had been secured. He put the money where I told him to hide it and I was gone before he made it back into town to notify the sheriff of her murder. Since then I have been thinking about what she said, and it makes some sense to me. My ma was a religious woman before she died; I was only twelve at the time. I still remember her final words while she was on her deathbed. She was weak from the snake venom and she told me, “Don’t let him get you too.”

Jessica Gullick, En d'oeuillo

The Real World on $10-an-Hour by Zinnetra Jeffries “Good morning, Technicolor Enterprises, Zinnetra Jeffries speaking. How may I help you?” is how I start my day Monday through Friday — “Blah!” I would have never imagined that I would be a phone operator for a low wage business in Los Angeles, California, making ten dollars an hour and only working forty hours a week. Wait, it gets better, I only get paid twice a month. I live in the cheapest thing I can afford — a little apartment with one bedroom, a small living space, and no kitchen. Topping it off, if I want to park in my apartment complex I must pay fifty extra dollars a month for a parking spot. I am a graduate from the University of Mississippi with a Bachelor’s in Marketing and a Minor in Management Information Systems. I mean where did I go wrong? Was my degree not good enough? Thinking back I remember like it was yesterday… “Oh my gosh, college,” was the first thing I yelled once I walked in Crosby Hall excited and clueless; I had one thing on my mind and it was Los Angeles, California. Wherever I went people asked me what my major was and what did I plan to do after graduation. I always replied with a grand smile, “Marketing” with a minor in “MIS” (Management Information Systems) and my smile would tighten as if I had a lemon head in my jaw when I was about to utter the words “Los Angeles.” School was not the hard part. It was finding a job afterwards. I often regret the decision I made about some internships that I should have taken. Maybe internships could have given me a little status. May fourteenth, two-

thousand and fourteen, was the happiest day of my life. My whole family came down to Oxford to wish me away. It seemed like such a short time ago that I was in running up and down the halls in Crosby with my best friend Allison. Now we were separating and starting our own lives. After graduation I stayed in Oxford for a couple more weeks because I was still under my lease. Allison, on the other hand, found somebody to sublease her room and she moved to the place she talked about every day—Atlanta. I still have yet to understand what was so grand about “Atlanta.” I mean it is nothing compared to Los Angeles, was what I told myself daily maybe because I did not want us to part. She was my backbone, my best friend, and even my sister; but on the flip side I was also jealous. Here in Los Angeles, I am very embarrassed by my living conditions. My studio apartment reminds me of the slums. I hate going home, and “home” would not be the correct word. The correct word would be death trap. As I said, I have to park an additional twenty minutes away and walk to my death trap because I cannot afford to pay that extra fifty dollars a month. I assured my parents that I would begin working for a mega company by my second week of being in LA, and sure enough I found a job — a job that only pays ten inconsiderate dollars an hour. I thought maybe if I started off small I would surely work my way up in no time. Six months have passed, and I am still a phone operator for people who love complaining about the half-produced products we make here. My favorite line is “I am a lifetime buyer, and I have been purchasing items from you all since day one.” Sometimes I want to reply and say, “Well, if you know the items you are buying are a bunch of crap, why are you still investing in them?” However, I nicely send them a new item—like it will work.

When I talk to Allison I listen as she goes on and on about her mega firm. I want to be happy for her, but I feel so small whenever she calls. I know she does not do it on purpose, she is just being my best friend. Every time she calls I am afraid that she may ask to visit, or tell me she flew in to some big conference and wants to drop in. My co-workers are very friendly until they start asking me wh e re I stay, and other things like, “Is it okay if we have the Super Bowl party at your place?” I always give some lame excuse like, “Oh I’m sorry I’m flying to D.C. for the game.” Yeah, something crazy like that. I remember this time one of my co-workers followed me home because I left my wallet on my desk. After I parked and got out, she looked at me with turmoil, and I quickly said, “Girl what are you doing in these parts?” She answered with a rhetorical answer. I simply batted my eyelashes thinking of a huge fib, “I know a guy here who repairs broken iPhones for a very low rate.” She already knew the truth: Fresh out of college doing what some people call making ends meet, and living in LA, this is all I could affo rd. She handed me the wallet and drove away in confusion. Clothes, shoes, and jewelry are the only things that matter to some people. I would often use my rent money to keep up with the latest fashion at work. But I was not who I portrayed myself to be. My parents bought me an M45 Infiniti for graduation that I called Findi. This car means the world to me, because she is actually all I have. I love cruising down Sunset Blvd for lunch with my co-workers and I hate returning to the awkward silence in my apartment. Because of my addiction of trying to ke ep up, I was actually losing the whole time. I often told people back home that I was moving to LA and I heard them whisper saying that I would never leave Mississippi, making me feel as though I had to prove a

Faisal Dakhel Alqahtani, City Raindrops

point. My parents begged me to stay at home and start small to build my resume, but I would not listen. So my not listening got me to the hell hole called Technicolor, but I call it Technicolor for Dummies because their customers keep buying the same products they know won’t work, and I keep answering the phone to help them. Since writing this paper as an exercise in “writing about money,” things are beginning to make sense to me. Both of my parents get on me about splurging on things that are not important or necessary. Since I graduated from high school, moving to California has been the only thing on my agenda. My mom told me to look more into the cost and make sure it is something I really wanted to do, but I blew her off of course. After researching a little bit, Los Angeles, California, is still one of my top priorities, but now I see that move will take more than a pretty smile and a degree from the University of Mississippi.

The Eighty-Foot Drop

(and lessons from a turtle) by Ryan Stone As I looked down into the blue abyss below me, I recalled looking up the cliff before I climbed it. The distance to the water seemed far more than wh at it was previously. Since the instant I looked over the edge of the rocks, my insides were swirling with anxiety and fear. At the same time I felt as if the entire moment wasn’t reality, but fantastical. It was a great feeling to have finally arrived at my objective — an eighty-foot tall cliff. The edge of the cliff was clear of shrubs and plants, but the trek to the top was home to ample amounts of plant life. The edge was also very rocky. The water below was clear for a few feet, but the bottom was not visible. As I looked down, I could not imagine myself leaping from the colossus. My friends and I had heard stories of this cliff, but we had never found it before. To reach it, you must canoe for at least 30 miles down the Current River in Missouri. Canoeing down this river added to the euphoria. We had been at it for days, canoeing and searching for a cliff that matched the description. We found huge rocks and cliffs that we jumped off of, but none near the enormity of the one we were looking for. Canoeing for hours each day, I began to notice things about the world that I never realized before. People take the entire natural world for granted. They do not appreciate what has been put before them on this planet. I can only imagine what it is like to exist in that world, where survival is the one and only concern.

Being on and with that river was a life-changing experience. All of the wildlife and nature inspired me. After reading Annie Dillard’s Living Like Weasels, I can understand her point about survival even more from one particular incident. As we progressed down the river, my friend spotted a fairly large snapping turtle. While he held the animal in his hands, I could not help but look into the turtle’s eyes. Looking back at that moment, I can relate to Dillard’s experience. I could notice that the turtle was waiting on one chance, any chance at all, to snap at my friend. All the turtle wanted was to survive and escape. It was clinging to its necessity, the necessity of living. I can look back and see myself at that time, clinging to my necessity. I wanted nothing more than to stand upon the intensely tall cliff ahead and jump, to feel the air flow through my hair as I fell, and then to eventually hit the water with a feeling of accomplishment. I can see now what Dillard was trying to say. If we all were as passionate about accomplishing our goals as the weasel, or the turtle, then our goals would not be as difficult to accomplish as they seem. Once we came around a bend in the river and saw the behemoth of a cliff, we knew what we had finally discovered. Looking from the river, the cliff was not very intimidating. We were as excited as we have ever been just from the sight of the cliff. We sat in our canoes and prepared ourselves to jump from such a height. One of my friends looked at the cliff and decided he did not want to jump. He also doubted we would even attempt it. As I hiked through the forestry, I began to wonder what kind of state of mind I would

have once I reached the top. I knew that I could not show fear towards the jump, because I had been talking about how much I could not wait for that moment. We all stood at the top of the cliff and gasped when we looked down. From the long road trip to Missouri, through the countless hours of paddling, it seemed like forever had passed before I arrived to the top of that cliff. After my friend jumped, I knew there was no turning back. My gut was still twisting around from shock. As the audience below was counting down for me to jump, I knew that once they were finished, down to one, I had to just jump and not think about it. So I leaped, and as I fell, all of the air in my lungs shot out of my mouth. The fall seemed to last an eternity, and I had time for one thought before I hit the water. The thought of how, at that exact moment, I was falling eighty feet. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s when I finally concluded that my goal was not to jump off the cliff, but to justify to myself that I could actually do it. Deep down I could not see myself jumping from an abnormally high cliff. While standing there, I could see so much more than what was in front of me. I could see how far I had come, and what all I had experienced. I could think back to the snapping turtle and see how it would never give up on its goals. That inspiration forced me to not back down when confronted with the ultimate challenge at the end of my journey. As I reflect back to the moment that I hit the water, all I can think about how joyous I felt. The relief of me, accomplishing my goal, set in.

Lee Srebnick, Red Canyon Pass

Just Another Average Girl by Angela Wolf Thanks to my brother Cody, I had an unusual passion for a sport ever since I was a little girl. I watched his practices, games, and drills. He taught me the rules of the game as well as the significance of the sport. The more I learned, the more passionate I became. Playing with Barbies, painting my nails, or doing my hair and makeup did not interest me at all. I was labeled a Tomboy. In my community, a Tomboy was a girl who dressed like a guy, acted like a guy, basically wanted to be a guy. God, how I hate that stereotype! I was the type of girl most people would see under the hood of a car, playing in the dirt, in the fields playing sports, and anything the boys would do. I would laugh if I got hurt, even if I bled. I didn’t want to be a guy — I just had more fun with the guys. I sometimes focused on my makeup and my hair, but because I loved sports, my biggest motto growing up became “If it doesn’t kill you, get up and do it again.” So I played football. Many people think girls should stay where society labels them to belong, especially my head coach in middle school who just so happened to be my assistant coach when I reached high school, Coach Tucker, my soon to be worst enemy. Coach Tucker was a man who looked a lot older

than someone in his late forties, with his gray hair, bloodshot red face; he was the laziest man I have ever met. In high school he started off as a water boy until his dad (coach at the time) decided he was ready to be quarterback. Coach Tucker was nothing but a high school “has been” that used modern football in our town so he didn’t fade into the shadows. All he ever yelled at me was, “Angel, you’re not doing it right. Watch the boys. They know what they’re doing. God, a girl should not be on the field. You’ll quit in a week.” I gained my position on the field by being better than the boys. I was better than some of the boys when it came to tackling, running, and blocking. In the eyes of Coach Tucker, that was still not enough for me to matter. He had an unusual satisfaction in watching Cody and me face each other. My “little” brother was not so little. Cody stood six feet tall and was 240 pounds of muscle with the strength of an ox, while I stood five foot tall and was only 152 pounds. However, the competition between siblings drove us to give the other one all we had every time we faced off. Coach Tucker’s reasoning behind “the face off” was in hopes of my brother defeating me, but it usually ended in a tie. On the other hand, the head coach in high school saw some kind of potential in my abilities. Coach Dillinger, better known as Coach D, was an older man with white hair, hefty size, a bulged impression in his cheek, and was one of the most respected coaches in Mississippi. Coach D was a father figure to many of us. He helped whenever and wherever he could, made sure we had a positive role model, and taught us some of life’s most valuable lessons. Emily Johnson, A Different Kind of Rose

He came in the weight room one day while I was lifting and managed to convince me to play for his high school team. Shocked I replied, “There’s no place for me on the field. I would never get the same respect as the guys. I don’t like people taking it easy on me. If I was to play, I would want to be taken as serious as the others.” His response, “There’s more place out there than you know. Your heart lies on that field, Angel. When you’re not on it, you would give anything to be there, and if you are on it, you never want the clock to stop. If it is something you love, do it as long as you can.” I’ve never been as certain of anything else as I was the day I agreed to play for him. The next year is where my story begins. There’s nothing like Friday night in the small town of Baldwyn, Mississippi. The whole town is in the football stands, football teams warming up, speakers blaring with the sound of the announcer, and time freezes for that night. Every Friday night in the fall during game time, I catch myself thinking, “How’s everyone going to react tonight? I hope no one takes it easy on me. Maybe I should put all my hair in the helmet. Wow. That’s going to be hard. Oh well. Game time.” Most people would have kept their hair short for a contact game; however, I loved my hair and that was one “girlie” aspect of me I wanted to keep. Run plays, drills, and routines, help the team, and get prepared. I’d become so focused that I would unknowingly bite holes through my mouthpiece. The whole team is called together for the last huddle on the field before the pre-game pep talk. We proudly scream BEARCATS!, then head into the locker room for some Gatorade and a nice long lecture about Macki Hubbard, Crossing the Line

sportsmanship, determination, and the strength of a team that works together. I never knew a perfect night in September would be the night I received my first high school stats. The game went on as usual, losing yards, gaining points, pushing through it all even with that determination not to quit weighing in our minds and body. Defense time. I took my place on the field in my usual and favorite position, strong safety. My job is to be the one who tackles the ball runner if they get past all other lines of defense. I block out the background noise, focus my eyes on the eyes of the quarterback, my fingers are moving, legs ready to release into three steps back then a full sprint toward the ball like a cheetah after its dinner. Then I hear the words everyone loves to hear— “Down! Set! Hut! Hut! Hut!” The ball is snapped; lines crash together. At a glance, I see the opening just as the running back avoids the first tackle, then the second, only five yards away from me. Adrenaline is pumping so fast I can almost count time with my pulse. The running back spins again. I rear down just in time to catch him under the shoulder pads, lift him up and

slam him three yards back causing the fumble to fly out of bounds making it a dead ball and their last down. Turnover, and the ball becomes the home team’s possession. I help the other player up and run back to my team as they change over to the offensive huddle. In the South particularly, we believe in good sportsmanship. We help our opponents up, congratulate them, and so forth. In the normal world, some things we do are looked at as awkward or silly, but to us it is tradition. He never seemed to realize I was a girl (until later). Coach Tucker screamed about all the wrong things in my play. I ignored him as usual. I am on the field, breathing hard; focusing was a complicated task. I listened just in time to hear the play. I’d be the block for the fullback as they ran down my sideline. My mind screams Good. We didn’t get pumped up for nothing. Ha, I love showing these boys just what a girl like me is capable of doing. We break the huddle, and I run dire c t ly to my spot on the fi e l d. One heart b e at. “Down!” Two heartbeats. “Set!” Three heartbeats. “Hut!” I shoot off running, slinging dirt from my cleats behind me. Tyler, a childhood friend who’s as fast as a rocket and small as a child, runs right behind me. Trusting me. Touch-down. We go for the two point conversion. As I am gasping for air, Coach D looks at me and says, “This is you, my little Barbie. Make me proud.” The plan was for me to run a curl, catch the ball and make it to the end zone. Huddle breaks and we line up. Distantly, I can hear Coach D screaming at the team. I feel my pulse in my throat. Questions overflow my train of thought. Don’t drop it. What if I do drop it?

He’s going to be so pissed. Angel, just don’t drop it. You know what you’re doing. You heard him. Make him proud. The ball is in the hands of the quarterback and then is sent through the air. I turn just in time to catch it. “Good!” screams the referee, throwing his hands in the air. We went on to play a good game and left the field with a tired team and a great victory. After that game, quite a few people who doubted me, including Coach Tucker, approached me to brag and apologize for any misconceptions. When the game ended the team met in two lines to congratulate and tell each other “good game.” This was one of my favorite times. We had to take off our helmets, so everyone realized I was a girl. Those other boys felt like idiots, some yelled phone numbers, others just laughed. After I proved the point that some girls can accomplish the unthinkable, I developed a fan club. Little girls told me they wanted to grow up and play football too. I felt as if I had altered the way society labeled a woman and her roles. I signed some little kids’ programs, took pictures, answered questions, and helped some parents and children learn how to get schools to allow girls in their towns to play football. I honestly believe I made a difference in the town, and in some peoples’ lives, just as they made in mine. We all learned some valuable things that night. And if you should meet an egotistical male who believes a girl can’t play football or do anything a guy can do for that mat t e r, take a trip to the halls of Baldwyn High School and stare at the small blonde in the photograph of the State Championship Team of 2011.

Tradition Sickened by Keithdrick Mack Excess of faith Plenty to waste Awareness of life choices Civilized refined voices Threatened by education Some still ignorant to discrimination We dress to conform and imitate our peers While our true personality disappears Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re in a nation where our time is quickened Not really realizing that our Tradition is sickened.

Taylor Walters, Road Trippinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;

Summer, Don’t End by Lindsay Christian I can still smell the smoke from last night’s bonfire, Down on the beach, shoes aren’t required. Slather on some sunblock, run out the door, It’s of days like these, I could never get bored. With windows rolled down, And the music up loud, We head to the beach, Sand under our feet. Always a good time, better with friends, I don’t dare think that this summer will end. So for now, that it won’t, I’ll just have to pretend.

Anna McPherson, Colors of the Season

It’s All Money by Clarke Richard Cold and Hard Ragged and Torn Paper, Cards, or Coins It’s all Money Wars Fought and Lives Lost

We Are Not the Same by Grant Jernigan

Greed Found and Help Given There’s a Cause for it All

As a country, we are not the same.

Money

Is this not where we get our fame? We are not all white, black, or brown, But a mix of ethnicity — integration bound. Some people are gay and some are straight. We may not be the same, but some still hate. Many are poor, and a few are loaded. The rich waste more, without being goaded. The poor scrape by with little to spare, Fervently cherishing all those that care. Love is what brings us together as one. If we do not segregate, then we have won.

Faisal Dakhel Alqahtani, Chicago

Editor: Milly West Student Editor: Cindy Tran Designer: Larry Agostinelli Photo: William Chandler Craig, Rouge FoncĂŠ (withering leaves in the fall)