January 2012 Issue A

local filmmakers showcase AGE 35

verge AUGUSTA & THE CSRA

FREE | JANUARY 4 2012 | VOL 4 ISSUE 21 | YOUR SOURCE FOR COMMUNIT Y DRIVEN NEWS

the inkling volume three an annual celebration of the written word featuring A.C. Daniels adam donnelly BETSY WEIR CAREN STEWART CATHERINE ZICKGRAF DARLENA MOORE DAVIS BRANCH DEREK BERRY DON HARRIS DOUG HOLLEY EMILY MIDDLECAT EMILY PLOCHA ERIN GARRETT F. SIMON GRANT GRACE KIM hugh pendexter III JACQUELINE GIORGI JENNIFER CRAIG JESSICA MOUSER JOHN KAROLEWICS KENNETH HOMER LEO LITTLES JR. LYNN SADLER MARINA GODDARD MARSHA MAUER M.H. LYTHGOE PETE BOYZUICK P.M. ROGERS ROBERT MURPHY SHARON SCHROEDER STEFFANIE ENKO stephen hawks sUZANNE CARPENTER WESLEY ENGLISH

FILM The Poison Peach Film Festival + COMEDY Amy Schumer + FOOD Goolsby’s MUSIC Best of 2011 + LOCAL Manuel’s Fish Farm + BOOKS Boxed Wine Wednesdays

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4 January 4, 2012 | community driven news | vergelive.com

publisher Matt Plocha editor Lara Plocha events editor Sarah Childers copy editor Andrea Bennett contributors Alison Richter, Alison Ryan, Amy Swann, Anne Lovell Swan, Ben Casella, Christopher Selmek, Dino Lull, Elizabeth Benson, Gabi Hutchison, Holly Birdsong, John Cannon, Jonathan Karow, Karen Farley, Leah Deslandes, Mariah Gardner, Michael Swan, Nora Blithe, Skyler Andrews, Stephen Delaney Hale

vergeconnect

we want to hear from you

call us: 706.951.0579 mail us: P.O. Box 38

Augusta GA 30903 email us: advertising and general stuff publisher@vergelive.com story tips, ideas and letters editor@vergelive.com free event listings events@vergelive.com find us online: vergelive.com

vergepolicies the boring part

GENERAL POLICIES: Contents

copyrighted 2011 by verge. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is prohibited. Editorial content of verge is the opinion of each contributing writer and is not necessarily the opinion of verge, its staff or its advertisers.

DISTRIBUTION: verge is published twice a month and available free of charge at locations throughout the CSRA, including Publix, Kroger, Bi-Lo and Earth Fare.

RECYCLE: verge is printed on 50 percent recycled stock.

vergeadvertisers check out our partners

28 34 39 3 32 14 30 8 14 28 10 18 6 4 30 30 4 14 22 36 10 8 4 2 8 10 18 28 30 14 10 32 38 40 18

1102 Bar and Grill 8TH Street Hookah Lounge AB Beverage Aficionados Bar on Broad Big Mamas Flowers Express Blue Sky Kitchen Book Tavern Casa Blanca Casella Eye Center Columbia County Orchestra Edge Salon Elduets Family Y First Round Forkfly Halo Salon & Spa International Uniform Kruhu Manuel’s Bread Café Metro Coffehouse & Pub Moon Beans/New Moon Café Nacho Mamas Rock Bottom Music Safe Homes Sanford Bruker Banks Shen Yu Six Degrees Sky City Soy Noodle House The Learning Center The Loft Tipsey McStumbles Windsor Fine Jewelers Zimmerman Gallery

WHAT’S INSIDE

SMATTERINGS

vergestaff

yeah, we made this

you won’t want to miss a page

LOOKING BEHIND TO MOVE FORWARD

As 2012 brings great expectations and new opportunities, I would like to take a moment to reflect on some great accomplishments and strides made in 2011.

In a newspaper industry that has seen its fair share of struggles this past year, with your support and encouragement verge did some amazing things for the CSRA market.

First, I send out a heartfelt “thank you” to our readers, advertising and business partners, staff members, distribution team and contributing writers and photographers – collectively known internally as Team Verge. Without you, verge would not have been able to accomplish what it did in 2011.

This past year, we provided our community with more ways to engage in, connect with and participate in all of the phenomenal events in our area. We have built strong relationships by partnering with several great organizations to bring you excellent community- and civic-minded events and opportunities, such as The Augusta Market on the River – Augusta farmer’s market, Art-Zilla, the first Champions Made From Adversity Chili Chilly Cook-Off, the DrumA-Thon to Beat Cancer with Jay Jefferies and 12 Bands of Christmas Fight Against Pediatric Cancer. We are humbly grateful for these partnerships and look forward to growing them and expanding on them in 2012, especially as more events are trusting verge with their event message than ever before in the history of our newspaper. We credit this to the strong readership base, which follows our community newspaper in print, online and through social media.

Verge has a growing presence in the CSRA. But, we are also followed consistently in cities across the world – people in more than 500 cities across the United States and 625 cities globally read each issue of verge online. When people visit our community and see the verge message, they bring it back home with them, no matter where they are geographically. These readers check in on us at vergelive.com to see what is going on in the CSRA. Our communityminded message has stayed focused and clear throughout all of this growth.

When people want to find out about our community’s good news, great things, Arts, entertainment and ways to become engaged, they are turning to verge. It is amazing to see the strength of this message grow in a newspaper industry that shed 30 percent of its workforce in 2011. During that same time, verge actually grew.

As our community partnerships and advertising base grew in 2011, even more pleasing was the growth of our readership. More people are finding verge, which is now distributed to more than 150 locations from Aiken to Evans, Martinez to Fort Gordon. We have more planned growth for 2012 to make it even easier to find a copy. This managed growth is a result, in part, because of your commitment to our newspaper, our advertisers and our community.

We have grown to more than 100,000 readers per month – this growth is an amazing accomplishment in the newspaper industry. The verge massage is resonating throughout our community.

Technology played role in our growth this past year, a trend that we saw as important to getting the message out there. We increased the presence of the online Daily Planner, providing you with hundreds of events to see and share.

The Daily Planner is Augusta’s most comprehensive and interactive event calendar. We introduced Forkfly, the new generation of online deals launched in October, providing you with a way to save money at local merchants without having to buy gift certificates or share your credit card number online. Forkfly is starting to have a huge impact across the country with online couponing.

Visit forkfly.com and sign up - it’s free. We also publish each issue of verge online through the online reader Issuu, which allows us to provide you with verge in its entirety – to read, connect with and share with others. Embedded in the online issue are more 200 hyperlinks in articles and advertisements which will jump you directly to their online sites. This provides more ways to get connected to and engage with our community. Another first for Augusta. We also communicate through Facebook or Twitter.

All of these accomplishments have happened while maintaining a positive message – pro-growth, pro- community, non-divisive editorial and community driven content. A true community newspaper. It is a responsibility we take to heart and approach seriously. We do all of this while providing our advertisers with one of the most cost effective advertising vehicles in the entire market.

This is why we say that verge is “relevant” to community and “more” than just a newspaper.

the inkling

11 The 2012 Inkling Begins

More than 30 selections of prose and poetry grace this year’s pages

South Carolina Summer by JESSICA MOUSER

12

Warmth by P.M. ROGERS Kansas Ladies Aid

by MARSHA MAUER

13 Berries, Boycotts and the Purple Lady Poetaster 15 Anna Ruth Row Me Out in a Cracked

by JACQUELINE GIORGI

by EMILY PLOCHA

by KENNETH HOMER

Canoe by Jessica Mouser

Injun Joe Loses His Hat 16 Out of Water

17 19

Kings by DAVIS BRANCH The Stale Grandeur

by STEPHEN HAWKS

Here There Dragons Be I by DON HARRIS In Memory Of Carl Sandberg by SHARON SCHROEDER My Aunt Wore a Plume in Miami by M.H. Lythgoe Word by LEO LITTLES JR.

Lover Nam, Abbie 20 My Hoffman and So Much More

by CATHERINE ZICKGRAF

Ode to Myself by DARLENA MOORE

ON THE COVER Untitled, STEPHEN HAWKS, 2011

by LYNN SADLER

21

Bricks by EMILY PLOCHA Burdens Born of Crowns by EMILY MIDDLECAT Portrait of a Porch, 2009 by MARINA GODDARD

23 24

Independently Wealthy by ROBERT MURPHY

25 27

Bait for the Damned by DEREK BERRY

29

Dream by WESLEY ENGLISH Manna by HUGH PENDEXTER III The Sexus by f. Simon Grant The Shrew Tamed Anew by Steffanie Enko

Hope and Ice Cream by SUZANNE CARPENTER Ode to a Chocolate Lab by BETSY WEIR Here There Dragons Be II by DON HARRIS Did You Hear the One by SHARON SCHROEDER

regular stuff 07 09 31 33 35 36 37 37

Heard Around Town Augusta Eats + Beers Locals Like The Daily Planner Lokal Music Nightlife The Film Reel The New York Times Crossword Life Face First

vergequotes

Happy New Year! It’s going to great!

Matt

Girl

by JENNIFER CRAIG

What a great year experienced in 2011. Cannot wait for 2012 to get going!

See you out and about in community.

by DOUG HOLLEY

here’s what inspires us

“That’s why I write, because life never works except in retrospect. You can’t control life, at least you can control your version.”

— Chuck Palahniuk

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6 January 4, 2012 | community driven news | vergelive.com

heard

around town

what’s happening in augusta and aiken

[ manuel’s bread café begins fish farm ]

Manuel’s Bread Café will soon be adding locally raised fish to its menu, adding to its offering of locally grown vegetables, eggs and honey.

The café acquired Blue Clay Farm two-and-a-half years ago from the owners of Hammond’s Ferry, who wanted to do something with the land beneath the power lines but found a farm difficult to manage. Manuel Verney-Carron, the owner of Manuel’s Bread Café, said that though owning the farm required a large initial investment, he believes it is paying off.

“Farming is one of those things that take years to fully develop,” he said. “You have to start small and know what direction you’re going it before it takes off. I grew up on a farm so I know what I want, but the hard part was to find somebody who shares my vision and fortunately I found Janice Persenair to manage the farm for me, and she has been really great and is very knowledgeable about these things.”

The latest addition, the fish farm, is kept inside the greenhouse so that the water can be kept at 85 degrees and safe from raccoons and other predators.

“Tilapia like their water very hot,” said Manuel. “We keep 100 fish in one container and, over the course of four months, they will grow from finger-sized to plate-sized. Then we can serve them.”

Manuel says that the experiment is going very well so far, but that it will probably be another month before his locally grown tilapia begin showing up in the café. Based on the success of this first batch, he has two more tanks he would like to install early next year.

Manuel’s Bread Café is located at 505 Railroad Ave., North Augusta. For more information, contact 803.380.1323 or visit MANUELSBREADCAFE.COM.

[ symposium honors courage ]

The Augusta Museum of History will host the second Jimmie Dyess Symposium on Jan. 12 at 5 p.m. in the museum’s rotunda.

The symposium was created to recognize Dyess’ courage as both a citizen and a soldier of the United States and to identify others who have shown similar valor or made civic contributions above and beyond the call of duty. Dyess was a native of Augusta.

This year’s event will include remarks by Maj. Gen. Perry Smith, who served 30 years in the U.S. Air Force and now serves as secretary of the Congressional Medal of Honor Foundation.

The Honorable D. Douglas, Barnard, Jr. and Major Bruce P. Crandall will receive the Distinguished American Award.

Born in Augusta in 1922, Barnard served in the U.S. Army during World War II. From 1977 to 1993, he served in the U.S. House of Representatives. As a congressman, he helped create the Community Foundation of the CSRA and the Wounded Warriors Project of the CSRA.

[ half marathon moves to february ]

Crandall’s heroic actions as a helicopter pilot during the Vietnam War 1965 battle of the la Drang Valley brought him a Medal of Honor. Crandall flew 20 missions in an unarmed helicopter into heavy enemy fire to evacuate the wounded and deliver ammunition and supplies. He was portrayed in the 2002 film We Were Soldiers by actor Greg Kinnear.

This year’s race is a departure from previous years, when it was held in the fall. The course has also changed, most notably taking runners directly past the gates of the Augusta National Golf Club, though it will still have a large downtown component and a stretch up Walton Way and past Augusta State University.

The symposium is free to the public. For more information, call 706.722.8454 or visit AUGUSTAMUSEUM.ORG.

The Augusta Half Marathon begins at the front of Enterprise Mill on Feb. 26, when nearly 900 runners will compete in a 13.1mile race throughout the city.

MAJOR BRUCE P. CRANDALL

[ tipsey mcstumbles opens for lunch ]

Tipsey McStumbles, at 214 Seventh St., is expanding its hours to serve lunch in the local pub’s relaxed atmosphere.

“I think the fact that the new course goes past the National Golf Club is a big selling point for out-of-towners, who are typically 20 to 25 percent of our racers,” said Carly Kobasiar, the Augusta Sports Council’s sales and marketing manager. “The date is the biggest change, because we think February is a great time to keep up with the New Year’s resolutions, and it’s also a great kick off to the start of spring.”

Interested racers can register by visiting augustahalf.org or attending the race expo at the Enterprise Mill Events Center on Feb. 25. The registration fee is $50 between Jan. 11 and Feb. 10, and increases to $55 from Feb. 11 to Feb 21, and $75 on site at the expo.

The bar will be open from 11 a.m. to 2:30 a.m. Monday through Friday, and from noon to 2 a.m. on Saturday. The kitchen will serve a variety of traditional pub fare, including hamburgers, nachos, chicken wings and 10-inch thin-crust pizzas, which will be available for dine-in or take-out.

“We would like to get some of the businessmen and other professionals who work in the offices around here,” said Mike Anglin, the owner of Tipsey McStumbles. “I’ll be cooking most of the lunches myself because I want to nurture this new aspect of the business, just like I was behind the bar when the business was starting.”

The Sports Council is looking for 350 volunteers to help man water stations and stop traffic throughout the race. For more information, call 706.722.8326.

“People love our nachos and we sell a ton of them,” he continued. “We’re also adding a few things, like a spicy meatball sub that is really good, and a Philly Cheesesteak that was really popular when we sampled it.”

[ got news? we want to hear it ]

Tipsey’s also offers pizzas that are freshly made in the kitchen, not reheated, using a variety of special ingredients.

The bar will continue to host happy hour from 4 to 9 p.m. Monday through Saturday, featuring $2 domestic bottles, $3 well drinks and $3 draft pints. Anglin also hosts Trivia Night every Monday at 9 p.m. To order ahead, call 706.955.8507.

Verge is a community driven newspaper - so we want to hear from you. Send your good news, upcoming events, promotions or story ideas to editor@vergelive.com for publication consideration. Include contact information for any questions.

Around Town is written by CHRISTOPHER SELMEK

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8 January 4, 2012 | community driven news | vergelive.com

beers locals like toast the season with a specialty holiday brew

2012. According to the Mayan calendar, the world is going to end on Dec. 21. I know – bummer. I mean, the book I am writing about being a good dad needs to be on the New York Times bestseller list for at least six months to support the book tour. Then, I was going to keep it in hardback for at least a few years before even considering paperback. These Mayans have really put a damper on my year. So, I guess I will just sit back, have a few dark beers and complain about things until the night before the Winter Solstice, when we will all PARTYYYYYY!

Brooklyn Black Chocolate Stout | At 10 percent ABV, this imperial stout isn’t exactly what I would call the ideal session beer. So, save it for dessert, as it will creep up on you quicker than a New York minute. The pour resembles black coffee with a nose that conveys a battle between chocolate and coffee, with toast coming in a distant third place. Chocolate definitely wins out in the taste and a low carbonation lets the aspects of the nose sink into the tongue. As far as chocolate stouts go, this beer ranks up there with the finest and would really complement a scoop of fine vanilla ice cream (the kind with those little pinches of ground up vanilla beans in it).

Dogfish Head Chicory Stout

Again, I don’t know of many things that have actually come out of Delaware (apologies to any Doverians reading this article), but I must say that Dogfish Head is one of my favorite breweries. That being said, Chicory Stout is one of their finer creations. It pours almost black and coffee wood embers dominate the nose with nothing else coming close. The taste is quite similar, but without such a smoky feel to it. In short, if you like anything about coffee, you will be fine. I should tell you there is licorice in there somewhere. I cannot quite put my finger on it, but it is definitely in there.

Victory Otto | This Pennsylvania ale pours a deep, dark burgundy / copper hue that reminds this columnist of several British ales he’s reviewed (although he is pretty sure the brewers are going for a slightly more German rauch theme here).

The nose is herbal and smoky, and these attributes definitely carry over into the taste. So, if you’re not into rauchbier, this one is not for you. If, perhaps, you are (as am I), this brew is definitely worth trying. Don’t get scared off, however, as there is a tinge of sweetness in there (reminiscent of dipping the tip of a nice cigar into a snifter of Grand Marnier).

The Vixen Chocolate Chili Bock | I know what you are thinking

and I was thinking the exact same thing: This is quite a pretentious title, even for a brewery as established as Samuel Adams.

Fortunately, this title is as descriptive as it sounds. Vixen pours a dark, very dark brown with a nose that emanates 70-plus percent cocoa. The chocolate wins out in the taste, but the chili is definitely present.

However, neither of these tastes offends the tongue – there is nothing too bitter or too spicy about this tipple. It ends up being a user-friendly chili bock, but if you want something more spicy in a beer, find me on Broad Street and I’ll steer you in the right direction.

from the fork of

augusta eats a genuine foodie takes on augusta’s fare one bite at a time

GOOLSBY’s

It makes no difference who you are or where you’re from – Southern cooking is the best of the best when it comes to satisfying the palate and soul. I’ve known many a chef to cook up some great Italian or Mediterranean fare, but when he goes home and cooks for his family, his recipes are down-home, comfort foods – akin to our Southern made-from-scratch, slow-roasted, long-simmered and pitsmoked cuisine. Of course, down South, most of us grew up on these dishes, with our mama’s voice in the back of our heads: “Y’all gone miss this home-cooked food when you get older.”

And, as usual, Mama was right.

Ask a Southern mama for a recipe and you’ll probably get a belly-laugh. Most don’t have “recipes” per se: They cook with their five senses, which are all attuned to their hearts. The days are long gone when I could come home from school and smell pan-fried pork chops, crackling cornbread and a huge pot of slow cooked butterbeans accompanied by salted and smoked ham hock on the stove. I took it for granted and what a fool I was! I had no idea how much time went into those dishes.

You see, Southern fare takes time, sometimes days and heaven only knows how many Grandmas past, adding and subtracting ingredients until that pot of beans is just right. Afterward, once the meal is done, that Southern food “mama done put her foot in” has put you into a food-induced coma. Well, now, y’all know what I’m talking about – and if you don’t, I’ve got one name for you: Goolsby’s.

Here in the CSRA, we have Southern food on every corner, but not every buttered biscuit is rolled out the same. There has to be the “best,” which is why I have saved this Southern dish for now.

I am ending the tasty year 2011 of Augusta Eats and bringing in a delectable 2012 with my Eat of the Year: Goolsby’s.

The folks that run Goolsby’s – a true Southern diner – really know what has to be done and there’s just no other way around it –their name is attached to their food and, in the South, your name is all you got.

The folks that dined with me raved about the experience, including the Southern service. The staff was top-notch, accommodating and welcoming from the time we entered to the time we slowly walked our “very sluggish, overly fed, pants unfastened (but covered), on the way home for a nap” selves out the door!

Like I’ve said before, nothing even comes close to Southern cuisine and, as far as my gastronomical adventures have taken me in the CSRA, no one is cooking it up as Goolsby’s does – perhaps, with the exception your mama!

Goolsby’s, at 4460 Washington Road in Evans, is open 11 a.m. to 8 p.m., Monday through Saturday and from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. on Sundays. For more information, call 706.651.7345.

These and more can be found at Aficionados on Eighth Street.

by BEN CASELLA Ben Casella is a fan of rauchbier.

He is not, however, a fan of the Ohio State Buckeyes or that band on the freecreditreport.com commercials. Take it or leave it and happy New Year!

The pulled pork tasted as though it’s all these folks do: It was a mouth-watering, succulent masterpiece with a piquant background of vinegary sauce. The pan-fried cornbread and collards with pickled peppers aside, I could have eaten this alone and been a happy camper. The macaroni and cheese was flavorful, warm and creamy and prepared stove-top, which the kids love. The peach cobbler was romantically Southern, warm peaches paired with a sweet crumble on top – Goolsby’s is one place where you really should save room for dessert.

At Goolsby’s, I selected my eats: pulled pork, pan-fried cornbread, stove-top macaroni and cheese, collard greens and peach cobbler. Now, have you ever eaten in a place where every dish you tried, every bite, was as good as the one before it? At Goolsby’s, this is what they do. I had a hard time choosing which bite to eat next, as each was exceptional and each dish a Southern culinary divinity.

by AUGUSTA EATS Augusta Eats is literally eating Augusta, from restaurant to roadside gourmet. Considered by some to be the original Augusta foodie, Augusta Eats has more than 25 culinary years under his (or her?) apron strings and has a deep-seeded love for all things tasty. Follow Augusta Eats on Facebook or visit AUGUSTAEATS.NET

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10 January 4, 2012 | community driven news | vergelive.com

the inkling

volume three january 2012

A CELEBRATION OF THE WRITTEN WORD A.C. Daniels adam donnelly BETSY WEIR CAREN STEWART CATHERINE ZICKGRAF DARLENA MOORE DAVIS BRANCH DEREK BERRY DON HARRIS DOUG HOLLEY EMILY MIDDLECAT EMILY PLOCHA ERIN GARRETT F. SIMON GRANT GRACE KIM hugh pendexter III JACQUELINE GIORGI JENNIFER CRAIG

time flies JOHN KAROLEWICS

JESSICA MOUSER JOHN KAROLEWICS KENNETH HOMER LEO LITTLES Jr.

a South Carolina summer is

LYNN SADLER MARINA GODDARD

an onslaught of honeysuckle in the evening

MARSHA MAUER

as you drive with your windows down,

M.H. LYTHGOE

magnolias

PETE BOYZUICK

bursting to purity

, though in mere days

the blooms will fall and brown,

P.M. ROGERS

trees swelling into green and crowding roads,

ROBERT MURPHY

and your daughter with

a dandelion clock

, blowing.

JESSICA MOUSER

SHARON SCHROEDER STEFFANIE ENKO stephen hawks sUZANNE CARPENTER WESLEY ENGLISH

Warmth

Kansas Ladies’ Aid

P.M. ROGERS

In dream we scaled the wall and I, with knowledge of the trail, led, pointing out the places for careful step, moving the snakes away — tapping the branch we found in the dirt.

You carried the firewood and I the flame extended in a hand, with sap to keep it going.

When we reached the plateau we found the ruin as the villagers said — Scattered, attacked stones, dark places — inside them we knew not.

You talked of snakes — I nodded.

We made a fire from the bough you carried and encircled the flame with our clothes tied together for we listened to the aborigines, that a rope around camp keeps them away.

Marsha Mauer

Scant breezes bending prairie grass beyond stone walls, we stirred the air with two-faced fans.

Christ knocked urgently at the door with funeral parlor ads so near.

Tending to gospel and social graces, we joined grown ladies in gloves and rows of folding chairs while all about us, bordered by garlands and peeling of age, wallpaper women gathered their skirts, ascending waiting carriages.

We prepared food — emptied our canteens into the pot and suspended it above the fire.

I added garlic and onion. You dropped in potatoes and carrots.

We threw in turmeric, paprika, and red clay — all from the village below, along with the warning they gave you.

After a time, we sipped and enjoyed, and full and warm by the earthen stew, and warm by the fire we slept apart and together through the night.

The stars arced. We talked of dreams.

We woke to snakes sleeping. They had joined us for warmth.

The aborigines were wrong.

the inkling

volume three january 2012

the inkling was created to celebrate the art of the written word and to provide a focused literary forum for local and regional authors. Named in honor of the informal Oxford literary club of the ‘30s and ‘40s, which included two of our favorite authors — J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, the inkling encourages the pursuit of the written word, both in its creation and consumption. the inkling accepts unsolicited submissions of art, prose and poetry.

All submission are judged anonymously and selected by an editorial team. the inkling is a special annual feature of verge. The views expressed in the inkling are not necessarily those of the editors or the verge staff. The individual contributors hold copyrights to artwork, texts, and poems in this issue. No material may be reprinted without the permission of the magazine or its contributors.

We invite you to curl up in front of a warm fire, coffee cup perched on your knee, and enjoy these pages of prose, essay and poetry. It is a perfect January eve’s read. copyright 2011, verge

Look Out My Window CAREN STEWART

12 the inkling volume three january 2012

P.M. ROGERS, an author in North Augusta, lives for the written word. Author of With Healing Wings and A Fragrant Fullness, MARSHA MAURER won the Georgia Author of the Year Award for In the Garden. CAREN STEWART is a local artist who captures the whimsy of life’s dreams.

Berries, Boycotts and The Purple Lady

Jacqueline Giorgi

It happened every spring.

I never thought about it when pumpkins posed on the porch and reindeer pranced on the rooftop. It came mostly with the coming of spring – when robins rested on the lawn and sang the song of a soothsayer – “the conflict is coming.”

The story reads like a high school English essay: Why My Family Feuds.

Feuding is generally between families; ours ignited within the family. The gist of our fracas: My father and I like berries, my mother and younger sisters like melons. This philosophical divide sounds trivial, but when spring arrived and no one was going berry pickin’, a whole lot of fussin’ and carrying on occurred. With Dad on one side and Mom on the other, the children suffered the brunt of the division, and for me, the family’s insular issue manifested itself in some deeply rooted social angst. Living in the South and loving it, but not actively adopting the statutes of Southern protocol, is a little like ringing in the New Year without eating black-eyed peas. Consciously banning berries is disingenuous and carries the stigma of outcast – at home, in school and in the neighborhood.

My mother hated berries – blueberries, blackberries, mulberries and, most especially, strawberries. Particularly harsh were her rants against strawberries: “They have pimples, and I am not going to feed my children any fruit with an acne condition.” So when the season arrived and jubilant children accompanied their proud grandparents and parents in a berry pickin’ adventure, I was absent from the activity.

Essentially the lavender lady dispensed into her cart only purple foods, including grape jelly, black grapes, grape soda and grape gum.

Mom’s personal aversion to berries was one thing, but it became a much bigger splinter when she adopted the maverick pose of disallowing berries in the house. “Berries are soft and ripen too quickly. I can’t afford to buy them to sit in the refrigerator and rot.”

In essence, her line of reasoning stomped on the very tenets of Southern hospitality.

Bringing pints of strawberries and blueberries when paying a neighborly visit signifies a gesture of friendliness. Mom’s berry issues debunked this practice and wreaked havoc on the psyche of most gifters. I can still hear the comments and feel the sting of outrage, “Not allowing berries in the house – dumb Yankees!” Furthermore, the rebuke of the berry dramatically modified Mom’s Southern-cooking creations. No blueberry pie, blackberry jam or strawberry shortcake was ever served up from Mom’s kitchen. How could you experience spring in the South without strawberry shortcake? I was berry deprived with no eminent reprieve on the horizon.

Mom deemed melons a suitable substitute for berries. She supported her stance by having cantaloupe, honeydews and watermelons stocked in the refrigerator throughout the summer. Homage to the melon not only satisfied her health-conscious pledge to have fruit readily available for snacks but also served as a healing salve with the neighbors. Every July 4th, Dad got the fireworks, Mom got the watermelon, and, before long, a neighborhood gathering ensued. My father took the lead by slicing up the melon – nobody could slice a melon like my dad – and my mom served in a supporting role by dishing up homemade ice cream, red and white (not blue) cupcakes, and lemonade (notice, I did not say sweet tea).

During the school year, Mom held steadfast to her anti-berry position. She would remind me that in the school cafeteria, melons were always significantly more plentiful in the lunch fruit bowl than strawberries or blueberries. On occasion, I would cautiously challenge her mindset by suggesting that melons were more copious in the midday mixture because track athletes crossed the lunch line first and ransacked the blueberries and strawberries. This explanation, sound as it was, held no transforming merit; the berry ban prevailed.

An unforeseen offshoot of Mom’s not liking berries was a counter-assault on blue food altogether. Blue food was defined as anything edible that appeared blue, black or purple in color. Fruit most directly targeted under this decree were grapes. Not all grapes were banned – just those black or dark red in hue. Green grapes, which my mother prejudiciously referred to as “little cups of nectar,” were within acceptable limits. Mom qualified her argument by explaining, “Red or black grapes stain your mouth blue.”

Raising three little girls with what appeared to be dirty mouths was unacceptable; Mom abhorred dirt. Blue Kool-aid and grape gum were also sanctioned under this practice, because they similarly resulted in the “blue mouth syndrome”.

Untitled, 2011 GRACE KIM

Mom’s loathing of blue food, and the culminating consequence of a blue mouth, somehow morphed into her hating the color purple. How this outcome occurred was never absolute, but I can speculate that it had something to do with a local woman from Tidewater known as The Purple Lady. The Purple Lady lived on farmland that ran parallel to a hackneyed highway connecting one city to another. In the ‘60s, frequent travelers of this ravaged road were field-hand families or peanut farmers on their way to another job or a remote ice cream shack. On sizzling summer afternoons when my mom’s youngest sister would visit, we would pile into her Volkswagen and take a Sunday drive out to the pseudo Dairy Queen. That’s when we spotted her.

Mom spied The Purple Lady first, strolling the roadside along the perimeter of her land.

Singular in appearance and statue, she commanded attention, as did the illustrations of her purple handiwork – her clothes, her land and her house. Her attire exalted the majesty of the color: a wine-colored turban crowned her head and complemented a swirling, magenta muumuu, which shrouded her matronly curves. Telephone poles, like soldiers, lined the front of her crestfallen yard, and by her own hands, were coated in her signature color. Randomly assigned brush strokes, some slanted in east/west angles, others stretching in north/south columns, covered the exterior of the house, creating a bold and boisterous backdrop that screamed her purple passion and saluted both her love for and command of the color. Curtains that wrestled with the summer breeze showcased violet pansies, and amethyst-colored wildflowers dotted the open field, which functioned as a fledging garden. Whether self-imposed or assisted by nature’s helping hand, she had consciously cultivated a landscape of purple love. My mother reveled in these sightings as enthusiastically as the next, until that fatal discovery.

What shifted Mom’s perspective of The Purple Lady from iris icon to local lunatic transpired at the grocery store. The uncommonness of an off-grounds sighting alone was worthy of an editorial in the local paper, but the discovery during a typical food shopping trip surpassed all existing documentation on the nonconformist. Essentially the lavender lady dispensed into her cart only purple foods, including grape jelly, black grapes, grape soda and grape gum. For a woman who could stoically forbear Virginia’s summer heat without air conditioning, Mom’s advancing acceptance for these actions was out of the question and irrevocably spoiled the fanatical fascination she held for the lady and the legend. I propose, the residual astonishment from the experience fostered two changes: the ending of Mom’s obsession and the boycotting of the color purple.

Mom never interpreted her banning of berries to be as radical as The Purple Lady’s beliefs and practices, but changing her mind about eating berries was as unlikely as The Purple Lady abandoning her purple lifestyle. I would say that Dad realized, long before the rest of us, that Mom’s way of thinking wasn’t going to change. She hailed from an Italian Catholic family of immigrants who authored the book on self-sacrifice and determination. Her core values stemmed from a fundamental belief that when you make a decision, you stick with it. I remember a visit to the SPCA in hopes of adopting a dog; Dad and my sisters and I wanted the dog badly. When Dad tried to take a stand on behalf of the dog and its responsibility-laden benefits to children, Mom countered with, “It’s me or the dog.” So that night we watched Lassie on television and had melon for dessert.

Over time, we children grew up and became in charge of our own fruit decisions. The family factions fizzled out, like so many futile feuding grudges. Mom’s indomitable practice of outlawing berries superseded logic and seemed to fly in the face of common sense, good practice and spirituality. Weren’t there berries in the Garden of Eden? But she was our mom – and we love her – even though she remains resolute in her position that strawberries suffer from prickly heat. 

English Professor Jacqueline Giorgi learned to love Southern living growing up in Virginia.

She now lives in Evans with her husband and two cats, Spike and Simba. GRACE KIM is a Korean American, currently a student at Georgia State University concentrating in drawing, painting, and printmaking. Her recent works have focused on the observation of the natural world.

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14 January 4, 2012 | community driven news | vergelive.com

Row me out in a cracked canoe

JESSICA MOUSER

Row me out in a cracked canoe, through ripples in the wrinkling lake where I cannot read your shifting face.

Row me to the place where the sun bequeaths brightness for a short time, where dragonflies, water, and leaves become jewels we won’t dig for.

Row me through twisting trees, their branches gnarled canes waiting to be rent by aging men, through birches tossing hackneyed heads like girls who have realized they’re beautiful.

Row me, even though we sink throughout the afternoon and watch the water seep into our shoes, creeping toward the wooden edge, though you forget why we left all the water too shallow to swallow us.

Row me, even though you see what comes and want to dive, although I shake my head.

I want to descend till we prove there will never be rowing again, till we’re sure our own chinks run too deep.

Anna Ruth

EMILY A. PLOCHA

I stared down into the blankness of her face, wondering who chose that shade of lipstick. Burnt orange. She would have hated it, but there was nothing I could do. I reached for her hand but hesitated at the sight of my own. My pink nail polish was chipped and I knew she would have scolded me for being unladylike. So I left.

The overwhelming smell of floral arrangements, preservatives, and Macy’s perfume made my head spin. I found a small windowless room with a wicker couch and locked myself inside. I pushed down softly on the pads of my fingers, admiring how the blood rushed out from under the skin- that fleetingly precious moment of pale white. I thought about her blood being drained, treated, and recycled into the sewage system. I thought about fish swimming mindlessly in her blood. I fell asleep.

I dreamt of a sea of forest green carpet in a small music box stuffed with Jet Puff marshmallows, a short pear tree with stout branches, and a trail of fire ants weaving in and out of the cracks of her smile. I dreamt of a horse-hair brush gently stroking my skin and tiny glass birds entangling themselves in my hair.

I awoke and cried for six-and-a-half minutes. I ran back to hold her hand.

To wipe off that God awful lipstick. To thank her for the marshmallows and the birds and the music box and the carpet and her cracked smile.

But the casket was closed.

At least then we’d have time to float through the night while we can, darkened stars adrift in a space that here never mirrors the sky.

Poetaster

KENNETH HOMER

A moth flutters across a page, Casting a faint shadow under bright skies And leaving dull flecks of dust from dusty wings — Ernest but unremarkable traces of his unsteady passage.

When he alights from time to time, It is sometimes possible to hear the Small sounds of a distant scrabbling That he has tried to make his own.

The moth is persistent in his own way, Fluttering as he does from inspiration to inspiration.

Reaching out but never attaining The brightness he seeks.

Nondescript and never shining Color is for others, And he circles a brightness he cannot have.

He may beat his wings, But his powers of flight are limited As he hovers ordinary near a beckoning light.

Second Chances ERIN GARRETT

JESSICA MOUSER is an English teacher who lives in Aiken and believes in the power of community to encourage good writing. KENNETH HOMER teaches English and reading at East Georgia College and confesses to an abiding interest in history, which reflects in his poetry. EMILY A. PLOCHA, a senior at John S. Davidson Fine Arts Magnet School, is a cool cat.

ERIN GARRETT is a photography major at Davidson Fine Arts Magnet High School.

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Injun Joe Loses His Hat

Girl Out of Water

DOUGLAS HOLLEY

“But it’s my hat!” Jack said.

“Injuns can’t wear hats,” Fran said.

His face was cross. He had stripped down to his white underwear and tied Hattie’s apron around his waist, a savage in a floral loincloth. The only remaining vestige of civilization was the wide-brimmed white hat that sat low against his ears. She was a fat cowboy, her dress in lumpy bunches under the cotton trousers he had worn out into the field. She wrestled into his shirt and her puffy sleeves filled the shoulders like bulging muscles.

“C’mon,” he said. “Ain’t you never buttoned a shirt before?”

“Girls don’t wear button shirts,” she said.

He waited, staring at his bare feet stained red with Georgia clay. Inspired, he squatted down and began rubbing handfuls of dust on his legs and arms.

“Done,” she said. The collar was lopsided and an extra button stuck out on the shirttail.

“Gimme the star.”

He pinned the star to the shirt pocket, smudging the shiny metal with a ruddy thumbprint. Then the hat was off his head and in her hands. He reached for it, but she ducked away.

“You’ll mess it up!” she warned.

He looked down at his red hands and, for a brief moment, felt like crying. The hat was a birthday present, and in his possession for less than a week. For five days, he’d only taken it off to sleep, and when Hattie had threatened to withhold his dinner if he didn’t take it off at the table. And now the girl was wearing it, set back on her head with the front curve pointed to the sky. She was wearing it all wrong. Any boy would know the brim was there to keep the desert sun out of a cowboy’s eyes.

The sticker burs bit into his skin and he danced through the brush, whooping and hollering like a godless native.

“Now,” she said, “I’m Sheriff and you’re Injun Joe. And I’m here to arrest you for horse thiefing.”

“Well,” he said, “We’re in Injun Territory and I’m an Apache and you can’t catch me ‘cause I know how to hide in the woods.”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll count to twenty.”

Before she started counting, he took off across the fallow field, toward the windbreak stand of pines to the west. The flowered apron whipped behind him like a squirrel’s tail and his skinny legs carried him nearly to the edge of the field before he heard her scream after him.

“Injun Joe! I’m comin’ to arrest you for thiefing horses and scalping women and...”

He didn’t hear the rest. He had reached the scrub grass between the field and the trees and instantly regretted leaving his shoes behind. The sticker burs bit into his feet and he danced through the brush, whooping and hollering like a godless native. The pine needles under the trees were no less prickly, but many falls had softened the brown and orange layers and, except for the occasional hidden pinecone, he found the footing more tolerable.

Hiding behind a tree, his naked back to the scaly trunk, he chanced a peek behind him.

She was crouched in the grass just outside the trees and the white hat shone bright in the sun. She had a long, formidable stick in her hands, aiming it into the woods.

“Injun Joe!” she called, “I can see you!”

He knew she wasn’t lying.

“I’ll chop you up with my tomahawk,” he threatened, picking up a broken branch.

Then, in a wild frenzy, he ran out of the cover of the trees. His bleeding feet pounded the ground beneath him and he let out his most ferocious war cry. He charged and the sheriff cried out one loud “bang!”

Injun Joe fell, in the shadow of the trees, on the soft blanket of fallen pine needles, thankful that the merciful lawman had ended him before he reached the prickly grass. 

16 the inkling volume three january 2012

JENNIFER CRAIG

By the time Fran and Jack met up at the oak tree between their families’ acreages, Fran’s cheeks were flushed pink. Her summer freckles were in full bloom and Jack’s white button-up was tacky against his tan chest. They walked down to the creek that wound through Doc’s cherry orchard.

“What are you doin’?” Jack asked as Fran pulled her lavender dress over her head.

“You know Syl will tan your hide if she sees the little princess swimming naked with one of the natives.”

“I don’t want to play princess today. I want to be a mermaid and mermaids never wear clothes.”

She slipped out of her sandals and watched Jack stumble out of his khaki shorts, revealing denim cut-offs, no doubt from the last summer’s pants, too short for this summer’s legs. I need a pair of those, Fran thought and began to plot how she would get them from Jack. Maybe the next time we play cowboy and Injun – a cowboy should always wear jeans.

Fran burst out above the water, laughing and choking. She knew what game she wanted to play now.

“Besides,” she added as she plaited her hair, “Daddy won’t let Silly do anything to me.”

She stepped towards the creek, carefully dodging the sticker burs and forget-me-nots.

The sun was high and the cherry trees provided little shade. It was hard not to jump right in but, always playing princess one way or another, Fran daintily slipped one foot, then the other in the cool water. Wading out to her waist, her regal focus was broken by Jack’s cannonball.

“Come on girl, mermaids like water and they like to be under water!” He swam up behind her, grabbed her long braid and pulled her down. Fran took a deep breath before her face hit the water, then turned around and goosed Jack’s thigh.

“Ow!” Jack jumped, released her braid and tried swimming backwards to avoid her pinching.

Fran burst out above the water, laughing and choking. She knew what game she wanted to play now.

“Ha! That’s what mermaids do when men fall overboard.” She giggled and dove under again. Fran swam gracefully under the water and felt herself becoming a mermaid.

She swam with her legs pressed together and imagined her glistening scales catching the rays that fell into the stream. She caught up with Jack easily – he had only learned to swim last summer and was out of practice since the seasons in between. She pinched him three more times before she came up for air.

“Cut it out. I didn’t fall overboard! I’m Captain of the Hispaniola and my ship was purloined by pirates.” Jack scrambled out of the water, climbed on the boulder by the bank and began ascending one of the cherry trees. “Mermaids are supposed to help captains find their lost ships.”

Fran’s first thought was one of delight. She liked when Jack made up stories, especially when he needed her help. But her second thought involved the slender branches of the cherry tree.

Still playing the beautiful, now helpful, mermaid she shouted, “Captain, you must be careful. You are a burly sailor and those branches are weak.”

“Nonsense, girl! This mighty palm tree will support me all the way to the top. I’ll be able to see which way those damn pirates went.”

Even though she swore when they were playing in the woods or by the creek, Fran’s ears always tingled a little when Jack did it. She looked around to make sure Syl or Hattie weren’t about, spying on them.

She heard the first crack before she turned toward the captain. The mighty palm had deceived Jack and given way beneath him.

“Captain, hold on. I’ll use my mermaid magic to grow legs and save you.”

Jack, hanging by one hand from the topmost frond of the palm, pleaded, “Hurry fair

continued on page 17

JENNIFER CRAIG, a teacher in Aiken County, is a lover of the written word, is learning to love the words she writes and believes that a well-crafted sentence can change the world. DOUG HOLLEY is, in no particular order, a writer, actor, director, graphic designer and musician, whose recent artistic endeavors have involved Schrodinger’s Cat, the resident improv ensemble of Le Chat Noir. Craig and Holley are collaborating on a series of stories about Fran and Jack.

girl out of water, continued from page 16 mermaid, I haven’t the strength to hold on much longer.”

Fran felt her fin separate into two slender legs as she pushed for the boulder. She marveled for a moment at the feel of the stone beneath her new feet, then dashed toward the palm.

“Captain, do not be alarmed. I am going to turn this mighty palm into a harmless cherry tree and you will be able to fall safely.” Fran raised her arms and walked around the palm, chanting. “Mighty palm, strong and tall, become a cherry tree for the captain’s fall.”

After the third revolution, Jack let go, bringing down a shower of cherry blossoms on them both.

“Now Captain, you must pay me for the kindness I have showed you,” Fran demanded.

Jack replied, “I am thankful, mermaid, but the dastardly pirates took all of my riches when they sailed off with my ship.”

“Then you must kiss me, so I can turn back into a mermaid and help you track the pirates.”

She ran back to the creek and dove off the boulder, leaving Captain Jack openmouthed on the bank.

They had played Sleeping Beauty before and when Prince Jack discovered her in the tower he had kissed her cheek to wake the bewitched princess but their lips had never touched.

Fran, the magical mermaid, watched Jack wade into the water. She swam over to meet him. Her braid was wet and heavy against her back and her skin shimmered in the sun. She made her hands into fists under the water and waited anxiously for the captain’s kiss to return her to her true form.

Before she closed her eyes, she noticed Jack’s face was red and part of her, though she didn’t know which part, knew it wasn’t from the sun and heat.

The captain touched her cheek and quickly kissed her lips. A second later she slipped under water, felt her legs become one fin and swam away. Jack watched her form move smoothly under the water.

The mermaid climbed atop the rock and lay back, enjoying the sun’s warmth all around her.

“Mermaid! We’re not finished playing. We have to find those dreadful pirates and rescue my ship and crew!” Jack shouted.

tower detail ADAM DONNELLY

Fran, the mermaid, rose up on one elbow and started undoing her hair.

“Silly Captain, the sun is too high. We’ll have to wait for sundown to catch your pirates unaware.” She lay back against the rock and spread her hair out behind her to dry. Without getting up again, she continued, “Besides, I know where your ship is.

All pirates stop at Dead Man’s Cove to drink rum and brag about the captains they’ve outsmarted.”

The Stale Grandeur of Annihilation

Captain Jack joined her on the rock and lay down.

“I’ll gather my strength then, get my revenge at sundown,” he said.

Before she closed her eyes to nap, Fran, the girl, wondered if Jack would be dreaming of the same thing. 

kings

DAVIS BRANCH

Hammers and nails. Ropes and swings. We were kings in those trees. Sworn to protect and defend this brotherhood within. Dragons were slayed, giants were crushed. Heroically defending what we had made.

But as the sun moved above us, the attacks became more intense. We knew with nightfall came the surge. Without the sun, this was their land. We would become strangers among demons. We knew we would be outnumbered. We had to retreat indoors. Once inside, we made sure we were nestled behind futon fortresses and barricades of blankets.

With morning, we would fight the fight once again and keep on building.

STEPHEN HAWKS

Resisting compulsion to risk disaster, Hip deep in tannin the day long, Black water hides the beasts below, Summer sun bathing the eyes Until retreat to cooler Parlors and porches, Sitting while polite conversations fail, Moist cakes served after abatement: Personal pain removed From the personal self, Drawn back Into histories dream, Enveloping waters, Worlds where peril is pretext For necessary means Love’s corporal magnitude Communing with lonely gods And ghosts

DAVIS BRANCH, an English graduate, is prolonging adolescence one year at a time. ADAM DONNELLY 1. n.: Human male attending medical school, usually found buried in books – when not, likely drawing, painting, or constructing unneeded furniture. STEPHEN HAWKS is a visual artist, specializing in ceramics and hand building pottery.

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18 January 4, 2012 | community driven news | vergelive.com

Here There Dragons Be Part I

DON HARRIS

In tortured lands, where cowards cry And fall along the road to die A man must live the way of right Pure and chaste, with Godly might For lesser men will live not long But in a wisp of smoke, be gone For lesser men do not but cower When they contend with dragon power Then what will be of maidens fair If heroes die in dragon’s lair?

And where will all the children play If thundering wings chase them away?

Here the dragons rule the sky And search the earth with evil eye To foist upon the sons of man Their vile intent and wicked plan Then in their reptilian glee Into their earthen holes they flee With naught of guilt or recompense To eat their captive audience In such a land, where man doth roam And plow the earth to make a home It takes a man of Godly faith Who fights with supernatural strength Whose armor ‘gainst each foe defends Whose shield each arrow’s fall portends A man who’ll spit at evil’s taint Who’ll not back down, nor weary, faint A man whose steed will battle brave And hold his foot in deepest cave He’ll never for his life take care And run not from the dragon’s stare Such man, who’s deemed a Saintly Knight, Would storm the dark to bring the light He’ll not retreat from scorching flame But quench the fire in God’s Own Name Of such a man the bards will sing A man of fate who would be king If such a man your mirror sees Then come, for Here There Dragons Be.

read part II on page 27

untitled A.C. Daniel

My Aunt Wore a Plume in Miami

M. H. Lythgoe

Cleo we called her. Gertrude was her name.

My father’s aunt. She made headlines as The Queen Of Schooners on Rum Row; scotch whiskey brought her fame – “hams” in burlap bags put to sea from Bahamas.

We dined behind a waterfall-window on Key Biscayne, In starlight decor fit for her gypsy eyes.

While I was in Vietnam, she hosted my wife & sons In her old Miami hotel room for ice cream, Wearing black, bejeweled in antiques, a turban & a plume; She gave them silver coasters, a mother-of-pearl brush.

Together last on her rooftop terrace, my aunt passed On history, dancing eyes, tortoise shells & inspiration Melting in old china as the moon weighed anchor; her last Possessions – smuggler’s gifts – melting to new generation.

In Memory of Carl Sandberg

sharon schroeder

Fog shrouds the memory of cities And envelops buildings in untraceable mist.

People are lost—nature doesn’t care.

Only the silhouette of lost dreams remains.

Don Harris keeps his fingers in many pies – graphic designer, web developer, editor, songwriter,counselor, husband, grandfather and friend. M.H. LYTHGOE authored BRASS, a chapbook which won the Kinlock Rivers contest in Charleston, S.C., in 2006. A.C. DANIEL, a junior at Aiken High School, started his artistic voyage at age 2 with “strange otherworldly scribbles.” Raised on the south side of Chicago, LEO LITTLES is a special education assistant at North Augusta High School.

Word

LEO LITTLES JR.

we have no idea how much our words mean how utterances forge empires that destroy or glitter and gleam a tiny little letter like the proverbial mustard seed can grow to be monolithic or shrivel to zilch and impede you can lift up a child with a word to the wise or cloak her heart in darkness through invectives swathed in lies let us choose our voice carefully may it give birth to light as the pendulum swings away from rain sun-lit toward the right lift this well-worn world with every syllable we say and the damnable ditches of Hades shall sparkle with the shimmer of day our dark decay misconceived by our dirty dirges sung do inverse, disperse and disappear when we hold our reptilian tongue

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Nam, Abbie Hoffman and So Much More

Ode to Myself

I’m preoccupied at times with the point at which I die.

Such a control freak I am that I thought maybe I should write it down; the funeral plans, that is, lest someone make it plastic or memorized, or unoriginal.

LYNN SADLER

Granddaddy Bob says Yippie and Civil Rights Activist Abbie Hoffman, who was synonymous with protesting the War in Vietnam, bequeathed to me and teenagers generally, if not the right, then the pattern of rebellion.

Granddaddy Bob shared this opinion after I tried to help a weird kid at school who arrived every day dressed as a different member of the Village People.

Everybody said the school would adopt a dress code, and it would be his fault.

I said we could protest, that we had the right, even if ours wouldn’t be profound like Mr. Hoffman throwing dollars onto the floor of the New York Stock Exchange and leading fifty thousand Yippies to surround the Pentagon and levitate it with their combined psychic energy.

The kids just looked at me, said the weird kid was gay.

He was ganged up on under the bleachers and almost killed.

He and his parents moved away.

I still believe rebellion is a Constitutional right of teenagers (Word!), but even Granddaddy Bob can’t satisfy me about the weird kid.

Or about Abbie Hoffman.

They’re eternal why’s?.

Why, after all he’d been through, did Abbie Hoffman commit suicide?

Why did Abbie Hoffman pick “Barry Freed” as an alias if he wasn’t free in his mind?

I have since learned that Abbie and Anita Hoffman’s son, america, lives in North Carolina and works as an electrician!

Why did the Hoffmans name him america, even with a little a?

I keep thinking that, if I could understand the War in Nam, I could understand the Abbie Hoffmans of this world (and so much more).

Granddaddy Bob says I can’t wait for understanding— that I have to act on what I think is right.

20 the inkling volume three january 2012

DARLENA MOORE

Not Amazing Grace or How Great Thou Art, but a wine party, perhaps, with my music.

Poetry, and please, in a bright place, where the sun’s rays will break through and awaken each sleeping spectator to himself.

And other bodies cannot be looming behind adjacent doors.

I do not wish to be one float in the parade of canned and costly ceremonies.

No. 79

PETE BOYZUICK

My Lover, Gone Again

CATHERINE ZICKGRAF

The creek in my backyard in the dark sparkles with stars between the wet rocks, overflowing from the swollen pond above it.

Under the lid of midnight, you emerge through the trees — like you appear sometimes in my dreams.

But we’ve breathed this night into existence.

We run, race to hold back the hands of time, wrapping ourselves in an afghan, skin to skin in the wind through the curtains at the window . . . until the fading night fizzles into the climbing horizon of soft light.

You left once. You’ll leave again.

I’ll stumble down to the kitchen tomorrow, your smell on my neck from our dawn parting, and begin again my routine until you return.

I’m wasting away the life in me, watching for you against the back window and shouldering the exhaustion of this cycle: You leave, I rally on, and the creek keeps running into the earth.

A buttery chardonnay to bring those who’ve drawn near closer to me; At the very least the warm buzz may slow each rushed soul enough to ponder some past moment and smile.

No one will wear black – unless they want to.

Someone will recite my poetry and they’ll call me a poet.

Attentive now, they’ll find each poem worth and rich, not because it really is, but because I’m dead, but that’s o.k. with me.

And lots of flowers, tulips especially.

I’ll be admiring their unfettered firmness Marveling their ability to appear artistic in the hardest of rains I’ll know which of my guests are perennials and which ones need replanting each year.

I’ll recognize the beauty in both.

Several bold souls will stand and say nice things about me Majestic things that even I didn’t know Those who weren’t convinced will love me even more It’s only fair.

I honestly hope my industrious spirit will enjoy the assemblage, uncritically give ear, and not adjust each unaligned photograph of myself, or wince at the cheesy pattern of preppy pigs on the tablecloth, or wonder who picked a White Zin with American cheese and saltines for snacks, or question who the talking guy in the robe is pretending as though he knew me.

DR. LYNN VEACH SADLER has published seven poetry chapbooks and won several awards for her writing, including elizaPress’ Writer of the Year award. CATHERINE ZICKGRAF is a writer first, a performer second; she has shared her spoken word from Philadelphia to Miami to San Francisco and dozens of stages in between. DARLENA MOORE owns mooreprojects!, a marketing communications company, and is working on her debut novel, Love In Storage.

Bricks

EMILY A. PLOCHA

It happened in spring. Or more so, a time vaguely semblant of spring. It didn’t matter the time, though, because change was irrelevant. The trees remained emerald, the grass remained dewy, and the sky remained opaque. Things are just that way in the South. One day you are thoughtlessly donning two more pairs of socks and the next you are laying under a fan completely exposed, never pausing to ask why. Things are just that way.

Mostly, it didn’t matter because every season ran together whilst with him — or so she convinces herself late at night when her only company are the bricks to her left. She imagines him now and he is heavy in her mind. The thought alone sends her into a drug-like daze and the walls begin to spin around her slowly. She sits up, ignoring the spots in her vision, and digs her nails into her thighs, half-way hearing his infectious peals of laughter chiming down the halls. An animal rustles outside and she stops abruptly, vigilant and rigid. The thought fades, slips away, and is gone.

It has been so long now she cannot recall his face. Did he have one to begin with? It had once been so precious to her, every imperfection, wrinkle, scar and pore ingrained in her mind. But the memory is now worn and tattered from being summoned too often.

Untitled 4101 STEPHEN HAWKS

Burdens Born of Crowns

Portrait of a Porch, 2009

EMILY MIDDLECAT

A quite bright melody sustains the beat brought of times in between the notes. yet silence seemingly does not quote.

Its own reply is enough. and hoof brought beat surrounds the boards underfoot.

MARINA GODDARD

Tonight we write the usual scene.

We lean on black railing and cold settles around us like we are in a waiting room and each cannot wait for the other to leave.

Dry light melts through the yellowed bulb box above, and reflects off your hair— hair the color of wet Georgia clay.

Clouds escape our mouths and we look as if we share a cigarette.

Steam from our bodies intertwines midair in a lipless kiss.

She panics as his impression blurs. What was his favorite food? What was he wearing? What was his favorite record?

Was he right handed, or left, or ambidextrous? Where did he go? The details that had been second-nature waft away, softly glimmering just out of her reach.

She grasps for them frantically. His favorite food was toast with one spoonful of strawberry jelly. Or was it grape? He wore red overalls with an un-ironed yellow plaid shirt underneath. He loved Elvis, just like her. He never learned how to write.

And he went where she had wanted him to go.

Suddenly he is there, once again. Tangible and tactile, he lays before her on the ragged patchwork quilt. She reaches out in elation and his picayune eyes flutter open, fragile yet gently burdened with fatigue. His gaze stop her cold and her heart aches with compunction and grief. The details wash over her and she remembers. She remembers everything. The memory presses her down, flooding every crevice of her being. The metallic scent of his blood fills her lungs and his shrill whimpers ring in her ears. His miniature fingers reach back toward her and burn gaping holes in her flesh and she recoils with a cry. Her breath is jagged and she rocks violently against the cast iron bed frame.

Then he is gone, once again. She tenderly cradles his memory and coos it back to sleep, tucking it under a blanket of dirt and singing sweet lullabies as it drifts off into the musky night air.

It happened in spring, with a chill set deep in the ground, rising up out of the evergreens and into the dense sky. She buried him beneath her favorite tree, next to the grave of the family horse, Ace. Her son, her horse, her willow.

Things are just that way. 

EMILY MIDDLECAT lives in Augusta and writes under a pen name. Aspiring editor MARINA GODDARD is in the Masters of Arts in Teaching program at Georgia College. When not spending time figuring out ways to enthrall youth in language arts, she can be found sitting in the forest with notepad in hand.

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22 January 4, 2012 | community driven news | vergelive.com

Independently Wealthy (or so I thought) ROBERT MURPHY

The walk was so very typical. It was usual in the events that occupy the time while walking: telling homespun bad jokes, cutting up on one another, picking up rocks, inspecting them, and then throwing. We walked everywhere – no, really everywhere.

To school, friends’ homes, ball fields, the store when Mom needed a head of lettuce or bread or twenty minutes of peace. It was life in a one-car family of seven children, Mom and Dad. However on this occasion, my brothers, two older and one younger, and I were making our way to the plaza. Dad had landed us a paying job through one of his friends at the bank.

I was standing in the plaza parking lot which the night prior had seen a celebration of independence. However, on July 5, 1975, the parking lot, along with its connection of storefronts and alleyways, had become a harbor of filth. Trash was everywhere; independent-minded people even managed to drop it at the entranceway of Carl’s drug store, my mother’s favorite stopping place following Sunday church service.

As I looked around, my mind could not comprehend any conceivable way that my brothers and I could pick up all this garbage. Pulling twenty or so dandelions from Dad’s manicured front lawn was at least a full Saturday job: Stab the screwdriver down along the side of the yellow-headed weed and twist, killing it at its very root, pull it up from its grave and throw it in the bucket; nineteen dandelions remaining.

Cleaning my bedroom, which I also shared with my brothers, took up the entire Casey Kasem’s Top 40 radio show.

The July morning sun was already burning up the trash-infested blacktop, the kind of heat that makes vapor rise from the pavement bringing with it the local processing plant smell: tar, oil, used cigarette butts. The after-party stench of the 200-year-old celebration was becoming ripe.

We made our way through the maze of trails through the woods; years of playing war, building forts, and eating from the two huge cherry trees on the wood’s edge, led us home in minutes.

“Robbie! Come on, get at it.”

“Get at it? Get at what?” I thought. Why did Brien, the oldest brother, think it was his place to yell those words? At that moment, I invented the catch phrase, “who died and left him boss?” I am amazed even today when I hear people use that same line. Brien was only two years older than me and somehow took on the commanding officer role absent Dad. I really could not fathom cleaning this place up. Trash was everywhere, on everything, in every shape and form, and the rank smell continued to grow. Halfempty soda and beer cans, the yellow jackets were beginning their ascent on their liquid diet, drunk of yeast and sugar. Paper napkins, half eaten candy, pizza crust, plastic bags, spent sparkler rods, melted cotton candy clinging onto its paper cone holder, that too covered with insects enjoying their morning buffet, there was no shortage of representation on the plaza blacktop. Multiply these items by a gazillion to the tenth power and removing this ocean of waste is how I received my start into the moneymaking community, picking up after the entire town celebrated their independence. I thought to myself, “We hold these truths to be self evident that the day we celebrate our nation’s independence, we will do so by throwing our garbage on the ground and have some kid pick it up for a nickel.”

“Robbie!”

Now it was Mike, brother number two, and my Irish twin. Brien may have taken the lead role, but Mike was an enforcer. I am still not sure who passed out these duties. But Brien and Mike had them. They seemed to like work. Maybe it was the money? Brien collected it and Mike spent it on expensive stuff. I never had any. And if picking up this parking lot of insect-infested, half-eaten, greasy trash heap was my introduction to making money; I would have to reconsider the entire notion.

“I’m on it,” I yelled back at Mike.

I unwrapped the tinfoil from my soda can. Mom ensured us that the reflective properties of the foil would keep our sodas cold. She also told us to wear plastic bread bags in our snow boots to keep our feet dry while playing in the snow. Where did Mom learn all this practical information? You can’t make this stuff up. The foil covered soda idea may have worked its thermal magic had our lunch, packed in a large brown grocery bag, not been left under the temporary office trailer on the

Untitled 2983 STEPHEN HAWKS

super-heated blacktop. I tossed the tin foil on the ground. Neither Mike nor Brien could take a joke; they made me pick it up right then. Lunch consisted of a heated baloney sandwich, wrapped in melted wax paper, oven toasted potato chips, and a steaming cup of grape soda. We had been at it since 8 a.m., and even though we had trash bags lined up rank and file we had not made a dent in the Independence Day pollution fest.

“Back at it boys.” Dad’s banking friend yelled from his temporary office space. His trailer provided the only shade on the plaza. He was a member of the Jaycees. I didn’t even know my Dad knew the Jaycees. I didn’t even know what a Jaycee was. He was a man of few words, “Pick up the trash boys. Did your mother pack you lunch boys?

Back at it boys.”

The back of my neck hurt, the odor of the day’s trash infused itself onto my hands, the bottom of my sneakers either melted or I walked through too many puddles of toxic liquid forming a permanent squeak in the bottom of my Converse. Every step sounded out a reminder of the day’s labor.

“Bring it in boys,” the Jaycee man yelled.

“Make a line next to my desk.”

Now this was inspiring, my first pay call. We stood as in a type of military formation, oldest to youngest, Brien, Mike, myself, followed by Brad. The Jaycee man, a large man stuffed into athletic shorts and a white Jaycee tee shirt, actually pulled a moneybox from the drawer of his desk. “How cool is this,” I thought. The day’s trash collecting activities were not so bad, my brothers and I had spent entire weekends stacking fire wood, shoveling snow, raking leaves, or killing dandelions. He opened the box with cash stuffed into it. The Jaycee guy was doing pretty well for himself. The bills seemed to lift up when he opened the box. Squeezed in were fives, tens, a few twenties, and the ones were swollen to at least four inches over the rim of the box. I could not believe he was going to divide all this up between the four of us. My chest filled ready for the rewards of the day’s labor. He pulled the cash out, and under the cash were rolls of coins, dimes, nickels, quarters; this Jaycee guy was loaded. What would my cut be? No matter, I would be independently wealthy at eleven.

Brien’s reaction caught me off guard, from the corner of my eye I saw his gesture of disbelief as he was handed a roll of coins. I could not see what exactly he received; I just knew there was no cash. The next few moments were a blur. Mike was next; the same strange roll was placed into his hand. The man looked at me, so I opened my hand and there he placed a roll. It was somewhat heavy, and the ends protruded out from each side of my stained, foul smelling hand. I strained to see that the roll was white with blue numbers on the side. I did not dare look down into my hand because I’m sure there is some etiquette concerning counting one’s pay before the paymaster.

Brad received his share of wealth, and before I knew it we were walking again.

With an U.S Marine Corps career behind him and a business degree at USC-Aiken in front, ROBERT MURPHY’s passion is teaching others about the saving grace of Jesus Christ.

continued on page 24

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volume three january 2012

independently wealthy, continued from page 23 The pace was faster going home, quite faster, no jokes, just the sound of my sneakers singing a high pitch tune. We made it into the fields leading to the woods that opened up into our neighborhood. I could hear Brien and Mike murmuring something to each other. My hand was wrapped around my roll of coins; no way was it coming loose. As we walked I looked into my hand to reveal the superbly rolled stack of dimes. On the side of the white packaging the blue lettering revealed five-dollars. My mind raced with ideas of future purchases: new Converse All-Stars; candy from the checkout aisle of Carl’s drugs; chocolate milk instead of white from the school cafeteria, I was set.

As our pace began to slow I became uncertain as to our day’s wages. The thoughts in my mind did not match the outward display of emotions coming from my older brothers. Was I rich or was I not?

Did I have enough to cover my short list of wants? Had the day’s work been profitable? By this time my sneakers had grass, dirt, and small stones stuck to the bottom and up along the sides. The smell of the plaza trash heap seemed to follow us through the woods. I had to get a new set of Converse All-Stars and I knew my fifty dimes would cover the cost and more.

I was caught in the middle of the desire for wealth and the realization of the work required for its gain.

“What a jip!”

There was that word again, “Jip.” It was the same word Brien used before, in the trailer, but then he said it under his breath. At that very moment Brien’s words caused me great economic confusion.

Where did five dollars worth of dimes stack up in purchasing power? We made our way through the maze of trails through the woods; years of playing war, building forts, and eating from the two huge cherry trees on the wood’s edge, led us home in minutes.

“Did you work hard, boys?” My father was obviously concerned with our family work ethic.

Once we were home, there was little talk of the day’s labor. Brien, I’m sure, stashed his coins in his shoebox hidden on the closet shelf; he had no idea I knew where it was. Mike stretched his dimes for miles: new tee shirt, H/O racecar, and candy. Brad, he worked hard; two years younger than me, he most likely gave away most of his wealth.

I was caught in the middle of the desire for wealth and the realization of the work required for its gain. Brien and Mike had a few years’ head start and understood the value of money and the labor required to gain it. Their paper routes and lawn mowing jobs provided them with the vast experience; they knew what work equaled what pay. This was an entirely new concept for me. Work was synonymous with being a Murphy. However, working for money was uncharted territory for me as was holding a roll of dimes. I had to learn these lessons and Dad allowed for them to be taught.

Years later, Brien to this day settles the price before the work. Mike continues to stretch his cash flow, even though the flow continues strong; Mike is good at what he does. Brad also holds true to the Murphy work ethic, yet continues to give of himself free of charge. I found the ultimate work for pay situation. For the first few weeks I could not believe the money handed to me for sitting in the sun. At work at 8 a.m., run tests on the water, remove a few dead flies from the water’s edge, apply a protective sealant to my skin, protecting it from some deadly invisible ray, open the gate and sit at the edge of the pool visiting with bikini clad girls as I guarded the lives of my community. I worked as the local lifeguard; saving lives by day, buying ice cream cones at night. That summer I learned the costs of dating – another lesson for another story.

I remember seeing my friends following the post Independence Day work induction.

“What did you do this weekend” “O, I had to work up at the plaza.”

It sounded very cool, like I had a real job and a roll of twenties in my pocket, when actually it was a few dimes left over. I spent most of my earning back at the plaza, Carl’s drug store, Sunday after church. 

Hope

SUZANNE CARPENTER

Hope lives in a chest At the foot of my bed, And fills the space Of my heart.

Ode to a Chocolate Lab

BETSY WEIR

Alone, she stood ankle deep in chilled surf that March just as the sun eased above the horizon. Cirrus clouds stretched like strands of wispy white hair in the indigo sky. She cradled the box of his remains and pressed it one last time against her heart.

After a deep breath she tossed Buck’s ashes and watched as a surprise breeze gathered them up in its arms and cast them in a wide, swirling arc – an ashen rainbow – a Zen gift offered up to the outgoing tide.

Now, each time the rot of seaweed, sand redolent with dead horseshoe crabs rides on something sweet in the air, she’ll see him swim far out, toward a stick that bobs one wave ahead of him until he can paddle back to her, stick in mouth, to return it with an intensity beyond anything she has known.

Across any beach where she walks Buck cavorts under her expectant eye, races across the dunes and swims as far as she can see.

Ice-cream Man

SUZANNE CARPENTER

In the heat of a July afternoon the sun blazes down its glory, and the children play as they meet the day with laughter and sweaty faces.

And then in the distance they hear him, a faint tinkling, musical sound.

They run home and beg for a silver coin that will buy respite from the heat.

They search in sofa cushions and Daddy’s pockets and near-empty piggy banks.

They hurry to race the clock, to be faster than he is, until calliope music rolls in with the heat and fills their neighborhood.

With dirty hands of quarters they run calling “Ice-cream man!”

And they know that they have caught him, as the music slowly dies.

Then they stop to catch their breath while they look at all their choices.

And the old man patiently waits with a smile for the children to make up their minds, big decisions for summer twilight time.

And they thank him and stroll barefoot down the streets of their childhood, happy with a temporary frozen treat that melts in the sun.

It’s what we hold onto When the world starts to crumble around us, The elusive light we grasp for In our darkness.

24 the inkling volume three january 2012

BETSY WEIR lives in McDuffie County and has had numerous poems and essays published in literary reviews. SUZANNE CARPENTER was born and raised in Augusta and has been a second grade teacher in Aiken County for 15 years.

Bait for the Damned

DEREK BERRY

The car engine sputtered and finally gasped a final explosive breath before the vehicle rolled to a stop, white smoke billowing out from under the hood. After I climbed out, I surveyed the damage and took off immediately down the road on foot. Walking away from the smoking car, I cursed my editor for sending me to this hillbilly Hell. For the past thirty miles, I had seen nothing save for barrens of pine, prime hunting grounds that stretched for miles in either direction; I had seen no gas stations, restaurants, or houses. I was stranded with a broken-down car in the pit of a coniferous Inferno. South Carolina: the seventh circle.

As I trudged by the roadside, I yanked off my tie in frustration and rolled up my sleeves.

Having been born and raised in the concrete wilderness of Chicago and having only just moved two months previously to North Carolina to accept a position at the Raleigh Observer, I was not accustomed to the intolerable humidity. If there had been sidewalks, I would have cooked myself a fine breakfast, but the construction of proper walking paths was not a priority on the South’s nefarious agenda. Finally, after suffering the desolate back roads for more than an hour, I came upon a small car garage, a rusted tin shanty.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

Probably Bill-bo or Joe-bob Billy, one of the other notorious backward names like Bubba. He answered “Razor.”

At first sight, I thought the place a mirage, wavering in the sizzling atmosphere, until at last I came upon the shed and knocked on the makeshift door to find it solid. Outside, a sign dangled from a mailbox post that read, CAR SHOP. WE FIX IT. It was a proper, practical title and slogan. A teenage boy in an oil-smudged white t-shirt and ripped jeans answered. I briefly explained my situation, and he said that he would drive down the road in his truck to assess the damage and see if he might be able to fix the vehicle on the spot. I thanked him profusely, and he darted off behind the shed and soon drove away into the abyss of back country. Standing outside the garage, I was both grateful and exasperated, so I stepped inside, where the constant spin of fans kept the air cool.

“My boy will fix ‘er up jus’ right,” said a man from the opposite end of the garage.

“Are you the owner of this establishment?” I asked, feeling slightly preposterous to have inferred that the boy owned the garage.

“Yep. I own this place.” He looked around with an expression of triumphant pride. “Why don’t you sit down?” Turning off the television, he kicked out the lumpy ottoman from under his feet for me to sit on. His thoughtfulness was ever so appreciated. Although uncomfortable, I sat down across from him and feigned a smile. He was a big man, definitely weighing over two hundred pounds, and he wore frayed jean overalls and had a “mountain man” beard of thick curly bristles. His face was pockmarked, his arms and face farmer-tanned, and his neck cherry red and sun-burnt.

He set down a plastic bowl filled with some baked, cheesy gruel. “Do you want some?” offered the man.

“What is it?”

He snorted. “Don’t tell me ya never seen macaroni and cheese before.”

Kraft, yes. This congealed cheese mold, no. “Of course.”

“Really. Then what’s your recipe, then? How do you make it?”

I shrugged, caught in a stretched truth. “Well, generally, my macaroni and cheese consists of macaroni and the key ingredient, cheese.”

The man, he howled and rocked back and forth. “That’s just the way my grandmamma used to make it. I’d never take you for a man who knew such a secret recipe.”

“What’s your name?” I asked him. Probably Bill-bo or Joe-bob Billy, one of the other notorious backward names like Bubba.

He answered “Razor,” and then began grilling me about my own heritage. I told him I worked at a newspaper in Raleigh to which he snorted, “Yankee,” and I told him that I had been sent into South Carolina to do some field-research for an important story. A new dam had been put up in Choctaw Lake, and it was my duty to investigate how the

Heartbeat GRACE KIM

new dam affected the wildlife nearby. He listened with an engrossed expression, nodding his head at everything I said. Finally, he spoke again, “I know that lake, and I seen the dam there.”

Twisting off the top of a Skoal can, he lent me an ear while I asked him if he knew how the dam might have affected the environment. “The environment?” he asked, lining his lip with snuff. “Why, there ain’t nothing to do with the environment that has to do with that dam. Those men take no stock in any critters other than their own, them big ole fish.”

“What fish?” I inquired, pressing him for details. It’s just like these Southerners to sit and talk so freely and slowly, to waste away a day with idle words. I realized Razor’s life was a deep-fried tragedy.

“Them big, ole mutant catfish. Them that those men put in that lake. See, I’ve got myself a bit of a theory about them big fish. Wanna hear it?”

I felt that this was going nowhere, especially since he referred to a winning catch as “mutant.” Before I could answer him, he started off again on his tangent of incredibility, and I noticed that whether or not I actually wanted to hear his theory, I would.

“Well, it’s my theory that these big government men came down to put them catfish there. I only seen one, but I s’pect there’s got to be more, cause the government would want ‘em to populate and mate, you see. But it had to be in a controlled environment and all so that’s why the dam was put up. To keep all those catfish in, and to keep fishermen out. Thing is, I been fishin’ in that hole since I was a lil boy, so nuthin’, not even no dam was gonna stop me from keep on doin’ it.

“So, one day I go down to the lake, and I got myself a trolley tied up down there, even though technically I’m not sposed to. And the dam is up and all, but I don’t mind it much, because it’s sort of far off from where I set off. So I got this pole in the water, a really nice one I bought last month. I’m just floating along in the water before I feel this little snag. Something got my line.

“I stood up, because by the time I notice somethin’s got my line, the pole is bendin’, ready to snap. Crack, right in half. So I picks up this pole, you see, and suddenly, it gives a terrific tug. I’m pullin’ back, but it’s too bad, cause the pole breaks in half, and it’s drug underneath. Suddenly, somethin’ done bumped up against the bottom of the boat. It started rocking and all, and I fell down cause it was so unstable and like. Then, fore I knew it, this great big fish leaps out of the water, floppin’ all over the place and splashin’

DEREK BERRY is a published writer and poet whose chief interests include narwhal-wrestling and spoken word.

Currently a senior at Aiken High School, he plans to major in political science.

continued on page 26

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volume three january 2012

bait for the damned, continued from page 25 all over my deck.

“It was a big ole catfish and whiskers and a big, broad tail. Whole nine yards for a giant fish. Maybe ‘bout six feet long by my judgment. The monster came up out the water and landed halfway on the edge of my boat. And it starts to tip, but it didn’t tip, just sort of rocked back like. And then there was this noise from down below, and then I flew up in the air. And I’m flying until I land smack dab in the water, right next to that beast, and I’m swimmin’ to shore really fast, tryin’ to escape from it. I get up on shore, and there’s this big shadow moving away from me, and I knew it was that giant, mutant catfish.

“So, after that, I was darned scared to go back to Chocktaw, and I sit down and I figures that maybe this catfish, maybe it’s not there nat’rilly. Just not nat’ril, yer follow? So, I thank just maybe some mad scientists made these big, ole fish. There’s no way a catfish could got so big, don’cha yer thank?

“So I gets to thankin’ about this fish all the time. I thank maybe if I could cetch it, then I’d be a billionaire cause I’d be famous or sumthin’. And so I go and thank over how to exactly go ‘bout doin’ the cetchin’ of a fish so large and unat’trilly peculiar. So a few nights

Clutching the tree branch, I teetered precariously, leaning off the edge of the cliff, suspended above the lake water.

A splash below. ago, I go out to hunt me a deer. I figure if I string up a deer as bait for the fish, he’ll come grab it, and then I can kill it. So, course, I’m drivin’ around the back roads here, where deer are a’runnin’ all the time, and I don’t got my headlights on. Just like I always hunt.

Well, purty soon, I got myself one of them deer, a fine, fat doe that leaped out right in front of me. Scratched up the hood and bumper a good bit, but it was fine, rilly. So, I put this big, ole doe in the bed of my truck and I drive home.

“Next day, I come back to the lake and rig up the deer from a tree branch, see? It was just a’hangin’ out over the water, so I tied it up like a noose and then had the deer danglin’ from its legs over the water. And I was sort of high up, see? The bank sort of rises like this, and I’m sittin’ up above the water just eye level with the deer that I’m usin’ as bait. So, I just have to wait, you know, up on the bank up high with my shotgun. What I was gonna do, then, was I was sittin’ in wait for this big, ole catfish and then I’d get ‘im good with a pellet shot. And down he goes, and then I drag in that prize for quite a lump o’ dough.

“So while I’m sittin’ on the bank, I start to drift, just waitin’. After ‘bout an hour, I start wonderin’ why the fish ain’t showed up, cause I figured he’d take mighty stock in fresh, bloody bait. Jus’ as I thought that all out, this humungous fish comes up out the water, like one of those dolphins in the shows. Jumps clear out the water, snapping down on the bait with its big, sharp teeth, and it just tears right through. Now, see, I didn’t have time to react, but I got my gun all ready, and I pointed up at the what was left of the doe, waitin’ to see if he’d try again.

“I raise up that gun just as jumps up again, and sudden-like sumthin’ struck me. This freak of nature was a real beaut. This most glorious, majestic beast, made by the hand of God. Well, not God, but still, sort of, indirectly if yer thank over it. Still a nat’ril part of nature. Seems like it just fits, yer follow?

“So, I lower my gun and I salute the fish like a proud Confed’ret. And it drops back into the water, and it swims away all mysterious-like. So that’s how I got to have seen why those men rilly put up that ole dam, to keep that whole breed of mutant fish inside the lake. I figure they don’t want ‘em getting out. But me, I got a lot of awe and respect for them big fish.”

He swished a mix of Coca-cola and tobacco juices, and he spit them into an empty beer can. When Razor looked up from his lap upon concluding his story, I put on for him a humbled expression of interest. I thanked him for the information, promising to use it in the news story; I told him it would soon be heralded in the headlines in every major newspaper that mutant catfish inhabited Lake Chocktaw. When Razor’s son returned in my car, I paid him and drove away from the garage.

As they watched me with nearly toothless smiles, I felt like I had been waited on by a gaggle of in-breds. It was like being a patient at a hospital run by the other patients. I had to accept that my saviors were two knuckle-headed chicken connoisseurs.

no. 75 PETE BOYZUICK

old man beat. The ridiculousness of it gripped me, and so I rocked back and forth in the driver’s seat, caught in hysterical laughter. As I wiped the tears from my eyes, I pulled back onto the road, musing over how straight-faced I had managed to be throughout the entire ordeal. It had been insufferable to be humbugged by such an errantly backwards hick.

I continued on through the land of yokels and hominy grits until I reached my desired destination, Lake Chocktaw. When I climbed out from my car, I was immediately disappointed. The lake was no lake of any kind: more like a marsh. Rotten cypress trunks protruded from the murky water, and the lake stretched only a few hundred yards across.

The imposing concrete dam loomed over the entire body of water, a fortified wall that overshadowed the landscape with dull gray consistency. I began to tread around the perimeter around the swamp, and I began to resent my editor for sending me on such a fool’s errand. Clearly no substantial wildlife resided here, nor had anything of interest ever taken place in the mossy water.

Sore and disheartened, I ascended a slight incline, rounding the last section of Lake Chocktaw. I stopped atop the slope and peered across the rarified air at a fraying rope, tied noose style to a tree branch that drooped over the water. I gingerly edged forward, swaying once I reached the precipice; below was a ten-foot drop and a pool of shallow water. Clutching the tree branch, I teetered precariously, leaning off the edge of the cliff, suspended above the lake water. A splash below.

The behemoth fish vaulted from the diluted depths, its gummy mouth arced open to reveal rows of tiny, jagged teeth. Its jaws clamped down on my leg which had been dangling over the cliff ’s edge, and the hundreds of teeth pierced my skin. With agony, I convulsed, toppling off of my dry pedestal and falling headfirst. Yet still the teeth were lodged into my leg, and in one gruesome moment, my leg snapped. Crack, right in half.

I plunged into the water, the fish’s massive body brushing up beside me. Thrashing and splashing, I struggled to reach the surface, and when I did, I gasped loudly, flailing my arms above my head and kicking my stubbed leg. With great effort, I heaved myself ashore and frantically scanned the waters for the catfish, but the dammed lake was still.

When ignorance again and again clashes with practicality, ignorance indefinitely prevails. 

Once I had driven out of sight, I parked the car and snickered childishly. How ignorant would a man have to be to believe such a farce? Razor certainly had Hemingway’s

26 the inkling volume three january 2012

PETE BOYZUICK says “My Father called me Bum so my work is signed so.”

Here There Dragons Be Part II

DON HARRIS

read part I on page 19

There came a man from distant lands With eyes like flaming firebrands With hair of woven raven flax Arms of steel and sinewed back

Past dwellings crumbled, soaked in flames Where once the children played their games Through pastures tended once by men Where wheatstalks once danced in the wind

For moments long they held their gaze A war of wills, whose life would pay?

The man showed not a sign of fear The dragon shocked he should appear

A man of legend, so they say Who gave the bards new songs to play A man courageous; tall and strong Who’d battle Hell to right a wrong

Past broken walls that once were homes Now only fear and misery roam By wells that pour forth only steam Where once the laughing maids were seen

No normal human temperament Dared storm the dragon’s battlement And as he sat in raptured sight The man attacked with speed of light

A man who’d tempt the devil’s frown Who’d stand for right and not back down He’d travel long on danger’s path To seize his quest and not look back

His anger surged with every mile His muscles tensed for coming trial Then stood at last by bone-strewn cave And vowed “This be the dragon’s grave.”

With full assault in battle lust He gave his sword an upward thrust A shriek of pain and then a flood A caustic stream of blackest blood

The tales of dragons reached his ears He stopped to ponder; strained to hear The stories ripe with carnage fresh Of teeth that shredded armor mesh

With careful thought, he loosed his steed Unfixed the saddle; set him free Then set his gaze into the den With wary step he entered in

A final wail of fiery breath And then the lizard’s trembling death His one mistake: safe in his lair He’d left his silken belly bare!

Of flame that scorched the barren earth And wings that circled heaven’s girth Of knights so brave they’d not turn back But roast alive in armor black

The darkness closed in all around And swallowed up the ashen ground Every step was felt, not seen His every sense alive and keen

The stories burned deep in his soul He knew at once he had to go Inquired he of the distant place, Determined smile on steely face

He journeyed hours without end Then saw a light around a bend He paused his breath and silent prayed With tightened grip on vorpal blade

“Why, only fools would dare to tread” The bard, in reckless laughter, said.

“Fool or not, tomorrow dawn, I’m off to battle Satan’s spawn. “

With jaw set firm and hand unswayed His holy mission undismayed His valiant faith all fear subdued as he Stood full in the dragon’s view

Did You Hear The One?

SHARON SCHROEDER

One hundred proof afternoons, Memories queue up, Unconventionality warms for the pitch, Closets open and phantoms of the family, Parade down Main Street, Little kids jockey for position, On bony shoulders, Uncomfortable as hell but, High enough to see.

With that he gave a wink and grin And never there was seen again For when the sun brought morning light He rode as swift as eagles’ flight Through forests dark and rivers deep Through mountain passes high and steep To reach the land where dragons dwell To break their hell-spawned evil spell Then, at last, he slowed his pace And grimaced at the barren place The smoke and stench rose to the sky Seared his nostrils; stung his eyes Though never once a tear he shed But slowly hung his weary head Then shook his fist at unseen foe And bade his steed on “steady, slow”

ravenous ADAM DONNELLY

ADAM DONNELLY 2. n.:Non-conspicuous man whose natural habitat is coffee shops along the eastern seaboard.

SHARON SCHROEDER is a co-founder of the Columbia County Literary Arts Guild and teaches English at Augusta Technical College.

the inkling 27

volume three january 2012

28 January 4, 2012 | community driven news | vergelive.com

The Sexus :or: The Men Who Drop the Decoy Bodies

f. SIMON GRANT

Go Bellatrix met the Sexus three days after her grandpa died and they shipped his body back north. The Sexus, the new kids in school, only had this collective name. Even the teachers when calling roll would say “The Sexus,” and three voices would say “here.”

The three of them were pale, bald, too tall for high schoolers, big round animal eyes. They had a sort of darkness at their edges as if in a peripheral glance the darkness crept up their face and they became wrinkled old men. Those eyes were trained on Go and never elsewhere, everywhere she went in school – class, the hall, the bus stop – deep holes for eyes like an umbilical back to mystery, ready to suck her into them.

Her grandpa once told her, “I had a dream that death was just another place like all you do is open a door. Workers come through the door and leave a decoy body so nobody comes looking for you.” Her grandpa was a scientist who may not have believed in heaven but seemed to believe in this dream.

She thought a lot about those men who drop the decoy bodies, what terrible dark officiating this was, to make families believe someone had ceased being. It was the lie of it that bothered her, a lie only to hide whatever was behind the door.

Her grandpa told her never to lie, and she did try hard to obey him. A good girl was also strong and never showed any pain, and she was strong.

She didn’t cry when they shipped his body north.

She was also very good at running. Cross country running, she liked when she advanced past the rest of the class, past earshot of their cattle rumble, and heard the crunch crunch of her own running and the metronome of her breath.

One day while running with the rest of the class, Go glanced back and saw the Sexus in ridiculous black gym clothes keeping pace ten feet behind, eyes locked on her like always.

Nobody else in school could ever keep this kind of pace with her. Her face remained behind, afraid of this predator pace, but she hit a root, lost gravity, fell on a pile of rocks – the type of pain she hadn’t felt in a while shooting through her knee.

Quick, she checked her bleeding knee, blood dripping on her pink shoes. She’d have to just let the knee bleed and hurt as she ran. She sprinted now, trees passing by in a blur, knee pain now only like a part of herself.

But no matter how fast she ran – faster than she’d ever run before, pushing through the pain of running this fast – any time she looked back, she saw them, that same constant distance like they weren’t even inside of time now.

Helpless in a way no good could save her, she stopped and turned. Hands on side, breath in big heaves.

They stopped too.

She really did look in their eyes now. These weren’t the eyes she expected from the haughty men who drop the decoy bodies. They were desperate, like looking at her really did fill a hunger. A long time they stood apart like this.

She walked now to the finish, as other students passed her and the Sexus stayed that comforting distance back.

Go, looking down at her bloodstained shoes, enjoying the slow pace that allowed her to lose, felt all of her own pain and smiled. 

swarm JOHN KAROLEWICS

Dream

Manna

WESLEY ENGLISH

I recall a dream, in the early dawn, Which is rare for me, they are usually gone.

I walked a beach on the edge of night.

I came upon a woman in the thin light.

She was old and wrinkled with a hue of gray, It seemed as though it may be her last day.

She gazed at the sea, her face so serene, Her gaze then shifted; her eyes were green.

Her attention was severe, her eyes not unkind.

“You may inquire,” said she. “What’s on your mind?”

So I did ask, “Are our lots issued, already cast?

Are we now imprisoned by acts of the past?

Is this our path? Can we be redeemed?”

She replied with a laugh, “Child, it’s only a dream!”

The shrew tamed anew

STEFFANIE ENKO

A blush upon the cheek a twinkle in the eye a flush, a hitch of breath a smile and a sigh.

For a Katarina to be wooed, her temper (temple) must first be cooled with gentle application of icy water and appreciation.

After years of predation and aggressive flirting, she feels shy when passion is replaced by a soft kiss on the hand or cheek.

A beginning soft contrasted with primal lust, but both beloved, and welcomed the attention a new dawn for a new day.

f. SIMON GRANT is working on his M.F.A. in creative writing. An accomplished poet and novelist, HUGH PENDEXTER III is Professor Emeritus at Armstrong State College. STEFFANIE ENKO says she is “an artist on disability recovering from the experience of being a high school science teacher.” WESLEY ENGLISH found his creativity four years ago and is making up for lost time. By day, JOHN KAROLEWICS is a linguist. By night, he explores the media of pen and ink.

HUGH PENDEXTER III

I like to leave in my suburban yard A patch of wilderness for volunteers Of nature to survive – a live-oak clump Entwined with May-pop vines, garlanded With grey-green Spanish moss; sassafras Whose three-fold leaves quench thirst with slippery sap, Whose roots give soothing tea; This bed, gone wild, Sports spiky green, brambled with wild blackberry.

Between the springtime blaze of azalea blooms And dogwood’s cautious parchment, blackberry stars Snow my wilderness. A few weeks later Clumps of pale, then blushing, globes reflect The sun, entice the birds and squirrels to guard A future trove. I bide my time and watch The berries crimson, darken to maroon.

At last, while mocking birds berate, I grasp With cringing fingers through the lurking brambles One clump of black spheres, succulent of sweet, And tart, and bitter juice that tangs the tongue And stains scratched hands.

Two days more I wait; Then I become the boy of ten whom aunts – Wearied by constant “How” and Why” – sent forth With pail to glean wild berries near the grove Of birches on the farm. They bought their peace With promise that a brimming pail of fruit Would bring reward of pie, of muffins, or of bread – A mouth-empurpling boyhood gluttony Of Maine blueberries filled my mouth and pail – Abundant, opulent of juice, but shy.

Now in Georgia’s spring I risk my blood To steal before my rivals strip the patch One brimming cup of long-departed boyhood: Breakfast muffins, light as summer clouds, Brown and buttered, berry rich as youth.

the inkling 29

volume three january 2012

30 January 4, 2012 | community driven news | vergelive.com

the

daily planner

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO?

The Daily Planner is our selective guide to what is going on in the city during the next two weeks. IF YOU WANT TO BE LISTED: Submit information by email (events@vergelive.com) or by mail (verge, P.O. Box 38, Augusta, GA 30903). Details of the event - date, time, venue address, telephone number and admission price - should be included. Listings included are accurate at press time, check with specific venues for further details.

WEDNESDAY

1.4

HISTORY BROWN BAG HISTORY: Museum Memories, Celebrating 75 Years. Nancy J. Glaser will talk about the how the Museum has evolved since opening its doors in April 1937. Participants should bring a lunch, beverages will be provided. Augusta Museum of History; 12:30 p.m.; free; 506 Reynolds St.; 706.722.8454 AUGUSTAMUSEUM.ORG

LITERARY THE INKLING PARTY Meet the authors

of the 2012 Inkling, verge’s annual literary journal. Enjoy refreshments, readings, specials and more. See article on right.

The Book Tavern; 6 to 8 p.m.; free; 1026 Broad St.; 706.826.1940

THURSDAY

1.5

FRIDAY

1.6

COMEDY SCHRODINGER’S CAT PLAYS EXTREME THEATRE GAMES These

extreme theater games are sure to delight any mature audience member. Le Chat Noir; 8 p.m.; $8 advance, $10 door; 304 Eighth St.; 706.722.3322 SCHRODINGERSCATAUG.COM

SATURDAY FILM FILMS ON FRIDAY The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek (1944).

Starring Eddie Bracken and Betty Hutton, this film (a Preston Sturges comedic masterpiece) was nominated for an Academy Award for best original screenplay in 1944. After viewing the film, museum director Kevin Grogan leads a discussion.

Participants are invited to bring lunch. Morris Museum of Art; 11 a.m.; free; 1 10th St.; 706.724.7501 THEMORRIS.ORG

FESTIVAL FIRST FRIDAY

Downtown Augusta celebrates the first Friday of each month as art galleries display new works, performers take to the sidewalks and streets, arts and craft vendors sell their hand-made goods along Broad Street.

Family friendly. Downtown Augusta; 5 p.m.; free; Broad Street; 706.826.4702 AUGUSTAARTS.COM

ART POET LAUREATE & ARTIST-IN-RESIDENCE ANNOUNCEMENT The CSRA

African American Arts Alliance will announce plans for the artist-in-residence who will chronicle the year through visual images. There will be a show at the end of the cycle, showcasing the body of work. Encore 601; 6 p.m.; $5 donation; 601 Broad St., 2nd Floor; 404.786.3277

1.7 EDUCATION SONS OF CONFEDERATE VETERANS BREAKFAST The members of

the Bernard E. Bee Camp and the Joseph Wheeler Camp of the Sons of Confederate Veterans invite the public to come and see a re-enactment take place on the grounds of the museum. Aiken County Historical Museum; 8 a.m.; free; 433 Newberry St., Aiken; 803.642.2015

OUTDOORS SWAMP SATURDAY The Academy’s

trained volunteers lead free, 2.5-mile, 1.5-hour hikes through wetlands, over picturesque trails and scenic outlooks. Phinizy Swamp; 9:30 a.m.; free; 1858 Lock & Dam Road; 706.828.2109

FOR KIDS KUNG FU PANDA 2 Rated PG.

Headquarters Library; 2 p.m.; free; 823 Telfair St.; 706.821.2600

EDUCATION HISTORICAL GAMING NIGHT Come try

FOR KIDS TODDLER TIME: MAGICAL MATERIALS! Hear the story Snow Riders,

by Constance W. McGeorge, while viewing paintings by Mary Whyte. Afterward, create magical effects with watercolor.

Registration required. Morris Museum of Art; 10 a.m.; $4; 1 10th St.; 706.724.7501 THEMORRIS.ORG

FESTIVAL FIRST THURSDAY ON KINGS WAY Enjoy an evening out

in Summerville as stores stay open, refreshments are served and friendships are made. Kings Way in Summerville; 5 p.m.; free; Kings Way and Central Ave.; 706.755.2665

SPORTS AUGUSTA RIVERHAWKS vs.

Huntsville. James Brown Arena; 7:35 p.m.; $7 to $18; 712 Telfair St.; 706.993.2645 AUGUSTARIVERHAWKS.COM

JAN. 4 TO JAN. 20

FILM POISON PEACH FILM FESTIVAL Short Film Showcase featuring Piano Battle by Chris Cheape, The Competition by Amier Naji, Sanctuary by Daniel Allen, Surrender by Karlton T. Clay and The 1964 Dream by Ray and Migdalia Etheridge. The Imperial Theatre; 7 p.m.; single day admission $8, weekend pass $15; 745 Broad St.; 706.722.8341 IMPERIALTHEATRE.COM

FILM POISON PEACH FILM FESTIVAL Film features

include Confederate Zombie [Raw Cut] by Stephen Gilliam at 8 p.m.; Deadline directed

by Dan Beck and Stephen Gilliam at 9 p.m..; and 1,000 Bullets to Heaven – Genesis by Josh Seymour at 9:10 p.m. The Imperial Theatre; 8 p.m.; Single day admission is $8 and a weekend pass is $15; 745 Broad St.; 706.722.8341 IMPERIALTHEATRE.COM

discover more to do and ongoing events @ vergelive.com

your hand for a night of gaming (18th Century games) taught by Faire Wynds. There will be chili, cornbread, wine and ale starting at 6:30 p.m. in the barn for $12 per person. The Living History Park; 6:30 p.m.; free, dinner $12; 299 W. Spring Grove Ave., North Augusta; 803.441.8956 COLONIALTIMES.US

SPORTS AUGUSTA RIVERHAWKS vs.

[ CELEBRATE THE WRITTEN WORD ] The Book Tavern celebrates the latest segment of Jason Walter’s comic book, Modern Unicorn, on the first Wednesday each month with Boxed Wine Wednesday. The Jan. 4 event will be a dual celebration of the written word: recognizing The Inkling (whose words are captured in these pages) and Walter’s fifth installment.

Modern Unicorn is currently available only at The Book Tavern, and chronicles the real-life exploits of Walter’s band, M-Tank, within the frame story of four superheroes.

“The story of our band going out on tour is built within the frame story about the superheroes, and most everybody who knows about M-Tank knows that the story concludes in a car accident that nearly killed us,” he said. “There’s also going to be some plot twists in the frame story that I hope will surprise everyone. I know the ending, but I’m not giving away any hints.”

David Hutchison, The Book Tavern’s owner, provides free beverages for customers as they enjoy the latest edition of the comic book while listening to live performers, who usually echo the indierock sound of M-Tank. January will feature the fifth 20-page issue in what Walter hopes will be a 12-part series about animal robot cyborgs.

“Modern Unicorn is M-Tank’s latest album, and for the cover I drew the character of a unicorn with a human torso, a wheel on the bottom, and a gun arm,” said Walter. “For our last EP called Deathbeats, I drew a cat with a human torso and robot spider legs, and I used that mythology to write a story about these characters and two others, Ghost Cat and City Tiger, designed by my friends Zach Williams and Joey Williams.”

“Their world is a very violent version of a super hero world,” he continued. “It’s actually a parody of a Marvel Comics’ world, but when I drew the first issue I had to change the logo so that we didn’t risk offending anyone if the comic ever became really successful.”

Black and white copies are available for $3, while color copies cost $6. Walter says that at least one of each issue is available at The Book Tavern, but people interested in getting caught up with the series can email him at oasissucks1@gmail.com.

WHAT Boxed Wine Wednesday featuring The Inkling and Modern Unicorn WHERE The Book Tavern | 1026 Broad St. WHEN Wednesday, Jan. 4 | 6 to 9 p.m.

COST Free MORE 706.826.1940 or BOOKTAVERN.COM

Fayetteville. James Brown Arena; 7:35 p.m.; $7 to $18; 712 Telfair St.; 706.993.2645 AUGUSTARIVERHAWKS.COM

SUNDAY

1.8

FILM POISON PEACH FILM FESTIVAL Short Film

Showcase includes Casa Sonata

by IdaLease Cummings; Circus

by Mikalyn Rush, Ashley Plocha and Veronica LeBlanc; That’s Bull: Elijah and the Prophets of Wall Street by Rhonda and Sharee Washington; The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down and Docstar. The Imperial Theatre; 7 p.m.; single day admission $8, weekend pass $15; 745 Broad St.; 706.722.8341 IMPERIALTHEATRE.COM

FILM POISON PEACH FILM FESTIVAL World Premiere of

Glass Bullets for Broken Hearts, a feature-length western featuring Cody McCarver and Billy Joe Royal. The Imperial Theatre; 8 p.m.; Single day admission is $8 and a weekend pass is $15; 745 Broad St.; 706.722.8341 IMPERIALTHEATRE.COM

FOR KIDS ARTRAGEOUS! FAMILY SUNDAY The fourth

Children’s Book Reading Spectacular: a day of stories and art projects. Authors Kip Walden Carr, Marie-Jean Pollard and Maurice McBride-Owens read from their books. Afterward, create a mini book inspired by their stories. Morris Museum of Art; 2 p.m.; free; 1 10th St.; 706.828.3867 THEMORRIS.ORG

FOR TEENS TEEN GAME DAY Cure the back to school

BLAH syndrome with snacks, Wii games, Uno and more.

Headquarters Library; 2:30 p.m.; free; 823 Telfair St.; 706.821.2600

FILM POISON PEACH FILM FESTIVAL Participate

in the filming for the final scene of the musical Miss Strangelove featuring vampires, witches, dancing executioners and a beautiful woman rising from the dead. Release forms will be required. Participants should dress in black. Shooting begins promptly at 7 p.m.. The Imperial Theatre; 6:30 p.m.; free; 745 Broad St.; 706.722.8341 IMPERIALTHEATRE.COM

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32 January 4, 2012 | community driven news | vergelive.com

TUESDAY

1.10

ART JEROME MEADOWS: WORLD VIEW OPENING RECEPTION Savannah artist

Meadows combines a variety of found, fabricated, and nontraditional objects to engage the viewer through the interplay of provocative and sometimes disparate elements. Gertrude Herbert Institute of Art; 6 to 8 p.m.; $5; 506 Telfair St.; 706.722.5495 GHIA.ORG

Headquarters Library; 10 a.m.; free; 823 Telfair St.; 706.821.2600

Library; 10 a.m.; free; 823 Telfair St.; 706.821.2600 ECGRL.ORG

Alexandra playing classical guitar. Lunch is provided after concert. Reservations required.

St. Paul’s Episcopal Church; noon; $10 for lunch; Sixth and Reynolds streets in downtown Augusta; 706.722.3463 TUESDAYSMUSICLIVE.COM

FILM MOVIES @ MAIN: LENNY 111 minutes, rated R. ART STACI SWIDER: DANCING ALONG THE RED ROAD OPENING RECEPTION Swider is best

known for her mixed media paintings, which often come with a story, literal and interpreted.

Gertrude Herbert Institute of Art; $5; 506 Telfair St.; 706.722.5495 GHIA.ORG

THEATRE PICKIN’ Augusta

FILM MOVIES @ MAIN: FIVE EASY PIECES 98

minutes, rated R. Headquarters Library; 6:30 p.m.; free; 823 Telfair St.; 706.821.2600

WEDNESDAY

1.11 ART OPENING ART RECEPTION: AIKEN RETROSPECTIVE Aiken

Center for the Arts; 6 p.m.; free; 122 Laurens St., Aiken; 803.641.9094

SPORTS AUGUSTA RIVERHAWKS vs.

Cottonmouths. James Brown Arena; 7:35 p.m.; $10 to $18; 712 Telfair St.; 706.993.2645

FRIDAY

1.13 ART ART AT LUNCH: DAVE THE POTTER & THE EDGEFIELD TRADITION

Terry and Steve Ferrell of Old Edgefield Pottery and the Ferrell Museum discuss the work of Dave Drake, the famous artist, poet and slave, and the unique ceramic techniques originating in the Edgefield area. Paid reservations due Jan. 11. Morris Museum of Art; noon; $10 to $14; 1 10th St.; 706.828.3867 THEMORRIS.ORG

FESTIVAL MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR., DAY CELEBRATION Event is

held in conjunction with Paine College and Augusta State University. Gilbert-Lambuth Memorial Chapel; noon; free; 1235 15th St.; 706.737.1610 AUG.EDU

1.17 FOR KIDS MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR. STORY TIME

FOR KIDS SNOWMAN STORY TIME Headquarters

CONCERT TUESDAY MUSIC LIVE Featuring Marina

TUESDAY

Mini Theatre presents an original play (written by Tyrone J. Butler) to salute the work of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Judith Simon Drama Studio; 8 p.m.; $8 to $12; 2548 Deans Bridge Rd.; 706.722.0598 AUGUSTAMINITHEATRE.COM

THEATRE WRONG WINDOW Filled with multiple

door-slamming body snatchings and a frantic flashlight chase, this send-up of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window will keep you rolling in the aisles. Suitable for ages 13-and-over. Aiken Community Playhouse; 8 p.m.; $35; 126 Newberry St., Aiken; 803.648.1438 ACP1011.COM

COMEDY AMY SCHUMER

Amy Schumer is one of the fastest rising comics on the scene.

See the article on this page. Sky City; 9 p.m.; $15; 1157 Broad St. SKYCITYAUGUSTA.COM

SATURDAY

1.14

Headquarters Library; 6:30 p.m.; free; 823 Telfair St.; 706.821.2600

FOR KIDS THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA Presented by

Verge: How brave do you have to be to stand in front of strangers and make them laugh within a few seconds?

The Patchwork Players. Maxwell Theatre; 9:30 a.m. and 10:30 a.m.; $3; 2500 Walton Way; 706.737.1625 AUG.EDU

LITERARY PHILOSOPHY CLUB Kroc Center; 7 p.m.; free; 1833 Broad St.; 706.364.5762 KROCAUGUSTA.ORG

THURSDAY

1.19

LITERARY BROWN BAG BOOK CLUB Columbia County

Library; 11:30 a.m.; free; 7022 Evans Town Center; 706.863.1946

CONCERT MIDDAY MUSIC SERIES Sponsored by First

Presbyterian Church of Aiken, the concert series will be held the third Thursday of each month.

Call to make reservations. First Presbyterian Church; noon; music free, $9 for lunch; 224 Barnwell Ave. NW, Aiken; 803.648.2662 AIKENPRESBYTERIAN.ORG

Galen Kipar Project blends folk, classical, jazz and blues into original compositions.

Morris Museum of Art; 2 p.m.; free; 1 10th St.; 706.828.3867 THEMORRIS.ORG

THEATRE PICKIN’ See listing on Jan. 11. Judith Simon Drama Studio; 3 p.m.

CONCERT WINTER NOCTURNE PIANO CONCERT Enjoy beautiful

1.16

THEATRE PICKIN’ See listing on Jan. 11. Judith Simon Drama Studio; 3 p.m.

Schumer: You don’t have to be brave. You have to be delusional and a masochist.

Verge: Does your content change when you perform in different parts of the country? If so, how and where?

Schumer: Yeah, when I am down South I go harder because it’s tougher for the crowds to take my material. I do my act wherever I am. I stay true to my dirtiness no matter the location.

Verge: What would you be doing if you weren’t a comedian?

Schumer: Probably some things I’m not proud of.

Verge: You recently released an album, Cutting. What is the key to recording a solid comedy album that merits more than one listen?

Schumer: Hard work and travel for years.

Verge: Your initial goal was to be an actress, and while you’re known primarily for comedy, you are incorporating that goal into your career. How are the two similar and different? What does it take to prep for each and deliver effectively and convincingly?

Schumer: I’m still an actress. I have two movies in Sundance this year and have been on 30 Rock, Curb Your Enthusiasm and I am a regular on Delocated on Adult Swim this year.

Verge: What’s something that most of your fans probably would be surprised to learn about you?

Schumer: I’m pretty quiet and reserved off stage. I don’t really get that drunk anymore.

Verge: Many people consider themselves amusing, or their friends tell them, “You’re so funny; you should do standup.” Then they try it and — guess what — not so funny after all. How does one really know that that they’ve got the goods and it’s worth taking a shot?

Schumer: You will never know unless you try standup, and if you are even a little good at it, it will take 10 years to be actually good. It’s a lifelong commitment. I don’t recommend it unless it’s all you want.

America’s premier comedian is hitting the road in a return to his first love – stand-up comedy.

Hailed as the master stand-up comic of his generation and the best comedian of our time in a Washington Post article by Tom Shales, Seinfeld has an uncanny ability to joke about the little things in life that relate to audiences everywhere. The Bell Auditorium; 7 p.m.; $45 to $75; 712 Telfair St.; 877.4.AUGTIX GEORGIALINATIX.COM

MONDAY

Comedienne Amy Schumer came to national attention as a finalist on Last Comic Standing. Since then, her career has progressed at rapid speed, with stand-up engagements, recurring roles in television series, movie roles and guest appearances on talk shows.

She also released her debut album, Cutting, on Comedy Central Records.

While on the road, Schumer received a series of questions compiled by verge editors and writers.

1.18

daily planner

[ amy schumer brings wit to sky city ]

WEDNESDAY

COMEDY JERRY SEINFELD

CONCERT MUSIC AT THE MORRIS: THE GALEN KIPAR PROJECT The

the

music and relax to the soothing sounds. USC Aiken Etherredge Center; 7 p.m.; $15; 471 University Parkway, Aiken; 803.641.3305 USCA.EDU

Verge:According to Wikipedia, you were voted “Teacher’s Worst Nightmare” when you graduated from high school. What did you do to earn first prize?

Schumer: I got in a lot of trouble in school. I had Saturday detention every week. But it all worked out I guess.

Verge: Mark Twain said, “The human race has only one really effective weapon and that is laughter.” Does that observation make you nervous, since the government may already consider you a weapon of mass destruction?

Schumer: Cute.

by Alison Richter

WHO Amy Schumer WHERE Sky City | 1057 Broad St. WHEN Friday, Jan. 19 at 9 p.m. TICKETS $15 MORE | SKYCITYAUGUSTA.COM or AMYSCHUMER.COM ART AND SHE LIVED OPENING RECEPTION

FRIDAY

1.20

HISTORY SECOND ANNUAL JIMMIE DYESS SYMPOSIUM See article on

page 5. Augusta Museum of History Rotunda; 5 p.m.; free; 560 Reynolds St.; 706.722.8454 AUGUSTAMUSEUM.ORG

FOR TEENS TEEN NIGHT

Play games and watch the movie

I Am Number Four (based on the book by Pittacus Lore). A snack supper is included. Headquarters Library; 5:30 p.m.; free; 823 Telfair St.; 706.821.2600

Through ceramics and mixed media paintings, a look at how work responds to life and how social thought and experimentation are influenced by one’s surroundings. Arts & Heritage Center of North Augusta; 6:30 to 8:30 p.m.; free; 100 Georgia Ave., North Augusta; 803.441.4380

discover more to do @ vergelive.com

vergelive.com | community driven news | January 4, 2012 33

stoney’s

sound bites

the guy who put the “k” In lokal gets vocal about augusta’s music scene

If you are like me, you are wondering when 2011 turned into 2012. One day it’s Christmas, then all of a sudden you’re putting the wrong year on your checks. Long ago, I could have attributed the memory lapse to the multiple New Year’s Eve toasts that also led to feeling less than stellar the first day of the new year. But I have to admit that the past decade I have spent New Year’s Eve on the couch watching televised countdowns and lame bands miming their most recent hits. While that might not sound very rock ‘n’ roll, it hasn’t been without some cool memories – such as watching my daughter fight to stay awake every year only to pass out minutes before the final countdown. One year, I did watch my old band nearly implode after a parking lot brawl following a New Year’s Eve gig, which IS very rock ‘n’ roll.

2011 was filled with some pretty kick-ass rock ‘n’ roll moments and, since we just wrapped up the final countdown, allow me to throw out the first of 2012 – Stoney’s Top Ten Lokal Loudness Moments of Last Year:

10. Metro Music Makes a Comeback:

After Metro A Coffeehouse & Pub opened on New Year’s Eve 2000, it quickly became a hot spot for great music – particularly for singer-songwriters. After a lull that lasted several years, the newly renamed Metro Pub & Coffeehouse brought back live music three to four nights a week in a big way and have been rockin’ Augusta ever since.

9. The Godfather Rocks RockBand 3: In late July, it was announced that classic James Brown track “Superbad” would be made available for download to use with the game RockBand 3 along with classic tracks by Heart, Rufus and the Beastie Boys. No word yet whether a player gets fined for missing notes on the James Brown track.

8. Willie Mac Wraps Up 52/52 Project: On Jan. 3, a year after uploading the kick-off track, Augusta boy turned New York troubadour Will McCranie completed his huge mission of releasing 52 tracks online in 52 weeks when he posted the video for “Brand New Year” on 5252PROJECT.COM. McCranie also released an acoustic CD, joined two new bands and played two Augusta shows – Rock Fore! Dough and the 12 Bands of Christmas.

7. Lady A Pulls the Rug Out from Under Graduation: Say you

work for 18 years only to be told that your high school graduation plans have been compromised because of the biggest country music act in world? Get over it! Diplomas will be handed out, Lady A will rock and graduates will have a cool story to tell the grandkids years from now.

6. JB Goes Old School in the UK: What do Deee-Lite,

Martha & the Vandellas, Donna Summer, The Bee Gees, Fatboy Slim, Abba, Amy Winehouse, The B-52’s and Michael Jackson have in common? All had tracks topped by James Brown’s classic “Sex Machine” in a survey of 2,000 United Kingdom festival, club and dance attendees polled to determine the top track that pulls butts on the dance floor. Who feels good now?

5. Jemani Plays Final Show, Then Returns to Play Final Show: It was announced that Jemani would play their final show opening for a national act and would return with a new name and sound ... and then they played their final show as Jemani a few months later. Any chance a reunion show announcement could be next?

4. Seladora Sign with National Entertainment Group: In May, Kaedyn Entertainment announced the signing of Augusta metal band Seladora. The band’s debut single was set for less than a month later and the band was ready to take off. By year’s end, however, Seladora was down to two members and searching.

3. Easterlin Jazz Rocks Lollapalooza:

On Aug. 6, Julia Easterlin, an alumna of John S. Davidson Fine Arts Magnet School, was scheduled to rock the same festival that featured such names as Eminem, Foo Fighters, Coldplay, Muse, My Morning Jacket and A Perfect Circle. What else can I say?

2. M-Tank Roll Van and Return to Rock the House: In August, Augusta band M-Tank suffered injuries after an accident while traveling home from a gig in Columbia, S.C. A few weeks later, a benefit show at Sky City took place and in November, at the Firehouse, the band made its return to the stage. Proof that you can’t stop rock ‘n’ roll!

1. Laws Leaves Sector 7G: He saw a need, rolled up his sleeves and, with a dingy little building, helped make Augusta a hot stop for bands to play all-age shows. A month shy of hitting the six-year mark, owner Nick Laws decided to get “out of the game” and though the club has continued under new ownership, the “Law-less” Sector 7G is not quite the same.

There you have my top rockin’ memories of 2011. Happy New Year, be good to one another, support ALL things lokal and check out the Daily Planner in print and online at VERGELIVE.COM for great live shows. To get an earful of what is happening in Augusta music, listen to CONfederation of LOUDness, which can be found at CONFEDERATIONOFLOUDNESS.COM and, of course, as always … Make it LOKAL, Keep it Loud.

John “Stoney” Cannon is considered the guru of “lokal” music.

Check out his long-running Augusta music website: lokalloudness.com.

Send any music news to lokalloudness@yahoo.com.

34 January 4, 2012 | community driven news | vergelive.com

FRIDAY

1.20

the

night

daily planner

A SELECTIVE GUIDE

GOOD CAUSE THIRD ANNUAL ROAST ON THE RIVER A benefit for the

WEDNESDAY, JAN. 4 NOAH COTHERN @ Manuel’s Bread Café | 5:30 p.m.

Savannah Riverkeeper includes drinks, oysters and a low country boil with a silent and live auction. Hogan’s Marina; 6:30 p.m.; $35 individual or $50 couple, members receive $10 discount; 36 Wilmington Island Road, Savannah; 706.826.8991

COMEDY ZONE: PAUL LYONS & LUCAS BOHN @ Somewhere in Augusta | 8 p.m.; $8

life

THRU jan. 21

FALSE FLAG + DEATH IS A DIALOGUE + THE RADAR CINEMA @ Sky City | 9:30 p.m.

ANTHONY ORIO @ The Country Club | 10 p.m.

FRIDAY, JAN. 6 80’S NIGHT & ART SHOW featuring works by Nicholas Bass and Friends @ Sky City Art at 8 p.m., music at 10 p.m.

JP HARRIS

JP HARRIS & THE TOUGH CHOICES @ Stillwater Taproom 10 p.m.

WEDNESDAY, JAN. 18

CONCERT ASU LYCEUM SERIES: THE POULENC TRIO Presented by the Harry

GRANNY’S GIN

GRANNY’S GIN @ The Playground Bar | 8 p.m.

Jacobs Chamber Music Society.

Maxwell Theatre; 7:30 p.m.; $25 adults and $7 children; 2500 Walton Way; 706.667.4100 HJCMS.ORG

CONCERT SOUTHERN SOUL AND SONG SERIES: MOUNTAIN HEART WITH TONY RICE Imperial

Theatre; 7:30 p.m.; $13 to $37; 745 Broad St.; 706.722.8341 IMPERIALTHEATRE.COM

ONGOING

ART

LOCAL COLOR: PHOTOGRAPHY IN THE SOUTH Ends Jan. 29. Morris

Museum of Art; $3 to $5; 1 10th St.; 706.724.7501

WORKING SOUTH: PAINTINGS & SKETCHES

BY MARY WHYTE Renowned

watercolorist Mary Whyte captures in exquisite detail the essence of vanishing blue-collar professions from across 10 states in the American South. Ends Mar. 11. Morris Museum of Art; $3 to $5; 1 10th St.; 706.724.7501

IRISH PUB NIGHT WITH GAVIN WINSHIP @ Rose Hill Estate 8 p.m.

SATURDAY, JAN. 7 SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE @ Sky City | 10 p.m.

[ LOCAL FILM SHOWCASE OPENS THE YEAR ] The fourth annual Poison Peach Film Festival will feature 24 local films and provide prospective filmmakers with the opportunity to talk with the films’ actors and directors at the Imperial Theatre, Jan. 6, 7 and 8.

Jan. 8 includes the opportunity to be an extra in director Christopher Forbes’ ongoing vampiremusical production, Miss Strangelove.

“For me, it’s exciting because, as directors, we don’t usually spend a lot of time screening movies, we spend a lot of time making movies,” said Forbes. “It gives the audience a chance to actually participate and be a part of the experience. We’re shooting a big musical number for Miss Strangelove and if people show up then they’ll be in the film. They just have to sign a release waiver for that day.”

Last year’s film festival also featured an audience participation experience to dress in 19th Century costumes and sit in the audience during Abraham Lincoln’s assassination. This scene was included near the end of Stephen Gilliam’s Confederate Zombie, a feature film about a zombie outbreak during the Civil War. A raw cut will be screened on the first day of this year’s festival.

“We got just enough people to make it look like the theatre was packed, because you can use creative camera angles and the Imperial is a good environment to make 20 people look like 100,” said Christopher Bowman, who plays Xander in Confederate Zombie.

Aiken Center for the Arts; free; 122 Laurens St. SW, Aiken; 803.278.0709

“I have about 30 minutes of footage from what will probably end up being a 90 minute video, which is why I’m calling this a raw cut,” said Gilliam. “The scenes will be intelligible and you’ll get the gist of the movie, minus the conclusion and some of the special effects. I’ve also invited Hellblinki to perform and play music while the raw cut is screening, since they’re doing the soundtrack to the movie.”

JEROME MEADOWS: WORLD VIEW Savannah artist

Bowman also stars in Forbes’ new film Glass Bullets for Broken Hearts, a fictionalized retelling of the origins of Billy the Kid, which premiers on the second day of the festival.

JOHN GLAVE PHOTOGRAPHY EXHIBIT

Meadows combines a variety of found, fabricated, and nontraditional objects to engage the viewer through the interplay of provocative and sometimes disparate elements. Ends Feb. 17.

Gertrude Herbert Institute of Art; free; 506 Telfair St.; 706.722.5495

AND SHE LIVED BY SOUTHERN OBSERVATORY A look at how work responds to life and how social thought and experimentation are influenced by one’s surroundings. Ends Feb. 25. Arts & Heritage Center of North Augusta; $3 to $5; 100 Georgia Ave., North Augusta; 803.441.4380

STACI SWIDER: DANCING ALONG THE RED ROAD

Swider is best known for her mixed media paintings, which often come with a story, literal and interpreted. Ends Feb. 17.

Gertrude Herbert Institute of Art; free; 506 Telfair St.; 706.722.5495

“Shooting was a lot of fun because I’m a fan of Young Guns and I like doing westerns, plus both directors are great to work with,” he said.

Forbes plans the second day of the event to include several family friendly films, including My Doggone Destiny by Charleston based filmmaker Gretchen Dzedzej. According to Forbes, the story about a young dog sitter’s determined attempt to stay positive is a screwball comedy from a female perspective that any audience should enjoy,

THOMAS TILLMAN @ The Country Club | 10 p.m.

WEDNESDAY, JAN. 11

RENE RUSSELL @ Manuel’s Bread Café | 5:30 p.m.

JULIANA FINCH @ Manuel’s Bread Café | 5:30 p.m.

COMEDY ZONE: KENNY SMITH & JOHN BURTON @ Somewhere in Augusta | 8 p.m.; $8

FRIDAY, JAN. 20

PAINTEDPOLOOZA featuring Jerod Gay and Friends + the Kooties + Finster + Pocket the Moon @ Sky City | 8 p.m.

SHE & SHE AND THE LAROXES @ The Playground Bar | 8 p.m.

THE BURNING ANGELS @ Stillwater Taproom | 10 p.m.

COMEDY ZONE: KEN EVANS @ Somewhere in Augusta 8 p.m.; $8

FRIDAY, JAN. 13

KAYSON LAYNE

KAYSON LAYNE @ The Country Club | 10 p.m.

SATURDAY, JAN. 21

CODE ORANGE KIDS

VISION-FEST Music festival features See Xerxes + Code Orange Kids + Barrow + Von Wolfe + Apart + Chondro (aka Behold the Messenger) + Panic Manor + Narratives + Dead End Sons + Dreameater @ Sector 7G 2 p.m., music begins at 3 p.m.; $10, all ages

The Augusta Comedy Hour @ Blue Bistro Theatre | 6:30 p.m. and 8:30 p.m.

SHE & SHE AND THE LAROXES @ The Playground Bar | 8 p.m.

LARRY FRICK @ The Country Club | 10 p.m.

GALEN KIPAR PROJECT @ Stillwater Taproom | 10 p.m.

SATURDAY, JAN. 14

The Augusta Comedy Hour @ Blue Bistro Theatre | 6:30 p.m. or 8:30 p.m.

DEBUT OF DREDNECK @ Sky City | 10 p.m.

Ross Coppley @ The Country Club | 10 p.m.

Submit event listings to events@vergelive.com for inclusion in Nightlife.

for complete venue information, karaoke spots, and more nightlife, visit

vergelive.com

your source for entertainment in the CSRA

Both days begin with a short film showcase which includes student-made films, some of which have won regional or state-level awards.

“There are a lot of independent filmmakers in the Augusta area who have a lot of talent, and I always enjoy helping them with any aspect of the movie business because it is so hard to get into,” said Forbes. “After each movie the actors and directors gather in the lobby to talk, and it’s a great place to meet people and ask questions.” | by CHRISTOPHER SELMEK WHAT The Poison Peach Film Festival WHERE The Imperial Theatre | 745 Broad St. WHEN Friday, Jan. 6; Saturday, Jan.7; Sunday, Jan 8 | Each night’s events begin at 7 p.m.

TICKETS $8 per night or $15 for both; the third night is free for anyone wanting to be an extra.

MORE 706.722.8341 or imperialtheatre.com

for a complete listing of what’s happening in the CSRA, go to vergelive.com

THE RADAR CINEMA

MONDAY, JANUARY 16 ARTEMIA + THE RADAR CINEMA +

GANJA + DAVID BROWN & THE DREADFUL CROAKERS + AWAKEN Local band fest with music ranging from country folk to art rock @ Sector 7G | 3 p.m.; $6, all ages

vergelive.com | community driven news | January 4, 2012 35

the

film reel NOW PLAYING ON THE BIG SCREEN

When the New Year rolls around, Hollywood bigwigs are typically more concerned with congratulating each other for the past year’s accomplishments than rolling out new flicks. What does this mean for audiences? Movie fans can either catch up on buzz-worthy, Golden Globe nominated films from 2011 or settle for a low-budget horror opener on Jan. 6.

THE DEVIL INSIDE is yet another attempt to scare audiences with tales of demonic possession, but without the found footage filming techniques or grassroots appeal of similarly-premised films such as Paranormal Activity. William Brent Bell and Matthew Peterman, the team who wrote and produced the 2006 teen screamer Stay Alive, are responsible for this violent exorcism tale featuring a little-known cast of actors. Bell also directs as the main character (Fernanda Andrade) visits her possessed, accused murderer mother in a church-run mental hospital.

Early January also brings the expansion of some of 2011’s limited openers. Angelina Jolie stepped behind the camera to write and direct IN THE LAND OF BLOOD AND HONEY. The actress, who is known for her international activism, explores several themes including crimes against humanity, violence against women and the personal sides of war in this look at the 1990’s IN THE LAND OF BLOOD AND HONEY Bosnian War. Jolie’s film centers on two characters – a Bosnian Serb male officer and a Bosnian Muslim female artist – who had a romantic relationship before the ethnic conflict erupted, and whose dynamic changes drastically when she is forcibly taken from her home and imprisoned at a camp run by his father. Jolie met with survivors from the war and chronicled their experiences, many of whom are portrayed in the film. As an activist, Jolie’s motivation for creating this war drama was to explore how lives are affected when the international community fails to react quickly to such a conflict. The film, which includes subtitles, was nominated for a Golden Globe for Best Foreign Language Film.

BEING MARGARET THATCHER Another 2011 opener expands its release in January. Awards magnet Meryl Streep has so far racked up both Golden Globe and Screen Actors Guild Award nominations as Best Actress for her portrayal of former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher in THE IRON LADY. Jim Broadbent also stars in this biopic from Phyllida Lloyd, who previously directed Streep in Mamma Mia! Friday the 13th doesn’t bring a horror release, but rather the 3D theatrical re-release of Disney’s BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. On the heels of the success of The Lion King’s 3D limited engagement, Disney is giving some of its beloved animated classics the same treatment. Finding Nemo will get a 3D re-release this fall and both Monsters, Inc. and The Little Mermaid are on the schedule for 2013 3D re-releases. Other blockbusters getting 3D makeovers in 2012 include Star Wars: Episode I – The Phantom Menace (Feb. 10) and James Cameron’s Titanic (Apr. 6).

Other Jan. 13 openers find Dolly Parton and Queen Latifah trading zingers about plastic surgery as they vie for control of their competitive church choir in JOYFUL NOISE. Keke Palmer (Akeelah and the Bee), Broadway import Jeremy Jordan, Kris Kristofferson and Courtney B. Vance also star.

An apocalyptic tale brings a no-name cast to the big screen for THE DIVIDE and Mark Wahlberg returns to the spotlight for an action thriller after staying behind the scenes in 2011. The actor plays a former smuggler who takes on one more job to protect his brother-in-law, who botched a drug deal, in CONTRABAND. Kate Beckinsale and Giovanni Ribisi also star. This is director Baltasar Kormakur’s remake of the 2008 Icelandic thriller ReykjavikRotterdam, a film in which he appeared as an actor.

MARK WAHLBERG RETURNS

by MARIAH GARDNER, MOVIE GURU

36 January 4, 2012 | community driven news | vergelive.com

puzzle 1

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25

Career Paths for the Creative Person

42

If you could travel back in time and ask my 5-yearold self what I wanted to be when I grew up I would not have said, “I want to be an aspiring writing who has to work a ‘real job’ to pay my bills while composing my novel, blog and column when I should be sleeping.”

48

I would have said wanted to be a veterinarian, proof that I have gotten dumber as I age.

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Edited by Will Shortz | by Rolf Hamburger | No. 1130 Across

1 Time in some want ads 4 Shutout spoiler 8 Globetrotter’s woe 14 Tuba sound 15 Language of Pakistan 16 Plaza Hotel moppet 17 Washington and ___ University 18 Team on the receiving end of a prank?

20 Seams’ contents 22 “Arrivederci” 23 “E,” “pluribus” or “unum”?

27 Comeback?

31 Bother no end 32 China’s Sun ___-sen 35 “Come again?”

36 Call that might result in a 27-Across 38 Much bigotry 40 Athletic trainer for Neanderthals?

43 Some summer fare 44 At full tilt 45 Send packing 46 SAT company 48 Like Cup-a-Soup 52 Items in many lists of ingredients 54 West Coast punk rock group?

56 Kind of computing using remote servers

life

13

22 24

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59 Wolf’s

28 In

60 Entered

look pie-eyed?

66 Guinness Book suffix 67 Not in any key 68 Running ___ 69 Start of some California place names 70 Stereotypical bum’s place 71 Police setup 72 Addition to 18-, 23-, 40-, 54- and 60-Across

29 “Shut

Down 1 Self-assurance 2 Denmark’s ___ Islands 3 “Period!”

4 Candy store purchase 5 “___ y plata” 6 Stir 7 Kind of eclipse 8 Yoda, notably 9 Choice word 10 Chef’s topper 11 Imprisoned Peace Nobelist ___ Xiaobo 12 Simile center 13 Goal for some H.S. dropouts 19 Whitewater phenomenon 21 “Later!”

24 De Carlo of “The Munsters” 25 Most inclusive 26 Olive genus

vogue

your mouth!”

30 Its

symbol is omega

33 Things

understood

by few

34 Eastern

belief

The road from veterinarian to writer was paved with thousands of career ideas, most of which were suggested by my father. When I had completed high school, decided against college and was working a part time job, Dad decided it was time to intervene. He suggested that I get a job at the new tire manufacturing plant. When tire production failed to inspire me, he began a program that I would later call “Job of the Week” and which he, no doubt, called “Get Nora out of My House.” Every few days, my father would suggest a practical and wise career path to me. Every suggestion proved two things about my father: He has very good ideas for someone looking for a career but he doesn’t have a clue about what makes me tick.

“Be a real estate agent,” he said.

47 Say

Do they have an award for World’s Crappiest Real Estate agent? If so, I’m a shoe in: “No, no. You don’t want to buy that dumpy place. There isn’t enough room in the closet for your shoes. Are they calling that a back yard? Puh-lease! A hamster couldn’t run a lap back there! And the bathroom doesn’t have a walk-in shower. How are you supposed to get clean? What are you, a barbarian? School system? Screw the kids! You can’t store Prada just anywhere! Fine, but don’t come crying to me when the lack of a dishwasher gives you dish pan hands. I will not be responsible!”

49 Dundee

“Accountants make a good living,” Dad mentioned casually over dinner.

37 Letters

on some N.Y.C. baggage tags

39 Playground 40 Like

10

retort

a proverbial

41 Arborist’s

study

42 Oil-rich

ruler, perhaps

43 “Way

cool!”

“Offisher, I am completely shober,” e.g.

who trained Ali

50 Gov.

Rockefeller

51 Sleeping

sickness transmitter

53 Public

spectacle

55 X-rated 57 When

doubled, a 1997 Jim Carrey movie

58 Just 60 Chew 61 Ear:

the rag

63 Nick,

demand

say

64 Overseer

bridges

Negotiating one calamity at a time

“Nurses are high in demand,” Dad tried again.

“Is that guy in room three buzzing me a-freaking-gain? Get your own darn popsicle! You’ve got to learn to walk again sometime!”

Dad got desperate. “ Welder?”

“And ruin my hair with that mask?”

“Mechanic?”

“I can’t change my oil. I barely even check my oil.”

“Job at Jiffy Lube? At least you’d get your oil changed,” he snapped. Dad was worried he would not only be stuck living with me and feeding me for the rest of my life but that he would also have to change the oil in my Civic.

Eventually, I found a day job I could live with and an outlet for all my creative energies. Dad still doesn’t get the creative part but he does read my column and occasionally my blog.

In a way, it’s a sacrifice for him as reading isn’t something he enjoys. Still, his daughter wrote it and it is made all the sweeter by the fact that she wrote it in her own house while eating her own food.

Nora Blithe is the author of Door In Face, a humor blog about all things that lay you flat. Read more at doorinface.com.

a parting shot

Prefix

62 Diva’s

65 “I

High school taught me one important thing about math: I do not understand it. “Um, yeah, Mr. Johnson? That paperthingy you gave me, the one with all the numbers. I was supposed to shred that right? Ha, ha! Just kidding! I totally added up all the columns. From everyone in accounting, I want to thank you for the $10,000 raise! Everyone’s worked really hard, I know, but I can’t believe how generous – Mr. Johnson? Mr. Johnson? What are you doing on the floor behind your desk? Um ... crap. Someone dial 911!”

face first

koko beware on stage at the cmfa chilly chili cook-off

of N.Y.C.

reckon so”

Find the solution to this puzzle at VERGELIVE.BLOGSPOT.COM

Annual subscriptions are available for the best of Sunday crosswords from the last 50 years: 1-888-7-ACROSS. Share tips: nytimes.com/wordplay.

The next issue of VERGE hits the newsstands on

JAN. 18

Look for our outdoor boxes or find your copy at Publix | EarthFare Kroger | Bi-Lo and more than 150 locations in the CSRA

photo by christopher selmek

vergelive.com | community driven news | January 4, 2012 37

38 January 4, 2012 | community driven news | vergelive.com

vergelive.com | community driven news | January 4, 2012 39