Local Literature & Art Summer 2011
Muse Staff
President/Editor-in-Chief
Ebony Alden Quinton Neal Pam Powell Chelsi Green Austin Doyle
Head Designer Managing Editor Web Designer Marketing Director
Fiction Editors Pam Powell Jessica Gaines Ebony Alden Amy Jo Andrews Poetry Editors Stephen Johnson Ebony Alden Justin Klaege Jessica Gaines Art Editors Andrew Palmer Chelsi Green Katie Maubach Faculty Advisors
Catherine Gilbert Adam Scott
Muse is designed and edited by the students at Heartland Community College. Muse would not be possible without the generous support of the Department of Humanities and Fine Arts and the Student Activities Department. This issue would not have been possible without the help of Kate Stolz and her print design class.
Cover art by Graehound, Back cover photograph by Alexis Pavlou.
Sponsors, Readers, and Writers: This has been a long and busy year for Muse, and we had to wait for what seemed like a lifetime for the reward of our work – a completed magazine. As opposed to having a Fall and Spring issue, this is a yearly issue, which means we spent more time and resources into this issue of the magazine than ever was possible before. Not only that, it is the first time that Muse has actively sought out and accepted submissions from high school students and the Bloomington-Normal Community. Without the submissions from students at Heartland, in high school, and the Bloomington-Normal area, this magazine would not be here, so I would like to thank everyone who e-mailed submissions. I would like to say that even if you were not accepted as a finalist or for publication, keep writing, editing, and submitting. The quality of the submissions made our choices very difficult; in addition, there were over 100 pages of prose and 50 pages of poetry entered into the creative writing contest. On behalf of Muse, thank you Babbitt’s Books for helping us sponsor the magazine and the prizes for creative writing. All the while, the Muse staff has been working behind the scenes on special features. Muse and the Heartland Community College Humanities and Fine Arts department sponsored and arranged a Creative Writing Month event. During the month of November, Chris Mazza, Ryan Stone, Audrey Petty, and faculty read selected pieces, so we have an interview with Ryan Stone and Pam Powell’s reflections that spawned out of that. It has been an amazing journey and we greatly hope that you all enjoy the fruitful works that this year has brought about in the magazine. We, the Muse Staff, have put a lot of time and effort into this magazine and we hope that you will continue to support Muse through your participation, submissions, readership, and/or donations. Graciously,
Ebony Alden President, Muse
White Flowers By Alexis Ogunmokun White lowers covered the green grass Like bitter snow White lowers blew away into the gray winds t reminded a writer of home Flower pedals Can't bare to remember her childhood Like white snow They ly away forever She lives in torture of the images that she could never see nor remember A website spilled out her bottled thoughts White lowers Twirl in the air like a gentle breeze As positive energy manifests itself into one's dreams No one can never understand her motives t gone away White lowers pedals No lowers But a dream stained in blackened ink
The Storm By Alexis Ogunmokun
u
A storm brews As it fuels up its rage The rage unleashed on mankind So much rage for one storm Like a child's tantrum As it rages on It broke into heavy tears What enraged the sky? We will never know
o
A Burning Sensation By Ashley McDowell
You run and hide, you duck and roll Behind my eyes, words I don’t know You’re in my skin, my veins, my blood A passionate longing from up above It stings and burns but the pain is sweet It takes me over from my head to my feet A soul so real it could even take shape As it lives the life my letters gave The words will come if I only wait And take me someplace far away Far away from the lights and sounds I’m sure my feet will never touch ground Never more and never again I will never regret the time I spend Thinking and plotting and writing things down Letters are my throne and words my crown
Y Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
M The Halls By Ebony Alden
Heated voices Chilled air Bright light Awkward stare Buzzing life Quickly snuffed Ruffling papers Pencil’s strife
Shuffling noise Replaces voices Buzzing minds Replace life’s signs Thudding books Dwindling time Quick bustle Class time nears
Quickly cramming These buzzing minds Muttering their Goodbyes Before test’s demise
u
Nausea By Treasa Bane
nau•se•a n. 1. The feeling characterized by the urge to vomit: as in the nausea that overcame her after she swallowed spoiled milk. 2. The churning of the stomach that is impossible to mask or control in the face of a frightening or unpleasant situation, or the memory of: Remember your first sleepover/ Remember the annoying ferrety faced guy who made you the crappiest CD mix/ Remember your first roller coaster- The Raging Bull/ Remember being scared out of your mind when someone wouldn’t stop knocking at the door during a thunderstorm, but it was just an uncle/ Remember suspecting Mr. H knew how you felt about him/ Remember long drives to Sunday school/ Remember those pills you had to take after you got your wisdom teeth pulled/ Remember the winter you crashed the car and blew out two tires/ Try to forget and lock your knees/ Try to forget and forget to breathe/ And I panic/ heaving/ in a confined room, chained to helplessness.
Carousel
By Ashley McDowell
Y
Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
Sometimes I feel just like the gerbil, running around and around on a wheel, never getting anywhere. My sister says she would hate the life of our twin gerbils, Bonnie and Clyde. She thinks it would be awful to merely observe life from inside a cage, instead of being out here, living it. I guess that explains why she took off for New York on her eighteenth birthday, but I still think it had something to do with Joseph Kell dumping her the week before. “Lucy! Stop your daydreaming and go help your father in the garage! If he throws his back out again, it’s all on you!” That’s my mother. She really is a nice woman; I think she’s just stressed out over the fair this year. We, the Hyatts, are one of three families who always organize the town fair. Personally, I lost interest in the whole thing when I was nine and ended up killing a goldfish in that game where you throw balls into their bowls. Six years later, I still make a point of mentioning how much that fish probably loved apple pie or throwing darts at balloons whenever Mom tries to make me help her. She knows I’m not mourning, but she gets tired of my attitude pretty quickly. In any case, helping my dad in the garage had nothing to do with the silly little fair, or so I thought. So I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and went to join him. Now, when I say garage you probably think I mean one of those little two-car things attached to the look-alike houses in town. But we live on a ranch, out in the middle of nowhere surrounded by fields of crops and more ranches. When I say garage, I mean a building about the size of our house that holds all our tools and machinery. Today, however, it also held my worst enemy. When I walked in, Dad was bent over an oddly shaped white figure, a position Mom would say was suicide for his back. Then two things hit me at once; a strong smell of paint in the air, and the carousel. The town’s carousel, probably centuries old, was sitting in my garage. There’s another reason why I hate the fair; that stupid carousel. I had shed blood and procured bruises at every single fair, always by falling off one of those ornately and unrealistically painted horses. My dad seemed to hear my hatred for the thing, because he straightened up and turned around a second after I saw it. “Morning, Lucy. Come over here, I need you to hold the ladder while I replace some of these lights.” Whenever there was work to be done, Dad never wasted a minute. When I didn’t move, he gave me an exasperated sigh and shook his head. “Girl, you’re fifteen. Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of a little carnival ride.” “That carnival ride is out to get me, Dad.” Even as I spoke, I walked toward it. I knew Dad wouldn’t make me help him work on the death trap, but Mom would force me to bake pies if I didn’t. I chose the lesser of the two evils and stood next to the carousel while my dad went to get the ladder. It was pretty, I had to admit. Dad had been repainting it all morning so some parts shined in the dim lighting of our garage. Other parts were chipped or faded, and several of the light bulbs around the top were shattered. I looked over at the white shape my dad had been painting before I came in and saw it was one of the wooden horses, taken off its pole to be repaired and repainted. I swear the person who first painted it must have been on some sort of drug when they did so. The background was white, but it was covered in dozens of colorful little shapes: lollipops, ice cream cones, multi-colored ribbons. I didn’t think it was right or fair that someone could be allowed to do this. It would have looked fine as a plain white horse, beautiful even. Dad came up to me with the ladder and we began our work. Eventually, the silence bothered me so much I had to say something. “Dad, why would someone put ribbons and ice cream cones on a horse?” “I don’t know. They closed their eyes, thought of what put on it, and that’s what they came up with. It only seems silly to you because you raise horses, Luce.” “Well so does everyone else in this town. I think it should just be white, realistic.”
S
“Lucy, people around here can ride a real horse any time they want. Maybe they want to pretend, use their imaginations a little bit. Think for a bit that horses really can have ice cream cones, or horns, or wings. Kind of like when you and your sister used to play like you were fairies in the woods out back.” He made an ugly, inconvenient kind of sense. I remembered how much fun it was to pretend when I was younger. I remembered how much fun it was to pretend last night when I was singing into a hair dryer, pretending to be Amy Lee. But, just like I had every year before, I was running out of reasons to hate the carousel. The little kid in me was yelling at me to climb on and go for a ride. The ghosts of all those broken bones even seemed to call me to it, like some sort of morbid revenge. I resisted that childish urge, however. Dad finished with the lights and then let me go take care of the horses. Even from the stalls I could smell the paint, and sometimes I heard the music of the carousel when he turned it on to see what else needed to be fixed. I did the whole day’s work for the horses since Mom was busy with her baking and Dad was busy with the singing wooden death trap. Naturally, we were all tired enough to shove down a ham sandwich and go straight to bed at only eight o’clock that night. Unlike Mom and Dad, I couldn’t stay asleep that night. My mind kept replaying what my dad had said about pretending, and my childish heart kept calling me to the garage. At the same time logic was screaming at me to be sensible. I came up with a new excuse to try out the carousel every year. My hands are bigger, I can hold on this time. It’s the only ride with free seats. I need to get away from my sister and her airheaded friends, and they think the carousel is too childish for them. I guess this year would be no different. The prospect of potential magic poked and prodded at me until I was standing barefoot on the concrete floor of our garage, trying to decide which horse to climb on. The white horse with the ice cream cones immediately jumped out at me; Dad had finished repainting it that morning and it looked almost beautiful in the light of the moon shining through the open double doors to the garage. He had airbrushed rainbow colors on the horse’s mane and tail, making it look even more magical. Decided, I pulled the lever to turn the carousel on and ran like mad to jump on the wooden creature my mind had just named White Majesty before the ride got going. I was successful, after cursing my own legs for being so short and having to leap for the pole to climb on Majesty’s back. The fake saddle was a perfect fit for me, and my feet even reached the petrified stirrups. Dad had apparently painted the pole as well, but unlike Majesty, it wasn’t dry yet. Somehow I didn’t mind feeling the paint squishing between my fingers or the fact that Mom would have my neck for leaving handprints in Dad’s handiwork. As the ride picked up speed and the music rang in my ears, I kept thinking about what Dad had said that morning. My mind worked hard to imagine something incredible, like flying through the air on my Majesty or being a fairy princess on her royal winged horse. None of that came to mind, though. Instead I was thinking about being tall, about how my first kiss would feel. I imagined my sister being home for the first time in two years and my late grandmother being alive again. It wasn’t what I expected. It was much, much better. It felt like all my secret dreams and desires were real, like they could be and were possible. I felt like I could do anything in the world. Then I removed my hands from the fresh paint of Majesty’s pole, somehow caught up in the amazing feeling of invincibility. For a moment I felt a light wind against my arms, cooling the paint on my hands and momentarily giving me the most incredible feeling. It wasn’t like flying or anything, but it was being alive. It was knowing all the secrets of the universe and exactly what to do with the knowledge. Then it was falling. It was flying off Majesty’s back and hitting the hard concrete with a sickening thud. It was having the wind knocked out of me. I felt a sharp but quickly dulling pain in my lower back. As it faded, the horrible pain in my hand hit my conscious and I immediately knew I had broken at least two fingers. My sister had tried to teach me not to throw my hands out when I fell, but obviously I had not been a fast learner. I saw lights flip on in the house and heard Dad calling me in a worried voice that was prepared to be angry. It didn’t bother me. I was tired; he would just set my fingers and construct a makeshift splint then let me return to sleep. I would dream of this night, this experience, until next year. I would save that fearless feeling until next year, while I anxiously awaited Majesty’s return.
Photography by Alexis Pavlou
Photography by Erin Roberts
o
v
The One Night S tand By Christopher George
The moonlight shone upon her as she lay there in my bed. No more of a beauty could I imagine in my head. My heart was a screaming bullet train, but my mind wanted the image to last and begged me to refrain. As the wind blew through the window a shiver snaked down my spine. As I lay down next to her I saw the need in her eyes,
I gave my every ounce of love to her and spent myself that night. I was lost in a swirl of loving, her softness, and her sighs, I wished it was forever as I lay between her thighs. Later as I lay there with her sleeping in my arms, I begged the sun to never rise and silenced my alarm. I knew that with the coming morn that soon she would be gone.
My foolish heart was so in love and soon would come to harm. As the weeks and months went by and then turned in to years. My foolish heart still thinks of her and no dam could stop the tears.
l
Lvfv
vdfv dfvd
asvad sasdv
Art by Andrew Palmer
Sheets
By Treasa Bane
Inspired by Ansel Adam’s Sand Dunes
The wrinkled sheets Like sand Are weightless And once provided comfort. Staring into a landscape Eyelids grow heavy But sleep in unsettling Because this bed is divided Into two parts. He and she Like black and like white Aged with prejudices and grudges. Their words tripped and rolled across the mounds when they called to each other. They got lost in emptiness. There is an illusion that they are warm. If those words were to be found They would be unrecognizable. Maybe this wasn’t always so. Maybe his bed was once linear. The more slept in The taller And the wider the distance. The greater contrast. She has her side. He has his.
The Colors By Ashley McDowell
I always did love colors. I guess that might explain why things happened the way they did; it’s just something
psychological which can be explained by science if they try hard enough. But I still like to think it’s magic. I like to think there is something mystical about me and the way I see the world now, maybe even some grand, strange reason for it all. My name is Emily Warsaw, and the doctors all say I’ve gone blind. Before you start thinking my blindness is caused by some horrible chronic illness, let me tell you it was purely my own doing. My mom says that for someone so uncoordinated and awkward, I’m much too adventurous for my own good. But I didn’t fall out of that tree on an adventure; I was on a mission. I was ten years old and had thrown my brother’s Frisbee into what just so happened to be the tallest tree on our lot. Climbing up was the easy part; falling down was life changing. I broke my arm in three places and cracked my skull open. I don’t really remember much after the impact, just dim lights and colors, lots of colors, colors I had never even seen before. I remember my first conscious thought; “I can’t live like this.” Somehow, even my ten year old mind knew what had happened. My world had gone dark and silent. I could hear voices, but it was like they were whispering in another room. I couldn’t make out any words, but compared to what I could see, hearing anything was a miracle. They gave me hearing aids, and I remember playing around with them. I remember learning very quickly that loud volume really did mean loud, and I should probably keep them set on what my normal was. But they couldn’t do anything for my eyes. I told them I could see colors, no shapes, but colors, and it made my mom cry. It made me cry too, until I learned the colors. Apparently my mind had been assigning colors to things since I was born. And not just objects or people, feelings and ideas too. Everything I knew or saw or heard, I could visualize by a color. If I could hear my mother enter a room, I could know it was her by the warm, vivid shade of orange I had associated with her. The colors of my surroundings were like little orbs of life in the darkness of my world. Nothing was really gone; nothing died because I went blind. I don’t believe seeing colors make me any less than completely blind, even though it would seem that way to a doctor. But the colors are more behind my eyes than in front of them. They’re little connections that were stored away in the back of my mind until now, when I really needed them. If only I understood them better… I’m eighteen now, and you would think that falling out of that tree eight years ago would be considered the biggest impact on my life. You would be wrong. The colors led me places; places only the mind can go. Without shapes and details to fog my concentration, I could go right into the books I listened to on my iPod or the movies I heard my brother watching. I loved those places, until reality became a better place to be. I always knew him. His color stood out in the halls at school; somehow, somewhere, I had heard of him before. But I had never met him. I felt no recognition or familiarity when I walked by him, but I did feel something. Something he understood that no one else did, something that made him stick out as if my mind was telling me “Talk to him!” So, on my way home from school on October 14th, I followed his color to the park in the center of our sleepy little Christian town. “I know you’re there.” His voice was soft, amused. I was standing by a tree a few feet to the left of him. “You know, they talk about us. It’s about time we talked.” I just nodded and muttered my name in a shy, quiet voice I could not recognize as my own. “Emily. I knew that. We’ve met.” Now I remembered. The town had whispered about him for months after the accident. He was the one who found me after I fell and saved my life by calling 911 just in time. But that didn’t mean they trusted him. No one had heard of him until that day, which is more than just rare in a town of two hundred people; it was downright unheard of.
E
k
It was like he just appeared to save me then decided to stick around for a while. My mind was struggling now, as if it was trying to decide if it should bring something potentially important to my consciousness or leave it in the dark. The memories came up, like a photograph being developed; his voice as a whisper in the breeze; his face as a ghostly image in my window. I knew him long before my accident. I had known him since my childhood; he was my imaginary friend since I was three years old. “I’m not imaginary!” His indignant declaration tore me from my thoughts, reminding me that I wasn’t quite alone. I felt him sigh, felt him relax and regain control over himself. “I’m not imaginary,” he said again, “I’m just a part of someone else, a part that got separated from the whole.” “How do you know what I was thinking? You aren’t making any sense.” I couldn’t see the expression on his face, but the colors behind my eyes told me he was being completely serious. He believed what he was saying, even if it was entirely insane and untrue. “Aren’t I? Think about it, Emily. You fell, you lost a part of your being, your vision, and I showed up.” I just shrugged, as if I was trying to shake the truth of his words off my shoulders. “Coincidence. It’s a little freaky, yeah, but stuff like that happens all the time.” The colors showed him rolling his eyes. “Okay, how about this; My birthday is December 2nd, 1991.” That got me. December 2nd was my birthday. Forget what the colors say, he was messing with me. I drew a pencil from my bag and threw it at him, angry that he would be so cruel, so immature. But then the colors showed me something my mind simply couldn’t comprehend; the pencil flew right through him. Now, a person so obviously real yet insubstantial enough for an object to pass through them is odd enough. But another thing caught my attention, at last. The closer I got to this boy, the more the colors could show me. I was seeing shapes, multiple colors for one object. I could almost make out the leaves on the old oak we were standing under. “See! See that? You do, don’t you?” I just looked at him. I mean, I really looked at him. Just take a step, I told myself. Just take a step towards him, prove it to yourself. I moved forward, just a couple inches. As I did the features of his face started to distinguish themselves from the colorful mass my mind portray him as. “That’s it. Come closer, touch me.” He held out his hand. It was too weird, too wrong and impossible and…What if it worked? I took another step and saw the detail of his hand; separated fingers, nails, knuckles. Another step and I could make out the different strands of his hair. My hand reached out to his and with every inch that disappeared between us I could see more details, things I had seen only in memories for the past eight years. My fingertips touched his palm and it felt like an explosion in my mind. Colors, more vivid and bright than ever were filling in shapes that had features and differences and…And I was alone. Whoever he was, he was gone now. I ran home. I ran home without using my cane to make sure I didn’t run into something, ran home knowing my direction by reading street signs instead of feeling my location. No one was there yet, but I didn’t care. I had to see something. I went straight to my bedroom and stood in front of the mirror on my closet door. It was me; full, whole, seeing myself for the first time in years. And behind me was the boy, smiling and waving as he faded away.
The Old Man in the Flickering Candlelight By Roger Harrison
It was a hot July night, a flickering of a candle in the darkness showed an old man outside in deep meditation or prayer. A sound of a train whistle awakens him from the depths of his mind and he is wondering where he has been, what he has done, and what he has seen in his meditative state. As he awakens he sees a big gray wolf coming from the mist, watching him. The wolf is probably trying to figure out who the man is, as the old man is wondering why the gray wolf is there. The old man then starts to think of his meditative state. How he entered and where he went. Most curious of all, wondered why the big gray wolf was there upon his awakening. The old man remembers going into prayer and going into a white light and his spirit traveling from his body to another level of consciousness. The time is growing late, the wolf is still there, and Leo is coming into the evening sky. He knows that he has been there a while. This is the first time in his entire life, the old man can remember going into prayer and letting the white light guide him into dimensions that he has never known in his life. He thinks of his father’s passing, a day before his birthday and getting to celebrate it with his creator, God almighty. From there he keeps traveling on, and on, and on. Seeing different things in different lights, and different color of lights that seemed like they went on forever. This is one the first times that prayer has taken him to another dimension, ever before in his life. He is trying to remember, but the only thing he can remember at this time is going into the white light and all the other lights, but he cannot remember right now what the other colors were meaning. The gray wolf is standing now, not sure to come closer or to run away. The wolf is a great spirit to the American Indians. Let wait and see where this goes. The old man feels at peace because his creator has let him journey into another time and place. The gray wolf is walking closer which we hope is a good sign. I think they have a spirit between them that they share. As the old man sits there in the flickering candlelight, his ears hear the fluttering of wings. He looks over to his left and there is an owl that has landed on an old hand made fence, just hooting away. This means that wisdom and knowledge is close at hand. I guess the wolf means that there is no fear for the old man in the flickering candlelight. The owl becomes the messenger from the great creator to the old man in the flickering candlelight. Maybe the owl has come for wisdom and truth from the old man’s meditation. Maybe the wolf is only an image that has become a spirit to him, but the wolf looks real, the owl is real. So maybe if I ask the owl where I have been or he has been. Maybe the old man in the flickering candlelight can remember more of his meditation trip. 1 So the old man sits and waits for truth to burst forth. As the old man thinks to himself, “Hasn’t everybody been in this position, or state of mind, or a meditation at one time or another in their life?” Maybe not with the wolf sitting by him now and the owl sitting on the old fence talking to him, but at the same time he thinks, “Why is this so unusual?” People do meditate all the time, every day. Somebody is meditating somewhere. How do they get to that place? The old man does not know how he got there; he just knows that it happened. He sits there in the flickering candlelight, and listens for the truth and knowledge that is to come. He now smells the scent of the fresh pine trees in the wilderness. Do you know what it’s like to be in the wilderness? Everyone has been in the wilderness waiting to come to the truth of their being. The old man in the flickering candlelight stands up and looks around to see what else is there. As he stands, the big gray wolf comes and laid at his feet and looks up at him, “Say please, will you please take me into your heart?” The old man sits back down and pets the big gray wolf. He hears the sound of the owl’s wings coming closer. The owl sits on his shoulder. The owl asked, “You are searching for knowledge and truth?” Your spirit has come to you and lay at your feet. I have landed on your shoulder to give you truth and knowledge
by the flickering candlelight.” Is this a dream? It can’t be! It’s all real! I can touch the owl, I can pet the wolf and they all seem so pleasant. I can smell the pines, he thought. This brings the old man back to an earlier time when he was in his meditation. Once again, is this real or is this must a dream? Is the old man still in the flickering candlelight, still in meditation? He does not know. Everything looks and feels so real. This could be a really big deal for the old man in the flickering candlelight, on a hot July night. The owl rubs his head on the old man’s cheek saying, “Look at me!” The old man reaches around and the owl gets on his hand. The old man looks at the owl, eye to eye, and they both look into each other’s hearts and souls. The owl says good bye and takes off into the full moonlight. As the old man sits there and watches him fly, it looks like he is flying clear to the moon. The old man hopes he will come back and visit him again someday. Now the old man and the big gray wolf sit alone, looking at each other. The big gray wolf looks up at the old man sitting in the flickering candlelight, and says that he must go soon too. He got up and put his two front paws up on the old man’s legs. The old man pets him and wonders if he will ever see the big gray wolf again? The big gray wolf starts to lick his face, to the understanding that, yes they will meet again someday. Just remember I’m your friend and I will come when you need me. The old man says back to the wolf, “I will come if you ever need me.” They then play for a while. The wolf lays his head in the old man’s lap and says, “Stay at peace old man we will meet again, just let me know when and where.” The old man looks up at the moon and the owls shadow is slowly disappearing. “I’ll be back too” says the old owl to the old man. The wolf looks up and says, “I must go now.” The old man sits in the flickering candlelight and watched the wolf walk off, then in a slow trot, and disappears, like a ghost that was never there. The owl has disappeared in the moonlight. 2 The old man in the flickering candlelight thought to himself, this was a great, great meditation and prayer session. Being in the wilderness you can always be true to yourself, just like the big gray wolf and the owl. The old man by the flickering candlelight quotes, “You can be a messenger to anyone as long as your heart and your spirit are true.”
Art by Graehound
See the Future
(Except from the novel Shadows from the Heartland) By Brian Weidert
P
Johnny sat on the balcony opposite the stage. Below him the dance floor pulsed. He watched the under-
cover agents enter and attempt to blend in with the crowd surrounding the dancers. They failed completely. They didn't get the shock-style of the techno punks. They could never fake the icy glares of the wasted Goth chicks. They certainly couldn't mimic the exuberance of the glam kids. They couldn't even pass as tourist. Their bodies betrayed them. Their muscles were tight, ready to react with violence. Their eyes were too focused. They scanned the crowd, they watched peoples' hands. They were trained to spot and react to threats and that was their tell. He closed his eyes. He was surrounded by rust colored sand. Bleached rocks rose from the ground like block-shouldered, blank-faced aliens. A leathery cactus blocked the sun. Where he stood he couldn't make out the horizon. The sand extended into the sky, finally turning a washed-out blue. A hiss of sound caught his attention. He looked down. Amongst the rocks two snakes stumbled upon each other. They tried to formalize events by coiling up. One found an advantage and quickly lashed out. They spit. Their bodies collided. They thrashed between the rocks. He marveled at how their scales glistened in the dry desert air. Their teeth flashed, daggers of pure white. He saw his hand dusted with fine particles of sand. His pale almost translucent skin had become gold with desert color. His nails were encrusted. He reached for the snakes. He relished the dread of the something bad that was about to happen to him. He could feel a smile grow on his face as he thrust his hand into the fray. He felt their cold bodies. He felt their wet smooth skin. The sensation was that of holding two violently passionate lovers. One of the snakes rolled an eye backwards and knocked its head to the side. Its mouth opened impossibly wide. Its fangs locked into place and entered the soft tissue of his hand. He opened his eyes. He held the stiletto against his flesh. The needle-like tip had penetrated his hand between two bones. A glistening ribbon of blood welled up from the puncture, wove through the thin hairs on the back of his hand, and fell over the rail, onto the crowd below. His head was light. He was acutely aware that his eyes floated in their sockets. He shuddered with a chill as he removed the tip of the blade from his hand. “Johnny,� someone called to him as he stumbled down the stairs. He pulled the handkerchief from around his neck to cover his face. He pulled the steam-punk goggles from his forehead over his eyes. He could barely see a thing. He brushed up against the female undercover agent and disappeared into the writhing crowd before she could turn and pick him out. As he passed he slipped a piece of paper into the pocket of her leather jacket. He was jostled by the dancers. Hit by one he stumbled into another. He was pushed. The bass was brutal, relentlessly punching him in the kidneys. He fell into the arms of a man with a blue mohawk. He was set back on his feet and began on his way again. The rip of a guitar made his teeth sit up in his gums. He stepped between two women who grabbed him and began to dance against him. He stumbled on and they reluctantly let go. The crowd spit him out and he found himself standing right behind the second Agent. Engaged in conversation with the second Agent was a man he knew. 'Derek,' he thought, 'who are you selling out?' He wobbled and brushed up against the Agent. His
eyes briefly met Derek's. The other man's alarmed reaction was distorted by the grime of the goggles. “Fuck, it's him!” He yelled, pointing. The Agent spun. Johnny fell back into the maw of the dance floor. He allowed himself to be propelled in reverse. When the speakers sucked back into their enclosures he could feel the skin being pulled from his bones. He watched, a spectator, as the Agent shrunk into the distance and became obscured by the limbs of the dancers. He twisted around and squirmed out of the crowd. The female Agent was nearby and yelling at him to “freeze.” He fell again, this time into a trap door at the base of the stage. He was in a half floor. He figured the building was surrounded so he didn't attempt to exit via any of the doors. On his hands and knees he removed a panel and disappeared into a crawl space. The metal banged and popped as he squeezed his way through the tubing. After removing a second panel the building gladly birthed him out into the darkness of the alley. He could hear yelling in the neardistance. The Agents were scrambling to find him. He didn't have much time so he acted quickly. He pulled a large piece of white chalk from his pocket, turned back to the wall, and began to draw a crude mural.
o
The desert. The wind blew, dry and harsh. The cactus was gone. The snakes and the rocks were absent. An unnatural tree stood in the brilliant light of the moon. It was green and ruby red. It was soft, amorphous. Its limbs moved out of accord with the prevailing winds. Near the tree was an unnatural piling of rocks. He looked into the drawing and saw it. On one of the rocks there were some letters. He couldn't make them out. Were they Latin? Hebrew? Something much older? He traced them. The rock fell in to reveal a hole. Stale air coughed out. He could taste the thick wet odor of rotting plants. He smelled stagnant water; it smelled like garbage composed of rotting celery and decomposing fish. He crawled into the hole and was gone. Continued in Shadows from the Heartland
Art by Atmaram Joshi
Mask by Rachel Schivano
Ode to Anthony by Terrance Watson-Taylor
How could I ever live without you? You saw me grow in mom’s belly And were there the day I was born. You protected me from the bullies And beat on me yourself sometimes. You shared your space, Allowing me to take a lot of the attention. Even with the illness you never had excuses. You were a fighter and taught me to never give up. You were a hard-worker, teaching me to try my best, do my best, and be my best. You listened to my boring and outrageous stories even when you were hurting. Always allowing time for little ol’ me. You gave me money even when I had some. And allowed me to party with you. I was never a burden to you. You always enjoyed my company. I remember our last conversation, you lying on your death bed, just helpless. You and your heart fought well, trying to stay alive but eventually it grew weary. God couldn’t have blessed me with a better big brother I am truly blessed to have had you in my life.
The March of a Counter-Culture By Jake Eikenberry
Y Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
Waking up in a haze, still bodily engrossed in the night before, there is a persistent echo of Jimi Hendrix
softly chanting “…the wind cries Mary….” greedily filling my eardrums. I keep my eyes closed and hold onto the still-close aspiration from the hours that preceded the current sleeping wakefulness. Am I still dreaming? I begin to remember the hippies: their smell, their drive, and their energy, bouncing around like a pinball navigating the confines of my mind. It was the Monterey Pop Festival in Monterey, CA, 1968. As the summer of love ascended upon us, a cultural revolution and political rebellion were beginning. As the dry heat bathes me from a cloudless, sun-drenched sky that refuses to weep, I look around and try to decipher the seemingly coded messages that are erupting all around me. They all form together to sound like an archaic band pounding, and simultaneously whispering thoughts through my ears. A man dressed in a cloak standing on a cardboard box (a self-appointed podium of pride) bellows orders to those that will listen: “REPENT!! THE END IS NIGH!!” A group of mysteriously dressed people catch my eye as they dance rhythmically in a circle while holding hands and emitting a song that appears aimed directly at God, for nobody else pauses to listen inside the bubbling energy of the moment. There is a buzz about, creating a stinging-like feeling that something, not sure what, is brewing in the kettle of life that never was before. Although the crowd is dispersed in ones, twos, tens, etc., it feels as though there is a collective energy thundering robotically toward a freedom-foreign to the outer reaches of the arm of this festival. “NO WAR IN VIETNAM, WE DON’T HAVE TO FIGHT” chants echo from a gathering of about twenty. A girl, mousy in her littleness, approaches me and squeaks, “Brother, will you sign our petition to help keep life, love, and peace alive in our world?” Her anticipatory need for my signature delivers it before I realize that I have a pen in hand. “Groovy man, peace,” she replies and furnishes a cheese-filled smile that melts into me like soft butter over warm toast. I’m glad that I didn’t share with her about Vietnam going on for seven more years. Her fight is right now and she’s immersed in it. As I continue to use my senses to navigate through this thick cultural terrain, I remember that the uniting factor in this blender of differences is music. As I mosey toward the stage, I see a variety of interesting people- many with their faces and bodies painted- resembling warriors intricately decorated for a dance. There are flowers and feathers accompanying hair, as if seeds of nature blossomed directly atop the fertileness of fresh minds. The accessories scream about love and hint towards a permission to be wild, joyous, and free. The children here (everybody?) are as innocent as unicorn farts, showing their simplicity and playing as if their happiness depends upon it. Kids of all ages romp around laughing, smiling and wearing their dirt like war paint. The police here are interesting as well. Their smiles, grins, and laughs are many, surprising even the creators themselves. It is as though the police, too, have entered the vortex of unconditional love and are being coerced into surrendering to the flow. The music had begun and I must have been the last one to know about it. I feel as though the people around are chatting in rhythm, gleaming in sync, and guffawing the same- all while frolicking to a silent, mysterious beat of expression. The music here is an intense creation of the fans and bands alike. There is a feeling of one- of a solidarity forming at the beginning of a consciousness that is stretching itself for a slingshot into realms yet unknown. The smells of marijuana float by in thick pockets of whooping cough and then drift away, only to be replaced by the next cloud-in no time at all. The tickle of her armpit hair as her arms encapsulate me into her gentle grasp shock me, but mean little, if
anything at all, to her in all of her splendor. She smiles at my reaction, forgiving my fears and quick, cheetah-like judgments. I conjure up a sign of peace toward her (two fingers shaping a V) and she continues her twirling, circle-step adventure on through the crowd. I begin to allow myself to enjoy the masquerade. As the Mama’s and the Papa’s take the stage and begin playing “California Dreaming,” the crowd echoes the lyrics back to the performers, feeding our starving appetite and generating even more hunger. The music encapsulates a genre of peace and the experience is quite different than the bore of the same music via radio waves. It is loaded with passion and as the moon greets us, I feel as though I have been influenced by this cosmic march and I am a part of its love, peace, and unity. Jimi Hendrix takes the stage and bites on his guitar as though trying to rip open a bag of M&M’s. He has a ferocious passion in his nibble, (the gnaw of a lover impregnated by his own ecstasy) inspiring his guitar to groan in pain. The guitar growls out through the passive crowd-influencing them to react like puppets, flailing this way and that with ape-like conviction. Our dance wears many different faces, yet our dance is one. Lying in bed, eyes closed, I wonder aloud what it was about the 60’s that ignited a hungry passion and insatiable thirst for life that never fully got satisfied. Vietnam happened in spite of it. A war on drugs grew in its presence. But, for these people it was a time of love, of peace, and of happiness for all those striving to be better, to be different…to be themselves. In the middle of it all remained a constant- music. In the circus-like atmosphere of a counterculture that said, “Tune in, turn on, and drop out,” music was the background unifier. I am tired now. As I drift away toward a light snore, I begin to imagine a life without boundaries, a life without hate, a life full of love.
By Graehound
A Lethal Lavatory By Sarah Ritter
He stood in the public restroom, analyzing the urinal in front of him. He had to think strategically about this. He pulled out a paper towel and flushed the urinal. He made sure to leave it on the handle for future use. His hand then grabbed a bit of toilet paper and tentatively moved to his zipper as he again crept closer to the urinal. The nearer he got, the more hellish the urinal became. Hundreds of hairs from who knows where (or who) and streaks of distorted yellow filled his vision. His feet stopped moving. Roughly two feet to the urinal. It was good he had practice with this. He had excellent aim. Taking in a deep breath, he eyed the distance and let it fly. Right on target, he began to relax. Letting his guard down was a big mistake. As soon as he became careless, he lost control and hit the wall. He stared horrified as it flew all over. He tried desperately to regain control, while his stream landed everywhere but the urinal. His panicked movements finally ceased when he realized he was finished. He used the toilet paper carefully and zipped his pants up. He glanced at the wall forlornly, pitying the janitor and considering leaving a note of apology. Flushing the urinal a second time, he heaved a sigh and then disposed of the paper towel. Now to begin the meticulous process of washing his hands. Being careful to avoid touching the sink, he applied soap to his hands liberally. It was impossible to know who had touched this sink. What if it hadn’t even been cleaned in the past week? It’s not like there are public bathroom inspectors. His hands continued pushing on the soap dispenser as he inspected the sink in a panicked search. His eye caught and held on a hair. A single hair, it clung stubbornly to the corner. Who did that belong to? Maybe it came from a clean-cut man in a navy business suit. A man that analyzes the world from his lofty height. A man that washes his hands following his bathroom visits so germs don’t coat his briefcase handle. Perhaps the man was an uptight citizen, but surely one that followed sanitation codes. Or maybe the hair is from the janitor. They had such a frightful jobs, but heroic ones. He leaned an inch closer to the hair. If it truly did belong to the janitor, the restroom had been sanitized recently. Unless the janitor did something other than facility cleaning. After all, if the janitor really cleaned the restroom, he would have spotted the hair in question and the urinal terror. What then was the janitor up to in the restroom? He backpedaled away from the sink, his soap covered hands dripping. Where was the hair from? Sidestepping, he gathered the courage to approach the other sink. He tore his eyes off the hair and warily studied the new option. In a few moments, it was declared hair free. He grasped a paper towel, turned the faucet on, and waited for the rising steam signaling the water temperature as hot. Just as he lowered his hands to the running water, a loud plop accompanied a spray of water droplets that projected in all directions. He jumped back, spouting frustrated nonsense. Looking down at himself, he growled at the sight of his now wet shirt. Ignoring that for the time being, he peered into the still running sink to see a cockroach scrabbling up the sink walls. His shoulders fell and he glanced between the hair sink and cockroach sink, occasionally glancing at his soapy hands in between. With a sigh of resignation, he took hold of a new paper towel and summoned all his strength. Closing his eyes tightly, he reached forward and plucked the bug out of the sink and into the trash. He stood still as a statue breathing heavily and staring horrified at the trash. He shuddered once then came to life – tearing his outer shirt off and throwing it away too. He turned and wrenched open the soap dispenser. Ripping the package of liquid soap open, he drenched his hands in the godly antibacterial mixture. Putting them under the hot water, he rubbed furiously for several minutes until satisfied. Nodding in approval, he calmly shut off the water using another paper towel then proceeded to dry his hands thoroughly (on yet another paper towel of course).
~*~ She leaned against the car, patiently waiting for her husband. His bathroom trips had remained an average time of 15 minutes for the whole nine years of their marriage. Today was an exception as he had been gone for 15 already. She picked up a magazine from her collection and began absently flipping through it. Oh, Howie Mandel was joining America’s Got Talent. She brought the magazine closer to her face as she settled in to read the article. ~*~ When he finished drying his hands, he selected one last paper towel and strode to the door. He opened it with the towel, stuck his foot against the door as usual, and turned back to dispose of the now dirtied paper product. His hand stopped as he spotted the new problem. The trash can was installed in the opposite wall, too far to reach. He judged the distance then attempted tossing the paper towel into the trash. It fell short. Sighing once again, he re-entered the room. He grabbed another paper towel and used it to pick up the one he had thrown, and then dropped them both into the trash. Then pulling a paper towel out, he took his place at the door and tried again - hitting the wall to the right of the trash. He watched it sitting on the floor, his eyes smoldering. Stalking into the restroom, he repeated the process of dumping the soiled items into the garbage. Afterward, standing by the door as before, he tried once more to get out of the restroom germ-free. He aimed carefully, lining up the shot. Pulling back his arm, he let the wadded towel fly. Its trajectory was headed straight for the trash. He watched anxiously as it flew through the air towards the trash then landed! The only problem was it landed on the floor directly in front of the trash. He almost slumped against the doorframe before realizing it could have germs on it. If only he could leave it there. It was one paper towel, what could it hurt? He would never be returning to this place – this den of horrors. Hadn’t he suffered enough through the experience? What was the heinous sin that warranted this inescapable prison? He was going to break out. He had to. He couldn’t live in this place. A surge of energy flowed through him and he swiveled around, running out of the place that had unknowingly become his archenemy. The attendants watched him curiously as he sped by. What did they know? Did they live haunted by past bathroom horrors? He pushed through the doors to the cool autumn air and breathed in deeply. Putting his hands in his pockets, he strolled over to the car and leaned against the side next to his wife. She looked up from her magazine and assessed his appearance calmly. “You had a sweater when you went in didn’t you? Where did it go?” “I left a paper towel on the floor. It changed my life.” His wife’s mouth formed an “o”. He struck a cocky and manly pose, “Impressed?” “Very, you’re the master of the universe. So where is your sweater?” “I’ve never felt so alive!” He smiled brightly at her. “That’s great, honey.” With a smile, she casually pointed at his leg, “Cockroach.”
e
Weight: 300 Pounds By Erin White
Weight: 300 pounds Size: XXL
Y Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
The small, red, lit numbers that glare at you daily from the scale on your bathroom floor float through your mind as you walk into the crowded restaurant. You’re trying to avoid the stares. You cannot, however, ignore the whispers, which, in combination with each other sound like poisonous gas escaping a container labeled with a skull and crossbones or a radiation symbol. You’re quite sure though, that the whispers are intensely worse than any poisonous gas. The restaurant staff tries to be discrete, ushering you to a table hidden in shadow; away from the judgmental public masses. This is all a routine. Code Seven: Socially unappealing patron. You sit down in the chair and a waiter brings you your water. You notice he won’t look at you. He won’t make eye contact. He takes your order, while still not making eye contact. The whole ordeal is like an intricate dance to avoid offense.
Rule 1: Don’t make eye contact Rule 2: Don’t say anything Rule 3: Never mention weight or food
“Mommy, why does that lady look like that?” The unmistakable voice of a small child inquires. The unavoidable question. The numbers taunt you again. Weight: 325 Size: 42
“Hush dear, it’s not polite,” the mother responds, embarrassed.
She isn’t embarrassed for you though, you realize. She’s salvaging her reputation, her image. You notice that she doesn’t have anything socially disgusting wrong with her. It’s not like you haven’t tried to change yourself, you think bitterly. You’ve tried everything. Diet changes only caused your weight to fluctuate.
Surgery wasn’t an option; you weren’t considered a prime candidate. You could almost hear that condescending doctor’s voice with his glamorously acceptable physique, saying, “We don’t believe that this would be the best option for you. Have you considered changing your diet?” The waiter comes back with your food, but you find that you have no appetite. Now everyone in your area of the restaurant is sneaking glances your way. You can almost hear their thoughts as you push your plate away and stand up, drawing more eyes to your form. You can imagine that, for them, it must be like trying not to stare at a car crash: impossible. “She didn’t eat her food,” you imagine one person thinking. “Disgusting, do you see that?” “People like that just aren’t motivated.” “Lazy is what you call that.” “Good riddance, she was ruining my meal.” Numbers flash behind your eyes: Weight: 350 Size: XXL You’re like a walking human car crash. You finally get out to your car, and drive home; flipping through the radio for a station. “Try Hydroxyflab, guaranteed to pack on pounds, without the work! See results in as little as…” You change the station. You tried Hydroxyflab, it just made your hands and feet swell. “After years of diet changes, I finally tried Calorisystem. It really works; the food is delivered to your house for as little as five dollars a day!” You change the station. “Imagine the body you’ve always wanted with stomach addition surgery…” “Prime candidate, have you tried changing your diet?” You’re home, finally. You don’t even know why you bothered going out. Weight: 400 Size: XXXL It’s not as if you don’t try, you reason with yourself as you head into the kitchen to shove Oreos down your throat. You’ve spent countless hours “stuffing and gorging”. You’ve spent money on magic pills like Hydroxyflab. You suppose that would by why you’re dirt poor. You wonder if you can ingest pure lard. Images of the “perfect body” float through your head:
Minimum: 400 pounds Love handles, cankles, bulging skin and fat. Eyes peering out of a flabby skull. Rotund body. Weight: 105 pounds Size: 2
You poke your flat stomach, hating every inch of yourself; You immediately think back to a cashier at a clothing store, saying in an obnoxiously wheezing voice, “I’m not sure we have your size here. Maybe you
would like to try Small and Skinny down the street? We don’t have anything smaller than an extra large here.” Embarrassment Shame You even tried chaining yourself to your easy chair and only eating bacon and deep fried Twinkies for a week. Nothing happened. You wonder if brain surgery would increase your chances of gaining weight. Is there such a thing as metabolism surgery? * * *
Old Man Syndrome By Treasa Bane
Y Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
He was born with camera lenses for eyes, beady blue to watch his pale body rotting, his wife changing, his children growing, supposedly a joy to watch. Don’t let light spill into the room. The pillow will not stifle the pounding of blood in his ears. Acting blind to ridicule, he doesn’t want anyone to know or anyone to watch. Is he the same boy who picked fights with the little ones, swung on the porch chairs, ran with the hogs, massacred his Christmas presents; begging his mother, his father WATCH! As he shrunk, his wife grew. She would laugh, and then scream; she is perfect, he is negligent. He is unsure, insecure, while the children yearn and pretend not to watch. In the city, women on billboards do not laugh at him, they smile. The noises of the city cancel each other out, begging him, letting him, simply watch. He moved to the city knowing no one would get close enough to ask Do you have a wife, do you have children? He’d glance at his watch. His reflection is corroded with lines, resembling leather, like a mask. He was dead before he left them. They’ll turn out fine, just watch.
A Long Drive
By Andrew Palmer I sit in a rolling metal framework Encased, yet blessed with a nearly spherical view A belt strapped on me, pulling me beck with a nearly unyielding torque Legs tightening from disuse, until starched anew Mountains rise and sink in the path ahead Rock faces looking both invincible but vulnerable together Rising fields of trees and patchwork farmlands Making a pieces of art scattered across the land hither and bitter My soul translates the sensations in two languages Body stiff as a board, mind not occupied by a pleasant diversion Downright dull is one direction of my emotional passages The eyes however provide another translation The artwork of the mountains and the land Provides a spectacle for the eyes and wonder for the mind
An Apple on a Windowsill By Pam Powell
School had been in session for three weeks. Kindergarten was in full swing. The proper use and handling of blunt end scissors was becoming routine, the sweet smell of white paste smeared on a square of brown paper familiar. For as long as Betsy could recall, this was where her life had been headed, this was where she was supposed to be. One thing Betsy knew for certain, one sure fact culled from television watching, magazine browsing, and book reading, was that every proper student took an apple to their teacher. That was how it was; almost a responsibility, definitely a rite of passage. After much careful consideration, the perfect apple was chosen. Entering the cool, semi-dark hallway through the heavy double doors, Betsy started the short walk to the second door on the left. The morning sunlight filtered obliquely through the old glass windows on her right. Standing next to her classroom door, looming above the crew cut shorn and pageboy bobbed heads moving past her, was Betsy’s teacher. Mrs. Gray was an imposing figure, a woman perhaps too stern to be teaching five year olds. But she was Betsy’s teacher, a woman deserving of Betsy’s devotion and admiration. Betsy made her way carefully toward Mrs. Gray, her feet moving tentatively but purposefully, determined to make her mark as a true elementary school student, to earn a place in Mrs. Gray’s heart. Unsure of what to say, Betsy thrust the beautiful apple silently and clumsily into Mrs. Gray’s hand. Smiling timidly, Betsy waited to hear the words of gratitude that would validate her existence in her new world. “Why, Elizabeth, what is this? Someone must have dropped this from their lunch on their way to class. We’ll just set it on the windowsill, right here, and they’ll come back for it. Let’s go in to start our own day now.” The timid smile still frozen on her face, Betsy allowed Mrs. Gray to lead her into the classroom. The hours crept by, the apple, sitting so forlornly on that dusty windowsill, constantly on Betsy’s mind. She had to retrieve that apple. If the teacher wasn’t going to enjoy it, no one else would either. Finally, the morning was over, and as quickly as decorum would permit, Betsy was at the doorway, looking for her apple. But it was gone. The windowsill was empty.
Shadow By Leah Schultz
Ebony fur / Pointed muzzle Pointed ears Twisted ribbon of a tail All smooth sinew and sharp angles Muscle and bone Covered with thick fur White teeth grinning Daring you forward Into the graveyard Do you dare? Is it worth it? How deep does your trust go? He's just a Shadow But a familiar one, nonetheless It's just a little farther An errand you seek to complete Daring you forward Into the graveyard
h
Freedom of Swimming by Andrew Palmer
Into the velvet salty expanse I plunge To wash away my fears and cool my heart At first waves toss me like a rag doll Becoming one with the strength of nature
To wash away my fears and cool my heart Water focus the mind like on fighting the current Becoming one with the strength of nature Reawakening un-worked muscles to the challenge
Water focuses the mind like on fighting the current I paddle forward bouncing with the waves Reawaking un-worked muscles to the challenge Fears and stress ebbs away I paddle forward bouncing with the waves Energy builds in me with the joy I feel Reawaking un-worked muscles to the challenge I swim on with life now free of all fear.
Amendment
By Elizabeth Graehling
There are rules for being beautiful:
Every time you close your eyes, you’re demanded to allure.
Every time you open your mouth, you're expected to pleasure. Every time you move your hips, you do so to entice.
Every moment of the day, you must exude the kind of charm that could send any snake into a coma. ...And every time you want to scream, it's supposed to be in bed. How easily you forget I'm not your mannequin. Not your blow-up doll. Never your girlfriend.
I AM a voice stronger than your manhood, and I'm not yours. I wasn’t born for you to look at. Touch. Demean. Claim. I am beautiful for me, not you. You made those rules.
And though the rules may exist, they will never be my law.
Art by Graehound
Art by Katie Maubach
Calamity Zack By Gannon A. Ray
Nine year-old Zack Marshall sat alone on the porch steps with his elbows on his knees and his cheeks
in his hands. He was staring at the sidewalk between his dusty blue Converse. Several coins of spit marked the concrete in front of his toes. “Wolf Leader, this is Eagle 11. Target sighted. Clear to release?” He grumbled and then made a loud “CHHck!” radio clear sound in his throat. A small black ant had left the grass at the edge of the walkway and was taking a meandering path towards the steps. “Eagle 11 this is Wolf Leader. You are clear, fire at will” ...Bombs away!” he exclaimed and let a drop of saliva fall from his lips. A slight gust of wind caught the spit-bomb and it landed on the front of his white rubber toecap making a clean spot. However, it was still close enough to startle the insect into a bee-line dash for the grass on the other side of the walk. Zack lifted his right foot and stomped the enemy before it escaped. “MEDIC!!” he howled, as the ant curled up into a little spec of death. The rumble of an engine and the sound of tires on gravel ended the battle. A mile-long drive connected the house to county road 1480 East. His father's king cab four wheel drive pickup was about a half mile away kicking up a plume of gray dust as it came towards the farmhouse. Zack stood up quickly using a foot to scrape the little dead remains of the enemy into the grass. Through the windshield of his F350, Joseph Marshall saw his sandy-haired boy bolt towards the edge of the drive. He laughed and waved out the window as Zack stopped short, snapping off a straightbacked salute. There was something humorous and yet genuine about Zack's skinny, well tanned, and heavily freckled form standing so erect and serious in his salute. Though he was small for his age, he could have been a sixty year-old general with three pounds of medals on his chest. It often took him by surprise, how completely his son was absorbed by whatever moment his imagination had him in. He saluted back as he passed by and parked the truck in front of the barn. It was Friday in the second week of August. Zack had less than a month left of summer vacation and then it was back to school. As much as Joe loved having Zack around, by August he was always ready for school to start. Ironically, it wasn't because his son got bored; he never got bored and therein was the problem. Zack was constantly coming up with new things to do. He often went beyond his chores to “help out”. More often than not, he ended up causing more problems than he solved—but never intentionally. Joe's $1740 John Deer riding lawnmower was one of the recent casualties of Zack's helpfulness. It sat beside the barn with the right wheels up on blocks. He could see part of the twisted mower blades thrusting out beneath it along with a torn section of hose. Part of the cast-iron and aluminum sprinkler, that was knotted and wedged in there also, hung out under the mower deck as well. He had spent most of last Sunday afternoon trying to get the sprinkler untangled so the blades could be replaced but it was looking now like he was going to need to call Don Jennings at Tractor Supply and get it repaired. Money was tight; it had been for the last eight years. His wife Sarah had been picking up a lot of hours in town at Mason County Regional Hospital were she worked as a nurse. Joe didn't like it. She had always been a nurse but had switched to part time when Zack was born. Now she was getting real close to full time hours again. Joe's father in law, Henry Sanders, had died last winter and Sarah's mother had come to live with
them in the three bedroom farmhouse. Zack was ecstatic about having Grandma, but she had changed some since Henry had passed away. Gretta Sanders wasn't exactly mean to Zack, but she wasn't as nice, or as patient, as she used to be either. She had a hard edge on her now and when she would lay into Zack with her “... road to hell” scolding, Joe had come close to stepping in. He hadn't gotten to that point yet, but it was close. As far as Zack was concerned, Grandma could do no wrong. Joe could see that she scared the boy sometimes, and he often worried about upsetting her, but that didn't make him any less likely to grab her in one of his leaping “Grammah!” bear hugs. Joe shut down the engine and stepped out of the truck. “Hey Dad!” Zack yelled, running around the front of the truck to meet him. “How yah doin', Z-man!” “Great Dad! OK if I go fishin'?” Joe gave him a serious look and asked “Chores done?” “Yessir!” Joe paused for a second and asked the second ritual question... “You accidentally break, lose, set fire to or otherwise destroy something you need to tell me about before your Momma gets home?” “NOOOsir!” Zack exclaimed. Joe grinned, “Alright, get on then, be back for it gets too dark or yer mom will have my hide.” It was only four in the afternoon but Zack had a way of losing track of time. “Wooohooo!” Zack yelled and bolted off for the garage to get his fishing gear. Timber Creek was only about a quarter of a mile away on the western border of their 420 acre plot of land. Joe took another glance at the destroyed John Deer mower and let out a sigh, shaking his head. He stretched and took in a deep breath, held it a moment and let it out, relaxed. “Just goes to show, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, Joseph.” Gretta said from the other side of the screen door. He glanced up; he hadn't seen her standing there. He wasn't real fond of that old chestnut, or her using it all the time, but he gave her a smile as he headed for the door. He thought, for the most part, it was just her way of relating to people. Old sayings, the way she called everyone, especially family, by their full name. You were never just Joe, you where Joseph, or Zackary, or if she was really serious or upset, you were all three full names punctuated with an authoritative grunt. “Joseph Christopher Marshall, Hmphf, you need to be using that God-gifted head of yours instead of bullin' your way though life all the time!” She had said when he came into the house last Sunday at half past midnight. He had spent so long trying to get that damn sprinkler out of the mower blades that he had ended up herding the Holsteins into the barn in the dark. Swallowing his initial reaction was the best response he had worked out for this type of “gifted wisdom” from her. So far it had worked pretty well and had kept the peace. “I need to head on out and check the livestock and the fences, Gretta,” he told her now. I'll be back before dark. Zack headed over to the creek to do some fishin' so he'll be outta yer hair for a while yet anyway.” Gretta stamped a foot and stood tall, giving him a slightly sidelong look. It was strange how she, barely five and a half feet tall, could make a six foot four man feel like he was being stared down at from onhigh. “Please Joseph, just remind Zackary that leaving a stringer of fish in the entry way overnight is NOT helpful. Took me three days to get that smell out of the house!” “Yes Gretta, I'll be sure to remind him... again.” Joe said with a nod and headed off to the barn. When Joe got back from picking up feed and supplies from town the next day, he noticed something very strange. The area in front of the side door to the house was a muddy pit of foamy water. He parked the truck and got out, heading at a brisk pace towards the door, which was standing open. The screen door was also locked open the opposite direction. Gretta suddenly appeared in a dull pink bathrobe that was soaked
up to her knees, carrying a bucket of soapy water. She glanced up at about the same instant that she bailed it out the doorway and almost splashed it all over him. Well good afternoon, Joseph!” she said sarcastically and turned to head back in the house. “GET a mop will you please, Sir.” he also heard as she shuffled out of sight on the wet floor. “Hi Dad.” He heard the shaken voice from behind him. Joe turned, but Zack wasn't there. “Up here!” Zack exclaimed. He was up in the loft of the barn looking down at him. “Sorry Dad.” He said, fighting back a sob. “I think I killed our washin' machine...” Joe let out a sigh, putting his hands on his hips and turning his eyes to the gravel road at his feet. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Taking another deep breath, he looked up and tried to give his son his best reassuring smile. “What happened Zack?” That broke the levy and Joe got hit with a deluge of fast moving, sob filled speech. “Mom-calledworkin late, she sounded sad, said sorry not gonna be home till late tonight and she-she-she, snort, she said, she wasn't going to be able to make dinner and to tell you not to worry an I should not mess up my clothes playin' in the creek because the laundry-the laundry-,snort-cough, Laundry isn't done yet and I don't 'ave any clean clothes! Dad, I just wanted to help a—” “It's alright, Z-man, slow down. I can't understand most of what your saying.” “I didn't see anything on the dish soap bottle that said it doesn't work in the washer, Dad!” Oh lord, Joe thought. “You put dish soap in the washing machine, Z? How much?” Joe asked. His son replied with one of those shocked ,wide-eyed innocent looks that only kids are able to do, and shouted back: “That's the thing Dad, I only used ONE bottle!” Joe looked back at the gravel, part of him felt like rolling around in the mud laughing; another part felt so weighted down that he though he might just grab the bottle of Jack Daniels out of the kitchen cabinet above the fridge and go hide in the basement a while. He looked back up at Zack and in his best calm voice asked, “So why are you not helping your Grandma clean up?” “Gram yelled at me that...” snort, “that”, sniffle, “the road to hell is paved with g—” “I know, I know, Zack, but that doesn't explain wh—” Joe interrupted. “She chased me out of the house with a BROOM Dad! A Broooom!” Joe let out a loud guffaw; it was out before he could stop it. “Not funny Dad!” Zack shouted down. He was obviously embarrassed, angry, and scared all at the same time. Joe walked over so that he was standing in front of the barn right below his son; he was only about eight feet up, lying in the hay, his shoulders and head sticking out over the edge, looking down. He looked up and said, “Zack I'm going to tell yah a bit of advice that your ol' Grandpa Henry use to give me in times like this, when the women were not around...” He paused to give his son a stern look, and make sure he was paying attention. Zack was all ears as he stared down at his father. “This is something between men, Zack; this isn't for friends at school or sayin around your mother. You got it?” Zack nodded, still staring. “Grandpa Henry use to say, 'Shit happens, and when it does, you need to square your shoulders and deal with it cause mullin' about its just makes the stink worse.'” “Dad you said SH—!” “You understand what I'm telling you, Zack?” Joe interrupted. Zack paused for a moment, and for the first time in this crazy exchange began to calm down a little. “Yeah, Dad, I understand.” Zack said with a hesitant smile.
t
“Something else your going to learn in your life, Son, is that women can be like a angry hive of bees if they get upset enough. No matter what you do, if you don't give em some space yer gonna get stung. That means you need to get gone for a while till your Grandma has time to cool her jets.” “You think you can go hang out at the creek and not mess up your clothes too bad?” Joe asked. “Yeah, Dad, thanks, Dad!” Zack yelled down and was gone. He heard him run across the loft to the ladder and, soon after, heard the back side-door of the barn bang open and shut. Speaking of stung, were the hell am I going? Joe thought to himself as he headed into the house. Oh well, I gotta try. “Gretta, I'm gonna go in the kitchen and make you a tall glass of ice tea. I'd thank you kindly to go out to the front porch with it and take a load off while I finish cleaning up this mess” Joe called as he entered the house. Gretta stepped out of the laundry room in her soaked slippers and bathrobe. She gave him a nod and shuffled towards the front door. She didn't even bother to argue with him about it. The next few weeks passed quickly for Zack, just like they always did when there were only a few left before school starts. It was Saturday, and Zack wished he had just one more week before everything changed. He didn't hate school; some of his friends did, but he actually kinda liked it. Not that he'd say so around any of his buddies. It really was more about having less free time; there was so much he wanted to do every day and school took that all away until the weekend. Mom and dad had headed into town to have dinner with some of her nursing friends from Mason County Hospital. Dad had been right about the bees. It took Gram about a day to get over the suds and then it was back to normal. She was in the living room in the Lazyboy watching TV. “Zackary!” She called. Zack closed the fridge and headed into the living room. “Zackary, Honey, I'm feeling a bit tired. Could you bring your Grandmother a glass of ice water?” She looked tired; he didn't remember her ever looking this tired. She wasn't sitting straight either; her shoulders where hunched and she was leaning pretty hard on the left arm rest of the chair. “Sure Gram, happy to!” he said and headed back into the kitchen. He was only gone for a moment but by the time he got back with the glass of ice water she looked like she had fallen asleep. “Gram?” She opened her eyes and looked up at him standing there with the glass. “Thank you, Honey, jussh puhh ehh dahhn theeeh” she said , her voice suddenly slurring as she pointing with a shaking hand to the coffee table. “Gram yer talkin' funny? Are you ok?” She tried to give him a reassuring smile but her mouth only moved on the right side of her face. Zack was scared, he didn't know why, but he was scared as hell and he didn't know what to do. “Gram something is wrong with you. I'm gonna call 911, they taught us at school to call 911 if someone is hurt or in trouble, I gotta call-” “Noaahh!” She shouted at him, patting her hand at him in the air, she tried to get up, she made it a foot off the chain and sat back down, hard. Zack ran to the phone in the kitchen. “Noaahh, Zahh!” she yelled at him. She sounded really mad at him, madder than he had ever heard her before. He hesitated. Maybe he should wait until his parents got home. But shit happens and you have to deal with it or.... Zack picked up the phone and made the call. It had only been about an hour since the ambulance came and picked up Grandma. Scott Holt, one of the county sheriff 's deputies, had come along in his police cruiser and Zack got to ride with him to the hospital ahead of the ambulance. The deputy turned on the flashy blue and reds and barely slowed down for red
lights. This would have been a blast if Zack wasn't scared out of his wits. He had been sitting here in the emergency room waiting area for about 20 minutes but it felt like he had been here for ages. He was going to be in so much trouble when Dad and Mom showed up, Gram had said “NO!” and he called anyway. They had paged his Mom at the restaurant with her emergency pager thingy that he wasn't even allowed to touch. Sarah had caught him playing with the pager one summer day when he was about seven. She had quickly snatched it away from him and then promptly sat him down for a serious talk. “This is really important Zack so I want you to pay attention.” She paused a moment and had waited until nodded that he was listening. “This only goes off when they really need my help at the hospital and I don't even want to think about having it get broken or lost. If something bad happened to someone because I wasn't there to help when they needed me... that's a wrong I couldn't ever fix, Zack. You understand?” Deputy Holt had gotten her pager number from the front desk here and paged her at the restaurant though, she was going to be ticked. Zack thought about the hive of bees and grimaced. His parents came though the sliding glass doors to the emergency room together in a rush and looked around. Seeing him, they both hurried over. His mom knelt down and pulled him from the chair in a tight hug. “Are you alright, Zack, your not hurt?” she said urgently, looking him over. “Mom, I'm sorry, Gram said “NO!” she tried to tell me “NO!”, I didn't know what to do!” he blurted out. “It's O.K., everything is going to be fine, Zack” she exclaimed, hugging him again. Sarah held her son at arms length and looked him over, she wanted to have irrefutable evidence that he was alright. After a moment she said, “I need to go check on Grandma. You stay here with your dad.” She turned and headed off down the hall; he never understood how someone could be walking and still move that fast! Maybe it was something all nurses could do. Zack didn't have enough left in him to face his father so he just fell back into the chair and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and sat there staring at his shoes. “I'm sorry, I really am...” Zack mumbled. Joe just sat down next to him and laid a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. Joe couldn't understand what he was mumbling about. He could tell Zack was crying, but he was doing a good job hiding the sobs. He was a tough kid, he didn't know it but he was. Joe pretended not to know his son was whimpering, he didn't want to embarrass him, no boy wants his dad catching him crying. So he sat there, tried to be calm himself, and waited for Sarah, or one of the emergency room doctors, to come tell them what the hell was going on. Sarah came back about twenty minutes later and sat down in the seat across from Joe and Zack. She looked shook-up but she didn't look scared anymore. “Joe, Mom had a stroke, she's stable, they needed to do a tracheotomy so she could breathe better, but she's stabilized now. They need to keep her here a while, of course, but the doctors are optimistic.” “You’re so busted man... ” Zack mumbled to himself, still off in his own world, he figured he was going to get grounded for life for the beeper and disobeying Grandma. Joe and Sarah both gave him a confused look. In the excitement they had misunderstood; he really thought he was in trouble. Joe took a hold of his shoulder and turned Zack to face him, “You not in trouble, Z-man. Your Gram had a stroke. She was really sick and she couldn't move.” “When I called 911 they used Mom's beeper, and Gramma was so mad at me, ...but I called anyway.” Zack replied, his shoulder slumping with guilt. “You're not listening, Zack. If you had not called the ambulance, she could have died.” Sarah said, looking at him intently. Joe thought for a moment as he looked at his guilt stricken son. Then he smiled at him and put a hand on his shoulder. “There is something about that road to hell that your Grandmother hasn't told you Zack.”
“The road goes the other way too, and it’s paved the same way.” Zack didn't understand at first, but then it dawned on him and he smiled back at his father... maybe he wasn't so bad after all.
muse * * *
Now and Then
by Miranda Sanders
This is a walk in the park
No one bothers you, just tips their hat and smiles
The glory and passion of a smile is, somewhat amazing and beautiful it hugs your soul Lets you know there is a person in the world that is pleased, whether it is with your presence on earth or that they too enjoy a smile Now and then it's just another walk in the park again
Island of Old
By Andrew Palmer Away from the world around I come to free my soul No hint of the violent mainland Away from the world around Only peace and freedom rule this island Away from the world around I come to free my soul
Imaginable inevitability By David Hall
Upwards and downwards and inwards outwards and all points seem to be converging. Chicken Little can afford to be a bit cocky since the sky is falling.
Cats and rats and CDC stats and dinosaur bones found above the Arctic Circle! Sign, sign, everywhere a sign. . . It would be interesting if someone invented a way to use biological warfare to infect people with the Rockin’ Pneumonia and the Boogie-Woogie Flu.
The Kiss
By Candace Armstrong
Y Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
“It’s about Sebastian,” she said. “Ah—what?” I asked, shifting the phone receiver. I was careful to disguise the coolness in my voice from Julie, my friend for seventeen years. Her new boyfriend was always the topic lately. “He’s been in an accident.” I regretted my disinterest. “Is he okay?” “No.” Julie settled into her explanation. “He was hit by another car, Karen. They took him to the hospital.” I held my breath. “How bad is it?” “Well, you know.” Julie sniffed and paused. I could hear her dainty nose blowing. “If it was nothing, they wouldn’t be keeping him overnight. For observation.” “Where are you?” Julie sniffed again. “St. Mary’s. Room Three-twelve.” My mind raced through a litany of check lists. Who could babysit? Did the car have any gas? “You’re coming aren’t you?” Julie’s voice sounded small. “Of course. I’ll be right there.” *** Breathless, I pounded the hospital hallway, annoyed by the unnaturally loud clacking of my boot heels on the polished tile. I found the room and halted, preparing myself for an unwelcome sight. When I pushed open the door, Sebastian was sitting up in bed talking with Julie, looking very normal except for the hospital gown and a big bruise on his head. They both turned toward the sound of the swinging door. Julie jumped up, ran to me, hugged me and whispered, “So glad you could come.” She pulled me toward Sebastian’s bed. I leaned over to give Sebastian a sympathetic hug and kiss. What I’d intended as a kiss on the cheek ended on a corner of his mouth as he turned his head. I stepped back and sat in the chair Julie had pushed next to me. “It was the other driver’s fault,” Julie said. “He’s going to pay. For sure.” “What about your head?” I asked Sebastian, gesturing toward his bruise. “Oh, plenty of tests,” he said, “but nothing too bad so far. They think I might have a concussion. And whiplash.” “Well, how’d it happen?” I asked. “I told you,” Julie said. “The other driver hit Sebastian’s car. Rear ended it.” “I mean,” I said, directing my questions to Sebastian. “Where did you strike your head? What happened to the airbag?” “Didn’t deploy, flimsy thing, but it seems obvious, Karen, my head hit the windshield.” “How can that be, with the seatbelt and all?” “We don’t wear seat belts,” Julie said. She smiled at Sebastian in what could only be seen as a secret smile of superior knowledge. I rubbed my forehead, pondering this. “Jul, you don’t take airplanes because you’re afraid of a crash, yet you drive in city traffic without wearing a seatbelt. Is that what you’re saying?” Was my friend’s relationship with this guy endangering her? Sebastian cleared his throat. “They can’t make me wear one. I resent being told what to do by the government, and I dare them to try to give me a ticket. Julia understands how I feel.” “Jesus,” I said. “That’s just so stupid. They save lives.” Sebastian looked offended. Julie came quickly to his defense. “Not really. I’ve heard of so many folks who died even when wearing their seatbelts or who were trapped in their cars because of them,” she said.
r
“Besides, it’s the driver’s choice. You smoke cigarettes, Karen, so how can you be so judgmental?” She had me there. I offered a lame excuse about trying to quit but suddenly felt a serious need for one. Julie stroked Sebastian’s hand and looked at him as if he was the only person in the world. I felt small in the presence of the two of them together. After a few more minutes of talk, I found a way to excuse myself. Julie hugged me again and thanked me for coming but Sebastian merely glanced at me. As I left, this time clacking slowly along the over-bright hallway, I wondered why she’d called me. *** Julie and I shared a dream of writing a cookbook together. We made plans to research cookbooks and take a class at a local culinary school. Meanwhile, we created unique dishes with exotic spices. “Let’s try a little saffron,” Julie said, her eyes glowing. “Great,” I said, lifting the lid to breathe in the savory aroma and tasting the Portuguese pork stew we were making. “I think it needs something.” “Actually, it’s perfect the way it is,” Sebastian said after his taste. Julie dropped her spoon. “Of course,” she said. “Adding saffron would be too much.” Sebastian gave me a condescending look and strolled out of the kitchen, hands in his pockets. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to try some, would it?” I asked. Looking toward Sebastian’s retreating form, Julie whispered, “No. Let’s go for it.” As the weeks passed, Julie and I grew more excited. We pored over details of Feast Your Eyes, the name of our cookbook-to-be. Our dream was taking shape. We spent hours cooking, measuring, taking notes, tasting and talking. During these times, I overlooked Sebastian’s moody, faux-European aloofness and soothed the sharp edges of Julie’s intermittent anxiety. *** The phone rang. “Oh, hi,” I said to Julie. “I’ve been trying that new marinara sauce. My family will love it and—.” “It’s about Sebastian,” she said. Her voice sounded flat. “What?” I felt a cold lump in my stomach. “He said you were coming on to him.” I laughed. “You’re kidding, right? I hardly speak to the man.” “No, Karen, I’m not. Remember that kiss you gave him at the hospital?” I laughed again. “Oh that was nothing. Sympathy. A greeting.” “Hardly. Sebastian says he can tell when you look at him. He knows when a woman is coming on to him.” “You can’t be serious!” I felt anger climbing out of my throat. “I don’t even like him, truth be told, Jul.” “Well, Sebastian knows passion. He’s part Italian, you know.” “This is crazy!” I was shouting into the phone now. “He’s jealous of the time you spend with me on Feast Your Eyes.” “I can tell by your reaction there’s something to it.” Julie was matter-of-fact now. My anger turned to disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re accusing me of this,” I said. “And, taking his word over mine, after all these years. It’s simply not true.” Julie was silent but I could hear her raggedy breath, and I knew she was crying. I felt deflated. “So, what does this mean?” I asked. “What happens now?” Julie’s voice was almost a whimper. “I guess we need to take a little time off—from writing the cookbook, I mean. Until I can find the strength to forgive you.” “Julie,” I said with the most deliberate, careful control I could muster. “I don’t need your forgiveness for something I haven’t done.” I hung up the phone as tears stung my eyes. Turning back, I saw marinara sauce bubbling over, burning on the stove.
careful
Seat belts
now that i am old what do i care? sitting here in my underwear, winter sweater, and tattered faded blue buttoned shirt. what do i care? i guess i do care. yes. i care. i care that it is getting cold in the desert, and las vegas is being deserted. i care that some people, many it seems, are strange to some people, many it seems. and it is getting cold in the desert, and deserting las vegas. what did you ever expect sin city? what did you ever expect world? what do i care? oh, i care. i care.
Snap, snap, snap around your lap, Clip that belt around your hips, If your caught sitting on your seat belt There will be a special fine for this trip. Well, I use to hate wearing my seat belt It seemed to restrict me on a date It’s real hard reaching over to her When you’re worried what you have, might break. But something happened that might change things, I was traveling down south on main, When a squad car cop pulled me over And he asked me to tell him my name And he said… Snap, snap, snap around your lap, Clip that belt around your hips, If your caught sitting on your seat belt There will be a special fine for this trip. So I snapped it Well sometime later at a party Me and my friends had plenty drink, We all got in my car and we left there And we hit a couple light poles, I think, Soon a cop came up to see us In E.R. over at St. Joes saying in addition to a ticket for drunk driving, Sitting on our seat belts wasn’t legal, he said… Snap, snap, snap around your lap, Clip that belt around your hips, If your caught sitting on your seat belt There will be a special fine for this trip. Well what could I say, I was in pain, Three maybe four weeks later There was a dinner my boss asked me to host A tree jumped out in my cars path And there’s really nothing here for me to boast, It was a beautiful funeral though, And my head stone read…. Snap, snap, snap around your lap, Clip that belt around your hips, If your caught sitting on your seat belt There will be a special fine for this trip. So if your caught sitting on YOUR seat belt there will be a special fine for your trip.
By David Hall
y
A Philosophy
By Stephen Johnson I am a joke, and you are too. So laugh.
By Steven Carter
Y
Thoughts on a Pop Culture Phenomenon
An Alarm Clock
She’d heard about the fangirls Who just loved the Twilight book And though they all seemed stupid She decided just to look. She bought a copy from the store Because, she reasoned out, The library would sure be mad If they found out about The notes she planned to write inside. She knew it would be duller Than dirt, so she decided she Would add some clever color. The first page bore the author’s name, The title, and some trees, She added in a warning too: “Hold on to brain cells, please!” Of course, the dear protagonist, “Plain” and “ordinary” Bella Swan, Was just about as int’resting As the paper she’s printed on. And then there’s Edward Cullen! What a catch, oh, what a prize! A vampire with unwashed hair And mustard-colored eyes! The story dragged, the action lagged, A lot of fancy talking (Because the author can’t use said) And then there was some stalking. It weighed too much on hand and soul And soon she’d had enough. “I just can’t take it anymore, I need some different stuff.” She picked up Douglas Adams and She picked up JKR, Reminding her what writers do And what words truly are. “Again!” she said when once again She felt renewed in zeal. Of course, once she had opened it, The book lost its appeal. More Edward, more of marble chests, More Bella being brainless, More endless thought, more sappy prose, More “romance,” though not painless. At last the book was finished, Every page turned, marked, defaced, Allowing her to say at last… “A WASTE OF TIME AND SPACE!”
An alarm clock, ringing. A blue bottle, transparent, with a still pool of gin at the bottom. A Collins glass, with only melted ice cubes, a tiny black straw and a cherry red lipstick stain on the edge. A shot glass, upside down, with the smudge of a fingerprint. A bottle of tonic water, generic, with dented plastic and a missing cap. A plastic spoon, with three grains of sugar. A black card table, sticky with lemon juice, with a tear in the top, exposing the white fluff beneath. A cherry stem, an orange wedge, a slice of lime. The smell of honey in the air. A wad of blankets, loosely wrapped around her legs, a cocoon for only her feet. An alarm clock, still ringing.
By Jessica Gaines
Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
By Stephen Johnson
Watching Sam Play T-ball By Todd Eddy in early summer, while the cicadas sing,
Y
and the sun begins its descent in the western sky; little, tanned legs carry big heads around dusty bases like wild ponies.
Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
Photography by Madison Roberts (top) & Michael Drucker (bottom) Sculpture by Mikey McGhee
ELECTRIC RED LANTERN It seemed like a good match at the time, But I didn’t realize how much you had to lose. More than what I was able to understand, it seems. Or more than you were able to let me know. You did not come with a warning sticker, or a safety latch. The fuel I wanted to use, That I kept so faithfully for some time, Has now long since been lost or given away. Maybe it was at the farm, or the factory, or the restaurant. But I don’t have it anymore, you see. So I’m going to have to find a different form of energy, To recapture the light that I know, that I’ve seen You shine so violently bright. The light that I can feel from miles down the road. Let me run to that light. Let me dance in it’s exotic glory. A million smiles within a million smiles Was all that I was ever looking for. And I found it, I found it. And then it was gone.
-Jesse Schenk
Balance
By Rory Byrd
The old master awoke in a horrible mood.
Y Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
The first rumblings of the black storm came only moments after Paun awoke, the young acolyte always quick to rise when the moon still shone and the sun still slept. Paun could hear the caged mutterings of demonic words through the thin bamboo walls that separated the opulence of the master’s chambers from the cold dirt of Paun’s bedding. He could feel a shift in the wind, the cut running up his bare chest the moment the blankets were pulled away--a most unwelcome call to the senses. Paun had clamped down his mouth least his voice awaken his master too early; it took several moments for him to be sure that the master cursed dreaming phantoms and not him. Having some insight into omens, Paun went about his chores as he ate the crusts he had saved from the night before. Bad for the digestion, he knew, but a weight in his stomach was much better than a broom against his side. The old master was particular about the state of things on the best of days and has a keen eye for imbalance on the worst--balance was the first and foremost lesson Paun was instructed in. Balance was the old master’s favored word and ultimate priority. Balance allowed for the passing of the soul to the gates of Heaven, or at least an escape from the endless cycle of pain that was life. Paun understood that sort of pain well enough--the old master made sure of that. Paun was sweeping away the evening moss from the great dragon statue that dominated the work yard when he heard the whisper of the old master’s blankets moving. Not a quick or skillful whisper--more the clumsy (gaggle) of an ox nestling in hay. This was all the confirmation that Paun needed. The old master was in a horrible mood and the master’s mood was the god of Paun’s day. Paun skidded to a halt in front of the master’s sliding doors, head bowed, hands holding a warm bun aloft in a most docile style. The door slid open hard--enough to nearly remove itself from the sliders. The old master stood as a guardian demon, pronouncing judgment with only the glare of his eyes. “Paun…” the old master began, his cheeks bouncing with the hissing of his tongue. “What are you about?” he asked, although Paun was always about the same chores he completed each day for the old master. Paun, knowing this ritual well, did not answer and awaited the demon’s judgment. The old master gazed about himself, at the old stone walls and tiled roofing, at the gently rustling flags and the mountains beyond, at the great stone dragon statue that dominated the center of the yard. “Paun!” the old master declared in disgust. “Imbalance!” Paun scooted back from harm’s way, stretching his arms to keep the bun near enough to grab. The old master swept up the steaming bun, bouncing Paun out of his way, and stomping into the yard without placing shoes upon his feet. The gleam of a drowsy sun illuminated the hot temper of the old master and glowed along the edges of the stone dragon. “Paun,” the old master snarled, “look at this disgrace!” The old master did not point, but Paun’s eyes followed to the eyes of the stone dragon, the small bit of unswept stone. Paun had not finished the chore in his rush to have the steaming bun ready for the old master. Paun’s eyes shifted back to see the old master’s hands now held the broom--sudden as the sky screaming thunder--and he turned to his student with a final judgment in his stare. *Whack, whack* swept the broom upside Paun’s head, knocking aside the balance of his own senses and ringing him about as a bell. “And look there!” shouted the old master as the broom snickered through the air again. “Your chores are unfinished! You’ve driven the harmony from my home! Where is the balance?” Paun glanced about at his unfinished chores--enough tasks to take up the whole of the morning, just as they did every day. *Whack, whack* sung the broom as it cleaned his gaze of light and swept all other sound aside.
“Paun!” the old master declared like a victorious warrior. “I retire to my meditations! Resolve this abomination immediately, least my chi flow interrupted and shallow like the droughted river.” *Whack* swept the broom one last time, as if the old master needed to ensure it still worked, and Paun scrambled across the ground on his knees. Waiting for more instructions would ensure they would be given by the broom, and Paun knew what he was expected to do. The old master dropped his warm bun without eating and stormed off across the yard to the thin flagstones along the west wall. He vanished along them towards the spiritual garden that was secreted from sight. Paun leapt to his feet, emptying his mind of regrets for his day and speeding about his chores. The sun rose slowly, warningly, lovingly upon the young acolyte who busied himself with the art of his business. The morning birds sang to encourage him and the chill of the night slowly retracted her ebony hand. Paun did not stop to wonder how long the old master would remain in meditation, nor did he focus his thoughts on the freedom he had while he was gone. He worked dutifully, as he had been taught, and kept his attention only on the gentle joy of his working hands. So it was, his mind thoroughly in his fingers, that he did not notice the approaching visitor until he was within the gate, admiring the loving craftsmanship of the great stone dragon. “Buddha Judea Tao shalom!” called a voice that startled Paun from his work, the young acolyte scurrying away from the bucket he was mending to see who had come to see the old master. In the yard stood a young priest, Yoan, from a foreign province; a man who had spent only a few weeks in this country and still carried about him the scent of a foreigner. “Greetings, Priest Yoan,” Paun said smartly, bowing his head in reverence for the man’s religious wisdom, as he scurried up to him. “Epistole zen gavita,” Yoan replied in a twisting tongue. He waved his hands as if he spoke in a blessing. “I am sorry, I do not understand,” Paun replied promptly, unsure what the priest wanted. “Ah, young one!” declared the priest. “I speak to you in the words of the Heavens! Do you not feel the majesty in these selected syllables!” “Heavenly words,” Paun echoed, having no wish to insult the priest by replying honestly. He bowed again hoping to show respect. “Yes, yes, you see? By speaking the names of the many heavens, I assure my place upon the alter of the Most High, the Jade Mountain, and the Master’s Feet.” “Truly, great words,” Paun nodded out of respect. “You see,” Yoan lowered his eyes as if to share a gossipy secret. “When one speaks with the heavenly tongues, one cannot speak as a demon. Have you heard men speak as a demon?” Paun’s thoughts swept to his master but he shook his head in a polite “no”. “I have, I have,” Yoan replied, pushing out his chest as if he was now especially important or wise. “Horrible things, the words of demons. You would know them if you heard them, I assure you.” “I am sure,” Paun agreed again. “I would enlighten you as to them,” Yoan continued to speak as if confiding a secret, “but my tongue must remain purified. Only because of that may I speak the words of the heavens.” Paun nodded, having no idea how to respond. “Koan christi,” Yoan declared loudly, clapping two hands upon the acolyte’s shoulder and beaming a foolish grin. “Now, is the old master here?” “Does he expect you?” Paun asked with a disquieted cringe. “No, no,” Yoan shook his head absently. “I simply have something important to discourse with him. He will need to see me.” “He is in meditation,” Paun declared politely. “Take me to him,” Yoan swept his hand for the boy to lead on. “Deep in meditation,” Paun repeated.
“Do not speak to me as if I do not understand!” Yoan decried. “Sancti krishna! I understand all about meditation--perhaps I can even improve your master’s style if I saw what he was about. He would thank me proper for that, little Paun. Not that I came for that, but I have many, many blessings to offer others.” Having noticed Paun had not moved to escort him, Yoan turned about himself, spying the small flagstones that revealed the path to the secret garden. He set off with a lurch and a smart step, Paun dragging behind helplessly, fighting to keep his mind off the impending sweep of the broom. The two moved along the path like serpents on a gentle day, sliding between wall and house until they arrived at the tranquil garden hidden behind. Here, a deep pond of koi was marked by thick rustles of long bladed grass and gently tilting lilies. The sweet smell of lotus wafted between the pink branches of the cherry trees, settling upon the whitewashed flagstones and benches of the garden. Sitting beneath a tree in a soft oval of shadow and light was the old master, locked deep within his breath. “Yin mandala!” declared Yoan. “I have come to speak with you, friend!” The old master snorted as a bull, his eyes popping open like a kernel upon a fire. He rose in a fluid motion as the spirit of vengeance, itself, intent upon the destruction of all the Paun held dear. The acolyte braced himself and tried to loosen his jaw. “What interruption is this?” demanded the old master. “No, no,” spoke Yoan, “little Paun and I are only here to speak to you of important matters.” “Oh?” the old master looked through Yoan’s body as if he was wind, staring deeply into Paun’s face. “What is that?” “I bring the words of heaven!” Yoan declared with a grand smile. “You see, I am seeking to build a new temple and am offering salvation for the smallest of donations.” He held out his hands in a friendly gesture of gratitude, sure that his inner wisdom had already converted the old master to his cause. “Heaven?” the old master snarled. “Salvation? You stand before me filled of sunlight and whistling birds! Bereft of balance, tilted to the side! You unsettle me and seek me to unsettle further by filling your hands with gold?” “Small donations are wondrous as well,” Yoan tried to crack a further smile, but his cheek slacked away. A broom appeared in the old master’s hands as if summoned from the darkest abyss. Paun cringed inside and braced his feet upon the ground. “Perhaps we can speak of this…” Yoan’s speech was interrupted as stiff straw struck his teeth in a flurry of blows that spun him on his heels by force alone. The priest was barely able to throw up his hands to ward off the *whack, whack* of the vengeful broom. “Stop it, you old coot!” shouted the priest as the broom bounced along his fingers, turning his skin pink with sharp pricks. “Begone, peddler!” snarled the old master as his mighty blows sent the priest scurrying back to the work yard. The old master followed, poking and prodding the priest along who sang out ever worsening blasphemies to whatever gods kept the old master from dying. Paun followed dutifully, his body still braced for the moment that the priest would no longer be the primary target. At the gated wall the old master ceased his chase, the broom temporarily lowered so as to reveal the hellfires burning in his eyes. Yoan turned on his heel, his hair scattered about him like a bloodthirsty ghost and his face pocketed like a beggar’s. “May the darkest gods smile upon you!” snarled Yoan before turning once more to flee. The old master mouthed unheard words and then turned his attention sharply to Paun. *Whack, whack* the broom hissed as the acolyte fell to his knees in forced reverence of his master. “The day is long,” the old master declared vehemently. “And you have not begun your katas!” Another *whack, whack* from the old broom, leaving little doubt in Paun’s mind that he would have to bind new
straw to the haft soon. “Practice at once, student! One must have both learning and rehearsal--payment and reward! You suffer here from your own imbalance; do as your master commands!” Paun was unsure how he could begin to practice his kata with his face buried in the dirt, but did his best to try. Another *whack, whack* from the broom came with no other words and in another minute Paun heard the sound of the old master’s sliding doors close. The old master had retired to practice his own hidden arts, leaving his student time to train in his basics. Reluctantly, Paun swept up onto his feet and took a deep stance, his feet gripping the world below as his spine stretched up to heaven. Straw fell from his cheek as his hands danced into the winds and his mind bent to his art. An hour passed as Paun swept from stance to stance, practicing the ancient arts of battle that were his reward for his submission to the old master. His stomach held silent as he pushed and pulled his muscles past the noon hour, his mind calmly pushing aside his desire for food and drink. He flowed like the river, deep and unending, towards the inevitable ocean far beyond the fields of his current life. “Little Paun?” caught a voice upon the wind, sweet with the exotic flavors of women. Paun startled from his stance and fell to his rear. His mind, absorbed in the meditation of his training, had again failed to notice a visitor. Tei Lei stood over him, her deep curves radiant beneath her silk gown and her hands cradling a thickly weaved basket of flowers. Tei Lei was the most beautiful of women and well practiced in the noble art of flowers. She served the local nobles bringing beauty to the many manners and houses that the rich afforded. There was no corner of the world that she could not illuminate, at least in Paun’s eyes. “Tei Lei,” Paun scurried to his feet and bowed deeply, keeping a bit more distance from her than he would any other. “I am pleased to see you,” Tei Lei spoke coyly. Paun bowed deeper, unwilling to open his mouth least he say something stupid, such as what was in his heart. “And I am in need of aid,” she said in a quieter voice, glancing around to make sure the old master was not about. “Aid?” Paun asked skeptically. “Yes,” she replied, flashing a seductive smile. “I need the might of a great warrior.” Tei Lei giggled like water upon a couch shell. “Uhm, I,” Paun tried to explain how poor of a warrior he truly was. “I know you are well trained, of an excellent school, and your master is second to none,” Tei Lei interrupted once Paun’s attempt to speak had failed. Paun nodded and bowed, unable to refute her words without insulting the old master. “So, I have come to you as my only hope,” she spoke very gravely. “What can I do that could help you, Tei Lei?” Paun asked, fear growing his mind sought permission to envision horrible possibilities. Paun leaned on his ear to keep his worries at bay. “I need…” Tei Lei leaned in and lowered her voice so deeply that Paun had to feel her intoxicating breath just to hear her. “A water lotus.” “Huh?” Paun asked, bouncing away from her, startled at her request. “Yes,” Tei Lei smirked and winked. “I had a dream last night--the most perfect arrangement for the magistrate’s official dinner and I found all I needed amongst the fields this morning. All except for an elusive water lily.” “I know where there are many,” Paun suggested. “As do I,” Tei Lei replied wickedly. “Beyond the orchards,” Paun raised one hand to point out the gate in the direction of a small, secluded pond in the deep woods.
f
“No, they are stifled by the darkness there,” Tei Lei interrupted. “They cannot grow proper.” Paun stiffed, his hand still pointing out, as his mind realized the meaning of her wicked grin. “The old master will not surrender a petal,” he gasped at her. “His garden sits in perfect balance.” “He would not miss a single flower,” Tei Lei rolled her eyes as if the suggestion was absurd. “Oh, he shall,” retorted Paun. “Then we will take two, he had will have his ‘balance’,” Tei Lei grabbed at Paun’s sleeve to drag him to the garden. “No, no,” Paun shook his hands but was unable to find the courage to break from her grasp. Even through his sleeve, Tei Lei’s touch was like fire. Still, he tried to argue with her, for her protection if for nothing else. “To the old master it is not a matter of twos and fours, nor pluses or minuses. Balance is the soul of harmony--the world lies in ten directions, not two.” “Exactly,” Lei Tei replied, having no idea what Paun was saying, focusing most of her mind on dragging the squirming acolyte along the flagstone path. “My arrangement must have perfect harmony. Is not the heavenly purpose of the flower to bring beauty to the senses?” “No to the old master,” Paun muttered, finding his feet unwilling to fully resist the girl’s siren call. Into the secret garden they slipped, Paun only mildly surprised not to see the old master already sitting there, broom in hand, ready to offer new lessons to both student and flower. Tei Lei, seeing no further obstacles, let go of Paun’s sleeve and began to look about greedily for the perfect flower for her arrangement. He tried to offer a further rebuttal to her plan, but she ignored him. Having not run into the old master, she had no need for Paun’s help. Aside from being a good person to point the finger of responsibility at, there was no further use for the boy. With a tiny sigh of exuberance, Tei Lei fell upon the perfect water lily, scooping it up with practiced fingers and setting it perfectly within her woven basket. The arrangement settled in a beautiful pattern about her. “Perfect!” she declared, turning on her heel. She stopped suddenly, her face growing pale. Paun did not both to look behind him. Why should he bother? “Paun spoke as if you wouldn’t,” Tei Lei stuttered her planned excuse before the old master had even spoke, the words bouncing upon her tongue chaotically. “You wish to steal from me?” the old master growled over Paun’s head. Surely, by now, the broom would already be visible. “It was not my suggestion,” Tei Lei lied. “You have broken the harmony in my heart,” the old master roared with a flame much hotter than the girl’s touch. “You have assaulted the peace of my soul!” The old master was now visible at the edge of Paun’s sight, a hulking shadow of rage. And there, in his hand--yes--there was the broom. “Not I,” Tei Lei pleaded. *Whack, whack* spoke the broom, sending flowers about in a dazzling cascade of spring. The girl cried out, hands over her head, leaping about in futile attempts to avoid the master’s practiced weapon. The broom sat upon her until her hair was like a tired rug and her clothes a washing room’s curtain. Tei Lei cried out for mercy, but found no quarter until finally she ran, leaving dead petals about her feet. The old master followed her to the practice yard, unrelenting in his strikes. Paun followed, his spine and chest ready as if he planned to spar. “Forgive me!” cried Tei Lei as she vanished out the gate. The old master glowered until she was completely gone, both the sight and scent of her. Then he turned, like the wheel of the seasons, upon his student. *Whack, whack* cracked the broom, sending Paun’s forehead back to the dirt. “My garden is torn from its peaceful bloom as you stood by? Do you have no respect at all for your teacher?” Paun reminded himself not to respond as the old master towered over him, looking about himself at
all the horrible things he could find. “What is this now?” snarled the old master. “Why do I not smell the sweet scent of my dinner? Do you possess a mind, boy? Or are you little more than a stringless puppet? See about you the time? What was once empty must be filled and then emptied again! Balance in this, balance in that, balance in all things! Why have you not set yourself upon my dinner?!” Paun scurried across the ground towards the old stone where the buns from the morning meal still sat, ready to be heated and served once more. Under the harsh gaze of the old master, he crawled quick like a mouse, directly to the food, leaping into a squatting position as he reached the stove. He glanced at his hands--covered in the dirt of the yard from spending so much of the day working or crawling about. He twisted about to find something to clean them, his mind still focused on the horrible gaze of the angry old master. Paying not enough attention, his elbow collided with a bucket, and sent the liquid spilling about him. “Again?!” roared the old master, beaming anger at his student’s awkward motions. “You move as a leper! As a crippled hag! No harmony! No grace! No singularity in purpose!” The broom, spinning like an ancient sword, flashed about the old master’s body as he charged Paun’s frozen form. “No bala…!” His foot upon the water, the old master slipped up into the air, causing him to crash down into the growing mud of the work yard, the broom flying up into the air like a falcon or hawk. *Whack, whack* the broom landed upon the old master’s head and fell roughly to the ground. Paun cringed and dropped into the lowest bow he had ever managed in his entire life. He furled his brow and almost closed his eyes, fighting to take this moment bravely. He held what strength he could and awaited the climax of his horrible day. “Heh.” Paun tensed his muscles, unsure what he heard. “Ha ha heh.” Paun unfurled his brow. Was the old master laughing? “Hahahahahaha, heh haha.” Paun lifted his eyes just enough to see the old master sitting, hands outstretched to hold his old frame, his robes soaking up the spilt water and mud. The old master was smiling, his lips trembling with shivers of laughter as they fought their way out of his throat and heart. Paun lowered his eyes, wondering he could scrub this image out of his mind. “Young student,” spoke the old master as the laughter finally ebbed away. “Master?” Paun spoke, raising his eyes to a respectful level. “I have been locked inside myself today,” spoke the old master. “Unable to see what exists outside myself.” “Yes, master,” Paun responded. “Have I not told you that balance is the key to enlightenment?” “Yes, Master.” “To be only inside myself will not bring balance to me.” “No, Master.” “And this, this I now remember,” spoke the old master, “Remember it as well, my student.” “I shall, Master,” spoke Paun. “Good,“ the old master broke a small smile as he thought for a moment. “And now, I have a second lesson for you, young student.” “Master?” Paun raised his head higher to see the old master’s expression. A swift cut of broom bounced along side his head with a playful *whack*. “Wisdom is everywhere,” the old master said with a laugh. “Thank you, Master,” Paun replied, smiling only to himself.
i
Musings on Muse
by Pam Powell, Muse Managing Editor
Oftentimes when I reflect back on a college class, a school year, or my life, I find myself involuntarily singing the
strains of The Grateful Dead’s song, “Truckin.’” In an almost Pavlovian fashion, rising from my subconscious, come the words: “what a long, strange trip it’s been.” And, oftentimes, these words are distressingly appropriate. I’ve been on some very long, very strange journeys in my life. But this hasn’t been the case with my journey as the Managing Editor of Muse. When Adam Scott learned that I had reached the end of my scholarship money, and therefore my college career, he asked me to join the staff of Muse. I gladly accepted. When I told family members and friends that I’d been named “Managing Editor” of Heartland Community College’s literary and arts journal, I sheepishly remarked that the position was not as prestigious as it sounded. I joked that the title “Managing Editor” probably could be replaced with the word “Mom” on the magazine’s masthead. I’m not sure what I managed. I did a little editing. I tried to offer advice from my years of volunteer work on how to get Muse more recognition in the college community and the community at large. I offered suggestions on how to raise a little money to offset publishing expenses. I tried to imbue my fellow “Musites” with Adam’s vision for the magazine. What a wonderful time I’ve had. I have met some exceptionally bright, articulate and artistic young people. My faith in the future of mankind, which gets very tenuous at times, has been restored. Because of my involvement Muse I was able to meet several authors during Heartland’s celebration of “November is Creative Writing Month.” Cris Mazza read from her story collection Trickle Down Timeline. It was so nice to listen to someone close to my own age putting the sentiments, politics, cultural mores, and ethos of an era into words. She explained the cover photo on her book. She and I talked about what our favorite books had been as girls and what parts of the country we’d lived in…it was a memorable evening. Ryan Stone read to us from his collection, Best Road Yet. He read of an American travelling in Europe. He read of a fraternity that was “knitted together by nothing.” I liked his story. But I enjoyed talking to him afterwards more. I caught a trace of his Missouri Ozarks in his voice. He spoke lovingly of his family and his life with them, and about his experiences teaching. He is a nice man. Before going to Audrey Petty’s reading, I did a little research, found some of her short fiction, and read it. I was enthralled. I knew Audrey was black. I’d read about her and seen her picture. There were slight indications of her ethnicity in her stories. But they were still so universal. When I walked into the room on the day of Audrey’s reading at Heartland, my fascination continued. She was lovely and little with braided hair and a warm smile. She read about food— particularly chitterlings. I have never eaten chitterlings and probably never will. But it didn’t matter. I understood every word she read. I understood what she meant about being a middle child and how precious to her were the times spent with her mother. My father never had to leave the South, his home, and move to a strange place to avoid prejudice, but I understood what it felt like when she talked of the first trip she ever took alone with her father—the initial awkwardness of the situation evolving into a memorable experience. I’m White Bread. But I understood what Audrey talked about, Writer and University of Illinois what she writes about. professor Audrey Petty visited I immensely enjoyed the evening listening to Heartland Heartland in November instructors and staff share their written works. “Share” is the important word here. That’s what I relished about my Muse time…the sharing of ideas, hopes, philosophies with others. This is what life is about— interacting and growing as a result of these interactions. This is something that my time working on Muse has given me. And I am ever so thankful for the opportunity to have done so! Heartland English Instructor Anne Colloton reads from her creative work at the Heartland Faculty Reading
2009 HARVEST POEM By Kent Casson
The harvest season came and went But not without some discontent. Grain wagons were parked by the roadside with care With hopes that the auger soon would be there. The weather did not cooperate. For the harvest season came way too late. Snow piled up on the corn head so white As the truck drivers waited in line, ready to fight. Elevators had a hard time keeping up As the farmers continued their run of bad luck.
The Beautiful Disaster by Syrena Marter
Y Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
I see the light, It’s bringing me close, But it’s not my time, And it’s taking longer, For me to come back, I know I will, Suddenly it fades, I feel a growing pain, I’m terribly hurt, But I feel stronger, I’m taken away, I finally get treated, Then I see the guy, Who melts my heart, With promises that I’ll be fine, I finally feel okay.
Fields were muddy, ruts were deep For the auger wagon, that ditch was too steep.
‘Round Midnight By Todd Eddy
November flew by, and Thanksgiving was here. The very next day, we fired up the John Deere.
words flow smooth in rivulets of red wine from coffee stained minds in a cigarette twist of winter-time warmth
The filed was a darkened mess To this, my father can attest. December finally came and we knocked those soybeans out. There would be no deer hunting this year, without a doubt. It was December 12th And I felt like Dad's little "elf." We finished the corn and cleaned up the truckWashing off all the mud and the muck The harvest season truly was a success That's because I work for the best. Now, we look ahead to next year. The no-till will be kicked into high gear. But, let's not think about that yet, As 2009 was about as bad as they get.
snow swirls frozen from rooftops as dogs bark child-like at the falling flurries a midnight train blows lonesome cold callings along cloudy streets and in the candle’s flickering shadow long wavy hair falls unkempt on bare shoulders as lovers interject poetry for soft lies
Y
Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
Americana
By Benjamin Haselton The world is but one big machine and we its grinding gears. I'm just another cog slowly gnashing through the years. I'm only here to be abused. And we all love to be amused. We love to see somebody lose. We used to practice brotherly love, and respect for the dead. Now we climb over one another trying to get ahead. Oh my country 'tis of thee! Of amended heart and vetoed soul! Of purple mountain's majesty and genocidal goal! Our human race of rapists and rats. Our mason moralities and conscience lack. Is this our land of the free? Our land of opportunity? A wasteland of prisoners and pinstripe politics. Our fruited plains wither and rot. Our declaration dying by degrees. Our independence, impudence and ignorance. Our hate crimes and war games, our schoolyard bullying.
c
Our blues skies colored crimson with the blood of innocents. With the blood of our innocence.
Manifesto By Jessica Gaines
I’m nothing to you, nobody of any importance from nowhere to worry about. I’m more sincerely nobody than even Emily Dickerson, of less importance than even an idle daydream, from a place that nobody worries about which shouldn’t even have a name. And yet I know you. I understand the way you think, the way you feel, the why you think and feel. I understand your shortcomings, and I want you to know where you fall short I fall even shorter. I’ll lie if I don’t, so you’ll always be better than me. I’ll be your Atlas, and forget Ayn Rand, I’ll never shrug your worries or your responsibilities off, even though I’m carrying my own. I’ll be your Sisyphus, an ecstasy on my face whenever that boulder falls back down because I’ve kept it from falling on you by making it fall on me. I’ll be your Daedalus, toiling for hours for your freedom for your wings, just so you can enjoy those few golden moments before you plummet to oblivion. And I’ll be your nothing.
A Short Interview with Short Story Writer Ryan Stone by Stephen Johnson
Writer and Danville Area Community College English instructor Ryan Stone visited Heartland last semester on November 11th, despite his incredibly busy schedule. Unfortunately, I was not able to attend his reading, but I have heard from others that it was quite entertaining and thoroughly enjoyable. Heartland English instructor Adam Scott informed me that I would probably like his work, as "It’s kind of dark, but moody and well written." After reading the copy Stone's short story collection Best Road Yet, I realized that is probably the best way to describe it. Every character is neither good nor bad, but instead real. One could imagine oneself in their positions and relating to their actions, however "wrong" they might seem. I liked it so much I read it from start to finish in two sittings (stopping only because I had to go class). So I was obviously excited that Ryan Stone could take the time for an interview. This is a fairly standard question for writers, but I will ask it anyway: which authors have had the greatest impact on your writing? Are there any other people, who are not authors, who have had a significant influence on your writing? I suppose the greatest influences on me go back to my early days of reading. I was a constant connoisseur of The Hardy Boys. I read every single book in that series. I also read books like Just-So Stories and the like. That being said, the biggest influence on my writing has been people who aren't writers, primarily people I grew up with and my family. Mostly, my fictional world is set in the Ozarks, so my characters are almost all "Ozarkian" in some way, even if they are trying to escape from those woods and hills, and all of them are conglomerations of people I knew growing up. Many of the events in the book are factual to a certain degree. Of course, names and places have been changed, but ultimately it is that world that shaped me as a writer. As I read your short story collection, I noticed that there are a lot of specific details given to the environments of the characters. In many of the stories, the town or city almost becomes a character itself. Was it a conscious decision to give that level of description? If so, why was important for you to develop the settings so extensively? Place is a significant part of my writing. I guess that grows out of my "southern" tradition, though in no way would I classify myself as a "southern writer." For years, I struggled with the notion of niche and trying to figure out what I was as a writer. Southern? Mid-western? I didn't know. As I worked on Best Road Yet, I began to understand that I am a "small-town" writer. The focus of place is so important in my work because it always played a key role in the storytelling I grew up around. When you live in the Ozarks where there are places where people can still disappear, a story that happened in town is much different than a story that happened off in some holler somewhere, and that story is different than a story that happens by a river. The storytellers in my life almost always began their stories with where they happened. I also noticed that most of your stories have characters that many may not consider to be good, as well as endings that many may not consider to be happy, in addition to some pretty dark themes, which is something that I really enjoyed about your writing. Was this all intentional? If so, why the (perfectly understandable) aversion to happy endings?
I really don't have an aversion to happy endings. In fact, I love them. Who doesn't? But I do not believe they make for very good fiction with a few exceptions (some of Shakespeare's comedies come to mind). My belief is fairly simple. Stories should reflect back on humanity in some way. They should offer us some kind of deeper understanding of ourselves, and we don't learn or reflect very often when we are happy or when we succeed. We progress when we fail. My stories grow out of the characters in them. I don't really believe these characters are either good or evil. They have both light and dark in them, as is the case with most people. There are very few what I would call truly despicable characters in the book. Arnez is probably one and the fake cowboy in "I Just Found This Hat," but most of them are simply trying to make the right decision in the moment and, in many cases, failing and making the poorest decision, or nearly the poorest, they could make. However, as is often the case in any situation, the worst decision does not look like the worst in the moment in which it is made. Ted's decision, for example, to leave his father in a rest area bathroom along the interstate somewhere outside Dallas, TX, which is prompted by Arnez, of course, is a perfect example. If you knew Ted and met him in a coffee shop, I don't think you would believe him to be an awful person. I believe you would be shocked to learn he had ever done such a thing. In the moment, however, Ted believes it is the best decision he can make because it is the one way out that has immediate light at the end of the tunnel. We make decisions like this all the time. Hindsight brings about realizations as to what we should have done, but in the moment, everything feels just right.
t
My personal favorite of your stories is "Everything Has Its Place." Could you talk about the process of writing it, and/or the process of writing your own favorite story? By far, my personal favorite in the collection is "Play for Us." Interestingly, it was also the last story to be published in a literary journal before the collection came out. It was received fondly at several publications, but no one wanted to take a chance on it. However, I can say something about both stories. Of all the stories in the collection, "Everything Has Its Place" is one of the darkest in my opinion. That story is one of the few stories that was present in my graduate school thesis that survived all the way to the collection. I don't remember a lot about writing it except that I was truly interested in displacement in all fashions. The main character in that story is displaced in so many ways. He doesn't fit with his wife. He doesn't fit in his pseudo job. He doesn't fit in the building. He can't get past the lofty lifestyle and its hang-ups. He literally wants to get back down to Earth. Lots of people ask me about the story's end. Does he kill Don Dobson? I always answer, "I don’t know, does he?" The mystery of that story grew out of its details. I distinctly remember the character finding the scissors in a drawer in the kitchen, and I thought, "What am I going to do with these?" The answer presented itself rather easily. As for "Play for Us," that's a newer story. The process there had to do with my experiences playing high school basketball in my hometown. That story was the most difficult for me to write and get just the way I wanted. It took me nearly a year and at least seven or eight drafts that I can remember. The reward was worth it, though. Many people know how difficult it is to get anything published. How did the publishing process go for you? Do you have any advice for those who wish to be published? Additionally, do you have any tips for young writers? The advice that was always given to me, and the one I prescribe to younger writers with hopes of publishing, is twofold. First, read as many literary magazines and publications as you can. Second, don't send anything out until you're ready. Finally, and this is pretty straightforward, be prepared for rejection. Everyone deals with it. As for my experience, the book was a year-long process where the press spent time evaluating the manuscript. I
also entered their contest and won it, so that helped. I don't recommend entering a contest sponsored by a press per se because it could shoot a writer in the foot, but if you win, of course it's worth it. Also, I had connections to this press that I didn't know about. The editor had spent a lot of time in the Ozarks as a child and young man. He loved the area. He also lived in Kansas City and so we knew some of the same places. We had something to think about. I will say that my press, Press 53, is the exception, not the rule. The editor is very interested in getting to know his writers and working with them instead of around or through them. For me, it was a painstaking process but overall very worthwhile. Now, this question has absolutely nothing to do with writing, but I think it's an interesting question with which to close out the interview: what does your favorite color sound like? Hmmmm. My favorite color is a very quiet, very surreal yellow, so I suppose it would sound like the world I grew up in. The low sound of water rolling over rocks, of fish jumping. The hum of dragonflies. That sounds nice. If you are interested in finding out more about Ryan Stone, please check out his web site at: http://www.ryanpstone.com. You will not be disappointed. * * *
Share the Sunshine By Jacob Eikenberry
I saw you today, strolling down the street all easy with a smile on that face. I said to you Excuse me Mister, Can you spare a little changeyou know-that rearrange kind of change that will allow ME that look on my face too... Damn MAN, that expression you got looks so smooth, but me man, I gotta make it so hard, I gotta invesigate, I gotta know, I can wait to grow. Hey, you think you could show me what you did? You got a son too, don't you? Yeah, you do. I wanna be a good father too but my heart ain't new, I'm searching myself through and through, I'm searching your eyes for the secret, I KNOW YOU got it. I WANNA TAKE IT FROM YOU AND USE IT FOR MYSELF, COME ON BROTHER, SHARE THE WEALTH... Then this cat-you know what he did, it was the damndest thingthis man threw me a quarter, and I cried.
Art by Atmaram Joshi
The Word Miner1 By James Dunnigton
i
Sitting in contemplation if the social chill was katabatic querying my thoughts hoping were not an antipode. Putting canard aside, segue in the way of the histrionic fearing sesquipedalian endeavors induces my head to explode.
This tithe of a tithe of verbosity is execrable but inebriating; my thinking is inexorable, limpid in criticism of society. Au fait but a dearth of truth bears with it excruciation and suffering though desirous of a propitious globalism, it causes sobriety.
My foible and frustration brings on paroxysm spoiling providence as my lovely, attempting assuage of my destructive passion to muffle, the hideousness of a pariah and realization of a curmudgeon in evidence. Pugilistic ally I am, as a carrot before the mule, allow escalation to a kerfuffle. 1 Author’s note: Rampant steganography
A Dinner Out
by Christopher Brandt Silver chimes its porcelain staccato.
A piece of bread, warm yet, hangs from my still fingers, olive oil pools at my nail.
I stare at her lips, pulled taut as curtains, on the next sentence, turning somersaults just beyond.
THE BELIEVER By Christopher Brandt
Craack!!
The sound echoed off of the forest around me like a gunshot. My heart pounded against my chest as if to flee my body, leaving me on my own in the darkness. What was that noise? Who was out there? I exhaled uneasily, arms clinging to my body. The moonlight lit the path ahead and I continued forward, the only direction my pride would allow. The sights and sounds of our nearby campsite were almost completely shut out now as the arms of the forest drew me in. The ghost stories we’d been telling around the campfire, though silly at the time, suddenly became all too real. Yet, there had been no choice for me. “It’s your turn to get firewood,” my friends informed me, pointing to our dwindling pile of branches, “or are you scared?” “Scared? No way, schmucks! Try not to cry while I’m gone.” And off into the woods I’d charged. The cool forest breeze moved across my skin like a snake, wrapping itself about me. Each nocturnal noise reached my ears at twice, maybe three times their normal volume. Every shadowy shape morphed into something terrifying before my eyes. The aroma of the nighttime forest spawned in my mind images of psycho cannibals, chanting, waiting to pounce on me and hang my innards from the nearest tree branch while lustily dancing some pagan ritual around my gutted body. Swishing autumn leaves betrayed an army of footsteps all around. Random gusts of wind howled through the overhead branches like a thousand wailing banshees and the very darkness moved as though holding back the souls for whom they mourned. I was never much of a believer in ghosts or monsters. As a child, I sometimes thought I had seen an apparition, the figure of a man moving across our basement, just beyond the corner of my eye. But when I looked straight at it, there was nothing there. Now grown, I had since decided that I must have had dust in my eye, a lot of dust. But those banshees! That’s what had terrified me back then. Ever since the day my friend Tim told us all about the banshees, that image had stalked my mind; hovering in their obsidian robes, wailing forever in unspeakable grief as they claimed the lives of the unsuspecting soon-to-be-dead. Great tusks hidden within a black shroud, protecting a face so forlorn and grotesque, that to view one is to die. This is what scared me then, and this is what scared me now, within this black forest… a forest that would make anyone a believer in the moment. Torn between ego and shame, the man and the child wrestled within me as I took a step forward. And another. Then another. Foolishness, all of this, really. The sooner I grab some firewood, the sooner I can relax by the fire and the safety of my friends, or so I told myself. Thud, thud, thud, SSSHHHH! An alarm blared within me as I whirled around to meet the sound. Screw Tim and his banshee story, someone was here! I heard the soft footfalls. My eyes tried to pierce the heavy wall of darkness as my heart rattled my ribcage, but now even the Moon had hidden herself and her watery light. I braced myself against the certain impact of a knife, or axe, or whatever this killer might wield. When no blow came immediately, I willed my feet, frozen in fear, to move slowly backward. Crunching leaves involuntarily along the way, I slid back and around, putting as much space between me and that spot as quickly as I could. My back tingled as my ears strained for any sign of pursuit from behind. Recklessly, blindly I lurched through the black tangle, allowing the forest to swallow me whole. All around me, whispers in the wind began to sound like voices from the past, taking me there. The Boy Scouts, they often told a story of a thing with one big red eye aflame in the middle of its forehead, rampaging through the forest seeking retribution for some long ago wrong. Oh, man! Oh, man! What if it… Flash! Stars! Thud, thud, roll, roll, ssshhhh! “Ow!” I yelled, before catching my voice and silenc-
ing myself. My shoulder burned as my heart ate through the bottom of my stomach. Someone had thrown something at me… and hit me! They could see me. Time stands still in the shadow of fear, and sometimes, I’d swear it moves backward. My blood, at any rate, seemed to reverse course in my veins as I pulled my body into an abrupt, fetal-shaped halt. My lungs burned for the air I didn’t dare allow them. Every muscle was denied outlet and every thought brought to heel as I scanned the darkness for any movement. How could an attacker have seen me well enough to hit me with… whatever they threw? I couldn’t even see twelve inches in front of me! Did they, or it, have super night vision? Was this personal, or just a-wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time type of thing? And more importantly, why didn’t I bring my flashlight!? I suppose I hadn’t planned to run so far into the forest and away from the silvery, moonlit grove where I’d plotted to find my firewood. Now, I’d panicked and allowed some pursuer to chase me ever deeper into this inky nightmare. Tentatively, I began probing my pockets for my small camping knife. It might not have been much, but I would’ve felt like I at least had something to fight with. Without a noise, I located a small bulge in my right pocket and I moved to retrieve it as silently as possible. That was when the eyes found me. Yellow, glowing brightly; they rested upon me, mere feet away from where I was now crouched. Not one red eye, but two terrifying, sickly eyes, grimacing at their new prey. Glowing eyes; why is it always something aglow? “There’s a glowing-green-foot in the basement”, another friend had told us all during a slumber party years ago. Swinging back and forth in the midnight hour, ensuring no trip to the restroom would be made in peace. Glowing. Disembodied. Shining in the night. Enough of that! Presently, it was two glowing eyes, pointed right at me, piercing my sanity, and I had no idea who or what was behind them! What did they want with me? What did they want to do to me? The pain in my shoulder suggested that it was nothing very pleasant. I slipped my hand further into my pocket. I felt the cold plastic of my pocketknife shoved all the way down. I reached further still to grasp it as my legs started to lengthen slowly in order to prepare to escape this staring hostility before me. I took two swimming steps back when my feet fell prey to a hole burrowed inches into the ground, concealed by a pile of leaves. Down I went, hands flying behind to break my fall. The ground came up to meet me, knocking the wind from my lungs. I now found myself completely helpless; on my back, panicked, and exposed. The eyes, they inched closer to my newly compromised position. I could hear grotesque breaths being yanked forcefully into the thing’s throat; raspy, carnivorous, gurgling. My thoughts traveling at the speed of light, I felt as though I’d spent an hour in that hideous gaze. My legs began to freeze in place. Just as in my childhood nightmares, they refused to carry me away in stubborn betrayal of their solemn duty. Instead, I lay on my back in the dirt, the killer edging toward me, fear crushing on my chest like a two-ton bull. After what passed for eons, air cautiously began seeping back into my lungs. As it did, only one thing occurred to me to do. I screamed. I screamed the kind of inhuman, primal shriek that shatters men’s’ hearts and sends the seasoned warrior running for cover. All the forest seemed to warp around my cry. It was strangely therapeutic. At least I was doing something. The eyes stopped moving toward me for now, frozen in place by my desperate protest. Still, I shrieked again, tearing the curtain of night with the razor edge of my voice. I don’t know how long I lay there, or how many times I screamed. I remember only that the fear in me had at last been replaced, replaced by the immediate and irrational need to cry out to the forest. Each scream soothed as though I were suckling at the teat of night, and like a newborn, I slowly waxed tired, the fear sapping out of me with each thickening wail. The yellow eyes began darting about as I faintly became aware of a change in the chemistry of my
situation. With a sound almost like a galloping, something or some things were approaching me. The eyes shifted toward the direction of this noise as I began to make out the first words I had heard since leaving camp. “Tony! Tony!” I heard over and over. Tony. What did that mean? Wait a minute… that was MY name. It was my friends, they were coming for me! I tried to answer them, but my voice had abandoned me now. As the first flashlight beam fell near me, I suddenly became cognizant of the awkwardness of my situation. “Tony.” The light was shining right in my face now, my friends having just caught up to my spot. “What’s going on!? Are you all right? Was that you screaming?” “Um, uh…” was all I could muster right away, almost a whisper. Then, it occurred to me that those eyes were still out there, somewhere. I had to warn them. “There’s… there’s a killer…” I blurted unevenly. “What?” Pointing toward the last place I’d seen the eyes, I said again, “killer”. All flashlights followed my gesture, illuminating a now frightened, if bold, raccoon, backing slowly away, then scampering off into the bushes. Nearby lay a walnut, freshly fallen from a tree, even as we heard another topple to the ground close behind us. My companions all took turns looking at me with a combination of curiosity, pity and disbelief, the way you look at someone you’ve known forever just after they’ve done something that made you realize that you don’t know them at all, not really. I felt my sense of self slipping and I began to grasp for reality. “Guys, there was something right there! Something else, I mean it!” They turned around and began heading toward camp. I followed them; none of us seemed to care about the firewood anymore. They moved on ahead, myself slightly behind, trying to understand who I was in light of my recent experience. Really, anybody else would have pretty much reacted the same as I had, wouldn’t they? This would never be lived down, I knew that for sure. I turned this over in my mind as we marched back to camp in silence. CRAAACK!! SHHUFFLE, SHHUFFLE, SSSHHHH…
o
Sculpture by Samantha Kresz Art by Rachel Schifano
Thinking
By Jessica Gaines
Y
Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
Nobody understood it. There it was, literally spelled out in black-on-white, and yet it remained beyond
the comprehension of everyone who saw it. So, like any large group of people who are greatly confused and slightly afraid, they formed an angry mob and confronted the one they wished to blame: the story. “Oh, come on now,” it said. “I’m just a story! I have no say over what happens. It’s not my fault I’m so confusing. Blame the author. He’s the one who enjoys torturing his audiences!” So the mandatory angry mob grabbed its collective torches and pitchforks and began its unintelligible angry shouting and made its way toward the time warp vortex in the center of town, which had been set up specifically for such occasions as this. They decided they would go back to the time when the author was nearly finished with the story, to properly express its outrage at the outcome. But upon arriving there, the mob realized that the story was perfectly comprehensible and, in fact, quite entertaining. “The story is impossible to understand? But you understand what I’ve written here. I never intended anyone to be unable to appreciate it. It certainly isn’t my fault you can’t understand it. Blame the editor. She’s the one who tinkered with the original!” So the mob halfheartedly thanked the author and gave a halfhearted apology for the confusion, and then they went back to the time warp vortex. This time, they went forward, to the point in time at which the editor had finished her revisions of the story. And when they got there, they saw the final version of the story, and it was beautiful and humorous and it was entirely enjoyable. “The story you read is incomprehensible? But you saw what I did with it. Surely you cannot blame me for your inability to understand. Blame the publishers. They’re the ones who put it down on paper!” Again, the mob gave halfhearted thanks and apologies, and again they returned to the time warp vortex, going forward again, this time to the point in time when the story was going to press. And when they demanded to see what the story looked like, they saw it neatly printed, with tidy margins and a legible typeface. “You can’t comprehend the story? But it’s perfectly readable here. It can’t be my fault you don’t understand. Blame the English language. It’s the one who makes it all make sense!” This presented the mob with a bit of a quandary. The English Language was notorious for not remaining stagnant, for its remarkable adaptability and flexibility. This, of course, made it extremely good at hiding. So the mob decided they’d best not take their chances looking for it, and decided instead to consult its Physical Representative, a Dictionary. “Dictionary! We cannot understand this writing, and The English Language is to blame. So explain yourself!” The Dictionary just laughed. “I? I am self-explanatory. You cannot understand the text? Bring it to me.” So someone brought the writing to the Dictionary, who read it over carefully and laughed. “I understand it remarkably well. It’s imaginative, highly symbolic and emotionally insightful. You can’t understand it? Blame yourselves. You’re the ones with the abominably narrow minds!”
Black Night
By Amy Andrews
It was one of those long, lazy summer nights that it all happened. Everything was moving along like normal,
and it looked like it would be just another evening in the country. The stars were blazing overhead, the breeze was whispering through the trees. The coyotes were singing right on cue at nine o' clock and the dogs were attempting to bark and howl alongside them, just like they did at the sirens. It completely overrode the more natural sounds of the cicadas buzzing in the trees and the bullfrogs croaking in the pond. It also covered up the sound of footsteps in the grass, the uncaring crunch of gravel beneath a tire. No one was awake but me; it was nearly two am on a Thursday. I was up, in my usual perch on the window seat, just staring outside. I didn't see anyone approaching, they came from the back of the house, and I have to admit I was very distracted by the fireflies dancing and bouncing and flickering like a sea of little orange lanterns across the fields. I wanted to chase them so badly. It was the family dog that first alerted me, barking at something before abruptly whining. Then there was silence. Usually the dumb mutt kept up his racket for a good five minutes, though everyone else seemed able to ignore him most of the time but me. I hopped down from the cushion, and padded quietly down the stairs, making no noise. I was really too light to ever make noise on the stairs, something I've never been happier about. There was the mutt, lying on the ground.... and there was the scent of blood in the air. The iron and copper smell that was cloying but still light, and it made me wrinkle my nose. I backpedaled, moving away from the dog, eyes searching the darkness as I pressed against the stairs. I didn't see anyone. Something was really not right in the house. Seconds later I heard a cat screech, she'd been asleep on the couch. Then I caught the sound of a door opening—the first floor bedroom. I heard a sound of pain, and that was all I needed to hear. I was bounding up the stairs, and paused only a moment to peer through the banister. The youngest brother was flailing with his arms, and towering over him was a great brute of a man. He had great broad shoulders, and a middle that seemed to match. His head was covered by the ever so typical black ski mask. It was then I heard movement in the living room, and I spun around to see a smaller figure coming toward the stairs. I couldn't tell if the frame belonged to a female or male, and I didn't want to get close enough to find out. I was still shielded from the living room's direction by the curve of the chimney that run up through the middle of the house, so I darted back up the stairs. There were four doors lining the hallway at the top, one fully opening into the bathroom, one partially open, and two closed tight. I took the path of the partially open door, which was my room. Or I suppose I should say shared room, it was technically also part Shari's. The place was familiar; I knew it like the back of my hand as the saying goes. I didn't need any lights to find my way, not that I could or would have wanted to turn them on in the first place. That would have been a really bad idea at the present time. The heavy footfalls were coming up the stairs, slow and deliberate, they way are when the one coming up the stairs is both unfamiliar with their squeaks and trying their very best to be absolutely quiet. I held very still, barely breathing as I tried to judge how close the person was. It had to be the brute; there was no way the more slender frame could have made that heavy an imprint against the wooden steps. So then were was the second intruder? Without another thought I jumped up onto Shari's bed, trying to wake her as quietly as I could. I nudged and I prodded, but she was passed out cold. The hair along my neck was standing up on end, I could feel it prickling and itching, the blood pounding in my ears and creating an incessant noise. The door to Ben's room opened, it was the one closest to the stairs and had a distinctive squeak when moved. I froze, wondering if either of the two interlopers, kidnappers, murderers, thieves, whatever they were called would look into my room. Okay, so I guess they weren't kidnappers and I hadn't seen them steal anything. Can you blame me for having scattered thoughts at the time? It seemed Shari and I were safe for the
moment, though I heard a short scream from Ben. He was a light sleeper, and had woken up when his door was opened. It was about then that everything got really crazy. The door at the end of the hall, the second that had been firmly closed against any noise the kids would make when they were supposed to be in bed. “Ben? What happened?” It was mom's voice, full of concern as it carried down the hall. So loudly. Why did she have to wake up and be so loud? The intruders stepped out into the hall, bold as they could be, “He ain't able to answer. Leave a message, lady.” I peered through the crack in the door, standing behind it so I was hidden from the hallway. So it was two males, the voice had come from the one with the slender frame. It was startling to discover really. It looked like the littler one had style and should have been some elegant man. Why did he sound so incredibly dumb? “We're going to have to ask you to be quiet now, ma'am.” That was the burly one, with a low and actually clear and nice voice coming from one who looked like a bull in a glass shop. The early morning just kept getting stranger and stranger. I swear I'm right about who was talking too, even though you may not think so. Then again.... I was under a lot of nervous stress. That's what they call it right? When you're terrified out of your skin? Regardless, the two thugs advanced down the hall toward the parents' room, large curved knives clutched in their hands. The sharp edges were dripping crimson liquid, it seemed like all I could hear was the dull splash of it hitting the floor. Or was that the thump of blood in my ears again? All I know is that my vision was filled with red, my nose was clogged with red, my thoughts were running red. The floorboards were to in a minute, and my ears were ringing with the screams of the slightly above middle-aged couple. I heard a gun shot, and wondered who had fired. The thought that dad owned a couple of guns and one was in his room wandered through the back of my mind, before I grabbed on it. Maybe it had been him? Did he get the dirty no good murderers? My attention was snagged from the scene playing out down the hall by Shari, who had woken up and was wild eyed and scared out of her wits. We were in the same boat really, all things considered. I may sound pretty put together, but I shaking from head to toe. Quaking really. Thought maybe Shari was in a better state of mind than I was. She didn't know about the dog, about Ben, just what was going on down the hall. What was still going on. What was happening? I heard her pick up the phone, and glanced over to see that she was dialing 9-1-1. Would they get to the house in time? Would anyone be left alive? Those two had murdered a family pet, would anyone be left? Where could I hide? In all the movies I'd watched, someone usually always survived this sort of thing. From the silence now at the end of the hall, from the room so so far away at the moment, the place that had always been safe before there was silence. How could that happen? I saw the brute in the doorway, still standing. His accomplice was too, though he was holding a hand to his shoulder as if he'd been hurt. Good, he deserved whatever it was he'd gotten. How do you defile the one place that was safe and comforting? The parents' room was were you went when you were sick at night to feel better, where the bad dreams were dispelled as a child. It was so wrong. How could I see them anyway? Oh, right. It had taken me that long to realize that mom must have turned on a light when she'd called out to see if Ben was okay. It was still on too, creating a glare against the red pool on the floor. As if the roof had been leaking again. Only it hadn't been raining, and the crimson stain wasn't water. It was beginning to make me feel beyond sick. Then my room caught the thug’s attention. They must have heard Shari, who was frantically talking on the phone to the police, huddled under a blanket in the corner of her bed where the two walls met to give her a firm backrest. With a pitiful frightened sound, I'm not ashamed to say I made it, I darted under the bed. It was a snug fit, but I made it, crawling to the back against the wall, hiding behind a duffel bag. I stuck my nose against the fabric, trying to still my breathing, though I don't think anyone would have heard it over Shari's heavy breathing. Poor Shari. I wanted to help, but there was nothing I could do. She didn't
have anywhere else to hide, and she was still on the phone. But not for much longer, the goons had appeared. I could see their combat boots from the beneath the bed, and then heard I shrill piercing scream. It was like a nail driven into my skull, so high pitched and cut of quick. Then the iron scent again, so much stronger this time. So much closer. It made my stomach heave, though I did my best to keep quiet. I must have done a good job too, for the pair of murderers stood there for a moment, looking around I guess, before tromping down the stairs. They obviously didn't care about noise now. I stayed where I was, as if I'd grown roots from my body and they had burrowed into the old smelling carpet. It was rough against my cheek, and the bars of the bed pressed into my back. It took me a while, but I became aware of the sound of breaking objects on the first floor. Where they murderers turned vandals? What was happening now? But I couldn't look, still couldn't move. There was no amount of curiosity that could make me move. Besides, I'd been told many times before in my life that curiosity killed the cat. Then the real sirens started, and there was a whirl of cursing and shouting downstairs. I heard the thugs throw open the front door, heard the screen door bang closed. Then another popping sound, the sound of gunfire. The police must have arrived! Too late though.... everyone but me was gone, swept away by the sea of scarlet. I crept out from beneath the bed, padding wearily down the stairs. The blue and red lights swirled through the air, lighting everything up in a very surreal manner. I could see an ambulance, and more squad cars than I cared to count. I looked around the living room, the TV was smashed and broken, the couch and chair were turned over. In the kitchen the fridge door was hanging open, the little light on and revealing the contents had been strewn about. The two insane men hadn't really stopped to eat something, had they? What was wrong with them? After a few minutes I turned toward the screen door, opening it with little finesse and moving out to sit on the porch steps and wait. I was alive, but everyone passed me by. They didn't take any notice of me, not even the ambulance guys. I suppose I should be thankful, after all that had happened, that no one was paying any attention to a small thing like me. I was allowed to sit and breath in the fresh summer air, listen to the unbroken rhythm of nature. The cicadas were still going, and the bullfrogs had just started up their chorus again. I began to wonder if it was unlucky to have a black cat cross your path because they somehow steal your good luck. I know I was feeling pretty lucky just about then. I wonder if that counted as one of my nine lives?
n
Drawings by Chris Haney
She Can Talk to Animals By Stephen Johnson
Camilla walks outside in her robe and picks up her newspaper. She starts reading the headlines while she
takes a sip of her coffee. The coffee burns her tongue, just as it does every morning, yet she does not seem to remember this. She is either too vexed or perplexed by the articles on the front page, so she skims until she finds a story at the bottom about the woman from her favorite reality show complaining about how she doesn't have enough money to support her seventeen children. As she takes another sip of her coffee, she hears the pit-pat of tiny feet coming up her steps, along with the soft jingling of metal beneath her newspaper, followed by short, warm breaths on her bare leg. She lifts the paper to see a Golden Retriever, covered in what appears to be mud, shit or both. He begins to bark incessantly at her. "What's that, Lassie?" Camilla asks. "Little Timmy is in trouble? He's trapped in the well again?" "No, you dumb bitch; I said, 'I'm covered in what appears to be mud, shit or both, and I would liked to be washed,'" the dog says. "Also, Lassie was a Rough Collie who never rescued Timmy from a well." "What are you talking about? Lassie saved Timmy from a well, like, every other episode." "No, she didn't." "Yes, she did." "No, she didn't." "Yes, she did." "Listen: Timmy fell into lakes, rivers, mine shafts and even got stuck in a pipe once, but he never once fell into a well. In fact, the only character to ever fall into a well was Lassie herself." "Yeah, and how do you know that?" "Because I'm friends with one of Pal's descendants, and he told me so. He's actually sick of people asking him about it." "Who is Pal?" "You don't even know who Pal is!" Incredulous, the dog shakes his head. "He's the one who played Lassie in the first six movies, and even the pilot episodes of the first TV show." "But Lassie is a girl. See? You don't even know what you're talking about." Camilla throws her head back triumphantly. "Yes, the character Lassie is a girl; the dog who played Lassie was not." "Well, then, why does everyone think Timmy fell into a well?" "Probably because some idiot somewhere had the wrong information or made a joke, and everyone just kept saying it. Now it's just recognized as canon because people haven't seen the show. Kind of like how the story of Paradise Lost has largely replaced some of the stories in the Bible, mainly because it's not as boring. Or like how Stephenie Meyer has raped both the concept of romance and the mythos of vampirism by coating it all in Mormon propaganda. Now teenage girls wet their panties at the thought of a guy who stares at them constantly, follows them around and magically appears in their rooms at night to watch them sleep. You know what that's called? Stalking. Not to mention breaking and entering. Edward Cullen is not romantic; he's fucking creepy." The dog pauses and collects himself. "But I digress. The point is that Timmy never fell into a well." "Whatever," she says defiantly. "I still don't believe you." "Then you're just a dumbass." "And you're just a dog." "Which actually makes me an authority on this subject. Even if the writers had written the whole 'Timmy stuck in a well' thing into the show, there is no dog who would ever go into a well for any reason, least of all to save some dumbass kid who should have known better than to play near wells."
"Why wouldn't a dog go into a well?" "How dare you," the dog says indignantly. "I ought to hike my leg right here on your porch. Why don't you just go get your goddamn hose and spray me down already?" "Fine, I will." "Fine." "Fine." "Fine." Camilla wanders into the backyard for a moment and comes back with a hose. "Good. Just don't spray me in the face," the dog says. "All right." Camilla fiddles with the pressure settings on the nozzle. "You know, I thought dogs like playing in the mud." "We do. But we don't like having it caked on our fur. It's like a bunch of little babies tugging on it all over. It doesn't hurt all that much, but it is fairly annoying." "Then why do you play in the mud, knowing that's going to happen?" "Why do you eat a cheeseburger, knowing that it's going to make your fat ass fatter?" "My ass isn't fat!" "Maybe after a few gin and tonics it isn't. And you don't even have a tail!" "Yeah? Well, you don't have opposable thumbs!" "At least I don't watch soap operas!" "You lick yourself!" "You wish you could!" "You piss on trees!" "You wet the bed!" Camilla takes a stand back, mortified. "I most certainly do not." "I'm a dog. You think I can't smell your sheets from here?" "I don't wet the bed!" Camilla shrieks. "Yes, you do. And I'll tell the cute guy across the street that you do if you don't start washing me down soon." "You wouldn't dare." "Or what? You'll pee on my doggy bed?" Camilla sprays him directly in the face. The dog stares at her for a moment in disbelief, before lunging at the hose and clamping his teeth on it. He tries to steal it away from her, while she continues to spray him in the face. He manages to circle her once, wrapping her legs in the hose. Then he gives it one massive tug, causing her to lose her balance and fall to the floor. She drops the nozzle, and it flops around on the porch, spraying both of them. She kicks the dog, sending him flying into a nearby potted plant, cracking the ceramic. She frees herself from the hose and stands up, but only to have the dog chuck the pieces of the pot into her face, momentarily blinding her. After she clears her eyes, the dog jumps off the wall to do a roundhouse kick to her stomach. She doubles over, and he sends an uppercut into her chin. She hits the floor again, followed by a kick to the side, which slides her into a bench, causing it to collapse in pieces around her. She grabs two pieces of broken wood and starts beating the dog with them. She lands a few good hits to his head and his side, but he quickly knocks away both pieces of wood and trips her again. He goes to kick her again, but she's ready this time and clutches his neck with both hands. She tightens her grip around his throat, just above the collar, as he pushes his paws into her eyes. "Wait. Wait. Wait!" the dog pleads. "Hold on. Stop for a second." Camilla releases the hold on his neck slightly. The dog's ears perk up. "Do you hear that?" "Hear what?" Camilla asks, breathless. Without an answer, he abruptly jumps down the steps and runs down the street.
Camilla stands up again, brushes off her robe and picks up her soaked newspaper. Moments later, she sees an ice cream truck, followed by a handful of screaming kids, followed by the dog, who is flinging what appears to be mud, shit or both at them and yelling, "Get some! Get some! Yeah! Get some!" * * *
February 2nd, Morning
Forget
By Christopher Brandt
By Danielle Miller How am I supposed to feel
you say those things? What am I supposed to do when you think those things? When
Am I supposed to Let it slip through one ear and out the other? Am I not supposed to sit here at night And wonder what you’re doing,
you’re thinking of me, Or if you’re thinking of someone else. If
Am I supposed to sit here and wait for you to call, While you’re out doing what you want to do,
Forgetting me? Untitled By Danielle Miller I remember the day when the clouds stopped moving. The thunder was silenced, and the lightning hung motionless in the skies, to be the everlasting light of tomorrow. I was alone, today, tomorrow and the next. But I will not die today, alone.
Y Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
The clouds will move once more. They will rage across the sky, at my word. The thunder will ring from my ears for all to hear. The lightning will clash in the heavens again. I will not die today, Alone.
Winter wraps its icy arms about me as I emerge.
By night, I’d counted my thoughts upon the falling snowflakes landing with heavy gratitude atop the earth.
Now, upon my bare shoulder, burning against this embrace, a tiny pool forms.
Extreme Loving
By Candace Armstrong
Y Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
After the fall, she grasps the tow rope, pulling herself to the precipice. Another thrill spreads out before her next tumble. He watches her sanity edging toward air, no bottom beneath it, and at the last flailing moment again snatches her back.
Ode To The Campfire
Blair in the Year 2214 By Bey James Grunder
r
Great Lovecraftian beasts, pregnant with festering limbs and dark minds, loomed upon the distant bluff in
the all-consuming black; the persistent flashes of red lightning making them appear to move in a sick stopmotion fashion. There was nothing to be done. She knew they wanted to get to her. They would come fast from a distance, and then, once within a hundred meter radius or so, they would slow down, would mosey. They would go real slow, making those horrible sucking sounds, those horrible sucking sounds that sound like the drowning of children. They would be looking around frantically, now at the sky, now at the ground, now at her, as if confused. But they weren't confused. No, they would keep moving towards her, encircling her. And then, once real close, horribly close, they would brush shyly up against her counter-pressure suit, as if by accident. Not an accident. The dream ends with pincers and mandibles tearing into her flesh and globules of blood bouncing around before her eyes, bouncing around the inside of her pressurized helmet. Sometimes she gets to see her internal organs shower the landscape before an obscuring amount of red fills her helmet, sometimes the dreams just cuts to black. It's a strange dream, for sure. Certainly, it's not an entirely pleasant one. And it always pretty much goes the same way. On this occasion, however, Blair had only gotten to the part where she's watching the red lightning and the stop-motion horror, when, she was not so rudely awakened by the wails of muffled sirens. The overhead florescent panels flickered and sputtered to life, their uncomfortable hue saturating every fiberglass corner of the Medical Resort. It was a stupid name, an insulting name. A place where previously brave souls ended up after a mission went fubar due to bad intel or equipment failures. And those were your top worries save you didn't die in some truly unimaginably nightmarish way. One thing was sure, though. It was about money, always would be, and so life was never top priority. Image. Image is paramount for corporations. Because, as we all know, corporations are people, and people have reputations to maintain. And LifeTech understood this. They really got it. Thus you get the Medical Resort, and the Church Of Life, and many other “services� that from the outside looked great. From the outside the Medical Resort sounded like a god damned vacation. We didn't buy into this garbage, of course, but the public...well, that's the public for you. Lifetech cared only for monetary gain. Herself, and other surveyors like herself, only mattered as functions, functions whose value would be accessed via simple cost-benefit analysis. Sometimes you were worth protecting, and sometimes, well, yeah. Sometimes not. These thoughts, and others probably, rambled belligerently through Blair's mind for the few seconds it took her to acclimate herself with her environment. She was, in fact, in the Resort. That meant something. It meant everything, as she would soon realize. Her eyes danced around the ceiling, noting the elegant porcelainesque corner contours with their inlaid softly pulsing neon swirls. Like bubbles of carbonation in soda, she thought. Focus. Concentrate. What can I know? She asked herself. Well, for one thing, she felt herself enveloped in the dense-mesh Davenport recup unit. Not an unusual scenario. So, injury. The nightmares. Those horrors in the black. Must be a connection. How long had she been here? And those lights, those goddamned florescent lights. She hated them so. Biting and chewing, they screamed at her. They were just as bad as the black. Shit. Sirens. The sirens. It was a Class One Emergency. There might not be much time. Blair tried to rouse her body. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She must be in an automated variable paralysis lock, she reasoned. That would make sense. God, she's got to have really been here a spell. Maybe weeks.
Blair closed her eyes and imagined a flock of sheep jumping single-file over a wooden fence, counting as each one leaped over. After the ninth sheep made it over the hurdle, she opened her eyes and the MIA (muscle-inactivation system) shut off with a faint whir and a few clicks. She shifted in her bed. She was very, very sore. She sat up. Sore back. Sore everything. Her head ached, and she held a hand to her forehead. She looked around the room. She was alone. Across from her stood the exit, the holographic warning symbol emblazoned upon its hull gently pulsing, as if to tell you 'walk, don't run. But maybe walk fast'. She bit her lowly lip reflexively. In one of the corners nearest the Davenport stood a gurney, and sitting upon it were flowers in vases and get-well-soon cards, a few Mylar balloons. There was a framed picture of her standing with her long time partner, Batou. It was an old picture, taken maybe, oh, five or six years previous. In it, they stood posed together in one of the orbital complex's main airlocks, their helmets slung beneath their armpits, both smiling gigantic genuine smiles, their free hands clutching unlit cigars. The photo was taken after the pair had found - stumbled upon, really, they would later joke over drinks - a king's ransom worth of the rare resource Kuhnium, buried deep beneath the surface of Rhea, one of Saturn's moons. They would both receive multiple promotions and the promise of future work together, a prospect for which Blair was most pleased. She and Batou had an easy-going, convivial relationship, and Blair treasured it greatly. As she sat staring at the frame - those angry overheads making the room a static white - she blinked. And the truth, awful and indisputable, began to shift and coalesce slowly, aggregated painfully inside her head. And then everything clicked into place, and she remembered. She remembered the whole mess of it, and when she looked down at her legs bound beneath the translucent bands of SYLK postfiber, she wasn't surprised that her legs were in fact, “her” legs. The medical team hadn't yet gotten to the skin-wash process. Just exposed synthetic muscles, tendons, ligaments, and bones moored to her torso, and seeing herself in such a state made Blair sick. It made her think of internal organs made external. It made her think of the dreams. And those abominations. And Batou. No. But yes. She had watched him die. The nightmares were real, but she wasn't the one eviscerated, torn asunder into indistinguishable pulp. It was Batou. Batou. And now Batou was gone. It was at this point that Blair recalled everything else, how she had gotten here, and what she was here to do. Her lower lip shuddered, and Blair found herself sobbing in great choking wails, her body quaking, her muscles loose and taught all at once. And then, looking back down at the prosthetic legs, she really did get sick, vomiting carelessly over the rail of the bed onto the floor, sobbing, and wailing, and coughing. The evacuation symbol continued to diligently flash upon the exit. Blair took several heaving gulps of air and tried to compose herself. Time was running out, and she didn't readily know how much she had to begin with. At some point the Resort's backup generators would cease, and she would die. She needed to get to the rig. Blair closed her eyes again, mentally began to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, being careful to replace the word “indivisible” with “invisible”. She opened her eyes. Rollers below the Davenport spun audibly, and the SYLK postfiber slackened. There was a heavy click as the various safety belts disengaged, and the cellophane-like material retreated to the underbelly of the bed. The grey legs were lifeless and pristine. She tried to move them, but to no avail, and this came as no surprise. Of course they hadn't gotten around to uploading the necessary bio-drivers, they hadn't even made it to the skin wash. Luckily, she thought, as she eyed the CPSR (Counter-Pressure Suit Application Rig), she could kill two birds with one stone. She looked down at the floor beneath her bed, figured it was about a three-foot drop, and with tremendous force, swung her new legs over the edge, and utilizing the momentum, let her upper body be carried through the swing. She tumbled onto the cold floor, catching herself on hands and elbows. The floor was wet with condensation. Blair made like a soldier in the trenches, crawling on elbows, dragging herself towards the recess in
the wall, towards the mouth of the CPSR and its four glowing portals. The legs were anchors, they were cement shoes, but Blair persevered, sore and cold with sweat. She finally made it to the machine. Clutching the headrest with both hands, she strained and pulled, pulled herself up and into the chair. With both hands she lifted and placed the right leg into the bottom right luminescent portal. She did the same with the left. She gave herself a few seconds to suck stale oxygen, and then slid both arms into the remaining holes, up to the elbows. The CPSR purred and was alive. As the machine's parts twirled, spinning elastic postfiber directly onto Blair's arms and legs, she remembered – knee jerk – why she loved this machine so much. Still fairly new technology, right? Not too long ago people actually had to put these suits on by hand. And it was dangerous. Postfiber was barely out of the experimental stages, and still not publicly available. The process required at least three medical doctors just to clear you for the main airlock. So many things can go wrong. The joints of the chair shifted and swiveled, and the chair became a table. Blair found herself on her back, looking again at the smooth contours of the ceiling. The swirls. Soda. She felt the suit being painted onto her torso and back. Almost done now. It used to take hours, and it took a crowd of engineers and applicators. This was better. She was alone, and the process took two minutes. A series of graphs and tables popped 3D from above the portals, indicating a successful procedure. The CPSR fell silent. The portals' glow dimmed, and the machine reoriented itself, and now Blair sat up right again in the chair. Alone. Her helmet lay beneath the foot of the chair, where she had left it. In all the panic, she imagined, no one had bothered with it. She reached down and grabbed it. A half-centimeter deep scar ran back to front, ending just before the hood of the outer visor. Battle-worn, but durable, she thought. Home. She raised the helmet above her shoulders and, for a moment, everything was still. And then, the helmet went on, like a glove. It felt good - the suit, the helmet, the two together - it felt good, it felt right. Snug. The helmet in place, Blair twisted it counter-clockwise, until she counted three clicks. Then she activated the magnetic safeties. All systems go. The HUD popped up almost instantaneously. The air filtration system kicked on, faintly buzzing. The visual sensors recognized the damned inordinate glare of the room, cut it down, the Resort now a honey-like hue. She breathed deeply, maintained composition. Almost over. Been at least twenty minutes, she thought. The sirens beyond the exit continued to whine. She needed to get the show on the road. The HUD recognized foreign hardware – the legs – and displayed as much on a secondary screen within the helmet. Check for viruses? No. Backups? No. Bio-driver updates? Yes. The process of downloading, installing, and calibrating took maybe two minutes. They were long minutes. She began to feel something in her legs. Warm at first, then they began to tingle, and the tingle became pins and needles and it was maddening, almost unbearable. But then, seconds later, the shock subsided, and Blair could feel her legs in the same way she felt her arms, the rest of her body. She rubbed them with both hands, massaged them. Coaxed them into being. The legs were very sore. Blair pulled her legs, now working under their own power, from the lifeless portals of the CPSR. The motion felt easy and intuitive. She felt her feet flat upon the floor. It felt good. Her legs, now, really were her legs. No longer useless dead representations, no, no. These legs were now her legs. She felt them, and they felt good. She stood up, careful to maintain balance, caught a rail with her left hand, released it, and took a few tentative steps. No problems. The legs worked beautifully. Blair strode quickly across the room, to the small console tucked into the wall left of the exit, the sirens still bellowing faintly, muffled by the hull of the Medical Resort. Outside they would be loud and obtrusive. They would be telling you to 'walk, don't run, but maybe walk fast.' Blair pulled a thin black cord from the back of her helmet with one hand, and with other popped the small hatch of the console. Soon she would be done with the florescent lights, dampened as they were, and the insultingly named Resort. Soon she would be done with the whole damned place.
The console was part of an array of computers that together made The Cloud, the main system by which all of the Lifetech Private Orbital Complex's subsystems were networked and maintained. Electrical power, thermal controls, life support, orbital navigation and propulsion. Everything. And Blair needed in. She plugged the business end of the thin black cord into the console's main port. The station's diagnostic information blinked green on black onto the tiny screen. Nearly all life-support systems were offline station-wide. In fact, only the oxygen and electricity systems were currently functional and only within the confines of the Resort. Number of escape pods launched: zero. Number of life-signs present aboard the station: one. Blair's breath quickened. She uploaded the worm into The Cloud, and it broke through the ice easily, and now she was in the main emergency software, responsible for, well, lots of things. But Blair was interested specifically in the Emergency Self-Destruct function. Normally, this system was only accessible via the hardware on the main deck, and it required two different people for activation, each with physical keys. But the worm was state-ofthe-art, and the ice was criminally outdated. She got in, and set the countdown for five minutes, knowing that it would be plenty of time. She withdrew the cord, and it retracted automatically back into the back of her helmet. Blair walked over to the gurney next to the Davenport, with its flowers and balloons and get-well-soon cards. And it made her angry. It was nothing but posturing; it was condescending and it was patronizing, and it made her sick. Lifetech didn't give a shit about anybody, and these colorful trinkets weren't from friends and family, no, they were from Lifetech. And this is how they treated you. How they showed that they cared. But fine. It was fine. It was nearly over. Just one more thing. Blair snatched up the picture frame housing the shot of her and Batou, poor Batou who didn't deserve any of the horror brought upon him, poor dead Batou. She looked at it for a few moments, and then she let it drop to the porcelainesque floor with a crash. She sifted through the broken glass with one foot, bent down, and retrieved the beloved photo, and stuffed it hastily into a small pocket on her left thigh. She approached the exit, and released the manual lock. The holographic warning symbol changed, updated, helpfully pointed out that outside this room you would die and die fast without a suit. Blair cracked a smile, the first in a very long time. She released the final lock and stepped out of the Medical Resort and into the hallway. Nothing but running lights, cold damp corridors, and screaming sirens. Also, there were dead bodies strewn about, almost randomly, thought Blair, like confetti. She made her way quickly, easily, through the derelict station. Down a few floors, into the gravity well, and to the bottom-most doughnut, to the banks of escape pods, all of them serene and unused. She picked the nearest one, got in, and closed the hatch. Programmed the on-board computer's main propulsion and trajectory systems. Two minutes to spare. She strapped herself into the lone seat, with its front-facing lone porthole, flipped the plastic cover of the LAUNCH button, and thumbed the button sloppily. Blair's mind and body strained against the tremendous G's, and a few seconds later, she could plainly see the orbital complex growing ever smaller, as if it were retreating from her as opposed to the other way around. It was actually quite beautiful, a stack of rings, one on top of another, with a central gravity well for efficient access to neighboring levels. About thirty seconds later, the Lifetech station went, and the force the explosion shook the tiny escape pod. The rattles subsided, and Blair looked briefly out the porthole at the explosion. It seemed to be happening in slow motion. It reminded Blair of a blossoming flower. She looked away, down. She really wasn't one for fireworks. She removed the crumpled photo from her thigh pocket, and looked at it absentmindedly. She ran a final checklist in her mind. She was certain she had covered all of her bases. As certain as a person can be, anyway. She would end up somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, and the Earth Government would be the first ones to find her. There would be questions. There would be interrogations. She would spend some time in a brig, and they would tell her that it was for her own protection. And all of it was fine. Batou was dead. And it was Life-tech’s fault. Batou’s death, like so many others, was still kept secret. There would be no motive to connect her to the destruction of the station. She had given herself the best alibi possible. She
could claim ignorance. She had lost her legs. A tear grew in the corner of one eye, and dribbled down the side of her cheek. Yeah, Batou was dead. But Blair had crippled Lifetech. And that almost made it worth it. Almost.
T
Design by Beth Newbern Hallam
The Greatest Gift By Kacey Louise Short
Y
Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
The second my bare feet touched the freezing hardwood of my bedroom floor that October morning,
I immediately knew something bad was going to happen, a premonition, perhaps. Although the bright orange sun and crystal clear blue sky might have made me think otherwise. I padded into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and got dressed, the same monotonous routine. Except on that particular day, in my twelve-year-old mind, something just felt different. I ate my breakfast in silence, a very unusual occurrence, on account of I am normally a very talkative character. When my mother asked me what was up with my attitude, I couldn’t even explain it to her. I just had a gut feeling. On that Thursday, I went through the motions of school. I couldn’t quite explain the feeling, I just know it was there, and it would not go away. At three o’clock that afternoon, I arrived home. The second I stepped through the threshold of my front door, I stopped cold. Something was very wrong here. I carefully made my way into the kitchen, only to find my mother weeping softly, at our old oak dinner table. “M-m-mom? Why are you crying?” I asked gingerly. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know the answer to my own question. Her head whipped up in surprise. She sniffled, patted her hair, and wiped her eyes in an attempt to remove the dejection that was painted all over her face. “Oh, Sam, you’re home! How was your day?” My mother responded with false enthusiasm. When I just stood there, saying nothing to answer her question, she sighed heavily, and finally told me the truth. “It’s your Grandpa. He died this afternoon.” Her voice cracked ever so slightly at the word ‘died’. I didn’t move. Or, to describe it more correctly, I couldn’t move. It was like the bitter taste of death had taken the place of gravity, and was rooting me to the spot I was standing. I was absolutely shocked. Just yesterday, he was over at my house playing Go Fish with me and helping me with my homework. Later I would come to find out that my Grandfather had died instantly in a car crash, a head-on collision. Later that night, as I was lying in my bed, staring at my drab white ceilings, I waited for the tears to come, but they didn’t. It was like the machine in my head that produced tears was shut off. It seemed absolutely ridiculous to me that I couldn’t cry over this terrible loss. It was like the searing pain had made me go numb. Of course, it was obvious why this was so painful. I’d had other people in my life die, other grandparents, but my Grandfather was my very best friend. I always got made fun of in school for my height and my ultra curly red hair. Nobody wanted to be my friend. My Grandpa was the only person who got me through the day. He always gave me words of encouragement and listened to me when I needed to talk. And now, with a snap of God’s fingers, he was gone. The next day, I decided to go to school, but I wasn’t really there. My body could be seen walking down the hallways and in class, but my mind was elsewhere. All I could think about was all of the good times me and my Grandfather had spent together: the time he taught me how to ride a bike, my first day of Junior High School, and the time my dog, Daisy had died. He’d gotten me through every important milestone in my life. Just the thought that he wouldn’t be there for the rest of them was something I wasn’t ready to handle. That following Saturday was his funeral, and as they were putting the casket into the ground, that’s when the tears came. They came fast and without warning. I could feel them, hot and salty, running down the rosy planes of my cheeks.
It was then, standing in the middle of the cemetery, that I realized that even though my Grandfather was gone and there was nothing I could do about it, I would always have the great memories he and I shared. Just knowing that could get me through any hard times I should suffer in the future. And they, all of those cherished memories, are the greatest gift my Grandfather could ever have given me.
Art by Catherine Kussmann (left) & Andrew Palmer (right); Photography by Chelsi Green
A Night Out By Shari Vidales
Walking in, a fog over people’s heads, it’s not easy to see. Music mixed with words, bouncer’s voice is hard to hear. People’s breath, heavy with booze is not hard to smell. Air thick with heat and the cigarette smoke I easily taste. Pushing and shoving, claustrophobia is hard not to feel. Hearing my name followed by questions, it’s not easy to think A drink will make this better is what I think. Next to my friend, could it be him who I see. On my shoulder, a heavy hand, is where I feel. It‘s him “You didn’t return my calls, why?” I hear. To avoid, I pretend my drink is sour when I taste. He whispers, he couldn’t get off his mind how I smell. Except that it reeked, I can barely recall his smell. He is way too close, my thoughts I can barely think. With all this vodka the cran juice I can barely taste. Lights so dim, in front of me his face I can barely see. So many others talking, sweet nothings I can barely hear. A confession of his love, but I’m so distant I can barely feel. The monogamy of relationships is one thing I won’t touch. His cologne everyday is one thing I don’t want to smell. These sweet nothings are one thing I don’t want to hear. He looks hurt. I feel bad, but he is not the one I think. Time to bounce back, for over there is a new face I see. Gotta get back in the game, for defeat is one thing I won’t taste. These drinks have been so strong, these shots I can’t even taste. New face with blue eyes, blonde hair that I can’t wait to touch. With a girlfriend? Hopefully just buddies, but I can’t see . After his previous aroma, a new one I can’t wait to smell. These drinks are intoxicating me and I just can’t think. I finally reach the new face and ask for a name but I can’t hear. Music pauses, last call is yelled, but no one stops to hear. This night has passed quickly, and one more sip I stop to take. Maybe I should just go home alone tonight I stop and think. Pushing through the crowd, my friends arm I stop to touch. Out the door past all the smokers I don’t stop to smell. I kind of want La Bamba’s, are they open? I stop to see. After all of the faces I see, and all the talks I over hear; All the things that we smell, and all the drinks we taste; Always nice to feel a touch, so I will call the new guy, I think.
Numb
By Treasa Bane
Y Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
It didn’t hit me, sitting in the chair listening to the nurses talking about breakfast bagels, trying to make me
less nervous. It didn’t hit me when they stretched the laughing gas mask over my face; it snapped around my cheeks as if they were made of blubber. It didn’t hit me when the needle was jerked at an angle into my arm. Dr. Moody walked into the room looking at everyone except for me, the person waiting patiently for him. The room turned into gray and black speckles. Then it seemed like an outage all of the sudden, black. The nurses moved slower, the machine noises grew duller. The light from the window cut through the shades and struck Dr. Moody’s face in blinding white diagonal cuts. His face came closer and closer to mine till I was completely under. That’s when it hit me: I’m not ready for this, something serious is about to happen and I’ll end up damaged. No one died from getting their wisdom teeth pulled, but I think this final thought had some validity. Later Dr. Moody said at me but not to me “You’re showing all signs of making a complete recovery, Ruth. At this point there’s nothing more I can do….” His eyes gloss over from time to time and I’m conscious of my every blink. I was thinking how much he looks and sounds like the beaver from the old Winnie the Pooh cartoons. This exchange of forced courtesy would take place for five months. It started with dry sockets after surgery, my fevers, my side effects to the pain relievers, and finally the feeling on the right side of my chin all the way up to my lip and partial cheek lacked feeling. Dr. Moody doesn’t want to get sued. Dr. Moody has asked to see me every few weeks, done the same little tests with needles and q-tips, and recited the same speech to me (phrases in slightly different order) each visit. It always ended with a nod and a smile that looked more like a small straight line rather than an upturned mouth, a code that read I hope you don’t follow through on your next appointment and would just leave it be, and he paced out of the room in large steps that doctors tend to do. Today, I decided it was my last appointment with Dr. Moody. Then I go to see Ray because I told him I would. Ray is telling me about his latest triumph in a heated Biology class debate, something about the atoms and particles in frozen food. I’m facing the window like I usually do on our Friday afternoon coffee at Coffee Hut, with my usual Raspberry Mocha and his usual black tea. I realize maybe Dr. Moody is right, I’m not full-fledged numb like I used to be. I bite the right side of my lip and feel the familiar surging feeling across the right side of my face, like a power switch, instant. Then the spot I bit starts twitching like a tiny creature is on the inside of my lip beating it with a hammer. I sip the Mocha and the warm goodness lights up the numb side of my face in warm raspberry goodness. People walk in, flip flops falling off their feet and I want to scream at them It’s still 50 degrees! regardless of the calendar date. Ray starts to laugh at his own joke, expecting a laugh in response. Thankfully I remember some of the things my sister Julia and I have said about him. His snot hair is like a rat’s nest, his gaudy Spiderman tattoo on his back is right next to his aunt’s name, and the way he bends over and you can see white furs creeping down his crack like half man half beast. My laugh at his expense saves me from the truth-I haven’t been listening for the past few minutes. It’s hard to listen to Ray sometimes; he’s kind of an ass. I’m staring at the line of college kids waiting to order coffee when Julia emerges from the line and starts walking towards our table, squinting in the sun from the windows. She popped into my field of vision like a street sign. Ray’s voice goes up twelve octaves, “Oh hey!” and we start chatting a little bit. Julia pretends to not think of Ray so negatively for five public minutes. She’s like everyone else, a pretender in public. But I love her anyway. When Ray asks what she’s up to later that day she avoids it like the plague, and then finally lies. If she told the truth, that she was having a graduation get-together at her apartment, he would have either invited himself or teased her for not inviting him. When Julia leaves, Ray looks after her a minute too long. He turns back to me and compliments the
clothes she was wearing and says something about Julia being the friendliest person in the world. I walk with Ray back to his apartment mainly because he asked me to and also because it’s on the way to Julia’s. “So I won’t see you for a while,” Ray says conclusively and I mentally prepare to say my goodbyes as well. “A few months,” I say. “It’ll feel like forever,” he says strangely and awkwardly pauses before he leans in and plants his mouth on my mouth, or part of my mouth. It’s like Dr. Moody using a wet slug instead of a q-tip to test the numbness. I smile politely as if I expected this to happen and soon keep walking towards Julie’s. When I was on painkillers after my surgery, I had the most bizarre dreams. One that stands out is the one where I had a pet lizard, like a chameleon maybe. I got really sick of this lizard and took a baseball bat and started beating it in the living room where I was having my dinner. I smashed it to pieces, bits of its blood and flesh scattered on the carpet like candy pieces and some of it got in the food I had sitting on the coffee table. Then Julia comes in and tells me we’re going to have to take out the carpet because I made such a mess. She says this with pain on her face, as if she couldn’t believe what I just did. The next morning, the first thing I do is tell Julia about it and she says the standard interpretation of my dream: sexual frustration. We both laugh tiredly in the doorway of the bathroom together, our spot for the deepest of conversations. Parked cars flood the street on each side. The sky, the apartment buildings, and the concrete are covered in orange light as I approach my sister’s party, already feeling sick. I contemplate on this short walk all the obligations in my life. Each day is better than the next. Taking six classes so I can graduate on time next year, doing crap like this for family and friends. Ray saying, want to come to my place?, want to go get coffee?, etc, and my usual response yeah!, sure!, or of course I would! I wonder if things will ever go too far with Ray; if I’ll be alone with him in his shitty apartment and he’ll ask me if I’d like to stay the night and I’ll say yeah, or, sure, of course I would, like some kind of an idiot. Julia’s plastered-smiled friends open the door for me and I return the expression, enter with a blast of cold air and music from a familiar radio station I would never listen to. I grab a plastic plate and a plastic cup and contemplate all the various spots I could sit or stand at. “Hey, who invited you,” Julia says from behind me with a touch of my arm. “Didn’t know you were hanging out with stingray today.” I roll my eyes and say, “He wanted to say goodbye sort of. He’s leaving soon.” Julia squints her eyes, “Uh, huh,” and then breaks into a smile, “I’m just kidding with you.” Someone I’ve never seen before steps into our space. “Woah, how’d you get the cast?” Julia asks him. He makes a motion with his hands to say wait a minute, like he’s about to make the speech of his lifetime. But this motion is slightly off, and his eyes look around in a way that I realize he’s on the road to becoming plastered. He stutters and stumbles around his story about carrying his laundry down stairs and breaking his wrist on the handle when he fell. Julia and I look at each other and smirk a few times while he’s telling it but I start looking around the room for places to hide from people like him. I walk away when Easy to be Hard by Three Dog Night, the only good song that will ever play at a get-together like this, starts playing. I find myself watching this girl talking to her friend; they’re facing each other on barstools. Her mouth is a frown and you can tell she’s talking about her insecurities, or a breakup perhaps, something pointless. The music goes perfectly with the way her mouth is moving, slow and sad and fits of anger in between. So perfect, I can’t help but start laughing. I have an epiphany that when everyone speaks, music should just come out. Things would be more efficient that way, with coworkers especially,
or times like these. I start to wonder what song best suits the way Ray speaks. I start to feel guilty, sitting from a distance watching people and laughing like some villain from a cheesy cartoon whose face you never see. I decide to creep out onto the porch after grabbing the best-looking drink in the fridge. I sit in the grass and swirl my tongue behind my lip and cheek. The feeling is like pins and needles. I run my hand over my face to feel the exact portions where there is no feeling, others where there is some. My pocket buzzes and I gasp loudly. The people on the porch glare at me like I’m standing stark naked in the yard. It was my phone; a text from Ray. I start reading it when I feel Julia striding up behind me. I know it’s her because we’re kindred spirits. When we were small and up until yesterday we used to say we got half of each other’s brain, I got the smart half and she got the creative half. “Who’s that?” she asks If I’d had noticed her mood and expression I wouldn’t have said, “Ray.” “Seriously.” Her anger surprises me, “What’s wrong?” “Why are you here if you’d rather be with that moron?” “Like your friends are better?” I blurt without thinking. Julia’s eyes go wild and she turns her body to make sure no one heard what I just said. “You’re shameless, you know?” she says. “That’s not dramatic.” “You don’t come to a party and ignore everyone. This isn’t the first time you’ve completely embarrassed me lately,” she says in a harsh whisper. I stand defenseless. This is a sneak attack. Julia’s good at them. “Don’t make the I can’t feel my face excuse. Are you even listening to me now?” “Julia, are you mad I’m reading a text from Ray?” Julia gets even quieter, with her eyes starting to water, “I mean you left early when Mom was at Mayo, saying you had a big test. Did you? You’re always leaving…with these lame-ass excuses.” Julia can’t even look up at me, meaning she’s about to let those tears fall. I try to lure her out of it, “I’m sorry I embarrassed you. But that one guy with the broken wrist from a laundry basket? That guy would make anyone want to leave.” “Kevin,” she says flatly. “Kevin,” I repeat. “And Mom…I don’t know what you want me to say. I was scared; I didn’t react to the whole thing like you did, so it must be wrong, right? I mean…I was scared…” “That’s all?” I step closer to her, wondering what else I could say that would make her feel better. Julia wipes her eyes and says, “Whatever,” like my confession wasn’t good enough or what she wanted to hear. She gazes back at the crowded apartment. “I should get back.” My eyes sting when she walks towards the flooding light of the doorway. I stare back at the text from Ray. The light from the phone is so small in my hands, the text insignificantly smaller. It’s weird how a small operation like getting wisdom teeth pulled could have such disastrous effects. I need to fix me and Julia, so I will be more careful with Julia’s friends and I’ll stop doing whatever it is I’m doing with Ray. I don’t think Julia would have wanted me to go back inside to her party. We would need a little space, so I walk behind the apartment complexes towards the street and walk home, in the dark. There is no light other than the streetlights and the occasional lit window, revealing the quiet liveliness of the apartment’s occupants taking place inside.
705 1/2 by Brandon Bashom an Ode to nothing. nothing and everything at all. tall-cans as ashtrays or the fly on my wall. two of my skateboards propped up in the hall. particle board bookshelves, coffee-ringed “Hot Water Music”. people talking amongst themselves and not listening to the music. VHS replays of “Roseanne” and my roomates paintings, sick. an issue of “Hustler” sitting on the can full of sharpie-drawn-faces, for kicks. Black Flag, Radon posters and holes in the wall are just an Ode to nothing. nothing and everything at all. this mess is mundane, no reason to elevate. only to print and frame it’s homely personal fame.
We Are Us
Untitled
We have no pretensions. We are us.
Self-loath and depreciate your own value. Buy into that new look everyone is trying to sell you. Get the right shoes, the right hair. How you feel, that is not a care. HATE! HATE! HATE! HATE! HATE! Yourself. But never, don't you dare, appreciate yourself.
Jessica Gaines
I am not perfect. You are not perfect. But we, the us, We have perfection. We dare not pretend to be that which we are not. We are not inseparable. We are separate but united. We are individual, and We are unique. We are us. We are unyielding. We are adamant; We know we are not indestructible. We are permanent because We are flexible. We have no demands, so We have no worries. We are us. We understand more than We are expected to, and We understand the limitations We currently face. We will overcome them. We are us.
By Michael King
Television's look is not what you want to be. Rather, it's what you want everyone else to see. Lie! To yourself, you do not need to be true. Smile! Even though you are walking around blue. So cool you look with lies plastered across your face. So cool you look when you're constantly running that race. Be true to yourself, true to your core. Raise your head and smile because nobody is keeping score. Be true to yourself, true to your core. Raise your head and smile because life is not meant to be a chore. Just who are you out there trying to impress? Those that matter, do they care how you dress? So what if your shoes are "so last year," If someone judges you, are they really so dear? Let me ask you one last thing that is testin'? If they really cared, would they even question? Be true to yourself, true to your core. Hold you head up and smile. because nobody is keeping score.
Haiku
Giving up
His blue shirt pocket Where my ear rests in the dark Just the sound of air.
…They say never do it. I say it’s too late…
By Jamey Spain
by Stormie Snider
Y Babbitt’s Books Award of Merit Finalist
In the Great Bowl By Sarah Ritter Inspired by “Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande” Jatte - 1884 by Georges Seurat Serene joy emanates from lake ripples. The trees whisper their peace. The sky displays its tender beauty, As the animals below show their curiosity. But the people are void, deceptive. Such empty faces, lacking emotion Why won't you feel? Please look at your wife, in her pretty dress Please smile at your child, standing beside you Anything except your distant, disturbing stares Still forms, utterly void of life Why won't you move? You motionless statues, Made of cold, unapproachable stone. Or maybe you are wax – unreal. La Grande Jatte, The Great Bowl. An inescapable bowl, You can't see what’s real. You're trapped, Without hope, no longer caring. Such well crafted secrets, A painting of the world, of life. Yet life is lacking, there's no pattern. Everything is missing, and nothing is. The people are nothing.
Design by Theresa Thomas
on Sh uf fle
lay P
I’m listening to someone else’s words... Sung to someone elses’s music. And all i want to do is walk. Walk on water for you. Not stop until i look down on you, Brushing back your blankets. Not until I am Smelling your skin, in your tiny bed in your tiny room. All this music, serenades. You needn’t ever sing. The thoughts and words they bring me, we’ve long done said. And it doesnt’t matter what song. Never matter which abum. We’ve been talking for too, too long. For one word, of these thoughts to be new. So i sit, with lips unkissed, for you. For your smile. Your laugh. So i might hold you close. Make you gasp. I sit. Close my eyes. Concentrate... I just plain WISH. For you.
Sara Keely Upchurch
Photobraphy by Jeff Yurgen Art by Aele Brown (top) and Rachel Schifano (bottom)
Like Fireflies by Ashley McDowell
Face me, embrace me; make me love you Hold me like the stars above you Hand it over, that good love feeling Take my heart and send it reeling Give me yours, I’ll give you mine ‘Cause your eyes shine like fireflies Like fireflies we float around Like a real long fall, when you hit the ground My eyes are rimmed with tears of joy We’re best together; this girl, that boy I am yours and you are mine ‘Cause your eyes shine like fireflies My fireflies in the air around me A love so strong that it surrounds me Embraced by all this happiness By an outcome I could not have guessed Take my heart, and please be kind ‘Cause your eyes shine like fireflies
Contributors For Ebony Alden writing is a passion that started from the time she was five and realized she could make her own endings. The piece that she submitted to the magazine was inspired by the journey through any given hallway in a school where people line either side. Amy Andrews is a student at Heartland Community College. Candace Armstrong of Bloomington, IL, writes poetry, short stories and is working on a novel. Her poetry has been published nationally in the Summer 2010 issue of The Lyric, as well as in their online selections. Formerly in corporate business management, she is an avid gardener and cook. Treasa Bane has lived in central Illinois all her life. She will be transferring to ISU in Fall 2011, Publishing Major. Her two favorite authors are Joyce Carol Oates and J.D. Salinger. She hopes one day to have read everything Oates has ever written; it’ll be a challenge. Christopher Brandt lives in Normal, IL, and has been writing all his life. When not running or hiking, he is most likely drinking coffee and scribbling furiously about life (poetry, short stories or anything he feels like trying). Christopher is very excited about being published for the first time. Aele Brown is a promising young artist from Illinois. In her free time, she mentally vacations in the original world of Solah-Se. Also she wants to say that people care about you, because people often forget to remind themselves. Rory Byrd is a practicing therapist in the community and currently completing his PhD in psychology. He has been writing since childhood as a way to both escape and explore reality. He is supported in his writing by his loving wife, Julie, and children: Hannah, Lauren, and Matt. Kent Casson has worked for WJEZ Radio in Pontiac, Illinois since 1997 as an on-air personality and news reporter. He has served as the station's director of News and Programming since 2006. In the past year, Kent created a website for Central Illinois farmers: www.centralillinoisfarmnetwork.com which covers agricultural news stories and more. The website combines Kent's passion for radio, journalism and agriculture. Steven Carter says, "I was born, raised, schooled, worked, married and probably be buried in Bloomington. I love the place, really! I wrote "Seat belts" as an amusing way to encourage their use, leaving the reader opened ended questions as they reflect on their own personal use of seat belts, as this case, or texting, or any device use in a moving vehicle and their proper attitude toward the driver as a passenger." James Dunnington is a 20 year Navy veteran and retired from Motorola, Inc. as an international technical instructor. Writing and web design are hobbies along with having a fondness for the arts. He moved to Bloomington five years ago from Ottawa where he was on the Ottawa/Streator Times write team. Todd Eddy lives in Normal, IL with his wife and family. He enjoys writing smaller, Imagist poetry and haiku. He also dreams of returning to New Mexico where he lived for 14 years. Jacob Eikenberry is a non-traditional college student, the father of two and is pursuing a degree in undecided. He spent much of his youth traveling around the country seeing live concerts and has settled in Bloomington in the search of education and stability.
Jessica Gaines is an English student at ISU, and has been writing since she knew how to use a pen. She has recently discovered a passion for Alfred Hitchcock films, cooking shows and graphic novels, and prefers Marvel to DC. She also doesn’t understand why the word I is capitalized. Christopher C. George is an aspiring artist, writer, sometimes poet. Pursuing English Major with Minor in Poli-Sci. Politically active right wing junkie. Loves sci-fi and fantasy novels. He says, "Life should be lived to its fullest.... Damn the consequences." Graehound is a mixed-media illustrator who enjoys all things jewelry, photography, hip-hop, automotive, and anything you can find at Comic-Con. She can’t decide what colour to leave her hair and can be frequently heard singing off-key to whatever is loudest on the radio in her studio in Bloomington. Chris Haney has been teaching himself to draw his entire life. He is writing a story about an atheist Thai woman who comes from Bangkok and has a difficult time dealing with American culture. He wants to publish this series and make a modest living with it. Roger Harrison is 61 years old and the son and grandson of share croppers U.S. South. He’s a well-traveled man, having hitch hiked across the U.S. in the 60’s and 70’s, when hitching was safer. He says, “I am a believer, because I always let the Lord guide my heart, soul, and spirit to many adventures across the United States and Europe. When the Lord guided me to Heartland Community College for the ability to become a better educated person and granted me contact with the younger generation, he helped me follow my dreams to help my fellow man.” Stephen Johnson is an English student at ISU. He enjoys drinking coffee-flavored coffee, writing poetry and taking short fluorescent-lit walks from the kitchen to his bedroom. Born and raised in southern India, Atmaram Joshi’s passion has never veered from the Arts. An accomplished musician and artist, he loves to work with various mediums, though he prefers watercolors. “Painting gives me enormous happiness and satisfaction, and I hope my art spreads that joy and smiles to others.” If you were to throw a couple of bad horror and a few childish animated movies into a blender with a few comic books, a lot of music, and some video games, and then add 1.21 gigawatts of electricity you'd make some sort of creation that resembled Michael King. Samantha Kresz went to school at Tri-valley high school, and graduated in 2010. She took one class in ceramics with Erin Furimsky and decided to switch majors from radiography to ceramics. Since then she applied and was accepted into the school of the Art Institute of Chicago and got a merit scholarship. Catherine Kussmann is a part-time art student. She has a husband, Scott, and four children ages 17, 15, 12, and 10 years old. She is a homemaker and has enjoyed taking several different art classes at Heartland. Syrena Marter is 17 years old and a sophomore. She’s caring and loves to solve other peoples’ problems. She loves to write poetry and essays, and her favorite subject is English. She has been in cheerleading for four years and loves photography and modeling. Ashley McDowell is nineteen and currently a junior at ISU. Her majors and passions are English – Creative Writing and psychology, and in a couple years she will get started on a PhD in clinical child psychology. She’s been writing since she was about five years old.
Mikey McGhee works in the HCC art lab to broaden her creative talents and be a positive role model to other aspiring students. She’s preparring for a wholesale show in Baltimore this summer & currently showing work in Gallery 404 and has a few pieces on loan by the college. You can visit her website at mikeymcghee.com Beth A. Newbern-Hallam is a student of web design/web communications at Heartland. She has also run her online clothing and accessories business www.JusSharDesigns.com since 1996. Newbern-Hallam’s future plans are to finish her AAS degree in web design in North Carolina, and take on freelance work in web and graphic design. Alexis Ogunmokun is going into the foreign language field. She is part of Project Rise at Heartland. She has one brother (Andrew) and one sister (Alison). She writes stories and blogs for fun. Gannon Ray is an Associates of Arts student at Heartland. He grew up in the Northeastern Oregon mountains and spent much of his time adventuring in the woods with friends. It has been more than 20 years since those days and he still is waiting to adjust to city life. He has taken many different classes at Heartland, but has yet to decide on a specific major. Psychology, creative writing, and earth science all seem like great possible choices. Andrew Palmer was born in Fairfax, Virgina, near Washington on November 12, 1989. He moved into Normal Illinois in August 1992 and lived there since. Andrew graduated at the 50% of his class from NCHS in 2008. He will be transferring form Heartland Community College to Eastern Illinois University in fall 2011 as a member of Phi Beta Kappa. Pam Powell is a graduate of Heartland Community College, and wishes she had the resources to finish her education. She loves sewing, reading, working puzzles, and watching old movies. She feels that a well written short story is a work of art, loves words and is dismayed at the uncertain future of the English language. Working towards her career goal of becoming an editor, Sarah Ritter often finds herself pondering story ideas and watching them evolve. When not doing that, she’s spending time with her boyfriend, family, and friends, playing World of Warcraft, or playing with her lab and four cats. Madison Roberts is currently in her second semester at Heartland. She has been photographing for 5 years and her favorite subject matter is nature. She has always been captivated by the beauty of wildlife. She shoots all her photographs in digital. Miranda Sanders is a freshman at Bloomington High School. She has two brothers and one sister. She loves music of all kinds. She plays viola. She also likes to draw portraits and writing of all kinds. Rachel Schifano’s life began in Normal where she became passionate for art. She graduated from NCHS in 2010 and is currently a student intern at State Farm. She aspires to double major in computer sciences and Fine Arts. She looks to achieve an artistic style that unifies structure and inspiration with hopeful messages. Shari Vidales’ major is English and would like to go into editing when she graduates. Creative writing was an elective for her, but it will stand out as one of her favorite classes. It encouraged her to think outside the box and put those thoughts onto paper. Brian Weidert is a graduate of both Southern Illinois University and Heartland Community College. He lives in Bloomington and works for a software company in Normal. He writes in his free time. Erin White is currently a freshman at Heartland. Her inspiration for “Weight: 300 lbs Size: XXL” came from noticing the recent rise in bullying and stereotyping in schools.