Illuminati Fall 2007 by notthatilluminati

Miami University Middletownâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s â&#x201E;˘ Journal of the Arts Edited by Michelle Lawrence and Meghan Woods

The Illuminati Press

© 2007 The Illuminati Press All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the editors. Co-Editors In Chief: Michelle Lawrence and Meghan Woods Faculty Advisor: Dr. Eric Melbye Cover Art: Allison Singhoffer Cover Design: Eric Melbye Staff: Joe Mitchell, Johnna Roark, Brooke Kyzer, Courtney Curtner, Tony Martin, Crystal Prater Financial Support: Miami Middletown Student Government and Illuminati “Angels” Editorial offices: 130 Johnston Hall, Miami University Middletown, Middletown, Ohio 45032 www.mid.muohio.edu/orgs/illuminati/

Contents ——————— Michelle Lawrence Meghan Woods

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Forward

Acknowledgements

Lee Rodgers

The Perfect Therapy

Chelle Creekbaum

And They Called It …

Meghan Woods

She Sleeps With Clothes On

[I sat outside the rental house]

For Stella

Laundry

Cut Strings

Between two Worlds

Converting the Nonbelievers

Chelle Creekbaum

Growing Pains

Tess Harmon

Bushy Beards

Steve Conley

untitled

Neil Marks

Courtney Curtner

untitled

Anonymous

Secret Postcards

Johnna Roark

Leave Me Bee

Bones and Paper

The Studio

untitled

I Am Here

untitled

flowers

light

tonic

tool

untitled

Joe Mitchell

Allison Singhoffer

Katie Henry

untitled

Katie Henry

untitled

Mark Reedy

untitled

Mark Reedy

untitled

Mark Reedy

untitled

Mark Reedy

untitled

Lee Rogers

Post Office Gremlins

Anonymous

This is Not an Exit

Madison Nicholasbell

Ruby Slippers

Michelle Lawrence

Writing on The Wall

Contributor Notes

100

Submission Guidelines

102

From the editors ———————

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When I began to look for a fitting college for myself three years ago, I had to not only examine my pocketbook, but also my lifestyle. My life is full of variety. No day is ever the same as the one that proceeded. There is always a new challenge, a new expectation, a new thought or outlook on what tomorrow may bring. Miami Middletown has room for my variety. It is a community, a mesh, of new and old, of novice and experience — the same variety that is held together in the binding of this issue. You know you have something special when you can describe it with the words “community” and “variety” — it’s not often that you find the best of both worlds. I would like to personally thank you, our readers, for the interest and support you instill in our publication. We feed off it very well, as we continue to grow and grow. I also would like to thank Michelle Lawrence for her guidance and support. And of course, I thank Dr. Eric Melbye for teaching me everything he knows. Though, I’m sure he’s kept some secrets to himself. Where would we be without you? —Meghan Woods Like Meghan, the sheer diversity of Miami University Middletown attracted and has kept me for quite a few years. At what other local campus will you find such variety of people and experiences? Through my time as Editor In Chief of Illuminati, both the publication and the student organization, I have had the privilege of working with, as Meghan states above, new and old, experience and novice, and have learned from and alongside all. It’s made me into a better student, a better mom, a better writer, a better future professor. As I transition into the Oxford campus and then a graduate program, I’ll keep what I’ve learned with me. How can we ever sufficiently thank those who have supported us? From the instructors who have passed out our issues to their students, to those in MMSG who gave time and resources to see that we always have what we need, to the students, faculty, staff and community members who allow us to consider their work, to the Illuminati staff members, you make us who we are. We thank you, and hope that you find this issue as diverse and unique as you are. —Michelle Lawrence

Acknowledgements ———————

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The Illuminati editors and staff would like to thank the following people, with whom we owe not only gratitude, but credit for our organization and publication's continued success. We think of these special people as our “angels.” For more information on becoming an Illuminati sponsor, please visit our website at www.mid.muohio.edu/orgs/illuminati/.

Dean Kelly Cowen Wanita Hatton Donna Horan Kathy Tessneer Joe Mitchell Cody Burriff Carole Gamin Courtney Curtner Jim Sliger Steve Conley Jerel Day Katie Henry Carrie Scherer Mel Lonske Marianne Cotugno Brooke Kyzer Scott Smith Bode Gibbs Carla Smith Tony Martin Mike Hieber Elke Holt Crystal Prater Johnna Roarke Nichole Revis Eric Melbye Meghan Woods Michelle Lawrence 7

LEE ROGERS ———————

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Winner, Malcolm Sedam Writing Contest 2007 (Creative Nonfiction)

The Perfect Therapy I hate conflict, so much so, that I will do just about anything, or not do just about anything, to avoid it. I have been referred to as a “people pleaser”, and at very low moments, a “doormat.” I remember once when I was 14 years old, there was this girl in school that always bullied me. She’d poke me with an ink pen and laugh, pull my hair and laugh, push me…I think you get the point. This went on for almost two years. One day, I was walking down the hall, talking to a friend of mine, and this bully-girl came up behind me and screamed something in my ear. Without thinking, I turned around and while she was in mid-laugh, I picked her up by her shirt and slammed her into a row of lockers. The end result? She peed her pants and never more bothered me again. This memory stands out to me because it was one of the rare moments that I ever confronted any of my past fears. Physically, I was not afraid of this girl; it was fear to break out of the level of complacency I had seemed destined to aspire to. It was also fear of bringing attention upon myself, something I have steered clear from since as early as kindergarten. Based on a life full of avoiding any spotlight or conflict, no one was more surprised than I was when I started playing football for a women’s professional team. I had recently been through an emotionally devastating (at least to me, if not to him) divorce, 8

which had to have happened to just the extremes that occurred in order for me to leave, else I do not doubt I would still be exactly where I was seven years ago, in a mentally abusive relationship, still being complacent, still biting my tongue, still crying myself to sleep every night. Two days after the divorce, I packed up and moved South. I bought a house the day after the divorce was declared final and filled my spare time for the next year with the only thing that I found took the edge off; working out. As a byproduct of this pastime, I lost a massive amount of weight and got into pretty good shape. Not too long after this, I was approached by a recruiter for the Chattanooga Locomotion football team. I was told with my size, my muscles, and if I should have it, my ability to learn a new skill, I had every chance of becoming a great football player. A year living a different lifestyle does not a different person make and I still had all the same social fears I had ever known before. I laughed off the idea of trying out for the team at first, but seeing some of my family laughing angered me. “Imagine, you, playing football! HA HA HA!” That’s when it hit me; I didn’t just want a surface change, I wanted something within me to change. Without knowing a thing about football, I went to the tryouts. I had to stop the car and do some relaxation breathing three separate times, but I made it there, and more importantly, I even got out of the car. With nausea lacing every drill I performed, I got through the day. I was informed I made the roster the next day. The first day of practice, I was tried on defensive line. After we got some basics down, we broke into groups and defensive line and offensive line headed to the back of the field. They stood me in front of a girl. I got down in my newly learned three-point 9

stance. The whistle blows and I was promptly knocked on my ass. “Don’t sweat it,” says the girl next to me. She helped me up. “You’ll get it this time.” We get lined up, get in our stances, and the whistle blows. The whistle blows again. “71! What the hell are you doing? Don’t play pattycake with her, drive her back!” the coach yells. “Yes, sir!” We get back in our stances, the whistle blows. The whistle blows again. I started apologizing for any damage done by the girlie hit I had just given her. I look over at the coach, whose rubbing his temples. “Ok, let’s try this. Number 71, who do you hate?” “My ex-husband, sir!” “Great! Let’s use that. You’re gonna get down in your stance, and when you get up, your ex-husband’s gonna be in front of you. And he’s gonna be across from you, daring you to hit him, telling you that you’re incompetent. Are you gonna take that, number 71?” “No, sir!” “Then show me something 71!” We get back down in our stances. The whistle blows. The whistle blows again and I look up. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” yells the coach. I had driven this girl so far back that in another couple of yards we were going to interrupt the running backs and their practice. We get back with our group and the coach is ecstatic. “You got it 71! I want that every time!” “Yes, sir!” “Can you feel it? Are you excited? Are you gonna hit somebody, number 71?” “Yes, sir!” I shout even louder. “And you’re gonna do that every time, ain’t ya?” 10

“Depends on the size of the girl, sir!” The coach looked thoughtful for a moment. “We gotta start somewhere,” he says. I’m not sure where the defining moment had been, but somewhere along the way, I had actually developed some ability for the game. I was continuously being double-teamed at practices and very shortly thereafter I was made a starter. During this whole time, I still carried with me my old social anxieties; but they did seem to slowly lessen in severity. At least, that is, until our first game came. I tried not to think about it while suiting up, or while we made our way down to the field. But the truth was, after the kickoff, when defense took the field, I’m not sure how I didn’t wet my underpants. I started hearing those same voices telling me that I’ve never done anything like this and who did I think I was to try now. Shaking, I line up where I am supposed to line up and size up the girl in front of me. I was a lot bigger than her, but size had nothing to do with why I was shaking. We got down in our stance and the ball was hiked, at which time Shorty took the opportunity to knock the fear straight out of me, and trash-talked me to boot. I wasn’t afraid anymore, I was pissed. When the ball was hiked again, I lifted her up off the ground by her shoulder pads and took her with me all the way to the quarterback. We all three went down together. I felt redeemed. I know there’s probably a value to learn here, but I can't quite articulate it. The closest I can get is never smart off to someone you can’t outrun. The morning after the game, my doorbell rang and I stumbled to the door. On the other side were my parents, who were down for the weekend. Upon entering the house, my mom’s expression went white and a hand flew to her mouth. I instantly started to 11

smooth down my hair, but then I realized it was not bedhead causing the reaction. I suddenly remembered I was dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, revealing the majority of my cuts and bruises. They must have looked pretty bad since just the day before, a stranger had given me the number to a safehouse in town. “Do you know what you look like?” my mother asked me. “Tall, dark hair, 170 pounds,” I said. “Don’t be smart,” she said. I sighed. “I don’t understand why you like to get beat up,” she said. I closed my eyes. I took a breath. There was a pause. “Your sister is doing very well in school,” she said. I didn’t reply. “What do you want me to tell family when they ask?” “About what?” I asked. “About this football thing,” she said. “You can tell them that I don’t do drugs, I don’t have a child out of wedlock, and I’m not a democrat; they should take that and be happy.” “What if you get hurt?” she asked. “I don’t think it would trigger the apocalypse. I’m pretty sure life would go on,” I said. “Don’t be smart,” was her reply. My left eye began to twitch uncontrollably. Funny, I thought I had left that eye tick back in Ohio when I moved. We did pretty well that first year I played. In fact, we made it into the playoffs; as we also did my second and third year I played. It was a wonderful experience and I wouldn’t change a thing about it, not even the physical pain I suffered or any of the times nausea couldn’t be suppressed. I’m glad I didn’t know then that that was my last year I was going to play, due to conceiving a child a few weeks after the season ended. I’m so glad that I played football even if it as for a short while. I’m 12

forever grateful for what I’ve learned about myself. I think sometimes we have to do the very things we fear in order to enrich our lives. I was terrified throughout most of my football experience. Afraid I wouldn’t fit in, couldn’t get the plays down, and would ultimately humiliate myself. I was afraid that one day someone would say, “Who are you kidding? We’ve found you out. You don’t belong here.” But more than I was afraid, I wanted a better quality of life. I wanted to punch fear straight in the mouth. I was tired of it telling me who I was and wasn’t. I wanted to try new things, and if I didn’t like them, so what? Onto the next shiny thing that catches my eye. I was tired of letting everyone else label me, dependent on their beliefs of who I should be. The whole football experience taught me to stop apologizing for who I am. I learned I have adaptability in scary situations. I made starter my first year on a professional football team when I knew nothing about the sport. I knew what it was like to have the friendship of a closely knit pack of women, which I would have never experienced any other way. I realized that I am as mentally strong and as physically strong as I choose to be. Once I developed a stronger sense of who I was, my relationship with my family got better. So much in fact, that my mother has never once brought up that I am unmarried with a child. Of course, if she ever does, I can always say, “At least I’m not playing football.” I feel no need to mention that I fully intend to return one day after I graduate from college. One day at a time.

Chelle Creekbaum ———————

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And They Called It… I am unabashedly and unashamedly one of the biggest Donny Osmond fans in the world. I still have all of my Donny albums – the big, black, vinyl ones – and I keep my record player in tip-top shape so that I can play them when I’m in the mood, much to the aural dismay of both my husband and my son. I’ve had my Donny fixation longer than I’ve had most of my friends. Donny and I were even married for a short time years ago, and I have proof -- I still have the notebook upon which I wrote “Mrs. Donny Osmond” over and over and over until there was no more room to write. Sweet & Innocent When I was eight years old, The Osmonds were scheduled to perform at the Ohio State Fair, and my parents, my wonderful, spoil-me-rotten parents, agreed to take me to see the love of my life. It was hot that day, the kind of hot that sells tons of sno-cones and makes people wilt and run for the nearest air conditioning. I, however, felt none of it. After spending the day impatiently indulging Dad’s

tractor fantasies and half-heartedly petting sheep and goats, we were finally in line to see HIM. The line was long, the crowd enormous. Seating was first in, best seats, and everyone was pushing and shoving to get to the front. My sister, Jodi, was being very three-years-old – tired, whiney, 14

and miserable – and refusing to let Mom put her down. I really think that’s why the heat got to her. A sweaty, clingy three-year-old hanging from your neck in an elbow-to-elbow mass of perspiration and body odor would do that to anyone. All I heard was, “Del, take her.” As Dad reached for Jodi, I watched in horror as my Mommy slumped against the man standing behind her with her eyes rolled up to the white parts. Dad was yelling, “Jean? Jean?” his voice taking on a helpless, scared quality that made my own knees feel weak. Jodi was screaming and crying at the same time, her little face alternating between crimson and ghostly white, her eyes bulging, reflecting the fear in Dad’s voice. The man Mom had landed on shouted, “Move back! Give her some air!” and amazingly, the crowd complied. As he laid Mom on the ground, a baby’s blanket appeared out of the air and was quickly rolled and placed under her neck. A kind lady stepped forward and offered to take Jodi. Dad gratefully handed Jodi to the woman, who immediately turned her away from the scene, making shushing noises and telling her that Mommy was okay, everything was going to be okay. (You could still trust a stranger with your kids in an emergency back then. Amazing, huh?)

Dad shouted to the vendor in the stand behind us to get some ice. I distinctly remember the gawky, pimply teen at the counter yelling back that ice was ten cents a cup – he obviously played Russian roulette in his spare time. I won’t repeat what Dad said in response, but suffice it to say that, very quickly, there was a Wonder Bread bag filled to the top with ice in my father’s hand. Dad was putting the bag of ice on Mom’s forehead when a squishy, splashing sound distracted 15

me. The kind lady, dressed all in white from head-totoe, had succeeded in getting Jodi settled down, and I had forgotten about both of them. Now that angel outfit was covered with Jodi’s dinner – and lunch and breakfast from the looks of it. My baby sister’s vomit went all the way down the lady’s back and almost covered the back of her shorts, and there was still plenty to run down the backs of her legs, onto her socks, and into her shoes. I couldn’t look away, a child’s fascination with all things gross and yucky keeping me mesmerized until another voice, a grandma voice, demanded my attention back to where Mom still lay on the ground. The grandma was taking ice from the bag and putting it on Mom’s wrists and the back of her neck, and Mom’s eyelids fluttered madly as she struggled to return to the land of the living. The circle of onlookers parted as a cart bearing EMTs arrived. While the EMTs put Mom on a stretcher and loaded her onto the cart, Dad took Jodi from the kind lady and thanked her, apologizing all over himself as the lady’s husband led her away. He shook the man’s hand who had caught Mom when she went down, then thanked the grandma lady who, it turned out, was an off-duty nurse, then climbed aboard the cart with Jodi still in his arms. And me? Up to this point, I had stood mutely on the sidelines, gawking in awe at the spectacle unfolding around me, taking it all in and trying desperately not to miss a moment. With a start, I realized that I was about to be left behind and made a beeline for the cart. There was no room to sit, so I stood holding onto the front seat as the EMTs rushed us into the stadium and their air-conditioned booth. Twenty minutes later, Mom was sitting up and she and Jodi were eating ice chips from styrofoam cups. One of the EMTs offered me a Coke, and Mom 16

nodded her approval. My family usually only had Coke, the “baby” ones in glass bottles, on Sunday nights while we ate popcorn and watched “The Wonderful World of Disney” and Mutual of Omaha’s “Wild Kingdom,” with me sitting under the shower-cap dryer with giant, pink, plastic rollers in my almost-knee-length hair. As I sipped my Coke, delighted in being permitted the rare treat, I suddenly remembered why we were there in the first place. I must have made a face, because one of the EMTs quickly hugged me and said, “Honey, your Mommy’s gonna be just fine. Don’t worry your little self about it.” I looked at Mom then, and she knew, just like she always knew. “She’s not worried. She’s mad. She thinks she’s missing Donny.” “Oh, honey! They’re not even on stage yet! C’mon with me. You’re not going to miss your Donny!” The EMT led me out of the booth to what had to be the best seats in the whole place. I was still under the awning and out of the blistering sun, but I could see everything and I could hear everything and then THERE HE WAS! Donny Osmond was RIGHT THERE! We were so close that I just knew that he saw me when I waved and screamed his name. When he looked to his right and smiled, there was no doubt in my mind that his smile was just for me. The EMTs rolled Mom out in a wheelchair with Jodi in her lap, still clutching her ice chips and trying not to fall asleep. I grinned at Mom, and she grinned back and winked. I was positive that she had done it all on purpose, just to be sure that I got a good seat. She’s that kind of Mom. 17

A Million to One One day in late 1988 or early 1989, when I was working for Arnold Barnett at Creative Dimensions Advertising Agency, I got a phone call . . . “Creative Dimensions.” “Hey, girl. You busy?” I knew the voice immediately. It was our rep from Q102, a tall, thin woman who always reminded me of Shelly Duvall in “Popeye.” “Nah. It’s filing day. Nothing that can’t be put off again. Why? What’s up?” ‘Well, I know you’re about my age, and I thought you might, uh, well, I thought you might be interested in . . . but I really . . . well, I really wasn’t sure if you’d want to . . . I mean, if you’re not interested, you know, if you don’t want to or anything, that’s ok. Really, it’s ok. I mean, I’ll understand and everything.” The stammering, the unfinished sentences, that wasn’t like her, not like her at all. This was a woman who held her ground in the face of one of the most feared radio-time negotiators in the history of advertising in Cincinnati. She definitely had my attention. “I’m always interested! What is it? Got tickets to something nobody wants?” “Um, no, not really . . . well, kinda. Have you, uh, listened to the radio today?” “Yeh . . . I listened to ‘EBN on the way in . . . why?” “So, you haven’t been listening to us?” “Uh, no . . . should I have? Why? What’s going on? Did I forget something? Did you tell me to listen to something today?” 18

As I prepared to make my most humble apologies for whatever it was that I’d missed, I heard her take a deep breath and then let it out before almost whispering, “Um, would you be interested in coming to the station to see, um, Donny Osmond?” I remember very calmly telling her that I’d love to and slowly replacing the receiver in its cradle, looking down and silently thanking whatever gods there be that I’d worn something half-way decent . . . then sprinting to Arnold’s office, where I firmly informed him that I was leaving, that I didn’t know when I’d be back, and that he could fire me if he wanted to but I was going to Q102 to see Donny Osmond! Arnold just shook his head and laughed, and told me to go on and have fun. When I arrived at the station, I was greeted by a group of five goggly-eyed women who proceeded to drag me to the window of the deejay booth where I could look in and see the real, the live, the honest-toGod DONNY OSMOND. He was no more than five feet away, separated from me by only a sheet of sound-proofed glass. I lifted my hand to close my mouth, which I had discovered was hanging agape without my consent. The movement must have caught his attention, because he turned to his right, smiled, and waved. POOF! I was eight years old again, Mrs. Donny Osmond in the stands with my special Coke and the best seat in the house. I waved back. (Honestly, I don’t know if I actually accomplished that astonishing feat of bravery or if I simply continued to stand there with my unconsenting jaw hanging on the floor, but let’s just pretend that I did.) A man’s voice told us that we should probably go sit in the lobby area until they were finished with the interview. The six of us perched in or on the chairs and 19

couches, giggling at our memories, laughing at ourselves and our adolescent behavior, and waiting – for another smile, another wave, the slightest acknowledgement of our presence. And then the door to the studio opened. The silence was instantaneous. The previously animated, chatty group was somehow simultaneously struck mute as the shared idol of our childhoods walked across the lobby. I was holding my breath with the rest of them, staring and grinning at him like an idiot, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop myself. The squeals that resounded from the lobby walls the second the restroom door swung shut should have broken the windows. One of the a.m. deejays walked through just in time to witness this strange and inexplicable phenomenon. Shaking his head in amazement, all he could say was, “Man, I wish I could do that.” Donny’s passage back to the studio was again accompanied by complete silence, but this time, his twinkling eyes and mischievous grin gave him away. He’d seen this and heard it, or not heard it, a million times before, and still found it amusing. (When I read Donny’s book, “Life Is Just What You Make It,” I remember getting tickled at the part where he admitted that, although he never really got used to this bizarre female reaction, his response to the deejay would still have probably been, “Eat your heart out, Squirrel.”) As soon as Donny was out of eye-shot, a station manager appeared and asked us to accompany him into one of the conference rooms. We trailed silently behind him then sat fidgeting in our chairs, wondering what was going on and maybe, just maybe, if we were about to be berated for acting like preteen fools in public . . . or for busting a window. 20

When they escorted Donny into the room, I thought I was going to die right then and there. When he took the seat next to mine, looked right at me and said, “Hi,” I think I did. He was still grinning at me when the station manager began to explain that we were being asked to view Donny’s new music video and voice our opinions. The lights dimmed, and the video began to play on a screen suspended from the ceiling. I’m positive that, at this point, I was in the final stages of clinical shock. The video was “Sacred Emotion,” Donny was singing, and there was a barn in it. Other than that, I’m a blank. All I can remember is thinking, “I’m sitting less twelve inches from Donny Osmond in a dark room. I’m sitting less than twelve inches from Donny Osmond in a dark room.” Over and over, this litany rang in my mind, my sanity definitely at risk at the moment I realized that I could actually reach out and touch him if I dared – he was thatclose. When the lights came up and everyone else started applauding, my hands reacted in kind. He turned and looked around the room, his eyes pausing as they met mine. I quickly glanced away, catching a glimpse of my watch in the process, and was startled when I realized that I’d already been gone over two hours. I knew that Arnold thought the world of me, but I didn’t want to push it. I stood up and stammered something about getting back to work, and that’s when Donny said to me, “Do you want an autograph?” My heart, which had heretofore been racing in my chest like a thoroughbred headed for the finish line, stopped dead. My mouth went dry and my entire body went numb. Donny said to me. Donny said TO ME. DONNY SAID TO ME! 21

All I could do was nod my head and grin. I could tell at this point that he was seeing me for what I really was – an eight-year-old trapped in a twenty-fouryear-old body, vainly attempting to smother the squeal that I’m sure he read plainly in my eyes. He asked me for my name and I told him, then watched in horror as he, like every other person in the entire English-speaking world who had ever asked for my name, immediately wrote “Sh.” How do you tactfully tell your idol, the love of your adolescent life, the ex-husband of your prepubescent daydreams, that he just spelled your name wrong? I guess I hesitated just a fraction of a second too long, because my rep jumped up and stammered, “Um, she spells it with a ‘C’.” Donny looked at me, questioning, and I nodded. He immediately crumpled the paper and reached for a new one. Obviously, this turn of events didn’t faze him a bit. In fact, I’m sure that it happened all the time. I, on the other hand, was mortified. I wanted to crawl under the nearest rug, slink into the darkest corner, move to a foreign land and disappear. Damn my Mother and her creative spelling! Slowly, I spelled it out for him: “C, h, e, l, l, e.” Donny wrote my name, looked up at me and said, “That’s a pretty spelling. Unusual.” I nodded. He grinned again, signed his name with a flourish, and handed me my heart on Q102 letterhead, a simple piece of paper that would become my treasure for time immemorial. My hand inadvertently brushed his as I reached to take the paper. The electricity was instantaneous, the flame not ours to ignore. Sparks landed in our eyes, blinding us to everything but each other. In that brief 22

moment, we knew that we were meant to be together, that this was our fate . . . Ok, maybe not, but I know I felt something. Probably static. I stammered something that was meant to be “thank you” and bolted out the door. I could feel my face flushing and knew I was acting like a fool, but there was nothing I could do. He’d been too close, too human, too real. I knew I had to get out of there before I said something totally stupid like, “Remember me? The Ohio State Fair? I was the one waving.” My pulse raced me down the stairs and out the door. When I reached the safe confines of my car, I rolled the windows down and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. As I began to calm down, I laughed at the ass I’d just made of myself. My one chance to meet him, my million-to-one shot, and I blew it. I could have told him so many things, like how wonderful I thought the video was, how I’d been a fan since I was too young to remember, how I owned all of his albums, or even how I’d seen him at the Ohio State Fair years ago when my sister puked on an angel and my Mom fainted and I got a great seat. I could have even told him that, right then, Arnold and I were writing and producing commercials for Willey Ford, a dealership just outside of Salt Lake City, Utah. I could have told him that I had done a lot of the voice work and asked if maybe, just maybe, he’d heard me on the radio. I could have told him so many things, things to make him remember me, things to make me stand out in the never-ending parade of people he’s met over the years. I could even hear him telling one of his brothers, “Oh, and I met this girl, Chelle - she spells her name with a ‘C’ - and she told me the funniest story . . . “ 23

But what DID I say, million miles a minute mouth that I am? Just what did I say to Donny Osmond when I was finally face-to-face with him, when I was given the chance to speak to him, to tell him anything I wanted to say? “Hi.” I’m pretty sure I said, “Hi.” Until the Twelfth of Never So on to 2002, when my sister gave me the greatest early birthday present a Donny-phile could ever get – two tickets to see “This Is The Moment . . . An Evening With Donny Osmond” in Chicago on April 27th. The first thing I heard when I opened the envelope was my husband declaring, “I ain’t goin’!” My sister laughed and informed him that she planned to go with me as long as I could keep my mouth shut. She’d told everybody at work that she was going to see Sting. It took me two weeks to find the perfect outfit and shoes to match. Friday night, Greg, Jesse, and I traveled to Jodi’s house in Merrillville, Indiana, and stayed all night. Saturday afternoon, Jodi and I left the boys to go eat at Hooters while we dined sinfully at Petterino’s in downtown Chicago. An older gentleman came to our table while we were waiting for our meals and asked if he could sit with us for a moment, claiming that his legs “weren’t as young as they used to be” and that he needed a rest. We both assumed that he was the maitre’d and, as such, were quite taken aback by his brazen manner and obvious lack of decorum (tsk tsk, dahling!), but what else could we do but invite him to sit down? He talked to us through the appetizers and salads, asking whether we had eaten there before and where we were going after dinner, even being a little ornery at times, but we 24

thoroughly enjoyed his company. When our meals arrived, he excused himself, saying that he had enjoyed our chat and that he hoped we would come in again. Fully sated, we paid for our meals and were preparing to leave when I happened to notice a huge picture-poster hung in an auspicious spot above the bar – it was him! Our “maitre’d” turned out to be none other than Mr. Petterino himself! I rushed back to the main dining area and located him, then connived my way into a picture with him in front of his picture. The Oriental Theatre in downtown Chicago is a grand old building, with painted ceilings and tons of architectural details to draw your eye. Our seats were in the balcony, purple plush velvet benches – how perfect! We each ordered a glass of wine, then sat gawking at the SRO crowd. My family had shamed me into believing that Jodi and I would be two of only twenty women in attendance, so we were both shocked at the sheer size of the assemblage, not to mention the number of men in the audience. The show was wonderful, with some of Donny’s great new-old tunes and a wonderful medley of the “old stuff” to a reggae beat, plus a fabulous rendition of his show-stopping hit from “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” but my favorite part was when the screen dropped out of the ceiling and Donny sang “Puppy Love” with a younger version of himself. My teen idol on the screen and a heart-throb on the stage – life is good. Right before the last song, the emcee announced that Donny was signing autographs for the first 100 people in line. Jodi tried leaving a little early to save me a spot but was stopped at the door. The line was already at 100 before the announcement was even made. 25

Three great things came out of that evening. First, I got to see Donny Osmond. Second, but by no means second place, I got to spend a great day with my sister, whom I love dearly and in whose company I cherish every second. The third thing I didn’t really appreciate until Jodi was divorcing and told me – the whole extravagant-expenditure thing had really pissed off her now ex-husband. Bonus. I didn’t get another autograph that night, but like I told Jodi, I have one, and maybe because I wasn’t in line, somebody else got one who will appreciate theirs as much as I do mine. But as we were walking out of the theatre, Donny paused in his writing, looked up and to his right, and smiled. I waved. I know he saw me. I was the one wearing purple. .

Meghan Woods ———————

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Winner, Malcolm Sedam Writing Contest 2007 (Poetry)

She Sleeps With Clothes On The young woman with the midnight cravings, counts the 14 steps down to the family room, hardwood floor, as shiny as the foil wrapper she has her mind on. Tugging at the Frigidaire door, her full stomach connects back to her mind, which says “no”, but her tongue, with its mapped receptors, rolls off a “yes”. And so she takes the wrapped, chocolate hazelnut, peels away its skin, and finds a rice paper message inside: “You will always be beautiful to me and I will always be true to you” – poetics from chocolate. The young woman, in the midnight television glow, places the chocolate on the kitchen counter, counts the 14 steps up to the warm bedroom that could melt the chocolate, and its truth, if only she would let it.

[I sat outside the rental house] I sat outside the rental house, watched a man take a sledgehammer to a car. It took several, several blows to smash in the windows. But the dents came easily, like when picking up a soda can you thought was full. The man climbed on top of the hood – a monkey laughing in a jungle of twisted scrap metal, tiny jagged shards, while his kids ran around the car barefoot. As I went inside to grab the phone to call the police, I heard the children giggle. Put the phone back down. But I never forgot about the glass – I wonder if it went deep into their little feet – how it must have hurt to laugh. And if the man was so mad that he didn’t know what to do but laugh. 28

For Stella I have sat here on this limp-pillowed sofa for four hours trying to write a poem for you. About you. Inside you. Outside you. But there is no one in the world that could possibly care about your aquamarine eyes, your red-tinged-with-blonde ringlets, your ticklegiggle spots, like I do. No baby-sitter could ever care about what you had for lunch, if you had a book read to you today, what that temper-tantrum really meant, like I do. And no teacher, no matter how many apples you bring them, or how much money they don’t make, will ever worry about what you will be, or about the hoops you will go though to get there. Like I did. Like I do. Like the words on this page, they can’t convey the meaning between you and me. Baby-girl and Momma. No one really knows what “trite” is until they’ve coaxed you into the world for fifteen hours, held your head at their breast, cried when you wouldn’t latch-on, rubbed your chubby belly to sleep. How can firsts be trite? Learning be trite? There is no one in the world that could possibly care about this poem, like I do. And I write this for you.

Laundry is woven with threads of us. Lives with us, soiled with what we touch, what we see and breathe. Colors blend, bleed together â&#x20AC;&#x201C; pictures of everyday: Sun dripping on black shirt, fading it ash-black, and so-on, and so-on . . . Spinning Spinning and spinning. Cleaner than our mouths, unless left in the washer: Smells soured, smells like lazy. Like some people. Laundry â&#x20AC;&#x201C; now a blank canvas, that will be greased, creased, by the miles and minutes we create.

Cut Strings His only fond memory of Dad is when he took a piece of the sky, turned it into a kite. The kite was striped with green and blue. Dad must have forgotten his son, how he loved red, sometimes orange. A tree caught it. Hugged the kite with its budding March branches. Same as the kite, his dad never came back. When the winds would pick-up, lightly, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d look to the sky, hoping a piece would turn. So he could follow the string back down to ground where Dad would be.

Neil Marks ———————

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Between two Worlds She is a mere sixteen but yet appears A woman gracious, an exotic jewel, Intelligent and wise beyond her years, The product of a proper home and school. She is a mere sixteen so still a child, Her innocence, having been sheltered well, Maintained, inquisitive, of temper mild, Happy to hear the stories elders tell. The pull toward peers is strong, but then away She looks, as if a shift from pole to pole; Such magnetism varies by the day, With each direction pleasing to her soul. A full adulthood is her destiny, Of course, so to one sweet and so refined I offer rich advice without a fee: Leave not th’exuberance of youth behind.

Converting the Nonbelievers O how does one ignite a heathen’s heart? It dormant lies beneath that heard, that seen, That felt by touch, an entity apart From things important—new or loud or green. Can they to Keats’s Capability Relate, to rise above experiences Into imaginative transcendency, Building upon, not dwelling in the senses? The “Grecian Urn” can tease us out of thought; Of Beauty as if one with Truth it speaks; Beyond the superficial thus is taught Lies lovely essence, which the good heart seeks. The Grasmere poet’s journey to sublime Through hill and vale and town “The Prelude” shares: The summit of Mont Blanc suspends all time; To Chaumony below no site compares. In towns had Frenchmen drunk and sung and danced To celebrate at last their freedoms gained; To him by Nature’s majesty entranced ‘Twas clear imagination’s power reigned. There was abundant green, though none to own, Pervasive quietude but much to hear, And nothing new within the mountain stone, Yet for a seeking heart impassioned cheer. Mr. Darcy’s overcoming prejudice, The pilgrim’s journey from the depths to Light, Olivia’s patient pursuit of bliss Sufficient are to make the heart take flight. 33

As Arthur was betrayed by Guinevere, From Eve’s temptation Paradise was lost, And raging temper cost Othello dear, The heart is taught how fortunes may be tossed. Indeed the words do speak of passion’s range, Of varied outcomes and the spirit’s state Which prompts in certain characters a change To heroes spawn, in others lesser fate. Since Hamlet’s fall left issues unresolved, In hero’s cloak did Fortinbras appear; In death Verona’s tragedy involved Two innocents and prejudicial fear. However, hope may rise in those bereaved, For Tennyson confused felt Hallam’s breath In love’s immortal flame, and Shelley grieved Assured that verse defies untimely death. For those whose destiny in commerce lies, The heart is seen as mechanistic tool; They’ll come to skillful be but never wise Without a dose of literature in school. The businessman with Wordsworth in the vales Sees shopping malls and woodlands to be cleared, Not Nature wild and tame or nightingales Which to the poets have themselves endeared. Immersion in the language of the Bard Brings joy, depression, tears, and all sublime Unto an unformed heart which would turn hard, As rigid as a corpse before its time. In spite of judgment poor was Paradise 34

Regained, and Dante was released from Hell, Which hope provides with proper sacrifice, But how much time remains one cannot tell.

Chelle Creekbaum ———————

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Growing Pains He yelled at me again. He yelled at me and I yelled back. That’s how we communicate these days, me and this preteen consumer who has replaced my son. We used to be best friends, and he’d sit for hours and listen to me read, spellbound as I created his favorite characters again and again, wide-eyed at their antics and their stories, and just the sound of my voice. We used to talk about everything, school, sports, his friends, the bullies, and the girls, who he wanted to be for Halloween and what he wanted for Christmas, and he asked for my opinions and advice. We used to be close, and when he looked at me, I knew he was looking straight into my heart and seeing just how much I love him, and I could see in his eyes just how much he loved me in return. But today, he yelled at me, and I just can’t figure it out – Does he think I can’t hear him? Or that I’m not listening? 36

Tess harmon ———————

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Bushy beards I like their bushy beards. These young boys, with their plaid shirts and hastilyscrawled lyrics, and with their hopes to write the next song that will change the world. But it’s the beards that distract me and make me blush. The flush and softness of their youth on their cheeks looms almost peculiarly above those bristles. But it’s the eyes that get me the most. We all show our age in our eyes. And these boys, with their rosy cheeks and bristles have the eyes of a gypsy generation. My eyes. A generation of non-conformists. A generation of the wandering, though not lost (thank you, Tolkien). A rambling generation. Yes, rambling. That word fits us well. We don't want what has come before us. We don't want your shiny cars and big houses, because we know the cost of them was your heart, your soul. No, we don't want your 401K. We don't want your Ivy League schools – do you think you can buy a relationship with us? Buy back the childhood you were never apart of? 37

But, we don't want to be poor. No. We still want families and homes and maybe a trip to the beach every once in a while. We want the good food and the good times. But not at the cost of our souls. We don't want to be 50 and find that we hate what we do, and we don't know our kids. We don't want to be 70 and realize that none of this meant anything â&#x20AC;&#x201C; well, nothing that we did anyway. We don't want your hardness. We don't want your coldness. So we take the other route, the one you say leads to poverty and a blazing dead-end. We pick up guitars and emotions. We pick up all the missing links inside of us and try to put them back together. You tried to tell us how. But coping doesn't work. So we are going to try to sing and to write and scream and cry and love all of our broken pieces back together again. We are going to care more about the simple and less about retirement (just to warn you). We are going to probably try to talk philosophically about things we don't understand. We are probably going to look stupid sometimes. We, and our emotions and heartstrings. 38

We, and our beards and nose rings. So let us â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and it â&#x20AC;&#x201C; be. We, the merry bunch of ramblers. You made your decisions. We will make ours. You're living with your decisions and so will we. So, let it be. But my favorite part of this rambling generation of mine? I like their bushy beards.

Steve Conley

Courtney Curtner 42

Courtney Curtner

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Courtney Curtner

Joe Mitchell 46

Joe Mitchell

Anonymous MUM Postcard Secrets

Johnna Roark 49

Johnna Roark 50

Johnna Roark 51

Johnna Roark

Allison Singhoffer

Allison Singhoffer 56

Katie Henry 57

Katie Henry 58

Mark Reedy 59

Mark Reedy

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Lee Rogers ———————

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Winner, Malcolm Sedam Writing Contest 2007 (fiction) Post Office Gremlins I have never believed in the tooth fairy. I have never believed in leprechauns or unicorns or the Easter bunny. I’ve always thought myself to be a sensible man and I know what I saw. Yesterday morning was particularly gloomy. It had been raining all night long. I woke up, took a quick shower, and stumbled into the kitchen for some coffee before heading to work at the post office. Work began the same as always. I said hello to Sarah and Mary who work the counter and made my way back to the mailroom. I hung up my coat and umbrella, clocked in, and then went to my workstation. Everyone always thinks data entry is so mind numbing, but I don’t much mind it. You get used to it after a few years. Charlie had come in shortly after that. That Charlie, always joking around. Nobody ever had nothing bad to say about Charlie. Well, I was sitting at the computer, going over some numbers, and Charlie had come up behind me. This part really isn’t even worth mentioning, only I know how thorough you’d like me to be. So, there I was typing along, and I guess Charlie thought it would be pretty funny to come up and shake his umbrella out over the top of my head. We all had a good laugh about it after I went to dry off a bit and wiped down my station. It only ruined about a half hour’s work is all. 63

It was after everyone dispersed that I first saw it. Only it went by so fast, I couldn’t make it out at all. I just knew that something the size of a large dog that was dark in color shot around the corner of a workstation that was two down from me. Immediately I sprang up and went to see what it was, only, there wasn’t anything there. It had just disappeared. At that time, I chalked it up to being so groggy from such a poor night’s sleep. I went back to my desk. As I was sitting down, I noticed there were puddles of water around my chair, which I thought was strange since I had just mopped everything up. I cleaned it up and got back to work. Nothing out of the ordinary happened again until lunchtime. Charlie and Scott and some of the other guys were going out to lunch and they asked me if I should like to join them. I don’t often go out to lunch, so the offer sounded good. Only, when I went to grab my coat, it wasn’t there. A couple of the fellas snickered and I knew it was one of Charlie’s jokes again. I was angry at first, but Charlie never meant anything by his jokes, so it didn’t last too long. The guys had already taken off for lunch by the time I found my coat, so I ate alone in the breakroom. It didn’t bother me none, since I brought some leftover pot roast from the night before. Now here’s the part where things start to get a little fuzzy. While I was eating, I thought I heard a scraping noise just outside the door. It was only 12:30 and I knew Charlie and Scott and the rest wouldn’t have been back by then. It was such a soft scraping that if it had been louder, I probably wouldn’t have paid it any attention. But, something about the softness pulled me to go look. Quietly, I went to the door and eased it barely open. What I saw I have no explanation for. There were, about 15 feet in front of me, three 64

creatures I can only begin to describe as gremlins. They were roughly three feet tall with a thick frame and were completely black in color, except for their glowing, white, orb-like eyes. Their skin looked like it would be smooth to the touch and the back of their skulls formed a crescent hook. Their hands were gnarled and large and had only three claws to each. The hands extended from arms that were too long to be in proportion to the rest of their bodies. I must have been standing there, watching them socialize, for several minutes, because the next thing that happened was the gang coming back from lunch. The approaching footsteps sent the gremlins off running on all fours. And then they were gone. I stood there, not knowing what I should do. After all, I couldn’t tell anyone. I mean, would you have believed me? So, I just stood there considering my options when the guys came through the doors. I didn’t move when I saw them looking around with mischievous grins about them. I still didn’t move when I saw Charlie smear his muddy boot against the seat of my chair. That Charlie. The last thing I saw were the gremlins running full force at him. Everyone had astonished looks in their eyes. No one could believe what they were seeing. And then, the gremlins were upon him, slashing him with their claws, tearing him open with their teeth. By the time the others tried to intervene, Charlie lay in a slump, what was left of him. I remember so much blood. “And then?” “That’s it. That’s all I remember.” “So, you’re telling me, that a band of hostile gremlins killed Charlie Walker while you looked on?” “You don’t believe me.” The Sheriff smiled. “Son, is there anything you would like to add for the record?” 65

“Everybody loves Charlie, why would I hurt him?” The Sheriff turned off his recorder and slid it in his shirt pocket. “I’ll send someone in to see that you’re cleaned up.” The Sheriff stood and went out of the room. “He says he didn’t do it,” the Sheriff said, turning to the Deputy, who was waiting outside the room. “How does he explain the fact he’s soaked head to toe with Charlie’s blood? Or the four witnesses against him? Or how his steak knife was the murder weapon? ” “He didn’t elaborate on that,” said the Sheriff. “Well… what did you talk about?” “Tell me,” said the Sheriff, “Do you believe in the tooth fairy?”

Anonymous ———————

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This is Not an Exit In your cheap apartment there is a table. On the table there is a brochure. The brochure is for the college that you attend. It says, “State University! All that college has to offer!” Next to the brochure are a bong, twelve empty beer cans, and another bong made out of an empty beer can. On the floor is a text book soaked in beer and piss and vomit, swelled to the size of a telephone book. You sit on the couch, eating cereal, ignoring the smell, watching the news, enjoying the morning sun streaming in the front window. Your roommate staggers in, squinting at the light. He has been passed out in his room for a long time. He looks around at the mess, smiles at you, says, “Hell of a party last night eh? Fuck!” Jesus, you think. Jesus Christ. The party was three nights ago. There is a Visine bottle on top of the T.V. Your roommate bought the bottle and somehow dissolved an entire teaspoon of cocaine in it. It’s now half full of milky Visine, topped off with blood and boogers. He grabs the bottle, tips it into his nose, squeezes and snorts. The liquid in the bottle foams. Your spoon drops, clinking into your cereal bowl. You turn away. There is no way to describe this. This is all your roommate has to offer. “Hey man, you gotta check a fucking calendar,” you say. “Your main man called today,” presently you say the name of his professor. “You 67

missed his class a few times. He called yesterday too.” “Ok. Man. Ok.” He plops down into the recliner and turns on the Xbox. He is playing a football game, and the teams are Miami University and State University, your college. Every few minutes he snorts, hawks, and spits a bloody glob into an empty beer can. There is blood running down his nose, staining his T-shirt. He doesn’t notice. The shirt says, “State University has been a college as long as Florida has been a state.” People get lost differently. Men lose themselves after two kids and fifteen years of marriage. They buy a convertible and start fucking their sister-inlaw. Some women turn into religious fanatics when their kids move out, and then go on weekend prayer retreats when their husbands move out. Some nerdy, quiet kids go insane from people ignoring them, annoying them, infuriating them. Some people get lost at college; sell the car their parents bought them and buy a pound of cocaine a month. That is your roommate. He and his professor started snorting before they fucked. Your roommate’s professor has tenure and is married with two children. He makes great money, but your roommate buys all of the dope. You don’t know why it works that way, but there are more absurd points of the relationship to contend. You watch him play video games for a few minutes and, convinced he isn’t going to pass out, leave for class.

Teaching your first class is a woman who 68

doesn’t speak English very well. She’s very beautiful, and always seems embarrassed when she can’t fight through “inequality” or “equilibrium.” You want to tell her that she’s a fucking genius for being able to teach Economics in her second language, but you don’t. Only you and one other quiet kid show up for class everyday. You struggle through understanding her speech. She struggles through understanding everyone else’s indifference. You sit in the back row every day. You watch the whole class, and pay attention to the conversation of the girls that sit in front of you. They all have matching tattoos above their asses, matching French pedicures, and for some reason, the color of their thongs are the same every single day. They have deep, false tans. The classroom is old. The professor has to write on an ancient chalkboard. Your tuition is 23,982 dollars a year. There are 14,643 State University undergraduates. According to your independent calculations, 23,982 dollars multiplied by 14,642 students equals ancient fucking chalkboards. This is all Economics has to offer.

After class you go back to your apartment, and your roommate is passed out in the recliner. His nose is still leaky. The Visine bottle is lying on his chest, empty. You wipe off his face, plug his nose with toilet paper, and carry him to his room. Of course, after that it’s time to get drunk.

That night, you go to a party at a friend’s 69

house. The porch is overflowing, the house is brimming. The kid pumping the keg is the 16 year old little brother of one of the housemates. It’s SIBS weekend, where students show their younger brothers and sisters the university. A college brochure – “State University! Man the keg, you little bitch!” At the party, you’re hit on by a freshman. She’s easy to pick out; too much tit showing, eyes wide, giggling and searching for approval. Your eyes flash like a tiger’s. Her name is Minnie, “like the mouse…but cuter! Ok? Man? Ok?” When a college guy is trying to pick up a girl, he tries to goad her into drinking a lot of beer. When you are children you throw rocks at girls on the playground. When you are in high school you pass notes, please circle yes or no. When you are in college, you get too drunk to think. This is all courtship has to offer. Minnie has a drink. You have a drink. Then you both have twelve more. Of course, after that you fuck.

At Economics the next day, your tongue feels like there is carpet growing on it. The teacher still hasn’t learned to speak English well. A tanned girl sitting next to you says, loud enough for the class to hear, “Speak American, bitch!” American. Swear to God. The professor is mortified. The quiet kid in the front row turns around slowly, training his eyes on the girl. His eyes are barrels, his face blasts contempt. 70

Later on, you take a walk. In the afternoon there was a pro-life rally on campus. To compensate, there was also a pro-choice rally. The pro-lifers left one of their signs up. It shows a dead fetus with its head detached from its baby body. A head detached. The sign is ten feet tall. You turn away. There is no way to describe this. You walk home, almost running. You run into your bedroom and slide under the sheets. You masturbate bitterly, orgasm weakly. This is all your dick has to offer.

The next day the quiet kid isn’t in Economics class. He has, for the moment, decided to give the chattering monkeys and the garbled lecture a rest. You think he’s got a brilliant idea, so in the middle of the lecture you walk out of class. The sun is bright. It perfectly crisps your vision. You can see every green blade of grass, the glint off of a Frisbee some guys are throwing, the sparkle of a beautiful woman’s teeth, and the arching stonework of umber buildings that have stood as students have passed for almost two hundred years, the gleam of perfectly pedicured toes, a woman winking at a man, the sheen of morning dew on the lawns, the parks, the color, heart, love, life, truth, breath, songs, smiles, laughing, the calm before.

At home, your roommate is passed out on the recliner. A CD is blaring lyrics, no alarms and no 71

surprises no alarms and no surprises. There is still half of a massive joint left in the ashtray, which you smoke. Then you carry him to his room, and put him to bed. Your cell phone chirps, Minnie is calling, rockandroll it’s time to party. On your way over to Minnie’s apartment, you call your mom. She asks how you are. You say fine and ask about dad. She says fine. She talks about your little sister applying to college. You say that your sister should go out of state, not like you. Mom clucks her tongue. You say fine. Minnie, nineteen years old, is waiting with condoms.

Later. Minnie, you, cigarette smoke, sweat cooling. “Do you think college is weird?” “What do you mean?” “I mean, the other day I was riding in the city bus at nine in the morning and some guy puked rum and pickles all over the floor, and then just stepped off the bus like nothing happened. Who the fuck does that? What kind of fucking hell am I living in?” “Yeah. Sometimes my girlfriends ride around in my car with me. Every song I pick out they hate. I feel like we, you know, have nothing in common.” “Ok. Man. Ok.” Of course, after that you leave.

The next day in Economics, the quiet kid walks into class during the professor’s lecture. He looks like he hasn’t slept. He is holding a handgun. The room 72

stops. You turn away. There is no other way to describe this. He is pointing the gun at you. All of you. A college brochure – “State University! The End is Near!” Three months from now your dumbass, racist sheriff trying to sell tragedy to get elected senator. Three weeks from now a charity record from pop stars, actors asking for a moment of silence. Far away camera shots of campus buildings, news anchor commentating, CNN whoring, MSNBC whoring, Jon Stewart making jokes about everyone else whoring. Right now, someone in class pulls a cell phone, begins recording. A cell phone. Next week, Youtube.com, 30,000 views. Tomorrow, cleaning up brain matter and pieces of skull from the chalk ledge in front of the blackboard. A fucking candlelight vigil. All week long analysts asking what movies he liked, what videos games he played, asking what comics he read. Asking what his parents were like. Asking what his grades were like, what his papers were like. Asking all about him. Asking. Asking. Ok. Man. Ok? Right now the quiet student is shouting. You piss yourself. That is all you have to offer.

Of course, after that the kid begins shooting.

Madison NicholasBell ———————

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Ruby Slippers They sit in the vivid sunlight; hands soaring with words over the flower-patterned tablecloth. Ruby red slippers hang in the air between them. With each progressing word the slippers sway, slicing the air between them, spilling out words, and water, and tales of long ago. Something sizzles. One of them has to get up, to turn the knob to low. The ruby velvet slippers trail after her. The one at the table tries to grasp them, but too late. They have gone with the first one. No, now they are back. She sits in the vivid light, her hands on the flower-patterned tablecloth. The ruby slippers once again hang in the air between them.

It began on a day when the sky was so hot Nina thought it would spill its molten blue upon her with a burning touch. She looked down and let out a shrill squeal that sliced the thick air. “What now?!” It was her older sister, Gemma, always exasperated with her. “The chicks are gonna kill me!” Nina yelled. Gemma, choosing not to reply, rolled her eyes and went back inside. Nina ventured another look at her short, wide feet. Tiny furry bodies of yellow, black, and brown flowed over them. They pecked at her toes, and waited for her to throw their feed and run. Nina couldn’t believe it was so warm in mid-March. It had only been four months since she had turned twelve. Wait, that meant that three months had 74

already passed since her dad died. She was still angry with him for dying right before Christmas. She had spent hours embroidering his initials into five handkerchiefs. If you knew her, you wouldn’t believe this. She couldn’t sit still for more than a few seconds, she always spoke her mind, and she couldn’t ever seem to get anything right, at least according to her three older sisters. Right after her dad died, her sisters grieved for days and wouldn’t stop crying, but she didn’t waste her time with that. She was just mad. Still, every time she saw dust down the lane, she almost hoped it was her dad. She’d expect him to be coming back from the “other place.” That was what her family called the other farm that they owned. This time, she knew it was different. The sun continued to beat hot upon her shoulders when she spied great clouds of dust rising far in the distance. She saw this before she heard the sound of hooves battering the dirt road, turned to dust in the heat. Considering that she saw the dust before she heard the horses, she guessed the buggy was near the Crostan’s place. This made her think of her dad again. Mrs. Crostan loved to talk, and whenever Nina’s dad would have to pass her house, he’d nudge the horses to fly faster and faster past her porch. He was a shy, gentle man. He couldn’t get a word in when Mrs. Crostan stopped him to talk. Snapping back to reality, Nina realized that she needed to tell her mother they were going to have a visitor. Alta, her mother, might just have enough time to start making a lemon cream pie, and Nina might be able to change into her yellow silk dress trimmed with black velvet ribbon. Throwing what was left of the feed to the chicks, she bolted inside, kicking up dust behind her heels. “Mom,” Nina bellowed. “What is it?” Alta calmly stepped out of the 75

kitchen, her mouth set in its familiar firm line. However strict her countenance seemed, it only meant she was headstrong, like Nina. “Mom, I saw some dust way down by the Crostan’s. It looks like they’re coming this way. Would you make that lemon cream pie, and I could wear my yellow dress?” Alta agreed. Turning again to the kitchen, she shook her head and allowed herself a rueful chuckle when she knew Nina couldn’t see anymore. Soon, Nina thought she could hear the clomp of the horses’ hooves. Nearly ten minutes later, Nina was waiting on the porch steps when she arrived. First, Nina could see white horses. That was rare. Most of their working horses were sorrel or appaloosa. Then, she could see that there were not only one or two white horses, but four white mares. They didn’t look like any horse she had ever seen. Their bodies were muscular, but lean, and they were much taller and faster than the horses on her farm. What they were pulling was much more than a regular wagon. It had the base of a wagon, but there seemed to be unusually comfortable seating in the front. Atop one of the cushions perched a lady. She was quite tall and sat ramrod stiff. When the wagon finally arrived at the edge of Nina’s yard, she jumped up from the porch and began to run through the grass toward it. All at once, she stopped, pitching her little, round body forward down the grassy hill. The look on the lady’s face was what had stopped her. It had an air of grandeur and importance. An extremely cool and calculating look, it had frightened Nina, something that did not happen often. When Nina saw that look on the lady with familiar features, set in an unfamiliar expression, she had known at once who it was. The woman had gray 76

curling hair, pinned up from her back and away from her face. She was definitely tall and thin, wearing an old- fashioned red velvet dress. Her fingers were long and stiff, and her feet were completely bare. Nina tumbled down the small hill, trying to stop herself. She could not. Finally, when she did come to a stop, she landed in a heap right at the lady’s bare feet. She looked up, knowing already that she would see the face of the infamous Aunt Sophie.

Nina knew all about Aunt Sophie. At least, she thought she had known. Aunt Sophie was supposed to be dead, wasn’t she? She tried to think back to the tales her dad had told about his old, crazy Aunt Sophie. Maybe Nina had just assumed she was dead because the stories were so full of longing and times past. Sophie had been the striking younger sister of Nina’s paternal grandfather. She was a renowned ballet dancer in France by the age of thirteen, long after her brother had sailed to the United States and started his family. She had had black, rippling hair, and eyes as gray as the Seine. She loved nothing better than her dancing, but had decided that she needed to start a new life in America. She was on her way to live with Nina’s grandfather when her ship wrecked. What a shame, Nina’s father had always said, especially because the ship was near docking. The people were saved in lifeboats, but Sophie had nearly drowned. She refused to leave the ship without her ruby velvet dancing slippers. Below deck, Sophie had trunks and trunks of ornate, expensive clothing. Her ruby velvet dancing slippers lay among the folds, hidden for safekeeping. Someone had to save her life by forcing her onto a 77

lifeboat. All of the cargo was lost, and there were no means with which to retrieve it. From that moment on, Sophie had never been the same. Aunt Sophie went on to live with her brother, not long before Nina’s dad was born. He had grown up with Aunt Sophie living in his home. After her shipwreck, she never danced again. Many times, she would go into depressions and have to be left alone for days. Even though Nina’s dad would have been glad to let her live with his family when his father died, she had gone to live with Nina’s aunt, who lived closer to the grandfather’s home. As Aunt Sophie grew older and older, she was hardly ever lucid. She spoke of her ruby velvet dancing slippers most of the time, and believed she could find them if she tried hard enough. Nina had never laid eyes on Sophie, even in photographs. However, her father had painted quite a vivid picture of her looks and her character. Nina could tell that, even though Aunt Sophie had had her problems, her dad had loved growing up with her. Although the strange visitor’s hair was pulled back and graying on that hot March day, Nina could have recognized that face and the flash of those eyes anywhere.

When Nina looked up at Aunt Sophie from the ground at her feet she didn’t merely recognize Sophie’s looks from the stories, she also saw some of her dad’s features in parts of Sophie’s face. She had his eyes, and although her mouth was stiff at the moment, Nina could see the lines where her upper lip had lifted more than once in his half-smile. “Well,” was all Aunt Sophie said, peering down at Nina from her looming height. Her voice was 78

thickly paired with a French accent, reminding Nina again of the stories that told of Sophie’s fame in that country. Her upper lip twitched, then stilled, as if she had stopped herself from smiling. She reached down her hand, helping Nina to her feet. Nina was still in shock and could not yet speak. Sophie strolled regally up the drive and entered the front door, unannounced. Nina tagged along behind, as usual. Next, there was Nina’s surprised Mother and the polite greetings between she and Sophie. Nina still could not believe that the Aunt Sophie was in their house. Was it possible that this was another of her father’s French relatives? After a plain dinner—through which Sophie hardly spoke—of mashed potatoes and corn, followed by the lemon cream pie for dessert, Alta lead Nina and Sophie into the living room and left them, with a quick sly smile at Nina. Nina vaguely wondered where everyone had gone and why she and Aunt Sophie had been left alone. But, she did not want to waste her opportunity. Now was her chance. “Are you really the Aunt Sophie that lived with my dad while he grew up?” Nina finally asked. She didn’t want to bring up the ruby slippers, yet. “Why, of course, Nina. You know, your father continued to communicate with me until just last year, when he…” she broke off in the middle of her sentence, caution flooding her face. Nina squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. She wanted to change the subject. “I mean, you really came from France and you were famous there?” A shadow now came across Sophie’s countenance, replacing the caution. Without warning, she stood up and walked out of the room. Nina did not see her again until the next afternoon. Each evening, she and Sophie sat in the living 79

room with only each other as company. Each evening, Aunt Sophie refused to answer and would leave the room whenever Nina inquired about her dancing. Nina was hardheaded. She hadn’t stopped trying yet. On the fifth evening, Nina asked the same question. This time, Aunt Sophie did not leave. “You know,” she replied thoughtfully, “at first I thought you only took after your mother with her firm manner and stubbornness. Now I am beginning to see that you are much more like your father than you may think. You certainly act like your mother, but you truly look like your father. I can see him now, when he was a twelve-year-old, like yourself. He was the gentlest little boy; very slow to anger…” her voice trailed off. It was Nina’s turn to get up and leave the room. She was tired of people talking about how wonderful her dad had been. She knew he had been, but she didn’t like to think about it. As she climbed into her bed she thought back to what Aunt Sophie had said. Maybe she knew things about Nina’s dad that Nina didn’t know. She had never really thought of him as a little boy. Then something else occurred to her. She had forgotten that Aunt Sophie was supposed to be crazy.

Nina and Aunt Sophie saw each other about the house for the next few days, but they hardly uttered so much as a word in passing. Finally, one evening after Sophie had been at the farm a little more than a week and a half, she asked Nina to sit down with her again in the living room. Before Nina could say anything at all, Sophie ordered, “Ask me your question again.” Nina was utterly surprised. But she repeated her question. This time, she was bold enough to ask 80

about the ruby velvet slippers. A half-second later she regretted it, seeing a glazed look come into Sophie’s gray eyes. “Yes, don’t you remember?” Sophie asked. Maybe she was crazy, Nina thought. “We danced together for the finest audiences, “ Sophie continued, “ and we would be rich someday. We were getting rich already. But I knew I had to find a new life. The money was getting in the way, and I didn’t feel like a dancer anymore. Well, I thought, I’ll go to America, to my brother’s house. I thought I could start a new life dancing there, in the United States. “But that wasn’t what happened. I remember the water and the frigid cold. I couldn’t see them, but I knew my ruby velvet dancing shoes—the ones my mother had given me—were in that water too. I had never danced in anything else. I tried to go back, but I knew I couldn’t. Knew it was too late. Do you remember where I can find them?” Nina was a little wary after this. She didn’t know how to get Aunt Sophie out of her trance. She decided to ask questions about her later life, hoping that Sophie would come out of it on her own. Almost instantly, she did. “But why couldn’t you have tried to dance later, when you lived with Grandpa?” Nina wondered. “That is something I have always wanted to know, myself. I never danced again, not even for my family. It was because I was angry. Anger slowly burned inside me the rest of my life. You see, that was my mistake. I felt spiteful and hateful, and I didn’t ever want to let that go. It was the only thing I had left, or so I believed. But truly, I could have danced anywhere in my bare feet and been successful. It just wasn’t what I was supposed to do. “You know, things were already corrupted 81

when I left France. Money was always in the way, and I don’t suppose it would have been any different here, after a time.” Nina had an idea, “You say you never even danced for your family. But could you dance for me?” And she did. Later, Nina wondered if it had been real, or if she had dreamed it. It was like nothing Nina had ever seen. It was wild twirls and it was leaps, but it was also stillness and calm. While she watched it, Nina knew nothing but dancing. After, something dropped inside of her, so that she felt like she was dancing too. Also, when she had finished, Aunt Sophie turned to Nina with a question in her eyes. “Now, if I tell you a story about your father’s growing-up years, will you tell me one about his grownup years?”

The next morning was cooler than the ones before it. The sky was gray and rolling like the Seine and Aunt Sophie was leaving. She had told no one, but Nina knew. She was already awake, lying in her small bed, when she heard Aunt Sophie’s movements. Quietly, she tiptoed outside and sat on the front porch. Aunt Sophie was already stepping toward her awaiting wagon. How the same driver had known to pick her up at this exact time, Nina did not know. The four white horses stomped their feet and rolled their noses in the air. Before she stepped up, refusing the driver’s outstretched hand, she turned back. Nina held her gaze for a few moments, saying nothing. Then, Sophie waved, smiling her half-smile. Nina returned the smile and waved as well, with a quick movement of her small hand. 82

Soon, Nina could no longer hear the clomp of the horsesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; hooves and the clouds of dust grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Nina could tell that the wagon had passed the Crostan farm and was well on its way to wherever Aunt Sophie was going. She felt Aunt Sophie leave, more than she witnessed it. She also felt something else: the ruby velvet slippers. They were there beside her, and she knew that they could hold anything at all. Long after the clouds of dust had disappeared, she let some of her long pent-up anger fall softly into the space of the ruby velvet dancing slippers.

The light has turned a dusky blue-red and their hands now lay still on the flower-patterned tablecloth. It is past suppertime, but they forgot their hunger long ago. Although one of them gets up to flip the light switch, the ruby velvet slippers no longer trail after her. They have long since fallen from the air between the two. Nina returns, the artificial light newly flooding the kitchen. She sits down, across from her granddaughter. Now, the slippers sit in front of the girl. Later, when she walks home, they trail behind her.

Michelle Lawrence ———————

——————–

Writing on The Wall The two old ladies that live next door like to gossip. Wearing polyester housecoats and slippers, they talk over Taster’s Choice and Virginia Slims on their patio each and every morning. Both of them have needed hearing aids for as long as I can remember, but neither can afford to see an audiologist. They’ve found that if they speak loudly and clearly, they can hear each other just fine. Problem is, I can hear them just fine, too, whether I’m pulling weeds along the fence line or walking the boys to the end of the driveway to catch the school bus. They talk about what the whole damned town of Roslyn knows. “Ina,” says Ruth, stirring a spoonful of dark crystals into her mug of hot water. “That girl’s never going to catch a break, is she?” “Nope,” Ina says, exhaling the smoke from her fifth menthol of the morning, “She sure ain’t.” Ruth makes the sign of the cross and keeps stirring. Ina’s cigarette dangles from her bottom lip while she talks. “You heard about her husband wanting custody of those boys, didn’t you?” “Ex-husband, you mean.” “Same difference; they all bury the same,” Ina said, her loud whisper carrying across the yard, her companion nodding. “Never was a lucky one, was she?”

I was born, two months early and covered with fine blond down, on Friday the thirteenth. When I was four, I was struck by lightning while flying a kite in the soccer field behind the school. By five, Mother and Dad were killed in a trolley accident, leaving my brother and me with our grandparents. When I was seven I caught pneumonia, and had to repeat the second grade. Grandma Clara caught it from me, and she never recovered. All that blond hair I was born with turned black, and no matter how long I blasted it with the hairdryer, the curls would never lay down. By the time I got to the fifth grade, the other children had a running bet that I would fall at least fifty times by Christmas. I surpassed that number by Thanksgiving. I’ve got pictures of me perched on Santa’s lap, my bare knees scraped and bruised. I had to go junior prom with my brother, who left me alone on the bleachers to drink cans of Iron City beer with his friends outside. “Molly,” he’d say. “It’s going to take one hell of a gambler to marry you.” Ina and Ruth say I should have known when Lucas Lowry, my ex, dropped the wedding ring during the ceremony, it would spell disaster. They weren’t surprised when I lost my job during our honeymoon, and then got pregnant with our first a month later. We were married for eight years and two months when he left me for a girl he met at a Turnpike tollbooth. I should have bought him an EZ Pass. Lucas works for Hershey’s chocolate, and though I don’t really know what he does there, I do know he has a corner office, two secretaries and a big crystal jar of kisses on his desk. It’s mahogany, and I’m pretty sure there has been more on it than kisses. He’s the kind of man who likes to gamble, and he always wins. Whether he’s betting on the ponies at the Meadows or using his fingernails to scratch the grey 85

coating off a lotto ticket, the odds are always in his favor. He often said he took a gamble with me, the town’s unluckiest girl, but since he decided to fold, he wasn’t the loser. I was. Before the ink on the divorce papers was dry, my Granddad died. He left me his old farmhouse on Poplar Street, just up the hill from the railroad tracks. By that time, less than two acres were left. I moved back into my childhood bedroom, bringing the boys and what furniture Lucas hadn’t taken in the divorce. I had to sell his lone horse, Fanny, to pay off my court fees and bills, but I didn’t let any of it stop me from seeking out a charmed life. All I wanted was some peace and quiet, enough money to let me go back to school and maybe to save a little for the boys. Never seeing Lucas again couldn’t hurt, either. You know what they say--be careful what you wish for. You might just get it.

“The door, Mom!” barked Luke, my oldest. His voice is still as high as a girl’s, but it holds the promise of teenaged aloofness. He held a plastic robot in one hand, high above his head, while the other hand held off his younger brother, the young muscles taut. I turned off the evening news; I didn’t know any of the people who had been in wrecks, fires, or barroom brawls over the weekend. The bell had rung at least twice by the time I got to the door, and when I opened it, the pizza delivery man had a disgusted, pale look. Just in front of his sneakers was a rabbit’s foot, torn from what had to have been a very big bunny. “The cat thinks she’s giving us gifts,” I offered, smiling through my embarrassment. The man looked puzzled, and the longer he stood there, the 86

greener he became, so I thrust a twenty and a ten at him. When he handed me the change, I noticed right off there weren’t any new pennies. “Keep the change, okay?” “Hey, thanks!” he said, shoving the cash into his pocket as he walked back to his car. I shut the front door so the kids wouldn’t see the severed foot until I could sneak out and clean it up. Little had I known when they found that cat down by the tracks that it would be hunting each and every day. I flipped the latch, turned the deadbolt and hooked the chain in place, contemplating the sheer irony of that foot not being so lucky, at least not to its original owner. That’s when I dropped the pizzas; there were teeth lodged in my hip, and hot, wet spit was soaking through the fabric of my pants. “No biting Mommy!” I hollered, just like that English nanny on Sunday prime time television. I used my index finger and thumb to dislodge Liam’s canines from my haunch and then squatted down to my son’s eye level. Then I took him squarely by the shoulders, and using the same low voice, commanded, “We do not bite people, Liam!” I hauled him up over my shoulder and walked up the steps near the bedroom the boys share, then dropped him onto a chair sitting just outside the door. “Do not get up from the naughty chair until I call for you, young man.” Leaving him to sulk, I trotted downstairs into the foyer, rubbing my sore hip. As soon as my bare feet hit the hardwood floor, I felt myself slipping, and I landed in a heap in front of the door. Really, this isn’t anything new. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve slipped at the bottom of those stupid steps. The din in the living room got louder as I scooped up myself, then the pizza boxes and limped to 87

the kitchen. When I hollered, “Pizza’s here!” Luke and Logan finally stopped their battle and ran to the table. Their stocking feet let them slide like hockey players almost all of the way. “Finally,” grumbled Luke, hot cheese strings already across his favorite green t-shirt. “Yeah, finally,” his younger brother copied, using his fingertips to pick mushrooms off of his slices, which he flicked onto the tabletop instead of onto the edge of the plate I’d put in front of him. I picked the discarded fungi up with a paper towel, wishing I had put my foot down more often with them and their father. He was the one who insisted that all three boys have names that began with “L” so that their initials matched his and that each person we met wouldn’t be able to keep them straight. Seemed like every time I’d have one out of diapers, Lucas would send out his x’s and y’s, guaranteeing not a girl, but another boy to outnumber and out-initial me. As I turned to face the boys, my eyes found Luke’s plate, two gnawed pizza crusts and his fork and knife across them in the shape of an “x.” “Luke! You know that’s bad luck!” “Sorry, Mom,” he sighed, rolling his eyes. He knew better than to argue with me; though not a day went by without the other boys taunting him and his brothers about my bad luck, as if it somehow tainted them, too. Their mothers talked, as well, huddled together in the breakfast aisle at Giant Eagle. I’d hear them titter when Liam would ask for his favorite cereal, claiming it was “magically delicious.” Luke would stare at the tiled floor, red creeping up his neck into his cheeks. As he cleared his empty plate, the knife clattered to the floor and he stopped in his tracks. “Ohhhhhh! Luke dropped his knife, Luke 88

dropped his knife!” Logan sung, hopping on one foot. “That means a man’s gonna visit!” “Shut up!” his older brother snapped, putting slices of pizza onto a plate to take up to Liam. I didn’t say anything, just threw the paper towel into the open trash can, and went about putting the boy’s laundry into the washing machine. I always wash everything they come home with after their two nights twice a month at their father’s house. I can’t stand the smell of Lori-with-an-I’s perfume mixed with Lucas’ cologne. It becomes a cross of sickly sweet roses and juniper, and it clings to the boys’ clothing and backpacks like cockleburs, which are an invasive species around here. I may have barely graduated from high school, but thanks to Granddad’s library I’ve learned plenty, including quite a bit about the flora of Pennsylvania. If you don’t get rid of an invasive species immediately, they’ll take over, stamping out cultivated and wild flowers alike. Alliaria petiolata can’t even be composted; it’s got to be put in plastic garbage bags or burned. As I pulled out candy wrappers and balled up socks, I found a folded piece of notepaper crammed in the front pocket of Lucas’ backpack. I didn’t need to open it to know what it said wouldn’t be good. It was addressed to “Moll,” and was written in green ink. The boy’s dad used to call me that, something I liked until I spotted the name in an old book of Irish legends. When I told him it meant “prostitute,” he laughed and patted me on the ass. Now Lori calls me that, too. “Hey Mom,” Lucas called from the kitchen, “Lori put a note to you in my bag!” “Thanks Luke, I found it,” I answered, using a practiced, noncommittal tone. I already felt like washing my hands, and I hadn’t even opened it yet. When I did, I felt my stomach fall to my feet. As if I 89

was driving through a cemetery, I didn’t breathe as I read the words in Lori’s perfect, straight cursive. They weren’t just going for extra visitation at next month’s court hearing, they wanted full custody. The note was to tell me that they would file the appropriate paperwork after Monday’s court-ordered meditation and that I should feel free to visit more often then two weekends a month and “enjoy” my sons.

I took a deep breath. I let it out. Took another and held it, then released it as slow as I could, willing my heart back down into my chest. I leaned back hard in the black iron rocking chair on the back patio and slurped at my rum and coke, pressing my feet against the edge of the matching table. I’d shuffled the boys off to bed, and after extra cups of water all around and leaving the light on in the hall, made myself a stiff drink and snuck outside into the cold March night. Even though the grass was turning green and the crocuses were popping up through the mulch, winter still wanted to hang on; the smell of wood smoke and snow was in the air. That night’s Doppler 2000 spotted an ice storm approaching from the west, but even ice wouldn’t stop them from filing those papers. I rubbed at my eyes, took another gulp of my drink and stared at the bright stars. I found the Big Dipper, then the North Star, wishing that for once, something could go my way. In the distance I heard the nightly train whistle, and could see it’s lone headlight approaching through the trees down the hill. Freight trains roll through town after passing my house at least five times each day. I wondered if the hobos the old women in the neighborhood warned against still rode the rails, criss-crossing the country, 90

bindle sticks over their shoulders. The women said they looked for doors that had dishcloths—they called them “warsh cloths”--tied to the knobs, signaling that there would be food left out after dark. These were easy marks; households that wouldn’t run a hungry man or two off with a baseball bat or a hunting rifle. I can remember Granddad warning us that feeding them was like putting out food for stray cats; before you knew it, you’d have a hundred out back, fighting in the moonlight and spreading disease. Despite what they said, when I was five, I thought a hobo must be like Santa Claus, because each time I left a plate of cold fried chicken on my window sill, by the time I woke in the morning, it was gone. In its place would be a little bouquet of grape hyacinth or lily of the valley, right there in the middle of the empty plate. More than once, a four-leafed clover was left there. One summer day, when the creamy honeysuckle sweetened the air and the blackberries were heavy and dripping with juice, I found a small drawing on the side of the barn. It had been drawn with chalk, a stick figure woman and three triangles. My brother told me it was hobo code, there to tell other hobos that there was a little girl worth kidnapping for ransom money. From then on, I’d kept the window shut and locked, the curtains drawn tight. I left the chicken in the refrigerator. He’d also warned me about the Boogie Man in the bedroom closet, so I wasn’t about to press my luck. Over twenty five years later, I knew there wasn’t a boogie man in my closet, and I’d never heard of one child kidnapped at the hands of the travelers. After the train’s whistle sounded again, I heard one of the windows above me scraping open. Small hands tossed a blue plastic bucket out of the window, lowering it down on a rope made with what I suspected 91

were undershirts. I put down my drink, leaned forward in my seat, and watched as the bucket lowered all the way down the side of our two-story house, stopping a foot or two above ground. The window above was slowly pulled shut, holding the undershirt-rope in place. The bucket was swinging in little circles. Rising quietly, I crept over to take a look inside, but my nose told me what was inside before I saw—pizza. When I was close enough to peer inside, I saw that it was filled with the leftover slices that I’d packed for the boy’s Monday sack lunches. By the time I got up to the boy’s room, they were under the covers, feigning sleep. “Whatcha doin’, Logan?” I whispered, tucking the old quilts around him tightly. He snored in response. Luke flipped over, “sleeping,” with his back to me. Liam, however, sat straight up. “We’re feeding the angels, Momma!” he declared, flapping his hands around his face. “The angels?” I asked, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “Liam, shut UP!” Luke growled, putting his pillow over his head. Logan followed suit, pulling the covers up over his face. “Yeah, Liam, shut up!” “Boys!” I scolded. Liam’s dark eyes peeked at me through his fingers. I took his hands away from his face, and asked, “What angels, kiddo?” “Da angels dat live in da barn,” he whispered past the two fingers he’d popped into his mouth. I left the boys to their beds, grabbed a heavy metal flashlight from under the kitchen sink, and slipped outside into the night. When I passed the bucket, still swaying in the cold March breeze, I noticed that the pizza was gone. Liam was right; either 92

we had company or a bunch of Italian raccoons. Sweeping my eyes across the back of the property, I sucked in my breath and headed for the barn. My foot sunk into the soft soil of the yard; the recent thaw had left everything mucky. By the time I got to the door, I had mud splattered across my last pair of clean pants and had dropped the flashlight twice. Careful to be quiet, I slid the barn door open, stepped inside and flipped the light switch. A single 60-watt bulb flickered to life, showing bales of stale hay and a mildewed, broken-down carriage from before my Granddad decided that automobiles wouldn’t go out of style. The sound of something metal clattered behind me, and when I spun around, my flashlight found a horseshoe lying flat on the cement floor. It had fallen from its place over the doorframe. Looking up into the rafters, I thought I saw movement, but all was still. Peeking inside the carriage accomplished nothing but disturbing a litter of barn kittens, all with their new eyes still sealed shut. They mewed for their mother, who I knew wouldn’t come back until after I’d left. I poked into each horse stall in turn, and all were empty. I heard a “mew” from the loft, and climbed the ladder to seek it out. That’s where I found the mother cat, licking the edges of a tin plate, a wool horse blanket folded in the corner. Next to the blanket sat a small cup full of green clover. Go back to the house and lock the doors, I told myself, curiosity kills the cat. As I left the barn, I smelled wood smoke. Down the hill I could see the flickering of a small campfire, and the sound of low voices made me jump. The figures of two men moved in front of the light. I crept as close and as quietly as I could, watching as they hunkered down by the fire. One was tall and heavy, and held a lit cigarette between the fingers of his 93

left hand. He tossed something into the fire, and the scent of burning bread found its way to my nose. The other man was smaller, and held a book in his hands. He was thumbing through the pages, stopping every few seconds to read a line aloud. “George,” the bigger man begged, now tossing his spent cigarette into the small fire, “I’d sure like to pet the kittens in the barn.” “I don’t think Molly would like that much,” George answered. He shrugged when his companion added, “She liked us well enough when she was a little one; remember the chicken she’d leave? I bet her hair’s soft.”

The sun hadn’t come up yet, but someone had opened the storm door and was knocking hard on the front door’s window. I’d fallen asleep in Granddad’s big chair in the library surrounded by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Margaret Meade and John Steinbeck. I’ve learned that books make better companions than husbands. I shuffled to the door, my eyes half shut and my coffee still steaming. I peeked through the part in the curtains and unlatched two of the locks, leaving only the chain still hooked, then pulled open the door and looked through with only my left eye. “Lucas, what the hell are you doing here,” I said, making it into more of an accusation than a question. “Molly, go ahead and let me in,” he replied, tucking a folded newspaper under his arm. He looked refreshed and sounded condescending. “It’s 5:30 in the morning.” I slurped my coffee. “I know; I thought we should talk.” He looked 94

me up and down, then added, “Without lawyers, before the boys wake up.” “Really?” I drawled, moving to slam the door in his face. “Now, Molly,” he said, quickly putting his loafered foot in the crack before I could shut him out, “It’s become clear—quite obvious, actually, that Lori and I have the resources to raise the boys, resources that you’ll never have. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, so there’s no reason to behave poorly.” He eyed the peeling paint of the doorframe, then began picking at it with the tip of his car key, sending dingy chips to the ground. “Have you checked this place for lead? I can’t have my sons suffering from saturnism during visitation.” He paused, then added, “I suppose I could just have my attorney request that all of your visits should be at my home.” He peered at me from under his brows. I felt my cheeks grow hot, and reached to unhook the chain lock. Looking him square in the eye, I opened the door and flung the contents of my cup across the front of his pressed, white Oxford shirt. “Shove your ‘resources’, Lucas, and your attorney.” I spat, then slammed the door. I went back to the kitchen, poured myself a new cup of coffee and sat down to watch the morning news.

On the way to Building Blocks Day Care, there are two train tracks to cross. One is just a quarter mile from my house, another a few miles north. I almost always get caught by a Pennsylvania Railroad train, and this morning was no different. Giving Liam a bag of Cheerios to occupy him while we waited for the train to cross, I settled back into my seat. Two blinking red 95

lights warned me not to take my foot off the brake as the red and white arms crossed in front of the car. Grey and black boxcars rumbled past, slow enough that I could make out the names of graffiti artists spray painted on random sides, the curved lines of red and blue bubbled signatures the only cheerful color on the train. The sky was grey, and the surrounding fields were brown and damp as far as I could see. Jellyrolls of hay lined the tracks, offering a place to hide. Fiddling with the knob on the radio, I looked for signs of hobos on the train as it passed, half expecting a man in worn overalls to be clinging to the last car, smiling at me through bites of free mushroom pizza. By the time I realized that the train had passed, and the guards were raised, it was half past nine, making me a full fifteen minutes late for the meeting with the lawyers. The tv news that morning hadn’t mentioned any overnight murders, carbon monoxide poisonings or accidental drownings of either clients or lawyers, so the meeting was still on. Just my luck. I didn’t have a chance and I knew it; Lucas and Lori hired only the best legal representation, and I doubted mine would even show up. I couldn’t pay him, anyway. I took my foot off the brake, moved it to the gas and pressed. Crossing the bumpy tracks shook the little car and made Liam giggle. His Cheerios slipped from his hand, and the zip-lock bag fell to the floor in a tumble. “Uh-oh,” he said, and as I turned the car onto Main Street, the same street of the day care center, I turned around to pick up the bag. Sleet began to bounce off the hood like small ping pong balls. It was there, right in front of the day care, right in front of its playground filled with happy, hyper children, that I ran the red light, my fingers closing on bits of cereal. Liam had unbuckled the belt of his car seat to reach for his 96

Superman action figure, which was tucked into the pocket on the back of his my seat. By the time I realized what I had done, and stomped on the break, the car was sliding. Granddad’s old Ford was no match for the gold sedan that slammed into its passenger’s side. We were picked up and rolled twice, finally coming to a stop when the car met a tall utility pole. My body was pressed into the driver’s side door, which was now lying on the pavement. Cheerios were stuck in my hair, and the contents of my purse were all around my head. Through the cracked windshield I saw legal papers fluttering to the ground, slick with sleet. When I craned my neck to look for Liam, he wasn’t in his car seat at all; the straps were empty and hanging down from above. I unbuckled my own seatbelt and used my arms to bat away the puffed white airbags. Using the seat back for leverage, I twisted my body to look behind the seat for Liam, but he wasn’t there. I saw that the passengers-side door was open, and snow as soft as powdered sugar was falling through it onto my face, landing like stars in my hair. Shifting, I reached up and grasped the edge of the passenger’s side seat. I pulled into a standing position, my feet on the shattered side window. As I peered out into the intersection, my eyes immediately fell on a tall man holding my son. It was the man from down at the tracks. Covered in black soot, he had wrapped Liam in his own coat. Liam’s face was turned into the man’s shoulder, his small hand clutched in his rescuer’s red hair. Seeing me struggling to get out of my car, he signaled for help. Another man came trotting towards me, also covered in soot. He helped me out and onto the road, gentle hands keeping me steady. “You and your boy are lucky,” the shorter one said, running a hand across his face, leaving a clean 97

streak that showed a few age spots dotting his cheeks beneath clear, green eyes. “But that other car,” he added, motioning past my crumpled sedan to the SUV I’d hit, “should have known not to talk on the phone and drive.” I shook their hands from my elbows and ran to my son, who was still clinging to the red-haired man. “Momma!” Liam cried, reaching out for me. I took him into my arms, thanking his rescuer as he trotted away towards the other vehicle and the old oak tree it had toppled. “Those are the angels, Momma,” Liam whispered through his fingers. Another long line of train cars came rumbling down the tracks behind the daycare. I recognized the license plate of the other vehicle, and the blond couple inside, one limp body next to the other. As the train’s whistle sounded, I saw the taller of our heroes running towards us, his long, thick arms waving in a way that told me to run. Grasping Liam in my arms, I shielded his head as I ran behind the daycare building. As flames engulfed the SUV and its unconscious passengers, I could hear the taller man’s voice. “George, I saw gas on the ground,” he hesitated, “My cigarette. I done a bad thing. I done another bad thing, George.” His voice had slipped into a loud, haggard whisper. I watched the vehicle burn, Liam’s face hidden in my hair. A fire truck, lights spinning and sirens blaring, pulled up a short distance away. It looked like I wouldn’t need to watch the news anymore. When I turned to speak to the men who’d found Liam, they were no longer there. The train rushed past, its whistle popping my ears.

Ina’s cigarette bobs up and down when she speaks. “You hear that Lucas never changed his insurance when he married that blond gal?” “Molly’s got herself a nice little nest egg now, I betcha,” Ruth replied , sipping at her instant coffee. I continued planting my Trifolium dubium along the base of the fence, listening to their morning gossip. “Lucky girl,” Ina stated, lighting up a new cigarette. I stood up, taking off my gardening gloves. Resting my arms on the top of the fence, I waved at them. “Morning, ladies!” I shouted, loud enough for the both of them to hear. “Ina,” are you still smoking?” She shrugged. “Don’t you know cigarettes will kill you?” I winked, and headed inside to make the boys some breakfast. They’d be up and clamoring for my famous French toast soon. Pink hearts, blue diamonds and purple horseshoes weren’t on the menu anymore.

Contributor notes ———————

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Anonymous is an English major who waits tables, spends time with a significant other, and writes when inclined. Anonymous hopes that all of the Virginia Tech victims rest in peace, and that on the other side Cho finds peace as well. Steven D. Conley “Life is my inspiration for art. My life has been forever enriched by the diversity of art. Through it, I have become a more mature and enlightened person, and I feel that you do not have to comprehend ‘art’ to be an artist. Art is everything and everyone.” Chelle Creekbaum lives in Middletown with Greg, her husband of 15 years. She wrote "Growing Pains" for their 13-year-old son, Jesse, and believes that she must have written "And They Called It . . ." for herself, since she's the only MUM student old enough to know that they're song titles. Katie Henry is an early childhood education major and enjoys photography, making stained glass, and hand dyeing fabric. She also designs and sells beautifully beaded glass and semi-precious gemstone jewelry. When she isn't creating, she can be found fishing or playing with Digory, her spunky Bichon Frise.

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Michelle Lawrence finds her inspiration in the people and places around her, past and present. Her latest short story, Writing on The Wall, is liberally peppered with incidents and accidents both real and imaginary. If you travel to and from Oxford, you might recognize the railroads and graffiti-ed trains. Like Molly, Lawrence has cleaned up her share of decapitated bunnies lovingly killed by the cat, and thanks to her late Grandma, has always wondered if a hobo would really come to the door if a kerchief was tied to the knob... Madison Nicholasbell on the inspiration for her short story, Ruby Slippers “I have always been intrigued by my grandmother’s story of a great-great aunt whom she had never met, but who, in her old age, always searched for her lost ruby slippers. I wondered what it would have been like if my grandmother, Nina, and this mysterious lady had actually met and solved each other’s problems; that thought is what inspired Ruby Slippers.” Lee Rogers is a nursing major who has always loved to write. After graduation, she plans on moving back home to Tennessee and, God willing, write until the end of her days. Meghan Woods enjoys starting her day off with an ice-cold can of Coca-Cola. (And no, she isn’t getting paid for that.) After her refreshment, she divides her time between her daughter, her other family members and friends, her very fat cat, Mr. Tom Cat, her four Cory Catfish, and last, but most certainly not least, her writing — which ultimately becomes your writing because she’s inspired by people, and by life, in all forms. The good, the bad, and sometimes even the very ugly. Ah, how refreshing! 101

Submission Guidelines ———————

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Illuminati accepts submissions from the students, staff, faculty and community of Miami University Middletown. You may submit a total of five individual pieces in any of the following categories: • fiction (no more than 20 double-spaced pages total) • creative nonfiction (no more than 20 double-spaced pages total) • poetry (up to five poems) • artwork (up to five pieces). We cannot accept more than five total submissions from any one person per reading period. Due to the nature of creative work, please proofread your submissions for spelling, punctuation and grammatical errors before submitting. We reserve the right to reformat. We only accept submissions via email attachment (see address below). Artwork may be submitted as JPG, GIF, OR PNG files. Written work may be submitted as DOC, RTF, OR TXT files. Cover page must be attached. Include the following on your cover page, which can be the body of your email:

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Attention: Illuminati Your name Your email address Your phone number Please do not include your name on the body of your work to

assist us in judging anonymously. You may request that a pen name or “Anonymous” be used if your work is chosen for publication. We accept previously published work, just tell us where it was originally published. We accept simultaneous submissions, but please let us know if your work is chosen to be published elsewhere as soon as possible. You will be notified of your submission status by email form letter approximately two weeks after the judging session. Final selections are made by a judging panel that may consist of students, faculty or staff of Miami University Middletown. By submitting to Illuminati, you attest that your submission is your own, original work. We acquire the right to publish your work, to archive your work online permanently, and to republish your work in a print or web-based anthology. All other rights revert to the author (after we publish it, your work belongs to you--do whatever you want with it). If you republish your work elsewhere, we require that you cite Illuminati as the original publisher. If you have any questions or would like to work on our staff, please contact us at: illuminati@muohio.edu The deadline for submitting your work for our Spring ‘08 issue is midnight, OCTOBER 21, 2007

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