Illuminati Fall/Winter 2006

A Journal of the Arts / Miami University Middletown Fall/Winter 2006

© 2006 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.

Editor in Chief: Michelle Lawrence Assistant Editor: Meghan Woods Faculty Advisor: Dr. Eric Melbye Cover Art: “Mitchell with a Twitchell,” pen and ink, Johnna Roark Cover Design: Dr. Eric Melbye Staff: Steve Joyce, Brooke Kyzer, Joe Mitchell, Michael Nicholson, Crystal Prater, Heather Reynolds, Johnna Roark Editorial Offices: 130 Johnston Hall, Miami University Middletown, Middletown, Ohio 45042 www.mid.muohio.edu/orgs/illuminati/

www.mid.muohio.edu

Edited by Michelle Lawrence with assistance from Dr. Eric Melbye and Meghan Woods Works chosen for publication by Michelle Lawrence Meghan Woods Joe Mitchell and Johnna Roark

iv

Contents Ăˆ Michelle Lawrence

Forward

vii

Meghan Woods

The Cost of Education Insurance (For Peace of Mind)

9 10

Publish

11

Wendy Burger

Never Talk to Strangers

12

Brooke Kyzer

Sweet Anna Lee a crisp start

17 18

Michelle Lawrence

I’ll Whisper So That You Can Hear Me

19

Michael Nicholson

Panhandling for a dime at the Bus Mall Trying to touch the face of God part 2

20 21

Kris Shafer

When Life Keeps Going

22

Anonymous

Sad Paradise

23

Neil Marks

On Solitude Welcome to the Information Superwreck

32 33

Katie Henry

Come in and Fix Your Plates

35

untitled untitled

37 38

Ragnarok

39

Allen Berry

v

Rebecca Cameron

untitled

40

Courtney Curtner

untitled untitled

41 42

Paula Holland

abstract

43

Johnna Roark

trombonist Land of the Free

44 45

Allison Singhoffer

untitled untitled Sophie

46 47 48

Joe Mitchell

The Road Poem

49

Chelle Creekbaum

The Real Children of the Corn

50

Contributor Notes

59

vi

Forward È As the season changes from Fall to Winter, people often reflect on the time that has passed and take stock of their lives.

We often simultaneously look backward and forward to our futures. We examine what we have done right or wrong, or what we wish we would have done differently. We can look back at the lessons we learned, the sacrifices we’ve made, and use that knowledge to help shape our futures. Who is it that we once were, who are we now, and who will be become?

This issue explores these questions and more. One of remembrance, reality and fantasy, the poems, artwork and prose show us who we are and can be as human beings. Each piece makes a statement or raises a question. At turns joyous, confused, angry or solitary, each piece gives voice to a different period in our lives.

We thank you, our readers, for your continued interest and support of our publication. With that support, we have grown into an award-winning publication, and continue to strive to new heights. We would also like to thank everyone who contributed their work for consideration, MMSG for their financial support, and the campus as a whole. Last but certainly not least, we thank our advisor, Dr. Eric Melbye, for his skills, patience and guidance.

We couldn’t do it without you!

--Michelle Lawrence Illuminati Editor in Chief

vii

MEGHAN WOODS Ăˆ The Cost of Education Her tiny hand scribbles sheen green to blend into white on the page.

A cartoon character outlined in black.

Thick black lines, easy to stay in.

Draw me a heart, Daddy.

Let me fill it with ruby red or baby pink.

Or better yet, teach her to draw a heart of her own.

Teach her how to make it from a to z, count one, two, three.

Trace my hand, Daddy.

Put it in the little box you keep big things in.

One-of-a-kind drawings.

Never to be reproduced (to scale) again.

My hand coaxes black to scroll across white on the page.

A requirement for words in black.

Heavy black words, keep me watching.

Not playing. Not drawing. Not teaching.

9

Insurance (For Peace of Mind) Momma, you ask if you can trust me.

Don’t you remember when I was ten, I swiped that tag?

The price belonged to a grooming brush – royal blue, plastic bristles, wooden back, leather handle.

I stood in the brightest aisle, picturing myself brushing spirit into the neglected, bay-colored coat of the horse across the street.

Why did one brush cost more than the other?

It had to be the color – royal blue.

I saved you three bucks.

Gained for myself, a writer’s cramp, stained by pencil from the one-hundred lines.

Because when we left the store, I told you the truth.

Even though I knew it would mean that I would never brush that horse.

Momma, it’s gonna be okay when you’re gone.

You raised me.

You can trust me.

10

Publish The rain put a clear-coat glaze on my car as I patiently waited for the tow-truck, smoked a cigarette, while a woman walked toward me. She asked me for fifty cents, wanted a gallon of milk, but the yellow in her eyes, yellow in her smile, wanted something else. And as I gave her the fifty cents, I realized that I wanted something else as well. I wanted to take the rain, mix it with paint, and put my story on the car. My own billboard to sit on the side of the road, only to be noticed by the kid in the backseat, on the family vacation, with his nose pushed against the window – a piggy nose. I figured it wasn’t worth my time; neither was waiting for the tow-truck. I put the cigarette out on my hood, kicked the flat tire, and walked down the puddled street to find something else that would notice me, the green in my eyes, green in my thoughts.

11

WENDY BURGER È Never Talk to Strangers “He’s a stranger.”

My mother laughed when I pointed him out, the bignosed, lumbering grocer whose face was buried in a thicket of black curls. He had no eyes, but a glint of light flashed under his heavy brow. With his dark skin and full beard, he was oddly out of place in our suburban Wisconsin neighborhood.

He had just opened the first convenience store within five miles of our house, a closet-sized cinderblock cube painted the same intense yellow as the lines on the highway beside it. Above the door, in red block letters, was the word “Pollock’s.”

My mother’s laughter hurt me, just as everything seemed to hurt when I was six and lived on the shores of Lake Michigan. I didn’t understand. I had heard her say it so often, and with such gravity: “Never talk to strangers.” She repeated it like a litany, and even gave me a book entitled exactly that. I read it so often I still remember the first page: If you are hanging from a trapeze And up sneaks a camel with bony knees, Remember this rule, if you please— Never talk to strangers.

So I was afraid. I wanted to know. What did strangers look like, if not like Mr. Pollock? He looked frightening, and that’s what strangers did. Wasn’t it? My mother tried to explain, but another year passed before I understood.

It was October, and we had been in school for a few weeks. I don’t recall what had kept me so long that morning.

Perhaps I had stopped to fix a sock-lump, that phenomenon that only happens on school days when a first-grader is already 12

late. Most likely I had paused between our house and the neighbors’ to pick some flowers. None of our windows faced that side, so I could linger there for a while without my mother seeing. But there had been a frost the night before, and all the soft petals had wilted with the sunrise. The deeper I burrowed into the cold, wet foliage, the colder and deader everything looked. Cobwebs of silver frost coated the vivid green leaves of yesterday, and had withered most of the blooms. My fingers grew numb and dead as I searched, but I found nothing. My teacher would have no more bouquets from me until spring when the snow melted and the lily-of-the-valley came out.

The lonely sound of the first bell first bell in the distance startled me. I would be late again. The usual stream of kids scattered along Blackhawk Drive were gone; the neighborhood grew quiet. I shivered as I ran, but I was glad of the cold. I had a new coat, and it was finally cold enough to wear it. Vivid pink mingled with lime green, orange and purple in a stripe pattern of varying widths. I felt bright as I trotted the few blocks toward the school, like the only flower in the garden, the only one brave enough to brave a killing frost. I ran as long as I could, then slowed to catch my breath. Ahead, the cacophony from the playground subsided as the sprawling red brick building absorbed the eager scholars. Just a block or two remained when I heard the car. It did not whistle by as it ought.

It slowed, and I heard the hard tires crunching over the gravel beside me. Then the sound stopped.

I stopped as well, and stepped back from the roadside. I noticed the tracks its tires made on the frosted road. Closer to me, a trampled weed had started to grow in the sidewalk crack, a dandelion, but even that had been devastated by the cold night. Between the toes of my orthopedic shoes, frosted pebbles lay overturned like beetles with black undersides. Far away, the second bell rang. I looked up. His nose was a normal size. His skin was light, not dark like Mr. Pollock’s. Instead of black, tangled curls, he had short, light brown hair and his face was clean—no beard or mustache. He was a tidy young man who drove a turquoise car, the same color as most cars in the late 1960s. He looked a little like my Uncle Davy, my mother’s 13

youngest brother, the one who had lived with us after having run away from Parris Island.

The car sat idling, and he sat in it. He had lowered his window and was leaning out. Grown men who were not my uncles never did this—they never talked to me. Confused, my heart pounding and blood singing in my ears, I barely understood what he was saying. I shook my head. He opened his door, dropped one foot onto the gravel, gripped both sides of the door frame and lifted himself partially out.

He smiled. “Do you know where Lakeshore Drive is?” he asked. “Can you show me?”

I shook my head again and tripped further back. The gravelly verge between the sidewalk and the road seemed very narrow. I tried to answer, to say no, and though my mouth formed the word, no sound came. I kept glancing toward the school, toward the house behind me and its night-dark windows. I looked back, toward home, but our house was around a bend, invisible. The stranger watched me. He felt dark too, as empty as the house at my back. It was a feeling that came from my heart, my stomach, my wobbling knees.

I did the one thing I could. I ran. When I reached the safety of the schoolyard, the double rows of bicycle racks fencing him out, I dared a last look back. He stood where he had stopped, two blocks away, still watching. Slowly he returned to his car and rolled toward me. The vehicle slowed more at the curve, then ambled away up the next street.

Suddenly, I was ashamed. My panic subsided. I was silly, always afraid. He probably thought me a stupid girl.

But I could not have done anything else. I ran because of her fear.

It was something I had always known. I felt it in her fingers when she grabbed my arm in the grocery store—after I had wandered away, distracted by cereal boxes and prizes. I heard it in her voice when she called me in on a summer night, the sound that told me she had been calling for a while. I knew it when I was four or five and climbed onto my father’s lap to kiss him goodnight. I felt her disapproval. It was always a part of her, and then a part of me. When I was older, twenty or so, 14

she explained it to me, how she had suffered at the hands of an alcoholic relative, and how she wanted to save me from that same grief. She was sorry, but she could have done nothing else. She was my mother.

I did not tell her about the stranger in the blue car. After going to the office for my tardy slip and standing in the hall for five minutes for my punishment, I was lost in the chaotic and incomprehensible routine. I was busy envying Vickie, whose father had cut her coarse red hair off the night before, and who now possessed a horsetail of trimmings. Whip-like, she kept flinging into our faces. I read aloud when my turn came. I had just moved from blue, the middle reading group, up to pink, the most advanced, and was proud. I did badly on the balance beam, slipping off five times when the limit was three. The stranger was forgotten.

Months passed before I noticed the street sign at the corner. It might have been new, or it might have been there all the time. It read “Lakeshore Drive.” It met Blackhawk Drive at a sharp angle, and ended where the school’s property began. Of course I had known that. We rode our bikes that way all the time. I felt stupid all over again, and embarrassed that I had not been able to point to the street when the stranger had asked me.

Then she disappeared, a girl, young, my own age or a little older. The grainy school picture that our newspaper printed looked like mine. She was blonde, like me, but with wavy hair and no bangs. I had never met her; she was in the next grade up. Her name was not familiar. But I knew her.

People pointed out her house, and it was just like ours. She had a mother who was sad now, and maybe a brother like mine who would cry. I hoped she had a father who would yell until everything was like it should be—until she came home where she belonged. Dads sometimes have that magic. Of course she had dolls and toys she loved, little stuffed animals arranged on her bedspread to greet her when she came home, to comfort her at night when she was alone in the dark.

I heard things. The man on the news talked about her, how she had disappeared while walking to school. My aunts and my mother spoke of her in whispers, and said words like 15

“molest” and “rape.” Weeks went by, and words came to my ear. I liked puzzles, but this one was hard to put together. A man had taken the girl into his car and had done something bad to her, so bad that she could never go home. That’s what happened when a girl talked to strangers.

I dreamed about her. In the dreams, it was my fault. I dreamed that I knew where she was, but if I told anyone they would blame me—they would know I did it. So I kept my dream-secret, the dream snow bank where her body lay concealed. Each time I dreamed it, spring was nearer, and the snow was melting. Soon, very soon, she would be visible to everyone and they would know, and I would be in trouble.

It was spring when someone in a small plane saw a lot of dogs around an old rusty refrigerator. He called someone else, and they looked, and there they found her. The television described her. It told how, and where, and why. I heard it, and I saw. I relived her last hours and the days since, tortured, then dead, mutilated and stuffed naked in an abandoned refrigerator, surrounded by a pack of sniffing dogs—the first to find her. I forgot that in my dreams I had done it. I had a new dream, hers now, to replace mine.

They arrested the stranger. He lived nearby, next to the vacant lot where our scout troop held day camp in summer. I knew the house well from seeing it so often, a two-story clapboard of the sort built in the fifties, with peeling white paint so old it looked gray, and a dilapidated front porch. We had played around it, thinking it empty, had run through the yard, sought shelter from the hot sun under the great, old trees.

He had watched us from behind those tattered blinds and torn lace curtains, watched us learn to make campfires without matches, watched us cook our meals in empty coffee cans, watched us play games, and listened to our songs at the end of the day. He had a name, but the one they gave him I have forgotten. When I grew older, I learned it again: pedophile, murderer, rapist, sociopath. And I knew his face. A stranger looks just like everyone.

16

Brooke Kyzer Ăˆ Sweet Anna Lee The mellow breeze blows my abandoned body like unwanted candles on a birthday cake. With the coarse sand beneath my feet, I am confined and forgotten. As a decaying turtle in a shoe box.

The crude grass mocks me as it glazes down the sugary hills. Teases me like the taste of a sweet kiss. I crave to ripen with the trees in my panoramic world. Yet rust, as my master, is spreading like an unwelcome rash. My Anna Lee, my sweet Anna Lee. She runs to me like I am the cheerful ice cream man bouncing down the street. Only I, will never stray her. Sitting hushed like the presence of a summer freckle. I clutch her base while her toes flirt with my gritty foundation. I swing her as high as lost balloons. Her eyes as firm as newly sewn buttons.

The burnt sky is interrupted by mother’s alarm. The roar gouged my heart, only to sacrifice it to the bed bugs. As I creep into death I am greeted with a thought of release.

17

a crisp start Her eyes were as black as the outline of a sorrowful girl. The shade of darkness that raped my adolescent breath from its lungs. Her lips were like a battlefield.

Tears of strife used as a glossy invitation.

Sin danced erotically in the sound she spoke.

Making church boys squeal with every vibration. I could taste the words dripping from her mouth. Trickling into my narcotic choked pores pleasuring me with pain.

I am nothing.

I am the scar on your wrist reminding you how close you were to the finish line.

I am the thought of a new day dying at night.

I am the blade of grass desperately clinging to your wet toes i am nothing.

Soon, I will be my home.

Beautiful will grow from me like the freshness of a crisp start.

18

Michelle Lawrence È I’ll Whisper So That You Can Hear Me Allow me to lay beside you place your hand on my back Tell me of the trip you've just returned from and I'll tell you of the time my bare feet found the coolness of a desert snake and how fast I ran Tell me about your years of study, of the things you learned and I'll tell you how it feels to sit in a tree so tall that you yourself sway with the wind Tell me please, of the critic's accolades and those rounds of applause and I'll tell you about the first time a boy called me ugly and the last time a man called me cold Tell me of the time you flew to Paris about the wine that gave you a headache and I'll tell you of lying on a hillside staring at the sky envying the red-winged blackbird her freedom Let me stay here with you in the dark before the sun comes up and reminds me of who I’m supposed to be.

19

Michael Nicholson Ăˆ Panhandling for a dime at the Bus Mall Some people collect, Shot glasses, Bumper stickers T shirts Gnomes Flamingos Hats Ashtrays Necklaces, key chains, Postcards Experiences, Weekend flings, When They travel.

I collect Library cards, Well-said sentences, Championed rights to look down upon tourists, Songs Poems Thrift-store-steals, Shabby stays At cheap motels Or Rundown apartments, And shitty jobs, To get me to the next town.

20

Trying to touch the face of God part 2 I remember‌ That last night, Of having a place To call home, After being lost in, The sleepy darkness Of bay windows, And drawn blinds; Just before, I drew open, My car door...

The caress of a west wind, Gave me hope And empty promises, That I might find you‌ In every new face, In the barrooms of L.A., In the quiet corners of libraries, In the elegance of million dollar steeples, In works vast and varied: I might as well have been living in a cardboard box, Searching the hopeless Bottoms of Dumpsters.

21

Kris Shafer Ăˆ When Life Keeps Going For the first couple of weeks, I died for you; For the months following, I cried for you.

For the rest of the years, I will miss you.

For the remainder of my life, I will be true to you.

As I come to pass at crossroads in my life, Paths I imagined us traveling together; I look back at my so recent youth, When I believed everything was forever.

Even after as far as you’ve traveled with me, I am still unsure of my capability for success; I thought I would prevail with so much more, And now it seems I have so much less.

Then I see that with the love you gave me, And with the help of my loved ones around; I have finally seen the gift you left me, And it is my self that I have found.

22

Anonymous È Sad Paradise 1 I met her in a computer lab. She had moved from Pennsylvania to go to our branch campus. A good student doesn’t go to our Middletown campus. A great student in Pennsylvania doesn’t go to Miami Ohio. She was an amazing student, and a stunning woman. She didn’t come to Miami for the fucking classes, and she didn’t come to Middletown for the fucking… fucking atmosphere.

When I first met her, she had just gotten back from a trip to Central Pennsylvania to see her folks and get her hair dyed by her favorite stylist. Arm in a sling, she told me that she slipped down her stairs at her mom’s house. Isn’t that a bitch to ruin a vacation that way? I was hypnotized by her lips, by the freckles on her lips.

Everything is always drama with my dad, she said. Always drama. That word, that phrase always sounds stupid phrasing dramatically, stupidly out of someone’s mouth. Drama with my dad. Drama. Stupid word.

2 But she wasn’t stupid. We hung out. We fucked. Then we fell in love. You get the order messed up when you’re young, fucking first and falling later. But it doesn’t matter. We fell, that’s what matters.

We traded stories of favorites. I liked Stephen King and Dennis Cooper. She liked Janet Fitch and Chuck Evans I liked Radiohead She liked Dave Matthews Band, “But not in the 23

way most ditzy shits like Dave Matthew Band, you know?” (I knew.) I liked The West Wing. She liked Lost. We traded embarrassing stories, then ex-lover stories, then scar stories.

3 I have some decent scars. I have busted hands, carpenter hands, and they are very strong. I have a slash on my face from a cops-and-robbers accident as a kid. I have numerous stitch lines on my brow from being a clumsy kid. She has more though. She has a hand that the fingers grow all crooked on.

She has a chunk missing out of her forehead that is covered by her hair. A limp. A missing toe. Little nicks all over her legs, her back, her breasts. She doesn’t even see them anymore.

4 After a few months, I got the stories.

She told me about her broken ribs. She told me about a broken clavicle, both broken femurs, and a broken back. A broken back. She told me these stories with a dull glaze over her eyes, reciting hospital charts and doctors’ prognosis. She told me the stories that go along with them. Slipped on a toy, face hit a banister, she told me. A car wreck that never happened. A mugging. A fall, she told me.

A goddamned police blotter. A goddamned anatomy lecture.

She offered these stories with an eye patch on, or a bandaged wrist. New medals of honor, purple hearts for surviving the war at home. Little signs that I couldn’t ignore as our relationship took root.

After a few more months, I got the truth.

24

5 Now, I’ve realized what’s going to happen because I’ve played it out in my head, day after day after day. Now, it’s only a Tuesday away.

Now, I see him pulling up into my driveway when I’m having a smoke in my front lawn. He has no hair on his scalp; one of his eyeballs has popped open from the fire the gasoline fed. I doused him, fucking soaked him with gas, but I didn’t get it all right. At school, in class, I pick a seat near the exit, so if he walks in I can jump quick. I’m looking over my shoulder all the time. When I’m working as a waiter, anyone with a backwoods accent becomes a spy for him.

I need to get it right in my head before it’s right for real, in my head, hallelujah.

Now, I see him chasing me, head lolling sickeningly from side to side. I broke his neck with a firm twist of the wrists, flexing my arms and cupping my hands. It didn’t do the job. I see him sneaking up behind me, head bandaged, baseball bat in hand.

He’s there with his arm in a sling and a finger on a trigger.

Now, he’s right behind me.

Now…..I need to get it right.

6 I am unhinging. Amen.

I have a day off coming up. It’s an eight hour drive, sixteen both ways hallelujah. I hang out with bad people sometimes, people who know how to do bad things, praise God. I could load up a car with these guys, or I could go alone. I could take 25

my car, or borrow one, or steal one, or buy one with cash from one of the eighteen used car lots in Middletown, Ohio, USA. I could buy a used car in another town, one where the car dealer wouldn’t know my face or name. I could pack the car with bad people from another town. I could borrow one from a friend, and swear them to secrecy. Swear them to God. Praise God. Amen.

I could do any of anything. Each option needs weighed, and this is only one of a thousand things I need to plan all by myself, with no one’s help.

Forensic experts say that each criminal makes at least ten mistakes at a crime scene. Ten minimum. My planning has begun.

Let the unhinging A-Fucking-Men.

begin,

friends

and

neighbors.

7 She and I sit at dinner. The salmon we eat for dinner is expensive, but it tastes like motor oil to me. It tastes like nothing.

I tell her that I have a day off coming up, a Tuesday. I need to spend it alone. I need to do homework. In the real world, on that Tuesday, I’m doing homework. In the real world I’m going to play some videogames, and then do homework, and then go to Fricker’s and have some beers.

In the unhinged world, I’m going to wake up at 3 am and start driving, say hallelujah.

26

8 It’s that Tuesday, noon exact, and my world is completely unhinged, can I get a hallelujah. I’m lying at the end of a forest with a ski mask on, body positioned slightly behind and under a shrubbery that he uprooted with his hands. I have a log placed over my legs, black sweat pants on, ski mask, and sweatshirt. I’m invisible, a ghost, death.

Soon it will be dark, and that’s when the ghosts come out.

Not too many exciting things happen in Juniata County during the winter. Every so often, the police will pick up underage drinkers or a group of unlicensed hunters. There isn’t much to do around here, especially in the winter. People hole up with cable TV, some whiskey, and beat their wives and daughters until it gets warm enough to go outdoors. I’m counting on these backwoods fucks, I’m counting on their rural boredom.

In central Pennsylvania, there are very few stoplights or parking lots. I’ve parked near an empty farmhouse, and hiked a half-mile through thick woods, to the back of his house. I have no shoes on, so I’ll leave no sole marks. As I hiked from the farm lot a half mile away, through the woods, behind this house, I shuffled every step to confuse anyone who finds the prints. No print size. I leaned from left to right side, alternately stomping and soft stepping. No gait information. No forensic information from my walk, can I get an amen.

These people are the reason we have laws against fucking our children, and laws against beating our wives, and laws against shooting other people. I’m counting on their ignorance.

Quick, no motive, efficient. No evidence. Perfect. Hallelujah.

Amen.

27

9 The sunset is 6:14 pm, and the sun will be out for almost 13 hours. In the unhinged world, darkness is the daytime. The sun just went down. My madness hears the cock crowing.

I push myself up from the bushes and sticks. Some twigs crack, but I don’t care. The Crime Classification Index considers any alteration of a crime scene to be staging. Staging a crime scene is the first thing that forensics experts look for. I’m not going to stage anything.

Let them file their police report. Let it say that in the early evening, a 180lb to 240lb male got up from the edge of the woods, shuffle-ran to the residence of Mr. ----- -------- and burst through the door, knocking it off its hinges with his tree trunk shoulders.

10 I run down the stairs, see the dining room table, see the man at the table, his shirt is off, see his marine tattoos, see his muscles, see the copy of The Juniata County Sentinel, see him raise his hands, because I see that I’ve lifted the gun. Click, no safety. I see him see me, and his eyes widen.

“My mother beat me,” he says my name, “My mother beat me, and that’s why I beat her.”

The gun whispers for him to be quiet, shhhhh…go to sleep. His pillow is the Sentinel, softening under his head, soaking in the blood pouring from his nose, his eyes, his ears. Following his confession, there is the penance of the bullet cracking his skull.

It sounds like a young girl’s back breaking. The other sounds are wet sounds, blood and brains. Brains are gray, and they sound like pudding slopping on the floor behind him. I can’t remember what his skull looked like. I can’t remember the rest of the sounds either. It was too terrible. I can’t. I’m sorry.

28

I run back up the stairs.

11 Out the door, into the woods. Half-mile shuffle-step to the car.

Open the door, start the car, peel out. The car is a used one, bought from a Tom Harrigan of 95 Loop Road, Centerville, Ohio. I paid cash, five hundred, an easy week waiting tables.

The gun was three hundred with silencer and bullets. These details aren’t important.

A murder costs only two weeks waiting tables and a lifetime of conscience. This is also unimportant.

While driving back to Middletown, I unload the gun, disassemble it, and throw the pieces out the windows a few miles apart from each other. Some out the passenger side, some out the driver side, slowly my world hinges itself up again.

I have twenty or thirty hours before anyone notices he’s missing. If I’m lucky, two days before they find a body. I can do this. This is reality. I can deal with getting rid of evidence.

I can do this.

12 During the eight hour drive to Middletown that I have to make in six hours, I begin taking off the clothes from the woods.

Black sweats, black hooded sweatshirt, black ski mask. Black gloves, black winter socks. White T-shirt. I begin alternately throwing them out the windows and dumping them into gas station trash cans. His mother beat him. That’s why he beat her.

My ears are pounding, my heart is an orchestra. I’m also using the gas stations to sweep out the inside of my car. His mother.

Every time I take off a piece of clothing, I replace it with one of my own that I’ll wear to the bar tonight. I replace sweats 29

with jeans, dirty dark socks with clean whites and pure white sneakers. Finally I replace the black hooded sweatshirt with a polo shirt, bright green, Augusta National Golf logo, distinctive, memorable for potential witnesses. Mother beat him. I walk into the bathrooms at the last gas station, wash my face, and straighten my hair.

Aside from the junker I’m driving, I could be just regular me.

Me-at-the-bar, totally fine, all hinged up, mother beat him, thank you very much.

I get off at Exit 32, and instead of making a right for Frickers, I make a left. Behind the new Fenwick High School are some woods where I leave the car. I wipe down the dash with a handkerchief I stole from my father, who didn’t beat me, wipe the steering wheel, wipe the radio knobs. I take the title out of the glove compartment, and light it on fire. I set it, flaming, in the driver’s seat. She beat him. As I’m walking away, black smokes starts to float out of the hood. A mile away, I hear a muffled thump as the gas tank explodes. A smile splits my face open, tears wash away nothing, nothing, nothing at all. They wash away nothing, because his mother beat him. His mother beat him.

My tears wash away nothing because his mother beat him, amen.

13 It’s only a five mile walk from Fenwick High School to Fricker’s. I take the back roads so I don’t see anyone I know. I walk in the front door and ask the bartender for a beer and a shot, my usual. Bud Light, Jack Daniel’s, his mother beat him, can I get an amen.

It was almost 1 am when I got in, so I only had and hour and a half to drink. I know the waitress, and she keeps me filled up, amen. She carries me out to her car, and gives me a ride home.

30

Just him getting drunk again. God, he’s been doing that a lot the past few months, huh? At least he seemed less tense tonight.

Yeah, he did. He was smiling too. È Epilogue It’s been a few months. It’s almost Spring now. She got the money from her father’s death, and now she’s headed away to a school in the south. She wants to be further away from home.

Even though he’s dead, she still wakes up at night sweating, hands covering her face, her breasts. She thinks the sun in the south will dry out her pain, turn it into something she can laminate and use like a bookmark. Something like that. She’s taking poetry classes at MUM this semester. She talks like that all the time now. She’s becoming new again. She’ll never know.

My world is completely hinged up, squared away, thank you very much can I get a hallelujah. Sights are vivid, sounds are crisp, and things are real again. She and I are growing apart, but that’s okay. People float in and out of our lives all the time, and the most important things become faint, dusty memories.

But I’ll always be lying in those woods. I’ll always be driving, fevered, from Ohio to Pennsylvania and back again. I’ll always have my finger on the trigger, and I’ll always be urging him to his silent sacrament, and his mother will always be beating him.

But I’ll also always be busy becoming someone else, someone new.

We all have a chance to become someone new.

31

Neil Marks È On Solitude I write in praise of thee, dear solitude, With whom are precious, timeless hours spent; Thou art my friend, of mellow, steady mood, Bestowing a serene environment.

When comes desire to mingle words in verse, As indispensable as food and air, Thou doth appear, thy purpose to immerse My spirit in the muse’s tender care.

For those who thine acquaintance never make Or run from thee in fear, I pity have; They’ll never know a soul in full awake Nor ride the crest of pure creation’s wave.

O solitude, thou art to be embraced For only then will one life’s nectar taste.

32

Welcome to the Information Superwreck Once upon a time there lived two boys.

One grew up amid the clicking noise Of plastic keys depressed and then released; The CPU within he saw as priest; Through it he touched his universe and God. Through cyberspace and Internet he trod; Though almost anything could be explained, So little information was retained; Said he: "I need not clog my memory, For by my side this friend will always be."

The other one's enlightenment arose From books whose pages could be grasped, from those Of human voice, without the wired machine As guide or necessary link between.

A keyboard's help was not required to think, Nor did his writing muscles cramp and shrink.

His God was that of which the Bible spoke, Whose strength without a screen he could invoke.

This one could see beyond the tangible By virtue of imagination's pull.

So then 'twas necessary for the first To tote around a laptop as the worst Of fears was realized: his brain was null.

Of technical instructions it was full, But space true knowledge might have occupied Was empty. When the second fellow tried To speak to him of anything, "O. K., I'll check my database," the first would say; If asked to reason why, how mystified He'd be unless the software could provide.

33

One day the lights went out, inducing fear Among the first and all the workers near; The task at hand, to find the product six Times seven, put them in a nasty fix.

Attempts to work it out on paper failed, So management a "math consultant" hailed.

The second, who arithmetic could do, Responded to their plea with "forty-two"; He even wrote it down, as nothing odd, But awestruck workers cheered: "He's God! He's God!"

34

Katie Henry È Come In and Fix Your Plates We used to play Outside all day Stopping when your mom would say “Come in and fix your plates.”

We made fishing poles from sticks, Checked our hair for ticks, Made sand balls for kicks.

That’s what we did for fun.

Do you remember our fake guns?

Watching the deer run?

Sitting in the sun?

We were happy doing nothing.

I remember building boats, Sand castles with real moats Running out without our coats Life was good back then.

In grade six, you taught me to sled.

I hit a tree, you thought me dead But I had only bruised my head We were done sledding for the day.

Later that year, you crashed your sled The ice shattered, and your nose bled.

I can’t remember what I said.

You had to go to the hospital.

35

We went with bare feet Caught frogs in your creek.

Got lost playing hide and seek But we always knew where we were.

We raced through the trees Getting bruises on our knees In the woods we felt free We liked being outside.

We chased the bugs, Stepped on slugs And muddied all the rugs.

We always cleaned our messes.

I miss the way We used to play Outside all day Stopping when your mom would say “Come in and fix your plates."

36

Katie Henry

37

Katie Henry

38

Ragnarok, Allen Berry 39

Rebecca Cameron

40

Courtney Curtner

41

Courtney Curtner

42

Abstract, Paula Holland

43

Trombonist, Johnna Roark

44

Land of the Free, Johnna Roark

45

Allison Singhoffer

46

Allison Singhoffer

47

Sophie, Allison Singhoffer 48

Joe Mitchell Ăˆ The Road Poem The road continues sprinting forward, The falling sun warms my arms.

My ears search for a lost radio station, As I pass low, lonely, rolling farms.

The Tires beat against the road, The steering wheel fights a curve My clock ticks off complete aloneness, Something we all deserve.

In just under an hour I assume, I will slow to my destination, But for now, I’ll let the window down, And savor my Isolation.

49

Chelle Creekbaum È The Real Children of the Corn “Why was your Mom looking at me like that?”

“I dunno. I guess she thinks you shouldn’t be here, since I’m, uh, getting married and everything.”

“You’re do what?”

He leaned over to nuzzle my neck, just like he always had, just as though nothing had changed. My pulse accelerated a notch, succumbing to some inner workings that had nothing to do with my current brain activity. My skin tingled where his lips made soft, butterfly contact, his breath in my hair as he spoke causing shivers of warmth, just as it always had, just as though nothing had changed. Evidently, some things hadn’t.

“I didn’t tell you before because I knew you’d get mad and, you know, I still like you and everything . . .”

Still likes me? I jerked my neck area out of his reach and grabbed my keys. I didn’t see his Mom on the way out.

Four months. I hadn’t even been gone four full months, but evidently it was long enough. All the phone calls, the letters, and now he “still likes me”? And the nerve of the jerk!

Sitting there telling me he’s getting married and still trying to put the moves on me.

The worst of it is, I know the girl. She’s a sweet girl, and we’ve always gotten along. Not best friends or anything, not close enough that I would’ve expected her to call me, but still, she’s nice enough. I’ll give her a call and let her know that we’re still cool.

“He didn’t even tell you we were dating?” (Did I call him a jerk? Definitely not good enough. Gotta come up with a better one than that.) “A party? Tonight? And you want me to come? Seriously? Yeh, that’d freak him out, all right.”

50

I thought about what she was proposing as I watch my exhaled smoke swirl toward the ceiling, thought about it long and hard. Saying no would almost be like turning down a dare, something I’ve never been able to do. “Ok if I bring a friend?

All right then. We’ll be there.”

I’m somewhat directionally illiterate and wasn’t quite sure where she lived. A friend would make sure I didn’t lose my way - or my nerve - and I knew just who to call.

“Hey, Michelle, wanna go to a killer party with me?

I’ll drive.”

Of course she did. She always did. Michelle and parties fit ominously together like the cans in the twelve-packs she always seemed to have with her, the twelve-packs she would eventually abandon in favor of AA meetings and iced tea.

And of course I’d drive. I was the one with the cool car – a maroon 1978 Chevy Camaro with a Z-28 sport package, L88 hood scoop, dual exhaust, and a killer stereo. Every guy in town knew that car, and half of them still couldn’t believe it belonged to a girl. Michelle had a VW bug. I always drove.

Two hours and three wrong turns later, we were in the driveway of a duplex. Every light in the place was on, the front door standing wide open and the stereo blaring. This was definitely a party. Michelle and I ambled in, twelve-packs minus five each, the four we drank on the way and the ones in our hands. Somebody squealed and came at me, arms wide, a little wider than normal to accommodate her very distended, very pregnant, belly. Could’ve guessed that one, should’ve seen it coming, but I didn’t. I wasn’t as shocked as I should’ve been, though, and with a big thankyouverymuch to the partial numbness provided by the four on the way, I returned the hug.

“Hey! You made it!”

“Wouldn’t have missed this party for the world. This is my friend, Michelle. So, uh, when are you due?”

She patted her swollen belly and grimaced. “Two more months to go, and I can’t wait.”

51

“Two more, huh?” I’ve always hated math, but this was an easy one - nine months minus two is seven, and I’d only been at school for four. Jerk definitely wasn’t strong enough.

“So, where is he, anyway?” I somehow managed to sound cool, detached, almost nonchalant. This was going to be easier than I thought.

“Where else? Over by the keg. He’s been there ever since it was delivered.” She paused, a little embarrassed it seemed, but I kind of felt for her. It was an odd situation, and now I was beginning to wonder if it really was such a great idea, especially when she mumbled, “Um, it’s ok if I watch to see what he does, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah! That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” I grinned widely. She grinned back, turned, and headed toward the large gathering of blue jeans and sweat in the corner of the room.

I paused long enough to light a cigarette and study her closely as she waddled away. Just exactly what kind of reaction was she expecting? What was it she wanted to see?

Did she need to see him deny me to be sure we were over?

Was I to be a form of punishment, an embarrassment in front his friends for not telling her? Or was it me who was meant to be embarrassed?

And what about me? What did I want? I knew I’d never want him back, but if that was true, then why was I here?

Did I want to see him grovel? Did I want to see him on his knees begging her to forgive him? Or was I reserving that power for myself?

I asked myself one more time why I was there, and when my self was silent and I realized that there was no satisfactory answer forthcoming, I did the only thing I could. I cracked another beer, took another puff, and followed her across the room.

“Hey, dickhead.” That was better. Much better. Fit him nicely. Obviously shocked at hearing my voice, his deer-in-the-headlights pose was priceless. I could feel the smirk spreading across my face as I prepared to watch him squirm. Smooth-talk your way out of this one, big man.

52

“Hey, sweetheart! C’mere! I didn’t know you were comin’!”

He was all smiles as he threw his arms around me and went straight for my neck. I struggled to push him away, but he was adamant in his embrace. Listing slightly, he pushed harder against me, grasping me tightly. I was stuck. I knew she was right behind me, seven months pregnant and getting married at the end of the month, and still he was putting the moves on me, turning on the old charm like he was Prince GotIt-All and I needed rescuing. Actually, I did. I needed rescued from this bit of oh-too-real reality. I pulled my right arm free and dumped the remainder of my beer on his head.

“Hey, whasssa matter?”

His voice followed me across the room as I forced my way back through the crowd to the entrance, aiming for that I’m-too-cool-for-this-shit exit, but now where in the hell is Michelle? Nowhere to be found. Great. Now I’m in for it, and here it comes.

She found me. Not Michelle - HER. She found me, and she’s crying, as expected. I could’ve made a clean get-away if Michelle hadn’t pulled her Houdini act.

“Aw, c’mon. He’s drunk. He didn’t mean it. He’ll pass out here in a little bit, and tomorrow, everything will be fine. Well, everything but his head. That’ll probably hurt.”

Humor, my old fallback, but I can see it isn’t going to work for me this time.

“No, I-I-I saw h-him. He was-was trying to kiss you and h-h-hug you and he didn’t even tell me you two were dating, and I’m seven months pregnant with his baby and he doesn’t even care! He d-d-doesn’t love me! He l-l-loves you!”

“No, he doesn’t. C’mon, think about it. If he loved me, he wouldn’t be marrying you. He wouldn’t be here with you.”

Yeah, sure. He loves you, but only because that’s what you want to hear. This isn’t helping. Gotta try something else.

“Hey, is this why you invited me? So you could get all upset?

I thought the idea was to get him upset!” Throw in the big grin and keep it going. That’s it. That’s it. Aw man, she wiped her 53

nose with the back of her hand. God, that grosses me out, but gotta keep grinning. She’ll come out of it. We always do.

“You know what? You’re right. Let’s let him know that this isn’t about him. We’re friends and he can’t do anything about it!”

“Yeah, that’s it! We’ll show him!” Whatever that’s supposed to mean. You’re about to marry a dickhead and have his baby, but we’re friends. Yeah, that’ll get him good. Just please stop crying. Another friend ambles over to check on her. I seize the opportunity to look for Michelle again, leaving them to their alternating weeping and man-bashing.

Seven down, one in hand, and I still haven’t found Michelle. It’s not safe inside, so I go outside and wait.

Two left, and still no Michelle. The apartment’s not that big, and I’ve looked everywhere. I even put out APBs (all party-goers bulletins) a little while ago, but no luck.

No Michelle.

“Hey! Where you been?” Michelle, finally, but what the hell’s she so happy about? This has been the worst time I’ve had at a party in a long time, yet here she is acting like she just got a visit from Ed McMahon.

“Where have I been? Where have you been? I was ready to leave six beers ago!” I squinted up at Michelle from my perch on the step. She wasn’t alone, and she was grinning like the village idiot.

“Hey, this is Pam, and this is Linda.” She had her arms around both of their necks, and nodded to indicate who was who. “They live upstairs. I’ve been upstairs.”

Again with the big, stupid grin. I tried to get a better look at my old friend and her new friends, but the angle and the porch light morphed them into identical, jumbo-sized jack o’lanterns. Drink, think, puff, and think again, wondering what the huge grin is about and what they’ve all been doing upstairs that’s got her in such an ain’t-life-grand mood. Finally, I gave up.

“Whatever. I’m glad somebody obviously had a good time. Let’s go, ok?”

“Ok. We’re outta here. See ya, guys!”

54

“Hey, Michelle, you still remember how we got here?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, ‘cause I don’t. I’ll drive. You direct.”

“Ok, but man, whatever we were smokin’ up there, I’m pretty wasted.”

“Well, don’t wasted out on me, ‘cause it’s already past two and I’m up shit creek. My curfew’s two o’clock and I’m late as we leave, my friend.”

“Curfew? You’ve still got a curfew?” I swear I could hear her still grinning.

“Shut up, Michelle. Ok, which way do I turn here?”

I think she said left, and that’s the way I turned, but what really came out was everything she’d eaten that day and everything she’d drank that day, and it all came out and splattered down the side of my car.

“Aw, gross! C’mon, Michelle! You gotta stay with me or we’ll never get home!”

She wiped her mouth and mumbled, “I’m still here,” and flopped back in the seat. Good enough.

Several turns and u-turns later, I was finally someplace I knew. Homeward bound. Finally, I could relax a little.

Michelle was saying something about throwing up again, but I really didn’t care. I suddenly realized just how tense I’d been, but now it was almost over, almost home, so I relaxed.

Bad move. No relaxing while driving. Always remember that. Always.

“Ch-el-l-le! Chel-le-le! W-a-ke up! Wa-ke u-p!”

That was Michelle, the corn leaves and stalks smacking her in the head, bouncing each syllable from her mouth as we careened blindly through the field. She’d passed out still hanging out the window. I’d passed out at the wheel, and my car, my oh-so-cool, oh-so-wonderful car, had driven us into the cornfield on the left instead of the light poles and houses on the right.

I gripped the steering wheel tightly and pumped the brakes until we finally stopped. I reversed back to the road and took a deep breath. The rest of the drive back to my house was silent, with both windows down and both of us smoking like 55

freight trains. By the time we got there, my pulse was almost back to normal. Michelle got in her VW bug and headed home. I crept in the house and went straight to bed as quietly as a mouse. I swear, I thought I did.

Thump. “Get up!” Thump. “Get your lazy butt out of that bed!” Thump. “I heard you come draggin’ your drunk butt in at four o’clock this morning!” Thump.

It’s never a good sign when your Dad wakes you up by throwing things at you. Mental note to quit leaving my shoes at the end of the bed.

Squint at the clock – six a.m. Oh, god. My head feels like . . . I think I’m gonna throw up.

“Get your drunk, sorry ass out of that bed, and you and your lazy-ass friend can get out there and wash that car!”

What lazy-ass friend? What’s he talking about? It’s too drunk in here for this, but there’s no sense arguing. I was late on curfew, drunk to boot, and I knew my car really was a mess. I threw on some clothes and headed outside.

Michelle’s bug was parked out front at the curb, and I could see her slumped in the seat. This must be my lazy-ass friend, here to help me wash my car, whether she knew it or not. I pecked on the window, trying not to give her the wake-up-and-throw-up greeting I got from Dad. “Michelle? Michelle? What’re you doing here?”

Mmmph, mph, cough, cough.

“Michelle! You gotta come out and help me wash my car or my Dad’s gonna kill both of us.”

Mmph. “Mom and Dad locked the doors. Wouldn’t let me in, so I drove back here.”

“Real smart, girl. Now you get to help me wash my car and you get the bonus of a lecture from my folks, too. C’mon, get out here and help me.”

Washing vomit off of a car at six a.m. is not the most pleasant thing in the world, especially when you and your lazyass friend are taking turns trying not to puke while you do it.

The morning sun was too bright, searing our eyeballs and melting what was left of our brains. The entire contents of Michelle’s stomach were featured in stunning bas-relief on the 56

side of my car, each major food group represented in graphic, nauseating reality on a background of maroon and wax.

“Don’t you ever chew your food?”

“I thought I did. Guess not.”

We moved on to the rest of the car. I took the front, while Michelle washed the other door and the quarter panels.

We’d both been thinking it, but it was Michelle who voiced it first.

“Did that really happen last night?”

“Hell, Michelle, I don’t know, but if it did, we’re really lucky just to be here.”

“Yeah, somebody must’a been lookin’ out for us.”

“Wasn’t Bacchus the god of drunks?”

“Man, I don’t know. You read too much.”

“Maybe it was Demeter. She’s the goddess of the harvest.”

Michelle snickered at that one. “Yeah, well, whoever was in charge of your paint job wasn’t watching, ‘cause a big chunk just came off with that carrot. Man, I’m sorry.”

“Great.” I shook my head at the eyeball of bare metal staring at me from the passenger door, wondering how long it would be before it started to rust.

“Oh, my God. C’mere!”

“What?” I was in no mood for anything even moderately amusing, but I could hear her grinning, and when I turned, I saw the start of a twinkle in her otherwise bleary eyes.

I had no choice. I had to look.

Michelle snickered again. “I think it was, who’d you say, Demeter?”

I walked slowly to the rear of the car to see just which food particle had caused such glee, and there they were . . . two complete ears of corn, shucks and all, lying end-to-end in the spoiler on the deck lid of my car - one for each of us.

Michelle grinned. I grinned back.

Michelle snorted, and I lost it.

And that’s how Dad found us ten minutes later, standing at the back of my car laughing our drunk, lazy asses off, with soap on our hands and tiny rivulets of puke remnants 57

running down the driveway at our feet. Our heads hurt. Our stomachs were raw. We didn’t really care. We had corn. È “Aw, c’mon. That’s not a true story. These are supposed to be true stories.”

“You two are so crazy.”

“They’re not crazy. They’re both full of shit.”

It’s the monthly meeting of the girls, the few that I still keep in touch with from high school - Marci, Sharon, Marie, and, of course, Michelle. They’d all known him and what he had done, but Michelle and me, we’d made a pact to keep the corn story a secret so our folks would never find out the whole truth. Tonight, though, we were all telling stories, talking about “the good old days” like a bunch of old gray-haired women, each one taking her turn telling the funniest or most outlandish one she could remember. When the laughter died down from the last story, Michelle grinned at me and said, “Go on, tell ‘em the best one. Go on. Tell it.” So I did. I took a deep breath and told the whole thing from the beginning, knowing they’d never believe me, knowing they’d say we were both full of shit.

I looked over at Michelle. She stretched and put her arm around Denise and grinned. I grinned back. Michelle started laughing, and I lost it. We were 19 again, and it really didn’t matter if they believed us. We knew, and we knew just how lucky we were to be there to tell it. We were the girls of the harvest – Demeter’s drunks. We were truly the children of the corn.

58

Contributor Notes È Anonymous is an English major and will graduate sometime in the next bajillion years. Anonymous waits tables, spends time with a significant other, and writes when inclined.

Allen Berry grew up in the rural area of Amelia, Ohio. His works have been featured at the Dicere Gallery in Cincinnati.

“The work selected, "Ragnarok", is a very special piece. The year and a half spent working on it was a very difficult year to say the least. I lost three family members on my mother's side, and at the time I was in a disastrous relationship which lasted too damn long. The year spat me out as a new, stronger person.

When I finished my sculpture, I decided the name "Ragnarok" seemed to fit better than any other. "Ragnarok" is the Norse version of the apocalypse. When the Norse gods went to battle with their ancient enemies they would destroy their enemies, but also themselves and the world with them. The world was then reborn from the ashes, more beautiful and glorious than before. The sculpture is symbolic of renewal and strength. It is the sculpture that I am most proud of.” You may view Berry’s work at www.allenberryart.com.

Wendy L. Burger is a sophomore majoring in Technical Communications. She says that creative and technical writing may sound incompatible, but both require imagination and constant revision. Crafting a story is art; a writer paints portrait using a pen for a brush, and honesty for a palette. Whatever she writes, whether a comparison of statistics or a work of fiction, she focuses most on truthfulness. She adds, “Fiction is so much more than an invented tale. The story itself ensures only a portion of success; the difference between colorless, insipid writing and a beautifully crafted work of art is honesty.”

59

Chelle Creekbaum lives in Middletown with her husband of 15 years, their 12-year-old son, two dogs, one cat, and a goldfish named Biff. An Edgewood graduate, she works fulltime for the City of Trenton in both the Finance and Police departments. Her inspiration for writing? "Just plain old life.

There is nothing more humorous, more delightful, more encouraging, more enlightening, or more inspiring than what you see and hear around you every day. Well, that and corn."

Katie Henry is a sophomore at Miami University Middletown, majoring in Early Childhood Education. She enjoys writing, photography, video-editing, and making jewelry. While she takes much satisfaction in the finished product, she most enjoys the experience of the creative process through these vehicles of expression. She is inspired by both my nature and nurture; however, ultimately, feels her inspiration is predominantly innate, and in this sense, enjoys both the means and the end very much (even though she’s not sure that there is always a clearly defined line between the two).

Neil Marks has a BS and MBA from Washington University and PhD from Ohio State, and employed as Associate Professor of Decision Sciences at Miami University, Oxford.

Joe Mitchell is currently an undeclared freshman at MUM. He is looking to go into Mechanical Engineering and eventually become a CAD-CAM professional. He says it’s hard to describe his creative writing process; “most of the time I have an idea all at once, and it manifests itself into a poem, or in the case of my book, a story. I am easy-going and I like to make people laugh. I try to make the best of every situation.”

60

Johnna Roark is an art major with a concentration in photography as well as being an Illuminati staff member. She prefers to draw things that aren't realistic, and to photograph things that aren’t seen every day. Mrs. Roark’s pen and ink drawing, “Mitchell with a Twitchell,” is this issue’s featured cover art.

Kris Shafer is a 23 yr. old sophomore working on an AA and a BA in social science. Art has always been a side part of her life; she draws, paints, writes, plays music and does anything else she can to nurture her creative side. She balances herself as well in life as she can; between logic and creativity is where she tries to maintain herself. She considers herself fortunate that she has always had a great family to support and encourage her in all of her endeavors, which she says is the best inspiration of all.

Allison Singhoffer considers herself a community person.

During her two years at Miami, she has enjoyed working with the Art Club and painting for the YMCA. In all of her activities, she tends to see the world around her; this is what is most fulfilling to her personally. She feels that all of those in student organizations tend to live each day in and out of each others lives, problems and triumphs. Starla and Shane Evilsizor’s little Sophie is “our baby.” “She came to us from Guatemala, and we have spoiled her, played with her, and watched her change so much in her first two months in the United States.” When Allison drew this, Sophie wasn’t even here yet and one way of dealing with the frustrations she felt with the wait was do what she loves: draw. “Drawing her was an outlet for me to express myself, while keeping that sense of community we all dwell in everyday.”

Meghan Woods is known for her laugh, which can be heard from a mile away. Her hope is that someday, she will be known for her writing as well – or at least her teaching of it. Narrative poems are Meghan’s friends – her community, her connection, her full-circle. “The Cost of Education” tells the story of two 61

students – one being in college, one just learning her A, B, C’s – and the sacrifices between them (mother and daughter, with daddy somewhere in between). “Insurance (For Peace of Mind)” turns crime into honesty, honesty into lesson, and lesson into reassurance for an ill mother. “Publish” is a prose-poem which shows a speaker who is yearning to be heard, seen, established, and most importantly, remembered.

“Aren’t we all?” When Meghan is not writing, she enjoys cuddling with her daughter, and well, cuddling with her lover – “Oh, my!” Can you hear her laughing now?

62