Illuminati Fall 2009 by notthatilluminati

Miami University Middletownâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;sâ&#x201E;˘ Journal of the Arts

Edited by Michelle Lawrence, Eric Melbye and Sarah Dickerson

The Illuminati Press

© 2009 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 to the Editor: Sarah Dickerson Faculty Advisor: Dr. Eric Melbye Cover art: Wendy Wagener Harris, “After I Come Back”. Paper collage: tissue paper, mulberry paper, recycled magazines, digital photographs, and paint. Cover Design: Dr. Eric Melbye Financial Support: Miami Middletown Student Government and Illuminati ―Angels‖ Editorial Offices: 130 Johnston Hall, Miami University Middletown, Ohio 45042 www.mid.muohio.edu/orgs/illuminati/

CONTENTS ----------ḭ---------Forward David Miller Chelle Creekbaum Vanessa Hause Derek Hummel Johnna Roark

Heather Davis

Austin Neal

Gabriel Peck

Greg Helmers Tim Mobley Amber Goodlett William Johnson

v A Mustard Wink A Piece of Memory Lane The Stars Don‘t Shine Leap Frog sometimes i don‘t know who i am it's funny, people only want your picture when you're wearing a big bear's head wilbur rm. 112, lansing, michigan mitchell in tonya's bed, harrisonburg, virginia Blissful Days Miracle of Life Howling Good Time untitled untitled untitled untitled Sylvan Lake Acton Lake The Needles Where Everyone‘s Name is Darlin‘ I Found the Words The Mark It Comes With the Territory

Contributor Notes Submission Guidelines Acknowledgements

7 13 20 21 23

24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 42 44 51 56 58 60

FORWARD ----------ḭ---------Michelle Lawrence August 2009

Miami University Middletown is changing. It seems as though I start the forward of each Illuminati with a sentence like that every time, but with the beginning of each new school year, we go through changes. This year the campus will see not only new students, but new instructors (some from the Oxford campus, some from other areas), a new Dean of Student Affairs and even a new campus Dean. Many offices and other spaces are being remodeled, and our student organizations will be in a state of change, too. Illuminati itself will need new student leadership in the form of a new editor and more staff. This is the way of life at a branch campus. Change can be uncomfortable, but it can also be exciting and powerful. If you‘re new to our campus or if you‘ve been here for a few semesters, you‘re already a potentially powerful maker of change. You can help to shape the landscape of MUM by doing more than driving to your classes and then immediately driving home. You can make this campus your own by joining student organizations so that you and those like you are heard, seen, and taken seriously. If you are an artist or writer you can become a part of Illuminati like I did four years ago, and it can change not only the publication, but the campus and believe it or not, your life and the lives of other artists and writers in our community. Change is happening. Be a part of it.

~Michelle Lawrence

DAVID MILLER Winner, Malcolm Sedam Writing Award, 2008

----------ḭ---------A Mustard Wink Duck curry was Ingrid‘s only reason for venturing from her high-rise office building, past two windowless store fronts, and to a sticky Indian grocer. She had tasted the curry before when Frank, her colleague, had brought two orders of the soup to a luncheon. If you like it so much, he had said, it‘s an easy place to find. Just walk down Third Street till you see broken glass and fresh graffiti. It‘ll be deathly quiet and look like a crime scene, but it‘s worth the peril. His words echoed in her head as she looked the edifice up and down. Glass, with those filthy roundels of used tape, climbed the spine of the structure and disappeared into the cleft of carmine masonry. Turmeric fumes, in an earthy breeze, pulled her nose back toward the eatery, beckoning her to come in. Quickly, she snapped a look over her shoulder, filled cashmere gloves with fingers, and braved the opening of the door. Behind the counter, an old woman with bat ears ladled the yellow soup into a plastic quart, placing a piece of the fowl on a napkin for snacking, while a small boy in a collared shirt packed two paper containers full of brown rice. The smells of coconut milk and duck fat drooped in the humidity, and this only increased Ingrid‘s hunger and impatience. Unfortunately, the child had made a mistake— how can you make a mistake packing rice? Ingrid thought— and the old woman had to explain the procedure in sharp words. To occupy herself, Ingrid looked to a mirror leaning against the register to see if the humidity had taken any effect. Everything appeared to be fine. Her fading brown hair was still suspended at the proper angle, her ecru eyes, like two pearls filled with smoke where enhanced with the proper blue, and that annoying mole on her left cheek had not shown its despicable color. Carefully, she adjusted her cardigan, and

then began tapping one penknife patent leather high-heel in a desperate attempt to get the old bats‘ squawking to stop. Ring-ping went the door, and she watched a narrow faced man in black almost fall into the grocer. Of course, his order was already packed and waiting for him. ―Lo mein and Nan,‖ he pointed to the paper sack. The Indian woman nodded her head, and then, using her fingers and lips explained, ―Seven ninety-five, please.‖ The sheer thought of ordering lo mein, a Chinese dish, at an Indian establishment made Ingrid laugh quietly to herself. It wasn‘t that noodles were too tricky for an Indian gastronomist; it was the fact that if a body wanted noodles— good noodles, they should go to a building with the word ―wok‖ in the title. Thankfully, it was Ingrid‘s turn to pay next, as the kid in the collar slapped the bag on the counter, and rolled the top of the sack into its paper belly. ―Eight ninety-five, miss.‖ In response, Ingrid opened her handbag, rested a fifty, her smallest bill, onto the counter, and gave the woman a half-smile. The bat reached for the fifty, finding it was stuck, and pulled to the left to let it free. Ring-ping went the register and a ―here you go‖ came a moment before a stack of ones and fives. Frustrated, Ingrid ordered the bills numerically and made sure they were all facing the same direction, then, she folded them into her purse, taking the paper sack in her free hand. Outside, she saw the narrow faced man looking up and down the street for a taxi. Clearly an idiot she thought, taxis never come down this street—too many abandoned buildings. Suddenly he was looking down and swearing, as his bag of food had fallen off the curb, and the noodles were slipping down the drain like silk-worms. Ingrid turned away to chuckle into her sweater. There was something funny about misfortune coming to an idiot. Something really funny. Ahead, she could see her office building. Figuring eight o‘clock to four o‘clock was a long enough workday, she decided to go straight to the parking garage with intentions to return to those sour e-mails the following morning. In quick scrapes she made her way across the pavement, pushing her heels toward home, when suddenly everything looked different. She had only kept her eye off the high-rise for a

moment, and now, there was nothing but electric lights and bricked edifices. A dog was chained to a telephone pole, barking, scratching, and digging at the wood, the buildings were without air and glow, and there was a steady siren in the distance. Panicking slightly, Ingrid turned around and attempted to return to the grocer. But it was nowhere to be found. In this older district, the streets looked the same, the smells were always changing, and the bricked scrapers seemed to arc inward, hiding the skyline from view. Without a doubt, she was lost, and it had only taken a moment. ―Hello,‖ she called into the shadows. There was no response. It was as if no one lived in this quarter—no one at all. ―Hello,‖ Ingrid called again making sure her purse was fastened shut. Behind her, a metallic ring-ping scuttled in the pocket of an alley. She turned to face it. ―Excuse me,‖ she started, ―Is there someone there?‖ ―Of course there is. Can‘t you hear all this ruckus?‖ a shrill voice asked. From the black, a frail man surfaced, in grimy denim and a tawny sweater. Ingrid gave him a half smile, ―Where is Third Street?‖ ―Third?‖ ―Yes, the street with the number three in its name.‖ The grey man frowned, snaked a hand into his trousers, and revealed a pair of prescription glasses. They were very nice reading glasses, or so she thought. The lighting was sparse and her eyes could easily play tricks, but she could make out metallic frames with boldface font on the arms. Her mind suggested they were the same eyewear her clients favored—affluent clients. ―I know my numbers lady. I was just thinking about where‘ve I seen the sign.‖ Annoyed, Ingrid secured her purse under her arm, and moved the paper sack to her other hand. ―I would appreciate it,‖ she started, ―If you could think faster. I really don‘t like being here.‖

The grey man glanced at his shoeless feet, and smiled a yellow grin, ―Suh‘ shame, cause‘ we have our selves a great time here.‖ ―Third Street,‖ she reminded him. ―Ah, yes. Third Street is a few blocks that‘away. I‘d be happy to show you to it.‖ ―That‘s kind of you,‖ Ingrid noted. Another yellow grin. ―Please, lead the way,‖ she said, snapping her head away from his pitiful teeth. Slowly he moved to her side and offered his arm. She pushed it to the right, and again made sure everything was secure next to her cardigan. Nodding his head in understanding, he began taking careful steps toward the desolate intersection ahead. With no other option, but to follow him, Ingrid considered the worse that this fragile man could be capable of. Nothing, but the irritation of spending time with a vagrant came to mind, so she followed. When they arrived at the intersection, the grey man began pointing to the blinking traffic light. ―It‘s close,‖ he declared, ―See that light. It‘s always winking its mustard eye; giving me a landmark. That‘s how I know where this street of yours is.‖ Ingrid looked to the eyeball suspended over the path, and swallowed hard. ―It just keeps blinking like that?‖ ―Yep, has a mind all its own. But c‘mon. We make the left here, and then two streets up should be number three.‖ ―Wonderful,‖ she sighed, ―This sweater is kind of thin, and I was getting cold. I‘ll be glad to be back at the office.‖ ―An office lady. ‗Ats why you smell like a department store—with your face so clean and eye brows as thin as a pencil line.‖ He stopped, leaning into the radiance of a streetlight. ―But your chop. Why is there a bump there?‖ Ingrid rubbed at her left cheek. The beam of light lit up his face entirely. For the first time she noticed just how clean and gold his glasses were. Their familiar loveliness kept her eyes from the filth caught between lumps of his sweater, from the chapped skin of his feet, and the smell of his gums.

Like wedding bands they shimmered on the pools of his eyes, the lenses clear as air. ―It‘s a mole,‖ she found herself saying, ―You know, the kind your insurance makes a fit over and you have to live with.‖ ―Never had a mole.‖ Her eyes remained on the shining rims, ―Well, I cover this one up. Its real color is a nasty brown. It makes me look like I have a mosquito sleeping on my face.‖ ―Never had insurance neither.‖ She sighed, her shoulders snapping down in confusion. No insurance, she thought, but his eyeglasses were far too lovely. ―Number three has all sorts of agencies,‖ she reminded him, ―In fact you can have anything insured these days.‖ There was a silent nod in response, and he turned back toward the blinking light. With obvious effort he pushed himself forward into the canyon of red bricks, narrow at the mouth, and then slowly widening ahead. Ingrid rounded the corner, leaving the broken light behind. Immediately, colorful signs of Dr. Pepper and Lancôme returned to the spaces in between lighted windows. Traffic lights changed from green to red, making drivers pound their fists into leather wheels, while city birds leaned against the benches, their bellies full of white bread. ―Third Street,‖ he read, ―The street with a three in its name.‖ Ingrid nodded with a small grin, still unable to look past the frames. ―Thanks mister. I can get a taxi here and be at the parking garage in a few minutes.‖ This made him laugh, ―Not in that traffic.‖ She nodded her head in agreement, and tried to spot the mustard eye over his shoulder. But it was tucked away, guarding the perimeter of the land with no insurance. ―Here, I never do this, but let me give you some money,‖ she suggested. He placed his hand on hers, making sure the bag stayed shut, ―I don‘t want any money. I helped you because I wanted to help. You don‘t owe me a thing.‖

―Fine,‖ Ingrid said softly, ―Have it your way.‖ ―Oh, here‘s a cab for you,‖ he pointed. Sure enough a cadmium cab ripped a good stop right into the curb. Like a gentleman, the man opened the door for her, making sure all her bags were in and tucked behind her legs. ―Goodnight,‖ he said shutting the door. Behind the pane she waved. Then, just as quickly as the taxi had arrived, it sped away into the five o‘clock darkness. ―Corner of third and twelfth,‖ she told the driver, ―that‘s my stop.‖ ―Sure thing.‖ Ingrid opened her purse to count out the expected cost of the trip. Only there was nothing inside. Everything was gone—the loose money, her wallet, and receipts. Gone. She reached into her sweater pocket, relieved to find her keys secure, and then turned her entire body in desperation to stare frantically out the back window. But he was gone too.

CHELLE CREEKBAUM ----------ḭ---------A Piece of Memory Lane People talk about memory lane a lot – taking trips down it, strolling on it, driving down it. They even talk about songs and smells that are a part of it, but I‘m one of the few people who actually know where it is. Nettie Mae Staton – my maternal grandmother, my Mom‘s Mom, but to me she was always Mommaw, with her never-been-cut gray hair pulled back in a simple bun, her handmade aprons, and her homemade dresses that always covered her knees. Going to Mommaw‘s was like stepping into another world. Three fields, two barns, and a coop full of chickens, a two-story house with teeny-tiny steps leading to an off-limitsto-kids upstairs, a dirt-floored cellar lined with canned goods, a deep-freeze full of fudgicles and fishsticks, and an outhouse that was the long-storied residence of a snake that crawled out of the hole and bit you in the butt if you stayed in there too long – where else would a kid want to be? Every Sunday, the whole family would go to Mommaw‘s – Mom and Dad and me and Jodi; Mom‘s brothers and their wives – Uncle Bud, Uncle Jay, Aunt Elinora, and Aunt Dot; and all of my cousins – Doug, and Linda, Jimmy, Rick, Brenda, Jeff, and Paula. When Poppaw was still alive, he‘d come out of the house when we all pulled in and squat down on the walk with his arms out, and Paula and I would jump out and race to see who could get to the hug first. Mommaw‘s house set back ―a fer piece‖ from the road. To get to it, you had to drive down the lane – between the fences, past the mailbox and the house with the peacocks, and around two corners, carefully avoiding the ruts and high spots that developed in the gravel and dirt every winter.

At the end of the lane, there was a sharp turn to the right that led to the parking spots in front of the house. For years, everybody cut that corner. Up in the yard they‘d all go, just enough to round off the edge of the turn, and the edge of Mommaw‘s yard. Mommaw didn‘t like it, ever‘body messin‘ up her yard like that. She didn‘t like it one bit, so one Sunday when we all arrived for dinner, there was a large black-and-pink rock sitting right smack-dab on the edge of that corner. It wasn‘t a huge rock, but it was a big enough rock that they had to swing wide to make that right turn and pull in, and they all stayed out of Mommaw‘s yard while they did it. None of us ever knew for sure how Mommaw got that rock there. It just showed up on the corner of the lane that Sunday, and there it sat until the day that Mom told me I needed to go get what I wanted from the farm before it wasn‘t ours to get anymore. *** Not everyone‘s lucky enough to grow up with their cousins living catty-corner across the back yard, but that‘s how it was for me and Jodi. With two best friends next door and five cousins within yelling distance, we never lacked for somebody to play with. Jeff, Paula, and I were close in age, and were about as close as cousins can get for a long time, until Jeff decided to grow up and Paula decided that a younger cousin just wasn‘t a cool sidekick anymore. But we always had a blast at Mommaw‘s. Three Little Piggies The barns stood empty after Poppaw died. The cows and pigs that had been so much a part of their lives for so long were just too much for Mommaw to handle alone. The pig styes were the best. There were three styes, one for each of us, and it didn‘t take long to turn them into luxury suites. We scrounged in every cobwebbed corner and shadowed alcove of the barns until we had amassed an

enormous pile of metal spoons, several not-too-badly-chipped plates, a few knives, and even an old metal coffee pot, and with the proper alignment of a semi-rotted chair or two, we were set. Jeff unearthed a huge roll of navy blue corrugated paper with enormous white stars from the hay loft that served as wallpaper for all three apartments (Asking why Mommaw had a huge roll of navy blue corrugated paper with enormous white stars never occurred to us. It was wallpaper - cool.). I was a teacher, Paula was an extremely dependable and depended-upon secretary, and Jeff was . . . well, whatever he was, it was cool. Jeff was, to me, the epitome of cool. I was always jealous of Paula for having such a cool brother. Mom says I used to beg her to have me an older brother just like Jeff. For some reason, she and Dad never seemed to work that one out. We lived entire lives in those styes, me, Paula, and Jeff. We went to work and came home. We cooked and did the dishes. We cleaned and then messed it all up again. We lived in those styes every Sunday . . . until the day I smelled cucumbers. I got out of that barn as fast as my little legs would carry me and ran straight to the house, straight to Mommaw and the safety of the ―old people.‖ Mommaw had always told us that copperheads smell like cucumbers, and I wanted no part of an apartment with a snake. We were forbidden to play in the barn after that, and our beautiful sty suites went unrented and unused. I went to see them one last time when the farm sold. Jeff's corrugated wallpaper was still hanging, and most of our "treasures" had never been moved. I often wonder what the family who bought the place thought of how well Mommaw had treated her pigs. *** We had other things to occupy our time besides pig styes, though. We had wars to tend to – big, green, nasty, smelly wars. Ever heard of a hedge apple? Ever thrown one? They were grenades when they were hard, bombs when they were soft, but whichever it happened to be, it hurt like hell

when one caught you square on the shoulder or in the middle of your chest. We waged our wars in the front of the house with our Osage Orange grenades and bombs. Sheila and Lois Ann, the daughters of Mommaw‘s neighbors, would come over and join in our wars when they could. Sheila had a ―thing‖ for my cool Jeff, so I didn‘t like her much, but Lois Ann and I, only two years apart, became weekend friends over the years, until one Sunday when Mommaw told me that Lois Ann wouldn‘t be coming over to play with us anymore. When I asked her why, she simply repeated that Lois Ann wasn‘t going to be playing with us anymore, and then she said that I should ―just leave it at that.‖ If Mommaw said ―just leave it at that,‖ you just did, like the time she told me that blue eye-shadow gives you cancer. I asked her why and she said it just did and that I should just leave it at that. I immediately switched to wearing only green eye-shadow. That‘s just how it was. Mommaw had other odd sayings, little catechisms that she had been taught growing up in the backwoods of Kentucky, the whys and wherefores of which were absolutely foreign to me, but I treasure each and every one – The best way to ensure marrying a good husband? Eat pickled pig‘s feet behind the kitchen door. To avoid marrying a crazy person? Don‘t sing at the table. To spoil a garden? Let a girl who is menstruating walk across the rows. In the rows is okay, just don‘t let her step over the plants! And of course, blue eye-shadow gives you cancer because it just does (Thinking back on that one, I think it was her way of telling me I was too young for make-up. Obviously I didn‘t get it.). These nuggets of wisdom were interspersed with golden gems of reason, like, ―go to bed laughing, wake up crying‖ (and vice versa), ―a penny saved is a penny earned,‖ ―pretty is as pretty does,‖ and my personal favorite by a landslide, ―Let your vittles fill your face.‖

Let‘s Eat! At Mommaw‘s funeral, the Pastor delivering the eulogy, who had known our family for years, summed it up perfectly when he told those gathered, ―If you ever left Nettie‘s house hungry, well, that was your own fault!‖ Every meal at Mommaw‘s was a treat, but Thanksgiving was far and above the most untoppable meal in the universe. There was turkey, of course, but there was also ham, a roast of some kind, and usually some bologna and hotdogs for the kids who wouldn‘t eat anything else. There were vegetables, too, and never just one choice of anything. There was corn on the cob, corn off the cob, and creamed corn. There were string beans, lima beans, navy beans, baked beans, and shucked beans (I‘ve never really understood what shucked beans are. I love ‗em and always ate more than my share, but to this day, all I know is that Mommaw dried some kind of beans on old window screens perched on rocks in the front yard and then cooked them with ham and probably a scoop of lard or bacon grease. I think Mommaw put a scoop of lard or bacon grease in everything she cooked and, arteries be damned, it was all good!). There were mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, baked sweet potatoes, scalloped potatoes, and cheddar potatoes. And desserts? There were so many desserts that they had to have their own table. Oh, we ate good at Mommaw‘s! *** One of my work-study jobs in college was as a teacher‘s aide at the English Language Services (ELS), where students from other countries who had applied to attend schools in the United States came to learn or brush up on English. The Thursday before Thanksgiving break, we had a huge dinner at the ELS. Everyone was asked to bring a traditional dish from their country, and we had everything from kimchee and egg rolls to spicy chocolate chicken to turkey and candied sweet potatoes. While we were enjoying our odd but delicious repast, one of the students from Korea

explained to me that Thanksgiving in his country was more like an American Memorial Day. They spend the day remembering their ancestors and praying for and with them. I realized he had never had an American Thanksgiving dinner so, after calling Mom and Dad for their approval, I invited Kim to come home with me and share our meal at Mommaw‘s. The first thing Kim said when we finally arrived was, ―You have family enough to play American football – both teams!‖ Now, not saying that my family is a little southern-soundin‘, but Kim had a hard time understanding everybody. Somebody would say something to him and he‘d turn to me, all grins, and ask, ―What he say? What he say?‖ Mommaw tried her best to talk to Kim, she really did, but I had to stay close by to interpret her ―ya‘lls‖ and ―ya hears‖ into an English that Kim could understand. At one point, Paula, Kim, and I were in the living room when we heard a commotion in the kitchen. Mommaw had thrown open the oven door and was flapping her dishtowel wildly at the stove and hollerin‘, ―Hep! Hep! The biscuits is a burnin‘! The biscuits is a burnin‗!‖ Kim, frantic at her obvious distress and desperate to understand, kept repeating, ―What she say? What she say?‖ Me ‗n Paula couldn‘t decide which one was the funniest, and ended up laughing ‗til we were crying and our sides hurt, and Mommaw‘s biscuits, despite her dismay, turned out just fine. *** Mommaw spent the last ten years of her life trying to figure out who all those nice people were who visited every week and why she couldn‘t go home, but as long as she was able, she walked. Around and around the circular hallway she‘d go, and she expected anyone who wanted to talk to her to walk with her, but good luck trying to keep up. An aide who was a neighbor of mine at the time would sometimes walk with Mommaw for a while when her shift was over. She said she‘d never seen any of the residents walk as much as

Mommaw did, and neither of us could figure out if Mommaw was walking toward something or away from it. I always had a feeling, though, that it was a little bit of both. *** When the farm finally sold, Mom called me and said if there was anything I wanted from ―out there,‖ I‘d better go get it. There was only one thing I could think of. That big black-and-pink rock‘s had five homes since it came to live with me. Its current place of pride is smackdab in the middle of my wildflowers out back, but it‘s funny – flowers and weeds everywhere, yet there‘s Mommaw‘s rock, through the seasons and the kids and the dogs and my feigned attempts at gardening, standing out against the ornery growth, no matter how wild and messy things get all around it. I can‘t explain it, and I really don‘t want to try. That‘s just the way it is, and I think I‘ll just leave it at that.

VANESSA HAUSE ----------ḭ---------The Stars Don’t Shine

The dew at night Is cool and inviting It tickles my toes Returning nightly The air out here Feels fresh and new A start of new beginnings too Nature sings it symphony Nothing is what appears to be Morning will be a tragedy The sky so wide And out of focus The heavens wave and Say look below us On this night of tranquility The angles wish they could be me The heavens bruised So black and blue With diamonds strewn Across the wound In the chaos peaks the moon Like the ocean So dark and long This beautiful sky Has something wrong For the stars don‘t shine tonight

DEREK HUMMEL ----------ḭ---------Leap Frog

When you completely shelter someone, when you say ―No, you can‘t do that", every fiber of their body screams ―I can, and I will.‖ I know a guy who was sheltered completely during childhood. Now he sells rock. The word ―illegal‖ is the entire reason I‘m sitting on top of this corporate office of the hardworking people of whatever. The police haven‘t been called, well at least, not yet. If you base jump from a building you must detach your parachute and make it at least 100 meters away from your landing spot. Once you make it that far, you‘re a citizen again. If you‘re smart you look for a building a decent distance away from local law enforcement. Also, if you want to be extremely careful, like me, you tail local police to note their routes. This way, you can plan the best time for a jump. Of course, you can try to run those 100 meters on your own. If you‘re smart you have a vehicle parked nearby your target landing spot. The little red piece of shit Honda below my feet will carry me most of the way if not further. I reached into my left breast pocket and fumbled with my cigarettes. It‘s always windy on top of high a building which makes lighting a cigarette and exact art. What is the point of quitting when your life expectancy is always on the line? You want a real rush? Base jump when you‘re drunk. Or high. Floating through the air and chasing your vomit is always a fun experience. The thing is, I‘m paranoid when I‘m high. Floating down at high speed you have a sudden fear of death. I don‘t smoke much. But drunk, oh is that the way to go. Make sure you do it a few times to get the hang of it. Don‘t do it drunk the first time you‘ll split your sack on a tree limb. I was arrested once. Not for base jumping, but for throwing a corpse off a building. My friend Jeremy always

wanted to base jump. He just never had the balls for it. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. You never know what you‘re waiting for. When the time is right, you fucking leap. I tossed my butt over the edge and watched it fade away. Took one last look at my target landing, and leapt. The chute in the wind slapping around as you release it is always real loud. You must get your landing right. If not, your legs give under you and you slam. That fucking hurts. That may be a broken leg and an arrest unless you can limp your way to your car and drive. That‘s if it is your left leg and you drive an automatic. I shivered while soaring downward. I could tell I was going to be a little off target. No matter, there were no trees around to get hung up on. I just had to worry about the police. It is unlikely that you will be arrested unless you‘re spotted sneaking up the stairwell. You must plan your routes. It will hurt every time you land. My feet sometimes swell. If people are nearby their reactions are always priceless. Women will scream and men will jump with an expression of awe. Sometimes people get pissed. I had a guy tackle me once. He tried to hold me down and did the ―Someone call the police‖ routine. I clocked him and began to waddle trying to untangle my chute. I got away, that‘s all that matters. I hit the ground and rolled to try to absorb the blow. There were not many people around. The few who were around just stared as I unbuckled my chute and ran. One thing that is an issue would be you leave your chute behind every time. You have to because the fucker is heavy. It gets expensive. I ran to my Honda and hopped inside. I then attempted to start my car. It failed. My forehead got wet with perspiration and I tried again. The same sound came from my engine as before. The dash tried to illuminate but failed. I counted to three then tried again. People began to approach my car. Finally the dash flickered to life and the engine began to roar. I heard sirens in the distance. I floored the pedal and took off leaving the approaching crowd. I took my planned route of escape that had been mapped out a week in advance. My license plate sat in my backseat along with the screwdriver used to remove it. I would stop and replace it in a few blocks. I grinned as I knew I was in the clear.

Johnna Roark / sometimes i don't know who i am digital photograph with mixed media / September 2008

Johnna Roark / it's funny, people only want your picture when you're wearing a big bear's heard / silver gelatin photograph / February 16, 2008

Johnna Roark /wilbur copy of a silver gelatin photograph with ink / June 2008

Johnna Roark / rm. 112, lansing, michigan digital color photograph / March 15, 2008

Johnna Roark / mitchell in tonya's bed, harrisonburg, virginia digital color photograph / January 1, 2009

Heather Davis / Blissful Days

Heather Davis / Miracle of Life

Heather Davis / Howling Good Time

Austin Neal

Gabriel Peck / Sylvan Lake

Gabriel Peck / Acton Lake

Gabriel Peck / The Needles

GREG HELMERS ----------ḭ---------Where Everyone’s Name is Darlin’ I often tell folks, ―Where I‘m from there are flying saucers sightings every day.‖ Of course they don‘t believe me. I continue, insisting that I live in a valley that is full of awe and wonder, ―Not only are flying saucers sightings a daily occurrence, but in our town, at four way stops, other drivers actually wave you to go on through the intersection before them and you can hardly ever find a pretzel at our Annual Pretzel Festival.‖ They don‘t believe me until I drive them through town, then down State Route 123 just past the township line and let them see with their own eyes that it is all true. I‘ve gotten more mileage out of that stretch of road than anywhere else in our great land. And of course, I offer to buy them a pretzel at the festival if they can find one. I tell them other stories about how there used to be parking meters in our Village until the townsfolk took it upon themselves to remove them. And how our High School Football team has won the state championship three times. And how some of the finest pigs in the world come from here. They listen in disbelief when I recite the story of when our new library was built some townspeople got together and moved each book from the shelves of the old library hand over hand to the shelves of the new library. I walk them past our local phone company whose offices are housed in a log cabin. I show them fields of beauty that are full of corn and beans, and a field where houses now grow instead of strawberries and the rows have turned into streets named after Beatles songs. They cannot grasp this or how one of our famous cement lions sold for $2500 and are routinely an item of negotiation in real estate deals. And before they even ask I

explain how they are lions, not cement geese that are dressed in clothing, although those have been spotted in town as well. They wouldn‘t think a town so small could support its own weekly paper or keep four pizza parlors open or have something on the order of 16 churches. It is hard for them to imagine that Kuhns Hardware is celebrating 100 years of business or that our main industry consists of one company that manufactures machines that grind up cows. Similarly, they are amazed by the fact that Neff‘s Lawn Care was the very first billboard advertiser in all of Sunsbury. They look dumbfounded that even the grandchildren of Ron and Linda didn‘t know that Ro-Lin Farms got its name from their grand parents‘ first names. They usually don‘t understand why some people have good homes and perfectly sound buildings that sit empty but are not for sale or rent. They roll their eyes when they hear me brag about our teachers who impart algebra and geometry to our first graders. Once they have absorbed some of our wonder I show them the vast display of the colors of Old Glory and how any reason is a good enough reason to hang an American Flag. I know they think I‘m telling a tall tale when I show them our antique fire pump and tell them it is so valuable that an Ohio based fire truck manufacturer once offered a brand new fire truck in trade for that gem. I try to tell them all these things and explain it the best way I know, but most people have no context. How could they? Even time and space take on new meaning in our valley. It is evident by the fact that freedom of speech only occurs at five minute intervals inside our Council chambers. They walk real slow, often stumbling, awestruck as they look up at the trees deep in the heart of Germantown Reserve. I show them pine forests and stands of sycamores whose white branches scratch lines in a blue winter sky. We climb the steps of a dam that holds back water so deep that it stretches clear back to Manning Road and beyond. Their jaw drops when horses gallop past at Twin Creek Park and when I walk them past lakes, ponds, streams and springs, then climb up high to the ancient Indian mounds. They are too mesmerized to hear me when I tell them we have a 29 mile backpacking trail right smack dab in our

own back yard and it comes complete with camp sites and a combined total of 44 miles of trails. It doesn‘t sink in when they are told that Twin Creek is rated one of the most bio-diverse waterways in all of Ohio and the second most in water quality. The meaning floats right past them when we paddle the Twin and see turtles, endless schools of fish, blue herons, wild turkeys, the gnawed tree sign of the beaver, the shrill scream of a bob cat, howl of a coyote and hoot of an owl – all sights and sounds of nature coming back home to us. They are usually tired at this point so I walk them past the restored Opera House and over to the restored Fire Station, then over to sit and rest under our famous restored covered bridge so they can enjoy something truly one-of-a kind. We skip rocks on the Little Twin before the water subsides. I watch the look of wonder on their face at Veterans Park as two young girls swing back and forth singing Leaving on a Jet Plane and when we walk up on a husband and wife playing banjo and fiddle at the gazebo in rhythm to the bouncing basket balls at the nearby court. We board the train, slide the slides and swing the swings. We wait for Santa at the Train Depot. Then, to top it off I fan out three one dollar bills and say, ―This will get you a seat to see the best movie you ever saw at the BYJO.‖ We ride bicycles through the streets of our Historical District to be taken back in time as church bells ring on the hour and the half. I show them Shuey Mill, tobacco barns, bike paths and soccer, baseball and football fields, a pink brewery and we have a few Laughs at a place that serves warm beer and lousy food. We either eat at the Florentine Hotel and I tell them about the old tenant who happens to be a ghost, or at Kathy‘s Kitchen, Trattoria Da Francesco or Miss Molly‘s, Captain 9s, or Bumble Bees, the newest old restaurant on wheels at St Rt 4 & 725. We sit on the porch and listen to the cheers moving through the valley from the football stadium and the announcer‘s voice echoing from the loud speaker. And after all I‘ve shown them and told them, they are usually still in a fog. Granted, it is much to behold. At this point it is best to be patient and wait for realization to come naturally. I‘ve been through this enough times to recognize how this all works.

And then, as if on cue, they begin to slowly understand as we walk in to buy a stamp at the Post Office. It dawns on them that there might be a slim glimmer of a chance that all I‘ve shown them is actually true. A look of realization begins to shine on their face. There, inside the Post Office there is no bullet proof glass hiding people from each other. Instead, there is someone there waiting with a smile and she usually says, ―Hello Darlin‘, what can I do for you today?‖ (If a person is not fully prepared for this they might make the same mistake that I did. I thought I was the only one she ever called ―Darlin.‖ But sometimes folks have to find realization on their own terms without any input from me.) As we are leaving I tell them,―If you are ever feeling down, come in here and buy a stamp because at our Post Office you are always somebody‘s ―Darlin.‖ I can just about guarantee same day delivery on that.‖ We step outside the Post Office and they pause, scratch their head, almost speak and stop. Speechless. Of course they are. How could they possibly encapsulate all they have experienced in just a few short words? I put my hand on their shoulder and say, ―It‘s OK. You‘re shook up. It‘s understandable. It‘s a lot to take in all at once. I get to see this every day. You learn to handle it after a while.‖ Then I wait. I know they are struggling and they want to at least be polite enough to offer something, even anything. These are the steps a person goes through when they begin to comprehend the unfathomable. It is a process. As I wait I usually think about all the reasons it is important to keep this town safe from people who just don‘t understand us. Finally they tell me, ―Greg, you people live in another world.‖ I can only reply, ―Yes. Yes, we do, but keep it under your hat. We kind of like our quaint, quiet little town the way it is.‖ I move closer so that I can whisper, ―You noticed how we cemented those space ships to the ground. Imagine, with what they know, if they ever got loose and went off world. Who knows what kind of mess we‘d end up with?‖

TIM MOBLEY ----------ḭ---------I Found the Words Day to day minute by minute That is how I live I do all I can to live my life And to make sure I live it well I help all I can and be the strong shoulder But my shoulder is becoming weak And I will soon need some help to walk I can feel the weight of the world on my shoulders I put it there so I can‘t complain I take on the problems of my family My mom‘s health, my brother‘s fury My friends all talk to me And yet I talk to no one I wish I could say what I feel Ask the questions I have deep inside Why did he leave, why does she suffer Why can‘t I put a smile on his face Why can‘t I take their pain away Why does the world get worse and worse I will never know All I know is that I will strive to be different To be a man that does cry Who can laugh at himself Who can make someone laugh when they are crying Who can tease and torment and still know I care I am that person now But I want to be more More and more and more Better today, even better tomorrow Wake up with a smile and a song in my heart That way I can live life and expect no less Grab hold on my past so I can strive for my future

The bright future I have before me that I will achieve So I can find her cure Find out why he left Put the smile back on his face Lessen the pain they feel Make the world better one day at a time You read this now and will remember tomorrow The kid who became a strong man Because of all the pain in his life Who found the words to tell the world I WILL BE BETTER TOMORROW

AMBER GOODLETT ----------ḭ---------The Mark

There he was - sitting alone and looking as forlorn as others like us often look. I could tell that he was marked without even seeing it. He was definitely one of us, and I could tell this even though I‘d never actually seen another one of our kind up close before. I was fascinated by it, even enthralled, and the wonder of it made me dwell on why we who bore it didn‘t come together but that question was as hopeless as we were… So instead of approaching him as any normal soul would, I seated myself in my own dark corner and simply observed with my knee bouncing up and down slightly in recognition of my own agitation. Like me, he bore it on the forehead, the accursed thing, with no possible way of concealing it from view. Where everyone could see it and judge, as if the mark somehow exposed our every thought and experience for the entire world to see. Whether they could see through me or not, they still judged. They avoided us as they would avoid a homeless person begging for spare change quickening their pace and holding their eyes straight forward in a manner that clearly betrays their discomfort. See, I can judge too. So with a sigh I sat there quietly, contemplating, and watching his face while he wasn‘t looking. Wondering, what was left for us in this world; not much remained but to drown in our overwhelming dreams that seem to choke our minds with the knowledge that they will never, ever be fulfilled. So what was the point? Why did I struggle day in and day out when there will be nothing for me in the end? That was something that was constantly on my mind but somehow I never managed to accept the nothingness, the inevitable emptiness that consumed our lives like we had never even existed.

I drifted out of my typical, depressing thoughts and turned my attention back to him, still sitting there reading his book. He wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t terrible to gaze upon, he had a pleasant enough face and he appeared to be someone who took good care of himself yet still had an unapproachable look about him that enhanced the allure, the mystery. Icy blue eyes that was shadowed with that I-have-seen-things-no-one-should-haveto-see look that was all too familiar to me. That was the same gaze that stared back at me every morning in the mirror. His hair was a deep shade of brown, so dark that it could almost be considered black, but the occasional flash of chestnut seemed to highlight his dark locks whenever the light happened to glance on it. He was built lean, but not thin, with hints of muscle that gave him the appearance of perhaps not looking as strong as he truly was. Or perhaps that effect was simply caused by the hardness of his demeanor, the intimidating quality that naturally seemed to radiate from him. I stood up and walked away, glancing once over my shoulder on my way out the door. I might have missed a moment, I might regret not approaching him and saying something to him, but I knew just as everyone else knew that my curse would not allow me to relate even to those who carried the same burden as I, even if it would have been allowed. That was my fate. Our fate. *** She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t know that I knew that she was watching me. Every time I glanced up from my book those dark green eyes were upon me, studying me with the intensity and wonder of one who has just seen their first sunset. So lost in whatever reverie that had claimed her that she did not even notice the brief moment that our eyes met before my attention was quickly drawn back to the book in my hands. The words seemed to blur across the page, drawing together until I could no longer make out what it read. I glanced up again as I noticed her movement, she rose from her seat and stood straight, almost proud but the look in her eyes betrayed her defeat and the sorrow that seemed to emanate from her like a beacon of despair. I watched her leaving, expecting her to just keep going but then her head turned and I felt a sudden jolt in my chest as our eyes

met, blue on green, and clung together like fuel and fire. My attention finally drifted to her left where another woman was coming through the same door that she was leaving from, a small child clinging to her hand. I opened my mouth to speak, or cry out – something to warn her but it was too late. The mother, not paying attention to where her daughter was going only noticed just in time for her daughter to collide into the other woman‘s legs and fall to the floor. Startled, the green-eyed woman turned to see who had bumped into her and the mother‘s eyes immediately lit upon the mark and flared with rage as she pulled her daughter to her tiny feet and quickly dragged her out of the way, almost fearfully. ―She did it!‖ the mother cried as she held her sobbing child in her arms. ―She attacked my daughter, you all seen her do it!‖ Several people nodded their heads in furious agreement and the green-eyed woman looked both confused and panicked. Finally, I stood, and before anyone else could make a move I rushed forward and grabbed the woman by the arm, dragging her from the room to avoid the eye of the storm that was fast approaching her from all sides. As we ran my heart was thundering in my chest, so loud I swore she could hear it, but my thoughts somehow remained unclouded. I grimaced to myself, I knew what I had done and the second that I had risen from my seat there was no turning back and for better or worse, the circumstance and my actions had bound us together in a world where it was forbidden for me to have a heart to care or to love with. A world where it was a curse to be born with such a mark, and those of us who did bear it were treated with all the contempt that could be mustered – ―The Devil‘s Mark‖, they called it because of the intense loathing that it inspired in those who did not understand it. They allowed us to live normally if we were registered and kept ourselves out of trouble. We couldn‘t have contact with others like us, lest we organize against the unmarked and those who didn‘t bear the curse would not come near us so no matter what we were doomed to a life of solitude. We came to a halt as we rounded into an alleyway and it was then that I first noticed the multitude of footfalls pounding the sidewalk somewhere behind us. I ducked onto

the other side of a dumpster and tugged her into my arms and there I held her for the first time as we both held our breath and listened as the running feet passed by and began to fade into the distance. After a long moment of listening, the ache of breathlessness began to tighten in my chest and I exhaled in a rush of air as I finally looked down and realized that she was trembling. Her hair, by first glance, was a very plain looking brown but as I looked closer I could see a glint of copper shimmer down a few long strands. She felt so small and fragile in my grasp and when she tilted her head back to gaze up at me my breath caught in an instant. She wasn‘t beautiful in the traditional sense, her skin was pale and her face was round with full lips and those large green eyes that had caught my attention so fully only five minutes before. She didn‘t speak, out of shyness or fear, I really couldn‘t tell. All I knew is that I had found my destiny, but whether or not it was meant to take me up or down was still yet to be seen. *** I could feel the heat of his body against my side and the unfamiliar tightness of his arms around me and as I finally noticed it, a shiver trailed through me. I lifted my chin, turning my face upward to gaze at him… he had a pale scar along his chin that I had not noticed before. Finally, he tore his gaze from the sound of the mob‘s fading footsteps and looked down at me, his hand lifting as if of its own accord, and his fingers traced the mark on my forehead. The look on his face matched the way that I had felt when I had first noticed him, entranced. I closed my eyes, seeing nothing… only feeling. There was so much to be felt, so many sensations that I had missed and others have taken for granted. Again the whys pummeled my mind in an endless barrage, assailing me much in the way it had done for my entire life. Why, why, why? If only I had an answer to just one of them. I breathed out a barely audible sigh and tried to forget all those whys and simply enjoy the small piece of stolen comfort that would most assuredly come to an end before I had a chance to enjoy it to the fullest. Why… ―Let‘s go.‖ The first words he spoke to me, the first time I heard his voice. It was deep, but not too deep, simply masculine. It was an alien beauty to my ears for a man to

speak kindly to me and I couldn‘t help but to smile a true and genuine smile that made my heart warm and fluttery, an unfamiliar heat but warm all the same. He repeated himself and I felt a flush creep into my cheeks as I realized that I had just sat there dumbly. As I climbed to my feet and he rose behind me, taking my hand and guiding me out of the alley and through empty streets, ducking behind random corners and hiding when necessary to avoid detection from anyone else. They would all know to be keeping an eye out for us now – we had to be careful in order to be safe in an impossible situation. Still, something inside me screamed that it was worth it because I had a chance to really feel something truly wonderful, and real. Just once, but that was enough. It was more than enough. I had to wonder now if I would still feel the same if… or when we were caught. I knew what torments awaited us if we were unlucky enough to be caged; it would be an even greater solitude with little or no human contact for long periods of time until we either died, or if we were lucky enough, they felt we had been punished enough and learned our lessons enough to be released back into the world reeking of an even greater hopeless despair than before. I chanced another glance at his face and felt my heart skip another beat, I couldn‘t help wondering how I would endure another moment of my life without seeing him again if that was to be my fate, couldn‘t stop my mind from drifting into fantasies of being in his arms again, only this time free to enjoy the pleasure of his one of a kind embrace. The longing sigh was past my lips before I could bite it back and I could feel the sudden flood of embarrassment twist my stomach into knots as his eyes turned just enough to catch my gaze before I diverted it ahead of us as we fled through the streets. Who was I kidding, in any other normal circumstance there could be no way he would ever look at a girl like me. *** Her sigh was very faint but it rang in my ears nonetheless and I couldn‘t help meeting her eyes. My arms still tingled with the unfamiliar contact and I longed to stop and put them around her again and breathe in the scent that already haunted me, a sweet, floral perfume that smelled

vaguely of roses. Her cheeks were that charming shade of red again and I couldn‘t help but to smile to myself despite the intensity of the situation, it was beyond my control to resist her and I wanted nothing more than to protect her. The sadness in her eyes had called to me, left me overwhelmed with the need to scare away whatever internal monster that stalked her; I couldn‘t rid myself of my own demons but just maybe I would be able to save her from hers. We rounded a corner and I stopped abruptly, pulling her into the shadows of a doorway and frowning as I looked at the alley ahead of us. The witch hunt was already gathering there, searching for us. Turning, I tried the door and found that the lock was broken and it pushed open with a slight protest as it scraped lightly against the stone flooring. I cringed at the sound and pushed her inside before closing the door slowly, careful not to let it scrape too loudly before it closed with a faint click. She was already looking around, observing her surroundings when I stepped away from the door. The room was dark, lit only by the dust clogged shafts of sunlight that had managed to creep into the room through the boards covering the windows that were yellowed with age and covered with grime. I had only a dim visual of the room but I could tell from the uncovered cement floors and the run-down remnants of old machinery that we had stumbled into an old factory warehouse that, by the undisturbed layer of dust on the ground, I could tell hadn‘t been used or even entered in years, maybe even decades. Broken stools, a tattered old desk and pieces of old tools and machinery lay scattered around the room, discarded and forgotten for who knows how long. Mortar lay in broken little piles at the base of the walls where it had begun to decay and crumble away from the untended rust colored bricks. Her scent drew me closer and I allowed it to draw me toward her until I was standing behind her, her back nearly touching my chest. I could almost hear her heartbeat quicken when she realized that I had come so close and very slowly she turned around and looked up into my face, her eyes mirroring my fears but they also held something else that I didn‘t quite understand. Again my arms went around her and

she did not resist as I drew her closer and we simply stared at one another for several long moments – time seemed to freeze in place and I nearly forgot everything else as I stood there gazing into those endless emerald pools that shimmered like water. I realized that she was about to cry and the overwhelming desire to console her, to let her know that everything would be alright and that they would be safe assailed my senses until I was choked with longing. I couldn‘t say the words, they wouldn‘t come out because I wasn‘t sure I believed them myself, the mark hunters were everywhere and our chances of evading them were slim unless by some miracle they passed up this warehouse. Before I could stop myself, my head bent down and my lips were covering hers in a kiss more passionate than I could have possibly imagined. She stiffened at first, as if unsure what to do, but then she responded to it by curling her arms around my neck and drawing herself closer to me; soft, feminine curves pressing innocently against me until I could no longer bear it. My need for her enflamed me and I crushed her delicate figure against me, entirely oblivious to the warehouse, the hunters searching for us outside, to everything else in the world except the woman in my arms. Suddenly, nothing else mattered to me and I succumbed to desires that had built up inside me for so many long years. Who cared if we were going to be caught? Who cared if we were going to go to hell? I gave myself fully to that single, blissful moment and decided that saving her life had been worth the cost of my own even if I were only delaying the inevitable, it was worth it. I had never believed in love at first sight before, but I had fallen in love the moment I had laid eyes on this nameless, green-eyed creature. They would come. They would probably find us. If they did, we had this moment to cherish for the torturous days to come and I could live with that, knowing I had given her this gift. I had stolen the moment that we would never forget, that the hunters could never take from us. I couldn‘t help wondering then… if it were all just a dream.

WILLIAM JOHNSON ----------á¸---------Winner, Malcolm Sedam Writing Award, 2008

It Comes With the Territory For Laurel Gilbert

It had been a slow, dreary day in Wilmington, Ohio. I remember lapsing into my thoughts-- perhaps meditating on what I was working for, and where my days were going, if not to a sad, angry girl named Rachel and a lifeless Frisch's Drive-Thru window. I remember gray clouds, and dark wet roads. I remember hearing the sounds of tires disrupting the lesser-chaos of sitting puddles through my headset. I remember being bored out of my mind. I trudged the same familiar concrete paths, back and forth, while Rachel watched me. I tidied up the napkins, and arranged the forks, spoons and knives. I cleaned off the stainless steel permeating most of the Drive-Thru area, even though the steel was immaculate already. Rachel and I managed some masturbatory chit-chat. We talked about her incarcerated brother, Seth, who I had met only once. We talked about him for much longer than I had intended-- I can even remember pretending to know things about him that I did not, for conversation's sake. We managed to be pleasant to one another, even though we were both conscious of the hopeless opposition we harbored in kind. I even managed to congratulate Rachel on her new promotion. She had become the new Drive-Thru leader, after all. She made seventy extra cents on the hour(which was about a dollar more than most of us made-- it helped that her grandmother was the executive manager of this particular Frisch's), and she was ensured forty glorious hours a week. She had become the new Drive-Thru HBIC. Il Deuce. The new head-honcho.

Now Rachel could afford the new Maytag she'd had her eyes on for the past couple of months-- the one her fiancĂŠe`, David, claimed to be unable to afford. She could foster her blossoming drug habit, or even start buying Captain Crunch instead of the off-brand imitators. She could get a new dog, or a bike, or a wireless internet connection. If she saved up for awhile, she could probably even go somewhere majestic like Florida on her two weeks paid vacation. I felt deeply sorry for her. Seventy cents on the hour gave Rachel all of the incentive she needed to completely disregard her human empathy in lieu of a managerial facade. It gave her incentive to charge us for the soft drinks we'd have throughout the day. It gave her incentive to write me up if I allowed myself a five o'clock shadow, or-- god forbid-- stapled the receipt onto a carry-out bag before all of the food was up. I liked to imagine that it gave her incentive to smell her own socks after a long, hard day in the Drive-Thru as well, perhaps right before going to bed. I liked to believe that this would comfort her. In any case, that day had been the very definition of a boring, dreary day. I remember wanting to work hard, so that I could perhaps avoid Rachel's relentless stare-- something that I found to be ever-disapproving, and ever ill-willing. I wanted my headset to beep in earnest, so that I could busy myself with shoveling french-fries into flimsy paper cups, or boxing up greasy hamburgers. I wanted to press the little red button that activated the Drive-Thru intercom and say, with a smile "Welcome to Frisch's, would you like to try a combo meal?" I wanted any of those things, because it would mean refuge from Rachel's learned disapproval. It would mean escaping her synthetic robot-stare-- a look that told me she did not like the way that I arranged the plastic forks, spoons and knives, or the way that I cleaned the hot-fudge wells (which happened to be one at a time, instead of her preferred method of both at once). Rachel made me feel guilty for not giving a damn about a job that's inadvertent goal was to contribute to the American obesity epidemic. She made me feel guilty for not unconditionally surrendering my soul to a yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s pay that would not even sustain my minimalistic lifestyle in a rinky-

dink studio apartment. It was ridiculous, really. It was inhumane, and disgustingly capitalistic. It was typical of a girl who had dropped out of high school to pursue a career in the fast-food business. It almost vindicated what would happen later, if what happened later hadn't been so brutally pathetic. Finally, after a few hours of pointless cleaning, the cars began a steady trickle. We would get two and three at a time, and it was enough to keep us busy. Rachel was at the window-- she was always at the window, it being by far the easiest job in the whole store-- and I was on the board, using my hands. I boxed up high-saturated hamburgers, and assembled salads. I kept moving, hoping against hope that when the car envoy subsided, it would be time for me to do my early-outs and leave. A half hour later there were virtually no orders left. I dallied for a few minutes-- I shuffled my feet back and forth, and went for a short bathroom break (to send a text message, not to use the bathroom). Afterwards I entered seamlessly back into the world of perfect napkin arrangements and clean counter-tops, without any hope of another interruption for at least another hour or so. It was a dull, desolate feeling. I remember waiting patiently for the weight of Rachel's glare to return to my back. It never had a chance to. At the time, I was glad. A single, solitary beep resonated through our headsets. I was relieved. Rachel answered first-- she almost always did, being considerably more driven than myself. There was only silence on the other end for the first few seconds. Rachel repeated herself-- "Would you like to try a combo meal?" and only then did we hear anything. There was laughter-- it sounded nervous, and perhaps slightly menacing, though I did not mark it as such at the time. "Naw, I just have a question. I'll pull up'ta da window." The sound of accelerating tires on wet pavement. I looked over at the window, curious. I figured this guy was here to complain-- I decided subconsciously that he was one of those stoners that claims dissatisfaction with food he'd never received, so that he could get some freebies and a hot-fudge cake. These people were usually high, and usually disagreeable. It was company policy to never call their bluffs.

Rachel opened the Drive-Thru window. I remember seeing the boys mouth move-- I could not hear what he said. Rachel opened her own mouth in reply. I remember it in slow motion-- her lips diverging, and her jaws parting. I remember the look on her face so vividly-- at first a look of managerial professionalism, and then, after she saw the cup, a look of mild surprise. I saw the cup, too. It moved at the speed of greased lightning. It was a big, Styrofoam cup-- the kind you get at Speedway for fifty cents, or something ridiculous like that. I saw the young man's face-- twisted in a hateful smile, pock-marked and disgusting. And then my eyes were on Rachel's face again. In slow motion, I saw a dark yellow liquid mass cover her suntanned face. I saw it enter her agape mouth, and invade her hair. I heard the excess spattering to the floor, overshot and wasted. I could smell the rank stench of piss mixed with frying cow meat and boiling miscellaneous side-dishes. I saw Rachel cough initially, and then puke. I saw her fall to the floor, her hands bathing in the spent urine and vomit, her tears mixing with the excretion that dripped from her soiled hair. I wanted to do something to help her. Even now I know that there was nothing to do. I could not comfort her-- I could not bring the incident into perspective for her any more sharply (especially with that young man's urine-flavored baptism still wet on her skin-- its taste still fresh on her tongue.) It was too serious to be helped. I could only watch, and know in my heart of hearts that Rachel had signed up for this, in one way or another. That was why she had not picked herself up from the cold Drive-Thru concrete and made her way to the bathroom. She writhed, crying harder than I have ever seen a person cry. Her face reflected pain akin to a newly-informed widow, or perhaps some freshly diagnosed AIDS patient. I felt sorry for her, but I knew that she would be back tomorrow. I knew that she would get up eventually, go home, and that I would end up closing the Drive-Thru for her. I knew that the next day she would return, stoney-faced as always,

ready to dispense her own brand of franchise-inspired justice. Only tomorrow, there would be something else driving her-- a newfound bitterness, a long-evaded realization. Tomorrow she would know that her life was to be a succession of this one yellow-tinted incident-- that that cup of old fecal matter was the essence of her future-- never mind that it could've just as easily happened to me, had I been at the window (but then again, that was the point, wasn't it? I was never at the window.) This is what she had to look forward to for the rest of her life. Rachel would not quit, because that would mean admitting that she had been wrong. I have no doubt that knowing she would be all but ineligible for hire in any other profession (she lacked a diploma, and had made no effort to gain a GED) had made some impact on her steadfastness. And, after all, she was the HBIC. She was the queen of Drive-Thru efficiency and execution. She could not abandon ship now, after being entrusted with so much. No, she would channel her frustrations and inadequacies into increased productivity. Rachel would become the epitome of by-the-book leadership, and her underlings would bear the weight of her new zealotry. I came in the next day and told Rachel's grandmother that I would no longer be working at Frisch's, and I have not visited there since.

CONTRIBUTOR NOTES ----------ḭ---------Chelle Creekbaum is a non-traditional student who lives in Middletown with her husband, Greg, their son, Jesses, three dogs and a cat. She is also the proud mother of Michael (y su esposa, la Veronica Hermosa), Josh and Britany, the proud grandparent of the lovely and extraordinarily energetic Ms. Aryana Del Roccio Creekbaum (age 2) and Noah Creekbaum (age 1). Heather Davis: ―To me, photography is an art of observation. It's about finding something interesting in an ordinary place... I've found it has little to do with the things you see and everything to do with the way you see them. I am an Education major at Miami of Middletown and even I can see the simplest of things in a world that is full of complex ideas.‖ Amber Goodlett is a non-traditional student majoring in Creative Writing at Miami University Middletown. "Writing has had a huge impact on my life and while I generally tend to write for my own enjoyment I find that nothing is more satisfying than being able to share some of my world with others in hope that they might be able to feel the same pleasure in reading it that I do in creating it." William Johnson is a sophomore majoring in English. He is currently attending the University of Cincinnati, having transferred from MUM. During his freshman year he served (in title, at least) as the head editor of MUM's campus newspaper, The Hawk's Eye. David E. Miller is an English Major at Miami University with plans to minor in Spanish. He enjoys experimenting with language and a variety of literary forms. Tim Mobley: ―When I wrote this I was 16. I believe poetry is feelings worded for all to see. I want to be a writer as a career

and would love to do nothing less than writing my feelings and portraying emotion to others and be paid for it. Life is what you make it, if you think that life isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t worth it then it will never be worth it but if you can see the beauty in the simple things then the bigger picture is a work of art." Austin Neal is a Adolescent Social Studies Major, minoring in History. He plans to finish his sophomore year at MUM, then transfer to the Oxford Campus for his Junior and Senior years. He takes pictures as a way to relax and think. Wendy Wagener Harris is an art instructor and owner of Cathartic Slant. She runs her art and paper craft business from home in Beavercreek, Ohio, and at www.catharticslant.etsy.com"

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES ----------ḭ---------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; please note the medium used). 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: 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 â&#x20AC;&#x2022;Anonymousâ&#x20AC;&#x2013; 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

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ----------ḭ---------The Illuminati editors and staff would like to thank the following people, with whom we not only owe gratitude, but credit for our organization and publication‘s continued success. We think of these special people as our ―angels‖. In return, they have received an Illuminati travel mug, mention in this publication, and the opportunity to receive issues before the official release date. Kelly Cowen Mary Jane Brown Wanita Hatton Donna Horan The Fields Family Nancy Ferguson Kathy Tessneer Joe Mitchell Cody Burriff Carole Ganim Courtney Curtner Jim Sliger Steve Conley Daphne Eldridge Lee Rogers Jeff Sams Lou Squyers Brian Wilson Starla Evilsizor Denny Cottle Jerel Day Roy Smith

Bode Gibbs Carla Smith Tony Martin Mike Heiber Andy Au Elke Holt Crystal Prater Johnna Roarke Nichole Revis Michelle Reimer Disc O. Pizza Jan Toennisson Chelle Creekbaum Eric Melbye Meghan Woods Michelle Lawrence Scott Smith Brooke Kyzer Marianne Cotugno Mel Lonske Carrie Scherer Katie Henry

We also thank the Miami Middletown Student Government members, Mrs. Carol Caudill and the Student Affairs staff for all of their support, and of course, our faculty advisor, Dr. Eric Melbye, without whom none of this would be possible. Thank you, Eric, for everything.