Illuminati Summer 2008 by notthatilluminati

Miami University Middletownâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s â&#x201E;˘ Journal of the Arts

Edited by Michelle Lawrence and Meghan Woods

The Illuminati Press

© 2008 The Illuminati Press All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the editors. Co-Editors In Chief: Michelle Lawrence and Meghan Woods Faculty Advisor: Dr. Eric Melbye Cover Art: Steve Conley Cover Design: Dr. Eric Melbye Staff: Courtney Curtner, Brooke Kyzer, Crystal Prater, Deanna Sanders, Brian Wilson Financial Support: Miami Middletown Student Government and Illuminati “Angels” Editorial offices: 130 Johnston Hall, Miami University Middletown, Middletown, Ohio 45042 www.mid.muohio.edu/orgs/illuminati/

Dedication ——— ———

This issue of Illuminati is dedicated to our dear friend Meghan Woods and her daughter Stella, without whom this issue, publication and student organization wouldn’t be what it is today. We wish them both health, happiness and a shining future. With love and friendship, Michelle Lawrence, Eric Melbye and the Illuminati staff

Contents ——— ——— Forward

Vivian Darkbloom

Antimetropia

Mark O’Hara

Poet

Woods

Order of Operations

We Rule

Mid-life Crisis at Twenty

Debbie Mason

The Find

Roy Smith

Adjustments

Jessica Lamb

These Walls

Chelle Creekbaum

Play like a Girl

Brian Wilson

untitled

Steve Conley

untitled

Alissa Werner

David Van Oss

Brooke Kyzer

untitled

Jeff Sams

untitled

Allison Singhoffer

untitled

Courtney Curtner

untitled

Johnna Roark

The Sorg Paper Co. I

Heather Davis

Time Stood Still

Johnna Roark

untitled

Courtney Curtner

untitled

Ben Snyder

untitled

Austin Neal

Life

Mark Reedy

Jennifer Apking

West Elkton Gifford

Brian Wilson

untitled

Allison Singhoffer

untitled

Jennifer Keith

Jutting

Heather Davis

Let the Light Shine Down

Jennifer Apking

Tiny Dancers

Mark Reedy

untitled

Allison Singhoffer

untitled

Dan Frease

Dyscourthriae

Alissa Werner

Motivations

Jennifer Keith

Whistlewait Manor

Jason Hornsby

Carpenter

Contributor Notes

Submission Guidelines

Acknowledgements

Forward Michelle Lawrence and Meghan Woods May, 2008

——— ———

One thing that never seems to change on the Miami University Middletown campus is change itself. Since it’s a campus for commuters, some of us stay at MUM for a matter of months, while others stay for many years. We watch our friends and classmates grow, change, and leave this place that is almost a home away from home. One of the pleasures of working with Illuminati is that we get to see each other’s writing and artwork grow, too, from the beginnings of ideas into fully formed pieces that we can share and be proud of. Many of those work their way into our issues. The stories, poems, and art we create leave a mark on our creative community long after their creators have left for Oxford, other schools, careers, locations or lifestyles. We are proud of our artistic friends, and hope that you take as much pleasure in watching them grow and change as we do. Working with them in order to bring you this issue has been an honor. We hope that you enjoy reading this issue as much as we have enjoyed bringing it to you. —Michelle and Meghan, June 2008

Vivian Darkbloom ——— ——— Antimetropia Scientifically speaking Butterflies and moths are no different. It’s a convention of taxonomy to distinguish the two. But some speak of moths, And others speak of butterflies, And few talk of skippers; But you do. You also know enough to state With precision Nymphalis antiopa And call me your near beauty As we walk hand in hand Far into a woods In the early spring. But your heart is in a desert. And what you cannot see near through one eye You know far through the other. And I know enough to know You prefer a Thymelicus sylvestris in the distance To a fluttering wing in your hand.

Notes on â&#x20AC;&#x153;Antimetropiaâ&#x20AC;? Antimetropia is a form of anisometropia in which one eye is myopic and the other is hypermetropic. Nymphalis antiopa is known by the common name, Camberwell Beauty. Thymelicus sylvestris is a small skipper found throughout Europe and in the Mideast.

Mark O’Hara ——— ——— Poet I can’t trust memory not to drag me into my friend’s back yard where we taught his little brother to spit and curse. Or onto Winding Way Road on my paper route the morning I found a beagle, car-struck, one velvet ear covering its eye. Who I am is the sum of moments I’ve seen; still I fabricate details to fill in stories my father told me, events he’d only heard about. His aunt in 1894 sleepwalking as she held a lighted candle. Her dog following her down the stairs silently through the kitchen before she placed the candlestick on the piano and the dog barked sharply once twice to awaken her. Weak light on the metronome and clock. The dog holding her eye and awaiting an answer.

Woods Happiness materializes in a tire swing dangling from a walnut tree whose top branches are the tallest point in the county. I see it often on memoryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s silver screen, the creek and ravine where we jerry-rigged our lines from snags and pulled out carp as long as our calves. My first sledding down the cleared slope near our subdivision, I stuffed my jacket with pine cones and leaves from buttonwoods and beeches, I wanted to take it all home, even a snowball. All shade in summer. Scooting down the slope to avoid the big cabbages whose hearts left you stinking, we stumbled upon a car, a Simca. No animals inside. We stripped the gears, gunned the motors in our throats. One season sunlight stabbed metal and we spotted the high slide that had disappeared from the town playground. Sand and hanks of carpet made us fly down its steel. Now age headlocks my parents. Age has made my children move away and taught me the older face of innocence is not wisdom but ardor, every action filled with deliberate relish, a rock gripped in the fist because every pocket is full. 14

Alissa Werner Winner, Malcolm Sedam Writing Award 2008

——— ——— Order of Operations So, tell me the calculations to fall in love. You meet. Of course, that is a given. Wait, does online count. Everyone meets online now and falls in love before even getting face to face. It isn’t supposed to be a physical relationship, so that kind of works. Right? Ok, so maybe you meet. You find things in common. Er, opposites attract. So that isn’t exactly a rule. So you talk. Or write to each other, maybe. Communicate. But you communicate with anyone, supposedly. THEN. You fall in love. Wait, what is the in between? There are two lives that in some way overlap and pass information back and forth. The result, love. Make sense now?

We Rule Ok, so you can pee standing. Big f’in deal. I can, too. Writing my name in the snow may not happen, can’t dot that “I,” but rule a country on that skill alone. On average you can lift more weight than us; unless you are literally carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, that doesn’t matter. Hmm.. What else can you do “better?”… Well, you can create life, er, wait.. Nope, that would be me. How to put this in terms you can understand?.. Thanks to cloning, someday your little diesel truck will be obsolete to an electric compact. Bet that hurts. Now procreating, that does shape the world. There are only as many of you little bastards running around as we say so. Piss on that.

Mid-life Crisis at Twenty When it came down to it nothing had changed. We spent years working up to being together and having the approval of all those that mattered, just to look at each other with indifference. The fight for it was intense; the sex was worth having in public. Nothing makes friends like a common enemy. Would Bonnie and Clyde have ever stayed together a day after people stopped hunting them? Can you picture them saying bland, kind things to each other as they enter old age? So we weren’t Bonnie and Clyde; but we were the talk of teenage terror for our parents for a few years. We were separated and moved. We ran away. Again moved and banned from seeing each other. We hit eighteen eventually. There was no fighting it after high school and moving in together. We were a couple and welcomed as one. Sneaking around is void when you live together. Sex isn’t the same when you aren’t worried about Daddy coming home from work early or Mother coming in to check on you in the middle of the night. It isn’t the same when there are pushing questions about The Big Day or when there are polite Wednesday dinners with parents that smile at you. “High School Sweethearts.” The dreaded curse uttered to millions of teens, sounding like a compliment, but ultimately the black cloud of reality put on top of them. 17

High school sweethearts never last. A person is more likely to be taken hostage in a bank robbery than have the sweet life with the one they went to prom with and danced under constellations of aluminum stars. Every day is the day after prom when you hit twenty and anniversaries are measured in years instead of months. There are memories where there were countdowns to them. There are pictures of smiles and first experiences. A prom dress styled for three springs ago hangs in the closet, never dry-cleaned since that night when perfume covered the cigarette smoke. All those things that were thrills are just things now. We haven’t stopped doing them, they just don’t have the same spice. Eat the same food every day, be it your favorite or not, and on day 3,210 you won’t like it as much as you had on day one. It’s not that things changed, it’s that they hadn’t. All we wanted before was to fight the world to be together.

Debbie Mason ——— ——— The Find The small stone stood out from the others. Its soothing palate of swirling amethyst and opaque white seemed to call to me from its bed among uninspiring gray gravel. The stone’s surface was reassuring-smooth like the head of a hammer and cool to touch like the metal gate in the back yard on a crisp morning. As I turned it over in my hand, I smiled at the imperfections in the stone’s surface. Small nooks and crannies here and there failed to dampen my newfound fondness for the stone. After all, my friends are far from perfect but still they delight me. I closed the rock in my palm and continued my walk. I wondered at the stone’s history. What life of hard knocks had the stone endured to garner such a serene feel and perfect array of colors.

Roy Smith ——— ——— Adjustments I swerve just before the overpass, crossing into another lane. A piercing honk brings me back to an interstate in Ohio, where I’m greeted with an angry face and a finger. As I approach the next overpass, I try to remember that no one will be trying to drop a grenade into my car… not here. My brain battles my hands and I start to sweat. As a shadow begins to fill my windshield, I close my eyes, hold my breath, and wait for the explosion. It never comes. I force my eyes open. My hands are shaking and I see another overpass ahead. Each one poses a challenge…and reminds me of one more thing I have to try to forget.

Jessica Lamb ——— ——— These Walls Disgracefully neglected Forsaken and alone A place once full of beauty Now shabby and low This house displays chipped yellow paint Brown daisies in the window No need for chairs or tables Because there are no visitors Most days the mice roam the halls Gnawing through the pictures Ripping through the bronzed skin Blonde hair, and childish dimples Fresh vines that clung so tightly to these walls Now scorched and brown No longer hide the pain It shows all around Vulnerable and vacant Only gypsy eyes look through The tarnished windows, faded paint A lonely shade of blue

Chelle Creekbaum ——— ——— Play like a Girl “What do you do when you hit the ball?” “Drop the bat and run!” “Do you run to first base?” “No! You run past first base!” “That’s right – then what?” “Turn toward the fence and look at the Coach!” “Right! And if the Coach says go, you go. You don’t watch the ball. You don’t even see the ball. You don’t look at anybody or anything but that Coach. And if I catch any of you not running as hard as you can, you will sit the bench. Understood?” “Understood!” "Yeah, Coach." “Yes, Coach.” “Yes, Aunt Dot – uh, I mean, Coach.”

If you wanted to learn to play ball, I mean really play ball, in Trenton, Ohio, then you wanted Dorothy Staton, my Aunt Dot, for your coach. Her teams were always the best – the best pitchers, the best fielders, the best batters – and we always took the league. It wasn’t so much the players, although my home town still boasts some real softball talent. It was all Aunt Dot. She could take a group of teenaged, boy-crazy, spoiled-rotten crybabies and somehow transform us all into lean, mean, ball-playin’ machines by the end of every season. 22

Aunt Dot was hard on us. We ran, we hit, we fielded, we ran again. We practiced the same plays over and over until we could do them in our sleep, and do them well in our sleep. She taught us discipline. She taught us respect. She taught us that when we were on the field, we were a team, and that when the team showed up at a game, we were there to play ball, and the other team had better be ready to play, too. My cousin, Paula, was one of our best pitchers. I was the catcher, and since we lived catty-cornered across the back yard from each other, Paula and I spent many, many afternoons practicing, but we were good. Damn good. So good that we always made the All-Star team and, of course, Aunt Dot coached that, too.

I was always jealous of Paula. Three days shy of being exactly one year older than me, she had Brenda, her older sister, who often sat with us when our parents went out for the evening. Brenda's dry wit and kooky sense of humor always left me running for the bathroom, trying desperately not to pee my pants before I got there. Brenda is one of two of the biggest Elvis fans I know, and the only one of us daring enough to not only touch but to actually play my Mom's sacred albums . . . when Mom wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t around, of course. Paulaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s brothers, Jimbo, Rick, and Jeff were the cutest, coolest, funniest older brothers any girl could ever want. They wrestled in the living room, told jokes with punch lines that earned them scoldings with their full names, sang songs at the top of their lungs without getting embarrassed, and just always seemed to enjoy their own company. I adored each and every one of them, but all I 23

had at home was my younger sister, Jodi, a gangly, big-headed, long-legged, pain in my butt, not even close to having a big sister and three older brothers and being able to pitch and run like a cheetah. Paula's house was cool, too. It was noisy, it was fun, and there was always tons of food. I wanted so badly to be a permanent part of it all. I wanted older brothers who would tickle me and a big sister who would take care of me and make me laugh. I wanted to be the baby sister and get to stay there all of the time, not just a cousin who visited and then had to go home, but then Mom would call to say dinner was ready or it was time for my bath, and I would dutifully put on my shoes and head out the door. Those treks across the yards back to my house were some of the longest, quietest walks in the world. Even at a young age, I realized that Aunt Dot was the key. Aunt Dot ran her home like she ran her ball field – toe the line or sit the bench (with a sore behind). I think I somehow figured that if I became indispensable on her ball team, then I’d become indispensable at home, too. I’d quickly become a fixture at the Staton house and just move right in, sharing the purple bedroom with Brenda and Paula and getting to stick around for all of the fun.

I was always the youngest on the team and usually the smallest, and I was never a great ball player by any means. I was more what you’d call average. We had our homerun hitters, our star fielders, and some fabulous pitchers, but I wasn’t any of them. So why did I make the All-Star team? Although it probably didn’t hurt that Aunt Dot was the coach, she discovered in me the greatest threat a team 24

could ever present . . . a catcher who just won’t shut up. I didn’t chatter at the other team like most catchers. They got none of that “hey, batter batter” stuff from me. I talked to the batters. I asked them questions, over and over, until they finally answered out of sheer frustration, and then I’d quickly ask another. I sang to them, too, silly little songs like “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” songs we all grew up with, songs we all know by heart, distracting little songs our brains sing along with whether we want them to or not . . . “. . . was white as snow . . . and suh-wing! Oh, man! You really should’a had that one. You could’a popped that over the fence! That was a good pitch! Whaddya want me to sing now?” “Would you just shut up?” “I can’t. If I’m quiet, my Aunt makes me sit the bench. I don’t want to sit the bench. I don’t like sitting the bench, do you? I’d rather play. I like to play. It’s fun, lots more fun than sitting on the bench, and suh-wing! Ooh, was that my fault? Sorry.” On and on I went, my non-stop blabber distracting one batter after another while Paula pitched in the strikes. My mouth became one of our ultimate offensive weapons. She was the biggest girl I had ever seen, and I knew she hated me from the moment she stepped up to the plate, pointed her bat at me and said, “Don’t you start none of that askin’ questions and talkin’ crap, you hear me? I don’t want to hear it.” “Ok, then I’ll sing. Mary had a little la . . .” “I said shut up!” “But I can’t! My Aunt . . .“ “Your Aunt’s gonna be scrapin’ you up offa 25

this ball field if I hear . . .” “Oooh, that’s a strike! Two more and you won’t have to hear me at all!” “You just better shut your mouth before I shut it for you!” “That’s enough, you two. Behave or I’ll sit you both on the bench.” “Ok, Ump.” “You get her to shut up and I will.” “Just play ball.” The next pitch was a ball, low and inside. I couldn’t resist. “You know, you could’ve hit that. You could’ve really put that one outta here if you tried. You afraid to swing that bat?” “You better shut up, girl, or you gonna see me swing this bat, right up close.” “Well, since I’m the catcher, if you ever do swing the bat, I reckon I will see it, and right up close, too. Can’t get much closer than this, now, can ya?” The eyes that turned to look in mine were full of steel. Pure, molten hate. And man, she was big. I mean really big. I gulped. This one was serious. “I’m telling’ you one last time to shut yo’ mouth. You hear me?” “Yeah. I hear you.” Paula’s next pitch was dead-on. An absolute beauty, right down the center. She swung the bat, every ounce of her rippling with the effort, every morsel of the hatred she felt for me driving the ball, pushing her muscles to their limits. It was a high, arcing ball to left field – a homerun, no doubt. The ball landed just inside the fence, bounced once, and came to a stop in the freshly-mown grass. 26

As she rounded second, I instinctively stepped back from the plate to allow her plenty of room to come in. I knew that she would be running at top speed and did not want to be in her way. I had just reached down to adjust a lace on my glove when I heard Aunt Dot. “Chelle! Chelle! Get on the plate! Chelle, get on the plate! Cindy has the ball!” I looked up and felt my stomach drop into my shoes. Our left fielder, Cindy Dennis, a long-legged blonde who had “athlete” stamped on her forehead at birth, did indeed have the ball, and she was raring her arm back to throw. Time slowed to an indiscriminate crawl. Aunt Dot’s voice filtered through my head like a 45 record on 33. “Sheeeee’s goooott thuuuhhh baaaaallll!” If there was one girl on our team who had the arm to throw all the way from the fence to home plate, it was Cindy, and Lord help me, she was gonna do it. She was gonna do it, and I was going to be expected to stop that one-woman stampede headed my way with nothing but my glove and a prayer. “Dooonnnn’ttt leeehhttt huuurrr scooorrre!” I watched in horror as Cindy let go of the ball. It was a line-drive, a perfect, spiraling throw, and it was coming straight at me. And so was she. I felt her glare, and knew that she knew – knew the ball was coming, knew that she had to do something. I looked up just in time to see her rounding third, staring right at me, and smiling. She didn’t slow down. She never even paused. She just kept smiling that crocodile smile as she oh-so-deliberately crossed her arms over her chest. I knew what that meant. She intended to get to the plate and score, not by somehow running past me, not by somehow cleverly avoiding me, but by running 27

on me, over me, through me. Dead girl catching. The ball, which had taken at least twenty minutes to get there by my watch, didn’t quite make it. It arced in and thumped to a dead stop right on the third base line about one foot short of the plate. “Geeehht thuuuhhh baaaaaallll! Heeeerrre sheeee coooommmes!” I ran on jell-o legs to where the ball lay, bent over, and picked it up with my glove. When I stood up, I took the hit full in the chest. The bulk of her body blocked the world from my view, and then the world went away. “Oh, my God! Is she gonna be ok?” “Can you hear me? Catcher? Can you hear me?” “Chelle? Chelle?” The world, in all of its fuzzy glory, forced its way back into my vision. The umpire, my teammates, and my cousin, one by one they came into focus. And her. Even her. And she was . . . crying? “I swear, I didn’t mean to knock her out! I swear! She’s gonna be alright, ain’t she?” “Chelle? Chelle? Can you hear me? Answer me if you can hear me!” Aunt Dot. My Aunt Dot. The voice from across the backyard. Keeper of my most favorite place in the world to be. Maker of fabulous foods and wonderful families. My Aunt Dot was there, so everything was going to be all right. “Hi, Aunt Dot. I’m okay.” “You can hear me? You’re okay?” “Yeah. I think so.” 28

"Does anything hurt? Does anything feel broken?" "My chest hurts a little, but I don't think anything's broken. I'll be okay." “You're sure you’re okay? Think you can still play?” “Yeah, I can play.” “You’re sure?” “Yeah, Aunt Dot, I’m fine.” “Good! Then TAG HER! You’ve still got the ball! She hasn’t touched the plate yet ‘cause you’re laying on it!” I obediently stretched out my arm and touched the weeping girl on the shoe. The ball rolled out of my glove as the umpire shouted, “Out!” and the other team began to moan. Aunt Dot drove us back to my house after that game, and she and Paula came in with me to tell Mom what had happened. Loud, animated voices and giggly chatter, just like I always heard at Aunt Dot’s, filled my normally-quiet home. It wasn’t until after they left and Mom had taken my temperature twice, checked my stomach and chest for the millionth time, and asked me again if I was sure that I was okay, that she sat down and asked me to tell her the story one more time, my bubbling-over excitement at making the final out of the tournament game finally assuring her that I was just as fine as when I‘d left that morning. As I relived the entire game for her in our tranquil kitchen, I was the only player who mattered, and Mom, with her timed-just-right questions and only-for-me attention, quietly made it so. 29

We did win that game, and we went on to win several more that season. Not because of me, mind you. I was just the mouthy catcher who took one for the team. No, that team, like that family, was all Aunt Dot.

Brian Wilson

Steve Conley

David Van Oss

Brooke Kyzer

Jeff Sams

Mark Reedy

Allison Singhoffer

Courtney Curtner

Johnna Roark, “The Sorg Paper Co. I”

Heather Davis, “Time Stood Still”

Johnna Roark

Courtney Curtner

Ben Snyder, “Rootimentary”

Austin Neal, “Life”

Jennifer Apking, “West Elkton Gifford”

Brian Wilson

Allison Singhoffer

Jennifer Keith, “Jutting”

Heather Davis, “Let the Light Shine Down”

Jennifer Apking, “Tiny Dancers”

Mark Reedy

Allison Singhoffer

Dan Frease ——— ——— Dyscourthriae On. Impossible. Myth. World. Other. Need. Still. Very. Modify. Slow. Problem. Description. Consequence. Unknown. Demonstrate. Form. Begin. Problem. Need. Time. Unit. Spectrum. Basis. Grow. Particular. Contract. Still. Death. Abstract. Results. Unknown. Theory. Begin. Problem. Need. Meaning. Impossible. Myth. World. Other. Need. Unknown. Pen to paper eyes to throat to sound to rise to lips Squabbling for a legible timetable. Flashbacks looping and fading, drifting, diffuse: skywriting in the stream of hours. Stressing over technical tiffs, sluggishly filing finds away into memorial leaflets, the fugal fluency of spiritual guidance germinating in mighty masses and slipping through slots of the “why’s” of standards and laws. The slander of flashbacks skywriting the stresses of telepathy. Who appeared in hospitals of common destruction after botched, illegal abortions of meaningful animals into happy folklore? Remember the tragic cases of illegal women confused with the significance of input and feedback, of maternal death? Dying, laughing worldwide each year, interlace and interface, attached to each word. Close the screen and set the stage. The doctors perform on the skull and brains are sucked out. Shock and gangrene around the world; impossible, indignant monadic peregrinations in countries where the collapsed head is removed from the 56

uterine soul-sheath. Serious complications— perforations of the reënsouling wound: remove the scissors, insert suction, retain placentas, severe bleeding, cervical wounds, rampant infections, poison into the skull—perform with primitive, esoteric instruments in unsanitary conditions. The tips of scissors spreading the narrow gates apart enlarging the stream of women into emergency rooms with transmigrating birth-bits; it’s alive, man-soul is alive, fundamental tenet of will, a germ misunderstood by every class. Untrained practitioners jam scissors into baby’s back, serious medical problems, deliberately kept inside the acoustic borderline of the womb. Results: women often make desperate and dangerous attempts to a pull out of repetition. Legislation via catheter into the birth canal, into the head, many women dead, led to violence for angry happiness, guided by ultrasound retrieval into obsolescence. Reach into the uterus and grab the sign of the sun (it’s really so simple, but it hasn’t always been so safe). Grab the leg with forceps; people of all faith gather round the needless wants of life— what we believe would be no imperfection. Passing after death into zero. Astonishment of the binary soul. Benignly teasing textbooks for spiritual guidance. The misdirection of sloganeering amidst tense laughter goading the game of the storyline, spearheading the map of ghosts; steady swirling and jovial jouncing, flaunting flyleafs and smarming telegrams. Typecasting a first-rate telepathy. Staged manufacture of smiling misery. A glib gambit of untidy technicalities. Fulfilling spherical lingo of the spiraling spirit. Harrowing grace, skittish lingualumina: the handcrafting of symphonic stoplights. Thumbing through testimony and gilded grace: steady, steady; ginger judging. Spectacular litany timidly tiptoeing 57

through laurels of tickling flashbacks. Mileposts along the melodic mire of fingerless skywriting. Spiritual spectacle, ghostwritten timetable of starry-eyed spiels, tentacular storylines of goading gobbledygook: garlands of brambles upon the feverish pate. Sky-high misery moiling then simmering, tabulating tenfold melodies of stylized lavender gaspingly lilting, too ghastly to gloat on, misreading the maps of reversals and flips never mended, not midweek nor years and yawning years ahead, until the crunch or the bang of the flaring spiel reveals the question once heard in the call. Keep the system afloat, everything is a system, repeat it, again, please, lest we begin phasing between order and chaos, everything is a virulent strain, no, repeal it, repent, seething and feeding: alive, kill it; make it stone. Death dying pleasure transcendent evil troublesome tiny pleasure is death is eclipsed now by semantics introduced via primary cancer is very advanced is testimony for dreams that close the screen and deliver the possibility of recurrence of a temporal pattern filing finds away for the first time in the sign of slander in feverish flashbacks used for relations between buboes and folklore turning tides of repentance in the steady grace of simple Sundays once afloat now capsized in irrational empathy toward ancient apish misdirection throughout the course of whispering time. To lead for the first time; laughter broke out, to my astonishment! I judged into a thousand pieces and they all went skipping about, quite unfit, of little worth. Impossible, indignant words rose to my lips, but I never meant for you to be angry and laughing at the same time, set free. Every face showedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;stunned surprise. In no time. Anger and laughter are what we want most, 58

but…we use hot iron, visual space spiraling in repetition out of sense. Enter by the narrow gate. The gate built broad leads to destruction, into folklore, common sense, everyday senescence. Flesh pushes matter around…throughout history, capsizing systems once afloat; and there are few who find out. I hope, I laugh, eliminating the needless wants of life, the labors coming to the earth: will of life. Bigger, complex, violent. Faith on earth? Faith in earth. It’s really so simple, but we insist on making it complicated—our conscience seared with time. It whispers, time whispers, so listen carefully. Hear the horses, that surging potency? Time to come home to yourself. It’s the power of movement, the creation of acoustic vortices, of action in man. And there will be a helluva start, being able to recognize what makes you happy. People sign in the sun, in the moon, illuminate all borderlines; fall asleep to engage in the dream of cast-off rags. I hope, I laugh. Headaches. Mending meaning, conveniently classifying difference. Seizures. Showing face swinging steady into heaving birth yawning the gates of chance apart. I laugh. Stressing over technical destruction; stunned surprise nausea or vomiting vision changes balance, interlace and interface attached to each indignant day and night wrenching garlands of starry-eyed spielsoverskullandbrains. Ultrasound retrievalofdangerous, double-edged symbols. Difficulty. Thinking. Difficulty thinking or. Speaking. Serious complications. Handicraftingsym phonic litanies timidlyjudgi ng untidy melodies held aloft and and alive and aubergine nacreous guidedb yth e tel epathy ofmodernscoietylaughinginto ha ppy folklore 59

allofus. I

hope.

Paralysis. This is, I just, Why doesn’t, I, It, I don’t I just can’t I Thinkcriticallyactrationallynottobetrustednoother systemofthoughtreactivatedthroughuntranslatabletextswordslaterwordslaterforeverandeverintothevoidspiralsp iresgoodnightimpossiblekissgoodnightandgoodbyeithur tsithurtsithurtsand C’mon, I’m Impulse off on off off on Reaction hear taste smell touch Cycle call search struggle breakthrough return Textbook stylize litany Fluent slander Misreading Tickling Technical stress Off. 60

Alissa Werner Winner, Malcolm Sedam Writing Award 2008

——— ——— Motivations “They stole my piss.” he whispers, his voice raspy from walking all the way here, the last block jogged. He breathes heavily as he leans over to put a hand on a knee while drawing a pack of cigarettes from his back left pocket. He slows his breathing for a second to light a cigarette and take a quick drag off it before leaning back over out of breath. Dave was never really the brightest guy in the world, just one of those guys that you meet over and over in life. They are so alike that when looking back over years of your life they are blurred into one with a random selection off all of them for a name. There may have been a dozen you’ve met: Tom, Rick, Dustin, Donald, Brandon, but fifteen years later in a bar with a few friends, it is Donald that was the character in all the stories. They have all congealed into a single being. And even as the twelve or more of them are added together as one person, you still don’t remember them as a praiseworthy person. You know upon meeting Dave that he is this kind of guy. He won’t be the guy to go to for sports news, or any news for that matter. It is a wonder of mine if he knows we landed on the moon, but he isn’t handicapped or dumb in any way, just not the person you want holding the bottom of the ladder. He’s finishing his cigarette, now able to do so standing up and without sucking half the damn thing down his throat gasping. “Dude, crazy shit to tell you.” “Should go well with the piss you just told me 61

about.” Dave’s eyes drop to the ground for a second then shoot back up at me, “Oh. Okay.” He flicks the butt off to the side of him and chortles. “Seriously, Dude, you won’t believe this.” The back door opens and our manager Amy frumps halfway out of it, just enough for us to see her, looks at her nonexistent watch and frumps back inside. Sign language, damn I should have learned it. I move the apron off my shoulder and knot it in front of me. “Guess we better head in before she whips out the finger.” “Yeah, remind me later to tell you about the piss.” Working in food service is cool when your seventeen, but not in your twenties; free food goes from being a cool perk to share with friends to being the only 401k plan you got. Finish college. It could be worse. It could be flipping burgers at McDonald’s or churning up a trash can size recipe of coleslaw every Mother’s Day at KFC, which is how they make it. Oh yes, Mother’s day is the highest volume day for the franchise because all those dads that get home-cooked meals every Father’s day decide to treat their little lady to a bucket of fried chicken and a side of slaw. That’s a lot of slaw to make, better hose off one of those trashcans out back and load it up. So it could be worse. It is important to find distinctions between what you hate to do and what you actually do. At least here we are not dealing with the drive-thru window. There. We can raise our noses a notch for taking superiority over the window, or Portal of Hell as it is known by those whom have starred through it after 62

eleven on a Saturday night. “We just sat 20.” Amy pulls her head back through the kitchen door and it swings shut before the curses of angry cooks reach the smiling nuclear families and prom couples that sit in the next room. They always do this to us; they let people pile up at the door with empty tables available, then in a big swoop they seat them all at once. That is 20 orders hitting the kitchen, 20 specially cooked steaks, 20 different assortments of side dishes, 20 different “can I substitute the vegetables with a 9oz steak? Ok, half my party want to do the same,” 20 different things cooked so wrong they had to send the empty plate back for it to be done right, 20 different additions made to the order after the food has been cooked. 20 reasons more than I need to take a smoke break. Sam, the guy that runs the fryers, is outside already when I finally get away. “The line has to be pissed that we’re both out here, but Amy couldn’t get me in there with a .45 right now.” The “line” is the group of cooks that all work in the same narrow passage way between the cooking stations and the long shelf of a counter to prepare the plates on. A night like tonight, there are about seven of us to handle the rushes we get, all crowded together, some stuck together by sweat, but all by the drive of nine and a quarter an hour. I look at the fence that runs around the dumpsters and the small area the smokers call The Corral. “Ever hear the joke about Charles Smith and his 1,000 ping pong balls?” We are always trying to find a new joke that no one in the restaurant has heard before. And, of course, it has to shock and wow them. Something about a really good one makes the night go better. 63

He shakes his head while blowing out smoke through his smooch-puckered lips tilted at the sky, making him bear a striking resemblance to one of those lawn fountains of chubby angels. “There is this little boy about eight years old named Charles Smith. He did horrible in school, was actually failing the third grade. His parents tried everything: they talked to his teacher, hired a tutor, asked him if he needed help with his homework, and he continued to fail.” “Mom sleeps with the teacher to get his grades up, right?” “Nope, different joke. “So, the parents don’t know what to do at this point. Their kid is about to fail third grade, that can’t mean good things for the future; so, they get an idea. They approach little Charles, Charlie they call him, and tell him that if he makes good grades and passes this year they will get him anything he wants without any questions: a bike, bunch of video games, whatever. A hooker wasn’t that far out of the question at this point. “From that day on, Charlie made straight A’s and passed the third grade. As promised, Charlie was offered whatever he wanted. His dad came up to him the first day of summer and asked him, ‘Alright, I’m a man of my word and very proud of the grades you pulled off, what do you want? I’ll go get right now.’ “Charlie looked up, with his bright blue eyes, from the chalk sidewalk drawing he was working on that was unclear at this stage what it was of and said, ‘I want a thousand ping pong balls.’” Sam coughs on his last hit of his cigarette, “What? What the hell does he want with a thousand ping-pong balls? To shove them up his ass?” Snuffing my own cigarette, “The dad wonders that very question: what the hell does an eight year old 64

want with a thousand ping-pong balls and they don’t even have a ping-pong table? A thousand is more than a lifetime supply, but he said that they wouldn’t ask questions. So, he goes out and gets him what he asks and Charlie disappears with them to his room. They don’t know what he does with them.” We head back inside at this point, but it is the Line so we are close enough that we can keep talking as I work the grill and he shakes the fryer baskets. “Go on, what did he do with the ping-pong balls?” “Well, eventually the summer gets going with trips to the public pool, a family vacation, July fourth at Charlie’s grandparents, his father’s side, and the parents forget all about the ping-pong balls just in time for them to have to go school supply shopping for Charlie. So, they go to the local Wal-Mart, where Charlie’s dad, Mark is his name, actually purchased the ping-pong balls. He remembers how the cashier looked at him strangely when he rolled up to her checkout lane with a cart full of ping-pong balls. “She had asked him if he played a lot and he lied saying he was a gym teacher.” Sam chuckles as he sets five strips of chicken into a basket and drops it in the boiling grease. “The next school year begins and Charlie is doing terrible again, all F’s. His parents are dumbfounded; he had done so well at the end of last year. “So Mark and Jen, that’s Charlie’s mom’s name, sit Charlie down and tell him that if he does well this year they’ll give him the same offer as before to get whatever he wants, no matter what it is. “A few weeks later Charlie’s report card comes in, all A’s. His parents are thrilled and remind him that if he keeps it up until the end of the year, he’ll get 65

whatever he wants. And for the rest of the year he got straight A’s. When the first day of summer came around, Charlie’s dad came up to him again and asked him what he wanted. “Charlie turned from the television show he was watching, his favorite one actually: Scooby Doo, and it was a marathon, and he told his dad that what he wanted was a thousand ping-pong balls. “His dad looked at him for a few seconds, not even blinking, and told him that he can have whatever he wants, the sky is the limit. “Charlie just repeated that he wanted a thousand ping-pong balls and went back to watching Scooby. His dad went right out and got him a thousand ping-pong balls from Wal-Mart, luckily getting a different cashier this time, but, of course, the same quizzical look. Once again he brought them to his son, who disappeared with them to his room and nothing was again said about them. “By the second time around Charlie’s parents questioned more about the purpose of the ping-pong balls. But, as before, summer took hold of their attention, the matter was forgotten again, and the next school year crept closer.” By about this time, the rush had died down in the kitchen and the cookers, dishwashers, and expeditors were all standing around engrossed in the story. During these moments of calmness are the opportune time for a smoke break before the kitchen gets hit with another wave. Sam and I decide to make use of the chance and head to the backdoor, I continue the story outside. “Where was I? Oh yeah. So, the school year begins and Charlie is now in the fifth grade. “He bombs all his school work; his tests come back with red markered F’s on them. About the time 66

his second report card came home was when they sat Charlie down and explained to him the importance of doing well in school. They told him that they knew he could do it, he had done so well the past two years when he put forth the effort; he just had to try. “After three more weeks of nothing but failing, Mark and Jen decide that the previous method worked too well to not try it again, and Charlie’s grades shot to all A’s. They couldn’t figure it out why their son wouldn’t pass his classes without bribery. He wasn’t a mean spirited kid that needed to be spoiled; he was sweet and helpful around the house without having to be asked. “But, if it ain’t broken then don’t fix it they figured and Charlie had great grades for the rest of that school year. Again, when the first day of summer came, when Charlie’s dad asked what he wanted, he told him that he wanted a thousand ping-pong balls.” With our cigarettes out and ten or eleven cars having just pulled into the parking lot, we head in to assess the damage of the next wave. As we walk to the line checking the food tickets for what has already been ordered, I describe how Charlie’s dad doesn’t know whether to put it out of his mind or let it run amok in there. “You are still telling that joke?” I get asked by Kenny, the dishwasher. I disregard his question, “Summer goes by quickly with the usual events and a campout in the backyard for Charlie and Kevin, his bestest best friend from down the street. Kevin is in Charlie’s grade and they’ll both be starting at the Batesville Middle School this year. “Instead of waiting for the inevitable, Charlie’s parents tell him over dinner the night before his first day that if he makes those good grades again this year, 67

he can have whatever he wants, no questions. “Now by the time a kid gets to this age, he is bound to have a different interest than he had three years prior, or that is what Mark and Jen figured as they convinced each other that A) there was nothing weird about his desire for a thousand ping-pong balls over anything else in the world, and B) that he surely will want something new this year anyways. “No such luck. Another year of impressive report cards, and another set of ping-pong balls. They didn’t even fight it when his seventh grade year came around and it ended the same as well. They didn’t bat an eye when eighth grade was no different. But, when it was a week before Charlie was due to start his freshman year at high school, they told him that he was too old to be coerced into doing well at school; he was able to work hard for his own sake now. “Old enough to or not, Charlie wasn’t passing a single class by his first mid-terms. “Rather than give him a dose of tough love by forcing him to do the work for himself or suffer such consequences as not being able to get into college due to poor grades, they gave in and let him have the old deal. “Just as before, he pulled off the grades and finished the year with A’s and a set of ping-pong balls. They let this go on for his sophomore and junior years, but during the summer before he started his senior year, he started seeing this girl, Lindsay, from the grade below him. “His parent’s were all kinds of relieved by this and when the school year was about to begin they thought this would be the best time to make him start working for himself. They told him that if he is enough of an adult to have a serious relationship and is about to graduate than he has to take on the responsibilities of 68

an adult. “The first four tests Charlie took bombed. His parents refused to give in; they even stepped it up by threatening to ground him and take away his car, but his grades did not improve. Midterms were almost here and Charlie has scholarships to try for, so they again decide that it is not worth the risk and that the lesson would be better taught on another day. “Charlie graduates in the top of his class with another thousand ping-pong balls as a reward and gets into Indiana University. “Charlie moves to Indianapolis late that summer and Lindsay and him continue to see each other even though he now lives an hour away. They talk about her coming up to join him next year and getting an apartment together, they even talk about getting married later on down the road. His parents are happy with these plans and the fact that he starts out his first year making his usual wonderful grades. The grades go south however when they tell him that the old deal simply will not happen. As to be expected, they give in eventually and just decide to stick to this agreement until he graduates. “Freshman year ends with Charlie getting into the Honors program, making the Dean’s List, and receives his ping-pong balls without even being asked this time what he wants. And, when summer arrives so does Lindsay; they move in together and she is set to start at IU that fall.” The work in the kitchen slows down as closing time approaches and everyone starts breaking down their stations to be cleaned. The cook line is down to three, only two are clocked in since Zac’s shift ended already, but he sticks around to help and listen in about Charlie. I’m ripping apart the top of the broiler, “For the 69

next three years he keeps up those grades and gets his reward every summer. “Lindsay and him are still together; the date for their wedding is set for the following May, just after she will graduate. Over that year he looks for jobs as an elementary teacher, since his degree was in education, but he doesn’t have much luck securing a position for that school year and will most likely have to wait until next fall for one to open. But, he keeps the job he’s had through college working as a manager at Subway to pay the bills. “Right on schedule Charlie and Lindsay get married on the seventeenth of May. It was a nice ceremony and a nice marriage for the three years before the accident.” Manager Amy walks back to the line and tells us to hurry up and take the trash out so she can get us out of here soon. We head to the back and grab the trashcans, “What was the accident?” Zac asks trailing a can behind him while pushing another in front of him through the door. “Did he get hurt playing with all his balls?” he smirks to one side of his face. “He had a car accident, a bad one. They rushed him to the hospital in downtown Indy after he was hit broad side by a semi while crossing an intersection, luckily it was on the passenger side or he would have been DOA. There was massive internal damage; he had broken bones galore and a punctured lung. “Lindsay was there immediately and met his parents when they got there within the hour. They got into his room and he was a mess of bandages and tubes running in every direction. The outcome was not going to be good. “Charlie was partly conscious from being so battered and on so many pain medications, leaving him 70

just able to say his goodbyes to his wife and parents, which were the expected emotional declarations of love and attempted optimism of his family that he’ll get through this. “As time was clearly getting short, as Charlie started to get more sleepy, all the talking stopped for a moment to just look at him and each other. His father took this time to step up to the side of the bed, leaned in close to his dying son, and told him again that he loved him and would always remember such and such time that they really bonded. With hesitation he leaned in closer and said, ‘I’ve got to ask you this, what were all those ping-pong balls for?’ “Charlie looked up at him, opened his mouth, took a deep, pained breath… and died. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” I walk off toward my car with my apron over my shoulder and Sam and Zac’s jaws hanging to their chests, “Remind me to ask Dave what the deal was with his piss.”

Jennifer Keith ——— ——— Whistlewait Manor The house near the end of Honeysuckle Road had been abandoned for over eighty-five years. Now covered with Kudzu, it looked more like a huge, green, leafy mound than a two-story brick dwelling. In its day, it was beautiful Victorian home with white wood trim, a mansard roof and a lovely wrap-around spindle porch. But over the years, neglect and weather had taken its toll. The forest had long since reclaimed the broad gravel lane, which was once lined with lilac bushes. The front and side yards were now a tangle of scrub pine and saw briars. Above, the towering forest canopy cast the house in perpetual shadow. Even the air smelled of abandonment and decay. The house was built by Abner Whistlewait as a wedding present for his wife, Martha, in 1881. It was here in the West Virginia Mountains that they hoped to spend the rest of their lives together. It was also here that a great tragedy would befall them.

“So where is this place, Harold?” asked Maggie, his young wife. “I think your directions are screwy.” “The realtor said it might be hard to find.” “But, we’ve been looking for hours!” she whined, “I’m ready to go home.” “Not just yet. I’d just like to actually see this place just once. I’ve heard about it all my life. I want to 72

see it for myself.” “Well, I don’t. I’m tired and hungry.” “Just a few minutes more, dear,” replied Harold. “What was that about a rock wall?” Maggie fumbled for the letter. “It says, ‘there is a rock wall fifty feet from the bridge. It’ll be on your left. Park there and walk twenty-feet until you come to a path that enters from the left...’” “Rock wall, hmm, I’ve not seen a rock wall or even very many rocks. Are you sure that’s what it says?” “Yes, just after a bridge. Have you seen a bridge?” replied Maggie. “I can’t say that I have, unless these concrete culverts are what she’s referring to.” “Well, here’s a bridge, if you could call it that,” said Maggie as they passed a small concrete abutment. “Slow down. There, on the left. Is that a rock wall?” “Well, what do you know, there is a rock wall!” exclaimed Harold, smiling broadly. “So, we park here and then what?” “Walk twenty-feet until you find a path.” “A path. How hard could that be?” After parking the car beside the road, Maggie and Harold found the path just where the realtor’s directions said it would be. Actually, it was more like a trail than a path. It was obvious that the only thing that used it was the local deer population. “You sure you want to do this Harold, it looks “snaky” to me. Maybe we should come back another time,” offered Maggie, peering into the undergrowth. “Look, we’ve been searching three hours for this place and I’m not about to turn around and go home just when we’ve finally found it,” Harold replied. “This is my legacy –my heritage. I’m going to see this place with my own eyes.” 73

Harold and Maggie fought their way through the dense underbrush. Every few moments or so, Harold would curse loudly and Maggie would let out a high-pitched yelp. After ten minutes of struggling, they emerged from the tangle. There in front of them stood a huge, two-story, red brick Victorian-style house, covered from top to bottom by Kudzu. In the fading light it looked like a massive green monster. “Is that it?” asked Maggie. “Yes,” replied Harold in a whisper. “That my dear is Whistlewait Manor.” “My God, it’s huge!” said Maggie, her mouth agape. It would be eighteen months before Maggie would visit Whistlewait Manor again. During that time, Harold arranged to purchase the property from the county, who was glad to get rid of it. He had also hired a local contractor to completely refurbish the house, with an emphasis toward restoring it to its former glory. Although first reluctant to leave the city, he’d had little difficulty in convincing Maggie after she was mugged right outside their New York City apartment building. Since they ran an Internet consulting business, they decided that they could live anywhere that there was phone service –including rural West Virginia. Finally, in the spring of 2001, the contractor called to tell the couple that the house was ready. Within two weeks, Harold and Maggie closed down their business temporarily and made the move to their new home. When they arrived, they met with Ed Collier, the contractor, for the final walkthrough. “You’ve done a wonderful job Ed, I can’t thank you enough,” said Harold, beaming with joy at how well the house had turned out. “It was my pleasure. To tell you the truth, even 74

I’m surprised that it came out as well as it did. Whoever built this house certainly knew what they were doing. After years of neglect, the basic house was amazingly solid. I was even able to preserve much of the interior trim and fixtures.” “What about the electric and phone lines?” “Everything is right to your specifications. I think you’ll like the office area in the attic. Most of it is new construction. The former owners never seemed to use that space. I think you’ll be pleased with what we’ve done there. The utility company came last week and turned on the power. Water has been on about a month and the telephones were installed last Monday. You have full T-1 capability now and the cable company said that they would install your digital modem in the morning.” “Great. That’s all I need to get up and running.” For the next two hours the two men inspected every inch of the house and grounds. Mr. Collier had done an admirable job in reconstruction. He had managed to keep the innate charm of the structure and still give the new owners all of the comforts of a modern home. It had been costly, but the results were well worth the money and time spent. “I hope you and your misses will be happy here. I understand that this place once belonged to your family,” said Mr. Collier. “Yes, it belonged to an ancestor actually –a great uncle. He came here from England, after the Civil War, and made a fortune in the tanning business.” “That makes sense; this whole area was once covered with hemlock trees. In those days, they used the tannic acid from the bark to tan the hides.” “Yeah, that’s right,” replied Harold, only half interested. 75

“So, what happened to the family? It’s hard to think they’d move away from such a beautiful estate as this.” “I don’t really know,” replied Harold. “It’s been a family mystery for as long as I can remember. The old folks simply refused to talk about it. I guess eventually they all died and no one wanted to claim the house. The county took it for back taxes. All these years it sat here and fell into ruin.” “Well, in my opinion, you’ve got yourself a real gem. Good luck and enjoy. If you have any problems, just give me a call.” “I sure will –and thanks again for such a great job, Mr. Collier.” When Harold arrived back at the house, Maggie was carrying in bags from the car. Now seven months pregnant, her stomach seemed grossly out of proportion to her small frame. “Here honey, let me get the bags. You shouldn’t be lifting those in your condition.” “I’m fine. You finished with Mr. Collier?” “Yeah, he’s gone. Didn’t he do a great job on this place?” “It’s hard to believe that this is the same house. I never dreamed that it could be this beautiful. I know I’m going to love it here.” For the next few days, Harold and Maggie continued the process of settling-in. As promised, the cable television service technician arrived and installed their high-speed Internet modem, so that they could continue to work. But, there was no hurry. There was still a million things to do, such as putting away the kitchen, bathrooms and closets. The last of the furniture was still being delivered and for the life of her, Maggie could not find the linens, although she looked in every box and container. Finally, after two days of searching, 76

the linen boxes were located in the attic with the office supplies. Exactly one week to the day of their moving-in, there was a knock at the door. There, Maggie saw an elderly man, perhaps in his early seventies, standing on the porch. Dressed in work cloths, he held a sweat-stained felt hat which appeared to be as old as the man himself. With a wrinkled face and deeply suntanned skin, he looked to her as though he had spent his entire life working out of doors. “Can I help you?” asked Maggie through the screen. “Well yes, I’m Tom McGivens. Mr. Collier sent me over to see your husband about a job. He said you folks might be a lookin’ for someone to help with the chores –a handyman like.” “Um, well, I don’t know. My husband is around back, you can go on back if you like.” “Thank you, I’ll sure do that.” Two hours later, Harold came in the house for lunch. Along with him, he brought Tom McGivens, the new handyman. Maggie was amazed at the contrast between the two. At thirty-seven, Harold was fit and trim. In fact, she had often told him that he reminded her of one of those clothing models in the L. L. Bean catalogue. In stark contrast was Tom McGivens, who reminded her of some of the farmers she had once seen working in the sugarcane fields of Guatemala. “Maggie, this is Tom, I’ve hired him to help with the property and serve as all-around handyman.” “We’ve met,” replied Maggie sweetly. “Harold certainly needs the help. I’m afraid we’re city folks, Tom. We’ll need a lot of help keeping up with the yard.” “Not a problem. I’m use to hard work. Why, I’ve even worked on this same property when I was just 77

a young boy. That was over sixty-five years ago. I’m real pleased with what you’ve done with the place. It is even prettier than it was back then.” Over a lunch of sliced ham, cheese and iced tea, Tom told them what he knew about the property. As a boy, he often helped his father, who served as the gardener and looked after the lawns and shrubs. In those days, only old Mr. Whistlewait lived in the house. “Where was his wife,” asked Maggie, somewhat mesmerized by the story the old man was telling. “Don’t rightly know. Folks say she and her child, a boy I think, just disappeared.” “Disappeared?” asked Maggie, surprised. “Well, I don’t know much about it myself, but folk ‘round here say the boy just vanished one day. The whole county turned out to search, but nothing was ever found of ‘em. Probably just wandered off sommers –you know how youngins are?” “So they never found him?” asked Harold. “Not that I know of,” replied Tom. “And the wife?” “Well, the story goes that a few days later, the wife comes up missing as well. Nothin’ was ever heard of her either. Once again, a search was put on, but they never found a trace. Poor old Mr. Whistlewait was grief stricken. There was an awful lot of speculation here about. Some folks thought that the old man did ‘em in and buried the bodies where no one would ever find ‘em. Others said that the house...” “You mean that he may have killed them,” interrupted Maggie. “Well, that’s what some folks believe. I don’t know myself. I do know this –there ain’t no Whistlewait graves in the local cemetery. I know, 78

because I mow the grass there every month. I’ve gotten to know all them folks.” “My Lord,” said Maggie under her breath. “Harold, did you know about this?” “No ...I mean, not very much. The family never talked about this place. I only learned about it through some old letters that my mom left me when she passed away. That’s what got me interested in finding this old place.” “I hope I’ve not put you folks off none with these old tales. I’m sure there was a perfectly good explanation for those disappearances.” “No, that’s okay, Tom. It sort of adds to the mystique of the place, don’t you think so Maggie?” Maggie didn’t answer. She had slipped off into a daydream world of her own, thinking about how the house must have looked in the late1890s, and about the lady of the house. Harold and Tom finished their meal in silence and returned to the backyard. Maggie remained behind at the kitchen table, sipping iced tea and nibbling on ginger snaps. The day passed into early evening as Maggie sat trance-like at the table. The following Saturday, Harold and Tom worked in the far southwest corner of the lot. Here they tried valiantly to kill-out the last remnants of the Kudzu that had nearly taken over this end of the county. Imported from Japan in the 1860s as a decorative garden vine, it quickly began to kill-out the other plants and take over the garden. Tenacious by nature, it developed immunities to every pesticide used against it. Fire and cutting seemed only to provide it with more growing room. It was a true predator with only one purpose –to kill or drive out all other species. “You know Tom, I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day about the house and the people who disappeared...” 79

“I hope I didn’t scare your missus none. I shore didn’t mean to. Sometimes I just don’t know when to keep quiet. I should have just kept my stories to myself.” “No –really, it’s okay,” replied Harold. “But, you know there was one thing. I was just wondering about something you were going to say-–Maggie interrupted you. You started to say, something like “...others said that the house...” Remember that? What were you going to say?” “Well, now sir, it wasn’t anything important – jist gossip. Old women waggin’ their tongues, you know?” “Still, I’d like to know.” “Well, when they asked old man Whistlewait what happened to his wife and son...” “Yes?” “Well, --he said that the house took ‘em.” Harold didn’t mention the conversation he’d had with Tom to Maggie. He was sure that the old gardener was right –these were just tales told by old women who had nothing else better to gossip about. In mid-October, Harold and Maggie invited some of their New York friends to spend the weekend at their “manse” in the West Virginia Mountains. The event served both as a house warming and a celebration of the birth of their son William, who had arrived in late September. In all, twenty friends and family attended the two-day celebration. Some stayed at the house while others were lodged in the local motel. Carol Motley, Maggie’s cousin, was one who stayed in the house. She was one of the many who were interested in the history of the house and how it came to be in the middle of the West Virginia mountains. “I really don’t know much more than you Carol. In my family no one ever talked about the 80

Whistlewaits,” explained Harold. “They were on my mother’s side of the family.” “But, what have you learned since you bought the place –anything at all?” “Well, nothing that I’d want to repeat.” Carol gave Harold a coy, yet inquisitive look. It was obvious that her interest had been piqued. There was no way that she was going to let Harold off so easy. “Come on Harold, what’s the scoop?” Harold smiled and motioned her to follow him into the hallway. Once there, he leaned close to her ear, and in a low voice said, “Local legend has it that the house ate the Whistlewaits.” Carol reacted with mock horror, bringing her hands up to cover her mouth. “My God,” she said aghast, “all of them?” “Apparently just three,” replied Harold matter-of-factly. “Who told you that?” “Local gentry,” said Harold with a smirk. “These mountains are full of legends. Looks like the Whistlewaits have found their way into folklore.” By midnight, everyone had settled in for the evening. Those staying at the motel had all left at eleven-thirty, while the rest of the guests had shuffled off to their assigned rooms. Carol, who was sleeping in a small room on the second floor, was one of the last to go to bed. Still a bit groggy from half a bottle of champagne, she had dozed off in a chair by the fireplace. Rising now, she made her way to the main staircase in the front hall. As she started up the steps, she thought that she heard someone speak to her. Thinking it was Harold or Maggie; she turned and looked back down the staircase. No one was there. Finally deciding it was just her imagination; she continued to the top of the steps, then turned and 81

headed down the hall to the second floor bathroom. Just as she turned on the bathroom light, she distinctly heard someone call her name. But when she turned to answer, she found the hallway deserted. The next morning, Harold and Maggie’s houseguests gathered for breakfast. Nearly everyone had slept comfortably. Missing from the gathering was Carol. No one had seen her. When Maggie went to check on her at ten, she found the bed made and her single travel bag still sitting on the bed when she had left it. Although Maggie was surprised, she wasn’t concerned. At thirty-one, Carol was a very attractive young woman, who no doubt she was sharing a bed with one of the other guests, which certainly wouldn’t be out of character for her. By late Sunday afternoon, Maggie and Harold had begun to worry. No one had seen Carol since the gathering on Saturday evening. Now, with the rest of the guests quickly departing, Harold and Maggie were concerned. “Where could she have gotten to?” asked Harold of a very upset Maggie. “It’s just like her!” exclaimed Maggie. “She’s always doing things like this. Once she disappeared for a month. Finally, she turned up in Mexico. We thought she’d been kidnapped. The family had the FBI in a complete uproar. As it turned out, she met this guy ...well, you can imagine the rest.” “Yeah, I guess I can. You know, I may have been the last one to talk to her. She didn’t seem to have any plans to leave. It’s a mystery. I guess we’ll just hang on to her bag until we hear from her –right?” “I guess.” On the last day of October, a heavy snow settled over Whistlewait Manor. Sixteen inches of glistening powder covered the forest and mountains 82

and made the house and grounds look like a winter wonderland. With little in the way of snow removal equipment, Harold and Maggie were essentially snowbound. At any other point in their lives, this might very well have been problem, but Mr. Collins had talked Harold into installing a back-up generator for the house. So now, even if they lost power, they could continue with their lives. Maggie had adapted well to living in the mountains. For now, she was concentrating on being a mother to her son William, who was a little over a month old. Both she and Harold were amazed at how fast he was growing. Beth attributed it to her mother, who had insisted that she breast feed William for at least the first three months. Maggie had no problem with breast-feeding. She actually looked forward to those moments with William â&#x20AC;&#x201C;with the possible exception of the feedings that took place in the wee hours of the morning. But now, even after only a month, they had fallen into a routine. Maggie even had a special spot in the house, in an alcove, just outside their room where she and William could spend a few quite mother and child moments. Here, the morning light was just perfect as it filtered through a large Tiffany-styled stained glass window. The scattered colors, mostly shades of red and yellow, which reflected on the walls and floor, reminded her of a beautiful, warm flower garden. On this wintry morning, Maggie had risen early. Amazingly, William had slept through the entire night, and this was her opportunity to fix her loving husband a nice, old-fashioned breakfast of bacon, eggs and flapjacksâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;a considerable departure from the cold cereal he was used to in the city. Afterwards, she would bath, dress and feed the baby. Then she would shower and see what help she could be to Harold in the office. 83

Harold thoroughly enjoyed his country breakfast. He hadn’t eaten such a meal since he was a boy and he hoped that this was not going to be a one-time thing. He sat now, drinking his second cup of coffee, thinking back over the last few months. He thought about how lucky they were to have found this wonderful home, which Mr. Collier had so graciously transformed into a virtual showplace. They were so fortunate to be able to move their business from that awful city to this beautiful and tranquil community. He thought of how blessed he was to have a loving wife and a happy, healthy son. Then he remembered Carol and the mystery that surrounded her. Even at this late date, no one had heard from her. In a way, he felt somehow responsible. After all, she had last been seen here at Whistlewait Manor. At eight-thirty, Harold left the kitchen and climbed the back staircase to the second floor. There at the end of the hallway, in the alcove, he could see Maggie and little William. Sitting in an oversized rocking chair, she still had on her housecoat and slippers. Orange and yellow light filtered through the stained-glass windows and stretched out across the wooden floor. For a moment this bucolic scene reminded him of an old-world painting –a Flemish or Dutch masterpiece rendered in pure heavenly light. As he passed by, he paused to kiss both Maggie and William on their heads. Maggie smiled broadly and whispered, “I love you”–William only grunted, since he was busy at Maggie’s breast. “I love you too,” replied Harold, as he started up the steps to the attic office. Just at that moment, he remembered the wonderful breakfast that his wife had prepared. But, when he turned to thank her, he found the rocking chair in the alcove empty. Although the chair was still slightly moving, both mother and child 84

were gone. They had simply disappeared. Winter turned to spring and spring to summer. Search parties combed every inch of the house and the surrounding grounds, but Maggie and her child were nowhere to be found. At the end of July, Tom McGivens stopped by to check on Harold. He knocked on the kitchen door, but there was no answer. Peeking in through the window, he could just make out a bowl, a box of cereal and a container of milk on the kitchen table, but there was no sign of Harold --nor would there ever be. The following year, the Kudzu emerged from the nearby woods and reclaimed the back porch. Slowly, it climbed the brick walls to the roof and by the end of summer; it had over-taken much of the exterior of the house. Year-after-year, it grew denser and denser as the house slowly fell to into ruin. Here on this quiet West Virginia mountainside, Whistlewait Manor had once again come full-cycle.

Jason Hornsby ——— ——— Carpenter I died. I remember feeling the blade enter through my ribs and piercing my heart. When I had exhaled my last breath on earth, I felt my eyes slowly lose vision and close only to reopen in another world. I had imagined that when one dies, the physical realm would be left behind, but I find it to be otherwise. I now inhabit a new vessel; my hands and feet are shackled to a half spherical boulder as are all the other souls. Our bodies stretched across the rocks as if we had been put on display. There are no facial features or distinguishing colors, the vessel is of human shape but seems to feel more like a clay mold rather than a fleshly human. I conclude that this is because the soul needs a vessel to experience the anguish or pleasure provided by the senses. I roll my head slowly from left to right taking in the horrific scenery that is surrounding me. The sky is churning with orange clouds that are promising fury. The plain is scattered with the boulders as far as I can see in either direction, all are occupied. The ground is of black soot, seeming to have been charred for many ages. I arch my neck backwards and see the only exit, my only salvation. Groups of souls would assemble in front of the portal having exacted their punishment, and then they were allowed passage. When the portal would open, light would pour from it like a beacon. Seconds feel like centuries here. Would I ever be permitted to enter the Light? I had not been necessarily been an evil man in my previous life, but I had killed for gold once, only because of my own starvation. Ironically, this is the 86

same reason for which I was murdered. I knew it hadn’t been necessary, and I knew I deserved these tortures. One of the fiery men told me reassuringly that tyrants and conquerors of the world were subjected to worse punishments for much longer times. The fiery men, the humanoid figures that have flames licking the entire surface of their bodies, servants of whom, I know not, but they deliver the punishments that one had earned throughout his or her life. Another clay figure hobbles past me toward the passageway screaming for help and hope of escape. How one escapes the shackles is something I cannot seem to comprehend, although it looks like the soul had ripped off its clay hands and feet. The figure is stopped abruptly as it slams into the barrier; every attempt of escape was halted by the closed portal. It’s the only way out, but you have to serve your punishment before being released. I have seen dozens up to this point smash into the barrier scraping at the door for passage. I sense one of the fiery men approaching. As he rushes by, the heat singes me with its presence. The pain, just when I thought I had become tolerant, becomes tenfold. The fiery figure strides the next sixty yards and grabs up the screaming soul, burning it with its touch, dragging the screaming soul away in the direction it had come. Time doesn’t exist here, and I’ve lost track of the excruciating tortures that were being repeatedly performed on me. Between the tortures, my thoughts focused on how I would do anything to avoid this place if given another chance. Yet another cleansing is to begin. The fiery men are now scattering around the area, stopping before the boulders and standing in wait. I feel the heat as one approaches me. The fiery man before me seems to be waiting for his cue while watching the others. Screams erupt from across the 87

plain. This was obviously the cue. I begin to pull and struggle with all the strength that I could summon. There is none. The fiery man puts his hands together in front of himself and begins guiding them towards my exposed chest. As the fiery fingertips begin to sink into the cavity, an explosion of pain courses through my entire being. It plunges them deeper. I feel the hands wrapping around my soul. I begin to shake abruptly, and spasms of pain are elevating me from the boulder. The fiery man continues. My mind begins to spin in the direction of the murder that I had committed, the man screaming in agony as I plunged the blade repetitively in his gut then stealing his gold. The direction of my mind swirls into a vision, one of a woman, the one whom had been with the man as I slay him. She had screamed as I ran. I recognize her face. The vision is of her in her dwelling. She is weeping and kneeling in front of a young boy. She is telling the boy of his fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s demise. A tear runs down the boyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face. Then abruptly the direction reverts back to my own death, (the blade entering through my back). I had never seen my killerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face until now. Though it was years previous that I had murdered, this was none other than the boy with the tear. There was no mistake. I scream. The realization sent pain into my existence of which I had never imagined, beyond the punishment of the fiery men. I was responsible for instilling upon this boy that gold was worth more than human life, entering him into the vicious cycle. Anguish and pain flood throughout me as I am reminded of why this is happening. I am finally permitted to enter the Light. The shackles dissolve allowing me to slide off the boulder to my feet, I trudge myself to the portal, passing the unfortunates left to be tortured. Others were here amassing together approaching salvation. We walk 88

into the portal as it opens. It seems as if we were among the stars stepping onto a passageway of light. As I near the end of the path, I can hear the song of the Fates. The Fates were described to us by the fiery men as being the keepers of time in our universe, the three daughters of Lady Necessity. We were now permitted to reenter time and space. We were led to the maiden of time passed. She was clothed in white, a prophet was talking to her at the side of her throne, and then he approaches the podium standing in front of us. The prophet seems to be a translucent being that is formed by the visible energies within. As he spoke unto us, I feel his words enter my mind rather than him speaking verbally. The words, they felt so distant, but at the same time so familiar. They were soothing, relieving, suggesting. He turns and walks back to the maiden receiving a stack of parchments from her. The prophet of the maiden then threw the parchments down upon the crowd of souls gathered at the pulpit. The prophet warns us not to choose hastily, his voice sounding in our minds. Our destinies would not be chosen for us, but we would choose them ourselves. The maidens inspire virtue. Many of the souls around me begin scrambling and tearing through the lots. I pick up a parchment that had landed beside me and read the writings inscribed upon it. I can read the mysterious language, but I have never seen it before: Emperor Acquired Land Murderer A hasty choice could have been disastrous on this one, but this I knew would lead me right back to the plain of torture. I lay it back down. I read through many more, slowly analyzing each one, hoping to find a sure way to avoid the tortures that I had just 89

experienced. There seems to be all the lots in life to choose from, I am overwhelmed by the decision before me. The others have all moved along to the next destination, passing under the throne of Necessity, leaving me standing amidst the scattered parchments. I kneel and pick up one more parchment. It reads: Carpenter Healer Messenger This is it. I turn and follow the others through the extreme heat of yet another plain, where no trees or plants grew. Then it was on to the River of Forgetfulness; this was described to us as the entrance back unto earth. Each soul was to carry their destiny down to the river and then drink the certain measure of the water. This would then wash away the memories of your past up to this point, and then one would fall asleep, falling back into the earth, waking reborn into their new life. As each soul took its drink, they would slowly collapse on the bank of the river. I kneel down to the river cupping my hands, and lifting only a sip, less than the measure, I take my drink. My purpose will be to teach other men of justice and wisdom, and how to lead a life that will avoid those fiery tortures. I stare into the reflection of myself in the drifting clear water, the hollow vessel in which I have become. My eyes slowly lose vision and close only to reopen as a newborn child upon the earth from which I had come.

Contributor Notes ——— ——— Steve Conley “Do it while you can. Find out what works for you and hang on until the wheels fall off.” Chelle Creekbaum is a non-traditional student who lives in Middletown with her husband, Greg, their son, Jesse, 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 (coming soon to the Atrium near you!). Although Chelle no longer plays softball, she still passes with her son and can’t resist comparing every one of his coaches to her Aunt Dot. Not one of them has ever come close. Vivian Darkbloom is a writer in Middletown. Heather Davis “Hello, fellow Illuminati readers! I'm Heather, and as you have seen I'm not a writer, but rather a photographer. I just recently got interested in taking pictures, but seeing as I'm an Early Childhood Education major, it seems a bit odd for me to enjoy picture taking as much as I do. Black and white, or black and white with a hint of color seem to catch my attention more than anything, whether it's animals, farm life, or flowers. Everything is fair game with me. I hope you enjoyed the pictures I have taken.”

Jennifer Keith “I’ve been writing off and on for several years now and enjoy publishing casually when the occasion suits me. Recently I shifted some of my creative energy into art and photography as I gear up for my graduate studies in Art Therapy.” Debbie Mason has been employed at Miami for 27 years. She’s also a part-time student and has finally decided that writing (or something darn near like it) may be her next career. Debbie enjoys winding country roads, rolling creeks, and the perfect harmony of good bluegrass music. Every so often she gazes out the window and wishes she was at her cabin high in the Virginia Mountains. Most times, though, she's quite happy to be right here. Mark O'Hara has taught on all three Miami University campuses, and he was especially impressed by MUM. Mark lives in Hamilton with his wife Karen; their two children are Miami students. Jeff Sams is a sophomore at Miami majoring in English education. He is active in Student Government, Art Club and the Bunny Hollow Players on campus at Miami Middletown. He enjoys writing, theater, and art in his free time and also coaches youth sports.

Submission Guidelines ——— ——— 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) with 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;&#x153;Anonymousâ&#x20AC;? 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 ——— ——— The Illuminati editors and staff would like to thank the following people, with whom we owe not only gratitude, but credit for our organization and publication's continued success. We think of these special people as our “angels.” In return, they have received an Illuminati travel mug, mention in this publication, and the opportunity to receive issues before the official release date. Dean Kelly Cowen Mary Jane Brown Wanita Hatton Donna Horan Fields Family Nancy Ferguson Kathy Tessneer Joe Mitchell Cody Burriff Carole Gamin Courtney Curtner Jim Sliger Steve Conley Daphne Eldridge Lee Rogers Jeff Sams Lou Squyres Brian Wilson Starla Evilsizor Denny Cottle Jerel Day Roy Smith

Bode Gibbs Carla Smith Tony Martin Mike Hieber 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, Ms. 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. 95