Blackwater Review aims to encourage student writing, student art, and itellectual and creative life at Okaloosa-Walton College by providing a showcase for meritorious work. The BWR is published annually at Okaloosa-Walton College and is funded by the college.
Editors:
Vickie Hunt, Julie Nichols, Amy Riddell
Art Director: Benjamin Gillham
Editorial Advisory Board:
Dr. Jon Brooks, Charles Myers
Lucia Robinson, Riotta Scott
Dr. Jill White
Art Advisory Board:
J.B. Cobbs, Stephen Phillips, Lyn Rackley, Karen Valdez, Ann Waters
Graphic Design and Photography:
Nivaska Eastwold, Jennifer Eggers, Amy Longhenry, Okeye Mitchell
Administrative Assistant: Amanda Anderson
All selections published in this issue are the work of students; they do not necessarily reflect the views of members of the administration, faculty, staff, District Board of Trustees, or Foundation Board of Okaloosa-Walton College.
All rights are owned by the authors of the selections Front cover: Mardi Gras Oil on canvas
Melissa McSwain
Acknowledgments
The editors and staff extend their sincere appreciation to Dr. James R. Richburg, President, and Dr. Jill White, Senior Vice President, Okaloosa-Walton College, for their support of the Blackwater Review.
We are also grateful to Christian LaRoche, sponsor of the James N. LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, and to Charla Cotton, Director of the OWC Collegiate High School, who sponsored the BWR Sophomore Creative Writing Contest. The winners of these contests are included in this issue.
Special recognition goes to Lucia Robinson, whose initial vision of Blackwater Review served as catalyst for this project, and without whom there would be no forum for creative writers at Okaloosa-Walton College.
Another Late Night In Purgatory
Gordon West
I shook the cold from my boots, knocking them lightly against the last brick step before the screen door. The sky was obscured by a film of cloud matter with the moon just barely leaking through at one observable focal point of soft light. It brought to mind those flashlight-behind-blanket games we’d played as children. You know, back when power outages spelled possibilities.
My heels fell onto the kitchen tiles with a muffled thok, thok. I syncopated my footsteps as I crossed to the carpeted living room, letting them sound off with a stifle and a beat: the thok of a drum in a paper bag. Thok, a pause, thok, thok, hesitation, thok, thok. The longnecks were still soaking in the sink, their labels fragmenting nicely into a still soup of watereddown Dawn. They’d appeared the night before, and they’d be gone by tomorrow evening, but they’d be replaced by the time of the next job interview or blind date.
The den was visibly occupied only by the muted lull of the television opposite me. It was mom’s nightlight: the soft sheen of electric imagery. She always left it on for me. Your average Red Roof Inn will leave on a lamp in the room of a late arrival. Mother liked to leave me a TBS tearjerker. The monitor’s glow bathed the coffee table, easy chairs, and every surface in between. At scene changes, the colors shifted around and merged again with the wallpaper’s scattered grids and dots.
I pushed open the door to my bedroom, raking it across the carpeted flooring with a hushed ripple of a noise. I hoped I hadn’t wakened mother; she’d have been asleep for a few hours now. The window blinds were open, daring the moonlight to struggle inside past clouds, trees, and glass.
In the bathroom, afterward, there was a murmur seeping through the wall. I had been brushing my teeth upon the discovery. I placed a suspicious ear to the source, unable to make out actual words. I could pick out the syllable-sounds of
“I” and “son” here and there. It might not have even been “son.” Maybe it was “God,” or perhaps “love,” though it was likely a combination of the three.
I drew away, spit, and set my toothbrush along the rim of the sink before coming to an uneasy seat on the floor.
“God out of machine” is something I would hear a lot from my high-school drama teacher. It stems from a Greek phrase that probably means nothing close to my quite literal interpretation. But regardless, I’d always sort of latched onto the concept. I’d always found “God out of machine.” The clean warmth of television static, voices on the other end of a phone, a faithful car engine, loving strips of magnet on the reverse sides of credit cards, the cold steel comfort of the pistol underneath my mattress. If He truly is everywhere, He might as well be swimming in a lithium battery.
But in all my life, I’d never felt closer to God than when I heard my mother praying in secret through the bathroom wall.
Rubber-necking
Thomas Leighton
It took them an hour to drag it off the road
That charred and twisted mess of steel and glass
Those twin stilled engines that will never start again
Twilight deepened and police began directing traffic
Cars like so many mindless creatures
Inching forward at every urgently beckoned whim
Before each movement came a pause
Occupants making the sign of the cross,
Muttering generic fervent prayers
Or gesturing, pointing, lingering
Mesmerized in the wash of exhaust fumes
Of idle, overheating engines
And the sullen red glare of taillights
Flickering as if to say, “I’m ahead of you. I always will be.”
I will never forget the scene before my eyes that night
The red sepulchral form beyond fogged and broken glasswork
The funeral motorcade in the sad and holy glow of headlights
A thousand strangers stopped for a moment
To pay their last respects, or just to gawk
And in the surreal clarity of that dark and Silent twilight vigil
That testament to human failing
If I strained my hearing hard enough
Toward the still-smoldering pile of wreckage
I could just discern the sound of settling
He Should Be The One to Go
Deborah R. Majors
...seven, eight, nine—sitting on the back porch, counting lightning bugs, I hear crying in their bedroom. Daddy doesn’t love her; he says he loves another. His words take time captive as the spear through my heart turns and twists. This must be how a sleepwalker feels, aware but cannot speak. Will I awaken to find myself in bed, my favorite doll’s legs pinching me, wedged between my arm and chest? Or will I wake to find myself just where I think I am: behind the house, on the porch? ...eighteen, nineteen, twenty flashing fire flies swarm the oak tree claimed by my initials, weaving in and out of our tire swing.
He should be the one to go—the one to leave behind the concrete step, memorial of handprints: Mommy’s, Brother’s, and mine. She said Dad’s little fling kept him away that day, but Grandma said it was a whore. (The mint julep makes Grandma say grownup words I’m not allowed to say.) They do not know I heard them talking, or that the whore’s car is red. He should be the one to go.
Sunny Side Down
Elizabeth Hawkins
Elaine jumped back, stifling a yelp as the pan spit and hissed at her. She warily eyed the bacon. It was burnt in the middle, and yet the edges remained light pink. She sighed as she flopped the greasy pieces onto a paper towel and attempted to scrape off the black crisp. Realizing she was only further destroying her and Derek’s breakfast, she moved on to mutilating some eggs. Carefully cracking one open on the side of the pan, she plopped it down, breaking the yolk. It was going to be one of those days.
Derek walked out of the bedroom right as Elaine dropped the second egg, splashing hot grease on the side of her stomach. She tried to hide her grimace, but Derek saw. He rushed over and gathered her in his arms, pulling her away from the stove. He laughed as he nuzzled her neck.
“Why do you do that?”
“What, make breakfast?”
“Make breakfast topless.”
“I’m wearing a bra. Besides, you never complained before.” She stuck out her bottom lip in a fake pout. “It’s because I’m fat now, isn’t it?”
He groaned and she knew she was being evil, pulling the “I’m fat” routine; no guy could ever win.
“You didn’t get fat. You got pregnant.”
She opened her mouth for a retort.
“Your eggs are burning.” He pointed towards the stove. Already smoke was forming, and the stench of burnt food filled the room.
“Crap!” She rushed to save their breakfast, but it was too late. She slid the ruined eggs and bacon into the cat’s bowl. Mr. Flufficans sauntered over to investigate her offering, took one sniff and high-tailed it out of the kitchen. Derek shook with laughter.
“Oh, shut up.”
Hawkins / 5
“What? I didn’t say anything.” He threw his palms in the air as a sign of innocence.
Elaine placed her hands on her hips. “I’d like to see you do better.”
Smirking, Derek scooped her up, ignoring her protests and dumped her on the loveseat sofa that was in plain view of the kitchen. He then proceeded back into the kitchen, washed off the pan, and started breakfast anew.
It really was a wonder he could still pick her up, let alone carry her. She was quite a bit bigger than when he first met her. Now she carried the weight of an almost completely developed baby. In her third trimester, she felt humungous and knew her newly acquired waddle made her seem anything but sexy. Derek’s ability to carry her made her feel a lot better about herself, although he probably could have carried two of her with those giant arms. He sometimes called them his “guns,” but only to tease Elaine--or so she hoped. At least he never got them tattooed or made them “wave.”
Watching him bustle around the kitchen, probably making the perfect breakfast, she entertained thoughts of being his wife. This train of thought shocked her; she was never one to want to settle down. It took Derek three years to convince her to move in. She finally gave in a year ago when her landlady raised the rent in a bout of bad PMS that still hadn’t seemed to have worn off. Elaine and Derek had been dating on and off, but when she moved in, Derek demanded exclusivity. Elaine had her doubts, but agreed. Four months later, she got pregnant.
Both Elaine and Derek were surprised when she decided to keep the baby. When Elaine found out, she told Derek she was going to get rid of it. She wasn’t ready. Derek claimed he understood, but his eyes showed different. She felt bad but scheduled the abortion anyway. A baby would get in her way, would close doors in her life. She put on a brave face until she arrived at the clinic, where she walked through the doors, and her eyes met with those of a girl walking out. Grief, desperation, and guilt hid behind those over made-up lashes, and for the first
time Elaine thought about the little life inside of her, and she couldn’t kill it. She could always put the child up for adoption.
Derek laid out the perfectly crisp bacon, and she couldn’t help but smile. The smile discredited her huff of annoyance as she marched back to the bedroom to throw on a top. When she reentered the kitchen, Derek tugged on her shirt and tried to mimic her pouty puppy-dog face, but turned out to look more like a constipated chipmunk. Elaine couldn’t help but laugh.
“Wha-at?”
“You.” She grinned and poked his nose. “Now where’s my eats?”
He attempted a pelvic thrust. “Right here.” He threw in a wink and she rolled her eyes.
“You’re hopeless.”
“And you’re no fun.” He tossed some eggs and bacon on a plate, grabbing the toast right as it popped up and began buttering. She was always amused with his uncanny way of knowing when the toast was done. He handed the plate over, bowing like a butler. She snatched it and attempted to gracefully slide to a chair at the table.
Smelling decent food, Mr. Flufficans returned from his hideout in the bedroom. Derek pulled his foot back like he was going to kick the animal as he went to join Elaine at the table. She knew he wouldn’t. Mr. Flufficans was their love kitty. After deciding to keep the baby, Elaine insisted on getting a pet to “build their responsibility.” Derek agreed, but he wanted a dog. A manly dog. Upon arriving at the pet store, he picked out a pit bull named Trevor. Elaine took one look at the dog and decided he would eat the baby. Instead, Elaine chose the sissiest animal in the store, a big white fur ball without a name. Derek resisted, but Elaine’s puppy-dog face far surpassed his in effectiveness, and ultimately he gave in. To add further insult to Derek’s injury, she named the cat Mr. Flufficans. Elaine was always doing things like that to torment Derek. Little things, nothing that would ever scar him physically or mentally, but little insults to keep him in line. Let him know who was boss.
She knew by doing those things she was insecure, but she had been stomped on too many times to let people, particularly men, know her real feelings. She would tease and make jokes about her feelings, but her heart had a solid, padded wall around it. “Love” was a four-letter-word.
After she had cleaned her plate and Derek had eaten the last of his bacon, Elaine swept up their plates and scurried to the sink. Derek raced behind her, trying to grab the dirty dishes.
“Oh no, you don’t.” She ducked under his arm. “You cooked. I clean.”
He stayed behind her, playfully trying to snatch a plate. “You cooked, too. Or tried.”
She bumped him out of the way with her butt and turned on the sink. They always fought over little chores, each one trying to be more productive. “Besides, you have work to go to.” She pointed at the clock, and he let out a groan.
“I still have another five minutes until I have to walk out that door.” He smiled playfully.
“You could leave now and be early. Now go; you’re distracting me and I have papers to grade.” She watched him slump back into their room to gather his work things.
The suds popped on her hands and she smiled. Of course she didn’t want to wash dishes, but she knew he didn’t either. Maybe they were doing more than trying to be productive. Maybe they were trying to save each other from the fate of dirty dishes and laundry, maybe they...
“Hey, Babe?” Derek’s voice rang out from the kitchen. No, they were just trying to earn their keep. “Yeah?”
“Where are my socks?”
“Did you try the sock drawer?”
“We have a sock drawer?”
Elaine let loose a frustrated sigh as she walked to the bedroom, drying her hands on her jeans. Men. As she passed by the bed to the drawer, Derek pulled her down on the bed and bombarded her with kisses. Shrieking with girlish giggles, she pushed him off.
“That has to be the worst pick-up line ever.” She led him out of the room. “‘Where are my socks?’” she mocked. She showed him out the door. “You are going to be late.”
He paused before leaving, gazing into her eyes, looking for something. A ripple of emotion stirred inside her, and she pushed it down. “See you tonight.” She gave him a quick kiss and slammed the door.
She stood there and listened to him walk down the hall. After his last foot step faded away, she pressed her fingertips against the door and whispered, “I love you.”
the internment camps of cold silence
Daniel Davis
i sat on the fascist side of her iron curtain the frozen, impenetrable, implied wall that she had hastily constructed between us in her free world she must enjoy such unearthly delights free trade, freedom of speech, a clean conscience
carefully approaching the sniper nests of her eyes that guarded the barrier between us i tossed over a message in a weathered coke bottle
remember when communication between us was simple and constructive?
a few warning shots later and i was sprinting for my bunkers my old repositories for solitary confide-ment going back to the drawing boards wasn’t enough i’d have to re-invent them
days passed, nearly a week and no sympathizers or liberators came to call the internment camps of cold silence seemed inescapable the biting barbed wire accusations hung low and oppressive and the white dove of peace and hope torn apart by a pack of wild street dogs with vindication for fur
a week and i could stand no more my feet had long turned blue from exposure to freezing unconfidence the smock i had been assigned to wear was tattered and torn with holes of malcontent and the badge that identified me that was to be worn at all times the crystal teardrop with apartheid boldly etched across it had cracked and crumbled under the pressure of my resolute fist
it was time i made a move for freedom not only for myself, but for my brethren the sons of taciturn perdition
i made a run for it the barbed wire, the vengeful dogs, the ocular snipers i ran as though there were no other reason to be but to head bared down, i charged the wall with the words i’m sorry
april 23rd, 2010 (our end)
Daniel Davis
we sat there on the oak bench in the park, hand in hand mesmerized by the dawn of the end the radio squelches transmissions of panic and defeat people around us are screaming, eyes wide but the only eyes i can see are yours within four hours, there will be nothing left here the missile defense system was a lie but we couldn’t care about that right now
tripping terrified terrestrials clamoring for a solution an easy way out, just as they always search for three and a half, we’re well on our way the sun is setting like a quarter sliding in a coke machine and your head rests on my shoulder as we stand in our garden the absurd, yet obvious thought occurs: how many people are having sex right now? copulating, initiating a reproductive process that will prematurely slam to a halt so as not to be colored black in a herd of drowning wooly sheep we water our flowers, so they might in another lifetime, perhaps become closer to reproducing
one and fifteen to go, we’re on our backs on the roof of our car the stars were kind enough to make a final appearance a final casting call for the ages orion and sirius, companions as always the swan and the virgin, with the scorpion and the bull our optical applause for our host is interrupted by a little girl, wandering the street alone she cries and cries, but not for the obvious reason she weeps because she will not go to the zoo tomorrow
and see the lion and the zebra, the monkeys and the elephants (her favorites)
approaching the appointed time, we find ourselves still stuck in the stars with an unwelcome bright point of light joining our last tea party social five the hunter is slashed in half by the light four the pleiades nearly dodge intersection three the point becomes a circle ever increasing two the circle howls a warning of its inevitable trajectory one we embrace, with tears like wine from a bottle of life a flash
The Quintessential Nothing
Nathan Pemberton
It was the sign about the pirates and the death of her family that made her so interesting. She was propped down next to it, with a small glass positioned in front of her, her body resting on a small curb in a noisy, oversized park full of more people rather than trees. Her blue deck shoes were interesting too. Torn and exploding with bursting threads, they probably have never seen a deck. It was the oversized, baby blue sunglasses covering her eyes like black saucers, reflecting the world into two separate convex realities, that drove me into my mind.
I couldn’t tell what she was looking at. Someone had given her a dollar. They had put it in her glass, which looked stolen from a hotel bathroom. You know, the ones that have the little white paper covers on them. The glasses that no one ever uses because no one ever thinks they get cleaned, but in reality they just never get touched by the people staying in the room or the people cleaning the room. So they just sit and glare at anyone who walks by them or remarks about the illogical price of the elite brand of mineral water sitting proudly behind them.
That was the first dollar the glass had seen. She looked up at the old, fragile couple who had let the bill glide into its new home and let out a garbled string of sounds and mumbles. She said thank you, but she was speaking with her bug eyed glasses pointing straight up, the skin on her neck stretching and contracting like an accordion. The old man reached to wrap his stiff, cardboard arm around his plumb plum of a wife, and they rushed off away from the riffraff that filled the streets–streets paid for by tax paying citizens who liked to walk around their park without being hit up for money by attention hungry girls with need of revenge.
Of course, that was just an assumption on my part. She had been sitting in the open sun with her matted, black hair greedily absorbing the endless sun. Like night and day
both being present at the same time, her hair was a contradiction to her shallow, reflective skin. I was reminded of sickly French girls who lived in hospitals with incurable diseases.
But she wouldn’t die.
It was the sign about pirates and the death of her parents that made her so interesting. She wanted money for karate lessons. She wanted revenge.
Most people want revenge; some just want the money.
I had been sitting on one side of a fat artery of the park pulsing with people. She was across the way from me sitting, in the lotus position, with her bastard glass, her tired deck shoes, her swollen, full-moon glasses, and her sign stained and scrawled with the dirty red of a no-brand cylinder of lipstick.
I considered wading across the bubbling sea of bodies dividing us. I knew what would happen.
Hello, I’d say with grin.
What do you want? She through her up stretched neck and past the looking glass lenses—her eyes surrounding my gaze while refusing to acknowledge it.
I want your name, I would say, still holding out. I want you to give me some money or get out of my sun. I’m cold.
I would slip a dollar in her glass. I would slip my eyes in her gaze.
She would hiss and, Jesus Christ, she would be looking at me this time, what else do you want of me??
I only wanted your name.
It had been lunch hour. She was attracting more glances and laughs. There had been more of the sun lying upon the ground, adding pressure to every person’s footsteps and everyone’s breaths. Her cardboard sign was propped up against the bench she was crouched next to–the now hardened lipstick scribbled surface bowing down to the midday rush and temperature. She wasn’t paying any attention to the heat, and she wasn’t moving around because of it.
The sun, apparently, hadn’t been bothering her. Her sunglasses had been fixed to a spot I couldn’t see,
Pemberton / 15
and though I could imagine it, I wanted her to be staring at some corrupt, corporate form of a human being in a nice suit walking along the dusty sidewalk in the park. She would be encouraged with her goals of economically responsible revenge.
Revenge.
I had forgotten all about that. Who was she?
In most cities, people sit like cargo waiting to be picked up and dropped off for their employers. These people wait for buses. I had been waiting for my bus, for my delivery. Some people aren’t items that are moved and handled. And some people are just in between, preferring the static nature of the middle.
She hadn’t been moving, it was so hot outside. I had seen her yelp at a small puppy growling by with a young, stocks and bonds man on his bike. Her noise frightened the man. He had instantly veered his bright yellow frame into a crowd of Asians clad in the t-shirts required for being tourists, with the puppy’s narrow leash tangling through and around their poor, thin legs. They had said things in whatever Asian language that belonged to their country.
I saw her lips crawl into tight grin. She looked of rebellion and small, infrequent meals. She projected this around her little sign and torn shoes. It was everywhere and nowhere. From across our short little divide, I could envision the future. Her flimsy little sign was a puzzle. She was a puzzle. I had never met her. Never touched her.
You can see your future with some people. You can see yourself with some people months and years from the current moment like a portrait hung and lost in the endless maze of thrift shop. You see the development of the colors, and slowly you see the face bones form, then the eyes form, and eventually you see absence become presence and energy. And like fusion of color and lines, canvas and frame, you can see the fusion of
two bodies, two people colliding, and moving together. Like the grand formation of the face and eyes, you can see the growth from awkward glances and touches of two strangers turn into longer conversations and deeper stares. You can see the plural be realized into singularity and suddenly, you no longer care about you.
Thoughts are scary and uninvited at times. They’re strangers trying to sell you visions and snake oil. They want only a home in return.
She wanted vengeance for her family. Her pointy, angular movements were unstructured and unaligned. Her glass was half-empty. That lonely figure of a cardboard sign was slouching down towards the earth by the push of gravity’s relentless hand. I had crafted high hopes for her plan. I had dashed so far with my thoughts.
I had been walking out of the park, past her collection station. I had been running to catch the bus, racing to meet my schedule. But I managed out a word with her.
“I like the sign.” I have trouble talking when in a rush. My words are imbalanced and heavy. They were like that when I spoke to her.
“Oh, yeah, thanks.” Her head had bobbed, swiveled. Her eyes skipped in and out of mine.
“You’ve made some money, too, eh?” I had said while staring at her glass. Her glossy sunglasses had been staring into my thoughts. They had been reading my soul.
“Yeah, I’m surprised by that. I had just found it,” she jabbed her thumb and arm towards the sign, “by the alley next to my apartment.” Pemberton /
Your Eyes Have No Title
Caitlin Pierson
If I could dive into your deep blue eyes swim through your crowded iris investigate its murky depths What wonders would I find there?
Sea shells and hermit crabs—traveling bachelors, a trunk—
blossoming sunflower of gold doubloons— the twinkle in a Spaniard’s smile
And perhaps an occasional wreck of ship with scattered debris and sailors picked clean by sharks that patrol the deeper layers, leaving Only a pair of boots and a pressed cotton uniform
an angler fish waving his false-light
A tiny glow reminding of a time when the sun seemed so near before you enter his gluttonous jaws
Releasing bubbles of air up to the surface lost divers crawl through the muck toward his glimmer, Not caring only lusting for the way out of this constricting darkness
Face Me
Caitlin Pierson
Why did you have to save face?
I liked your crooked, snaggle-toothed grin it matched mine to almost mirror perfection and finding a match to anything brings new wonders to light
Instead you chose to replace your face with a cocky, satisfied smirk but apply the nail polish remover (non acetate) and there will be left the wilted lip and limp lifeless look of one who has eaten an unripe persimmon
And I have my own basket full of shriveled peaches covered in the tiny flies and I’m not ashamed to sit them on the doorstep and let them air out as their putrid sweet perfume fills gusts of wind and sticky lungs
It’s as unavoidable to breathe as cigarette smoke in the dark lit coffee shop in L. A. (Lower Alabama) with the dead fish decorating walls and the waitress who remembers your first name
Eventually all our alveoli will be saturated with my chagrin and shame
Pierson / 19
while yours will still be covered in different shades of polish underneath the layers of your face
I want to see your smile crack the mirrors surrounding I want to see your smile the way it is as broken and as tired
Fine
Ali Fisher
It was still dark when my alarm went off this morning. W.T. Sherman High School starts an hour earlier than Lee Middle School, and Ohio is significantly colder in September than Alabama ever was. I got up and rubbed my eyes, but it didn’t help. My room had that strange artificial look that comes only in the middle of the night. I looked around, my eyes trying to adjust to the light from my lamp. Boxes were still piled everywhere. I went over to my chair, where I had laid out my clothes the night before: a pink sweater and a denim skirt with pink sneakers. As soon as my feet hit the cold floor, it started, a nervous knot in the pit of my stomach, sucking the courage and life out of me like a giant cancer. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, and that helped me feel better.
My mom was nice enough to offer to drive me to school so I didn’t have to ride the bus on the first day. I guess she figured it was the least she could do. For a while, she had been thinking about a job offer up here with the Ohio Tribune, but she couldn’t convince Daddy to move. This past summer, when she found out that Daddy was sleeping with his secretary named Missy, she threatened to divorce him, take me, and get the job. He screamed something like “See if I care.” So she did it.
First period got the day off to a terrible start. My teacher was Coach Meyers, who taught history and gym. I got lost in the hallways and came in late, so he made me come up to the front of the class and explain why I was late. Everyone else had been to the orientation and knew where their classes were. I didn’t. The room looked like a prison cell with desks. There were no windows, and the harsh fluorescent lights cast their sickly glow onto the prisoners, all unaware of their captivity.
The rest of the day was hellish. I got lost three more times, got ignored by my classmates, and got hit in the face with a volleyball in P.E. After school, when Mom came to pick me up, I wanted to break down and sob. I wanted to tell her that
Fisher / 21
I hated her for making me come here, that I hated Dad for leaving, that I hated school, and that I hated myself, but I couldn’t. I just sat in the front seat and stared blankly ahead through eyes full of tears.
Now, I go to a school with three-thousand other people, and not one of them would notice if I never showed up again. I miss my friends in Alabama. Of course, I can’t tell them how much I hate it here. When I call Ashley, I’ll tell her the same thing I tell everyone else: “I’m fine, just fine.”
The Retard Mused
Joanna Soria
A pair of thirty-dollar flip-flops with turquoise beads saunter by, and I am captivated; I have missed seeing you, how you thoughtfully chew your cud and wear your hip huggers
like a national flag; the flag of Bolivia, if you’re interested features red, yellow, and green stripes.
Those gold streaks bleed through your hair like processed sunlight; and a Chinese symbol (which probably stands for love or understanding) peeks from the back of your neck
like a label; my mom used to label my underpants, by the way. Sometimes she does; I guess there’s always the risk of me stripping down and skipping naked over the countryside, leaving my underwear helpless and unclaimed: “If found, please return to...”
Madison, I’ll bet your name is Madison, because Madison is currently the most popular girls’ name in the country according to surveys, but I digress.
You bite your glossy lip and avert your eyes, determined to think nothing of me; you spit your gum onto the sidewalk, and you do it prettily, but there is an iridescent gasoline puddle on the street that demands my interest; thank you for your time and awkward glances.
Soria / 23
Goodbye Stranger:
The Beginning of the End
John Bruckelmeyer
Mike averted his eyes from the waitress’s too tight, giveme-a-big-tip t-shirt. He wasn’t the kind of guy to stare. At least he didn’t want to seem like that kind of guy.
“Is there anything else I can get for you tonight?” She flashed a toothy grin. “A refill on your ice water?”
“No.” Mike pushed the plate between him and Christina. “No, we’re good, thank you.”
“All right, if you do need anything else, let me know, ‘kay?” She bounced away, leaving Mike and Christina alone on their half of the diner.
Mike picked up his BLT (with extra B and no T) and took a bite. Christina plucked lightly salted fries from the plate one by one, chewing each one as if it were a whole meal. The other side of the booth was reserved for Stan, who was running late. He was supposed to get off a half hour after they did, but the manager asked to see him in her office. It probably had something to do with the cart full of cleaning supplies that somehow vanished.
“Man, Ms. Gordon must be chewing him out big time,” Mike said, breaking the silence. Mike was perplexed. She seemed okay when he picked her up on the way to work earlier. As soon as they got off, though, she barely said a word to him other than she felt like some French fries. He didn’t get to see her very much while they were working, but she didn’t mention anything horribly wrong except for that cart.
Christina shrugged and grabbed another fry.
“You don’t suppose he can get in too much trouble over that, do you?” Mike covered his mouth with his free hand as he chewed and talked. “I mean, Poncho set the trash compactor on fire. He didn’t even get written up. At least I don’t think he did.” He finished up the rest of the sandwich and brushed his hands off on his pants. “But, you know,
Stan’s been doing a crappy job at work anyway. I think it’s his new girlfriend.”
“She’s not that new. They’ve been going out for like four months now.”
“Yeah, but doesn’t he seem like he doesn’t care anymore? He’s like a new Stan. He’s Stan 2.0.”
“And this is her fault?”
“Well, mostly his fault. But yes, her fault as well.”
“I see.” She put her elbow on the table.
Mike stared at Christina. He could sense she wasn’t on his side at all. Her chin perched on the end of her fist in a thinking pose. They’d only known each other since they started working together about eight months ago, which some people could call a long time. But the way they hit it off, it seemed like they’d been friends for years. They liked all the same things. Movies, games – even the same hobbies. It seems they were both the artistic type. But if anyone asked, Mike insisted Christina was the better artist.
He stared for a bit, admiring her feathery black hair and the slight curve of her mouth. She turned her head toward the window. She was definitely not on his side today.
“Hey, are you mad at me?”
“No, I’m cool.”
“You sure?” Mike reached out, almost touching her arm before pulling back. “’Cause I mean–”
“Woo!” The entrance swung open and Stan marched in. “Guess what?” He plugged himself in the bench across from them and a toothy grin tore across his face.
“What?”
“I got fired!” Stan snorted a small laugh.
“What?!” Mike spat. “What for? That stupid cart?”
“Well, obviously it wasn’t that indispensable, was it?” He reached across the table and grabbed one of Christina’s fries. “I mean, I’m fine with it. I absolutely loathe that theater anyway.”
“What about Christina? Is she in trouble? She was working with you.”
Bruckelmeyer / 25
“Nah, I was the supervisor. I’m the one who incurs all the penalties.”
Christina pushed on Mike’s arm. “Hey, move over. I have to use the bathroom.” He scooted off the end, and she marched over to the restrooms on the other side.
Mike leaned over the table. “Hey, do you know what’s wrong with her today? She seems pissed.”
“I have no clue.” Stan reached for another fry. “Menstruation?”
“Whatever. Take the fries. We’re done.”
Stan grabbed the plate and pulled it to his side.
“So how in the world did you get fired, again?” This question baffled Mike. In the entire eight months he worked at the theater, not a single person was fired. Stan had worked there for over a year already.
“Like I said, it was about those supplies that vanished.”
“Mhmm.” Mike had a hard time believing that Ms. Gordon would fire anyone over some stupid cleaning supplies. “Now that you’re gone, who am I going to be working with now? Rachel? Ugh.”
“Relax. You still have Christina. Ms. Gordon practically gives you guys the same schedule every week anyway. You proposing any time soon, by the way?”
Mike’s veins pulled taut. Christina was a sensitive subject, and his best friend ought to know that. The temptation to throttle Stan 2.0 was steadily increasing. “Listen, it’s nobody’s business. I like the way we are. I don’t want to put that on the line. It’s not worth it.”
“Right. You guys car pool almost every shift. You’re always around her. I mean, look, you’re eating off the same plate. Isn’t that cute? I assume you’re paying.”
“Shut your face.”
“Uh huh. I can talk to her if you want.”
“Do not!” Mike thrust his index finger at Stan menacingly. “Seriously, don’t. I will kill you.”
“Aw, come on. You know--I used to think that too. But I finally brought myself to ask out Emily, and look, our relationship has improved dramatically.”
Mike had just about enough of Emily. “Oh, yeah, and your life’s so great now. So now you get to spend all your time with her now that you’re fired.”
“The job’s not that important.”
“Yeah, well, neither are your friends, apparently.”
Stan pushed away the plate and stood up. “All right, fine. I’m done with this.”
“All right. Bye.”
Mike averted his eyes as Stan blew back out the door, leaving him with an empty booth and some mangled fries. For at least three minutes the grill became the loudest presence in the room.
Christina returned from the restroom. “Where’s Stan?”
“He left.” Mike pulled his wallet from his pocket. “I’m going to go pay for our food.”
“How much was it? I’ll pay for half.”
“Nah, that’s all right.” Mike fished for a twenty. “I got it.”
Breaking the Camel’s Back
Stan knocked on the door, and he was invited in by a muffled “it’s not locked.” Ms. Gordon was perched behind her desk; her fat body rocked back and forth in her swivel office chair. Papers cluttered her desk, and a half empty box of Chinese food seemed to hold it all down. The tiny office only made the burly woman look even bigger.
“Go ahead, take a seat, Stanley.” He abhorred when she called him Stanley. Of course, she called him that constantly.
She pushed aside her kung pao chicken. Producing a form from the pile of papers, she placed it neatly in front of Stan along with a pen.
“You can read that and then sign it at the bottom.”
Stan scanned over it. It was a write-up form, with all the information filled out about the cart and all the supplies that disappeared on his shift that day.
He spun the paper back around. “What’s this right here?”
“Well,” she cleared her throat. “We’re just going to Bruckelmeyer /
deduct the money to replace the cart and its supplies from your paycheck.”
“Um, I really don’t think I should have to pay for that.”
“Well, we really have no other choice. You just have to sign it at the bottom and we’ll be done with it.”
“I am not signing that.”
She straightened her posture. “Well, you have to.”
“Did Poncho have to pay to replace the trash compactor?”
“The trash compactor didn’t need to be replaced.”
“Did he get written up for it?”
The manufactured professional manager tone faded from her voice, and now her annoyance was beginning to shine through. “Stanley, that is none of your business. That’s between him and me, and nobody else. Right now you need to worry about yourself. You were the supervisor on shift today, and you’re responsible for the people and equipment during that time. You lost an entire cart full of cleaning supplies. Where is it?”
This was getting tiresome. He’d been asked that several times today. Stan shrugged. “Beats me.”
“Well, if you don’t know, and you couldn’t find it, it has to be replaced. You were responsible for it; you need to replace it.”
“Oh, come on. That piece of crap needed to be replaced anyway. The front wheels were practically rusted sideways. The damn thing kept jackknifing into the wall. And we have dozens of the exact same cleaning supplies in the storage room. You’re just taking this opportunity to get it replaced without any expense to the theater.”
“Excuse me?” Her already flush cheeks began to burn even brighter.
“Well? Am I right or am I right?”
“Where is the cart, Stanley? What were you doing instead of your job? Answer me that.”
“Well, I was on my way to one of the theaters to clean up a mess – some kid left a little present on the floor. On the way I saw Christina, and it was imperative that I talk to her, so I pulled her aside into one of the storage closets, and when I came out, it was missing.”
“And what was so imperative that you had to talk to her then and not after work?”
“Honestly, that’s none of your business.”
“Excuse me? Stanley, it is my business when you cost this theater money because you aren’t doing your job.”
“Well excuse me, Barbara, but apparently it’s not costing the theater any money if you’re going to deduct the money from my paychecks, is it?” Stan crossed his legs.
“Do you want to keep this job?”
“Well, if I did I’d have to receive a raise.”
“A raise?!”
At this point, Stan almost had to fight off his smile. “I don’t get paid much here, and pretty much all I do is throw away everyone’s garbage and clean up after them. The way I see it, I don’t get paid nearly enough to do that and have to sit here and listen to you talk to me like this. So I figure, if I’m expected to listen to you condescend to me, I should be compensated for it. Unless of course you wanted to go pick up that kid’s anal excretions yourself.”
Ms. Gordon snatched up the write-up and tossed it in the trash can next to her. “Well, if that’s how you feel, then you don’t need to be here. Goodbye, Sir.”
“Fantastic.” The only reason Stan had stayed at the job was because he liked working with Mike and Christina. Other than that there was nothing else here. Besides, his girlfriend convinced him he didn’t need this job in the first place. He could just use the money he saved up to pay for college classes and get a management level job elsewhere–one that wasn’t under this heaving wretch.
Stan reached in his pocket and pulled out his storage room keys and tossed them onto her desk. “You forgot to ask me for my keys. I’d hate for you to have to write off those as well.” She didn’t respond. He stood up and slipped through the door. “Hey, you mind if I use this place as a reference?”
“Goodbye, Sir.” She didn’t look up.
“Arrivederci, Gordo.” The door clicked behind him. That didn’t take too long. Mike and Christina were probably still waiting for him. Bruckelmeyer
The End of the Beginning
Christina never really noticed how nice and warm Michael’s car was before. She thought about how he used to drive around with the air conditioner on full blast because he liked it cold. At some point she remembered mentioning how it felt like riding around in a meat locker. She mentioned that to Stan, actually. And suddenly now he drives with the air off. After that talk with Stan earlier, everything seemed to fall into place–it all made perfect sense.
“Man,” Michael gritted his teeth. “Can you believe Stan got fired? Seriously, nobody gets fired over there.”
“Apparently they do.” She hated that. The only reason any of them stuck around that job was because they had fun working with each other. Stan wasn’t going to be around anymore. The mere thought made her want to quit as well.
“I seriously think it’s his girlfriend.”
“And how is that?” Christina wanted to agree with him. But she had to admit, Emily really was a nice girl.
“Hear me out for a minute.” He held up his finger. “He gets so much attention from her now, he probably doesn’t even care if he’s around us anymore, you know? So that’s why he’s been slacking so much. Maybe he was trying to get fired.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No, really. And I bet she doesn’t like him having that job either. He’s always complaining about it. Complaining about the messes he has to clean up, or the idiotic customers, or Ms. Gordon being an ass. I bet she encouraged him to do it.”
Christina had nothing to say to that. She stared out the window into the darkness. Her favorite CD was playing in the car. Of course it was. Michael probably went out and bought it specifically so she could listen to it when they were driving around.
They stopped at a red light, and Michael tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah.” She reached over and put on the air conditioning. “I’m hot.”
“Okay. You just seem down. I’ll turn down the volume for you.”
“Thanks.” Christina brushed her hair behind her ears and eyed the passing streetlights along the road. She hated this area. It was so small and there was nothing here for anybody. College would have been a great ticket out, but she didn’t hop on that train when it came by, and now it would be even harder to catch. If only she had just gone straight out of high school.
She looked over at Mike. Stan was perfectly right, and she’d been kicking herself ever since their talk. She couldn’t understand why she never thought about that before. Mike was a nice guy, and he was really sweet to her, but she just didn’t want it to go in that direction. She didn’t want to lead him on. But according to his best friend, that time had come and gone a while ago.
By the time they reached Christina’s house, the car was so cold the windows were beginning to fog up. She unclasped her seatbelt and opened the car door. “Thanks for the ride.”
“No problem.” Michael waved. “Feel better.”
“Mhm.” She almost closed the door.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“You work tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“Want me to pick you up?”
“No.” Christina thought about it for a moment. An air of disappointment washed over Michael’s face. “No, I think I’m going to drive myself tomorrow.”
“Ah.”
“I think I’m going to ask to get off early.” She thought about not showing up. Maybe she wouldn’t show up to work ever again. She could just stay home and practice her drawing, and not answer the phone.
Michael nodded. “All right then, maybe next time. Goodnight, Chris.”
“Goodbye, Michael.” She shut the door and watched his headlights pull away.
Bruckelmeyer /
Wal-Mart’s Parking Lot: A Catalyst
Deborah R. Majors
Thursday night in Wal-Mart’s parking lot, my son carries Grandpa’s gait, the traits of the future, the present, the past, and the list, as I sit in our mini-van with no make up, unsprayed hair, and barefoot while he, having grown strong and tall no longer needs my mamma bear presence. He disappears into the lighted glass cave to tackle the family’s weekly hunting excursion. An ink filled weapon in hand, he is ready to decipher the crumpled map and dodge hungry fellow hunter-gatherers who push and pull loaded wagons of berries, roots, and grains to take back to their lairs.
The windows whirr to let the outside cool my skin, move my hair, and fill my car with recognizable heaviness and unknown familiar smells as I descend in a crayon blue green 1960 something Chevy Malibu. The air hovers thick and hot, it won’t rain for days but the drops of moisture are almost visible, being coaxed from their place in midair by the balmy breeze travel brochures describe as Miami’s own. Poles that wish they could touch the moon cradle lights that make our eyes hurt to stare at them and see how high we can count till we blink, reflect off windshields, side mirrors, chrome wrapped headlights just doused
by their drivers, a Giant Silver Slide with five slots for burlap sack riders, hubcaps freshly polished, red domes on ambulances across the street, revolving doors sending mine back to me, plate glass windows revealing too much, and the tears in the eyes of the grown ups as they climb in the car as if in slow motion, One. By. One.
I want to raise my voice, be disrespectful for once, tell Dad’s twin sisters to stop speaking their mysterious covertly coded Pig Latin. They don’t have to keep it a secret. My brother and I knew when they called the house Grandma’s that he is gone. Besides, don’t they know kids invented igpay atinlay?
Leaving the parking lot, my little head turns; I look out the back window as if in a black and white movie, to take a final look at the parking lot of the strip mall, for we won’t be coming here anymore after late night visits to the hospital.
Nearing the highway, I smell Smells—I don’t know what they are, but I memorize them anyway—I can’t miss anything—Palm Trees, The Lines and Arrows Painted on the Tar, Black Tire Marks, Clicking turn signals, “Mom, unlock the back. Mom?” calls the Present, tapping on the back window, smiling with the smile of an old man he never knew. “Mom?”
insists my proud young hunter, successful in carrying the family’s treasured golden sustenance and, loaded in a pushable wagon, his prized haul for the week wrapped in white recyclable skins. Grandpa would be proud of us both. Thursday night in Wal-Mart’s parking lot.
Majors / 33
Estranged
Nicole Merenda
Down in the shallow grave, the hole beside the house, shot between the eyes, out of his misery, the pig’s head with that writhing necklace of flies, left with only a tangle of pink innards, and dirt. Our neighbor the farmer, gone now to prepare this terrible feast and leave the ruins alone to rot--now the worms will feast, too.
My kindred spirit, destroyed by those who raised him. Myself, your daughter, left with only that image: Pig’s head--buzzing necklace--and dirt.
From that grave in my mind muddy feelings sprout like nettle, waiting one day to be picked and given to the mother that walked away forever from red-soaked grass, the dirt . . . and me.
Too Young
Ashley Downie
Laura. Everybody liked her; everybody wanted to be her. She was the girl with the perfect body, perfect face, perfect hair, perfect...everything. As she climbed the popularity level in high school, I found myself trying harder and harder to keep up because she was my best friend, and I felt that if she were going to be at the top, it was my privilege to be there with her.
Laura had just moved into her mother’s new apartment that week, and I had not been over to see it yet. “It’s not much to look at, but my neighbors are cool. This guy Corey lives next door and he’s really hot! He has an older brother, too. You should hook up with him. So what do you say? Tomorrow after school? My place?”
I hesitated. An older guy? How much older were we talking here?
“I don’t know. I have to study for my Spanish test, and...” “Oh, come on. You already have like a 110 in the class, I don’t think you need to worry. Besides, it will be fun. Don’t be such a drag.”
“Yeah, okay. Tomorrow after school. See you in third.”
The next day we walked to her complex from the high school. It wasn’t very far, which was good, because my excitement was getting the best of me. I couldn’t wait to see her new place. I had completely forgotten about the older guy I was to meet.
We crossed the parking lot toward her apartment. There was one lonely tree in the middle of a huge lawn that was shared by all the residents in the complex. Every apartment was identical. There were no lawn decorations or door ornaments or anything of the sort to add personality to the individual apartments. The complex itself appeared to be well groomed, though.
The people, on the other hand, were not so nice looking. One man, for example, sat on the steps leading up to one of the apartments, wearing a shirt that was so small on him that Downie / 35
it came up just above his navel, and the shirt was stained and holey. His hair was shiny and kind of clumped together as if it hadn’t been washed in days. I could just imagine the sickening smell of his dirty hair. The others that I saw were similar, including Laura’s new next door friends. Laura definitely did not fit in here.
We walked up the sidewalk to her apartment, and the two guys sat on the concrete steps leading up to both their door and Laura’s door.
“This is Corey and Dave.”
They smiled and nodded their heads at me. Laura didn’t tell me who was who, but she didn’t have to. The five o’clock shadow, along with his size, gave Dave away.
“Let’s go inside. It’s too hot out here,” ordered Laura.
So there we all sat in Laura’s new living room. It was nothing special by any means. In fact it sort of reminded me of a small office building: it didn’t have that “home” type of feeling to it. It even smelled like an office...the smell of paper mixed with that of fresh paint.
The floors were the kind of cheap, white tile that you would see in a classroom, and the walls were stark white with no decorations. Not even a family portrait or anything. The blinds were tilted shut, darkening the room with a stormy tint of gray.
“What do you think?”
“It’s not bad!”
Laura smiled. Wow, did I just lie through my teeth!
“Thanks. I like it, too.”
The conversation after that was limited to nauseating flirtation between Laura and Corey. I didn’t say a word. Dave made smoke rings as he puffed on his Marlboro Lights, and Laura and Corey began wrestling each other on the floor.
“Wanna take this outside?” Laura asked Corey.
“How ‘bout we take it into your room?”
Laura hopped up and pulled Corey with her.
“Don’t worry. We won’t be long,” Laura giggled, as they made their way down to hallway.
It was uncomfortable for me considering that I was a 14-year-old girl with nobody to talk to but a man who had to be at least 22. But I made the best of it. We talked for a while about stupid stuff. You know, music, movies, and any other small talk we could think of, with the occasional compliment on the way my eyes were like pools of water or my hair was like sunshine.
“I wanna show you something that I bought recently,” Dave said to me.
“Okay, what is it?”
He pulled out this silver metal thing that looked to me like a giant pocket knife. I didn’t know what made him show this to me so out of nowhere.
“Do you know what it is?” Dave asked me, probably seeing that I wasn’t very interested.
“Well, no, but it looks cool. Is it a pocket knife?”
“No. This is a double-bladed butterfly knife.” He unfolded the knife and did some sort of tricky wrist movement with it. He then ran his finger along the blade, slicing into his rough flesh. “What a psycho,” I thought. Why would he want to purposely cut himself?
“They are highly illegal,” he told me, now running his stubby fingers up and down the side of the blade, smearing his blood and looking at the knife as though it was some rare jewel or something. I thought he would literally drool over the stupid thing. I still didn’t see what he was so excited about. It was just a dumb knife.
Dave folded up the knife, squeezed it back into his pocket, and wiped the rest of the blood on his jeans. He reached his arm around me, bringing me close to him. The smell of stale cigarettes filled my nose. I began to get a little nervous with his arm around me, but I told myself to stop being such a child. He was probably just trying to make me feel more comfortable. After all, my friend had in fact deserted me for her non-boyfriend.
Dave rested his head on the back of the worn sofa with his eyes closed. He had his hair buzzed, but it looked like it hadn’t been done in a few weeks. He had rough features and a
strong bone structure in his face. His chapped lips were slightly open, and I noticed that his teeth looked like they belonged to a man of 60. “I better not make any false moves,” I thought. “They might rot right out of his head and fall into his lap.”
I rested my head on his big shoulder. I figured I might as well get comfortable because it didn’t look like Laura and Corey would be back out too soon. His hand rested on his torn, dirty jeans, and I saw that his fingernails were dirty as well.
“What are you looking at, Cutie?” Dave asked. He must have sensed my eyes observing him. I didn’t have time to answer before he heaved me up onto his lap.
“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” I said to him.
“I won’t hurt you, Honey. As long as you let me love you, I won’t hurt you.”
Now I knew I wasn’t being childish. Something wasn’t right here. He had me cradled on his lap like a little baby, but then lifted me with the arm that was sustaining my back so that I was facing him. My legs were still lying to his right side.
“You really do have the most beautiful golden hair.” He ran his tar-stained fingers through my hair.
“Sit up and face me,” Dave commanded, but tenderly.
“But I am facing you,” I replied, a little puzzled.
“No, I mean straddle me. I want you to straddle me.”
I didn’t move.
“What’s the matter? You didn’t like my new toy? Is that it?” he said, grinning menacingly, his brown and yellow teeth laughing at my helplessness.
Oh my God, the knife. He had that knife in his pocket. What if I didn’t do what he told me to? It was so sharp. It has sliced his finger with the slightest touch to his skin. Would he pull out the knife and stab the life out of me, leaving my mortal remains for my friends to find? I moved to straddle him, and he pulled my body so tightly against his that he almost knocked the wind out of me.
“Now kiss me.” I kissed him with closed lips, but he forced his tobacco-flavored tongue into my mouth, moving it around so fast that it felt like an oversized maggot
squirming around. Then he shoved his grimy hand up my pink Tinkerbell shirt.
I thought it was over because he began to stand up. A huge wave of relief passed through me, and then he wrapped his hairy, muscular arms around my underdeveloped body and thrust me against him. There was truly nothing I could do if I didn’t want him to hurt me, or worse. If I screamed for Laura, he might hurt her, too. So I went along.
I felt his hands slide slowly up and down my back, and then down, down, down until he slipped them just barely into the back of my jeans. He brought his hand slowly around to the front and started to undo my button, but he didn’t get it open.
The bronze handle on the front door began to jiggle as if someone was unlocking it. He ripped his hands away from my button and sat quickly on the couch as the door swung open, hitting the colorless wall with no mercy.
“Well, hi, girl! How are you? I haven’t seen you in forever.” It was Laura’s mom. She was home from work. I stared vacantly at her, half happy to see her and half angry that it took her so damn long to get home.
“What’s the matter, Sweetie? You look like you just seen a ghost! Where’s Laura?” she asked, totally oblivious that this man had just almost raped me. What was the matter with her? Couldn’t she sense that something was terribly wrong?
“She’s in her room with Corey.” At this point I didn’t care if she got mad at Laura for having a boy in her room, although somehow she never seemed like the type of parent who would mind such a thing. She was never home and made up for her absence in Laura’s life by letting her do whatever she wanted.
“I need to go home. I don’t feel so good,” I said.
Dave stood up from the couch, and Laura and Corey walked out of Laura’s room. They must have heard Laura’s mother come in. Corey and Dave started towards the front door.
“Lovely to see you, Mrs. Myers,” said Dave, turning his eyes to me. “And nice to meet you, Amber.” How could he act like nothing had just happened?
Downie / 39
After the guys left, Mrs. Myers, Laura, and I left for my house. When we walked out the screen door, I felt as if I were coming out of a jail cell. I breathed in the air and felt relief. Yes, Dave had had his hands on me, but I was still alive and still a virgin. The sunshine had never felt better on my face than it did at that moment.
I Wish You Wanted Fries
Elizabeth Traxel
“What kind of bread do you want on your BMT, sir?” the subway worker asks, for a second time.
The man simply shoots her a “shut-the-hell-up” look as he asks his wife, over his cell phone, what kind of bread she wants. It appears to the worker that he doesn’t quite get that she can hear every part of his conversation. The phone has to work and is demanding that her husband bring her lunch. The subway worker empathizes with night shift.
She lets her mind wander as she lays down six slices of pepperoni. This is the least exciting conversation she’s ever heard. She lays down the next layer of six slices of salami. She glances at the clock: 1:32am. I hope I can get out of here by 2:30. I have to get some sleep, she says to herself as she put on the four slices of ham.
“What kind of cheese?” she asks. The question is repeated once again into the cell phone. “Provolone” is the response she hears. Picking up the cheese and laying down four slices, she thinks back over her day. School, homework, work, sleep. She laughs silently at the mention of sleep. I wish , she says silently.
“Do you want this toasted?” she questions the phone rather than the man, as she knows which one will give the correct response. The man simply stares at the worker, as if he’s never heard the word before. “No,” comes the audible reply from the phone.
Sliding the sandwich down towards the vegetables, she inquires if the man wants another sandwich; he shakes his head “no” and starts to list sauces. Picking up the bottles, she draws lines of mayonnaise, mustard and sweet onion sauce across the bread, not the meat, but the bread, as her customer’s phone informs her. She recalls the first day she started working here. Knowing nothing, nobody expected you to do anything. She misses the ignorance. She knows this place too well.
Traxel / 41
“Lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles, olives, three jalapeños, and peppers,” he informs the girl without a single pause. Lettuce, tomatoes, onions, pickles, olives, three jalapeños. She asks, “Which kind of peppers, green or yellow?” He glares at her and spits the word “bell” at her. She smiles brightly. Placing the green peppers on the sandwich, she wishes him dead.
She starts to move the sandwich when his phone demands salt and pepper, oil and vinegar. She falters, but scoots the sandwich back in front of the veggies. Pouring on the requested items, she carefully makes her mind blank. It would be bad to throw a sandwich at the customer.
Wrapping the sandwich inside the paper, she moves to take off her gloves and ring up. “Did you want a fresh value meal with that?” she asks oh-so-sweetly. “No,” he replies, “but I did want another sandwich.” Narrowing her eyes, she gets fresh gloves.
“What kind of bread did you want?”
Road Trip
Sara Richardson
“Have you gone through this box yet?” I ask Jamie.
“Yeah, you can go ahead and take that out to the car.” Her voice is slightly muffled in the closet. Only her backside from her shoulders to her toes is visible to me, erected on an old aluminum stepladder, dressed in a lime green tank top, black denim jeans shrink-wrapped to her thighs and buttocks, and purple monkey socks. This is my wife, as of thirty days ago.
I carry the cardboard box down the narrow staircase and turn the sharp corner, careful to maintain my balance. There is no telling what is inside this box. I am careful not to let the loose flaps hit me in the face. Duct tape never crossed her mind, nor mine until I find myself in such a precarious situation. Once out the front door I set the box down in the driveway to open the trunk of our ’95 four-door Chevy, the product of our composite college funds, what was left of them, that is. Just then I realize I forgot to take the car to the auto shop. We have a long road trip ahead of us, from Oklahoma City to Houston.
I look at my watch: quarter to noon. Tomorrow will be a good day to set out. On childhood road trips Dad would say we just crossed the Pennsylvania-Maryland border, the Maryland-New Jersey, the New Jersey-New York; it made me feel as if we traveled farther in less time. But on this trip there will be no such earmarks, just the Oklahoma-Texas border. I wonder if the tedium will get to me, make me fidget like a boy, if Jamie will take the wheel for a while. She’s not good at driving long distances. Last time she fell asleep at the wheel—I never prayed harder in my life than that night in the hospital waiting room.
As I’m putting the box in the trunk, I pull out one of Jamie’s old swim team medals: second place. Next to it is a ribbon of accomplishment for third grade tap dancing. She never told me about that.
Richardson / 43
I know she can hear my boots clunking up the stairs. On the stairwell lies her old brown teddy bear. Its fur is matted and soiled, and one of its eyes is missing. It must have fallen out of the box. I pick it up in my hand, and as I open the door she is sitting on her twin bed Indian style with a closed leatherbound photo album in her lap. She looks up at me and smiles. “I wanted to wait to open this with you.”
“What’s inside?”
She pats the bed. “Come and find out.”
She flips through these pages and tells me about her seventh grade summer camp experience and her fifth grade Halloween costume. I turn my eyes from the pictures to her, and I wonder how much of her I don’t know, and how much about whom she will become.
Confirmation Class
Jessica Borsi
The girl sat, unnoticed, in her regular seat, ignoring her peers as they bashed anything and everything that moved, but it all ceased the moment the pastor entered. Then they suddenly became angels.
Hypocrites all.
The man seated himself in front of them, and so began the lesson. Katherine tuned out at first, her mind resting solidly on everything and nothing at all.
“Suicide is just wrong!”
That statement brought the girl back to reality.
How ironic, a lecture on the evils of suicide. Again she saw the edge of the roof as it rushed to greet her, the edge of her sanity.
Faceless students commenced their attack on the suicidal. The words hit home. Hit heart. The girl felt the world close in on her.
Katherine’s right hand found itself up her left sleeve, clutching at her forearm, nails biting into flesh.
“They’ll burn in hell forever!”
The girl’s hand clamped down harder.
Finally, the discussion arrived at its conclusion, and the students promptly poked fun at the topic, pretending to hang themselves, slitting their wrists, and throwing around the word “cutter” as if they understood what they were saying.
That. Was. It.
“You don’t know that!” Katherine screamed shrilly, standing so suddenly that all eyes fell on her. “You don’t know anything! The physical pain only lessens the emotional abuse they suffer from people like YOU!” Her voice rose dangerously and broke slightly, but she collected herself, and continued in a calmer tone, “To them, the pain is a way out. To finally peace.”
Could they not see? Could they really be so blind? The room was silent for a few moments. Then all hell broke
Borsi / 45
loose. Rebukes were thrown her way so fast that it was a wonder that Katherine wasn’t struck dead right that second. When at last they were under control again, Katherine was back in her seat, fighting to hold back tears.
Question and answer followed. Katherine could hear insults being flung her way, but she didn’t care. It was coming. She could feel it. The pastor was going to ask it. He was going to ask her.
“Katherine, tell me, what is grace?”
And there it was.
But how could she lie? Grace didn’t exist.
The clock chimed at that moment, as if on cue. Class was over. The girl made a valiant attempt to reach the door with the flow, but—
“Katherine.”
She already knew what the pastor was going to say; he repeated it every week.
“I’ve... got to go...” Katherine offered and ran, leaving the concerned man in the dust.
As the girl fled, she became aware of pain radiating from her left forearm. It was bleeding. Five curved incisions.
This wasn’t grace.
[[Distance]]
Shana Heagwood
One thousand Six hundred And seventy-three— The distance from his wall (boundaries) to her own. Truly no dark-year can measure— (∞)
Is it true? Is it true? What they say, Can it be?
“Distance makes the heart grow fonder.” Time + Distance = About to burst—
[TRUTH]
One million Six hundred And seventy-nine— “I love you” “As well do I” Not repetitive nonsense in usual sequence over electrical wire. Increase in value—
[INADEQUATE]
One day they’ll meet? Feels so far away. How much closer now?
Counting down the days on this timeless silver clock on the bedside table. Is it here, the day has come?
An itching fear claws both, A ready scab of possible rejection. She waits outside his door, hopeful eyes first meet. Him + Her = An equation of infinite possibilities.
[DESTINY]
Heagwood / 47
Bad Habits
Caitlin Pierson
She’s tired. I think I can tell: she brushes her flapping sandals together as she swings her legs. She perches on the edge of that hospital beddy-thing and curves her body in a halfmoon. The position must’ve hurt with her extended belly.
“Joel, Johnny, James, Jameson, Justin, no, Jameson.” Her lips barely move.
“I don’t like it,” I said.
“Why not?” She cocks her head as quick as a gun.
“Shannon, you’re too picky.”
“Shut up! You’re not the one having this.”
“It takes two to get one, though.” I’m not going to let her shoot me down. “Frankly, I’d prefer Esperanza or Katherine— names that mean something.”
“I thought you were over her.”
Oh, God, Katherine. Perfume from Victoria Secret’s Secret Garden, thirty-dollar nails, a new pair of shoes, unfiltered menthols, a muscle line as wide as your finger running down her calves (she let run my finger down them once), mouth that could give you a migraine and cure it as fast, that was Katherine. I guzzle as much coffee from a nearby thermos as I can.
“I like the name Ramey, personally.” The nurse will kill me if I light up in a hospital, but I am who I am and start searching in Shannon’s bag for some chew instead.
“Ramey’s the sort of guy who’d squat down and pick up the books you dropped—just so he could get a better view down your tank top.”
“You started it.” I glare over my coffee.
“Do you really even want this?”
I choke. “Shannon, I gave you a ring.”
“Do I really even want you?” She tosses me a pack of Redman and I roll my eyes.
The doctor waltzes in. “Who’s ready for their check-up?”
Nightdreams
Nathan Pemberton
When you look out the glossy-worn window of your room on the second floor at the glazed city street, the street that takes your winded car tothefoodstore and moneybank, the street whose head is full of adolescent day dreams (Those shiny, impossible possibilities that sit in store windows hung by price tags. Those paralyzing, see-through dreams That hollow out the children who bring them home)
The next time you look out of your plaster wall poster laden, worn down carpet floor of a cage, slowly turn around and look back in.
Rothko
Nathan Pemberton
Rothko’s been reduced to stationery and the pressure of store light glare jumping down upon the see-through cover of his new home. He’s surrounded by lunatics with open wallets and fools with ultraviolet grins in the mess of a circus, a zoo, a store. How grating it is, Rothko, to be reduced and spread like pennies.
Mementos
Robert Morada
You walk into the house. It’s kind of funny how you now consider it to be “the house” instead of home. The house is a small two story set in a decent neighborhood. You’ve lived here with her for the past two years.
You want to be done before she gets home and another argument starts; you’ve had enough with arguing. The bedroom is a mess; it always is: clothes--yours and hers--are strewn all across the floor, the bed you shared with her covered in mounds of them. The room, like the whole house, smells of vanilla. She was always crazy about vanilla, buying dozens of little air fresheners and candles.
There’s not much you need to grab, just a few odds and ends that can’t be neglected. You go to the bottom right dresser drawer, where you keep all the important stuff. You rifle through it, grabbing your checkbook, extra car keys, and all the other little things that your occupied mind tells you are important.
You come to a pen and stop. All you can do is stare. A shining aluminum push point you could find in any store. The damn thing doesn’t even work anymore; it ran out of ink over a year ago. Well, in a way it does; you might not be able to use it to put down memories anymore, but it does bring them back. The first gift she ever gave you. The two of you had been working together for a few months, and you were terrified to talk to her. So you asked to borrow her pen--you can’t even remember what for--just to have something to say to her. That night she gave you one, still fresh in the package.
You shove the pen in your pocket and shut the drawer. As you leave the room a glass mug catches your eye. It’s oversized and cheap, covered with words that have long since faded. It came from the restaurant you went to on your first date.
You leave the room, passing the framed caricature the two of you had drawn at an amusement park last year; you‘re Morada / 51
Spiderman swinging her around above a city while she’s smiling a lopsided grin.
Going down the stairs you pass the cracked, wooden picture frame that she threw at you when she found out that you weren’t entirely honest when you told her that you would never so much as look at another girl. For some reason the two of you decided to hang it back up and try to make it work.
In the living room you notice the fist sized indentation you put in the wall when you found out you weren’t quite the only one for her either.
Through the kitchen and out the back door you go, not even stopping to look at the small wooden table where you must have spent dozens of dinners eating in silence.
phonetics
Sarah Kane
pol’ ka dot in’ tell ect’ curly cues and dandelion tiaras barbie dolls, baby carriages, butterfly wings into high heels, high maintenance, swing set, belly-flop into the cash flow, tight ropes, balancing act under the big red top, gold teeth, top hats; other signs of ill fortune. succession: biological magnification --eat or be eaten counting calories, lipids, net weight loss of ignorance through these new-found concepts of immediate gratification; dependence; addiction deadlines and the fear of flat lines innocence into arrogance and reluctant divulgence.
*First place, OWC Collegiate High School sophomore writing contest, 2006. Kane / 53
It’s Been A Long Time Coming
Jocelyn G. Donahoo
God had to scare him into taking his rightful place. It wasn’t easy for him to accept his calling, A praying man
Bishop TP Johnson
It’s been a long time coming.
A fighting Georgia boy from the streets of Cedartown; Shooting craps, clubbing, drinking and dancing with Betty Wright, Who would have thought He would be in the church preaching & teaching Trying to get people to do right?
Some call him flamboyant; A fancy dresser
With coordinating suit, shirt, and shoes, Maybe a Derby and cane to match, He loves cologne and his scent trails over into the pews.
Like most of us, he has his sins: Diet Coke and Danny’s Fried Chicken, But God made some amends; TP’s Georgia Peach, children and grandchildren Are never too far out of his reach.
He has been misunderstood. Maybe, he has said some things That were not so good.
A sensitive man,
He’s not too big to recant his erroneous words that sometimes sting.
He has a song in his heart That he desires to sing, A preacher and a teacher
Bishop TP Johnson
It’s been a long time coming.
Calming Koi watercolor / collage
Sharon D. James
The Soul of New Orleans oil on canvas
Luz Maria Mendoza
Sue Tarkin
Living Beyond Yourself oil on canvas
Rubber Ducky mixed media
Jayme Chatterton
Self Portrait digital image
Melissa Cromer
The Original “Material Girl” – Marie Antoinette porcelain
Louise Fisher
Ideas to Reality: Eiffel Tower
Maria B. Morekis
gelatin silver print
Sara Foraker
Reflections
multimedia
Paddle I acrylic on canvas
David Hart
Things Remembered collage
June S. Jones
Boats at Mykenos oil on canvas
Lynda W. Cast
Regina Coley
Serenity color photography
Okeye Mitchell
Reflections of Sunday digital image
Amy Longhenry
Mentor mahogany & cypress
Libby Guerry
Merry-Go-Round Memory
Caitlin Pierson
When my daddy’s hand could swallow my chubby fist five times over and the multiplication tables were heard being played throughout our house (Momma said “listen to the tapes they will help you remember”) Those cassettes were like whirlpools spinning round and round while the six-month-summer of the Panhandle ended and the wind spun like the tapes round and round
We lived in the house-that-was-too-small the blue one on Third Street with noisy neighbors throwing too-loud parties, nightly my daddy calling the police (Momma said “listen to all that noise don’t let the kids hear those words”) as the police sirens and the sound of smashing bottles mingled with my dreams floating round and round
One day the world was an iron set on the “steam” setting I left the tapes outside with neighbors Inside my momma was bending over the stove stirring a giant pot on top round and round
In the pot was the black Ink from an octopus I was sure or the finest Indigo Wine straight from the Orient—and a dress My mother was stirring the brew with a large stick I watched the dress go round and round as my thoughts followed my eyes round and round I asked “what’s for dinner” (Momma said “listen why this of course”) and my laugh mixed with the steam flying away from the contents of the pot
I learned the truth like I learned the multiplication tables not from hearing them said round and round Though now I do hear the neighbors’ parties mingling in my dreams of fists and daddy’s sirens five times over
Because today the world was an iron set on the “press” setting (momma said “listen I’m just dying a dress tonight we will eat spaghetti—your favorite”)
I remember this all as my thoughts tease me as they chase a memory round and round
*First Place, James N. LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2006
The Ninth Tier
Thomas Leighton
It was a fantastic thing by all accounts
A creation of trebled tiers, and trebled
The artist’s masterwork of arches and spires
And bold graceful curves; such beauty
Drew longing eyes and hungry souls
My own among them.
Yet there was such about the architecture
In the nuances of dips and flares
And crenellations in each lofty, soaring ivory wall
To turn my mind to darker thoughts. The angles were all wrong
Twisted spires and jagged, delicate stalagmites
Threaded with veins of white on white at the upper levels
Clawing yet for stature unattained.
The recesses held shadows, razor-edged and flawless
Inverse of stark and pallid formations they embellished. Subtle patterns, cunning and complete.
It was a wedding cake, of all things
A great drafty monolith, aloof and impregnable
An ashen fortress spire of impossible perfection.
Conversation flowed in sharp waves around the centerpiece
Rough, discordant in the ambience it somehow cast
A jumble of barely coherent description gaining my attention:
Artifice
Cardboard and wire
Placebo
Camera fodder
It all makes sense as they gather for the photographer Ornaments, decorations before their false masterpiece.
Leighton / 73
It towers above them, an unthinkably pretentious coronation
Levels on layers straining toward the ceiling they can never reach. And on the ninth tier
The bride and groom stand watching
The sight of them there, those vacant eyes, those chiseled plastic features
Twinned mirrors of the pair below Somehow makes my blood run cold.
The man, the woman, their unborn child
Strained, showy smiles
Strands of hair escaping strict bonds
Clothing frayed almost unnoticeably, bearing jarring stains of use.
So impossibly perfect, so fatally flawed.
They stand motionless in the strobing negative brilliance of flashbulbs. They revel in their climax, their crescendo
Their grim and haunting parody of joy.
I can see the truth in her eyes
In his swaggering gait
The way her lips turn down at the corners
The way he laughs just a little too loud
The structure, forgotten in a distant corner
Three tiers, plain, unassuming
The real cake. The edible one.
I leave before they can cut it.
Before they unravel the counterfeit celebration they incited. My stomach churns with the segment of icing
I scooped unobtrusively
From that sad and neglected sideshow confection. They’ll never miss it.
A Lion’s Tale
Abe Toner
Human flesh melts off the bone at 300 degrees Celsius. At least that was what Richard told us. It’s amazing how many trivial facts he had in his head and the fact that he could remember that one, even as the nurses tried to change his dressings, was a miracle in itself. But that was Richard, and until the fire at the Farmer’s Market on 3rd street, that was considered one of his biggest faults. His other was his inability to end a conversation. Richard had a bard’s lungs. He never got tired of telling his stories or regaling people with his limitless Jeopardy answers. He never got tired, but the people always did. The folks that had lived around Richard had known from the beginning he was different from most. They could never just say hello. Any time people made eye contact with him, they knew their plans for the next hour were ruined. Now most folks would start to hate a person like Richard for his incessant yapping, but that was before they came to know how big his heart was. Richard had once provided dinner to twenty homeless people on Christmas because no one else could. The year the 2nd graders had needed a new aquarium for their ocean life project, Richard had eaten PB&J sandwiches for six months just so he could donate the money. The people always accepted his gift, but they hated doing it because it meant that Richard was going to be around. And when Richard was around, that meant he was going to talk. He always had the latest gossip or knew the inside scoop on any of The Daily Wind’s stories. In a way I think Richard knew we hated his stories. Knew that we didn’t want to hear them for the hundredth time, but that was Richard. He always loved a good yarn, and sometimes that was all he had. I think he knew all that as he ran into the fire. We could only stand watching the flames yearn for the sky. Some think that Richard wanted to be a part of the story instead of just the teller. Others know it was his heart that couldn’t listen to the little girl’s screams any more. His heart that knew the Toner / 75
trucks wouldn’t arrive in time. It really was a great story, a myth for the ages. It would be a story only Richard could tell properly. I think Richard knew this as well. You could see it in his eye, and you could see the pain it brought him knowing that he wouldn’t be there to tell it. It pained me as well because that man’s heart gave that girl a chance to listen to all the stories the world has to tell. I like to think that Richard would’ve liked that. Hell, it would remind him of a story.
The Jim Morrison Lighter
Stephanie Snyder
Her name was Donna Ramos, and she was perched high on her throne of white, her posture erect, exuding an untouchable and icy coolness about her even in the thick humidity of the summer weather. Her sunglasses reflected an image of the aqua swimming pool from where I admired her. Her hair tumbled about her impeccably bronze shoulders like a cinnamon waterfall. I sighed dreamily and waded closer to her. Donna looked down at me, lowered her sunglasses, and said in a strangely shrill and childlike voice:
“Ugh! I hate you!”
I abruptly snapped out of my daydream to find my kid sister Clara glaring at me. Clara is only nine, but she has the withering, condescending glare down like a pro, as though she has been perfecting it since she left the womb. I wasn’t at the local pool swimming around and lusting after Donna Ramos, the love of my life. No, instead I was sitting across from Clara at her favorite 24-hour diner, watching her scarf down a lunch of blueberry waffles. Somehow she had duped me into promising to take her to the diner for blueberry waffles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“What’s that?” I asked absently.
“I hate you!” she repeated, and this time the voice matched the face. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that.” She pouted, flopping back in her seat in a huff and crossing her arms.
“Do what?” I answered flatly, not really annoyed, but more disappointed that she had snapped me out of my daydream.
“Tip your ashes in my drink, that’s what! The ash tray is right there.” She pushed a small, flimsy aluminum saucer towards me.
“Sorry. Here, take my drink.” I pushed my cherry soda towards her.
She sighed in exasperation. “Murph. The ice is all melted and it’s watery and gross.”
For as long as I can remember, Clara has been one of my first and foremost responsibilities in life. Both of our parents work full time, and they rarely invest any time in Clara—which is why the burden of taking care of her lands on my shoulders when summer rolls around and she’s out of school. Though I see Clara for only three months out of the year, every time I come home from college for the summer, it’s as though I pick up right where I left off with her.
I struck a match and lit up another cigarette and took a drag. “It’s the damndest thing,” I said. “I think I lost my favorite lighter here last summer. You know—the nice silver fliptop lighter with Jim Morrison’s face on it.”
“Who’s Jim Morrison?” Clara asked, even though she didn’t look the least bit interested.
“The lead singer of The Doors.”
“What about him?”
“I lost my fliptop lighter, the one with his face on it.”
“What lighter?” Clara began pulling napkins out of the dispenser and shredding them.
“The one Donna gave to me for my birthday back when I was in high school.”
“Who is Donna?”
“My ex-girlfriend,” I said with a heavy sigh. The sad tale is that Donna—the goddess of a lifeguard and love of my life—dumped me last summer to date some football player with an incredibly bright future. This summer, I was determined to win her back.
“She gave you a lighter?”
“Yes!” I let out an exasperated sigh. “The silver fliptop lighter with Jim Morrison’s face on it.”
Clara paused, crinkled her nose and asked, “Who’s Jim Morrison?”
“He was the lead singer of The Doors and...Jesus Christ, you know what? Forget it. You obviously don’t know what I’m talking about. You don’t even remember Donna, even though she was always over at the house in high school!”
“Will you take me to the park today?” Clara asked, folding her legs underneath her and leaning over the table expectantly.
She snatched the cigarette out of my hand and extinguished it by dropping it in my cherry soda.
“Now, what’d you go and do that for? The ash tray is right here.” I pushed the small, flimsy aluminum saucer towards her.
“Ha-ha, very funny. Now take me to the park.”
“You’re really damn bossy, you know. I feel sorry for whatever poor sucker ends up dating you in the future.”
She laughed shrilly, completely tickled by the idea. “Honestly—I’m only nine! Jeez Louise!”
“Just shut up and let’s go.” I left a tip on the table, and then Clara and I headed outside. We climbed into my dilapidated Volkswagen Rabbit. “Don’t you want to go to the pool? It’s hot out and a pool could be fun, y’know.”
“No! I don’t like swimming. I hate the chlorine. Besides, we have other things to do.” I swear, I think Clara is the only nine year-old who harbors a fervent hatred for chlorine.
“This really sucks. I’m supposed to enjoy the summer and here I am, driving you to the park. I feel like a nanny or something. You know, whatever the hell Mary Poppins was. Jesus Christ, I’m Mary Poppins and you’re one of those spoiled British kids.”
Clara giggled. “You’re Mary Poppins. Do you have a magical umbrella? Can we fly around town instead of drive?”
“Oh, shut it.”
“Hey, you said it!”
We pulled up at the park. It was apparently under some sort of construction, and the only thing available to play on was the seesaw.
“Oh, no,” Clara moaned, covering her face with her hands.
“So, how does the pool sound?” I said.
“No! I don’t care for swimming. I hate the chlorine. It turns my hair green.” She clapped her hands together, pleased. “Ooh, I know! Let’s take a walk on the nature trail. It’s just behind the park. Yes!”
“What the hell kind of stupid idea is that? It’s at least ninety degrees out! And you want to go for a walk?”
She was already out of the car and running towards the backwoods where the nature trail was. I cursed under my breath
Snyder/ 79
and reached over to my glove compartment to grab another pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. Then I took off after Clara, who had already disappeared into the woods.
I ventured into the woods, and the sweltering heat made me wish I were dead. The dirt trail stretched out before me, curving its path through the dense forest. Clara was nowhere in sight. I looked around, wondering if we were playing a game of hide-and-go-seek that I was unaware of. Then I felt a pinecone bounce off of my head.
“Hey!” I exclaimed. I looked up and sitting high up in a tree tittering like a mischievous wood nymph was none other than my kid sister. “Get down from there before you break your damn neck.”
“I like it up here! I can see the top of your head!”
“Oh, that’s delightful. So am I going bald or what?”
“Nope, you have a full head of hair! No worries!”
I waved my hand at her, gesturing for her to come down. “Come on already.” I looked up at her again, the sun shining down in my eyes, stinging them. I couldn’t see her so well. I shielded my eyes from the rays and saw a vague outline of her perched in the trees amongst the branches. “You’re pretty high up there,” I remarked.
“I know. Are you impressed?”
“No, you look like a monkey. Now get down here.”
Clara sighed loudly. “You’re no fun.” She threw another pinecone at me and then began to make her way down the tree, lowering herself branch by branch. I was suddenly overwhelmed with a terrifying feeling that she would fall from the tree. I was trembling at the thought. With shaky hands, I fumbled with my carton of cigarettes, opened it, and placed a cigarette between my lips but didn’t light it. My hand sure as hell wouldn’t be steady enough to strike a match.
Clara stopped halfway down the tree. “Are you okay?” she called to me. Suddenly I heard a tree branch snap and Clara gasped, and I nearly swallowed my cigarette, which surely would not have been a pleasant experience.
“God damn! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I bellowed.
“It’s okay!” she assured me and leaned forward a little to reach for a neighboring branch, a steadier and thicker one. As she leaned over, something tumbled out of the pocket of her denim overalls and hit the dirt with a heavy plunk.
“What was that?” I looked quizzically at the object that was semi-buried in the dirt.
“Uh, it’s nothing! It’s nothing. I’m coming down. Murphy; help me down, I’m almost there,” Clara called.
The object caught the sun and I realized that it was shiny and silver, much like my missing Jim Morrison silver fliptop lighter. I bent down, brushing the dirt away from it, and sure enough, there was Jim’s likeness, speckled with dirt.
“What the hell?” I turned to her. She was now safely on the ground, standing behind me, staring at me with an extremely guilty look on her face. “Well, that does it. We’re going to the pool. You have no right to boss me around, you little thief. We’re doing what I want for once!” I headed for my car.
“But you promised to take me to get blueberry waffles for dinner! You have to be good to your word!” Clara whined, sniffling and practically on the verge of tears.
We drove to the pool in sullen silence, until Clara finally spoke after what seemed like forever.
“Don’t you want to know why I took it?” She wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand, and I cringed and almost told her to at least use her sleeve, but I bit my tongue. This was serious. “Well?” she implored. “Don’t you?”
I abruptly made a hard left turn at the traffic light and Clara smashed up against the passenger side window like a bug. “Okay. So, why did you take it? Do you get a rush out of stealing shit that you know is important to me?”
She was silent. “I don’t know,” she mumbled, averting her glance to the window.
“I really don’t understand you.” We pulled up at the swimming pool and I could see Donna from the parking lot, just beyond a chain-link fence surrounding the pool. She was sitting on her high white chair, overlooking the clear and shimmering water. I felt a knot in my throat.
Snyder/
I started walking, not bothering to see if Clara was following me or not.
“Wait,” she whimpered, and for once she sounded like a nine year-old and not some bossy and wise-beyond-her-years whiz kid.
I didn’t stop. Clara snagged my hand and I stopped, exasperated. “What?” I looked down at her face.
Clara was looking back at me with pleading eyes. They looked like perfectly round and green flying saucers filled to the brim with water. Every time she blinked, a tear spilled down a freckled cheek, and suddenly I felt like an enormous jerk. I was a sensible, twenty-three year old law school student, and here I was, acting like a nine year-old.
“What is it?” I said again, my voice less harsh.
“I want to tell you why I took it. I can tell you now. I have the words now.” She was back to sounding like her usual adult self.
I stole a longing glance at the pool. We were so close that I could hear Donna telling some chubby kid wearing dinosaur swimming trunks not to run alongside the pool.
Clara took a deep breath and then exhaled. “Ever since Donna gave that lighter to you, it was all you ever talked about—just how wonderful the Jim Morrison lighter was and how wonderful Donna was. Even after she dumped you!” She was looking down at her hands, her chin lowered and I couldn’t see her face, just the top of her blonde head. “I don’t like that something as stupid as a lighter and that stupid girl was more important to you than I was.”
To hear these words pour out of Clara’s mouth floored me, especially since she seemed to suddenly remember Donna very vividly and the whole verbal exchange in the diner earlier that afternoon was just Clara feigning ignorance on the topic.
“You know when you leave at the end of every summer, I miss you,” she continued. “So I kept it ’cause it’s like a part of you. I know it doesn’t belong to me. But I just like having it, okay?”
I took all of this in, and after a moment, I turned and continued towards the pool.
“Murphy, oh no, please don’t be mad! Oh, I’m so sorry!” Clara was sniffling again, her voice wavering, the waterworks going at full force. She was desperately clutching on to my hand.
I pushed open the entrance of the chain-link fence. And there was Donna Ramos, perched high on a throne of white, her posture erect, exuding an untouchable and icy coolness about her, even in the thick humidity of the summer weather. Only this wasn’t a dream. This was real.
“Wait here,” I said to Clara.
“But—”
“Just wait here,” I repeated firmly, and she chewed her quivering lower lip nervously and did as she was told, leaning against the fence.
As I neared Donna, she looked down at me from her lifeguard’s chair and lowered her sunglasses. “Well! If it isn’t Murphy Callahan.” She said this with an air of complete confidence. She knew very well the effect she had on me.
I swallowed. “How are you these days, Donna? How’s... Buck?” I practically spat out his name. Yes, that was the jock’s name, and such a typical jock’s name at that, too. Buck. Quarterback Buck.
“Oh. Well, we’re not together anymore.” She shrugged nonchalantly.
I hadn’t expected that response. “Huh?”
Donna rolled her eyes. “Didn’t you hear? Poor Buck tore his ACL in November. If you want to see him, he works at the gas station around the corner.” She smirked almost bitterly. “Can you believe that?”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” I shrugged. She leaned forward, her face inches away from mine. “You look great,” she said, touching my arm with her fingertips. “Donna…” I couldn’t crumble now. I couldn’t give in. The next thing I knew, Donna’s ice princess façade melted away, and was in turn replaced by complete desperation. “Oh, Murphy! I never should’ve dumped you! Buck was such a mistake. I was silly to leave you for him. I ran into your mom at the grocery store the other day, and she told me just how wonderfully Snyder / 83
you were doing at college and how you’re interning at a law firm and I thought that was just so…awesome.”
Suddenly I was struck with the vicious reality of exactly what Donna Ramos had done: she had thoughtlessly dumped me for some meathead who was supposed to be drafted into the NFL. Then she had thoughtlessly dumped the meathead for destroying his future in the NFL. And all of my dreams of wanting to win her back were just that—completely and utterly deluded dreams.
“Yeah, the internship is going pretty great.” I looked into her beautiful blue eyes and I could see her hopefulness. And she looked back into my eyes, and I knew that she saw her future, as the trophy wife of a future attorney.
“Why don’t you stay after hours? We could go swimming together. We could talk about…us.” Donna grinned at me suggestively and it was almost like old times. I laughed a little. “Thanks for the offer, Donna. But I don’t care for swimming. I hate the chlorine.” I turned and looked over at Clara, who was still standing by the fence, and I knew she had heard me.
The grin faded from Donna’s face and she stared at me coldly. “Oh.” She sat back in her lifeguard’s chair and pushed her sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose. “Fine. Well, I honestly don’t know why you came here then.”
I knew why I had come and I didn’t really feel like I needed to tell Donna. I didn’t utter another word and walked back to Clara, who stood smiling by the fence.
“Let’s go get some blueberry waffles,” I said to her. She wiped her teary eyes. “Oh, Murph!”
I took Clara’s hand and placed the silver Jim Morrison fliptop lighter in it. “You can keep this.”
“But I thought you wanted it back.” She blinked, confused. I smiled. “Nah, that’s okay. It doesn’t mean anything to me anymore.”
woman to rib
Daniel Davis
i take her into my house like a baby bird i knew wouldn’t survive her feathers had been pulled completely beak twisted and mangled and wings that hung uselessly at her side
a bottle of water, a brown worn afghan later and she’s ready for confessional, father forgive me, for i have sold the world
a clap of thunder in the distance reminds me i’m still in god’s courtroom and i am the stenographer only, no more
she unfolds bitter eulogies of lovers past tosses a funeral flower in the direction of each petty child crimes of jealousy over dolls hopscotch games for the hearts of little boys and yes, she did take that stapler from the office
the rain beats like a boxer against the curtained windows invisible one-two punches, endless left hooks of hydroponic despondency
my bare chest is now soaked from the cut shoots of a weeping willow her mouth pulled down, gasps for air head enveloped in the flesh of my ribs
eve cannot stand for the weight of the world, i thought ashes to ashes, dust to dust overexerted woman to rib
it’s round three, and i’m not sure who’s more wet the earth, her eyes, or i another water bottle, and she’s ready for the real reason why the baby blue jay fell from her nest
i cannot stand for the thought of death, she quietly administers into my bated and burning ears
god relinquishes jurisdiction over to me with the passing of the storm (he never really felt comfortable with this subject, anyway)
i tell her, it’s natural, to look down the chasm of mortality and the death of communication between two people, she finishes
she pulls my emergency brake and i silently skid to a halt thank god these things have airbags and safety harnesses
sometimes, stars have no choice but to supernova, i admonish
i stare at the wall ahead, the old pictures of her and me that i had unintentionally intentionally left hanging and allow her to fall asleep inside the marrow of the ribs where she was created
Hear Lies, Ophelia
Amanda Anderson
The nicotine wallpaper petals trickled their watercolors down onto the bleached-thin cotton between her scalloped hips. Every morning brought an expansion of the coffee-colored stains on the ceiling tiles. The luck of rainstorms was captured by onequart, stainless-steel pans on the cracked linoleum. The phone’s ringing on on on and her cheek rested against the cold floor. Something/anyone else, no one’s there--the machine clicks.
It’s the voices, more than words, always needing something. There’s a raisin, once a grape, under the door of the fridge. Two, sun-honeyed smears of skin stuck to the floor. The grape was ripe and she was proud, once. The Maytag heaved the sigh she was far too gone to make herself. Ringing on and on gone to the lullaby of appliances. Their love story, written out in lines of cocaine, would go on.
Roses aren’t always red --because genetics don’t like to be uniform. If they were, they’d all be dead. Victim of the same virus, or similar life form.
He was the warm smell of laundry. A language made in the folds of blankets to hold the words they couldn’t say to one another. Sparrows and geometric colors shaped behind her eyelids. There’s a point where nothing was possessed. The memories, third-person singular, couldn’t be held down long enough to pass along. Too many lights out along the shore between tenses.
“Maybe I don’t have a penchant for self-destruction.” She fell backwards into the sand and surfaced on the linoleum. His shape was far gone from the wrinkled, white surfaces. He’d caught himself. Eyes glistening in the forty-watt bulbs, the ring ringing against the papered walls, she drifted apart.
Pink, shellacked nails crossed her palms. Minutes, hours later, the phone still rang and the grape slowly dehydrated in the warm current under the refrigerator. The cracks in the floor
Anderson / 87
patterned their way into her skin. Her chest rose and fell to the sound of passing cars. They were the revolutionaries, the romantics, but every bit of it was contrived. When she moved-she expected her joints to sound like the crane game. Relax and contract those wild diseases of thought and inaction.
The flowers faded toward the baseboards. The story of her life printed on the walls in alternating patterns. Ringing ringing in her head. She could feel the pulse of her skin against the luke-warm linoleum, the pulse of the phone from her temples. Eyes closed she breathed in, above the dust and the old food smells, warm laundry.
Wanderings
Elizabeth Traxel
Fighting off waves of revulsion, Georgiana puts her thoughts of murder and mayhem on hold. She has bigger fish to fry, literally.
Her son comes barreling towards her at breakneck speed, holding a dead fish in one hand, pole in the other. She hates fishing, she’s forced to admit to herself, as her twinkling blond son stares at her. She wonders whom he looks like, as he resembles neither of his parents.
She smiles falsely at the dead fish and throws it into the sink and runs water on it. “Go put your pole up and then take a shower. You smell worse than the dead fish,” Georgiana tells her son.
Glaring at her husband as he walks through the door, she asks in all seriousness, “Could you have caught a more disgusting fish?”
“Probably” is his answer. He tries a charming grin from behind the beginnings of a beard. She smiles at him, same as she did the fish and the son. A smile that has no meaning or feeling.
She’s really not quite sure that the kid is hers. There’s just no attachment, she thinks to herself as she turns toward the sink. Maybe he’s just a hallucination, or a changeling. Anything but hers.
“I wish I could batter them up, debone them, and fry them. But most of all, I want them to die,” she sings in earnest. Her husband and son think it’s a song she made up about hating fish.
Preparing the fish for dinner, she thinks about what her job is. To them, cook, mother, general care giver. PSSSH! There’s more to her than a maid.
She reaches into the cabinet and pulls down the spice for the fish and wishes life was more like her mayhem book. The ability to pour concentrated mercury onto the fish, blame their deaths on polluted lake water and live forever on the settlement
Traxel / 89
money from suing the owner of the lake would make her life ideal. She pauses briefly to relish the idea, and then relinquishes it. If only life could be that good, that nicely put.
She calls the boys down to dinner. She long ago stopped thinking of her husband as a man. He was just a big needy boy. She sighs and heads back towards her book in the living room.
“Aren’t you going to eat with us?” he asks as she leaves. She shakes her head and heads back towards the door. Wishing silently that her mind wanderings could be her reality.
The Philosophy of the Taxi Driver
Zach Gershkoff
“You know what I can’t stand?” exclaimed Thaddeus Hopkins as he walked out of the theater. In truth, there were many things Thaddeus Hopkins couldn’t stand, so whenever he wanted to talk about something he couldn’t stand, no one was ever really sure which one he was talking about until he said it.
“Spiders?” ventured his friend Henry Moore. Hopkins had a documented fear of spiders although he would never admit it. Moore knew that Hopkins would never admit it and therefore knew that Hopkins wasn’t talking about spiders, so that guess was Moore’s own special way of saying he didn’t particularly care what Hopkins couldn’t stand. Both Hopkins and Moore had middle names, but no one used them, which meant either they weren’t aristocratic enough to go by three names, or too popular for it. Had someone confronted them about it, they would have claimed the latter.
Hopkins kept on talking, ignoring his friend’s futile guess. “I can’t stand how playwrights use plays to glorify plays! Consider that one song, ‘There’s no Business like Showbusiness.’ There are plenty of businesses like showbusiness! Salesmanship, for example. Or robbery, judging from the ticket prices.” Hopkins groaned and clutched his wallet, causing groups of people leaving the theater to shy away from him.
“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” muttered Moore. Hopkins’ tendency to hate all sorts of things he saw was something Moore couldn’t understand. Moore preferred to hate the same old things repeatedly. He attempted to hail a taxi, but they weren’t really close enough to the road for that.
“Why do they feel they need to praise their own business, anyway?” Hopkins ranted on. “When my father purchases billboards to advertise his law firm, he never feels the need to tell anyone that lawyering is great.”
Moore gave in and answered him. “Maybe they need to convince themselves that they like it. If you say or do something
Gershkoff / 91
enough, you’ll start to agree with it. A psychologist said that once.” Pretending to be educated was a favorite pastime of Moore, but Hopkins never had time for it. He hailed a taxi again, this time successfully. Moore, who was in a greater rush to leave, climbed in the back door and Hopkins followed him.
The taxi cab was dimly lit and smelled of cigarette smoke, but the thing that set it apart from the theater was the person in front. Instead of a tuxedoed maestro conducting an orchestra in a pit, there sat a tired driver whose coat looked like it was bleached in all the wrong places. Blues was playing on the radio. Moore, instead of thinking of how the music complements the scene like a normal theatergoer would, took the psychological approach again. “But why, then, would someone sing the blues? It will make you think you’re sad even if you’re not. And no one wants to be sad.”
Hopkins was too busy haggling with the taxi driver to answer, but the driver turned around and smirked at Moore. “There are worse things than being sad, pal.” This upset Hopkins greatly, who didn’t like being interrupted at all.
“Oh really?” said Moore, intrigued. “Like what?”
“Like getting used to it.”
That gave Moore something to think about on the ride back as Hopkins fumed about how he can’t stand being interrupted. When they reached their destination, the taxi driver overcharged them.
Façade Uncovered
Shana Heagwood
People only see through the rose-shaded glasses I provide--
Limited to the dove in me: The princess costume, Bubble-gum pink, Twittering humming bird wings, Bubbly and buzzing, White-toothed smile, Compassion and love, Hot-rod red fireball candies, An explosion of flavor to the taste buds.
The things they see aren’t every color of the rainbow; The thoughts they think aren’t all there is to comprehend; The sounds they hear aren’t all the sounds there are; The things they smell, taste, touch, and feel aren’t all there is.
All the darker features visible only to him: Black hole and galaxy of stars, Depth and mystery, Witch’s brew, Confusion and variety, Moonlight and panther, Path-finder without its own, Freshly brewed cappuccino, Liked by some, detested by others.
Resolve:
He reveals the soul behind the New Orleans mask, He is the link to the rusty chain with no ball, He is the discovered, yet awaited-The one who may one day give all the golden key; Cleanse the window to my spirit-So all may see-See every part of me...
Heagwood / 93
Things Will Always Change
Abe Toner
The devil’s desires lead
A lifetime of regret
Twain twisting bodies
Stuck together with sweat
Never again knowing
The sweetness of our friend
Eyes that sparkled now
Dim with reflection
Of moonlight covered flesh
Ears that perked to hear your voice
Can only remember passion
Screaming our names
Touching thrums my nerves
Jolting with pain my
Serpent whispers secrets
Seducing my reason never
To see your redemption
This knowledge is power
Destroying my senses
An original sin complicates
Two souls in the wind
Perfect Strangers
Chara Nelson
“He’s perfect,” Jane said.
“Who is?” Macy asked, pouring another cup of coffee into the blue mug. Jane didn’t answer. Jane sat at their kitchen table staring out the fogged window.
Their nights together had become boring and quiet, unlike their evenings in the years past. Macy remembered a time when Jane would keep her up for hours laughing over their mistakes, and talking about their love for each other. But not this night, or any night in the past two months. It was common for them to spend every night sitting across the round kitchen table in their long, tan trailer home, facing each other over coffee or pastries. Their kitchen table was covered by Macy’s red tablecloth she had taken with her when she left her parents’ home. Every time Macy spilled something on the red cloth, she could hear her mother’s voice screaming just as her mother had done when Macy was twenty-one and announced her plans to live with Jane. Jane was thirty-three at that time, and Macy’s parents, being church people, didn’t like the relationship between Jane and Macy. Those were hard years for them. They gave up everything to be together, including friends, family, even Macy’s pet raccoon, Squally . Macy hadn’t heard from her parents since the day she moved in with Jane.
“It’s getting late; you should hit the sheets,” Macy said, standing up. She tugged on Jane’s arm, gesturing towards the bedroom.
“No, I’ll come later. I can’t sleep...not tonight.” Her motions were cold and listless, causing a kink in Macy’s stomach. Ever since Jane had begun her strange actions, Macy had called many different doctors for an answer, but Jane always refused examination. Doctors all said that unless she was in pain, they had no right to force an examination on her.
“Please don’t stay up too late, Jane?” Macy asked, lowering her hands from the sleeve of Jane’s wrinkled, yellow blouse.
“It has to be perfect,” Jane said, without moving her eyes from the window. Macy turned her head so to hide a tear from Jane, although she knew Jane wouldn’t look to see anyway.
Nelson / 95
In bed, Macy cried.
“What have I done?” She questioned herself in the darkness. She lay with only a pink, silk night-shirt on. Jane had bought it for Macy two months ago for her twenty-ninth birthday. Macy remembered that evening very well. It was that night that everything changed between them. Jane was late. She didn’t wrap the silk negligee. She walked in unnoticed, handing it to Macy and turned to the table of alcoholic beverages. Jane sat in the same chair all evening. She sat silent and drunk, and stared into nothing. Jane was always the one to be loud and keep the party stirring, making every party the biggest event of the year. She would wrap Macy’s gifts beautifully, and the gifts were always expensive. Like the time Jane bought Macy a pair of diamond-drop earrings from Dillard’s, or the time Jane bought her a Fossil watch, the finest Fossil made. Tonight Macy would do anything to know what happened that night. Macy’s thin blonde hair, platinum from boxed hair dye and showing dark roots from being unkempt, dangled around her thin, freckled shoulders. Her tears soaked the collar bones framing her neck. She never wore socks; Jane didn’t like socks in bed.
“We have become perfect strangers,” she whispered, as if to wake up another soul in the room. But she knew there were no other souls, just herself. She closed her moist, brown eyes and prayed she’d sleep all night.
The next morning when Macy awoke, Jane was gone. Macy sank into the chair Jane had been sitting in at the time of their departure the night before. Macy found herself staring into the window Jane had so unreservedly ignored her through.
“Show me, Window, what does she see all the time?” She said, clenching her right fist around the blue coffee mug from the night before, still containing the coffee she had poured before she decided she couldn’t take the quiet any longer. With one swift motion, Macy threw the half filled coffee mug and watched as it busted through the dew covered sheet of glass. She relaxed with the shatter, and found the act of violence to be therapeutic. The room was quiet, and now with the broken window, all the outside noises were clearer inside. Like the sound of their overweight Yankees fan neighbor, mowing the lawn three doors down. Macy sat staring at what she’d done, her right arm still extended from the throw. She looked down to see that a piece of the shattered windowpane had struck the top of her hand. Only a small cut, but running with thin
blood. Macy brought the wound to her mouth, tasting the ruby scrape. Its salted flavor reminded her of when she was little and had put a penny in her mouth.
“Ha, I try to hurt you, but I end up bleeding,” she said, smirking, then spitting out the blood her tongue had absorbed.
Hours later, Macy had packed the red tablecloth, as well as all of her belongings, and made her resolution to leave Jane. Macy heard a sound of someone coughing, and exited the bedroom to see Jane at the kitchen table. Jane was smoking a cigarette. Jane and Macy hadn’t smoked in years. They promised each other to quit.
“Jane,” she asked, stepping out from the bedroom. “Where were you?”
Jane remained silent, still motionless.
“Jane? I asked you a question.”
“What did you do?” Jane asked, not moving her eyes from the center of the non-existent window.
“Stop, Answer my question first.”
“Answer mine.”
“Why should I answer your question when I’m the one being lied to?”
“Where’s the tablecloth?” Jane asked, “And where is my window?”
“It was my tablecloth. As for the window, I broke it.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because, I could.”
“You shouldn’t have. Now the room will be cold at night. You know I don’t keep warm very well.”
Jane’s short, black hair looked rumpled, her yellow blouse still wrinkled. Her weathered skin made her blue eyes look small and robbed from the youthful years when Macy had met her.
“Why are you doing this? What happened that night two months ago? I want to know.”
“He’s perfect,” Jane said, “We were strangers on the street, but now, he’s perfect. He’s everything to me.”
“I don’t understand,” Macy said, her voice quivering as if to cry, and her hands held helplessly to her side. Her long, slender, pale legs trembled beneath the lace that lined the bottom of her silk night-shirt. Jane was masculine compared to Macy. She wore Wrangler jeans and tucked blouses. She wore no jewelry other than a gold ring on her right hand. Macy wore a ring on her right hand as well, a Nelson /
silver one. Looking down at her own ring, Macy tugged it off. She still remembered their one year anniversary seven years ago. She remembered the speech Jane gave under the pavilion as she presented Macy with the ring in front of all their friends gathered at a barbeque at their local park. Jane wore the gold one and Macy wore the silver one, two together bound as one. Macy tossed the silver ring onto the table in front of Jane. With its landing it make a resounding ping, bouncing for a few inches before resting beside Jane’s right hand. Jane didn’t remove her composure from the mesmerizing trance she had found herself delighted in throughout the past two months.
“Who is he? Why are you away so many nights?” Macy questioned belligerently. She bent on her knees and put her left arm on the back of Jane’s chair. She rested her right hand on the table. Jane continued to look away, avoiding Macy’s face.
“Lock the door,” Jane said, “on your way out.” Macy paused in shock, and then rose to her feet in a weak rhythm.
“Why?” Macy asked, narrowly breathing. “Why now? What for?”
“He’s perfect,” Jane repeated. “We were strangers on the street, but now lovers when we sleep. He is a perfect stranger.”
The Fall of Soul
Joseph Paul
Even though I had not heard much of anything besides the ringing in my ears for almost two days now, I was aware of the explosions that destroyed the bridges that spanned the Han River. My commander, who has not moved since the command building was hit by artillery, is being carted south on a wheelbarrow. The private pushing the cart has not spoken much since the war started, and if he even faltered a bit when the bridges were destroyed, I would be surprised. Brown is stoic in his duty, as am I, but the many Koreans around us have been added another misery to the past two days.
The few men, and even fewer of them are of fighting age, to make it out of Seoul are defeated, and even the tasks of seeing the many civilians to safety seem as hopeless as driving back the juggernaut that had swept aside all resistance in its relentless drive south. Many look to us in desperation, but little help can come from three American soldiers when an entire task force and four Republic of Korea divisions had failed to prevent the Inmun Gun from breaking out of the western corridor and making it to Uijonbu and then Seoul. My uniform, covered in blood and debris, testifies that I have not been to sleep since the war began forty-eight hours ago and places me right in the middle of this rout.
We know that Seoul has officially fallen when the screams can be heard from across the river. At the peak of the ridge where the road turns from the river and takes a southerly course, the three of us pause to look once more upon the capital. Joined by the stragglers of the fleeing populous, we witness the dawn. Nothing spectacular about it. The mist comes as always to settle around the river banks and wedge itself firmly in the streets and boulevards. The quiet of the city is broken by weeping on our hilltop and the sounds of continued struggle. The fires that raged in the night burn still, but at least they burn with less intensity. Seoul is gone to us as the final sounds
Paul / 99
100 / Blackwater Review of resistance die out and the North Koreans begin to reclaim the city of their brothers.
Our time to leave arises when mortars begin to hit the near bank. Many of the civilians have already left our hill, and Brown tugs gently on my sleeve before he begins pushing the captain’s body south. I turn my back on Seoul and begin walking the long march toward Busan, the silence broken only by the ringing in my ears.
Rooftops
Gordon West
Kell pitched a t-shirt onto the arm of the sofa (“1996 SOFT ROCK 97.3 ARBOR DAY CHALLENGE!” it advertised), a youth size with the feel of skin. “It’s there if you want it,” he offered, circling out of view.
I kicked the garment from its perch and sat up, feeling complacent and vaguely caterpillar-like. The Manx was at my feet again, needling me with a concentrated squint of the eyes.
“I don’t think I will ever win Haiku’s affection.”
“You’ve got a funny way of trying. Putting a cigarette out on her back.”
“I don’t even like the things. Why is it always staring at me?”
“Goddamnit, we’re not going to talk about the cat today.”
Kell was making a slow pace along the windowed wall of his apartment, shadowed by a self-refraction in the glass. He was so gorgeous, cast against the skyline.
I sat and let him walk for a while. He was looking for his girl, I knew. She’d be walking around this time, as well.
“Do you ever get sick of that view?”
He turned towards me and let his knees buckle below, sinking himself into the carpet.
“Not yet,” he responded simply, in a soft breath.
“It’s a gorgeous view.” An assenting grin. “I mean, where do you go from there?”
He looked back past his shoulder to give the view in question another scan. A big, beautiful police barricade lined off the road at either end of our block, bringing a still hush over the street.
Minutes afterward, he had crawled to my side and kissed me on the neck, rubbing the stubble on my chin the wrong way as he turned his head up to look into my eyes. He pulled me to my feet.
West / 101
We came to the rooftops, then, and both leaned over the handrailing. The air up high was a crisp, lovely thing. It came rushing up the sides of the building in sweeps and breezes at a time, cutting into our downward gazes with all the cool vigor of the whipping wind.
“She’s not down there.”
“Haven’t seen her all morning.”
He didn’t know the name of his girl. Mostly he knew her strut, the way she commanded the streetside with that sure, kicking step.
“What do you see in her?”
He leveled his eye-sight to the Benihana billboard a few blocks down.
“The street.” He turned to me. “Not because of what she does, if that’s what you’re thinking. I see something grounded . . . something chained.”
“And what do you see in me?”
Somewhere in the cityscape backdrop, a siren was keening morning-warnings, harmonized in bizarre fashion by a busker’s saxophone.
“The rooftops. Always the rooftops.”
Better Regret
Nicole Merenda
Tracy came to the record store to catch him before he clocked out for the day, and they decided to take a walk before he took her home. He wasn’t really in the mood, but with that grin on her face, it was impossible for Will to say no. The weather was finally getting warm, and William decided he could use a little spring air.
They chattered about their day as they walked, Will listening to Tracy’s ramblings about her roommates and a green scarf she’d found on sale. He told her about some overstock he needed to ship back and a new soundtrack CD that everyone seemed to want but hadn’t arrived. Tracy listened as well as she spoke, so even though he wasn’t a talkative kind of guy, it was easy to spill to her.
Another thing he had learned about her was that she was spontaneous, much more so than himself. For someone as set in his ways as Will, it was a little unnerving at times. He was never sure whether he should be frightened or delighted when she said or did something that no one was expecting. As they passed the gate to the park, the lawn sprinklers popped up and began spraying wide arcs of water across the new grass. They watched as others scurried off the green to spots out of the its reach. Will noticed that look in Tracy’s eyes.
“Gray,” he started, shaking his head. “Oh, no. No, what if . . . .” She had already taken his hand and pulled him towards the water. He tried to resist, but too late.
As if mocking him, she stopped in the middle of the sprinklers after they were soaked. “You called, my dear sir?” She batted her eyes through the drops on her lashes. He moved her bangs out of the way, and looked down at her solemnly.
“What if you catch cold?”
She stuck out her tongue.
“Your doctor--and the girls--will have my head,” he said.
Merenda / 103
“Psh, as if I could resist this,” she said, and let go of his hand to hold her arms out, spinning around and around and around. “We have a spring shower all to ourselves!” He wanted to smile, too, but couldn’t. It was the old worry, the old Will.
“Anyway, aren’t you sick of the same old walks? Something different is good for you,” she said, as if her job was to watch out for him. “Besides, if I get sick, oh well; it’s better to regret something you did than something you didn’t, right?”
“You’re quoting the Peppers again,” he said, eyeing her.
“All the more reason to realize how right I am,” she said.
And she won--again. Sometimes he couldn’t help himself. Will smiled and wrapped his lanky arms around her, leaning over to bury his face close to her neck. He couldn’t have cared less about the old couple staring at them from the dry sidewalk.
“Ah, a smooshy, wet-William hug,” Tracy muffled into his sopping shirt, before they both broke into a laugh.
William rolled over on his side, the dream already fading, his eyes blurring as they opened and adjusted to the dark. On his nightstand, the bright red, mocking numbers of the digital clock read 3:11 AM. He buried his face in his pillow. “Oh, God.”
No sleep that night either, damn it.
It had been the same for the last few months. Sleepless nights, then groggy mornings spent staring at the scuffed counter beyond the cash register of the record shop. At quitting time, he walked home alone, past the park and coffee shop - he never stopped at either anymore.
It had been more than a year ago. He had been about to clock out for the day. He’d stuffed his keys and wallet in his pockets, then turned his head in the direction of a shouting co-worker.
“Hey, Will! Sure ya don’t wanna go to the party?” The younger man switched his jacket from his left to his right arm, dodging a bin behind the counter. His shift was over, too. “The one down at Jeff’s?”
Grinning a little, William Neroli shook his head.
“Listen man, if I wanted lung cancer, I’d be a smoker,” he
hooked his apron onto a peg behind them as he spoke. “I don’t need to go someplace where the second hand smoke is so bad I’ll get sick just breathing.”
“Ha, ha, hey, don’t be so judgmental, man. Why you always got to act so old? You need to come out sometime.”
“Yeah, yeah, I might act old, but between the two of us, who’s the manager?”
“Shut up!” The boy finished clocking out, and they both laughed. “Anyway, later.”
“Later.” William couldn’t help thinking the boy was right. He did act too old. It’s not like 23 is rocking-chairs-onthe-porch age. But what’s the problem with it? Maybe things were monotonous, the same men in business suits, the same jogging mothers pushing strollers past the store every morning; he worked hard, then went home, cooked himself dinner, and watched the same shows before going to bed. Every so often his mother would call and demand a report, but it was still the same. William was independent and made enough to live off, but life was beginning to feel like a drag. It was like he knew everything that would happen every day. But there was one small change he’d begun to notice.
Virgin was the only real music store in a town, so they had a lot of regular customers. It was pretty noticeable when people stopped coming, and she hadn’t been in, even to browse, in months.
As he’d stood next to the register, ready to head home for another night of Seinfeld and Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?, he’d taken a quick look toward the door. And there, behind the wide glass windows, a couple of customers he’d been waiting to see. One stopped at the door, her thin hand on the handle, pulling just enough to crack it. The girl, who looked about 20 or so, with mousey brown hair and clear blue eyes, shopped at Virgin frequently. Will had gotten to know her taste-alternative, mostly. Red Hot Chili Peppers must have been her favorite band. She wore a hoodie with their logo plastered on the front and bought everything they released. Once or twice, he’d initiated small talk with her.
Now she was laughing; evidently the other girl (the friend with purple-dyed hair, another reason they were easy to remember) had made her laugh.
“Okay, be there soon,” she said, handing a grocery bag over to the girl. Another muffled comment from Purple-Haired Girl, and she laughed again. “Okay, go, go! See you in a few.”
She waved off the girl and finally entered the shop. Noticing Will, she smiled in his direction before heading to the new release shelf, quite near where he was standing.
“Hello!”
“Um- hi!” Adjusting his glasses, William returned the smile. “How are ya?”
“I’m doing pretty good, thanks. Much better than I have been.” The girl went about flipping through the new albums.
“Oh yeah? It’s just, you know, you haven’t been here for a while and some of us started getting worried. Everything been all right?”
“Wow,” the girl laughed. “Come to think of it, I do visit pretty often, huh? Yeah, I’m okay. Just got a little sick and doctors went crazy with the appointments and made me take it easy for a while.”
“Ah.” Crazy with appointments for being a little sick? William pondered it a moment more before shaking his head. “You’re here almost as much as me, except I get paid to be here.”
This seemed to amuse her. “Lucky you,” she said, “I wouldn’t mind getting paid to work in a music store.”
“I’m surprised you don’t receive a check from us.”
“Yeah, well,” she said, “That’d be cool, but it’s okay. I don’t mind as long as I can get my music.”
As they chatted, the evening manager, an older guy, who always wore his shining silver name tag that read DAVID, appeared from the doorway that led to the back, stopping behind the register. He smiled at the girl, and then approached Will.
“Hey, are you staying for the afternoon shift or what?”
“Oh yeah, stupid me.” Will chuckled and finished clocking out. He scooted from behind the counter and began
browsing the alternative albums, which happened to be near the new release end-cap. “So, um, where you off to after this?”
“Gotta head home; tonight is movie night.”
“Really? I’m heading home, too. Imagine that, same place.” William hoped his charm was working as he smiled a cheeky smile. “Too bad I don’t see you there,” he said, taking as much risk as he could muster. “I might not work as much.”
The girl laughed and gave him a smile right out of a toothpaste ad.
“Nice. Very charming, Mister,” she paused, blinking. “I don’t even know your name.”
Emboldened now, almost giddy that she’d used the word “charming,” he said, “And to think we’ve been seeing each other all this time.” She smiled at the lame joke, so William continued, “My name is William, um, Will, uh, Neroli, um, I mean Will. People call me Will.” He held out a hand.
“Tracy Gray,” she said, and the two of them shook hands.
It happened just like that. Tracy Gray (Or Try, as some of her friends called her-- William eventually called her Gray, sort of his own pet name) ended up inviting him home for movie night. It turned out that she lived in the old firehouse down the street, which she and a couple of roommates had converted into a pretty nice little place. One of them was a DJ for a local radio station: Caitlin Dagmar, she had her own nightly show on 99.9. She and Will had met at an event 99.9 and Virgin had sponsored together. Caitlin and Angela Anderson, a selfproclaimed “professional shower singer,” also lived there.
The movie for Monday Night Movie Night at the girls’ house had been The Truman Show, a movie both Will and Tracy loved, but they spent the evening talking about music in the kitchen while the roommates watched the video.
Before he knew it, he was over every Movie night. Then it was more than twice a week for dinner. Then he started visiting Tracy at the coffee shop where she worked, all the while arranging more promos with Caitlin. He became friends with all of them, even her purple-haired best friend, Angela,
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but he especially liked the girl with the mousey brown hair and blue eyes.
“I moved out when I was 17,” Tracy told him randomly one day, “because my family was so dull. I really wanted to move in with Cait when she got her own place. We were all a lot younger then, you know.”
The way she told him things was always casual. Sometimes she’d just spill something like that when they were walking or just lounging on her bed, but it was always so open. It was the same way she told him about her leukemia. She was lying on her bed, smiling, staring into his face, and said, “I’m sick, Will” fast, like pulling off a Band-Aid.
William later realized that, in a way, Tracy knew what she was doing. At the time, the news hit too fast for pain to set in. It was more like shock. All he could think was that before those words everything had been normal.
Normal, with movie night and afternoon walks in the park. Normal, because Tracy still got excited when she heard a Peppers song on the radio and happy when William said she looked pretty with her hair pulled back. Normal, even with chemotherapy and way-too-many pills she had to take. They went on living, talking about the future like every normal couple in love. She wanted to elope and be married by an Elvis impersonator. William agreed, and they’d sent for brochures about Las Vegas.
Then normal turned into shortness of breath; it turned into a tired, thin girl, waking up with dried blood on her tongue and a sick stomach. She no longer cared about songs on the radio. She spent most of her time sleeping or staring at herself in a mirror, watching her hair fall out. The happy, tearful look on her face when he shaved his head, so he would look like her, was the first he saw her smile in weeks.
It was not quick. It took over a year. She had some good days, some rallies when they let themselves plan a future that neither believed in. Even on bad days, she put on a show for him. Only once did she admit it hurt, that she was scared. Will cried more than she did—or at least it seemed that way.
The Sunday before Tracy died, William didn’t work and spent the entire day at the firehouse with her. She hadn’t felt like going out, even though he’d rented a wheelchair months ago when she’d become too fatigued to walk the park on her own. She’d stick a big sun bonnet on her fuzzy scalp, put a blanket over her lap, and pretend, she said, to be an invalid on an ocean cruise, and Will, he was the cabin boy assigned to push her chair near the rail where the salt air would be sure to restore her. But that Sunday, she was too tired, and instead spent most of the day sleeping. He considered going back to his place to do some laundry, but decided to hang around even though it was painful to watch her sleep, her eyes too puffy, her body too thin, and bruises on both arms where medicine ports had collapsed.
She woke up about four that afternoon and asked Will to help her into the living room. The short trip seemed to wear her out. Will got her medicine and a glass of water while she stared into the blank TV screen as if it were playing her favorite film. When he sat down beside her, she leaned close, smiled, then lay her head in his lap. Her eyes were closed, but Will knew she was still awake. “Gray, do you,” he paused, sweeping a hand over the fuzz that had once been bangs. “Do you remember what we talked about? That trip to Vegas?”
She opened her eyes right away, but took a moment to respond. When she did, she smiled. “Of course.”
“Good, well.” He hadn’t planned any of it, but he wanted to say something, anything. “Um, maybe we could still try to go there, you know, get a room, somewhere you could rest, but still, you know. Wouldn’t that be good, huh? Wouldn’t you want to do that?”
“Ah, yeah,” she said, “sure—Vegas—wooo.” The right words, but so soft he could barely hear them. “Next weekend, then,” she said. “Huh? Next weekend?”
“I’ll go buy you a dress, a big white dress,” Will said, sucked in to his own fantasy. “A wedding dress, you know. We’ll find a guy, an Elvis guy.”
“Oh,” she laughed a little. “I have one already. I just didn’t wanna tell you. It’s really pretty. It’s simple, though, a sundress.”
“I don’t care if it’s a bathrobe,” he said, smiling for the first time that day, maybe for the first time in a lot of days, really smiling. It had been a good idea, an idea that would buy more time, another rally. “You’ll be beautiful,” he said, but wished the words back, thinking she’d take them wrong, like he had noticed she wasn’t beautiful anymore.
“I hope so,” she said. “When I bought it, I thought of you.”
“I’ll even wear a tie,” Will said, making a motion at his throat like he was tightening the knot.
“Can’t wait,” she said.
Tracy died that Wednesday night, or early Thursday morning. The exact time didn’t matter. Either way, she wasn’t going to wear the dress for William, or for a preacher dressed like Elvis, or even for herself. Instead, Will was asked to pack up the things in Tracy’s dresser; her roommates seemed unable or unwilling to even go in the sick room, the room in which she’d been found. He probably shouldn’t have been surprised to find it, but it still seemed to mock him, mock them, the whole damn thing: the white pinhead-lace sundress. He didn’t finish packing; he left and didn’t think he’d ever look back.
It took a while, some feeling sorry for himself, some sad walks through the park, but one day he just found himself at the firehouse again.
He knocked, then gave it a few minutes. Unless Angela had moved, he knew the door was unlocked. He thought about going in, looking around, looking for, he didn’t know, for something. Before he could decide, Angela, the remaining roommate, made it to the door. Caitlin had moved out, a job in Mobile, more money, less memories, not long after Tracy died. Angela, her hair a simple dirty blonde now, peered through the partially open door, then opened it. They had been the two oldest of the once tight-knit group, but now they looked it, at least she did.
“Hey, you,” she said, her gaze drifting beyond him, seemingly looking at something over his left shoulder somewhere. “Driving around alone?”
“Yeah, um, my lunch break,” he said. He scratched the back of his head. “I just . . . ended up here.”
“Understandable. I hardly leave.” She moved out of his way. “Drinks, maybe?” she asked, moving aside to let him in.
Seeing the place again was like a punch in the stomach. He scanned the room like he might see something there that made everything make sense. “How ya been?” he managed.
“Nice and drunk,” Angela said, walking across the living room and closing the door to what had been Tracy’s bedroom. “You?”
Eyeing the closed door, “Doing the best I can,” he said.
“That’s the best way,” She kept walking until they were in the kitchen. She rummaged for glasses in the dishwasher. “Cait took off a few months ago,” she said. “She might come back here, though. She’s just trying it, you know.”
“Yeah, I heard that,” Will said, looking around the dirty kitchen. “Can’t blame her.”
“Nope,” she said. “Water, milk, or hard liquor?”
“Uh, water, I guess. I’m, like, on my lunch break, so liquor . . . .”
“Sucks for you, more for me,” she poured a shot of liquor and a glass of water for herself, then a second glass of water for him.
His heart tightened as he sat down at the familiar table. “How do you do it?” he asked, his voice cracking. “I mean, the memories and all?”
“Think of it this way,” she said, sipping a bit of her water. “Could you live with yourself knowing you gave up the place where Try was most happy? Where everyone was happy?”
“I don’t know,” Will said, looking down, trying to keep the tears from starting. “No, I guess not,” he finally mustered. He caught a tear with the back of his hand. “No,” he said again, “I don’t think I could.”
“I know she’d understand Cait leaving,” Angela said, resting her elbow on the table, her forehead in her hand. “But she wouldn’t want us to give the place up altogether.” They were both quiet for a few minutes before she spoke again. “Do you
know what she said about you after you left that first night? That day you introduced yourself?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he said, blinking hard to keep it held back.
“When you left, she smiled—you know that smile of hers--over this very table, and said, ‘I think I fell in love with someone today. He’s one of the most charming people I’ve ever met.’ No kidding. That’s what she said.”
Will didn’t know if Angela was telling the truth – but it sounded like Gray, and he needed to hear it.
“You were, I mean, you are part of the family,” Angela said.
They sat a while in silence, staring at the empty glasses.
Finally Angela said, “Come on, Will. She told us not to be like this.”
“I just wish I could’ve, I don’t know, could’ve . . . .”
“Stopped it? Bought her more time?” Angela finished his sentence. “Look, we talked about that. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t mad about it, so I asked her. I just asked. You know what she said?”
It wasn’t a question she expected him to answer, but Will could think of several things Gray might’ve said.
“She said, ‘it’s not what happens in the end, but what you do while you’re getting there’. She said she was happy because she had you.”
For the first time in months, William laughed. For some reason, he couldn’t help it. “So I guess we gotta keep going, right? Um, even if we have to sort of, uh, get drunk or something, or be selfish or something, sort of think too much about what we lost.”
“Right.” Angela smiled a little. “And now I’m gonna be selfish.” She turned and poured another shot, then downed it. “Ah, better.”
They both smiled.
“Don’t get too smashed. I’ve gotta go back to work, so I’m not gonna be here to hold your hair when all that comes back up.” Will stood up, with Angela close behind.
“Listen, come visit me ever so often, all right?” she said.
“Yeah, I’ll bring lunch next time.” “Good.” She nodded. He walked to the door, then stopped. “Before I go . . . .” “Hm?”
“What if she had gotten better? I mean, where would we be?” “We’d be as happy as she is now. We wouldn’t hurt anymore.” “Maybe,” he said. “Hey, if you need company, you know where I am.” He tapped her arm, and walked toward the door. As he did, he took another look around the messy living room, the tired sofa, the tables tossed with CD cases and cardboard slides from videos. He wanted to feel her there, like in a movie; he wanted her ghost to speak to him, to tell him to move on. But she wasn’t there anymore.
Outside, the clouds that had plagued the morning had disappeared. It was sunny; Will looked up, blinking. Maybe that’s the sign, he thought, my message; maybe things were beginning to clear. A brisk breeze blew down the sidewalks, sweeping the fall leaves against his pant legs. He pulled his jack closed and reached into his jeans for his car keys. He was going to be late getting back to work.
Contributors
Amanda Anderson is a senior at the Collegiate High School, veritably homeless, and believes in Maslow’s Hierarchy.
Jessica Borsi, a sophomore at Collegiate High School, plans to pursue a career in voiceover acting after earning a degree in literary and liberal arts.
John Bruckelmeyer was born on Eglin AFB and grew up in Niceville. He is currently studying film and ultimately aspires to be a screenwriter/director of his own films.
Rebecca Cartwright has been studying art at OkaloosaWalton College since 2000. She gathers inspiration from her family background and the struggles through the many diseases they have overcome.
Lynda W. Cast is a professional musician (piano teacher and church organist). She recently resumed art study at Okaloosa-Walton College.
Jayme Chatterton is a local artist who enjoys working in oils and aerosol paints. She’s a fan of surrealism and lowbrow art.
Regina Coley is a full time student to pursue a career in ceramics. She enjoys working with clay and allowing it to express who she is.
Melissa Cromer will graduate this year with a degree in commercial design. She would like to own a portrait studio one day. Every day she is closer to her dreams of being her true self, a photographer.
Daniel Davis, a student at Okaloosa-Walton College, has been watching everything, and has a pretty good idea how it’s going to end: not pretty.
Jocelyn G. Donahoo is married with 4 adult sons, 2 daughtersin-laws, and 3 1⁄2 grandchildren. Creative writing has opened the door to a new adventure in her life.
Ashley Downie is twenty years old and hopes to become a successful veterinarian following graduation. In her free time, she loves to write, draw, and paint.
Contributors / 115
Nivaska Eastwold is a native of Panama, republic of Panama. She has an enormous passion for the ethereal and sublime where she can explore the hue of her country.
Ali Fisher, a senior at OWC Collegiate High School majoring in English and literature, plans to become an English professor after graduating from Florida State University.
Louise Fisher has lived in Fort Walton Beach since 1995 and has been sculpting for three years. She loves to sculpt the human form. She is a detailed artist and enjoys working with clay of any kind. Porcelain is her favorite medium because it’s like working with butter.
Sara Foraker, one year ago, had no idea where her road in life was headed. But, with a little blind luck and a lot of artistic genes, she now has a good idea.
Zach Gershkoff is a Collegiate High School student. He has been published in Curiouser and Curiouser: An Anthology of Very Short Stories.
Libby Guerry, an artist, has been creating artwork most of her life. Her pieces were done in mahogany, birch and cypress with a glossy spar varnish.
David Hart began his art career in the fourth grade by creating a colorful still life and later studied drawing and painting. His inspiration comes from the artistic influences he gained while traveling and living abroad.
Elizabeth Hawkins is a student at the Collegiate High School and is active in the drama department. She also enjoys writing and singing.
Shana Heagwood is a 15-year-old sophomore at OWC Collegiate High School. She aspires to be a psychologist as well as a famous musician one day.
Sharon James has recently retired from a twenty-five year career as a business owner. Her first effort in art began after retirement.
June S. Jones’ creative designs grow out of her experience as a floral designer, custom cake decorator and experiments in various
/ Blackwater Review
art media. She has sold several of her unique works which spring out of her love for the past and those who have touched her life.
Sarah Kane, a sophomore at the Collegiate High School, thinks we should spend less time conforming to society’s and more time making snow globes out of baby-food jars.
Thomas Leighton is a computer engineering major at Okaloosa-Walton College.
Amy Longhenry is in her fourth semester studying Graphic Design.
Deborah R. Majors has been working on her degree for many years, wore today’s fashion before it was retro, and has a son in the Collegiate High School.
Melissa McSwain loves art, whether it be painting, drawing, or photography. She enjoys it more than anything. She plans to continue her art as a career in either photography or interior design.
Luz Maria Mendoza has been a registered nurse for twentyfive years and dreams of fulfilling her life with the beauty of creating with her hands.
Nicole Merenda lives in Fort Walton Beach with her grandparents, three cats, and beta fish. She hopes to study comic graphics at Joe Kubert’s School of Comic Art and Cartooning.
Okeye Mitchell is majoring in graphic design with an emphasis on photography. He is currently in his third semester at Okaloosa-Walton College.
Rob Morada is originally from Baltimore, Maryland. He moved to Fort Walton Beach two years ago when he joined the military.
Maria B. Morekis of Fort Walton Beach, Florida has been taking photography for the past three semesters. She has taught mixed media art as a volunteer in the Okaloosa-County School District for over 24 years.
Chara Nelson is active in the OWC Student Government Association. She will receive her AA in May of 2006 and seek a B.A. in English at the University of West Florida.
Contributors / 117
Joseph Paul is a 24- year-old resident of Navarre and current student at Okaloosa Walton College.
Nathan Pemberton, a Collegiate High School student, is working on the growth of a moustache and finishing the LouisFerdinand Céline novel he’s been neglecting.
Caitlin Pierson is a senior at the OWC Collegiate High School. She likes music, makes noise, and fights with palmetto branches.
Sara Richardson has been writing fiction since age 14, poetry since 15, and songs since 16. She graduated from Choctawhatchee High School Summa Cum Laude.
Stephanie Snyder was born on March 21, 1985. She is currently pursuing a B.A. in magazine journalism at the University of Florida.
Joanna Soria is in the interdisciplinary humanities program at the University of West Florida. She lives in Fort Walton Beach.
Sue Tarkin is a 54-year-old grandmother of three beautiful girls who enjoys retirement with the love of her life, Gary. She had her first art lesson in January 2005 with Lynn Rackley and has explored in a variety of media.
Elizabeth Traxel is a senior at the Collegiate High School.
Abe Toner grew up in Wyoming but now enjoys the beaches of the Panhandle.
Gordon West is an 18-year-old Collegiate High School student bound for the University of Colorado at Boulder to study the finer points of becoming a starving English teacher.
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