Blackwater Review aims to encourage student writing, student art, and intellectual and creative life at Northwest Florida State College by providing a showcase for meritorious work. Blackwater Review is published annually at Northwest Florida State College and is funded by the college.
Editorial Advisory Board: Jon Brooks, Janet Faubel, Beverly Holmes, Charles Myers, and Deidre Price
Copy Editor: Caitlin Pierson
Art Advisory Board:
J.B. Cobbs, Benjamin Gillham, Stephen Phillips, Lyn Rackley, Karen Valdes, and Ann Waters
Graphic Design and Photography: James Melvin
Web Design Riotta Scott
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 Northwest Florida State College.
The editors and staff extend their sincere appreciation to Dr. James R. Richburg, President, and Dr. Jill White, Senior Vice President, Northwest Florida State College, for their support of Blackwater Review.
We are also grateful to Frederic LaRoche, sponsor of the James and Christian LaRoche Distinguished Endowed Teaching Chair in Poetry and Literature, which funds the annual James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, whose winner is included in this issue.
Bathroom of Sorrow
Kyle Webb
It’s dirty again.
Dust and hair, toothpaste dried on the marble counter.
Just one toothbrush in the cup now. Wet towels gather on the floor.
I can still picture her leaning over the sink, batting herself with mascara.
Old Spice lingers on the air. No longer the mixed aromas of mango shampoos and vanilla lotions.
Her voice still echoes faintly from the stall. Her school girl giggle.
The fresh peppermint of Crest plus whitening passing from tongue to tongue in the morning.
She really didn’t need the plus whitening.
Soap scum build-up on the tile grout. Heavy water stains in the ceramic tub.
Partially from tears.
change: longing for it after the cow is bought
Deborah R. Majors
he’s trying to change.
he pulls on the sea-foam green oxford, my favorite. he likes his white Arrow and reminds me of his sacrifice, tugging the cuffs, clicking his tongue.
he’s trying to change. he remembers to compliment good dinner, after his list of it-would-have-been-better ifs. I know, when I go to bed, he will fill on Frosted Flakes, Lays, and Letterman.
he’s trying to change. he hands me the remote, smiles gently, then picks up the sports section and curtains his face.
Flat Root Beer
Christian Walker
I f she doesn’t shut up soon, I’m going to snap her neck with my bare hands. She sprawls herself on the sofa in the living room all day, her complaints carrying all the way to the backroom. But Aunt Andria couldn’t care less; she’s too busy telling everybody how expletive expletive expletive her boss is. She doesn’t mind that my six-year-old and seven-year-old cousins are in the room, listening.
I get up to close the door. The cousins’ air mattresses make me feel like I’m walking in one of those padded yellow rooms. Aunt Andria’s voice fights its way through the door, so I kick a pillow against the bottom. I moon bounce back to the denim couch and collapse. The room is still, except for the small fan twirling dust particles into the rays of sun. I stare at the ceiling kernels and hope nobody comes in.
“Hi, Jacob!” Natalie skips in the room on cue. Her straight blonde hair bounces on her shoulders. “What are you doing?”
“I’m looking at the ceiling,” I say without looking at her. Natalie stands by the couch. Her big gray eyes are filled with anticipation, then mix with confusion, and finally give way to disappointment. I’ve seen that process on every one of my little cousins’ faces over the past week. I used to be the funny guy of our family reunions. Now I’m throwing people off.
“Oh,” she says. She stands by the couch for a second, playing with her plastic star necklace. “Are you making the movie with Kylee today?”
I smirk at the ceiling. “Probably not,” I answer. Even if Kylee and I still got along, I wouldn’t want to make it, unless people didn’t mind the movie being about me looking at the ceiling.
Natalie sits on the edge of an air mattress, chewing on her necklace. I say nothing. My cousins usually leave if I don’t crack a joke in the first few minutes.
“Are you still sad about your friend?” She asks. I clench my fists and take a deep breath.
“I’m fine,” I reply.
“Natalie!” Cidney appears in the doorway. Her chestnut brown hair is as messy as usual, and her black rimmed glasses are sliding down her nose. She glares pointedly at Natalie. “C’mon. Dinner’s ready.”
“’K!” Natalie skips out.
“Sorry about that. You can come get dinner whenever. The cousins are eating out on the porch table.” Cidney backs out of the room, closing the door after her. I sigh. I’m not a wreck or anything; I just don’t want to deal with the Mayes Family Reunion, especially Aunt Andria. She’s been talking so much that I now know everything about her work, her child Kylee’s rebellious ways, and her soon to be ex-husband’s social habits. Even when she’s in a good mood, I can see tears welling up in her dark eyes. Her curly orange hair makes it look like her brain froze in the middle of exploding. It’s like having an edgy banshee to the reunion.
I sit up and look around the room. Pillow cases with spiky-haired anime characters are smiling at me the same way my family’s been smiling. They think they can compensate for my mood when really they’re just digging deeper wrinkles.
I sigh again and lie back down. The room remains still. There’s nothing to distract me. My mind flashes to the third grade.
Robbie and I made a fort in my room out of blankets. I had a bunk bed, which made for the best secret spots. He brought rubber bands to tie the blankets, and I brought a “Don’t Worry Be Happy” singing bass to be the fort’s motion detector. That was the summer he began flipping his bangs up, and I was quick to follow. I copied most of the things he did.
“I say that when we get to high school, we start a lawn mowing business,” Robbie announced.
“ Why would we do that?” I asked.
“B ecause, then we can get money and go to New York or Hollywood.”
“Do you even know how to mow?” I asked.
“ We’ll learn,” he said, and we agreed on it. Then his mom
called, and I was left alone in the fort with the rubber bands and the sounds of a fish telling me not to worry.
I sit up and shake my head. I don’t want to sit with that song bouncing around in my head. At least food will distract me. Besides, I know if I wait too long, one of them will come in and tell me how great the tortillas are and how I just have to try ‘em, so I might as well get up.
The dining room table is covered with pots and plates. I scoop the soggy strings of beef and peppers into my powdery tortilla. The back door is open, with the voices of my young cousins coming through it. I grab the red cup marked “Jake!” and walk outside.
My cousins are sitting around the plastic table with mismatched chairs. Natalie’s put her hair up in a ponytail, and Cidney is wiping food off Natalie’s face. I don’t know how Cidney can be so patient with her. If I were Cidney, I wouldn’t be able to look at Natalie. But Cidney sits there as if nothing ever happened, smiling and caring.
I sit down across from Kylee. Kylee is currently going through the way-too-much eye make-up phase. Even worse, her way-too-much-eye-make-up face has intersected with the everything’s-better-in-purple phase. The ends of her blonde hair are fringed with purple to match her purple eye shadow. I’m tempted to ask her for my fortune.
Kylee nods at me as I take my seat.
“ What’s up?” she says.
“Nothing much,” I mumble. Kylee stares at me. She wants me to say what’s wrong. She likes to think of herself as a person who isn’t afraid to ask hard questions. She bothered Cidney about how she felt for months. The first time Kylee asked Cidney flat out: “Do you still miss your mom?”
“Kylee!” I scolded. Kylee scowled and shrugged like I was the ridiculously inappropriate one. Cidney didn’t say anything. Her long hair was an even frizzier mess than it is now. She hung it over her face so nobody could see or talk to her. Kylee asked the same question every family reunion until Cidney finally said “Yes,” and Kylee didn’t ask again.
I ignore Kylee and take a bite out of my fajita. The table is unnaturally silent for a moment.
“L et’s play a game!” Natalie suddenly shouts. The younger cousins shout in agreement. Last reunion, Kylee and I started making up dinner-table games. Like each cousin would have to go around the table and sing a ballad for something on their plate. Once I let the little cousins put something in my drink, and I had to guess what it was. The games were a huge hit, and now they won’t let me forget, always begging to have my cup with bottles of salad dressing in their hands.
“Okay,” I grumble. “Let’s play Who Knows How Many Beers the Adults Have Had.”
Natalie’s mouth falls open. “You mean alcohol?”
I smirk at my plate. Cidney tells Natalie to eat her food. Kylee smiles for a second, but it disappears when I look up.
I look over at the edge of the yard by the trees. The adults are sitting in a ring of lawn chairs with a cooler of Miller Lite cans in the middle. Aunt Andria is laughing, or maybe crying. Or both. She does that. Grandma is holding one of the baby cousins in her lap.
“ What was his name?”
“Quiet, Natalie.” Cidney puts her hand on Natalie’s shoulder.
“ Who?” I spit. Natalie’s mouth falls open a little.
“ You know who.” Kylee rolls her eyes. “That friend of yours.”
“ He wasn’t my friend, and his name was Rob,” I say. Everybody except Natalie and Kylee suddenly becomes engrossed with their tortillas. I grab the open two-liter of root beer to give my hands something to do. It pours into my cup with a weak fizzle. I put the cup to my mouth and instantly cough. The root beer is warm and flat, weighing on my tongue like syrup. I keep drinking it; I don’t want to put the cup down and meet everybody’s stares.
“ Hey, anybody want to go down to the beach?” Cidney suggests, sitting up. The younger cousins bark their enthusiasm, their lips orange and sticky from soda.
Natalie hops up and runs to her pink tennis shoes by the porch stairs. Cidney starts picking up the plates around the table.
“ What do you mean he wasn’t your friend?” Kylee asks. I slam my cup down, but the root beer swishes lazily in the cup. Kylee stares at me, her eyes in a purple grave.
“ We used to be friends but we weren’t close when he died, okay?” How could she not understand that I didn’t want to explain this? Why should I tell her that Robbie found better friends than me? I don’t know why it affected me so much. He was an old friend whom I hardly ever spoke to anymore. But when the principal announced it over the speakers, I shattered.Kylee scrunches her nose at me. “Cidney lost her mother, and Natalie never even got to know her, and you’re torn up about—”
“L ook, I don’t want to talk about it!” I snap. Cidney freezes in the middle of picking up plates, a few strands of her hair dipped in salsa. “Not everybody is like your mom, blurting out all their problems to anyone who will listen.”
Kylee stares at me for a second, and a part of me wishes I had shut up. I almost apologize, but Kylee scoots her chair back and storms off with her plate, so I sit back and sip my off brand root beer. Kylee and I used to look forward to family reunions. Last year we sang a duet for the mandatory cousin talent show. We burst into laughter half way through an “All that Jazz” routine and couldn’t finish. Everybody liked our act the best anyway. That was when I still made everybody laugh, and Kylee wasn’t allowed to wear make-up.
I stand up and throw the root beer off the edge of the porch. It disappears into the grass with a splat.
“Are you going to come with us?” Cidney asks. She is emptying greasy plates and cups into a trash bag. I can tell she wants me to come. She would never say it, though. She was silent for months after her mom died and didn’t get much louder afterward.
“Sure,” I say and follow her down the porch.
“ We’re going to the beach!” Natalie shouts at the adults.
She grabs a book lying on the porch rail. The houses we pass on the way to the beach have flags hanging above the doors with pictures of cloudy skies and sunflowers. Some yards have small square gardens, and others have inflatable pools and water guns. Natalie’s sneakers blink red in front. Kylee walks a few paces behind the rest of us.
We arrive at the beach as the sun disappears under the ocean. The beach is covered with large masses of yellowy brown seaweed, the shore speckled with brown and gray. Natalie and the younger cousins run to the edge of the water while Cidney sits down and opens her book.
Kylee crosses her arms next to me. Neither of us says anything, but I know we’re both thinking about the movie we made here last year. She was the superhero, and I was the bad guy. We choreographed what we thought was the coolest fight scene ever. We showed it to the family, who of course gave us a standing ovation. Our little cousins asked if they could be in the next one we made. We said they could, knowing that next time we would still sneak off and film it by ourselves. I had decided I wanted to be a filmmaker.
Today was supposed to be the next time we filmed. I glance at Kylee. She is kicking a pebble on the ground. I try to think of something to say, but she turns and walks down the shore. I could go after her, but we have nothing to say to each other. I sit down next to Cidney instead.
“Kylee’s really sensitive about her mother,” Cidney says quietly. I don’t reply.
Natalie’s sneakers still blink as she runs away screaming from the tide. The water sparkles with white lights, flipping and swaying over itself. Slowly the red in the sky grows darker and darker. The tide crashes into the rocks on the shore, spraying vinegary mist in my face. I can’t think. My eyes begin to water and my throat constricts. There’s nothing to distract me here.
Rob and I never went to Hollywood or New York. We joked about it the few times we saw each other in high school, but we never started the lawn mowing business, and we never went anywhere. I went to a family reunion, and he went to sleep
in front of a steering wheel.
I sit as still as I can. Everything around me is moving again. I can’t keep up if I can’t breathe.
“I know how it feels,” Cidney murmurs beside me. She is resting her chin on her knees and watching her sister dance around the tide. Her book is open and pressed into the gray sand. I bury my face in my arms to hide my tears. Cidney’s breath shakes. We’ve never spoken about her mom.
“I felt like my life stopped going anywhere. Everywhere I went I was reminded.”
My stomach shakes and my eyes burn, but Cidney continues. How could she compare our losses?
“I didn’t realize how much she meant, how stable my life had been, and when she was gone, I didn’t know what to do.”
I lift my head and see Kylee far down the shore, kicking rocks around, and wonder if her home has ever been stable.
“How did you get better?” I ask, turning to Cidney.
C idney starts kicking off her shoes.
“I don’t know,” she says. “One day it wasn’t so bad. I remembered all the things I still wanted to do. I remembered a book my friend recommended to me.” Cidney picks up the book and shakes off the sand. “This one, actually.”
C idney stands up and joins Natalie by the water, her hair tangling even more in the wind. I grab the book and flip it open, just for a distraction.
Jasper Brown
Jerry Leafgreen
Black sunglasses reflect the noonday sun
As he sits motionless in his chair.
A hand-rolled cigarette playfully teeters
On the edge of his dry thick lips.
A worn guitar relaxes comfortably
On faded jean-covered legs.
A rusted coffee can sits loyally
Beside his shabby, dust-covered boots.
A few coins fall like a metallic rain
Into the can, breaking the silence.
A ghost of a smile cracks his sun-baked face
Knowing hands caress the guitar and play.
The first chord strummed is a cool gentle breeze
Like the flutter of angelic wings.
He bends the next notes till they almost break, Till they moan with a lost soul’s despair.
He dares someone to listen with his heart
To the weeping sound of his fingers
As they share the story of his misery. Each chord a broken-hearted lullaby.
He bows his head and dabs sweat from his brow
Letting the tears flow from unseeing eyes.
He folds his handkerchief and leans back
Waiting to recount the sad story of life.
Sorrow
Deborah R. Majors
A delicately threaded screen giving the impression that its fragile filigree is an aged lace curtain that h a n g s in the parlor of a harmless old woman. A silken sail loosely woven deceives the Herculean grip awaiting a victim who whether careless or careful is forced by lottery into the cruel barricade.
I am netted. I am chosen. I am frantic. I am desperate in my attempt to lift the latticed threads thoroughly from my skin. Wiping. Scraping. Blowing. But later today the deceiving sensation of a once sticky presence again tantalizes
arm hairs with its invisible tendrils.
I am told by the wise, by the sages of then and now the day will come when this sorrow holding time’s hand will join me only when I beckon. But no solace no comfort no confidence is found in their sage-scented words as tomorrow after tomorrow I wipe away again and again wispy filaments believing the haunting of this sorrow will always torture me with its wavering presence dominating stealing my control regulating choosing the moments when tacky fibers remind of their nonexistence.
No
I do not believe the sages because I know this sorrow will join the collection of former stringy dividers martyred and draped across my arm waiting for that surprising expected touch of the unsuccessful fevered wiping that the sage’s healing herb cannot halt or conquer.
What is this I see? Ah, a glisten in my parlor’s corner
a glimpse of time passed the daughter of a familiar arachnid face peering from her hiding place. Her mother and her grandmother I knew by sight though we never spoke. I nod, acknowledge her power (for every hoary head knows a creature that devours her mate has power).
The eight-limbed body balances on new, fresh, glue-clad web while she contemplates the perfect moment to dance on her elastic tightrope forcing me at the mercy of her whim to remember her elusive iron-barred domain of skillfully spun netting that h a n g s in plain sight.
sol recedit
Jia Flynn
I wept for you in the garden.
Those charismatic ministers, all crocodile smiles and newly shined shoes, promised the touch of Jesus would make you whole. But that vengeful Trinity drained your color, whitewashed you in the blood of the lamb until you were a sad, wrung out rag of a girl. And for the love of god, you let them.
The artist within you, covered in paint, a wild, scarlet-haired beauty with fierce eyes, armed with those deadly things: ideas bristling with that dangerous desire — independence screams,
“I want to live a Technicolor life!”
But Jesus tells you, “Be blue.” So you’re blue.
Three hundred fifty colors at your fingertips, all abandoned, needlepoint in the box. Sleek and polished, aching to be touched.
Let go. Indulge in sumptuous, summer violets, and run away with me in the rainbow wake of a thunderstorm’s violence.
Living is a citrus explosion, come with me, and taste the cotton-candy collision of clouds at the break of day.
Hallelujah, our human hearts bleed sunlight and wine.
But Jesus tells you, “Be blue.”
Ancient Pug
Dara North
Her fawn-colored fur has paled to silver sunshine and her velvety black muzzle looks speckled with white-out. An underbelly once toned and dusky rose is wrinkled and spotted brown. Eyes formerly as lustrous as onyx are now dull and watery and crusted. Her claws grow into her paw pads. Her tail uncurls with exhaustion. She breathes her metallic breath, chews with four teeth, leans heavily to the right, poor little body riddled with growths that occasionally weep. My old girl sounds a right mess. The vet murmurs at her sight. But her tongue is candy pink, her mind is tack sharp. She still smiles when I come home and barks with devastating authority and burrows against my back at night ever vying for the pillow. Sweet fragile cranky snoring thing.
Compromise
Colby B. Fox
The Sun Also Rises is the greatest book I ever read, But I won’t ask you to read it, or even discuss it, If you promise to never talk about Atlas Shrugged Ever again.
When we go for long drives on Sunday I will leave my Johnny Cash cds at home If you’ll promise to lose the anthology Of Harry Chapin mix tapes You’ve made for me.
The other night we drove to four gas stations And spent our last ten dollars On a case of the beer you like. Every placed we stopped had mine.
Why do we waste so much time Trying to convert each other?
I feel like some kind of weird missionary Preaching the gospel of my own interests To a heathen who hides the crossword puzzle Until I go to work.
You want me to be like you. I want you to be like me. How long can a relationship last When this is the only reason either of us Has for sticking around?
You will know before I will.
San Francisco: Human Study I
Jia Flynn
After the rain, the city is eggshells, onions and garlic. It is the musty stink of sex, and acidic air fills my lungs.
Husks of humanity run ragged on the streets, dried out smoked apples, wrinkled rags reeking of liquor. One mutters to himself — and we move away from his dark and secret world. Across the street and into the wind.
But I have walked down those tunnels of bubbled tile and trains full of men and women with hollow eyes. I rode next to them on the way to Walnut Creek. These people are cracked china dolls, eggshell-bright and vacant-eyed, and I am one of them come to life.
A glass and marble city rushing from place to place, filled with the ineffable beauty of life, and all I see are old men with shopping carts, moving, breathing sculpture made of the coal refuse from this diamond city.
Fog over the cables. Fog over the bridge. I feel compelled to jump.
Indecision: My Rocking Chair
Kyle Webb
As old as the Polaroid. The creaking of wood on wood, shades of grain shown through smooth gloss.
How can I choose when I can’t even stand?
Decrepit bulbs bright on the summer porch, lighting the night, bringing fireflies to life. Until zap, sizzle, wings fall on fire to ash beneath rolling arches. Rock to and fro. Back and forth.
Both ways, the scarecrow points. “That way.” How should I go?
Hopeless pursuit to fall in ruin. Running down a pipe dream, clutching the coattails of what? Bitter patience collects dust with disuse. The amounting aggravation of heaven’s waiting room. Laughter or tears. Either choice bears both or none. I just can’t decide which to chase.
The Monsoon
Colby B. Fox
The onslaught was unleashed during the night. The clouds had been gathering unseen for days Planning their strategy, peeking over the horizon, Biding their time, waiting for just the right moment To invade the coastal Japanese harbor.
The attack had been going on for hours by the time I awoke. The streets had become a swift moving river, Like savage barbarians terrorizing a village. It was shallow, not yet cresting the curb, But still menacing in its way.
A text message told me not to bother coming into work. Save myself. Stay home, stay dry. Those noble bastards. I hope they make it. My only comrade is the cat who hangs out on the patio.
He has found his way inside. He looks pissed. His yellow eyes are squinted in disapproval. His ears are laid back and his fur is matted down Around his chest like a smelly breast plate.
Outside the invasion goes on. The great cloud armada has descended And the rain is everywhere at once, Coming down like a soggy arrow volley.
And what about the wind, where is it? Will it be as merciless as the rain? Will it come streaking down from the mountain Like some fierce, invisible cavalry, Overturning cars and ripping away awnings?
A knock at the door puts me and the cat on our guard. I expect to find war-torn refugees.
Saturated remnants of a far off-region
Where this godless weather has ransacked their homes, Destroyed their farms, and has marched on.
Instead, I find my friends from down the street. They are splashing through my garage and laughing. They’ve braved the storm in rolled up jeans And newspaper pirate hats.
They’ve brought sake and Tupperware containers
Filled with those fried egg things I like so much. The disaster hasn’t touched them. Hell, they’ve been shopping!
“What are you doing?” I ask dumbfounded. “The rain…the-the- the clouds…!
Aren’t you terrified of the storm for chrissakes?” “No, man.” Keiko says. “Is jes’ monsoon.”
A Cloudy Day
Jake Vermillion
Even as the mist swirls from the Heavens, Even as the dew of the earth rises up to meet itself, Calling the celestial bodies to cloak themselves in obscurity, Provoking the mysterious setting in of the gray skies that commit themselves to the interrogation of our eyes,
Even as the sun withholds its rays from the earth, Even as the cool green blades of grass search for her majesty, Shouting for the renewal of the clouds gilded in sunlight, Provoking the eternal cry of desperation when the earth and the sky part to provide the onslaught of rain, I wait.
Daughter of Laura Ashley
Joy Julio
Daughter of a dress, a covering cloth funnel possessing a gaudy floral print, a horrible hemline. Never a runway masterpiece—just a used, shapeless flour sack, rough and functional. There’s no fit, form, or flattery here. Made for a woman taller and more full-figured, a hand-me-down. Because of that I can’t simply donate this closet-bound shroud to Goodwill, a betrayal of blood and fabric. She was a gift. After all, I’ll just grow into her later.
Weathered
Kyle Webb
The weathervane. The rust red rooster jerking in the wind atop the roof. It’s an antique now. I can relate.
It was next to new, lying on a table at the flea market. Gwyn loved it. The spark in her eyes as her fingers glided over the rough wrought iron surface. My face was all grin. Best ten bucks spent on the new house yet.
Forty two years. Half the tail feathers are gone now, along with the S. As a New Yorker, Gwyn thought it funny that only the S went. It squeaks, turning with each Midwestern gust.
Not too long ago I nearly broke my neck because of it. Winds got bad and a twister warning had been issued. Gwyn didn’t want me to risk it, but I went up anyway. I saved the scrap from being blown to oblivion. Slipped on the damn ladder coming down. Just a close call, but still.
I’m not looking forward to doing it again. But it’s for her. It was her baby. Barren, she latched onto the weathervane instead. I suggested a puppy. She just smiled. She’d be happy that it still holds up.
My eyes squint as I stare up at it. The sky is darkening.
“Storm’s a comin,’” as they would say. “No,” I’d reply. “It already came.”
Change
Jerry Leafgreen
Circling high above in a bruised sky, troubled clouds brood and scheme to drown the sun. Black birds swirl like spilt ink and curse the solstice. The fall wind claws at barren trees with frozen fingers. Dead autumn leaves heed the master’s call and rustle in their shallow graves. Brittle, arthritic limbs sway against their will, dancing to the silent symphony of change.
Virtue
Matt Pierson
S he was seated in the third row about six persons from the middle aisle. The people weren’t sitting close together, though; the gaps spanned from two to ten inches. Her hands were neatly set in her lap, thumbs on top, fingers mixed together. She was at rapt attention and, to her knowledge, so was everyone else.
The church sanctuary was filled to standard capacity, that is, about 85% full. There was a man on stage, and he was saying things like “Paul only makes one allowance for divorce” and “However, Jesus said in Matthew, Chapter Two, that if a man lusts after a woman, then he has committed adultery with her already in his heart.”
S he fiddled with her wedding band, tapped her foot, but became enraptured again. There was a boy on her left who was sitting in the maroon-clothed pew ten feet down the row from her. He was swinging his short legs and sitting on his hands and humming to himself. He was humming “Come Thou Fount,” the hymn they had sung before the pastor started preaching. She smiled and asked to no one, “The trouble is, when do you know that your spouse is cheating on you in their heart?”
Marie, her friend who was sitting on her right, leaned over. “ When they start going down to the bar every day for two hours after work, is when.”
Rose smiled again.
Marie steamed on: “Don’t be so sure that yours was so in love when he died, either, Rose. It’s better that he died; he can’t cheat if he’s dead.” She looked at Marie and tried to give her that wide-eyed look that said “I love you” but without interrupting the sermon.
Rose looked back at the preacher after she was done and unfolded her hands and tapped her foot. The little boy on her left was still swinging his legs, but his parents had already told him to stop once. He caught her glance, sheepishly looked away,
and stopped swinging his legs. He took his hands out from under him and then tapped a little beat on his legs. The beat was to the melody of “Come Thou Font.” He felt her gaze again, glanced up, then down and stopped. He put his hands in his pockets and stared blankly at the preacher. Rose looked back at the preacher; his face was red from the heat of his oratory and the heat of the South. He was just getting to the overall idea behind his whole sermon: God decides when and if one should divorce.
Rose looked and saw a couple across the aisle. They were young, and in love, and obviously not paying attention. They were holding hands and staring straight ahead, and every few seconds one of them would glance at the other. Every five minutes (or so) they attracted Rose’s attention by shifting positions in their pew as if they hadn’t gotten used to the feel of the other. Rose smiled when she thought of that. The pastor closed his sermon with a prayer, a prayer to enable the hearts of all to see God’s will in all their actions and daily life. No matter what they were having trouble with, God would help them in their need. Rose glanced up from her bowed position. She saw the couple massaging each other’s hands. She saw the little boy swinging his legs. She saw Marie massaging her empty left ring finger. Rose touched her own wedding band, folded her hands, tapped her foot and smiled.
Curse of the Crooner
Kyle Webb
Ol’ Blue Eyes croons as you swoon in the moonlight. Silky smooth and clichéd till the sun goes down. Time after time, and all for nothing. The blast of brass when you’re horny. A little sax when you face the facts and see that life’s all Days of Our Lives. Keys lead in faithful fashion when you reminisce, wishing to relive those Precious Moments. It had to be you. No others would do. For those blonde bobby soxers screaming. Just wonderful you. Posing for paparazzi, claiming the hot seat, lounging the throne. All that money you see yourself swimming in. It’s that easy listening. That voice like no other. Yeah, man. That’s what it is. That record, man.
Frank Sinatra.
Yeah, that’s what you call it. Desire.
*First place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2009
Cougars
Are they:
Distinction
Dara North
Stalking us over the rocky terrain
Avidly eyeing our jugulars
As we graze on shrubs. They see our outward appearance and Think we’re fluff (Sweet mistaken for weak). They want to make a kill.
Yet So intent are they On one aspect that They don’t see Our lupine eyes
Carefully assessing them; The hasty concealment of Jagged canines under smooth lips; The stealthy flex of claws Beneath the guise of cloven hooves.
Oh!
How astonished are they When we snarl
As they pounce (Revelation most untimely).
We stand our ground, Force their retreat, and Make them see that Just because we’re lambs Doesn’t make us sheep.
Porch Light Sister
Christian Walker
The wheels stop and shove against the gravel. I place my hand on the door handle. Darkness sifts through the air like smog, molding to the shape of my car. But a deep yellow light rips a hole through the dense blanket. She shines the brightest in the dark.
I’m not that bright. I slump down the driveway, pushing aside crackly leaves and stubbing my toes on gray stumps. But she reminds me where home is, a lighthouse for the lonely driver.
As I make my way closer, I see a few insects orbiting around her like twitchy moons. When they get too close, she sets the bugs on fire, sending them hurtling like meteors to the dusty welcome mat, wings twitching and legs curling in like burnt twigs. Her golden light can be deceiving.
Sometimes she fizzes out with a buzz or a bang, reminding me I can find my own way home.
Max and the Monsters
Adam Guiles
Max is a quiet boy, only nine years old; Full of good manners, never catches cold.
Obedient and docile, shy and thin, He longs to go places he’s never been.
At eight in the evening, he’s promptly sent to bed Where somber dreams travel through his tiny head.
Other boys dream of living in castles far off.
Max has adventures with Lon Chaney, Jr. and Boris Karloff.
Each night he is met by these monsters in makeup And, hands joined, they hurry before it’s time to wake up.
Ambling together through misty forests dark and still, They at last spy a house on a grim haunted hill.
As Max approaches, the door opens on its own In a slow arc backwards as the rusty hinges moan.
Inside the eerie darkness lurks something quiet and unknown; The Wolf Man growls with menace and the monster gives a groan.
“Good evening,” greets a voice in quiet, gentle tones. The lamps go up slowly, sending a chill to Max’s bones.
The empty room yields not a single soul in sight As the trio gaze about, seeking their host for the night.
“I’m the Invisible Man” explains a voice which played him twice In the soft, sinister accent of none other than Vincent Price.
“Now that you’ve arrived, my friends, we are ready to begin. We couldn’t start without you, so make haste and please go in.”
Another door creaks open, revealing a lone coffin. As a curious Max approaches, it starts to slowly open.
Who can be inside? Which lonely creature of the night? A dead white hand appears, and a figure sits upright.
“I bid you welcome,” he smiles, and everyone must know he Is the undead Count Dracula, immortalized by Bela Lugosi.
Another famous monster comes to join him at his side; In flowing white robes stands Frankenstein’s bride.
“And now” the count declares, “we cannot wait a second more. Long have we been waiting to present what is in store.”
In the back of the dark room, an antique projector rumbles And from its dusty lens a column of light tumbles.
A cinematic score brings excitement to every creature, As they hurriedly seat themselves to enjoy the double feature.
Frankenstein and The Wolf Man; Max’s imagination churns As a monster transforms by moonlight and a lonely windmill burns.
When the pictures finish, he asks “All this time, where have you been?” They respond “In your imagination, where you can visit us again.”
And so each night Max journeys to the theater of his mind’s eye, Where gloom and shadow give comfort and monsters never die.
Lights:
Center Stage
Tawanah Reeves
Blinding, burning, building, escalating to temperatures of untold and unknown parameters. Uncovering, unveiling, and revealing every makeup mistake I want to hide.
Camera:
Flashing, firing, filming, capturing moment to moment maneuvers right, wrong, and indifferent. Seeing, freezing, and keeping the upstage movement I wanted downright.
Action:
Moving, motivating, morphing, transforming mere words into a living will filled with the make-believe made real. Hearing, knowing, understanding the precise picture I painted for my audience.
Curtain:
Curtsying, caring, cheering, leaving behind another world, another people, another age only known for a few moments and an eternity at a time. Waving, loving, waiting for the next night on my center stage.
Bird with No Name
Jia Flynn
I met Wren Andrews over the counter of a Starbucks Cafe in a chain bookstore. I was on a business trip down in a resort town in Northwest Florida, and jonesing for some caffeine. The second I had a foot over the threshold, the smell of warm peanut butter cookies greeted me along with a singing “Good morning! Be right with you, sir!”
My skinny vanilla latte with an extra shot came across the pseudo-marble counter top at me in record time, accompanied by the punch line to a joke she’d begun over pulling the espresso.
An honest smile, admittedly snaggle-toothed. A shock of pink hair and a pan-American accent. Three bright silver piercings in her left ear. A limp, a nervous stammer and a brace on her right hand.
O ver a month or so, in between meetings and basking in the sun-warmed glory of fifth-floor balcony beach-front view, I got to know Wren Andrews. I learned that Wren was a pseudonym, and, thank you, she didn’t need another older man stalking her, she’d had enough.
Wren called me Mister Sir. I never told her my name. She told me I didn’t need to. She knew me as my drink, the sound of my shoes and my terrific taste in ties.
Occasionally, Wren would say something beyond the small talk of customer service, a cynical quip about gun rights and the idiocy of the current American government, a few snatches of Shakespeare, a brief anecdote about her time as a musician. Wren scrabbled as an illustrator and chased storms for fun and traveled to New York once to play in Carnegie Hall.
You never forget that, she’d said.
Wren confessed to me she went to college only because she was on her parents’ insurance and couldn’t avoid therapy.
I watched her with the other customers, freelancing from time to time as a psychologist, a business advisor, a matchmaker, an entertainer and a mediator. I saw her shy before her
superiors, give way to pushy, frustrated co-workers, stammer in front of the mass of fat, sun-burnt Southerners that came in wanting “a plain ole coffee, dammit, and don’t you put none that flavor shit in it. I just want a damn coffee.”
W hen it got really dead, she’d stand behind the dingy register and stare off with black eyes into the land of fiction. Leaning forward, chin cupped in one small hand, Wren’s expression darkened. The light melted off her face and left her as a storm gathered over Choctawhatchee Bay.
“ What’s wrong?” I’d asked, moving away from my curtain of the Wall Street Journal.
“Regret’s a bitch,” and she smiled.
“ What do you mean?”
“Just is.”
Love Letter from the Crestview Hilton
Loren Boyer
You are my gated community. Safe inside your eyes, I hide your photo in my mail and remember moving with you. Like lightning on a lake, cats celebrating the dark, we screamed together.
No amateur orange jump-suit dealers rattling spoons on metal cots barking at the lock-down. No shared shitters and gold-tooth threats grinning.
We’ll have an estate with giant walls, oak-lined and a black iron gate. No crack-head will steal your picture if I turn my back.
Self Portrait
Chalk, Pastel
Chelsea Alford
Old Country Farm House Oil
Son Hae Allen
Man with the Hat
Pastel
Joan M. Langham
Under the Everlasting Arms
Photograph Christina Faulkner
Cherry Blossoms Oil
Chris Sirico
Wither Conte Crayon / Charcoal
Lizzy Chalonpka
Dealing with Men
Raku
Anita Hester
Kayla M. Richter
Not the Ending She Envisioned
Dara North
Bug Mixed Media
Adam Thair Stevens
Back Tattoo Photograph
Lola Miles
Under the Bridge
Photograph
Samantha Johnson
The Apple Watercolor
Rhoda Ramirez de Arellano
Edward J. Lewis
Ice Plant Photograph
Tanjoor Painting (Gayathri)
Watercolor and Gold Foil Aasha Sriram
Oxidation Station
Jane Montgomery
Photograph
Watercolor
Rhoda Ramirez de Arellano
Life is Just a Bowl of Dark Sweet Cherries
Watercolor Anna Koester
Windy Day Oil
Son Hae Allen
Philodendrum Pastel
Rhoda Ramirez de Arellano
Digital Collage
Joshua Engelkens
Chasing Cars Mixed Media
Edanette Marquez
Ginko’s Golden Glow
Watercolor
Sharon James
Sight and Sound
Colored Pencil
Edanette Marquez
In Loving Memory 1982-2008
Emily M. Knudsen
Graphite
Venetian Glassblower Oil
Chris Sirico
First Stop Oil
Stephanie Crow
Emily M. Knudsen
White Iris Oil
Uncle Jimmy’s Riverhouse, Demopolis Oil
Sandra Clay Harrison
Tropical Beauty Oil
Son Hae Allen
Entities of Color
Dye on Silk
Anita Hester
Perseverance
Kayla M. Richter
Raku
White Noise
Kyle Webb
Deep aisles of multicolored products. Eyes peer between boxes of dry and drab: Ritz, Jif, Coffeemate. Aluminum cylinders of condensed mush pose as pieces in a game with Deep Blue. Tap, tap, shuffle, squeak, tap, shuffle. “Attention shoppers. The owner of a red Chevy Nova, your lights are on.” Springsteen and Bowie, the deafening roar of the ordinary nothing: Omnipresent, inaudible.
Hush—like that quiet you only notice as something tragic: Helen Keller on Jeopardy. Death in association with static, noise: Uniform White Television snow. Suffocation by waves and radiation, a post-modern, suburban novel clutched to the heart of a Liberal Arts major like a mummified Pharaoh. Let the Muzak flow.
For My Father Who Isn’t a Rock Star But Might Have Been If He Weren’t Ordained
Joy Julio
Father: Ex Rock Star.
Maybe he was big when hair and synthesizers were. And when shirts were sequined. Maybe he still thinks he’s big and that his clothing glitters. Platinum records and magazine covers, lipstick-caked fan mail and t-shirts of his face. They’re all water-stained testaments to packed arena concerts that he holds onto with white knuckled-fists. Pilgrims come still but not in microbuses or on motorcycles. He is eager to please them. They honor and praise and if they take advantage of his autographs, lay them upon a pyre to eBay, he won’t mind. He’ll feel blessed to help.
He says he is a servant to the deity of Rock When Rock demands sacrifice, he sacrifices, smashing one flaming Les Paul after another. He’s no longer revered and won’t be beatified. Pope George Ringo II makes no allowances for either this world’s has-beens or the next’s. Unfazed and unashamed, my father still plays a revival concert or two. The rest of the time he spends alone. He is locked away in his acoustic sanctuary with his leathers and amplified altars to Rock. I might forget he was there if it weren’t for the sound of his constant practicing.
Virgin Daiquiris in New York City
Clarence Norbert Quinlan, IV
My reflection glared at me, the slender face taunting me with his mockery. The image in the mirror scanned my face with a disapproving air, his eyes widening as they locked on to the newest aberration forming on my face. The pimple, if you could call something so beastly such a simple word, had taken root in the ridge of my nose, directly between the eyes. A perfect target for snipers. Its white head stood straight and proud, growing every second. Not even the globs of cover-up I had swiped from my sister could hide this beast. I slapped the tiny car mirror shut; it did nothing for my looks.
I stepped out of my Mom’s van onto freshly laid pavement. I hated the smell. You could taste the road worker’s sweat mixed in the concrete. I looked up at the school before me. Every building was a different size, shape or design. The odd, angular buildings near the front glistened in all their post-modern glory, trying hard to hide the aged brick buildings behind them. Yep, definitely a community college.
“Honey, have a nice time tonight, and don’t forget what I told you this morning.”
I faced my mother.
“I f you forget to take the trash out again, I’m taking away everything that’s dear to you. Have a nice night.” And with a smile, she closed the door in my face.
Nothing like a violent threat to start off prom night. The van pulled away with a shriek, leaving me alone in the massive parking lot. Bright neon lights flashed in the windows of the community hall, the thumping dance beats drumming like a cannibalistic chant. By the looks of things, the dancing had already started, or as I called it, clothed intercourse.
My date’s plastic corsage case crinkled awkwardly in my sweaty hand; I stared at the small collection of roses and frill . . . the first prom date test was approaching. Even now I could
not recall whether it was the dress or the hand that I tied the flower to. Either way, with my luck, I’d just end up sticking her with the pin by accident. And if she wasn’t the one going home with open wounds, it would be me.
The safety pin holding my pants together poked awkwardly into my lower stomach. Each jab just ingrained the reminder even deeper, that this freshly dry cleaned suit was only a mish mash of Goodwill deals and third year hand-medowns. Suddenly I felt the pin undo around my pants and that familiar sound. POP. My black slacks dropped a few inches as the safety pin snapped out of place. Third time tonight. This can’t be a coincidence. After checking the barren parking lot for peering eyes, teachers, or lucky news crews, I re-attached my makeshift fly. Mother had sworn that this downgraded Swiss knife would hold my faded pants together.
“Better a pin to fly than a button to hold,” she had kept repeating. Though I had no earthly idea what that could even begin to mean, I took solace in the fact that I had three spare pins in my jacket pocket. I walked slowly in the direction of the drumming music, taking each step with careful precision and poise. The tune now bursting forth had switched to a familiar reggae hit that I had done my best to avoid on the radio. I reached the front doors and made my way through a line of aging females who all seemed to shoot me strained and slightly confused looks. Maybe my pin had popped without my noticing. I double checked my business: all clear. Still they stared, concentrated and bewildered. It could be my Indian jewel of a zit they were sneering at; I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it had gone off all over them. I reached to check when a lady whose age seemed to be cheating death piped up.
“I…don’t see you on the list, sir. Are you a collegiate student?”
Her voice was nails on a chalkboard, but I managed to respond.
“Uh, actually no, but my ticket should work; my name is right ther—“
“Nice try, son, but I think the Fleetmill High prom might be the address you were looking for.” The old lady wore a hat of large bright red flowers and highly tinted sun glasses.
In seconds my brain registered a sharp, witty response and was on the brink of unleashing it when another voice, a lovely voice, cut me off.
“It’s okay, Ms. Meyer.”
I spun my body to face her.
“He’s with me,” Amélie said in a soft but firm voice.
S he stepped into the light, and I felt every nerve ending in my face erupt into a brilliant blush. She looked breathtaking, to say the least. Her white gown fit her figure like a custom designed glove, the train falling to the floor in piles of satin and frill. Her dark brown hair was pulled up into a fancy do of considerable polish. A few curly locks dangled out of place at precise locations around her neck, accenting her smooth olive skin. It was Amélie Lynd, my best friend since as long as I could remember, and the most wonderful girl I had ever laid eyes on. Amélie and her family had transferred to the area from Port-Grimaud, France, when I entered the third grade. We were placed into the same class, where we discovered our inner talent, Four Square. We quickly bonded over a mutual love of the game. Now at the innocent age of seventeen, not only was she the most desired girl in the North Shore area, but she had been chosen as class president two years in a row. Amélie, the girl I was unfortunately completely in love with.
S he reached up and adjusted my poor tie knotting job. “You look quite dashing yourself, Mr. Weston.”
I smiled as a second wave of heat crossed my face, positive my disposition strongly resembled a beet. I let out a small laugh. “Sorry…wow, you look, beautiful,” I stammered. Her eyes lit up and she broke into the childish grin I adored. “Well, thank you. That’s my job, buddy.” She grabbed my hand and led me quickly through the double doors, toward the pounding music and spinning strobe lights, and right into the den of strange and hormonal teenagers. I sighed but then sucked it back in; this was what I signed up for.
The hall was very long and rectangular with extremely high ceilings. The walls were covered in cardboard shapes of city skylines and skyscrapers. A canvas sheet painted in deep dark
Quinlan / 75
blue with dots of yellow served as the night sky and backing for the city façade surrounding us. Apparently this year’s theme for prom was “Nights in New York City”; it was astounding how desperate these collegiate folk were to escape their own reality. The layout of the room was simple enough: tables set up in no particular pattern, a dance floor located obnoxiously in the middle of room. In the left corner there appeared to be a mini bar that was bringing in a generous amount of business. I allowed myself a double take at this scene; wow, they actually had a mini bar. At Fleetmill High going all out for an event meant unlimited pizza flavored bagel bites and Budweiserspiked punch, if they were lucky.
Amélie still held my hand tightly, navigating me through the swirling hurricane of extravagant dresses and dark clouds of tuxedo rentals. This mine field of delicate fabrics and expensive heels seemed to never end as we weaved back and forth through the pulsating crowd. We finally emerged from the storm, and I paused to take a deep breath, but Amélie would have nothing of it.
“Come on, James,” she yelled through the pounding music. “I want you to meet some of my friends!”
We stopped at a table near the back of the room where about five or six teenagers were seated; a few of the girls were chatting, most were texting, and the guys looked like stiff but suave wax figures. Their haircuts were uniform in shape, all somewhat resembling umbrellas with upturned ends and bleached tips. This was definitely the popular kids’ table. Amélie pushed me slightly in front of her. “Hey, guys, this is James, my friend I told you about.”
She smiled widely and turned to me with pleading eyes; I guessed that was the signal for me to say something clever or funny. I fumbled with my coat buttons and did a half wave. “Uh, yeah . . . hey guys. What’s up?”
No one moved. The girls continued to text and the guys took tiny sips on their drinks. I think I heard one mumble something that came out sounding like low bubbling. Amélie turned towards me and mouthed a word that looked apologetic when a
bleached blonde to my right slapped her phone shut and looked up towards me. Her make-up caked face scanned me once over before switching into a snide smile she probably reserved for her mother and ugly babies. Her leering gaze switched to Amélie.
“ Where is Austin? Last I checked you were supposed to bring your boyfriend to prom.” She shot me another look. “But I guess that was sweet of you to bring a Fleetmill High kid. ” S he held back a laugh. “They don’t get out much.”
Wow, I liked this one already.
“Austin is sick,” Amélie said through clenched teeth. “Lindsey, I’ve told you this twice already.”
Lindsey sighed sarcastically. “Whatever, girl. All I’m saying is tonight could have been the night for you and Austin.”
I barely heard Amélie’s breath catch above the roar of the dance music. Her bottom lip trembled slightly before she gathered her dress and headed off into the crowd. Lindsey didn’t seem to notice; she was already texting again.
I turned to follow Amélie, but the mass of people had already swallowed her up. Pushing through the lines of people, I scanned the area. Everyone looked the same; every color and shade of dress seemed to blend together into a pool of murky whitewash. She was nowhere to be seen. Amélie had told me about her “friends,” especially Lindsey. I couldn’t say I was surprised, though; people like Lindsey and her band of cohorts were exactly what I had warned Amélie about when she told me about joining this school. Their methods were precise and lethal. If you were pretty and especially if you were impressionable, they would reel you in with their flattery, secretly stick their feeding tubes into you and proceed to suck your happiness and self worth until you fell into their ranks, or shriveled up to the point of being useless. Maybe I was a little bitter, maybe not.
I stopped near the mini bar and grabbed a stool. The bar, like the rest of the room, was styled as New York City at night, right down to the yellow moon backdrop behind the fake window. Various bottles of fine wine and vintage alcoholic
Quinlan / 77
beverages lined the front counters, all empty, of course. The real drinks being served tonight were imitation cocktails, non-alcoholic strawberry daiquiris and the like. I tapped the bartender and ordered a Manhattan cocktail, easy on the whip cream. I checked my watch. 9:34. I noticed the ink message written on my palm had smeared, but most of the words still remained. They read “Tell her tonight—do it!” The rest of the note had been blurred beyond recognition.
T here had been many times throughout the years when I came close to telling Amélie how I felt. Fortunately my sensible side had won out each time a crack formed in my resolve. In Amélie’s mind I was the brother she never had, a position that provided front row seats to her rapidly changing love life and emotionally charged rants. The latest on her buffet of male suitors was Austin, an Abercrombie model Amélie continually raved about. But I looked around the room and smiled a smug grin. It wasn’t Austin at her side tonight; he was at home eating worms. Tonight, she was my girl. I grabbed a napkin and scrubbed my hand clean; my Carey Grant scene would have to wait. My order slid across the counter and into my hand when the stool next to me groaned loudly. I watched the fellow struggle to find a good balance on the chair, heaving and breathing violently. He was a plump kid, with oiled back hair and a suit two sizes too small. I began to count the number of his chins when his large hand slapped my shoulder.
“ I’ll have whatever he’s havin’,” he shouted to the bartender. He threw his hand forward towards me, almost forcing me to shake it.
“ Stubbs McLean,” he said through of mouthful of pretzels and punch. “Happy to meet cha.”
H is voice was rough but jovial, almost like he’d been smoking for ages. His cocktail arrived and he swiped it up, downing the glass in one motion. His face grimaced at the drink’s carbonated bite, and he wiped his mouth on his already stained shirt cuff.
“ Did you know,” he said as he signaled for another
drink, “the odds of my girlfriend ditching me tonight were fairly low?” The smile dropped from his face, and he turned his head to stare off to the left. “But now, I’m not too sure.”
I followed his gaze across the room into a dark corner where a couple sat making out. Stubbs turned away, taking a loud, long sip on his second round. I felt bad for this stranger, but I was unsure as to the action to take. Maybe Amélie knew this guy; perhaps she could give him someone else to spill his angst upon. In a desperate attempt to escape, I stood and said, “Sorry, Stubbs, that’s, that must be rough.”
I jumped when his sweaty hand clutched mine and squeezed quite hard. He pulled me slowly towards him, and he stared deep into my eyes. I tried to pull back but his iron grip forced me closer. He stopped three inches away from my face, and silently I prayed he wouldn’t kiss me.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his salty breath hitting me full force. “Thank God for friends like you.” He suddenly let me go and stood out of his stool, lifting his hands high into the air.
“Fr iends,” he shouted, addressing the crowd that paid no attention to him, “I’m afraid it’s time I took my leave. My stay has been far over extended, and it’s just now occurred to me that my favorite TV show, Mystery Science Theater, is on.”
W hen his speech ended he turned to face me, and I finally saw the tears streaming down his face. “I’m going to get some cake,” he sniffled. “And then, probably get out of here.” He slurped down the little bit of cocktail that remained and turned away.
“Hey, man, you sure you’re okay?” I asked. He stopped for a moment, and rubbed his greasy hair even flatter against his head.
“Hey, Joe,” Stubbs muttered, motioning to man behind the counter, “how ‘bout another round for my friend; he’s gonna need it.”
He flipped a single shiny nickel, which landed directly in the palm of the confused bartender.
“Um, it’s more than a nickel, Stubbs,” Joe said. But Stubbs
had already disappeared into the swirling mix of teenagers.
I finished paying for both the drinks when Amélie suddenly appeared at my side.
“There you are!” she said through a beaming smile. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I was afraid Lindsey and her friends had strung you up somewhere.”
I had been slightly annoyed for being left alone in this brothel house of pain, but when she smiled into my eyes like that, she could stick a chopstick in my ear and I wouldn’t care. Yes, smitten would be a good word for it. I was in deep smitt.
“ Where have you been?” I asked. “How could you leave me alone with these animals?”
“It builds confidence,” she teased. “Speaking of confidence . . . were you about to buy me a drink?”
I reached for my wallet when I realized that my friend Stubbs had cleared me out of funds with his unpaid cocktails. Bullocks, now I’m lanky, unpopular, AND poor.
S he read my unsure expression and just laughed.
“Don’t worry about it. I’d rather dance anyway.”
My heart nearly stopped as I felt myself being again dragged across the room, towards the pulsating heart of the room.
“Couldn’t we just see what Lindsey is up to?” I shouted. “We could sketch on napkins.” I yelled as loud as I could, but the music did a fine job of drowning me out. Before I had time to plea again, I found myself thrust into the middle of a hundred sweaty, gyrating bodies. I stood awkwardly, trying not to be toppled by the occasional hip thrust and arm extension. The lights flipped on and off in rapid fire motion, the unrelenting beat pounding into my being with the force of a train engine. I felt as though I might get sick as my head began to swim. My body barely stood erect, like a flagpole being tossed back and forth in a storm. I opened my eyes and tried to focus. I watched her turn and sway to the music; she appeared to be enjoying herself, almost like she was dreaming. Maybe I was simply doing it all wrong. I gazed at Amélie and did my best to imitate her motions. I twisted my hips and shook my rear just like she did,
moving my hands in circular rhythms to the music. I thought I was getting it. I could almost feel the music like a wave beneath me. A stronger beat struck and I got even more into it. I slid to the left, then to the right and jerked up quickly when I noticed Amélie pausing to smile at me. I sent her a returning smile. “I think I’m getting the hang of this!”
But that’s when I noticed some other couples stopping to smile, and a few started laughing.
“ You dance like a chick, dude!” someone shouted.
Hoots and whistles began erupting from the crowd as all attention on the dance floor turned to me.
“Sexy,” a girl laughed. I stood frozen in place, the waves of heat smothering me and holding me motionless. My eyes jerked from one laughing face to the next. I felt as though I might pass out when suddenly a soft hand grabbed mine and pulled me through the crowd of leering faces.
We emerged from the hall into the cool night air, and I took in a deep, panicked breath. I leaned up against the brick wall and slowly slid down to the pavement sidewalk, and that’s when I heard it. POP. The safety pin on my fly sprang loose, letting the flaps of my slacks hang slightly open. I quickly grabbed the two ends and held them together, but not before Amélie noticed my exposed undershirt and boxers. She held her hand up to her mouth to cover a small smile that was growing, and a rage suddenly grew in me.
“I’m sorry, Amélie, okay?” I shouted, standing to my feet. “I apologize for being your date tonight. I’m sorry Ashton, or Austin or whoever he is, couldn’t be here to take you and dance right for you.”
S he looked visibly hurt, but at the moment, that was exactly my intent.
“And those people in there? Those are your friends? Amélie, they’re nothing but leeches! Why won’t you believe me? You never do anymore.”
S he rolled her eyes slightly and looked away.
“And poor Austin is all alone at home sick. But no worries. Good old James can work as a back-up plan any day.
Quinlan / 81
Well, I’m happy to help—”
“He’s not sick,” she whispered. I paused for a moment, trying to reestablish myself after being interrupted mid-rant.
“ What? Who…who’s not?” I stammered.
S he stared off into the distance, a look of pain growing on her face.
“Austin. He’s not sick. Last night, he kinda broke up with me, over the phone.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine, and I took a small step backwards, eyes open, mouth shut.
“I didn’t want to tell everyone right away, and coming to prom dateless would be kind of obvious.” She ran her palm against her eyes and let out a low laugh.
“Sorry for dragging you along into my pity party, James; it was selfish of me.”
And with that she picked her gown off the floor and walked down the sidewalk into the darkness.
A gain, I stood alone by the empty parking lot. Maybe this is where I belonged, away from the danger of ruining someone’s night or making myself look like a complete fool. I think they have establishments for people like me. I looked up into the night sky; the moon was full and bright, but still the blanket of stars shone through. I gathered a strange sense of peace from the random web of lights above me. So intricate yet so masterfully held into place with perfection. An expanse of beauty that seemed close enough to reach out and touch. That is life, I suppose.
T his night had not gone according to plan in the slightest. I had run the plan of eventually telling Amélie how I feel over and over again in my head. It seemed flawless. I knew subconsciously that I would never actually attempt such a confession, but at least I could have been there for her tonight. Amélie didn’t need another guy to sweep her off her feet, to make her feel complete. What she needed, and especially needed tonight, was someone there for her when she was broken. I had failed at the only thing
I was good for. I stared off down the sidewalk where she had gone. There was still time, and tonight was not one for selfish romance.
I fixed my fly and followed the walk until it ended, breaking off into a trail that led to the baseball and softball fields. The darkness was thick around me as I made my way down the path, doing my best to avoid the low hanging branches and limbs. I emerged from the woods and scanned the open expanse. The light from the moon lit everything in a pale blue color, providing just enough light to see. It took only moments to spot her white gown in the soft lunar light. She had climbed onto one of the dugouts along the baseball diamond. Amélie and I had been here many times to stargaze, or when a particular big shower was announced. I walked quietly down to where she lay and hopped up on the side of rusty dugout. She lay silent on the flat of her back, eyes open and thoughtful.
“Amélie.” It came out as a hoarse whisper, and I cleared my throat. “Hey, it’s James.”
S he lay still.
“Amélie, I’m sorry. That was wrong of me to accuse you like I did. I feel just like a real loser. And I’m sorry.”
S he finally turned her head and smiled at me, but I could see where the tears had not fully dried on her cheek.
“It’s okay, James. I needed to hear something like that.” She motioned for me to join her, and I climbed up to lie in the spot beside her.
“B esides, what are friends for but to tell you like it is?” She shifted her weight and turned towards me. “James, I just want you to know, well, thank you for being my friend. You’ve always been there for me, even when I didn’t deserve any friends at all.”
I smiled back at her, into her lovely brown eyes.
“Sure thing, doll face,” I said. “It’s my job, and it pays well.”
She jabbed her elbow in my ribs and a shrill laugh escaped.
We both fell silent for a moment, until Amélie suddenly spoke up. “James, are you happy?”
I pondered her question silently. I had always associated
happiness with falling in love and other romantic fascinations. But as I lay there with her beside me, I realized something for the first time. I was only truly happy when she was happy. I felt at peace when she was at peace. Right now, what she needed was her old friend. I was what she needed. I took in a deep sigh of night air.
“ Yeah, I’m happy.”
I could hear the smile through her words.
“So am I,” she said softly.
We remained in that spot all night, reminiscing, and picking out shapes in the stars. The hours passed like seconds.
“Don’t you see it?”
I stared into the night sky, my eyes squinting against the glare of the blue moon.
“Right . . . ” Amélie grabbed my hand and began outlining the shape she swore she saw. “ . . . there. Those two bright ones are the eyes, and the moon is his mouth.”
She turned towards me, lunar light dancing in her eyes. My gaze returned to the dark blue canopy above me; this was so silly, but humoring her might make me appear smart and creative.
“Oh wait, those two stars?”
S he nodded her head yes, squealing with delight.
“I see it now,” I lied. “Wow, neat.” I turned away from her, my elbows scraping against the shingles atop the damp roof. I slipped my hand into hers, and held it lightly. She offered a quick squeeze in return, but slowly removed it.
C losing my eyes, I stared into the deep, into the lids of my eyes where the moon splashed blue with the light.
“The sun will be up soon,” Amélie muttered.
I opened my eyes and watched the hues of pink and orange creep above the trees, stretching their claws across the twilight. The rhythm of her breathing against my side told me she was sleeping, but I did not wake her. The cool night sky stood bravely against the dawn. The stars, like dying embers, did their best to stay alive. I had my hopes to the contrary of course, but I knew sooner or later this night would end.
Princess James Follows His Heart
Joy Julio
James felt certain that he was in love with Summer, and was irrationally and hopelessly hers forever. How could he not? She was the air he breathed, the movement of wind in his hair, a slender waif of sixteen with abundant chocolate-colored curls and big dark eyes. When she batted those eyes (which was often, thanks to a genetic quirk in the maternal side of her family), it was like a ballet of lashes and mascara. Three of those bats and James had been struck with a desire to meet her. Six of them, and he decided she was a very sweet girl. Nine and he was reduced to eternal bondage. It wasn’t that she really was the prettiest or sweetest girl in the world. It wasn’t that her hereditary double optical twitch was unusually charming. James couldn’t really explain it; there honestly just weren’t words. If he had a larger vocabulary, maybe there would have been.
After a particularly long day wherein watching her and a quick conversation (“Are you using that napkin?” “No, here.”) were the only highlight, James returned home in a flutter of uncharacteristic emotion. He couldn’t stop thinking of his lowly napkin being used to touch those perfect lips.
“She’s the one,” he grunted to the poster of Peyton Manning hanging over his bed. Peyton smiled benignly. As he pondered his next move, the willowy voice of one of his little sister’s Disney Princess CDs floated by the bedroom door.
“Follow your heeeeaaaaarrrrttt!” the voice warbled. His bedroom door swung open, and Juliet wandered in with her pink CD player.
“Read me a story?” she asked, holding up a matching story book. Six grinning princesses adorned the cover, prim and perky in their colorful gowns. James looked at them appraisingly and decided none of them were as pretty as Summer, though the Arabian one was kind of hot, and Cinderella had a charm he liked. The song ended as the last syllable of “…heaaaaart” faded into the background of the maxed-out volume’s buzz.
“I have stuff to do,” he shrugged. She gave him an exasperated look, dropped the book on the bedcovers, and wandered back out of the room. The song started up again and faded as she went downstairs. James climbed off his bed and began pulling off his school uniform. The little private school he attended fancied itself very polished, but the navy blue polos and single-pleat khaki pants couldn’t redeem its rundown grounds and mishmash of alternately too sheltered or too wild students.
A s James readjusted the red and white striped boxers he used for pajamas, the princess book caught his eye, standing out unnaturally pink on his camouflage bedspread. The princesses in the middle of the cover were just colorful splots.
“ Yup, Summer’s definitely better looking,” he said under his breath. For a man of few words, James had a lot to say to no one.
“ You want to bet, Big Lips?“ a feminine voice suddenly projected.
“Is someone there?” James looked up and around for the source of the voice, letting his low voice go to a thundering register as he sunk down by his bed. If whoever it was could tell he had unusually full lips, she probably had seen the candy cane boxers, but it didn’t hurt to try and hide. Some things were best kept private. There was a chorus of high-pitched giggling. “Is anyone there?” he called again, trying to sound brutish and terrifying.
“Check the book cover, Handsome,” advised a second female voice over more laughter. Was he on a hidden camera show? James slowly leaned over his sister’s story book. The picture of the six fairy tale princesses smiled up serenely as usual. Then, one of them, a red-headed mermaid, winked at him roguishly. Rubbing his eyes with one hand and wondering when his life turned into a screwball comedy, James gingerly picked up the book between two fingers with a tweezer-like grip.
“ What? Do you think we’re diseased?” a scowling princess with a cheery red bow asked, barely holding in her annoyance. She had been the first to speak.
“Hush, Snow,” said Cinderella, the only one whom James knew by name, adjusting her blue headband. She had
been his first childhood crush, back in the days when he still watched kid movies and wore pull-ups. Heck, he still thought she wasn’t bad looking for a drawing. She smiled up dazzlingly at him; the others only fixed him with guarded gazes.
“So you know a girl who’s prettier than us?” Cinderella asked with the air of someone being serious with a child, but secretly in hysterics. James got a better grip on the book, and shrugged. “Um . . . I guess so . . . ” When he noticed the mermaid glancing down, he moved the book more level to his face so the boxers would be out of view. She didn’t bother hiding her disappointment.
“ You guess so?” Snow asked icily. She was the youngestlooking and least curvy princess, but her attitude reminded James of the old man that would throw the newspapers back at him during his sixth grade paper route. Any minute now she might pull out a cane and whack her way off the cover and through the delicate membranes of James’s face.
“L et’s just drop it, dear,” a brunette in gold advised, laying a calming hand on Snow’s puffed sleeve. “The boy’s in love. Of course he’s a little blind.”
“Mmm, we’ve all been where you’ve been, James.” Cinderella nodded understandingly.
“It’s true! Listen!” tossed in the others excitedly, getting possibly even perkier. “We have so much advice to give you!” The words “In Love” had been uttered and the fairy tale estrogen was flowing. Cinderella, evidentially the ringleader, raised a gloved hand, and they fell silent.
“The only thing you need to know, James,” she began significantly, lowering her voice so he had to lean close to the book, “is that you must follow your heart.”
“Oh,” he said simply, then carefully laid a hand over his heart like reciting the pledge of allegiance. Cinderella was the only one that didn’t laugh, though she smiled lightly. “That’s not quite how it works, Sweetie,” she said over the laughter.
“Just do what you think you’d really, honestly wish you could do, if you could do anything you wanted, with no limits!” the brunette in gold clarified.
“It’s so easy!” squealed the mermaid. C inderella nodded. “They have it right, James, dear. Do what you honestly feel you should do.” She fixed him with her unnaturally blue eyes and made a move to put her hand comfortingly on (or rather, right under) his thumb. “I promise, you will be all the happier for it.”
James shrugged; it sounded easy enough. He moved to set the book down, but with a start, he found himself struggling to sit up. The book hadn’t moved from its spot on the comforter; the princesses were stiff and immobile. James sat still, trying to figure out what happened. A few moments passed. Then, resolutely, he picked up his cell phone and texted Summer, telling her exactly what he thought of her.
Maybe that wasn’t the proper way to do it; perhaps flowers would have been more romantic. The princesses probably would have agreed with that; James glanced at the book. But texting was the easiest way to get a hold of her, and he needed to follow his heart. James wasn’t emotional, and he was hardly of the sentimental line of thought. But he liked honesty, and there wasn’t anything more honest than this.
S he didn’t write much back. Just a question mark and an abrupt good night. He took a deep breath. It wasn’t a surprise that she was unmoved. No flowers after all. He flipped over onto his back and stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling, relics of days long past. The princess song warbled by again as Juliet dragged her CD player back to her room. The dormant princess book was eerily still, Cinderella’s happy grin frozen in the middle. Strangly enough, James felt as if he sort of identified with that plastic glee. There was no feeling of dread weighing on his shoulders as he expected from doing something as drastic as telling someone you loved them. He couldn’t help but smile ironically; this must have been how Cinderella felt when she danced with the prince. When his cell phone began to buzz, he snapped out of his dreaming.
“Oh my gawsh, James! I can not believe you did that!“ The high voice of Ally rang out over the speaker. “Did what?” James asked, genuinely confused. The phone made a static-
filled noise of exasperation, “Duh—you totally told Summer you love her!” James felt his jaw dangle a little bit.
“How did—”
“Oh, everyone will know by tomorrow!“ Ally said, laughing with borderline hysterics. “You are so crazy, James. Did not see it coming! I mean, I guess it was possible you liked her, but to actually tell her that you liked her—oh wait! Not like—love! Oh my gawsh!“ One more italic and James thought he was going to burst, so he pressed the end call button. “OMG!!!!” a text message that popped on the screen added. Peyton Manning looked serenely disinterested in the goings on. The princesses smiled perkily. James sighed. The phone began to vibrate again. He turned it off and rolled into the bedcovers.
He slept better than a guy who was being talked to by book covers and had just confessed undying love to a girl normally would. When morning dawned and the alarm clock rang its repetitive 7 o’clock wake up call, James drowsily pulled himself up. During the night the princess book had fallen off the bed, cover down with his cell phone on top of it. When he turned the phone on, its little screen dimly told of ten new text messages, most of them asking if he was stupid or demanding to know why he hadn’t ever talked about Summer before. In a wink, the events of last night came back to him. James looked at the back of the book, shrugged at the phone, then smiled broadly.
Getting ready for school, James found himself feeling oddly excited for the new day. As he was pulling on his uniform, the corner of a little picture stuck in the mirror of his bureau caught his eye. Cleverly hidden under a birthday card from Granny, it was of him and Summer from the golden days of middle school when they had liked each other. The fling hadn’t lasted longer than a week, and it was forgotten by nearly everyone. But it was easily the best seven days James had ever experienced. He still visited that week in his dreams. Now he couldn’t help but gloat a little; what he felt for Summer then was nothing compared to what it just became. Carefully, he pulled the picture down and stuck it into the clear I.D. pocket on the front of his wallet. He smiled to himself, and the reason for his
strange happiness struck. There was no need to keep anything hidden now. On the walk to school, he played doo-wop songs about being in love on his mp3 player and sang along.
James was happily ensconced in the first class of the day. He felt like a knight atop his white stallion of a desk, just an aisle over and three seats in front of Summer’s. When she walked in, a vision in her navy blue school issue polo, James smiled at her, trying to make eye contact. But she lowered her eyes, blinked involuntary, and turned the opposite direction under the pretense of saying something to the teacher. The chattering that had been going on around the room immediately took a drop. A third of the class was watching, and the second third was explaining to the behind-the-times last third what was going on. James felt a twinge of annoyance, but it wasn’t entirely their fault that in a small school, people can’t help knowing everything about everyone.
He thumped his pencil impatiently on the desk, wondering what he might say to her when she walked by. A nod? A short hello? Something that would show he was still good old steady James and nothing was going to change. Or maybe a more peppy James, to show how glad he was he had confessed his undying love even if she didn’t return it. Would that impress her? Did girls like it when guys wouldn’t take no for an answer? Oh, but what was that he’d heard about girls liking guys who were hard to get? No, he frowned, that wouldn’t work. She knew he was there, waiting for the beck of a finger that might never lift. Suddenly, the Disney Princesses caught his eye, slapped across the front of a binder across the aisle. In all the movies, they had just let the men come to them, didn’t they? Even now they looked positively unsociable, yet perky and child-friendly at the same time.
He decided to just wing it and see what happened, right as Mr. Fields called class to order. James sat up and looked around. Summer was on the other end of the room scooting between the far row and the wall to get to her seat the back way. The public eye turned to James to see if he’d be upset. But he only smiled wanly, like nothing was wrong. Everyone groaned internally; a potential scene had been avoided.
The day turned out to be a good subject for a video game. From that first class onward, it was like a spear-toting native chasing a tiger. James could understand why Summer might have felt awkward around him, but cutting through a full classroom, shoving a lunch lady out of the way, and hiding in the girl’s bathroom until some of her gal pals managed to coax her out seemed like an overreaction on Summer’s part. More clarity on the subject came to him when a freshman mentioned how Summer and her closest female friends had had a powwow in the girl’s room on the James Topic.
“ Yeah, they figured you would keep away, but now it’s the reverse,” the freshman said evenly, happy to share societal information.
“She can’t get away from you fast enough!”
James sighed. It wasn’t supposed to be like that.
“How can you face the day?” Daniel whispered to James in the middle of fifth period history. Daniel was more of a best friend out of need than actual desire. They were the kind of guys that flew under the cool radar and right above the nerd one. Birds of a feather, and all that. James shrugged and turned to a fresh page in his notebook to better record the history of King Henry the 8th and his six wives.
“James Matthew Bolton.” Daniel put his fingertips together like a villain in an action movie. “Of all the things you could have done to make your last year of high school miserable, this will definitely be the most effective.”
James kept scribbling. Some best friend Daniel was, ruining a guy’s notes like this.
“ You feel stupid?” Daniel asked waspishly, an edge of irritation in his words.
James doodled a picture of an obese King Henry and his six queens. The queens were coming out a lot more cutesy than tragic historical figures had a right to look. Daniel kept whispering in an urgent tone, “What exactly are you going to do now? You’re the laughing stock of Niceville. People are going to be pointing at you on the streets and telling their children about the day they saw the world’s biggest loser.”
James didn’t react for a second as poor Daniel frantically tried to calculate if his association with James would now lower him to the nerd category. James thought for a moment of telling Daniel that the Disney Princesses were partially to blame for it all. Then he decided to shrug instead. That and grunting were his preferred method of communication. Disney Princesses would need more explanation than he was either willing or able to give.
Daniel tried to see through James’s poker face, but there wasn’t one to look through. He was naturally dead-panned. Finally, as the teacher approached the end of her lecture, James closed his notebook on the fat man and the six queens.
“I guess . . . ” James grimaced to break the default expression on his face then made a tender try at expressing his emotions (he’d never tried to explain his feelings to Daniel before, and the effort was taking its toll). “I’m not too worried about anything,” he finished and gave an apologetic little smile.
“ You’re kidding.” Daniel’s eyes narrowed.
James shrugged again. “I just like not having anything to hide. I’ve got pre-cal now.”
James was not known for his amazing conversational transitions. Together they stood up with the rest of the students and moved towards the door. When James peeled off from the crowd towards his next class, Daniel wondered aloud why he even bothered to try to talk to someone who was the emotional equivalent of a rock. Maybe there were other friends to be made in the nerd vs. popular no man’s land.
Pre-cal started with a blur of formulas and functions. James didn’t have his mind on the subject. Summer, who had arrived late (“Because I got lost,” she said lamely to the teacher), was weighing on his mind. He could see the back of her beautiful head from his seat. She and her blonde friend Tina were whispering in hushed tones. Summer kept her head turned firmly towards the whiteboard, but Tina kept glaring back at him with curious black-rimmed eyes. She tapped Summer’s shoulder with a freakishly long fingernail and cocked her head towards James’s direction. Summer gripped the edge of the
desk and leaned across to hiss something to Tina. James wasn’t sure exactly what, but he caught the word “weird” in it. So did most of the rest of the class since Summer’s voice had become so shrill and forced at the word. Mr. Martin shot her a glare over his graphing calculator.
“Miss Kinard, would you please come demonstrate this next problem on the board?” he asked in sarcastic tones.
Mr. Martin was known to be slightly vengeful on the students he knew weren’t paying attention.
“And Mr. Bolton, I’d like you to join her.”
The air left the room for a second as all the students gasped collectively. That day, the legends of Mr. Martin’s conniving grew a little more fantastical.
Trying not to look too pleased, James joined Summer at the board. It was a blessing to her, a calm part of James remarked to the part that was turning somersaults. She probably hadn’t listened to the lecture at all. James, who was nothing short of a math whiz, would be able to help her out of a jam. But not without a small fee, he decided, leaning close to her under the pretense of “explaining” the problem.
“ So, you pretty annoyed with me?” he asked, smiling a little at the corners of his mouth. Summer raised her shoulders in a weak shrug.
“ I don’t know how you expected me to react to that, James.”
He was silent for a moment. His hand gripped the dry erase marker tighter as he sketched out a graph.
“ You could just tell me how you feel about it.”
He pressed a little harder into the board. “I’m not sorry I told you anyway.”
S ummer flushed. “James, do you have to talk about this now?”
He shrugged. “I doubt I’ll get a hold of you anytime later. Look, Summer.” His voice fell to a hardly deducible whisper as he kept writing formulas on the board. “I love you, and I wanted you to know that. We don’t ever have to talk about it again. It doesn’t matter if you don’t love me. I
just wanted you to know.” He stopped writing and handed her the marker.
S he bit her lip and looked up at him from under the silken fringes of her lashes. She hadn’t worn mascara that day. The unintended come-hither look of her eyes seemed to wear down fast on James’s resolve to not act differently with her. A few moments passed. A few twitches disturbed the perfection of her lashes. She didn’t do anything with the marker, so he carefully reached down to move her hand. At the moment his hand touched hers, her eyes flashed to life with a look that was anything but desiring. Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper.
“Look, James, pardon my language, but you’re just being . . .” She gulped swallowing her courage. “Retarded! And . . . ” she looked down at where his hand was still on hers. “And I’m going to tell my dad about you.”
The rest of the day, the little private school was abuzz with the results of the pre-cal conversation. No one had actually heard the whole thing, of course, but Summer had told Tina, so most people were pretty sure of their information. Speculation on what was going to happen next ran rampant.
“Mr. Kinard? James will have to face him?”
“Doesn’t Mr. Kinard have a collection of bear traps he likes to polish whenever guys come pick up his daughters for dates?”
Even Mrs. Eaves, the ancient English teacher had input.
“James has crawled from the mortal coil into a writhing pit of oblivion. I’d like a short composition on the subject of inadvertently going to one’s doom turned in next week.”
James heard all these rumors and whispers with detached feelings. He wasn’t entirely sure what his thoughts were on crawling into oblivion. Perhaps Summer would cry and swoon at his funeral, racked with guilt over causing his early demise. But then, considering the way she had taken to ignoring him resolutely (even when he talked to her, butted into her conversations, and tried to leave notes on her locker), it wasn’t likely. As much as James enjoyed having the freedom to express just what he felt, there weren’t really that many advantages past self-actualization. Cinderella apparently had never
seen the real world. The next time he passed a princess binder, he stuck out his tongue at it as far as it would go. The girl carrying it went on to tell everyone that James Bolton was a rude butthole who deserved to be crushed.
Walking down the sidewalk back home at the end of the long day, James dragged his feet and played the one screamo song he owned over and over. Vaguely, he heard the honking of a horn. A truck loaded up with half the school’s football team in it rattled by: “Dudes! There’s the dork who made himself look like a freakin’ idiot!” the quarterback, who was driving, yelled. Hoots and boos from the rest of the jocks followed. One tossed a half finished Coke from McDonald’s out in James’s general direction. Stickiness splashed all over his pleated khakis and oxfords. The truck and its jeering occupants rode off in a sea of mirth, leaving James sopping in their remnants. Three minutes later, a sharp looking red Corvette pulled up alongside him. The window scrolled down silently, and James found himself looking face to face with the biggest man he had ever seen before. Feeling a need to be polite, he pulled off his headphones.
“James Bolton?” the man’s massive head asked, beady eyes half hidden behind little mirrored sunglasses. James had a wild urge to hide his name, identity, and very being from the hippo-like mammoth. An alias dangled at the door of his mouth, but he was too honest to let it out.
“ Yes, sir, I am.” The man fixed James with an appeasing eye. “I’d offer to drive you home while we talk, but I can’t risk you messing up my upholstery. Let’s make this a quick chat. I’m Mr. Kinard.”
James nodded and offered a sticky hand. Mr. Kinard ignored it.
“Now look here, James. I’m sure you’re a nice boy” (another askew glance at James’s dirty pants), “and I’m sure you have only the best intentions for my daughter. But …” Mr. Kinard looked at him piercingly while James stood awkwardly, jiggling his foot. “You’re not the one for her.” James remained silent, staring hard at the shiny red car door. He could see a squashed reflection of himself, complete with stained pants and untucked shirt.
“ You’re not up to her level. And I honestly mean that in the best way.” Mr. Kinard made a little crooked smile that he probably meant to make him look understanding but was only condescending. He waited a moment to see if James would protest or agree, but nothing came. Mr. Kinard shrugged and started to roll the window up again. “You know, you’re creeping her out, James. If you value anything about her, you’ll just be happy with her friendship, or whatever you had before, and drop this entire ‘love’ thing.”
More silence on James’s part. Then James gave a little nod. “Okay,” he said, trudging along his way again without putting his headphones back on. Mr. Kinard nodded, hollered some generic salutation to the back of his head and drove off.
On arriving home, a syrupy mess with the echoes of screamo still pouring out of his headphones, James felt like a victim of a massacre, sticky with gore, the cries of the dying around him, and immune to all happiness. His mother met him at the door with a hug and a cookie fresh from the oven.
“Mr. Kinard was around here looking for you, dear! Are you going to start mowing his lawn? You’ve been needing a good job,” she said lovingly, running a hand through his light brown hair and shoving the cookie into his hands.
“Oh, what’s that all over your pants, sweetie?” James gave her a non-committed grunt and skulked upstairs to change.
The stupid princess book was still lying face down on the floor. After changing into yesterday’s jeans, he half heartedly flipped the book over.
“Things not going like you hoped?” Cinderella asked, looking disappointed under her cellophane covering. James nodded absently, slapping his phone open and closed. The other princesses gave him sympathetic looks.
“These things happen,” an exotic looking girl with olive skin threw out. “You just have to keep going!”
“She’s right,” Snow White chimed in. “Just keep it up! You know what you have to do.”
The others got riled up at the start of their mantra.
“ Yes, James! C’mon! You got to do it! Believe in yourself!” they all started to chant shrilly.
“Do it! Just follow your—”
James swung out his foot and kicked the book under his bed as hard as he could. He thought he heard feminine screams and shrieks, but he ignored them. It was probably just Juliet watching TV.
Tomato
Jia Flynn
Father comes home. We’re sitting down together in the kitchen around our weathered wooden table with a second-hand tablecloth marked with marker stains.
We say grace in the kitchen, praying to God that the next paycheck doesn’t bounce. In the kitchen, with its grungy cabinets and scuffed linoleum. With its leaking General Electric fridge that’s never made ice. With its old chrome sink that always backs up, vomiting last night’s leftovers.
This house, this filthy, brown carpet stinks of cat piss and dog piss and mildew and mold and the remnants of someone else’s life, and the ceiling’s falling in and roaches are in my bed, and…
And my brother’s yelling.
And my father’s yelling at my mother’s screaming at my brother’s yelling; everyone’s shouting car alarms and five seconds until the bomb, except me.
I’m staring at this bloody mass of spaghetti, trying not to listen. My mother throws the insolent piece Of shit against the wall, and screams and screams, and she’s got him by the collar, oh god and now, the ceiling fan is swinging. Will it fall on my head? The pasta worms squirm in my stomach, the rusting sink
whispers, let it up, let it up, let it all up. Fear and panic as acrid as garlic, as sick as tomato sauce. She’s thrown him against the wall.
Mother turns to me, with her bony hands wrapped around his plaid button-up shirt and shrieks, “What are you looking at?” I am eight years old. I swallow and say, “There’s a crack in the wall.”
Bread
Jia Flynn
He’s not home yet.
Momma slams down yeasty bread dough on the faded counter top in a rhythm.
“Swing low, sweet chariot.”
Sunlight filters through red gingham curtains and she swallows the tight lump in her throat with a wash of watered-down ice tea.
Bread doesn’t make itself, and she’s got mouths to feed.
Tornadoes and Green Beans
Laurie Stone
It’s like the green beans you eat before you eat the gravysmothered mashed potatoes. You don’t even want the green beans, but you’re saving the mashed potatoes for last because when you’re finished, you know that’s the last taste you want to have in your mouth. That’s what it’s like to walk a long hot path to the water on a day that is so hot you feel you would fry right up if you stood still too long. So you keep trekking. After all, your mother sent you there, so you know it’s going to be good. So you keep trekking over the long hot ground and sand and make your way to the beach where the rest of your brothers and sisters are enjoying the soft breezes from the ocean. It’s the only place to be on a day this hot and you’re family is camping. It’s the only place to get some relief from a day so scorching. So you trek and keep trekking and feel the burn on the feet that your mom did not have time to notice, that she sent bare on this journey and you know it’s worth it. This you know for sure. When you get there it is going to be worth it. It’s going to feel so good to be by the shore, taking in the cool breezes from the ocean front and enjoying the refreshing water.
But it isn’t worth it. You feel it immediately. Your entire body is anticipating relief, and that is it, what it never sees until the scorching sun finally goes down and now you are with your whole family by the fire and the ocean breezes are finally allowed to reach you and some relief is finally felt. Your Mom takes you and the rest of the six flock of chicks and she heads for the showers. And you stand there, and you wait patiently for the shower that really doesn’t feel so great in the warm humid cinderblock building on red hot skin. You take the shower anyway because it’s like the green beans; after the necessary shower and you leave the building, the soft ocean winds will finally cool your fired skin.
But it isn’t worth it tonight. Tonight it is especially not worth it because when your mom leaves with her flock, every -
one is in a panic. Everyone is running, and everything is running right by you in the other direction. Even the flames, maybe from the campfire you were just watching contained at your campsite, is now running right by you the other direction. It’s as if everything in the whole world knows which direction to be running but your mother and her flock. But you know it’s going to be worth it. It’s like the green beans. Right? It will be just like the green beans. Your mother will be taking you to a better place. This place feels all wrong and that must be why everyone is running. It will be worth it.
But it isn’t worth it. Everything was running the other direction, and you should have followed. While everything was running the other direction, you and your mom and the rest of the flock get into your camp trailer. And you are frightened, and just like the green beans that get swallowed up, you and your mom and the rest of the flock get swallowed up by the twister that was making everything run in the other direction.
And it’s over just as quickly as it started. You were swallowed up whole, but the storm spits you out. And it is over just as quickly. You wake up and are greeted by blackness and shouts, and your mom takes her flock that was just spit across the road and she takes them back to the cinderblock shower that has now become a hospital. And it still doesn’t feel very good. It has a pool of red water on its floor, and you wait with your mom and you are told you need some stitches on a cut that you couldn’t even feel. You reach up to feel where they say you need stitches and it just feels wet. Your mom is told she needs to go, too. You don’t know why yet. She just needs to go, too.
So you need to get stitches. So you go with your mom. And you know it will be like the green beans. You don’t even want them, but this thing will stop feeling so wet, you think, when you get them.
But it’s not worth it. They don’t use anything to numb you and it’s so not worth it. But your dad commands you to take it. So you take it. You take it like the green beans.
And finally, it’s worth it. Your family is home. You are in bed. And it feels so good. You feel the warm soft sheets and they feel so good against your tired, hot skin. Except you finally
allow yourself to feel the panic that was chased out of you from the tornado. The panic was running the other direction. But now it is back, and you shout out, “Mom.” And one from the flock says sternly, “Leave Mom alone. She can’t come to you.” And so you take it, like the green beans. You just accept it.
L ater you find out your mom couldn’t come to you because her back was broken. When the tornado swallowed you up and spit you and your mom and the rest of the flock across the road, it broke her back. You don’t know what that is, but you accept it like the green beans.
And you think of it today. And today it’s finally worth it. Today you can appreciate the fact that it’s a good thing tornadoes don’t like green beans and they just spit them right out.
Flawless
Eric Farmer
Beneath smooth sheets, I only see your curves, your flawless form. I pull the sheets to see your shining eyes, glazed and glassed. They used to shimmer when you looked at me. Shriveled lips that used to tremble stitched with rotting twine. Brittle hair, like stiff spider silk, Stains the air with odors of decay, like lukewarm bile. I close your lids, and give you a kiss, as maggots hatch from eggs.
21st-Century Wolf
Kyle Webb
Promiscuous. That’s her to a T. Voluptuous frame, full red pucker, diamonds for eyes. I’m that lucky guy she’s never with: her husband. Five years. Five years of items and memorandum trailing her escapades. Strange boxers in the hamper, used condom bobbing in the toilet, wrong cologne at the sink. She thinks I don’t know. I know; I just don’t give a shit. As long as I occasionally get mine, I’m a happy camper. Right as rain. Walking on sunshine. I don’t care simply because she’s damn good bait.
I stare blankly, just been on a six-hour flight. The whir of the carousel. The tiny squeak of the conveyor belt cylinders. The whining chatter of little kids. The constant cacophony of people on cell phones. The same tear on the belt resurfacing time after time. The steady rhythm between the clunk of luggage and mock silence when the carousel seems to be empty. The same unclaimed bags and suitcases perpetually appearing and disappearing. And me with a migraine the size of a fat kid with diabetes.
My cell rings. It’s her. She’s at the bar.
Her speech is slurred and eyelids barely open. The usual Cosmo, signature extra twist of lime, at her arm.
“Hey, babe,” she says, nearly an asinine grunt.
“ You got the ticket?”
“’Course.” She rummages through her handbag. Crimson faux crocodile, too small for a dwarf. Chatter all around. Single-serving friends sharing single-serving stories. Books at hand, drinks at the other. Terminal announcements muffled by a Billboard 100 hit. Elton John, Eric Clapton, Bruce Springsteen. “Flight 2039 now boarding. All passengers please be checked in at this time.” I’m handed a crumpled paper with a delirious grin. “C’mn . . . less dohit,” she hiccups.
“Maybe later. When you don’t reek of rancid fruit.” I walk away, leaving her to bat mascara at the bartender.
She loves to travel. That’s how she meets most of them. Company vice-chairman, secretary of finances, senior board delegate. All very well-to-do. To do her indeed. I certainly did. Hell, I married her. She pretends they’re business associates, and, in a way, they are. Me, I hate to travel.
Meat market for the rich and famous. I mingle and converse, threading my way through the throngs. A brown Armani, polarized Oakleys, and a dazzling crescent meet me at a far wall. Quick words are exchanged and the paper is passed from hand to hand. Gossip and chatter fill the hall of tans and pearls. Snippets catch my ear. A new mogul, a mass media messiah. Some new wonder high. Everything you could ever want from a spa in a new home treatment. Bland and uninteresting.
Out of the flock I check the ticket. I hit speed dial: my broker. “I’ll take a hundred shares.”
Now maybe I’ll endure the fumes and oblige my breadwinner.
My Boy
Sarah Crow
Cradling his large head in my arms, I kissed my boy goodbye between his large, expressive eyes. No words were needed as I traced his cheeks, cupping my hands around them. I held his large head, hugging it close, running my fingers through his mane. He lifted his head, somehow knowing I was going away. I stepped back a couple of paces, looking at his striking profile against the green-grassed hills and a sky so blue and cloudless. His eyes looked so sadly at me, pleading that I not go, yet he stood, unmoving. Turning away, I walked through two gates, each one’s shutting behind me causing a deeper twinge of pain. I looked back to see him, capturing his gentle eyes still looking at me. This is how I will always remember him.
Walking away, not knowing if I would ever come back, could not have been more difficult. I had whispered my promise in his ear, that if ever I could, I would return for him and take him to a better home, one where I could care for him.
Now, two months later, I look at the crude ring I made from his hair, both tightly and loosely woven, giving the impression of order and freedom entwined. I remember how wonderful it felt to lean my head against him, and the way throwing my arms around him relieved my anxiety, my worries, and my fears. I found I could cry on his shoulder, finding comfort while combing my fingers through his beautiful mane.
Far away, my boy lives his simple life, rarely disturbed or challenged. Does he ever miss me as he looks across his beautifully tree-framed fields? Does he miss our walks, our daring games of chase, and our wars of wits?
In a winter pasture, frost engraved, a brown and white paint closes his eyes and dreams of his lively girl.
Davenport: Where the Lost are Found
Deborah R. Majors
She makes her nest on the very end of town, a far place where loneliness is her ottoman, chocolate her friend, soaps an excuse for her tears’ blindness.
The ringing of the doorbell sends her fleeing to the bedroom, heart beating, holding her breath ‘til the trespasser gives up, her cue for the releasing of hot panic as a controlled, slow stream of relief. Slight lift of curtain reveals a clear coast to heat pekoe tea, then return to be forgotten by self-exile, requested deport to nest at the end of Davenport.
Amber
Matt Pierson
S he sat there, listening to her headphones. She was watching the cars on the highway with a perfect complexion and a blank expression. Her view from the hammock on that grassy hill was “one of the most beautiful views in the county” (E.R.A. Real Estate Catalogue House #91). What she really saw was this: a street going to an exit ramp with cars slowly filing down it to the unseen interstate below. The queue was insurmountable because a sofa had fallen out of the back of a truck in the middle of the road.
Her knoll was shaded by a falling oak tree, her house situated across the street behind her. Her only shelter from the beating sun was a copse of trees: oaks ostracized from the collective forest for the injustice of human use. A cop was trying to make his way on the side of the road to the top of the ramp, but he was making little progress, lights and all.
The wildflowers on that side of the hill reflected and absorbed the police light, making something like a natural Kandinsky painting. By an odd sort of choice, she couldn’t see the beauty of the flowers, but simply sat there. Her phone was sitting on the kitchen counter, the light streaming out of its wildly singing face. She thought that maybe all that this required was a simple solution: a different way of looking at things, a simple solution to a complicated problem.
S he couldn’t smile about yesterday, and she had been trying to smile about it since it had happened. She had smiled then, though she wasn’t sure what type of smile that was. She wondered if her face had been the same as his, like a mirror just . . . but she couldn’t really think about something like that. She hadn’t thought about it much in the couple hours beforehand, though when she thought back on it, maybe she had . . . . She was pretty sure he had thought about it quite a bit. Why else would he have said that? Why would he call her “honey” and “baby” and . . . . He had smiled afterwards, and maybe it was just
after, and that’s why, but nothing seemed any brighter. Wasn’t there some brightness or drastic change in perspective afterwards? Not that anything was amazingly bright to begin with, but this definitely couldn’t be it.
It had been raining, at the time, and he had a truck with a double cab and a long back seat. There’s something to be said about back seats, but with all the clichés, that was exactly what had happened. She had been pushed into it, in more than one way. Afterwards, he thought that she was unresponsive and glazed over like . . . a mosquito trapped in a piece of amber. But he didn’t really think that what had happened was anything like primordial tar. He had taken her home, and he had said goodnight, and she hadn’t said much of anything since then. S he had eaten herself through with questions. She was like a mouse now; she couldn’t resist. She didn’t notice the flowers anymore or her music or anything she used to find solace in. She was commiserative with magnified ants, and mosquitoes in amber.
He pulled into her driveway and rang the doorbell. Her mother answered the door and said that she was out in the hammock and that maybe he should take her phone to her because it had been ringing non-stop. He walked through the trees, vines stinging his ankles, and stepped unnoticed under the trees. She was confused because he was here. She didn’t remember making any plans for today, and she had told him that she had a lot of homework to do, thankyouverymuch, so just give her some time to do that and then they could do something that night, like a movie or something, but nothing too exhausting because she had church in the morning. He looked at her and smiled. He proffered her cell phone, and she took it. She checked it and saw six missed calls. Six missed calls from him. She caught his smile with her eyes and had a small moment of déjà vu. She had an instinct to roll her eyes, but instead she hesitated. She waited for the smallest eternity and forced herself to smile. A small, shuddering, melancholy, and rosy smile.
ANN PATCHETT BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF BEL CANTO
Northwest Florida State College is honored to present award-winning writer Ann Patchett as the 2009 visiting author. Each spring, in conjunction with the unveiling of Blackwater Review and the presentation of the Northwest Florida State College Reads program, the college invites an accomplished author to meet with students, faculty, and the community. This year, Ms. Patchett conducted a reading of her work the evening of April 20 in the Sprint Theater at the Mattie Kelly Fine Arts Center. On April 21, she presented a workshop for students, faculty, and the community on the craft of writing.
The NWF State College Reads program also hosted a week of readings and symposiums for students and faculty to discuss Ms. Patchett’s work.
* * *
Ann Patchett is the best-selling author of Bel Canto, which won both the PEN/Faulkner Award and the Orange Prize in 2002. Bel Canto was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award and was named the Book Sense Book of the Year. It sold over a million copies in the United States and has been translated into thirty languages. Her most recent book, Run, was a New York Times bestseller.
In 2004, Patchett published Truth & Beauty, a memoir of her friendship with the writer Lucy Grealy. It was named one of the Best Books of the Year by the Chicago Tribune, the San Francisco Chronicle, and Entertainment Weekly. Truth & Beauty was also a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize and won the Chicago Tribune’s Heartland Prize, the Harold D. Vursell Memorial Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and the Alex Award from the American Library Association.
Patchett has written for numerous publications, including The New York Times Magazine, Harper’s Magazine, The Atlantic, The Washington Post, Gourmet, and Vogue. She was also the editor for Best American Short Stories 2006.
B orn in Los Angeles in 1963, Patchett was raised in Nashville. She attended Sarah Lawrence College and the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop. In 1990, she won a residential fellowship to the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts, where she wrote her first novel, The Patron Saint of Liars. It was named a New York Times Notable Book for 1992. In 1993, she received a Bunting Fellowship from the Mary Ingrahm Bunting Institute at Radcliffe College. Patchett’s second novel, Taft, was awarded the Janet Heidinger Kafka Prize for the best work of fiction in 1994. Her third novel, The Magician’s Assistant, was short-listed for England’s Orange Prize and earned her a Guggenheim Fellowship.
Bio courtesy of APB.
Visiting Author / 113
Contributors
Chelsea Alford is a 20-year-old artisit pursuing her BA in Graphic Arts. She draws inspiration from music as well as the world around her.
Loren Boyer is a graduate of Niceville High School and Florida State University. He refuses to accept that he is too old to wear a beret.
Sarah Crow is a college student majoring in biology.
Eric Farmer is interested in writing, art, history, and psychology. He has no idea where to go or what to study.
Jia Flynn is in her second year of college studying art and graphic design. She plans to take over the world with a spork and a Marble of Returning and anticipates a zombie apocalypse sometime during her lifetime.
Colby B. Fox is a student at NWF State College. He has had the opening number from Oliver! stuck in his head since 1994.
Adam Guiles is currently working on his AA. He plans to double major in history and pharmaceutical science.
Sandra Clay Harrison received all of her formal art education here at NWF State College.
Anita Hester lives in Fort Walton Beach and is a graduate of NWFState college. Her two main mediums are dye on silk and pottery.
Sharon James did not discover art until her retirement but greatly enjoys it.
Samantha Johnson was born in Virginia in 1985. She is a mother of two with a love of photography. She is studying criminal justice.
Joy Julio is a sophomore at NWF State College studying for her AA. She plans to attend Belhaven College in Jackson, MS, next fall, pursuing a degree in art. She one day hopes to write and illustrate children’s books.
Anita Koester is enjoying the challenges of working with watercolor after 25 years as a potter.
Emily K. Knudsen is a sophomore at NWF State College majoring in fine arts.
Joan M. Langham has been painting for years. Figures are her main interest.
Jerry Leafgreen has recently earned his AA degree and is looking forward to working towards his BA degree.
Edward J. Lewis is a retired Air Force veteran currently enrolled in the AA degree program in digital media/multimedia technology.
Deborah R. Majors enjoys writing, playing the autoharp, and using both skills to embarrass her two teenage sons.
Edanette Marquez is an aspiring commercial designer who is deeply inspired by lyricism and color. She strives to capture emotions and social implications that reflect her life experiences.
Jane Montgomery is a retired software professional who holds a certificate in photography from the University of Alabama in Huntsville. Her photographic interests are digital imaging and nature subjects.
Contributors / 115
Dara North is an art major who occasionally dabbles in creative writing ventures. She graduates from NWF State College in Spring 2009 and will attend Savannah College of Art and Design in Fall 2009.
Matt Pierson has distinguished himself as a man of few words but many sentences. He considers this a blessing but is cursed with not being allowed to die until he has written a ninety-page epic poem involving the courtship and marriage of Eleanor of Aquitane with Kobe Bryant.
Clarence Norbert Quinlan, IV, in a long line of Clarence N. Quinlans, is a dual-enrolled student majoring in acting and fine arts. He plans to attend the University of Central Florida’s Film School in the fall and study directing and film production.
Tawanah Reeves is a senior at the Collegiate High School of NWF State College. She plans to attend the University of Central Florida and double major in journalism and Spanish.
Kayla M. Richter is a 22-year-old who enjoys pottery. She is finishing her AA degree while making art.
Chris Sirico is an aspiring illustrator and graphic designer. He works in oils, graphite and other traditional media as well as digital art.
Aasha Sriram is a young artist who recently relocated from India. She hopes to study computer graphics and become a 3D animator.
Laurie Stone is a college student hoping to continue her education. She would like to study creative writing.
Jake Vermillion is a junior in high school dual enrolled at NWF State College full time. He is currently majoring in architecture and is planning to transfer to a four-year university after graduating from high school.
Christian Walker is a senior at the Collegiate High School at NWF State College and hopes his cherubic looks will lead to success and prosperity.
Kyle Webb, Keelay to friends, is earning his general AA at NWF State College. He plans on study English and perhaps eventually to teach it.
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