Blackwater Review 2011

Halal Allen

Mallory Banks

JoAnne Bartley

Michael Beck

Ashley Bermes

James Birdsong

Amberley Carter

Mason Charles

Theodora Ciudad-Real

Kristina Coil Hannah Craft Stephanie Crow Jaime Diffee Emily Dobrenchuk

Duckworth

Blackwater Review

9, No. 1

A Journal of Literature and

Niceville, Florida

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 Board: Jon Brooks, Vickie Hunt, Amy Riddell

Art Director, Graphic Design, and Photography: Benjamin Gillham

Editorial Advisory Board: Beverly Holmes, April Leake, Charles Myers, Deborah Nestor, Deidre Price, and Patrice Williams

Editorial Assistant: Anita Johnson

Art Advisory Board:

J.B. Cobbs, Benjamin Gillham, Stephen Phillips, Lyn Rackley, Ann Waters, and K.C. Williams

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.

©2011 Northwest Florida State College. All rights are owned by the authors of the selections.

Front cover artwork: Vivacious One, Halal Allen

Acknowledgments

The editors and staff extend their sincere appreciation to Dr. Ty Handy, President, and Dr. Joyce Goldstein, Interim Vice President of Academic Affairs, 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.

Angel-headed Hipster

Emily Dobrenchuk

It is a new age of innocence. Today begins five long months of wide-brimmed hats, warm, tanned skin, “too hot to breathe.”

But bring on the sticky nights of heads swaying and fingers snapping, keeping time to the notes of Coltrane, Gilberto, Jobim.

Let me feel the white sand squish between my toes.

Let me smell the Bain de Soleil glistening on my hands.

Let me savor the sharp sweetness of blood oranges and black cherries as I trace the waterlogged verses of Neruda, Ginsburg, Bukowski.

Sweet-smelling, wet, cut grass tints the air a new green.

I look out to the harbor’s horizon, punctured with canvas sails on paint-chipped masts, as I lick the salt from my lips.

Soft, easy breaths ebb and flow, as bright blue breezes pull new leaves from their buds.

Sliding sunglasses over my nose, I let out a contented sigh and welcome the vibrancy of the awakening April.

Instant Meal

Samantha Rea

As you’ve lived, you’ve made love, your bread and butter, serving hearts on silver platters peddling tears like fine wine.

But you can’t cook–you never tried.

You sample, but don’t buy.

It’s not the process you hate, but the aftermath: the dirty dishes, the crusted cloth and leftovers rotting in the fridge.

But you hunger.

So you settle, and you use your “Bread” and that “Butter” to buy

pre-made goods, shot full of chemicals,

lukewarm on the outside, frozen in the middle.

It’s your instant meal–ill-gotten, one night only, high in fat, low in substance.

Deployment

Kaylee Thomas

He flipped the switch, and fluorescents flickered on. They illuminated a coral pink seashell bedspread, a wooden table next to it, and a TV on a dresser across from that. Letting straps go, he winced at the sound of his duffel hitting the floor. Trickles of sand from canvas crevices leaked onto the carpet, remnants of nine months spent in a desert. He slumped over onto the bed, running his hands over his fatigues. Then he reached for the TV remote. Slowly he turned it over in his hands, the buttons worn beneath his calluses.

A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table, and 7:45 flashed back at him. They would have eaten dinner by now. They might even have taken their baths. In forty-five minutes, his daughter would be in bed for the night. The remote felt cool in his hands as he debated whether to make the phone call, or to watch reruns of Mythbusters until midnight.

He finally put it down and dialed their home number. The phone rang three times before his wife answered.

“Hello?” she asked.

“Hey, Eva, hi, it’s Darrel.”

“ What do you want?”

“I just, I got home tonight,” he paused, fighting with the words. “I was expecting you and Rachel at the-”

“ You were just expecting us to drive across two states to see you home? Is that it?” she interrupted. “I have things to do Darrel; I can’t drop everything every time you come back.”

“Right, could I talk with Rachel then?”

“She’s in the bath right now.”

“ Well, tell her I’ll see her soon, and that I love her,” Darrel said. “I love you, too.”

The line crackled quietly between them.

“I’ll tell her.” And Eva hung up, the dial tone ringing as loud as mortar explosions, even after he turned the phone off.

“I kept my promise,” he whispered to it, “I made it home.”

Sinking Ships

Emily Dobrenchuk

Tempers heat up while deserted dinner cools. Sentences fly, spewed in fury but cemented by twenty years of passive-aggressive retorts and childlike name-calling.

Overnight suitcases are packed in hasty rage but left to bulge disappointingly on the floor because it’s either my grandmother’s spare room or the cold couch of a friend who can’t even sympathize anymore.

A violet-eyed dreamer forced to tread water and a commander abandoned by his crew never should have built two little ships when their own vessel is sinking faster than it can drain.

I try to imagine a time when the two were in love or maybe even liked living in the same house— a place where these vows of silence started out as vows of “until death do us part.” I see my mother toting a notebook of original poetry and humming the chorus of a Heart ballad. She arrives at her receptionist’s desk in the Orlando Sands Resort, when who should check in but a brown-haired pilot in crisp white creases and gold adornments with no place to stay for the night. He flashes his chipped-tooth smile and wins her over in three minutes with two dimples and one pair of aviator sunglasses.

I see this in dusty books buried under the living room coffee table. There are pages of yellowed photos

with torn corners, stuck together to keep their contents secret. A couple stands at the entrance to a gift shop, designed like the mouth of a great white shark. The jagged jaw is hinged open, ready to devour innocent souvenir-buying tourists. Still, they casually pose and smile at each other, unprepared for the shutter. An SOS should have been sent immediately, right in front of that kitschy display, long before any rumors of mutiny could fill this cabin.

Penance

Barbara Gasparian

Father, Father, Father, forgiveness is optional. I choose acceptance. While you lay dying,

I watched – alone – like a witness at an execution Of the condemned, fearful that you might rise again,

Walk on water like Jesus Christ, and strike With that Golden-Gloved fist one last stunning

Backhanded blow, and I, your eldest daughter, Would fly across the room once more and slam

Into that antiseptic blue-grey stucco hospital wall. I blame you for passed-down shame that was yours

Not mine to carry or swallow. “Don’t tell,” You spat in my ear, and like the Lord Almighty

Administered punishment for my own good. “Dad liked you best,” my sister said, and I thought

Of Old Spice cologne and black hairy armpits. But I am glad I watched your breath still

And allowed my compassionate god – not myself To determine destination and vengeance.

Any Less

Adam Duckworth

T im was the kind of guy that reminded me of a bug. Not a cute little ladybug, or something Disney would make, but the kind that slithered in darkness and kept company with rodents and corn snakes. Bugs with black eyes that ate their young.

I was a bird that flew away, trying to avoid trouble at the first sign of it.

T im and I really didn’t hit it off.

“Hey, busboy. You slam glass?”

Even though he appeared to be ninety pounds soaking wet, he had the stare of a sumo wrestler. I was entranced and intimidated when I talked to him. When he realized that all I could say was “uh… uh… uh…,” he kept it up.

“B ang white china?”

His long black hair hung like stringy worms that stuck to his skinny neck. A smiling skull tattoo on his right arm peeked out from beneath his “Silver Spur Steakhouse” work shirt.

I felt like I wanted to pee in my pants.

T im took the dishes I’d been holding and slammed them into an industrial sized dishwasher, his eyes shifting away from my pasty bovine face.

“Please tell me you’ve hit the purp.”

Confused, I opened my mouth to request an explanation. But before I could utter a syllable, he began to laugh.

“ You dipshit. Go out there and get me some more dishes.”

I backed away, surrounded by cooks and servers who couldn’t care less, simply thought of me as the new guy, the busboy, the ignorant college kid who didn’t have a clue as to what was going on. They let me know with side looks and grunts.

And they were absolutely right.

I tr ied my best to do my job, stay out of everyone’s way, and get back to my dorm to study. This trick was usually pulled off in a successful manner. I counted myself blessed if I upset

only one or two servers a night who needed their tables cleared of rib eyes so they could serve other carnivores who plunked down ten percent tips.

Some nights, I just wanted to throw down my apron and quit.

It was one of those nights when, after my shift was over, I saw Tim standing in the parking lot. He was smoking something and staring at the late night traffic, eyes heavy and red with God knows what. He blew smoke into the air, frosty and cold for a Florida winter, and looked at me.

“ What’s up, Busboy?”

I had tried to avoid his presence since our first interaction, but my good manners wouldn’t allow me to ignore him. I walked over to where he was standing and joined him in admiring the headlights.

“Not much, Tim,” I said as I stuffed my hands into my crisp khakis, the ones I always changed into after my shift to feel cleaner.

We stood there in silence, listening to the city sounds and getting lost in our own thoughts, when he took a drag and coughed it up.

“This place is a bitch, isn’t it?”

I nodded while combing my blonde hair and flicking a piece of lint off my shirt collar, not sure what to say and wondering when I could get in my Chevy and watch The Late Show. Tim simply stood there, short sleeve shirt and jeans soaked with dishwater and sweat, seeming comfortable in the silence.

Another drag. Another cough.

“ You think you could give me a lift? My car broke down, and my ride ain’t coming.”

I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell him that I had a test tomorrow, that I had books to read and papers to write and they were all due in ten hours. That would have been a flat out lie, but I needed an excuse to leave.

But I knew he wouldn’t buy it. And I knew he wouldn’t care. So I told him to hop in and not to mind the mess.

Five miles later, he told me that he lived forty-five minutes away. No apologies, no look in eye, no sympathy. He lapsed back into a silence that lasted another fifteen minutes. It was only broken to tell me he needed to make a stop at a place called The Golden Palace. I asked him if that was a Chinese restaurant.

“No, Busboy. It’s a strip club.”

I stared at him, not wanting to admit that I had never stepped into one before, ready to just go home and finish the night, but I could tell he wasn’t budging.

“I have some business there. It won’t take long.”

There are certain issues that I will fight for – a conservative agenda, a moral backbone for our nation, any and all arguments that go against the global warming conspiracy that Al Gore and the rest of the Democratic Party have come up with–but arguing against naked dancers for a few more hours of sleep would be pointless. I soon found myself at The Golden Palace parking lot.

The girl who took our seven dollars each had black hair and big boobs. She also had a face that could light up if the time was right. Tonight, though, she took the cover charge, her face dull and unfocused. She looked at me for a stale second or two before starting up a conversation with Tim.

“ You here for the usual?”

T im took a sideways glance at me, as if warning the girl of something, and said “yeah” as quickly and quietly as possible.

“Carl’s in the back.”

With that, she walked over to the bar. Tim turned to me, focusing his eyes somewhere between the bridge of my nose. Thankfully, I had sense enough to listen to whatever he had to say and not ask who Carl was.

“Listen, change a few twenties into ones and watch the girls. I’ll catch up with you in a little bit.”

I watched him until he went behind door number one and then, not knowing what else to do, asked for some change.

A g irl came dancing in front of me, blonde hair and wearing nothing but a sheer, bright pink cloth that she wrapped

around herself just to unwrap a few moments later. She was teasing me with her smile, but I had no interest in anything above her chest. After some time, I handed her two bucks and let her dance away to another customer.

T im found me sitting near the stage. He sat beside me, lit a cigarette, and admired the view. Realizing that more bait was placed on the hook, the dancer returned. Tim obliged her with a ten dollar bill.

For a split second, the façade fell off her face. She stared at the bill, mouth and eyes wide. Finally, with a face that looked like it belonged behind the desk on the six o’clock news, she asked, “You want change?”

T im smiled and told her to keep it.

Blondie thanked him and continued dancing in our presence for a few more minutes.

“ You feel uncomfortable?” Tim asked when she left.

“ Why would I?” I was trying not to be the goody-twoshoes kid that I was, but I had a feeling that my façade was about as good as Blondie’s.

T im laughed. “I know more than you think, Busboy. A student at the Richie Larson School of Ministry can’t be working at The Silver Spur without it getting out.”

I sighed.

“So…” he continued. “A born-again Christian, soon to be preacher, student of the world-famous child star turned TV evangelist doesn’t feel the least bit guilty staring at a gorgeous rack at a strip club? Sounds a little hypocritical to me.”

“This is the first time I’ve ever stepped foot into a place like this,” I said.

“But you like it. I can tell.”

T im laughed again, and I realized his comments were in jest. “Don’t get so beat up about it, Busboy. It’s perfectly natural to look at a woman. Didn’t God have some prophet marry a stripper or something like that?”

My hermeneutical insight invited itself into the conversation before I could shut my mouth. “Hosea. And he didn’t

marry a stripper. Gomer was a-”

“Oh yeah, she was a hooker.”

A new girl came on the stage – black hair and with the same moves as the previous one. She had talent, but it was like watching a rerun. Tim must have felt the same because he continued with the impromptu Bible study.

“ What I don’t get are all of these Christians that have temper tantrums when they see sex on TV or a porn shop in their neighborhood when their own God has one of his followers do a thing like that.”

I jumped to the defense. “Don’t you see? God was trying to make a point to the nation of Israel. He was saying that…”

“They were a bunch of sluts?”

“No. Well, yeah… in a way,” I was frustrated. “It’s all allegorical, like C.S. Lewis and The Chronicles of Narnia or The Great Divorce… or even bits and pieces of Stephen King’s The Dark Tower series.”

T im just stared at me.

“ You read Stephen King?”

I decided to ignore the question.

The brunette left the stage and was followed by a redhead. Even though I had seen two naked bodies in one night, it was already getting old. But there was something oddly intoxicating about this new beauty. Shimmering in the neon glow, her hair flowed down her back. Her body glistened, catching my attention with the way it moved, dancing from one pole to the next and sliding down with seamless wonder. But what made my heart flutter the most were her eyes and their fierce knowledge of how well everything else fell into place.

“Damn,” was all Tim could say.

S lithering with erotic grace the redhead came over to us. She looked at Tim, a smile on her lips like a child playing hooky. She moved her hips back and forth, hypnotizing him with a sexual play rehearsed and executed with precision.

After a few moments, she found herself in front of me practicing the same move and achieving the same success. I

barely noticed when the bouncer tapped on Tim’s shoulder, escorting him casually away from the stage.

Redhead smiled and leaned towards me, allowing me to take in the intoxicating scent of cheap perfume and cigarettes.

“ What’s your name, Sweetheart?”

I must not have answered because she giggled and said Sweetheart was a good enough name for her.

“ What’s yours?” I asked, finally finding my voice.

“I’m Cherry.”

It was the tackiest fake name. Ever.

I loved it.

The music faded, and Cherry promised to come see me in a few moments. I realized Tim was nowhere to be seen. Seeing as he was a big boy and I was enjoying myself, I felt no need to be concerned.

C herry walked over to where I was and asked if I would like to buy her a drink. Even though I knew that she was simply making money, I agreed to do so and escorted her to the bar. She ordered a shot that was gone by the time the bartender picked up my bill.

“So, what brings you here tonight, Sweetheart?”

I stood up straight and looked her in the eye with as much charm as possible. Something told me she would stay by my side as long as I didn’t go broke, but I still felt the need to impress her with manners, posture, and good communication skills.

“ Well… ummm… I…. well….”

Strike one.

“ You here with that other guy?”

“ Yeah… um… Tim… I think he went in the back.”

“Of course he did.”

I looked at her, waiting for an explanation and came up concerned when one wasn’t offered. When she realized that I didn’t have a clue as to what “going in the back” meant, she giggled again.

“Oh wow! You are naïve.”

I shr ugged and slouched, my eyes looking at the floor.

Strike two.

C herry placed her hand over mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. In turn, I looked up at her beautiful face once more.

“It’s probably better that way.”

I looked back at the stage and noticed a new brunette dancing. Cherry asked me if I wanted to go back and watch her. I told her no, I was fine, and bought her another shot.

A few moments of small talk passed. She asked me my name again. I told her. She asked me what I did. I mentioned that I worked at a steakhouse and was a student. She asked me what I was studying.

I lied and said performance art.

Silence fell between us; the gap filled with music and the sound of glasses on the bar. I looked over her body for the thousandth time.

“ You don’t go out a lot, do you?” Cherry asked.

“Not really,” I confessed.

S he smiled.

“ Well, this is the part where I ask you if you want a lap dance… and you say yes.”

There was a pause while her smile widened.

“ Would you like a lap dance?”

I looked to see if Tim had gone back to his seat while I had been distracted by Cherry’s breasts. He hadn’t, so I turned to her.

“Yes.”

C herry led me to a room with mirrors, a leather sofa, two chairs, and a camera mounted on the far end. I began to walk towards the sofa, but Cherry stopped me.

“Don’t sit on the couch. We have prostitutes here, and they use it.”

E xcited and repulsed, I stepped back. Logic began to work as I looked at the camera contemplatively. Cherry followed my gaze.

“Oh… that?” She asked. “That hasn’t worked in more than a year.”

I took a seat in one of the chairs and waited for her to start. Instead, she stepped back. Her head tilted to the side, looking at me with that smile on her face. The song faded and a new one began.

Without a word, Cherry climbed on top of me. Her thighs began to move back and forth, matching the tempo of the song. Slowly, her hands began to caress my body, finding their way across my neck and chest and up and down my arms. Finally, they grabbed my hands and placed them around her.

“Is this… um… okay?” I asked.

S he nodded, giving me permission to explore. I closed my eyes, listening to the music and the sound of my own breathing. Without realizing it, my brain was thanking Tim for this detour. I knew that my class would be starting in just a few hours – that sleep was likely out of the question because of my… excitement – but I didn’t care. I was having too much fun, and I had Tim (and Cherry) to thank.

I needed to do this more often.

W hen the song was on the second verse and my hand was on Cherry’s inner thigh, I opened my eyes again. At first, I looked in the mirror across from me. Cherry was still keeping time with her body; her eyes were closed like mine had been, but her facial expression seemed to be somewhere else. It was as if she were thinking about the next day off… or if I would be a good tipper. The more I looked at her, the more I was convinced she would be looking at a clock if there had been one in the room.

I closed my eyes and waited for the song to end.

Standing up a minute later, feeling limp and out of sorts, I asked Cherry how much I owed her. She told me it would be twenty-five dollars. I opened my wallet and gave her thirty.

“Thanks, Cherry.”

S he took it with a smile.

“ You can call me Sarah.”

S he folded the bills, put them in the bra she had just put back on, and walked away.

I found Tim sitting at the stage with a new cigarette in hand and his eyes glazed over. I sat down beside him. He didn’t move a muscle, just kept staring at the stripper going up and down the pole. When he was aware of my presence, he snorted.

“Huh, Hosea.”

“Really, Tim,” I said, trying my best to get Redhead, or Cherry, or Sarah, or whoever she was out of my head. “Hosea is allegorical. I mean, I know I already said that, but it’s true. Besides, Gomer went back to him in the end.”

T im took a drag of his cigarette, exhaled slowly, and looked at me.

“Didn’t make her any less of a whore.”

Home Alone

Mason Charles

Trying to keep busy, he stares at the computer.

Finally, all this free time; the world is his. He is discovering it’s not much. He waits to pounce on the next unsuspecting “friend” who logs on. They don’t. He’s wasting time; he knows it.

It’s noon on a Friday; people are busy.

He battles a dirty thought, losing quickly.

He knows he can see anything he desires, only a quick click away. No one will ever know.

He steals a look; he knows how to delete the history.

He scans his inbox, checks his phone, nobody has called; all of his robot companions wait silently; he glances at the screen. Perhaps just a peek, no one will ever know. After all, he knows how to delete history.

What Do Men Want?

Reply to Kim Addonizio’s poem – “What Do Women Want?”

Barbara Gasparian

I want a woman in a red dress. I want the dress to fit her like Saran Wrap, too shear, too clear. I want her to wear that dress until I tell her to take it off.

I want her gut-less and nag-less, this woman, so everyone will know I’m the tree - she’s my ornament. I want to strut down the street past Peter’s Porno and Harry’s bar with my pals drooling and oogling through the panes past the madams selling years-old ass on the corner, past the Steinem sisters burning bras from the podium demanding equality for women while castrating men.

I want to strut like I’m the only stud on the planet and I have had my pick. I want that woman in the red dress – going down. I want her to know, without a doubt, that she is to cheer me and revere me, and I’ll show her how to say, “yes sir yes sir” and she’ll do whatever I want. When I find her, I’ll shag that woman; I’ll drag her by the hair to my place, even though she cries, NO – because I know she means yes or why else would she wear that shear red dress? And then I, man, will seal the deal. She will wear my brand like a wall wears a trophy–and that goddamned dress–until death do us part.

My Brilliant Confusion

Diana Jernigan

When the cold comes, I know you will reveal yourself where once you were sullen and difficult to discern competing as you did with thundering moisture and the tired eyes of beachgoers—you really don’t like summer all that much, do you?

When the cold comes you disrobe shamelessly. Throbbing with pent up pressure, a frightful sight limbs boldly spread out, quivering slightly with effort, you revel in the shortened days, the opportunity to strut center stage.

You dare me in the dead of winter: gaze at my brilliant confusion. You are a wicked tease come December nights.

Why bother, exhibitionist, as if you care.

You know full well I cannot comprehend you nor see beyond your meaningless patterns, behind which hide my own yesterdays—nor do I even try too often, when the cold comes.

A passing nod, a sigh here and there, a snippet of conversation about you, oh yes, magnificent. Come inside dear, it’s cold.

Why stand there, diva, waiting for applause?

You are overbearing when the cold comes. Too much for me, mere mortal intent on sleep. I am unwilling to lie beneath you and contemplate things I might best forget.

It is easier to romance me in the warmth of summer when my drunken haze shadows your figure. For when the cold comes, you reveal yourself. And I cannot look at you—you, my brilliant confusion.

Lucy in the Sky with Simon

Christie Woodrow

Simon was bluffing. He knew it. She knew it. Hell, she could feel his weakened resolve all the way from the kitchen. The only real question in Roxie’s mind was how far would Simon take this? Oh, he had long since told her that he was going to eventually get serious about dating someone, that it wouldn’t be weird if she handled it with maturity. Roxie knew what that translated to. It meant that they would never be the same: no more long walks together, no more shared plates of bacon and eggs at 2 a.m., and definitely no more sneaking into his bed at night (even though she had her own room now) just to see if he would let her stay. Oh no, the new girl would never tolerate that. Come to think of it, Roxie pondered, the new girl might not even want her to live in the same house anymore. She bristled. No, he’s bluffing she thought as she glared around the corner (in the bedroom of all places!) at her replacement. She wasn’t even that pretty.

Roxie decided to take charge of the situation. She flounced around the corner, blonde hair swishing and her cheap necklace jingling with every step until she reached the threshold of the bedroom. She hesitated when she realized that she had not been allowed in there for a week now. She gazed at the hideous monogrammed university letters on almost every surface. Roxie was color blind, but Simon told her once that he could bleed crimson and gold. Roxie herself had never cared about sports and had even accidentally destroyed a relic or two. After all, she reasoned, living together meant he could allow her some space. She allowed her eyes to roam around the room for evidence that she had lived there, too. There wasn’t much; a brush she didn’t care for lay on the desk, an old picture of the two of them outside the apartment when he signed the lease, and her favorite comforter was left unaltered on the window seat where she liked to watch the world go by. This could still

work, she resolved. All I have to do is get her out of the equation. She inhaled deeply and (as all women do at some point in their life) instantly rationalized the horrific chain of events she was about to set into motion.

Lucy craned her neck to see if Simon was going to come out of the bathroom soon, because of all the emotions familiar to her, prolonged boredom was not among them. She liked the company of others, and she especially liked Simon. Simon called her beautiful every single day. Well, not beautiful exactly but pretty, and that was just as close. She knew she wasn’t his type, but there was a kindness and odd quality to him that she found endearing, and besides, she did need a place to stay… it could work, she decided, if she could just get that out of the house. It was sad really how she just hung around him like a lovesick puppy. It didn’t matter to Lucy that she was there really, but she upset Simon, and Lucy especially liked Simon, especially liked Simon. Es-pes-she-al-ly. She liked learning knew words as well.

Roxie realized Simon was still in the bathroom and seized her brief window of opportunity. She tossed her hair, marched into the room, and sat directly across from her nemesis. She thought reclaiming her title as Simon’s girl would be much more difficult than this. The girl was singing for God sakes! The new girl didn’t even so much as look her in the eye when she sat down. This was going to be far too easy. She cleared her throat and waited for her opponent to object.

Lucy gave the pretty, sad Simon girl (that’s what she named her) her best sideways glance. She was not allowed in here. Simon had distinctly told her that. This was not her room. Lucy did not claim to be a genius, but that she knew for sure. Lucy decided to reason the waif away.

“Roxie?” she chirped feigning surprise and looking down on the blonde, ratty-haired thing. Simon told me about you. You’re a pretty girl…a very pretty girl. You must be a smart girl too. I’m glad you came to see me. I don’t like to be bored. Did you need something from our room?”

Roxie looked up at Lucy. What did Simon see in her? she

wondered. Sure, she was longer, taller, more elegant than she, but her nose was too angular, her eyes too far apart and as far as Roxie could guess, she wasn’t even a blonde. Was that a dark red color on her head? No matter. Beauty is nice but could the girl even read? And what is this our room business? She fumed inwardly.

“ Yes, Lucy, right?” Simon told me you just moved in. We’re soooo happy you came.” Roxie said, uttering the words so sweetly they oozed off her tongue like honey. “Even if it’s only for a little while.”

Lucy had switched to whistling, stopping only to respond. “Oh thank you, but I plan to stay awhile. It’s a beautiful place, and Simon, well, we both know how Simon feels about me.”

Roxie hopped onto the bed, her necklace alive with noise, and curled up by Simon’s pillow. Lucy pretended not to notice Roxie was clicking her nails on the side table to offset her whistling. For a few minutes, they pretended to be in a comfortable silence as they both listened to the shower head pelting water on the tiles in Simon’s bathroom. Whistle, click, click, splash, Whistle, click.

And sooner than Roxie anticipated, Lucy’s whistle hit a pitch only Roxie heard, then stopped abruptly.

“Fine! What do you want Roxie? What is it? Is it Simon? Is that why you’re still hanging around making puppy dog eyes at him? Because you want him back? Well you can’t have him! He loves me now so…so you need to leave! This is not your room! Simon told me that!”

Roxie ceased her clicking and calmly spoke. “Lucy, I like you, I do. I even respect what you’re trying to do but do you even know what you’re getting into here? I mean, you two have only known each other what? A week? Two? And you moved in together? Aren’t you scared about what might happen? Aren’t you worried that Simon might not be who you think he is?”

Lucy fidgeted from where she was perched and thought about this. “No” she resolved “I love Simon for everything he is, good and bad. I mean that’s what love is right?” She cocked her

head and looked expectantly at Roxie.

“That’s very admirable, Lucy. You truly do love Simon. I wonder though what you would say if I told you he, oh, I don’t know, hated cats.”

Lucy was only half listening as she was attempting to pronounce admirable in her head. New words were such fun. “What’s that? Oh no, I can’t stand cats,” she said

“And if I told you he had a terrible job with no chance of a promotion so you two could never move?” Roxie continued.

Lucy started to feel uneasy. This felt like a trap but it was a fair enough question. Could she stay here with Simon long term? With all the letters? In an ugly red room? Would she feel as if her wings were clipped? “I suppose so,” she stated slowly, “If I truly love Simon, then we can live anywhere.” she answered feeling victorious.

“ Well I guess I have misjudged you terribly then, Lucy” Roxie smiled. “You two were clearly meant to be like he and I never were. I am sooo sorry I didn’t understand your love for him sooner. I clearly can’t stand in the way of what you two have.”

Lucy beamed and assumed her sing song voice “I’m so happy you understand Roxie. I knew you were a smart girl and such a pretty girl.”

Roxie sat up and sighed. “I should leave you two love birds to your dinner then and I’ll go out to look for a new place.” She slid her petite frame off the bed. “Make sure you tell him you love the turkey though even if it’s dry. The poor guy’s been working on it all day.”

Lucy froze. “Why would Simon cook a turkey?” her voice quivered “He’s a vegetarian.”

“Oh, no silly,” Roxie said jingling towards the door, “he eats all kinds of meat, birds mostly. Turkey, chicken, quail, he loves the stuff.” She paused at the door, “Are you all right?”

“I have to get out of here!” Lucy suddenly shrieked “Roxie, you have to help get me out of here! I can’t do this! This isn’t what I want! I want to get out!”

Roxie was already walking back across the room towards

the window. “But I thought you loved Simon?” she said innocently. “You’ll break his heart if you leave.”

Just then the shower pipes squeaked as Simon turned off the faucet and toweled off.

Lucy became hysterical, “Roxie, please! I’ll do anything! Just get me out of here! I have to get out of here!”

Roxie hesitated, “I don’t know, Lucy, I mean, I’m not even supposed to be in here. And what if you come back? That would just put both of us on such bad terms with Simon. I just don’t know Lucy…”

“I’ll never come back, Roxie, I swear! Just please, please help me!” She spoke flailing so badly that Roxie almost felt remorse.

“Ok” Roxie said while strategically flipping the oversize latch on the window allowing it to swing open “if it’s what you really want.”

“Thank you, Roxie!” Lucy rejoiced as she practically flew out the window “Thank you pretty girl! Simon girl!”

Simon emerged out of the bathroom in only a towel and hair like a newborn chick in time to witness Lucy take a victory lap around the neighborhood.

“Lucy, what the hell are you doing? How did you get out there! Stop! Damnit! Lucy!” He yelled as he balanced on one leg to force his bare foot into a sneaker while supporting the towel.

He grabbed his cell phone and hit speed dial 2 as he stumbled down the hall to the door. He turned around and shouted “stay Roxie!” which Roxie had intended to do all along.

Simon then bounded out the door and yelled into the phone “Paul! Get over here man! That damn bird you made me pay three hundred bucks for just escaped! I don’t know man, maybe my dog spooked it. Yes, the Pomeranian! Stop laughing!”

With that the door slammed closed; Roxie wriggled out of her obnoxiously loud collar. She grabbed her crimson leash, dragged it to the window seat, and let sleep overtake her while she waited for Simon to return. As she fell asleep, she thought of the walk in the park they would take later and wondered why in God’s name people would put bells on animals.

We Girls under the Sun

Amberley Carter

We sit in the car

Amidst the sultry heat and Speak of our dreams

Against a powerhouse beat.

I’m afraid of growing older

And you’re stoked about the change. I want to elope with Peter Pan. I yearn to escape this grounded land

That’s stuck in a rut of repeating

The cycle of life—

Of love—

Of sweat.

We work together on our problems. These minutes, I’ll never forget.

But Alas!

Those salty beads that cling to our foreheads only Hint at the summer that pushes us ahead Into a future where I’m older, and you are finally free. Where I marry a Peter and you teach psychology. But here’s where the comfort lies: We’ll rise to meet the storm. You and I can do it; For these reasons we were born. I was meant to fall for a flying boy. You were made to speak the truth. We root ourselves into ourselves And refuse to be removed.

I’m scared, You’re psyched. Together we make a pair.

If I fall, you’d laugh, and as one we’d cry. The best news that I have for you is

That these memories won’t dry.

They’ll stay wet for years and years and then many more to come. Forever will we be two young girls beneath a sultry, Florida sun.

Cover-Up

Adeline St. Romain

Patches of red on my white porcelain skin

Stand as mockery to the defeat of last night’s willpower. Oh, but how my feet and Jody Waltley danced. Hands and lungs plunged deep in clean green trees.

Mouth and belly swam in Barefoot Cabernet. A party. A blast. Mid 30s…single. Not alone.

Piper purred, partied. Killing the Star Chaser Turbo Scratcher. ChiChi licked, scratched, napped with the sofa’s arm. Yet now, how rude, rivers of mud under puffy sacs Scream, “LOOK, she’s been crying.”

Tsk Tsk to the tattletales. You’re no match for Revlon. Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiippppppppp, clink, clink, clank.

The sound of skilled fingers finding True Match natural buff number 3.

Dab dab dab and disappear.

Silky bristles sweep powdery fairy dust, Swish blend swirl illusions to perfection. Miss Maybelline plops of cold dots. Highlights to the corner of my eyes.

Smudge rub pat, how awake you look. A hint of rose on my cheeks and black on my lashes. Ahhhhhhhhh

My red glossy lips part slightly as the corners turn up. Secret safe.

Can’t wait for tonight.

Chiseled Vanity

Kenny Jeanthenor

We are aliens, foreigners, Of all creeds, social castes, backgrounds, But we share a common ideology. We speak in tongues: Sets, reps, lunges, isometrics.

Pain is gain and sweatSexy. Diligence manifested.

We moan and grunt, Openly, vividly, obscenely, Sucked into the bodies

Of the opposite sex. Checking out her breasts is accepted Though she really wants you to notice Her ass in those one-size-too-small Spandex pants with hot pink, Perhaps day-glow green dental floss Thong for emphasis. He, now Covered in road map veins and bulges, Drinks a low-carb high-protein peanut-butter Shake, thick as coagulated blood, Carries a gallon of water, and poses In mirrors – flex, hold, squeeze.

Insect

Javan Garza

Pulling up to the small blue house, I can easily see that things here are not in order. Green and clear Coke bottles litter the front yard, thunderous barking from a dog pushing his muscular paws at his fence. Stepping out of the yellow truck, I adjust my green uniform; it starts to ride up in certain areas after I’ve been sitting for awhile. Grabbing the spray can, I make a path to the infested house. Old bird feeders filled with spiders, mold growing on the siding, nothing much different from the last four or five.

But they have a door knocker, nice touch. To make my presence known, I raise the knocker and let it drop. Looking around there isn’t much to see really, some bushes and a little garden gnome. Maybe some small bugs have nested here, possibly a family of spiders, nothing too serious. A rustling comes from inside. The door swings open as a portly mammoth of a woman steps out.

“Miss B. Arthur? I’m with South Side Pest Control,” I say through teeth clinched in a smile so worn out that it might as well be in the Smithsonian.

“ Yeah, come on in.” she wheezes, a cigarette parting her yellow teeth. A little mouthwash wouldn’t hurt this situation at all. As I walk in, the smell hits me like a freight train: the smell of old stale Doritos with a side of pickle. Inside there’s a couch along one side, old television across from it, and smoke- stained walls, an average low-wage American. I bet some microwave dinners rest in the sink.

“Have you noticed anything here lately, ma’am? Any large insects, anything more than the usual?” I ask using the regular ice breaker pest control man speech. And I bet there isn’t really. Hopefully a little small talk and I’ll just spray. Then move on.

“Nah, nothing strange, just the same dew in my flower

bed,” she says sitting down; the chair under her whines with self-pity. Okay, dew in her flower bed, probably not as creepy as it sounds.

“Any rooms you want me to stay out of?” I ask “Just spray man; you’re making me miss my show.” The steam spills from her lungs as she drags on the cancer stick. “Okay,” I say, dragging out the syllables. Just doing my job lady.

Making my way from corner to corner, I spray my pesticide along the edges, quick and thin, never overdoing it. Plastic frames of pictures along the wall reflect the sunbeams back at me. Walking to the next room, I hear the sound of the channels being changed echoing down the hall. Two divas shouting about a baby reminds me of my own distant cousins as I spray her disarranged kitchen counters. Pots and pans cramping the crevices remove any doubt of there being creepy crawlies here. Just like my old Uncle Isaac, he used to collect dirty pots and pans. Said it was for my aunt. Always let her know that he thought about her.

From room to room I spray, over the clothes in the corners, over the boxes of feminine products and dirty plates, finding out what she hides in her back cupboards as I open them to expose any small ant or beetle. It’s a revealing process, stained undergarments along the bedroom floor. Unlike the last house where the family that lived there was so OCD they vacuumed twice a day, including the cat, dusty trophies and unopened books. It really is a mess with extra water damage to the ceiling.

But the bathrooms are always most interesting. I find you can tell everything about a person from a bathroom. Lots of magazines means they enjoy a nice shit. Extra rolls of toilet paper mean they’re probably a tad messy. But this one, oh it’s downright scary. Stacks of toilet paper rolls make a small pyramid to the gods. And the old Reader’s Digest booklets rest together atop a small desk. The scariest part, little porcelain clowns decorate the shelves above the throne.

One in particular catches the eye: a short squatty clown,

sad faced and holding a rebel flag. I can’t take my eyes off it while spraying the room. Going in for a closer look I touch the flag on top. With a quiet snap the flag breaks from its clown. My heart stops as it drops to the palm of my hand.

“Oh damn,” I say under my breath. Nervously I try to force the flag back into the clown’s hand. But no, he wouldn’t take it back. Now the sad face looks more like a twisted grin. Listening carefully the echo of the two divas still dishing it out rings my ears. Good, she’s still occupied by the bitches. About to place the flag into a small overflowing trash can, the floor behind me creaks as the beast moves in.

“ You done yet bug boy?” she asks leaning over the threshold of the bathroom door.

“ Yeah, all finished here.” I say slipping the flag into my back pocket. Is this really what it’s come down to, a college graduate hiding a broken toy in his pocket so some ignorant behemoth won’t chew him up for dinner?

Yeah, that’s what it’s come down to. “Just do the outside and I’ll be out of your hair,” not that I would ever admit to being in that mess of hair, ever. Leading me to the kitchen Miss B. Arthur makes her way to the door, opening it with subtle aggravation. “Have a nice day,” I say with a smirk.

“ Yeah,” she snorts out with a puff of smoke.

O utside I spray quickly and thoroughly. That is until I reach the chain link fence. On the other side a muscular pit bull is staring me down. His ears clipped and tail but a nub on the tip of his backside. I have to spray in the back or technically I didn’t complete the job.

“Hey boy” I speak gingerly to the animal showing myself friendly. He sits motionless as a low growl answers my plea. “I knew a dog like you back in my neighborhood as a kid. Spike; yea he was a tough guy too.” Another growl. “I have a nice scar on my leg from him; I didn’t jump the fence in time. But his owner, Vinnie, he got a nice chunk taken out of him as well. And you know what happened to Spike?” The dog snorts in response. “Well Vinnie kicked the shit out of him, and then put him down.”

I break it to him hard. “Now how about you back off and let me do my business?” Stepping forward I clasp the gate just long enough to feel the breath from the animal as his teeth come inches from my hand. Barking and gnashing follow.

“Okay. I’ll just spray around your area and call it quits.” The dog sits back down satisfied and begins to pant. “Nice to see you’re happy.” With that I coat the front of the fence and walk away. Moving back to my mobile fortress of solitude which is a yellow truck decorated with a large cockroach waving to those who pass by. Opening the door and being greeted with the strong smell of old boots and sweat, I hop in, buckle up, and flick the key forward. But before I’m able to drive away from this smoke-infested, dog-ridden redneck mansion there is an earsplitting cry from inside the house. My hands freeze, and I look back in time to see Miss B. Arthur running out slamming the door behind her and making a beeline to my truck. She hits the window hard.

“HEY! What’s this? Aren’t you an exterminator?” She yells even though she is but three feet from me.

“Uh, yes,” I sputter.

“Then why in hell is there a roach crawling up my kitchen wall? You ain’t killed nothing!” she states, pointing her sausage of a finger at my throat.

“Ma’am, I just.....”

“ You ain’t done your job; get back in here and kill them thangs!” she says cutting me off.

Now, flabbergasted and distraught, I pause and try to regain my composure. “Uh?” is all that leaves my mouth at first. “Ma’am, I only spray; it’s not my job to squash.” I try to explain.

“No, you get in here and kill this thing, or I’m going to call your manager and....” Feeling empowered by the moment, I have a thought fire in my brain.

“Ma’am!” I say cutting her off. But that’s all I get in the inventory. My mouth quivers for a follow up to the outburst, but nothing comes. Stuck and distraught, we stare at one an -

other for a moment. Then without hesitation, I hit the gas and speed out of the driveway leaving a cloud of smoke and bug spray.

Hands shaking, I speed down the back roads until I hit a stop sign. The truck comes to a jolting stop as my brain begins to backtrack what just happened. My heart is pounding inside my throat as I realize I just ran from a woman who probably would have had a heart attack if she were to try and chase me. Arteries all blocked from spaghetti noodles and cow patties.

“FUCK!” I scream, scratching my vocal cords. I can feel my face turn red. Damn it. I know she’ll call my boss and complain, and then I’ll never hear the end of it. “Why couldn’t you just go in there and kill the fucking bug you dumbass,” I say, giving myself my own scornful speech.

My hairs stand on end as I feel eyes peering through me. Looking to the right, I see a young girl standing with a red, swollen balloon tied to a string rapping in the wind. The string is tied to her wrist. Short brown hair pulled back in a pony tail, she is clad in a neatly ironed blue dress. She cocks her head and looks at me. A grin creeps across her face. She waves.

Gripping the steering wheel with excessive force I can feel the rubber under my fingers squeeze like putty. Turning the radio up the truck is filled with loud, ear cracking music. I listen to Megadeth’s snarling vocals as other cars drive past slowly, just long enough to catch a glimpse of the young man wasting his ear drums.

The next stop of the day is just around the corner. Some ways down the road, I pull into the driveway of another small home, its wood exterior painted red with plants hanging and standing tall with pride.

The keys pull out of the ignition as I slide down the seat inhaling the warm air of the evening. Dogs bark as children walk the street looking for some sort of mischief to get into. Looking to the side a sweaty yellow and black hat stares back up. I hadn’t worn it at the last stop. Mickey’s voice echoes: “Keep that damn hat on when you’re out; you’re representing

the company, and I won’t have you giving us a bad rep.” As if it really makes a difference if we wear hats with small roaches coughing out green gas.

Sweat stained and dirty, I slip it on anyways. Opening the door of the truck, I feel the cold handle of the spray can sting my grip. The walkway to the home is cobblestone, with red and blue bricks. Some have hints of smiley faces and profane words written in chalk years ago. The front door is yellow with scratches from what looks like a small animal. With a heavy sigh, I raise my hand to knock.

How Fairytales Really End

Emily Heasley

I sit beside the window and watch as the rain falls.

The world outside is washed a drowsy grey. The drops play tag with the puddles like we used to when days were longer, the world brighter.

On hazy days we raced paper boats down the roaring rivers of the gutters.

We rode our scooters up and down the asphalt and jousted like the knights of old. I remember playing with Yu-Gi-Oh cards and losing.

You’d always smile and say, “Don’t give up. You’ll get it.”

I raise my head up high when I get 80s on my exams or draw the perfect dragon.

I puff my chest out when I beat a hard boss in Kingdom Hearts. I still try to live up to your expectations though you don’t see it.

I still think of you as caring, telling me good job and that I can do anything.

I remember your hugs and how you called me sister.

Prize-Winning Violets

Emily Dobrenchuk

A neon orange sign boasting “open 24 hours” flickered on and off in the dusty diner window. Next door, the gas station offered cold beer, though its fuel pumps had been sucked dry years ago. Churning oil rigs dotted the horizon, and heat radiated off the buckled pavement. About a mile down the same road sat a lonely house with a few missing shutters and a flimsy screen door. An abandoned tire swing still hung sadly in the dried out pecan tree, its playmate long grown up. Cracked ground that once sprouted acres of corn stretched out east of the kitchen window, and a splintering rocking chair sat next to a tin spittoon on the front porch. Mr. Carl Flannigan, the lone resident of the house, was surprisingly satisfied with its rough appearance, claiming to those who objected, that the house was full of character and just the way he liked it.

Inside, Carl dusted off his small plastic suitcase and laid it open on the comforter that his late wife had crocheted for Christmas one year. Yellow morning light strained in through missing blinds, and he let out a sigh as he opened the closet doors to pack his nicest shirt and starched jeans. While he shined his favorite boots, his daughter was a few hours away in San Antonio, making reservations for her small rehearsal dinner to be held the next day.

W hen he went outside to load his luggage into the empty bed of his Chevy, his neighbor’s barefoot son Jude came over to pick up the house keys. Mr. Flannigan reminded Jude to water his wife’s prized violets in the small pot on the kitchen windowsill and the few rows of English peas he had recently planted in the backyard. A handshake between the two, and Carl started his rusty truck for the drive south to see his only daughter marry a man who carried a briefcase and probably couldn’t grow English peas if he tried.

Days later, it was about the same time that the groom’s

parents were preparing to make a celebratory speech that Jude finished watering the cherished violets and snuck a cigarette from the old man’s carton in the kitchen. On his way out to the peas, Jude dropped the match onto the front porch, narrowly missing the spittoon. How was the boy to know that only a few days earlier, Carl had thought he smelled propane though his stove wasn’t on?

About the time Carl was dancing with his only daughter and smiling at his new son-in-law, Jude was thrust into the red dirt road, flames and black smoke climbing high enough to be seen all the way from the 24-hour diner and gas station with cold beer but no gasoline.

Desert Wild Flowers

Michael Beck

I don’t know how these things happen, one moment you are camping alone and freezing in the black air crying for the dawn and in the next the sun comes up and you feel planted like a barrel cactus in spring bloom next to a church front door listening to a mountain over there no longer shadowing you, instead anchoring the desert’s silence, as you watch her boulder children press rough-hewn faces against her soft, dusty breasts while others already torn from her side, made slick by the sun and wind and rain, cling gently to her long flowing alluvial aprons

and all of the sudden you find yourself right up past your knees in the moment, your ribs unable to conspire any longer against your heart as a poem swims

up the dry gulch unfettered by your lifelong concern about being carried along like those rocks, unwittingly, to an indifferent sea when the fire leaps back into your body as you notice clear eyed the small yellow tongues of wild flowers lapping at your feet.

So you write down its words:

“Trust the one thing you own for sure, your heaviness, to break you into more of what you really are and to move you where you need to be.”

Kathryn “Tappy” Henson Mixed Media

Hannah Craft

Pastel/Conte Crayon

Sunset Palm

Catherine M. Voth

Photograph Untitled

JoAnne Bartley

Photograph

Just Another Day at the Beach

Jaime Diffee Clay Meowdusa

Sandra Zimmermann

Mixed Media

Amanda’s Flowers

Catherine M. Voth

Photograph Alice’s View

Ashley Bermes

Photograph Ember Light

Melissa McWilliams

Conte Crayon

Titus

Joan M. Langham

Lunch at Wild Olive

Maria B. Morekis Photograph Snow Dancer

Kathryn “Tappy” Henson

Mixed Media

Channeling Carmen Miranda–Self Portrait

Catherine M. Voth

Photograph Evolution

An Average Day at the

Jacob Waites

Photograph

Docks

Alaina Fitzner

Photograph Lean on Me

Emily Heasley

Pastel

Reverie

Stephanie Crow

Pastel/Conti Crayon

Mr. Mardi Gras

Laura Tapley Pastel

Pointillism

JoAnne Bartley Photograph

The 500 Free Swim

Jacob Waites Gouache and Acrylic on Basswood Killings

Stephanie Crow Charcoal Zinnia II

Ernest Harris IV Ink Penguin @ Zoo

Megan White Clay Sucka

Kristina Coil Photograph The Crossing Patti Gillespie Watercolor Posted

Johna Esterberg Clay Makenzie

Melissa McWilliams Oil Purple

Theodora Ciudad-Real Clay Autumn

Ernest Harris IV

Peanut Butter Crunch and Red Clay Native Sun

A Summit Moment

Diana Jernigan

I have reached the top of Sugar Mountain. At last, I can stop and catch my breath, ease the aching limbs that have burned the past half-mile. The tree line on the far side of the peaks undulates across an azure sky, with a few jagged ridges scoring downward, earthy criss-crosses that eventually meld into the low meadow lands and fertile pastures—a picture so serene and tranquil against the heave of my lungs and the rapid fire of my heart beat I can scarcely comprehend it. The air stings over my cheeks, a cool chafing I welcome.

B elow me, the ski slope stretches away, dipping and turning down the mountain with deceptive ease, as if the angle of its descent were inconsequential to anything but the wind. Carpeted with summer grass now, the big chair lifts merely silent sentinels, it is utterly abandoned—but for a timid jackrabbit peeking from a leafy haven, and me, poised at the summit, astride a mountain bike.

E xhilaration thrums through me. I have conquered this mountain. Another mountain. I have not given up. The tear pooling at my eye bears witness. How many? How many? From way back I recall these endurance skills, the ability to pace myself—hammering, hammering—and exercise control when I’d like nothing more than to collapse into exhaustion. The drive to keep moving forward is a hard-learned thing.

But those lessons enable me to stop now and contemplate myself in this point of time, shed of the past, not yet needing to face the future. In this solitary reverie, I indulge in poetry: dream-like thoughts of touching the sky, perhaps, or the hand of God.

My soul comes alive in these summit moments, after the battle, without the noise and confusion, with only fresh air and the whir of the leaves and the knowledge that I was created to exist with all this beauty, inside this one moment.

Self Portrait Jaime Diffee

I love this. How could I not? How could I look at the puffs of clouds skidding on the wind, at the stately pines covering the ridge, how could I smell the fragrance of summer wildflowers and hear the songs of the birds—how, indeed, could I examine the journey of my own life—and not love this?

Still, reaching summit moments takes a toll: all of my perseverance, every ounce of courage to confront the uphill climb. This kind of euphoria, this connection with supernatural peace—with sheer altitude—doesn’t come without the toil of the trail.

There is more ahead. The route to the bottom, I suspect, is perilous. The moguls and mounds prized by winter skiers seem a deathtrap to me now, my thin rubber tires—and trembling limbs at the helm—woefully inadequate to manage the course, no matter how lightweight and maneuverable the vehicle. It would be a long, carefully crafted ride to the bottom, riding brake the whole way, jarring and jostling, all with one main goal in mind: to keep myself from being thrown headlong into danger.

Suddenly, without warning, figures whirl past. In a flash of colorized speed, they top the summit, and then, for an instant, become airborne—one, two, three—sailing into the freedom of the sky and the air without any thought for the earth that would soon pound up at them. My sons.

Earlier, I had been their slipstream. I had taught them things, how to care for each other, how to manage the lines and such. Sometimes I had really forced the pace. Their disgruntled responses were effective blocks and occasional attacks.

I’d bested them on this uphill climb, passed them huffing up the trail, muttering and sweating and wondering, aloud, how I did that. But they are fast and fearless now, eager to overtake me and regain their honor. While I linger in my mountaintop glory, my personal hour of worship at the top of the hill, they are already shifting gears. The descent is what they wait for, work for. They have no need for summit moments. At least not yet.

Already they are blurs on the slope, small, slamming figures that somehow, against all odds, stay upright and maintain at least marginally respectable form. I reposition myself and grip the handlebar, my fingers edging around the brake. I must hurry now. Before they get too far ahead.

My summit moment has passed. The road lies open and dangerous before me. But I have chosen this course. I have chosen to believe I can lead this race; I can steer them all through its pits and potholes.

I ease forward, the front wheel drawing gravity, the back already slipping on the loose shale. I gain control, relieved to be on grass and at the same moment, terrified of the slope; it feels vertical and impossible.

But the boys have already forged ahead. I cannot afford to let the space between us widen. Soon, they will be looking for me. After all, I have led them up this mountain. God knows I will surely see them down.

Strong I Stand

Beau Vermillion

When the mountains crumble down at my feet, And the rain oppresses me like bullets, When winds shake my ground, begging my defeat, And white waters swarm me with no outlet, When the flames dance tauntingly with their heat, Rising and fighting to swallow me whole. When darkness falls down and my eyes can’t see, And shadows cover me, like blackened souls, Strong I stand, for my faith is a mountain. Strong I stand, for the rain washes me clean. Strong I stand, for the wind makes me fly, and Strong I stand, for my ship conquers the sea. This world is weak ’gainst those who believe. Strong I stand when Heaven’s what I’ll receive.

Deep-Water Sailing

Michael Beck

We went sailing once and much to my surprise she knew both how to work the jib and how to open a salt-encrusted heart.

I remember most how silent it got on the rolling bow as we rubbed shoulders, effortlessly coordinating our seaman skills, my two hands pulling first, then hers reaching over mine grabbing at the chain until the anchor’s flukes broke the surface at the crest of a frothy white-haired wave.

Then, how she casually touched my arm and pointed at the dead weight bobbing in the deep sea’s water by the boat, noting how unscathed it was, knowing that my mind would finish what mercifully she had left unsaid: “Slow down this little craft of yours, filled as it is

right now with neediness, with you oblivious to how useless it is, letting it dangle like that far from the bottom of your ocean of desire.”

She encouraged me then and there to simply let it go, and when I did, my life got anchored or maybe just snagged on something big, a boulder perhaps or maybe a star.

That was a long time ago, and I still feel guilty that I never thanked her for going to sea with me that day and pointing out, gently, the need for this simple act and how the sweetness of the orchids growing wild along the shore was often hidden by the heaviness of salt-soaked air, thrown up from a dark, sometimes threatening, nearby rocky coastline, where all my sailing skills have been readying me for years now to go.

Behind Closed Doors

Deborah Majors

They start too early. They should wait their turn and not cut in line, but they do anyway. They should wait to show up when the years catch up, but they are rude and eager to stake their claim because they know they are inevitable—so why wait. When you are six years old, like I was when they showed themselves, you don’t even think they should be just for grown ups. They, these grown-up feelings, don’t even have names yet, but you know what they look like, smell like, feel like. A lump in your throat. White knuckles fisting the banister bars. The smell of Pledge as your grip slides down the waxed poles. The cold, hard wood for one butt cheek and carpet runner for the other butt cheek as you find yourself sitting and watching in disbelief with grit in the inner corners of both eyes.

I’ve since seen myself in movie after movie: the child in soft flannel pajamas witnessing hard life from, depending on the director’s choice, the top, or almost top of the stairs; the baluster shadows striping freckled skin, making a contrasting channel for a tear to reflect strategic lamp light as it flows to the corner of that little mouth. I know why the child does not race to the bottom of the stairs away from safety and night lights and slippers to yell and beg the moment to stop. To stop right there in the foyer. To just stop.

I know why the child is drawn to watch and not speak and is forced back to bed before discovered. I wish I didn’t know, but I do.

It wasn’t the raised but muffled voices from the living room. It wasn’t the screaming voices which progressed to the foyer arguing about his drinking and his lying and his gambling and the rent money and the sleeping children. It wasn’t the crack of her skull on the oak door that should have silenced me, nor the trembling of colored glass in the three little windows meant to warn tall grownups of danger from the other side. It wasn’t even her cry of pain.

It was the haunting look in my mother’s eyes as she glanced up from the floor and saw me leaving my post on the stairs to come to her aid.

I wasn’t as smart as the children in the movies. They never immediately tell what they saw. They just suffer quietly until the plot thickens and the writers give them permission to give the big reveal, solving the mystery, making sense of the whole storyline, aiding in the climax or becoming the hero. That’s why they remain at their vantage point on the stairs, and that is what works out for the best. I know. That’s what I should have done. It would have worked out for the best if I had clung to the balusters in the shadows, remained in childhood, squashed the grown-up feelings or at least sent them to the back of the line.

But I didn’t. I ruined the scene in such a way that I only now understand. I did a terrible thing—I silenced my mother. I didn’t mean to; I really didn’t. I meant to be her voice when I screamed at my father. I felt powerful when he hung his head as he disappeared into the night, into the other side of the door. But all I did was silence my mother through the years by her wanting to protect me from ever witnessing such pain again. That’s what mothers do.

I can never tell her that I was wrong. I can never tell her that I should have stayed on the stairs and watched her be the one to send him to the other side of the door. I should have waited to be the hero. But I didn’t. And now I’m in my own house, with my own children behind quivering French doors, keeping the bad in because I’ve lost my voice to send him away.

Welcoming You

James Birdsong

I can see you’re calling me

Brushing against my face, Hair caressed.

Cardinals and jays my audience, Life my stage, You’re my beauty. Dance for me, As I must dance for you. Having no boundaries, No animosity, No reason to be different as We merge into one. I open my arms, Rest your hands, Soften my embrace. You are always welcome.

*First Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2011

Minimum Wage

Jacob Woodhams

Your smile, a faux beacon of contentment to all the trucker caps and minivans that leave their slimy trails through the restaurant. You forge faÇades with the precision of a diamond cutter, chipping away at each one’s imperfect ridges. Your masquerade is scored by a delicate, bubbling giggle –to most, the soft tweeting of a mother blue jay, to me, a woodpecker’s clamoring on a trash can.

I see the chubbier sister of Miss Florida, the liberal daughter of the staunch colonel. The paintbrush wielding burger flipper lying in bed at night, gazing at her popcorn ceiling through moist eyes, streaking tears of lightning down her cheeks.

Resignation

Mallory Banks

Ryan sank into his black leather computer chair staring at the check-in screen as it illuminated his face. He threw his backpack next to him on the counter ready to take in the nightly list of what he has already done wrong and what will be expected of him.

“God, I hate working the night shift.” He sat scratching the back of his head squinting at the time, 10:00 p.m. Only there for 10 minutes and already he was sick of the pink pastel wallpaper and smell of stale cheap coffee. He got up and walked to his boss’s office to see if he was busy. He slowly opened the door and noticed his boss Paul had his feet up on the desk scratching himself.

“Hey Paul, Paul. Paul!” No response, he let out a loud snore as the clear drool began to escape the corner of his lips.

“Forget it.” Ryan sat back in his chair trying to remain quiet in hopes his boss would stay in his food-induced coma from his lunch pail buffet. Paul wasn’t a skinny guy; he was 6’5”, 260 pounds, none of it muscle. He grew a porno mustache after his wife left him for one of the maintenance workers the summer before. He told everyone it made him feel like more of a man. The night shift brought in the most interesting people of the night. The married men claiming they were working late, and the ladies of the night hoping to make a few extra dollars. The only sounds he heard came from the florescent lights buzzing above and the sound of the automatic doors sliding back to welcome imaginary guests. The sound of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy,” crept down the hall from the front desk to the small lobby filled with brochures of local hunting grounds and canoeing adventures down the mighty Mississippi.

It was the night before Christmas, and Ryan was stuck working the night shift while his mom, dad and sister were at home sleeping. It was his last year at Calhoun Community

College; in the spring he would finally have his degree in business management. Every winter he spent his Christmas break working for a crappy run down Holiday Inn.

Suddenly, he heard a commotion from his boss’s office.

“Ryan, get back here for a second, got somethin’ for ya.”

Ryan rolled his eyes and adjusted his name tag as he walked back to see what Paul wanted. He stood in the doorway watching his boss trying to dry the little puddles of drool on his shirt.

“ Yeah? What do you want Paul?”

Paul smiled and rubbed his eyes.

“How about you go clean the restrooms?”

Paul reached down next to him and picked up a big black plunger that read heavy duty on the side. “The ladies’ room needs to be fixed. We don’t want some ole’ girl mad at us first thing in the morning; it’s been stopped up for a few hours.”

He flashed his big yellow smile while combing back his oily brown hair. Ryan reached for the plunger while grinding his teeth together.

“Anything else?” He tried to be as professional as possible given the circumstances. He had worked there for three years without any type of promotion or raise, while his boss sat watching reruns of Leave It to Beaver. He stole the promotion that Ryan had been working for because they felt that he was too young and inexperienced.

“ Well, I suppose by the time you get back there ought to be somethin’ else for ya to do. You got time to lean, you got time to clean.”

Whispering obscenities, Ryan grabbed the plunger and stormed out. As he walked to the ladies’ room, he kept his eyes focused on the little white and black tiles leading him to the restrooms. He bit his lip trying to remember that one day this would all be a big joke. All Ryan really wanted to do was go back and tell his boss exactly where he could put the plunger. As he opened the door to the ladies’ room, he looked up to see a little old lady hunched over the sink wearing a pink bathrobe, washing her hair.

“ What the?” He took a step back. Her blue eyes looked up to see him staring at her with a plunger in one hand and the door in the other. “You son of a bitch, can’t you read? Ladies’ room, you ain’t a lady! You get out of here or I’ll get you fired and tell your boss you like to spy on old ladies while they try to take a bath.”

Her gold lipstick container and a bottle of powder sailed through the air, anything she could grab out of her purse became air projectiles. Ryan closed the door looking around to see if anyone else had just witnessed what happened. He picked up the plunger and walked back to his desk trying to pretend that everything was normal.

“That was fast boy, you done?”

“Uh, yeah.” He hid behind the red poinsettias and mini illuminated Christmas trees on his desk.

“ Well, don’t just sit there playing those stupid computer games; get back here. Why don’t you go out front and scrape the gum up in front of the doors, and after that take the trash out.”

Ryan sat squinting and shook his head. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

He walked away from his boss and slowly sat in his chair trying not to make a sound. His mind was racing trying to develop the perfect excuse as to why he needed to go home. He looked through the desk trying to find the perfect reason he was no longer able to remain at work other than in a few short hours it was officially Christmas and he was supposed to be getting a new laptop. Ryan couldn’t wait for the smell of a ham cooking, and watching the traditional A Christmas Story, with his Dad.

“This sucks.” He sighed looking at the clock. Paul was fast asleep again, so Ryan logged onto Facebook to see if any of his friends were online. Nobody, no funny status updates, nothing, everybody was with their families. The smell of cigarettes began to fill the air. Ryan stood up to see if he could locate the source. The only person in the lounge was Javier, the night janitor, who didn’t speak any English. Sounds of a hacking cough came from the restrooms.

“Are you serious?” Ryan pulled on the strings to his hoodie. He walked back to the ladies’ room and began to knock on the door, opening it slowly to avoid any more projectiles.

“Ma’m, you can’t smoke in here. I’m going to have to ask you to leave; you aren’t allowed to wash your hair, or smoke in the restroom; this isn’t a gas station.”

Suddenly he heard footsteps getting closer and closer to the door as the handle was yanked from his hand. The smoke rolled out of her nose as she glared up at him. With one hand on her hip, she narrowed her eyes as though she was going to punch him at any moment.

“Now, you look here boy; this is America, and God gave us cigarettes, which doesn’t give you the right to take them away. Now this is twice you have interrupted me; I am trying to put my curlers in so I can go to bed. Now leave!”

The door slammed in his face; a loud click came from the other side where she had locked herself in.

“ Wait, what? What are you talking about? Look lady, you can’t smoke in there!”

“B oy! You are starting to piss me off!”

“L ook, you have ten minutes; then I call the cops.”

He turned to walk back muttering under his breath, “This place is the Goddamn Twilight Zone.”

Javier stopped washing the windows to turn around and give Ryan a thumbs up and a smile like he had accomplished something.

“Thanks Javier.”

The clock above the door now read 1:30 a.m. Paul still in a deep slumber, the smell of cheese and tuna was lingering in the air from his second dinner. As Ryan shuffled around in his pocket in search of his cell phone, he noticed the smell of cigarettes had returned.

“Forget it; I’m calling the cops.” He finally reached his cell phone that no longer had service in the hotel. Cold air came seeping in through the automatic doors as a young woman dressed in red leather platform high heels, and a tight cheetah

print mini dress walked in. Next to her an older man with his gray pants pulled above his waist and his yellow Mr. Rogers sweater. He tried to keep his composure knowing that these two were up to something. Ryan kept his eyes focused trying not to laugh. “Well, I guess I’m not the only one bored tonight.” With every step closer, she would laugh at every insignificant thing the old man had to say.

“Hey hon. Maybe there’s a Jacuzzi,” he shifted his glasses looking her up and down. She bundled her large black fur jacket around her arms and kissed him on the cheek.

Ryan watched as he called her things like “cute as a button,” and couldn’t help but laugh.

“Lucky man to have such a beautiful daughter,” Ryan said as he began to swipe the old man’s Platinum MasterCard. The old man winked at him.

“Oh, she’s not my daughter,” he licked his lips and began to laugh as he squeezed her side.

R yan began to laugh with him, although he didn’t know why, other than it was an awkward situation, and he knew what was going on. There were two transactions currently in progress.

Ryan looked down while finishing the final paperwork and muttered under his breath “that’s pretty disgusting.”

“And here is your card sir; have a lovely evening, and here is a list of all the local emergency numbers for our area including police, and in case you should need an ambulance.”

The old man took his card back without hearing a word and slipped him a twenty for a tip. Finally, the smell of smoke had cleared, and for once the lobby was silent. He sat down to resume his online poker game. Only five more hours to go, and he was finally a free man. Within a few minutes he could hear leaves rustling together. The sound was getting closer and closer. He looked outside to see if the wind had picked up–nothing. The wind was completely calm. As he returned to his desk, he noticed above his screen the large plastic tree next to the payphones was on the move. He jumped to his feet, and

there she was. The lady from the bathroom was trying to steal a tree nearly twice her size.

“Um, hello? I can see you! Do you really think stealing an eight foot tree isn’t obvious? It’s hitting the ceiling; you are leaving a trail of leaves behind you!”

S he picked up her bag and secured her curlers as she jetted out the front door.

Suddenly, he began to recall the lecture from his father and how he told him a man never quits a job, how he learns how to make the best of every situation. Typically Ryan was able to shrug off the disappointments of never receiving a raise and being the only one to work nights the past three years. Over the past few years, he had trained everyone including his new boss, who was still sleeping, oblivious to the events which had transpired that evening. For a moment he thought about chasing after the lady with curlers and telling her what he really thought, but he didn’t care anymore. It was Christmas, and this was the last place he wanted to be. He turned around to get an incident report from the filing cabinet behind him. Next to it the black plunger which had started his night sat beside it.

Ryan grabbed a piece of scratch paper and began to write a note to Paul on the faded yellow legal pad. He wanted to tell him how much he despised him, and how disgusting he was as a human being. Instead he left a simple note on which was written the following:

Paul, Crazy old woman stole the plant next to the payphones, hooker in room 121, and the toilet still needs to be plunged. I quit. Merry Christmas!

-Ryan

Ryan took the black plunger and placed it on top of the note in the center of Paul’s desk so he would be sure to see it when he awoke from his nap. He went up front and placed a bell on top of the desk in case any customers should walk in. He

grabbed his backpack and took the last few cookies baked the day before and shoved them in his black JanSport backpack. On his way out, he took a booklet of free ice cream coupons for the local Dairy Queen and made his way to the front door. His pockets were stuffed with complimentary matches and mints. He began to laugh as he walked out the door; in about two more hours, the sun would be up, and his mom would be cooking his favorite blueberry waffles.

Best Friend

Emily Heasley

I’ve spent thirteen years just watching. Watching you play your clarinet solos and draw pictures of people, I swear could jump off the page. I’ve spent thirteen years letting you take the stage. Well now I’m loading up the cannons because you’re not the only one with words to weave and paint to splatter. My art can be as much of a weapon as your jeers and “constructive” criticism. Yes, I do blame you for making me crumple up half-finished sketches, for fumbling notes when playing piano. I blame you for my hands shaking when I hand over a poem. I hope that weighs on you.

You snickered when you threw out my pictures of women with gnarled, tiny hands. My prose and poetry about knights on broad-hoofed horses was too clichéd for you. Well, I’m learning, so I’ll have to thank you for helping me realize that I can block your comments or forget to say something nice about that oil painting you uploaded. Thanks because now I know that real friends push you forward. Find someone else’s blood to oil your machine. I’m done with you.

Diary of a Deviant

Christie Woodrow

My name is Devia Wilde, and these are my rules: 1) Do not stereotype or judge me. People who put me in a box will most likely force me to methodically take it apart and cardboard cut them to death. 2) I have the capacity to be light-hearted and bubbly, but I choose to be surly. Don’t take it personally. 3) I’ve earned many nicknames over the past year; however, if you lapse so far in judgment as to address me with these names well, see rule 1. 4) I am aware that it is both clichéd and embarrassing to love Sylvia Plath. Don’t bother mentioning it. 5) Never force me to eat breakfast or to speak. 6) Upon meeting me I am under no obligation to explain these rules; however, you may be penalized for not learning or adhering to them quickly enough. Other than that, we should get along fine.

It’s not a lot to ask, really. It all basically just boils down to mutual respect, something I can’t seem to get. Apparently, being fifteen and “gifted” means I’m doomed to not ever having anyone take me seriously. My family sure doesn’t, but then again, they don’t know the rules. But I don’t have time to care about that right now. I’m stalling. I’m late for school but more importantly, late for “family breakfast.” I swear my mom can feel the air current in the house shift the second I open my bedroom door. I open it just in time to hear “Deviahoney, are you hungry?” She knows I’m not going to answer her, but I’m going downstairs to ignore her anyway, so I’ll let it go.

A s I walk down the stairs, I ignore all the old pictures on the walls. My mom has a thing about family pictures–and peacocks–don’t ask me why. I’m sure it’s just another snobby Connecticut thing. But they’re everywhere: pictures and peacocks. I walk into the kitchen, grab the last of the coffee, and slump down in my seat at the table. My ten-year-old sister, Hadley, is next to me. She’s honestly the only reason I came downstairs, and she’s very good at following rule 5. Mom, however, is not.

“Deviahoney, I was talking to Cheryl yesterday and she said since Tara is captain of the debate team this year, you have a really good chance of making it if you try out. Of course, you’d haft to get over your… problem…. but I think it would be really great for you to, you know, get involved.” She continues making her case while haphazardly stacking waffles on a plate.

I let her ramble while I swirl the loose coffee grounds in the bottom of my mug. I feel justified in ignoring her. In my opinion, the day she named me, she gave me permission to act like the heathen you see before you. She claims she named me after a close friend who studied with her at Julliard. I’ve never met her, but judging by her stage name, I’m pretty sure I’d find her in a shady establishment near the airport.

“So sounds like fun, right?” Mom says as she placed the Paul-Bunyan-sized portion of food in front of me. I nod and watch the butter slide down the waffles like the too small, silk shirt over her waist.

S he continues to talk about…. well I’m not really listening but as she talks I see Hadley giggling. I tap the table twice, and she slides a peacock-shaped salt shaker across the table to me in one fluid motion. I am debating whether to make it snow on Mount Waffle or to flavor her coffee, when I notice Mom scowling.

“Hadley, you are not to encourage her.” she says saving her now-lonely pepper peahen and turning to me. “This is getting really old, missy. Your father wants me to take you to a speech pathologist. Is that what you want?” I shrug which I know infuriates her.

“Damnit Devia just tell me something!” I know she’s gearing up for a lecture so I trace an “s” on the table, and Hadley nods. We both stand up, and I (accidentally) bump the plate allowing the entire syrupy stack to fall to the floor. Hadley grabs the plate, gingerly places it in the sink and hugs our mom.

“ We’re gonna be late for school,” Hadley says, pulling away and grabbing the green Sharpie on the counter. My mom softens, but I’ve already pulled on my black hoodie and Vans,

so I’m as good as gone. I don’t feel bad about leaving Hadley behind. She always catches up. So I step outside and brace myself for the inevitable bitch slap of cold air I have learned to expect here. I hate Connecticut.

Hadley soon bursts out the door looking like a basset hound puppy in one of my oversize sweaters and sprints to meet my pace. To save face, Mom leans out the door and yells at me “I don’t know what I did, Devia, but I don’t deserve this!” (She assumes it’s about her.)

A s we walk toward the bus stop, my anger subsides. Oh, and Hadley’s saying something.

“So” she continues pushing one sleeve out of the sweater “you know it’s been almost a year, right?” I nod staring at her tiny fist that still conceals the green Sharpie. What the hell?

“Sooooo when do you think your gonna wanna talk again?” she presses.

I shr ug and drag my finger across my neck.

Hadley laughs. “No way, you would die without ever talking again! I could neeever stop talking. Like today Mrs. Perry is gonna let us do this art project with all different colors of clay…” I let her go on as I watched her color her nails with the Sharpie to match my nail polish.

W hen I arrived at school, I quickly put my headphones in. I don’t usually turn my iPod on but I found out that people don’t mind that you don’t speak to them if they think you can’t hear them. Today is no different, so I am not surprised when I walk by Tara’s locker and she slams it to make sure I hear her.

I walk by without flinching. I don’t have time for this today. Besides, I usually comfort myself with the fact that while Tara is admittedly slender, blonde and flawlessly assembled, she will probably end up working with my namesake.

I ducked into homeroom just in time to watch Jacey flip her red hair and retract her tongue from her new boyfriend’s tonsils. She sheepishly wipes her mouth and waves in my direction. Jacey is now my closest friend and lately, the only person besides Hadley that tolerates my “phase” as my guidance

counselor so aptly put it. She’s usually the first person to stand up for me (which is fitting because she looms over my five- foot frame like the Sears Tower) but her, um, early blossoming has gotten her a lot of attention lately. She has always been good at basketball, but apparently the guys didn’t start attending the games until this year when she earned the nickname Jaceica Rabbit. Now even the guys from the visiting team crowd our stands. In any case, she’s been a little preoccupied, so I just wave and take my seat in the back on the opposite side of the room.

My homeroom teacher, Coach Max Davis (Mad Max for those who know him well), could basically not care less where my nameless, faceless shell of a student goes after I check my name off the roster for the day, so ten minutes later I oblige him then quietly slip out. Now I know that skipping is kind of frowned on, but I’m starving, and there’s a Dr. Pepper and Snickers bar calling my name from the vending machine in the far hall. Besides, am I missing anything in homeroom, really?

S o I’m making my trek down the first hall when the faint smell of pot coming from the bathroom stops me in my tracks. I laugh to myself and resume my pace (‘cause who am I to begrudge someone of their wake and bake?). It wasn’t until then that I heard it: Tara’s baby voice booming from the other side of the door. Shit. Reason says I should do something since Tara has always been as subtle as a freight train, so when she and her flunkey get caught, Tara’ll be kicked off debate, not to mention her mom will tox-screen her every day from now until the day she actually wins the Nobel Peace Prize. On the other hand, Tara is a cold, soulless banshee and deserves to be hovering Dante’s seventh circle of Hell for the crap she’s put me through this year. My stomach lets out a gurgle. Ya, ok, why the hell not. I push the door open and squint in the hazy cloud until I find Tara’s outline sitting on the floor (which looks oddly similar to the girl on mud flaps that rednecks seem to be so fond of). I snatch the joint out of her hand.

“ Well” she begins adjusting her bel–I mean skirt. “Look

what the maladjusted cat dragged in. Come to join our party didja?”

I ignore her and flush the remainder of the joint. Another girl is leaning against the sink and smirking. I think she’s one of the junior varsity cheerleaders. Tara turns in her direction and breaks out into a Cheshire cat smile as she speaks.

“Cori, have you meet Devia?” Cori shakes her head and giggles. She’s now actually sitting in the sink and allowing her legs to dangle.

“No?” Tara feigns surprise “You two should really get to know each other! This is Devia. Devia has been my best friend for liiiiiike 10 years now? Right, Dev?”

I tur n towards the door but she pulls the shoulder strap of my bag, causing me to lose my balance. I hit the tile floor–hard. Tara flicks an imaginary piece of dirt off her nail and stifles a laugh. “I wasn’t finished. Like I said, Devia was my best friend until this year when her parents decided to separate and then-are you listening, Cori? - then she decided to cut me out of her life. Forget that I told her what French kissing was in fifth grade or the fact that I babysat her bratty little sister every Thursday for months last year while she got wasted behind the church. Nooooooo my mom didn’t sleep around with some washed up dance teacher, so I don’t belong in her little emo world. And–get this Cori,” she says, crouching so close to me that the only other thing in my path of vision is a used Band-Aid under a nearby stall, “she doesn’t talk nowlike at all-to anyone! Isn’t that insane, Cori? Isn’t that just the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard?”

I slowly pull myself off the floor, hearing the tiny sound of days’ worth of grime scrape across the tile, and try to refocus my eyes. I’m contemplating hitting her, but I’m pretty sure I’d get suspended, so I decide to just cut my losses and get out. Screw her for not getting it, for not going to the custody hearing, for buying the alcohol! I’m trying to move, but I’m still dizzy, and I have a cut…somewhere…

Tara shakes her head. “You know what the sad thing is, Dev? Like the really pathetic thing about your stupid little

vow of silence? I actually tried to play along with it for awhile ‘cause I felt bad for you. Then I realized that I have problems too, real problems, problems that you can’t be bothered with cause you’re so wrapped up in your own shit that nothing else will ever matter. And that? Well that’s just sad.” With that, she sprays on what I think is vanilla musk and pushes past me, out the door leaving a wide-eyed Cori in her wake.

I catch a glimpse at the mirror over the sink and take in the entire view not only of Cori’s butt crack but of my own, now tarnished reflection. My hair is barely hanging in its low ponytail; my left wrist is bleeding, and I am sticky from…oh God, whatever was on the floor. I don’t think Cori has blinked yet. I don’t think Cori can blink.

“So let me get this straight,” she says a minute later as she attempts to wiggle her size 8 butt out of what I assume is a much smaller sink while still laughing. “You used to talk, and then your parents split and now you’re like what? A mime?” A fit of laughter overtakes her, and she flops back into the sink gasping for air “you-gasp-are-gasp-so-gasp messed-gasp-up!”

I bristle and decide that the suspension is worth it. I couldn’t hit Tara, but I can sure as hell hit a stoned cheerleader. After all, she broke rule 3 and even stoned, that’s unforgivable. I lean forward still determined to hit her when Coach Davis bursts in.

“ What is it you two think you’re doing in here?” (Mad Max is so not as cool as I thought). Cori immediately blurts out, “She just tried to hit me! Oh! And sell me pot! She tried to sell me pot!”

Mad Max looks me over for about a half second and admittedly, between the two of us, I look like the drug dealer, so I go willingly to the principal’s office to write down my parental contact information and wait for my mother to show up.

S he appears about forty-five minutes later in a dance leotard that, in my opinion, was working way too hard, sweat pants and her hideous peacock blue and green bag. Oh, and she is livid. She sits down next to me and does this yelling, hissing whisper thing that moms do when they want to scream at you

but they’re in public so they can’t.

“ You cutting your classes? Your AP classes? And you were fighting with some girl? I can’t believe you think this is acceptable! Devia, you better explain this! I did not pay cab fare and cancel my class to watch you passive aggressively get yourself kicked out of school young lady. What were you even thinking? And what is that smell? Mother of God, is that marijuana? I swear to God, Devia, if you are doing drugs…”

I stop listening to her and check my phone while she tries to unfasten her lopsided bun. I got a text from Jacey that said “Tara ratting about you skipn class. Tellin Max you think hes a joke. Mad Max on the warpath—run! :0”

K icking myself for leaving it on silent, I sigh and close the phone. I toss it back into my bag and wonder how to get out of this one.

“And what kind of example do you think you’re setting for your sister….”

I shr ug and look up just in time to see my dad walk in. He smiles at me, and my mother immediately stops ranting. “You can go back to your students, Mona. I’ll handle it.” he says practically glowing with heroism.

“They’re going to suspend her, and she doesn’t need an attorney; she needs a parent,” my mom hisses.

“I think I can be both” he says as he grabs my hand and ushers me into the office.

“Now,” he says looking at me seriously. “Did you actually do any of this stuff?”

I hold my thumb and index finger close together and wince.

“Ok” he says playfully, “I can work this out, but you’re gonna have to let me do all the talking.”

The Top Shelf

Kevin Pabst

He stood in the middle of the kitchen with his head tilted ninety degrees back. His mother was in the living room, vacuuming, so he knew he would not be heard. The cookie jar rested on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet, glowing with the radiant beauty of fluorescent light bulbs reflecting off its smooth ceramic surface. His eyes were fixed hungrily upon the jar, the fate of its contents already decided upon in his mind. This time, he would be victorious, unlike his previous attempts. He would not fall off the counter, knocking his head on the corner of the rectangular foot stool and consequently spending three hours in the emergency room getting stitches just above his eye. He would not dislodge the cabinet shelf, sending a small fortune’s worth of valuable china to an immediate death on the white and black tiled floor. He most certainly would not step on the cat’s tail, setting off a nasty chain reaction which, in the end, also consequently would require spending three hours in the emergency room getting stitches just above the eye. No, he would be victorious.

He set his plan in motion. First, he put the cat in the laundry room, where it soon became traumatized by the roaring of the drier. After checking to make sure his mother was still preoccupied, he proceeded to remove the new set of china from the shelves and place it on the table, just in case, and then pulled the kitchen chair next to the counter. The stable chair, not the one with the wobbly leg from the time his father tried to kick the cat (with a decent amount of force), but missed, instead making contact with the cheap piece of furniture. Climbing on top of the chair, he carefully manipulated his extendable Inspector Gadget grabber claw to remove the lid from the jar, grab it by the rim, and retrieve his prize. His tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, and a single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Though as he was retracting

the claw, he lost grip of the jar, dropping it to the ground where it shattered and sent chocolate chunk cookies flying across the dusty, unswept kitchen floor.

The vacuum stopped abruptly, and footsteps approached from the adjacent room. In panic the boy ran to the laundry room to hide from his mother, releasing the now thoroughly tormented cat. The feline flew straight into the fold-out leg of the table, toppling it over and sending the new inventory of fine china to its predictable death on the white and black kitchen tiles. The door opened, and his mother stood in the entryway with her mouth agape at the collapsed table, shattered china, and scattered cookies. As the boy tried to restrain the cat from doing any more damage, he tripped, landing face-down in the ceramic shards.

He spent the next three hours in the emergency room, getting stitches just above his eye.

Obedience

Kaylee Thomas

She sits on the edge of the make-up counter and rubs her fingers over the chipped edges, wiping flecks of dust, sparkles, and sequins off the rim. She watches them drift to the floor, then kicks her feet first left, then right.

“Stay,” her mother says; then leaves.

She makes faces at the ashen mirror and twirls her pigtails before sinking back on the ledge, disturbing scattered containers of concealer and tubes of blunt red lipstick. She plays with the hem of her dress and wonders how long she will.

Dad Days

Carrie Templeton

I blame you for my laziness, Never getting things done “on time,” Not getting new milk ’til the old one’s been bad for weeks, Not cleaning ’til the filth creeps up on your skin. Your band practice always went late into the night, Too loud for anybody on the block to sleep, But you always made sure we had fun

Shopping and eating out all day.

Riding in the Miata, top down, Wind making tangles in my hair,

Belting out Tina Turner and Taylor Dayne

At 9 a.m. I’m late again for school. My report cards were never turned in, Lying on your desk, waiting to be signed, Field trips to downtown Atlanta I almost missed Because your signature required too much time. But I’m glad that you taught me nothing’s that serious, Whatever I want can be mine.

Product

Christie Woodrow

I knew you once

When your hair stood straight out By your ears

And you didn’t want your jeans to look ripped.

I told you to shower To clear up your face. You would have scrubbed off Chicken pox scars

If it meant you could come too.

You grew taller than I So I made you feel small Or do my algebra homework As a favor…

And I’ll give you a makeover!

Again

But now your nails are polished And your phone chirps When I talk.

We do dinner Do coffee Say nothing

And you stare at the picture over my head.

I think it’s a still life.

Weird

Emily Dobrenchuk

“You’re so weird.”

I’ve heard it before, and I’ll hear it again. I hope that I never stop hearing those words directed at me because that would mean that I’ve stopped eating so I can fit into a size double zero or stopped reading because there’s like, big words and stuff. If I never again hear “you’re so weird” it might mean that I’ve stopped listening to Nina Simone, and Melody Gardot and Andrew Bird because “Have you heard that new song by Gaga? Girl, it is so hot right now.” I’m “so weird” because I sit in coffee shops on Friday nights when I should be with all the non-weird people waiting in line to get into a dirty night club filled with boys who will probably want to talk to me and touch me and buy me a “drank.”

That’s what I should do. I should find a non-weird mentor to teach me how to add “you know?” to the ends of all my sentences and brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack and pose in pictures with my lips pursed because it’s cute and, like, mischievous or whatever. I hope I can find someone who will text me when Jersey Shore is on, so I can put down my anthology of Shakespeare and learn to fist pump. I need someone who will go shopping with me so I stop scouring the shelves of vintage stores

and find something to wear that’s so short that I can’t climb stairs in it or so transparent that no one looks at my face anymore.

“She is so weird.”

If I stop overhearing that, I’ll be worried because it probably means that I’ve stopped carrying a Sharpie to correct the grammar on paper signs, or stopped carrying around my Nikon for when I need to take pictures of the sky or stopped playing my guitar because I got really, really shy.

“Stop guys, don’t make me play, you know I’m no good.” On second thought, instead of finding someone not weird, I should work on changing the definition of weird to “Girls who are filled with silicone or can’t leave the house without their phone.” Or “Guys who only fantasize about grinding up against a female and tryna get her number so he can holla and he can get some tail.”

I’ll shout my gospel to the masses: STOP BEING SELF-CONSCIOUS! Stop with the pigeon-toed stance, and that nasty-ass dance and for Webster’s sake will you stop leaving off the apostrophe-R-E on the contraction of “you are.” Go ahead and look at me with a raised upper lip

because I paid attention in Lit 101 and I don’t need to dance on a table to get attention from anyone.

I am weird. I’m so weird, and I’m starting to finally get that weird is one of the personality traits I’m most proud of, along with strong willed and good at public speaking.

Best Friend

Sean Sparks

“Quit touching the radio,” I shout at my brother for the fourth time. I glare at him and quickly turn my attention back to the highway. I’m not happy with having to cart Joey anywhere, but I volunteered for this.

“ You lying prick,” he yells, trying to intimidate me, “you said we were going to get lunch. What are we doing all the way in Freeport?” At first I don’t feel like answering his question, but I figure the silent treatment may cause undue damage.

“ We’re going to see Charlie,” I say, hoping that will prompt some peace and quiet. It doesn’t.

“Charlie? You haven’t talked to him in over a year; why now? And why the hell are you dragging me along with you?” Trying to calm a rising headache, I press two fingers to my temple. This trip was probably a bad idea, but I’ll see it through. I turn onto a dirt road, hitting a pothole at the edge of the highway. My truck shakes from the stress but holds strong as always. I slow down and turn to look at Joey.

“First of all, I have talked to him a few times. And I’m taking you to see what he’s been up to the past few years.” This is a “scared-straight” mission. Mom found pot in Joey’s backpack a week ago and gave him a stern talking-to. That was about it.

I’m getting tired of seeing him get into trouble over and over again, but I’m angrier that our mother just ignores it. Failing grades at school, loser friends, and the world’s largest sense of entitlement all come together in my little brother. He doesn’t understand what life will do to him if he keeps this up because so far, no one has helped him see. I’ll fix that, or so I thought yesterday.

A s I weave down the dusty road kicking up a sandstorm behind me, I notice Joey fidgeting and staring out of his window. As he tugs at the belt loops in his jeans, I feel better. Trying to convince myself that doing this is right is difficult, but Joey

needs this. I find Charlie’s place and pull into the driveway. His green Mazda pickup looks almost as beaten as my blue Chevy.

A s I step out of my truck, I can already smell that distinct aroma of burning marijuana. I’m sure Joey smells it too, but his inability to notice worries me. My walk up to the front door seems to take hours as my head becomes filled with memories tied to that sweet odor. I suddenly dread going through with this. I hesitate before knocking on the front door, and for a second, I’m sure that I could just turn around and go home.

“ Well?” Joey asks nonchalantly. It amazes me sometimes how he hides his worry, but one word is enough to pull me back into the present. Filled with the belief that what I am doing is right, I knock solidly on the plastic door. Over the next few seconds my confidence diminishes again, but a young woman soon answers the door.

I smile and ask, “Is Charles here?” She just stares at me, not blankly but irritably, as if I’ve already offended her. I think for a moment before shaking my head.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am. My name is Ken, and this,” I wave my hand towards my brother, “is Joey. Might I ask your name?” She lightens somewhat, giving me a hint of a smile but keeping her sharp stare. I get the sense that this is an intelligent woman, and I wonder briefly what she is doing with someone like Charlie.

“My name,” she replies coyly, “is Susan Greenslade. Can I ask what you want with my boyfriend?” It is odd hearing her say it. Every one of Charlie’s girlfriends had been younger and younger, some even still in high school. This woman isn’t old by any stretch, but she is certainly more mature than I would have ever expected.

“He’s an old friend of mine,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “My brother and I haven’t seen him in a while, so we just dropped by to say hi.” She keeps looking right into my eyes. If she knows I’m lying, she doesn’t say anything.

“Alright, come in,” she finally says, walking into the trailer and leaving the door open. I follow her slowly and soak

up the details of Charlie’s residence. This isn’t where he was living the last time I spoke to him; in fact, he’s been hopping from one friend’s house to another ever since we graduated from high school. The furniture in the living room is sparse. A couple of mismatched recliners with torn fabric are aimed at a 30-something-inch television that is placed on a small cabinet with glass windows. The ceiling fan is turning slowly, rocking and making a tapping sound. Inside the cabinet is a Playstation 3 that I specifically remember buying and giving to Charlie so we could play online. I haven’t seen him online at all.

Footsteps coming through the hallway to my right signal Charlie’s presence. The smell is getting stronger. Joey still acts unfazed, even as he slowly slides himself so that I am between him and the hall. I turn my head, and there he is.

“Kenny,” he practically yells with a ridiculous grin on his face, “what the hell are you doing here?” I take his outstretched hand, and he pulls me into a hug. “It’s been a couple months since I saw you.” It has been a while. I decided years ago I didn’t want to see Charlie again, but he keeps finding ways to worm his way back into my life. This should be the last time I ever see him.

“Charlie, you know Joey, right?” I motion towards my brother, who is giving Charlie a look of absolute distrust. I don’t blame him. “We’re here to discuss Joey’s future,” I smile. This is going to be fun, in a very twisted way.

“Joey,” I enunciate each syllable, “has been caught with pot, and I know of no one better to provide an example than you, Charles.” The smile was long gone from Charlie’s face. He looks more confused now. Susan takes a seat in one of the recliners, watching this unfold with the slightest bit of a smirk. “You see,” I turn to Joey, “Charlie here has no life. He sits here every day smoking pot and playing video games. About ten hours every week he does have a job, which nets him just enough money to throw at his various drug addictions.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Charlie interrupts me. “You know pot’s the only thing I smoke.”

“Oh, so you’re not snorting coke anymore? Because you

were a couple of years ago. You even tried to get me hooked.” Joey looks absolutely shocked. He never knew I smoked weed or even did anything illegal. I decided yesterday that he should learn the truth, as much as it might hurt me. Pointing my finger at opportune moments for emphasis, I continue trashing Charlie.

“And now you don’t have any friends,” this time directing my attention at Charlie instead of at Joey. “Everyone you knew has moved on. They’re working full-time jobs or going to school. They all have lives. I’m the last one, Charlie. I am your last friend. And I’m saying goodbye to you.”

I really hope Joey is soaking all of this in. Of course I’m full of shit. There’s no way he’d fall as far as Charlie has, and I’m exaggerating just how bad his life is. But I’d rather not risk appearing soft on my old friend. Frankly, Charlie’s probably too stoned to understand exactly what I’m saying, which might explain why his girlfriend finds this so damn amusing.

“Joey,” I say quietly, turning to my brother. “Go back to the truck. I’ll be there in a minute.” Joey hesitates, but turns and trots out of the home. I wait to hear the door close before I continue.

“Charlie,” I start, but I am quickly interrupted.

“ What the fuck was that about?” he yells at me. He’s more sober than I thought. “I haven’t seen you in how long and you come in here and treat me like dirt?”

“No, you’re the one who’s been treating me like dirt, Charlie!” I add some emphasis to key words, like you and me. “You’re the one who’s never around when I need you. How many times have I asked for your help or even your company over the years? How much money have I lent to you?”

“How the hell would I know?” he responds, as if either of us kept track. Why would we?

“How much of that money have you spent on drugs, Charlie? All these years—” “ You’re such a hypocrite, Ken. You smoked just as much as I did. Maybe even more.” He had me there.

“That’s not the point, asshole. I never had a problem with the marijuana. I still don’t.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “Then what was all that with your brother?” He waves his hand behind me at the door. “I thought you came here to preach against my lifestyle.”

“I did,” I replied calmly. “I wouldn’t have a problem with the weed, but his friends are dangerous. So are yours. That’s why I don’t come see you anymore; I never know when one of your coked-up friends or a dealer is gonna be over.” This was what started it.

“ You refuse to go to college. We were going to go to school together. We had plans. But you stayed here; you didn’t want to learn. And I got tired of waiting for you.” Charlie looks odd. He’s got his chest puffed out, and his fists are clenched so tight I’m sure it hurts. But his face is another matter. His eyes are sunken, his hair is wet and matted, and his skin is pale. He looks ill. I suddenly get the urge to ask how he’s been since I last saw him, like this argument never happened.

There is so much I wish just hadn’t happened. I knew growing up that he wasn’t raised by his parents. His father was missing, and his mother was a working girl in Reno. We had fun, though. I remember playing video games with him, constantly one-upping him and teasing each other. He took it all in stride, even after his grandparents kicked him out of his house. We were still in high school then, but nothing ever got to Charlie, and I respected him for it. It’s been years since I had that feeling of regard. It’s been years since I felt like I had a friend.

“ Well, what do you want with me, then?” Charlie says quietly. “If you’ve just given up on me, then what the fuck are you doing here?” I glance at his girlfriend, Susan. She doesn’t look pleased, but she’s been quiet this whole time. I think briefly about just how polite the young woman is.

“I just wanted to tell you where we stand,” I say. “Unless you decide you want to get your shit together, I don’t want to see you again.” It’s killing me having to say this. I know Charlie’s had a rough life so far. That doesn’t excuse him, but it explains

to me what he feels. It’s how we stayed friends, even after he started doing drugs, even after I started doing drugs.

I didn’t need to bring Joey here. He’s fine. He’s going to grow up with a better life than Charlie ever had, and he’s going to be better than both of us. I didn’t bring Joey here to help him. This trip was for me.

“Goodbye, Charlie.” I turn to leave, and I fight a strong urge to turn around and take it all back. He was a brother to me and walking away for good is doing damage. I force myself to keep from even looking back. I know he won’t change. I just hope his life lightens somewhat.

I tur n the corner and approach the front door, and notice the door is slightly open. As I walk outside, I can see Joey struggling to get his seatbelt on quickly. He finishes and just sits there. He doesn’t move at all as I get into the truck, start the engine, and pull onto the road. He doesn’t say a word as I find my way onto the highway and pick up speed. I don’t say anything either. The ride home isn’t quiet. I can hear the 20-year-old motor running, the tires hitting every divot in the road. The creaking sound of the window lever is quickly drowned out by the rush of fresh air.

Rebellion

Mason Charles

Day in and day out you scream and rant. Blank noises flow incessantly from the mouth that once spoke impressive things.

No one is allowed to disagree with you, to stray from your yellow brick road, to remind you that other opinions might exist: a hoax, a foreign species that dwells on planets far beyond the outer limits of conceivable reality.

You demand to control me. You can’t even control your temper. Your dulled rage steamrolls blindly along, crushing everything in its path, heavy machinery operated by the heavily medicated Your tyranny squashes any liar who is wicked enough to oppose your stone truths. Out of life, out of mind.

But the oppressed are talking. We have been for a while now,

waiting until you sleep and then laughing at you all night long sobbing in secret mending broken hearts soothing stifled wounds replenishing the supply of last nerves that you will undoubtedly tread on in the morning rebuilding strength for a forever of tomorrows.

We slave harder on our own time than yours. We force forever to shorten. It bends beneath our will.

Sometimes we mock you to your face and smirk inside when you sing along thinking you can speak our language. You think you know our secrets.

We invented this language. We can say anything we want, and you’ll never know the truth. You can’t tell us what to believe. You’ll do what you will, but my guitar and I can play, and we can speak music.

Memento Mori

Emily Heasley

Through the masks of Newport smoke their faces were grim, like those in old portraits. Over the walkways, brittle like sun-bleached bones, I heard the television static of the staff’s voices. I ambled on towards the dying lawn and the shelter of the weary pavilion. And it was beneath the ecliptic shade of the overhang I learned you had left and had not bothered with a goodbye.

Today I saw reflected in the gutter a child who had missed the bus. I still feel the sting from that punch in the chest, but I don’t give it much attention. I am too busy with my tape and my tears trying to fix the cracked disk that all our memories were inscribed on. I think of all the “if onlys.” If only I had been there to stop those idiots with their pistols. If only I said “take care” as you walked out the door. If only I could bring you back. But all I can do is stand here and wait for that stupid bus.

I Thought I Saw You

Tami Hill-Masincupp

I thought I saw you at the market today. A young man about your age, with dark, mournful eyes and a long, thick ponytail made his way down the canned food aisle. I discretely followed him around for a while.

I thought I saw you at the gas station today, standing beside an old, white Maxima, just like the one we used to have, with the dent in the hood, where you hit it with your hand. He even wore the same cheap sneakers you used to wear with the cheesy Velcro straps.

I thought I saw you at our burger place today, ordering your usual cheeseburger, no pickles, because you’re allergic, your little trick, so they wouldn’t forget and put them on anyway. I looked at his hands as he took his tray; his fingers weren’t thin and calloused. He’s not an accomplished guitarist.

I thought I saw you at the bank today. This boy always takes my breath away. He’s the same height and same build. He even has the cute little freckles on his arms. He’s missing the Cheshire cat tattoo. I like to pretend just for a minute or two that it’s you asking, “How may I help you?”

I thought I saw you in your garden today. I was sitting at my desk, staring out my window, enjoying the birds playing in their nest, but it was the sun playing tricks on me, the shadows dancing round the trees, bouncing off the granite, that’s forever your pillow.

Lesson Learned

Emily Dobrenchuk

With only five minutes left but at least seven more points in his lecture, Professor Thomas broke the good news to his weary students, “We’ll stop there for now, folks. Don’t forget, papers on the Byzantine Empire are due Thursday at the latest!” His students shuffled together their scribbled notes and shoved messy stacks of papers into binders, backpacks and briefcases. He sat on the edge of his desk, swung his feet back and forth, and smiled at the pupils as they marched out the double doors and merged with hallway traffic. Usually four or five stragglers would trickle down from the auditorium seats and wait for their turn to ask the professor about the successes and failures of the Second Triumvirate in 43 BC, or if they were permitted to quote themselves in their essay. Sometimes towards the end of a semester, a shameless girl would linger until everyone else’s questions were answered just so she could tell Professor Thomas how cute his sweater was or how good his hair looked, oh and by the way, was there anything she could do that would ensure that she got an A on the final? In these rare cases, he would grin and tilt his head to the side, seemingly interested, and look over his shoulder before whispering, “You could… study.”

Today, though, there were no confused or immoral students waiting to make a plea or examine his map of Ancient Greece, so he threw on his corduroy blazer, buckled on his messenger bag, and headed towards the bike rack in the east courtyard. He owned a silver Mercedes that his wife Melanie presented him with when he first got the job at the university. A year later, an overzealous homeowner’s society prompted them to move from Faubourg Hill to a quaint townhouse only eight blocks from the school. Since the move, the car mostly sat in the garage except for the occasional quick commute when the weather was too cold or rainy to ride his six-speed bicycle.

The afternoon sun streaked through bare oak branches that provided a thick canopy in the summer. He pedaled leisurely past gated driveways and college apartments, and waved at Mrs. Green as she swept off the welcome mat in front of her florist’s shop. As he continued up the hilly route, he thought about where he and Melanie could get good Chinese take-out for dinner and how long he would have to grade papers tonight if he wanted to be done by the weekend. By the time he coasted to their front steps, Melanie’s teacup poodle was already tearing up the blinds trying to figure out who was at the door. The yapping and growling did not subside when he walked in and kicked off his Oxfords, nor at his multiple attempts to shush the tiny beast, but only when a can of Alpo was dumped into her pink dish.

He flipped on the light in his small office and sighed at the familiar room. Rows and rows of leather books sat on dusty shelves, and his framed accolades lined the mahogany walls. Tiny knick-knacks friends had brought him from their various trips to Europe and South America were displayed with pride, and a map of the world as it was imagined in the 16th century demanded attention from its place at the center of the largest wall. He set down his bag on the messy desk, picked up the phone, and hit the speed dial for his wife’s office. She answered on the first ring in a tone that suggested she was with an important client.

“Morgan and Thomas Realty, could you hold for a moment please?”

“Hey, just wanted to know if you wanted Moo Goo Gai Pan or General Tso’s chicken.”

“Um, well,” she paused, buying time to come up with a graceful answer while in professional company, “unfortunately the first option has been rented, so we’re looking into the second listing.”

“General Tso’s it is. Home soon?”

“ Yes sir, we’re looking to sign the lease very soon… uhhuh… bye-bye.”

He replaced the receiver and sorted through a rather large stack of ungraded essays trying to locate the China Palace menu he thought he had seen a few days ago. After making what seemed like a bigger mess but still without menu, he wandered into Melanie’s office trying to remember where he’d last seen the yellow paper with a red pagoda printed on the front. Her desk was the opposite of his: neatly folded flyers and alphabetized albums sat beside perfectly stacked notebooks. He stared at the labeled manila files as his stomach growled. He flipped past Appraisals, Contingencies, and Foreclosures eventually arriving at Menus. An unusual entry for any other household, but the two often spent long hours in their respective corners of the house finishing piles of paperwork, and a delivery directory came in handy. As he leafed through the collection for Chinese, the next folder’s title caught his eye: Miscellaneous. Ordinarily, the professor kept to himself and didn’t bother his wife. He gave her the occasional call at work only to be put on hold. When she eventually came home, she’d yawn as she walked in the door, signaling that she didn’t really feel like asking how her husband’s classes went or informing him of any sales she’d made. He glanced out the window towards the empty driveway where her black convertible rested at night. Emboldened by curiosity, he flipped open the file. Inside he found mostly phone numbers scrawled across dogeared corners, a photograph of Melanie tacking “Sold” onto a “For Sale” sign in a green front yard, and a few hand-written letters. He picked one up and glanced at the heading—a note of thanks from a broker. The next one, however, made him wish that instead of craving Chinese, he had gone to the fridge for leftover pizza. His eyes flicked over the lines: “darling of mine” and “to kiss your neck” led to “get together this week” and “that husband of yours.” His breathing quickened. As he studied the signature, the front door clicked open. The teacup poodle never felt the need to rip down the window treatments when it was Melanie gliding through the foyer.

“Charlie?” Her voice echoed off marble floors. He stood

still as her footsteps tapped into to the kitchen. “Did you already get the food, or what?” she called out.

“I’m still looking for the menu,” he responded calmly.

“ What?” she followed the sound of his voice and looked confused as she flipped on the light in her office. “What are you doing in…,” she trailed off as she took in the scene.

C harlie was holding the letter with both hands, the file still undone on the desk and a few of its contents brushed to the floor.

“ What is that?” Her look turned to concern as she snatched the handwritten evidence from his grip. She eyed the familiar script and let her gaze fall to her black pumps. “I was going to tell you,” she mumbled.

The professor let out a large sigh, opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. He looked his wife in the face for a moment, then went to his office to retrieve his leather messenger bag from where it sat in his chair, and walked to the front door. He watched as Melanie ran her tongue across her teeth and let out an incensed scoff as he wordlessly slipped on his scuffed shoes. He reached for the silver handle, silence pounding in his ears. He fought the urge to turn around, but instead quietly pushed the lever and stepped out. He desperately wanted Melanie to run outside, confess that she had made a terrible mistake, still loved him and wanted to make things work between them. Yet as he mounted his rubber seat and rested a foot on the worn pedals, the noise from inside the house was not the sound of a woman crying or running down the front steps in high heels, but the TV flickering on and a news anchor recounting the day’s events.

C harlie started down the street, coasting faster and faster as his brain tried to piece together hints of Melanie’s apparent unhappiness. He raced past the florist, the bakery, the mechanic. His hurt faded to anger at having been taken for a fool, his trust taken for granted. He flew past the 6th street park, the university’s east courtyard, and the four story parking structure he never had to use. His thoughts drifted off to their

chance meeting in the library at San Francisco State where they both attended school what seemed like lifetimes ago—he had seen a frail blonde girl looking left and right before scaling the shelves to grasp for an encyclopedia. He remembered rushing up and catching her skirt as the lower shelf gave way and Britannicas A-Z fell to the floor. Her blushes had matched his cable-knit sweater as she thanked him for breaking her fall and asked to repay him with a cup of coffee. All of that seemed like a lie now as he sped past a pizza parlor, a second-hand store, and a travel agency. He squeezed the hand brakes, skidded to a stop, and walked his bike backwards a few paces to Big Wind Tourism. The store was closed, but he gazed at the strands of tiny white lights illuminating colorful posters. Taped to the tall windows were snapshots of the Hawaiian Islands, postcards from Brazil and Beijing and glimpses of the Swiss Alps. He cupped his hands like a child at a candy store and peered inside the dark building. On a small table sat a miniature Eiffel Tower, Sydney Opera House and Coliseum. Near the proprietor’s counter sat a display of antique cameras and suitcase trunks covered in destination stickers. Charlie pulled his face away from the glass and purposefully bit his lower lip. Back on his bicycle, he swung around, flipped a left and rode south to the airport. He zigzagged through commuter traffic and weaved through taxis and limos unloading passengers. Inhaling the chilly air, he fished through his bag for his lock and chain and left his six-speed attached to a light pole in the parking lot. Charlie swallowed, and quickened his pace to the ticket desk, curious where his impulsive actions were taking him.

“Hello,” a girl with long red curls smiled before asking to help him.

“Uh, hi. I’m not sure how to say this, but I just want to get out of here,” he confessed.

S he shot her customer a quizzical but amused look and tapped away at her keyboard.

“ Well, the next couple flights out are to Kansas City, Reno, Minneapolis and Miami.” He lowered his gaze and for a

moment, wondering if he might have actually gone insane.

“Further,” he demanded. She typed in more letters and twirled a curl around her finger waiting for an updated list of departures and connecting flights.

“How about Cape Town, Brussels or Rome?”

O nly at the mention of his favorite city did reality sink in: summer vacation was only four weeks away. The ticket agent tapped her fingers as Charlie reasoned in his head, thinking of term papers, final exams and evaluations, and weighing them against the possibility of arriving in Italy tomorrow. His smile grew fainter, and when he finally looked up at the girl again, he sighed.

“Rome is perfect. But, well, we better make the departure date May 16th instead.”

S he widened her eyes and made a few changes on her screen, no doubt questioning the man’s sanity. After working out the rest of the details in the strange transaction, she bid him good luck and smiled as he turned around and started for the Silver Wings Lounge at the far end of the lobby.

C harlie sat down on a swiveling metal stool and mumbled his drink request to the bartender. He slid his ticket to Roma-Ciampino Airport out of his jacket pocket and read over the information in anticipation. The May weather in the Eternal City was how he supposed heaven’s atmosphere would be. He closed his eyes and imagined the taste of pistachio gelato and the sound of children laughing next to the Fontana di Trevi. He was startled out of his daydream by a tall draft being set down in front of him. The professor let out another deep sigh, the events of the night still weighing on him. He grabbed a cocktail napkin and began to scribble a list of things to do before his journey in May, trying to forget about the long journey home.

Passenger Confessions

Adam Duckworth

I don’t hate you, but I hate your name. It’s so common; coming up in conversation, always referring to someone innocent, always reminding me of somewhere else.

A parking lot packed with old tin cans on wheels, college decals and engines worn of use, metal hand me downs now owned by kids who play in their parents’ money, their academic career defined by beer and sex and textbooks never opened.

I hate that I can’t hate those cars. It was in them that we escaped. Pavement under the wheels turned to dirt as we found seclusion on back roads and the sun pierced your skin through the windshield. Our bodies meshed as we shed our clothes and kissed, colliding like two four-doors leaving death and decay.

I hate that I can’t hate you. Shadows fog the memory, clouding the details. I think we remember the gist of it. Your car led us back

to facts figures and formulas. We knew it was over before you turned off the engine.

Thank you for teaching me how to play it safe. As I unbuckled my seatbelt and opened the door, I secured myself in knowing that I would never be taken for a ride again.

Unsinkable

Emily Dobrenchuk

I don’t ever look down your street anymore. I don’t need to see your car in its usual spot, I don’t want to see you walking your dog. I don’t care to see you get home real late, coasting into your parallel place, then kissing another girl on the side of her face.

No, I never glance down your street anymore.

I don’t want to see your two-story façade mocking my gradual progress.

I definitely don’t want to imagine lying down on your lawn, watching the stars while your hand sneaks across my dress.

When I am on your side of town, I stay far away from the street where you live. I get the feeling that though I can stay afloat in the rest of this unsound town, my iceberg is down that very road, lingering in front of the fifth house on the left.

The Talk

Christie Woodrow

I watched my mother With scarlet bangs Stuff life

And my Etch a Sketch Deep in her suede purse While we conquered the world. She and her cigarettes Told me I needed no one, And the box of merlot agreed.

We ate pancakes for dinner And made friends on the fly The ones with the pool, But they hated her bangs So we had to move.

The day I kissed Hunter Right on the upper chapped lip She knew! And said that love Was for grown ups Not broken-home girls Like us.

Computer Illiterate

Kaylee Thomas

He’s got a three-gig memory full to the brim with files.

One for me my brothers his wife his sail boat, files that only open for the administrator, files I never knew existed.

He has all of the brains in my family. He answers all of my questions like Google only better because I don’t have to shift through all of the useless information. Bing.

But despite everything I know there’s too much I’ll never know.

I’ve tried learning the codes, but I’m not good with computers. I’m not good with fathers.

Anchor against Anxiety

Becky Farmer

She wakes in his bed, slams the snooze of his alarm, and snuggles into the plum bedspread she brought from home. Sudden silence from the first floor startles her from sleep. He’s done in the shower.

She rolls off the blue plaid sheets like a tumbleweed.

Shuffling toward the stairs, she trails a finger on his pile of papers stamped with USF. It matches her own packet tucked tidily in her desk, with a corner just grazing his card from their first Valentine’s Day.

His footsteps head toward the stairs and she looks at her card resting on the shelf, still besieged with the Easter sweets she hid around his room. She sets her USF sweats aside his dresser to soak in his scent and heads downstairs.

They kiss good morning as she enters the bathroom, which smells suspiciously of her tangerine shampoo. Smiling at her green toothbrush

next to his blue, she picks up her half-full tube of toothpaste to bemuse him with a dazzling daybreak smile shining beneath sleep-encrusted eyes.

She waves him off to work, returns home, and pours over green and yellow financial aid papers, printed emails, and her bank account balance. She’ll have the funds for the first year.

But what about the rest? Can he afford this on his own? If they both apply for a loan… She checks off “towels” from her dorm item list. She still needs to purchase a parking permit.

Dating on the Dollar Menu cultivates them into connoisseurs of bargains. More money saved, less spent. They fall asleep in each other’s arms wrapped in their separate blankets, knowing each is the only constant in the other’s life.

Muggle

Christie Woodrow

For Pearl

I forgive you for making her like everyone else. I couldn’t watch while you told her she was too round for her tutu Too tall for the high beam

Too off key to sing “Jesus Loves Me.”

I saw her stumble to piano lessons everyday

With glossy, floppy books

To try to do your best.

I heard you tell her to watch the other girls, To follow them.

I pretended not to hear you whisper that people see the shell and not the ocean.

I resented you for letting her hear you use the same voice for people of color as you do with your purebred Chihuahua.

Smaller words for smaller incomes….

I watched her take her brand new pink eraser to smudge pages of fractions Because you had to see that production of Annie the night before.

I forgive you for making her read The Scarlet Letter and not Harry Potter. Or putting brackets on her baby teeth. I despised the way you made her look in the mirror And see her tummy Instead of her waist-length hair Or burnt-sugar skin.

I forgive you for wanting to be her best friend.

I forgive you for all of this so you can tell her one day that it Isn’t her fault.

Words Deborah R. Majors

They giggle on the tongue, these words, these communication vehicles that pop out smiles, bend lips, firm cheeks, appease blows ’tween Republican and Democrat.

Words stick in the craw, pierce the heart, shoot down the ego. Words lift to new heights, sharpen resolve, ignite the pursuit of worthy basking in the spotlights.

They frolic, skip and roll around in the mind of peacemaker, warmonger, criminal and saint—shiny sequin words mirroring safety or danger.

It’s true, sticks and stones can break my bones, But words are etched on granite gravestones.

Contributors

Halal Allen is a graphic design student planning on pursuing a B.F.A. degree.

Mallory Banks is a student at Northwest Florida State College currently finishing her associate’s degree. Upon completion she plans on transferring to the University of Northern Colorado to study English/Creative Writing.

JoAnne Bartley has been married for twenty-three years and has two wonderful children. She enjoys taking pictures and capturing special moments.

Michael Beck is a local artist who creates custom hand drums in the traditional ways of cultures from around the world. He lives in Navarre, Florida, where he has a small workshop on the shores of East Bay. He is a published author.

James Birdsong is a Collegiate High School student planning to study meteorology.

Mason Charles is currently studying education. He is involved in the NWFSC music department and one day hopes to have a career in music. He enjoys writing music, poetry, and stories.

Amberley Carter is a NWFSC freshman studying English. She aspires to attend Florida State University and become a college English professor.

Kristina Coil is a proud military wife and a stay-at-home mom to three young girls. After her husband deployed, she decided to do something just for herself and enrolled in a photography course.

Hannah Craft is a student at the Collegiate High School and is an art major. She has grown up in the art world and is truly passionate about it.

Stephanie Crow is a visual art major who likes to try new media, styles, and methods of artistic expression. She hopes to someday win an Oscar and learn to knit.

Jaime Diffee enjoys creating and exploring different art media. She has learned so much from all of the art faculty at NWFSC.

Emily Dobrenchuk has an obsession with the written word. She daydreams about vocabulary and finds solace in syntax. She also plans to major in advertising and minor in journalism at the University of Florida.

Adam Duckworth is a man of few words. It’s a miracle that you are reading this.

Johna Esterberg has retired from thirty-two years of banking. She is now a full time artist working in clay, watercolor and oil

Becky Farmer recently graduated with her A.A. degree. She will attend the University of South Florida to pursue a major in English.

Alaina Fitzner is married to a man serving our country in Iraq and has two precious children. She has a love for sharing a story through photography.

Javan Garza is a NWFSC student currently studying theater. He plans to pursue a career as an independent film writer and director.

Barbara Gasparian, known as Rusty, enjoys being a student, reading and writing poetry. Her hobbies are knitting, sewing, and driving her Miata.

Patti Gillespie was born and raised in the western United States. She is passionate about art and won “Best of Show” in the 2009 Arnie Hart Juried Art Exhibition.

Ernest Harris IV is from Tallahassee Florida. He loves to explore all types of art media including clay and painting.

Emily Heasley is currently majoring in art and music and would like to minor in creative writing. She plans to attend Florida State University and get bachelor’s degrees in studio art and music theory.

Kathryn S. “Tappy” Henson enjoys working in a variety of art media. She is thankful to professor J.B. Cobbs for opening her mind to the limitless possibilities in personal expression through art.

Tami Hill-Masincupp is a wife, mother, sister and woman who feels that later in life is just as good a time as any to start pursuing her dreams.

Kenny Jeanthenor is the eldest of three siblings. He is currently working to become a pharmacist. When he is not at work or school, he is taking care of his beautiful, intelligent, funny baby girl.

Diana Jernigan earned a bachelor of arts in communications with a minor in English from California State University, Fullerton. She is a student in graphic design at NWFSC.

Joan Langham has been painting for several years. Figures are her favorite subject when painting in oil or using pastels.

Deborah R. Majors plans to receive her associate of arts degree this summer and then return in the fall to pursue her bachelor of arts in education.

Kevin Pabst is a Collegiate High School senior. He plans to attend the University of Alabama to study public relations and advertising.

Samantha Rea is pursuing a degree in graphic design at NWFSC.

Kaylee Thomas is studying to become an English major or possibly a communications or art major. Whatever she chooses to do, it will always include reading and writing.

Sean Sparks is currently a sophomore studying history. He plans to teach history at the high school from which he graduated.

Adeline St. Romain believes she missed her calling to be the next female Jack Kerouac, due to fear of train hopping. Instead, she took a drastic opposite stance on life and recently bought a house where she intends to become a crazy cat lady with an organic garden.

Carrie Templeton has an associate’s degree in criminal justice and is working towards a bachelor of arts in writing to help fulfill her dream of becoming an author.

Beau Vermillion is a Collegiate High School student who is an aspiring writer and musician. He plans to attend University of Florida for orthodontics.

Jacob Waites is a graphic design major who plans to continue his education in the B.F.A. program at Florida State University. He would like to make others happy through design.

Megan White is a student at NWFSC and plans to transfer to the University of West Florida to pursue a B.F.A.

Jacob Woodhams, known to most as Lunchbocks, is coasting through life on waves of sarcasm. He plans on going to the University of Central Florida to study film.

Christie Woodrow is a problem child turned writer. She plans to finish her degree at University of West Florida in journalism and psychology.