Blackwater Review 2012

JoAnne

Louann Brechler

Sarah

Amberley

Blackwater Review

Blackwater Review

A Journal of Literature and Art

Volume 10, No. 1 Spring 2012

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.

Editorial Board:

Dr. Jon Brooks, Dr. Vickie Hunt, Amy Riddell, MFA

Art Director, Graphic Design, and Photography: Benjamin Gillham, MFA

Editorial Advisory Board:

Patricia Belote, Dr. Beverly Holmes, April Leake, Dr. Deidre Price, Rhonda Trueman, and Annaliisa Wilson

Art Advisory Board:

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

Blackwater Review is published annually at Northwest Florida State College and is funded by the college. 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.

©2012 Northwest Florida State College. All rights are owned by the authors of the selections.

Front cover artwork: Tolype Velleda, Jaime Diffee

Acknowledgments

The editors and staff extend their sincere appreciation to Northwest Florida State College President Dr. Ty Handy, Vice President Dr. Sasha Jarrell, Dr. Anne Southard, and Dr. Joyce Goldstein 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.

18 to 35

Michael Craig

Got my headlights on high beam, need to stay between the lines. Heartbeat thumping car seats, sniffing lines on side streets. I am busy going nowhere fast.

So fast I can’t hear life passing: Bye.

Not Ridgemont but definitely high. Schooled to the beats of hip-hop, street brawls Tupac, Biggie Smalls, and eight-balls. Smoking weed to cut the speed. Too fly for the masses, holy wine, Apostles Creed dissing the choir and the collar; Got no time for blessings, Father.

Holy shit, I’ve got a daughter. Intervention, sunshine, gift from the divine, my own angel, with a smile that mirrors mine. Bought her baby bling, teething rings, a bear that sings. Man, you should see the things I’ve taught her.

Waiting in carpool lines, paying attention to speeding fines. My heartbeat tied to her car seat. I come to a complete halt at every stop sign and school street.

Enfamil, baby bottles and how to swaddle, picking weeds she thinks are flowers, holy wine, baptismal showers. Please, St. Peter pray for me.

I’m a father with an angel to feed.

Paint Yourself a Story

for Sarah Rose Westenberg Phi Reis

Eight-by-eight, I call it: eight short stories in eight weeks. Maybe I can put a poem in the count.

Can’t you brush up skills in pieces? she asks, like artists with canvas, get good at painting the same tree over and over?

There are no drills for telling a story, I say, no numbers. It’s all or nothing.

Your eighteen-by-twenty-four canvas captures a landscape like a novel.

A short story is not a palm in the background; it is the entire landscape painted on an index card.

And a poem?

That’s a story painted on a postage stamp

Sylvia Kendall Gray

Time and space separate us, but we are connected by far more.

I knew when I held you in my arms for the first time you would be someone I admired, someone to emulate.

I wanted to protect you but the sickness was too strong. Your mind crumbled and you were gone.

Now all I have left of you are these pages.

It’s easy to seek solace in words but still I wonder if the warmth between your sentences is actually a rock and a hard place.

I wish I could have met you. You are the only one who understands.

Today Is His Birthday

Madelyn Mancera

Sometimes, when I catch his eyes, I feel like there has to be an emotion beyond happy that humans haven’t invented a word for yet. Happiness is a sad little term compared to the wildfire that spreads though my veins, when his flesh is in my hands.

The creases in his knuckles are sacred to me; the imperfections of his feet are worth more than a nation’s lives. Shamed is what I should be for admitting that, but I am not.

Is it my fault that the sound of his calling me is more magical than anyone’s God? No, magical is trifling compared to the force that makes my stomach sprint towards the heavens when I hear his voice.

I would turn my back to cruel injustices if it would make him never leave me, but I know that one day he will leave me, and miserable is almost close to the word that will describe the rest of my days.

Broken heart and shattered soul are expressions that would have to be multiplied by infinity to be able to explain how wrecked I would be if someone took him from me. And the only thing to live for then would be knowing that he is out there and that he loves me.

Every now and then, when his body is not with mine, my mind flashes painful sights of deaths he could suffer. Afraid wishes it could match the feeling that makes my heart stop. Fear just cannot compare.

Another word people need to invent is a word that means beyond love. That way I could define my love for him, which remains unsettled even when he is hitting me with all his might. His angry fists bless me.

It’s a sad, sad language we speak. I’d love to be able to tell the world how far past significant I feel that his existence is mine. His existence means I’m not just a speck in the universe anymore. Happy third birthday my love!

When Our World Comes Back to Life

Audrey Webb

The crystal teeth of winter melt away as spring comes back to life. She spreads her fingers towards the phoenix sun, mimicking the colors of recent sleep.

She births her myriad children, and cherry blossoms blush as nature flirts with the sun and greens the rising hills.

Seemingly dead trees rise elegantly from icy tombs, bringing new life, new leaf, sweet perfume.

Dancing daisies giggle and sing, luminous roses court thorns and dance.

They risk their new voices, but speak softly of romance.

Such beauty, such healing, such remedy: soak now, melt, smile.

Always on Time

Mary Ann Reavis

Bell-topped timepieces scream calling reveille. Do not ignore, spring up now.

It only takes a moment to back up in reverse. Keep moving forward. Delete being late.

Begin day right, we never know.

The volcanic coffee pot decides to ooze and spew where counters lie.

The cat sends tuna dishes, then chicken bits swiftly across the room. Make time to sparkle again.

Reserve bonus time solely for you.

The Writing Demon

“Good writers write, until they write their demon.” Katie Rendon Kahn

Come here, you filthy beast. I know where you hide. Just under my skin and deep in the cold dark hallows of my mind where no one ever looks.

I write a crumb of suffering on white paper, knowing how delicious it will taste. He reaches out his grimy claw to scratch at it. So I grab the greedy bastard and splatter him upon the page.

But before I can object his destructive friends are dragging their tails and pounding their hooves all over the pages, telling dirty secrets mourning their friend and mocking me.

Bottom Feeders

Phi Reis

I have seen that in any great undertaking it is not enough for [one] to depend simply upon [one’s] self.

— Lone Man (Isna-la-wica), Teton Sioux

No one appreciates turkey buzzards. As matter of course, we are feared, loathed, and despised. Animals, especially human ones, see us circling overhead and run the other way, as if we have any interest in killing living prey–not that we couldn’t, you know, we can ; it’s just too much work. We do have our standards, though. Carrion’s got to be fresh. We leave putrefied flesh to lower species, like maggots, flies, and bacteria.

As if it isn’t enough that we are saddled with a descriptive moniker associated with the dumbest animal on wings, turkey buzzards are constantly maligned by slurs like “nature’s garbage collectors,” “bottom feeders” – cavalierly lumping us in with our underwater counterparts –“flying rats,” “inferior hawks” – inferior, as if our bloodthirsty, narcissistic cousins are so superior. Worst name of all is simply “nasty old buzzard,” as though defecating on our own feet to cool ourselves down, or heaving crop vomit on potential enemies to survive is a choice we would have made in our ecology and behavior. That one hurts, but the truth often does.

Buzzard bigotry doesn’t stop at name calling. We are regular victims of scorn for our physical features. Does anybody glam us for our keen sense of sight and smell, impressive wing span, or graceful soaring techniques in flight? Not hardly. Instead, we are routinely symbolized through caricature, showing a neck that is anatomically impossible, or a featherless Beetlejuice pin of a head, the shape and color of which calls to mind a certain state of uncircumcised male genitalia in heat.

On the plus side, we mate for life, but does anyone give a hoot about that? Nope, not even we do. Oh yeah, that’s

because we don’t have a voice box like all the other tweety birds out there. And here’s a kick in the cloaca. Thanks to modern taxonomy, it has recently been revealed that we are not close relatives of hawks after all. Turns out that we are really kissing cousins with storks. Storks, for Creation’s sake! Birds whose impotent talons are fashioned in the manner of webbed chicken feet, flat, long toes, the better to peck around on the ground with, making it damn near impossible to hold a beak high among desert raptors. It’s humiliating.

O ut here in the wilderness, it’s turkey buzzards who provide sanitation services for every human chamber of commerce within a day’s drive of the Rio Grande, eliminating evidence of road kill from the panorama, cleaning up arteries throughout the great, wild West, allowing essential life forces to flow unblocked through her arteries – people, drugs, money.

In balance, it is a good life. Warm air currents rising off baking land can keep us floating for hours, giving us a bird’s eye view, naturally, of a wide range of space. We pay particular attention to wolves or coyotes on the chase, which frequently means good leftovers. Though we often travel alone, if one of us spots a large animal kill, neighbors soon spy the scout orbiting the victim in a holding pattern, joining in to “kettle” above the carrion until the predator ambles off with a full stomach, leaving the remaining smorgasbord to us.

Road kill is less predictable as a food source, but it has its advantages. Humans, tucked into rolling metal boxes, run up and down dedicated trails, never changing direction, chasing only each other, it would seem -- or no one at all. Go figure. On occasion, a misguided creature steps off his path and onto a human one, then whump-thunk! That’s all she wrote. Fresh buffet.

You can imagine, then, the good fortune I felt one afternoon when, to my surprise, a human box slowed down on the trail and, opening a mouth, spit out fresh meat. I dove straight to the plunder, hoping no one else had spotted the delivery. Mmmm, the thought of fresh, juicy eyes made my beak water! Unfortunately, no sooner did I land than my mate comes

flapping in, all in a dither for me to get back to the nest, it being my turn to incubate the eggs. (This is one of those times when the lack of a voice box has its advantages.)

I flapped sand in her face, making motions to spit. She backed off, grunting and slipping in the final hiss, nearly laying an egg when movement and sound came from beneath the wrapping on the human package. We simultaneously readied our crops, ready to double team this enemy when another human box, this one topless and noisy, flew by us, so to speak, screeched to a halt, then did something I have never seen before. It rolled backwards, four sets of eyes staring straight at us, daring us to hold our claim. Ashamed as I am to admit this, I left the human victor -- and my mate -- in my dust, and headed back to the nest, hoping that leftovers were still to be had from a nearby coyote kill of a late in the season doe.

Wanda Ring Moon slammed her 1964 turquoise Chevy Impala Convertible Coupe into park, exiting the car before the dust had settled. Three other passengers followed her lead.

“Holy moley, it’s a body!” said her twelve-year-old cousin, Max.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Frank Two Crows mocked. Wanda smacked him on the head. “Shut up. Don’t talk that way to the kid.”

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing the base of his skull.

L eonard LeRoux, consummate observer, words never wasted, was kneeling by the body. “She’s dead,” he said.

“ Yeah, but this one’s not,” Wanda said, un-bonding child from mother, raising him to her breast, taking an inventory of his parts. “Right, little man?” she said, peaking into his diaper. The baby gurgled and smiled. “You’re a charmer, you are.” An involuntary smile formed on Wanda’s lips.

“ What are we gonna do with the body?” Two Crows asked.

“We,” Wanda said, “aren’t going to do anything with the body. That’s the sheriff’s job. Leo, hold Sam the Man while

we book it out of here, OK?” She smiled again and air-kissed the handoff.

L eo nodded, cradling the baby in one arm, securing himself and his parcel with the other.

From the road, Wanda called her Aunt Reason, who acted as both post mistress and manager at the res’s general store, asking her to contact the authorities, giving her the location.

“ What’s next?” Two Crows asked.

“I’m thinking,” Wanda replied.

Wanda Ring Moon was used to taking charge. Unfortunately, most of her existence had been a bad cliché of growing up on a reservation – abuse, sexual promiscuity, supporting a small herd of younger siblings and cousins, truancy, and tattooed body parts depicting metaphors of her life, including two around her nipples that represented the full moon’s halo of ice crystals on the eve of her birth and the storm clouds that followed the morning after.

Twenty minutes later, Wanda dropped Two Crows off at his truck, told him to pick up supplies at the res store for the baby -- Tell my aunt the stuff’s for your nephew -- then meet back at the cave of the Weeping Woman, pronto. Wanda looked at Sam, sound asleep in Leo’s arms. Another involuntary smile rippled to the surface, this time with an audible sigh.

“Max,” she said, addressing the rear view image of her cousin in the back seat. “You’ve got to promise that you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Can you do that?”

“Sure, Wanda.”

“Good boy.” She smiled. The reflection smiled back, proud to be in his elder cousin’s confidence.

“ We’re going to need help,” Wanda said more to herself than to the remaining passengers, “and I know just where to get it.” She did a U-turn and drove off the res to town, just catching the last bell of the day at the high school, easing into the stream of migrating students making Friday night plans, turning south five blocks from the stadium to wait. Once she sighted her target, she idled up to her, easing her foot off the brake pedal to keep pace.

Reis • 11

“Hey, Hannah, want a ride?” Trying to act casual, Wanda slung her arm across the back of Leonard’s seat.

A confused looking sixteen-year old, short brown hair, hazel eyes, not a single tattoo, book bag trailing behind her on wheels, looked behind her.

“Are you talking to me?” Hannah asked.

“ Yeah, Hannah, it’s me Wanda. You know, I’m in your homeroom?”

“Still?” Hannah looked puzzled. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

“ Well, yeah,” Wanda shrugged. “I’m kind of working now -- at the garage.”

“That’s nice.”

“So, you want that ride?”

“That’s OK; I just have a few blocks to go.”

“It’s no problem; hop in.”

Hannah looked at Leo for confirmation. He gave her no encouragement one way or the other, appearing to be preoccupied with a bundle in his lap. She knew Leo from chemistry class last year. Brilliant mind. The younger kid she might have seen before at the library, trying to surf the web for porn sites, most of which were blocked -- most. What could it hurt? she thought. Hannah put a muzzle on her Little Voice and got in.

“Thanks,” Hannah said.

“No problem,” Wanda said, then patched out from the curb into the mostly empty street.

“Hi, L eonard,” Hannah said. There was no response from her classmate in the front seat. No surprise there. She turned to the boy next to her. “Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“It’s Max.”

Hannah briefly switched her attention to the Wanda. She leaned forward to say, “My house is four blocks up, third on the right, painted mural on the courtyard wall,” then she sat back in her seat. “My mother’s an artist.” She shrugged, turning to her seat mate, “Nice to meet you, Max.”

Four blocks and seven houses later, Hannah tapped on

Wanda’s shoulder. “Hey, you missed my house. It’s back there,” she said using her thumb to gesture behind her.

I am in so much trouble if they abduct me, she thought, watching her neighborhood slide by. God, what am I going to do? Told you so, Little Voice mocked.

“E xcuse me, uh, Wanda?” Hannah leaned forward again and tapped the driver on her shoulder, in the event that Wanda could not hear her above the road noises from the convertible. “You can let me off here. I’ll walk.”

“ We have a few errands to do,” Wanda called back over her shoulder. “Thought you might enjoy coming along for the ride.”

“I really have to get home…” Now you’re gonna die, Little Voice glummed. “…my mom’s expecting me.”

“ Truth is, Hannah, there’s been kind of an accident, and I need your help.”

“ What kind of an accident?” Hannah watched Leo for cues. Nada.

“ We’ll tell you all about it when we get where we’re going. You might want to call your mother, tell her a classmate needs help with homework. We’ll have you home by 8:00, promise.”

“ We eat Shabbat dinner at 6:30, then go to services. It’s a Jewish thing.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Wanda said.

Hannah made the call, sitting back in her seat, awaiting Fate, wishing she had a mute button for Little Voice. Twenty minutes later, the Impala pulled off the highway, wound through saguaro- and tumbleweed-dotted canyon country, eventually pulling up next to a rusty pickup parked beside a dirt mound about the size of a Dairy Queen. Leo and Max exited the vehicle without a word, disappearing around the other side of the knoll.

“ You can leave your book bag in the car,” Wanda said. “You won’t need it.”

“L ook, Wanda, I don’t know what you want with me,” Hannah said, sweat forming on her brow despite the cool spring air, “but…”

“Don’t worry, Hannah. We’re not here to hurt you. Honest. We just need your help.” Wanda waved her on, trailing in the path of the boys, until she walked out of sight. Hannah chased Wanda’s tracks, Little Voice nudging her as she followed the leader, crossing the threshold of the mound’s mouth without so much as a Mother-may-I.

“L ook,” Wanda pointed to the infant lying on a child’s nylon sleeping bag as if it was an every day image, then looked at Two Crows. “Buzz Lightyear?”

“Hey, I keep it in my truck, comes in handy for certain activities.”

“ You’re disgusting.”

“Oh, my God!” Hannah said. “Where did that baby come from?”

“L ong story,” Wanda said, “What do we do with him?”

“ You get him to his mother and she feeds him, for starters!” Hannah’s own voice was in control now.

“ Yeah, well,” Wanda said, lighting a cigarette, “his mother’s not available at the moment.”

“Put that out!” Hannah commanded. “Don’t you know second hand smoke is bad for the baby? You want to start him on lung cancer before he can walk?”

“OK, OK,” Wanda said, backing away from the motherbear standing between her and the cub, throwing the Marlboro out the cave entrance.

Hannah eased toward the baby, squatting by his side. “How you doing, Sweetie?”

“His name’s Sam, Sam the Man,” Wanda corrected.

“OK, then, how you doing, Sam?” Hannah checked his diaper, looking around for a replacement.

“ Two Crows, where’s the stuff you were supposed to pick up?” Wanda asked.

“Uhhh, it’s in my truck,” he said. “I’ll get it.”

Two Crows came back with diapers – two sizes too big, baby wipes, and a six pack of bottled formula.

“Oh,” he said, pulling a bubble-wrapped package from his

pocket, one that was not listed on the register receipt, “and I got this. Look, it’s got a digital readout and takes the baby’s temperature while he sucks on it.” Two Crows opened the package and emptied it of its contents, clipping the cord to Sam’s shirt, plugging the pacifier into the baby’s mouth. “Cool, huh?”

Hannah changed Sam’s diaper while Leo watched her from above; then she got up, standing with her back to the wall of the cave to address Wanda. “This baby needs water,” she began. “His poop looks like dried rabbit scat. If he doesn’t rehydrate soon, we’ll need to get him something to help him move his bowels.” Leo looked at Hannah with interest. He couldn’t help but admire a girl who knew her animal droppings. It turned him on.

“See, fellas?” Wanda said, waving her hand in Hannah’s direction. “I told you she would know what to do.” Then, in what appeared to be an emotional one-eighty, Wanda grabbed Hannah by the collar and threw her to the ground, inches from Sam. With a flash of steel arcing over her head and down, Wanda sliced the head off a lone rattler, then scooped Sam up into her arms.

Hannah paled. Leo offered her a hand. She took it.

“ You all right?” Wanda asked. “Sorry about that. Don’t usually see snakes in here until the weather warms up.”

“Great,” Hannah said, dusting herself off with the hand that was not being held by Leo, “just great! And exactly what do you plan to do with Sam tonight?” she demanded, reclaiming her Leo hand to point to their surroundings. “Keep him here, in this,” Hannah choked on her interrogatory, “cave?”

“Sure.” Wanda shrugged.

“ Who’s going to diaper him and feed him and get up with him in the middle of the night, and I would say change his clothes, but it appears he has only one outfit?” Hannah was working herself into a frenzy. “How are you going to keep him warm? Protect him from snakes? Where are you going to get water for him to drink?!” She was near the point of hysteria.

“ Water we got,” Wanda said defensively, in the face of

the Maternal Inquisitor. “There’s a well outside. Good water, we drink it all the time. And we’re Indians, so we can light a fire. Can’t we, Sammy? Yes, we can.” She looked at the bouncing baby in her arms for confirmation. “That ought to help with the snakes. The rest of the stuff, I’ll send Leo and Two Crows into town to get.”

“L ook,” Hannah said, straining to calm herself down. She checked the time, “I’ve got to get home. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“ Your word?”

“I promise.”

“ You need a ride in the morning?”

“No, I’ll borrow my brother’s car. He owes me one -- or a dozen. How do I find my way back here?”

“ We’ll teach you how to track your way like a skin. You know, look for stellar signs, follow animal tracks, and check wind direction. Right, Sammy?” Wanda gave him a squeeze.

Hannah gave her a you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me look.

“Lighten up, Pale Face! It was a joke.” Wanda slapped Hannah on the back. “You can use my Garmin.”

“ Where the hell have you been?” Wanda demanded, trying to calm a screaming Sam in her arms.

“At Hebrew School,” Hannah said, noting that the inventory of baby supplies had burgeoned to include a diaper bag, some blankets and towels, a knit baby cap, footy pajamas, more formula, some water bottles, and a teddy bear.

“Hebrew School!” Wanda echoed. “What the hell is that?”

“I help kids get ready for Bar and Bat Mitzvahs,” Hannah said.

“It’s Saturday, for Christ’s sake. What kind of school is open on Saturday?”

“Hebrew School,” Hannah said, trading a drugstore bag for the baby. “I got what you needed for Sam,” she said, placing him in the crook of her arm, face-side down, bouncing him

• Blackwater Review

gently, her pulsating fingers massaging his belly. “Your little tummy hurts doesn’t it, Sammy Wammy. Poor baby, we’re going to fix you right up and you’ll be aaaall better.”

Wanda’s eyes formed a question that had difficulty escaping her gaping mouth. “How do you do that?”

“What?”

“That…” Wanda waved her hand in the air, “thing you do with the baby.”

“Oh,” Hannah said, between coos, “I’ve been helping my mother with my little brother, Benjamin, since he was born. He had a terrible case of colic. He’s two now-- an “oops” baby, you know – and just fine.”

Wanda shook her head and then pulled the contents out of the bag, tossing it on the ground as she read the label. “For fast, gentle relief of constipation in infants…” She opened the box and pulled out the foil-backed contents. “Whoa! These pills are huge! How are we going to get Sam the Man to swallow one?”

“ You don’t,” Hannah said, pointing to the product name, Smooth Move Suppositories.

“ You mean we gotta stick that up Sam’s poor little heini?”

“Not we,” Hannah said, “You.”

“No, no, no, no way!” Wanda said, putting further space between her and the baby. “You do it. You’re the one with all the experience.”

“E xactly,” Hannah said, “and I am the one who is going to teach you how to do this for little Sammy in the event that he needs more relief during the school week and I’m not here.” “ You are shitting me,” Wanda protested.

“That’s the idea,” Hanna said. “Come on, let’s do this.”

An hour later, Wanda parked her Impala in the automotive graveyard that made up the structural landscape of her yard, once again ignoring yet another of Life’s stereotypes as she climbed the stairs to the front porch of her trailer. Inside, her brother was wired to his X-box, ignoring her entry. Having

left Sam in Hannah’s capable hands, she had returned to her house for a few necessary supplies – food from the fridge, trash bags, flashlight batteries, and the bottom drawer from her dresser to use as an ersatz crib, the contents of which she dumped on her bed.

On her way out, she noticed the red blinky light on her answering machine and pushed the Play button, “This is the Federal Marshal’s office. We are looking for a Ms. Wanda Ring Moon. Her car was identified near a homicide scene. Our sources say that an infant may have been with the victim at the time. Please have Ms. Ring Moon contact us at blah, blah, blah…”

Wanda stopped the recording. “Did you know about this?” she accused her brother, stopping him mid-kill as she unplugged his game.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Did you know about the Federal Marshals?” she repeated.

“ Yeh, well, they came by earlier.”

“And what exactly did you tell them?”

“I might have told them to look for you at the Weeping Woman.”

“ You what?!”

“ Well, I couldn’t have them hanging around here, could I? I got two pounds of pot back in my bedroom, gift-wrapped and ready go.”

“ You moron!” she said, picking up her things and smacking him on the back of the head with a corner of the drawer.

“Ow!” he said, rubbing the base of his skull, her usual target. “What’d you do that for?” he asked to empty space. Wanda was gone.

“Hannah,” a faint echo of Wanda’s voice made the satellite connection to Hannah’s cell phone. “They’re coming for Sam. They are going to take him away from me.” Dead air.

Forty minutes later, Wanda was tucking Sam into the drawer, warm, fed, and dry. “Hey Sam the Man,” she said, rubbing the soft baby flesh of the hand that held tight to her

finger, tighter to her heart. “We had a good run, didn’t we? Short and sweet, but good, right? Sorry about your mom. That really sucks. I’d keep you, but the Federal Marshals have other plans for you. Being a white boy has its drawbacks sometimes.” Wanda looked around the cave to be sure that no one was in ear shot, “Listen, Sam, they’re going to put you in deep hiding somewhere, give you a new name, a new home, a set of parents that will take care of you, love you – like I do. You’ll do all right,” she winced, squeezing a tear back where it came from, “but, don’t you think for a moment that I’ll ever forget about you.” She kissed him, then whispered, “Sleep tight for now, little fella. I love you, Sam the Man. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“ Why me?” Hannah asked, seated at the mouth of the cave with Wanda, breathing in the fragrance of a late afternoon sky. “Why’d you pick me?”

“Because,” Wanda took a long drag on her cigarette, held it, let it wind slowly out of her nostrils, “you are about the smartest kid in school, and you don’t treat the rest of us like we are something that should be scraped off the bottom of your shoe.”

“Really?” Hannah said. “I’m flattered…I think.”

“ Well, don’t get a big head over it,” Wanda said brusquely.

“Certainly not,” Hannah said, choking back a scoff that threatened to escape.

Now’s the time, Little Voice egged her on, while she’s in this sober mood. Go ahead and ask her what’s on your mind. Come on…man up!

Oh, for Pete’s sake, Hannah thought, gender bias from my own Little Voice. But, this time, you’re right.

“Listen,” Hannah began, hesitantly, “while we’re having this Oprah Winfrey moment, can I ask your candid opinion about something?”

“Shoot.” Wanda gave Hannah a side glance, intimacy alarm on alert.

“Am I pretty?”

Wanda hooted, losing complete control of the smoke

“Neither do I!” Hannah said, shaking hands and head in a rapid negative. “No, really, that’s not what I mean. It’s just that… guys don’t seem to notice me. For that matter, neither do girls.”

“L ook,” Wanda said, “Your problem is that you scare them, see them for who they are, warts and all; it makes them uncomfortable. And, yeah, for the record you are… pretty, really pretty. Don’t worry about the rest of the insecure teenagers at the high school. Some day you’ll meet Prince Awkward Dork, who will go after a prize that the rest of the mokes in school will wish they had strapped on a set for when they come back for their twenty-fifth year reunion. You’ll kiss him, and over time, your frog will turn into a prince because that’s the kind of person you are – pretty inside and out.”

Wanda threw her cigarette into the dirt, pushing a foot off the ground. Hannah reached for her arm, held her back.

“ What?” Wanda asked.

“Thanks,” Hannah said. “For being my friend, a real friend…and surprisingly sage for a sixteen-year-old truant.”

“Oh, shit,” Wanda said, “don’t get all mushy on me. Besides, I’m almost eighteen. I’ve earned my feathers.” She spotted a posse of black SUVs in the distance. “Come on, we got a date with the Marshals.”

The pair walked in tandem to the drawer. Sam the Man was sleeping, snoring a cute baby snore that lends itself to a spectator sport.

“Some day, he’s going to want to know who he is,” Hannah said.

“ Yeah,” Wanda agreed, tucking the digital pacifier back into the baby’s mouth, “but not today.”

Wanda picked Sam up, touched his soft baby cheek, and inhaled his sweet baby scent. She kissed him, whispered something in his ear and said, “Let’s get this over with.”

Two marshalls from the lead SUV met them halfway between the mouth of the cave and their vehicles. They took Sam, the diaper bag, and the teddy bear, leaving four other

Blackwater Review rings she had been forming. “Look, I don’t swing that way.”

Marshals to linger, asking questions. When all was said and done, the Marshals left the four teenagers, copious contact information in hand, convinced that they had no real part in the murder of, or exposure to, the actual suspects.

Wanda and Hannah watched the last of the posse speed back toward the highway until it was out of sight. The pair stood there, allowing Silence to join them, now three musketeers, all for one and one for all.

“ Well,” Hannah broke first, “I guess I’ll head home. Come by and visit, will you?”

“ Yeah, sure,” Wanda said.

Hannah started to pull her brother’s car away from the cave, then shifted into neutral, rolling down the window. “Almost forgot,” she said. “Your Garmin. Lost the signal, somehow.” Hannah held it out to Wanda. “I don’t know what happened. It was working fine when I pulled in.”

“ Yeh, well,” Wanda said, “cheap shit from China. What do ya do?”

“ What did you whisper to Sam the Man?” Hannah asked.

“’See you soon’,” Wanda repeated.

“Hmm. You know of course that the whole point of Witness Security is to keep people from ever seeing each other again, right?”

“ Yeah, well, those aren’t my rules.”

“How will you find him?”

“Me red woman, good tracker.”

“Do not tell me you put the Garmin’s GPS chip in that teddy bear!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Wanda said. “The Marshals will toss the teddy and the diaper bag as soon as they get back to town. Can’t keep anything from the old life.”

“ Where, then?”

“ Well, Miss Smarty,” Wanda said, resting her arm on the door, touching her finger to her nose, “If I tell ya, I gotta skin ya.”

“Thanks for the courtesy” Hannah said dryly, then smiled.

“ What are friends for?” Wanda said with a wink.

“Can’t you shut that kid up?” the driver called to his colleague in the back seat.

“I haven’t the vaguest idea what to do!” she said.

“ You’re a disgrace to your gender,” he said reaching back, pulling on the chord pinched to the jammies, pacifier on the other end.

“I had five brothers. Hey, watch out!” she yelled, pointing to an armadillo crossing the road, trying to prove to the chicken that it could be done.

Whump-thunk!

Two minutes later, a pair of oversized flat cock feet landed nearby.

Mmmmm… Dinner!

I ask God to revolutionize the sleep in my soul.

I want to be nothing but prayer. I want to release myself to God, to be selfless, more concentrated than purity itself.

My soul searches in slow motion, beyond every meaning that already exists.

Everything humbles me. But listen, my heart is beating and I am breathing still to the beauty of acknowledging miracles.

Prayer

Talia Davila

Hello

Amberley Carter

Hello stranger,

I’m writing to inform you that the world spins as you left it, that I’m breathing, as you left me, that I’m angry at how you’ve left things. I already told you about my cosmic class though I know you never asked. And I hear a pause as you probably glare ahead of yourself, asking why it (I) am worth your care, wondering if you should make me aware of the honor in your presence.

I’ve heard of cannibalistic galaxies and brutal violent forces. I’ve examined icy comets and captive moons and orbits.

I found a piece of you in every layer of the universe. It’s a tragedy that you’re too self-absorbed to even notice.

Hello stranger, I can no longer pretend that you and I are even friends, that we could be, that we have been, that we will ever be again. The world spins as you left it. And I’m breathing now more freely. This is how I’m leaving things. How I’m leaving you--sincerely.

Poem for a Tree

Sarah Stewart

Tell me, have you ever really seen a tree?

Seen the soft-filtered sunlight and heard the mellow hum of honey bees in a palm’s graceful swaying leaves like mother’s arms when you’re underneath? Have you seen the grand majesty of a father pine keeping watch tall and brave? Smelled his fresh green verdant aftershave as you brush by on your way?

Have you heard the hushed gossip of a poplar grove huddled close together nervous in the weather? What would they say?

The world is so fast and has no time for a tree.

Woman on the River

Diana Jernigan

I have paddled these waters alone before. I am not afraid. I am not afraid of the currents or the dark circles that mark the drop-offs---where the water is deep and unforgiving, for those who don’t know how to swim.

I am not afraid because I have been in the water for years, from the ponds and bays to the crashing seas on the emerald coast. On calm days and or even in fierce winds, I have swum alone, floated on my back in the sparkling sunlight; rolled in the waves. I have come to love and respect the water. I am not afraid of it.

S till, today, the wind cries in the trees with a peculiar sound, a tune that belies the playful antics of the sun on the water and the occasional flash of a cavorting fish. Something is different.

“Get in,” he says.

I look at Steve, so tall and sure of himself. He is new to paddling and the water, yet acts as if he has done it all his life. I can show him. I climb aboard my red kayak and with a gentle push he launches me. I glide out into the water, a soft trail behind me, a whispery wake that separates me from the land. Left. And right. And left. And right.

I begin the familiar pattern, widening my distance from the shore until it changes shape and loses its meaning. A sense of freedom overtakes me. In my peripheral vision I see Steve alight in the blue Wilderness. I am way ahead of him. Good.

O verhead, an eagle soars, effortless and free, wing feathers dangling. I wonder at the view he has, of this winding river, these forests, the little people so confined to the earth.

I tur n around and look at the bank. I imagine a little heap by the water’s edge, where sit all my troubles. They call to me, they want to jump aboard, but I don’t even wave goodbye.

I just turn back and face the open water. I leave them there to stew. I love to paddle these waters. I am strong.

I resume my pattern. Left. And right. Left and right. Though faster this time.

With measured movements I cut my paddle into the river. Breaking the still surface and pushing ahead. That gentle rocking begins. The bow of my boat is like a knife, slicing, slicing, responding to the pace I have set.

My red Wilderness is a sleek beauty. She takes to the water, just like me, stable and sure of herself. All my years of paddling pit me well against a man, though it’s no use trying to outpace Steve. Sometimes I try, paddling like a madwoman, using all my strength and the skills I have learned: tighten the core, engage the back muscles. But his arms are long, his stroke so much wider. I can see that little smile come over his face, like a lazy lion that, toyed with, gently turns in my direction. He indulges me for a short distance. Soon he will try to pass me.

Ahead, there is a cove, with clear water and a sandy bottom. I think, if I can just get there, I will have bested him. An overhanging branch dips low in the breeze, its leafy banner welcoming me. I keep going. Left. Right. Left. Right. Though my muscles burn now, my hands are chaffed.

I want to stop, but I don’t let myself, not until the bow has breached the rush of the current and is into the calm of the cove. I pull one last time and the boat glides in, sliding right over the shallow surface, and my paddle is in my lap. I tip my face to the sun and breath.

I h ave paddled these waters alone. I am strong. I am not afraid.

O ut of the corner of my eye I see the blue boat.

“ Turn around,” he commands. “Come to me.”

I know that if I stray too far he will call me back. He does that. And I rebel. So I paddle once, in defiance, just to hear him, to feel that tether pull just a bit.

I have paddled these waters alone many times. I am not afraid of them. Why does he do this?

I dip my oar in against my own pace, pulling back a bit to slow up. Not five feet from me is a log jutting from the water. In the slanted light I see the gnarly bumps breaking the surface. I realize I will soon be entangled by a submerged log.

“Reverse,” Steve says quietly.

A s I do that, I watch the log disappear.

“Alligator.” My whisper sinks deep inside my own body. My pulse beats in staccato as I paddle with easy strokes, backward. I feel the creature underneath me, the rhythm of his powerful tail slapping once against my meager hull and sending me rocking with the current of his wake as he goes under.

“Steady now.” The blue boat is near me, close enough I could grab Steve’s tow line. He extends it, and our gazes lock.

He knows how long I have paddled alone. He knows the dangers I have encountered on my own. My sense of courage and determination, all borne from misfortune and trial. I would never give in to a man pulling me out of a pond just for the sake of fear.

He secures the rope and raises his paddle. “Stay beside me, then.”

I obey. With easy strokes that barely break the surface I edge my kayak out of the cove, all the while staying within feet of the blue boat. My heart is thundering in my chest.

“ When are you going to get it through your head?” he says with a wry glance in my direction. “You don’t have to be Amazon woman anymore.”

Tears are in my eyes. The comfort of Steve in the blue boat beside me is immeasurable. “I think I love you.”

He laughs. “Alligators do that to a woman.”

My turn to laugh. I repeat my mantra: I have paddled these waters alone before. I am not afraid. Though this time, I think, I am so glad I am not alone on this river.

To the Ocean

Sarah Stewart

O Hawaii, ancient drumbeat in my heart, my thoughts like canoes glide to your shore. What is this magic? To the ocean once more! And I go to hear distant music haunting me to watch the waves cross the ocean taunting me. My toes in the sand, face toward the sun, the ancient drumbeat and my heart are one. I close my eyes and for a moment I am free. Life’s rhythm runs through me. Art is life, continually coming to me. When will I be home?

Strong

Katie Rendon Kahn

I went to bed that night expecting you to wake me too early the next morning, but it wasn’t your silhouette that lingered in my doorway, the hall light casting an ominous shadow preceding those dreadful words: “He’s gone.”

I was asked what shirt I’d like and how to part your hair. Although every wish was granted, you looked nothing like yourself. I tried to breathe life into you, and for a moment, saw your chest rise. I took your hand between mine, and told Mom, “He’s cold.”

I recited you a poem, and hundreds of glossy eyes watched as I trembled my last goodbye. People kissed my forehead and promised they’d be near if I needed someone to talk to. But no one ever was.

I don’t remember whose car escorted me from the funeral. It felt empty except for whispers: “She’s being so strong.” A touch on the knee, a peck on the cheek that like your hand turned cold too quickly.

Visitors came with food and prayers and promises, telling me I wasn’t alone. But each day fewer came and left earlier each night until I had to accept that you were gone. And I had to move on.

Through blurry, mournful eyes your picture would come to life, and we would share a laugh. The wood grains in the paneling shape shifting into crude figures, taunting me: “You’re the strong one; You don’t need anybody.” Your picture grew still.

So now, when shadows are unfriendly and the whispers are about me, when only photographs make me smile, and I can’t breathe life into my relationships, I find myself staring into the mirror waiting for that old familiar shift. And I try to convince myself “I don’t need anyone; I’m strong.”

Burning Down the Block

Emily Heasley

Sarah walked in, slamming the door behind her as usual. She flipped the switch and the fluorescent light overhead flickered to life. I squinted, spinning around in my office chair to glare at her. She ignored my glower as she tossed her backpack onto the couch. Rolling my eyes, I began to turn around. I heard her flop onto the sofa behind me.

“Dude, are you still trying to write?” I turned my head just slightly and watched for a moment as she looked for the TV remote between the cushions.

“ Yeah.” I rubbed my forehead, staring at the computer screen. That stupid flashing line mocked me from the top of my Word document. I narrowed my eyes at it. Damn line thing. I don’t even know what you’re really called.

Sarah sighed, flipping through channels. “You’re going to drive yourself crazy.”

My gaze dragged from the screen. I twisted around in my chair, almost tipping over. Sarah continued her channel surfing. It must be nice, I thought. She didn’t worry about this sort of thing.

“ Well, whatever,” I hunched my shoulders and rose to my feet. I crossed the room and turned off the light. With my creative atmosphere somewhat back in order, I returned to my desk, clearing a path through the empty soda cans with my feet as I went. “I’m not quitting until I type something.”

“That’s what you’ve been saying,” Sarah said. She got up and crossed into my work area. I glanced at her from the corner of my eyes then slumped onto my desk, casting papers and empty chip bags onto the floor. “You just need a break. Come watch TV with me or something.”

“Nope, sorry.” I lifted my head. That line was still winking at me. “I need to get something done.”

Sarah’s face fell. Defeated, she turned back towards the apartment’s living space. “Okay. Well, I’ve got biology homework to do.”

“Right.” I tapped at my keyboard, making gibberish. Sarah retrieved her bag and went off to her room. Left with only the light of my computer monitor and the white noise from the TV, I sighed. I deleted the jumbled text from my screen and propped my chin up on my knuckles. For weeks it had been this way. I would type two sentences and instantly wipe them from my screen. Documents had been cast into the abyss of my recycling bin without remorse. I imagined my computer was teeming with the hollow shells of my abused stories. I was helpless to stop it. I had tried not writing at all, writing to prompts, going to the park, going for walks, and listening to music, but it was all in vain. I leaned back in my chair. I pondered my options for a few moments. There was still one thing I could try.

I sat up, minimized Word and opened up Google. I typed “how to beat writer’s block” and hit search, fingers crossed. The page loaded, revealing a list of interventions, most of which I had already tried and none of which had worked. Curse you, Internet. Even you have failed me. I scrolled down the page, but as I expected, it was no use. Just more relaxation techniques and writing exercises. I opened a new tab, heading to YouTube for some tunes. As the page loaded, however, an idea dawned on me. I doubted I’d get any results but nonetheless typed the same phrase into YouTube’s search bar. I hit the button.

To my surprise, a page of results appeared. I began scanning, clicking on videos that looked interesting. The first one was some professor going over the same old stuff. The audio was too quiet in the next one. I already felt my heart sinking. I clicked on a few more, finding nothing helpful. Finally I found one narrated by the author of a self-help book. I watched, eyes glazed over, as he began to talk about walks and free writing. It was the word “visualization” that got me to snap out of my trance. I leaned forward as the man spoke, head tilted. He talked about imagining the block, letting it become something that could be talked to and reasoned with. As the video ended I scratched my chin. It was something new, at least. Worth a try.

Heasley • 33

I walked into the living area and turned off the television. I dropped onto the worn sofa, pulling my feet up so I could sit “Indian” style. I sucked in a deep breath, held it for a minute and then let the air out slowly. Visualize. I shut my eyes, sinking down into the old cushions. My head rested on my shoulder. Don’t think about anything.

Pretty soon I had drifted off into my imagination. I was wandering through an empty space, scanning for anything of interest. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my old black jeans, scuffing my purple high-tops over the ground as I strolled along. Suddenly, my foot landed on something. I kneeled down and after a moment’s investigation, found it was the torn fragment of a book cover. Studying it with knitted brows, I picked it up. The corners were singed. I tossed it and it floated slightly beyond where I stood, landing among a pile of papers and books, all ripped and burnt. I traced the trail of papers with my eyes, observing that the smaller piles staked up to form a mountain of literature.

Okay, I thought. Might as well see what’s at the top.

I clambered over notebooks and pads of yellow paper. Words, sentence fragments and complete paragraphs were everywhere, most scratched out with black ink. It reminded me of my desk at home. I hiked my way upward, glancing over my shoulder every once in a while to see how far I had come. Papers fluttered downward like feathers every time I moved. Occasionally I would feel my feet slide as the books slipped.

I finally made my way to the top of the mountain. Laid out before me was a flat space which appeared to be made of blank, lined paper. But that wasn’t what really caught my attention. Looming on the other side of the paper summit was a hulking creature. It shifted, groaned, and stood. It began to lumber towards me, the ground shaking as it walked. I looked up and up some more, jaw dropping and eyes widening. The creature was a dragon completely made of folded paper.

The origami dragon looked down at me, its eyes flickering like the stupid line on my computer screen. Its twisted card stock tail lashed from side to side as it scrutinized me. I tried to keep

from shaking as it bent its neck to look at me closer. It flashed a smile made of calligraphy pen nibs.

“Really? You imagine a dragon? How cliché are you kid?” The dragon gave a throaty laugh and sat back on its haunches. It stretched its clawed toes and sighed, black smoke rising from its nostrils. “Relax. You act like I’m going to eat you.”

“Isn’t that what dragons usually do?” I relaxed my shoulder slightly, though it was still pretty intimidating being in a dragon’s presence. The creature tilted its horned head.

“Listen, you wanted to talk to your writer’s block, so here I am. What do you want?” The dragon leaned forward, squinting down at me. It scraped its claws against the ground.

“Oh, right,” I said, shaking my head. I took a moment to gather my thoughts. Swallowing hard, I smoothed out my t-shirt and looked up at the dragon. “Right, uhm, let’s see. The video said-“

“ To ask your block why it’s blocking you, huh? Yeah.” The dragon chewed at the tip of one of its claws. “Kid, you suck. You wouldn’t know an original thought if it bit you on the ass. Your use of the English language might make a third-grader proud, but that’s about it. You’re too melodramatic, you have no concept of plot and your idea of a climax is when they kill Kenny in South Park. Let’s face it; you will never be a writer.”

“No, I don’t suck.” I clenched my fists. “I love to write. I may have a lot to learn, but I also have a lot to say. That counts. You don’t know anything.”

The dragon chuckled. “Oh, I think I know. This is your imagination, your head. I know everything about you.” It beamed as my face fell. “You don’t have any talent, kid. You’re never going to stack up in the literary world. I mean really, you’re just not that good. I bet I could write better than you.”

My teeth squeaked as I clenched them. “Yeah? You think you’re so good? Well, guess what? I imagined you, didn’t I?”

The dragon shrugged, its paper wings crinkling. “The only decent thing you’ve thought of in months.”

I could feel my cheeks heating up. I arched my brows and took a few breaths to even my temper. Then, with a smirk, I

placed my hands on my hips. “I bet I could come up with something better than you.”

The dragon dipped its head and gave a wave of its claw. “Go right ahead and try.”

I gave the dragon a scowl before looking down at my shoes. Ideas ran through my head. I could blast the big monster with a cannon. No, no, that was dumb. What if I made another dragon to fight this one? That was guaranteed to back fire. What beat a dragon? It came to me then. I smiled slightly at the predictability of my idea. It was something at least.

I closed my eyes for just a moment longer than the standard blink. When I opened them again, I was wearing a suit of armor made entirely of hardback book covers.

Colorful illustrations and book summaries covered my arms and legs. Instead of a sword at my side there was a giant pen. I grinned smugly at the paper dragon. It jeered back.

“ Well isn’t that cute? You like fairytales or something?” The dragon stood, stretching its white wings. “You going to slay me?”

“That was the idea,” I admitted.

“Okay then,” the dragon laughed. It shook its head, its paper body crumpling. “Show me what you’ve got, kid.”

I looked down at my pen, then back at the dragon, then at my feet. I pulled the pen from my side and pointed it at the beast. It stared at me in amusement. Its eyes glinted as it motioned to the notebook paper ground. I blinked in confusion for a moment, then caught on. Of course. I mused over my idea for few moments and then began to scratch a sentence onto the ground.

“I am a knight.”

The dragon smiled, eyes scanning my poor penmanship and woefully short sentence. It sucked in a breath, opened its jaws and let out a stream of flames. The flames, which were made of a jumble of letters and phrases, lick at my sentence. The embers died away, leaving new words burned into the paper.

“I am a failure.”

I scowled, taking my pen and slashing away at the smoldering letters. Failure? What about that A I got on my essay in middle school? Or the poem my teacher loved so much that I wrote in the ninth grade? Maybe I wasn’t Neil Gaiman, but I sure as hell wasn’t a failure. I growled under my breath as I jabbed my pen into the ground to make the period.

“I am the best writer ever.”

Maybe that was pushing it. The dragon sighed, blowing flames from its nostrils.

“I am the worst writer ever.”

I could feel my heart pounding, heat mounting in my face. My mouth pressed into a hard line. There had to be something to beat this thing. I actually felt my head starting to pound as I racked my mind. Then I grinned. With a flourish of my pen, I began to scrawl out my sentence.

“I don’t believe in dragons.”

The beast’s face fell. It drew its head back and bared its pen nib teeth. “Don’t believe in me? Alright then.” The dragon let out a stream of fire.

“Sorry, this is my imagination,” I said.

The dragon’s flames doubled back. The fire went down its throat and the dragon’s slit eyes crossed. The creature exploded into a flurry of burnt paper.

With a sigh, I opened my eyes. I surveyed my darkened apartment: the piles of trash at my desk, the dishes stacked in the kitchen sink, and the battered couch. I looked over to my roommate’s door. It was closed, and I could hear the muffled sounds of Slipknot drifting through the crack beneath. I glanced back to my computer. The monitor was still casting its bright light over my desk. The line at the top of the word document still flashed at me.

I slowly got to my feet, crossed the room, and began to pick up the trash around my work space. I dumped the rubbish into my waste basket, wiped my hands, and sat in my rolling chair. I stared for a moment at my keyboard. Then I began to type.

Stadium Lights

Heather Willard

Humid air hung over the field that August night. It was the first time I saw his eyes: cerulean--not a common blue.

Stadium lights bronzed his crew cut and added a gleam to the helmet he casually dangled from his fingers. Tight gold pants and maroon jersey cut to define muscled shoulders and calves.

Homecoming banners must have tangled my senses, cluttering my mind like crepe paper at the prom. He was my pep rally, my winning touchdown, my Hail Mary with no time on the clock. And we were the front-page picture on the Saturday morning news.

Somehow the years blitzed by, the banners fell, lights grew dimmer, more sacks and interference, penalties drawn as he drank away our youth. And I realized I’d been wrong: his eyes were only blue.

JoAnne Bartley

Photograph

JoAnne Bartley

Photograph

One More Olive

Louann Brechler

Photograph Grayton’s Garden

Sarah Brown Clay Tree

Leading a Return

Mary Ann Crabtree

Clay, Granite, Wood

Fisher Photograph Distilled

Ryan

Ciarra Garza

Pastel and Colored Pencil

Shroonville

Ciarra Garza

Acrylic Collectively

Paul Michael Graves Oil

Amsterdam at Dawn

Paul Michael Graves Oil

Paul Michael Graves Oil

Color Capture

Oscar Gutierrez

Acrylic on Board and Paper

Oscar Gutierrez Conté Crayon

Andrea L. Herrington

Photograph

Bowing Oaks

Kristen Keller Clay, Feathers Majesty

Kristen Keller Pen and Ink

Verena Mellein Oil Frauenkirche Dresden

Dying Soldier’s Last Journey

Maria B. Morekis

Jessica Nguyen Oil

Sea of Love

Emily Parsons Oil Allyson

The Answer

Tiffany Santner

White Pencil

Mike Serpa Oil

Gabriel Silva Pastel, Pencil, Charcoal

Artist of the Portrait

Roxanne M. Soja

Photograph Fireflow

Alexander R. Sorlie

Judie Wren Oil

Sandra M. Zimmermann

Watercolor My Tulips

Twenty

Madelyn Mancera

At five o’clock in the morning, I am a young woman sleeping in the deep rest of a twenty year old. And at seven a.m. till school starts at nine, I am a mommy racing with the clock. School ends around five which ends my time as student, and I clock in as mom again. We eat. We clean. We bathe and fall asleep embraced. He sleeps like a three year old. The days pass us by like this, always too quickly. We welcome the weekend with good-bye and a big hello to daddy time. It’s five o’clock on Friday evening, and I am a smiling waitress with a long weekend of work ahead. At eleven p.m. after those shifts, a bright little window appears showing me the clock is here. I can be a young woman now. On my way to clock in to age twenty, I try to cross my bed, but I’m tired, and I fall asleep instead.

First Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2012

Paces

James Birdsong

Times like these

When not the faintest hint of clouds, Daisies, Or daffodils

No roses

No checkers

No chickens

Nor marsh

Nor mellow

Nor mi

Mends the wash Plucks the bells Or drapes across the windowsill as did I

Just to be with you

For Me, For Once

Gracie Flores-Broome

I stopped cutting the grass and instead I hired landscapers.

I stopped painting the rooms and instead I put up borders where unpainted walls met the ceilings. I stopped shopping for paintings and instead I left the walls empty. I stopped leaving the air on and instead I opened windows. I stopped using recipes and instead I made what was quick. I stopped sending letters and instead I sent emails.

I stopped pretending to be a wife and I left.

The Consequence of Silence

Katie Rendon Kahn

I walk to my car with my keys strategically placed between my fingers, like any self-defense instructor would insist. A date rape poster in the window grabs my attention, “Tell him to stop and he will”: silencing the chant of state-appointed guidance counselors and public pretenders.

For two decades I have been told “It wasn’t your fault.” The words lost meaning. Here is the truth, screaming from a college poster, confirming what I’ve always known. It was absolutely my fault.

I never expected my enchantment with the new boy across the street to end in a trial, two families spitting slurs at one another like divorcées.

The poster’s message, simple as it was, picked the scab, exposing the bloody, ugly truth that never healed. Why didn’t I tell him no? Why didn’t I tell? Why didn’t I fight? Even now, my mind twitches with grotesque flashes, like trying to recall a dream, a nightmare.

It started by climbing an oak tree with a boy I liked. His eyes mirrored the sky; the leaves formed a canopy where time ceased.

“L et me feel your tits.”

It was my first mistake, the one he would use to blackmail me for years. Clouds covered the sun that day. Blue skies are reserved for the innocent.

Fr om then on, I had to pay for his silence by letting him bury secrets in my skin. Each time built on the time before. When he threatened to tell my father, I believed him. When another girl in the neighborhood refused him, he beat her and then had his way. I envied those bruises, at least she fought.

Like a predator that knows its prey’s weakness, he used my silence to his advantage, sneering, “We can do this the hard

way or the easy way. I always took the easy way, never fought and never told.

I came in the front door, watching my father’s elbow peek out from the recliner. “Hey, good, you’re home,” he said as I walked slowly, painfully to the couch beside his chair. I tried to make myself look natural despite the bruised peach throbbing between my skinny, never-shaved legs. The scent stuck to me, and saliva dried on my face.

Dad was watching Unsolved Mysteries; this episode involved a girl who had been molested by a family friend. When the commercial came on, he turned to me and asked “No one’s ever touched you, have they?”

His finger lingered on the top of his beer, waiting for me to assure him. I shook my head, afraid that if I opened my mouth, his image of me would dissipate. Popping open his Bud Light, he nodded in response and returned his focus to Robert Stack.

I could have ended things then, but I didn’t. I could have just placed my tremendous burden in my father’s enormous hands. I stared at the side of his face, thinking, “Ask again Daddy; I won’t lie this time.” It was too late; I had lost the opportunity.

The words swirl between me and the glass: “Stop him, tell.” The poster’s positioned so it cannot be ignored as hundreds of college age girls stroll past. A classmate pauses, following my eyes up to the words. Her eyebrows burrow into her forehead. I turn to her with a nod, “pretty profound, don’t you think?”

“Pretty simple,” she snorts, cutting the air between us with her ponytail.

“ Yes,” I say, “simple.”

The Good Wife

Diana Jernigan

So. I am alone with you once more in that lovely dreaded hour when you are not quite unkind. You just point out the utter monotony of life and sometimes that is worse than anything.

Left alone with you this evening-Oh God, must we do this again? You will not be unimaginative; you will convince me of shallow contentment, and some nights that is very nearly acceptable

You really are quite beautiful and wildly entertaining at times. You just know too much about me. My dear thoughts, too much to keep you from the temptation of adoration. Or even, it seems, blackmail. How I would welcome that.

I would trade you for a B movie, for a dull neighbor who sends pies on rainy days. I would stifle you with a pillow or give you to a brutal lover just to soothe those demons inside you

Good wife, we rather know too much about each other, don’t you think? Tell me. We are alone, my dear. My beloved. Myself

Jernigan

Forbidden Fruit

Katie Rendon Kahn

Strawberry blonde Apple of daddy’s eye

Nectar stolen Peach bruised.

Honeydew skin, plowed And planted With sour grapes And thorny Blackberry vines

To bear more fruit To be groped, Peeled and squeezed. Picked long before Ripe.

Special to Me

James Birdsong

I love you, but you are not special to me.

I can’t say your deeds matter. I can’t say you’ll be remembered when you die. I can’t say you matter even though I say, “I love you.” Without you, I would have one less face to step on. Without you, I would have one less kid to beat. Without you, I would have to get off my lazy butt.

And I would have to find someone else. My darling child, I love you, but you are not special to me.

Disowned

Sandy Heffernan

You were lucky. I was the aunt who raised you, who gave you everything: Neiman Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, Bullocks.

Your mother had nothing--white trash. So I kept you away from her vulgar tongue and filthy ways. Did I tell you she dressed like a prostitute?

Your father—such an embarrassment— impregnating that garbage—so pig headed. Did you know it took threats to keep her away from you?

How could you let her invade?

After all, you had me, my fine house on Fairway Drive, and my prestige that made you a Capitol Page decked out in Ralph Lauren. You should have known it would end when you let in that groveling leech.

For that, for her, you threw it away? Now you will never vacation in the Bahamas, no sun-drenched yacht. You’ll wear throw-away clothes from the Salvation Army, work twelve-hour shifts at Wal-Mart.

Ungrateful. Fool. You owed me your life. I don’t care that I broke your heart; you deserved it. Now stay out of my life–please.

Raising Phoenix

Katie Rendon Kahn

“Now what am I supposed to do?” The anesthesia was wearing off, leaving my incision icy hot and my mind spinning.

“Now,” says the nurse, pushing the blue bundle at me, “You hold yo’ baby. You feeds’ him, you change him, and then you do those things all over again.”

I awkwardly try to take him from her arms, and it becomes obvious to both of us that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. The nurse, Diane is her name, exhales impatiently out of her flared nostrils. She presses the button on the bed to make it rise, and it squishes me like an accordion. Suddenly there is an extra bed pillow being plopped down on my engorged belly unapologetically. She places my newborn on the pillow; he scares me.

“Just wrap yo’ arm around like this and hold him like a football, see? Now ya have a free hand to feed him. I already changed him, try to get him to drink at least four ounces but burp him after every ounce.” Diane closes the door behind her, shaking her head as if to say, “babies having babies.”

The books I’ve been reading are on my night stand in case I need them. What to Expect When You’re Expecting and Your Pregnancy Week by Week remind me of just how unprepared I am. Ask me anything about pregnancy, and I have your answer, but I didn’t read anything beyond delivery. I pull the blanket back just enough to see his ear. Then I pull it back a little more to see his shoulder. I can’t believe how small he is. His foot is the length of my thumb; he is as long as my forearm. “You’re going to have to be patient with me kid; I’m new at this.” Oh my God, have I ever even held a baby before?

He opens his big beautiful eyes and looks at me. As terrified as I am, I have never been more in love. I inspect him and smell him, practice picking him up and holding him. Impatience and hunger kick in, and he starts squirming, then

crying. A newborn crying is one of the most helpless sounds on Earth. I try to remember what Diane had said to do. The bottle is out of reach; every movement rips at the recent incision, and I am terrified of dropping him. Diane opens the door announcing that I have visitors. After a quick assessment, she rolls her eyes at my incompetence while friends and in-laws pile into the room.

“Oh my God, he is so precious!” my sister-in-law squeals, picking him up without hesitation. She holds him with one arm while preparing the bottle single-handedly. He is passed from one set of confident arms to the next. Everyone else seems to know exactly what to do, how to hold him, why he’s crying. No one else is afraid of him.

They speak with added excitement and smiles which beg me not to ask where my husband might be. He had showed up minutes before I was wheeled back to the O, and I have been watching for him since.

“Does he have hair?”

“Don’t take his cap off; he’ll get cold!” my mother-in-law snaps at a well-meaning friend who took it off to see.

Someone else insists that everyone wash their hands before holding him.

His Grandfather is sure he needs to be burped.

“ What’s his name?” my friend asks.

“Christopher Phoenix” I say. “Christopher, after my brother and Phoenix because he is what rose from the ashes of my mistakes.”

I want him back; I want to be the one holding him. He is mine. Slowly, the well-wishers depart, leaving a wake of flowers and cards, and I am alone with Phoenix. He must sense that he is in incapable hands because he starts to cry again.

After hours of complete parenting failure, Diane whisks him away to the nursery. I beg her for more drugs; all I want to do is sleep. It hits me why for the last six months or so, every woman I bumped into whispered in a cryptic tone, “You better sleep while you can.”

Diane mercilessly flings my blanket off while the sun claws my eyes open. “Morning, Sunshine, today you walk.”

“ Where am I walking?” Like a stubborn animal, I do not budge as she tries to pull me up. “I haven’t seen Phoenix yet; I need to feed him.”

“ Well, then I suggest you get out of this bed, walk down that hall, and go get him. ‘Cause neither of ya’s going home till ya do.” Hands on her hips, eyebrows raised she’s daring me to challenge her.

“ Well played, Diane.” I attempt to swing my legs over victoriously but wind up stuck with one leg on the ground and a generous assortment of ailments. “You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”

“ Well now, at least you’s trying.” Relaxing her stiff face, Diane steps over. “Use this here railing to pull yourself over. Jus’ reach this arm over and roll onto yo side. Then swing your legs over.”

It took a good ten minutes just to stand up semi-straight. “There now,” Diane winks, pushing me a rolling bassinet. “You can use this for leverage. Don’t matter how long it takes you to get there, just long as you get there.” Diane walks patiently beside me until we get through the door. “It’s just there, down that hall, last door on the right. Once you get back, I’ll bring ya breakfast. And some pain medicine,” she adds with a chuckle.

“Just there, huh?” I mimic Diane all the way down the hall, which just keeps getting longer and longer. I finally make it.

The nurse inside is much younger and much more friendly. She smiles at me, “He’s been waiting for you, glad to see you up and walking. You looked pretty rough a few days ago. I saw you just before they took you back for the blood transfusion. We were all praying for you.”

I smile back, trying to remember her face; those first two days are fuzzy. “That’s very sweet of you.” I watch her put Phoenix in the bassinet. He is squirming and yawning. I stare at him for a long time, memorizing his features and observing his behaviors. Pulling myself out of tunnel vision, I realize the

nurse is watching me with a similar smirk, her head tilted to the side. “Well, thanks for everything; I’m going to wheel him back with me.”

“No problem, you guys are going to be fine,” she adds, wheeling the cart around effortlessly. I appreciate the simple act of kindness because I have no idea how I would have turned it around otherwise.

The walk back to the room goes much more smoothly. I only occasionally take my eyes off Phoenix to make sure I don’t run into something. He makes funny little faces while he stretches. I spot some milk trapped in the crease under his lip.

“How could I have been afraid of you? You’re a pussy-cat.”

Diane magically appears just as we reach the bed. “Ok now, nice and easy. Firs’ just sit down, and then we swing your legs around.” She adjusts my pillow so that I can sit up straight. This time she places the pillow down gently. “Well, I think you earned yourself some breakfast.” She places a tray of scrambled-too-soft eggs and hard-as-a-rock biscuits on the night stand. The juice looks delicious. Reading my mind, she hands it to me, followed by a Lortab. “How ya feeling?”

“That was exhausting, but look at him.” We both watch Phoenix squirm like a caterpillar. “Did my husband call?”

Without breaking her gaze, Diane says, “No, not yet.” Turning to me with a sudden burst of sincerity, “I’m proud of ya, I was afraid you were going to give up. You had that defeated look. I see teenagers come and go all the time. I worry about those babies.” She pats my hand and then looks fiercely into my eyes. “Don’t you give up, not on him and not on yo’self.”

Diane sets the juice on the tray and hands me Phoenix. “He’s got his mamma’s blue eyes and an ol’ soul too.” She tucks him under my arm like a football. “I’ll jes’ let you two get to know each other.”

T wo days of spit-up and sleepless nights later, and we are both discharged. Diane hugs me goodbye and wishes me luck while my husband carries our bags out to the car. It’s supposed to be a happy occasion, so I don’t ask where he’s

Kahn • 85

been all week. I apologize to Diane for being a brat, and we both laugh.

Once we are settled in at home, there is no Diane to help me. My husband carries our bags inside and says he has to go back to work. It’s just me and Phoenix, sink or swim.

W hen he is sleeping, I hover over him thinking how perfect he is. I worry he isn’t breathing and find myself obsessively checking on him. When I finally try to sleep, he wakes up.

I get frustrated with myself, then him, then myself again. Sleep deprivation leads to constant aggravation. Some days I cry more than he does. He cries when I cry which makes me cry more. My husband stops coming home. I blame the baby, myself, my body. Some days I’m grateful that I have Phoenix because otherwise I’d be alone. Other days I wonder where I might be if I had never had him. I don’t deserve to have him; he would be happier with someone else. I’m too selfish to let him go, and I need him like I need air. That’s the problem; I need air, but I’m trapped.

Years pass with my mind bouncing back and forth like this. A hug was all I needed to go on. A temper tantrum was reason enough to want to slit my wrists. This is the life of a teen mom.

Phoenix is much bigger now. His foot has grown past my thumb, even my own foot. He carries in the groceries and waits up for me at night when I have class.

I decide it’s time to have the sex talk. We talk about STDs and teen pregnancy. I tell him how stupid I was. I print pictures of herpes and gonorrhea.

“Oh my God, Mom.” He turns his head in disgust. “Why would anyone wanna have sex?”

I laugh. “Well, like anything else, it can be good. Or, you could end up with oozing sores on your penis, for the rest of your life.”

“Oh, God. If I promise never to have sex, will you promise never to show me those pictures again?”

“Phoenix, this is important. A friend of mine just found out her thirteen year old son got a girl pregnant. Of course, I would love it if you just promised to not have sex and then kept

that promise. But, let’s get real. I want to make sure you know how to use a condom.” I pulled out a bunch of bananas and a box of condoms.

“Mom! You can’t be serious!”

“I am dead serious.”

“ You’ve embarrassed me before, but this is bad even for you!”

“I just want to make sure that you don’t make the same mistakes I did.”

I can only imagine that he was pretending to have laser vision that burned holes through me as he unwrapped the first condom. When every banana was wearing a raincoat, he slung the bunch across the table. “I will never forgive you for this.”

“Oh come on, that’s what you said when I piss tested you.”

“I have never done drugs or had sex! Are we done here?”

“Sure. Unless, you wanna see some more pictures?”

“That’s not even funny, Mom,” he mumbled as he climbed up the stairs.

After two weeks, I was beginning to think that he really wasn’t going to forgive me. He dodged me in the afternoons and gave me short straight answers. I thought that I could joke my way out of it like usual, but nothing was making him laugh.

“Ok kiddo, what’s going on?” I plop down on his bed to let him know I’m not going anywhere until I get a straight answer.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing. Nothing? Come on man, you know I’m not buying that. Look, I know you’re upset about the condom thing, but it’s over. I’ll never make you do it again now that I know that you know how.”

“It’s not about the condoms.”

“Ok, now we’re getting somewhere, what’s it about?”

He shakes his head. “It’s just…” more shaking. “Am I your mistake?”

Right in the gut. “Baby, I’ve made a ton of mistakes, but you’re not one of ‘em!”

Lonely Kitchen

Sandy Heffernan

I am home alone and look at my counter tops and stove, stark and empty as my life. Hers were never that way.

I feel a chill, grab a sweater, and hold it tight to my neck to shield myself from the loneliness.

I close my eyes and suddenly smell beef, potatoes and carrots; she is cooking. It’s warmer now.

I am there, and she is stirring, and talking incessantly, as the homemade soup boils, then slows to a simmer. Celery and tomatoes clutter the cutting boards, lettuce tossed into a large bowl, the spicy scent of cider brews.

She is the ancestral mother performing the ritualistic dance: grab, pour, stir, cut, mix recognized by every admiring daughter.

When I open my eyes, I’m standing in my own quiet kitchen. Warm now, I reach for the cutting board, peel and chop a few potatoes, ready to begin my own broth on my own stove.

I Am a Good Bulimic

Madelyn Mancera

When I first tried it, I did not like it. But I’ve learned so many tricks to make it easier. The thing is to stop upchucking before the stomach acid reaches the esophagus, or better yet, don’t let the food reach the stomach for longer than a few minutes. Then there won’t be enough acid to burn the throat.

Another trick is milk or ice cream; it comes up so beautifully. I can still taste the butter pecan.

Avoiding detection is easy. No one expects a 24-year-old male to induce vomiting after peanut butter, a hamburger, a waffle and some rolls.

Another thing, it is courteous not to let people in other rooms hear.

I have learned to gag silently and let the mush fall on John’s side to avoid a splash and make less noise.

I’ve come a long way since that day in twelfth grade when my best friend Mark said, “Dude, lay off the bread.”

I know so much more than I did then: shades of brown and the size of lumps can indicate a job well done.

I know brushing my teeth right after is crucial to avoid stomach-acid tooth decay. I’ve learned to lie down after a bad day of binging three consecutive times.

I’ve even learned that I’m not well, and it’s not right to hate myself.

But what I can’t figure out is why, why I am not skinny.

Hillside Avenue

Michele Moore

Grandpa’s house overlooks railroad tracks. He pauses, lights his smoke, waits for whistles to die. Wispy hair the same shade as the house. Water stains and peeling stucco serve as canvas for destructive grandkids. His thinning roof still cradles three generations.

Inside his air-conditioned bat cave, everything smells like Marlboros even the kids, whom he sometimes offers cigarettes when their moms aren’t around. The stove is cold. He’ll take nicotine over navy beans.

Like a grumpy flannel-wearing Mr. Rodgers, deep-grained wrinkles crease his face, the price of the pack-a-day habit or raising four daughters.

Consistent and calm, Grandpa cemented our family foundation, his smoke wreathing us through weddings, divorces, and funerals.

Grandpa’s house still overlooks railroad tracks. The trains haven’t stopped running. Walls still hold the grandkids’ scrawls, need patching and paint. But now there are only two generations.

The daughters sit at the kitchen table surrounded by their own sons and daughters. No one smokes, but the air still reeks even after the scrubbing that could’ve removed a permanent-marker tattoo. They find Grandpa’s will in the never-used oven.

The cousins gather in the damp basement. We take pieces of aged linoleum and write farewell messages.

click clang pitter patter if i jump the flies will scatter. bing ding clank clunk not much to eat in all this junk. boom bang drop drip wetness says the sky will rip.

A Creature

Nathan Jerome

rustle rattle

shuffle

zing

look for food or chase the thing?

slish slosh pitter patter

i think (i will) go with the latter.

The General

Alexander Hencinski

The returning, victorious general paraded through the streets with much pomp and grandeur, yet he did not hear the cheers and applause of the throngs of civilians. Instead, he had slipped into the recesses of his own mind, a battlefield plagued and tormented by the broken memories of war: a bombed-out shelter, the emaciated corpses of provincial militiamen he had been ordered to slaughter, scenes of horror revealed to him by the dark cloak of war. Gone were the whimsical feelings of relief shared by both him and his men during the sporadic breaks in the fighting. Now he desperately struggled to contain the wave of shattered emotions, but the tighter he held them back, the more they slipped through his feeble grasp; lurid images of the massive tide of blood emptied onto the now war-ruined sliver of land that had been the purpose for fighting. His sanity was in the balance, and he knew that he must eradicate these visions or be forever lost in the hurricane that was his subconscious.

Despite this slew of tortured thoughts, the general noticed that the procession had moved to a poorer, dirtier section of the city and that the cries of the crowds, once joyful, had become angry. Where tired soldiers once saw signs of welcome, they now saw signs inscribed with harsh innuendos. “How dare they?” thought the general, “They know nothing of the hardships of war.” However, as he continued to survey this ragtag assortment of protestors, he began to notice missing limbs and faces obviously disfigured by violent explosions. He realized that these were the victims of a war that they had never wanted; their pleas for peace had fallen on deaf ears. They had every right to be irate, even more so than he did. While he had escaped with only a few scars and bruises, they would be forced to live under the heavy cloak of physical disabilities.

A s the column of soldiers and escorts reached the capitol, the faces of the struggling protestors morphed into the

unctuous countenances of the wealthy and noble. These were the faces of men who thought that they had won the war by sitting on couches, staring blankly at maps, and drinking tea. These disgusting oafs were the true reason for war: to them, their investments in the disputed land claims transcended the value of the lives spent taking it. Though the general managed to put forth a demeanor of pride and confidence, he felt towards these men loathing like he had never felt before. The parade stopped in front of the king’s palace, and he was escorted inside. On the way to the throne room, he encountered and shook hands with a multitude of advisers and government officials whose supposedly meritorious feats were signified by medals pinned onto their ridiculously large lapels. Their silly attire was as stereotypically predictable as night and day: the starched collars, the silk suits, the condescending glances. These jaded fools were the products of too many fights over seats at royal banquets and mounds of paperwork he was expected to believe were the only reason the nation stayed in one piece.

He was met at the entrance to the throne room by a gaunt, petulant guard who refused to grant him entrance until he stated his name and title, which were clearly indicated by his much-adorned uniform. The first thing he noticed upon entering the throne room was its lush splendor; the gold leaf decorations and rich tapestries displayed the triumphs of the kings of old. As he neared the throne, all of this opulence paled in comparison to the king himself, the quintessence of decadence, whose flowing robes did little to conceal his enormous gut. His mind immediately recalled the hunger and sickness of the protestors and how drastically their lives differed from this gluttonous buffoon’s. At that moment his rage overcame him, and his delicate hold on sanity snapped, and he slowly drew the pistol he had kept within reach in the folds of his officer’s jacket since the end of the final battle. He pulled the trigger and the king collapsed on the throne, a puddle of red spilling from his golden garments. He pulled it again, and the guard who had been fast approaching to seize him also fell to the floor. Over

and over he fired, and more and more guards fell, until he had emptied the gun’s magazine. Soon the screaming, swarming mass of enraged guards and terrified courtiers overwhelmed him, and as he fell to the floor under their crushing blows, he began to laugh.

After Dark, Hear the Deviants

Jesse Woody

You call it creeping where as I call it seeking knowledge and universal awesomeness. Why be different? All the same: a rant or a chant, where, when, how, the canto of the disciplined.

Words are mistaken. They think I can be taken by pitiful rhymes and over-hyped tennis shoes at commercialism’s auction. Whatever it may be, I forget with ease.

Some say, I wear a selective hearing aid, not in aid for my hearing, nor mechanical implant, just a passive attention that’s intention is a resort of a contortion of the mind. Though my activity, be it leg bouncing, or verbal messages, even air is my creation, for I am an impossible being.

Immortal in my handshake, my real hands shake when I rest like the pluck of a guitar string.

I focus better when I focus less, and I do distress, when I listen more.

It’s more appropriate to pretend to have attention towards an individual, but individually I hear everyone, and their voices I try to bear.

Just understand this: when you understand that you don’t understand, I stand as my own judge and jury. For jurisdiction lacks a voice; my book of law is that of inertia.

Addicts listen to my declarations, depend on my advice, when not listening to a subject matter. Hit me

up when I can’t stand still; stare away from my attempts at hand stands.

The Sacrifice

Katie Rendon Kahn

I slide the back of my fingers across the ivory keys, landing on middle C. It was the first note I learned. I take this last chance to admire the claw feet and bold wood grains the craftsmen left visible. Grandma had paid for Chris and me to take music lessons. It was common knowledge that the money would have been more wisely spent on groceries, but she said music would feed us more.

The day the piano arrived at Playground Music Center, I was seduced. Its keys were forgiving to my amateur hands while the grandeur promised success. Each month, as new arrivals took center stage, it moved further to the back. Nothing gave me more hope. Chris was given a guitar and promised to find a way to get the piano. We started a savings account and had a little over $400.00 in it when he died. The insurance money brought it home.

My ex-husband paced uncomfortably while we waited for the piano movers. He is not a kind man, but for once he showed signs of sympathy. The new girlfriend was less compassionate, watching with a satisfied smirk, commenting on how much more space they would have in their house. He asked if I wanted to play one last song, but I declined. Not for this audience.

I visit Chris’s grave often over the next few weeks. I tell him that I knew my carved wooden box contained his soul. I know because when I played, my heart connected to the strings, pulling me into the music, a divine force enabling me to play beyond my ability. Music was never my talent. I was the poet. Chris was the one who’d brought music to life. That’s why I had “Every Life Is a Song” engraved on his headstone.

W hen I pick up the check from Playground Music, $1700.00 is like someone spitting in my face. I practice my composure while I wait at the bus stop. When my son steps

off, I tell him the good news. “I have the money now, so we can move into an apartment. No more relatives’ couches and spare rooms.” His excitement plays like an old familiar melody. Then he asks me, “How’d you get the money?”

“No!” His blue eyes sting with injustice. “But you said we’d just have to sacrifice some things for what really mattered. You said you would never sell it. What about Chris?” I say nothing as he searches my face for an answer. “When I’m grown, I’ll buy it back.” I tell him how much he reminds me of his uncle and that this was my sacrifice. We walk back to the car; he squeezes me tightly around my waist, and I lean down into him. Neither of us knows what to say to comfort the other. I star t the car, but neither of us looks up or at each other. “You wanna see the townhouse I just saw?” He looks slightly interested but doesn’t answer. “You’ll have your own bedroom and there’s a pool.” He smiles and nods. I back out as he turns up the radio.

“Hey, I remember this song,” he says. “Didn’t you used to play it for me on the piano?”

Alicia Keys belts out, “I am nothing, nothing if I don’t have you…”

“ Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

100 • Blackwater Review

12:23 AM

Cierra Robbeloth

Make-up’s off.

I’m ugly again. I can’t help but think it akin to the façade I present to those unfamiliar with my demons. They’re small, I suppose, compared to those feeding on others, but they exist all the same. Their destruction continues, and  all I can think to do is wait for it to stop and try to look pretty even if I don’t feel it.

The tears make my ugly worse. Eyes puffed up, red, bigger than their already unnatural size; nose, also swollen, red, dripping snot like the demon lurking drips hostility and the demons laughing drip sickly sweetness

What’s left of my sanity screams apologies, contrition for crimes I cannot recall committing, some to myself.

I am not the cause, but my reflection is the problem. I have to wonder if bad luck is such a price to pay to destroy a pretty façade to unveil reality.

OMGWTFBBQ

Emily Heasley

I have this pet peeve, this thing that makes the hairs of my neck stand up. It makes me shiver when I hear my phone sing out its little chime and buzz and tell me that I have a new message. I hit view and I peek through my fingers: “OMG WUT R U DOIN L8R.”

L-eight-r?

I want to know when spelling became a sin, when convenience steamrolled intelligence. Is it just me or are we too concerned with saying things quickly instead of with meaning?

Maybe I was raised differently. My mother told me that my words would sting my enemies and save my friends. My teachers taught me that words were sacred artifacts tucked away in ancient Mayan tombs.

I learned that what I had to say was as powerful as an F5 twister, more contagious than H1N1, if I only knew how to say it. So why do so many take cleavers to our language? Why don’t we take the time to write it out?

I look at the texts, the endless files polluting the Internet like some misspelled oil spill and wonder why we rush so much. We used to take care and value our ink. People chose their words with microscopic care. They held them in their fingertips

like rubies and sapphires, admiring their luster and nobility.

Words had a meaning that even Webster couldn’t pin. They stuck people together like Gorilla glue.

Don’t get me wrong, I speak T9, leet.

I know how to do it “for the lulz.”

I’ve “LMAO”ed and “ROFL”ed but when I see things like, “BTWHHOK” I think, what the hell?

The DaVinci code was easier to decipher. We’re going to be slaves to auto-correct if this doesn’t stop soon.

Stop rushing relationships with “TTYL”s and take a little time to write what you feel.

Nerd Wisdom

Emily Heasley

Happiness is a blue police box, a consulting detective, a ‘67 Chevy Impala. It’s owning the high score in Guitar Hero. It tastes like Berty Bott’s Every Flavor Beans and sounds like the Lion King soundtrack. Happiness doesn’t care, doesn’t put up fronts. It jumps up and down when the new season of Doctor Who premiers. It reads Homestuck and The Avengers and stays up all night on XBOX Live playing Left4Dead.

Happiness doesn’t notice brand names and price tags. It likes the rips in its band tees and the frays in its double XL hoodie. It doesn’t mind the scuffs on its worn-out Converse or the fact its friends wrote “The Game” all over them. It ignores labels. It does what it wants. Happiness lives.

Hiatus

Amberley Carter

You haven’t written. There’s been no chance to tell you I’ve been sick, that I’ve vomited, thrashed, and perished five times in one night. Medieval warfare plays out in my veins, yet you’re nowhere to be seen. For forty-eight hours my frame has smoldered, combusted, thoroughly baked, yet you remain lukewarm.

You would never tend my bedside even if you knew.

I once waved my bloody wrists in your face, and after one glance you walked away.

You’d never near me in my fever, in case it would break and by mistake I’d name you my cure, hold you responsible. But you’d never accept the credit, even if the ovation stands. You don’t want my life on your overflowing hands.

Feedback for My Leader

Mary Ann Reavis

Can one man alone balance all accounts?

Regardless of entries, we shall lighten your loaded shoulders. We will share those proposed payable plans with minds at another house, white or otherwise.

Our souls will meet in one body and collectively align like planets in the milky way.

Uniting our column-filled figures with our superior’s approval of cancelled queries, your final stamp will transcend the everlasting memo.

Say hello to the man in the executive chair. He holds the golden rules. Ask what will be next; Listen, we are here for you.

Sympathy for the Devil

Emily Heasley

Thomas Skinner was about the size and shape of an old tree stump and had all the brains of one, too. Looking back, I really don’t know why I was so afraid of him. I was a lot taller than him. Of course, I was about as gangly as a kid could get. And Thomas was mean. I swore he could have scared off a grizzly bear with one of those crooked, yellow smirks of his. He sure as hell made me want to turn tail.

It was a few days before my thirteenth birthday and I was sailing the high most kids get before passing into the realm of teenager-dom. I wasn’t expecting any gifts or anything. I hadn’t gotten a present in my life. What I was expecting was a little respect. That was the nice thing about the 1700s. Back then, thirteen was the age to turn. You became an adult. You became responsible. And while the prospect of more chores wasn’t something I was looking forward to, possibly becoming a valued part of the family had me crossing my fingers. I was feeling pretty good that day, taking the steps from the school house in twos, when Thomas Skinner shoved me.

It wasn’t the first time I had eaten dirt and as Thomas’s squat shadow loomed over me, I doubted it would be the last. I stared at the ground for a moment before sitting up, and then wiped the dust from my chin. “Hmm, someone should ask the school master to check the evenness of the boards. It would be a shame if someone fell and hurt themselves.” Thomas wrinkled his nose as I cast a faint smirk in his direction.

“D o not try to hex me, Leeds,” Thomas said, lumbering down the steps. He squinted down at me with little ratlike eyes.

“Oh, I wouldn’t ever dream of it,” I said. I picked myself up off the ground and began to brush my heavy wool coat clean. Thomas pushed me back into the dirt. I sat there, not sure whether to look up at those rodent eyes or concentrate on a

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beetle that was scurrying through the dust. The beetle seemed a safer bet.

“ You need to mind your place, Jacob Leeds.” Emphasis on the last name, as usual. A few of the kids still milling around the school yard looked over at us. “Your mother’s a witch, and your father’s the devil himself.”

This old song and dance. It was a well-known fact in town that I was the spawn of Satan. The legends today will tell you about Mother Leeds being cursed by some vengeful gypsy and birthing a demon, or something like that. The truth is that no one, not even my dear old mom, could tell you exactly how I became grade-A hell spawn. But I was. When I was very young, I heard one of the midwives saying that my mother had put the curse on me herself. “Let this one be the devil,” or something like that. However it happened, the news had gotten out that the thirteenth Leeds child was from the underworld and I had been under the sharp watch of the public eye ever since. Every move I made, every minute late to school or chore done wrong was a sign of the hell fire in my damned little heart.

“ Too true,” I chanced a look up at him. “Which is why I would never chance hexing you, Thomas.” I tried a squinty-eyed glare. He puffed up like a bull frog. “The good Lord only knows what your relations are like.”

That did it. I had no idea a kid with logs for legs could move so fast. Thomas launched himself at me with the speed and ferocity of a rattlesnake. The two of us hit the ground, dust and sand flying into the air. The stragglers closed in around us, some of them laughing and calling while the more proper of them suggested getting the schoolmaster. Of course, no one made any move to do so. I managed to worm my way out from under Thomas but one of his square hands grabbed the back of my coat. My arms slipped from the sleeves, and I stumbled forward, turning in time to see Thomas struggle to his feet. He looked from the coat clenched in his blocky fingers, then to me. With a snort, he threw the garment into the dust and rushed me like a bull. With all the grace of a drunken giraffe, I

scampered out of the way, grabbed my jacket from the dirt, and raced past the small crowd. Their shouts followed me up the dusty lane. And unfortunately, so did Thomas.

You had to open your mouth, I thought. I should have known better. The last time Thomas and I had one of our little misunderstandings, it had ended in a real fight. Well, fight isn’t the best word. Thomas and a group of his cronies had knocked me around for about ten minutes before my eldest brother Matthew happened to come by and break the whole thing up. If that wasn’t bad enough, dear mother had given me a pretty good licking for getting my clothes dirty. I could only imagine what I would get when I got home now. If I got home at all. My awkward chicken legs were moving faster than I thought possible. Behind me, I could hear the heavy bull stomps of Thomas’s feet.

I sprinted past the general store, startling a pair of chestnut horses hitched to a cart in front of the worn grey building. Colors and shapes of people swam by as I darted in and out of the gathering of townsfolk, catching chiding mumbles and snarls as I passed. Ahead, I could see my brothers’ cabinet shop. If I could get there, I was home free. Past the tailor’s, the inn, almost there. Thomas was wheezing a few feet behind me. The pounding of his feet grew fainter. I didn’t slow down. In fact, I nearly ran right into the front door of our shop.

C hest heaving and black bangs plastered to my forehead, I yanked the door open. I ducked inside, slammed the door and pressed my back against the door frame. The front of the store was empty, which was normal for that time of the afternoon. The sound of a hammer banging against wood floated out from the next room. After catching my breath, I strolled towards the back, stopping to look at the pile of order slips stacked on the small front counter before peering into the workshop.

Matthew was sitting at his workbench, nailing the sides of an oak cabinet together. Usually, my next oldest brother, John, would be working too, but judging by all the orders on the counter, he had gone to buy more nails. I tip-toed into the

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room, hoping I could get my tools before Matthew caught sight of my sorry state. He must have seen me out of the corner of his eye, because he looked up from his work and quirked an eyebrow.

“Jacob, you look about done for,” he said, setting his hammer down. “What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“ What would give you the idea I’ve been getting into trouble?” I tried to sound genuinely puzzled by the question.

Matthew shook his head. “Will you never learn?” I lowered my head, but he just chuckled. “Go on and see if you can’t find some spare work clothes. Mother will have a fit if I bring you home like that.”

With a quick nod I hurried for the tiny supply shed tucked into the alcove behind the store. I used the back door, worried that Thomas might be waiting out front for me like some slobbering guard dog. That image had me crossing the few feet from the door to the shed at a jog. I slipped into the little building, leaving the door open just enough to let light in.

There was an old white shirt and a pair of breeches folded on one of the shelves, next to a spare saw. I held up the pants and knew the only way I would fit them was if I magically became a giant. The shirt, on the other hand, was manageable. I shrugged my coat off and gave it a quick once over. It was browner than I remembered, probably from the dirt, but didn’t look torn. That old jacket had more patches in it than I had siblings, but it was better than nothing. I hung it up on one of the hooks on the wall, then pulled my shirt off. The once white material was now spotted tan. I hung it up with my coat. The clean shirt hung on my scrawny frame, but I buttoned it up anyway and rolled up the sleeves.

“Is this yours?” I asked when I re-entered the cabinet shop. I held up my arms and flapped them, the loose material waving like a flag.

“ Yes,” Matthew said. “Be glad it’s one of my older ones. I doubt you’d fit into the ones I wear now.” He flashed me a grin.

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I shr ugged. “Thank you for lending it to me.”

He nodded and went back to his work. I dragged a stool across the workshop and sat beside him. One leg of the stool was a little short, so I wobbled back and forth and watched him for a while. Matthew was the only one in the family who didn’t mind me being around, even when he was busy. He was the only one who ever really looked out for me.

“So what did you do to make Thomas Skinner mad this time?” Matthew asked after a long while.

“How do you know it was him?” I said.

“It’s always him.”

“ True,” I knocked my boots together. “Shouldn’t you be telling me to help with something? It looks like you’ve got a lot of work.”

Matthew paused in his work to cast me a sideways glance. “I just want to know you’re not picking fights. You have to be careful.”

“ Why would I pick a fight with Thomas Skinner?” Dumb question.

Matthew sighed and set down his tools. He rubbed his callused hands together and then clapped me on the shoulder. “Little brother, I just want make sure that you aren’t giving people more reasons to bother you.”

My gaze slipped to the floor. I nodded slowly. “Right.”

We both looked up at the sound of the front door creaking open and then closed again. John came in, carrying several packages of square-headed nails. He glanced over at me and then shot a mild scowl at Matthew before going out the back door. Matthew sighed.

“Get your tools. We’ve got a lot of work to catch up on.”

The next few days came and went without any excitement, which I was grateful for. Matthew covered for me and helped me avoid more than a stern talking to from mother. After school, I made sure to sneak around the back of the school house to avoid Thomas. Work at the shop went smoothly. Before I knew it, the day had finally come, my thirteenth

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John was at the front counter, flipping through some papers when I came in. He stared at me with a blank expression before clearing his throat.

“Matthew wants to speak with you. He’ll be out back.” I brushed past John, disturbing the wood shavings gathered on the floor as I walked through the workshop, and went out the back door. Matthew was standing by the supply shed. He looked up when he heard the door close.

“Happy birthday, Jacob,” he said with a broad grin. He had a fishing rod in each hand and on the ground by his feet sat a leather satchel. “I thought we’d take the day off. John can handle things here.”

“Really?” I heaved the satchel onto my back before he could respond. “Let’s go.”

We didn’t talk on the way to the creek except when I asked Matthew if he was worried about the rain. He said that a drizzle was perfect fishing weather. The rest of the time we just admired the scenery. Jersey back then wasn’t the cesspool it is today. The forest went on forever, like a huge evergreen blanket. The air was clear and cold that day and smelled like rain and pine. The wind blew through the trees and made the needles quiver. Even with the sun hiding behind the clouds, the place felt alive and vivid.

We found a spot a little way down the creek, where the water was deeper and settled down. Matthew had to help me bait my hook, mostly because every worm I grabbed out of the jar wiggled so much I would drop it. We cast off, watching our cork bobbers. Matthew reached into the satchel and pulled out a loaf of crusty bread, some cheese and my favorite, dried apple tarts.

“Thank you for this, Matthew,” I said after swallowing a large mouthful of bread. “ You’re welcome,” he grinned. “To be perfectly honest, I

112 • Blackwater Review birthday. It was cloudy and strangely cold that day. I remember looking up at the granite sky and wondering when it would rain as I stepped into the cabinet store.

had wanted a day away from the shop anyway and your birthday seemed like good enough reason.” We were quiet for a while, and then he asked, “How does thirteen feel?”

“Not much different from twelve,” I said, “To be perfectly honest.”

The wind made little waves on the surface of the water and shook needles from the pines. I shivered and tugged at my coat.

“Are you feeling well?” Matthew furrowed his brows and stared at me. “You look a little pale.”

“Just a chill.”

We returned to fishing. Our floats bobbed a few times, though I had stopped paying attention to whether the fish were actually biting or if it was the wind on the water. I was starting to feel queasy, like I had been tossed around on some rough waves of my own. My head throbbed and my joints ached. I felt like I had spent an hour trying to fight off Thomas Skinner. My hands started to tremble.

Matthew pulled his line out of the water and took the fishing pole from my shaking hands. “We’re going home.”

It was the longest walk of my life. Our farmhouse was only a mile from the creek but it might as well have been ten. Walking through the woods, I felt like I was going to puke at any moment. My legs were as flimsy as twigs and it felt like someone was banging at the insides of my skull with a mallet. Matthew walked close behind me, asking every few minutes if I needed to stop and rest. I don’t know how I made it home without keeling over. It had started to rain when we walked up to the old wooden door.

“ You’re home early,” my mother said as we came inside. She stared at me like a hawk might stare at a particularly puny mouse.

“Jacob isn’t feeling well,” Matthew said. The two of them stared at each other for a moment. I saw what looked like defiance cross my brother’s face for just a split second. Whether it was that or the concern in his voice

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that swayed my mother, I’m still not sure. She sighed and motioned toward the bedroom.

I shambled to my room. It was small, but I didn’t mind. I was lucky enough to have a room to myself. I was never sure if it was because of my history or the fact that most of my siblings had families of their own. Whatever the reason, I was thankful to be alone when I fell onto my bed. My head was spinning, and my stomach was doing back flips. I didn’t even bother pulling the blankets over myself. I just fell asleep.

I think I dreamed. I say think because after that night, I can’t be sure what was real and what wasn’t. I dreamed about Thomas calling me the son of the devil and the kids at school telling me I was going to go to hell. I dreamed about my mother saying I was cursed and that she would be happy when I was gone. Somewhere in the kaleidoscope of fuzzy memories, I dreamed about my father. He had been out of the picture for most of my life. No one talked about him; not my siblings or my mother or even the people in town who knew him. I didn’t even know what he looked like. In my dream though, I knew it was him. He was standing with his back to me in the front doorway. He didn’t turn around or speak to me. He didn’t do anything. He was just there for a minute and then gone.

I woke up to the sound of thunder and a white hot pain running up and down my spine. Groaning, I curled myself up into a ball. The wind was hurling rain at the house and the thunder shook everything so much I could swear it was rolling out of the ground. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the pain to pass. When it had finally dissolved into my fingers and toes, I sat up. It was darker than what I imagined the bottom of an endless pit would be like. I clambered out of bed slowly, hands groping in the blackness in front of me. I managed to stumble my way into the front room.

A fire was smoldering in the fire place. A few candles sat on the table and shelves, their wispy orange flames barely pushing back the heavy shadows that nestled in the corners of the room. Mother was sitting in her chair next to the fire place.

In the flickering light, I could make out her thin hands tangled in her lap and her sharp eyes looking in my direction. There were other shapes in the room but I couldn’t tell who they were for certain. I think John was there. Their eyes were all drilling into me.

I leaned against the door frame, knees knocking together. A female voice muttered something near the front door. I opened my mouth to speak, but another shockwave of pain rattled through me. The floor seemed to lurch, and I met the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of me. Someone yelped and scampered to another room. Voices mingled with the blanketing darkness. My head started aching again, and I pressed my fingers against my forehead. Something snapped. I thought it was the wood in the fire at first. But then I heard it again. And again. Popping and creaking sounds filled the room, drowning out even the frightened whimpers of my family. I doubled over. I felt my bones slipping around and changing in my shoulders, my legs, and my neck. My skin felt hot. My vision blurred. Pain unlike anything I had ever felt before bloomed from the top of my head and traveled down through my face.

Then it was over. The chorus of shifting tissues and bones stopped. My head was still reeling, and I was shaking all over, but the pain was gone, replaced by a strangely invigorated feeling. The kind of feeling you get after stretching a muscle you haven’t used in a while. I lifted my head, which now seemed a little farther off the ground than I remembered. My vision seemed sharper now, too. I could make out the faces of my siblings. My sisters were huddled in the farthest corner of the room, their faces painted with varying degrees of terror. John was standing perfectly still by the front door, his hand clenched around the handle. My mother was still sitting in her chair, staring at me. I rose to my feet. My legs felt even longer and stranger than they had to me before. I looked down at myself. Where feet should have been there were now stone-colored hooves. My hands now ended in claws, and I was covered in short, dingy white fur.

B efore I could be surprised, John was swinging the fire place poker at me. It knocked against something with a thud, and the vibrations from the blow knocked around in my head. Horns. I had horns. John raised the poker for another swing, but I scrambled out of the way. I knocked several books off one of the shelves with my new tail as I dodged another swing. My sisters were screaming. John was cursing, something he never did, and waving his weapon through the air. My mother was blocking the door. I saw only one way out.

It was a good thing I was smaller then, or else I would never have fit into the fireplace. I remember being a bit surprised that the coals didn’t burn my feet as I squeezed in. I could hear the ringing of the poker on the hearth as I climbed up the chimney, claws digging into the bricks. I slithered up the dark funnel, my sisters’ shrieking and my own hoarse gasps bouncing off the walls. I snaked my way out, teetering at the lip of the chimney. Then I jumped.

I wish my first flight had been better. I really love flying now, but my first time was terrifying. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that, until I was gliding up and away from my house, I didn’t know I had wings. The storm was still wailing all around, the rain driving into my body and stinging my long face. My bat-like wings flapped as I tried to keep to one direction, but the wind was too strong, and I had no idea what I was doing. Lightning scarred the sky. Thunder boomed like cannon shots. The wind flung me around like a plastic bag. I was blown over town and saw my brothers’ shop through the rain. I tried to land, craning my long neck towards the ground and beating my fledgling wings as hard as I could. All I was thinking was that Matthew could help me. He could fix this, but the wind pushed me away from town and away from Matthew. I was blustering out over the forest now.

The tree tops looked like swaying spears from above. The wind pushed me down towards them. I didn’t try to stay up. My wings were weak, and the thought of being skewered by one of those trees didn’t seem so bad. But the storm had

other plans. I drifted just above the tree tops for a while until I could see a small clearing below. In the center was a little round house. Smoke was rising from the chimney. The wind whipped around and tossed me towards the earth. I tumbled through the air, wings waving helplessly. I hit the roof of the house and slid to the ground.

I lay there, body and mind reduced to pudding. The door to the little house opened, and warm, yellow firelight poured out. Standing there was a young girl, probably not much older than I, with long black hair and a cloak the color of dusk. A gentle smile crossed her face when she saw me.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Jacob Leeds,” she said.

I lifted my still whirling head and stared at her with crimson eyes. Her smile widened, and she stepped out into the rain, pulling her hood up over her head.

“Come inside, and we’ll get you taken care of.”

The dark-haired girl kneeled down in front of me, placing a hand gingerly on my equine snout. I struggled to my feet and limped inside. She followed and closed the door behind her.

And that’s how the legend of the Jersey Devil really started.

Dad’s Sweater

Sandy Heffernan

When I was little, my dad would wrap me in his coat of armor.

I’d push the sleeves around my skinny arms into thick coils, ready for battle; I, too, had muscles hidden beneath my little black-and-red plaid kilt.

The lingering smell of Dad’s cologne, stronger than a wizard’s potion, warded off cold and would-be invaders.

When draped around me, it dragged the floor. And if I sashayed with just enough speed, it was a royal robe trailing along a great hall.

As I grew older, so did Dad’s sweater. Although tattered with holes, it still felt like a loyal childhood friend.

Someday I hope to drape Dad’s old sweater over the shoulders of my own children and watch them parade though treasured valiant tales.

The Waiting Room

Victoria Mahaffey

I flip through the glossy pages, pristine faces with dead eyes begging me to be like them: “50 Ways to Please Your Man”; I’d be happy with one.

Brooke Shields thinks I need thicker lashes. Jennifer Hudson wants me to watch my weight so I can squeeze into the Dolce & Gabbana Scarlett Johansson says I need.

A nearby woman sifts through Cosmo while enjoying her supersized value meal. I look up at the obviously over-worked nurse when she calls my name. I’m eager to give only my blood.

Watching Fall

Selyna Moczary

Red roses are rare and dry at the shallows of the valley. Muted leaves trickle from oaks drenched and wild by the lake.

Genocide straws the grass in the shadows of the forest. Monumental sounds of early dawn shelter in silence in the earth. Gray hues of weathered clouds patch the autumn sky. Smells of winter hint at arrival, watching fall begin to chill.

The Escape

Emily Heasley

R ay looked at the thick, black lines climbing into the air above him. They had once held up skyscrapers, covered in neon colors and towering so high they seemed to burst through the atmosphere. He looked at the empty streets. Not long ago they had been populated with people in flashy suits and dresses, toting cases full of papers covered in his messy handwriting. This had been his city, his sanctuary. Now rain fell steadily, leaching the color and life from it all.

He had created this place when he was young, with crayons and pencils, drawing each street, each building. It was perfect, a place for him to work out his thoughts. Ray had spent a lot of time at the top of one of his fabulous high rises when his parents got divorced. And when he had to move away and leave all his friends behind, he had created a bakery just off the main road that had the world’s best cookies, the kind with M&Ms in them. He had stayed here, even as he got older. It would be gone soon.

Taking in a deep breath, Ray walked into the bakery. The smell of fresh bread was gone, too. He sighed, sat down at one of the little tables and twiddled his thumbs. He scanned the room, eye lids growing heavy as he realized he was the only one there.

H e had tried to save this place. He had tried to keep his imagination alive, but nothing would come to him anymore. Ray hadn’t thought much about the fantastic in a while, honestly. Not since his younger brother, Jasper, had died.

T hey had spent a lot of time here together. Ray remembered how they would walk in the park among all the tall, spiraling trees. They would talk, tell each other stories, and add to their world. Even when his brother got sick, they would visit, perhaps more than they had before. And after

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he was gone, Ray remained, building his thoughts up into mountains in the east and rocky shores to the south.

“K inda lonely around here, eh?”

R ay twisted around in his seat, the voice and the tinkle of the bell above the door catching his attention. Standing in the doorway was a thin, young man dressed in an over-sized rain coat. He smiled at Ray, sauntered in and took a spot at the same table.

“Uhm, yes,” Ray said, scrutinizing the stranger through narrowed eyes. He looked over the other man’s raincoat, noticing that it, too, was losing its color.

“The name’s Maxwell,” the young man said, extending a hand towards Ray and beaming at him, revealing slightly crooked teeth.

“Nice to meet you,” Ray did not shake Maxwell’s hand, just stared at it.

Maxwell frowned and let his hand drop to the table. He knit his brows together, staring holes into the polished wooden surface for a few moments. “So what are you doing here, buddy?” Ray shrugged. He didn’t feel the need to justify himself to one of his thoughts. He simply glanced around the room, noting the dust on the empty glass display case. He missed how clean the place used to be.

“You got something on your mind?” Maxwell asked. He leaned forward and rested his chin on his knuckles, fixing Ray in his half-lidded gaze.

R ay’s eyes flickered upward to Maxwell. He squinted and shrugged again. This kid was annoying. But for some reason he felt compelled to reply. “More than you know.”

“ Yeah?” Maxwell leaned back in his chair. He propped his boots up on the table, displaying the colorful stains on their soles. “I can get that.”

“That so?”

“Sure,” Maxwell laughed. “I mean c’mon.” He waved a hand towards the window. “At least you don’t hafta worry about your world disappearing.”

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R ay gazed for a minute through the rain streaked glass. He could see colorful puddles forming in the gutters. The stores across the street were a few blurry tints barely held in place by ugly lines. “This is my world.” He replied, emphasis on the “my.” “Well, yeah. You made it.” Maxwell crossed his arms behind his head, foot bouncing along with some beat only he could hear. “But I mean you don’t live here.”

“And that means?”

Maxwell took a moment to rub at the stubble on his chin. He leaned his cheek heavily on his knuckles. “Well, I mean, this isn’t your reality.” He mimicked Ray, accenting the “your” and adding half a grin.

It was true. Ray had crafted this world, but it wasn’t real, just an escape. Out there, in the real world, he had a cramped apartment, an over-bearing manager and a mother who called once a week to check-in. That was all. What little social life he had consisted of complaining to his co-workers about his boss and the day-to-day dealings of work at Target. He never went out. He didn’t even speak to his father.

“I’m going to fix it,” Ray said, staring at Maxwell from beneath furrowed brows.

“ You are?”

“I have to.”

“ You do?”

“ Well,” Ray paused, eyes glued to the young man sitting across from him. “That’s what’s supposed to happen, right?”

“I f you want it to, I guess,” Maxwell said. He got to his feet and strolled over to the counter. He swiped his hand over the surface, rubbing particles of dust between his fingers. He drummed his digits on the glass. His nails made an obnoxiously loud clicking. “It’s not like you don’t have choices. Maybe you should, I dunno, let this place go.”

“ Why would I?” Ray asked, his eyes following Maxwell the whole time. “This is my place.”

“ Yeah,” Maxwell, head tilted a few degrees to the right, paused and looked at Ray. “But maybe you’re growing out of it.”

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“I, no,” Ray trailed off. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I have a responsibility to keep this place around.”

“Hey, do you hear me complaining?” Maxwell chuckled.

“ You sounded like you were earlier.”

Maxwell laughed again and shook his head. “No, buddy, I was just saying that things could be worse. I mean, you’ve got stuff left to hold on to.”

“Not really.”

“ Yeah you do. Everyone does.”

There was a very long pause. Ray sighed and looked up at the young man. Maxwell stood there, head still at an angle, his wavy brown hair framing the comically huge smile plastered to his face. He stuffed his hands in his pocket.

“Hey, this place is pretty dead,” Maxwell began, stepping away from the counter towards his exasperated counterpart. “Wanna scope out something more exciting?”

R ay highly doubted there was much more excitement beyond himself and Maxwell, and the idea of wandering around in the cold drizzle didn’t much appeal to him. Maxwell seemed more than a bit enthusiastic, however, and tugged at the sleeve of Ray’s black polo.

“C’mon man; let’s find something to do.”

R ay pushed himself out of the chair, the act of standing up much more of a task than he remembered, though everything felt a bit more taxing as of late. He followed Maxwell, who had already pushed the door open, the bell above it ringing cheerfully in his wake.

The rain picked up as the duo made their way down the street. The wind flung the droplets through the air, turning them into little darts that stung Ray’s face. He squinted, half a step behind Maxwell, who appeared undeterred by the downpour.

“Man, this weather,” he said, laughing and casting a glance back to Ray. “Couldn’t you make it like California or something in here?”

R ay shrugged, lowering his head to keep the rain out of his face and wrapping his arms around himself. Maxwell

reached into his jacket’s huge pocket and retrieved a small, portable umbrella. He tossed it to Ray, who caught it but only after fumbling it between his hands for a moment.

“ Why didn’t you give me this earlier?” Ray asked, opening the umbrella and glaring at Maxwell from beneath the blue-grey canopy.

Maxwell shrugged, exaggerating the gesture by throwing his hands up. “You could make it stop raining if you wanted to.”

R ay didn’t want to.

They spent some time walking in silence, passing the shaky frames of once vivid townhouses. A few still stood, the murals and bright hues that had adorned the walls bleeding out onto the bleached sidewalk. Ray remembered how the yards used to look. Each home had a little patch of bright green rye grass in front of it, and the edge of the street was lined with the most amazing flowers.

R ay’s brother, Jasper, had spent hours coming up with new types of flowers. They were never quite like anything in the real world, though he sometimes drew inspiration from the exotic varieties. Sometimes the leaves curled at the ends or corkscrewed and cascaded towards the ground, shaded in reds and purples and even blues, depending on his mood. The petals came in a thousand shades, stacked on each other to bloom in waves of color and taking the form of birds in flight, the sun, a shooting star, anything he could think of. Ray had never come close to making them. He just couldn’t picture the soft petals making anything but a simple bloom. Of course, he could make them any color, any shape, but they never were the same. Jasper had the best imagination.

They continued down the street, and Ray clutched his umbrella as the wind tugged at it. Maxwell had slowed his pace so he could walk alongside Ray. The young man pointed to one of the little houses as they walked past. It was one of the only buildings that Ray had seen still mostly intact.

“That’s my place,” Maxwell said. He shoved his hands

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back in his pockets. “It’s pretty nice, but the water heater doesn’t work quite right.” He shot a feigned glare to Ray.

“Don’t look at me,” Ray said, raising his hands in defense. Jasper was the one who could fix things, not him.

Maxwell laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, whatever,” he said, his tone reflecting half-hearted annoyance. “You try starting your morning skinny dipping in the Arctic Circle and then say that to me.”

R ay rolled his eyes but allowed the corners of his lips to turn upward in the slightest smile. His grin grew as they approached a small playground. “Hey, I haven’t been over here in forever.”

“I know right?” Maxwell smiled. “I thought you might wanna come over this way.”

The playground wasn’t particularly fantastic like the neon-covered skyscrapers or strange vegetation. It wasn’t that Ray and Jasper didn’t take their time in creating it though. It was modeled after the playground in their old neighborhood, the one near their first house up in Illinois. They did give it their own touch, however. There was a tall, steep slide, the kind with the little bumps in it that tossed you just high enough in the air to give you butterflies in your stomach. The blue-plastic wrapped chains on the swings squeaked, and the seats always had a little water on them. There was a merry-go-round and tire swing that spun almost too fast. But the best part was the see-saw. It was green, the paint flaking off, and it possessed the most uncomfortable, butt-numbing seats in the world. It was great. Ray beamed, seeing that the color was still clinging to everything.

“Like you left it?” Maxwell asked, already knowing the answer.

R ay gave a little nod and followed the trail worn in the grass down to the dirt that covered the playground. Maxwell stayed a few paces behind him, watching as Ray made the rounds, looking at each piece of playground equipment to insure it was up to his standard. After a few minutes, Maxwell

crossed the little yard and hopped onto one of the swings, twisting in circles and swaying from side to side.

R ay sat down on the edge of the merry-go-round, remembering the time he had spun Jasper so fast that he nearly got sick. Ray laughed as he thought of the green pallor that had crept into his brother’s face. They had spent so much time here, especially during the summer. They would swing as high as they could, seeing which of them was braver by jumping off at the peak of his swing. They dared each other to go down the slide backwards which always ended with one of them smacking his head into the ground, usually Jasper. They had come home with more cuts, scrapes and bruises than most kids. Looking back, Ray wondered why their parents even let them outside or how they had managed to afford all the Transformer band-aids. Ray got to his feet and wandered over to the old see-saw.

“Man, those things are so awesome,” Maxwell said as he jumped up from the swing.

“ Yeah, they are pretty great.”

R ay glanced over to Maxwell, then to the seesaw. He sat down sideways and watched as the younger man wandered over. Maxwell motioned for Ray to turn around.

“C’mon man, sit right,” he said, heading towards the unoccupied seat on the other end.

R ay quirked a brow. “Wait, you want to see saw?” “ Why not?” Maxwell reached up for the raised end of the see-saw. He grabbed it and began to pull it down so he could get on. Ray turned around and sat properly to avoid falling off.

“ You know you want to anyway.”

R ay clung to the little metal grip in front of him. This was stupid. He was an adult. He watched with narrowed eyes as Maxwell clambered on and grinned at him.

“ You ready?”

No reply.

“I’m gonna drop you in a sec man. Are you ready?” Before Ray could nod, Maxwell pushed off, sending Ray towards the ground. He stuck his feet out just in time, pushing off with

Heasley • 127

his toes. Maxwell gave a laugh and stared across at him.

“Not so bad, eh?”

R ay smirked a little. Okay, maybe it wasn’t. He closed his eyes, feeling his body rise and fall, listening to the wind whistle in his ear. He and Jasper had spent hours this way, sometimes just enjoying the quiet and the motion of the see-saw, other times talking about all the important things like which girls were the most annoying and how dumb their teachers were. He sighed, opening his eyes, and looked to Maxwell. His eyes were closed too and he had that too-big-for-his-face grin on again. One eye cracked open to peek at Ray. His smile broadened just a bit.

“Are you ready?” Maxwell asked.

“For what?” Ray listened to the scrape of their shoes as they launched into the air.

Maxwell opened his eyes entirely now and set Ray in a lazy stare. “You know.”

R ay shook his head.

“Okay.”

They were quiet for a bit longer, just rocking back and forth and watching the rain cut streaks into the buildings around the playground. Ray sighed and watched as one of the townhouses collapsed, the colors flooding out into the road and leaving the framework shivering in the chilly rain. Maxwell didn’t seem to notice. He was watching the rain race back and forth across the see-saw. Finally they stopped, Maxwell digging his feet into the dirt and staring up at Ray.

“I think you need to head home, buddy,” he said, the wide smile he had worn replaced with something more somber.

“I think I’m supposed to decide that,” Ray said a bit too loudly.

Maxwell didn’t flinch. “Hey man, chill out,” the young man laughed.

Maxwell didn’t seem to take offense at the ugly glance Ray gave him. He just gazed at him, quiet, patient.

“L et me down.”

128 • Blackwater Review

R ay watched as Maxwell got off and lowered him carefully, thankful he wasn’t like Jasper, who had always dropped him. Ray got up and straightened his shirt, glancing at Maxwell as he picked at a thread near the collar.

“Hey, really, I kinda have to go anyway,” Maxwell said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

R ay stared at him, saying nothing. Maxwell sighed.

“It was nice meeting you, man,” Maxwell said. He turned and began to walk away but paused. That silly grin returned. “Oh yeah, got something for you.”

R ay raised his brows and watched as the younger man rummaged through his pocket. He pulled out a small, white paper bag and handed it to Ray.

“Here you go,” he said. “You take care, okay?”

R ay looked down at the white paper bag in Maxwell’s hand. He took it, glancing from it to the other’s face. “Yeah, you too I guess.”

R ay watched as Maxwell walked off towards his little house. Once he was out of sight, Ray turned and made his way back up the path and onto the sidewalk. At the end of the street, he turned back to look, once more, at the playground and saw that it, too, had dissolved into lines and melted colors.

He walked for a while, not paying much attention to what was left of his paradise. The rain was letting up some. As he reached the edge of town, he decided to look in the bag Maxwell had given him. He reached inside and pulled out a huge M&M cookie. He smiled, just barely, and looked back over his shoulder. Nothing but the framework remained now, the street flooded with color. He gave a small sigh, turned and headed off, munching on his cookie and thinking of something better, something real, that he could create.

Contributors

JoAnne Bartley enjoys taking pictures and capturing special moments. Married for twenty-four years, she has two wonderful children.

James Birdsong plans to study computer engineering at the University of Florida.

L ouann Brechler, mother of two, loves sketching, painting, and photographing nature.

Sarah Brown, a biology major who aspires to become a herpetologist, has two axolotls, a tiger salamander, and a Jackson’s chameleon.

Amberley Carter plans to attend Florida State University to major in English, concentrating in editing and literature, and aspires to become a novel editor and a writer.

Mary Ann Crabtree is an all-things-stitched admirer, political-blog follower, and cat herder—just tip-of-the-iceberg stuff.

Michael Craig, a thirty-five year old student seeking a degree in the education field, wants nothing more than to make a difference in people’s lives.

S tephanie Crow has been playing with art supplies for as long as she can remember and believes in breaking all rules when it comes to art.

Talia Davila, a mother and student in performing arts, plans to puruse her Master of Education degree and aspires to start her own production company.

Jaime Diffee claims to have no social skills but says at least she can draw pretty well.

Ryan Fisher is pursuing an Associate of Applied Science degree in graphic arts technology and a Bachelor of Science in middle-grades general science. He thanks his Aunt Trish for all she has taught him.

Gracie Flores-Broome, a transfer student from San Antonio, Texas, plans to pursue a degree in journalism.

Ciarra Garza has taken drawing and painting I and II

Paul Michael Graves was born and raised in southern California and is a veteran of the United States Air Force. He plans to pursue graduate studies in architecture.

K endall Gray plans to attend Florida State University next fall. She wants to become a child psychiatrist.

Oscar Gutierrez, a 32-year-old El Paso, TX, native, is pursuing an Associate of Arts degree. He plans to continue in college to pursue a Bachelor of Fine Arts.

Emily Heasley is a self-proclaimed nerd with a passion for art, writing, music, and British television. Her dream is to become a fantasy novelist and tattoo artist.

Sandy Heffernan is a student of creative writing classes with Dr. Vickie Hunt.

Alexander Hencinski, a sophomore at the Northwest Florida State College Collegiate High School, intends to study architecture at the University of Florida.

Andrea L. Herrington, mother of two grown children, feels it is her time to develop her skills in an art form she has always loved.

Diana Jernigan, a writer and editor who enjoys literature and the arts, works for the Northwest Florida State College Arts Department and Mattie Kelly Arts Center while attending school here.

Nathan Jerome, mechanical engineering major, loves sports, music, and occasionally writing.

K atie Rendon Kahn plans to pursue a Bachelor of Arts in social work. She lives in Destin with her husband and three children.

Kristen Keller, an artist who enjoys dabbling in all mediums and styles, was born and raised in Florida and hopes to one day own her own gallery/coffee shop.

Victoria Mahaffey is a student at Northwest Florida State College.

Contributors • 131 and is now exploring pottery. She plans to finish her Associate of Arts degree and then pursue a Master of Fine Arts degree.

Madelyn Mancera wishes she could drop out of school to read and write all day but is working on her Bachelor of Arts degree in English and expects to change modern literature when she is a published author.

Verena Mellein was born in Berlin, Germany, and moved to the United States in 2008. She has been studying art since 2010.

Selyna Moczary enjoys writing in free verse because it allows her thoughts to be fluent and true to the intent of the poem.

Michele Moore enjoys collecting cats and taking naps. She hopes to eventually decide on a major.

Maria B. Morekis, grandmother, is not afraid to try new forms of art.

Jessica Nguyen is an aspiring young illustrator who hopes to explore creative thinking.

Emily Parsons, born and raised in Niceville, FL, has been drawing, painting, and creating since a very young age. Recipient of the Van Porter Artist of the Year award in 2009, she is currently studying to pursue a career in illustration.

Mary Ann Reavis is pursuing a Bachelor of Applied Science degree in project management.

Phi Reis has discovered that stories -- good stories -are essential elements of life.

Cierra Robbeloth, a college freshman hoping to obtain a degree in English, plans to attend the University of Central Florida and then pursue a career in editing.

T iffany Santner grew up surrounded by the love of art and academics and fell in love with both at a very young age. She has tried all mediums in literature, drawing, photography, and recently three-dimensional art.

Mike Serpa has spent five years drawing, creating comics, and exploring various media. He has always craved artistic growth.

Gabriel Silva would have liked to write a haiku for his biography but was limited to two lines.

Roxanne M. Soja is an honorably retired military officer enjoying the next stage of life. Life is what you make of it–adapt, survive, thrive.

Alexander R. Sorlie is from Niceville, Florida and is an aspiring art therapist. He has experimented with several media but came to find his passion in spray paint and oils.

Sarah Stewart, an artist, poet and perpetual student, is enamored of the sea and enjoys finding metaphors for life in nature.

Rebekah Thorgaard was born and raised in Alaska surrounded by an abundance of natural beauty and artistic inspiration. She recently took up film photography and loves to express herself through art.

Audrey Webb, a freshman studying to be a nurse, plans to save enough money to get a degree in business and culinary arts so that she can one day own and manage a cafe.

Heather Willard plans to transfer to the University of West Florida in the fall to obtain her Bachelor of Arts degree in middle grades language arts education.

Jesse Woody hopes to someday become a successful story writer and create many a world for the entertainment of millions.

Judie Wren loves animals. She works primarily in stained glass and oil.

Sandra M. Zimmermann has always expressed herself through some form of art. In the past twenty years, her chosen medium has been watercolor.

Contributors • 133