Blackwater Review 2013

Blackwater Review

Blackwater Review

A Journal of Literature and Art

Volume 11, No. 1 Spring 2013

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.

Managing Editor:

Amy Riddell, MFA

Poetry Editor:

Dr. Deidre Price

Prose Editor:

Dr. Jon W. Brooks

Art Direction, Graphic Design, and Photography:

Benjamin Gillham, MFA

Editorial Advisory Board:

Patty Belote, Janice Henderson, Dr. Beverly Holmes, Dr. Vickie Hunt, April Leake, and Patrice Williams

Art Advisory Board:

Benjamin Gillham, Stephen Phillips, Leigh Peacock, 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.

©2013 Northwest Florida State College. All rights are owned by the authors of the selections. Front cover artwork: Athena’s Ear, Photograph, Louann Brechler

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.

Dear Carl Carpenter

Katie Rendon Kahn

If you would just look at me, maybe I could find some indication in your expression or remorse in your eyes. Then, then I could forgive you for leaving my brother in the road to die alone.

You seem to be searching for answers in the courthouse carpet. I wonder what questions that dirty floor’s been asked before or what answers you would find if you had the courage to look into my eyes. or my mother’s.

But she’s awaiting a verdict that will not satisfy her. The judge will not grant the biblical justice she craves: an eye for an eye.

I am just relieved you don’t have any children. She’d gladly take a son for a son.

Once your momma posts your bail I sit with mine in a leaky, blue Cavalier, and we watch for signs of life from inside your past-its-prime trailer. “White Trash,” she spits, stubbing out another butt. I wonder if we’re any better.

Momma points to the dent in your bumper and says that’s where you hit his motorcycle. Then to the crack in the windshield that still has strands of his hair stuck in it.

I wonder what raced through your mind as you raced away, staring through cracked glass and shattered lives.

If only you could have diverted your car as quickly as you shift your eyes.

The Things We Hold On To

Katie Rendon Kahn

I do my best to scrub away twenty-five years of negligence and nicotine while explaining the foreign concept of Craigslist to my mother. Taking the photos is even trickier since she didn’t do the few simple things I asked: Have all the items to be sold clean and ready with a price in mind. Clutter is everywhere, and even if I were a professional photographer, I’d have a hard time making these things look good.

“This bedroom set is mid-century modern. It has a kingsize headboard, two nightstands, a gentleman’s dresser, and another dresser and mirror,” she begins in her best I-may-bepoor-now- but-I-used-to-have-money voice. I’m certain she is just getting started on the description, and we have three more bedrooms, the kitchen, living room, store room and den to get to. Before Mom can get too far into the history, I cut her off.

“Where are the other pieces? I see the nightstands and the dresser, but this bed isn’t part of the set, and we’re still missing a few pieces.” Even I can hear the impatience in my voice, and I silently chant calming mantras to keep myself in check.

“Oh, well, the headboard is in the store room, you remember; I covered it in that pretty fabric.” I cringe. “The other dresser is in the guest bedroom, and I think the mirror is in the living room.”

“What happened to having all the pieces together so I could photograph it as a set?” Jesus, I’ve only been here ten minutes, and I’m already irritated and ready to go.

“Well, it’s not like you could have gotten the whole set in one photo anyway,” she snaps back.

No, but it would have been nice if you relocated some of these mountains of crap and kept matching pieces together. She promised this wouldn’t take more than an hour. Liar. “Okay Mom, I’ll take separate shots. How much do you want for the

set?” I take out my inventory sheet in anticipation; the sooner I can leave, the better.

“I don’t know, nine hundred?” She shrugs. Nine hundred dollars? Is she crazy? Sighing, I look at the scuffed tops, peeling laminate, and rusty knobs.

“I think we need to be a little more practical. Ashley’s is advertising brand-new bedroom sets for a grand, and we need to sell quickly.” I let the consequence resonate a few seconds before I continue. Maybe if you hadn’t cashed in every penny of equity, you could keep your house and your things. It was stupid, really stupid. My dad made the mortgage payments directly for twenty years so that nothing like this would ever happen. As soon as she had a clear title in hand, she cashed in. Of course, that was before the real-estate market crashed. Now, she’s completely upside down on the loan. I’d like to shoot the loan officer, too. Who gives a $130,000 loan to an unemployed, disabled, soon to be senior with no income?

“Let’s list it at 350, and if it doesn’t sell in a week, we’ll drop the price again.” There’s no way in hell it will sell for that.

We slowly work our way through English antiques, knickknacks, collections of WWII lithographs, and various tea sets.

“This is bone china, Nortake,” she says. Mom holds up a dusty, white plate with a silver rim. We’ve eaten off them only a handful of times, mostly on Thanksgivings before the divorce.

“This was a wedding present from Pops, and it’s a complete set,” she says running through a memorized inventory. “Pops” was my grandma’s second husband. They shared dirt-poor roots, but he was a self-made man, making millions in the early stages of aviation and did quite well in the stock market, too. Because of Pops, my mom and grandmother both believed in knights in platinum armor, who come and pull women out of poverty and place them in beach houses. “It should be worth quite a bit.” A quick Google search confirms her belief, and the malnourished teenager in me glares at her in disapproval. Growing up we had $8000 china and no food to put on it. “I really do hate to part with it.” I almost lose my mind.

As she pulls me from one room to the next, I think of the expression, “A clean house, a clean mind,” and realize I’m dealing with one crazy bitch. I scan each room, mentally throwing things away, organizing, and trying to evaluate what she may end up with once we liquidate her assets.

“Oh, and in this room, I have some things I thought you’d want.” There is nothing in this house I want.

“Mom, stop.” She turns to me, messy hair, maniac faced.

“Stop what?”

“I think you’re overwhelmed. How about a new plan of action? You have some good stuff here, but it’s all buried. Why don’t we start by just tossing or donating the things you don’t need that aren’t worth much? Then we can see what we’re dealing with.” I try to read her: confusion, anxiety, resentment. She doesn’t have people; she has these things. A four-bedroom, aging house full of things, until the bank forecloses anyway.

“Well, maybe, but that’s why I wanted you to look and see if there’s anything you want.” She opens the door to the fourth bedroom, which is bursting with plastic containers, and so it begins. “Do you need any hangers?” Mom holds up a trash bag with bright-colored hangers poking through the plastic in every direction and looks at me hopefully.

I raise my eyebrow, “Trash ’em.”

“Well that’s just a waste,” she says hiding them in the back of the room. Darting her eyes away before making contact, she picks up a cardboard box and hands it to me. Sitting on top is a sheet of spiral notebook paper with my young handwriting on it, “The Mom Song.” I can’t help but smile; it was the only song my brother and I ever wrote together before he passed. I read through it, embarrassed. It was verse after verse of insults. She was a drunk, a lazy bitch, we couldn’t wait to leave. I try to catch her eye to see if she saw it, too. She says nothing, but her hurt feelings are evident. I shuffle through the time capsule, reminders that it wasn’t always so bad, a program from my first piano recital, photos of us as complete family, poems I wrote as a sad, angry teenager.

“I’ll take this box home and go through it.” That was a mistake. Now she is digging with a renewed flourish. “Mom, Mom! Stop, I’ll go through it; I’ll take anything I don’t want to lose, and we’ll get rid of the rest.” We are two stubborn animals glaring at each other.

“Fine,” she concedes, “I’ll start in the next room.”

I clear one small patch of dirty parquet tile and begin. One box at a time I sort, find nothing worth keeping, adding to the toss pile. There are boxes of linens. Jesus, how many blankets does one person need? A chill reverberates through me remembering cold nights and then worse, sticky summers here in Florida without AC, wrung out in sweat-drenched sheets. I swiftly move them all to the toss pile. At least she fixed the air conditioner with a chunk of the equity loan, not that it will do her any good when they throw her out on the street. I find one blanket that I hang on to, “The Tiger Blanket.” It was the biggest, warmest blanket in the house. One of the few good memories I have of my mom is her pulling it from the dryer and wrapping it around me and my brother to keep us both warm. That was before the dryer broke and before he died. Nothing in this house ever got fixed. We just became masters of adaptation.

It takes an eternity to work my way across the room, tossing, reminiscing, and seething at times. How could she let it get this bad? How could she let this happen? She’s not coming to live with me. I get to the double windows on the other side. This was my first room where Daddy planted roses outside my window, and they were the first thing I saw each morning. I peek outside to see that they have been replaced by the peace lilies from my brother’s funeral. Why do people give perennials at funerals? They are living reminders of death. “Okay, Mom, I’m done in here.”

“Oh good you’re taking all of this,” she smiles looking at the toss pile.

“Um, actually that’s the donation pile. These are the things I’m keeping.” I point to the box containing “The Mom Song,” the blanket, my grandmother’s mirror, and a portrait of

me and my brother when we were very young.

“That’s it?” She is screaming and pulling things from the toss pile. “Your great grandmother used these napkins every holiday,” she throws them at me. “These are cards you and Chris made me, and all these pictures, don’t you want these pictures?” Her eyes are a wall of tears, and the crack in her voice tells me that the wall is about to crumble, but she shakes her head angrily, forcing them back. I’m impressed. “You are so fucking cold! When did you become such a heartless bitch?”

“Mom,” I fake a calm tone I perfected years ago dealing with her. “You are one person living in a four-bedroom house. I share a tiny three-bedroom apartment with my husband and three children. I just don’t have the space; you have to start parting with things.” I pick up the holiday napkins and put them in my keep pile to appease her.

She picks up a box with construction paper, Easter bunnies, and glittery cards. She stares down into it for a long time, and I think she’s considering what I have said, but suddenly the rage returns. “Then you do it! I can’t just throw away the pieces I have left. You do it,” she growls again, pushing it into my chest.

A memory crashes down on me. After the funeral I slipped off my shoes and climbed into my brother’s bed. The sheets smelled like his shampoo, and I buried myself in his pillow, inhaling every remaining essence before it was gone forever. Then I slept. I slept for hours, waking to the sound of lingering mourners in the living room. In a trance I went into my bedroom to get a change of clothes and some personal items. Returning to the place where his memories were the greatest, I slept longer. Mom is outside my door in a whispered argument with my dad. Dad? “Let her sleep, Rick; she’s very strong, but she’s exhausted.” I slept for weeks, waking only to be reminded that the nightmare was real. My things moved on top of his things. It was still his room, and I was just living there. I heard Dad again; how much time has passed since the funeral? Weeks? Months? My door jerks open, and he hovers over me. He’s angry? Why? He’s never angry.

“Get out of this bed right now,” he yells at me. Shocked, I bolt upright. “I’m already mourning my son; I won’t lose my daughter, too. Your mother does this, sleeps,” he says it like it’s a filthy word. “You’re depressed, Baby, I understand. But you will not lie in this bed and sleep your life away. He’s gone, Love. He’s dead, he’s never coming back.” His words rip me open, spilling bitter animosity and hopeless resentment. How can you be so cold?

I look at my mom. She never got up. No one ever told her to let it go. No one would say those things to a grieving mother. She is still impaling herself on memories, inhaling every lingering essence before it’s gone forever. It was two years before I could tolerate letting go of anything, and I still couldn’t be the one to do it.

I had called my friend Aaron and asked if he could come help me with something. When he got there, I was sitting on my bed with an empty shoebox. He looked at me expectantly. “In that bathroom,” I nod to the door, “are dozens of reminders that I dance around in the shower, ignore as I brush my teeth. They aren’t comforting anymore.” Aaron took the box and gave me a look that asked if I was sure. I nodded. He was in the bathroom for a long time, at least it felt that way, and I tried not to think about him placing my brother’s razor and toothbrush into that box. His soap, shampoo, and comb must have followed. Aaron emerged with his head down.

“Okay, I’m going to go home now, and I’m going to take this box with me. Are you okay with that?” I nod, grateful that he understood, grateful that he didn’t think I was crazy.

As Aaron left, I walked into the bathroom. The few things left belonged to me, and it was liberating. I didn’t need his toothbrush to remember his smile or his shampoo to remember his smell. I needed to let go in order to move forward.

“Okay, Mom, I guess I can take a few boxes with me.” This is what she needs. Why didn’t I realize it sooner? It just took her fifteen years longer. The crease in her brow softens and relief spreads across her face as if I had shot her up with morphine.

We load boxes into my SUV, and she hugs me. It’s a rare and uncomfortable embrace, but I let her hold on to me because she still needs to hold on to something.

She whispers, “thank you,” into my hair.

“No problem, Mom,” I say, pulling away. “I come through The Fort twice a week, so if you want to leave boxes on your porch, I’ll swing by and pick them up. In the meantime, I’ll start posting the furniture on Craigslist.”

Mom takes a deep breath, “Yes, yes I feel like I might even be able to get some more done today, now that we put a dent in it.”

“Great, Mom, I’ll swing by on Wednesday. Try to have three boxes of stuff you can part with.” She nods in response.

On the way home I drop the boxes off at the Goodwill. Some boxes are harder to let go of than others. I scatter the boxes among the other donations. I mix my brother’s clothes with piles of kids’ clothes. I tuck faded paintings behind a smelly couch. I wonder about the people that left it there.

Maybe many people have a hard time letting go.

Maybe I could tuck my anger into the cardboard folds of the boxes. Perhaps I could siphon some of my bitterness into these donated drinking glasses.

I leave behind the things Mom was willing to part with and some things I didn’t know that I was holding so closely.

Thicker Than Water

Emily Heasley

“August, hurry up. We’re gonna miss our turn.”

Buckets and metal barrels clanged together in a chaotic drum beat as the crowd pressed around the idling truck. Autumn, two plastic buckets sitting in the dust beside her, stood on tip toes to see over the mass of people. August shoved his way through the swarm, rolling a rusting metal barrel in front of him. His wavy brown hair stuck to his forehead, and his sepia skin shimmered with sweat in the brazen sunlight. He sighed, stopping next to his sister, and rubbed his face with the hem of his faded t-shirt.

“Think they’ll have enough for everyone this time?” August asked, looking toward the front of the group, shielding his eyes with his hand.

“I hope so.” Autumn picked up the buckets from the ground and shuffled forward with everyone else. “You didn’t forget the card, did you?”

“In my pocket,” August said.

The two were quiet for a while, Autumn listening to the chatter of the people around her. An older man was talking about a nearby town that had been raided. Someone else mentioned they had seen some clouds skirting along the far side of the plain. One woman swore that she had gone outside and found a whole inch of clean water sitting in a mason jar she had left out. Autumn sighed and swung her buckets back and forth. She wished that could be true, but the only rain these days was acid rain, and no one wanted to drink that stuff.

Soon, Autumn and August had reached the front of the crowd. Autumn stared at the growling water truck while August righted the metal barrel and dug around in his cargo pants pockets for their water voucher. The man at the truck, whom Autumn swore could swat at the clouds if there were

any, studied the card for a long while before handing it back to August.

“Right, two extra gallons.” The man pulled the metal barrel up to the spigot, pried off the lid, and began to fill it.

Autumn scooted closer to her brother as the people behind them shifted and inched forward. She hated getting water. Everyone was so pushy and nervous once they got within ten feet of the truck. The barrel filled, and the man put the lid back on before taking the buckets from Autumn. Once they were full, she picked them up off the ground. The man nodded to them. August carefully tipped the barrel onto its side and rolled it away from the horde of people. Autumn followed close behind him.

“So, did you hear what that one lady said?” Autumn asked once they had left the mob behind. She kept her eyes on the ground so as not to trip over anything.

“About the water in the jar? Bet she’s just trying to get people hyped up.” August spat in the dirt. “Bet she’s selling bleach an’ calling it water.”

“Yeah,” Autumn frowned. She could almost remember a time when she could set a cup outside and it would be full with dew the next morning. That was before the pollution got out of control and the drought happened, though. And way before it stopped being safe to go out in the rain. She wished she could figure out a way to turn acid rain into good water, but she figured that was the scientists’ job. If only they would hurry up and figure out how.

“Hey, careful, you’ll spill.”

Autumn looked up in time to swerve around a pile of rocks. August chuckled as she raised the plastic buckets high over her head, then lowered them again.

“Hey, you think mom’s gonna feel good enough to come help us out today?” she asked, eyes focused on the sandy path they started down.

“Dunno. She said she felt okay yesterday, so maybe.” They continued on, following the trail worn into the dry

earth back toward town. Above, a black bird turned circles, the blinding sunlight casting its magnified shadow on the dust. Autumn wondered if the bird had ever flown over the ocean before. Her mother told her lots of stories about the ocean and how once the world was covered in water. She thought, though, that the bird probably didn’t know what the ocean was. Not because the seas were smaller now, but because her mom said seagulls lived by the water and not crows. Still, maybe it had. If she could speak crow and wasn’t so worried about spilling the buckets, she might have asked. She had always wanted to know what the ocean looked like and what the waves sounded like as they crashed against the shore.

They came into town just as the workers were breaking for lunch. Everyone usually gathered over at the old diner, from the shop keeps to the bottle collectors. It was a good place to gossip and get food that didn’t come out of a can. Autumn watched as people trickled out from the graying, dilapidated buildings. Some greeted each other, others hurried through the tan streets in silence. A group of kids around Autumn and her brother’s age raced by, dragging their burlap sacks of bottles and cans behind them. One darted out in August’s path. With his hands flying out in front of him, he startled her, sending the water barrel rocketing down the street.

August took off after the advancing barrel, shouting and begging for it to stop. Autumn stood perfectly still for a moment, then held her buckets aloft and ran after her brother. She cringed at the sloshing over her head, but she had to help. She dodged a store clerk, skirted around a group of mechanics, and cleared a herd of tailors before finally breaking through the crowd. August was in hot pursuit but lagging feet behind. Autumn left her buckets on the porch of the nearby inn, then bolted, dried earth flying up from her heels as she ran.

“Catch it, August! Catch it!”

She wasn’t gaining much ground despite her best efforts. She watched as August launched himself at the water barrel. He fell short, landing on the hard ground. Autumn put on a burst

Heasley • 11

of speed, reaching her brother as he clambered to his feet. The two watched as the barrel rolled down the street and collided with a low concrete wall that blocked the town center from the houses. A metallic ringing cut through the clamor in the square. The siblings watched the ground around the barrel darken.

August wailed and went running toward the fence. Autumn followed behind, stumbling over her own feet. Behind them, the whole square was watching. August reached the barrel first, Autumn only seconds after. The lid had been knocked loose, and water bled out onto the parched earth.

“Grab an end. Pick it up,” August said, eyes wild. He grabbed the lip of the barrel and pulled. It began to teeter upright, but then the lid fell of completely and a waterfall cascaded out and soaked both Autumn’s and August’s shoes.

“No. No, no, no, no!”

Autumn shoved the barrel on its end and peered down into it. Nothing but a damp sheen remained. She looked down, but the puddle had already dissolved into the ground. August moaned and clutched his head, spinning on his heel and beginning to pace frantically back and forth. Autumn looked over at the crowd in the square. No one moved for a moment, and then everyone quietly dispersed and made their way to the rusted-out diner.

“What do we do now?” Autumn asked after several minutes’ pause.

“Just… I dunno. Go get your buckets.”

Autumn walked back to the porch of the little hotel, glancing back once to see her brother sitting on the ground with his head between his knees. She wrapped her fingers around the handle of each pail with care and walked back. She stood beside her brother for what felt like an hour before he got up. He replaced the lid on the steel drum, his movements shaky and face like granite. Then, tipping the barrel back onto his side, he said, “Let’s go home.”

“Was the water line bad today?”

Autumn set the two buckets of water on the porch near

the front door while August rolled the barrel around back. She looked at her mother and shook her head. She hoped to duck inside without further questioning, but her mom rose from her spot on the old wicker chair and followed her inside.

“Did something happen?” her mother asked as Autumn grabbed a pillowcase from the pile in her and August’s bedroom. “No,” she said. August had sworn her to secrecy about the water before they got home. “Are you gonna help us get bottles today?”

“Not today, sweetie, I’m still not feeling up to snuff. But I promise I’ll help soon.”

“Okay.” Autumn tucked the empty pillowcase into her pocket. “Me and August are gonna go now.”

Not giving her mother a chance to respond, Autumn scampered out the door and headed around back. August stood next to the empty barrel, staring out past the horizon.

“Okay. So what’s the plan?”

“Plan?” August squinted and looked down at his sister. “What makes you think I got a plan?”

Autumn shrugged. “Well, you said we had to figure something out.”

August sighed and sat down in the dust. Autumn did as well, copying the narrow-eyed stare of her brother. There had to be something they could do. She chewed at the inside of her lip, hands on her knees until finally August got to his feet.

“We better go to work. We already wasted enough time today.”

Most of the kids that August and Autumn collected bottles with had gone home for the day. Autumn stuck closer than usual to her brother. The abandoned structures looming around them seemed darker than usual, their broken windows like rows of jagged fangs. She tightened her grip on her pillowcase, the glass bottles and cans clinking together. The wind threw trash across the cracked road as they walked.

August stooped down and picked up a partially crushed can. He looked at it for a moment and then tossed it aside. “I think everyone else cleaned out over here.”

Autumn wrinkled her nose as a gust blew sand around her. “Can we go home? It’s getting windy, and I think maybe it’ll rain.”

August looked up past the crumbling house tops at the sky. Ominous thunder heads peeked over the eaves. He looked back at his sister.

“I guess. But we’ll have to be out here early tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Autumn swung her bag over her shoulder and grinned, kicking her feet through the dirt as they headed back toward home. “Hey, so I think I got a plan.”

August drew his mouth into a thin line. “Like what?”

“Well, why don’t we just find where the water truck goes and tell that guy what happened? I think he’ll give us more water.” She beamed, proud of her cleverness. August only frowned more.

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Oh.”

Autumn screwed up her face in concentration. They couldn’t steal the water. That wasn’t nice. And they could get in really big trouble. People who stole water were never seen again. There were bandits that stole water from entire towns, and people were allowed to shoot them. No, stealing was bad. There wasn’t any water close by, either. All the rivers and lakes and wells had been drained and put into water storage so they wouldn’t get contaminated. She huffed, ready to give up, when she remembered something from earlier that day.

“We should go ask that lady for some,” Autumn said, hopping up and down in front of her brother. “She has water in a jar and–”

“I told you, she’s probably lying,” August said. “And I dunno if we could find her. Do you know who she is?”

Autumn shook her head. “But you said she was getting hype or something so I bet someone in town knows. Oh, I know. We should ask Mr. Sperow.”

August glowered at his toes, his forehead wrinkled and lips downturned. He exhaled loudly. “Sure, okay.”

The dark clouds were churning overhead by the time the two got back to town and wandered into the general store. Mr. Sperow, the owner, was just sweeping up when August dumped the contents of both his and his sister’s sacks onto the splintered wooden counter. Mr. Sperow set his broom aside and put on his thick wire-frame glasses.

“You kids a little late today, huh?” he said in his gruff voice. He picked up one of the empty bottles and scratched at his creased chin. “Let me get these counted up.”

August said nothing. Autumn listened to the sound of the glasses and cans as Mr. Sperow sorted them. She didn’t take her eyes off the back of his balding head. She wondered if he had seen the water barrel spill earlier that day.

“Alright, five dollars and fifteen cents. Slow day, eh?”

Mr. Sperow pulled a tin box out from under the counter and counted out the money. August watched intently, counting and recounting the bills and coins after the storekeeper handed him the money. Autumn stuffed her hands in her pockets and rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet.

“Mr. Sperow,” Autumn began with a smile, “do you know the lady who found the water in the jar?”

The old man knit his bushy brows together. “Water in a jar?” He drummed his thick fingers on the ancient wooden counter. “Oh, you must mean Mrs. Breer. She ain’t found no water, hon. She’s blowing smoke.”

“That’s what August said.” Autumn beamed at her brother. “But I wanna see anyway.”

“Well, she lives out on the edge of town, near the gate,” Mr. Sperow said. “She’s a bit batty, if you ask me.”

August took his sister’s hand and led her out of the store before she could ask another question. She leaned back in, waving to Mr. Sperow, before August tugged her by her sleeve away from the door. She grinned.

“Okay, so now we know where to go,” she said with a broad grin.

August rolled his eyes. “You heard him. She doesn’t have

Heasley • 15

“Well he doesn’t know everything,” Autumn said, pursing her lips. “We should go see.”

“Fine. But if we get stuck out here in the rain, I’m telling Mom it was your fault.”

August and Autumn headed through the square and into the residential zone. They took the streets at a run, weaving through the tiny shacks until they reached the heavy iron gate in the concrete wall. The guard watched the two race past, warning them to go home before the storm hit. Autumn really hoped they didn’t get caught out in a rainstorm. Luckily enough, there was only one occupied house near the gate. They darted up the sagging steps, Autumn beating her brother to the door and knocking loudly.

The hinges squealed, and a tiny, round woman stepped out. She glared at the two kids.

“Yes?” Her voice was more like a squeal.

“We, I mean, my sister,” August said, “She wanted to know if you really found water in a jar.”

Mrs. Breer frowned and placed her hands on her hips. “And why would she want to know that?” She stooped and sneered at Autumn.

Autumn opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, her face turned hot. August cleared his throat.

“We thought maybe you would give us some. All of ours is gone.” August looked at his sister and she stared back.

“Hmph, if I had any, I wouldn’t be giving it away,” the stout woman said. “Only ones around here with extra water are those looters on the other side of the fence. Now go home, before it rains.”

She slammed the door and left the two of them standing on the porch. Neither of them said anything. They just turned and walked home.

Neither of them ate dinner that night, even though their mother pressed them. By the time Autumn was crawling into bed, the rain had started, hissing and spitting as it hit the roof.

• Blackwater Review anything.”

August groaned and pulled the covers over his head from the other side of the room.

“Does Mom know yet?” Autumn asked, flopping back onto her pillows.

“No.”

Autumn sighed and rubbed her eyes. She couldn’t think of any other way to get the water back. On the trip home from the mean Mrs. Breer’s house, she had racked her brain until her head hurt. From the other room, she could hear her mom coughing and gasping. She wished her dad was there. He had left years ago, with an expedition, to try to find new water sources. He never came back. She imagined him walking through the front door, toting gallons of water behind him. She closed her eyes. She was just about to fall asleep when August shifted in his bed.

“I got it,” he said in a loud whisper. Autumn opened her eyes. “What?”

“We’re gonna go talk to the bandits.”

Autumn spent the night tossing and turning. Bandits? This was a bad idea. Everyone knew bandits were mean. They killed people to steal water from entire towns. Still, it was the only idea that either she or August had. By the time her brother was shaking her awake, the acid rain had stopped. They put on their boots quietly, so as not to wake their mother. Then, August stuffed a few things from the tiny fridge into a pillowcase. The sun had just peeked over the horizon when they set out. In the tiny, wobbling houses all around them, people were just waking up for work. The air felt charged. Autumn couldn’t tell if it was from her nerves or the lingering puddles of acid rain. They made their way through the streets, coming to the gate.

“Leaving early today?” the guard smiled widely. “Careful out there.”

They passed through the gate and out into the ruins of the city. Instead of heading toward the cool silhouettes of the demolished buildings, however, they made a left, following the wall out

Heasley • 17

toward the vast, desert plain that circled the ramshackle town.

“Where do we even find bandits?” Autumn asked after they had walked a ways.

“I dunno, but they can’t be too hard to find.”

They continued out into the wasteland. The sun clawed its way higher into the sky, cooking the ground below. Autumn watched as their shadows grew longer, then shorter, and longer again. By the time she could look back and no longer see the city, her legs felt like jelly. Finally, she stopped, sitting down on the cracked earth and pouting.

“August, I’m tired,” she whined. “Can we just go back home? I don’t wanna meet any bandits.”

August turned, panting, and looked down at his sister.

“Get up.”

“But–”

“Get up.”

Autumn didn’t move. August glowered at her, then started forward, footfalls so heavy that the dry ground split more with each step. He grabbed Autumn by her wrist and jerked her to her feet. She tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong.

“Listen,” he growled, “That two gallons we got isn’t gonna last, so we gotta find some water.” August glared directly into Autumn’s eyes. “If we don’t, we’re gonna die. You understand? Mom, you, me, we’ll all die.”

Autumn remained silent. For a moment, she wanted to cry, but she bit down hard on her tongue instead. August let her go, and she watched as he began to walk out into the wasteland again. She waited a minute before following, staying a few feet back. She was glaring holes into the back of his skull when something to the right caught her attention.

Coming fast toward them was an old, beat up dune buggy. The engine snarled and spat as it flew over the bumps and crags of the barren terrain. Autumn swallowed hard.

“August, look.”

August stopped and spun around, following his sister’s raised arm with his gaze. Autumn thought she saw him shiver

as he walked over to her.

“Whatever you do, just be quiet, okay?” August’s voice was flat.

The buggy pulled up and stopped. Three men climbed out. One was tall, with thin, tattooed arms. Another reminded Autumn of a steel canister. The third wore red-tinted sunglasses. They sauntered toward them, and Autumn ducked behind her brother.

“I don’t think it’s a real good idea for you younguns to be gallivanting around the desert,” said the tall man. He smiled, and his teeth were greenish and bent.

“We’re looking for bandits,” August said plainly.

“That so? Dangerous business,” the one with the glasses said. “What are you doing that for?”

“We wanna know,” August said, standing up straight. “If they’ll give us some of their water.”

Autumn expected the three men to burst out laughing. Instead, they regarded each other and the children. The man with the sunglasses smirked.

“What if they would?” he asked kneeling slightly so he was at eye level with August.

August sucked in a deep breath and reached into his pocket. He produced the five dollars he and Autumn had made the day before.

The bandit frowned. “Kid, that ain’t gettin’ you a drop.”

“What will?”

The sunglasses bandit stood up and crossed his arms. He tilted his head to look at Autumn. She tried to make herself smaller by scrunching herself up. The bandit smiled, and Autumn couldn’t tell if it was at her, August, or something past them on the horizon.

“Come with me, kid.”

The man motioned for August to follow and walked back to the dune buggy with the other two. August stepped forward, but Autumn caught him by the shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just gonna talk to them. Stay here.”

Autumn whimpered as her brother followed the three men. She stood, watching as they gathered around the buggy. She wanted to go home. She didn’t care about the water anymore. There had to be some other way to get some. She rocked nervously back and forth. After what seemed like forever, August rejoined her and the bandits got back in their buggy and drove off.

“What happened?” Autumn asked as the sound of the engine faded and the dirt began to settle to the ground.

“Nothing. Everything’s going to be okay.” August sounded like he was choking on rocks. “Just sit down and wait.”

Autumn plopped herself down. She waited for August to do the same, but when he didn’t, she contented herself with drawing in the dirt. She drew a bird and some big, fluffy clouds. Below that, she made squiggly lines for what she thought the ocean looked like. She added some people and buildings and the sun. She was almost finished when the buggy rolled back up.

Autumn stood, wiping her hands on her pants. She watched as the three bandits unloaded a metal drum from the back of their buggy. They rolled it over, and Autumn could hear the unmistakable sloshing of water.

“Alright. Here.” The big man shoved the barrel toward Autumn. She looked at it, bewildered, then turned and stared expectantly at August.

August, however, did not make any move toward the water barrel. In fact, he stepped toward the group of bandits. He didn’t look at his sister.

“Hey, where are you going?” Autumn asked.

“Your brother’s coming with us. He’s gotta pay for that.”

The wiry man pointed to the barrel.

Autumn felt all the color drain from her face. “For how long?”

The bandits got back in the buggy. August walked around back, grabbing onto the roll cage. Autumn stared at him with

wide eyes.

“How long?” she cried. “You’re gonna come back, right?” August climbed into the back of the buggy. He looked at his sister. “I told you; it’s gonna be okay.”

With that, the engine roared to life. Autumn watched, stunned, as the buggy spun around and headed back into the shroud of dust. She followed the little car with her gaze until it was nothing more than a speck in a sea of brown. She turned back toward the city with burning eyes, kicking at the doodle she had made in the dirt. Then she began to roll the barrel home. Alone.

A Warrior Poet

Deborah R. Majors

Swift truth shoots from her lips to pierce the hearts of men, causing eyes to see fresh visions to follow and motivating arms to embrace diverse people never before seen or touched by those with closed minds. She spears injustice with sharpened words like a bowman who strikes the red bull’s-eye.

The Dogs Still Bark

Caley Stewart

Northern Alliance soldiers with AK-47s walked by my aircraft as the rotors spun down. My unit from the 101st Airborne Division had just arrived at the former Soviet base at Bagram, after a three-hour flight from Kandahar. It was early in 2002. I climbed out of the cockpit and was approached by a half dozen Afghan men with weapons. In a matter of seconds, they were all around me. Then I felt the pats on my back, and they all insisted on shaking my hand. They spoke to me, smiled, and waved their arms. Although I could not understand their words, I understood what was in their hearts: Thank you for coming, thank you for your help. Together we will be victorious. Six years later when I get off the plane in Kandahar, the only Afghans to be seen are “outside the wire,” that is to say, outside the well-defended base perimeter.

During 2008 I would find differences at nearly every turn. The small towns had become larger, and the bases had become small cities. But not all changes were without; some were within. The insurgents now fired rockets and withdrew into caves, and I found myself time and time again riding an indescribable force that lived within a cave in my psyche.

The first thing I noticed was the size of the airbase. Its size had grown by tenfold at least. When we were here last, we lived in tents. “GP mediums” they were called, GP standing for general purpose. We had dirt floors, no electricity, and men shared their space with seven of their closest friends. We washed our uniforms in large plastic tubs by hand. We were drenched in sweat by day and sought the comfort of warm sleeping bags at night. We cleaned ourselves when we could under makeshift showers, and we were the lucky ones. We hauled water in five-gallon containers from a well a mile away. Even though it had been sanitized and was potable, it tasted like the desert.

We found ourselves putting in anything we could get our hands on to change the taste—Gatorade, instant tea, anything. This deployment, however, was different. When I finally became settled at Forward Operating Base Salerno in Khost, I had my own small room in a brick-and-mortar building. I was happy to have a real floor, bottled water, heat in the winter, and electricity. Instead of eating my meals out of a brown plastic bag, I could get a hot meal four times a day if I liked. All I had to do was take a short walk to the dining facility run by Kellogg Brown & Root, Inc. And if I got hungry in between meals, there was a snack bar open 24/7. Contractors had come to the war. Communication had changed, too. I used to write so many letters. The poetry I sent back to my woman made her cry. There was no longer any need for pen, paper, and envelopes. I flew most of my missions at night, and when I returned to my room as the sun was coming up, I could talk to my girlfriend “back in the world” via Skype, and I had an Internet connection right in my room. Social media and email had come to the war, too.

Back then, I knew more about the guys in my unit than most of their wives did, and they knew about me. We were closer than brothers. I had no doubt that, if I were shot down, any of them would have done anything to get me. I knew this because I would have done anything to help them. We didn’t have to talk about it; we just knew.

We were happy to endure the environment, the bullets, and the food because we were doing it together. We were bonded through our dedication to the mission, and we were bonded through shared adversity. In 2008 I was mixed in with a group of individuals. They knew little about me, and the only thing I wanted to know about them was if they could fly the aircraft and perform the mission, make sound decisions, and pull the trigger without remorse.

In 2002, after Operation Anaconda the missions were few. The Taliban, for the most part, had been killed, captured, or had fled the country. When I flew my attack helicopter during the

hot days, the children would run out of their mud brick homes and wave at us. They were smiling, happy, and jumping up and down as children do when they are excited. The dogs just barked and chased us as if they could leap in the air and catch us.

But by 2008 things had changed. No one waved any longer; in fact, it was more common to see a fist displayed. The boys who were old enough threw rocks into the air. The novelty of Apache helicopters had worn off for some, and they didn’t even look up at times.

When I returned, things had become bloody. Those who had fled were joined by new insurgents and had returned. It was no longer just the Taliban. The Haqqani Network was active in my region. During the time between the crops being planted and the harvest, things were busy. During the last deployment, our mission was to drive the Taliban out. They had sheltered the terrorists responsible for the 9-11 attacks and were guilty by association. I think we had been successful. The second time around my mission was to do everything I could to protect the troops on the ground. It was not about politics, causes, or ambitions of creating an environment where the girls could go to school or where the Pashtuns, Tajiks, and Hazaras could all get along. It was about protecting our guys. I had seen too many soldiers being carried off the medevac aircraft. When I first heard some young aircraft mechanics complain, I made them all stand out and watch the bodies being unloaded.

In the first deployment, there were no roadside bombs or counterattacks. But in 2008, it was not uncommon to fly under cover of darkness and detect men planting explosives in the roadways or lying in ambush waiting for one of our patrols to pass. We dealt with them. When we hit them with our Hellfire missiles and 30mm bullets, it was not a fair fight, but life is not fair either.

But death evens things out, in an obscure way. Witnessing death, especially at one’s own hand, can be as lethal as the flesh-ripping bullet. And each time it happens, a bit of a person dies with his enemy. Most people don’t know. They don’t know

Stewart • 25

that the two places hardest in a war are both at opposite ends of an arcing path, traced by the little package bringing the message of death, a message sent on its way by intent and with a flash and a bang. And which end has it worse?

The first tour in Afghanistan we were a bunch of merry warriors with few notched guns. The first tour we laughed and played practical jokes during the bright, sunny days. We got together and shared our packages from home.

The second tour I spent a year living the dichotomy of saving lives by killing. I lived a year of building a record of body counts and celebrating death. I spent the nights channeling the dark part of my soul and feeding the bloodlust.

After the first deployment, we returned home and were met by our friends and family, had parties, and celebrated. We then quietly went back to work and settled into our routine. After the last deployment, there were still crowds to welcome us, and music and parties. But after the music was gone, I was left with myself and my dreams. I had hoped to remember the victories and successes without the raw edges. But they remained.

Those memories became like an ancient bell that could not be unrung; the sound is hard and loud but fades. But then later, days, weeks, months, some other bell rings, and I realize that it is a resonant tone, and the old one sings again, surprising me.

When I returned home in 2009, I was asked how flying the missions made me feel. I felt like it was necessary tactically. I felt like it was a rite of passage. I felt like it was a hard night’s work that left my body wrung out and used up worse than last year’s skin.

After the initial conflicts, flying missions in 2002 had become a pleasant diversion from the heat of the desert. I had a chance to look around and take in the beauty. It was as close to a relaxing experience as someone could get under the circumstances.

But in 2008, flying missions at night in a blacked-out

aircraft and engaging insurgents was like riding on a bucket full of adrenaline. I felt like the adrenaline was my drug; a needle somewhere deep in my brain injected me. And after holding my feet steady on the razor’s edge for hours at a time, its withdrawal would make me collapse.

It is said the only thing that remains the same is change. But these days I question that. Even though the friendly waves have been replaced by angry fists, the desert remains the same; the Hindu Kush still stands tall along the border, and the dogs still dream of leaping into the air and catching us. The war is just a blink in time, and the water still tastes of the desert.

I Take Chances

Jocelyn Donahoo

I’m not an inspiration to you. I take chances. If only I would listen to my body, I wouldn’t have the scars, bumps, and bruises to prove my individuality.

Look close. I have an asymmetrical right chin. A simple loss of balance sends me crashing onto the sliding glass door, and my horrified husband prays, “Please Lord, no more.”

Like reading Braille, I use touch around an unlit room. Bullish, I miscalculate, miss my reach, fall through the breach and crack my left cheek.

I feel assaulted. However, in my despair, I miss a chair. And for the length of time it takes a wound to heal completely a scar remains to remind me of my vanity.

It is a challenging day, one of my “weak” days, but I have to press … anyway. If only I’d heed what my body needs. But, I’m no inspiration to you.

I take chances.

Michelle and W.B. Yeats

Josh Hart

“Do you ever think that everything we do is tragic and temporary?” She tells me this as her head rests on my shoulder. We are in a rusted out backhoe in a New Jersey lot. A development team tried repaving the road behind a 7-Eleven. Halfway through they ran out of funding. They ditched a backhoe and two Port-a-Potties. Michelle and I sit here sometimes, smoking dope and talking.

I love her more than anyone I have ever met. Sometimes she gets philosophical or poetic. Whenever she reads Yeats, it comes out. Not once have I escaped a discussion about “The Idiot Face of God and the Universe,” And to tell you the truth, I love it. She’s so much smarter than me.

We were both lit majors. I dropped out and she didn’t, but she’s nice about it. She doesn’t rub my face in it or anything Even though she likes Thomas Moore and I don’t. Whenever she asks me something philosophical, I make a quick little joke and push her hair back behind her ear. She dyes it a lot. It’s blond and cropped to her neck. She’ll put her arm around my waist, Rest her head on my chest, and say “never mind.”

This time I tried to tuck her hair behind her ears. She stopped my hand with hers and kissed it. She looked up at me, Blond hair poking out under a grey beanie, Green eyes shining from the 7-Eleven’s lights. “I’m serious, Katie,” And I didn’t know what to say.

Heroine

Michele Moore

I’m not the type of girl who grumbles or gripes every time I have a dilemma. I don’t shine a signal into Gotham’s sky for every sticky situation.

They say ask not for a lighter load but for broader shoulders. The weight of her gone would be too heavy for even the Hulk to handle.

I’m not Batman, nor Superman. Orphanhood won’t mutate me into a well-adjusted millionaire vigilante.

If I could be granted one wish, Bestow the superpowers of Wolverine on her. Immortality would be appreciated. And stainless steel claws unsheathing themselves from her knuckles could also come in handy for putting away the dinner dishes.

A Latin Tongue

John Stackpoole

Tu mano lies in my war-torn hands.

Your eyes link conmigo in a summer daydream. As your lips hunger with an animal desire to tear my skin, A shine in your eyes ignites the fire within my pecho. My fingers dance within your pelo

As you rise up before me like the océano ola. You lunge forth and create the chispa.

En una nube vaporosa, our bodies burn like coal. Tú y yo shake the earth. We kick forth the walls of duda, Y el agua erupts into a symphony of release. Your eyes fly upward as we create el fuego.

Descansando with your gaze piercing me like an arrow, You fall silent with the taste de la lengua latina.

Gringa Thoughts

Jade Reindl

You think I don’t know what it’s like to be Discriminated Against, but I do.

Lemme tell you ‘bout this time I was visiting la familia de mi Papi, and we arrived at this little Town, central Mexico, mountains all around, Dirt floors, no running water, no windows, no A/C. I was twelve. No white people either. Even my little sister is dark. She fit in. But me

With my long blonde hair and pale skin, English tongue. Strange-cultured girl; she even looks different. Gringa, they’d say, ¿Qué hace ella aquí? and I’d smile and wave because, Well,

The first time I went

My Spanish wasn’t so great, and their body language was fine, Kinesics, tone, all right, so why should I be Suspicious? They loved me because they were my family, Right?

I learned that’s how they viewed me later when I knew my Spanish, and worse things were spoken about me. I was thirteen when we went back.

Rarely did they try to hide their displeasure at the sight of me, Stares, pointed fingers, words hissed through teeth that had never seen the light of a dentist’s office, Probably never would. What was I thinking?

I’d fit in? They wanted to be my friend because I was the White and blonde girl? And I even played futbol. How cute. Or they hated me because they wanted What I had.

All I wanted was to be like them, Yet I was a stranger. I loved them. Still I was the Foreigner who knows nothing. I was Am

The ashamed, desperate, ignorante Stranger.

Confessions

David Majors

The town was an atmospheric mood ring, slowly shifting hue until it settled upon that certain florescent gold which burns at the heart of every red fire. Sweat slid out from under a ragged knit cap, dotting the forehead of an unkempt man who strode alone on Carpenter Street. He was invisible this time of the day. It was the afternoon rush, when commuters were most absorbed in their own matters, not as if they had ever really paid him any attention. This was the perfect time to escape the heat. Without the slightest look of suspicion, he turned into the alley on his right, keeping an eye out for any others who might be about as he sought whatever scraps fate would cast aside for the dogs. The space before him was a lifeless place. No muscles flinched, and no air swept through its lungs. Empty voids were all he knew, and he always kept one with him. He called it his stomach.

The glimmer of a window caught his attention. He slid his fingers underneath the grimy crevice and eased the window upwards. He wiped his hands together and crawled in, nearly losing his footing. His eyes took a second to adjust to the cold blue darkness before him. There was nothing to be found in the many rows of empty pews, so he headed towards the back. A pair of footsteps seemed to follow from outside. He darted towards the confessional and ducked in the priest’s compartment. The doors burst open, unleashing a harsh light as the footsteps neared. He could hear suppressed moans and sobs, and then silence. He didn’t know whether to run or to hide. Each second that passed felt like an eternity within itself. He raised his head towards the lattice only to meet the gaze of a horrendous stranger. Eyes stared into his soul. They must have found no suspicion within him, for in that moment the mouth opened. “Father, forgive me for I have sinned!” cried the man.

He had to say something, or else it was evident that he didn‘t belong there. He spoke in his most reassuring voice, though in reality it was to reassure himself. “Be calm. You are safe here. What is the matter?” He was vexed with confusion and empathy as he listened to the frantic beating of heart and lung. Then, in broken phrases, the man responded, “I...I killed them...the children...they were in the way. I didn’t mean to...” The shock of it all became unbearable. The confessor continued rambling until he was interrupted. “You are forgiven, son. But, what you have done has a consequence. You know what must be done.” Silence followed, and no movements came from the confessional. He left him in that state and vanished into the streets.

The fading fog caressed his cheek as he paced about the park that following morning. He watched starving, old souls feed gluttonous little birds and pigeons. Children slid on slides and climbed on bars. Time stood still until he picked up a copy of the day’s paper from off the pavement. The front page read “Man shoots his kids, kills self.” He was horrified. Had the man listened to him and resolved to kill himself? Did his mouth hold the power to kill—to tip the balance between life and death? He wanted nothing to do with the matter. He pondered it all day. That night, he again found himself in a dark place. He learned to stay away from churches. He found a spot in an abandoned building that was relatively clean and free of broken glass or leaky ceilings. There he laid his head. Surely no madman would find him here.

His dreams ended abruptly. The light that jarred him awake was the light of a policeman’s lantern which shone upon his face. It hit something deeper than his skin. He felt naked and thirsty, and if he heard the officer say anything, then he was too tired to have remembered in the back of the police car. The city lights came to him in flashes as he faded in and out of consciousness. He could make out that they were heading downtown. His hands were not cuffed behind his back, but they rested together on his thigh as he leaned against the door. “You really shouldn’t have been there,” said the officer. “It’s

Majors • 35

dangerous to be there, not to mention illegal.” He didn’t know why, but the voice seemed familiar. It must have been one of the cops that found him on a park bench before. The car came to a stop. The officer got out and led him out of the car. “There will be plenty of food and shelter where you’re going.” The shock of realizing he was going to jail was interrupted by the officer’s hands as they slid the cuffs off his own. In confusion he looked up at the officer, now made visible by a street light. His pupils dilated as if a gust of wind had shaken their foundations. His mind was overflowing with fear and curiosity. A hand directed him towards a doorway. He slept soundly in his bed at the homeless shelter as the man from the confessional drove away in the police car.

Crazy Cat Lady

Michele Moore

My friends always ask me, “How do you know if you’re a crazy cat lady or not?”

What is the difference between closely concerning yourself with your kitty’s comings and goings and keeping tabs on your tabby’s squeals, meals, meows, and howls.

Does it depend on how many cats you can count or that you have too many cats to count?

Should I say you’re crazy when you make small talk with Peanut, Sassy, and Sweetie?

Or when you converse with Charlie, Prissy, and Winston? It doesn’t matter if you can’t recall all your cats’ names or if you have six Siamese or around seventeen American Shorthairs.

You’re a crazy cat lady when you can concede that you just don’t give a kit and caboodle that

“No, I don’t want to hang out with humans I want to stay home and watch Kitchen Confidential with my kittens. They make better company. Because a cat never stands you up when you’re dressed in chiffon on prom night or say ‘Hey Baby, it’s not you. It’s me.’”

Does that answer the question?

Going Off to Die

Jean Moody

In the quiet of the morning as the sun comes up to greet the day, she goes off to die, to die alone in a place she chose just a week ago—like deer in a forest pressing until smooth with their body the overgrown grassy setting to make a bed for the night—like an eagle gathering nesting items, building piece by piece a safe refuge atop the tallest perch or high in a tree unnoticed. She knew it was time; it didn’t sneak up on her. It is what cats do when they know it is time to go off to die. She relished the good life and pleasures maintaining the order of things in a cat-savvy way.

She accepted the life she was given, the times she was left alone, all the attention and affection (but not on her terms) as she preferred to be the one in control and the occasional mischief she could get away with. She goes off to die alone as her ancestors did in her chosen and befitting place of rest.

Alexandra M. Bakane

Graphite Cameras

Louann Brechler

Photograph Rainbow Candy

Susan Breed Photograph Jelly Belly

Susan Breed Photograph Solitude

MaryAnn Crabtree

Pastel, Colored Pencil

MaryAnn Crabtree

Mat Board and Acrylic Paint

Masking on Planes

Ryan Fisher

Photograph

Self Portrait: War

DeeAnna Frazier Photograph Antique

Emily Heasley

Acrylic and Spray Paint on Clay, Wood

Utah Thief

Andrea L. Herrington Photograph

Sharon James Oil Bromeliad

Katrina Jammer Photograph Contemplative

Angela Jeffery Pastel

Pastel Corridor

Angela Jeffery

Graphite

Pinstripe Picnic

Within the Woods

Deanna McDevitt

Pen and Ink

Kenneth R. Miller

Colored Pencil Clarity

Andrea Moore Photograph Expectations

Andrea Moore

Photograph Lifeline

Maria B. Morekis Photograph Isabella da Roma

Donna Munro Pen and Ink

The Trio

Noah Pritchett

Julien Pugh

Graphite and Colored Pencil

Lucky Neko

Teresa Riker

Pen and Ink

Small Wonders

Unraveling the Moon

Teresa Riker

Mixed Media

Roxanne M. Soja

Photograph

Tessalation

Erika Stiles

Photograph Summer Citrus

Haley Thomas Photograph Untitled 1

Haley Thomas Photograph Untitled 3

Sue Townsend Photograph Basin Bayou Blues

Sue Townsend Photograph Cast Away

Jonathan Yubi

Who Are We Really?

Donovan Black

In life, society has a big role to play in the debate of nature versus nurture. Our elders, parents, and people we idolize seem to point us in the direction they want us to follow. What they don’t understand is that not everything is about nurture. Some parts of our identities, like our sexuality, are formed by nature. I remember when I was a young child not being able to go outside to play. When I went outside to play, I had severe allergic reactions that included feeling shortness of breath and breaking out in gleaming red hives that radiated off my body like sequins on a prom dress. The doctor didn’t know what I was allergic to, so he told my mother to let me play inside until he could come up with some explanation for my illness. Because of this condition, some would say that my nurture environment had a lot to do with my outlook on life.

I remember watching my mother in the kitchen every morning making great meals like fish and grits and her famous blueberry pancakes from scratch. The smell of those pancakes would linger seductively around the home waiting to entice whoever walked through the door.

I watched how my mother would help people in the neighborhood like Sister Cooper, who would come over every Wednesday for the latest neighborhood gossip. She would update us on who Mr. John, our other neighbor, was sleeping with now and how that old man needed to stop flirting with those girls young enough to be his own daughter. I recall hearing them laugh and my mother telling me I needed to go in my room to play with the new truck my dad had bought for me. Being so curious, I would find a way to creep down the hallway and slide against the wall without her knowing I was still close enough to hear their conversation. After I started to get older, the doctor said I could start

going outside a little bit at a time to see how I would react. It started to work out: first two hours a day, then three and four, but I still wanted to know what was going on in the neighborhood.

One day, when I was supposed to be outside, I heard my mother talking to Sister Cooper about me. I went through the laundry room door and around the house to hear clearly what they were talking about. When I heard what they said, I really didn’t understand what it meant. Apparently, my father thought my mannerisms were really feminine, and he was worried I was spending too much time in the house with my mother. I will never forget what Sister Cooper said that day. She said, “Honey, that boy is going to be fine. Children are always playing with their parents’ things. Don’t worry; Donny loves his parents, and nothing will happen to him.”

As I grew into adolescence, I started to realize that I wasn’t like other boys around my age. I loved playing dress up with my older sister, and I loved having teatime with her best friend Katie from school. We would “play house.” I would be the baby, and they would play old girl friends who had the careers and the money to show for it. I recall a day when I let my nature kick in. I asked them to let me dress up with them and wear mom’s beautiful black and white heels, which I admired every time she had them on for church. My sister said, “Fine, as long as I can pick my Cabbage Patch doll first.”

We started playing. I played Sister Cooper, who told them about the gossip going on around town. They both laughed when I told them Sarah across the street was eating Alpo dog food because she lost her glasses and couldn’t read the label on the can she opened.

Then it happened! That day I knew my dad would figure out who I really am. The door swung open. He looked at me and yelled at the top of his voice, “WHAT IN THE WORLD DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?” My mother came running from the kitchen with her apron and ran down the narrow hallway until she saw the three of us. My dad turned to her and said these

words that I felt imprinted on my heart for eternity: “I knew it! Those doctors didn’t know what they were talking about. Now my son is confused on his sexuality.” My mother tried to get him to calm down, but he wouldn’t listen. For the next four years, my dad attempted to use nurture on me. He tried to teach me manly things like cutting the grass, planting a garden, and even watching sports, which I didn’t mind, although I was watching for all the wrong reasons.

After I graduated from high school, my parents started realizing that maybe their son was different from their other children. They started to understand that it was nature and that being a homosexual isn’t something taught or something one likes to do for fun. Their son was just born that way. Yes, it has been a slow journey for them, but every time they look at me with my radiant silver ring that sparkles in the light of day, they know that I’m still their son and that they gained another one in return who really loves their son.

Make a Long Story Short

Deborah R. Majors

Stop thinking of what you should say. Just spew your truth into the spittoon, and I’ll clean it out later with bleach and gloves, your clue that I won’t believe the wet words, obscene in their need for parading as pure. Or write me a letter that’s easy to burn in the backyard fire pit, an outdoor verdict made for yarn spinners to spurn.

Try whimpering whispers if you like, but know they won’t get you anywhere but where you’ve already been. Try strumming catgut strings to songs disenchanted, meant to ensnare

forgiveness that’s lost on deaf ears long bruised. Pack your bags. From my presence you’re excused.

Baby Bird

Eric Farmer

He took me under his wing, custom tailored with matching hat and taught me how to feed on worms, to strut through meetings showing everyone the pecking order.

At first I had to scavenge, eating the scraps he left hanging, doing paperwork for those that surrendered, who cracked under the pressure like snail shells under his beak.

I grew wings from newspapers and magazines. I had a corner office, a pair of beautiful secretaries, power ties and gaudy rings. My own gilded cage to look down from, perched high above streets and lights.

After feast comes famine, and we scoured the streets for maggot-filled hosts. He told me to be patient. But an icy talon would wriggle down my back when I knew he was watching, waiting for news, sitting at his post.

As I left his office, he grabbed my hand. He smiled and shook it, cocking his head. “Don’t stray too far,” he warned. His eyes locked in on mine as he gnashed his teeth. “Birds of a feather, flock together.”

To the Republic

Robin Andrews

Please don’t attack the aliens. They did not come on spaceships, and if they arrived on foot, well, they’re not the only ones crossing lines.

Instead, criticize the offices upheld by gold and those whose powdered wigs and beauty marks mock the growling hillside, our stomachs and minds moved to riot with pointed pitchforks.

Still, we wouldn’t care if there weren’t a seed of how good days could be. Saying, “Off with their heads!” only leads to uproar.

We only have so much time, space like a small cabbage patch, left on our clockwork hands.

Professor Griffith: He Was My Teacher

Deborah R. Majors

Constitution Test!

My first introduction to Mr. Griffith via my Collegiate High School nephew: “Hardly anyone passed!” But never a negative word about the teacher. Hard teachers usually draw harsh personal comments from students, but not Mr. Griffith. He was loved.

Two nephews, one son, and a brother later, I discovered for myself why— what the Professor Wendell Griffith legendary experience was all about in American civilization, three very short hours every Friday morning, NWFSC:

One must learn while in his presence, not because one had to, but because it was inevitable. He drew us in willingly by asking the tough questions and forcing a response of some kind whether in agreement or strong defiance, but no middle-of-the-roaders tolerated. We had to be ready to back up what we said in his class, or flawed premises would be pointed out, usually with humor, but always with a guiding hand, firm, fair, and frequent.

He was loved because: He made us listen; He made us laugh; He made us think;

He made us read; He made us laugh; He made us study; He made us write; He made us laugh; He made us speak; He made us want to stand toe to toe and eye to eye with Professor Griffith, and if you did, he’d pat you on the back and shake your hand, and ask if you wanted a beer.

Wendell Griffith taught history at Northwest Florida State College for twenty-four years. He died on June 12, 2012.

• Blackwater Review

live dangerously

Deborah

R. Majors

today:

let the toilet paper roll flow under instead of over

don’t make the bed

go the speed limit put a period after your signature

check email once

don’t dot your i’s

drink straight from the milk carton

squeeze out the teabag with two spoons instead of that stringed paper tag

drive a different route to work without talking look straight into my eyes

one full minute

At the Bottom of the Hill

Alex Hencinski

And as he tumbled down the hill falling through space and the green grass of May, he thought about June and her red-orange sunsets that beautifully framed the lovely face of July, whose crystal blue skies met the turquoise sea in a wisp of clouds and a swirl of spray which dissolved into the earthy brown hands of August when he combed back the sheets of September and rested while Autumn fell and Winter passed until Spring finally threw open the drapes with soft rain and warm sunlight and gentle birdsong seeping through the windows of the house at the bottom of the hill.

Lost in you

Lost in You

John Stackpoole

Any voiceless winter morning

Any brazing summer afternoon

Any affectionate spring draft

Any lamentation of rain

Any stifling ray of sunlight

I’m lost in you

Every time the sun greets me

Every meal I relish

Every sweater I haul over

Every letter I dive into

Every musical note that transcends me

I’m lost in you

All the sadness pinching like a kiss from the frost

All the pain erupting like skin being torn by a shiv

All the happiness uprising like an inextinguishable fire

All the confusion obstructing like the bars before a jail cell

All, every, and any moment when I’m left in solitude

I’m lost in you

Currents

Sarah Stewart

Start here, before I knew you, before you could drift across the border of my dreams, before we sat on seawall’s edge and spoke of love and things that rushed up to our doorstep and retreated in silence so swift and strange leaving behind the brokenness that currents rearrange. See how they sculpt so readily as if to entertain? And time the constant conqueror of all things sharp like pain.

Looking out upon the distance and direction since those days, I see how I have changed: broken shell on window ledge, microcosm in my hand, reminder where hearts once travelled maps drawn across the sand.

The Weaker Sex

Deborah R. Majors

She prepares her bait bucket: black leather miniskirt, seal skin soft; strategically unbuttoned satin blouse, ocean blue; fishnet stockings; four inch stilettos, swordfish sharp; and coral lipstick, wet and glossy.

Ready for the cast, just one drop of feminine blood lures them from across the room and beyond to dance the expected frenzy, nipping at her ear, tasting margarita sea salt, circling, circling.

When she’s ready, she makes her selection, grabs the chosen dorsal fin, and brings him home for play in the great white bathtub.

Free Runner

Emily Heasley

Liz’s footsteps echoed through the gloomy cul-de-sac, her shoes pounding against the pavement. Twilight was settling in a purple blush over the street, and the January wind whipped her dark hair. Looking back, she could see the yellow glow of her bedroom window. It shrank, swallowed into the cool shadows, and then vanished. She kept running. She raced into the yard in front of her, flying over the brown grass and toward the fence that separated the unlit houses. She jumped, her sneakers connecting about three feet up the wooden planks with a loud thud. Her fingers curled around the tops of the musty boards, and in one clean motion, she pulled herself up and over the fence. She hit the damp ground on the other side, stopping only for a moment before taking off into the dark again and vaulting over the chain-link fence at the back of the property. She dashed into the woods, the sound of her running muffled by the heavy layer of leaves on the ground. Liz placed her palm on a moss-covered log as she hopped over it. The wind muttered in her ears, accompanied by the rustle of oak and maple branches. She wished, in a whisper carried off by the breeze, that she could have more moments like this. Her life had been nothing but bills, budgets, and debts for months now. Behind her, in the smolder of cheap floor lamps, her roommates were probably still bickering. She could practically hear Ruby wailing about her shitty job at the used bookstore and how she had asked for a raise, but her boss was a stingy old prick. Adrian would be sitting on the couch, rolling her eyes and commenting about how she managed to juggle a part-time job and school, how she just couldn’t understand why she always came up with her part of the rent and Ruby never did. Liz imagined the front door still hanging open and wondered if her boyfriend Trey would still be standing in the

Liz weaved her way through a tangle of vines and jumped up onto a rocky outcropping. She climbed hand over hand up the pile of boulders, fingertips pressing hard against the cool stone. She reached the top and let her feet carry her down the hill that met the top of the rock formation. She bounded over a small creek and darted in between thinning trees and finally through the forest and into town. Streetlights highlighted her form as she rushed across the asphalt.

What if they couldn’t come up with the rest of the rent? Liz swallowed hard and kept moving, turning into a small alley way and clambering up a low wall. Whom would she go back to? She had been shuffled around so much in the years since her parents had died that she didn’t know whom she could count on. Her aunt had said, before Liz left, that the door was always open. But that was all the way back in Minnesota. She would have to try and transfer to another college there. She would have to say goodbye to bad horror movie night with Adrian, and three a.m. runs to the Tom Thumb would be a thing of the past. She would have to leave Trey behind. Liz stumbled her way around a corner. With trembling legs, she regained her balance and kept going. Even with things like Skype and unlimited texting, she wasn’t sure the relationship could survive the distance. Clearly, trips from Minnesota to Georgia wouldn’t be in her budget.

Liz clambered through a gap in the railing of a handicapped ramp. Her heart was pounding against her sternum, and sweat began to sting her eyes. Her legs kept moving. Some force pushed her to flow and glide through the obstacle course of the suburbs, something buried inside. She raced down the ramp and leaped over the small concrete median that ran between the office building behind her and the Blockbuster ahead of her. All she thought about was getting from A to B now, just tracing a path through her environment.

She pulled herself up onto a wall that blocked off the

Heasley • 85 yard. She could see him standing in the yard like some wideeyed lawn gnome.

playground near the public library. She stood for a moment, staring at the mulch that covered the ground around the slide and swings. She readied herself to jump, one foot hovering out in space. Then, with a long sigh, she lowered herself and sat atop the wall. She had to catch her breath. Above her, the stars were twinkling like glass on a sidewalk. The air chilled her lungs and her cheeks. She pulled her hood up and looked out at the sky.

The thought of the rent crept into Liz’s mind again. Her vision blurred with tears, and she rubbed at her eyes with red knuckles. When she had left Minnesota, she swore she wouldn’t go back. There had never been anything there for her. Now it felt like her old life of learning new names and faces, of ever-changing addresses, was trying to take away what she had worked so hard for. Here she had finally made real friends. A few more classes and she would have her architectural history degree. Next week was going to be her and Trey’s one year anniversary. Liz covered her face with her hands. The sound of cars pulling into driveways and doors closing drifted up from the houses behind her. Their echoes rattled around in her skull for a while.

The soft glow of dusk gave way to the moody blue-black of night. Liz dropped down from the wall and walked across the playground. Bits of mulch and dirt crunched under her feet. The wind picked up. She closed her eyes, and her legs carried her off into the dark, guiding her over the urban terrain, over the confines of walls and concrete and past due bills. At least she had this, this feeling of flight, which no one could take from her.

Logged in on LIVE

Emily Heasley

When the start screen loaded on life, they told me, “Pick a difficulty.” I decided to play on insanity mode. Not to show off, not for the challenge, but because it sounded more interesting than normal. But I’ll tell you it isn’t for amateurs because while some may play their games as RPGs I’ve booted up a survival horror first-person epic sandbox brawl.

See, while Commander Shepard was ripping through Reapers, I was shooting down depression, PTSD, anxiety. Necromorphs? Isaac, please. Try Ivan, Opal, Dennis, Katrina. Ezio Auditore was assassinating Templars as I tempered the toxic words of a hundred bull-rushing bullies. Sure, ship me off to Bright Falls. Send me to Silent Hill. Pyramid Head and the Taken are kittens compared to the monsters I’ve crushed. I lived through worse horrors than any Enderman could bring: The murder of a friend. My grandmother’s funeral. No boss or baddies, Big Daddies or Locusts scare me.

High school drop out turned Hero of Time with twenty credits in one year. Achievement unlocked: Graduated With Honors. College classes racked up quicker than my gamer score. Thinking with Portals ain’t hard for me.

Dovahkin of pottery, painting, and prose. Fingers flying down frets faster than any Guitar Hero. I’m so grossly incandescent, can you keep up?

So bring on the battles because this is only level 20. Set me up with some ammo, a health pack and a tough co-op partner. Throw me Blights and super mutants. Show me zombies, infected. I can take it all. When it comes to ranked matches, I’m number one.

First Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2013

Values

Emily Heasley

It was the first time I could name the sunrise, the first time I could really see it. A week before, I could only grasp at colors. I knew in some places the sky burned like fire and others were softer, like the petals of an orchid. But I couldn’t name any of it. Now though, I knew. Red, orange, purple, blue, tints I had yet to discover, swirled in the sky around me. And I had Edwin and a crayon, to thank.

I had been working for several days on my latest project. My sponsor wanted me to do some perspective drawings of the government buildings located throughout the city, so I had been out snapping photographs as reference. When I printed out my photos and started sketching, however, I found that something was missing. The sky, in all my work, was empty and lacking. So I tried to fix it. I shaded, smudged, erased, redrew, but nothing worked. Nothing added that missing whatever to the sky.

And so three days before my deadline, I sat glowering at my sketches and drumming my fingers on the edge of my easel. It is the great curse of all artists to be their own worst critics, and for those of us who are perfectionists, it’s hell. That is why I knew, after days of toiling over the same piece of paper, I was fighting a losing battle. I sighed, stood, and walked through my one-room apartment and out onto the tiny balcony. Floors below, little dots of earth tone moved over fog-grey sidewalks. Black-and-white vehicles rolled down the slate road. The sterile white office building across the way winked its window eyes in the sunlight. I looked up. The sky stretched out, crisp and clear above the depthless city. I wanted to reach up and pluck a tiny pinch of sky between my fingers. I wanted to smear it onto my drawing and fill the flat, abyssal space on the paper. Or if not that, at least know what that wonderful color was.

We had lived in a colorless world for decades. The government had taken it all away to try and make balance. They believed that color, difference, expression created unrest. All that was allowed was black, white, and grey. The only variations were within the people. Skin colors, eyes, hair, but nothing else. No hair dye, make-up, nail polish. And no art. Until recently, anyway. In the past decade, the government had begun to hire artists to create under their supervision. And, like everything else, we worked within the monochrome.

I turned and went back inside, socked feet slipping over cheap grey linoleum before finding the safety of the fraying rug that sprawled out across my “living room.” My old armchair groaned as I lowered myself into it. From across the room, the dark smears on my drawing glared at me. I gazed back, squinting slightly to make sure what I had shaded so far was readable. Our staring contest was interrupted by a t-tap at the front door.

“Hello, Mr. Pike,” the man on the other side of my door said as I opened it. He looked like he was in his early forties and was average in almost every sense of the word, from his pressed suit to his mostly neat black hair. He pointed to the dark dust that had settled on my light grey jeans. “Hard at work, I see.”

“Uh, yeah,” I wiped some of the charcoal off my clothes. “Can I help you?”

“I believe you can.” The stranger brushed past me and made a bee line for my drawing area. He studied the half-finished sketch for a moment before he looked over his shoulder at me. “Or rather, we can help each other.”

The door clicked quietly as I shut it. I watched as my uninvited guest sat in my tired white recliner. I remained by the door. Like the apartment was his and he had invited me in, he motioned for me to sit. I sat on one of the wobbly bar stools next to the counter that served as my dining table. He watched me like a scientist watches a rat in a maze. I cleared my throat.

“So, uh, did my sponsor send you?”

“In a way, I suppose,” he replied.

“I’m sorry. I feel like I should know you, but I don’t think

we’ve met. Or maybe I don’t re-”

“We’ve never met.”

“Oh.” Now honestly, I don’t make a habit of letting odd people come into my house. Number one, I don’t get many visitors, and number two, I don’t think any sane person just allows weirdoes to wander into their home. But this guy was interesting, in a Matrix sort of way. I crossed my arms. “So then…”

“My name is Edwin. I assume that’s what you were wondering?” He raised one eyebrow ever so slightly.

I nodded. Edwin smirked. His smile reminded me of an alligator’s.

“Mr. Pike, I’m interested in your work. That’s why I’m here.”

“I wasn’t aware I had a fan base.” The stool tilted back and the short leg thudded against the floor.

“Hmm,” Edwin smiled wider. “All artists have fans because art will always be admired. At least, that’s what I think.” He leaned back in his chair. “But I’m not here for an autograph. I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Sure. Shoot,” I said, uncrossing and re-crossing my arms. “I guess.”

Slowly, Edwin rose to his feet, his movements smooth and mechanical. He crossed the dingy carpet and scratched flooring, his hand reaching into the pocket of his jacket. As he stood in front of me, I felt very small on my rickety stool.

“Have you ever wondered,” he began, hand still tucked in his suit pocket, “What to call the sky?”

The corners of my mouth turned down, “The sky, of course.”

“No, Quinnton, I mean the color.” Edwin held his hand out, uncurling each finger slowly. Resting in the palm of his hand was a cylinder roughly the same length as a matchbox. The object was wrapped in paper and was the same color as a summer horizon.

“What is this?” I took the object from him, turning it over in my hands. I looked at the wrapper. Bold, black letters stood

out against the white wrapper. “B-Blue?”

“Blue. That’s a color. The color of the sky, water, many things.” Edwin clasped his hands behind his back and beamed, his smile less jagged and predatory now.

“Where did you get this?”

Edwin glanced at the door and took three steps backwards. Then he turned. “If you want to learn more,” he said, his polished shoes clip-clicking as he walked towards the exit, “Come and find me.” He slid out of my front door, the lock chirping as he pulled it shut behind him.

I sat there with the oil crayon shimmering in my hand. A thousand questions scampered over each other and fought for attention like a litter of overzealous kittens. Black and white kittens. But there was one that stood out. A blue kitten. I leaped to my feet, nearly tumbling onto the floor in the mad dash for my easel. Throwing myself onto my drawing, I brandished my new color, carefully peeling the white wrapper back just slightly. My hand hovered over the paper. And it lingered there. I looked at the only bright pigment in my entire apartment. The new color kept flying around the confines of my skull like an azure ping pong ball. Blue. Blue. Blue. I set the crayon onto the lip of my easel. My hands dropped into my lap.

I couldn’t do it. I knew that if I used that wonderful, bright blue color, I would be going against everything the government had been trying to accomplish. My dad had worked for the government. I was never really sure exactly what he did. I just knew it involved a lot of paper work. He was always complaining about misfiled forms and things like that. Whatever he did, though, it had instilled in him a staunch respect for the rules, which he instilled with the bluntness of a jackhammer into me. I knew, even though I hadn’t seen him in nearly a year, that the moment I put that crayon to paper, some cosmic force would alert my father to the fact I had just pulled a major no-no. And if my sponsor saw, I would end up roughly the same consistency as one of the blotches of graphite on my clothes.

Heaving a sigh, I carefully covered my artwork with a

piece of newspaper. It was then that I noticed what I thought was writing on the inside wrapper of the crayon. I picked it up, unraveling the paper slowly. Neat, bold handwriting revealed itself. I held the note up to the sunlight that streamed through my window.

“I thought you’d be curious, Mr. Pike. Eight o’ clock, 1220 Greco Boulevard.”

Definitely Matrix level intriguing! I went into my cubicle kitchen and grabbed a box of pizza rolls out of the freezer. If I was going to meet strange people at unknown addresses, I figured I’d better eat something first.

I left my house around seven, armed with a GPS at least as old as I was and equally as neurotic. Four wrong left turns later, I found my way to Greco Boulevard. It wasn’t so much a boulevard as an alley paved with overflowing dumpsters. I edged down the narrow street, eyes fixed to the white numbers painted above the doorways. 1220 happened to be a boarded up minimart.

The bell above the door clanged when I walked in, and at least a dozen pairs of eyes shifted to me. My back pressed against the dirty glass door. Oh boy, this was a bad idea. I began to make mental notes of alternate escape routes and possible weapons. Then I realized that I was pretty well screwed no matter what because I possess absolutely no fighting skills. Luckily for me, Edwin emerged from the back room of the little store. He leaned on the dusty counter that separated us from him.

“Good to see you again,” he said. “Everyone, this is Mr. Quinnton Pike, government-sponsored artist.”

The group looked at me. No longer feeling like I had walked in on some sort of secret meeting (or at least one I wasn’t invited to), I took a moment to study the other people in the room. Most of them were in their early twenties, like me. Some I recognized as fellow artists, and others looked like they had been pulled from the dumpsters outside. There was a gaggle of three teenage girls sitting on top of some milk crates nearest the back door. One guy, who was dark from head to toe,

Heasley • 93

was sprawled out across some heavy duty cardboard boxes, a cigarette smoldering between his lips. I offered a small wave.

“Hey.”

They looked at me like I was speaking Chinese. I sat down on a metal folding chair next to the door and contented myself with staring at my shoes. Edwin laughed. It sounded like the rusting bell above the door.

“We’re expecting a few more. We’ll give them a few more minutes, yes?”

No one said anything. Edwin turned to leave.

“Quinnton, try mingling. No one here is going to bite your head off.”

Doubtful. Edwin disappeared into the back room once more, leaving me in the crushing jaws of social awkwardness. The guy with the cigarette sat up, smoke billowing from his nostrils as he leaned forward. We stared at each other for a split second before the sound of high school giggling drew my attention elsewhere. The three girls in the corner ducked their heads and twittered as I looked at them. Heat crept into my cheeks, and I stared at my feet again.

The bell above my head cla-clinked again, and a young woman about as big around as a stick wandered in. She sat down with the other girls, pulled out a sketch book and began to draw. I noticed, however, that she wasn’t using a regular pencil. I watched the color of fresh grass dance teasingly with each line she made. Slowly I got to my feet, chair grinding against the concrete floor. No one looked up. I tiptoed to where the girls were sitting. The youngest three stared up at me, eyes glittering with stifled laughter. The thin girl kept drawing.

“Uh, excuse me. What color is that?” My voice was barely a whisper. She turned her head.

“Hmm?”

“I was just wondering,” I pointed to the pencil resting in her hand. She blinked slowly; then her face lit up.

“Oh,” she smiled and handed me the colored pencil. “Green. Nice huh?”

“Yeah.” It was hard to see in the wavering fluorescent light, but I studied the pencil for a moment before passing it back to her. “So, uhm, I’m-“

“Quinnton. Edwin mentioned you’d be showing up tonight. You prefer Quinnton or Quinn?”

I wondered for a moment how long Edwin had been planning to contact me. “Uh, Quinn’s good.”

She nodded. “I’m Lia, short for Amelia. So, what color you get?”

I hadn’t let my crayon out of sight since that afternoon. It suddenly felt like a very large rock in my jacket pocket. What if she wanted my new color? What if she took it? She had trusted me with her green pencil though. Frowning, I reached into my jacket and produced the blue crayon. Lia’s eyes lit up.

“Ooh, that’s neat. I don’t think I’ve seen that one. What’s it called?”

“Blue.”

“Blue,” Lia crossed her arms, hugging her sketch book to her chest, and nodded slowly. “Sounds right.”

Metallic chiming rang behind me. More people. I turned in time to see a stout guy in a white trench coat take my seat by the door. I sighed and was about to resign myself to standing when Lia pulled a large plastic bucket out from under a nearby shelf.

“You can hang out with me,” she said.

I lowered myself onto the bucket with a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. No sooner had I gotten settled than Edwin reappeared from the dark.

“Everyone’s here? Excellent.” Edwin stepped out from behind the counter. “Let’s get under way.”

The atmosphere in the room morphed. The cigarette smoke cleared; no one laughed or smacked their gum; even the dust seemed to sit and stare at Edwin. I toyed with the crayon in my pocket.

“Tonight’s the night, friends. But before we jump headlong into the good stuff, I would like to introduce our latest comrade

to those who just joined us.” He waved towards me. “This is Mr. Quinnton Pike.”

This time I didn’t wave. Lia nudged me with her elbow and almost knocked me off my bucket.

“Pleasantries aside then,” Edwin said, “Tonight we will begin.”

I raised my hand. “Begin what, exactly?”

Edwin looked ready to answer, but Lia beat him to it.

“We’re getting back the colors.” She held up her green pencil and waved it back and forth.

As far as I knew, all the art supplies had been destroyed back when the government cracked down on creativity. At least anything that wasn’t black or white. I swiveled my gaze around to Edwin, eyebrow quirked. “How?”

That reptilian grin drew itself on his face. “Follow me.” It was a little after ten by the time we had reached the warehouse. I imagined a group the size of ours might draw suspicion nowadays, but before then, no one seemed to think a group of fifteen plus, all toting large backpacks, was odd. There weren’t that many people out anyway, and there didn’t seem to be a soul about by the time we reached the hulking metal building. We stood around Edwin like a group of elementary students on a field trip.

“I’ve kept things quiet up until now, but I won’t keep you in the dark any longer. The plan tonight is simple. We are going to break into this place and steal as much as we can.”

Muttering broke out, which Edwin silenced with a wave of his hand.

“All that you will need to do is walk in and fill up your bags. Quinnton and Amelia will be taking care of the hard part.”

“We will?” This was sounding less enticing by the second. Edwin threw me a pair of wire cutters which I managed to catch just before they hit the ground.

“All you have to do,” he grinned, “is cut the power. The box is around back. Once you’ve done that, slip inside the building and unlock the front door. The rest will fall into place.”

Lia and I exchanged confused glances. Nothing like the possibility of criminal charges to make an exciting evening. She spun around on her heel, making her way towards the back of the building. I trailed behind, casting worried glances back at the others before slipping around the corner.

“Looks like Edwin likes picking on us freshies, huh?” She laughed quietly before heading into the dark.

“It seems like you’ve done this before.” I tossed the wire cutters from one hand to the other. “Not this like breaking and entering, I mean. Like you’re not new to this. Or something.” I silently wondered why I was stupid. Lia shook her head and grinned.

“You mean this isn’t my first secret meeting? You’re right. Edwin asked me to join up about two weeks ago.”

“Oh. So, he never told you guys this plan thing before now?”

She shook her head. “He just talked to us. He said that life without color or creativity isn’t life. It’s not living. It’s just existing.”

I thought about that for a second and found myself thinking of a time when I asked my dad about the sunset when I was really young. I asked why it wasn’t black and white, like everything else. He stared at me with a glare that could have melted steel.

“You don’t need to know that,” he said. But I had to. I asked again, and he said, “Don’t ever ask about colors again. They don’t matter anymore.”

“Yo, Quinn, you gonna cut the power?”

“Huh?” Lia was looking at me expectantly. I looked from her to the power box. “Oh, yeah.”

There was no lock on the box. I unhinged the latch and the little panel swung open with a metal squeal. The jumble of wires inside looked like grey-scale snakes. I turned to Lia.

“Which one should I cut?”

“Yes,” she said. I stared at her and she rolled her eyes. “All of them.”

“Oh.” I poised the wire cutters around one of the lines. That feeling, though, that watchful feeling of my father, washed over me. Colors don’t matter anymore, I thought. No. Not me. It was my dad’s voice in my head. You’ll get in trouble, a lot of trouble. Can you even imagine how much trouble, Quinn?

My hand dropped to my side, the cutters falling to the ground. I turned to look at Lia, but she had already stooped down and snatched the tool off the ground. She glowered at me before grabbing a fist full of wires and slicing through them. The slivers of light coming through the windows on either side of us died.

“Sorry,” I said, looking down, but Lia was already making her way towards the nearest window.

After using the wire cutters to break the lock, the two of us hoisted ourselves through the window. The inside of the warehouse was pitch black. Footsteps and shouting echoed through the building. We could hear doors opening and closing. Then silence. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see the outlines of shelves that reached almost to the ceiling. Lia tapped me on the shoulder.

“Should I get the door, or can you handle it?” Even in the dark I could tell she was still giving me the evil eye.

“I’ll get it.”

I skittered across the room, dodging the towering shelves and crates arranged maze-like around the room. When I reached the opposite wall, I felt along it until I found the door. The lock resisted but snapped open after a hard twist. The door swung out to reveal Edwin and the others, armed with flashlights.

“Well done,” Edwin said, strolling inside. The beam of his light swept the floor. “It’s all yours, my friends. Have fun.”

For a second, no one moved. Then the short guy in the white coat directed his light to one of the shelves. Can upon can of spray paint in countless colors glistened under the beam. There was a collective gasp. More rays of light revealed paint, pencils, and pastels. The trio of high school girls led the charge, racing inside and stuffing their bags with some of everything.

The rest of the group dispersed and began their raid. I stood there, next to Edwin.

“You knew this was here?” I took a few tentative steps forward. He grinned and handed me his flashlight.

“I used to be a guard here, when I was your age,” his eyes glittered in the dark. “That’s what got me thinking about whether the government had the right idea or not.”

“So, that was an easy decision for you?”

Edwin shrugged. “Every artist knows that you don’t see your values clearly until they are next to one another.”

With that, Edwin stepped back through the doorway. I stared at him, but he just waved me towards the shelves. I wandered into the warehouse, the beam from my flashlight sweeping back and forth. I walked down an aisle with colored pencils, opening a pack and reading each color aloud. The sounds of laughter bounced off the metal walls. Packages and boxes rattled as they were stuffed into backpacks. I walked on, past oils and acrylics, watercolors. Then I spotted the oil pastels. The blue crayon in my pocket felt heavy again. I took the empty bag hanging from my shoulder and opened it. Then I joined the frenzy.

Within fifteen minutes we had reassembled around Edwin, each of us with bags ready to burst. Most everyone was chattering loudly, but Lia and I stood in silence.

“Now what?” Lia finally asked. The group fell silent.

“Now,” Edwin said, scanning each of our faces in the bluish darkness, “create.”

We stood there, quiet, like statues. Edwin then bowed his head, turned, and walked away. No one moved for what felt like hours. Then we all divided and went our separate ways.

“Create,” I said softly, as I turned another corner on my way home.

The wind blew softly, sending a stray piece of paper skipping along the sidewalk. Who was going to see anything I made? If I gave something to my sponsor in color, well, I wouldn’t have a sponsor anymore, for starters. Another piece

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of paper fluttered down the street and grabbed onto my leg. I reached down and plucked it off my jeans. Thick green lines, forming great twisting figures, stared up at me from the white paper. I looked up from the drawing, eyebrows knit together. I walked a little farther, poking my head around the wall of a hulking white corporate building and peering into the alley. There was Amelia, plastering the walls with colorful drawings from her sketch book.

“What are you doing?” I stepped into the alley, blocking the view from anyone who might walk by.

She looked up from what she was doing, the grin glued to her face shining in the dark. “Creating,” she said as she flung her arms towards the sky. Several more colored drawings fluttered down the alley and escaped onto the street.

I watched quietly as she slapped another poster up with gusto. If this is what Edwin had meant, he was asking too much. No one was allowed color. No one. Just black and white. Dull, boring black and white. Lia continued her work, her smile never fading.

A world without color, was that really living? Or was it just existing like Edwin said? I turned and looked at the white walls of the massive building. Colors don’t matter anymore, right?

I slipped my back pack off my shoulder and set it on the ground. The zipper opened easily, and from inside the bag, several oil crayons tumbled out and littered the ground with spots of color. I grabbed one, held it in the fizzling glow of the street lamps. Amelia looked up. She stood, feet away from me, tense, like she was holding her breath.

Screw what anyone else said. Color mattered. It mattered to me.

The crayon left a long, bold blue line as I dragged it over the surface of the building. I pulled it across the wall, making some sort of squiggly shape. Then I stepped back. Nothing happened. My father didn’t materialize out of thin air to reprimand me. No weight of guilt crashed on top of me. I started to laugh. Next to me, Lia started to chortle, too. Soon the two of us filled the

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alley with whooping and peals of laughter as I scrawled more lines onto the wall.

Now this was living.

We covered the alley, then moved around to the front of the building. I began to feel each color as I became more familiar with it. The bright cymbal crashes of yellow, the heat of orange and red, the velvet sleekness of purple, all were under my command. I etched shapes, sometimes making nothing, sometimes drawing people and animals or whatever else came to mind. Lia worked alongside me, slapping up more posters. We made our way up the street, blanketing the buildings with murals. By the time the sky grew soft and the first touches of pink tickled the edge of the horizon, we had drawn our way back to my apartment building.

As the sun found its way through the city blocks, we could see where others from our group had been working. The city lay blanketed in art and the bright colors of the sunrise. And, even though I knew our work would be scrubbed away within a matter of days, even though I knew what I had done, by government standards, was wrong, I was happy. I was alive. After all, artists know that they don’t see their values clearly until those values are next to one another.

The Magic of a Firefly

Jean Moody

my memory has an emptiness as a garden bare of flowers

like a butterfly thirsts for sweet nectar my memory needs to be fed

my memory has a stillness as a wading bird patiently waits for prey

like a whale beached on the water’s edge my memory needs a clear pathway

like a ripple of waves lapping the shore my memory wanes and fades

oh, to stir emotions and revive my memory of stunning pristine imagery stored—

I’ve felt the magic of holding in my small cupped hands, a firefly, just to glimpse its golden glow

Snore Like a Tugboat Horn

Jocelyn Donahoo

He snores like a tugboat sounding its horn as it hauls an oil barge ashore.

His cyclic respirations with a nine-second cessation keep me wide awake and on full observation.

He awakens tired, irritable, and peeved after wrestling bits of tormented sleep.

When his complaint of fatigue is finally relieved with a mask and forceful air hose covering his nose, I rejoice!

And yet, there’s only one regret. Darth Vader is sleeping next to me.

One Drop

Katie Rendon Kahn

My daughter’s skin is like cinnamon. She’s got Bangkok black hair and a Navajo nose that complements her full African-American lips. She is the epitome of beauty.

I hope she never has to hear that “One drop of this makes you that,” but if she does, I hope she smiles and says, “Oh, I got a drop of this and that.”

I wish that everyone could see the invisible lines that connect us, but most people call those lines borders. So, if she ever has to hear, “Go back where you came from.”

I hope she remembers that where she comes from is drops of sweat off her great-great grandfather’s forehead as he picked cotton in Georgia. She comes from tears her ancestors wept as they were forced to walk The Trail of Tears.

She comes from drops of blood her grandmother shed after traveling from Bangkok just to give birth to her father on American soil. She comes from seeds my great grandfather carried across the Atlantic so that his family wouldn’t starve to death like people back in Ireland.

I hope she never looks racism in its ugly eye, but if she does, I hope she throws her shoulders back and says, “I am an American. This is where I belong,” because this was Indian land built with slave blood

and European dreams.

When she looks around her, she’ll see Bangkok black hair and Navajo noses, kiss with her full African-American lips and love with her human heart.

She will never see people the way her ancestors did. But instead, find one drop of herself in everyone she meets because she is a multiracial goddess with skin like cinnamon.

Memoirs of a Texaco Clerk

Josh Hart

In my junior year of high school I became completely and utterly terrified at the thought of my monetary future. College was coming up, and I had yet to ever hold a paying job or own a car. This anxiety sparked a short, and eventually fruitless, job search. At the time, my mother worked in a water testing facility. Being car-less, I decided that the best place to find a job was in Niceville, that way I could hitch a ride with my mother. After about a week and a half of job searching, I came across an advertisement for a clerk position at the newly built Texaco station adjacent to a Blockbuster rental store. The ad said 18 and older, but with my college identification card and a surly demeanor, I could easily pass for an 18 year old. I arrived to the job interview, expecting to be rejected because of my lack of experience. Surprisingly, I was hired with no questions asked. The kindly, if slightly drunk, supervisor introduced me to my new coworkers. My troubles began at this very moment, surrounded by shelves of pork rinds and reasonably priced, two-liter beverages.

The young men I would be working with were named Lance and Thomas. Thomas was a rather depressing fellow. With a rotund body and a glazed look in his eye, he would tell us stories about his dead-end life characterized by bouts of depression and an overall atmosphere of misery and woe. These stories elicited groans of aggravation from Lance, who possessed a self -described, “Whining is for pussies” outlook on life. Lance was, for lack of a better term, a bully. He openly detested the customers that visited the store, occasionally being very rude to them if they requested any assistance. For all intents and purposes, I was not fond of Lance or Thomas. Luckily the work was not difficult because all I had to do was make change and smile politely, but Thomas and Lance made

even this very difficult. Working with these people was not all terrible. Both Lance and Thomas possessed a deep and impressive knowledge of pop culture. We would spend endless hours discussing Star Wars, punk music, comic books, and a variety of other subjects. In a rather stereotypical fashion, Thomas was a massive fan of the 1980s Goth band The Cure. When Lance called in sick, Thomas and I would often discuss The Cure’s extensive back catalog. Robert Smith’s heartfelt vocals, chiming guitar, and relatable lyrics were all things that appealed to lost, sad young men like us. These conversations acted as a balm for the burn of living in toil-filled suburbia. As refreshing as these conversations were, they would not be enough to override the horrendous presence of some of the customers.

I will not go into detail here as the stories of my encounters with these people are long and winding, but I will discuss two particular instances that stood out in my mind. On a windswept Friday afternoon, a man walked into our store. He was wearing the camouflaged garb of a hunter. This was no surprise to me; living in Florida had made me accustomed to seeing hunters around town. What made this encounter so horrendous was the fact that I had chosen to wear a PETA shirt. I am a staunch vegan and a lover of animals, but I understand the act of hunting for food. This man did not share the same respect for differing opinions than I had. He accosted me, yelling rude epithets about environmental faggots and commie tree huggers. Lance had heard this commotion while mopping the floor. Without a moment’s hesitation, he stepped forward, suddenly swinging his yellow Walkman by the headphones like some ancient, club-wielding warrior. It struck the side of the hunter’s face, ejecting a Ramones cassette tape onto the wet tile floor. The hunter ran out the door, vowing to take this incident up with the police, a threat that never reared its ugly head. Lance and I had a mutual respect after that, some might even say a friendship.

The second customer that left an impression on me was an old woman. She had come in silently, making a beeline for

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the milk aisle. She studied the gallon like a painter would study an unfinished canvas. She shook the carton, licked it, and even rolled it on the floor. I watched her in silent amazement. Why did the carton of milk mean so much to this fragile old lady? After half an hour of watching her test the milk, I began to consider calling the police. Before I could make the call, she came to the counter and purchased that carton of milk. Experiences like these led to some intriguing questions. What exactly was I doing with my life? I was sixteen, car-less, angry, and dejected, but a part of me wanted to succeed. I thought about my coworkers, other directionless, young men who happened to coalesce at a Texaco station in the middle of nowhere. By all accounts we should be enemies, but we were able to bond over such paltry things as Star Wars. We were the Internet generation, constantly bombarded with pop culture and the private lives of celebrities. We were cynical, capable of abstract thought but choosing not to use it, and thoroughly alone. In a way this was the best job I ever had. It was tedious, fruitless, and sad, but it made me realize the faults and pros of my own generation. We were pop culture obsessed, lazy, sad, kind, and disappointed. Most importantly, however, we were clerks.

• Blackwater Review

Second & Main

Michele Moore

A newspaper sits on his lap. His ash-white shirt is stiffly pressed, his legs buried in scratchy charcoal wool. The corners of his temples damp with sweat, his skin hanging off him like wet clothes on a clothesline. In his wheelchair is a lifeless battery.

He’s been stalling on the corner of 2nd and Main, alone. And maybe it’s because he reminds me of Grandpa, I jump out of my Ford and sprint to his side. The old man sits still as I try to shove him and his 100 pound motorized lifeline up an incline of asphalt towards the nearest socket for a recharge. He smiles in thanks, his wrinkles deep, the deepest around his crow’s feet.

I can assure, it was no problem at all. Two weeks later, Mom tosses the paper onto my lap. My old friend on page five, struck down on Second and Main.

My World

Katherine Ammon

Dozens of camouflaged trucks and dilapidated minivans crowd outside the building. A single, shiny BMW glides into the flock, a swan among pelicans. Their passengers emerge: equally camouflaged drunks, soccer moms, and their poorly wrangled mess of children, and, from the BMW, a mildly interested and artificially bosomed housewife. The architecture before them is far more than a simple piece of construction. It is a blue-andgold miracle, a superstructure designed to surpass any other creation for miles. It is a Walmart.

For them and the rest of us, the Walmart (yes, “the” Walmart, as it is still the lone settler of our lands) is a god amongst dollar stores. My friends and I go there for entertainment, as more refined folk might visit an opera house. If it is a fancy night, we might visit the Chick-fil-A, the crème de la crème of fast-food restaurants, for dinner. That type of outing might sound somewhat embarrassing, but I come from a small town, the kind where churches dot every other street corner. On the alternate corners, a sizeable portion of our population works as sign spinners, whirling colorful advertisements for cheap pizza and authentic knock-off purses. Their absurdly enthusiastic dancing is both amusing and pitiable, which can likely be attributed to their love of strumming their signs like electric guitars. We all have to make minimum wage somehow. However, there is an even stranger resident of my town, endemic to the bordering Redneck Riviera, or the Gulf of Mexico as those uppity geographers might say. This breed is referred to as “Boggy.” While not everyone here is Boggy, we all know a Boggy. A Boggy is a specialized version of Jeff Foxworthy’s ideal redneck, and his influence can be seen disseminated among our otherwise unremarkable landscape. A visitor might note a charming rack of antlers atop a vehicle, a camouflage shirt

that fails to conceal the wearer, or a brand-new Confederate flag, despite the fact that the Civil War ended almost a hundred and fifty years ago. Perhaps the most egregious result of the Boggies’ stay here is the annual Mullet Festival. For the uninformed reader, the mullet is a slimy two-pound fish that is as repugnant as the homonymous hairstyle. We celebrate its supposed majesty with three days of alcohol, fried food, and country music concerts because the mullet is all about Carrie Underwood. God bless the Boggies!

As for the remaining natives, we put forth our best attempts at elegance. In other cities, cops are often depicted munching on glazed doughnuts and sipping the bittersweet brew of the local coffee shop. Our cops are essentially the same (no grizzled Clint Eastwoods here), but they are patrons of a higher establishment than some scuzzy old coffee shop! Behold, for in my town we have the almighty Coffee Shoppe. Notice the swanky second P, whose curves are accentuated by that near-circular E. What barbarians would ever consider dropping such classy and superfluous letters? In addition to our Shoppe, we also have a boutique! It’s a Tiffany’s store, as in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Yes, those two stores are pronounced exactly the same! Of course, our Tiffany’s is one of flimsy sandals and garish dresses, not the posh jewelry store that Holly Golightly frequented. The point is, our store sounds like it is. If I stand outside its storefront with pastry in hand and eyes shut tight, for just a moment I feel like that extroverted incarnation of Audrey Hepburn. After that, I feel sad—very, very sad.

For those seeking less secular diversions, we have a thriving religion in this town, one on par with Southern Baptism. It’s known as High School Football. I have heard that there are numerous sects of High School Football present in communities across the country, each with a different animal symbolizing its particular denomination. I highly doubt that these congregations are nearly as impassioned as our fellowship because practically everyone here is involved! Business signs, whether they are in front of a fast-food joint or a lawyer’s office,

reflect the recent successes or setbacks of our Team, a small number of maroon-clad saints. We choose a different group of saints to venerate each year, and, for several months, we focus our attention on a pristine rectangle of trimmed grass where these young men’s dreams play out. Some of the less reverent spectators like to offer suggestions as the Team performs on the field. These are usually spoken with blasphemous language or an occasional reference to Remember the Titans, one of High School Football’s most sacred parables. Regardless of the occasional zealotry, the joy of following High School Football is positively transcendental.

When football season ends for the year, some of us dabble in the fine arts. Once, a boy-band came to our music hall (Note: Here, music hall is synonymous with our community college’s theatre). The All-American Rejects’ performance was our equivalent of a real hair-flinging, head-banging concert. Admittedly, they brought bongo drums and an acoustic guitar for a more organic performance, but some of their hit songs were still recognizable. The night was politely raucous and frenzied; the front few rows even hinted at the formation of a mosh pit. Shockingly, we needed an usher to escort one audience member out, thanks to her attempted grope of the lead singer. The fervent young fan put up quite a fight with the grandmother of two. Happenings like that can remain savory gossip for quite some time around here.

Isn’t that the legacy of small towns, after all? Stuck. Stuck between the good ole days and the cosmopolitan tomorrow. Stuck between the sophisticated big city and the bucolic countryside. Here, the teenagers are always chanting their anthem, “I can’t wait to get out,” as though their past here is shameful or unsightly, yet they always seem to return home. Our town is just the vanilla ice cream to a metropolis’ triple chocolate rocky road. While there is no denying the decadence of the latter, something is humbling about the unadorned, uncluttered vanilla. After all, it’s still dessert. Some might call my town backwards, others charming. To me, it is simply my world.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

Katie Rendon Kahn

Warm water, lavender lather: this will soothe your baby boy.

Soiled soles and dirty toes: we can wash your mischief away.

Sticky fingers, messy mouth: I can guess what you ate today.

You still smell like someone else, but we’ll wash her away with J & J.

I’ll cocoon you in kisses and bedtime wishes before tucking you in to turned down sheets.

Tomorrow I’ll wake you and drop you with her and hope that you smile when you see me return.

Cup of Tea

Deborah R. Majors

In red letters, #1 Mom is written across an extra large white cup, two Lipton teabags for steeping in boiling water--five minutes to be exact, then add milk and those four sugars that give an extra boost to face a Florida day.

Stir, smell, sip. Warm fluid of my adult-every-morning tastes like childhood after school with my mother, a cupper and a piece of marmalade toast in an English 17th-century-thatched-roof cottage.

Except now I hear no familiar warning, and I don’t have to hurry these last few swallows of pekoe-blended bliss, for Daddy won’t be home any minute, and I no longer have to gauge his mood.

To Be Blind

Corrine Akins

They were arguing again, throwing vicious insults at each other. Their words stamp down the stairs, reaching us. Elizabeth frowns at the television. She never moves. I stare as if she were a specimen in a science class, pinned down to be inspected. Upstairs, another hateful strike rips through the air; Elizabeth tightens her fists, and her knuckles turn white.

I feel a twinge in the long scar that twists down my back. The touch of the doctor sewing me back together again stains my memory. So long, it happened so long ago. The couple I had been staying with at the time explained that I had fallen down the stairs. “Falling down the stairs doesn’t normally cause injuries like this. Did she hit something?”

“She fell off her bike!”

Her painfully fake smile, his serious demeanor with an attempt to look concerned, they both made me sick. Everything had to be perfect, including me. They weren’t going to tolerate an unruly foster child. Three words out of me, and I never had to see their faces again: “They did this.”

The truth was so easy. Expressionless, I watched as they were taken away, daring a small smile when I saw their polished reputation placed in handcuffs. I could have laughed. The news of their arrest became too much for my fellow classmates to take. They bombarded me with questions. The teachers never ceased to inform me that it was all going to be okay. When a new family was found in another town, I leapt at the opportunity. I walked away, and I never looked back.

Now I stare at Elizabeth, and I feel only perplexed. Her face has grown pale as her eyes strain to focus on the TV. The shouts of her parents, the broken glass, are far more than she can take. Their argument tears into her rather than each other.

But the sound of their hate may as well be music, for I could dance with relief at every word. It is the worst to expect from them, and that is a marvelous thing.

The Visit

Sandy Heffernan

She sits in an old arm chair her husband found by the side of the road. It’s stained and torn, but she burns holes in the arms with her cigarettes, anyway.

Excited to see me, she jumps out of her chair as black eye makeup streams down her face from the tears in those sky-colored eyes. Her dry, flaky arms and crusted elbows reach out to hold me.

With that raspy voice, she says, “I love you.” “I love you, too, Mom.” We both can’t help but smile.

She’s so loud as she talks and tells me about her life for the hundredth time. Her mouth spewing chicken and coleslaw from the Kentucky Fried dinner I brought. She can’t help cussing, laughing hysterically, and crying. In the background, a crime show is on TV.

This is the most fun she ever has, dressed in her housecoat and slippers spending time with her daughter, not quite escaping those memories of hell as her hand shakes to lift her cigarette.

She looks just like her broken heart, and I have to clench back the tears. How she lives with the pain I’ll never know. She’s just my mom and a beautiful survivor.

Molly’s Day at the Fair

Donna Wilke

Molly looked around. Her family had been there just a second ago. She’d only stopped for a moment to watch a man grilling corn on an open fire. Wearing thick gloves, he picked up the corn, pulled back the husk, and dipped it in a large tub of melted butter. He wrapped the bottom with a paper towel and lifted it up. Streams of butter dripped down, soaking into the golden kernels and the crispy husk. Her mouth watered as it was passed to a waiting customer. Molly licked her lips, “Yum, I want one,” but when she turned to ask her parents, she saw the faces of strangers.

Tears came and dripped down her face. “I’m not a baby,” she said to herself, wiping under her eyes with the back of her hands. Moving in one direction, she studied each passing face, and then she ran the other way. She quit after a while, discouraged, and thought of her family. The crying didn’t stop as she imagined what a great time her brother and sisters were having. “Nobody will even notice that I’m gone. They’ll be too busy doing something fun.” Sulking, she thought about the time her brother Sam saw a demolition derby. He told her about it a million times. He had watched the cars smash into each other as parts flew off, and steam came blowing out from under the hoods of the crunched cars. I’m not going to get to do anything, she fussed more. Being lost was scary but missing out was awful. The state fair was a big treat for the whole family. In the car, the three older kids had talked and bragged about the food, shows, and rides they would experience. Molly listened, wiggling and bouncing in the back seat in the paneled station wagon. Her first trip to the fair was going to be a blast. Marissa and Sam were sitting in the middle seat with their heads together, plotting out how much money they each would spend. Marissa was old enough to baby-sit for their parents’

friends, and Sam mowed the neighbors’ yards this last summer. Molly was leaning forward and hanging on every word.

Her sister Lana, who sat next to her, said, “I’m going to ride the Zipper. It’s the best ride at the whole fair. I’ll ride it twice.” She flipped back her feathered bangs. “You can’t ride it,” she told Molly. “You’re too little; you got to be this tall,” Lana said, putting her hand up to her forehead.

“I’ll ride whatever I want,” Molly took a big breath, sitting taller in her seat.

“Nu uh, cause you’re a baby,” Lana said cocking her head from side to side.

“Can too. I’ll ride it as much as you.” Molly’s lip jutted out. “Nu uh, you’ll have to ride the stupid rides.”

Sam spun around from the middle seat to glare at Lana, “Shut up,” he growled in a low tenor, giving one more threatening look and turned back.

Lana whispered in Molly’s ear. “Babies have to ride the baby rides that aren’t any fun.”

“Mom,” Molly whined, “do I have to ride the baby rides?”

“No one will be riding anything if you don’t stop arguing,” her mother said, never even turning in her seat.

This made all the kids turn and scowl at Molly. Closing her lips tight, she stayed quiet, even after Lana mouthed the word baby and made a pouty face, wiping away pretend tears. Soon, the station wagon was in line for parking, and four noses were stuck to the windows, spying the top of the Ferris wheel. The car finally rolled to a stop, and the kids popped out of the station wagon, eager to get going. Mom and Dad walked unhurried the whole long way, from the parking lot to the main entrance gates.

Molly wished she could just go back to them all there together.

But, now, standing alone, she decided she wasn’t going to act like a baby. Sniffing and wiping her nose, she thought, I can find them. I just need to go where they’d go. Looking around, she saw several large buildings. “Those must be the horse barns,”

and she remembered Lana talking about the different kinds of horses. Lana loved horses.

Moving to the first barn, Molly walked up to the fence with a blue ribbon on its gate. She stepped up on the board and looked down to see an enormous pig. “Boy is he fat.” The pig was marked with huge splotches of black and white. Staring for a while, she supposed he didn’t do much but lie there with a fan blowing on him. She wandered away from the pig, looking for her family.

Crossing to the next building, she stopped to watch as a tall man with a thick black mustache took a pair of clippers and cut the wool from a sheep. That poor thing cried and cried, and it struggled to get loose until it was released. The mustached man stood up and held up the wool, which clung together in one broad piece. She moved closer and touched the wool, thinking it would be soft, but it was scratchy. Next to the sheep pen was the small shed where the wool that had won ribbons was stored. Molly went in and touched them all, but even the first-place wool wasn’t soft. Frowning and disappointed, she dropped her hand.

Walking into the next barn, she passed by black cows, red cows, brown cows, and white cows. There were cows of mixed colors, too, but her favorite was the soft brown one with a black line down its back. She liked its velvety black nose. Stopping, wishing she could reach to stroke it, she watched as its tongue shot out of its mouth and right up its nose. “Yuk,” Molly wrinkled up her face and went outside.

She noticed a loud noise and moved closer. People in the stands were cheering. A tractor with a huge engine pulled a large box. It struggled down the short track, kicking up a giant cloud of dust. The noise it made was so loud, it hurt her head. Hands over her ears, she looked hard at the faces in the crowded stands. Expecting to see her Dad and Sam, she felt let down and surprised when they didn’t appear. Her shoulders slumped as she walked off.

Shuffling down the dirt path, she saw in the distance a

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man who was selling colorful, hand-painted tee shirts. He grasped a small, tube-looking thing with a trigger that made a swishing sound. An older girl with a ponytail came up and asked him for one with her and her boyfriend’s names on it. The girl gave the man some money, and then he took a crisp, new white shirt out of a pile and pulled it on top of a big square board. He grabbed a small bottle and screwed it into the thin metal tube; then he sprayed an old panel before he started on the shirt. First, he wrote both of their names at an angle and put a large heart around both; then he drew a small circle at the top corner, followed by some squiggly lines, and he stopped to change the small bottle for a new color before spraying the panel again. He went back to the shirt, adding a shade of yellow to fill in the circle; then when he was finished, he held up the shirt, birds in a sunset background, with the two names encircled by a heart. The girl squealed with delight, snatched the shirt, and skittered off.

“That’s dumb. If I had the money to get a shirt, I wouldn’t get some stupid boy’s name and a heart on it. I’d get something cool, like a unicorn.” Molly watched as he made two more shirts before she wandered off again.

The Midway was ahead, where lights were blinking and loud music was playing, and she saw people waiting in line for the Ferris wheel and many other rides she didn’t know the name of. The smell of food made her gawk at the people who were selling and buying hot dogs, lemonade, and ice-cream cones. A tall boy with red hair and lots of freckles walked by, holding a huge flat piece of something fried with white stuff on top. Molly’s stomach growled, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Looking at the names of rides, she turned and looked toward the sound of screaming as people in cages rose way up and flipped around.

The Zipper, it looked extremely scary. Maybe Lana is on it right now, she thought, as she looked up. Molly knew there was no way she would want to ride it. The Zipper stopped, and people got off. Molly watched, waiting to see Lana’s smiling

face. When she saw the final passenger climb out of the last cage, her bottom lip slowly inched out and quivered, and fat tears rushed in a stream down her cheeks. People were staring at her, so she ran out of the Midway and hid between two tents next to a tree. Sitting against the tree with her forehead on her knees, she wrapped her arms around her legs and started to bawl breathing in deep gulps.

A man came over to her and squatted beside her. “Hi” he said, looking at her.

Molly heard him but wouldn’t look at or say anything to him. She was scared of men, but she didn’t know why. Even her Uncle Bill, whom everyone liked and talked to when the entire family got together, scared her. He’d picked her up to chat when she was younger, and Molly would instantly become red faced and rigid; then he’d laugh and sit her back down.

When the man tried again, “Hi, are you all right? Are you lost?” Without a word she stood up and ran.

As she passed tents on either side of the wide path, all she wanted was to see the face of her mom. It was a struggle to swallow with her throat dry, and she started catching her tears with her tongue. She noticed that she was back to the man selling corn on the cob. The place where she’d lost her family. Pausing, she stood to stare at someone taking a drink from a cup dripping with condensation.

A short woman in a green polka-dot dress walked by, stopped, tilted her head to the side, and looked at Molly. She smiled and asked, “Honey, are your parents lost?”

“Ye,” Molly sucked in a breath. “Yesss!”

“Well, you just come with me. I’ll help you find them.”

Molly wasn’t sure, but she went anyway. The lady kind of looked like her second grade teacher, Mrs. Boyd. Murmuring softly, the short woman walked, holding Molly’s hand, leading her to a tent marked Information. They stepped inside, and there was her mother, talking to a police man. When her mother turned and saw her, Molly flew into her arms.

“Where have you been?” asked her mother. “You’ve been

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Molly just held on silently, her throat too tight to say anything, and the look on her mother’s face seemed angry.

Molly was so happy she didn’t worry that her mother was upset, and she dropped her head and grinned with a sigh, before leaning away from her mother. She took her hand, and they went over to where the rest of the family sat at a picnic table covered with a red and white checkered cloth.

The afternoon was gone, and it was time to leave. Lana was giving Molly the death stare while Sam and Marissa shook their heads from side to side, looking troubled. Molly sat down at the picnic table, across from Lana, scooting as far to the end as possible, away from them all. Her mother brought her a drink and a corndog with mustard. Gulping down everything, she asked for another and smiled, swinging her legs as she chewed on the little crusty bits stuck to the stick.

“You ruined everything,” Lana whined, and all the kids looked up. “Everybody missed the whole fair.”

Molly opened her mouth, ready to say, “Well, I saw everything,” but after seeing the looks on their faces, she decided to keep that to herself.

• Blackwater Review missing for hours.”

Stuck in the System

Destiny Hicks

Not every family is painted the same. You do not have our blood, Our nose, our eyes You were only three days old.

December baby, Eyelashes white as snow Skin transparent as glass

Albino, stiff to the bone

But that was no surprise. No, three biological siblings Scattered, suffering the same. Your mother knows that but makes the same Mistake.

She left you once, Saw you twice

But I do not have enough fingers For all the times she has done you wrong.

You pay for her mistakes, A system traced with crack I guess that is why you cry and cry Paralyzed waist down.

So we took you in, While your mother sleeps in the cell, Says she’ll give you new dresses and a home with a swing.

Companion

Emily Heasley

I keep my fifteen dollar Walmart sneakers at the foot of my bed just in case one night I hear that “vwoorp vwoorp” wail in my front yard. That’s all I’ll need when that blue shimmer materializes in my driveway and the hinges of that cerulean box swing open. No extra clothes, no toothbrush, just a note on my door for the folks that reads, “Allons-y!” They’ll know what it means.

I can go three minutes without blinking. Did you know that? I can spell my name in Gallafreyan, and I know that TARDIS stands for Time and Relative Dimension in Space. I could take care of K9, I’m sure, and if you’d only teach me, I could disarm Daleks, sizzle Cybermen, waste Weeping Angels. I could even tackle Torchwood,

I wouldn’t mind if you came with jelly babies or fish fingers and custard. Bow ties are cool, so are scarves, or celery.

Sonic Screwdriver or not, doesn’t matter. I’ve got one of my own.

But I know there will be no blur of blue or alien chorus at your landing. There will be no boisterous Bakers, eclectic Eccelsons, terrific Tennants, for I am no Rose or Rory. So I’ll stay and dream and wonder, like you, about what life might be like if I wasn’t on my own.

Heasley • 125 if you asked.

This Goatee Is Too Much for Me

Jocelyn Donahoo

At first, I plucked the unwanted black and white weeds. Now, like my husband, I pick up the edger and glide over the obstinate hedges. I’ve always had a mustache, but this goatee is too much for me.

Thoughts of 1984 are crystal clear, but a mere minute ago, I don’t know.

Can’t remember a short-term thing. It didn’t hurt my feelings when my menses ceased.

Just didn’t fathom the furnace would ignite, switch my mojo from hot to cold, and change my interest of erotic play to plight.

Surely, couldn’t foresee my heart pounding out of my chest, my energy running low requiring a mid-day doze, or that a cough or sneeze can trigger a wiggle with the need to be relieved.

So I pause for the cause— consolation . . . menopause.

The Eye of the Storm

Katie Rendon Kahn

This family has seen disaster. We have been shaken, bent, twisted, and ripped apart. Our foundation has cracked. Troubled waters have forced us to evacuate.

Only one among us had arms wide enough to shelter the rest. Stable enough not to sway. Patiently, wisely waiting for the end.

Now, standing at his wake we find ourselves bracing for what may come now that the eye of the storm has passed.

To My Muse

Emily Heasley

Darling, you are useless, worn out, shabby wandering in with your coat frayed, falling from your shoulders, your yellow ochre hair lank, and freckles in paint-splatter pattern peeking through a grubby tan complexion. You stumble, stagger, swagger and make collapsing onto the couch look like ballroom dancing. Fist full of aspirin, eyes full of lightning, head swimming with demons and fairies, you turn to me, “Let me tell you a story.”

“Let me show you where the Northern Lights flirt with icicles. Let me show you a city with fables hiding in the alleys.

I sat and had tea with Big Foot, sang a duet with a siren, and learned water ballet from Nessie. I sailed across the sea in a flying ship and found an island where dragons still exist and write riddles. I saw colors they haven’t named yet out there and heard a melody like all time being wrapped into one great tapestry.”

And you rise, rigid to shoeless feet, grin glued cartoonish to your crimson countenance and sway and sing a tune that whispers like waves in coves and calls like wolves on the cleft of the night.

Darling, you are useless, worn out, shabby. If only you’d visit more often.

Contributors

Corrine Akins is a freshman at NWFSC. She plans to attend Florida State University and study creative writing.

Katherine Ammon is a senior at Niceville High School who plans to attend I Am Capable of Great Things University this fall semester.

Robin Andrews is a Collegiate High School senior who hopes to pursue journalism and communications and work in public relations for an organization like To Write Love on Her Arms.

Alexandra M. Bakane hopes to pursue a career in the arts. Her hobbies include drawing and photography.

Donovan Black is a full-time student studying music education. He plans to finish his degree at the University of West Florida.

Louann Brechler is the mother of two teenagers and is passionate about nature and capturing its beauty in any medium.

Susan Breed is a returning student in graphic design at NWFSC who holds a bachelor’s degree in art history from Southern Methodist University.

MaryAnn Crabtree hopes to continue her studies to complete a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree.

Jocelyn Donahoo is a retired nurse who was bitten by the writer’s bug after taking a creative writing course with Dr.Vickie Hunt. She’s an avid reader and enjoys novice works.

Eric Farmer is an ESL teacher. He returned to school to get a Bachelor’s Degree in Business and finds spare time to write about his travels and the interesting people he’s met along the way.

Ryan Fisher is the current Student Government Association president. He is truly thankful for his family’s loving support.

130 • Blackwater Review

DeeAnna Frazier is a graphic design student with a love for photography. Her dream is to work for National Geographic.

Josh Hart is a senior at Collegiate High School at NWFSC who hopes to become a journalist. He plans to join the Peace Corps before attending college.

Emily Heasley, reptile herder and soon to be graduate of NWFSC, would like to thank all of her wonderful teachers for encouraging her over the past few years. She plans to continue to work in the arts and is excited to see what the world has to offer.

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

Alex Hencinski, an eleventh grader at the Collegiate High School at NWFSC, intends to study architecture at The University of Florida.

Andrea L. Herrington is a lover of black and white photography who wishes to preserve it as a fine art.

Destiny Hicks is a Collegiate High School student studying legal studies. She plans to attend the University of West Florida and study law.

Sharon James is excited to be completing a visual art degree after retirement.

Katrina Jammer is a native of Niceville and an aspiring photographer and graphic designer with high hopes for her future.

Angela Jeffery was born in Germany while her father was in the military. Her husband and son are her inspiration, and she is very thankful for their support of her artistic endeavors.

Katie Rendon Kahn was the 2012 recipient of Blackwater Review Editor’s Prize for writing and decided to come back for more. She is a working mom, student, and active member of the Panhandle Poets’ Society.

Contributors • 131

David Majors is a poet and aspiring author. He plans to study archaeology and telecommunications at the University of West Florida.

Deborah R. Majors has had poems and short stories published in Blackwater Review, Barefoot Review, Time of Singing, Haggard and Halloo Publications, and Broken Publications. In November 2012, she won the NWFSC African American Student Association Open Mic Contest with her reading of three original poems.

Deanna McDevitt has been creating art for two years and hopes to be an art therapist.

Kenneth R. Miller loves multimedia, and art is his passion and passion is his art.

Jean Moody is taking a creative writing course for fun and to improve her writing. She has a Master of Education degree from Berry College in Rome, Georgia.

Andrea Moore is a full-time mother and wife who loves photography, reading, and chocolate. Upon graduation, she plans to build a career in the graphic design industry.

Michele Moore spends her time trying to get her Associate of Arts degree and trying to figure out what gravy is made of.

Maria B. Morekis believes that miracles are possible, and they await us just around the corner.

Donna Munro is a resident of Niceville and art student who wants to continue and grow her art.

Noah Pritchett is pursuing his dreams having grown up on the beach. He gives God all the glory for the talent he has been given.

Julien Pugh is a cartoonist inspired by Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys and John Kricfalusi, creator of Ren and Stimpy. He likes to infuse his work with his sense of humor.

132 • Blackwater Review

Jade Reindl is a senior at Niceville High School who has been dually enrolled at NWFSC since her junior year. For a while she has wanted to be a poet. Eventually, she gave that up, realizing what she really wanted to be was a poem.

Teresa Riker is a visual art student since middle school aiming to earn a career in either conceptual art or animation. She loves to draw the human figure and objects from her imagination or dreams.

Roxanne M. Soja is an Honorably Retired Military Officer who is enjoying the next state of life. Live with honor, live with joy, and let your heart and mind explore and create!

John Stackpoole is a college student studying creative writing. He plans to attend Florida State University and study drama.

Erika Stiles is a graphic design student who enjoys using photography to capture unique moments.

Caley Stewart is a veteran of the United States Army and has been a NWFSC Raider since spring 2012. He writes, runs, and fishes all along the Florida Panhandle.

Sarah Stewart is pursuing her Bachelor of Science degree in nursing at NWFSC. In her spare time, she writes poetry, draws, and paints. Sarah loves camping and seashell collecting with her three children.

Haley Thomas hopes to make a career in photography.

Sue Townsend is a graphic design student at NWFSC.

Donna Wilke is a wife and mother of six who is taking creative writing and working on a children’s book.

Jonathan Yubi was born in New York and has exhibited artwork in Destin, Fort Walton Beach, Pensacola, and Memphis.

Contributors • 133