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:
Dr. Deidre Price
Prose Editor:
Dr. Jon W. Brooks
Poetry Editor:
Dr. Vickie Hunt
Art Direction, Graphic Design, and Photography:
Benjamin Gillham, MFA
Editorial Advisory Board:
Dr. Beverly Holmes, Dr. Christopher Snellgrove, Dr. Patrice Williams, April Leake, Dr. Charles Myers, and Dr. Jill White
Art Advisory Board:
Benjamin Gillham, Stephen Phillips, Leigh Peacock, Dr. 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.
Front cover artwork: May All the Universe Know that I Exist, Tara Whalen
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, Dr. Deborah Fontaine, and Professor Amy Riddell 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.
All I See Is Red
John Stackpoole
I see the red in the riot fires. I see the red in a mother’s broken heart. I see the red in the roars of outrage, And I see the red seeping from a dead body, Painting a stain no rain can wash away.
All I see is red. Colors set the fire. They say a young black boy; I say a foolish young man who chose to steal. They say a white policeman; I say a weak officer who chose to kill. They say this is a hate crime; I say two men faced their consequences.
You shouldn’t get away with theft, But you shouldn’t be killed. A policeman must have the right to kill But that’s not his only option. If this is about color, The color is red.
When the red of the fires turns to ash When the red of his blood turns to mourning When the red on his hands turns to regret Some will see black and white, But all I see is red.
Depressive Episode
Emily Heasley
Purple is the first to go because it’s my favorite color. It bleeds out of sunsets and skylines, then slips, unmissed by others, from cool afternoons under oak trees. The other colors fade not long after, leeching from walls and cars into an oily puddle. Then the defiant voice of electric guitars and the warm sighs of piano chords fall silent. Black and white silence. Save for that voice, scratching at the back of my throat and chipping away the pillars I made to keep from getting like this.
“You’ll never be happy,” she says, and sounds just like me.
“Never good enough.” And all I can do is wait for the color to come back and for some other noise to drown her out.
Life over Looks
Emily Heasley
I know I ain’t a size two supermodel no skinny, mini-skirt-wearing girl. I feel more comfortable in jeans and a Marvel t-shirt than I do in little black dresses and booty shorts. And sure, I wish I could slip into a size ten, but I don’t recognize your right to judge my size 24. Because I refuse to lie on my death bed and look back on stretch marks and fitting rooms instead of loud nights at The Swamp or staring at the stars on a damp winter night.
I refuse to let anyone say my body is wrong because this body has gotten me this far. It’s carried me through car crashes, concert mosh pits, dragged me through my first funeral procession when classmates pulled a magnum on my friend Chris. I could only walk across the stage for my diploma with these feet, only fight back the parking lot bigots who beat up my gay friend with these fists, can only see Destin sunsets and New York cityscapes through these eyes.
These hands craft dragons from clay, deliver high fives after hard-won D&D games, and pick the Skyrim theme from piano keys. This mind sees superheroes in grocery checkout lines and finds stories in an untied shoe. These ears have heard tales of bad break-ups, shattered bones, and split skin. And this voice reassured, “There’s always a place for you here.”
So no, I ain’t a size two supermodel; I’m a size 24 superhero. I won’t look back on my time here and think only of my sagging stomach. I’ll remember every dubstep bass drop pounding in my chest, red pepper flakes on cheese pizza, toasting graduation with cranberry vodka and know this body belongs to me.
Italian Wedding Cookies
Andrea Hefner
I dialed her number tonight to ask a special question. It’s the same number she’s had for all my 36 years. I hear Uncle Bill’s smooth voice over the line. He asks about the weather, makes a few jokes, then says, “Aunt Jo, dry your hands.” Then, to me, “Okay, honey, I’ll give you your Aunt Jo now.”
I can picture her shoulder-length gray hair, brushing sturdy shoulders, glasses perched on her nose. She will dry her wet hands that are as familiar to me as my own. “Hi, honey, how are you?”
She knows I’ve called for a reason, though I should pick up the phone now and then just to say hi.
“Hey, Aunt Jo, I called to say thanks for sending home those cookies with my kid. I was wondering if I could go over the recipe to see if I have it right.”
It’s unspoken, but she knows I can’t call Mom anymore to decipher what I’ve copied from the old recipe card.
Aunt Jo laughs when I tell her my husband has offered to bake the Italian Wedding Cookies since baking isn’t exactly my area of expertise. I have had the recipe for years, and as we go over it, I find that it is complete and sound. There’s more proof there that I can’t pull it off and that Crisco is absolutely necessary.
I ask her if it’s true that the recipe is only passed down to brides once the cookies have been made for their wedding. She says she’s heard that, but they are really called wedding cookies because Great Grandma couldn’t afford a cake, so cookies were served.
After we disconnect, I go over the recipe with my husband, and he tries to work though my disjointed instructions. In the end, the cookies are warm and soft, the icing sweet, the hint of orange teasing our tongues.
Violet Flames
Thomas Crain
Twenty-seven years after the most frightening moment of his young life, Reginald Parker stood at the console that would make all his dreams come true.
“Dr. Parker?”
Reginald turned to his assistant, Allison Chambers, and smiled. “Yes?” he asked in his clipped British accent.
“We’re ready to begin.”
Reginald nodded and turned his full attention to the assembled press. He watched as they set their cameras to recording and pointed their microphones in his direction. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to take this opportunity before our demonstration to fully reveal to you all the true origins of the Perpetual Motion Generator.”
“True origins?” one of the reporters asked. “Are you saying you didn’t come up with the design yourself?”
Reginald shook his head. “Not exactly. There aren’t very many memories from my early childhood that I can remember vividly. Rare is the person who can remember with crystal clarity those bygone days when the brain is still forming and shaping itself. But there is one memory that stands out. It was the most terrifying moment of my life, and also the most important.” He reached into his lab jacket’s pocket and rubbed the familiar rough surface of the item he’d carried ever since that awful day. “When I was but a lad, maybe three or four years old, my mother and father took me to the playground. As I sat in the sandbox, I was suddenly accosted by a man on fire.”
One of the reporters almost dropped her microphone in surprise. “Did he attack you?”
“Why was he on fire?” another asked.
“I don’t know if he was trying to attack me, and I have no idea why he was on fire. It wasn’t a normal fire, you understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was the loveliest shade of violet.” He paused, unsure why he’d chosen such an adjective to describe the flames that were surely causing his aggressor so much agony. “In any case, he grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He seemed to be trying, but he had no mouth. It seemed that even he realized this fact before long and he simply stopped trying to communicate. Instead, he reached into his pocket and shoved a burning piece of paper into my hand.” He paused for dramatic effect then pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket. He reveled in the collective gasps and various expressions of wonder. “This piece of paper, in fact.”
One of the cameramen squinted, trying to make out what was written. “What is that? Some kinda code?”
Reginald chuckled. “That’s what I thought at first. All these random symbols and numbers made even worse by the fact that half the paper is burned away. I devoted my entire life to solving what it all meant, and I believe that I have finally done so. This code is an equation, and not just any equation. This is the equation for perpetual motion. For endless energy!” The assembled journalists broke into applause as Reginald took a bow and returned the paper to his pocket. “And now, without any further ado…”
“Dr. Parker?”
“Yes?”
“What happened to him? The man?”
Reginald’s smile faded as he recalled. “My father whacked him with his cane, and he fell to the ground. Thirty seconds or so later, the flames reduced him to a pile of ashes.”
“Who do you think he was?”
Reginald shrugged. “Probably no one of consequence. In any case, whoever he might have been, I wanted his role in this momentous occasion to be a matter of public record.” He turned to Allison, standing by the control panel of the massive machine. “Is everything ready?”
She nodded and walked past him, back toward the journalists. “The last button is yours, sir.”
Reginald took a deep breath, strode forward with all the confidence he could muster, and pressed the large green button with every bit of conviction in his rail-thin body.
The machine whined and sputtered to life. Sparks began to fly from the great cylinder’s surface.
Violet sparks.
Before Reginald could react, the machine’s surface belched a massive gout of violet flames. They washed over him, lighting on his clothes and hair, and it was only the reflexive movement of his arm that saved his eyes. He screamed as his flesh began to burn, and he whirled in place to beg for help.
He was outside.
The sun shined brightly overhead, and the birds sang as Reginald screamed and ran for the nearest person, a small boy playing in a sandbox. The boy saw him coming and screamed as Reginald grasped his tiny shoulders and shook him violently. He tried begging for help, but the flames had already fused his lips together.
In one of Reginald’s last coherent thoughts, he finally understood.
Not thinking, he reached into his pocket and shoved the smoking piece of paper into the boy’s hand. He wanted to tell him so badly what the code really was, to try and prevent this from happening again.
A great weight struck the back of his head, and he fell backwards onto the grass, his vision full of dancing violet flames and shining stars. His last conscious thought was remarking how lovely the flames were, even as they consumed him and reduced his flesh to ashes.
Twenty-seven years after the most frightening moment of his young life, Reginald Parker stood at the console that would make all his dreams come true.
Through the Lens of a Vintage Camera
Christina Freeman
An undulant ocean Nearly lacking the fluidity of water Is a sea of caramel Beneath a ray of liquid gold.
A girl’s distant laughter is lost In the gentle lapping Of a thousand hands.
Her brown feet patter through The warm, glistening sand That could pass for snow.
She releases a contented sigh And dives.
She is but a minor disturbance Amongst the expanse of serenity.
A wide auburn mouth yawns. It lazily swallows her whole. The tips of her rounded feet disappear. The ocean settles again.
Boob Tube
Aimee Thorgaard
The television was always on in my parents’ house. There was never a single moment during which my mother didn’t have it turned on unless she went to snooze for the night. Even when she did retire to her bedroom, more often than not, she’d forget to turn off the TV. While she walked to another room, the din of the box continued to echo loudly through the halls. It even blared behind me as I stood in the living room when my mom told me that she knew I liked women.
At first, I was flabbergasted. I’d simply asked her if I could spend the night at a friend’s house. For the past month, she had not allowed me to do so. I was infuriated and demanded to know why, as it did not seem like an unreasonable request.
“I don’t want you to have sex with her,” she said frankly. I was shocked, not at the fact that I liked women, as that was a fact that I already knew. It had been that way for as long as I could remember. At a younger age, I remember staring at the television watching a gorgeous woman named Xena clad in battle armor, fighting several strong male warriors and winning. Of course, at that time, I simply enjoyed the fact that a girl could be better than the boys. In almost every other film or television series, it was always the man protecting the girl and winning her over.
What shocked me was that she had known. I would sometimes daydream of how I would tell my mother, but I had never planned for her to read through my personal messages to friends. For my dad, I never really thought it would be as much of an issue. His approach to situations that made him uncomfortable was usually to avoid them altogether. However, my mother was a whole different breed. She’s an avid follower of God, the Bible, and all that it entails. Her ardent dedication to her Lord puts all those who don rainbows on her mental hit list. Although her liturgical views are strong, I have found that not all who share an affinity for the Christ figure are as intense.
Whenever I see a candle burning and see traditional Asian knick knacks, I always get a strange déjà vécu sort of feeling because I had accompanied her many times when she would go to salons. Every time I walk into one, I cannot help but think that I am a little girl waiting for my mom’s nails to dry. My mother once received a pedicure at one of these establishments when I glanced at the television set hung on the wall for waiting customers to watch. The Ellen Show was playing, and I remember my mom telling me not to watch her, so I made my best effort to look elsewhere. One of my mother’s close friends was standing with me, her plump hand gripping my much smaller one. Her palm was warm like her laugh as she watched the forbidden show.
“Ellen is so great. I love her!” she beamed brightly and pulled her scarf a bit tighter with her free hand.
“Mom says that she is a lesbian.” After I said the words, she glanced down at me in the way that adult figures do when they are about to chide you. I knew the look too well and prepared myself. The next words she uttered surprised me.
“So, what? She’s still a person.”
But now my mother sat on her couch, attention for once not on the television. By this time, my dad had risen from his seat and stood closer, a tuned hearing aid placed in his ear and angled toward me. For a moment, I didn’t hear a thing. Not a single breath or even a single utterance from Angela Lansbury even though Murder She Wrote was still playing behind my head. From that moment on, I knew that my life would change forever. The stark difference of my mother’s knowing and her obliviousness had been compromised. From this point on, she would not look at me like a daughter, but as a failed daughter. She would look at me as the gay daughter.
I made a great effort to swallow though the stiff muscles in my throat would not let me. My vision was blurred by the salty tears that I was trying to keep back throughout the conversation. When she refused to say anything more, I felt alone. In that moment, my dad rushed to me with a tender embrace and a gentle hand on my spine.
“I will always love you. That will not change.” The television still played in the background, but I really didn’t mind.
Reading Glasses
Raven Motley
Silly, how a simple pair of glasses remind me: black glasses perched atop Pops’ nose as he read the Sunday news at the dinner table.
Annoyed when he corrected my grammar, I’d state with a wicked glare, “Ain’t!” He’d simply counter, “Isn’t.” I’d cross my arms and poke out my lip as if I were still four.
Sometimes joking, he’d shake a fist in the air, saying, “Do you want a knuckle sammich, ‘cause I’ll knock you to the moon?”
Laughter escaping my lips signaled my defeat. He’d laugh, too, his laughter, a treasure to me worth more than gold.
When he wore his simple glasses, I’d stare at him curiously and note how young he seemed even at eighty. He had white waves of hair and sky blue eyes, calloused work hands and scarred knuckles.
Though lapping rows of lines covered his face, his voice was still Southern peachy sweet.
Just a pair of simple black reading glasses, nothing special, but they remind me of a man I will forever look up to.
Bon Temps
Thomas Crain
It seems like months since I kissed my wife goodbye, even longer since I felt my little girl’s arms wrapped about my leg with more genuine affection than any adult could ever show. Months since I drove away from my perfect little house in the perfect little suburb. Months since I made sure the office had reserved my room for me. Months since I’d driven the hundreds of miles, passing vast swaths of nothingness, areas that had remained unchanged for centuries.
It seems like months since I crested that last hill and saw the Jewel of the Delta, that city of a thousand jazz songs and a thousand more unique dishes.
It seems like months, but really it was only yesterday. I must write it down as quickly as I can, before I forget.
I grew up in the South, in a small town called Cottonwood, Alabama, to be exact. I never ventured far past the borders of the state as a youth. I never needed to. My mother assured me that all that lay beyond our cozy hamlet was a world of misery, suffering, and debauchery. Her words terrified me, so much so that I made it a point to never hang out with kids my own age outside of school. As a consequence of my self-imposed isolation, I never attended any parties. I rarely dated and was purposefully so boring that I was never the one to end those short romances. Intent on being a big-time businessman like my father, I poured myself into my studies.
Everything changed when my stepbrother joined the Army.
On his last weekend before he was shipped off to basic training, he insisted that I accompany him and his friends to New Orleans. He thought he could tempt me with tales of cheap drinks and loose women, but I was the kind of seventeen year old who would not be swayed by such things. Eventually, that old vice called greed for money was my undoing. He offered me
a princely two hundred and fifty dollars, nearly a quarter of his high school graduation gift money, if only I would come with him and his band of merry men.
The October air was crisp and clean when we rolled into town on that day that now seems so much longer ago than a decade. We checked into our hotel and headed straight for Bourbon Street, that modern Babylon, to begin my stepbrother’s last night of real freedom.
I did not partake that night but was overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of this place I had never even dreamed of. I gave my word I would not speak of what I saw that night, but suffice it to say that the damage had been done. My eyes had beheld glory, and they could not be closed again.
In time, I graduated and began life as a college freshman. When Spring Break rolled around, I saw a note on the dorm board advertising a trip back to the city that still haunted my dreams, the city that was everything I had been taught to avoid. I eagerly signed up, and in just a few days’ time, I again crested that last hill for the city before me. I was prepared this time. I had read up on the city’s history, studied its architecture. I believed I knew this city better than a native. I was intent on finally shedding the rigid rules of my upbringing, on imbibing forbidden drinks and knowing forbidden women.
But Bourbon Street is not itself during Spring Break.
The air reeked of vomit and urine. All around me, my generation left its dignity along with its stomach contents on the pavement and the walls that had withstood wars and fires. Drunken co-eds leaned over the railings of hotels above, baring their chests for a string of plastic beads. Privileged dunderheads who would contribute to society only what their family fortunes allowed, cheered, and drank, and reveled. Terrified, I spent most of the trip hiding in the hotel, venturing out only for food.
The sounds of the endless party haunted me like a siren’s song, and I wanted so desperately to heed that wanton call. But I did not, and it haunts me to this day.
Until this day.
After college I moved out of state and quickly found a job at a respectable firm and married a respectable woman I had met at a local bookstore, and she gave me a respectably perfect daughter. Still I was haunted by the sounds of debauchery, blaring jazz, and the ambiance of that now-so-distant city on the river!
My salvation came with the offer to attend a conference in the city that called to me in my dreams. I accepted without hesitation and assured both my boss and my wife that I would be on my best behavior.
I arrived in the city and was on Bourbon Street within the hour.
It was late, nearly midnight, and the air was full of autumn’s first chill. Here was the city of my memories, the New Orleans I had always thought of. Mobs of people milled about from restaurant to restaurant, shop to shop. A classy establishment offered the finest seafood dishes and the sounds of a riotous jazz band while mere feet away a strip club sent out two dancers of diminutive stature to advertise the establishment by performing feats with their posteriors that would make men like myself woozy with want.
Here was the city that had lived for so long, had survived being flooded, and continued to thrive year after year. This place was the city where history met fantasy, where one could stand in the footsteps of men like Lafitte and Jackson and still check the shadows for vampires and loups-garoux.
Here was all I ever wanted and more.
While I walked down the street, my eyes were drawn to a rather simple looking shop. There were no windows, no flashing neon signs. Emblazoned on the red bricks was an intricately painted skull and two simple words, Bon Temps.
Good Times.
I entered the shop and found myself surrounded by the same stock voodoo souvenirs one could find in any number of shops in the city. I smiled as I wondered if the owner of the establishment would also claim that his shop was once frequented by famed voodoo practitioners like Marie Laveau.
My smile lasted just until I saw the shopkeeper, and I saw he was smiling back.
He was a tall, rail thin man. His skin was almost as dark as the shadows the candlelight cast about his shop. He was dressed to the nines, with a stately bowler hat perched on his head. Clutched in his hands was a cane, topped with a golden skull. He continued to smile and asked what had brought me to his little shop.
To my own great surprise, I found myself spilling every secret desire and every regret that concerned the city of New Orleans. As I babbled endlessly, he just continued to smile, nodding his head every so often. As my words began to wind down, I noticed that I was the only patron in the shop. Lastly, I explained my home-grown cowardice, my fear of surrendering to my basest desires.
He held up a finger and said there might be something he could do to help with that particular problem. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a small velvet bag. Without taking his eyes off me, he poured the bag’s contents into his outstretched palm.
His cane stood alone beside him, unsupported.
I drew closer to investigate. I asked him what the small pile of sand in his hand was.
Laughing, he called it zombie dust and blew it into my face.
Before I had a chance to be surprised, I was back on the street. I spun around, but the shop was gone.
And I, for some strange reason, felt good.
The air smelled sweeter than I thought was possible. In the air, the jazz became a noise that sounded like heavenly harps in my ears. My skin tingled with an invisible electric current, the hairs on my body standing on end. A stupid grin on my face, I took a single step.
I was in a casino. I panicked briefly, worried that the card table I was sitting at was a poker table. I’m terrible at poker. My nerves were calmed somewhat when I saw the game was blackjack. Confidently, I tossed two twenty dollar chips towards the
table’s center from my already sizable stack. This had apparently been my lucky night. The dealer did his job, and I smirked at my hand, the queen of spades and a three of hearts. Not waiting my turn, I tapped the table to signal for a hit. The dealer complied, the eight of hearts.
Blackjack!
Two of my fellow players stormed away from the table, but I didn’t care. I signaled for the waitress as the dealer pushed over my winnings. I glanced at his face; it was the shopkeeper, bowler hat and all. He grinned, and my fist clenched in shock.
Sharp pain flooded from my hand, and I dropped the crushed shot glass onto the bar. The crowd around me cheered as I ordered another round for myself and all my new friends. A pretty little thing in a jade dress began picking the larger shards of glass from my palm as I looked around at the seedy bar to which I had come. The music in here wasn’t jazz but violently loud rock and roll. My new friends were a mix of biker types and the standard New Orleans revelers. The girl at my side finished wrapping my hand just in time for it to grab the next shot.
It occurred to me that I had no idea what the drink was, nor did I have any idea how many I’d had. I also didn’t care. I saluted the barkeep and tipped the liquid down my throat, barely noticing that the barkeep was the shopkeeper, still smiling that same smile. The crowd cheered again, filling my ears with triumphant roars and pulsing music.
Penetrating my very soul and willing me to dance in the packed night club, German techno pumped through me. My moves are usually the equivalent of a Jewish grandmother, but somehow on this night my feet seemed to have gotten a sudden education. My pretty friend in the jade dress ground against me to the beat of the music, one of her eyes hidden behind a long piece of platinum blonde hair. I felt a presence behind me, detected a hint of jasmine in the air, and craned my neck to find another young lady doing her best to get my attention. The sweat on her dark skin shone in the club lights, and I gladly invited her to join the dance.
The song changed, but the dancing continued. I looked for the DJ to give him a thumbs up, but standing behind the turntable was the shopkeeper. He tipped his hat to me, his golden, skull-topped cane spinning around mid-air at the same speed as the records. My eyes, then the room, seemed to spin with it. I spun and fell back onto the hotel bed, my two lovely new friends joining me a moment later. We laughed and frantically pulled at each other’s clothes, not bothering to wait for the room service we had just ordered. Their uncovered skin was unblemished and perfect, as though they were carved from stone by one of the great Renaissance masters. Indulging in a chance I might never have had again, I convinced the pair to turn their attention to each other while I waited for the food to arrive. They did so eagerly, and it took the busboy knocking several times to pull me away from the spectacle. I opened the door. It was the shopkeeper. He laughed and asked if I was having a good time. Before I could answer, I felt two pairs of hands pulling me back to the bed. I tried to protest, to point out the open door, but the words died in my throat as the women began their sordid work. They did things that I could never ask my wife to do, things my wife never could do, and all the while as our act of lust was going on, the shopkeeper stood in the open doorway and smiled that smile of his.
I woke up five minutes ago, noticed that my bedmates were gone, and grabbed the nearest pen and paper to record my recollections. The sun is already sinking below the horizon. The whole thing seems like an amazing dream, but my body is sore from dancing and other activities. The room still smells of sweat and broken wedding vows with just the slightest hint of jasmine. Next to the clock is my wallet, still bulging from what I can only guess are my blackjack winnings. It seems impossible, but it appears that what felt like months to me all happened in a single night. Only now do I notice the golden skull-topped cane leaning against the desk. Balancing precariously on the top is a business card with an intricately painted skull. I take the card and turn it over, smiling at the familiar words on the back and
at the phone number below them.
I look out as the moon rises on the city of my dreams, the city my mother warned me about, the city my soul now belongs to. I have to call my wife now. I have to explain to her that the conference has been extended. Tomorrow I will tell her that the car has broken down. The day after that…who knows? Then I have another call to make. Bon Temps. Good Times.
• Blackwater Review
Taking Off His Collar
John Stackpoole
Ten minutes resounded in the vault of his mind, the time set for the match he was ordered to throw. An Italian immigrant, Jimmy was a man of few words, but with his gaze you could see his stories. He was left little choice but to be the dog for a gang of sharks, all to keep his family away from their teeth.
Before he could settle the debts with his conscience, he marched to meet his maker in the blood-stained ring.
A cocky Chicago gangster by the name of Machesturn stood with his hair shiny like the Northern Star. They met gloves as dictated, but in one second, a dagger-like spit ball fell against Jimmy’s glove.
Into the first round, the bell rang Judgment Day. Machesturn flew back, weaving and bobbing like a sparrow while Jimmy posed still like The Thinker, feeling the spit ball’s weight grind off his pride. In no time, Machesturn began his assault with every punch hammering Jimmy’s castle. Like Atlas giving up his duty to the world, Jimmy listened with every earth-shattering punch, the screams of his soul wanting to be free.
A left hook, he saw his mother, a woman who could take the breath of the sun and fill him with light. A right hook, he saw his father, a man who lost three fingers in one of his seventeen-hour jobs And even so, he worked his back even after the camel broke. And with the uppercut, Jimmy’s castle crumbled to dust.
He saw his sister, Anna-Maria. She was turning twenty if his memory served him right. He wanted her to smile till rapture; he wanted her to shine like the stars on the big screens.
He wouldn’t let her doubt herself; he wouldn’t let others tell her she was any less than perfect! He would scream before that happened, he would kill before that happened; he would bleed before that happened, and he would die before that happened!
And with that, Jimmy took a step back with the fortitude of a mountain, eyes geared forward and piercing with the determination of a hawk. His right arm came forth bearing the souls of those passed in heaven and hell, with the eruption of his soul screaming like the opera singer he dreamed to be! To sand turned Machesturn’s jaw, and Jimmy’s collar flew off.
Masks
Thomas Crain
“You sure he’s coming, boss?”
The figure, clad in a black trench coat, stiffened at the tone in his lackey’s voice: “Are you doubting me, Rocko?”
Rocko shook his head hurriedly. “No, boss. But it’s getting late.”
“And?”
“Steve says his wife’s making lasagna.”
The silence that followed was palpable.
Rocko’s employer turned and took great pleasure in the fear in his henchman’s eyes at seeing his masked face. His bald head gleamed in the fluorescent bulbs of the abandoned warehouse’s overhead lights. The lower half of his face was covered in a shining silver mask crafted to resemble the lower half of a leering human skull. One blazing eye stared a hole through Rocko, the other long gone and replaced by a black eyepatch.
“Boss?” Rocko stammered.
“Which one is Steve?” the villain known as the Silver Skull asked in his slightly British accent.
“Uh… the ginger.” Rocko motioned at the pair of henchmen loading crates full of the crew’s loot into a waiting truck.
The Silver Skull peered over at the red-haired man as he bent to grab another box. “Steve!”
Steve whirled at his boss’s voice, accidently dropping the box he’d just hefted onto the foot of his fellow worker. “Yes sir?”
“Is your wife’s lasagna any good?”
Steve smiled, ignoring the various curses being lobbed in his direction by the injured man beside him. “The best.”
The Silver Skull’s one eye narrowed as he drew a large pistol-shaped weapon from his black trench coat. “Then I’ll be sure to sample some when I inform her of your termination.” Before Steve could protest, the Skull flipped a switch on the weapon’s side and pulled the trigger. A metallic dart whizzed across the
room and discharged a massive amount of electricity into the unassuming henchman.
Steve fell to the ground like a ragdoll might, still twitching from the charge.
The Silver Skull pointed his weapon at the remaining henchman. “And you? Does your wife have something delicious and Italian waiting for you at home as well?”
Before he could answer, a voice rang out from the darkness. “It’s you boys’ lucky day; I hear tomorrow is Pizza Day at Wertham State Penitentiary.”
The three criminals looked up as a form dropped from the darkened ceiling, his specially designed cape floating behind him like a pair of wings. He landed next to Steve’s body, checked for a pulse, and stood. He wore a specially made Kevlar uniform that had been carefully painted a stark bronze. Hanging from his golden belt were a number of homemade, hand-to-hand weapons. The top half of his face was hidden behind a bandana, holes cut for his eyes and a ponytail carefully dyed the same color as his outfit.
The Silver Skull chuckled. “Finally you’ve arrived, my color-coordinated canker sore.”
The Bronze Condor struck a defiant pose. “Surrender, Skull. It’s over.”
“Oh, you have no idea how over it is.” He snapped his fingers and made to reload his weapon. “Boys, do me a favor and pluck this bird.”
Rocko and the other henchman rushed the Condor with simultaneous battle cries.
Not missing a beat, the Condor pulled a pair of long metal poles from his belt and connected them into a fighting staff in one swift motion. He spun the weapon over his head, immediately knocking out the rushing henchmen.
Trying not to laugh, the Condor struck another pose but found the Skull pointing his freshly loaded weapon at him.
The two bitter adversaries stared at each other.
It was the Bronze Condor who broke the silence. “Dude, that’s it?”
The Silver Skull rolled his eyes and returned his weapon
to its holster in his jacket. “No. There were three of those dumbasses to start with. They were supposed to distract you long enough for me to monologue about the poison gas in those crates.” He dropped the accent completely as he yanked off his mask. “You took too long, and I got bored.”
The Condor poked the electrocuted lackey with his staff. “So you tried to kill one of your henchmen? Ray, haven’t you heard of something called a phone?”
Ray removed his eye patch and rolled both of his good eyes. “I didn’t try to kill him. Just a cattle Taser dart. He’ll be up and at ’em in no time.”
“And the poison gas?”
“Fog juice.”
The Bronze Condor nodded. “Nice.”
Ray took a sip of water from the bottle he kept in his jacket. “Seriously, Clint, what took you so long today? Was my riddle really that good?”
Clint nodded. “It was one of your better ones, but that’s not why I’m late. The answer confused me.”
Ray raised an eyebrow. “Question: What’s the safest place to hide in a world gone mad?’ Answer: ‘In Sanity.’” He motioned for his friend to carry on. “Please explain to me how it wasn’t obviously the abandoned warehouse on San City Boulevard?”
“I checked Shadybrook,” Clint muttered, fiddling with his cape. “The asylum?” Ray gaped. “Oh you poor dunderhead…” The sound of sirens broke his train of thought. He checked his watch. “Looks like they got my package. That’s your cue, Hero.”
Clint nodded and made for the warehouse’s entryway. “Where’d you find these guys?”
Ray toed the unconscious Rocko. “Rocko and the big guy are street hoods with a couple drug offenses.”
“And the redhead?”
Ray smiled down at the shocked lackey. “Never seen him before. Tell the cops he turned on me and helped you fight the other two. Make sure he gets home to his wife.”
“Right.” A final thought popped into his head. “You hungry?”
Ray nodded, pulling his mask back over his face. “Starving. I’m craving Italian for some reason…”
Clint shook his head. “Not really feeling it. Denny’s?”
“You buying?”
“Since neither of us really won this time, let’s just split the bill.”
The Silver Skull laughed as he straightened his eyepatch. “Some hero you are. Give me half an hour.”
“You got it.” The Bronze Condor replied, but his arch-nemesis and best friend had already vanished into the shadows.
An hour (along with a small bit of police business and some perfectly serviceable diner food) later, the two friends laughed uproariously at the night’s events.
“You should have seen the guy’s face when I pulled the gun.” Ray laughed, taking another bite of his hash browns. “Did he pee himself?”
Clint swallowed his last bite of steak and chased it with a swig of cola. “No, but he was still a bit twitchy.”
Ray shook his head. “I hope that kid learned a lesson. The next time he thinks about getting into something illegal, maybe he’ll think twice.”
“Is that why you do it?” Clint asked, reclining in the booth with a contented sigh. “To keep your fellow man on the straight and narrow?”
“Nothing so noble.” Ray scoffed. He offered a wicked smirk. “I do it for one reason and one reason alone.”
“Which is?”
Ray winked. “It’s fun to be the bad guy.”
A few minutes later, after the meals had been paid for, Clint looked out the window. “We’re still sticking to the rules, right?” Ray polished off the last of his drink and looked at his friend in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Nobody gets killed.” Clint started to count off the rules the pair had long ago established on his fingers. “Nobody gets hurt, except for the petty criminals you trick into working for you. Property damage is kept to a minimum. No acts of mass panic.”
“And no hitting each other unless absolutely necessary.”
Ray tipped his empty glass. “I never did apologize for tasing you last week.”
Clint waved it off. “I’m just concerned.”
“Why?”
“Because this was the first time you had chemicals.”
Ray stared at him incredulously. “Fog juice. Which I purchased from Wal-Mart.”
“The cops still called in the guys in the hazmat suits.” Suddenly understanding, Ray lowered his gaze to the table. “Are they after me?”
Clint shook his head. “Not yet. I’ve still got them convinced that you’ve just got a grudge against me. They won’t start gunning for you unless you do something that makes them think you’re…”
“An actual criminal.” Ray stared at his reflection in his spoon and could have sworn he caught a glimpse of his masked visage staring back. “I’m no criminal. I’m just a lumpy guy with above average intelligence, too much time on his hands, and aspirations of being a super villain.”
Clint laughed. “Where would we be if we hadn’t found each other?”
“Probably Shadybrook.”
The friends laughed and headed outside. Clint straddled his motorcycle and looked back. “What have you got on tap for next week?”
Ray smiled. “Made this nifty program that can scramble codes without doing any major damage. No spoilers, but I’d be close to the First National Bank at some point next week if I were you.”
Clint nodded and pulled on his helmet. “I’m sure it’s nothing the Bronze Condor can’t handle.” He gunned the engine and started to ride off.
“You haven’t seen the last of the Silver Skull!” Ray shouted after him, shaking his fist in mock rage. When his best friend and archenemy was gone, Matt sat in his own car and started the engine. He smiled at his mask on the passenger seat, tuned his iPod to Villain Mix and started for home.
Poem for a Superhero
Emily Heasley
For John
You ask, again, “What am I doing with my life?”
You’ve combed through my advice in search of secret weapons for the villains cropping up inside you, sitting in doubt until it poisons you like Bane’s venom. You say your cape is slipping from your shoulders and you want to toss your mask in the dumpster. But every great hero takes his licks.
Remember:
This is only your origin story. Even Peter Parker was in college before he got bit by that spider. The Flash couldn’t lap the world his first day. You worry you’ll trip, but the doomsday clocks aren’t even ticking. You’re still learning to fly, so don’t beat yourself up when you hit the dirt.
Remember:
There will be days you need exploding arrows and Batarangs and days when you have to hide behind your vibranium shield. There will be days when you’re made of adamantium, and sometimes you’ll be as feeble as the Human Torch in a hurricane. Thanos and Galactus will come to eviscerate your universe, but you’ve got all the gadgets you need.
Remember:
You’re not alone.
You’re Quicksilver and I’m Scarlet Witch; we’re Nightcrawler and Rogue. When Doc Oc knocks you down and Scarecrow’s got you pinned with his fear toxin, I’ll be there to beat back the baddies.
So remember, when you wonder what you’re doing with your life, you already know the answer. You’re becoming the hero you’re destined to be and the brother I always wanted.
Denim for a Day
Taegan Dennis
For a day slide me in your pocket. I settle in as the fabric wraps around me. Warmth radiates from You to me; I shudder— so happy. My heartbeat slows matching yours, marches forward with the steady pulse of your strong defiant feet.
Traveling in directions I can’t see. But I can smell You, and I can hear You. The gentle rustle of fabric hums softly, almost whispers. I settle back, close my eyes, and breathe.
Am I a Good Dad?
John Stackpoole
Shut up.
Asking if you’re a good dad is like asking if I have your brown eyes. You didn’t teach me how to shoot a three pointer, but instead how to fight with Jedi swords. You didn’t teach me how to get the popular girls, but to always open a door for one. And I don’t blame you for giving me physical discipline, what others would say is physical abuse; you taught me some people just need an ass whooping.
There are fathers abandoning their kids before their first cry.
There are fathers battering their sons and daughters with drunken fists. There are fathers forcing screams for their sadistic pleasure, then whispering everything will be all right. But I know a father who was shipped off to fight in his country’s wars.
I know a father head banging with his son to Metallica’s “One.”
I know a father who said before his son’s spinal surgery, “Everything will be all right.”
Anybody can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad. And the question “Am I going to be a good dad?” is stomped out by your sweat-burned boots.
Papa’s Kind of Love
Grace Brown
“Aw! You wouldn’t last a day!” Jordan sneered at me. His cronies stood crowded behind him laughing along.
I stood facing him in my front door, arms crossed, feet planted firmly, eyebrows raised threateningly. “If you’re so sure,” I taunted, “then you won’t mind me tagging along, will you?” I desperately tried to hide a smile.
Jordan’s face blanched a little, but Kyle didn’t see. “Why not? We’ll see if she can even carry everything she packs. Ha!”
“Fine,” Jordan spat. “But remember, we aren’t babying you, ok? You’re carrying your own stuff, and we won’t be walking you back home when you’re scared. We’re leaving at 9--sharp.”
“Well, thank you!” I breathed. “I wouldn’t want to be such a burden.” My sarcasm barely touched them. Rolling my eyes, I turned back inside to begin packing.
Camping! I’d loved camping ever since I was a child. Papa would convince Mama to let me go with him on small hunting trips or even sometimes when he got an odd job in the next town over. Mama would usually give in when she saw my excitement, worrywart as she was. Papa would help me pack as little as I could and load me up so I could carry it. I smiled as I pictured my little four-year-old self with a pack almost as big as herself piled upon her back, trundling and skipping alongside Papa down the trail.
I walked to my room and opened the closet with Papa’s camping supplies I managed to sneak away before Mama burned them all. Everything was placed neatly on the shelf: a tarp, blanket, rope, a few clothespins, and Papa’s long hunting knife. I pulled them down and rolled them up inside the tarp to make my bundle, adding a change of clothes.
Leaving the roll on my bed, I returned to the kitchen where I found the small camping pot Papa would carry in the
back corner of the bottom cabinet. I had convinced Mama to let us keep it because it was small and could be useful for sauces. From the basket on the counter, I grabbed an onion, two carrots, two potatoes, and a few small turnips and put them on a large dishcloth. Carefully pinching the stems, I added some parsley, rosemary, and basil to the pile and then filled two small jars with salt and pepper. Then, I filled a flour sack the size of my hand with some barley. As I gathered the food supplies, I could hear Papa’s voice telling me how we would find water and meat for supper.
“We’ll find a nice camp site near a stream and forest, and then we can make a delicious soup. We’ll set these traps up in the forest to catch some small meat like squirrel or rabbit. While our water is heating over the fire, I’ll prepare the meat, and you can start cutting the vegetables. It will all cook together for a bit, and then we’ll have a nice warm supper to eat.”
I reminisced as I packed, being careful not to disturb Mama’s rest. Ever since Papa’s death, she was ailing. It was so sudden that I don’t think she ever recovered from the shock. Were it not for her health, I probably would have done the same; nevertheless, someone had to take care of her. She took to her bed and would stare out the window. I think she was waiting for Papa to return. Now, she hated the mention of camping since he loved it so much. Papa had grown up in a caravan, so he often grew tired of staying in one place. But Mama was a homebody; she was firm about making a house a home, and “you can only do that if you stay in one place.” He retaliated by taking jobs in other towns so he could travel. He would be back in two weeks at most, usually only one, depending on how long it took to make repairs or build a house.
I left a soup on the stove and told her I would be back in a few days: I had a job in the next town over. As much as it hurt to tell a lie, I didn’t want to hurt Mama more than I had to. Seeing her vacant face, I resolved to ask our neighbor to look in on her.
With my small pack on, Papa’s hunting knife on my belt (hidden of course), and my walking stick in my hand, I walked
to the meeting place the boys had arranged. I almost laughed out loud when I saw the size of the boys’ packs. Poor Liam was the pack-mule and was loaded down with so much stuff he could barely walk. When they saw my pack, they were stunned.
“How much longer until we start? I want to get there early,” I asked.
We were soon on our way, very slowly due to their heavy loads. Before an hour was out, the boys were exhausted, but seeing my energy, they pushed themselves. At noon we stopped for lunch. I snacked on a few biscuits and an apple and sat down; I was ignored. I simply listened in on their conversations and mentally corrected their stupidity. They were privileged, had never seen hardship, and thought they knew everything. Papa made only enough money to pay for what we needed and very few frivolities. When Papa died and I became the sole provider for the family, we had even less. Any meat we ate came from the snares I set in the forest behind the house. I managed to keep a small garden of vegetables and rationed the flour and oats I bought occasionally. I had almost stopped growing, so clothes were not a problem; when I did need new clothes, I learned to take in Mama’s old clothes. I had learned a lot from hardship, lessons that cannot be learned from books.
It was already three o’clock by the time we reached our campsite. The boys had chosen an area perfect for camping: close to a forest and a bubbling stream, just what Papa always suggested. I knew if I wanted meat for supper I would need to set my traps and snares immediately. I dropped my bundle near the trees where I wanted to sleep and started into the forest.
“I’ll be back soon!” I shouted to whoever would hear me, which was probably only the animals.
After my traps were set, I returned to set up camp. It didn’t look as if it would rain, so I spread my tarp on the ground and put a blanket on top. It was warm, so I would probably be able to just use my cloak as an over-blanket for the night. I went down to the stream, washed the vegetables, and filled my small pot, then, once I returned, began a fire. I figured I should probably check my traps by then.
“If I’m not back in an hour, you can come looking for me.” Once again, I doubted anyone had listened. I found a rabbit caught in my first snare; he was still alive. Kneeling down, I petted him under the chin until he died. I hated finding them still alive; I hated the thought of killing an innocent animal. Still, I knew it was only the way of life. After gathering the rest of my kill—one more rabbit and a squirrel—I skinned and cleaned them. By the time I got back to camp, the boys had begun to think about going after me. Maybe they’re not as bad as I thought, I considered. Of course, I didn’t show it. My stew turned out to be delicious. Even the boys agreed. In fact, there was none left. The boys had made a large bonfire and, after tasting my stew, had invited me to join them around it for toasted cheese. I offered up the squirrel I had saved, but they refused, looking at it in disgust. Shrugging my shoulders, I cut the squirrel into small chunks and began toasting it with some cheese. Night fell. The sky was clear, and millions of stars sparkled in the sky while the moon shone resiliently, casting a mystical aura on the campsite. I soon retired to my pallet to take in the beauty of the night. Although Mama did not like camping, she did always enjoy siting outside on a clear night to star gaze.
When I was younger, we would lay a blanket on the ground, and she and Papa would point out the constellations and stars. Even after I was sent to bed, Mama and Papa would stay out gazing. I would occasionally hear Mama telling Papa about a particular star or constellation. Being the curious child I was, I would sneak out to the window and look out on them. Papa would simply listen to Mama and smile. He once told me it was hearing her tell a story to some children that he first fell in love with her. “First?” I asked him. “Oh yes, small one. I fall in love with your mother every time I see her, every time I hear her voice, every time I think of her. That’s the beauty of true love: you never stop, and it never leaves you.” I fell asleep gazing at the stars and dreamed of Papa’s kind of love.
On nights like this I let wistful dreams carry me away.
Northern Lights
Christina Freeman
My eyes are wide open gazing intently upwards, yet I don’t see the violet glow in the dark stars on my ceiling.
I see aurora lights illuminating the ebony sky.
The iridescent ribbons meander through a splash of stars.
My body is unaware of the quilt beneath me; no, I am shrouded in a coat of vegan leather. I treasure the snow that melts as it brushes my eyelashes, the sweet scent of smoldering firewood, the sharpness of the crystalline air. And there’s silence except for our breathing.
Words I cannot say
Stormfront
Ashley Haines
Lurk just behind the soft palate
Caught there by uncertainty, Strangled by a fear, Veiled as consideration of feeling.
Always the moment is insignificant, Not worth the weight of my words.
I wave aside courage, embrace false peace. Tomorrow will be better To say things.
Ocean During a Storm
Savannah Gahagan
You reminded me of the ocean during a storm: unpredictable yet beautiful. You couldn’t be calmed and couldn’t be survived. You were like the waves—always reaching for the shore, dragging the things around you into your darkness. You leave your broken pieces all around you like broken shells on the ocean floor and wonder why people tiptoe around you to avoid being cut. You reminded me of the ocean during a storm: dark and deadly.
Cold Play
Donna Wilke
Childhood awakened to giant snow drifts. My brother, sister, and I suited up with stocking caps. We slid on boots to slide on sleds, rolled crooked paths to coat a snowman, dug tunnels like ski-masked moles, till noses went numb and toes pricked with pain. Sloshing across linoleum, we circled the glowing stove, splaying hands, icy cuffs dripped hissing in the fire. Warmed, we melted back into our frosty world.
Now, the alarm sounds and I groan: No School. Frozen car doors, windshields, and engines, wait for the snow plow to find our house. Wild-haired, pajama-clad kids bounce on beds and down the stairs to feast on Fruit Loops. Running out to play, they run back in, and then out again. I nudge up the thermostat and holler: CLOSE THAT DOOR. My socks soak up a puddle as I walk to the window. Moving the curtain, I watch angels make wings in the snow.
Christmas?
Donna Wilke
Well, it’s over, the presents, paper, gift bags with nametags, tissue, tape, boxes, and bows. No mistletoe for kissing, caroling or wishing a Merry Christmas, and the mail man has stopped delivering greetings or gifts.
Down is the tree with its bulbs, beads, and scent of evergreen. Gone are the gatherings with goodies, minus guilt. Visitors who cheered in the New Year have hurried home with hangovers.
The Rubbermaid is stuffed with Santa’s sleigh, illuminating snowmen and an elf, and it will be a long eleven months before the Grinch screws with the Whos, a boy begs for a Red Rider BB gun, and another is left home alone.
And on TV, there are muscular people trying to sell gym memberships, stop smoking aids, financial strategies, weight watchers, and a JCPenney’s White Sale
Apparently, my lazy, smoking, overspending, fat ass messed up the sheets. I bought baby Jesus at 75% off along with plastic-wrapped propaganda.
And I say to myself, “Wake up!”
In only two weeks I’ve lost Good Will, Hope, and Peace?
The spirit hasn’t abandoned me. I accidently put it in the attic with plastic Jesus.
William S. Alexander Oil Junkyard
Portrait
Justus Castillo
Graphite
of Anxiety
Brenda Troyer Crabbe
Clay Sgrafitto Octo Plate
Colby Detwiler
Acrylic
of Thought
Jessica Griesheimer
Candace Lea Harbin
Vector Drawing
Mattie Kelly Art Center
The Rhythm of Light
Candace Lea Harbin
Photograph
& 2
Sarah Hawkins
Collage/Mixed Media
Rachel Hood Raku
Sea Witch
Ekaterina Ilina Digital Illustration
Imagine Dragon
Obsession
Digital Illustration
Ekaterina Ilina
Nobuko Landers Oil
Fluttering Breeze
Anna Lennon
Charcoal and Colored Pencil
Quiet Power
Natalia Kireeva Light
Watercolor Ferry Park
Iyan McFall
Charcoal
The Unexpected Journey
Iyan McFall
Charcoal and Pastel
A Lost Heart
Kenneth R. Miller
Cypress
Photograph, 3D Print Will
B. Morekis
Maria
Megan Noel Opava
Charcoal, Pastel, Graphite, Pen
Happy Wilderness
Abigail Ott
Christopher J. Realy
Photograph
The Treasury at Petra
The Old North Bridge
Rebecca Roach
Graphite
Heather Sasser Wood Unearthed
Christopher Henry Savoie
Colored Pencil
Object Self-portrait
Susan-Mara Self
Paviale Stephens
Photograph Flicker of a Flame
Paviale Stephens
Photograph On the Edge
Therissa-Marie Taki
Mixed Media
Colorful Growth
Townsend Photograph
Sue
Edge of Twilight
Sue Townsend Photograph Light Weaver
Julia
Tara
In the Light It Could Not Hold
Katie Dineen
“What happens to a dream deferred?”
Does it dim and fall like a star whose light has burned out?
Or become like a lover’s throat which burns from hours of prayer and doubt?
Does it search for a hand in the dark that in the light it could not hold?
Or maybe it is set on fire at four a.m. so the moon can eat the ashes that blow to the heavens.
Or does it turn off the closet light so that the doorknob is concealed and no longer screams to be opened?
Inspired by Langston Hughes’s poem “Harlem.”
First Place, James and Christian LaRoche Poetry Contest, 2015
Jena: The Phone Call
Simply Sisters
Donna Wilke
Again, I count the ceiling tiles. I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself back to sleep. It doesn’t work. Tired, but not the kind that brings restful sleep, I turn over and focus on the stainless steel commode next to the bed. The light from the florescent bulb glares and twitches; the wool from the blanket itches, and somewhere a leaky faucet slowly drips… drips… drips… Over and over my brain keeps rolling the same events around, grating images into the back of my red-rimmed eyes.
I sit up and take the two steps over to the sink to turn on the water. It is biting cold. Cupping my hands and bending, I sip a drink of the metallic water. I cup my hands again and splash my face, rubbing my forehead as if I could scrub away the images: eye contact and talking shots; music and laughing shots; dancing and floor lights shots; flirting and kissing shots; purse and keys shots; bump and grind shots; missing panties and awkward silence shots; indifferent and needy shots; shrieking and “Bitch” shots; slamming car door and emptying the bottle shot; air bag discharge and blue lights shock.
Now, if . . . starts every sentence, if only . . . what’s his name? Bob wasn’t an asshole and had taken me home, if only I hadn’t drunk so much. Rubbing my temples with my palms, I clench my teeth.
If Mark had acted right, I wouldn’t have been out with some loser. If he’d only gotten a job; if we hadn’t broken up; if he’d been a man, he’d have taken care of us.
The sweet, chubby cheeks of Andy’s face flash through my mind causing me to wince. Pain pierces an unidentified spot in my chest and spreads. I’m suddenly pissed. If only Crystal wasn’t such a bitch. If only I could still talk to her. Sisters were supposed to stick together. If only Mom… and my mind raced
to the last time I saw her.
It was three months ago, when Mom showed up completely wasted at Andy’s third birthday party. Don’t know what she was on, but she could hardly stand up. Crystal was so mad that I’d invited Mom she instantly left with her husband and kids. She’s the one that needs to learn how to forgive. I guess that church she’s always going to doesn’t teach that. But then, Mom started with that nasty mouth she gets; the guy she came with ditched her, and everybody started leaving. And after I had spent a fortune on a Spider-Man cake, plates, cups, balloons, streamers, and goodie bags for all the kids! I wanted to watch Andy drive around all the kids in his new Power Wheel, and they didn’t even see it. Mom ended up chasing him a lap around the yard, clapping and hooting, until she fell on her ass, kicked some leaves around and passed out.
“Granny fell down,” Andy said getting out of his Power Wheel and going over to her.
“Yeah, she’s going off the deep end,” I said shaking my head. Andy ran into the house, and I sat down on the top of his multicolored picnic table, looked over at my mom’s motionless body and lit a smoke. A few minutes later, he came running out the door, handing me his arm floats for the pool.
“Hurry,” he said. “Blow them up.” And he shoved them in my face.
“Why?” I asked irritated. “We’re not going swimming. Go drive the car Mommy just got for you.”
Andy shoved the arm floats back into my face. “We’ll put them on Granny for when she goes off the deep end,” he said with a serious look.
I remember hugging him and kissing the top of his head. And I wonder what he’s doing now. Where is he? Does the babysitter still have him? Is he scared? I push back my hair and hold my head trying to keep it together. It’s only been two days. Surely the babysitter would have called someone, but who? Mark doesn’t have a phone and hasn’t seen Andy for months. Not even for his birthday. I haven’t talked to Crystal since the big fight, and I don’t know if I gave the sitter any
Wilke • 73
phone numbers besides my cell. I don’t want to think anymore. It hurts too much.
I look out the window on the door as an officer passes. They haven’t said much to me, and I’m afraid to ask. It’s a weekend, and Monday’s when they’re taking me before the judge. I was allowed a phone call after booking, and a couple of times since, but I couldn’t get through because prepaid phones can’t accept a collect call. Trying to remember anyone’s phone number is tough. There’re all in my cell. One kept coming to mind though I didn’t want to call. It would be the same shit I already knew. Fuck if I needed that right now.
Stepping away from the sink, I sit back down on the bed, hug my legs up to my chest and rest my head on my knees. Crystal used to be fun. Mom had named her Crystal after crystal meth, which is screwed up, but I loved her name. Growing up, we stuck together no matter what. Whenever Mom started fighting with whatever guy she was with, we’d hide in the closet. When we had to sleep in the car or share food, sometimes Crystal used to bring home stuff from lunch at school. I lift my arm and wipe at my nose with the sleeve of my shirt.
We clung to each other when we were put in foster care, moving from one home to another. Changing schools, we got bullied before we even knew what the word meant. Crystal would stand up against anyone who gave us crap. When we got older, we’d sneak out to parties, meet boys, and even run away when they wanted to split us up. Now she’s married with two kids and is always after me to go to church with them. The last time I talked to her, she said I needed to stop leaving Andy with strangers. I told her if she would watch him, then he’d be with family. And she said, “You’re just like mom.” That’s bullshit.
I lay back down until I hear the sound of footsteps. Lunch: a plastic tray with some sort of meat wad, a packet of ketchup, rice, overcooked broccoli, and a tooth-chipping cookie. Smelling the unappetizing food, my stomach growls disloyal to my eyes and nose, so I eat what I can and push the tray under the bar with most of its contents intact.
An officer comes and announces that I have forty-five
minutes in the common area. Walking down the hall, I stretch my legs and enter the room. It has four stationary tables with attached seats, picnic style. Up in the corner, a small, old-school TV is anchored with industrial reinforced sheet metal, and on the opposite side of the room hangs a pay phone. Glancing around, I’m the first to make my way into the room. I head for the phone, pick up the receiver, lift my finger, and hesitate. Slowly, I dial. I state my name and wait.
“Hello” sounds like a question coming from Crystal.
Letting go of the breath I’ve been holding, I say, “You’re right.” And start to cry. “I’m so sorry.”
Crystal: The Letter
I don’t have a clue how to start. It should be easy, I mean, she’s my sister. We’ve always been able to talk. We used to sit up whole nights as kids, just talking and now, I don’t know what to say. I’m just so mad… hurt… I want to strangle her, and then, on the other hand, I want to know why, and I want to hold her, running my fingers and smoothing down her soft blond curls, telling her that everything is going to be all right, like when we were kids. Jena was so sweet and scared the day we were carted off by the cops. She was four, holding on to my arm so tight it hurt. I was scared too, but I was more than just scared; I was pissed. My third grade teacher was always asking me if I was sick. I’d just shrug and tell her yeah, but I didn’t want to lie because I really liked Mrs. Henry. She was my favorite teacher up to that point, and I’d had a bunch. The year before, I think there’d been at least five. We moved a lot.
That day, Mom hadn’t come home again the night before, so I couldn’t catch the bus that morning. I guess it was inevitable that a truancy officer would show up, but as I peeked out the trailer widow, I didn’t know who he was. He was tall with shiny shoes and a hat tucked under his arm. I saw a badge on his shirt. My heart started beating hard. Mom was always worried about the police, so I tried to pull Jena away from the door, but she started to scream.
He just knocked harder and said, “Mrs. Jenson, I need to speak with you.”
I froze and stared at the door, wondering if he could see through it or if he was going to bust it down like Mom’s boyfriend Mike did when we lived with him. I turned and whispered to Jena, “Shhh.”
“I can hear your children, Mrs. Jenson,” he knocked louder. “Please open the door, or I will have to call the police.”
I thought he was the police. But I sure didn’t want the police to come, so I said, “Momma’s not here.” I thought he’d go away.
“Hi, can you tell me where she’s at?” His tone had changed. I didn’t know, but Mom had said to tell anyone asking that she went to the store for milk. “She’s at the store!” I yelled at the door. Jena had stopped screaming and was trying to open the door, so I barrel hugged her and dragged her away. She lifted both arms straight up and slid to the floor.
“Crystal, can you open the door?”
I was stunned. How’d he know my name? I grabbed Jena by the hand and dragged her to the window to get a better look. I peeked at him, hoping he wouldn’t see me. But he did and gave a little wave with a big grin.
Jena pulled the flimsy shade back patting the window excitedly, calling, “Hi, hi, hi.”
I just stood there with big eyes as he continued. “Your teacher, Mrs. Henry, told me what a great student you are, and that she was concerned about you.”
“I’m fine,” I said, looking at him through the window, but my bottom lip quivered, and I felt my tears start to well up.
“Do you see this badge?” he pointed. “It’s my job to help a young lady, such as yourself, that may need assistance with getting to school.” I nodded thinking he was some kind of fancy bus driver. “So how about you open the door, and we’ll wait for your Mom to get home.”
“I’m not allowed to open the door for strangers,” I told him, shaking my head.
“Well, that’s good.” He rubbed his chin. “How about I just
wait in my car for your Mom?” He smiled again, waved at Jena and went out to his car.
I watched out the window for a while as he sat in his car. I could see him talking on a phone. It wasn’t much later when the police came with some lady who smelled like she swam in perfume. I had to let them in, and the woman asked me if I had a favorite toy and what Jena’s favorite was. Then she put some clothes in a sack and took us to a shelter.
After we got there, Jena asked me, “If I’m good, can we go home?”
I told her, “No, I don’t think so.” I hooked my baby finger with hers. “Let’s pinky-swear that we’ll both be good and stick together like glue.” That was the first of more foster homes than I can count.
So I guess Jena could use the excuse that we were raised jacked up, but that’s no reason to do it to her own son. Picking up a pen, I try to start again. Twelve months is all that bounces around in my head. Doesn’t she know how lucky she is? She could have killed that family. Serving one year seemed like a minimal sentence after the damage that she caused. I’ll never forget the pictures of lacerations and bruises on that man’s face, with his two black eyes, broken nose, and concussion. He almost died from the puncture in his spleen, so did the little boy in the back seat. He couldn’t have been more than five. The court reported he had a broken arm, collar bone and three ribs as well as twenty stiches along his left cheek and into his hairline. The woman and infant were on the other side of the car when Jena t-boned their Honda Civic. They were okay, just shaken up. Thank God they all had on their seatbelts.
I thought again about how I would feel if it were my family. My daughter Emily turned five last January, and Elliot is seven. I felt my blood begin to boil, and I wanted to knock some sense into Jena. I can’t imagine what it would be like, sitting in the hospital waiting for my husband to get out of surgery, not knowing if he was going to live or die, that poor woman. I don’t even want to think about it. Every night in my prayers I thank God for my husband Ben. I don’t just love him for the stability
and the security he provides in my life and our children’s. I love that it’s who he is. He’s my rock. After a life of riding wave after wave, my life with him is like sitting on a sunny shore.
When I first met Ben, I had just graduated from high school that year and was working at Sonic. He pulled up in a dusty, dented red Ford pickup with a hard hat hanging in the back window. I skated out to deliver his foot-long, fries, and Cherry Lime-Aid in my short shorts.
“Here you go,” I said placing the tray on the door with a fake smile. “That will be $6.53.” He handed me $7.00. I pushed on the coin changer hung on my waist for the .47 cents. He took it and handed me $10.00. I smiled really big. “Why thank you!”
“Yeah, I was thinking you could use that to buy some material to add on to those shorts,” he said looking down and then back up at me.
“Well, I hope everybody that comes here feels that way,” I put my hands on my hips. “Next week I’ll retire these shorts for a bikini.” I yanked my shorts up and skated away with both ass cheeks hanging out.
He came back the very next day for lunch and every day after until he drove away with my heart and the rest of its attachments. He grew up in a family that could have put a TV show to shame. When I met them, I was amazed. I had never been around people who treated each other with genuine respect and decency. It was like watching aliens from another planet.
I asked him one day, after we had been married for a few years, “What was it about me that attracted you?”
And he just smiled and said, “You have a fire that lights me up.” And Ben raised my hand and kissed my fingers.
“So it’s sex?” I said.
“Nope, but if you want, we can,” he said sliding his hand up my shirt.
I smacked his hand away, “Can you be serious for a minute?” but I was smiling.
“I knew the moment I saw you in those ridiculous shorts,” he said.
“So it was sex,” I said lifting one eyebrow.
“Nope, but if you say sex one more time, you’re going to have to drop those panties.”
“Sex. Sex. Sex,” I said, and that was the end of the discussion.
I sat there smiling about what happened next until I looked down at the blank page before me. I still hadn’t written anything past “Dear Jena.” I wanted to write something that’d encourage her to see that her life could be so much more than the dysfunctional drug and alcohol drama Mom dealt us. I feel like I’m trying to pull someone out of a pit who refuses to leave, or maybe, she doesn’t know she can. All I know is that I keep praying. The last time we spoke, all she seemed to be interested in doing was complaining and blaming her lawyer for not getting her off, how he had lied and wasn’t worth a damn. She hardly even asked about Andy.
When Jena had found out she was pregnant with Andy, she was excited and kept saying how she was going to have someone of her very own to love forever. We went through baby clothes that I had saved from my kids, putting them in order from 0-3 months, 3-6 months, and on up. It was a trip down memory lane for me, and we both became emotional, oohing and ahhing at the tiny outfits and sleepers. We went to yard sales and on Craigslist to find the rest of what she needed: a crib, dresser, baby swing, linens, hats, booties, and some rattles she could sanitize in the dishwasher.
The day the doctor was going to do the ultrasound, Ben took off work to watch the kids so I could go. Wanting a girl but rationalizing that her boyfriend Mark would be happier if it was a boy, Jena was ball of emotion. I was going to be happy as long as the baby was healthy. Everything was fine, and I thanked God. Then the doctor announced it was a boy. I think we both shed a few tears, smiled and started discussing names. On the ride home, we stopped at a Korean restaurant because Jena was craving pork bokkeum. I wanted to go in, sit down, and relax to eat, but she wanted to get home to tell Mark. It was hard to hide my disappointment, as we didn’t get much
time alone anymore.
Jena had met Mark through a friend at work. Not that he worked. As far as I knew Mark hadn’t had a job for some time, and Jena never mentioned anything about him looking for one. They had been together for only a few months, and I didn’t think much of him. While I was driving her to their apartment, I couldn’t help but ask how they were going to pay the rent when the baby came.
“Mark’s got a friend, and he’s going to work with him,” Jena said, digging into the bag of food and opening the kimbap.
“That’s great. What kind of work is it?” I asked.
“Um, electrical,” she answered around the food in her mouth.
“Pass me one of those.” She handed me one, and I took a bite. “On what?”
“What?” Jena asked
“The electrical work, what will he be working on? House construction, automotive, electronics…” I asked finishing off the kimbap.
“A boat, his friend Jerry is restoring this huge boat, and Mark’s real good with wiring and stuff,” Jena said picking up her fourth kimbap and shoving the whole thing in her mouth.
I didn’t think that sounded like a job at all, just someone helping out a buddy. “So, he’s going to pay him?”
Her tone became defensive, “Well, yeah.”
I let it go and turned up the radio to kill the moment of silence. Before the next song ended, we had pulled into the parking lot. She grabbed her purse and the bag of food, and I followed her into the apartment. Mark was sitting in front of the TV playing on his Xbox when Jena bounded through the door, her spark back, and a smile plastered across her face as she stood in front of him.
“I got great news,” she said, setting down the bag of food. Aggravated, he leaned over, looking around her to continue playing his game as he said, “Yeah.”
“Well, it’s a boy!” And she did a little happy dance before practically jumping on his lap.
Glancing up at her with a hazy smile, he said, “Wow, cool,”
then quickly shifted his attention to the controller, trying to push the pause button before she landed in his lap.
“I hope he has dark hair like yours,” Jena said, kissing him. I was getting a sick feeling, a knot in my stomach.
I must have known from the beginning that it wouldn’t end well, but I love my sister, and I hoped that maybe things could work out for them as a family. After all, I knew how much my family meant to me, and I wanted the same for her. Jena and Mark never made it past Andy’s first birthday, and I would’ve been happy for her to move on, if it weren’t like watching a replay of our lives when we were kids. Jena started hopping from one guy to the next, and Andy was just one more act in her moving circus. With her long legs and hourglass shape, she had no problem finding men. The issue was the type she attracted. Her curls were bleached platinum and ironed straight, and her flawless skin was becoming a parade of bad ink. There really wasn’t any point talking about the way she dressed because it truly didn’t have anything to do with her appearance. She was broken on the inside, a place I couldn’t reach. I tried to talk to her, I mean, I couldn’t stand by and say nothing about how she raised Andy. Like the conversation we had before her accident.
“So he tells me that he was at his buddy’s house working on a bike and all the time he’s out with this slut that works at One More,” Jena said over the phone. “I couldn’t believe it.”
“How did you find out?” I asked, standing in my kitchen, folding a shirt out of the load of laundry.
“It was getting late. He wouldn’t answer his phone, so I drove over, and there was nobody in the garage at his buddy’s house. When I knocked on the door, the guy said he hadn’t seen him all week,” Jena’s voice was pitching up and down stressing every other word. “So I went to the Bourbon Barn, The One More and then, I found his truck at Slinky’s. He had the nerve—.”
“Where was Andy?” I asked, laying down the shirt and propping the phone up to my ear.
“He was in the car,” she sounded annoyed and continued. “He said I was driving him crazy and that red-headed bitch
laughed. She wasn’t laughing after I snatched her bald to the…”
“You took Andy into a bar?”
“Uh, he was fine. He fell asleep in the car.” Jena blew out a loud breath. “I’m trying to tell you what—”
“Jena, you can’t leave a two year old alone in the car.” I tried to sound calm, but I wasn’t. “If he would have woken—.”
“He didn’t, and last time I brought him over, Ben got all pissed,” Jena accused.
“It was 11:30 at night.” I shook my head in disbelief. “And we were all in—.”
“We broke up,” and she said, crying.
Afterwards, I felt like crap. I wasn’t sure if I had made my point or was just wasting my breath. The only time I was getting to see her was when she wanted me to babysit, and even then she just flew in and out. Ben and I tried to invite her to church and to spend time with our family, but she always had some excuse and either called to cancel or didn’t show up. After a while, we told her we loved Andy and we wanted to spend time with him, but we were not her around-the-clock babysitting service. I find that ironic now that we have him full time.
Andy’s a sweet little boy, and Ben and I have been working with him on manners and getting him into a routine. He started pre-K and is doing great. He’s bright and catches on quickly. Most nights, he wakes up crying and not your regular cry but a dead-on scream. I rush in and hold him rubbing his back till his tears turn into a whimper; then he asks for his mommy. It breaks my heart, and it reminds me of how Jena used to kick and thrash in her sleep as a kid. I’ve tried to talk to Mark, the boy’s father, and I use that term loosely, about visiting him. Apparently, conception is the only contribution he plans on making. I keep trying to bless that man, and I do, but I have to fight the feeling of wanting to kick his teeth in.
I looked back at the white blank page in front of me and recalled the time when I was nothing but trouble. I was fifteen and we had moved into a new foster home with Helen and Tom. They seemed okay, but I didn’t care, not about them or anything else. I was skipping school, failing my sophomore year, and had
worn out my welcome at the previous home.
A few months before, I had a boyfriend that I was crazy about, the kind that gets you writing your future married name three hundred times, walking around in a daze looking at bridal magazines for wedding dresses and trying to imagine what your baby might look like. Of course, as it turned out, he was absolutely perfect and said all the right things, to get the one thing he was after, and then he was gone. Hurt, I took it out on anyone I could, mostly myself. I snuck out at night hanging out with older kids, drinking, smoking weed, and tearing up anything not nailed down. Jena followed me like a puppy. Most nights I would wait till she fell asleep, but sometimes I couldn’t, so I took her with me. That’s how she ended up getting hurt, the night we were partying at a construction site.
Several homes were being built in a subdivision. We were hanging out in a house that had only the floors and studs up. After getting stoned, somebody thought it would be a good idea to play hide and seek. Jena was running and weaving between the studs trying not to be tagged when she tripped over a pipe in the floor and fell down from the second story. Jena broke her arm when it clipped a concrete mixer. Hitting the ground with a terrible thud, she started screaming, and everybody bolted. I half carried, half dragged her to the nearest house and beat on the door until an old man answered. He called an ambulance as I sat with Jena on his front porch, trying to calm her down. He came back out with a towel, trying to wipe off the dirt and blood. Jena was a mess. She had gotten a compound fracture, a deep gash on the back of her head, and too many scrapes and bruises to count.
The next day, the social worker, Mrs. Wanda, came to the hospital to visit Jena. I was sitting beside the bed playing cards with Jena when I heard Mrs. Wanda speaking to my foster parents out in the hall. Helen, my foster mother, was insisting that I should be separated from Jena. She told Mrs. Wanda that I was a bad influence, and if I was removed that she and Tom would like to adopt Jena when parental rights were terminated. As I realized the danger of losing my sister hadn’t passed,
my mouth fell open. Shaking, I got up and told Jena I’d be right back. I walked out of the room, shut the door, and faced my foster parents, Tom and Helen.
“I know that I’ve been—,” I started to say.
“I don’t want to hear anything from you, young lady,” Helen said, shaking a finger in my face. “You could’ve killed your sister, and I’ve had it with you.” Her face was turning red, and Tom hovered in, supporting his wife. “I’ve tried everything I know to be nice to you, and you just throw it back in our faces.”
Spit flew out of her as she got louder, and as much as I wanted to say some smart-ass comment, I knew now was not the time. I hung my head and took her tongue lashing for the next several minutes, giving her her due with only yes ma’am’s in the appropriate spots. Helen, Tom, and Mrs. Wanda discussed juvenile detention, and I knew they weren’t bluffing. I had broken more than enough rules to warrant a one-way ticket. When they were finished, I stood with fat tears running down my face and promised Helen, Tom, and Mrs. Wanda that if they would give me a chance, I would do anything. Helen glared at me, but I held her gaze and waited. She looked over to Tom, and he lifted his eyebrows with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but okay,” she hesitated, and I sucked in a deep breath. “But this is on a trial basis, and if you give me any reason at all, you’re out,” she said like an umpire.
Once again I had to bite my lip because I thought, I’m always on trial. I knew they didn’t believe me, but I stopped my late night cruises, cleaned the kitchen whenever it needed, went to school every day, did all my homework, sucked up to the teachers for extra credit so I could pass, and bit my tongue so often, I thought I was going to chew it off. It turned out that Tom and Helen weren’t too bad, and I was truly sorry when Tom had a heart attack later that next year. He survived, but due to all the rehabilitation, we were moved again.
I glance at the clock knowing that I need to get started and anything would be better than nothing. I give a quick prayer and put pen to paper.
Dear Jena,
I long for a way to explain to you how grateful I am that we are sisters. I realized that no matter how awful things were when we were kids, as long as you were with me, I felt everything was going to be okay. You gave me someone to hold onto when nothing was in my control. I know now that we formed some kind of crazy relationship trying to survive. I wasn’t very good at being a mom to you, as well as your sister, and I hope that from this day on we can learn how to enjoy being sisters. I pray every day for you and believe that this is an opportunity, that during this time, you and I can create a stronger bond. Andy is wonderful. He is doing fantastic in school. He can recite the Pledge of Allegiance and sing the ABC song, and he is working on writing his name. He has made a friend in his class, Noah, a cute little strawberry blonde with a ton of freckles. I’ve set up a play date with Noah’s Mom, and they are both excited. Andy has drawn you a picture that I sent. I’m sure you have already seen it. He misses you, and we talk about you every day. I have your photo in a frame beside the bed, and he kisses it goodnight before we tuck him in. It’s a blessing to watch him grow, and when he learns new things, his smile lights up a room. He has a great time playing with Elliot and Emily, and I’m tickled how well they continue to get along.
I want to tell you something vital: MOM MISSED OUT ON US. We were precious and amazing, and I know this by getting the privilege of raising Elliot, Emily, and caring for Andy. Please hold dear to this priceless gift in your life and don’t let bad choices and circumstances direct your heart. I’m afraid that you will never be able to forgive yourself.
I want you to know how incredibly loved you are and that you are important. Please believe me when I say that you are treasured beyond compare, and you can never imagine the effect you will have when you choose to love. Remember, pinky-swear sister, you were my miracle when I needed one.
I love you with all my heart, Crystal
Merry Christmas from California
Drew Haggerman
Joshua Trees and Coyote Vines peep through spaces between our heads. The majestic desert blocked by our dull figures, fake smiles, and fear of you.
The sun like a warm breath in winter. Our eyes, squinting and watering into the lens, leaking tears from the sun, or something stronger.
The unforgiving patio still cold from the night reflects my brother’s feelings more than the sun on his shoulders. Stone traveling from his feet to his heart. Cracks in the concrete mirrored in his weak smile. Oh, how you hated that boy.
In the picture, your hand rests gently. In truth, it should have been claws Ripping into his skin, pinning him down.
“Merry Christmas from California” does not depict us at all; perhaps if the stranger, who we called neighbor, had taken it earlier she might have caught the true family trio, might have caught the blotched purple bruise on my brother’s face.
Highlights
Joshua Turner
In Kansas City, Missouri, I was with my mother in the doctor’s waiting room. I picked up a Highlights and started searching. where is the apple? where is the broom? I couldn’t hear a thing, not the bubbles from the fish tank or the block tower toppling over. where is that toothbrush? The room became empty as I started the word search just me in a chair, searching seahorse, where are you seahorse? Up, down, backwards, diagonally, “Josh, come on, I’ve called you twice!” In that moment I awoke and realized time went on, whether I came along or not.
What I Lift
John Stackpoole
I don’t go to the gym to look good. I don’t go to flex in front of girls or to show off how much I can lift.
I go to run a 5k on a treadmill sweating out tears like the night Uncle Jason overdosed. I go to lift a hundred and twenty pounds of laziness that keeps me from setting a plan for my life. I go to hold a squat for thirty seconds to recall how I endured seeing my first love with another man. I go to curl forty pounds of smothering depression, and I go to lift my chin over the bar society’s set.
Ten pushups away from becoming the alcoholic who buys beer on Sunday mornings. Fifteen leg lifts to scale mountains of bullshit like kids choosing drugs over family. Eight tricep dips propel me closer to busting my self-made glass ceiling.
I bench one hundred fifteen pounds, thirty five for two-hour-long existential phone calls. Another thirty five for an encyclopedia of inside jokes, and forty five pounds of bullets I don’t mind taking, so I can be strong when my friends need me.
I don’t lift dumbbells. I don’t lift bars. I don’t lift weights. What I lift is myself through another day.
Thunder and Lightning
Emily Heasley
Desarae Belle Winters’ reflection glared back at her as she dabbed at her split lip with a piece of damp paper towel. She turned her head left and right, watching as the bruises began to blacken her dark skin. She rubbed her jaw, then turned from the dirty bathroom mirror and tossed the bloody paper towel on the floor.
“That last bout was bull,” she said, spitting pink saliva into the yellowed ceramic sink. She ran a hand through her navy blue hair.
“I thought it went well, Miss Winters,” the cyborg standing by the door replied. His eyes clicked like a camera shutter as he blinked.
“DB, it’s DB, okay?” She glowered and gave herself one last glance in the mirror. “DB December. We’ve been over this like, a thousand times.”
“We have also been over that this sort of activity is unbefitting the daughter of Dr. Winters,” replied the cyborg with a sassy tone.
DB scowled. “Yeah, well, what he don’t know won’t kill him, eh GH-057?”
GH-057 (known to the public as Guardian Home-model 057 and to DB as “ghost”) shook his head, the titanium forged into his cheek glinting in the florescent light. DB smirked with the good side of her mouth and brushed past him. GH-057 followed only half a step behind her, as always.
The neon lights of Neo-Yama hit DB like steam. She sucked in a lungful of car exhaust and cold wind before she started out of the alley. The buzz of midnight hung in the air like the mist that swirled on the other side of the domed city. Cars hummed on the road, people shouted to each other, bass drops pounded through the concrete from the slum clubs. And as always, the zigzag waves of color from it all danced before her eyes, mixing
with the turquoise and pink from the signs around her.
She was about eight when it first started. She was listening to the radio while her father tinkered in the basement. All of a sudden, strange flashes of color started to move in her vision along with the beat of the song. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, trying to clear her vision, but when it didn’t go away, she ran to tell her dad. Synesthesia. Nothing serious, at least not medically. Sometimes categorized as a minor form of Ascension, but nothing special. At least not until she was older when she learned to turn her little “ability” on and off.
“I think it’s about time I brought the prototype into the ring,” DB said as she rounded the corner onto the main street. Cars raced past, barely streaks of color in the dark. The buzz of neon filled the air.
“That is not advisable,” GH-057 said, his voice rising. “It has not been tested.”
“And where’n hell you think I was planning on testing it?”
DB spun around, walking backwards as she spoke.
“It was my hope you would be more sensible.” GH-057 sighed, though it sounded more like a machine winding down. “Dr. Winters would not approve.”
DB scoffed and turned around. “Pfft, never has.”
They reached the concrete steps to the apartment. DB fished around in her pocket for her keys and unlocked the door. They were silent going up the stairs.
“Gonna need to do a scan on you,” DB said, unclipping her mp3 player from her belt and pulling her oversized headphones off. She tossed them on the nearby couch.
“I do not require a maintenance sweep, Miss Winters,” GH-057 said as DB began pulling cables from the huge computer on the opposite side of the room.
“Yeah, yeah,” she booted up the PC and motioned to him. “C’mere.”
The cyborg reluctantly wandered over. DB hooked the cables into the ports at the back of GH-057’s neck. His eyes lit up a bright green. The screen on the computer flickered to life and a menu popped up.
“Really? Still not integrating that new programming?” DB scowled at the monitor and ran her fingers over the keyboard.
“Dr. Winters has outfitted me with advanced firewalls,” GH-057 said. “To prevent meddling.”
DB frowned and yanked the cables free. A static hiss filled the air, and GH-057 winced. “Meddle that.”
DB’s father, the famed Dr. Solomon Winters, was a cybernetics and AI expert. In recent years, he had created several models of his Guardian Security Cyborgs. And his first successful model had been around to watch DB ever since. When she was younger, it wasn’t so bad. GH-057 functioned more as a VI than anything intelligent, helping her with homework and projects, sometimes even folding her laundry and doing chores she couldn’t be bothered with. But as she got older, and her dad was more absent, the robot tried to fill the role. And became annoying. She had made several attempts over the years to tweak his programming and remove the more “restrictive” parts of his personality, but the only programming she had ever installed with success was a street dancing program. And while that was fun, it wasn’t useful.
DB sighed and headed for the bathroom. She stripped off her jacket and tossed it over the shower curtain rod. She splashed some cold water on her face. Then she went to her room and sat at the foot of her bed. She surveyed the clothes scattered on the floor and empty take-out cartons overflowing the waste basket in the corner. Her dark eyes then fell on the jumble of loose wires and scrap metal on her desk.
With reverence she picked through the junk and picked up her prototype, a long glove with a speaker set in it. She slipped it on, flexing her hand. She closed her eyes and flipped the device on, a soft tune playing from the speaker. When she opened her eyes, the crisscross of sound waves filled her vision. She raised her hand. She aimed her palm at one of the take-out boxes lying on the floor. She locked her wrist and focused. The disorganized waves began to ripple and shift. They slithered across the room to the box, then slipped around it in a colorful coil. DB lifted her arm and the box, cradled by the sound waves,
Heasley • 91
floated into the air. She lifted it above the trash can, then relaxed her hand. The waves dispersed, and the box fell with a small plop onto the top of the pile. DB smiled. A few more calibrations, and it would be perfect.
She removed the glove and cleared a space at her desk. Grabbing an errant mini screwdriver, DB began to work. There was another brawl tomorrow night. And this time, she wouldn’t lose.
DB opened her eyes. She blinked slowly, then sat up. Her room was filled with the orange glow of late afternoon. She looked down at her desk. Her glove sat crumpled to one side, the mini screwdriver still rested loosely in her hand. She set it down.
She looked around her room. The minefield of dirty clothing and food containers was gone. Her laundry was neatly folded at the end of her bed. DB stood and a blanket slipped off her shoulders. She smiled, tossed it on her bed, then headed for the bathroom.
She took a quick shower, brushed her teeth, and tried to use some concealer to cover the bruises on her cheek. She had a gig tonight, after all, and while it was a well known fact she supplemented her DJing with brawling, she didn’t like to make it obvious. Never mind the fact that street brawls using untested mods were illegal. No need to draw attention, especially when more and more cops were getting modded to keep up.
“Good evening, Miss Winters,” GH-057 said as DB stepped out of the bathroom, pulling on her jacket.
“Got a good feeling about today, GH-057,” DB said, grinning. “A damn good feeling.”
“You are planning a rematch, aren’t you?” The corners of his riveted mouth turned downwards.
“Mmhmm,” she said, draping her headphones around her neck and clipping her iPod to her belt.
“Your opponent might attempt more complicated illusionary tech.”
DB thought of her match the night before. Most people who did back alley brawls weren’t Ascended. They didn’t have special powers or anything. They used mods. But the guy last
“I got a plan. Besides, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I’m going to punch you in the fucking face.”
DB looked out at the dance floor with half-lidded eyes, the heavy bass of the current song sending wide purple waves across the room. She adjusted her headphones and watched as the crowd pulsed and swayed with the music. She liked her DJing gigs, really, and loved music. But something about the sound trapped in the room bothered her. Maybe because it reminded her of herself. Trapped by her father’s fame as a scientist, trapped by being different but not different enough to be Ascended, trapped by the dome that covered everything. That was why she brawled. That’s why she did whatever it took to scrape and save. She was going to find a way past the protective dome of her world. She wanted to know what was in the mist that swirled beyond her cage. Even if no one ever came back once they left. Maybe they didn’t come back because there was something amazing out there. Something better. Freedom. She shook her head as the song began to wind down. Brawling earned big bucks, but it was the DJing that kept her in her apartment. She started the next song, flexing her hands in her gloves as one beat faded into the next.
Hours later the bass faded, the dance floor cleared, the basement club emptied. As the last of the patrons left and the bright laser lights flickered off, DB marched towards the back room. She slipped past cases of cheap booze and out the back door, where GH-057 waited.
“I will remind you once more, Miss Winters, that this is ill-advised,” he said, but his tremolo voice showed his resignation. DB patted him on the shoulder. “I got this. Don’t worry. After tonight we can seriously think of seeing what’s on the other side of the Dome.”
“That is also ill-advised,” GH-057 said, following his
Heasley • 93 night, he called himself Phaser; she could swear he could just blink in and out of her sight. One minute she had been swinging a left hook, next thing she knew he clocked her square into a dumpster. Her cheek stung as she remembered, but she smirked.
charge as she started down the alley.
“I got you,” she said, smiling but not turning to look at him. “And I got these.” She clapped her hands together, admiring her work.
The neon blood of Neo-Yama flowed through its skyscrapers and streets, pulsing with an almost explosive energy. They walked for some time, passing clubs that were still going strong and all-night restaurants. DB felt a tingle in her fingertips as they came to the edge of the slum district.
“I’m gonna rip those fancy mods right outta their sockets, chip-boy.”
“Try me, test tube.”
Ah yes, it was going to be a good night. DB crossed her arms and smirked as she and GH-057 entered the shipping yard. The circle had already formed, and the bills were circulating. She cracked her knuckles and worked through the crowd, catching glimpses of the fight in progress. Looked like the typical techedout type. But the other guy, she didn’t know him. And she knew every face that came around here. She shook it off, shuffling past the others.
“Put me in, Dex,” DB said, approaching the tall, haggard man overseeing the fight. “I’m here for a rematch.”
Dex furrowed his brow, smiling through a haze of cigar smoke. “Even after you got blasted last night?” He chuckled. “Hate to break it to ya, but I ain’t seen Phaser.”
“Hell,” DB said, looking down at her feet. “Eh, put me in anyway.”
“Awright, you get the winner then. Don’t imagine you’ll be much of a challenge though.”
DB turned to look at the fight and watched as the unfamiliar guy sidestepped a wide swing. She narrowed her eyes, watching as what looked like a crackle of electricity rippled up his arm. She blinked and shook her head. No way, Ascended weren’t allowed in these fights. She glanced back at Dex with a confused expression. He shrugged.
DB returned her attention to the fight, watching both opponents dance around the ring, bobbing and weaving in and out
of each other’s jabs. Again, she swore she saw a spark dance from the one guy’s fist.
“GH-057…”
“My scans indicate a strong electrical current, but I do not read any modifications or devices that could produce said current.” GH-057 turned and looked at DB. “I advise extreme caution, Miss Winters.”
In a split second, the modded guy was on the ground. The Ascended one hovered over him, his palms crackling. DB swallowed.
“An’ the winner is Kite,” Dex announced, clapping his big hands.
A surge of grumbling went through the crowd as money changed to a few lucky hands. DB rolled her shoulders and stepped into the circle.
“Next up,” Dex said, as the crowd hushed again. “Kite versus DB December.”
DB clapped her headphones over her ears and stared down her opponent. She had never been up against an Ascended before. And even if he were holding back his powers for the sake of blending in, DB was more than a little nervous. She tugged at her gloves and cracked her knuckles. Kite smirked.
“You know the rules,” Dex rumbled. “Ready?”
Both of them were silent. DB reached down and turned on her iPod.
“Round start.”
A heavy dubstep beat filled DB’s ears. She counted time in her head as sound waves bounced into her vision. She could do this. No problem. She narrowed her eyes and planted her feet firmly on the concrete. Neither of them moved. A hush fell over the crowd encircling them. Then, in a hiss of sparks, DB’s opponent sprang forward.
His fist connected with her elbow, and she felt her whole arm tingle. They stared at each other a split second before he sprang back. DB raced forward, fist pulled back. She swung, but Kite sidestepped and caught her in the stomach. Damn, he was fast. He swung again, but DB blocked. She watched his feet shift
Heasley • 95
as he went to dash back. Time to turn up the heat.
DB raised her hand, focusing on the waves shifting around her. They formed into a strange, fluctuating hand. Kite moved back, and with a flick of her wrist, DB swept him off his feet. He landed with a thud and looked up, eyes wide. DB smirked. She propelled herself forward, feeling the surge of the music and the fight wash over her. This was her dance floor. She drew her fist back once more. Kite raised his arm to block. DB clenched her fist tight and sent a shockwave surging at her opponent. Kite skidded across the ground, stopping just short of the edge of the crowd. He scrambled to his feet as DB continued her advance.
They matched punch for punch. The crowd roared, money passing through the throngs of people. The earth seemed to shudder with each attack. Soon the two slumped in the center of the ring.
“Had enough?” DB asked, spitting into the dust.
Kite smiled, his fingertips crackling. He ran forward, and DB could see the electricity gathering in his fist. She scowled and raised both her hands. Sound met spark, and a boom like thunder rattled the windows of the nearby warehouses. DB gritted her teeth and stared at Kite. She clenched her fists. Lightning crackled in different colors. Then, with the force of a sonic boom, Kite went tumbling back, knocked into the audience behind him.
“An’ the winner is DB December.”
The crowd was silent for a moment and then erupted into cheers. DB grinned and pushed her bangs out of her eyes. She watched as Kite stood up and brushed himself off. Then she turned to Dex.
“Lemme see what I got.”
Dex held up a wad of cash, and DB smirked. She turned, however, feeling a hand on her shoulder.
“Hell of a fight,” Kite said. “Could use someone like you.”
DB quirked a brow, “For what?”
Kite smirked and looked up. “Ever wonder what’s on the other side of that dome?”
DB looked at the cash in Dex’s hand, then GH-057, then back at Kite. She smiled. “Yeah, all the time.”
Devotion
Donna Wilke
Cindy watched her son gurgle and babble, as the occupational therapist spoke softly, manipulating the joints in his arm and hand. Wrapping his fingers around an oversized crayon, she guided his hand toward the paper. William concentrated, swiping back and forth leaving green marks on the page. Grabbing the camera, Cindy took several pictures and cheered on his efforts. He stopped, turning his face toward her voice and smiled like he always did. She smiled back. Lingering for the next several minutes, she left the therapist to work her magic while she prepared lunch and checked the calendar. Tomorrow would be William’s appointment with the urologist at 9:30, then speech therapy at 12:00, Wednesday the orthopedist’s for growth measurements and a referral to the orthotic’s, Thursday occupational therapy again at 10:00, and Friday at 4:00, she and Jack would be at the law offices of Teller and Reed.
Clenching her jaw, Cindy envisioned her former OB doctor’s office with its polished oak desk, bookcase of baby photos, and medical degree framed in gold. She wanted to rip the diploma off the wall to hear the glass break. William’s photo won’t ever grace the group of Gerber babies decorating Dr. Bower’s bookcase, and Cindy wondered how many other children might be missing from his collection. How many times did she tell Dr. Bower something was wrong? The baby isn’t moving. But with William being her first, Dr. Bower would smile, pat her on the leg, and tell her not to worry, that the baby’s heartbeat was strong, and everything looked fine. Her husband Jack took it the hardest. A doctor of otolaryngology, he blamed himself saying, he should have known something being a physician. She found him broken one morning sitting in his car unable to drive to work. Cindy climbed in the car and held him as he shook. She whispered in
his ear that it would be his fault when women started having babies coming out of their ears.
Several weeks ago, Jack dropped off William’s medical records to the lawyers. They included reports from both the neurosurgeon that performed the emergency surgery on William’s spine and the neurologist who concluded that a Caesarean would have prevented further damage caused during natural childbirth, which stretched the spinal cord causing almost fatal results as well as multiple medical complications to the already severe case of Myelomeningocele Spina Bifida.
Cindy heard the ice fall in the freezer, pulling her back into the moment, so she set her mind on making lunch. Crossing the room, she opened the refrigerator, reached in for the protein supplement, and shook it. She poured the thick liquid into a bottle, attached a feeding tube, and set it in a container of hot water. Opening the cabinet, she picked out a jar of baby carrots, his current favorite. He could finish almost the entire jar now. William’s ability to swallow had improved so much, so she hoped that in a few months, before his second birthday, they could get rid of the feeding tube permanently.
After lunch, William blinked slowly and yawned. Cindy carried him to his crib and put him down for a nap. She kissed his forehead and breathed in the sweet scent of his fine silky hair, before carefully laying him down. Covering him with a blue receiving blanket, she stood a long while staring at her amazing son, her little ultimate fighter.
A few days later, Jack came home early for their appointment. In the car, Cindy twisted her short hair tight around her finger, and Jack reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and she squeezed back.
Sitting in the warm brown leather chair of the offices of Teller and Reed, Cindy sat next to Jack. Her mouth was dry, and her face was frozen, as one by one they tore through William’s surgeries, procedures, evaluations, treatments, and diagnoses.
“Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, it states here that the ultrasound was approximately at the 15th and again at the 21st week of gestation, correct?” Mr. Reed asked.
Jack looked at Cindy who nodded. Jack said, “Yes.”
“According to Doctor Richer A. Bower and the Shelby Hospital, had the radiologist correctly diagnosed the fetus with this severe of a case of Myelomeningocele Spina Bifida,” Mr. Reed paused, looking up from the stack of papers, “it would have been their recommendation to terminate the pregnancy.”
“What does that mean,” asked Jack. Cindy felt sick.
“That you both must be willing to state that had you received the accurate diagnosis, you would have terminated the pregnancy,” said Mr. Reed.
“I don’t understand what that has to do with blatant medical negligence!” Jack said as a vein popped out on his neck.
“It’s a matter of procedure. The defense will attest to the severity of the fetus’s deformities trying to disprove the overall damage during delivery.” Mr. Reed shuffled some papers and continued. “The reports from the neurologist...”
“His name is William,” Cindy said as she looked directly at Mr. Reed.
“I’m sorry?” said Mr. Reed, as though he hadn’t understood.
“I said his name is William,” Cindy said again, calmly getting up, slowly shaking her head. “I won’t say that.” She looked at Jack. “It’ll be like saying that William doesn’t matter.” And she stood a little taller and crossed her arms around herself as her bottom lip started to quiver. Watching her face, Jack nodded and stood up.
Jack stepped close to Cindy and slid an arm around her back while extending his other toward Mr. Reed. Jack said, “Thank you but we will no longer need your services.” He shook Mr. Reed’s hand quickly, and they turned and left.
King-sized Time
Andrea Hefner
At some point in married life the time arrives for a king-sized bed. Growing feet and elbows seem to expand exponentially during the night, until the need arises for extra space.
Our time came and went.
Budding broods do not lend themselves to budgets that allow for such luxuries.
So we soothed nightmares with pallets on the floor, And the bed continued to groan with the weight of our mutual growth.
Then a timely sale came
And there she was: 76 X 80 inches Of innerspring and foam wonder.
Angelic alleluias rained from the rafters of our popcorn ceiling and 300-thread cotton turned down for our arrival. Your suggestive voice across the expanse: “Now what?”
But I was already drifting in clouds of slumber where mothers of older children drift in amnesic bliss.
Foreshadowing
Hannah Lindsay
Passed out in his bed
Amongst the many silken threads, I press my nose into
The curve of his neck.
Breath coming in slow rumbles
Just enough to know he is alive, His arm slung around me
Like a scarf.
His hand clasping mine tightly, His curls fall low into his eyes
But he is sleeping, So for once he lets them stay. Cold feet tucked into backs of knees
And his leg hair is tickling me.
I lie with my hand on his chest
Listening to the beat of his heart.
I look at the many freckles
And the hollow at the base of his neck
And the soft skin behind his ear
And all the other places I have kissed. I look at his hands holding me so close
And I admire how our bodies have melted into one, All tangled limbs
And liquid love.
I look at his eyelids as they flutter,
At the veins that make spider webs in his temples. I make a memory of all the precious details, And I tuck them into my pocket.
I settle my palm flat over his heart,
Feeling the strong beat
And the soft hair
And the smooth skin
And I bring my lips to his ear
As I say the truest thing I know:
“You’re going to leave me.”
And he goes on snoring like My heart has not just been broken.
To: Your Metal Heart
Shalom Newton
Looking at you puts a bitter taste of iron in my mouth because you’re rusting everything you touch. And I wish I hadn’t let you touch me like you did because now my tongue is weighted with pennies. And I’ll spend forever trying to make sense of the cents you left me, wondering if they are completely worthless or if I’m still just bleeding you out from my cracked lips.
Companionship
Tania Laguerre
You spit sulfur as sweet as molasses. You shine your brilliant white smile while you play me so tediously like a violin in your orchestra of manipulation, Make me beg for your approbation, Seduce me into the lions’ den of oblivion with your cotton candy sweet words, Persuade me to believe lies. You leave me stranded, yearning for your companionship. Oh, how you remove me from your shelf to entertain yourself Until you grow despondent and place me upon it again Letting me collect dust.
After all, that is what friends are for.
Dissolved
Donna Wilke
Getting up early, Annie took a shower, carefully applied makeup, blow dried, and curled her wavy, brown hair before preparing Hanna and Nate’s favorite breakfast, pancakes with blueberries. She walked them to the bus stop and hugged them extra tight. Watching her daughter take the huge steps to climb in, she waved. Hanna turned around with a huge smile.
Heading back to the house, she looked at her watch. The appointment wasn’t until 10:15, but she was ready. The evening before, she’d spent half of the night in her closet trying on the small collection of clothing she had recently bought since losing almost forty pounds. She’d like to claim self-control, proper diet, and long workouts; instead, it was countless nights of twisting her guts into knots like the sheets she kicked off the bed.
Pouring another cup of coffee, she looked again at her watch. In a little more than an hour, she’ll drive thirty minutes, to attend a fifteen-minute hearing, for two signatures, to end a ten-year marriage. She will retain the house, a five-year-old Dodge Caravan, and custody of their children, things he no longer has a use for.
Standing rigid, she pressed the wrinkles from her forehead, closed her eyes, and prayed. Breathing out a sigh, she looked around the kitchen, turned on the radio and started to tidy up. The quick beat of the two-step music danced the dishes into the cabinet and slapped the silver ware into the drawer. A slow song started to play, and the river she thought was dry flooded.
Before the kids, Mark would take her to a country and western dive for a turn on the floor. How she loved to be guided around those long wooden planks shuffling her sassy red leather boots! The tune “Long Goodbye” was popular then, but she never thought it would relate to her.
Walking to the bathroom, she pulled some tissue off the roll and dabbed at her face. Flesh-toned concealer and mascara
colored the damp paper. She turned on the tap and cupped her hands, holding the frigid water against her eyes until the puffiness went away. Quickly reapplying makeup, she wanted to look her best. She hadn’t seen Mark in six months and was hoping that when he saw her…well, she didn’t know what, but something.
She left on time, pulled up to the courthouse, and spotted Mark at the far end of the parking lot with Princess Barbie. Gritting her teeth and gripping the steering wheel, Annie shook her head and let it go. Walking up the steps of the courthouse, Annie glanced up at the words etched in stone above the doors: Those Who Sacrifice Freedom for Safety Deserve Neither –Thomas Jefferson. Pausing, she read it again; minutes slipped by, and slowly she started to grin. Mark passed, escorting his teetering girlfriend in six-inch heels and gaped at Annie, who stumbled on a step. Preoccupied, Annie missed seeing Mark’s face, but as she watched him go through the door, she smiled, not missing him.
Tattooed Everything
Leanna Harbottle
After Ben woke up to an all-too-familiar phone call, he lay in bed for a moment to stare at the ceiling. He rolled over to check the time…3:47 a.m. He almost didn’t get up. He thought about how nice it would be to go back to sleep in his wife’s arms, but he knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep after this. So he stood up, got dressed, left his wife with a note and a kiss on the forehead, and got into his truck. Ben’s drive to the hospital was always the same. In passing the Roq la Rue Gallery, he never failed to erupt into tears. He’d scream at the windshield, calling out to God for help, calling out to his father to blame for all the damage he had done, calling out to his mother for staying with that horrid man for as long as she did, calling out to Tommy for once again being so careless and stupid, and finally, he’d finish by sobbing into his shirt because he didn’t know how much more of this he could take.
By the time he reached the hospital, he’d sit in the warmth of his truck for a few moments to gather his composure. Once he calmed down, he’d walk through the rotating door, dry heave at the smell of disinfectant, and sign himself in at the front desk. The nurse pointed in the direction of room 311, and he found his way. He froze in front of the door, took a deep breath, and turned the knob. He found his little brother passed out on a cot with needles in his hands as his stomach had just been pumped. Ben took a step forward, gave him a nudge, and said, “Come on, Tommy. Get up. I’ve got things do.”
Tommy didn’t move. He always seemed to be comatose when he was asleep. Ben sighed and tried again.
“Tommy.”
In a fit of frustration, Ben grabbed Tommy’s face and shook it when he still wouldn’t move.
“Wake up, Tommy!”
A startled Tommy finally turned his head and opened his
eyes. With a sleepy and raspy voice, he replied, “How’s it goin’, brother?”
Tommy yawned. Ben stared in silence.
“Thanks for coming, man.”
Ben stared at the floor for a few moments before speaking.
“You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself, man.”
Tommy groaned in annoyance. He knew what was coming.
“How long are you going to keep this up, Tommy?”
“You can save that, Ben. I know what you’re going to say, and I really don’t feel like hearing it right now.”
“You never feel like hearing it, Tommy. You’ve completely devoted yourself to running from your problems.”
“I can take care of myself. I’m doing fine on my own. You don’t have to coddle me.”
“Oh, is that why I’ve been here more times than I can count when you’ve decided it would be okay to drink yourself sick?”
“I never asked you to come here.”
“If I don’t, who will? You have no friends you can depend on. You pushed Christina to her limit with this act, so she’s gone. Mom sure isn’t going to crawl out of her grave anytime soon to hold your hand—.”
“Stop it. Don’t you bring her into this.”
Ben ignored Tommy and continued.
“So who does that leave? Me, the only family who will still speak to you. Wait a second. I almost forgot. You’re still waiting for Dad to swoop in like a superhero and join you in a drink so he can tell you there’s nothing wrong with you.”
Ben was starting to break Tommy.
“Shut up, Ben! You have no right—.”
“Save it, Tommy. I’ve heard your excuses one too many times. Where is that flake of a father who you still have a soft spot for? ‘Cause I’d sure love to know. Where is he, Tommy, huh?”
Tommy didn’t reply. He stared down at his fingers and held his breath to keep from crying.
“That’s right,” said Ben. “You don’t know. But I’m sure your good friend, Jim Beam does. Maybe you should ask him.”
Harbottle • 107
Tommy couldn’t hold back his tears any longer. Ben didn’t care. He wasn’t going to hold back this time.
“Please, Ben, stop.”
“Have some pride, Tommy! For the love of God, stop this continuous pity party! You’ve been like this ever since you were a kid. You’re going to end up jumping off a bridge if not drinking yourself to death first. Take care of yourself!”
Tommy started wailing. He could barely speak.
“I know I’m screwed up, Ben. I just…I…I don’t know…”
“That’s the problem! You control everything you’ve got going for yourself, Tommy! You can’t even blame Dad for this. You can only blame yourself. But you’re finally the spitting image of him. Does that make you happy?”
“I love you so much, Tommy, and I hate seeing you like this. But the day is soon coming, very soon coming, where I’m not going to be here to pick you up when you fall. I’ve got a wife at home who wants nothing more than to hug her brother-inlaw and two babies who would love to meet their uncle, but that will never happen if you keep this life up. We both know it’s not a charade anymore.”
Tommy buried his face in his hands.
He choked out the words, “I’m gonna get help, Ben. I will. I swear.”
Ben scoffed,“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
Tommy whispered, “Stop. Please.”
Ben leaned in close.
“I will, Tommy, soon enough. I refuse to continue sitting in a corner watching you carelessly drink from a bottomless glass. You have a problem. You need help. You’re the only person who can fix yourself, and you won’t.”
Ben stood up straight and started to walk away. Tommy called out after him, “Don’t leave me, Ben, please!”
With his back to Tommy, Ben paused. He almost turned around, but he knew he would weaken if he looked at his brother’s face for a second longer. So he left, slamming the door behind him. Tommy erupted into violent tears, sobbing into his hands. After a few moments, he choked out the words, “I’m sorry.”
Our Flux
Shalom Newton
The celestial dust resting on your lashes blinks its way into the atmosphere finding its way to your fingertips and lips whispering prayers into the dark passing through light and time together creating mirrors and windows from here to the other side of our universe. And the flux between me and you remains constant and true. The sparks flying off my tongue are only temporary warnings of impending black holes and shadows cast from the sun. But I refuse to cough up fear when I can breathe in love.
Mother Oak
Donna Wilke
Her limbs sway, cradling a kiss of wind while giggles whisper out of the timber.
Roots immersed into faithful waters, as she hides footholds in the heart of her supple core.
Hands branch out unfolding foliage in blankets, she shelters a child as he sways.
Milena’s Tree
Kaitlyn Wirt
The sun felt warm as I spread my first leaves in the late morning sunlight. The recent rain had left the earth a moist dark brown, and Milena looked like a giant to me as she ran across the yard. She tripped and fell, landing right in front of me. Her eyes tearing up, she sat up and brushed wet dirt from her elbows and knees. That’s when she saw me.
“Dad! Dad! Look what I found!” Milena called as she lay back down in the grass flat on her stomach, her face so close that her breath stirred my leaves.
Her father walked over from where he had been planting petunias. “What is it, sweetie?” he asked.
“Look! It’s a little plant,” Milena said pointing at me.
He knelt down to get a closer look at me. “It’s an oak tree.”
“It doesn’t look like a tree,” she said as she flicked up one of my leaves with her finger. “It’s too small.”
“It’s just a sapling right now. A baby tree,” her father replied. Milena looked up at him. “Will it become a big tree?” she asked.
“With your help it could,” he said as he stood and went back to his petunias.
Milena made it her personal mission to make sure that I grew into a big tree. Those first season cycles were rough on both of us. She was a little girl who wasn’t used to having such a big responsibility, and I was a little sapling in an open field with no big trees to shelter me from the unforgiving winds.
We were in our second season cycle before we had to face a big storm. It poured down rain, and the wind blew so hard that it pulled my roots up from the muddy ground. Milena found me the next morning, lying on my side in the rain-drenched grass. She ran and got her father, and together they righted me again, stuck three thin wooden poles into the ground around me, and then tied me to each of the poles.
“This will keep your tree upright until its roots grow deep and strong enough to hold it in place against the wind on its
own,” Milena’s father told her. She nodded her understanding.
Milena came to visit me almost every day and often brought friends for picnics in the thin shade that I could manage to give them. By then I was several feet taller than Milena and about as big around as her arm.
“Why do we always have our picnics by this little tree? There is more shade by your house,” one of Milena’s friends remarked one rather warm day.
“Because someday it will be a big tree and give lots of shade, and I want to practice for when it happens,” Milena answered stubbornly as she spread a flowery blanket in the grass beneath my branches.
I finally had roots deep enough to stand straight and not be pushed over by strong winds that often blew against me. The wooden poles were removed after Milena’s friend left that day.
One no-leaf season several season cycles later, a boy in a green snow cap came with his saw and began to bite into my bark. Pulling her red coat on as she ran barefoot toward us in her pajamas, Milena tore out of the house carrying a broom.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted at the boy as he continued sawing into me.
“Getting firewood. What’s it to you?” he retorted.
Pink with cold and turning red with rage, Milena raised her broom like a baseball bat. “Find your firewood someplace else. This is my tree, and I will defend it from saw and storm.”
Seeing her standing there barefoot in the snow with her broom, the boy started to laugh, but he continued to saw. Milena swung her broom, hitting him in the shoulder. He dropped his saw with a yelp. “I said leave my tree alone,” she shouted angrily as she swung again. This time she missed as he ran, leaving his saw behind. Her broom in one hand and the boy’s saw in the other, Milena walked back to her house, pausing only to drop the saw in the trash bin on her way inside.
There were several season cycles where Milena visited me rarely and didn’t always go back into the house when she left. When she did visit, she often brought a man with her, and they would sit in the shade beneath my branches as they talked and laughed together. I was taller than the house now and big
enough around my trunk that Milena could barely reach all the way around me.
The full-leaf season when Milena’s father died, she brought the man and two small children with her to the house. She would come sit in the shade of my branches and cry and tell me stories of her father. She would say that she would have to leave soon and would probably never sit in my shade again. She would bring the children and the man for picnics on a flowery blanket at the base of my trunk. She stayed in the house for many season cycles as the children grew bigger and I grew bigger, my roots deeper, and she grew older, her hair grayer.
The children left and would visit Milena and the man with their families from time to time. My branches were high and strong enough for a swing to be hung for Milena’s grandchildren to play on and provided enough shade that they could have multiple picnic blankets spread out.
It was in the budding season that Milena and the man both stopped coming to sit in my shade. One of their children brought one of the grandchildren to sit in the swing that hung from my branches. “This is a big tree,” the little girl said looking up at me in awe.
“It is Grandma Milena’s tree,” the girl’s father told her. “She was five years old, just like you, when she found it here as a little sapling only as tall as a pencil.”
“When was that?” the girl asked.
“Sixty-eight years ago,” he told her as knelt down to place an engraved stone at the base of my trunk between my roots. Her father started to walk back to the house. “Are you coming, Lena?” he paused to ask.
“In a little bit,” Lena told him as she hopped out of the swing to lay in the grass by my roots. Her father nodded and went into the house.
Lena traced her finger over the words engraved on the stone:
Milena’s Tree
May it keep her close in memory.
“Maybe it can be our tree, Grandma,” whispered Lena as she touched my bark with her fingers, a smile on her face.
Anita’s Lifetimes
Joshua Killingsworth
The quiet fishing village of Panacea on Florida’s Forgotten Coast became the setting for a series of unexplained events in May of last year. Not only did Dr. Anita Henry go missing there, but according to her own account, her actual disappearance coincided with the night of “the most remarkable example of unexplained phenomena seen in the 21st century,” as it was called by an anonymous local professor. This comment originally described widely dispersed eyewitness accounts of beams of light that flashed up and down the Panhandle’s Gulf Coast from Pensacola to Cedar Key, all of which made the national news.
When in November of last year, five months after her sudden departure, a Florida State University physicist reappeared, an unnamed source within the administration recounted that she walked from the coast to her department only to ask whether she would be allowed to return to her associate professorship the next fall. The Tallahassee Democrat included the following first-person account of what transpired over that time.
I won’t say that I was abducted by aliens because I wouldn’t be comfortable with such a concrete explanation of what happened. Not yet. Even after approaching colleagues from every department of the university from religion to neuroscience, I have yet to be given a satisfactory answer.
Their theories ranged from becoming one with the divine Udgita to having simply lived another life in a five-month fugue state. Regardless, none of them could explain my memories or supply me with any hard evidence for their claims. The Vedas haven’t stirred anything inside me, and the traces of foreign neurotransmitters in my body couldn’t be identified.
That night, however, is still very clear in my memory. I could see blue lights over the ocean. The waves seemed to become crystal, ultramarine under the cold shafts of strange blue. They were like sharp spotlights, and they moved in
On that night, I went out to take a break from my calculations, and after staring at the Gulf for a few minutes, I saw a single beam of clear, ocean-bright color, pulsing about two times a second. It moved in a smooth, spectral way. It had the grace of a ghost, but it occasionally flashed at unbelievable speeds and then stopped. I never saw anything solid, but the blue pouring toward the water’s surface seemed to be coming from only a few hundred feet away.
When I realized this, I became fascinated. There really wasn’t any sound, and I could barely process that before six more columns of light broke off from the main piece and sped above the surf. They were thinner and usually closer to the ground like columns on a building instead of a huge tower. Then each one of those spawned even more with every new blue pulse changing its frequency. Some appeared to never shut off; others turned on only every few seconds, and still others had no pattern that I could ascertain. It was less like a wall of jail bars and more like disco. All of them were at different altitudes completely independent of each other.
I watched this for what seemed like hours as the incongruences kept piling onto me. The lights seemed to start as almost solid projections, but near sea level they focused into hard blue spots that didn’t penetrate past the water’s surface.
I couldn’t hear the waves or my breath or my own pulse. The objects interfered with sound. It felt like I had my eardrums removed, and I had the strange feeling of my head being too open, like each of my ears had been pried apart. It felt like they were no longer tight enough to receive sound.
I walked into the waves. It felt like the only thing I could do. It wasn’t like what I imagined a siren’s song to be. It wasn’t attractive. I felt less like I had an opposite charge to those lights and more like I had been programmed to walk into the Gulf. It
Killingsworth • 115 impossible patterns. I have done the math, and most of things I saw that night would not be possible if these were just spotlights which could propel themselves. They accelerated too quickly. What’s worse is that I couldn’t hear them or anything else.
wasn’t calling me so much as it was a signal. I can’t explain it. Memories after that are hard to reconstruct. I remember nearly drowning in the saltwater and then being lifted up. I was in a beam of red light. The world was decompressing, and I became lighter than air. I was only hydrogen and eyes. After that I can’t remember clearly…
Anita lied for the rest of the article. She didn’t want to report the fact that she had five sets of memories that spread over lifetimes. She didn’t want to jeopardize her career any more than she already had by reporting these “hallucinations.” She didn’t want the general public to lose faith in her the way much of the administration had. According to the psychologist she was required to visit in order to retain her position, she had most of the symptoms of a dissociative fugue, except she didn’t have total amnesia. Anita’s psychologist wrote off her other lifetimes as simple unconscious inventions, but Anita was not so sure.
She remembered being Tomas and Chimamanda. She couldn’t help shake that these lives were real. She could remember writing novels and officiating marriages. She had had more friends than she could count. She had grown old, died suddenly, and been murdered.
For years after her return whenever her mind wandered, she would remember being Sandra when she was on her deathbed, just waiting to be cremated. Her son was reading in the corner, her only son who had come down from Maine to visit her. He had brought his family down during the school year just to see her for one last time. She had known for months, but he had just learned the news. It was the right time for him to come there. They had agreed that he would do a simple wake. She had asked him to keep it out of her church. She didn’t need them fussing over her corpse. She wanted it to be burned.
Anita/Sandra missed her son. Each life ended, and then the next would begin until she started living a life that she could not understand. She wasn’t an animal because she could understand too much. It was bright, and it had none of the rough edges. It was smooth and reflective: like a frozen wave on the
Gulf, like a glass sphere the size of the earth, like a star with a diamond core. She couldn’t remember dying during that one. It just stopped, and she woke up floating inches away from where she had almost drowned. It wasn’t immediately apparent that so much time had passed. She didn’t notice the cold for several hours. Her clothes were strange to her. They weren’t the pajamas she had had on the night of the lights. She was wearing a thin material that she didn’t recognize made into a flowing a dress with long, loose sleeves.
When she got to the little house that she had planned to spend the summer in, it was dark. The door was unlocked just as she had left it. It was the early morning, so she didn’t turn on the lights. After she changed clothes, she tried to prepare breakfast and found her first sign of the passage of time. Her refrigerator was warm, and the milk, meat, and fruit were spoiled.
She thought of leaving immediately for Tallahassee in her car, but she had an odd mistrust of it. Tomas had hated cars, and she still felt too much like Tomas to even try hers. She had a deep compulsion to walk with these old legs, so she did for all thirty miles. The journey took her two days.
She stopped along the way to eat and sleep in Crawfordville, where she learned that it was November and the school year was almost over. For months before she left, Anita had reminded her family and friends not to contact her until the end of the summer. Consequently, no one had searched for her for the first two months, and when the semester began and her house was searched, nothing was found that explained her disappearance.
There was an even greater problem, though. She had told everyone that her isolation was necessary to write a paper, but she could not remember the contents. It was the one real gap in her memory. When they had searched her house, there weren’t any new research notes or calculations either. The people whom she had confided in about the project told her that she vaguely had called it the “Once in Lifetime Problem” or the “Lifetime Problem.” It was more closely related to quantum theory and
Killingsworth • 117
pure mathematics than most of her previous work. She had said it was an earth-shattering idea that she needed to prove herself before she brought anyone else in on it.
When she walked into her building, a colleague saw her, and he nearly fainted. She tried to steady him. “Are you alright?” But she was glad that he had recognized her. It still felt like she had been gone for hundreds of years, even if it was only November.
• Blackwater Review
Bree
Darrell Duckett
I know pink, the ribbon that rested above her heart, the accessories worn by athletes just to remember her by, the three shirts in my closet two of which she got for me. The dress I wish I could’ve seen her in.
The bow, oh that bow...
I know you, pink. I know you well.
Pink... you covered her cheeks when she was able to smile. But now I watch you hitch a ride with life, taking the last of her with you.
But at least I know you, pink I know you well.
I know that you are all I have left of her.
September
12, 2001
Alyssa Wise
Hushed voices in the dark move like ghosts from the next room. In our little kitchen, a paper of black and white lies forgotten on the granite counter.
Ash and soot cover the photograph on the front; The words smear the page like a spilt glass of wine. The caption reads, “Ground Zero.”
Eyes closed, I see lights of red and blue with streets of black and gold. I hear the cry of the trucks, the sobs of the children. Invisible smoke chokes me as I try to breathe.
Men, women, children. All of them, just bodies. Some living, some dead. Some horror, some grief.
Nothing.
I felt nothing. I didn’t understand.
My hand shook with a slight tremor. I stared as it kept moving. Walls closed in, and the world tilted in my eyes. Breath quickened with a pounding in my chest.
Maybe I do understand all of this was real.
His Shirt
Drew Haggerman
This dirty brown shirt he wears, Full of holes and burn marks, Black smudges and brown scuffs. This dingy fabric Its true dark brown hidden by a thin layer Of the lighter brown of desert sand. Tells more than expected.
This dirty brown shirt he wears Has not felt the silkiness of Downy sheets But instead, Lies on coarse bathroom tiles.
Brown tiles that match so perfectly to the cotton It is as if he is trying to disappear, To blend,
To escape into the corner where he lies.
This dirty brown shirt he wears Is in the yard, his back pressed up against the bark, The bark of a brown tree.
A dead tree.
Rough hands hold him with unyielding pressure, Twisting this dirty brown shirt he wears, Twisting it, twisting him, Stretching him until he breaks.
Taught Me Well
Drew Haggerman
We were the helpless mice the cat toyed with, weren’t we? It hurt. There was nothing I could do. I just watched, Passive. I just sat. Do you remember?
Once upon a time, I sat on my quilted bed. Do you remember, Jace? Down the hall, she locked the door. By fourth grade you had taught me how to pick that lock So I could free you from the bathroom where you were kept.
Once upon a time, I sat in the kitchen.
All the family gathered around the cracked, wooden table, except you. By fifth grade you had taught me a slip of the hand So I could pocket you some food to eat later.
Once upon a time, I sat in the living room. Crying quietly at your desperate sobs from the other room. By sixth grade you had taught me how to clean and wrap a wound, The perfect nurse, So I could patch you up after she was done with you.
Once upon a time,
I sat in the car. You sat beside me.
By seventh grade you had stolen an iPod for me So I could block out the sound of her voice Screaming at you while you were trapped in the car.
Once upon a time, I rescued you from the bathroom. Do you remember, Jace? We both lay in bed, Both rested in that warm haven.
By ninth grade you had taught me how to silence my tears, block out the pain, So as not to make it harder for us to cope With her.
Haggerman • 123
Things I’d Like to Say
Savannah Gahagan
There are so many things I’d like to say, so many crumpled pieces of paper scattered across the floor, each etched with a different combination of twenty-six letters all with the same message. But I’ve found that all of the things I’d like to say are stored in my mind only to be heard late at night as I stare at the moon outside my window unable to sleep. They’re hidden in the things at which I laugh and in the things for which I cry. They can’t be spoken, for they aren’t words at all, so now I hope you’ll watch closely to the way I dance around your words, react to your stories, and whisper your name because hidden between those actions are the things I’d like to say.
Blackwater Review Editors
Dr. Deidre Price serves as managing editor for Blackwater Review. A professor of English at Northwest Florida State College, Dr. Price holds a doctorate in literature from Florida State University. Dr. Price, an agented author and blogger, has won multiple awards and scholarships for her writing, including the Angelia and Steven Stokes and Shelley Memorial Scholarships for work in poetry. Her publications range from poetry and creative nonfiction to critical articles on popular culture. Her most recent work appears in Boxcar Poetry Review.
Dr. Jon Brooks serves as prose editor for Blackwater Review. Dr. Brooks holds a doctorate in English from The University of Alabama. He has been a professor of English at Northwest Florida State College since 1992.
Dr. Vickie Hunt serves as poetry editor for Blackwater Review. A professor of English at Northwest Florida State College, Dr. Hunt holds a doctorate from Florida State University, where she was a multi-year recipient of fellowships from the College of Arts and Sciences and the Kingsbury Foundation. She was also awarded an Individual Artist Grant by the state of Florida. Her work has appeared in BOMB, The African-American Review, The Southern Quarterly, The Southeast Review, The Chattahoochee Review,
Editors • 125
Benjamin Gillham, art director, is responsible for creating the design and photography for the printed magazine, and managing the production process. He is professor of Graphic Design at NWFSC and a graduate of Michigan State University’s Master of Fine Arts program in Graphic Design. Most recently, he designed the Addy-Award-winning logo identity system for Northwest Florida State College and the college’s official seal used on diplomas and other official documents. He has art directed the last ten issues of Blackwater Review, with the 2008 issue taking second place in a state-wide competition sponsored by the Association of Florida Colleges’ Institutional Advancement Commission that included Florida universities. He has also worked with Air Force Special Operations Command to design innovative training materials for flight safety, for which he was given AFSOC’s Commando Safety Award for Outstanding Achievement in Safety.
126 • Blackwater Review and elsewhere. She serves as the academic advisor for Raider Writers, Northwest Florida State College’s writing and spoken word organization.
Write Now at NWFSC!
NWFSC has expanded its creative writing course offerings. Each workshop-style course focuses on a specific literary genre and prepares students to write for publication.
CRW2300/ CRW2302 Introduction to and Intermediate Poetry Writing
Practice in writing poetic forms employing poetic techniques. Students will workshop completed poems and submit a portfolio of revised poetry. Students will prepare creative work for publisher market. Contact Professor Amy Riddell at riddella@nwfsc.edu.
CRW2100 Introduction to Fiction Writing
Practice in writing fiction using various points-of-view. Students will submit completed short stories for workshop. Upon agreement with the instructor, students may elect to develop novel chapters with synopsis. Students will prepare creative work for publisher market. Contact Dr. Vickie Hunt at huntv@nwfsc.edu.
CRW2201 Introduction to Creative Nonfiction
Practice with the narrative possibilities of creative nonfiction. Students will explore structure, technique, and authorial presence in representative works of established sub-genres, including literary journalism, travel and/ or food writing, memoir, the lyric essay and collage. Contact Dr. Deidre Price at priced@nwfsc.edu.
Illustration: Emily Heasley
NWFSC Reads presents Presidential Inaugural Poet Richard Blanco
Northwest Florida State College is honored to present award-winning and inaugural poet Richard Blanco as the 2015 visiting author.
Each spring, in conjunction with the unveiling of Blackwater Review and the presentation of the Northwest Florida State College Reads program, the college invites an accomplished author to meet with students, faculty, and the community. This year, Mr. Blanco presented a workshop on the craft of writing and conducted a reading of his work on April 20 in the Sprint Theater at the Mattie Kelly Fine Arts Center. The NWFSC Reads program also hosted a week of events for students and faculty to discuss Mr. Blanco’s work.
Selected by President Obama as the fifth inaugural poet in U.S. history, Richard Blanco joined the ranks of such luminary poets as Robert Frost and Maya Angelou. The youngest, first Latino, immigrant, and gay person to serve in such a role, he read his inaugural poem, “One Today,” at the official ceremony. In his first prose publication, For All of Us, One Today: An Inaugural Poet’s Journey, Blanco shares the details of his experiences. Blanco was made in Cuba, assembled in Spain, and imported to the United States, meaning that his mother, seven months pregnant, and the rest of the family arrived as exiles from Cuba to Madrid, where he was born. Only forty-five days later the family emigrated once more and settled in Miami, where he was raised and educated. The negotiation of cultural identity and universal themes of place and belonging characterize his three collections of poetry: City of a Hundred Fires, Directions to The Beach of the Dead, and Looking for The Gulf Motel. His literary awards include the following: the Agnes Starrett Poetry Prize from the University of Pittsburgh Press, the Beyond Margins Award from the PEN American Center, the Patterson Poetry Prize, the 2013 Maine Literary Award for Poetry, and the Thom Gunn Award.
Contributors
William S. Alexander is a printer from St. Louis who took up painting. William is also a custom fishing rod builder.
Grace Brown is a dual-enrollment student at NWFSC, as well as an aspiring author.
Justus Castillo, an art student, has decided to throw job security down the drain for a life of dumpster diving while covered in graphite.
Brenda Crabbe, born and raised in Florida, is an art student who has always been influenced by our ocean.
Thomas Crain is a student at Northwest Florida State College seeking his A.A. in Elementary Education. He has been writing short fiction for fun for most of the last decade and currently serves as the head writer for Hart of Fear, a haunted house group that raises money for St. Jude’s.
Taegan Dennis is a student attempting to acquire an A.A. while wondering whether it wouldn’t be better dipped in chocolate. She plans to travel the world, learn its languages, and rescue fluffy cats.
Colby Detwiler is currently majoring in illustration and will transfer to the School of Visual Arts in the fall.
Katie Dineen is the 2015 winner of the LaRoche Poetry Contest and a student at NWFSC.
Darrell Duckett is an NWFSC student who is currently enrolled in an Introduction to Poetry workshop.
Christina Freeman is a senior in NWFSC’s Collegiate High School who plans to major in International Studies. In her free time, she enjoys creating music, writing poetry, and blogging.
Savannah Gahagan is a sophomore at NWFSC’s Collegiate High School. She has been writing poetry for a few years but just recently began to share it with others.
Jessica Griesheimer is a Collegiate High School senior who is studying biochemistry. Jessica plans to attend Florida Institute of Technology.
Drew Haggerman is a student at NWFSC who plans to transfer to the University of West Florida where she will study athletic training.
Ashley Haines is an NWFSC student who is new to poetry and enjoying every moment.
Candace Lea Harbin is currently a graphic design student at NWFSC. Candace takes an interest in all forms of visual art, including photography, abstract photography, and vector-based drawings.
Leanna Harbottle is a dual-enrolled senior at Crestview High School and Northwest Florida State College. She has been writing poetry for three years. She plans to double major in English literature and education to become a professor.
Sarah Hawkins would like to become a gallery curator.
Emily Heasley is a graduate of NWFSC who is heading to Florida State University to pursue a career in video game design and development. She has won numerous awards for her writing, including the 2013 Blackwater Review Editor’s prize. She has recently finished the rough draft of her second novel.
Andrea Hefner is a poet, wife, and mother of two wonderful children. She has an ever-changing perspective on relationships and draws her strength from the enlightening poetry groups of which she is a part.
Rachel Hood, an art student, finds magic and such interesting although she is still figuring out what she’d like to do with her life.
Ekaterina Ilina is a graphic design student from Russia. She dreams of working for National Geographic.
Joshua Killingsworth is a writer and student at NWFSC who is currently at work on a series of novels.
Tania Laguerre is a writer and student at NWFSC.
Nobuko Landers was born and raised in Japan. She has lived abroad and captures her travels in her art.
Anna Lennon is an NWFSC art student who has lived in Niceville all her life.
Natalia Kireeva Light is a Russian-born student artist who decided to expand her artistic abilities with the support of her family. Her favorite medium is watercolor.
Hannah Lindsay is a full-time student who has been writing for over eight years. She is inspired by dancing, photography, and her own life experience.
Contributors • 131
Iyan McFall is an NWFSC student who is returning to art after ten years of waiting.
Kenneth R. Miller is a transfer student working on his associate’s degree in fine arts. He hopes to become a professor and share his passion for art.
Maria B. Morekis enjoys creating and exploring different art media. She believes that art comes from within.
Raven Motley is an NWFSC student who is currently enrolled in an Introduction to Poetry workshop.
Shalom Newton has been writing ever since the age of seven. At age twelve, she got her first poem published after winning a contest. She hopes to one day have her own poetry collection published and to share her inner passion with whoever chooses to read her works.
Megan Noel Opava would like to join the Peace Corps and travel the world. She enjoys art, writing, dancing, and outdoor sports.
Abigail Ott wants to spend her life sharing the joy and comfort that stem from artistic expression. All of Abigail’s educational goals are fueled by her desire to become an art therapist.
Christopher J. Realy, an art student originally from Michigan, has retired from the Air Force. Christopher is currently pursuing a degree in multimedia. He enjoys hunting, fishing, and photography.
Rebecca Roach is an aspiring Pokémon master. She likes to spend her spare time painting with Smeargle.
Heather Sasser has attended NWFSC for two years and has pursued art her whole life.
Christopher Henry Savoie is currently in his senior year of high school. Henry enjoys drawing, painting, sculpting, and spending time with family. He hopes to become an architect.
Susan-Mara Self, from Germany, is a U.S. Army Veteran and mother of one. Her goal is to become a concept artist for a major media source.
John Stackpoole is a student attending Northwest Florida State College in hopes of attaining a bachelor’s degree so that he can live out his true dream of writing poems and novels and becoming an actor.
Paviale Stephens is an NWFSC graphic design student who is an outdoor enthusiast. She loves exploring and enjoying nature’s adventures.
• Blackwater Review
Therissa-Mari Taki aspires to be a happy-go-lucky children’s book illustrator and writer one day. She likes to travel and discover new horizons.
Aimee Thorgaard is a writer and student at NWFSC.
Sue Townsend recently graduated from the NWFSC Graphic Design Program at NWFSC.
Joshua Turner is an NWFSC student who is currently enrolled in an Introduction to Poetry workshop.
Julia Vitale aspires to be a world-renowned artist and successful scientist.
Tara Whalen is a returning student. She has been creating art since she could hold a pencil.
Donna Wilke is a writing student at NWFSC and is currently working on a children’s book.
Kaitlin Wirt is a student at NWFSC who will be transferring to a four-year university in the fall. She plans to major in English with a focus on creative writing.
Alyssa Wise is a high-school senior currently dual enrolled at Northwest Florida State College. She has always enjoyed the magic of reading and the beauty of writing. She also has wonderful family and friends who inspire her to follow her dreams.
