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, Rhonda Trueman, April Leake, Dr. David Simmons, and Dr. Jill White
Art Advisory Board:
Benjamin Gillham, MFA, Stephen Phillips, MFA, Leigh Peacock, MFA, Dr. Ann Waters, and Dr. 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: Floating Bubbles, Heather Phillips
Acknowledgments
The editors and staff extend their sincere appreciation to Northwest Florida State College President Dr. Devin Stephenson, Dr. Sasha Jarrell, Dr. Anne Southard, and Dr. Deborah Fontaine 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.
Evergreen
Ashley Odom
Like the opening of a tree canopy, I, too, allow sunlight to filter through the gaps. I treasure what that fleeting light shines on without the assistance of Cupid’s bow but in the way a blind person would see–innocent and adrenaline fueled.
Through that small opening, I watch with pink want over my own little things–like the time a friend shimmies out of our tent to howl at the moon on our camping trip.
Or the way my mother’s eyes sparkle when she wins ten dollars from a scratch-off lottery ticket. Or when the wind shakes a stranger’s blond curls in a late afternoon drizzle, or the way my cat stretches out beside me when I settle in for bed.
When I see margin notes inside a used book, or cradle a warm cup of tea on an otherwise lousy day, or have a clear sky to watch the stars–these sunshine moments that filter through trees, though small, are hardy and evergreen.
Business of War
Jeremy Maynard
Angle grinders breathe fire
Across classified spaces, lighting up Faces of engineers churning out Enough data to set a normal Person’s brain ablaze.
Missiles scream across the sky As they fly over desolate fields Toward derelict tanks once described As the cutting edge, but no one Seems to care anymore.
The smell of smoldering hulls strewn about A graveyard of twisted, burning steel Towed away to be cut up and melted down Reborn as your automobiles, washing machines Or perhaps the blade in your disposable razor.
Another mission accomplished, Another job well done, We retreat to the safety Of our homes, embrace loved ones Having sold another day in our lives.
Swing Dancing
Shannon Musteric
Take a step back and lift your toes
One, two
Step across
Three, four
Twist and bring your feet together
Five, six
Rock step, step—together
Rock step, step—together
Take a step back
Back to the days when he held your hands
Squeezing them gently to the pulse of the music
“Don’t fake the rock step,” he would say Rock back on your heel—but careful
If you rock too far you’ll lose your balance And crash to the floor as his hands stray away from yours
One, two
Step across
Your gazes unlock
You notice all the other couples gliding by Blurs of bright hues as they twirl and swing And you wonder how many times Was he staring at another girl, Watching her skirt swish?
Three, four
Twist—together
Your feet land firmly as the Stray Cats twang their last chord
You’re steady now; his guiding hands won’t have much use
Your heart pulses to its own rhythm
Five, six
His hands are limp, and his eyes are dull
You can already see his gaze starting to drift
You let him go
The music swells gently, crooning “You Can’t Hurry Love”
Your heart drums along
And a long-forgotten smile touches your lips. This is a dance you can do on your own.
This Week’s Groceries
Caysea Clark
I watch my mother as her small, delicate hands begin to scribble down the words of this week’s grocery list. One by one she writes carrots, celery, chicken. Her eyes dull, as the list aimlessly continues: milk, eggs, bread. But as I watch her, a smile creeps upon her face, a smile I don’t get to see often. She writes pistachio ice cream, formula, and diapers. The smile fades as she passes me the list.
I don’t mind going to the store for my mother; I love watching all the people—the man who hovers over the flowers with a bottle of pinot grigio under one arm and a look of regret painted across his face. I wonder what he did. Was it the beautiful new receptionist? Or the babysitter he swore to his wife wasn’t pretty? He knows flowers won’t fix his mess. I see a young blond-haired girl debating between depriving herself one more day or giving in and buying that chocolate bar. I wonder who told her she wasn’t beautiful. An elderly couple strolls by, hand in hand, still so in love. I can’t help but think about how many times people told them they wouldn’t last.
As I watch these people, I think of my mother. I think of her husband, my father, who also thought flowers would fix his mess, along with my mother’s broken spirit. I watched as she tried to get him back; I watched as she starved herself, as if she wasn’t enough. I watched as she wanted someone who didn’t want her. Losing weight, wearing makeup, giving him the son he always wanted, but nothing would make him stay.
I continue walking about the store, gathering this week’s groceries. The girl I saw, I hope she bought the chocolate bar because she is beautiful, and she is enough. I hope that man realizes the mess he made, and I hope he fixes it with more than flowers. I want to say thank you to the elderly couple for not giving up. I finish gathering this week’s groceries. Eggs! I forgot the eggs.
Breathe
Ruth Pearce
The August morning started not unlike any other morning. The alarm clock pierced the silence like a bugle’s reveille call, alerting the troops to the impending dawn. I made my way to the bathroom, wiped the sleep from my eyes, and made those good ol’ mouth-smacking sounds like the ones my grandpa makes after finishing his bowl of pudding. Standing in front of the mirror, I stood up taller, ready to face the da— wait! Today was THAT day! Instantly, my life flashed before my now-alert eyes. Today was NOT like any other morning. Today, my little sister, Sarah, turned twenty-one, and in her youthful naïveté, she decided that we would celebrate the day her life began by skydiving, in turn gambling with our own mortality. Today I was going to jump out of a plane at 16,000 feet in the air!
I met Sarah and her roommate, Kristian, at their house. It was early, and the sun was still making its way up. We gave each other a half-awake nod of acknowledgment, and everyone silently loaded into the SUV. I entered the address of the airport, and what I was sure to be my final resting place, into the GPS and started on our trek to Elberta, Alabama. Two and a half hours later, the girls sleeping in the back, I turned off the highway, leaving all trace of civilization behind us. The road ahead was showing its age, black top cracked and faded to a dull shade of grey like the wrinkles and greying hair that time eventually stamps on all of us. The morning sun was now brighter and hotter, revealing the scorched brown grass that clung to the roadside. At 55 mph the sun’s rays broke through the trees creating a strobing effect that quickly put me into a trance. Staring ahead of me, I could see the endless road stretching beyond the horizon; behind us, the same, and not a single car, house, or sign of life anywhere. I was convinced I had made a wrong turn somewhere, but the GPS confidently displayed that we were nearing our destination.
Suddenly, the GPS broke my fierce concentration on the horizon with its calm reassuring voice, “You have arrived.” What? Arrived where? I sailed past a remote mailbox that couldn’t possibly have designated our destination! “Recalculating,” the GPS mocked me.
I announced to my sleeping passengers, “We’re here!” and swung the SUV around and headed back toward the mailbox. “Where are we?” Sarah and Kristian asked in bewilderment as they became fully aware of our desolate surroundings. We approached the remote, rusty mailbox again, and this time we could see how it hung slightly askew atop its weathered, tattered post, like an old man clinging to his trusty cane. The property was lined with a white picket fence, not the kind most would imagine bordering the picturesque, all-American family home with the quintessential 2.5 kids and a dog running playfully in the pristine front yard. Nope, this was far from that ideal. Just beyond that rusty mailbox and adorning the worn fence was a once proud Craftsman brick sign that read: Welcome
HORAK AIRP RT
Elberta, AL
I navigated the worn dirt tracks of the grassy driveway and approached a tiny mid-century ranch-style brick house with RVs camped around it and a few other cars in the parking lot. We were still not entirely convinced we were really at the right place until we saw what appeared to be a plane in the field beyond the house which was being circled by a weathered old man atop a riding lawn mower feverishly mowing the runway. I put the SUV in park, and as soon as I let my foot off the brake, as if we were synchronizing our watches, Sarah, Kristian and I let out a nervous sigh in unison. Kristian finally broke the silence by blurting out, “That’s where we’re jumping from? Are we crazy?” It took everything in me not to throw the SUV in reverse and hightail it out of there.
Walking to the little home, we could clearly see that time had not been its friend. The front door’s paint was chipping and peeling, and it hung slightly crooked on its hinges. The DIY
plank wood and spray paint sign above the door read, “Office.” In the distance, I could hear the buzz (not a roar) of the little plane I was going to hurl myself from in approximately fortyfive minutes. This is where everything I learned from Lamaze class was finally being put to good use, “...Breathe in, and breathe out....” We walked slowly toward the office entrance, like people just condemned to death headed down the long cold hallway to their imminent fate.
Fifty plus years ago, the office was once the majestic living space of the home. Now one of the exterior walls of the living space had been replaced with a metal rolling garage door that was rusted in the up position. The parachutes that would save our lives were laid all over the floor like big crumpled sheets. There was an open, half empty box of donuts on the counter, and the smell ... indescribable, something along the lines of fresh-cut grass, August sweat, airplane exhaust, and those sticky donuts. I began to wonder if we had landed in some Alabama frat house. Another group of people stood at the counter, finishing the necessary paperwork and were ushered off to their executions, just as we soon would be. I was thankful we weren’t the first group to go as I half-heartedly reassured myself that the instructors would work out the kinks with the first group.
Sarah, Kristian, and I signed our lives away to people with donut glaze still sticky on their fingers, packing parachutes. We were ushered to a small dark room with an old TV in the corner hissing static. The door swung closed, and the VHS player sputtered to a start. The training video showed us the proper tandem freefall position, or what I like to call the terrified cat position. Then a series of disclaimers and worsecase scenarios flashed across the screen. I’m convinced the video was just another catalyst in their mission to terrify us and give them proper authority for the inevitable “I told you so” that was coming.
We returned to the frat house where we were introduced to our tandem instructors. Three men stood before us, and it felt like a strange sort of Russian Roulette. One of us wouldn’t
be so lucky, and then they began to pair us up. Sarah was the first to be introduced, and her birthday luck worked for her. Out of the three instructors standing before us, she was paired up with the only normal tandem instructor. He was tall, attractive, and strong and recently retired from serving our country’s military where he jumped out of planes for a living. We dubbed him Sarge. Kristian was called on next and was assigned her instructor; we called him the hippie. He was older and had long curly greying brown hair. Hippie wore a tie-dyed shirt, and the most glaring detail was that he was barefoot! Finally, my turn. There was only one guy left, but I frantically looked around the room, hoping and praying there would be someone, anyone else. Click, bang! Imagine a large, redneck Johnny Knoxville, wearing a brown plastic aviator cap, his “This Bud’s for You” T-shirt not quite meeting the top of his cargo shorts. And I would bet he was the only one who had anything to do with that half-eaten box of donuts on the counter. We called him Knoxville.
After being trained in the art of skydiving by a ten-minute video, after having signed our Last Will and Testament, after introducing ourselves to everyone, and after suiting up in our tandem harnesses, we were ready to go. We strategically filed into a tiny empty plane, the six of us plus three single divers. Each person sat on the floor between the outstretched legs of the person behind her, like a shuffled deck of cards. The engine roared, no, puttered to a start, and the propellers vibrated throughout the plane as we took off down the bumpy, grassy runway. The ride up was smooth; the smell wasn’t pleasant, but the flight was smooth. The first single diver jumped at 5,000 feet. When he opened the door to the plane, my heart raced. I wanted to scream or throw up. “Breathe in, breathe out....” The plane door stayed open for the remaining fifteen minutes of scaling the sky before we reached our jumping altitude. This gave us time to reflect on our lives, say a prayer, and try to breathe. We broke through the cloud barrier that kept the August heat captive under it, and we detected a slight chill in the air. We knew it was almost time. The divers checked their
altitude gauges, and the pilot gave his thumbs up. The tandem instructors hooked us into their harnesses, and before I knew what had happened, Sarah was soaring. Then Kristian was gone. Knoxville and I were the only ones left in the plane. We awkwardly crept in a synchronized crouched shuffle and made our way up to the edge of the plane.
“Want to do the boring face-first dive or do you want to rock and roll?” Knoxville shouted at me as I watched Sarah and Kristian getting smaller and smaller. I can’t recall the details of what happened next. I’m not even sure I had time to answer him, much less understand what he was asking. He curled me up in a little ball, screamed “Rock and ROOOOOLLLLLLL,” and hurled us out of the plane in a continuous somersault. I thought it would never end.
The tumbling stopped, and I could finally determine what was up and what was down, but now we were in full force freefall! There was no thinking, just falling. I couldn’t see the ground through the thick cloud coverage, so I didn’t know how fast the earth was approaching us beneath those clouds. It was August, in the South, but the air up there was so crisp and cool, I could’ve easily worn a sweater. I don’t know for sure how long the freefall lasted; I think it was forever. All at once, Johnny Knoxville tapped my shoulder as if pressing a big red STOP button because instantaneously the parachute flew open, jerked us out of the freefall as if screeching to a halt mid-air like we were straight out of a Looney Tunes episode. Wile E. Coyote would have been impressed.
The ultimate adrenaline rush of the freefall was immediately replaced by the most relaxing peace as we floated like a feather back to the earth. For a moment, I think time slowed, and I was floating in slow-motion.
The calm, Zen feeling was once again replaced when we pierced the clouds and infiltrated the barrier trapping in August’s heat. The immediate transition from crisp, cool to hot, humid made the stomach-churning, pre-vomit feeling return. The last 1000 feet of my dive was horrible. Knoxville decided things were getting a little too boring, so he reached up and yanked on the right
parachute handle so hard I expected an airhorn to sound. Instead, this maneuver sent us into a corkscrew spin. I just wanted to be on the ground. I was getting more nauseated by the second, and my harness was violating me. Just before we hit the ground, Knoxville reminded me to keep my feet straight out for a smooth landing like I was trained to do. However, whatever trust I could muster in Knoxville was completely shattered by the preceding somersaults and corkscrews. I doubted his instruction and my extensive tenminute skydiving training, so instead of keeping my feet straight out in front of me for a graceful landing, I instinctively put my feet down. My legs immediately hit the ground, and the forward momentum caused my legs to drag in the grass behind me like a lifeless rag doll being dragged on the floor behind its tiny human.
The ground! The sweet grassy Alabama earth! I just lay there, unmoving, time standing still, staring into the sky from which I had just plummeted. Sarah and Kristian came over from their own graceful landing moments before to celebrate our successful jump, but I interrupted them. I just needed a minute alone with my thoughts to reflect on this profound experience.
“Ruth, you’re—”
I interrupted, “Sarah, give me this moment, please,” I pleaded. They shrugged and walked away, and I went back to my solitude, listening to the rhythm of my heartbeat, “Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.” I shut my eyes, relaxed.
A voice suddenly startled me, “You’re unhooked and can get up whenever you want, but it’s not every day I have a beautiful woman on top of me, so you can stay.” Oh my gosh, it was Knoxville! How could I forget that he was still pinned beneath me? Creepy! My Zen vanished quickly, and I was up in a flash. Off in the distance, Sarah and Kristian laughed hysterically.
7 Years Old at A.A.
Anastasia Johnson
Every Monday evening, my mother took me to the chapel. She never told me the reason. In the dim candlelight, I sat in the creaky wooden pews, alone, except for my math homework.
My mother disappeared into a small room, leaving me with endless times tables and my imagination. She reappeared hours later, always in a sour mood, her face scrunched up like she took a bitter sip.
Each visit, I waged war with my curiosity versus the consequences. Curiosity won the battle as I wandered closer to the room. Reaching up on my tiptoes, I stared into the window.
Men, unshaven and haggard, their faces sunken pits of despair. Women, wide-eyed and terrified, fidgeting and biting their nails. They gripped the frayed seats of their chairs like lifeboats.
I didn’t understand most words on the signs, only one: Alcohol. Foul fumes on my mother’s breath daily, the stench made me wriggle out of her too tight hugs.
Each time, when their court-ordered gathering ended, the zombies shuffled out of the room and off into the night. I remember the lady who ran the meetings, every time, leaning down and whispering the same thing:
“I pray you do not end up like your mother.”
Perfect
Chrislyn Thompson
Oleander White strode through the office with a refined, crisp report in his hand. He couldn’t help but allow a small smile onto his face as the smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafted through the air. The week had been pleasant to him. He had compiled the financial data, received an ovation at his presentation, and nailed his chances as employee of the month. His work shirts were stainless and freshly pressed; his suit had his favorite embroidered pink handkerchief in it, and his hair dresser had flawlessly cut his flaxen hair last evening.
Perfect.
Then, for some ungodly reason, everything went wrong. It was too late to react when the disaster hit. All he could do was lean back and watch in terror as it unfolded as the brown liquid spread across his shirt and the paper. An absolute monkey had rounded the corner and slammed into him, dumping his dark coffee all over him. It wasn’t even hot— Oleander would have preferred it to be hot—then at least the physical pain would be tantamount to the emotional, mental pain that had been brought on by this absolute Neanderthal.
“Oh, shoot, buddy,” the troglodyte, Dan, expelled a weak laugh and smiled as he fixed his square glasses onto his nose. “I’m sorry, didn’t see you there.”
“How,” Oleander stared at the stained report in utter shock. “How could you do this to me?”
Dan made an apologetic shrug and smiled, “Sorry, Ollie. Let me make it up to you. I’ll pay for dry cleaning. And, if the old fart gives you any grief, just say it was Dummy Dan again.”
Oleander shoved past him, his eyes intently focused on the stained report. He didn’t have time to replace it; his boss needed it now. He opened the door to the conference room as if he were in a trance. People from different branches of the corporation were there; it was like they were all looking
Thompson • 13
at him and his stained clothes. Oleander strode over and, unintentionally, slammed the report down. His boss, an old, square-jawed man with failing hair and health, glanced at the report and then back to Oleander.
“Looks like you had a bit of an accident, Ollie,” he chuckled humorously. “Still legible—don’t worry, accidents happen.”
“Not to me,” Oleander whispered and whirled around to leave the room.
Oleander trudged away to the desk and sat down. His fingers twitched on the keys as he stared down at the stain on his shirt. Why today of all days? Why then of all times? It must have been a conspiracy. Yes, the most perfect, studious, intelligent person in the office suddenly sabotaged when he was going to give a report. It was almost too perfect. How dare he? How dare Dan think he was better than he?
Oleander didn’t have time to get any work done. He sat there stewing all day at Dan’s treachery. He wondered how many were in on it, but finally, after careful consideration, concluded that Dan was the one to blame for the whole thing. His fuddy-duddy appearance was nothing but a ruse, hiding a scheming mastermind. Oleander was sure of it.
When five o’clock rolled around, Oleander was the first to leave. Some coworkers looked at him with surprise at this abnormal behavior as he shuffled out the door with very little fanfare. He got into his polished white Sedan and pulled out with the screech of his wheels. He sat simmering in traffic as his fingers drummed viciously on the steering wheel. When he got to his apartment, he slammed the door closed. As he did, the floral china rattled on the wall. He went over to a dish with a rose print on it and sighed as he took the pains to align it back into its proper place—ninety-degree angle with a centimeter between plates.
Perfect.
He went into his chrome kitchen and pulled out a carefully picked recipe. He burned his chicken teriyaki as his mind wandered back to the repercussions of the spill. After crunching down on the burned chicken, he made his way
over to the couch with the symmetrically placed pillows and put his head in his hand. What next could Dan be planning against him?
Oleander looked to his bookshelf for escape. He stood and walked over to the it, scanning the myriad books. His eyes finally landed on his high school yearbook; he cringed as he pulled it out and turned to his picture. He was so unkempt in those days. His hair was cowlicked, and he wore his oversized glasses that made his eyes appear large and malformed. He was much better now.
He put it back and went to his reading material. He leafed through the material until he came across a forgotten collection of Poe works. A lone, blood red bookmark stood resolutely and caught his eye. Something pulled him to it, as if calling him. He reached out and grabbed the book, allowing it to fall apart at the break. The boldened stylized words stood out on the pure white page: “The Cask of Amontillado.”
Oleander needed no more inspiration. He snapped the book shut, and schemes began to formulate in his mind. He needed to rectify this wrong. He just needed a plan of action to take. His eyes widened as the idea hit him. Oleander did not know whether the idea came from God or Satan. He thought it didn’t matter. To anger either power with his idleness would not be in his best interest. He needed to carry it out, or he would never salvage anything from his lost reputation.
“Nemo me impune lacessit,” he muttered to himself as a devilish smile creeped across his face. Perfect.
Oleander entered the office the next morning with a new resolution. He needed to learn everything he could about his nemesis before he could enact his revenge.
Dan, forty-two, two hundred and fifty pounds, brown balding hair, red bulging nose, and small grey eyes with prescription glasses. These things Oleander learned from his brilliant observation skills. He learned from investigation into HR files that Dan was divorced, had three children who live upstate with his ex-wife, and no criminal record. Further
Thompson • 15
investigation at work told Oleander that Dan spends five hours near the water cooler per weekly average and usually lazes fifteen extra minutes on lunch break. He journaled these details down into a long list; it built up with every day that passed as he saw something new, looking for an opportunity to enact his plan. The thought crossed his mind that Dan could simply just be what he appeared, a middle-aged man with no urgency or happiness in his life, but Oleander knew it was impossible. He despised the idea of an idiot sabotaging him. Dan was nothing short of the spinner of the greatest office conspiracy Oleander had ever encountered.
One day, Oleander got to observe him in a meeting. Dan cleared his throat seven times, scratched his brow or scalp twenty-three (fifteen and eight respectively) times, and wiped his nose four times. He sweated like a pig, the pit stains evident on his yellow-white undershirt. Oleander sneered at him; he was an animal.
“Ollie,” Oleander bolted upward; he looked over to his boss. “What are your thoughts?”
Oleander’s face went white, and his eyes shifted, “I’m sorry, must have missed that part.”
Everyone turned to look at Ollie with a quizzical eye. Witnessing Oleander without an opinion was rarer than finding a unicorn. Oleander looked down at his reports, and he cursed Dan for his impudence. Dan was deliberately distracting him. Oleander wanted to enact his revenge as soon as possible.
Oleander got his chance when he overheard his coworkers planning Dan a birthday party. Birthday: the perfect opportunity. Now all he needed was the box to deliver his “present.” Everything to build it only took a visit to the hardware store, and all he needed was an online tutorial to assemble it. He spent the weekend constructing it, fixing everything in perfectly. Wires and springs littered his coffee table as he stuffed the present in the lilac, flower-patterned box. The final component was set, and he clicked the lid on the present with a satisfied grin. He’d skipped his shower to get it just right. He tied the light blue bow around the present.
Perfect.
Oleander waited the whole day for the party. It was a surprise party, and his gift was nothing if surprising. To think, such an amalgamation of random objects and some chemistry would make for maximum effective payback. He couldn’t help the quivering smile that crept onto his face throughout the day. The party came. When Dan entered the conference room, everyone jumped out and yelled “surprise” to him. Oleander clapped him on the back as Dan entered. Dan sat down as one after the other gifts were laid in front of him. A mug, a wine bottle, a stapler, all wonderful benign gifts, unlike Oleander’s. Finally, it was Oleander’s turn. He’d made sure to hold onto his gift, keeping it safe—it had to remain upright and placed just in the right way—and ready to be opened. He made sure it was the last one. He carefully slid it in front of Dan with a plastered grin on Oleander’s face.
“Oh,” Dan looked up with his pig-like eyes. “Thank you very much, Ollie. I like the floral design.”
“Oh,” Oleander chuckled a bit. “Of course. You’re welcome.”
Dan saw the tag, “To Fortunato?”
“It means fortunate or blessed,” Oleander explained.
“Well I’ve never thought I was blessed, but thank you, Ollie,” Dan nodded a bit disconcerted.
Dan’s fingers moved over the bow, unraveling it slowly. An unbridled anticipation built up in Oleander. He pounded his fingers tensely on the table. For a moment, he worried that the contraption would not only hit Dan and his surroundings but Oleander as well. He dismissed it immediately. It would be worth it to see Dan’s face once he got what was coming to him. Oleander didn’t care if the blowback hit him. The bow slipped off, and Dan pushed up the box lid with his thumbs. Oleander let a wicked grin sneak onto his face as Dan’s eyes widened in confusion at the contents of the gift.
Click.
Dan’s curiosity pushed the box lid too far off, and the contraption sprang into action. A click, then a spring, and,
Thompson • 17
suddenly, the pressure released. It happened instantaneously; Dan let out a yell and everyone jumped backwards. The container sprang upward with an explosive power and poured its contents on Dan. Freezing cold coffee spilled everywhere soaking Dan’s suit and the rest of his work shirt.
Oleander let out a long laugh. Everyone in the conference room stared as he maniacally laughed. He couldn’t help it. Finally, months of planning paying off in one fell swoop. Tears came to his eyes as his revenge was fulfilled and his reputation repaired.
Perf—
“What the hell, Ollie?” A gruff voice came from the door.
Oleander felt a shiver run through him like a bolt of lightning as his boss entered the conference room. Oleander caught himself and straightened. His boss had the most perplexed look on his face mixed with anger and disappointment. Oleander looked around at the bewildered colleagues in the room.
“Ollie, what do you have to say for yourself?” His boss demanded striding up to him. “Your work’s been slipping for months; you look atrocious, and now this? What the hell is going on?”
“I … I … ” He stared like a deer in headlights. His face flushed bright red as his gaze switched from his boss to his colleagues to Dan’s sad face. He stood, mouth agape, feeling an impossible weight on his chest. “I’m sorry.” The words stung as it left his mouth, but he needed to roll over and play nice.
“My office, now,” his boss growled.
Oleander trudged behind him out of the conference room. He glanced back to see Dan surrounded by a comforting party.
Oleander exited the office twenty minutes later; he was weary and a little deaf in one ear. His job was still there, but only under certain circumstance that he would: “act like you used to.” He walked to his now cluttered and disorganized desk with the eyes of his peers on him. He sat down and sighed. He finally got a look at himself in the mirror. He was disheveled; his hair had become an overgrown mess, and dark purple bags
stained under his eyes from the study and work he had put into the package. He hadn’t ironed in weeks, and he’d forgotten his favorite handkerchief, which at some point he’d used to wipe coffee off the present. He put his head between his hands and ran through his hair. How long had he spent on this one man? Why had he suspected him and spent months on this elaborate scheme? Where would he be now if he hadn’t …
“Hey, Ollie?” Oleander sprang up in his seat as Dan stood over him. He had a pathetic look on his face. “You know, I forgive you, ok?” He smiled a little. “It was kind of funny. I think you wanted to make me laugh, right?”
“Oh,” Oleander felt stung. How could he have suspected this man? He looked downright pitiful, almost harmless. Oleander felt something tantamount to guilt for one of the first moments in his life. “Well, I’m sorry, Dan. It didn’t have the kind-spirited intention that you suspected. I was … ” he paused, building up to the next words, and he quickly said, “wrong and stupid, and I’m sorry that I drenched you in coffee.”
Dan smiled a bit and shrugged, “No harm, no foul. I almost thought you wouldn’t take the bait.”
Oleander’s heart stopped for a second. He stared aghast at Dan, who was already leaning over his desk.
Dan laughed, “Oh, I’ve seen fellas like you before, boss’s pet—butt kisser—so wound up that they can’t see beyond their own nose or get over anything.” Dan fixed his glasses onto his nose, causing the glass to glare in the florescent light. “It wasn’t too hard to wind you up. Just a little stimulus right before a stressful event, and your world came crashing down around you. The next part was just letting your textbook paranoia take over.” He chuckled a little. “I worried for a second that you had put a bomb in the present or something, but, based off my analysis, I knew you wouldn’t have the guts.”
Oleander’s head spun with every word. He’d been played, like a fiddle no less.
“I bet you’re wondering what, how, and why sucha’ dumpy lookin’ old man could have outsmarted such a witty youngster like yourself. Well, I’ve been in the business for a long-time,
kiddo. Maybe you’ll figure it out one day.”
Dan clapped Oleander on the back as he left the desk.
Dan spun around one last time, “And as for literary references, try something not every high schooler has read. In pace requiescat!”
Dan disappeared towards the watercooler. Oleander leaned back into his chair, biting his lip and staring at the ceiling. Perfect.
Brother-in-Law
Jeremy Maynard
I see you’ve gotten your cell phone back. I hear your senseless slurred words blaring from my wife’s voicemail from across the room. Don’t tell me. You need more money?
You’re probably promising to put yourself into rehab. What’s new?
You said the same thing three weeks ago. Your promises are pathetic so please, just stop.
Are you homeless again or living with a “friend”?
The needles are like fangs injecting venom into your veins. The city streets slither beneath your feet, hissing while constricting their next feast: You.
Neon lights buzz above bars like a swarm of killer bees. Every shot another sting, not lethal alone but deadly in mass. You’ve smashed their nest.
The next time you’re out getting your fix, know this
Your sister is crying, waiting for the day she gets the call and police say, “Your brother died in an alleyway alone.”
Sweeping Up the Fragments of the House
Anastasia Johnson
The sweeping doesn’t bother me. I relish the rhythmic swish of the golden brush, gracing itself lightly across the numbingly cold floor, converting my house—from filthy to flawless.
Doors deserted gaping by the children, the dust they bring blows throughout the creaky rooms. Broken toys and shredded paper, crumbs from afternoon snacks, all mingle in perfect harmony on the linoleum floor.
The reminiscence of being swept off my feet by him, a reminder of why I stay in this place. It might have been a home once, the light from the wicked florescent bulbs— might have once illuminated a family, but there are no more traces of love.
Clutching the splintered wooden handle tightly, I see the broken glass of the beer bottle, just another painful memory as it slides into the worn dustpan. The broom sweeps back and forth once more, the memory fades away.
My heart knows that I will never escape, never find peace. Light lingers outside as the day ends, and I’m still here, sweeping up the memories, surrounded in the broken shards of my home.
For My Freedom: For My Father
Anastasia Johnson
My family always advised not to search for you, that I wouldn’t want to discover the truth, about why you vanished fifteen—missed—birthdays ago. I found you, despite their warnings, I simply needed to know.
The moment I saw you, it sickened me, to realize that what people always told me was true, I am your miniature photocopy, but only on the outside. I share nothing in common with you other than our genetics, as well as the only present you ever gave me, my middle name.
The excuses you provided for leaving gave me no solace, but at least I could see for myself that it wasn’t my fault. Your reason for leaving was immature and senseless: You could not cope with my bipolar and controlling mother, and me, a new child that you did not want.
You thought it would calm her down, a baby, but you were mistaken; she became worse. To cope, you turned to drinking, combined with your newfound violence, destroyed our new family. You show me your family, a real one, Complete with a wife and three sons who adore you. You said it was for the best that you left.
I don’t share that belief, but I forgive you for leaving me with her, discarding one family and making another.
I accept the past; I am able to begin my own life. I am my own person now, and my father, or lack thereof, cannot and will not define me.
All that remains of you is what we share, a middle name. And how fitting that name is: “Freedom,” but you left.
Shower Thoughts
Ash-Leigh Wilson
Will I ever be enough? she questioned as her gentle hand extended past the gray and white shower curtain reaching for the cold embrace of the silver handle. She turned the handle to the left, as far as she could push it towards the large H written in the stainless steel. She stood on the gray Memory Foam bath mat, waiting for the water to heat up to the temperature of hell. Maybe then the water would melt this overwhelming, gut-wrenching feeling of emptiness and neglect she endured daily. Cautiously, she stepped inside the clean, white shower, allowing the water droplets to hit her face. She welcomed the first and only embrace of her day. She closed her eyes. Will I ever be enough? The thought danced through her mind as she stood lifeless in the drowning of her sorrows.
The water droplets hit her face combining with her silent tears, together flowing down the sparkling shower drain. I’ve never been good enough, she thought endlessly. My father left me when I was a baby. He didn’t even want me! She recalled her father’s face. She remembered a blond-haired, blue-eyed, young man, a man who now was much older, resembling a grey-haired grandpa. Over the last twenty-five years, she remembered only his presence a handful of times. I’ve never even received a birthday card, she silently sobbed. She recalled her birthday, June 19; ironically, she was born on Father’s Day. Did I cry too much as a baby? Was I not pretty enough? What exactly was wrong with me? She didn’t understand why she was never good enough. She turned away from getting pelted by the water droplets. She counted the carved-out lines on the back-shower wall. One, two, three ….
The lines she counted were perfectly parallel, without a single speck of dirt. I’ve never been good enough, she recalled again. The first boy I loved did not think I was good enough. She thought about the four years she devoted to someone who in the end did not choose her. I thought we would get married. I thought we would have children. I thought we would grow old together. She
remembered his deceiving smile, flowing brown hair, and those golden-brown eyes of deception. He was so handsome, so loving, so easy to believe. Much like a car salesman, he could sell any lie to her as a truth. The day he walked away, leaving her screaming in the distance, burned into her brain as if she had been branded for life. The realization she was not enough to make him want to change haunted her thoughts. What was wrong with me? She began to cry a little louder, but still silent enough to be discreet. She lathered her cucumber scented soap onto her purple loofa. She started scrubbing her body aggressively. Perhaps this would eliminate the unattractive and unworthy characteristics. She continued to scrub until her body resembled a bright red strawberry. She dropped the loofa. Her tears became streams of sorrows, and her cries grew louder. I’ve never been good enough! She cried aloud. The man I have married would rather please his addictions than please me. The thoughts of her failed marriage taunted her. How was I not enough? How was our family not good enough? What went wrong? She turned slowly in a circle, allowing the water to rinse off the soap bubbles. She thought of the day her husband told her he did not want to stop his addictions, and until he found something that made him want to quit, he never would. She wailed in confusion and anger. What was I? How am I not good enough for him not to want to quit! She fell to her knees. I’ll never be good enough!
The water ran cold. Realizing she had sat on the shower floor far too long, she gathered herself and stood up. She reached for the silver handle and pushed it to the center. The water abruptly shut off. She reached out of the gray and white shower curtain for her soft towel. Drying her body, she paused to the sound of laughter. A smile crossed her face. Her daughter lay in her crib playing peekaboo with her blue-and-gold quilted blanket. She’s so small, innocent, and helpless, she thought. She needs me and will always need me. The steam cleared the now peaceful bathroom. She stood quietly staring at the baby monitor watching the child laugh. Again, she smiled and released a sigh of relief. A single tear rolled down her cheek. I am enough for the right people.
Josh’s Girl
Sarah Evans
Josh has kind eyes and nine felonies. He won’t touch me unless I ask, so I ask him to constantly. Across the Choctawhatchee Bay Josh shows me sunrises. After dark, lying on picnic tables Josh tells Bible stories. After work, he walks me to my car. He rests his calloused palms on the roof And leans his head into the cab close to my face. He asks if I’m okay. I am in that moment, when I hear those words. Last week
I put my face into the shoulder of his grey vest and told him I’m scared. When he asked why, I told him I don’t know and he said, “Me too.” In the blue morning light Josh sleeps with his knees tucked. His skin hangs over his tired bones, And I trace his tattoos.
Josh is a gangster, a white guy who can call a black man the “N” word and solicit a handshake, rather than an injury. At Josh’s place, we sleep on a mattress with no sheet. During the day, I sit on his lap wearing lingerie. I count money while the customer weighs product. Josh shows me in the linoleum tiled kitchen how to flip a pancake without a spatula. Josh shows me in the dirty mirror of the master bathroom how to hold a loaded gun.
I am Josh’s girl.
A Modern Deity
Ashley Odom
1. Abandoned
Abandoned to feed on dust and superstition in this post dial-up golden age – I believe you are no Herculean fist, but the double-edged sword he holds. “I blame you” are muscle words that part you like the Red Sea, except you are efficient, not divine. You circle us like an ocean, one pixel at a time. We breathe in bytes now and speak in emails. Payment is in lost time we spent watching cat videos instead of chatting about our day or answering our own questions.
2. Blessed
Blessed by this exalted network being to connect my small, systematic body to the world, I can only sing, “I thank you, I thank you.” I thank you for giving these cement heavy lips a way to Copyright, YouTube, and tell the general public that I can be modern too.
That this ancient body can coexist with this newfangled mind without ever leaving the comfort of a computer chair.
A Feather to Match
Joanna Shoubaki
With her eyes squeezed shut, still half dreaming in the hazy dawn, she could almost feel him there next to her. She could almost roll over to place her hand on his broad shoulders and trace her favorite freckle with her fingertip. But her hand only fell to the cold sheets, and she knew her love, her Kendryl, would never lie there again. Her fist clenched the sheets as a soft knock rapped on her door.
“Lady Reina?” escaped through a crack, “I have your breakfast. Will you take it?”
“Leave it outside the door.”
“Of course, my lady, but His Grace is concerned. He insists that you eat—your uncle will be arriving within the week to take you and,” the voice hesitated, searching for the right words, “His Grace wishes to show you were well taken care of.” After minutes of silence, the door opened, and a plate was set on the floor before the maid turned to leave.
Reina knew already that she would not leave with her uncle—Lord Ricktor was a Southern noble, but the ransom for her was far too high and his coffers had long been empty, even before the war had begun. Reina would remain there for years to come as a ward of the court to keep her nuncle loyal. And as soon as a Northern lord found himself in need of a bed warmer, she would be married to one of Kendryl’s killers. Her fingers uncurled from the sheets, and Reina rose to break her fast. Before sitting at her small table, she reached up into the fire pit and pulled a long, gleaming dagger from the stones. Eating without taste, she fingered the stolen blade idly, letting the rage slowly boil beneath her skin as she pondered her future trapped in House Veridal.
After a day of pleasantries exchanged with tight smiles and clenched fists, Reina sat at her small table as the moonlight floated like mist in her room. She didn’t remember retrieving her blade, but soon she laid a whetstone against the steel, dragging
it down painfully slow, letting the sound screech and ring between her ears. Down and down the blade it went, over and over as she sharpened the plan in her mind. After midnight, the guards changed, but what did it matter? She could waltz in as she pleased. No one would think twice of a woman entering his bedroom.
“Prince John Veridal,” she whispered to herself as she dragged the stone down once again.
But if she was caught, the court would surely put her to death or worse: give her to Titian. The thought of his leathery hands clenched tight around his yellow, curved blade made her shiver and its victims scream. The scraping stopped for a moment, and the silence came crashing in. Outside, the wind sighed almost as soft as Kendryl when he snored, and the fear in her gut vanished. She looked out at the cool night air where the moon hung by a single silvery thread, threatening to disappear the next night. A smile crept to her lips. Tomorrow was perfect. The scraping began again. The hours crawled by. The fire in front of her made the dagger shiver with excitement. As the last embers faded into gray, the raking sound of steel and stone halted. A day from now, she thought, this wretched place will finally bleed.
The hallways echoed with the sound of light steps as she picked her way through the pitch black. It was like walking through blankets of night, heavy and cold, but her feet carried her faithfully down the halls she’d been memorizing for weeks. Her legs ached from carrying her weight on her toes, ready at the hint of candlelight to hide. But as she passed the hundreds of heavy oak doors, only the encouraging whispers of a familiar voice accompanied her. Suddenly, she felt the wind sigh, fluttering her cloak, and she knew the last set of stairs were in front of her. Her feet led her on, the light taps pounding like a heartbeat.
The candlelight rose ahead of her, illuminating the hulking mass of Sir Raymond leaning against the wall, eyes half shut. She couldn’t help but smile—it was like the gods wanted her to do it. Hiding her face beneath her hood, she slowly approached him. At first, he stiffened and laid a hand on his sword, but her flowing
cloak revealed her as naked as she was on her nameday. He laughed, looking down at her with his sleazy smile, and opened the door. She quietly passed through as he gave her bottom a squeeze. The door clicked softly behind her, and she could nearly hear her love curse at the man behind her.
The knife glittered in her palm. Reina crept slowly up to the furs piled on the bed, softly lighted by a bedside candle. Suddenly, she was in Whiteford again, wringing her hands behind the city walls while retreating soldiers surged around her. She had nearly turned to flee with them, but a glimpse of her Kendryl stayed her. He was yelling as she ran towards him, but when he fell into her arms, it was not with relief, but with a white goose feather sprouting from his chest. She could only sit there wailing as the invaders swarmed her home.
Above her, hanging on the wall, a quiver spilled white feathers from its top. The rage lapped against her throat like storm waters as she gripped her blade tighter and came closer. Something pounded, and she froze, turning to the door. Louder and louder it boomed, and she prepared to jump at Sir Raymond bursting through. The door sat still in its frame, but the booming echoed in her ears and veins.
Now was the time, before anyone could find her. She quickly turned back, ripping the furs off, and plunged her blade down to the hilt. She heard a soft gasp as he sprung awake. Her eyes hurt as they widened to swallow every detail, her breath ragged as she smiled and laughed. But her smile fell as his hand wrapped around her wrist. As he hissed for air, she looked closely at her lover’s killer for the first time.
Prince John’s eyes darted around the room until they locked on her, pleading for help. Tears streamed down his rosy cheeks. His small second chin quivered as he grasped for the hilt. As the scarlet blood pooled on his rattling chest, she realized now why she had never seen Prince John in court.
Just a boy, she thought, barely old enough for battle. The fingers around her wrist tightened like a vice, forcing her eyes to his.
“H-help,” he rasped, “—urts. Please … hurts.”
She covered her mouth to stop herself from screaming. A child. She tried to wrench her arm from his grasp.
“I’ve killed him.” Confusion and pain contorted his face as he pulled her closer.
The pain surged as he pulled, and a loud yell tore out of him. Without thinking, Reina clamped her hands over his mouth, praying that Sir Raymond did not hear. The boy writhed under her hands and pulled at her fingers. Sweat pouring, she pressed harder to muffle his grunts.
“Please, please stop, stop, just please let go,” she whispered to him. Slowly, the color drained from his face and washed down his side. The kicks and squirms grew weaker, and the prying fingers collapsed on his chest. She let out the shaky breath held in her chest, and gently took away her hands. Reina looked down at the crimson sheets and dull eyes. The cold pricked her toes as blood seeped under them.
He’s a boy. A boy. A child. Dead. A dead child. Dead. Suddenly, her back was against the wall and she sunk down to cradle her head in her hands.
Oh, Kendryl. What have we done?
That morning, she woke to the tolling of bells. On Listern’s northernmost hill, the temple’s bells rang thrice: short, long, long. The mourning of a royal. She sat up in bed, the circles under her eyes weighing down like anchors. After slinking back to her room, she had slept, but it was a light, dreamless sleep that left her feeling as if she had only lain for a moment. Reina looked down at her hands, scrubbed raw the night before. She could still feel the warmth from him as he struggled beneath her fingers.
Rising, she glanced out at the day’s bright sky. The morning was light and cheery, only soiled by the persistent clanging. Iron dropped in her gut, and tears sprang to her eyes, but she stifled them with the back of her hand. Did they ring these bells for Sir Kendryl? she thought bitterly. House Veridal spilled southern blood—it was only right they bled in turn. After finally dressing into a soft grey gown, she habitually reached for her black cloak. She pulled her hand back in disgust as it crunched between her
fingers, crusty with blood. Her heart leapt into her throat—she quickly started a fire, letting the flames grow as she shredded the cloth and fed it slowly in. With the room half-filled with black smoke, she reached into the chimney and lodged the knife as far as her arm could reach. A knock sounded, and Reina nearly shredded her dress ripping her arm out.
“My lady? Is that smoke I smell?” a plate crashed as the door burst and the woman rushed in. The two coughed heavily, and Reina was ushered out of the billowing clouds. As the two caught their breath again, Reina fumbled for her next words.
“F-forgive me,” she hacked again and said as sweetly as she could, “I was chilly and tried to start a fire. I-erm-I do not know what I did wrong.”
“Please—cough—call for a servant next time you are cold,” her words were pleasant, but her eyes burned with condescending hatred, and Reina felt suddenly glad for slaying the wench’s prince. This whole house is vile—they deserve worse for their crimes. While the servant called for others to help clean the mess, Reina slipped away. As she walked, she could hear the heavy fall of Kendryl’s boots beside her, confidently striding. She matched his gait and swelled her chest with the pride of a divine avenger.
When she arrived in the courtroom, the chaos had already erupted. Fists banged against tables, voices fought like rabid dogs to be heard, and the sea of men swelled as nobles and their entourages pushed into the room. Reina perched herself in a corner, watching her spectacle in silence. Queen Wilona sat stiffly in her throne, her blonde hair unkempt, her red eyes staring unblinkingly at the wall across from her. A hush washed over the room as a tall, hardy man strode to the empty throne. Sir Brydyn, who had been looming protectively next to the chair, knelt as King Harold sat himself. His words were quiet and pained, but rang with a conviction.
“My son has been murdered,” he said plainly, “in his own bed.” He waved a hand to Sir Brydyn, who commanded that Sir Raymond present himself. Glittering in his best silver armor, Sir Raymond knelt at the foot of the stairs.
“Explain yourself,” Harold said evenly, his eyes glowering beneath his dark brow, “Where were you when my son was killed?”
“Your Grace,” his voice was tight with strain and he stared at the steps, “I was guarding his room last night when a woman—a naked woman—entered his room. I thought to let the two have privacy and went to—”
“You left your post?”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
“And this woman. Naked you say? Was her blade naked as well?”
“My-my king I did not see—”
“Did not see? Did you not hear his screams as well?” A long pause.
“No, Your Grace.”
With a grunt roughly sounding like “Enough,” Harold flicked his finger. Two men grabbed Raymond under his arms and dragged him from the room as he desperately pleaded. The slamming door shook the room.
“Well, you’ve heard what you’ve needed to hear. Find this woman. Bring her to me. My son, your prince, will have justice.”
With that simple command, he thundered out of the room, leaving the nobles speechless and quaking. Reina herself took her nail out of her mouth—she had chewed it down to the skin. She looked up at the people around her. Some were still gawking, others quietly whispering amongst themselves. But one crone, hunched over a jewel encrusted cane and draped in what could pass as curtains, stared knowingly through her crow’s feet at Reina. She took that as her sign to leave.
Two days later, Prince John’s body was brought to the temple. Reina traveled with the funeral procession through Listern’s streets. The city’s people lined the roads for miles. Some threw flower petals at the feet of the horses and marching men, others threw blessings, and others flung curses.
“Damned brat ‘eserved it!” a dirt smeared arm slammed down a bottle, shattering it, “Inbred dogs needed t’be taught a lesson, an’ Whiteford’s gods are happy t’ serve their justice, hehe!”
A few others joined in the chorus, and soon the crowd grew more riled. Some calls for Whiteford rang out, but they were drowned out by cries for bread. Reina glanced ahead at Queen Wilona. She was much the same as before, stoic and staring, and the jeering rolled off like water on a duck’s back. A knight riding dismounted and shoved through the crowd. He found the drunk, and after a fierce beating, handed him off to the city guardsman to be hauled to the jailor. Still, the crowd swelled and roared. A black blur flew through the air, and a dog carcass exploded in bits of bone and meat. Reina quickened her horse and let the guards do their royal duty.
Finally, they crested the last hill. The temple soared above them, the marble sparking with the afternoon sun. Hundreds of people filtered in through the doors, and the tapestries that lined the walls top to bottom could no longer muffle all the voices. Time flew once the funeral began. The body was presented and blessed; loved ones gave gifts and speeches, knights took vows of vengeance against the wicked murderess as she silently watched from her seat. After the ceremony, a line began filing past the body to pay homage to their prince.
Reina shuffled into her place, waited patiently to pay her respects. With aching feet, she finally ascended the few steps to the altar. Queen Wilnoa stood at his side, tears silently streaming down her cheeks as she twirled a piece of his hair between her fingers. Reina stepped next to her queen and looked down at her masterpiece: his body was washed and perfumed, lavished with the finest silver tunic to offset his golden curls, red roses, and jewels glistened around his body, and white goose feathers were scattered along the floor and table. Reina gingerly took a feather and laid it across Prince John, right above the hole that bore through his chest. A choking sob ripped out of her, and she placed a hand over her mouth to quell it. A reassuring hand placed itself on her shaking shoulders.
My dear Kendryl, she thought, did you look as beautiful at your funeral?
Because of the War
Rebekah Lamb
When his father left us, he asked why. Thinking to shield him from the reality, I said, “It’s because of the war.”
He possessed a burning in his eyes, a sudden vivacity, and an insatiable thirst for life that I knew I could never match or fulfill. He said right then that he’d go to war and bring his daddy back. Back to us. When he grew up, of course.
Visions of smashed vases and slashed paintings and crushed dreams swam before me. I think I laughed it off and returned to helping him pull his gloves over his small fingers. “You do that, kiddo,” I said, in no way believing he’d remember such a vow by the time he was old enough to act on it. Things changed after that.
We moved in with his grandparents, my mom and dad. I took two jobs waitressing, and I threw myself into my work to forget. I washed my hands of romance for good. Under the eyes of my elderly parents, our small household felt peaceable enough to me, and that was how I wanted it to stay.
Yet my son grew up with silence; we saw very little of each other and spoke even less. I never knew how to breach the cold wall between us, never even dared to wonder what caused it. It seemed thin as a hair’s breadth in one moment, a brick wall the next. I feared any attempts I might make to approach him would be met with resistance. Since I had not made the effort before, was it too late to make reparations now? I asked myself this question often, and with every passing hour, day, year, the answer seemed to become a more permanent yes.
I loved him more and more as I saw him laughing and learning and living, but the rigors and requirements in my own life prevented me from being the doting, present mother I wanted to be. I came home from working night shifts to find him already tucked into bed. I watched his chest rise and fall from the doorway, like a starving orphan peering through
a window. It was like an anchor had sunk my ship long before his was even on the water. I lamented the loss of his childhood years, moments I felt I had not gotten to experience with him.
In his mid-teens, he went out with his friends nearly every night; they all shared the same sentiments of dissatisfaction with the small (they thought) lives they were living. I grew lonelier than ever. I didn’t want him to see, to put pressure on him when he was so distant already, so I hid my tears in a strongbox in my heart and unlocked it only when he was gone. He came home one night and told me the news, eyes blazing with excitement, just like that other fateful day.
He didn’t understand when I sent him back out of the house to celebrate elsewhere. I didn’t feel like celebrating. Some of his friends had been drafted, and in a show of loyalty, the rest of their group had enlisted. He joined up, too, cursing the small-town life more than the Vietnamese communists, but I cursed only myself for putting the idea in his head all those years ago. I cried the day he left, but he let me kiss him goodbye, a small victory in the face of what would become my greatest sorrow.
I anxiously anticipated every letter he might send home, obligatory as they seemed at first. When lengths between letters increased, my worried heart always feared the worst until a new letter made its way into my hands. He told me of the other boys in his company, the jungles and villages through which they’d trekked and paraded together. The muggy and sweltering weather, apparently a thousand times worse than in Georgia. They used lots of cuss words on account of the weather, he cheerfully informed me. None of that information was enough. Not for me. I had never been one to send letters, but now I needed them like air.
It was the most we’d talked in years. It hurt worse than any of the long silences I had endured before.
The shortest letter he ever sent me marked the longest period of time between letters, and it had a mere eight words: Ma, I killed people today. Please forgive me.
I just wanted him to return, my sweet boy, silence or not. Our broken relationship now was the best it had been in years, even if my own letters were choppily written. I received another letter shortly after that, hand-delivered along with a folded flag by a solemn, uniformed man. The letter was unfinished, and they’d found it on his person after he was gunned down en route to a new camp: Hi, Ma. It’s me again. Don’t you ever get bored with all my letters? Seems like I talk more to you than I talk to the boys of my company here with me–though with the low morale of all of us, talking saps our energy. Even when not writing down these brief accounts to you, I think a lot about what would happen to you if I died. I guess I was selfish coming here and leaving you alone. At some point, I just made the decision, consciously or unconsciously, that I wanted to be the one who returned from the war to see you again, unlike Pop. But I know Pop didn’t really leave because of the war. Sorry. I’ll still come back, though, so don’t worry. I maybe haven’t shown it well enough, but I love you, Ma.
I’ll write more later tonight after we’re settled again, and I’ll be a better son when I get to come home.
He had managed to say more in a single, unfinished letter than I had in all these years.
Wax/Mixed Media
Sarah Augustin
Immersion
Mixed Media
Sarah Augustin
Inversion of Personal Patterns
Color Pencil
Noah Brown
Charcoal
Noah Brown Old Gaze
Chalk, Pastel
Noah Brown
Sundown Field
Kansas Cherry Louisiana Waterfall
Color Pencil, Graphite
Downfall of Mankind
Toby Cimino
Charcoal
Angela De Jesus Andrea
Digital Illustration
Summer Derry Places in 5
The Scenic Route
Oil on Canvas
Casey Easdon
When I First Saw You
Acrylic on Canvas
Casey Easdon
Clay
Carolyn Foster Friendship Bouquet
Carolyn Foster Frozen in Time
Oil on Canvas
Kelly A. Hanning The Gables
Graphite
Shelby Jones
Memory
Oil on Canvas
Tyana Jordan
Alice’s Lillies
Oil on Canvas
Tyana Jordan Little Lady
Photograph
Kimberly Kimbril
Marbled Driftwood
Photograph
Mackenzie Elizabeth Marsteller Pastel Summer
The Brass Factory
Photograph
Maria B. Morekis Jack
Photograph
Danielle Leigh Muir
Bug Bath Tile
Ivy Norton Autumn’s Aura
Oil and Acrylic
Ivy Norton Lem Luv
Pastel
Ariel Poole Moe
Seven Years in the Ground
Mixed Media
Ariel Poole
Clay
Mikhail Maverick Santos Realized Value
Come and Enjoy Tea with Me
Charcoal, Pastel
My Huyen Truong
Photograph
Brian Turney Clockwork
Aliya Walton Nigiri Night
Marine Life Under the Sea
Clay
Klarissa Williamson
The Morrígan
Edgar Ellis
Three of them, crammed into a seat designed for two to sit comfortably. At the wheel sat a tired man who wasn’t particularly old or young. The most remarkable thing about him was his eyes, large and round, blue and seemingly ready to pop out of his skull. All three of them wore dark, wool coats, and only the driver seemed uncomfortable with the heat. The man in the middle, thin and broad-shouldered, wore a Stetson hat and had a strong face with a cleft chin, black stubble beginning to appear on his cheeks, not quite a beard, but not sloppy either, clean enough that it had to be intentional. He smoked a cigarette. Against the left side of the car was a man who, unlike the other two, wore no hat. He was pale, taller than the driver, but shorter than the man in the middle, and had a modest, brown beard. He reclined calmly and stared blankly at the morning sky, his hands clasped in his lap.
The driver began glancing at the bearded man as the Roadster turned from one street to the next, a two lane with nothing open yet but a couple of coffee shops. “What’s he wear the red gloves for?”
The bearded man was wearing gloves, dark red leather ones that had begun to grow thin at the knuckles on the index finger.
The man in the middle said, “They make him feel like Jesse James, right Prince Albert?”
Prince Albert smiled at this and said, “Yes, Joey.”
“There ya go,” Joey said; he had a high-pitched voice and an accent that none of them could place, “now shut the fuck up ... and turn left here. It’s like you haven’t lived in LA for ten fucking years. Fuck me.”
The driver mumbled under his breath, “Yeah, I know I’ve gotta turn; get off my ass.”
“I’m your boss, and I stay on your fucking ass.”
The Roadster turned again, and they drove toward an opened metal gate between two columns decorated with carvings of lions. They drove up to a window in one of the columns, and a jovial man with a mustache peaked out, “Mr. Ballard, what brings you to the Warner Brothers’ lot today?”
Joey leaned out from behind the driver who did not pay any attention to him and stared straight ahead to look the man in the eyes, “Business, can we fucking go?”
The jovial man shrank, “I see, go on ahead, sir.”
And the Roadster took off into the rows of buildings, tan and tall and rectangular, all of them identical, all of them beneath the sign that loomed pathetic on the hillside: Hollywood.
A light flickered on in the rafters, and a squat man nodded down from beside it. A mustached man on the ground nodded back to the gaffer and whispered to Carson, who sat relaxed in a folding chair, wearing glasses, a tweed suit with an ascot, an ivy cap, and cowboy boots. Carson’s face was tough, always scrunched up and his eyes squinting, and he leaned to look down the camera like it was a gun. On the other end, there was the uncanny image of an entire parlor with only three walls, existing seemingly out of place, in the middle of a warehouse. Lounging in the parlor, a man, and standing in the doorway, a woman, both of them still and with bored looks.
Carson leaned back again and whispered back to the man next him, “Have him put more light on Eva and more shadows on John.”
The mustached man shouted up to the rafters, “More light on Eva, shadow on John.”
Eva and John caught each other’s eyes and chuckled. Carson tapped his foot and watched as the light shifted, John’s eyes disappearing and Eva’s greener than ever. A shout from the rafters, “Fuck!” Everyone looked up. They couldn’t see the squat man.
“I broke my hand, shit.”
Carson muttered, “On a light?”
The mustached man shouted up, “On a light?”
From the rafters: “What?”
“You broke your hand on a light?”
“They’re heavy.”
Carson looked back at the parlor, “Ask him if he’s ok up there for an hour or so.”
“Are you ok up there for an hour or so?”
“Yeah,” the gaffer said, “I’ll be ok.”
Carson gave John and Eva a stern look, and Eva put her forehead against the door and put on a solemn expression. John leaned forward and began wringing his hands. Carson looked down the top of the camera again and said, “Start rolling.” A click and the film started, and there was a humming noise.
In the camera, the parlor seemed real, nothing to suggest it was in a warehouse, that it had only three walls. All of it had a misty tint; no lines were harsh, the shadows faded smoothly and almost unnoticeably into light, a fantastical glow. Eva was turned to the door, still for a moment, and then she began convulsing, quivers shooting up and down her entire body, loud, profane sounding sobbing getting louder and louder. John sat wringing his hands, looking down at them, before looking up at the crying woman at the other end of the frame, half his face pitch black in shadow, his cleft chin pronounced, his hair messy in the most calculated way, and a desperate, forlorn look in his eyes.
“I’ve got to leave,” a prolonged sob, Eva’s hand searching comedically for the doorknob, “You know it; I just can’t stay here any longer.”
John stood and crossed the room to a chair with a cloche hat on it. He picked it up and stared at it, that same forlorn look, like he was remembering something.
He muttered, both sultry and fearful, “You’re forgetting something.”
Eva whipped around and slammed her back against the door, tears on her cheeks, but her eyes weren’t red or bloodshot, and her face seemed relaxed, like crying was second nature. Though her eyes were only shown in shades of gray, somehow, anyone could tell they were green. The two looked
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at each from across the room, the camera seemingly uncaring. The mustached man next to Carson whispered to him, “Are we going to do inserts?” Carson nodded.
John walked across the room and placed the hat on her head and ran his hand through her hair, made to look messy like his, and then rested his palm on her cheek.
Eva turned away, “James, I can’t, you know I can’t.”
“My love,” John said with a fiery passion and still, somehow, a slight quiver, “do you really care about him? About all of that? The parties, the booze, the guns, the noise? Stay here with me. You don’t have to go back to New York, to that hellhole.”
Between sobs, Eva stuttered out, “No, no, I don’t.”
John moved closer to her and placed his hand on her waist, “Ok.” And then he kissed her, and she kissed him. He grabbed at her dress, casual, modest, and bright white. The hat fell to the floor, and John pulled her closer to him. And then there was a gunshot, and the two separated with a jolt, Eva’s tears stopping.
Joey Ballard stood on the other side of the studio, a .38 snub aimed at the ceiling, Prince Albert beside him with a LeeEnfield on his shoulders. Joey scanned the men huddled around the camera, holding equipment, or whispering in groups, all of their eyes on him. They knew who he was, and each of them had seen him in passing or in a picture and they knew to say nothing.
“Everyone,” Joey shouted, “who isn’t paid to look fuckable in front of a camera, get the fuck out of my sight! Use the back door. If you run toward me, I will fuck your face up beyond fucking recognition, and I will kill every one of your fucking families, now go!”
In that moment, the men’s heads filled with newspaper headlines, reporting weekly on unsolved murders of businessmen and their wives and their mistresses and their distant cousins, their corpses riddled with bullets and left in the desert, pictures of bodies left hanging from billboards or splayed out in parking lots. And with that, Carson, the
mustached man, and the employees surrounding them made a break for the back door, trampling each other, shoving by each other, and making as little noise as possible, little enough that the camera could still be heard humming as they went.
In the three-walled parlor, John still held Eva’s waist, and as Joey approached, she stepped back and slapped his hand away when he went to take hold of her again. Joey stepped up into the room, the lights bright in his eyes and Prince Albert pacing in the darkness behind him.
“John, I believe you know why I’m here and why I’m holding a gun, or does something need to be clarified?” Joey Ballard cocked his head and John grabbed at Eva’s waist again, “Fucking let go of Eva; you just look pathetic.”
John looked frantically around the room and at the ominous outline of Prince Albert, who smiled at him and raised a hand in greeting.
“You can’t kill me; p-people know who I am. My face is in every town that matters all the way to-to-to the East Coast,” John squinted as he tried to stop his hands from shaking, “hers is, too.”
“I’m not here to kill ’er; I’m here to kill you,” Joey stuck his head forward and contorted his face like he was talking to a baby, “and that’s because you fucked my wife.”
“I’m not your wife,” Eva said.
“Shut the fuck up; we’ll talk abo—shit.”
John took off sprinting, but before he could get past the edge of the set, Prince Albert had the Lee-Enfield raised and took a chunk out of his calf. “Don’t run,” Albert’s voice was calm and monotone. John shouted and screeched phrases like “God, save me!” or “Why? Oh, it hurts!” and Albert pulled the bolt back and chambered another round.
Joey walked over, screaming at John and grabbed him by the collar and pulled him over to the sofa in the middle of the parlor. “How the fuck did you think this was gonna happen? Run off into the sunset and die in the desert? That Prince Albert was gonna miss? Have you met Albert before?”
A loose piece of skin caught on a board, and John screamed
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again, more shrill than the first time. Joey kept pulling, and the skin peeled all the way off, a grotesque line from his calf to his ankle. Eva watched in silence, her arms crossed in front of her, tears still on her face; her gaze trailed away from Joey (who had leaned John up against a chair and held tightly to the crying man’s face) and off to the Prince who still had the LeeEnfield in both hands. She couldn’t see his eyes, but he looked as if his head were a hollow skull, stripped of all the parts that constituted a face, the expressive parts. And then the head nodded and spoke: “Ma’am.”
Joey spoke to himself as he held onto John’s quivering jaw, “Seems everybody’s met Prince Albert sometime or another …” Joey tightened his grip and turned his wrist, ripping the jaw out of place in an instant and causing John to cry harder, the tears and snot rolling into his mouth as he tried to close it. Fists clenching and unclenching, John grabbed at Joey’s pantlegs, and Joey looked him in the eyes like a surprised teacher. Still, John grabbed at him, so Joey stomped on his hands until he heard them crack. Prince Albert put the Lee-Enfield back on his shoulders and began to pace around the room once again, whistling Prokofiev. Eva listened and took fleeting glances as Joey beat John about the face and stomped on his kneecaps and kicked in his privates, drenching his clothes in blood. “She loves me and y-you took her! You raped her, made her— made her indecent and you fucked her, and you fucked her and fucked with my f-f-fuck!” The coat he wore swung around behind him, and his greased hair flew haphazardly on his head as Joey flailed and screamed and spit on the man who groaned and cried beneath him.
Prince Albert found himself by the camera and leaned the rifle against Carson’s folding chair. He put his ear to the side of the camera, listening to the whirring. He smiled and continued whistling. The camera kept up the noise, and the Prince stepped in front of it, staring straight into the lens. The same fantastical glow that had encased John and Eva as they had kissed appeared around his face as he smiled, tapped at the lens, and whistled. Behind him, Joey put his finger into the
exposed, bloody inside of John’s calf, and John kicked at him, which Joey responded to by screaming, “She loves me, fuck!” and shooting John in the forehead.
Joey put the gun away and wiped his bloody hands on the wool coat, but the wool stuck to his hands, and he began rubbing them together rapidly trying to get it off. Eva crossed the room to his side, averting her eyes from the bloody mass that had been a movie star no more than three minutes ago.
“Hey, love, just a second, gotta wash my hands to get this shit off,” Joey chuckled and gave Eva a peck on the lips. Eva paused for a moment, and then clawed his cheek and let out an animalistic, quivering scream. With his red right hand, Joey instinctually took hold of her head and slammed it into the decorative post beside them. The corner of the post hit her forehead, just beneath her hairline, and unleashed a river of blood that painted her face red as she collapsed. It trickled down over her lips and onto her neck where the blood parted into two streams and dripped into her hair. Joey muttered, “Shit.”
Albert stepped to the other side of the camera and switched it off. As the humming died down, he could hear slow, controlled breathing from the rafters. Silence. He looked up and saw a man lying still by a large light, sweating. The man saw Albert and his eyes went wide as Albert waved one hand in greeting and leveled the Lee-Enfield. He shot and the man tumbled down from the rafters and fell face first into the parlor next to Joey.
Joey looked from the squat man’s body to Prince Albert and said, “Get the canvas outta the car.”
“You think that will fit three people?”
“We’re gonna try and make it. I’ll get the picture for ya.”
“Alright.”
With the rifle slung over one shoulder, the Prince walked back the opposite end of the studio and out to the Roadster, whistling once more. Joey watched him go and then looked back down at the two bloody lumps leaking on the floor, passing his finger over the shallow cut beneath his eye. From his wool coat, Ellis • 77
Joey produced a folded piece of paper and a Kodak Bullet. He tucked the camera under his arm, unfolded the paper (a poster with a drawing of John in a military uniform holding a revolver and big red text that said, “Non-stop thrills and drama to rival Shakespeare in THE NIGHT TRAIN TO FLORENCE”), and leaned it against the chair next to John. He stepped back a ways and compared the two faces: the corpse’s was contorted and destroyed beyond recognition, the opposite of the handsome swashbuckler with a cleft chin and heroic smile on the poster. Joey got down on one knee and stared down the viewfinder.
“What the fuck ... ”
He snapped the picture and dropped the camera into this pocket. A glance around and Joey picked up the poster and wiped the blood and wool off his palms.
Albert returned with a cigarette in his mouth and a large tan roll of canvas over his shoulder where the rifle had been and rolled it out on the floor in front of the parlor. With no words between them, the two men dragged the bodies from the their pile on the stage and onto the canvas, stepping around the puddles of blood as they did. Joey leaned down and cupped Eva’s face for a moment before nodding to Prince Albert, who rolled the bodies onto the canvas, parts of limbs and tufts of hair protruding from the sides and blood dripping from those. The men took their places at either end and looked at each other: “And … lift.” They stumbled to the door where the bugeyed driver waited for them. Albert positioned himself next to the driver and said, “Take my end for a moment,” and heaved the bloody hunk of canvas into the man’s arms.
Prince Albert went back into the studio and to the camera where he flipped the latch and opened the case that contained the film. In the small squares were blurred images of his smiling face and of Joey cleaving Eva’s face in two. Albert took a small knife and cut the film free and placed it in his jacket. Albert returned to the car to find Joey and the driver comically shoving the canvas into the trunk which they managed to lock minutes later. Joey handed Albert the Kodak, and Albert nodded to him.
The Roadster turned up the hillside as Albert removed a pair of bifocals from his front pocket and began to study the film, rolling it out and holding it up to the sun. The same cigarette he had begun at the lot still hung from his mouth. For a moment, as they passed a billboard that depicted a woman holding two children, the frames went dark, and Albert looked up with an irritated expression and then right back at the reel.
The driver looked at Albert and at the package of Camel cigarettes on the dash next to the windshield.
“Why does a guy called guy Prince Albert smoke Camels?” said the bug-eyed driver.
Joey didn’t look at him and said, “Because he likes ‘em.”
“I thought he’d be a pipe guy. Why do they call ya Prince Albert then?”
“Who the fuck is they?” Joey said.
“Nobody, geez, I’m sorry.”
The Prince rolled up the film and set it gently in his lap and covered it with his gloves. He turned to the driver, and the violent, white glare that came from the glasses made the driver squint and look away as Prince Albert said to him, “My name is Prince Albert because I am transcendent, like my works.” ***
A small, wooden box, its sides adorned with runes and faces, a crown on its lid, filled to the brim with pictures of people without limbs or eyes or skin and atop the pile a clipping:
LOS ANGELES TIMES
March 31, 1936
MOVIE STARS FOUND DEAD IN SHALLOW GRAVE
Skyy’s Break
Antoinette Sneed
All the good memories happened in the fall for some reason, just like this. She was free after all that time, and she was thankful. She was done hearing the iron cage doors slam shut and hearing numbers called off throughout the day. No more being a criminal. Skyy stood outside the gate, hoping this was really it. Her ride crept in front of her. It was her cousin arriving. As soon as it stopped, she jumped in the car.
“Oh my God! Can you imagine we are finally back together!” Julie shouted. Girl, we have so much catching up to do.” Skyy was thankful for her cousin to pick her up, but in the back of her mind, she figured there wouldn’t be much catching up if anyone had written her more. It was a long, quiet eight years. The car rolled off toward Julie’s house. As they drove, Skyy noticed the trees. They were perfectly still in the seasonal chill. The light reflected off the leaves perfectly. She took a deep breath and snuggled into the cloth seat.
Once they reached Julie’s house, Skyy noticed her four other little cousins wreaking havoc inside. Two were playing swords, making her nervous that they would poke each other’s eyes out. The other two were playing on the living room rug while Julie’s boyfriend sat on the couch with what looked like a cold beer.
Julie was the bubbly cousin of the two. They had always been close, but polar opposites. Julie could find the positive in any situation. She loved dressing her family up in coordinating colors to display their perfectly happy home image when really that’s not how it was at all. Her boyfriend was a bum. He had been hurt on a job and received a hefty check along with disability. So, all he had to do was stay home, drink his beer, and clean the house. Though the house was old and needed fixing, he was an incredibly clean man, shockingly. If there was a speck of dirt in the house, he would shout at Julie and say
how she could leave if she only wanted to make the house a pig sty. Why she stayed with him, no one understood. It didn’t matter what anyone understood. She wanted to marry him, and that’s exactly what she was going to do come January.
It was a two-story house that was not in the best shape, but it wasn’t a cell. That’s all that mattered. Everything creaked in the house, and much of the linoleum tile was breaking apart. Skyy was scoping out where the bathroom was. She couldn’t wait to scrub off all the nastiness of that God-forsaken prison.
“Here’s your room, cousin! Make yourself at home, and if you need anything, just let me know,” Julie shouted.
“Got it. I really appreciate, Julie. It won’t be long, I promise.”
“Don’t worry. Stay as long as you need.”
Skyy sat her bags down and went to take her first shower of freedom. She actually had a toothbrush that scrubbed all the crud off now. She didn’t want to know how bad her teeth had gotten over the years. While undressing, she still glanced over her shoulders from habit. She looked at herself in the mirror. A new beginning. You can do this.
Before she stepped in the shower, she stared at the mist swirling in the air. She stepped in the tub and let the warm water trace down her skin. She turned around to let it massage her back and soak her hair. Overwhelmed by emotion, she began to sob, thankful to be back home. As she looked down, she saw the soot and old, dead skin wash off and swim down the drain. She stayed in the shower till the hot water began to run out and brought her back to reality.
It was only nine in the morning, so she was focused on getting a job. One of her old cell mates told her of an organization where a lot of convicted felons go to restart. It was called “New Roots.” This was the first place she was going to apply.
Taking the city bus, Skyy took it as an opportunity to refamiliarize herself with the streets. She sat in the last seat to avoid conversation. Once at the store, she was relieved that it really existed. She said a quick prayer and headed inside, only to sit there almost the entire day for her interview. Just as she
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was about to give up and try the next day, her name was called.
As she entered the office, she saw a heavy-set man staring at a computer screen with his glasses at the tip of his nose. His head tilted back slightly as if to try and prevent them from falling off. He was slightly balding in the front but covered it with a typical comb-over. The smell of cologne saturated him as an apparent attempt to hide the cigarette smell on him. His morning stubble made Skyy scratch her cheek as she sat in the chair, waiting to be interrogated.
“Drugs, uh?” the man asked. His blunt mannerisms caught Skyy off guard.
“Uh, Yes. I had—”
“The sob story doesn’t matter. That’s it, right? Drugs? Nothing else?” Skyy figured he couldn’t be serious.
“No, that’s basically it.” Skyy was technically telling the truth. She really needed this job.
“Okay. When can you start?” he asked directly.
“As soon as possible, if that’s alright.” she said focused.
“Alright. You’ll be loading the trucks. You start tomorrow. You get paid bi-weekly.”
“That’s it?” she couldn’t believe it, but also wished she hadn’t asked.
“Listen. Everyone deserves a break. Use it to your advantage. Now go,” he brushed his hand for her to get out. Skyy couldn’t believe it. She hurried back to Julie’s to celebrate.
That night, Julie mentioned to Skyy that there was a family reunion coming up in December. The entire Carter-Fox family hadn’t gathered since Skyy was about seventeen, which was about fifteen years ago. She wasn’t thrilled about seeing her family members, but she knew she had to face them sooner or later. Skyy knew that was the deadline that she had to have everything together. December it was.
From September to the end of November, Skyy showed her commitment to the store. She arrived to work early and left late. If there was a shift that someone didn’t want, she took it. Many of the other workers would revert to bad habits, violate probation, or get locked up again. To avoid trouble, Skyy kept
her head down and didn’t talk much. The manager noticed and offered her the chance to enter the store’s program for workers that were trying to get their lives back on track. It was a brandnew subdivision for low-income families, and Skyy was ready to make a life of her own again. She accepted. It took two weeks for Skyy to obtain the house and move in. With her overtime, she bought a bedroom set, a couch, an ancient television, and a cheap DVD player from the store. She was scared to spend her money. It always felt like something bad was about to happen. It would do, though, until she could save up some more money. The manager allowed Skyy to take off a day for her to organize the house. Once she finished, she looked around and felt proud of herself. There was one last thing that she had to do in order to make the transition complete, but she didn’t know if it would be possible. To do it, she had to attend this family reunion.
The day before the big event had finally come. Julie dragged Skyy to the mall to buy clothes, other than the rags that she wore to work. Julie was more into the shopping than Skyy. It didn’t take Skyy more than thirty minutes to find a fitted V-cut T-shirt, jeans, and discounted Nike Air Max’s for the event. That had always been her thing. She could stand next to someone with a $500 outfit on, but she got the whole thing for eighty bucks. Julie, on the other hand, had to try on every heel, every shirt, and every dress until she found the one.
Once they finally gathered what they wanted, both headed to the register. Julie checked her clothes out first and skipped to the side to wait for her cousin. As Skyy lay her clothes on the counter, she looked up to see her former classmate from high school, Marina.
“Hey, Skyy! Wow, it’s been a minute since I’ve seen you! How have you been?” Marina asked excitedly.
“I’ve been good. You know, just staying busy.”
“Are you back for good?”
“Excuse me?” Skyy fired back with tension in her voice.
“Uh, you moved right? I heard you moved to New York to live that city life you always wanted.” Marina’s facial expression
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showed she could tell something wasn’t right.
“Oh yeah, I went, but it was too busy. I just like the laidback lifestyle now. Like they say, nothing’s like home, you know?” Skyy cleared-up with relief.
“Well, I’m glad you’re back. At least somebody around here did something with herself. Everyone around here is either settling for the miserable life they have or going to jail.”
“Yeah, I bet. Well, I’ll catch you around.”
“Don’t be a stranger!” Marina shouted. She was always one of the friendly faces that you knew could never harm you. Skyy didn’t realize how much she missed her until that moment. Marina and she were never best friends in school, but they always enjoyed laughing in class together.
After they put their bags in the trunk and got in the car, Skyy began to sulk with self-hatred. All I had to do was stop. She began to squeeze the scars on her inner elbow until it began to swell and bruise. Along their way home, they passed several gas stations. She began to nibble on her lips. A drink would be nice right now. I don’t need that, shit. A cigarette would be good, though.
“You good?” Julie asked, snapping Skyy briefly out of her temptation.
“Yeah, I’m good.” she smiled, but it was still all over her face. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Julie to stop at one of the gas stations. She scratched and tugged her nose, trying to find something else to focus on. Her arm continued to swell from rubbing so hard.
“Saturday Night” by Elton John came on the radio, and Skyy felt it was a blessing from heaven. She had always loved that song. With her eyes closed, she focused hard on the rhythm. The drums spoke to her. They were beating as hard as her heart. There we go. She rolled down the windows and breathed free of her suffocation, blaring it as loud as the speakers would go. With her bottom lip almost bleeding from gnawing on it, she smiled at her cousin. Julie looked back and began screaming every word, disregarding herself swerving into the middle of the road a few times. Skyy tried her best to fight the urge, but
as Elton screamed the lyrics, she let go, too. Both of the women screamed along, “ … Saturday! Saaaturday! Saturday! Saturday night’s alright!” into the sunset, free like two crazed teenagers. When the song commenced, they were a block from Skyy’s house. As they stopped at a red light, Skyy saw a dealer near an alley making an exchange with a guy that couldn’t have been much younger than she.
Julie dropped Skyy at her house and honked the horn leaving the driveway. Skyy returned with a wave but stood there staring at the direction of the dealer. She shook her head of thought and entered her house. It was quiet. She turned on the television for company, but it was just noise. Anxiety began to creep upon her. She began to rub her arm again. Patches of her skin began to peel like shreds of rubber. It hurt, but it helped. All she wanted to do was relax, so she went to undress for a shower.
The moisture made her arm sting. She began to scrub her body and focus on the sound of the water. She grabbed her razor off the shelf and shaved her legs. Biting her lips once more, she began to stare at the razor as if inspired. She pushed her finger gently against the blade to feel the sharpness, then stared a little longer. She swiftly swiped her finger across the blade, instantly dropping the blade from the sharp pain. She clutched her thumb, shaking and grinding her teeth. Stop.
Skyy went to sleep that night anxious with a bandaged arm and thumb. She knew there would be stupid questions that she would have to answer, and people there that she wasn’t quite ready to see. She used a ritual that would help her to go to sleep in her cell. She thought of the sound of the steps that the guards would pace. Once she got to two-hundred-fifty steps, she began drifting off.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Skyy jumped up from her sleep. She was having a nightmare of getting jumped from the other prisoners and started throwing her arms to defend herself. Whoever she was trying to hit, she missed, lost her balance, fell off the bed, and clocked her head on the night stand beside her bed.
Bang! Bang! Bang! After the room stopped spinning, Skyy
dragged herself from her bedroom to look through the peep hole to see who it was. Of course, it was Julie. She opened the door.
“Hey, Girl!” Julie shouted, giddy with excitement. Skyy couldn’t understand how she had so much energy. It was eight o’clock in the morning. She poked her head out before opening the door.
“You do know where I just got out of, right?” Skyy asked, hoping to get her point across.
“Oh, shoot! So sorry!” she said apologetically looking down with regret.
“It’s cool. Come in. Why are you here so early?” Skyy was starting to think she was her cousin’s new excuse to get away from her family.
“I figured I’d come eat breakfast with you before we get ready for the family reunion. I got you Mikey’s Donuts and a vanilla latte! It’s delicious! What happened to your forehead?”
“What?” Skyy felt her forehead. There was a slit with blood beginning to drip from it.
“Nothing— ” It was only a few more hours, and Skyy was dreading it. Now she had this to cover up.
Julie sat on the couch and seemed to be savoring every sip of her latte. Skyy knew she was stressed beyond belief. Julie was working nights and over time to save up for her wedding. David wouldn’t shut up about the broken tile and kept blaming her for little stuff. It seemed she could never win with him. But Skyy knew Julie loved him, so she never said anything.
The two watched the morning news and enjoyed their sugar-saturated breakfast together. Eleven o’clock rolled around. Skyy just wanted to make a good excuse for why she couldn’t go, but she knew she had to either way.
“I’m heading over to the house to get the family ready. We’ll meet you over there. Just text me, and I’ll let you know where we’re at, okay?” Julie noted.
“Okay, cool. See you over there.” said Skyy.
The festivities were staged at Aunt Bettie’s house. She was the aunt that always took pictures and posted them on social
media and somehow had the time to tag each person that was at the event. She was a big woman. When she embraced you, her cushion from the extra weight made you feel even more loved than before the hug. It was all about love with her. Skyy arrived and immediately alerted Julia to avoid the awkward feeling.
“Glad you made it, girly! Let’s go say hey to Aunt Bettie!” exclaimed Julie as she dragged Skyy inside toward the kitchen.
The ladies noticed most of the family was outside, but there was the typical group of women who loved to gossip sitting at the kitchen table. Skyy and Julie looked at each other as if to say the same thing: Ignore them or be polite?
“Hey, y’all!” of course Julie would greet them.
“Hey, ladies! It’s been awhile since we’ve seen you!” stated one of the aunt’s as hugs were passed around. Skyy didn’t really want to talk. She needed to talk to Aunt Bettie.
One of the younger cousins, maybe around twelve, came in and greeted Skyy, “Hey, cousin! I didn’t know you got out! Man, what’s it like in jail?” Skyy assumed that the elders at the table would tell him to shut up with such rude questions, but all they did was sit there as if they were anticipating an answer. Skyy’s face showed all the disdain that she silently held for them at that moment. Julie usually knew how to divert, but this had her stumped. As if the awkward silence couldn’t get any worse, Aunt Bettie walked in from upstairs. Skyy jumped to her attention.
“Hi, Aunt Bettie!” the relief in Skyy’s voice was evident.
“My girl! It is good to see you! I see you’ve been taking care of yourself.” she said as she engulfed Skyy with her love.
“Would you mind if we talked right quick?” Skyy asked. Aunt Bettie knew what she needed. They sneaked away to her room as Julie returned to her family outside.
Aunt Bettie was always there for her, except in prison. She visited Skyy twice, but during the second visit, she let Skyy know that she wasn’t going to come back. She couldn’t see her in there like that. It hurt her heart too much. Aunt Bettie and Skyy had always been close, especially after Skyy’s parents
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passed away. She was basically Skyy’s second mother. When she stopped coming, there was no one else by her side.
“How have you been?” Skyy asked. Her aunt only looked at her as if to skip the small talk.
“She’s upstairs in her room. Take all the time you need.”
“Thank you, Aunt Bettie. I’m not leaving anymore. I promise.” A crackle in Skyy’s voice was heard. Aunt Bettie caressed her face with her large hands and kissed her forehead, then gently said, “Go.”
The staircase looked longer than ever now. One step after the other, Skyy focused on her breathing. Once at the top, she turned to the right and saw the bedroom door. This was it. She opened the door and saw her. It was her daughter, beautiful as she imagined. Long, curly black hair, but a complexion that confused most on what ethnicity she was. Her name was Abigail. She was sitting at her desk when the door opened. She turned around and stood up, shaken from what she was seeing. Mother and daughter were finally reunited.
There was no band with loud cymbals clashing while the two jumped for each other’s hug. They just stood there staring at each other for a few seconds.
“Hi.” Skyy broke the silence.
“Hi” was all Abigail could say.
“I’m back. I’ve been out about three months now, but I was getting myself together before I saw you. Um, I have a house. It’s nothing nice like this, but it has the necessities. I was hoping—”
“Stop! You’re not going to just come in here and think everything is going to be okay. You’ve been gone for eight years, Mom!” She was fourteen now, and it was obvious she had a lot of frustration built up.
“Abby, I know.” Silence returned. All those years of Skyy imagining what she was going to say wiped clean from her mind at that moment. She pushed on. “There is no good reason why I have not been in your life. I didn’t put you first. At the time, I was into drugs pretty bad, and I did anything that I could do to get them.”
“Including lose me. I almost died!” Abigail’s eyes were
red with anger. Her mom was cooking meth in the house and almost burned it down with both of them inside. Skyy had already lost her daughter before that, though. Abigail was born addicted. Aunt Bettie had to witness her terrible, jittery shakes after the birth. She took care of her until Skyy got clean. She was always there for Skyy. She even lied and said Abigail was with her during the fire. Skyy would still be locked up if she hadn’t lied.
“I’m not asking you to come live with me. I’m not even going to say that you shouldn’t hate me because I deserve it. I deserve everything you feel toward me.” Skyy felt the lump growing in her throat again. She continued, “I failed as a mother. There’s nothing I can change about that. What I am going to do now is simply do better. You’re about to be in high school, which are some of the most important years of your life. If you let me, I will be there. I’m tired of doing wrong. I love you more than the drugs now. I know I should have in the beginning. I still don’t know what to say about that except I was wrong, and I hope that you will forgive me. All I can do is show you. I’m done apologizing. I will show you.”
Abigail was trembling now, with tears falling down her cheek. Through all the hurt, she still loved her mother. “Do you mean it? No more drugs?”
“No more drugs. You are my life now. Forever.” Skyy let her tears flow, her face beginning to puff up.
Abigail wiped her tears and stared at her mom. She had never seen her mother so vulnerable before. She stepped directly in front of Skyy and leaned into her mother’s chest. She heard her heart beat. The way it pounded in her chest sounded like it hurt. Skyy slowly put her arms around her daughter. She couldn’t believe she was holding her child again. She began to weep. They stood there for a few minutes calming each other down.
Once they gathered themselves, Abigail looked at her mother and said, “You look way better sober. If I end up looking like you, then I think I have some pretty good genes.” They both broke out in laughter. “Okay, let’s get it together. We have a party downstairs,” Skyy joked.
“Wanna get some good food outside with the others?” asked Skyy.
“Yeah, all this crying has me hungry now.” After splashing water on their faces, both headed downstairs smiling blissfully. They met with Julie and her kids outside.
“Reunited and it feels so good!” sang Julie, approaching with a corny dance routine. Skyy noticed that her fiancé was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s David?” Skyy asked.
“I had to give him the boot. All he wanted to do was fuss. I’m not going to be worked into the ground the rest my life. Ole lazy bastard!”
“Oh my God! Wait? If he left, how are you going to get home?” Skyy asked ready to caravan the family to their house.
“Girl, what are you talking about? He doesn’t have a car. All his money goes to drinking. His feet are going to be sore tonight, though. The wedding’s off, too. I’m free, baby!” The group of ladies began to scream in laughter. Skyy could not believe she actually snapped out of it.
Night began to fall, and families began to trickle off to their homes near and far. Skyy and Abigail just sat on the porch together in silence, thankful to be together at last. It was perfect, even if only for that moment. It was perfect.
The Westerner
Isabella Joslin
Look now upon that mighty prophet,
Shrunken by the Western suns, Battl’d, martial, posed
Firecracker’d, fire-branded, hopping to the riff of shots
Skip that one, got a bloody rag, not too much time,
An’ a lady’s locket.
Filigree
Sweet-pea smell, embroidered on.
Candied sweat I sweat, so sweet, a tar-tethered, Slim-feathered bird. And they proclaim, Hell’s got more swinging doors than a saloon
One’s gonna hit ya
On your way out.
Comin’ out,
Out of a lugubrious town
Eyes shadowed in the somber Sunday, in the shriveled chuckle of a shriveled throat
Have your penultimate drink.
Drink well, to the filth and slattern flowers and the im-
Pec-uNious-ness
Of that haggard, shell-shocked shard of muscle
You call a heart.
Hearken to your bluegrass,
Old poppers, hook-n-eye an’ hat, brand-spankin-new belt
An’ a bullet in your belly.
Tan their hides, rob their banks, kiss their wives, and die
A dog
In the a-shamed barrel of a whiskey’d, grunting
Life-stunting
Sun-pistol.
Season’s Greetings
James Rogers
Mac ran an appraising hand over a red gift topped with a glittering, green bow. The wrapping paper was thick and smooth, dyed a deep maroon that was more blood than holly. It crinkled softly beneath his fingers. Under the warm light of the fire, the paper revealed no seams. He had seen such a trick before, but it had been many years ago. A trace of a smile worked at the corner of his mouth and quickly faded. Gently, he turned the gift over, inspecting every side, but found no tape fastened nor any tuck or fold of paper. The only imperfection was an illegible name scrawled across the top. Mac lifted his eyes and stared longingly at the evergreen that towered over him. Finely crafted ornaments of silver and gold dangled from every branch, and crystal tear drops spun on invisible strings projecting sparkling shards along darkened walls. Mac returned the gift to its place atop an impeccably stacked tower of presents and glanced around the room.
But for his looming shadow, the scene would have appeared perfect. Three stockings hung from the hearth, each placed with care, and each saturated in the same hearty maroon color. He knew when he checked the dining room there would be an ostentatious spread of Crystalware and crotchet riding a polished mahogany table. As he made his way through the rest of the home, he would find miniature spruce wreaths on doors, elves on shelves, and mistletoe dangling from open doorways. In the den there would be an elaborate Santa Village diorama, complete with small illuminated houses and a motorized sled that glided along a winding track. The thought of the jolly little houses made his stomach turn.
Mac wandered restively to the fireplace and began fingering an ornate, golden stocking- hanger that extended from the oak mantelpiece. Delicate filigree flowed down the curve of the hook to its cradle where it met the bootstrap of a loaded stocking. The
“What’s so funny?” Terry asked out of the darkness. Mac glanced over his shoulder and gestured at the nearest stocking. “They’re made of suede and snow fox, and the hangers are gilded.”
A low chuckle rolled from Terry’s throat. “Morons. You’d think these geezers ‘ould have better things to blow their cash on.” The pinched stub of an unlit cigar protruded from the corner of his uncle’s thin lips, framed on all sides by a tangle of grey beard. Atop his head sat a cheerful red cap, fringed in white with a ball of snowy cotton dangling from its tip. He hummed a carol tunelessly as he moved into the firelight and removed the nearest stocking from its hanger. “Dang, this thing is heavy,” he said in a low voice, dramatically sagging his thick arms as he loaded it into the duffel bag. “And folks say Santa ain’t real...”
Mac watched Terry remove the remaining stockings one by one before setting to work on the hangers with a gap-toothed grin; his own smirk dimming, darkening. With his tangled beard, yule cap and jolly expression, a sleepy-eyed child might have mistaken the man for Father Christmas himself. But Terry had no children and even fewer sentiments about their happiness. Family meant fraternity to his uncle, albeit a devoted fraternity. It was his greatest strength. The profession never seemed to get to Terry. Ever. He didn’t concern himself with the hard questions. Did Christmas really mean anything to these folks? Were they ruining Christmas one house at a time? Was he going to hell...?
Mac turned his gaze once more to the merry blaze, his eyes searching the glowing embers for answers.
“You good?” Terry asked as he joined Mac by the fireplace. He could not answer, though, at least no answer that would be true. He could not remember the last time he felt good, only that it wasn’t tonight. The thought of the jolly little Christmas village
Rogers • 93 tip of the hook coiled inward, and at its center sat an emerald. The leather work of the stocking was no less impeccable. Supple to the touch, the suede sock was capped with a white cuff of fur and lined with golden threads that gleamed like rivets. A furtive sliver of mirth returned to the corner of Mac’s mouth and hung there like a bitter star.
barged into his thoughts once more, warmth and happiness pouring from their miniature windows. It had been so long ago.
A heavy hand clapped onto Mac’s shoulder, jolting him from his train of thought. “Earth ta Lorrey,” Terry persisted, waving a hand in front of Mac’s eyes.
Mac swatted at Terry’s hand missing it as his uncle quickly pulled back. “Too slow, Jarvis,” Terry chided, the cigar stub bobbing up and down as he spoke.
“Don’t call me that,” Mac groused.
“Well,” Terry whispered, “I’ll make you a deal. You start stealin’ instead o’ standin’ around starin’ at coals, and I will stop callin you sweet, little Jarv—”
“Fine.” Mac said, too loudly. Terry’s face grew serious and he quickly raised a finger to his lips. “Be quiet or else we aren’t gonna get anything!” he hissed.
Mac scowled and then kicked at the duffel bag. “Did you ever stop to think that this might be wrong?”
“Nobody move!”
Despite the husk of age, the voice carried a threatening edge. Terry’s hand reflexively shot to his hip, but the holstered pistol was missing. “Lose something?” the old voice asked. Terry’s left hand moved toward the hilt of his knife, the hammer of the Glock clicking in response from a lightless corner.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the elderly man barked. “Now turn around. Real slow. Don’t try anything. I-I am a veteran, and I know how to use this damned thing. So, turn around.”
The darkness of the room was thick beyond the glow of the fireplace and the small glass bulbs that dotted the fragrant branches of the yule tree. It made the room feel congested, as if the darkness were seeking to smother their little island of light. Mac stared into the pitch frantically.
“Do something!” he whispered to Terry through clenched teeth.
A hoarse laughter emanated from the unlit room beyond. “And what is he supposed to do?” The plank flooring creaked as the elderly homeowner edged through the shadows. “That jackanapes didn’t even feel me pulling the gun off his hip.”
Terry offered no reply, his eyes wide and white.
“See? There isn’t no help for you fellers. Not unless ol’ St. Nick owes you a favor. But judging from the cut of you two, I wouldn’t think that like—.”
A rattling cough broke the silence, followed by the harsh clearing of ancient phlegm. “A couple of fools robbing old folks on Christmas Eve ... That’s about the most damned immoral thing I have ever heard o—.” His words were cut short by a second outburst of hacking.
“It’s the devil working through you boys,” he rasped, his voice crackling like oak tinder. Terry stood stock-still, squinting into the gloom. Mac listened, trying to track the man by will alone. The sound of his labored breaths traced a dull path to the southeast corner of the room.
“Why don’t you do yerself a favor and sit down, Ol’ Timer?”
Terry asked. “Sounds like you need a rest.”
“I haven’t ever been one to seek after my own favors. I’d rather do you, me, and everyone else a favor and just up and kill you both right here. Wouldn’t be the first time I killed a man. In Laos, I—.” The violence of the coughing fit was terrible. It stretched on, rising from a low rumble to a grating crescendo before waning to a wet gulping sound.
“Please, Mister,” Mac said once calmness had been restored. “Just go back to bed and pretend we were never here.”
“W-What’d he say your name was? Lorry was it? I can see you’re young yet, boy. That’s no excuse to be robbin’ old timers on Christmas, though. You got time to change yet. Not your ol’ buddy there, though. He’s another story. Rotten all the way through. I knew men like him. Over in Laos. Rotten straight through.”
A chill crawled up Mac’s spine. He could hear the man’s feet sliding along the floorboards as he lectured, sweeping left and right like a professor on stage. The outline of a hunched form moved in the darkness beyond, real or imagined he could not say. It swam among writhing forms of onyx serpents and blue-black dancers that melted in and out of existence. His head moved left to right on a pendulum of blindness, but to gaze into that
darkness was to gaze into nothingness. Terry slid a foot forward, his own sight fixed upon something.
“Now don’t you move another step, Mister. I ain’t afraid to shoot. No one’s gonna miss an old tramp like you,” but the clicking tremble of the gun’s guts betrayed the old man’s resolve.
Terry inched another step forward. Panic stabbed at Mac’s every thought, bursting them with effortless precision. His thoughts were everywhere, and yet nowhere, diffuse save for the anchor of blood thumping in his temples.
“Now I said don’t move dam—”
Mac never saw Terry lunge after the man. The force of the two hitting the floor sent the stacks of presents tumbling to the ground. The outline of the men’s tangled bodies writhed in the darkness. Nausea, hot and sour, churned Mac’s stomach. The brawlers rolled into the dim edges of light, the flicker of fire playing across Terry’s broad back. He was so small beneath him, his thin legs kicking frantically as the brute clamped down on his arms, mashing the muscles, tearing the thin skin with his broken fingernails. The old badger was someone’s grandfather, someone’s dad, but Terry didn’t care. There was a sickly crack of bone, a groan of pain and, just like that, the skirmish was over. A moment later Terry stepped out of the shadows, his right cheek oozing blood from four nasty gouges. He dragged the old man by the foot, leaving his head to thud along the floor until he lay spread eagle at the foot of the hearth.
Mac knelt to investigate the elderly face. It was dignified in a withered way. A neatly groomed mustache drooped over his top lip, the hair as white as the stockings’ cuffs. A thick shock of white hair sat mussed atop his head, save for the blotch of wet redness above his ear.
Despite his age, it was clear that he had been hale in his younger days and handsome. Those days were far gone, though. The man that lay before him was skeletal, as if constructed of a series of long straight sticks, a scarecrow in plaid pajamas.
With a jolt, the man sat up, eyes wide, mouth hanging open as his lungs pumped out panicked breaths. “Lacy. Where’s Lacy?” He demanded, his hands opening and closing frantically. “I didn’t
give Lacy her present.” He tried to get up, but his arms went from under him, and he pitched over onto his side. “I gotta get her a present. To Lacy. To Lacy. To Lacy.” He tried to lift himself again, but his legs were motionless. Mac shuddered. It reminded him of a cat he had seen as a child, its back legs crushed by a garbage truck, mewling its chorus of death to all who would listen.
“To...”
The man gasped as the bullet tore through his chest. “Gotcha,” Terry said in a flat tone. Mac blanched, caught by the old man’s eyes as they spasmed and rolled over white in front of him. His dying body began to seize up, crumpling into the fetal position in a series of jerks. Hot blood drained from the man, pooling on the floor about Mac’s feet. Mac watched desperately, petrified, waiting for the man to move, to speak, but a profound stillness had laid claim to him. Terry leaned over the corpse, resting his hand on Mac’s shoulder.
“Look away, boy.” Terry said. “He’s dead. Let ‘im die with some dignity.”
Try as he might, Mac could not look away, his eyes snared by the corpse’s gaping black pupils. The old-timer’s body lay beyond, contorted into sickly angles. His mouth sat agape, the bottom plate of his dentures protruding past his moist lips. Liverspotted hands, bird-boned, thin-skinned, clutched themselves into eternal fists: fists that shattered the visions of wreaths and cozy villages blanketed in snow, fists that broke themselves hammering against his callow heart strings, fists that gripped a piece of his memory in a rheumatic vice.
Mac lurched away from the body. Darkness loomed over him as the vomit flooded from his mouth and nose. He wretched again and again unable to quell the urge to empty himself. When he reached bile, he collapsed onto his side, the shadows wrapping him in a welcoming embrace. The Christmas tree and fireplace still glowed, merrily unaware, but their illumination could no longer touch him. The room no longer carried the comforting feeling of holiday perfection that had so eagerly battered at the edges of his conscience before. The veil had been lifted, laid bare by the flickering flames and the face of death.
“That was a first,” Terry remarked to no one in particular. “I don’t know how he got the damn gun off me. Hmm. Won’t happen again.” He walked to where Mac lay and nudged him with his boot.
“You ‘live, Lorry?” he asked in a casual tone before hoisting Mac to his feet. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but the feller was done for. Wasn’t no use in lettin’ him suffer. That’s just cruel.”
Once Mac was steady on his feet again, Terry pushed the Glock into his hand. “Hang on to this for me. I don’t deserve it anymore,” he confessed. “Think of it as an early Christmas present.”
It was still dark when they had finished loading the last of their loot into the back of their pickup. The pinkness of dawn tickled the skyline, but the sun held back, letting dreams of sugar plums and snow fights sustain a little longer. For a while the two men sat in front of the conflagration soaking up the silence and the peace that the moment afforded them. This house might have been Mac’s in another life: the tree, the Christmas presents, the family pictures, all that joy of love and togetherness. But as the first rays of light peaked over the horizon, Mac knew. There was no other life for him and Terry, only the distant memories that visit when the snow crunched underfoot.
The Silverado gurgled down the road. The morning air was cold, but the briskness felt good as it swirled away the stench of smoke and gasoline. Terry twisted around in the passenger seat, a fresh cigar puffing at his lip. With a rueful smile, he regarded the blazing column of flame that engulfed the quaint little home.
“Merry Christmas, Mac,” he said as his eyes fell from the receding pyre to the contents that filled the bed of the truck. “I got you a little somethin’.”
With a flourish, Terry presented a small box. An ornate green bow glittered atop the soft, red paper. Under the shining glare of dawn sunlight, the box revealed no seams. He had seen such a trick before, a lifetime ago. Mac frowned, his eyes finally able to discern the words scrawled in ink on the top of the gift: “To Lacy.”
Guardian Angel
Ruvik Smith
I woke up in a road. I could feel the rocks digging into my back. As I looked around, I felt out of place. The neighborhood looked different, or maybe I just remembered it wrong. Maybe. I did my best to stand; every bone in my body felt broken. Probably from sleeping in the road.
“Hey, Mr.!”
I turned towards the voice and found myself staring at a little girl. She stood in the overgrown yard of an old decrepit house. She wore a white, dirty sundress and her hair was done up in two messy pigtails. She waved at me, and though it ached to do so, I waved back. She moved from the yard to the sidewalk between us and smiled at me. “What were you doing in the road, Mr.?”
“I, uh, must’ve passed out.” My face felt hot with embarrassment. I just hoped she couldn’t tell.
“You should be careful. Stanley says that being in the road is dangerous.”
“Stanley?”
She held up her doll in response. Stanley was a bear, an old and ratty-looking bear, with only one button eye and faded red bowtie. I walked over to her, leaned down and shook Stanley’s paw. “Well, you are certainly one smart bear, Stanley. It is a pleasure to meet you.” She giggled before holding Stanley back to her chest. “I think he likes you, Mr.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad. I didn’t catch your name, though, Miss...?”
“Grace Woods. What about you, Mr., you got a name?”
“Jack Miller. So, what are you doing out here anyway?”
“Oh, I forgot! I wanted to get some flowers to press!”
She then pointed to the house across the street which had a huge magnolia tree in full bloom. Without another word, I crossed the street and, reaching as high as I could, picked one
of the flowers from the tree. As I came back, she stood there clapping. “Thank you, Jack! I love it!” She took a sniff of the flower and smiled.
“Do you want to help me and Stanley press it?” I nodded and let her lead me to the front door of her house. When we stepped inside, I found myself blinded for a moment by the lack of light. As my eyes adjusted, I realized the outside wasn’t nearly as bad as the inside. It was a complete mess. There were empty bottles and pizza boxes everywhere I looked, and all I could smell was cigarette smoke. The ash tray by the couch was overflowing, and the couch and carpet were stained with what I could only assume was alcohol.
“I’m going to go grab my flower book; I’ll be right back!”
With that, Grace headed down a hallway by the kitchen, which was filthy. Dirty dishes filled the sink, and the countertops were covered in crumbs and food and…
Empty syringes. About a half dozen. Just, sitting there, where Grace could easily get to them. I clenched my hands in a futile attempt to drown the anger with pain. This was no place for a little girl. This was no place for Grace.
“I’m back!”
I flinched out of surprise and turned to her. “Grace, you startled me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I found my flower book, so c’mon, I’ll show you how to press flowers!”
I followed her back into the living room where she, Stanley, and I sat by a window, the book laid out in front of us. I watched as Grace placed the magnolia very carefully into a sheet protector and then set it in the back of the book. “Ta-da!” She cheered, throwing her hands up in the air.
“Wow, you made it look so easy!” I flattered, clapping.
“Yay, thank you!”
Before either of us could say another word, a voice came from the hallway. “What the hell are you making so much noise for, huh?!” Grace and I stood up in unison. From the hallway stumbled a very thin, almost skeletal woman. She seemed wasted drunk, swaying in place as she glared daggers at Grace.
100 • Blackwater Review
“Well, ya stupid brat?! Answer me!”
“I’m sorry, Momma.” Grace was deathly quiet. The hairs on my neck stood up.
“‘I’m sorry, Momma’, shut the fuck up!” She was going to hit her. Who knows how many times she’d done it before. She was going to hit her. I didn’t give her the chance. My whole body went numb as I raised her into the air. She gasped for breath in my shadowy grasp. The whole room became filled with a vortex of wind, my head began to pound, my body washed over with pain, but I didn’t let go. I couldn’t let go.
“JACK! JACK!”
Grace. Her voice brought me back, but it was too late. As the magic dissipated, her body crumpled to the floor. As reality came back to me, I looked around. The furniture was torn up, everywhere, and the walls and floor and ceiling were charred with what looked like black lightning. I didn’t think the place could get any messier before, but now … Oh god, what have I done?
I turned around to Grace. She stared at me, shaking. “Grace … are you, are you okay?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes moved to her mother then back to me. “It’s okay, Jack; it’s not your fault.”
“She didn’t see me.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“I don’t understand. You can see me, why couldn’t she?” As I turned away, I saw my reflection in the broken TV. For the first time since waking up, I looked down at myself. I was stained with blood. Along my shirt was the imprint of tire tracks. All at once, the memories came back: the downpour at midnight, the wet road as I laid down to wait, the headlights filling my vision before everything went black. I clutched at my shirt. I wanted to cry, to scream, to go back outside and to lie in the road again. But I couldn’t. It would do nothing.
“One of the neighbors must’ve heard. What if they call the cops?” Her voice wavered as she spoke.
I knelt down in front of her and cupped her face in my hands. “We need to leave. We can head out the back door and
jump the fence. It’s going to be okay.” Tears formed in her eyes as we headed outside. We crossed the backyard quickly, and I helped her over the fence. Once on the other side, we took off running into the trees. I held her hand tightly in mine and did my best to lead her through. There were no sirens yet, but we didn’t stop. We couldn’t. We had to keep going. I had to keep her safe.
As we broke from the woods, we found ourselves on an empty highway. We slowed down a bit and walked along the road, listening for sirens. I looked down at Grace, who was still clutching Stanley tightly to her chest. I squeezed her hand slightly, causing her to look up. She was still teary-eyed, but she gave me a small smile. It was at that moment that everything made sense.
This was a second chance. She was my second chance. And I, her guardian angel.
The Island
Lynette Rogers
It all went by so fast, but at the same time it felt like it happened in slow motion. I’m standing next to my bike on the sidewalk, waiting for the sign across the street to let me know when it’s time for me to cross. I watch the cars zip on past me, and the air they leave behind causes my hair to fly all over. I manage to grab the flying tangled mess and pull it into a ponytail. To pass the time, I count how many little rain drops fall on me, and I silently pray for the rain to hold until I at least get to the college. My mom was right; riding my bike to school was not a good idea.
After a few minutes go by and I’m at raindrop number fifty-two, the road light turns yellow, and a few cars speed to pass it. I climb onto my bike and prepare for the electronic sign to turn to let me know it’s my time to go. The car in front of me comes to a complete stop, and my light changes. I pedal fast so I can try to avoid the pouring rain that looks like it’s about to happen at any minute. But I guess I should have been concentrating on something else, but by the time I noticed it was too late. I was halfway across the street pedaling as fast as my legs would let me, and as I looked left, I heard a loud scream. It was a sound that was so loud and yet sounded so far away. It took me a moment to realize that it was my own voice. A car was heading straight toward me, and it seemed it had no intention of stopping. The person in it wasn’t even looking at the road. It all happened so fast I didn’t have time to even stop my bike. The last thing I saw was the face of the man who looked up too late, and then everything went black. The first thing I notice is that I am cold, freezing actually. My body is stiff, and it feels like I’ve been frozen for hours. The next thing I realize is that I’m outside. The wind is blowing hard, and I immediately begin to shiver. I don’t want to move, but I know I can’t lie here forever. I slowly lift my head and open my
eyes, and I must blink a few times in order to focus.
I’m in the middle of a forest of dead trees, and the entire area is covered in snow. How did I get here? I can’t help but fall into panic mode. My lungs seem to have forgotten how to function, and my heart is beating so fast that I throw my hand against it so it won’t beat out of my chest. I try to take a few deep breaths and ignore the fact that my fingers are turning blue. After a few minutes of intense thinking, it finally hits me.
Was I hit by a car? How am I alive!?
My heart is still beating fast, reassuring me that I am alive. I look at my right hand that’s still trying to calm my heart down. Well, I know my right arm works.
I wiggle my left arm, my legs, and my feet, and they all manage to move just fine. My whole body feels tired, cold, and extremely stiff, as if I’ve been lying here for hours. I slowly lift my upper body, and I quickly place my hands on the ground to stabilize myself. That little movement causes my head to spin too fast. I don’t move again until I count to twenty seconds, and then I ignore my aching joints and make myself stand. I feel completely frozen. I have no clue where I am, and I don’t know where to go, so I just start walking.
My bike is nowhere to be seen, but I don’t think I have enough strength to ride it anyway. Walking is a struggle itself. I’m clumsily knocking into trees, and my knees keep going out, causing me to almost fall.
Even after just a couple of minutes, I know I can’t take it anymore. My teeth are shivering so badly that my jaw begins to hurt. I keep running into trees, and to top it off, my body is screaming for me to stop. So I do. I go to the nearest tree, curl up into a ball on the snow beneath it, rub my arms as if that would bring some sort of warmth to my freezing body, and do the only thing I can think to do. I scream for help.
My voice sounds raw and coarse as if I haven’t spoken in days. My throat begins to sting and beg for me to stop, but I ignore it and keep yelling for help. I don’t expect anyone to show up. It feels as if I am the only person in the world. But as I look ahead of me, I have to blink hard a few times to make sure
There is something in the distance making its way toward me. The sight alone gives me enough energy to wave my hands around viciously and yell some more. The figure increases his pace, and as he comes into view, I stop yelling and slowly put my hands down. The sight of him confuses me.
The man in front of me has a head full of long brown dreadlocks, lime green swim shorts, and tattoos that covered him enough to look like he is wearing a shirt. His swim shorts are so bright that I have to look away, and as I do, I notice him standing barefoot.
“Are you okay?” he asks. His voice sounds kind, and he’s looking at me as if I’m a wounded animal. Or as if I look like the strangest thing he has ever seen in his life. I can’t really tell.
“I’m lost,” I barely blurt out. My teeth shiver so fast, it’s difficult to speak. He looks down, and I notice he has a longboard in his hand. “I got enough room, follow me; I’ll take you to the town. I’m heading there anyway.”
Ever since I was little and learned how to speak, my mother has been warning me about stranger danger and all the bad things that could happen, but in this moment, I throw all those lectures in the trash, and I don’t resist as the man helps me up.
“Man, you look like death. How long have you been here? My name is Jacob! You’re lucky you caught me at a good time! I barely ever come to this forest, but sometimes riding on this thing just gets too hot, so I come here to cool off…”
He blabbers on, but I can barely hear him. I’m just trying to focus on bringing life back to my frozen fingers and not trip on the snow that keeps slowing me down as I try to keep up with his fast pace. Before I know it, we’re out of the forest and onto a road, and the sight before us amazes me. The forest on the other side of the road is the exact opposite of the forest we just emerged from. The trees are huge and alive covered with shiny green leaves, and some of them even have fruit.
The sky is blue, the sun is shining and instead of snow covering the ground, there are all sorts of beautiful flowers
Rogers • 105 my eyes aren’t playing tricks.
surrounding each tree. I turn around behind me, and the snow forest is still there looking as dead and cold as ever. The scenery doesn’t seem to affect the dreadlock man. He drops his longboard on the road and jumps on it.
“Hold on!” he yells. I notice my fingers begin to fade back to their original color, and the warmth of the hot sun brings energy to my body. Even though I am extremely confused, I don’t question anything, and I do as he says.
The longboard moves much faster than I expected, and I wrap my arms more tightly around his waist. I don’t even care if I am suffocating him or not because I am just doing anything I can to not fall off. He doesn’t say a word the whole trip which I am thankful for. The world is going by so fast that I begin to get dizzy, and I need to shut my eyes before I puke.
After what seemed like about twenty minutes, I feel the man begin to slow it down, and eventually we come to a complete stop. I let go of him, get off the longboard, and stretch as I look around. The road just abruptly ends, and before it is a huge mass of sand, brightly colored buildings, and many people. It looks like a beach town. Like the man on this longboard, all the people are also all barefoot and only wearing bathing suits.
The dreadlock man takes a deep breath and makes an exaggerated sigh. “Welcome to the island!” he says with a smile. Then he points off into the distance. “That’s my sister over there. She knows someone who will be more than happy to help you with whatever you need.”
I follow my gaze toward where his finger is pointing, and the first thing I notice is the ocean far in the distance. The water is a shade of blue I have never seen before, and the surface sparkles in the sun. It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
But I’m forced to take my eyes off it because the second thing I notice are all the people staring at me. I don’t blame them. I haven’t looked in a mirror yet, but I can imagine how awful someone must look after being hit by car and almost dying of hypothermia all in one day. At least I assume it’s only been a day. The realization that I have no clue what time or even
what day it is brings me to a panic. But I swallow my fear and just ask to use someone’s phone.
Jacob leads me to the beach, and we must dodge many staring people before we get to the sister he’s looking for. And for some reason, the look of her surprises me. I just assumed she would be an adult, but instead she’s a tiny little girl with a bright pink bathing suit and a tutu attached at the hip.
Jacob reaches down to give his sister a hug. “Hey, Marley! This is my new friend, and she needs help. Is Jen around?”
But Marley isn’t paying attention to what he’s saying. All she does is stare at me. “What are you wearing?” she blurts out. “You look funny.”
I look down at my clothes, and other than the fact that my T-shirt and jeans have dirt on them, they look normal to me.
“She’s not from around here. That’s why we need Jen.” Jacob states.
I can tell he’s about to say something else, but I interrupt him. “Do any of you have a phone I can use?”
All I get in response is more staring.
“A what?” Marley asks.
“Um … a cell phone? I need to call my parents to let them know I’m okay.”
Marley puts her little hands on her hips and looks at Jacob. “What is that?”
He just shrugs at her and looks back to me, “Could you explain what that is?”
Instead of explaining I just look around. Everyone is either in the water, lying down, or playing in the sand. There are no cell phones anywhere in sight. Oh no.
As I’m slowly making a 360 around the area, everything seems to click and make sense.
First the car accident, then I show up in a random freezing snow forest; now I’m in the middle of a beautiful beach with people who have no idea what a cell phone is, and everyone is looking at my clothes as if they have never seen them before in their lives.
I cover my face and burst into sobs, “I’m dead, aren’t I?”
Rogers • 107
“What? You’re not dead! Why would you think that?” Jacob asks.
“I got in a car accident yesterday, and this place is so weird. I’m dead. I have to be dead,” I sob.
“You’re not dead.” He says calmly as he awkwardly pats my back, “ … but what’s a car?”
I don’t even bother to answer.
I stop crying and look at the water. In the distance I notice two huge whales fly out so high from the sea that they leave streaks in the clouds and land safely back into the water. They do it three times in a row.
“Yup, I’m definitely dead.”
Both Jacob and Marley try to convince me that I’m not dead, but I don’t believe them. There’s no other explanation for how I got in this strange place where cell phones don’t even exist, and whales can jump that high. There’s no sense in trying to find my way back home then. The thought makes me feel sick.
But instead of going through the five stages of grief, I decide I need to force myself to skip the first four stages and immediately focus on the last stage, acceptance.
I’m dead, and this is heaven, and there’s no going back. At least I don’t have to go back to college.
Just then a woman walks by wearing a one-piece red bathing suit. She looks like a lifeguard.
“Jen!” Jacob yells to get her attention. “This girl needs help—”
I shake my head and wave my hand to interrupt him.
“I want to go swimming. Does anyone know where I can get a bathing suit?”
After thirty minutes of Jen and Marley picking out the best bathing suit for me at the shop, we meet up with Jacob and head straight into the water.
All sorts of beautiful sea creatures roam throughout the water, and at one point, dolphins come and stay close to us casually as if they have known us their entire lives.
After a few hours in the warm ocean, I swim my way over
• Blackwater Review
“No problem,” he shrugs. “So how are you liking the island?”
“This beach is the most amazing beach I have ever been to. I don’t know much about the island itself, though.”
Marley immediately climbs off the huge turtle she was lying on and looks at us, “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s show her around!”
We swim our way back to shore, and while staying in our bathing suits, we make our way into the island’s town. There are hundreds of beautiful colored buildings, and there are unique people everywhere. One moment we’ll see a group of men juggling sticks with fire, and the next moment people are playing instruments I have never seen before, and the music that comes forth is the most amazing sound I have ever heard.
Jen shows me all her favorite beauty shops filled with bathing suits and makeup. Marley drags me to every dessert and food place and influences me to eat my way through the town, and Jacob shows me his own personal longboard shop. I notice the longboard is the only transportation everyone uses besides walking.
By the time daylight begins to fade away and the first signs of the night appear in the sky, this place that felt so foreign when I first arrived this morning already feels like home to me. I assumed they were going to return to their homes, but instead I follow them back to the beach, and after they sit down on the sand, they all turned their heads toward the sky.
“What’s going on?” I ask while sitting down next to them. Marley waves her hand around and motions for me to be quiet, “Shhh, this is the best part!”
I look around and see many other people lying down with their heads toward the sky.
Instead of asking any more questions, I just copy what everyone else is doing and look up at the sky. Within seconds the regular starry sky transforms into a colorful show of all sorts of colors, almost like the northern lights. The only difference is that each light creates a different tune, and
Rogers • 109 to Jacob. “I forgot to say thank you for saving my life earlier.”
together they create the most beautiful symphony I have ever heard in my life.
The sight causes me to tear up. As strange as this place is, I want to stay here forever.
After about an hour, the symphony ends, and one by one, each light disappears until one is left. It’s white, and it’s so bright that I need to cover my eyes. It’s even brighter than all the lights put together, and after a moment I realize it’s getting wider.
“Do you guys see that?” I ask, but I get no response. I can’t even see if anyone is still there. The white light is so bright, and it’s consuming my entire vision. My eyes start to sting so badly that it sends tears down my face, and I’m forced to shut my eyes.
My ears ring, and I feel cold and scared. I hear something, but it’s so distant and muffled that I can’t understand what it is. I try to open my eyes, but the light is still so bright. What’s going on?
I hear something about five more times before I realize what it’s saying.
“Honey, are you awake?”
I’ve heard that voice before, but I can’t pinpoint where it’s from.
“Wake up, honey. Don’t worry I’m right here next to you.”
Huh?
I force myself to open my eyes, and everything is immediately blurry. I try to focus on one thing, but the only thing I notice is the white light blinding my vision.
I blink a few times, and once my eyes adjust, I see a lady above me, and her tears are falling on my face … Mom?
“Oh my gosh, she’s awake! George, she’s awake!”
After a moment a man comes into my view, and he’s crying, too.
Relief washes over me as I realize those are my parents. They look sleep deprived and much older, but yes, they are absolutely my parents.
My only questions are “Why am I here?” and “Why are they crying?”
I want to speak, but something in my mouth prevents me. Then I realize something is covering my nose, too. What’s that beeping noise, and why are there tubes everywhere?
And something is wrong with my legs. Why can’t I feel my legs?
Other people rush into my view, and I feel so panicked, and I can’t breathe. Who are these people, and WHY CAN’T I FEEL MY LEGS?
They take off the thing that covered my nose and mouth, and everyone in the room is trying to calm me down, but I have no clue what anyone is saying. I just shut my eyes to try and block them out.
Where am I, where am I, where am I?!
It takes a while, but they’re able to calm me down, and I finally listen to what they say. They say I’m in a hospital. That explains the tubes and the annoying beeping noise. But it doesn’t explain how I got here from the Island. Did Jen or Jacob take me? Where are they?
They say I was hit by a car on my way to school; I was rushed to the hospital, and I have been here for two weeks.
For the first time since I got here, I speak up. My voice feels and sounds just as it did when I called out for help in the snow forest. Raw and coarse but somehow worse.
I tell them that couldn’t possibly have happened. I explain about the forest, Jacob, Jen and Marley and the island itself, but I notice my mother just looks at me sadly the entire time. The doctor opens his mouth as if he’s about to speak, but my mother sticks her arm out in front of him.
“Honey … ” she whispers. “You’ve been in a coma for the past two weeks.”
I stare at her. A coma?
Everything that happened couldn’t have been a dream because it felt too real. I don’t believe her at first, but the sad way she’s looking at me causes me to know she wouldn’t lie to me. A coma. I’ve been in a coma for two weeks, so the island isn’t real at all. Jacob, Jen and Marley don’t exist. They never existed. The thought alone causes me to cry. My mother immediately
Rogers • 111
hugs me and tells me she’s sorry. “There’s something else … ”
I attempt to stop crying long enough to look at her, and she already has tears streaming down her face. It takes her awhile to gather her breath, and she looks at the doctor who has his head down. “You suffered a major spinal cord injury … the doctors did all they could but …well … ” She can’t even finish her sentence without sobbing.
I’m so confused, and I watch as my dad comes and sits on the other side of me on the bed. He places his hands on mine, and I can tell he has to force his tear-stained eyes to look into mine. “You can’t walk anymore,” he says.
I just stare at him. I don’t move. I don’t even react at all. I physically can’t.
In this moment I want nothing more than to close my eyes and go back to the island.
No Legs
Chance Freytag
Georgia, 1949
He had crazy blood. That’s what he’d been told since he was five years old and pulling the legs off spiders. Someone would tell him to stop, his mother or a family friend, and he’d ask them why it was okay to kill a spider, but not to take its legs, and none of them had ever answered. By the time he knew he had crazy blood, he was proud of it, proud of the dead cop on the ground in front of him and of the broken, bloody soda bottle in his hand. Seventeen years old then and a cop killer already. At twenty-one, he had no higher aspirations or desire to appear as though he did. He wore a sweat-stained, light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and old boots with tears that had been sewn back together or else covered by fabric.
Parked at an angle along the side of the road was a red Buick spattered with patches of rust. It had been given to Martin as a present from his uncle some five years ago on his sixteenth birthday. In its hatch were thirteen jugs of moonshine in small wooden boxes, four or five to a box. Martin stumbled lazily through the woods back toward a clearing with a barn in its center that housed the distillery. It was owned by an older, dispossessed man named Henry Lee, who claimed it had been left to him by a friend. Alongside Martin, Henry Lee and three other boys worked in there, mostly on weeknights. That particular night, Martin was working there with a boy named Bell with a shrill voice who had come down from Kentucky. Bell had told Martin that Martin’s eyes were more tired and droopy than anyone’s he’d ever seen. He’d said, “Idn’t anyway you’d lose at poker, not once; you just look tired ‘n sad all the time. You’d win every hand off bluffin’ alone. Me, I’m too expressive, too loud; I can’t win that.”
There was a harsh thud, and Martin stopped walking. Red and blue lights flashed through the slits in the wall of the barn,
Freytag • 113
and he heard Bell’s voice, shrill and raspy: “I ain’t done nothin! Nothin’, I swe—” Another thud and the voice stopped. Martin turned and began to walk to the Buick, but before he was to the tree line, he felt heat on his neck and turned to see the barn going up in flames and to hear the policeman shouting about getting somebody out. There was no getting anyone out of that blaze, and Martin knew it. Even if he thought Bell was still alive and the person who was burning wasn’t a cop, he would’ve gone ahead and driven off in the Buick like he did.
About the moment the car had come up onto the road and Martin knew the ground beneath him was solid, he slammed his foot on the gas and went fumbling for one of the toothpicks he kept on the dash. Once he had gotten the toothpick and had it in his mouth, he put his right hand on the radio dial: “krshjust want to start a flame in your-krsh-er around when gets up on the sta-krsh-President Truman has begun anoth-krsh-Ajax! The foaming cleanser!” He stopped turning on a station playing Reverend Gary Davis and began picking at his teeth.
Martin came around a bend, the spectral shape of a tiny Buick with no headlights or passenger side window blaring Gary Davis into the night, hurtling down the highway, heading north.
She had bobbed hair tied up and hidden beneath a flat cap. Her face was relaxed, and her eyes traced the ghostly mountains in the distance with distaste and confusion. A skirt that came down barely as far as her knees had been specially sewn to include pockets in which she kept a stack of bills with a money clip in one and a switchblade in the other. Beside her in the backseat was a suitcase, packed with a single change of clothes, a hairbrush, toothpaste and a toothbrush, a copy of The Beautiful and the Damned, which she had never opened, and a single hair tie. This was the extent of the earthly possessions she had collected when her parents had asked her to pack “absolutely everything.”
Her father, a tall, thick, and sharply dressed man sat at the wheel of her family’s ‘48 Cadillac, staring intently at the
“Well, Catherine, this is the time,” her father spoke to her from the front seat, “the time I’ve been telling you about since you were small! You’ll live on your own, and you’ll be woman for a while!”
Cat Sweney watched her father’s absurd mustache bounce up and down in the rearview mirror. Her father had insisted that they leave late the night before and stay in a hotel. Cat had said nothing and brought her suitcase down and put on her jacket, a letterman she had painted dark red in the garage.
“Going off to college, you really are old, it brings a tear to this old fool’s eye!” her father looked off at the mountains and sighed.
The jacket had become hers through strange means that she had explained to her parents as “an unimportant and boring story,” that had later been boiled down to “it was a gift.” Its original owner was a boy named John Wesley, the son of a doctor who had been pursuing Cat Sweney for some time. In the winter of the previous year, she had agreed to go with him on a date (despite the dissatisfaction of her mother, who knew nothing of Cat’s activities with boys and had been a Calvinist in her youth, but had renounced the faith when she met Cat’s father), and John Wesley had put the jacket on her shoulders while they were sitting at a drive-in.
Cat eyed the package of cigarettes that sat beside the gear shift as her father continued: “Never thought it’d be Geneva for you, not that you aren’t smart enough, that you’d want to go there, no, not a place I ever saw my Catherine being, but it is a good place!”
Once the movie had ended and other cars had gone, John Wesley had his hand on her thigh, and when he slid her skirt up, she gave him a glare that he didn’t see and then a slash on the cheek with her knife before getting out of the car, listening to his incessant crying and moaning as she did. The jacket was still on her shoulders when she left, a small stain of John Wesley’s
Freytag • 115 cone of visibility the headlights offered him. In the passenger’s seat, her mother, a thin woman wearing a small, navy blue hat and glasses, sat staring down at her lap.
blood on the sleeve, and she kept it without a second thought.
“Look at our daughter, hon, her big, grey eyes, prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen, even next to yours. No other girls like her, no other girls that dress like her, and I guess that’s cause they can’t; they aren’t pretty enough, they wish th—”
Cat’s mother snapped, “Our daughter dr—no sensible girl wears a skirt that short.”
Her father turned to look at her mother and growled, “You haven’t got an idea what you’re talking about. Before the war, sure, but times are different; our country is—is… it’s… our country is better than e—”
“The state of the nation is no excuse for our daughter to dress like a whore.”
Mumbling to himself, her father reached over to the radio, “Let’s just listen to the radio if we can’t discuss things as a family.”
Cat Sweney watched her parents, her mother staring solemnly at her hands and her father fumbling with the knob, still muttering something, though she couldn’t hear it over the radio, “krsh-have no mercy in this-krsh-cleanser! Clean pots and p-krsh-un another program with th-krsh-the stand! When he pla-krsh-our heart! In my heart I h-krsh.” From around the bend, Cat could see the approaching, spectral shape of another car, hurtling toward the Cadillac with seemingly no intention of slowing down. She saw a ghastly Buick shooting out from behind the trees. If they flipped, she knew the roof would crush her skull, so she set her suitcase on the floorboard and stretched out, bracing herself and holding to the seat bottom. She heard her father shout and her mother scream. There was a jolt, and she began to float off the seat, her cap flying from her head; the car did flip, and the roof was crushed beneath her. A loud crunch and the sound of metal scraping across the concrete and then near silence.
Her hat had fallen off, and she lowered herself to pick it up. Beside it, she found the cigarettes that had been by her father and just outside her window a box of matches. She grabbed them both and stashed them away in her pockets. In
the front seats, Cat’s parents hung upside down, held by their seatbelts, blood leaking from them and pooling on the Cadillac’s roof. Cat struck a match and held it between the seats: neither her mother nor her father showed any signs of movement. In fact, her father’s skull had been split open enough that a small chunk of brain had found its way out and was stuck to his hair. Outside, Cat could hear a motor idling some forty or fifty feet away. She stamped the match out beneath her shoe and crawled out the rear driver’s side window.
The darkness was complete, and not even the mountains were visible. Cat stood calmly, placed the cap back on her head without hesitation, removed a cigarette from her pocket, and lit it, illuminating her face for a moment, bruised with a line of blood extending down from her temple.
“The two folks in the front dead?” Martin said.
Cat looked back down for a moment and responded, “Yeah.”
“They yer parents?”
“Yeah.”
Martin looked over the upturned Cadillac at the bend, “I can’t stay. I gotta be somewhere.”
“Where do you have to be?”
“Well,” Martin looked at the bend again and back at Cat, “not here.”
“Can I come with you?” Cat leaned against the Cadillac and put the cigarette in her mouth.
“I don’t see why not. Come on.”
Cat followed Martin’s voice and felt her way around the back of the Buick and to the passenger door. She slid in and propped her feet up on the dash. Martin got back in, shut the door, and turned the radio back on: “any family in this land! Death’ll go in any family in this land…” The car jolted as Martin pressed the gas, and the car started into another bend.
He turned to Cat, “What’s your name?”
“Cat Sweney. You?”
“Martin.”
“Martin who can see in the dark.”
Freytag • 117
“Yeah.”
They drove up through the hills and into Tennessee and outside Chattanooga. Martin said, “There’s a .38 in the glove box if you need it.”
“You ever needed it?”
“A time or two.”
And they passed through the city and followed the road toward Knoxville, driving into the all-encompassing western sunset.
118 • Blackwater Review
The Sound of Thunder
Shannon Musteric
“How do you describe the thunder?” he asked. “Big,” she said. “And loud.”
The words were lost on him. She tried again.
“The sky is … angry.”
Her hands wove the picture for him. Each movement flowed into the next as she found the words she wanted to say. Sound morphed into image as her hands swooped and danced. The clouds bump into each other. They crash. They roll over and over each other, falling out of the sky. And as they hurtle toward the ground, they roar at the earth below.
Her fingers faltered. His eyes searched hers and turned frantically to the sky. Gray clouds billowed from the east, rolling toward the two small people sitting atop the earth. Lightning laced its way through the storm, baring its fangs at the spectators.
“You’re not scared?” he asked.
She smiled and gently took his hand, lifting him to his feet. “I was,” she said. “Until I learned to roar back.”
Burning and a-Looting
Edgar Ellis
screams and streets set a scene for a world without the guidance of philosopher kings. bloody boots trample hands with swords and those magnificent, glassy blue eyes.
john ‘jackie’ duddy (1972)
dirty faced shotgun men run the mines, blood soaked and dust covered, bodies roll satisfied down the hillside and are left by the shotgun men to rot
sid hatfield (1921)
atop the clouds on a fine cold morning, hiroaka stabs calmly into his gut to appeal to the king’s dark musings, a forgotten fable (authored by farmers)
yukio mishima (1970)
“hell no, we won’t go” burning jungle is an age old proving ground for heroes fit for a place on the wall. build up a stone tower and tear it to shreds with barrages of clockwork gunfire.
richard fitzgibbon jr. (1956)
“hell no, we won’t go” drops of blood taking root in a puddle is the age old battle plan for the shotgun men and to stray from it is punishable by death, shot down like a dog in the streets.
jimmie lee jackson (1965)
“hell no, we won’t go” to skip over a page is to forfeit yourself, to read it is to sacrifice yourself, and to want anything else is to accept lifelong torture and exile.
gavrilo princip (1918)
where, now, is the promised cold steel and the mud in which glory is unearthed? bloody boot prints leave nothing to find but a fresh manifesto smelling of rot and lives left wasted
It’s Not Too Late to Take Out a Piece of Paper
Matthew Woods
I can see the grey walls of the classroom, my colorful backpack on the grey floor, and a black pen on the grey desk. I don’t have any paper out.
Twenty minutes have passed, forty-five remain. A teacher’s voice paces around the room, keeping students in their seats. It’s not too late.
The surface feels too smooth. Ideas bubble up in my mind, not content to stay as thoughts. Writing on the desks is not allowed.
I duck down and unzip my backpack, rustling around my school supplies until I feel a notebook. My canvas is near.
As I tear out a piece of paper, the ripping noise is easily heard, making me duck my head in shame. The voice continues without missing a step.
White shines amidst a sea of grey. As I huddle over my paper, I hold a pen in my hand. At last, I’m safe.
Silent penetrations of ink give proof before my eyes that it wasn’t too late.
And it never will be.
Circadian Bells
Jeremy Maynard
Amber bristles brush gently across gilded silhouettes
As frosted towers billow high above Elysian Fields. Kind zephyrs lift Icarian wings to touch the Sun. The wax never melts.
Bare feet travel lush plains finding no pain from sharp stones. The sound of sacred songs chime through tranquil trees Where brooks babble Zen melodies. The lion’s jaws are shut. They lie with the lambs.
Kings, Queens, Servants, and Slaves wear the same crown. Princes and Paupers gather round the same table. Knights find eternal reprieve, their swords forever sheathed. The dragons have been slain.
Behind the lucid veil, green eyes shine in utter darkness. Your shrill voice cries out. Hands jut through pitch black. They aimlessly swat at the charcoal night stand like a bad game Of Whac-A-Mole.
Lead legs slowly roll from beneath soft sheets. Feet crash down upon the dog’s tail as it sleeps Halfway under the bed. It screams out in pain, Waking the entire house.
Blurry eyes wander down dark hallways. An hour from now they’ll navigate a maze Of cars in a hot parking lot, and it’s all your fault. …But thanks for keeping me on time for work.
I’m sitting in a café.
Emerald Stilettos
Courtney Swanson
I’m sitting alone in a café, I have my coffee, my croissant. I’m content. She walks in.
At first, I don’t even notice. She orders a green tea and takes a seat two places to my left. I still wouldn’t have noticed her if it weren’t for her stilettos. The clicking of her emerald heels across the tile floor. She only slightly makes her presence known.
She is sitting two places to my left. Far enough away that I feel uneasy, unsure why, but close enough that I know she’s there. The uneasiness doesn’t go away. This damned thing tends to come at the worst of times. She comes at the worst of times.
She comes when I’m celebrating the successes of my greatest friends. When I’m walking along the sand, a bikini clinging to my body, a goddess just a few feet away. When I see my boy talking to a girl and that girl isn’t me. Seeing the work produced with the bare hands of my classmates.
Watching. Listening. Longing for the triumphs of others. It makes my blood … simmer. It doesn’t boil, it simply simmers, but why couldn’t it just be warm? Why can’t I just feel warm? I could be good enough for me. If it weren’t for the silencing noise outside my window, I could be good enough for me. I can try to be good enough for me. I feel a shift two seats to my left. She is gone. Before I can wonder why I didn’t hear her leave, I notice the emerald stilettos, how she made her presence known in the first place. Left behind, the heels sit on the floor, two places to my left. A nagging, but fleeting, thought reminds me I shouldn’t, even still, I slip on the stilettos. A perfect fit. But this is not a Cinderella moment. You see, Cinderella was saved by her prince, but I’m trying to be good enough for me. That’s why the heels fit. I will be good enough for me. I gather my things and step outside. The noise is finally invigorating. I tilt my head up and waltz out in those emerald stilettos.
How to Be a Child
Courtney Swanson
Sprint, letting your feet pound the ground like a drummer pounds her snare, an ache forming at the base of your ribs.
Racing down the front steps, grab smiles and laughter, stomping, splashing, dancing through the street puddles in purple rain boots.
Watch fireworks burst like chrysanthemums in bloom. The aroma of snickerdoodles wafts through the air. The treehouse, towering. The days, never-ending.
Remember You Are Stardust
Alizabeth Turner-Ward
It will hit you on a Thursday night at 10:06 p.m. That something is terribly wrong. Suddenly, the shrieking television will deafen you. Your mother’s sweet presence will be smothering, So you will leap from the couch Out the door
Into the freezing darkness.
Here is what you do next:
Pull out your phone and type the number Of the boy who once held your heart.
Stare at his contact photo for three and a half minutes Straight. Then, trembling, hit dial.
Wait for his answer—
A wrenchingly soothing and familiar “Hello”— And then, you must implore:
How did he survive that night
When he thought the world was over? He will reply:
“The odds were in my favor, So I prayed to not be special.”
Talk with him for hours
Until your mother gets worried. As you stare up into the sky
Full of freckles like your tearstained face, Remind yourself that every other human Is made of the same exact stardust as you.
loneliness is former united states president richard
nixon
Chance Freytag
those boys have weak hearts; the droogs, the ones with face paint and piles of one-hundred dollar bills. they have weak hearts and no capacity for platonic love. by their assessment, they are peacemakers, not swampland alligators that send other people (good people) to die facedown in the shit in east asia and flood the streets with a new kind of racism: stuff it in a pipe and smoke it racism. and they have weak hearts.
what the hell are those? handpainted signs with “no more dying in nam” and that’s no reason to stop now, they’ve come so far. finally, these droogs haven’t got any real friends, just a tape recorder but that’s gone too. walk out on the law/n (now martyrdom) to the helicopter two hands up, they were just peacemakers. slap that on their shitty, crumbling grave. but they have weak hearts. everybody dies and it’s beautiful.
First Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2019
Contributors
Sarah Augustin watched from a young age her family members’ cretive minds at work. She wants to inspire others to let their minds wander, see the possibilities, and make something wonderful.
Noah Brown hopes to pursue a career in medical art.
Kansas Cherry is artistically optimistic, sees the world in shades of color, and seeks to make art that mirrors her vibrant personality.
Toby Cimino lives in Crestview, Florida, and is a full-time student in the graphic design A.S. program at NWFSC.
Caysea Clark is a first-year student at NWFSC who enjoys photography and music.
Angela De Jesus is a freshman at NWFSC working on an A.A. degree. She aspires to become a digital animator.
Summer Derry is currently working as a graphic designer and is pursuing an A.S. degree in graphic design.
Casey Easdon is a proud mother of three, has a strong passion for art, and loves being able to express herself creatively through different media.
Sarah Evans has attended NWFSC for the last two years. She plans on continuing her education at a university. She hopes to earn a degree in a foreign language.
Carolyn Foster enjoys ceramics and photography. Her experience as a Medical Service Corps officer has taken her around the world to see different points of view on life as a combat veteran.
Contributors • 129
Chance Freytag was born in Tennessee and later moved to Florida. The South had a tremendous and inescapable impact on his writing that he stopped trying to avoid years ago.
Kelly A. Hanning is an installation, performance, and painting artist with a B.F.A. in figure drawing and painting from F.S.U.
Anastasia Johnson is a senior at the Collegiate High School at NWFSC. She plans to attend the University of Central Florida to pursue a Bachelor’s degree in communications.
Shelby Jones has retired from the Army, is the mother of two, and has returned to school after fifteen years.
Tyana Jordan is an A.A. student majoring in art and design at NWFSC and is exploring her artistic style with a brush.
Isabella Joslin is not married, and she wouldn’t wear a ring if she were. She dabbles in event planning, plagiarism, and forgery.
Kimberly Kimbril is a student who sees the beauty and gifts of the world.
Rebekah Lamb has always enjoyed creating worlds out of nothing and spinning tall tales to go with them. She is currently a college sophomore pursuing an A.A. degree. She graduated valedictorian of her high school class in Washington in 2017.
Mackenzie Elizabeth Marsteller is a junior at Seacoast High School who is also pursuing an A.A. degree with plans to go on to study photography and film.
Declan Masek is a NWFSC student who has an interest in making art simply for the fun and enjoyment of it.
Jeremy Maynard is a veteran of the U.S. Navy Submarine Force. He received an A.A.S. in Electronics and Instrumentation during his seven years of service and is currently working toward a B.S. in technology.
Maria B. Morekis believes that one should follow the motto “Fear No Art.”
Danielle Leigh Muir dreams to convey the beauty of mathematics in art and is seeking a career in digital art.
Shannon Musteric is a second semester student at NWFSC. She has always loved fantasy and fiction and has recently discovered an affinity for microfiction. Although her ambition is to write full-length novels, she hopes to explore microfiction further in the future.
Ivy Norton has been a student at NWFSC for two years. She took painting as an elective, and it has turned into a happy hobby.
Ashley Odom is a poet, fiction writer, and graduate of Full Sail University’s B.F.A. for Creative Writing for Entertainment. Her work appeared in unFold magazine in 2014 and the educational package of the children’s book Spirit Bear. She lives around the beaches of northern Florida with her cat and two crazy dogs.
Ruth Pearce is a first-year student at NWFSC. She is working toward her educational psychology degree. She volunteers with many social outreach programs in the community. Her research interests are in psychological efforts that can help students overcome obstacles, such as learning disabilities, to unlock their full potential.
Heather Phillips is a recent graduate of NWFSC with a degree in graphic design.
Contributors • 131
Ariel Poole is an student from Ponce De Leon working toward a degree in art education.
James Rogers believes there has always been something about literature, both in consumption and creation that pulls at the very fabric of his being. He has continued to study literature whenever possible, and writing has become a daily exercise that he hopes to one day hone into a true mastery.
Lynette Rogers loves peanut butter and puppies. She will choose the book over the movie any day.
Mikhail Maverick Santos is a freshman at NWFSC planning to major in architecture.
Joanna Shoubaki is a Collegiate High School student at NWFSC. She will attend Princeton University to continue her education. While pursuing a degree in biological sciences, she plans to continue writing in hopes of one day becoming a bestselling author.
Antoinette Sneed is a sophomore at NWFSC. After this semester, she plans to transfer to Fayetteville State University to complete a B.S. with a concentration in organism biology.
Ruvik Smith is a junior at NWFSC’s Collegiate High School. He was published previously in the 2018 edition and is an aspiring horror/fantasy novelist.
Courtney Swanson is a senior at NWFSC’s Collegiate High School.
Chrislyn Thompson is passionate about writing, history, video games, superheroes, overthinking simple things, being an A/V technician at her church. She will study at Troy University next year.
My Huyen Truong is a freshman at NWFSC and her dream is to become a fashion designer.
Alizabeth Turner-Ward is a Collegiate High School student who will attend the University of West Florida next year to pursue a Bachelor’s degree in environmental science and studio art.
Brian Turney is a recent graduate of NWFSC in graphic design and web development. He now plans to take over the world.
Aliya Walton is a graphic design major at NWFSC. She enjoys the arts and considers it her favorite hobby.
Klarissa Williamson is a nutritional sciences major at NWFSC.
Ash-Leigh Wilson is in her second semester at NWFSC. She intends to transfer to the University of West Florida to obtain degrees in psychology and English. She believes that, “No matter how much of a failure a person may think they are, someone looks up to you, and it’s important to remember your self-worth.”
Matthew Woods is president of Raider Writers and plays bass for the college’s jazz band.
