M I S C E L L A N Y
Miscellany Magazine Staff Magnolia Publications Editor-in-Chief...Jeff Licciardello Miscellany Editor...Skyler Black Creative Manager... Heather Yeomans Magazines Visual Chief...Sarah Holmes Design Editor...Alexandra Tobia Layout Designer...Alex Smith Layout Designer...Hailey Smith Business Manager...Virginia Byrd Distribution Manager...Manuel Girbal Marketing Manager...Emily Skolrood Event Coordinator...Lauren Little OFFICE OF STUDENT MEDIA Director...David Simpson Business Coordinator...Samantha Reid
The Miscellany is copyrighted 2015 by Miscellany and Georgia Southern University, Statesboro, Ga. It is printed by South Georgia Graphics, Claxton, Ga. The Miscellany is operated by GSU students who are members of Student Media, a Georgia Southern studentled organization operating through the Dean of Student Affairs Office and the Division of Student Affairs & Enrollment Management. The magazine is produced twice a year by GSU students for the Georgia Southern University community. Opinions expressed herein are those of the student writers and editors and DO NOT reflect those of the faculty, staff, administration of GSU, Student Media Advisory Board nor the University System of Georgia.
2 Spring 2015
Partial funding for this publication is provided by the GSU Activities Budget Committee. Advertisements fund the remaining costs. Advertising inquiries may be sent to Office of Student Media, PO Box 8001, or by calling the Business Office at 912-478-5418. Inquiries concerning content should be sent to Magnolia Publications EIC at 912-478-0565 or by emailing magseditor@ georgiasouthern.edu. All students are allowed to have one free copy of this publication. Additional copies cost $1 each and are available at the Office of Student Media in the Williams Center. Unauthorized removal of additional copies from a distribution site will constitute theft under Georgia law, a misdemeanor offense punishable by a fine and/or jail time.
Letter from the editor Well hello! First, I sincerely thank you for taking some time out of your day to take a look at a fantastic collection of art that has been judged with care and published to give the artists the proper respect that they are due. This publication would be nothing without the wonderful art that the members of the Georgia Southern community contributed and for each person that picks up one of these lovely magazines. And if you are reading this then you are helping us at Magnolia Publications succeed. Kudos to you! This is my first semester in Student Media and it has been a fantastic journey like no other that I have been a part of. I have never been one to join many student organizations and I had not planned on going into Student Media when coming to GSU. But after being convinced by friends and family, the decision to join was a resounding absolutely. I have to say that being a part of an organization and such a variety of publications has been and will continue to be the highlight of my college career. To be completely honest, coming into college I was not even aware that there was an arts publication. But the moment that I picked up the Fall 2013, I knew that I wanted to be among these amazing photographers, designers, painters, writers, all of these talented artists. After submitting and being accepted into the publication last semester during the period I was going through the candidate program, I had never been more excited to see a magazine. And as I stood on the stage at the launch party reading my poem, I knew that I wanted to be more of a part of this magazine. I immensely appreciate all of the members of Student Media, all of the students, faculty, and staff of the University, and anyone else that picks up this magazine to admire the stunning art that people have created. Again I thank each one of you reading this and I hope that you enjoy this collaboration of artwork.
-Skyler Black MISCELLANY 3
C O V E R
Color Block
Virginia Skinner 2D Art
I am currently a sophomore majoring in graphic design, and I love drawing in my spare time. Usually when I draw and paint I stick to more organic lines, so with Colorblock I decided to challenge myself by creating as many uniform rectangles in a row as I could. At the same time I was experimenting with watercolors and the different shades and tones I could create, while still having a visually pleasing and coherent composition. Overall I believe for me it was a good color study and practice in shape-making.Â
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A R T
TABLE OF CONTENTS STUDENT & FACULTY WORK 6. Branded Susan Williams 7. Tale of a Journeyman Nadia Dreid 7. Live On Heather Yeomans 8. Red Gate Brooks Metzler 8. Spring Flowers Christina Sooksawat 9. The Archer Elise Rustine 10. Self-Portrait 2015 Emily Oren 11. Steins with Iron Oxide Wash Toni Pollack 11. Just One Jeff Licciardello 12. The Same Man (Who Recited the Desiderata Perfectly) Barbara McGaughey 13. Flower Pitcher Hannah Bright 14. The Watch Jonathan Coppiano 16. The Beach James Harker 16. A Dam Photo Chase Chalker 17. Night Launch Katie Randall 18. 21 Lines Skyler Black 19. Dreams and Disaster Kiara Griffin 19. Mad World Abigail Green 20. The Absence of Leonardo Meagan Greene 20. Parallels: Patterns between Nature and
Manmade Objects Maya Gleason 21. Caught in the Undertow Virginia Skinner 22. Hannah Courtney Bonacci 22. Dog in the Park Casey Cargle 23. Vibrations to Existence Brandon Warnock 24. Blue Petals Erika Jordan 24. Hyatt Lane II Nick Masters 25. Finding Peace Erika Jordan 25. Film Still Life Chloe Coulibaly 26. Wilted Rose Emma Collins 29. The Price of Parkour Macy Holloway 30. Florence Duomo Stephanie Simpson 30. Jazz: Btichin Boxer Katie Tolbert 31. Iris Hannah Bright 32. A Blade to the Sky Alex Smith 33. Sputtering Smoke Christina Martinez 33. Before the Rain Jeff Licciardello 34. Dying Breath Roberto Bernales 35. Our Houses, Our Bricks Barbara McGaughey 36. When Night Comes Nadia Dreid
36. La Vie est Courte Kiara Griffin 37. Butterfly Chrysalis Locket Shaunte Francois 38. Snake Eye Susan Williams 39. Europa Katie Randall 39. Sanders Roberto Bernales
2015 POWELL AWARD WINNERS Named for the first creative writing teacher at Georgia Southern, the Roy Powell Awards for Creative Writing are offered by The Department of Writing and Linguistics to encourage and recognize excellence in creative writing. The competition is open to all Georgia Southern Univesity students, both graduate and undergraduate.
Poetry Thomas Morgan
Fiction Jonathan Hunter Walsh
Creative Nonfiction Barbara Jayne McGaughey
MISCELLANY 5
BRANDED
Susan Williams Digital Art 6 Spring 2015
LIVE ON
Heather Yeomans
Photography
tale of a journeyman Nadia Dreid Poetry
your father sowed a restless seed in you, curling fingers, migrating tongue, you were born fidgeting.
it isn’t fair that you were born into your mother’s arms a wanderer, the soles of your feet itching.
how did he manage to weave his inconsistency into your dna?
i don’t know how to teach you to stay.
MISCELLANY 7
RED GATE
Brooks Metzler Photography
SPRING FLOWERS
Christina Sooksawat
2D Art
8 Spring 2015
THE ARCHER Elise Rustine
Photography
MISCELLANY 9
SELF-PORTRAIT 2015 Emily Oren 2D Art
10 Spring 2015
STEINS WITH IRON OXIDE WASH Toni Pollack 3D Art
JUST ONE
Jeff Licciardello Photography
MISCELLANY 11
THE SAME MAN (who recited the desiderata perfectly)
Barbara McGaughey Poetry
he chose to wear the smoked wool slacks on four of his seven days, bothering tenderly with a fresh bowtie each time he chose women that left the engine running, who were already running they were polite about the three, dry toothbrushes below his sink’s mirror he chose a muted cabernet first, second, always thinking this absolved the memory of brick dust on bare bottomed feet he chose to leave no forwarding address, for he once received a letter that could not be sent back, and had been refusing mail ever since the same man left a baby in the belly of a girlish woman he had shown her pictures of his grandchildren on a thursday which had not impeded the guileless way her bones opened it was why he had left the baby there in the first place the man left on the following friday, saying the museum was doing a series for the guilt of the byzantine the baby became blood soon enough
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FLOWER PITCHER Hannah Bright
2D Art
MISCELLANY 13
Parallels and Patterns Maya Gleason Photography
THE WATCH Jonathan Coppiano
Fiction He glanced at the watch his father gave him. Just one last time because he needed to feel in control for a moment longer. Control was his weakness. His lover & enemy was spontaneous, outrageous, but beautiful and he melted for her. His father was a lonely man, he lived by the second hand on that very watch until the day he passed it on. This love of ethic and the lust of framework plagued his entire family. “I will no longer live like this,” he announced to the river bellow just before he dropped the
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piece into its depths. This rush of excitement so powerful overcame him that it became audible in three words, “I am free.” With his suit back on and keys in the ignition he beamed his well-earned automobile over to the party, where he would finally lay down his armor and profess his love for her. Upon arriving he automatically checked his wrist for his performance and smiled when he realized he just didn’t care anymore. Without that watch he had nowhere to be, he’ll never be late, and with that he
shall always be on time. His heart beat violently all the way up the stairs. The host of the party opened the door and with a sharp grin he met his gaze and tried to calm him down, “do not worry she is inside.” He took a deep breath and prepared himself for her as he followed the host through the occasion into the billiards room. “Good luck,” wished the host as he gave a calm pat on the back. She made eye contact with him immediately and his heart froze in her winter. The man was powerless as she approached him handing over a pre-poured glass of wine. Looking at her wrist, he noticed that she was
wearing a watch. “A watch? You never wear a watch.” He was alarmed and confused. She drew up his sleeve to reveal the tan line showing his watchless wrist. In that moment there wasn’t anything to be said and nothing had to be done for what was wrong was made right. True love is compromise and understanding. A punctual and dull man ceased to live by seconds as a spontaneous and fun woman was willing to do such. “All that matters is that I get to spend the time with you,” he professed as she leaned in closer to whisper, “Let us be timeless, then.” Love, for them, became infinite.
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THE BEACH James Harker Photography
A DAM PHOTO
Chase Chalker Photography
16 Spring 2015
NIGHT LAUNCH Katie Randall 2D Art
MISCELLANY 17
21 LINES Skyler Black Poetry
21 lines rest at the tip of my tongue Your hair whips throughout the air with magnificence Sun shines off the mirror like pond into your wise eyes Your clothes are wrinkled and tattered Brilliant smiles catch the other’s eyes Your laughter swims in my head and into my soul Children run and play and we stare in awe of their grace You will never smile like this again 14 lines rest at the tip of my tongue Your hair is slowly falling away from your scalp Luminous lights flicker casting shadows of fear Your clothes are gowns and blankets and IV’s Tears fall gently from your eyes as I feed you ice chips Your laughter is a memory
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behind hacking and heart rate monitors Frustration grips my heart as I force myself outside You will never see me again 7 lines rest at the tip of my tongue Your hair is brushed neatly but we know it’s not yours Candles flicker casting somber shadows on the wood Your clothes are pressed and beautiful Bodies shift in the uncomfortable pews eyes fixed on me Your laughter is lifting away heard by those more worthy Unfolding the scrap of paper tucked into my coat You will never be forgotten again My soul is clear and my mouth is empty Your body is resting and your soul is free to eternity
DREAMS AND DISASTER
Kiara Griffin
Photography
MAD WORLD Abagail Green Photography
MISCELLANY 19
The Absence of Leonardo Meagan Greene Poetry
Why wake when you are not there? Closed eyes are my lime green abyss, I see smoky afternoons facing eternity, slight light above, but days pass without a sign and as fast as they left, dreams come flowing back like a rolling white river. Then suddenly I’m transported to another dimension where you are my shoddy past. Wearing a night black leather jacket, mud scrubbed boots, brass hair completing your face, my insides tightening like someone wrenching a screw in place on a pipe. Reality is such a selfish thing, deciding if I am a pale pink radiant clam or a dark fuchsia sea urchin in life, watching as I fall through gaping loopholes never knowing where my mind begins or where your artificially beating heart ends. But it’s up to me, subconscious screaming for what it wants, luring me into myself, pleading on scraped dripping red knees, begging for an ounce of attention, waiting for the breaking point.
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CAUGHT IN THE UNDERTOW Virginia Skinner Digital Art
MISCELLANY 21
HANNAH
Courtney Bonacci Photography
DOG IN THE PARK Casey Cargle
Photography
22 Spring 2015
VIBRATIONS TO EXISTENCE Brandon Warnock 2D Art
MISCELLANY 23
FINDING PEACE Erika Jordan 2D Art
HYATT LANE II Nick Masters Photography
24 Spring 2015
FILM STILL LIFE
Chloe Coulibaly 2D Art
BLUE PETALS Erika Jordan 2D Art
MISCELLANY 25
WILTED
ROSE
EMMA COLLINS Fiction
“My roses are wilting,” she said quietly. “That’s weird,” he said. “I just bought them. I watered them and mixed in the little plant food packet that came with the bouquet, too.” “It’s okay,” she said. “That stuff is supposed to keep them alive for a long time.” “I know.” “I’ll buy more tonight.” “It’s okay,” she said again. “No, damn it, it’s not!” She looked up at him and blinked several times. He was angry again. This time, it was at the drooping flowers. Two days ago, he had yelled at the nurse. A
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week ago, he had cursed at his phone. But today, he was angry at the flowers. “Please,” she said, raising her head up, “please don’t shout.” “But these damn flowers should have lasted for at least a week. They were supposed to be fresh!” She closed her eyes and let her head fall back onto the pillow. “My head hurts.” He instantly became remorseful. “I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t think.” His voice was hushed and reverent as he took a seat beside the bed. He took her hand in his carefully. She opened her eyes again. “We need to talk.”
“Not now.” He shook his head, looking down at the small hole in his faded jeans. “Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, and I want you to go out. You need to get out of this room.” “So do you,” he whispered. With his thumb, he stroked the back of her hand softly. “Well I can’t, but you can. And you’ll have fun, I know you will.” He shook his head again. “No. I’m not leaving you. Not even for a night.” She sighed, defeated. “Fine. I don’t feel like arguing.” She inhaled with effort and then exhaled with a shudder. “Me neither.” He looked up at her with an expression
mixed with triumph and remorse. Then, he smiled at her and bent over to kiss her hand. “I love you,” he whispered softly. “Love you, too,” she whispered back, already drifting off to sleep. The next day was New Year’s Eve. He brought her a sparkly tiara to wear for the occasion and some party favors left over from last year’s party. She wore the tiara for an hour or so, but then her head began to hurt and she took it off. It was dreary outside. The rain seemed to have set it for the day. The nurses came and went quietly, each one gently shaking her head at him. He tried to ignore it.
MISCELLANY 27
“Talk to me,” he asked her. “Tell me something.” “What?” Her voice was faint, as if she was far away from him. “Anything.” “I miss the ocean,” she said, her eyes still closed. “I’ll take you there soon.” “Promise?” “Promise.” She smiled sleepily, pleased. “Good. I’ll wear my bikini. You know, the one you like so much.” “Yeah, I know.” He stared at her, unable to look away. A petal fell from one of the roses in the vase beside her bed, joining its mates on the tabletop. Dried. Shriveled. Nothing like the crimson color they had been such a short time ago. They lay on the white tabletop, useless. “Hey,” she said, slowly
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opening her eyes to look at him. “Hey,” he said back. “Can I have a kiss?” she asked. He nodded wordlessly and stood up. Leaning over the bed, he kissed her lightly on the lips. He pulled back and she shook her head. “No, not like that. A real kiss. Like before.” “Okay.” He kissed her again, long and slow. When he pulled away, she was smiling again. “That was perfect.” “Don’t leave,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to. But I can’t stay. I’m too tired.” “I love you so much.” “Love you, too.” Another shriveled petal fell off the dying roses. The clock chimed midnight. She was too tired to stay, so she left as the new year arrived.
THE PRICE OF PARKOUR Macy Holloway Photography
MISCELLANY 29
JAZZ: BITCHIN BOXER Katie Tolbert Photography
FLORENCE DUOMO Stephanie Simpson 2D Art
30 Spring 2015
IRIS
Hannah Bright 2D Art
MISCELLANY 31
A BLADE TO THE SKY Alex Smith Digital Art
32 Spring 2015
BEFORE THE RAIN
Jeff Licciardello
Photography
Sputtering Smoke Christina Martinez Poetry
I drive in my car just like everyone else drives in theirs I turn up the radio and sing just like everyone does Hand on the wheel, between the lines, rolling over pavement I do this but it’s you who is with me I drove in my car just like everyone was driving in theirs I turned up the radio and sang just like everyone else was My hand- it was on the wheel- between the lines, speeding over pavement You were with me- the smoky, sultry sting of you- I inhaled you like my cigarette It was me who had you. There, in that moment, you were with me. I held you inside me for one split second. There, at that time, you were at my side, caught hovering over my engine, swept into the AC, sputtering out the vents. You did this but it’s me who is without & with. MISCELLANY 33
DYING BREATH Roberto Bernales
Photography
34 Spring 2015
Our houses, our bricks Barbara McGaughey Creative Nonfiction
The first time I touched alcohol, my sister’s boyfriend was pouring tequila down my throat, telling me I looked like a model. Girlhood is as short as the time other people let you have. The first time I skinny-dipped, I was high and drunk, in a pool full of strangers. Girlhood is as short as the time other people let you have. The first time I shot a gun, my neighborhood coke dealer handed me a shotgun, and said, “Aim for the squirrel.” Girlhood is as short as the time other people let you have. My first kiss was at an orgy, my mouth tasting like the Wild Turkey I had spit out upon the taste. We had walked until the woods hit the train track, and found a fallen pine to sprawl on. I lay on my back, my legs dangling on both sides of the pine, listening to Aubrey and Cole’s mouths moving against each other. Joan stretched on the ground next to me, the bottle of bourbon lifted permanently to her mouth. Our reality was as suspended as July could lift it. Humid steam rose into the trees, the air making our skin creamy. We were one shade darker than the day before, and our mouths were red by popsicle. I felt a hand come between the tree and my back, and lift me to sitting. As I leaned back into his palm, Cole let his hand drop, letting me free fall until he grabbed me with both hands, pulling me into his lap. Aubrey and Joan were practically licking at what was left of the bottle, still on the ground, laying now, their long hair rough with dirt. Later, when Aubrey is on top of me, I hear Joan’s mouth on Cole’s. Joan’s lips have these soft lines that look like streams falling backwards into the Nile. Aubrey’s curly hair is drawing dirt across my cheeks; marking the spot, or her territory. Cole laughs, and it sneaks up into the pines until the thick air silences it. Time feels like a circle I‘m never on the right side of; a bike whose wheels you turn backwards, only to realize on impact, that the handlebars hold the break.
MISCELLANY 35
LA VIE EST COURTE
Kiara Griffin
Photography
When the night comes Nadia Dreid Poetry
When my brother was a boy, he swallowed the moon when it was small, just a sliver in the sky and it grew, full in his throat Now he is a man with a bullfrog’s voice and he lives in a place where you can’t see the stars and his scars, they map out like constellations across his back 36 Spring 2015
He calls me on the phone, late at night when he forgets that all the people without galaxies strewn across their insides are sleeping. he says, He says it’s all he can do to remember there’s a god sometimes. he talks to me about orion until the sun starts to rise.
BUTTERFLY CHRYSALIS LOCKET Shaunte Francois
3D Art
MISCELLANY 37
SNAKE EYE
Susan Williams 2D Art
38 Spring 2015
EUROPA
Katie Randall 2D Art
SANDERS
Robert Bernaks Photography
MISCELLANY 39
JUDGES Poetry Richard Flynn is a professor in the Department of Literature and Philosophy at Georgia Southern University. He is the author of a critical book, Randall Jarrell and the Lost World of Childhood, a collection of poetry, The Age of Reason, and of many articles about contemporary poetry and literature for young audiences. Recent work includes “Elizabeth Bishop, Randall Jarrell, and the Lost World of Real Feeling” in the Cambridge History of American Poetry, “Words in Air: Bishop, Lowell, and the Aesthetics of Autobiographical Poetry” in Elizabeth Bishop in the Twenty-First Century, and two autobiographical critical and creative essays: “My Folk Revival: Childhood, Politics, and Popular Music” in Time of Beauty, Time of Fear: the Romantic Legacy in the Literature of Childhood and “Like a Cactus Tree: Coming of Age with Joni Mitchell’s Music” in Gathered Light: The Poetry of Joni Mitchell’s Songs.
Theresa Welford Theresa Malphrus Welford grew up in a working-class family in Port Wentworth, Georgia, a small industrial town near her birthplace of Savannah. She then went on to earn a Bachelor’s Degree from Armstrong State College, a Master’s Degree from the University of Georgia, and, eventually, a PhD from the University of Essex (in England). She has taught writing classes at Georgia Southern University for over two decades. In addition to publishing poetry, creative nonfiction, book chapters, and academic articles, she has also edited two collections of poetry: The Paradelle: An Anthology and The Cento: A Collection of Collage Poems (both published by Red Hen Press). She is currently writing several books for children and co-authoring two textbooks. Theresa and her husband, Mark Welford, happily share their home with countless rescued animals (cats and dogs).
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Creative Nonfiction Christina Olson Christina Olson is the author of Before I Came Home Naked, a book of poems. Her poetry has appeared in journals and magazines including The Southern Review, RHINO, Gulf Coast, Mid-American Review, Puerto del Sol, The Normal School, Anti-, Gastronomica, Passages North and Hayden’s Ferry Review. Her nonfiction has appeared in Brevity, Black Warrior Review, Wake: Great Lakes Culture and Thought, Quarterly West, and was anthologized in The Best Creative Nonfiction Volume 3. She is the poetry editor of Midwestern Gothic. Originally from Buffalo, she currently teaches writing and technical communication at Georgia Southern University.
Fiction Jared Sexton Jared Yates Sexton is the author of three story collections and a novel. His work has appeared in publications around the world and has been nominated for a handful of Pushcart’s, the Million Writer’s Award, has been a finalist for The New American Fiction Prize, and has been featured in Best of the Net and Wigleaf’s Top 50 Fictions. He serves as an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Georgia Southern University.
3D Art Derek Larson Derek G. Larson is an assistant professor in the art department, teaching new media, video and animation. He received his MFA in Sculpture from the Yale School of Art and in his practice he combines digital media with painting, lights, motors, and projected animations on freestanding screens. He has participated in a number of national and international shows and residencies, with recent exhibitions at Union South Gallery 1308 (Madison), May Gallery (New Orleans) and Vox Populi (Philadelphia). His work is featured in the Summer 2014 issue of New American Painters.
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2D Art Elsie Hill Elsie Taliaferro Hill is an Assistant Professor of Drawing and Painting in the Betty Foy Sanders Department of Art. Originally from Savannah, Hill earned a B.F.A. from the Rhode Island School of Design and worked as a commission portrait artist for 12 years. Hill received her M.F.A. from the School of the Arts at Columbia University in the City of New York where she lived and worked as an artist for six years. During that time she was represented by the Nabi Gallery and participated in several solo and group exhibitions. Hill was recently commissioned to paint the official courtroom portrait of the Chief Judge of the Georgia Court of Appeals, the late Hon. Charles B. Mikell. Hill’s accolades include Second Place in the Armstrong National 2-D Competition, Armstrong Atlantic State University; Natural Resource Defense Council Environmental Art Award Finalist; D’Arcy Hayman Scholarship and Agnes Martin Fellowship, Columbia University.
Jessica Burke Jessica Burke is an Assistant Professor of Art and Director of the Foundations Program at Georgia Southern University. She maintains a small, but productive studio in Statesboro, Georgia. Her work has been collected in both public and private collections in the United States as well as Japan and Mexico. It has been shown regionally, nationally and internationally in the United Kingdom, Korea, Holland and Italy.Please visit her website for more information and examples of her work www.jessicaburkeartist.com.
Jessica Hines
Artist and storyteller Jessica Hines, uses the camera’s inherent quality as a recording device to explore illusion and to suggest truths that underlie the visible world. At the core of Hines’ work lies an inquisitive nature inspired by personal memory, experience, and the unconscious mind. Jessica Hines’ work has been widely exhibited and published throughout the world in North and South America, throughout Asia, Europe, and Oceania, including the New Yorker and the New York Times. Her work has won awards that span the globe from Buenos Aires, Argentina, to Moscow, Russia, New York City, USA, Tbilisi, Republic of Georgia, Paris, France, Auckland, New Zealand, Pingyao, China, Busan, Korea, Saigon, Viet Nam, and Cologne, Germany. Belfast, Northern Ireland, to Dublin Ireland. Her work has been published internationally and in February of 2015 was featured in the Huffington Post.
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2015 Powell awards
Splinter
FICTION
BY JONATHAN HUNTER WALSH
Thin cold air whistled in through the shards of wood. A few large chunks still hung loosely from the rusted hinges, but the rest of the door lied in pieces on the floor. Its remains were scattered among the plastic and glass and paper that had formed a mountainous layer of garbage on top of the decaying floorboards of his grandfather’s home. The mounds morphed under Kurt’s weight, crunching and sliding. He picked up a large chunk of the door, rolling it over in his young hands. The old paint was chipping. But the jagged sides were a bright manila, untainted by smoke and time. He felt it over again and a sliver burrowed into his palm. The wood landed with a muffled thump as Kurt eyed his hand. He could see the thin slice of wood under his skin. He mashed the deep end with his thumb, trying to force it back out. It wouldn’t move. There was a fast crack as the backdoor fell shut, then soft cries of plastic as feet crashed across the mountains. His mother entered the room, struggling with a door in her arms, and she said “Get your toboggan on.” She sat the door down, leaning it against the wall. “What’d you do to your hand? Somethin’ prick you?” Kurt dropped his hand. “No, nothin’.” “Then get your gloves back on before somethin’ does.” He watched his mother stand
there a moment as he pulled the gloves back on. She looked from the floor to the doorway with pink eyes. “Jesus, Daddy,” she said, but trailed off. The new door was cheap and made of metal. No window or pattern. It was just a hollow metal box with a matte silver knob and deadbolt. “That the only one out there?” he asked. “Yeah.” She stepped over to the doorway, hammer and flathead screwdriver in her gloved fingers. “Had to move all kinds a shit to get to it. There was a big red toolbox. Figured we should take that with us.” “Why? What’s in it?” “Cause it’s nice.” She edged the screwdriver up into the bottom of the door hinge. “And I’m not leavin’ it here for some junkie or the bank to take.” She tapped the end of the flathead with the hammer. The dull tick of metal on metal rolled over them and across the plastic hills with trees of glass, echoing past the dust covered pictures of the dead. “What’s in it though?” “I reckon tools,” she said and pulled the top pin out. The chunk of wood fell and she stepped back. “I didn’t look yet, but I figure they’ll be nice ones. Daddy was always a handyman.” She dropped the pin in Kurt’s hand before turning back to the other hinges. “But we already have tools.” “These are his.” “I thought you said he wasn’t gettin’ out this time?” “Kurt,” she said, snapping around, “can you please be quiet? Please? We’re takin’ them because they’re nice and I don’t want some shithead stealin’ them.” They stared at one another. She gave him the other
two pins and scratched against each other in Kurt’s fist. His mother took up the new door once and wrestled and cursed it into the dingy hinges. “Here, come hold it like this,” she said. The boy moved and held the door. She took the pins from his hand and hammered them into place, before forcing the door into the dry rotted frame. The deadbolt thudded and she said, “That’ll do.” Kurt stood watching. “Take a look around, anythin’ nice enough to keep we’ll take.” She disappeared into a room to the side and Kurt was alone. He looked around the room again, searching the forest beneath him. There were fast food bags crumpled up into little balls, hardened cheese festering on them. Empty cigarette boxes with worn flaps. Syringes clouded with fingerprints and stained maroon. There was a dilapidated couch, yellow foam shining through the singed holes. Pictures hung on the back wall, torn and stained brown. The dead faces stared at him, motionless. All of their eyes were dark and gazed a gazeless stare. He shifted under it. His mother stepped back into the room, arms full. “Find anythin’?” she asked. “No.” “I don’t know if it works, but there was a TV in there.” Her arms were wrapped around it and she drummed her fingers. “One of Daddy’s jackets too, and his watch. Figured you could wear them once you’re old enough.” The jacket was thrown over her shoulder; he couldn’t see the watch. “Yeah.” “I’m gonna load this in the car. Go take a look at that bike, I MISCELLANY 43
44 Spring 2015
fell into the passenger seat and they chugged away. The house was old and faded, the paint chipping and shingles breaking, but the door was new. She pulled into a fast food place. She ordered for them and paid with a crumpled bill. They sat in the parking lot and ate in the silence of the radio. Kurt looked at his fries, still glistening with grease. They were more white than yellow, and reminded him of the bone in the thicket. They finished eating and Kurt sucked on his empty drink until she told him to stop. When they got home she carried the television and he had the coat slung over his arm and watch dangled from his fingertips. He dropped the watch on the kitchen counter and threw the coat towards washing machine. It smelled like cigarettes. “I’m gonna see if this works,” his mother said from the next room. “I really hope so, it’s so much nicer.” “Okay.” Kurt stepped past the room and towards the bathroom down the hall. He locked the door. Kurt tugged on the knob and the shower sprang to life. He pulled the plastic drape shut and took off his clothes. He looked at himself in the mirror above the sink. There were dark spots under his eyes. He popped open the medicine cabinet, his eyes scanned the shelf for tweezers. When he found them he sat on the toilet. Kurt began to dig at the splinter in his hand. Bright red blood erupted, slowly twisting through the lines of his hand. He couldn’t get it out.
In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit BY Thomas Morgan
POETRY
think we can fix it.” She moved past him and the pictures with her plunder. Kurt stepped after her, following through the kitchen. The backdoor shut behind him and shook the frame. His mother made her way down the gravel path to the car and Kurt looked up the steep climb to the garage. The cold cut through his jacket. He sighed and shook in the wind. The grass came up over his ankles and stained his jeans. He looked down into the path his feet kicked through the grass. Something in the green caught his eye. It was tinted brown, a bright brown, unlike the ancient photos. It sat there in the dancing grass, round and smooth. Staring at him. “Kurt, are you all right?” his mother asked behind him. “What’s that?” She saw it and stopped. She pushed Kurt to the side, then bent down. “What’s that?” Kurt asked again. “Bone.” “What kinda-” “Part of a knee.” She knelt there for a moment. “Maybe.” He watched her. She sighed and took the bone in her hand, reared back, and hurled it into a thicket. She watched after it, then turned to the garage and sighed. “We’ll need a truck for that toolbox anyhow. Maybe we can borrow Rob’s.” “But, what about-” “Come on, let’s get supper.” She turned and made her way back down towards the car. He looked back at the thicket before following. He wished that the grass was higher. His mother’s door shut and the engine sputtered to life. He
Everything was dark; they varnished the pews brown, painted the walls brown, hid the hard tan floor in brown carpets; the candles lit the air yellow and shady like a basement bar, the stained glass poured with sad faces of hurt people. The shiny porcelain-skinned Jesus hung horribly from the cross with blood and thorns and death on his face. He looked so raw. I stared at my mother’s urn under the crucifix and kidney-failureyellow lighting. Jesus dangled skinny. His ribs showed like snake tracks on sand dunes. Father Cletus hummed hymns and prayers that I couldn’t understand. He lifted the golden chalice of wine. It tasted like the smell of the vinegar I dyed Easter eggs with. I left church with communion in my molars. It felt like wet velvet. “Man up,” she would say. “Toughen up,” she would say. “Men don’t cry.” The Father cried, my father cried, and at twelve years old I did not cry.
DETAILS OF INCARCERATION: Known Affiliations
POETRY
BY Thomas Morgan
My father updated his status from his cell block to send a message of grace to “u know who u are.” He updated it to convince himself that he should avoid retaliation, and that “u know who u are” should be glad my father has “a little bit of jesus” in his heart. He does it from a cellphone that guards consider contraband. I suppose his affiliations allow him to Facebook. I suppose his affiliations greased guards’ hands. I’m closer to him online than I am offline. I can’t delete him. His profile feels like an
amphetamine addiction. I want to stop scrolling, but I can’t. I want to look away, but I can’t, like I know he wants to stop using, but he can’t. His profile is an intravenous injection; a rush of memories and floods of what used to be. A carpenter. A wife who made homemade cheesecake and peppered green bean casserole every Thanksgiving and every birthday. Three children and a Siberian husky with a pool colored eye and a bark colored eye. The type of bark
on pine trees that he taught me to shoot my .22 into. I miss green bean casserole and cheesecake, and I miss our husky who shed too much. I miss melting marbles for the Pinewood derby car you carved for me. And then I come down. I come back. Those things are what used to be. Sometimes I wonder who he’d be if a lot of Jesus filled his heart, instead of the stuff that collapsed his veins like old mine shafts. He might be affiliated with book clubs and good behavior status. He might be affiliated with Thanksgiving and birthdays.
A Bit of Late Thanks for My Father
POETRY
BY Thomas Morgan
I don’t hear Good Morning America—I think he’s crying in the living room. The streetlights are still yellow as old teeth, and there’s a pad of cold air stooped on the window. I smell the whirl of Folgers and his Marlboro from my pillow. He hocks and snorts a rickety nostril. He sounds like the coffee pot. He’s alone. I imagine he’s hugging
his mug with two taut hands and interlocked fingers to keep him warm. I listen to him and I don’t leave bed. “She can’t feed herself anymore,” he said. “I have to.” I sat on the yard’s knoll and waited for the trigger’s crack to blow through the woods. He shot our dog with a Winchester 12 gauge slug, which, you understand, was
quick and painless. He came through the couple of oaks that fenced the field he shot her in no faster or slower than any other day. His gun slumped unfolded over his forearm. He snaps the butane lighter and bleeds another Marlboro. I listen to him and I don’t leave bed.
MISCELLANY 45
2015 Powell awards Funeral Song for a Living Girl
CREATIVE NONFICTION
BY BARBARA JAYNE MCGAUGHEY
When your older sister travels 127 miles to escort you to the hospital, go. Get off the floor, change your bandages, and have her buckle you into the Volvo’s backseat. When the hospital secretary asks you why you are there, be honest. Tell her, you, a girl who once hid her giggling face during kissing scenes in Saturday cartoons, want to die. When the intake nurse tells you to find Jesus, ask him for a map. Do not bully the faithful. Listen for the silence they call God. When an addict gives you a parting gift in art therapy, keep it. Do not let your cynicism block compassion. Place the elephant figurine on your bedside table, and remember that wanting to save others is a version of saving yourself. When your psychiatrist gives you eight prescriptions, take them. Notice how they compress what you have considered your personality. Reckon with the nausea, insomnia, constipation, weight gain, migraines, fatigue, tremors, confusion, and increased suicidal notions. Mind the negative space where all the qualities you loved and all the qualities you hated about yourself once squeezed together under the same tin roof. Grieve your idealism. When you take all the pills, call your mother. Do not imagine them settling in at the floor of your stomach cutting through the mass holding you down. Let the EMTs lift your rubber legs onto a raft, let their harried hands pop veins, shaping doppler radars into your skin to evidence what you have done. Acknowledge the weight of intangibility as the doctor removes 46 Spring 2015
it. Allow the nurse to turn on Sunday reruns, and watch Kramer as he greets the audience with shock and indignation. Discover that bottle-heavy, the world is no softer. When your mother tells you she is sick of your helplessness, be reasonable. Do not take the pills she leaves on your dresser. Do not wax meat knives against your skin with any sense of purpose. Weather your role as an exclamation point. When she comes home six hours later, be waiting. Apologize for twenty years worth of bad chemicals. Ask her for help. Ask her for help. When your friends ask where you have been, lie. Say you took a left turn when they went right. Say a gap year was planned from the start. Say no path is linear. Shake your head, chuckle. Give them an alltoo-knowing look. Realize you have not fooled anyone. When your therapist dumps you over email, be sympathetic. Concede that you do not want to get better. Realize she is making the same choice you have tried to make yourself. Understand that manic depression is your oldest friend, a codependent, the sick pipe where you find relief. When a man thrice your age unwraps you on his spotless white couch, do not show remorse. Gather yourself up without looking at the blood stain. Feel flattered and rinse your mouth out with soap. Know love tastes dirty, because you are searching for roots. When the debt collectors start calling, answer the phone. Sell your clothes, your books. Cut the credit cards into pieces too small to decipher their strength. When the manic episodes come, lock yourself into small rooms with
no men or money. Marvel at the ferocious clamor of your heart as it tries to swallow everything. When your baby sister tells you she is a survivor of suicide, be gracious. Resist asking her for details. Do not tell her survival suggests someone who tried not to die. Explain to her cardinal eyes your memory has taken what you wrote in that goodbye note, and squirrelled it away. Apologize for the third act you have forced her to witness. Wipe her running snot with a rough tissue from your own shaking palm. Watch her relax into an exhausted sleep, and number the ways she is different from you. Be gentle enough to give her ignorance. When the doctor says you cannot have kids, listen to her. Chew on the karma of your own words, which for years have said children are not in consideration. Summon the kind of mother you would be: all closed doors and outbursts and trembling patience. There would be love, but too much. Learn that you are too much. Wave to toddlers in grocery lines and say hello as exuberantly as possible. Draw out the darling you tell their mothers, like one final push. Permit it to be enough. When the pills start to look like food, go to your local home improvement store. Buy twelve plants the size of pubescent trees, and fill your backseat with their legs until you can barely see out the back window. Stop looking out the back window. When peers ask how you are, lie. Tell them it’s a good day. Tell them the light came through your curtains this morning and you smiled. Tell them the sun continues to rise like a bastard daisy. Admit that you are talking about yourself.
MISCELLANY 47