The Fall Line Review 2011 by The Fall Line Review

VOL. XIV

2011

The Fall Line Review of Macon State College is published in print format annually. The online edition is ongoing. The publication is funded through student activity fees and is free to all members of Macon State College’s campus community. All literary, artwork and digital work are self-expressions of those who created them and are not intended to represent the ideas or views of The Fall Line Review staff or its advisors. This work does not reflect the views of Macon State College’s faculty, staff, administration, student body, or the Board of Regents of the University System of Georgia. Artwork contained in the journal or on the website is not intended to specifically illustrate any literary work or vice versa, but may have been placed according to content. The Fall Line Review is a literary journal featuring the creative and collective consciousness of Macon State College’s students. Please direct all inquires to: The Fall Line Review Macon State College c/o Humanities Division 100 College Station Drive Macon, GA 31206 Office: 478-471-5735 Fax:478-757-3624 E-mail: thefalllinereview@gmail.com Volume XIV ISSN:1930-1383 Assigned by the Library of Congress, February 21, 2006 © 2011 The Fall Line Review All copyrights revert back to the authors after first issue. Cover art Fall Reflections by Lily Billingsley

Editorial Staff & Advisors Content Editor Ben Zahn Layout Editor Lily Billingsley Review Board Shanna Dixon Rebecca Kidd Elizabeth Williams Advisors Dr. Heather Braun Dr. Kelly Whiddon

http://flr.maconstate.edu/

Table of Contents TITLE OF WORK

AUTHOR/ARTIST

PAGE

Harvest of Dreams

Brandi Oates

Swampland Fairytale

Elizabeth Williams

One More Sip

Lily Billingsley

Facts About the Tigress

Melinda Hagy

Breaking Fireflies

Shanna Dixon

The Askers

Ben Zahn

My Turn

Lily Billingsley

Flashes

Leslie Smith

Raining Fall

Sarah Johnson

A New Perspective

Allison L. Boutwell

Fall in Paradise

Angela C. Belfort

Lovely Repetition

Lily Billingsley

Circles

Johanna Acevedo

The Red Truck

Lily Billingsley

Why is Barbwire Never Romanticized

Heather Johnson

Joker

Johanna Acevedo

The Rent’s Due

Elizabeth Worthy

The Yellow Telephone

Leslie Smith

The Sun’s Shadow

Joshua Harrelson

Snow

Shanda Vogel

Table of Contents TITLE OF WORK

AUTHOR/ARTIST

PAGE

Heritage

Dianna Walker

Wind Kissed

Lily Billingsley

Drowning

Lorraine Mitchell

Happy

Ben Zahn

Await the Electronic Heart

William Lindburg

Frozen Gaze

Lily Billingsley

Awake

Nic Bell

The Garden of Eden

Elizabeth Williams

The Morning After

Brandi Oates

Pegasus

Johanna Acevedo

The First Mover

Ben Zahn

Palmetto Bay Sand

Sarah Johnson

Choked Up

Elizabeth Williams

The Portrait

Tishka Davis

Guardian

LaShanda Slaughter

Dustin Cobb

Catherine Vane

Fringe of the Field

Lorraine Mitchell

None of my items are checked off and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nearly noon

Shanna Dixon

Still Life

Lily Billingsley

Foreword We will always debate what art is and what constitutes good art. Each generation, ethnic group, social class, etc. will have its own criteria, and while our various standards may not be in agreement, the cacophony of opinions creates an unlikely harmony. Even with our efforts at diversity, the demographic represented by students at Macon State is a relatively small portion of this collective voice. Still, in this year’s edition of The Fall Line Review, we attempted to include material that works together to create something larger. Each piece from each medium may be just a single note from a single instrument, but when you combine a few of these, you will hear a chord. Various chords together create a progression, and the blending of these progressions, composed by multiple instruments, each with its own unique timbre, creates a symphony that is larger and more significant than the sum of its parts. Aldous Huxley once said, “Never give children a chance of imagining that anything exists in isolation. Make it plain from the very beginning that all living is relationship.” This concept applies just as well to the discourse of art. No piece exists in isolation. Each poem or story or painting is a single note, and each note is part of a larger harmony and progression. And that is the beauty of art. What use do we have for a single note? A solitary wind chime offers us little; the music comes from the collision, from the subtle touch or the violent crashing together of diverse pieces. As Aaron Weiss said, “Oh the music our collisions make!” So here is a humble note rising up to find its place. Here is the 2011 edition of The Fall Line Review. Thank you for reading, and we ask only that you remember Huxley’s words and take these pieces as relational, allowing their worth to be magnified by all the works you have experienced. May they bring you small pleasures as they collide and join the ongoing symphony of art. Sincerely, Ben Zahn Editor

BRANDI OATES

Harvest of Dreams She sang moonbeam sonatas while sincerity flowed from her fingertips like whispers on hushed lips; soft and sweet. She said dreams grew from branches dangling in the moonlight, where the wind shook, strewn, scattered dreams like shadows on the street. She would pick them in the afternoon, the sweetest, always before full bloom; ripened rich dreams plump, red and blue; a heavy mixture matured by the morningâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dew never forgetting the ones that lay bruised along the ground because the best jams always came from battered dreams.

ELIZABETH WILLIAMS

A Swampland Fairytale I wish long grass grew through the floors of the old dirt bars we smirked in, getting so drunk that it almost seemed the stools were the trunks of trees. Savannah breeze窶馬ectre my drunk mind walking through the dark. World wobbly. Old river scent following us back to the hotel. There was no evidence of that night; no cameras or receipts or tapes. I remember the heat of your smile and the rest is a ghost.

LILY BILLINGSLEY

One More Sip...

MELINDA HAGY

Facts About the Tigress My cubs will leave me when they turn two. I carried them for sixteen weeks in my womb. Only to have them ripped away from me so quickly. I push my long muscular body through the Bengal Bamboo and the shiny Jambu fruit bushes as I stalk the sambar. Before it senses me, I pounce and latch onto its neck. The sweet blood flows into my mouth. I drag the carcass back to my cubs and watch them as they pick the flesh from the sambarâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bones. I watch them

MELINDA HAGY

knowing that soon they will leave to be on their own. Suddenly I know why the women weep when their sons leave and never return. I am those women. I am those who lose their babies to war, or to ambition, or to spite. I guard my babies with a feline grace knowing they are to disappear when the sun rises again.

SHANNA DIXON

Breaking Fireflies I’d been called it all by my teen years: Brat, tramp, spoiled, cursed, wretched. I frequently had bouts of hearing things that weren’t there when I knew Momma wasn’t pleased. The in-discernable cackling of hundreds with deep commanding voices scalding me with, No! Don’t! Wrong! Bad! These voices were accompanied by the image of hundreds of fingers shaking at me, shaming me. I didn’t realize ‘till much later these were hallucinations. Maybe Momma was right though. During those years my girlfriends and I had secretly been in competition as to which of us would lose our virginity first. But I couldn’t follow through. Every chance I got, I bailed. I’d think about how small my boobs were. I was terrified of being labeled flat chested by everyone at school. I prayed at night for bigger boobs than Momma, but I guess I didn’t have enough faith to make that happen. At fourteen, Mother dragged me along to the countryside of Saucier so the adults could have a Super Bowl party. Momma pushed her seat forward, and I maneuvered my way into the backseat. The floor of the backseat was completely rusted out; there wasn’t a board or a floor mat

SHANNA DIXON

that separated the road from me. Where my feet should rest, I watched the road rush beneath me. I didn’t say a word. I hugged my knees to my hollows and hoped, heaven-sent, that the seat wouldn’t fall through. The car had no shocks. So as we crossed the bouncing bridge I unknowingly let out a whimper, exciting my mother to turn around and give my thigh a twisting pinch. Then Momma turned again to her newest boyfriend and giggled strangely for him. It was a sickening giggle that prompted me to put on my headphones and lip sync my way through Raspberry Beret with Prince. I watched myself ride away with him on a motorcycle while Momma’s mouth agape swung from myths to men looking for seeds to fill her pit. The house we arrived at was miles from anything I recognized. There was a blighted water tower to the side of the house. The house itself was a cold-blooded creature, it was shedding its skin, and the corpses of children’s playthings were strewn across the yard. The beast must be ready to feed again because the inside of her was bare. Worn wooden planks shifted as I walked, letting the house know exactly where I was, so she could attack. There was a newer television and some worn lawn chairs. The kitchen had a blender, plastic ware, Styrofoam cups, and a dirty old crock-pot that

SHANNA DIXON

was steaming and letting off the smell of gumbo. There was a cooler that I already knew was filled with beer. I opened it to be sure, Milwaukee’s Best. There was no oven, fridge, or heat. Three small children came shuffling in from the back door. From the looks of them, they had no mother. The diaper sagged on the leader that looked well over four, but I couldn’t tell for sure if it was a boy or a girl. The other two were twins, though the dirt on their faces distinguished them. One had the ring of a pacifier around his mouth, but he seemed about six, and the other a line of snot that had attracted the dark earth from nose to ear. Momma came in and told me I was watching them tonight and to keep them in the back room after dark. “Momma, there’s nothin’ here to take care of ‘em with. Does this place even have runnin’ water?” I pointed in the direction of the snot faced one that was smiling at me. “Jolene, you want me to end up like Nana? You want that for me?” Nana had survived twelve tornados in the plains of Wichita, Kansas, but had died alone in a nursing home. Grandpa left her with five small kids for better things in Texas, and she never remarried. Momma left me for the crowd gathering around the grill out

SHANNA DIXON

back. As it got darker, the living room got louder, and the smell of marijuana crept into the back bedroom that we kids were held up in. The youngest had fallen asleep on a bare crib mattress in the corner of the room. The ring-mouthed one had to use the bathroom. When he didn’t come back, I went to check on him. I found him sitting there on the filthy floor watching his stool. He’d made a sail with a toothpick and a Jitney Jungle receipt. He said the toilet wouldn’t flush. He wasn’t the least embarrassed. I teared up. I left and grabbed two beers from the cooler and returned to the bathroom. Shutting the toilet lid, I placed the little boy on the seat. With toilet paper and beer, I wiped clean his face, hands, and knees. Then I poured the rest of the can into the tub and saved the other beer for me. The twins curled themselves into a yin-yang design on a pallet made from sleeping bags. So I turned out the light letting the moon in. It reflected on the empty beer can that I drank. The can teetered back and forth on the wooden slat floor with the breathing of the house. I picked up the can and walked out into the bare bulb light of the hallway, then on further, past yellowing teeth and Styrofoam cups of cold gumbo to the front door. I sat on a rusty paint pail and

SHANNA DIXON

watched the sky. The clouds alit seemed to be a page with the empty sky spaces being blacked out lines, censoring what shouldn’t be read. From this angle the moon was behind the water tower. Down the road, a figure came toward the house. It was running—sprinting really—toward me. Soon I could see it was a man heaving with elephant breaths, his ears and nose bright red. He didn’t slow down until he passed the water tower. Gathering himself, he walked the path and leapt gallantly over an overturned tricycle that was missing a wheel. He was barefoot. His breath steamy and eyes wide, he sat on the step and pointed his finger into the air that surrounded me. “Ain’t nothin’ for someone like you to get into here, aye?” the man said. I looked down while replying, “It’s not that. I’m just tired.” I noticed his feet, and I gasped. They were bloodied, and in the porch light, I could see his face and his eyes were grated. He couldn’t have noticed or cared because he continued, slowing his breathing slightly. “Ya know, life is dangerous and boring at the same time. At any second the floor could fall out, but it almost never does. An’ that’s what makes it so fuckin’ boring. Ya like Ed Gorey, kid?”

SHANNA DIXON

I lifted my head and really noticed him and removed the strand of hair from my mouth searching for his eyes among the scrapes. “Isn’t he an actor or something?” “Nah, an artist.” He said it with such passivity. I crossed my arms over my chest, bending in half into my toes. “Where’s J.T.? He around?” he said. The man let himself into the house, and all that was left of him were his two bloodied footprints on the wooden steps. I stared at them and saw myself touching and swirling the blood into the figure of a pair of lips until I felt my bladder giving way. Rushing to the side of the house, I scooted my jeans and underwear down to my knees and squatted in the shadow of the water tower. I could hear the laughter coming from behind the house, my mother drolly carrying on with her newest friend, the yaps of camaraderie, and the insolent creaking of the water tower that was marking the days ‘till he’d collapse and take the house with him. My stream of urine muted them all. Then a firefly landed on my knee. I took it and broke it between my thumb and index finger and sat dripdrying while I studied its ink on my fingers.

The Askers If I wait at least Two weeks after Aunt Maggie died, Can I ask you what death is? Two weeks is ten long days Of waiting – what was the question –? My locker opens and closes and opens Like my eyes. What day is it? Is Aunt Margie still in that box? Can I have an ice cream sandwich? Tomorrow I’m going to walk down the peer With Elizabeth. We will hear questions in the Water, and each silent answer is different And always fails to satisfy. So we take off our clothes And drown ourselves in the questions Themselves, and emerge, laughing and dripping And throwing wet sand, no more Enlightened, but blinded by the closeness. A wet hair kiss and a spine shiver In the wind. What time is it? I never catch a fish, but I ask my Questions back to the waves Until they burry me again. Six A.M. already? Is it Tuesday? Did Aunt Maddy go to heaven? Am I a good boy? I drew our faces in the sand, and It took part of us back into itself. I never catch a fish, but sometimes I Think I see a piece of us Floating on a crest as it descends To take the rest and rejoin the askers.

BEN ZAHN

LILY BILLINGSLEY

My Turn.

Flashes This floor is soaked with water carried in by a broken window pane. Eyelashes slide the tears to the side of her face. A glass shatters across a tattered table as the leavesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; edges turn brown and curled crumbling into a cracked planter. Light holds his gray ghost near and fire flickers on the wick of a wax candle. Rain falls and forms pools on the pavement while dust covers a chipped cherubim.

LESLIE SMITH

SARAH JOHNSON

Raining Fall

A New Perspective

ALLISON L. BOUTWELL

ANGELA C. BELFORT

Fall in Paradise

Lovely Repetition

LILY BILLINGSLEY

JOHANNA ACEVEDO

Circles

The Red Truck

LILY BILLINGSLEY

HEATHER JOHNSON

Why is Barbwire Never Romanticized

Joker

JOHANNA ACEVEDO

ELIZABETH WORTHY

The Rent’s Due Her ketchup and mustard hair blows in the smoky wind. Raccoon eyes stare through vacant sunken sockets. All evening, she’s been feeding on rich men. It shows. Crimson lipstick is smeared across her cheeks, and her feet hurt. She can hardly walk—when she does, it’s more like a horse trot than a graceful stride. Her skin looks like a Star-Crunch covered in white chocolate. In the yellow street light, the track marks glow like wild eyes in the forest. She puffs out foul smoke and asks the man in the Audi to be her next temporary partner. The sun will rise soon, and the rent’s due.

The Yellow Telephone And there she is, the mother, clutching my handset as I coil around a chair and rope across the dining room, creating a web as her words travel through my cord. She answers. I cradle the tears as they dampen my keypad and blur my numbers. I listen. She says heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s working late again. A stone supper on the table and sheets on the sofa tell their story. The dial tone hums, and she hangs up. Her fingers linger on my receiver. The father dubs me an eyesore, a blemish on the bright kitchen. The mother looks as if he kicked the beloved dog.

LESLIE SMITH

JOSHUA HARRELSON

The Sun’s Shadow You breathe the dawn, And the sun breaks forth over the mountains– Dark in their statured gaze, they are overcome! What valley, no matter how low, is not filled with light? You are the inspiration of the wind, The spirit of the sun’s brilliance, The artist from Who’s reflection this song echoes unto all the world! How can there be darkness when You are near? What heart can contain its self when you brush by? I live in the shadow of the sun, As the image of Radiance’s form. You are the breath that fills my lungs. You are inspiration.

SHANDA VOGEL

Snow I first saw him in the desolate Catholic cemetery long after dark. I had chronic insomnia, so every night around that time, I would just go out and walk. In a small town, you eventually run out of places before you repeat yourself, but if I didn’t move, my mind would just boil in its own commotion. I was shocked to see someone else in the old yard at this time of night, and I was about to just pass on by him, but when he turned to me, I couldn’t. He was just standing beside a headstone, his posture perfect. I could see that a layer of snow had piled up on him. It lingered on his dark hair and even on his face, clinging like a second skin, not melting. It was beautiful the way the snowflakes lingered on his cheeks that were just as white beneath. It was also strange that I didn’t know him. He was around my age, but I’d never met him, even though everybody in town had seen each other at some point. Still, he seemed familiar… “What is it?” he asked, as softly as the snow fell. “Excuse me,” I stammered. I couldn’t believe I’d been gawking at a total stranger. “No need,” he said. “I haven’t been looked at for a while.” I had no idea what that meant. It had taken me that long to notice how tattered his clothing was. He was wearing an ankle-length coat that was ragged all over and very faded. At one time it may have been black, but now it was a dismal sort

SHANDA VOGEL

of grey, flecked in dust and snow and riddled with holes. His boots were tall and tarnished, and he wore what resembled a suit beneath, with intricate buttons and a long vest. He looked like he could have walked off a movie set, but his costume was in too bad of shape. Then it hit me that I was still staring at him, and without realizing, I’d lowered my umbrella, so now snow had begun to dapple me as well. He was brushing it off my hair before I could blink. I was startled, not seeing or hearing him move. His boots hadn’t even scuffed across the grass. “Forgive me,” he said, and I knew I would. No matter what he said, I would forgive him. His voice was an ordinary tenor, but for some reason every word he spoke was compelling, each its own brief sonnet. “It’s okay,” I stuttered, and then, “I’ll go,” but he grabbed my arm. His hand looked like a talon of bleached bone against my sleeve. “You won’t go,” he told me. I had to accept that. My feet were apparently planted, and I looked at them now, so I wouldn’t be looking him in the face. I noticed there were no footprints leading up to where he’d been standing. It’d been snowing for at least an hour, so if he’d walked here it would show. Had he stood in that one place for that long in the cold? His boots were suddenly toe-to-toe with mine, and I looked up to find his face nearly touching me. I thought I would jump, but his eyes snared me like wire. I thought he was going to

SHANDA VOGEL

kiss me, and, ludicrously enough, I almost wanted him to, but he just looked down at what he had in his hand. It was my prescription bottle. He must’ve taken it from my coat pocket where I’d absently stowed it earlier. “What’s this?” he asked. “They help me sleep.” “Why sleep?” he questioned, still close enough for me to feel his icy breath on my mouth. “You miss so much when you sleep.” He lifted it to look over the name. “Caleb Fitzgerald. That’s you?” I nodded, and he put it away. I expected him to introduce himself, but no. “You’re cold. Shall we go?” I nodded but didn’t move, so he picked up my umbrella, and somehow I was following. He held it over us both as we walked, coming upon a row of old marble tombs. At the third one, I mentioned it held family on my mother’s side, but I soon noticed shards of wood peering up through the snow. We went over, and I saw that the door had been broken right off the hinges. Curiously I peered inside and saw that one of the stone caskets had the lid off. “What happened?” I muttered. “You’re shivering,” he said and took my wrist, all but dragging me away. I would have to call Mom in the morning and tell her someone had vandalized the family tomb. She could file a police report at a godly hour. It’s not like there was anything to steal. “I think that was Weylin’s coffin,” I mentioned as we continued our walk. He looked at me questioningly. “Weylin

SHANDA VOGEL

Abernathy, my grandfather’s great grandfather. He died suddenly when he was only in his twenties, some kind of illness I guess, leaving a wife and daughter behind.” “What a sad story.” “Yeah.” I had no idea where we going. “Where do you live?” I asked. “Far,” he replied. Before I knew what I was doing I was inviting him home. I couldn’t explain it, but he agreed without even an awkward pause. We returned to my humble apartment complex, and I led the way upstairs to my door. I went in and flicked on the light, but he lingered in the doorway, looking around. “You can come in,” I assured him, and he smiled for the first time before he stepped past the threshold and shut the door behind him. I tossed off my wet shoes and turned back to him, but he was across the room looking at my picture frames. I went over, watching him run his fingertips across a portrait of my mother. I pointed out who was who in the pictures, but he remained silent, his green eyes glossy and distant. “Did you want to change?” I asked. “You can borrow some of my clothes.” After all, he was about my size. He just looked at me, blinking once. Had he even been blinking at all this whole time? I grabbed a towel, a shirt, and some pants and then showed him to the bathroom. We just stood there a minute and for some reason he reached out and opened the medicine cabinet, so the mirror faced the wall behind him. Only now was the snow on him beginning to melt,

SHANDA VOGEL

dripping like crystals down his chalky face. I offered him the towel and left him to change. I grabbed another towel and started to dry off my own hair, thinking of something as I waited. I dug through my closet and removed the shoebox full of the keepsake photos my grandfather had kept. I planned to use them for a genealogy project, and seeing the family tomb had made me want to take them out. I was leafing through the pile when he came back out in my jeans and shirt, which he’d left unbuttoned. “This is all family on my mother’s side,” I explained. “I’ve been researching some of her ancestors for school. It seems like they were prone to illness because a few men died young like Weylin. He used to be buried on an old family farm in his hometown, but a couple years ago, they interred his casket here instead, to be with his descendents.” I flipped through the pictures, all of them not even thirty before they passed. He looked with me, not saying anything. He made me nervous, but for all the wrong reasons. I swallowed a lump in my throat. “I have a picture of Weylin somewhere,” I stuttered. When I got to it, I glared hard, double-checking the name and date on the yellowed back. It was a photo of the man sitting on my sofa with me. He had the same young, handsome face, the same long dark hair that curled slightly at the ends, and the same build. He was the same person. “I did die, but not of illness,” he told me, leaning in. “The rest of them, however…” He held me by both shoulders. “They

SHANDA VOGEL

weren’t strong enough to wake up after it happened. I don’t know why I was, but I’ve been trying to repeat it for so long.” “Repeat what?” I was whispering. I don’t know why. His chest was pressed to mine, but the only heartbeat I could feel was my own. “I was waiting for you,” he went on, ignoring my question. “I smelled my blood in you and so I waited there.” He brushed his cheek against my neck, and my spine clenched at how frigid it was, but also how smooth. It’s like he had no pores at all. “Waited?” I moaned, suddenly very tired and very heavy, as if my limbs were made of lead. An arctic breeze trickled across my pulse as it throbbed, and then there was agony replacing it. The pain was devastating, hollowing me and then filling the void with fire. It burned into twisting ecstasy and then flowed gracefully into a current of dreams. I don’t know how long it was before I could see him again, above me, godlike and not so pale anymore. His lips were ornamented with vibrant, unnatural red, and this time his smile melted me to liquid. “If you survive you will never worry about sleep again.” Weylin, my long dead ancestor, whispered that to me before I slid away into the darkness contained in his arms.

Heritage She cried. Didn’t cook dinner. Cursed her husband. Fell apart.

“You lie.” “Say it don’t matter. You know damn well it’s my job.”

She looked at the children. Sighed. “No one understands.” Her mother told her yesterday A woman Cooks For her Man.

DIANNA WALKER

LILY BILLINGSLEY

Wind Kissed

LORRAINE MITCHELL

Drowning A cookout, a party, friends and strangers. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t recall the purpose. Just the fun and laughter, but mainly you. Your eyes, the deep end of a swimming pool gone too long missing chlorine. Your expression, serious and wounded, but bearing a grin. You ran with the others, played their games, found the best hiding spotsin the shade where the grayed black of your clothes became the shadows, your brown muddy hair blended with bark and dirt where even grass was forbidden. There was where you went, the first to charge the battlements, conquer a new land, delinquent, no rules. Your plan, uncanny and wild, enticing me, inviting me. And when you caught me- wellâ&#x20AC;Ś

LORRAINE MITCHELL

I died a murderous moment held by the wrath of your cruel child. You know the one – she’s swimming the deep end, awaiting another victim forgotten how to swim. She’s the dangerous one. She evades capture while luring me closer. Wanting the candy in her outstretched hand, I reach and grasp yet all that’s there is her hand, sweet and young, tender and gentle. I pursue her pure innocence.

We seek the earth through all the shadows, wandering alone through the world. And in hand, a chain on my mind. She brings me to the dark lighted place, a place of beauty, of horror. Morals flow away, down the river of sin. I seek all I knew before her and her wayward wiles.

I pillage the planet, taking all I see. No reverie, nor reality,

a blur of white-washed black and gray, a sharpened edge, razor rim world. She says, “Listen. Hear the siren’s call.” I find an edge, slash, jump. And plunge into the deep end of your eyes.

That dirty pool with whirlpools of gold and yellow. And I wonder what will happen when that enchanting girl dies.

LORRAINE MITCHELL

BEN ZAHN

Happy We blew whistles and donned paper cones As we ate and drank each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s health With sugar and soda from red plastic with our names in black. Colored boxes sat on dappled fabric Stretched across the surface, And we sang around small fires A celebration of life â&#x20AC;&#x201C; The approach of Death.

WILLIAM LINDBERG

Await the Electronic Heart Await the electronic heart All here—hear all Receive the vastness of three green eyes Watch stars ignite Limitless birth vortex Radiant Black Egg The dreamtime towards which the departed soul yearns Revel in the dark No Self—revel in the dark Equate the electronic heart No Monsters in the Shadows of Space Comets rain—the true delight of dead heirlooms Tropical organ heatdome Spectacles dysfunctional Rainbow cast by purposeful prism Detach from Ego Third person objective sight Regard own being Being—occupy space Ignite—alone—not for a second Breathing—wind—control breath See spots in vision—Music Here: I Am.

LILY BILLINGSLEY

Frozen Gaze

NIC BELL

Awake Eyes snap open. The lazy droll of the fan overhead captures your attention. Shafts of light filter through the blinds onto your bed. You rise, only to sit back down and wipe your eyes. You reach for your lukewarm beer and take a tentative swallow. The bitterness takes you by surprise. The bitterness of your life takes you by surprise. You try again to get out of bed, and your shaky knees finally catch. You hobble to the couch and turn the TV off. The static irritates your eyes. You shower to wake yourself up for the day. Regardless of the activity, every day is the same. No matter what you wear, it’s always the same. Same jeans, same shirt. You pride yourself on style, but all you do is mimic. You brush your teeth, gargle your mouthwash. You put your contacts in so you can ignore the world around you. You look in the mirror, but you see nothing of importance. You walk downstairs to your family, but no one is around. You look around and wonder where everyone is. Mom? Dad? No answer. You scrounge up what could pass as breakfast, don’t worry about it being mid-afternoon. No work, just the day to yourself. You think of things to do. Girl One- boyfriend. No chance. Girl Two- nice enough, just not for you. You always want what you can’t have. It’s an old habit. Guy One- work. Fuck it. You’re on your own today, kid. You hop in your very generic American made vehicle and drive to your even more generic American town. What passes as fun is constituted to a strip of road containing restaurants and strip malls. Your joy can hardly be

NIC BELL

contained. This place is almost as vacuous and empty as you. Your CD player kicks in and plays a familiar song. You think about her. You can’t help but think about her. For a while, it was all you ever did. You loved her. You still love her. You are nothing but a memory to her. When did your life go wrong? You seemed to have it made. Good looking. Smart. Football player. Maybe not the best, but good enough to be noticed. Star baseball player. Good family. Popular sister. Pretty girlfriend. Bright future. One thing led to another. I was pregnant. You panic. I lost the baby. Relief. Kind of. Three months later, you need time. You figure out you’re an idiot. You need her. Together again. Two months later. I can’t be in a relationship where you put your hands on me. You are devastated. You have no one to tell. You brush it off, turning the pain inward. It hurts, but you don’t let it show. The big city welcomes you. You leave for college. All of your scholarships are forgotten. You took too much time to make a decision, all for her. They can only hold your spot for so long. Better luck next time. Your parents pay for school. They genuinely love you. People like you. Or they give the impression. Your roommate is a dick. Your friends are cool enough. Class is boring. Eight AM class is even worse. You never go. Your grades show that. You feed your parents the bullshit. They believe you. You come home for the summer. Nothing has changed. You hang out with your friends. You don’t do anything exciting. You think about her a lot. She calls you to apologize. There might be some hope. She calls to

NIC BELL

say she’s sorry. She calls to say she is seeing someone else now. This breaks your heart. You want her to be happy. You loved her. You still love her. Fall semester. Take two. You trust your roommate. You like your roommate. Class is boring. Now you really don’t go. You know you shouldn’t waste your parents’ money, but you don’t go just the same. You go to your friends’ apartment. You drink. A lot. All the time. You smoke. More than you should. Harder stuff. Only once. Guy- Bloody nose. Whoa, a little rusty. Let’s do it again. You refuse, maybe for the first time in your life. Selfcontrol is not a character trait you exhibit. You go to work. You skip class and sleep. You don’t do homework. You hang out and do stupid things. Illegal things. Repeat. You know you have a problem. I need to come home. I don’t like it here anymore. Are you sure? I think you need to stay. I need to come home. It’s too expensive for you to have to pay. Are you sure? Please. Home sweet home. Stir crazy. Slower pace, not as much drinking. No drugs. Classes aren’t so bad. You are actually happy. Soccer. Girl. Too young for you. You don’t care. You become attached. She uses you. Not intentionally, but it is what it is. Are you still seeing him? Don’t lie to me. Yes. That’s all you need to hear. Weeks later. I have something important to tell you. I’m pregnant. Holy shit. So I hear she’s pregnant, is it yours? No way, you have to have sex to get pregnant. You’re not that stupid. You finally found a job. People are cool enough. Pay is ok. Hours are terrible. You get by. School starts back. Classes are actually interesting. Guess who’s there. She sits in front of you. You see her more now than you ever have.

NIC BELL

You talk to her. She responds. It’s been two years. Doesn’t seem that long. You love seeing her. You love her. You make friends. Finally. Actual friends. You love them. They keep you grounded. You can talk to them and not feel judged. They help you feel in control. You start drinking again, but only because it’s fun, not because you need to. You develop feelings. You like her. She understands you. She shows an interest. She already has someone. You always want what you can’t have. It’s an old habit. Party time. Clothes come off. You restrain. You are getting the hang of this self-control thing. You sleep it off. Your feelings are too intense to let them go unnoticed. You tell her. I don’t know what to say. She skips town, goes to see her boy. You are left confused and hurt. Alone. She calls you. Talks about how great a time she had. We really needed it. I’m glad I went to see him. You know where you stand. You can only think of her. You love the idea of her. The same song comes on. It wakes you. Eyes snap open. I can be ruthless if you let me. You lay down, eyes weary. You think. You dream. You sleep. Restlessly. You think of her, just like old times. You go to call her but catch yourself. Self-control is a good thing. You sit on the edge of your bed, wipe your eyes. You cry, not for long. Long enough for you to hurt. You loved her. You still love her. You love her. You sleep. Awake. Eyes snap open. Breathe. Make sure you’re still alive. Life is

NIC BELL

yours. Take it. Do with it what you want. You waste no time. You have a plan. Awake. Breathe.

ELIZABETH WILLIAMS

The Garden of Eden I sank into your descending garden— soft, dark, soaking with scent— under Van Gogh skies, fingers slid through the kudzu of my scalp. You are not as small as you think.

Your heart can hold magnitudes, but you say you don’t like clutter.

So here is a dead fire— your smoldering embers no longer producing heat, an ash bed where nothing else will grow

under a moon that does not glow, under a hanging tree, under your fleshy body where you kiss me like a stranger.

The Morning After The wind is trying to force itself through the haziness of my awakening pushing against the current of my stride. Ears ringing, fingers tingling in the sharp snaps of cold, and I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get a grip on this morning through the foggy lines between days. The bare-bark scattered limbs break beneath my steps in their attempt to keep me grounded. Blue grays cascade as the rain trick â&#x20AC;&#x201C; trickles down on footsteps; slick strides drifting along already heavy trodden paths where the right direction has been washed away Left with nothing but flashes of smoke-filled-barstool-confessionals and the consequence that contains me.

BRANDI OATES

JOHANNA ACEVEDO

Morning Ride

The First Mover Who speaks first for dirty ears? Out of the mirror they stare, So much more real than we are. When my ghost moves it moves â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Who makes the sound? They get drunker as we drink, They stumble when we stand. Have I the strings? What fingers play With them that play with us? What syncopation blares the Eighths, offends the synchronized Feet and ends in dissonance, Mocking the irony of our harmony?

BEN ZAHN

SARAH JOHNSON

Palmetto Bay Sand You once lay with me under a blanket of sun and held me in your hands. The texture of my fine debris slipping through the crevices of your fingers and toes. You built me a kingdom by the seashore: castles with towers for guards to keep watch and dried up moats surrounding the landscape of a desert. Sea armies of adolescents would attempt to conquer my walls but crustaceans armed with a pair of Archimedesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s claws would defend my kingdom from such intruders. But as the sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bulb became dim and burnt out, the great big blue took over covering me inch by great inch. My towers began to crumble down, depleting all of my army and all of my castles. You left me here for the ocean to take, but a little piece of me snuck its way into your bag, towels, hair, and shoes. And just like the ocean, you will eventually wash me away as well.

ELIZABETH WILLIAMS

Choked Up

Jerk chicken and sweet melon on a bed of romaine. I garnish with a slice of lime, wiping wayward juices of each from the rim of the plate. This is what life is. I combine, I plate, I send out raw oysters with slivers of chili sauce, and some grateful person pours the succulent flavors into his mouth— the sacred entrance, the haphazard escape route. The mouth. We use it to feed; it is essential. We use it to speak; it is revealing. We fixate on it, pursed lips ripe and sweet as some jungle fruit. Small teeth hiding beneath the mouth, ready to help form the sounds we hear—ready to bite. I’m stuck making meals; gave up on college, on trying to be someone. He convinced me I am someone. He convinced me that a degree, friends, family are all secondary resources in life. He convinced me that few things were necessary. I just needed me. And so now that is all I have. I layer piping hot beef medallions on top of one another and drizzle with a brandy wine reduction sauce. Parsley flakes: a completely unnecessary touch, just something pretty. His eyes are pretty. I know you shouldn’t say that about a man’s eyes, but that’s what they are, and they burn inside my head. The sound of the kitchen is loud as a train, metallic bangs and crunches and muffled shouts and a constant chugging

ELIZABETH WILLIAMS

whir. We’re busy tonight, and I shouldn’t keep thinking about the other day, one of only a handful of months. I woke up and Olen was still in the bed with me. It was after noon, and the paper shade was drawn down so that the sunlight had to beat through the quiet room. It was summer, and his breathe was hot. Before I could comprehend, I felt his hand slide down my thigh. The heat made the air busy and sleek. Everyone says sweat is disgusting, but not his. His sweat is sticky like honey, and I don’t mind it dripping down my back. He says my skin is soft. He calls me bunny, and I start to melt. I wipe the sweat from the side of the platter: crumb dusted fish from a far off foreign land where fairy tales still exist amongst torture. The restaurant serves it topped with artichoke hearts and feta, complimented by a side of organic legumes and tomatoes. Foreign accents make their way over my head to the other side of the kitchen where they are greeted with concern. No. Tomato is not part of this setup. I replace it with sautéed broccoli. I roll in the thin white sheets of poverty on a mattress from a place “GOING OUT OF BUSINESS.” And at night, when I’ve been drinking alone, I hear the mattress say, and I will never support you because… and then I fill in the blank myself to save it some trouble. I do this to pass the endless unmeditated time. Time spent alone is time spent with self. I am

ELIZABETH WILLIAMS

never alone, I think. I think of the way his lips paused directly over my nipple so that I could feel his sweet breath. His breath was like cool water in the summer night, and his tongue dropped slowly onto that erect stone, which was reaching higher and higher with each breath. His mouth was more beautiful than me. The words that came out were beautiful. The things he put in must be too. Darling, he would whisper, Come for me. Leave it all behind, every misery, every regret, and you know what? That is what a woman wants to hear sometimes, even if it doesn’t make sense or if it scares the hell out of her. Sometimes something beautiful is dangerous, and you forget your sense of self preservation. I moved my hands down the crease of his back, tracing the notches in his spine. I burn my finger and drop a plate. Sauce goes everywhere, and I inadvertently yell. “Fuck! My bad you guys. Matt, get me another plate fast.” I stick my finger in my mouth to cool it with my own saliva. My mouth is ninety-seven degrees, and yet still cool enough to wade a burn in. “Get your shit together woman! It’s dinner rush on a Friday. Jesus…” I layer slightly charred Portobello mushrooms on a plate of swirled sauce and compliment with a root medley of dark purple beets, bright radishes, burdock, parsnip, baby carrots. All this food I make so beautiful, and it just ends up rotting within days. Food is delicious and flavorful

ELIZABETH WILLIAMS

for about thirty seconds before swallowed and digested, and yet people will pay everything to simply be able to savor something rarely placed on the palate, no matter how momentary. The seductive mouth conquers us all. We do so much to please it. So much. I think of how we would lay in bed, hot and sticky from the heat. Even after noon, we would be too hot to eat, and for the time, my hunger was easily satiated. He would lean over and place his nose to my neck and sniff deeply. He said he loved the way I smelled, and I would smile and then become conscious of my own sour sweat. I would push him off of me self consciously, and wouldn’t you know, he would get mad? He told me it made him angry that I couldn’t just accept who I was, every stench and clogged pore, but I would only get more self conscious and secretive, wishing I was perfect because I honestly thought that this is what he deserved. You are perfect, Olen would whisper reading my mind, and even though I could tell that he meant it, I wished even harder that I could be perfect. So I did my hair and makeup every day even if we stayed in; I’d paint myself to be a masterpiece. I made the bed when we got up and did his laundry and insisted on making dinner. I work in restaurants, I would plead, I know what I’m doing. That doesn’t matter Bunny, none of this does… Then he would sigh

ELIZABETH WILLIAMS

and sit down, and I would wish even more that he thought I was perfect. Have I ever told you, that you have the most beautiful smile in the whole world? He would grin and chase me and tackle me into the sheets, twisting and kicking, exposed and raw. I remember writhing like an eel, not knowing what world I was in. Something wasn’t quite right, and I would struggle to find the shade of grass or deep water and end up deep under the covers with his hot arms wrapped around me, Let’s sleep until the sun burns out. And we would let cool sleep consume us. There is a lag in the dinner rush, and I take the chance to call my voicemail. Bunny! I have a surprise for you when you get home, so don’t stay out too late tonight. My heart sinks, and my throat gets tight like when you are holding back sobs. I save the message to my phone archives to review later and slip the phone into my pocket. Matthew walks up to me with a cigarette in his mouth. He tells me to come back to earth, that my head is in the clouds, and that it isn’t good for business. I nod silently as gray smoke billows between his lips and nose. “You need to delete that message too” he says, and nods at my pocket. I tell him to fuck off, that he doesn’t understand. He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and flicks it toward the dumpster in the back alley. “Let’s wash our hands,” he says. I baptize mine. I set myself back up for work.

ELIZABETH WILLIAMS

Grilled chicken with lemon butter and capers stuffed with sun dried tomato and three savory cheeses. I garnish with a mint leaf and a side of mashed potatoes. Next is a steak, medium rare with something like green beans or red skin potatoes maybe? I think of a customer, bringing the fork up to his lips too hastily, survival instincts taking control. I need sustenance, his body will bicker. He will eat until his hunger pains are satisfied and only then realize the exquisite texture of the meat. I think of blood on his lips. What I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think of, is all the times me and Olen went to the park with the dog, or all the times we laughed, or even the first time I met his mother. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think about the way his hair curled when he drove with the windows down in the car or how he would pronounce the l in salmon. I think about one of the last times I kissed him, and his lips were chapped so that when we started to pull away from each other, the skin peeled a little from mine. Both our lips chapped from the cold that encroached and extinguished our summer. Skin pulling so soft that we didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t notice that tiny piece of us trying to hold on a moment longer. I think of the way his eyelashes whispered across my damp skin like some secret accent that was only a compliment to the way he rolled his tongue. I think about the look in his eyes when he reached orgasm. There was finality in those eyes.

ELIZABETH WILLIAMS

Sometimes, late at night when silence sucks me into its depths, I think about how I accused him of only wanting sex. And then my fingers tingle and my heart beats harder and I see in my memory that sweet mouth twitch downward. I purse my lips and blow into the air to keep myself from crying. My great heaving chest sends the message to my brain, just go ahead and cry. I don’t care anymore, I decide, and I put a salad on a hot plate and a soup in an ice flaked desert bowl. I put everything onto each plate as it is handed to me, even after the dishes start screeching back to the kitchen. I drown out the noise, all the noise in my head and outside of it, and even as the servers start yelling and complaining, mouths wide open, teeth bared, eyes lit. Here is pink salmon and green pesto with a side of mashed chick peas. Here is smooth cheesecake with a drizzle of oregano vinaigrette. Here are my hands burning because I took my gloves off. I start crying and two cooks try to grab me, but it is so god damned hot, and I am so sweaty that I slip out of their grip. “Get out” the owner yells, swinging around the corner as if some uncanny presence alerted him to my misbehavior. Matt looks at me with pleading eyes, with confused eyes, and I recognize them immediately. Have I ever told you, I would tease, that you have the prettiest brown eyes I’ve ever seen? Then, in an exceptionally

ELIZABETH WILLIAMS

masculine tone, he would reply you shouldn’t call a man pretty. Then he would make some joke, and we would laugh, but now I’m not laughing. I am in a car driving and sobbing, because it was perfect, and I convinced myself that I wasn’t satisfied. There was fleshy green love, and I looked and peered until I found the brown spot. Olen tried to tell me to eat it, that it was still good. I’m sure that’s what he meant all those times he told me that I wasn’t a Barbie doll and to just let myself be a human. But that is what my family and friends used to say was what every man wanted—a doll—regardless of whether he had the audacity to admit it. So when Olen told me I didn’t need them, and I felt I had already known, it was so easy to say goodbye to them all. And it was so easy to say hello to my new world, where my hunger grew every day. My mouth would water as he stepped out of a shower and my lips would quiver when I ran my hand down, down. I wasn’t obsessed, but I couldn’t think of anything else, and after all, isn’t that what they say love is? I would lay naked and he would compliment every hair and mole on my body. He would take in deep breaths of my scent. I felt my body wither and crook beneath his gaze. His body was savory and sweet. His skin was so smooth I could drink it. The textures of our flesh were overpowering. I became consumed and wanted to be consumed by these appetites, but instead I

ELIZABETH WILLIAMS

accused him—unable to handle my own hunger, my own desire. It was supposed to be a surprise. He tried to prove to me that it wasn’t just sex with him, that he loved me. I knew he loved me. I knew I was in love with him, but sometimes love is the appetite and the satisfaction. I park my car and walk into my apartment. The table is still set up for two, but the candles are disappearing every time I try to act like it never happened. I walked through the door, and he was sitting there with a bottle of good wine and a fine meal that he prepared. I was shocked and awed. I sat gratefully in my place and watched the graceful way his face moved as he spoke to me about love. Every feature worked together to convey the honesty I just couldn’t grasp. I remember my throat getting tight as I tried to suppress sobs. I was happy. I was happy. A memory flashed for a second of the mark he left when he bit me too hard one night. We ate and laughed and then something wasn’t quite right. He was shaking, but it seemed like the joke was over. He reached out looking for some kind of relief, and I just watched and smiled before I figured it out. I imagined those pretty lips were turning blue. Instinct told me so, even in the candle light. I relished each moment he gasped in my head, fingers curled and face flushed red. The candlelight glowing against the heat of the

ELIZABETH WILLIAMS

moment resonated as I decided what I could do. But I didn’t know what to do. I started sobbing, and those long fingers reached out to me, and I just let my tears pool on the tips, like a balm of regret, until the noise finally stopped, and the suffocation completed, and everything, in that moment, was finally still. It was my fault. I didn’t know what to do, and it all seemed to happen so fast. Now I can’t eat because as I bring the food to my mouth I think about his. He is now a dull thick presence in the recesses of my mind, lips vanished into cold leaving my body, still, white hot. If I cry, the tears come out greasy and unreal. If I ignore it all, I would be everything he told me I was not. I still want to feel him pulse inside of me, or anything for that matter. But, I’m the only thing I need.

His

breath isn’t hot, his sleep isn’t cool, and his hands aren’t sweaty. His mouth was the sacred entrance for my tongue and my promises and my lies. My mother said I’m wasting away from not eating, but how can I eat knowing how important a mouth can be? Surely my mouth is undeserving of such treasures, such morsels that might satiate. No. The only pair of lips, of shiny tooth and soft tongue, is just a memory now.

The Portrait The painterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s brush drifts over his self-portrait In the space of time he is uplifted then brought back down again To paint a different portrait Is all he asks In his humble seat It cannot take much longer than this to tell the time on those sturdy hands upon the clock ticking away the days away his manner away his spirit Will there be much left to share with another? A little flick of the brush He lets no paint upon its bristles...

TISHKA DAVIS

LASHANDA M. SLAUGHTER

Guardian

Dustin Cobb Dustin Cobb sits in a wheelbarrow while his grandmother reads a literary magazine on the back porch. A blue balloon in his hand is connected to a wrist stained with watermelon juice. In another place a tall blonde haired boy with giant grey rimmed glasses uses a juicer to make carrot and apple juice. He explains the juicer to a friend, â&#x20AC;&#x153;King Henry swears by the stuff.â&#x20AC;?

CATHERINE VANE

LORRAINE MITCHELL

Fringe of the Field blood on the grass strung beneath the stars viscera lingers on the ground a liquid vapor war strung beneath the stars bullets glitter the floor a liquid vapor war sounding everlong tonight bullets glitter the floor gently taking life sounding everlong tonight preying on the shadows gently taking life while the darkened sun shines preying on the shadows until all thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s left is light while the darkened sun shines we scour the moon until all thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s left is light and blood on the grass

None of my items are checked off and it’s nearly noon Sugar stains on the carpet are mating and soon they’ll be climbing the walls folding over me while the popcorn ceiling pelts me with late notices. My toenails, they should be painted. They’re like the bark of a tree. They are disruptive, but at the ends of me, so matter little. Henry tells me a dirty home cultivates, but even Anaïs in oxford greys cannot braid through my doorway. With her hands down she could not crawl. So I’ll rummage upside down through kudzu, toward loophole retreats. I’ll hide dinner dishes under blankets of oversized coffee cups in the sink while the smell of garlic gives me away.

SHANNA DIXON

LILY BILLINGSLEY

Still Life

Contributor’s Page Nic Bell Nic calls himself “an air force brat” from Las Vegas who was transplanted to middle Georgia. He is currently a junior CIT New Media student with big plans for the future. He enjoys music, reading, writing, and hanging out with friends. He blogs periodically and writes every day. He also broadcasts football games on the web for Peach County High School. He plans to attend Syracuse University for a Master’s degree in Arts journalism and hopes to work for the Conde Nast Publishing Company, specifically for GQ magazine. Awake Shanna Dixon Shanna is a sophomore in the CIT program. When she’s not wolfing down obscene amounts of coffee, she is studying, writing, mothering, or juggling a random combination of these or many other feats. You can find more of her words in the 2009 Fall Line Review or at Killpoet.com None of my items are checked off and it’s nearly noon Breaking Fireflies Shanda Vogel Shanda is a junior Art Major. She is interested in drawing and creative writing. Her future goal is

to be a published author of fiction. Snow

William Lindberg William is currently a third year English major. His hobbies include playing music (guitar and hand drums), reading and writing. His future goals are, as he puts it, to be at peace with the All and living and thinking in alignment with the preordained evolutionary diagram of the cosmic mind. Huh? Await the Electronic Heart Melinda Hagy Melinda is a sophomore English major who loves reading classic literature and watching horror movies. She loves to write poetry and stories and hopes to become a professional writer. Facts About the Tigress Leslie Smith Leslie is a sophomore English Education major. Flashes The Yellow Telephone Brandi Oates Brandi is a senior English major, who, after achieving her B.A. from Macon State, intends to go on to graduate school in the hopes of pursuing a career as an editor in the publishing industry. Her poem “The Warmth” was published in the

Contributor’s Page 2010 Fall Line Review, and she has also published other articles and essays for various literary sites and books. She has always loved writing and reading all forms of literature and especially enjoys the art and creativity of her peers. Harvest of Dreams The Morning After

Elizabeth Williams Elizabeth is a senior English major who spends her spare time traveling, reading, playing with her dog, and watching movies with her husband. Swampland Fairytale The garden of eden Chocked Up

Dianna Walker Dianna is a Senior English major with a passion for the arts. Her pastimes include writing and painting, but she rarely shares her work. She has performed spoken work for co-workers, and, though she does not know if writing is in her future, she always plans to write privately. Heritage

Joshua Harrelson Joshua is currently pursuing his B.A. in Psychology and plans to graduate in the Spring of 2011. He devotes his life to school and hopes to continue his education at least until he receives a master’s degree. Ultimately, he wishes to become a licensed college counselor and possibly teach at a university. He began writing poetry, stories, and essays when he was thirteen and has continued ever since. The Sun’s Shadow

Catherine Vane Catherine started writing the summer after her freshman year in college. Her influences include Sylvia Plath and E.E. Cummings. She received instruction in writing from Dr. Marty Williams at Valdosta State University and Dr. Kelly Whiddon at Macon State College. She received her Associates Degree in General Studies and is interested in finding her niche in the world and working to make it a better place. Dustin Cobb

Tishka L. Davis Tishka calls herself “an island girl” who moved from the Bahamas to Macon and started attending Macon State in the Fall of 2009. She enjoys being an IT major, and aside from dabbling with computers, she loves to write. She has written mostly for fun, but some of her work can be found at www.writerscafe.org under the name Holly O’Brien. The Portrait

Contributor’s Page Heather Johnson Heather is a freshman History and Secondary Education major. Her passion is photography, and she loves to watch people’s responses to her work. Why is Barbwire Never Romanticized Angela C. Belfort Angela is a double major: Civil Engineering and Applied Mathematics. She is currently a junior. Fall in Paradise Allison L. Boutwell Allison is a junior studying Communications and Information Technology. She enjoys writing, gardening, and arranging flower bouquets. Her picture, “Aunt Deborah’s Amaryllis,” was published in the 2010 edition of The Fall Line Review. A New Perspective Andrew Goodman Amity and Enmity (Love Theme)* To Lose a Loved One * LaShonda Slaughter The Guardian

Sarah Johnson Raining Fall Palmetto Bay Sand Lorraine Mitchell Drowning Fringe of the Field Elizabeth Worthy Rent’s Due Lily Billingsley Lily is a CIT senior and a non-traditional student at MSC. She is a professional graphic designer and photographer and also a licensed court interpreter. She lives with her husband, two nieces, her dog and two cats in central Georgia. She enjoys doing photography with her husband, going to the beach, eating Italian food, and listening to good music. She loves new technology because it allows her to stay in touch with her friends and family all over the world. Fall Reflections One More Sip… My Turn Lovely Repetition Red Truck Wind Kissed Frozen Gaze Still Life

Contributorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Page Johanna Acevedo Johanna is an international student from Venezuela. After completing an associates in business, she plans to pursue a B. A. in Fashion Design. She loves art, languages, and cultures because she believes they are a way to broaden life and imagination. Circles Morning Ride Joker Ben Zahn Ben is a senior English Major with a passion for art. He lives with wife, Amy Zahn, in Locust Grove, Georgia. He makes frequent attempts at capturing his thoughts and emotions in ink or music notes and will continue to do so with equal obligation and pleasure. He claims that, if he can, he will make a career out of writing, but that is not why he writes. Eventually, he hopes to get his Ph.D. in English and become a professor. Happy The Askers The First Mover Spiderweb* (Band: Rovazetella) We Wish to Be Remembered* (Band: Rovazetella)

* For music submissions, please visit our website at: http://flr.maconstate.edu/

The fall line is a geographical boundary about twenty miles wide that runs across Georgia northeastward from Columbus to Augusta. As the Mesozoic shoreline of the Atlantic Ocean, it separates Upper Coastal Plain sedimentary rocks to the south from Piedmont crystalline rocks to the north. The fall line is notable not only for the geological relationship but also for the impact that the geology had on early transportation and consequently on commerce and society. Rivers of the Coastal Plain were a major means of commercial transportation during the 1700s and early 1800s. The cities of Columbus, Macon, Milledgeville, and Augusta were located at the fall lines of the Chattahoochee, Ocmulgee, Oconee, and Savannah rivers respectively. The differences in geology to the north and south of the fall line give rise to differences in soil types, hydrology, and even stream morphology. A consequence of these differences is that the fall line separates significantly different plant and animal communities. Diversity lives on the fall line and provides the perfect name for our journal. The Fall Line Review is a compilation of the creative conscience of Macon State College. Just as cities evolved along the fall line: thought, poetry, art, and creativity find a place to burgeon, inspire, and prevail. Edited and designed by a student editorial board annually, The Fall Line Review represents the best art, poetry, fiction, and diversity in the Middle Georgia area.