Fall 10, Volume 14 Issue 1

Fall 2010

Edition 14

Number 2

Touchstones: Utah Valley University’s Journal of Art and Literature Volume 14 Number 2, Fall 2010

Department of English/Literature LA 114 Utah Valley University 800 West University Parkway Orem, UT 84058 Touchstones is published twice a year during Fall and Spring semesters.

UVU students may submit work under the following categories: poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, visual art, and drama. Turn submissions in to the English Department office (LA 114) and include the application form found at research.uvsc.edu/touchstones or the department office. All rights revert to artists upon publication.

Acknowledgements Thanks to all those who have contributed in all ways to Touchstones: to the English department—especially Samuel Bradford, Dorice Galbraith, and Rob Cousins; to Tyrone Gibson and the Arts and Visual Communications department; and to the Culinary Arts department.

Especially we’re grateful for the interdisciplinary of vision of the Arts and Visual Communications department in enriching the journal’s design and art; their collaboration has enriched our publishing experience tremendously. We look forward to working with and learning from their artful publishing vision for years to come.

Further extending Touchstones’ cross-university student collaboration this semester, the Culinary Arts department have generously provided food for My Word. Thanks so much to CA student Andy Guile, Chef Todd Thatcher, Chef Troy Wilson, and coordinator Cody Thatcher for their culinary poetry that makes us see a text in a whole new, multisensory way.

Finally, thanks to our managing editor, Annie Doxey (tough as nails and inquisitive as a fox) for her work in pulling the physical journal together. And thanks to pinch-hitting editorial consultants Aaron Guile (a past Editor in Chief), and Meggie Woodfield (the next Editor in Chief) for their selfless endgame work on the journal.

—Matt Sievers and Scott Hatch

Advisor’s Foreword A quarter-century ago, I got involved by chance in my University’s student literary journal as managing editor then editor in chief; that was a fundamental formative experience. Publishing was barely a generation removed from journals that were letterpressed just about the same way Gutenberg would’ve done the job, but a light year from today’s publishing tools. We were digital, but barely; to change a typeface, you spun down a disk that looked like the drive wheel of a band saw. When it stopped, you unclipped a belt from each side of the wheel, clipped on two new belts, and spun the machine back up. You output to photopaper, developed the paper, cut it into separate pages with an exacto knife, ran each page through a wax machine, and mounted the pages one-at-a-time on a light table.

Beyond production, here are a few things that remain the same: Publishing is one of the most arduous, complex, and multidisciplinary of human tasks; it’s fun to do the job, but even more fun to watch kids learn the job; and fine creative writing is rare and thrilling to find. Here are a few lines from a couple of my favorite writers in this journal (No need to cite them; you’ll find them on your own, and they’re worth the hunt): I meet Adam in summer’s first chokehold, where we stand still long enough to drink in each other. and Her voice was all exhaust and tasted of flat cigarettes.

She rumbled without lilts like a halfway house nursery rime.

—Scott Hatch

Editor’s Note This is where I say how humbling my experience working on Touchstones has been, and try not to come off as false modesty. What you’re holding in your hands is a lot of talent. Hard work too.

One of the the benefits of working on the journal, and one that I will probably miss the most, is that I get to be surrounded by people who bring so much skill and ability in what they do. And the people who have been working on this journal have put in so much effort.

There are the contributors—authors, poets and artists—and I am more than impressed by their work. The faculty advisor, the editors, the readers, the designers, staff members. It’s been a labor of love by all involved—it’d have to be, considering the amount of time and effort devoted to the journal.

Working on the journal has given me the chance to peek behind the curtain, see how the magic is done—selection of the pieces, debates over what to publish, editorial work, design, and finally getting the completed book from the publisher. It’s something I’m grateful for; I’ll be glad, once I step down, to be able to appreciate the trick of turning raw talent from so many sources into what you are about to read. Like every trick, it can be fun to know how it’s done, but it’s also enjoyable to sit back in awe and appreciate the illusion.

—Matt Sievers

Staff Editor in Chief Managing Editor Prose Editor Prose Staff

Poetry Editor Poetry Staff Art Editors Art Staff

Technical Editor Webmaster PR Manager Consulting Editors Faculty Advisor

Matt Sievers Annie Doxey Roarke Stone Colby Kelly Lindsay Ernst Melanie Leiber Maria Popyrina Ben Norell Heidi Bauer Emily Burdett Audrey Moore Nicholas Moore Michael Brown Meggie Woodfield Ben Norell Annie Doxey Ben Norell Michael Brown Aaron Guile Meggie Woodfield Scott Hatch

Touchstones: Utah Valley University’s Journal of Art and Literature Volume 14 Number 2, Fall 2010

Contents Prose 11 Big Gulch Jeff McCoy 19 Wolves Cindy Lee Mackert 37 Pardon Whitney Johnson 39 Recognition Rebekah Tews 43 Out of the Fire Mwark Haight 61 Finding Sally Daniel Phillips 66 Too Late Kimberly Lender 69 Origin of a Crazy Cat Lady Austin Beckstrom Poetry 77 Barstow to Baker Josh Christensen 78 One Morning in December Heather Holland Duncan 79 One Date Too Many Darek Purcell 81 Culture Rebekah Tews 82 Elias and Adele Heather Holland Duncan 84 From Mexico Jake Snyder 85 Harvest Jewel: Ode to Apple Tree Susanne Whitacker 86 Miller’s Hill Karen Bates 87 Molotov Cocktail Fever Samantha Herzog

88 Red Paper Please Annik Maryse Budge 89 Sagebrush Karen Bates 90 Splendid Emily Kershaw 91 The Human Creature Samantha Herzog 92 The Plot Josh Christensen 93 To Be a Man Without a Car Josh Christensen 94 Tree-Told Secrets on Provo River Trail Heather Holland Duncan Art 96 Bird Kirsten Nielsen 97 Angry Duck Aaron Webb 98 Canoes at Legacy Lake Dusty Nance 99 Birth of a Mother Patric Bates 100 Cycle Devin Moody 101

Reef David Jones

102 Drill Allison Hamnett 103 Dragonfly’s Gambling Debt Dahne Anne Davis 104 Giving It All Amanda Bronson 105 Ghostship Kirsten Nielsen 106 Jeff Goldblum Mac Ulibarri 107 Golden Gate Bridge Dusty Nance 108 Off the Plane Aaron Webb 109 Lunch Dahne Anne Davis

110 Reach Amanda Bronson 111 Out of the Light David Jones 112 Resolution and Synthesis Denver Sasser 113 Redvines Brooke Nicole Duncan 114 Smoking Kills Hilarie Burrow 115 R’lyeh Earthworm Aaron Webb 116 Self Portrait in Yellow Shirt Mac Ulibarri 117 Untitled Mac Ulibarri 118 To Avoid Kelsie Monsen 119 Sweet Bones Allison Hamnett 120 Untitled Jake Buntjer 121 Ship of Fools Patric Bates 122 Poetry Awards 123. Prose Awards 124. Contributors

prose

Big Gulch Jeff McCoy Fall 2010 Touchstones Short Fiction First Place

Y

ou are Second Firefighter Jaymie Sharp. Well, your official title is Forestry Technician. But you tell everyone you’re Second Firefighter Jaymie Sharp because it sounds a lot more impressive than Forestry Technician. Plus, you didn’t go through four months of training to hug trees in the forest and “get technical” with them.

What the hell is a technician anyway?

You open your eyes in the darkness and try to remember where you are. As you sit up in your bed your head rubs against the ceiling.

What the hell? Within a few seconds everything becomes clear and the sleep-fog dissipates.

Your one-man tent, a four-foot-wide by eight-feet-long Black Diamond spring-pole, has the faintest glow of morning beginning to shine through its yellow canvas walls. 6 a.m. always comes too early.

The four by eight little world you reside in seems so homey, and your 2-inch thick micro-foam sleeping pad is so plush compared to what lies ahead. But you know you have to abandon it all and high tail it outside or you’ll miss chow. Maneuvering your body to keep stiff and low as you can, you somehow manage to pull on some pants, your shirt, socks, boots, helmet, and pack. You wish you could leave the 45-pound line-pack behind, but your hard-assed crew boss requires an equipment check BEFORE chowtime. I hope he chokes on his coffee.

You place your pack at the feet of your crew boss, CB-Ryan Roche, and he stares down at you as if to say, “Can I help you?” You don’t blame him for looking down at you. In fact, everyone here looks down on you. You ARE only 5’9” and most wild land firefighters fit 11

Prose

the stereotypical “Firefighter Of The Month Calendar” body type.

Ryan is no different. Though his mid-section has rounded from too many winters at home with his wife and kids, his shoulders look big enough to hold up a house. His neck is as thick as his bulbous head, which could be big enough to use as a battering ram in the event you ever needed to “storm the castle.

After your crew boss checks your line-pack for water, MREs, road flares, and fire shelter you head over to the chow table while he starts briefing for the day. “All right everybody,” he starts off with his giant voice that lives inside his giant neck. He continues talking as you reach the chow table filled with doughnuts and coffee. Mmmmm—Doughnuts. “Day 4 of the Big Gulch Fire. We’re not making very much headway. Strong winds last night drove the fire east and its size has increased by 200 acres. That means we’ve got to catch this thing ahead of where it’s trying to go. We’re going to try cutting it off up the gulch. There’s an access road 5 miles east from here that leads up the west side of the fire. Trucks will drop you off and we’ll be cutting line a mile from the fire so when it reaches that point it’ll have nowhere to go. Understood?”

“Yes CB!” Everyone says in unison.

“Keep on your toes boys and girls. Weather reports indicate there’s a chance for some strong winds today, especially in the morning. We won’t be directly in front of the fire, but if winds change, our west-flank can easily become the head of the fire. So keep your escape routes and safety zones in mind.” Well well, maybe we’ll actually see some of the orange stuff today.

The past three days have been spent nowhere near the fire line and you’re starting to wonder if “firefighter” is really an accurate portrayal of what you do. You see, contrary to popular belief, wild land firefighters don’t drive around the mountains in air conditioned engines spraying water on fire. Oh no. Instead, they hike with heavy packs and hand tools out to where they dig in a straight line for 12

Prose

miles at a time. Glorified gardeners. Most people get stuck with rakes or shovels, which they give names to like, “McLoud,” or “Fire Rake,” so they don’t feel like they’re just digging a hole. Your favorite is the Pulaski. Essentially just a pickaxe with a pick on one side for digging, but when you rotate it, it’s got a regular axe on the other side for cutting through roots and small trees. It’s the one tool that makes you feel like a real firefighter.

You load your gear into one of the pickup trucks that will take you to your starting point and take a seat on the edge of the tailgate.

“Hey Jaymes.” Richard Heart. You hate that “That” has become your nickname on the crew. And you hate Richard even more. A clumsy, redheaded, freckle faced, skinny moron. The only good thing about him is he fits the “Mr. January Fire” stereotype even less than you do. One day he’s going to get too close to you on the fire line and get a Pulaski to the side of the head. And I will laugh my ass off.

“Dick,” you say with a nod.

“So you think we’ll get to see some fire today?”

“Doesn’t sound like it Dick.” You try to sound as unenthusiastic as possible in hopes to end this conversation quickly.

“I know, right? So no firewhirls huh?”

“Nope.” A firewhirl is a phenomenon where wind swirls like a tornado or a dust devil over a fire and carries it into the air, making a sort of “fire tornado.” They call it “extreme fire behavior.” A two year old at a grocery store crying for candy. Extreme behavior. It’s been a dream of yours to see some extreme behavior ever since you started this gig 2 years ago.

The trucks drop you off and your CB yells to get into formation.

“Jaymes, you’re on lead Pulaski.”

“Sir!” You shout and jump to the front of the line that your crew mates are forming. Hells bells, finally some recognition. Lead-P is hard work, but you get to set the pace of the entire line, and feel 13

Prose

like a badass too. Y’alls my bitches now.

You begin swinging the pick-side of your Pulaski into the dirt.

The “chunk, chunk, chunk” of your tool entering the soft dirt is almost melodic in its monotony. The other members of your crew follow suit and, in a single-file line, begin tearing away at the landscape as you lead them diagonally up a small hill that splits the massive “Big Gulch.” You keep the pace going fairly quickly as sweat forms under your helmet. The 30 pound aluminum emergency fire shelter taps against the back of your thighs as you walk and dig simultaneously, slightly hunched over. The small silver cube always made you laugh.

They covered its use so deeply in training you knew you could deploy it without opening your eyes. The most time ever spent on a skill you never hope to use. When opened, it was like a silver version of your one-man-tent, but much smaller. It resembled more of a tin “hotpocket” than a potential life saver. Golden brown and cooked to a crisp. If you were ever caught in a fire it would protect you from the intense heat­—to a point. It always reminded you of the tinfoil dinners you used to make when you went camping as a kid. Just throw some meat and potatoes into some tinfoil, wrap it up, and throw it in a fire. The tinfoil protected the food from burning while letting in enough heat to cook it just right.

A swift breeze coming from the bottom of the gulch cools you.

There’s that wind CB was telling us we’d get. Thank you, Mother Nature.

As you crest the top of the small hill you wipe off your forehead with the back of your hand and turn towards the bottom of the gulch to take in your surroundings. What you see makes your heart sink into your feet.

“Uh, sir?” You call out to the CB who’s taken the back of the line as his post. “SIIIIIIR!” You call out with more urgency. The winds on the top of this hill are more intense than the subtle ones that caressed you just minutes ago.

14

Prose

Ryan reaches you, a little out of breath from jogging up the hill.

“What is it?” He demands.

“Have you gotten any reports on the fire’s behavior since we’ve been up here?”

“I haven’t heard anything on the radio. It’s been quiet all morning.

Nothing to report. Why?” You point your finger down the gulch like the cloaked Ghost of Christmas Future to what was coming your way. Ryan turned to see that the fire HAD changed direction and now was below you in the gulch. Ripping and roaring through the sagebrush and grasses that plagued this area, pushed by the high winds you were warned about this morning. The flames weren’t creeping, but charging up the hill towards you and the crew—low to the ground from the intense winds, lapping up everything in its fiery embrace.

Ryan stands, horrified and confused. What had happened? Why had no one warned him of this? He pulled out his radio and tried to make a call. It lay, silent in his hand. He looked down at it, then up at you. Off came his backpack with remarkable speed. It was opened before it hit the ground and a replacement battery was in his radio instantly. Before the volume knob passed the “2” mark we could hear reports of, “Critical fire behavior. Blow up. Evacuate. Find escape routes.” Ryan looks up at you with searching eyes as if to say, “Forgive me.”

“Everybody, back down the hill! Get to the safety zone!” He screams, waving his arms back towards where we came. “We’re pulling out now! Double time, go!” It doesn’t take long for everyone to realize the shit’s hit the fan. Everyone except for Richard, that is.

He takes two more swings with his rake before realizing that everyone is passing him. He ends up right in front of you on the line.

“Bust a move, Dick.” You manage to say as you hike as fast as you can without running into the back of him. You hear him huffing and puffing through his nostrils, too scared and focused on his next 15

Prose

step to open his mouth.

You realize that everyone is slightly changing direction uphill and the pace has turned into more of a slow run than a hike. Then it turns into a full run. Shit storm. You know what this means. Our escape has been compromised and CB is improvising. Shit storm.

Running behind Richard with your Pulaski still in hand you hear something being passed down the line verbally from person to person. CB had something to say and the only way for everyone to get it was to pass it down like a game of “telephone.” When the message finally reaches you, you go into autopilot. You’ve trained for this so much it’s been engraved into your head. “Spread out.

Prepare to deploy emergency shelters.”

The winds have become so intense that you can hardly keep your helmet on. The dense, hot winds fill your lungs, and no longer provide the relief they gave just minutes ago. That fire is right behind you, but you don’t dare waste time by looking back.

Ditching your pack and your Pulaski as you run, but grabbing the 4” by 10” aluminum cube from the bottom, you find a place nearby other members of your crew who are preparing to deploy.

Strength in numbers. Ripping through the clear plastic covering of your shelter you grab the two tabs labeled, “left,” and “right” with your hands and shake it open. The winds are so intense now you almost loose your grip. The aluminum glints in the fireglow and you climb inside to await the hell that is coming for you.

Inside the shelter the hurricane force winds sound like they’re blowing at 1000 mph. You can just make out someone praying in the shelter next to you and recognize the voice as Richard’s.

“You doing alright there Dick?” You shout, but he doesn’t answer.

I don’t blame him.

As the heat increases you know the fire-front is getting near.

From your training you remember that this shelter can deflect 95% of radiant heat. Fire burns at about 2400 degrees . . . so 5% of that . . .

16

Prose

120 degrees. Nothing I can’t handle.

The wind intensifies and the heat’s almost unbearable. What should be 120 degrees inside the shelter feels like it’s reaching 900.

I’m being cooked alive! A light begins to glow through the shelter and you realize the fire is all around you. You can hear others screaming from inside their tents because of the unbelievable heat. Screams of pain, or a confirmation of the human will to live? But you know better than that. Conserve all the usable oxygen you can. One breath of super-heated air can singe the lungs and kill you, so you try to calm Richard who is all but screaming for his mother next to you.

“Dick! Dick!” You shout. “Richard! Listen to me! You have to calm down! Conserve your oxygen!” As you finish hollering over the rushing wind a small hole forms in your shelter next to your calf, spewing super-heated air onto your leg. Dear God! You wail in pain, but refuse to move. You know that breaking the seal around your emergency shelter means death. Its hell in here, but out there is the seventh circle. Your mind focuses on what Richard could be going through to make him scream so. As others scream to fortify their will, you hope Dick’s cries don’t point to him losing it.

Your arms and legs burn from contact with the sides of the shelter, your throat burns from the hot air, your face is on fire. For twenty minutes you live every choirboy’s worst nightmare—And then it’s over.

As the fire passes over you, the heat gradually decreases. The orange glow from around your emergency shelter dims, and the winds die down. When you decide life is sustainable outside you roll over and exit the bottom of your metallic savior, now black and disfigured from fire exposure. You stand in a world that is not the one you left when you entered the shelter. The ground is black but chalky, crunchy, and smoldering. The only thing left of vegetation are twigs and small trees, now black and smoking, a few still flicker 17

Prose

with flames. “A parting gift. With love - Satan.”

You examine your leg where the hole in your shelter left you exposed to the hell outside. It’s charred black, but the pain is nothing compared to your face and arms where you had close contact with the sides of the shelter. Third degree burns’ll do that.

You turn to the right hoping to see a goofy looking red headed kid emerge from his shelter. You’re mistaken. Richard deployed his shelter next to a large bush which caught fire. “Emergency fire shelters are 95% effective from radiant heat, but do NOT protect from direct contact with flame.” Standing in the charred aftermath of the “Big Gulch” fire, the hole burned into the side of Richard’s shelter burns its way into your heart. I’m not laughing . . .

18

Wolves Cindy Lee Mackert Fall 2010 Touchstones Short Fiction Second Place

I

meet Adam in summer’s first chokehold, where we stand still long enough to drink in each other.

Desert heat suffocates its victims with red. Red permeates everywhere in Southern Utah—amid mountain faces, parched landscape, fading old bricks and new tile roofs, even school pride.

Dixie College campus remains small but lacks shade. Buildings are solitary figures that don’t merge anywhere. After crossing the merciless grounds, I’m thirsty. I linger at the water fountain. My thirst doesn’t expel; instead, it persists with no interlude like I have with school.

About fifteen students are spaced and dispersed throughout the classroom. Too many empty seats. Too many choices. Poised at the metal fringes, I will my feet to shift. It’s just a chair. You can’t choose a wrong one, I remind myself. But I still can’t move.

The professor enters clasping a gallon water jug, which he sets on his desk. I’m envious of his liquid quantities. “Take a seat,” he says to me.

Where? I want to ask but don’t. I make myself sit somewhere, anywhere.

Sweat beads on his balding head and dribbles down his temples in rivulets. He starts undressing himself—unbuttoning his wrinkled dress shirt, pulling it from his pants and lifting it up to dry.

His shirt gapes open, exposing a white undershirt. “It’s a scorcher, isn’t it?” he addresses us.

Compared to what, I wonder. I’m uncomfortable with his flapping 19

Prose

shirt and his undressed state, but say nothing.

A student, an older man with a gray beard, echoes my thoughts, “You must not be from around here. It’s only the beginning of June. It’s just going to get hotter.”

Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, the professor blots perspiration off his forehead and face, careful not to disturb his glasses. He holds his bottle up to his mouth and chugs and chugs.

Finally he grunts, “I’m from Michigan, the auto, and I’m about ready to go back. I don’t know how anyone can live here. It’s too hot.”

He must be musing because he turns away and writes his name on the chalkboard. White chalk squeaks with his every letter.

Rosengloom. History.

Undeterred, bearded man says, “It’s a dry heat.” The standard St. George answer. A few chuckles resonate.

Rosengloom distributes his syllabus and reads every word as if we are incapable of such an act. I center on one particular person, sneaking looks at him as the teacher drones on. Even from half-way across the room, I can see he’s good-looking. His blond hair is short in front and longish in back. He’s very muscular; the type that must spend hours at the gym. But he’s tan, wears a scowl, and eludes a dangerous aura—lifting weights isn’t all he does. A shiver courses through me when his gaze catches mine and stays.

When class closes, the blond guy stands by the outside door. I take several gulps at the water fountain, and he’s still there, waiting.

His broad shoulders almost fill the doorway. I can’t decide whether I’m intimidated or attracted.

“I’m Adam, and you are?” His scowl is gone.

“Cindy,” I tell him as he opens the door for me. Desert air rushes in my face, scalding my nose and throat, making it hard to 20

Prose

breathe.

“That ring you’re wearing, is it a wedding ring?”

“No, it’s a CTR ring.”

Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.” I shake my head for emphasis.

“I think you’re really cute. Will you go out with me?”

We pause on the sidewalk that snakes around campus. I notice his eyes are piercing blue—the exact color of the summer sky.

“Yes, but I have some conditions.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m not under any circumstances going to your apartment or wherever it is you live. And I don’t kiss until at least the third date.

Save us both the hassle and don’t try anything sexual.”

His full lips turn upwards at the corners as if he’s amused, but he nods. “I can respect that.”

“Alright then, we have a date.”

“I feel like I should be signing a contract. Did we just complete a transaction?”

I say nothing, and I don’t crack a smile. He’s too big and can overcrowd me if I let him. I’m wondering why I even agreed to take a chance on him.

“Are you usually so tough on guys who ask you out?”

“Yes.” “Well, that’s a relief. I’d hate to think you’re treating me any differently,” He says in an offhand, easy going manner, complete with a smile. A smile should lighten his strong face, make him seem approachable. Only somehow he appears more dangerous than ever. “I admit I like to bend rules a little.”

Queasiness rises in my stomach. He fascinates and terrifies me.

He must’ve seen something in my expression because he adds, “Relax, I don’t bite.”

I laugh nervously: a little too high-pitched. “I didn’t think that.”

21

Prose

“Where are you parked? I’ll walk you to your car.”

I tell him it’s behind the student center, and we head in that direction. The red-orange sun presses down upon us while the empty desert stretches under our feet. My dried tongue hangs limp against throat; I have no saliva to swallow.

“So the professor’s something else, huh?” He asks.

“You can say that. My jaw dropped when he started taking off his clothes.”

He laughs: beautiful and wholly masculine. “Tell me about it.

I was afraid he was going to go all the way. That was a sight I did not want to see.”

I join in his laughter. “Maybe he won’t last out the summer if he’s already sweating it now.”

Shrugging, he says, “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t care either way.

Just want to get through the class you know. ” “Yeah. He’s smart to bring water anyway. I didn’t think of it, and I’m from here. Man, I’m parched.”

He pauses on the sidewalk mid-stride. “I’ve got some water in my backpack; you want it?”

At my nod, he brings his bulging backpack forward and over his shoulders with no sign of exertion. He removes a water bottle from the side pocket and holds it out to me. The bottle is halfempty, half-full.

“You’re welcome to it—if you’re not afraid of my germs.”

It almost feels too personal like using someone’s toothbrush.

But I’m thirsty. And he offered. “Please,” I say, reaching for it.

He watches me as I tip my head back and partake. I’m unnerved by him. His gaze seems to see right through me as if I have no substance.

Liquid evaporates in desert heat.

I stop short when the water is almost gone. “Thanks.” I try to hand the bottle back to him, but he shakes his head.

“Did you get enough? Or were you just being polite?” He asks.

22

Prose

I look away. “I don’t want to take all your water.”

“Drink it,” he instructs. “Your concern for me is nice, but I’ll be fine. I live right next to school.”

I swallow the rest, savoring. He takes the empty bottle, shifting it back and forth in his hands. I can’t help noticing his hands are big and strong like him. I barely suppress a shudder, thinking about other things his hands can do.

“I saw how you were looking at me during class. If I hadn’t asked you out, would you have asked me eventually?”

“No.” His brow furrows. “Why not?”

“I don’t approach guys. It’s another one of my rules.”

He makes a sound in his throat: an amused one. “It’s a good thing I asked you out then. We’d still be staring at each other in class.”

I can’t resist. “Were we staring at each other?”

“Oh yeah.”

We near the parking lot where the black asphalt radiates a heat of its own. I point out my car, and we stand by the gray surface, exchanging phone numbers on scraps of notebook paper.

When he hands me his, I say, “I’ll just tell you right now. I’m not going to call.”

“Figures,” he says. “Let me guess, another rule. I’m starting to lose track of them. You put a lot of pressure on guys, you know that?”

“I’m sorry. I won’t be offended if you decide you don’t want to go out.”

“Oh I want to go out alright. I’m just saying you are emotionally exhausting.” He cocks his head, studying me in that discerning way he has. “Do you ever get tired of having so many rules, of closing yourself off to life?”

23

Prose

I clear my throat. “No.” “Tell me, where does playing it safe really get you, Cindy?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” I admit.

“Maybe you’re not so gung-ho on these rules as you think you are.” He chuckles at my set expression. “Oh relax,” he says again.

“I may not understand your rules, but I’m good at following orders.

I told you I’d respect them and I will.”

“Thank you.”

He arches his eyebrows. “You’re welcome.”

Our conversation lulls. I allow myself to study the contours of his face, his muscles, and his easy stance. Maybe I gulp him in—the way I did his water.

“There you go again, looking at me like that,” he says.

“How am I looking at you?”

“You know.”

“No, or I wouldn’t have asked.”

With a smile, he says, “I’ll call you, Cindy. You’d better get out of this heat. You might get thirsty again.”

Dry, caked earth crumbles beneath my hands. Weeds don’t budge or give; they keep their stubborn hold on life. “It’s time to moisten the dirt again,” my mom says, rising and stretching from her knees.

She’s an older woman, sixties, who had me late in life. My antithesis, with her short, stout frame, tan, lined skin, and hair bleached between blonde and gray. “Make sure you’re getting the roots; otherwise they’ll just grow back again. What’s the sense of doing things if you can’t do them right?” She complains.

“I know, Mom. I’m trying.”

My time weeding with her will not count; I give up too early.

Sometimes I pull only a few weeds on my way to somewhere.

24

Prose

“I have a date, so I won’t be home for dinner tonight.”

Her latex gloves close around stem after stem. “Where did you meet him?” When I tell her school, she grunts. “I guess it’s a good place as any. But you meet nice return missionaries where they are: church.”

“Guys at church don’t ask me.”

“Maybe you should work on making yourself more approachable. You intimidate guys because you’re too pretty. It scares them off.”

I scoff openly at this. “I don’t think that’s why, Mom.” “What’s his name? The guy you’re going on a date with.”

I’m glad Adam made enough of an impact that I remembered.

Many times I forget and my mom rolls her eyes and demands, “You’re going out with this guy and you don’t even know his name?”

Why bother learning names when men blow in and out of my life like tumbleweeds or desert thunder storms that disappear as quickly as they happen?

“Adam.” She repeats it, hears it on her tongue, and tastes it in her mouth. Nodding her head, she says, “It’s a solid name.”

I wear high heels and a green sundress with cap sleeves that cascades knee-length in a waterfall of cloth. When we stride down my walkway, I assess Adam’s height. He’s a few inches taller than I am. I figure him to be near 6 feet. If I was shorter like my mother, I’d have to look up and up, and I’d be in his shadow. As it is, I can tilt my chin and gaze into his eyes, and he has less power.

He’s dressed for the weather, a T-shirt and jean shorts. He pauses to open the passenger door—a gentleman behind rough exterior. A contradiction I marvel at, find intriguing and even sexy.

“Does your car get too hot in the summer?” I blurt out after he’s entered. “I mean since it’s black and attracts the sun.”

25

Prose

“I guess you’ll find out, won’t you?” He starts the car and drives.

My words turn off, dried from heat.

“It’s not bad. I just crank up the AC,” he says, turning the knob.

The sun is still a bright neon ball that burns. Its glint catches the flash of green hanging from his rear view mirror and reflects light.

I lift the bead configuration, feel it in my hands, and rub with my thumb and forefinger.

Adam watches me from the corner of his eyes. “My little brother made me this gecko to remind me of family, home. His name’s Christian. He’s twelve.” His face, his tone, everything about him changes as he talks, becomes soft instead of hard. Love is etched everywhere, even in muscles. It’s that moment I decide he’s safe.

I release, and the green beads dangle, swing in time. “Where’s home?”

“Panaca. It’s a podunk town in the Nevada desert,” he spits out the words as if he can’t get them out fast enough, as if just the words themselves will drain life.

“Home doesn’t appeal to you, huh?”

A sigh releases. “It’s more the idea. I don’t like being in the same place for very long. I start going stir crazy. The conventional life, home, hearth, isn’t for me.”

“I’m the opposite—the idyllic dream house with the white picket fence.”

“Fences.” He shakes his head. “Is that what your rules are?”

It takes effort to say one word, “No.” He gives me a look that says he doesn’t buy it, but he’ll let it slide. “Where do you want to go eat?” I tell him to choose, that I don’t have a preference. ”Well, what do you feel like having?” He persists.

I twist my hands together in my lap, hating these questions. “I’ll eat anything.” A fall back answer. But the ‘it doesn’t look like you eat anything at all,’ I usually get doesn’t come. Instead Adam studies 26

Prose

me, searching my eyes, and asks, “You don’t even have an opinion?”

Turning my head, I stare out my window at endless red. “No, I’m sorry.”

“How about Mexican? Don’t sound too enthused now.

Someone might think you care.” He winks.

Shoulders ease. I offer a half-hearted smile into surprisingly kind eyes.

“That’s better. You were too tense. You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he says in a low, caressing voice.

I’m hollow, I think. How else could he see every part of me, when most cannot? It doesn’t take much to invade, fill. Water pushes inside and comes out dry. I am desert, emptiness, waiting, waiting. Maybe this is the fear—if he looks hard enough, deep enough, all he will see is nothing.

The restaurant rests on an outcrop of mountain, overlooking the St. George Blvd. Lights shine from the city. We sit in a booth by windows and can view all. Colors splash the interior, dousing the walls in vivid reds, oranges, and yellows. Salsa and chips on the table beckon to be eaten. But I’m the only one that puts the food to my mouth. Adam stares at me, his chin propped in his hands.

“What?” I ask, becoming uncomfortable with his silent eyes.

“You are so hot,” he says. “You must have a ton of guys after you. Can you count all the boyfriends you’ve had?”

I laugh and let myself feel the motion in my throat. “Wow, you’re good for my ego. You’re wrong though; it won’t take me long to count.” Holding up one finger, I say, “There, I just did it.”

His mouth gapes, and it’s almost humorous. “You’re kidding me. How old are you? Just out of high school?”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“Thank god. You had me worried. I’m twenty-six. What’s 27

Prose

wrong with the men in this town then?”

Again, I can’t help laughing. “I like you.” Biting into another chip, I chew, swallow. “It’s probably me not them. My relationships, if you can call them that, only last three dates. I scare a lot of guys away.”

“Purposefully?” He questions, and then nods as if he already knows the answer. Leaning on his elbows, he says, “I should tell you I don’t scare easily. I used to jump out of airplanes for a living.

It gives me a rush; I miss it. And I have pet wolves.”

“You mean part dog, part wolf ?”

He grins. “No, they’re real wolves. I keep them on my family’s property out in Panaca. Maybe I’ll introduce you sometime.”

“That could be interesting,” I say, thinking it will never happen.

“What kind of job did you have?”

“I was an Army Ranger, did my stint, and now I’m here on the GI bill, promised my mom I’d give normal life a try.”

“How’s that working for you?”

He gives a visible shudder. “It’s not. Normal makes me claustrophobic. I feel like I’m suffocating here.” Inability to breathe or take in air, being pressed down upon, I understand and wish I didn’t. “I’m still curious about those rules of yours,” he continues.

“Are they Mormon? You know don’t date until your sixteen, no sex until your married etc. etc.?”

“I am Mormon, but no they’re not. What about you, knowing those rules and all?”

“I was raised Mormon, but I haven’t set foot in a church in years.” He tells me he’s not sure he believes in god, he’s seen too much in foreign countries, and waits for my reaction. When it doesn’t come, he poses his questions, “If God exists why do terrible things happen to children? Why are children starving?”

“I don’t know, Adam. I don’t have the answers.”

28

Prose

I know where I’m sitting in class today, the same place I sat last time and the time before that. The teacher comes in again with his endless water and exposes his under shirt, but I’m used to it now. I’ve decided this is the way he is. Today Rosengloom talks about our papers we must write and scrawls grammar rules on the chalk board that he’ll be looking for and grading. He stresses the importance of deadlines, making a point of mentioning his job at the city newspaper where he has to turn his articles in on time or lose his position.

Adam hasn’t come in yet, and I watch the door periodically, waiting.

“Can you believe this guy? This is history not English,” says a lowered male voice behind me, close to my ear. He’s the thin, redhead with the goatee that was in my biology class last semester.

I turn halfway in my chair. “Yeah, I wonder where the school found him.” I don’t tell him that I’m an English major and don’t mind if Rosengloom talks about grammar.

“Wherever they get substitutes, I imagine. Most of the professors are taking their summer breaks,” he whispers back.

Rosengloom finally decides its time to take roll. “Anderson?”

He reads. He has not memorized names even though the class is small. I’m still talking to the redhead since Rosengloom is saying names very slowly, drawing out each syllable and trying to match the face with the name.

Adam saunters in and sits next to me. “Hey,” he says. Redhead shuts up, just stops talking and looks at Adam with some mixture of awe and fear. I realize I’m not the only one intimidated.

We are in Adam’s car, which is parked outside my house. “It’s the third date, you have to kiss me,” he says without preamble.

My insides twist, tremble. “I didn’t say that. I said . . .” but I cannot finish.

29

Prose

“Those are your rules. I’m not going to let you break them.”

I hate that my whole body is quivering as if the desert itself has sunk its teeth and claws into me.

“Are you cold? Do you want me to turn down the air conditioning?”

It won’t matter, I think, but don’t say. I will never ever get warm no matter how hard the sun hits.

“What’s the big deal?” He asks, but not unkind. “It’s just a kiss.”

I take a breath and let it out slow, preparing for a kiss that should just come natural. Not for the first time, I think I’m broken.

A dozen jumbled parts of me that don’t configure into shape.

He eases his lips onto mine, his mouth tasting like mint. His kiss is surprisingly gentle, nice even. For the first time I want to get into kissing, instead I fall short. I hold bits and pieces of myself back. Even now when I like someone, I cannot be left open, vulnerable, prey.

Leaning his forehead onto mine, he breathes, “Why are you so timid?”

The words slice into me, penetrating deep. I pull back, huddling against the door, away from him. I gesture to us with my hands.

“This is why I don’t kiss, why my relationships don’t last. I’m frigid.”

“I don’t believe that,” he says.

I look out in the distance to the far way mountain edges, the jagged peaks. “Well, believe it. I’ve heard it enough times from lots of different guys—along with cold, dyke, dick-teaser; you name it, I’ve been called it.” Each name I say pokes, pricks like cactus against skin. “Sounds like a bunch of angry guys to me.”

Tears prickle behind my eyes. I blink furiously to keep them away. “You practically just said it yourself.”

“No, I said you were timid. I’m wondering why that is.”

“I just told you!”

His gaze focuses beyond my words and sees everything. “You know what I think? I think some guy hurt you. I don’t know if it 30

Prose

was that ex-boyfriend of yours or what a man did, but now you’re frightened.”

My hands are shaking and I press them against my knees.

“Look, I pretty much knew this was going to happen. I’m used to it like I said. So there’s no reason that it has to be awkward for us in class. I say hi, you say hi, you don’t call me again. We’re good.”

He turns his scowl on me, glares. “What the hell are you talking about, Cindy?”

I jerk, reacting to his words, his tone. “Well, I just assumed you wouldn’t want to go out with me again. That’s what happens with every guy.”

“You thought wrong. I’m not every guy. I said I didn’t scare easy and I meant it. Give yourself some credit, will you? I think you’re sexy, smart, and sweet; you have some shit, but who doesn’t?”

“What’s your shit?” I ask.

I’m afraid he’ll demand to know what’s wrong with me first, but he doesn’t. Instead he sighs and presses his hands against the steering wheel. “I hate my dad. He’s a bastard. I love my mom and my brother though. The thing about small towns like Panaca is everyone knows everyone else’s business. My dad thought he was being so sly with his affair on my mom, but the whole town was really laughing at him behind his back. He was a joke. It was humiliating.”

I scoot closer to him, rest my hand atop his. “I’m sorry.”

He takes my hand in his, kisses it and holds. “What’s worse is he used me as a pawn to see his girlfriend. I was in little league and he wasn’t even there most of the time. Just used it as an excuse to see his mistress,” Adam growls. “ ‘I’m going to little league now,’ he’d say but he’d never get there. One time I didn’t have a ride home and the coach said, ‘Oh, your dad’s probably over at her house,’ and just drove me over there. After my parents’ divorce was final and he moved in with her, he still kept coming over for dinner like he owned the place. To this day, he still just pops on over whenever the hell he feels like.”

31

Prose

“Your mom should get a restraining order against him. He can’t just come over. That’s craziness.”

“My mom doesn’t want things to be tense. ‘Don’t rock the boat, Adam,’ she says. I avoid him because otherwise I might be tempted to smash his face.”

At the same moment my heart is hurting for him, uncertainty rises. I’m afraid of his anger, the unpredictability, and I’m not sure why. Anger is not what dried me up, but lack of care and control.

On Monday morning, my stomach quakes, a giant mass of nerves. I can’t eat much food, only a yogurt and a fruit, without gagging. I’m worried about seeing Adam again, wondering how he’ll react after we’ve kissed. Will he ignore me?

Adam is sitting in his usual desk, the one next to mine. Steady, he meets my gaze. “I brought you something,” he says, handing me a bottle of water. “I didn’t drink out of it this time. It’s sealed and everything.” He smiles at me—an oasis in the god-forsaken desert.

“Thank you. That’s very sweet of you.” The last bit slips out. I wonder if the word sweet is something you say to a man like him, but he only keeps smiling as if he doesn’t mind.

After class, the heat drains life and substance. Darkness passes before my eyes. I teeter, and Adam reaches out to grasp my arm.

“Careful,” he says.

I stumble my way to a bench in the blazing sun.

“Are you okay?”

“Just feeling faint, I have to eat a lot, and I don’t think I ate enough breakfast.”

“Maybe because you’re so skinny,” he says, but he doesn’t say it negatively like it’s usually said. Instead he says it with something akin to admiration. “You need to eat six meals a day like I do.”

“I don’t like having to eat all the time. I hate being weak.”

32

Prose

“You’re not weak. You’re just hungry.” He fishes in his backpack and pulls out a protein bar and hands it to me. “Here, eat up,” he says.

I shake my head. “I don’t want to take your food.”

“I’d invite you to my apartment and make a protein shake for you, but you told me you don’t go to guys apartments.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“I’d rather have you eat than pass out.”

I unwrap the bar and take a bite. Again he watches me as if fascinated. I eat all of it and even lick my fingers. I drink the water he gave me.

“Better?”

“Yes, thank you.” The food must have made me feel brave because I add, “You’re sweet.”

His lips quirk up at the corners. “Sweet isn’t a word I get called too often.”

“I don’t see why not,” I say.

Our gazes meet, and once again he smiles.

The sixth date I introduce Adam to my parents. My dad nods at him, the timeless gesture from one male to another. Only it doesn’t quite fit because my dad is elderly, my height and very thin like me. My mom looks Adam up and down, measuring, weighing, and finds him lacking.

“Your dad seems nice, but I don’t think your mom likes me,” Adam says to me as we are walking to his car. I tell him to not take it personally because my mom is still hung up on my last boyfriend, the nice return missionary she wanted me to marry.

“Is the Mormon fairy tale what you want, marrying a return missionary in the temple and living ‘happily ever after’?”

33

Prose

“That’s the expectation.”

“Do you always do what everyone expects of you, Cindy?”

I have no answer to give him.

I come home from my date to my mother drumming her fingers on the kitchen table. “I don’t like the looks of him. He seems capable of anything.” Her implications rise in the room like dust.

“Is he even Mormon? Can he take you to the temple?”

I go to the cupboard, get a glass, and pour myself water, drinking it very slowly before I answer. “Maybe I don’t care about that,” is all I can manage.

“What?” She shrieks. “Why are you talking like this? And since when?”

Something big, terrible, and frightening rises inside me—multitudes of pent-up emotion. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s from being hurt. Or the bishop pretty much telling me I’m a slut and I can’t go on a church mission. Maybe then, Mom,” I say each sentence louder than the one before. Tears are on the brink, the edge, and I’m unwilling to push them over.

I hear a noise, and it’s my dad entering the room, disheveled from sleep. “What’s going on?” He asks, but neither of us answers.

He’s almost an elusive enigma—a man.

“I doubt the bishop was trying to imply such a thing. I think you are misinterpreting words,” my mom says. “And the mission didn’t work out because it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Who gets to decide my fate, what’s best for me? God, the bishop, you? When do I get to decide anything for my life?!”

“You always have your free agency,” she repeats church doctrine in a patient, Christian voice.

I am the one who’s angry, unchristian, ungodly. “Do I really?

Tell me when are my decisions good enough? When am I ever good enough?”

Now she’s near tears herself, her gaze and words shaking. “Of course you are good enough.”

34

Prose

But the words do not reach. “I wonder,” I say, and I leave to my bedroom. I lean against the grain, letting myself fall all the way down to the floor, releasing the tears that course down my cheeks.

Hugging my arms around myself, I think of the bishop, with his hands and fingers shaped into a temple on his desk. I’m almost twenty-one when I sit in his office. I hear the words sexually active and I don’t reply only listen—though I’m struck by the meaning. He talks about penance, repentance, retribution. I don’t hear forgiveness, only about the long, hard road back into the fold of god. I tell him, “Fine, fine, whatever it takes. I’ve wanted to go on a mission since I was a little girl.” “It’ll be difficult; you have to get up at dawn and tract door to door.” “Yes, I can do that.” But he says “No, I don’t think a mission is for you. Women are not obligated or required to go on a mission. You are a pretty girl, why don’t you settle down and get married.” I want to scream, what did I just say? What did I come in here for? I did not come to hear I should get married. But I can’t say any of it because I don’t have a voice in which to speak.

“There’s no one,” I say instead. “It doesn’t mean there won’t be.”

I leave with nothing.

I think of the missionary that came before the meeting with the bishop. He is dark-haired, blue-eyed, handsome, and quiet. He writes me poetry in his letters. The last half of his mission I use as a shield, as a piece of armor. “No,” I say. “I can’t go out. I’m waiting for a missionary.” But then he comes home, and I have to face the world.

We date again as we did before, only I have something missing inside.

This time I have nothing to give. What else can he do but go?

Last I think of Adam, who is everything no one expects.

In history class, Adam tells me, “This cannot be a one-sided relationship. You have to call me, promise me.” Yes, I say, I will.

I lose count of dates. I start getting used to Adam and his strong arms and presence. I begin to care.

35

Prose

We park by the Virgin River that is dried from heat and cannot flow in any direction. He takes my hand. “Tell me why you have so many rules. Tell me what makes you afraid.�

For the first time, the desert feels like home.

36

Pardon Whitney Johnson Fall 2010 Touchstones Short Fiction Third Place

I

receive a warning; an instrument skipping octaves. I have ten minutes of battery. Those ten minutes pass. A long ring sounds similar to that of a heart monitor signaling death, and I know my ear is dying. It’s frustrating. Misinterpretations of instructions often occur, as my drum misses beats; letting myself into a conversation and realizing I am making a fool of myself, as I talk about something totally irrelevant.

I sit in the back seat of the car having learned to disengage from all conversation. I do not try to listen. I zone out into a world of thought. That is where I am comfortable. I completely free myself from my disability. I am not ashamed, as I used to be. My disability is something that defines my character, something that has shaped me. I mishear sounds every day. I am asked if I have seen a television show called “Teen Girl Squad” I hear “Tinkle Swan.”

Someone says, “Windy, isn’t it,” I reply, “No, it’s Thursday.”

I am perceived to be stupid because I wear a hearing aid. Ironically, because I wear glasses I am perceived to be smart. A doctor I work with, though he tries to be understanding, treats me as if I have been struck dumb. He asks, “Could you get me some XALATAN, XALATAN?” While mouthing his lips as if he were in a slow motion film. I walk out of the room as he explains to one of his patients, “She has a hearing impairment;” like that explains all--the patient gives a nod of confirmation, as if they agree that I need to be treated as a little child.

I receive an attitude of impatience from many; those who do not understand cannot manage to be kind, to be patient. Our society 37

Prose

has taught us to be impatient, so we are. Repeating ourselves seems too much of a challenge, so often those who do not hear, like myself, are ignored.

To most, it is unthought of to see a young girl wearing a hearing aid who is also perfectly normal. I am pitied when people find out, and I don’t want to be pitied. Asking a person to repeat words I did not hear usually irritates them. I explain my hearing impairment and their attitude changes from frustrations to sorrow, to sympathy. I can see their expression saying, that poor child. They do not pity me because I wear glasses, so why am I pitied because I wear hearing aids? Is the reason because it is stereotypical to think that hearing aids are worn only by the elderly? Because it is thought to be uncommon for young people to need hearing correction? Am I automatically perceived to be stupid? YES. The warning continues. I know the end is soon to come. The eleventh minute passes, my ear dies. I choose not to revive it, to relieve myself from hearing. I am able to shut people out, and I am good at it. I am tired of hearing, so when I can I let my ear die, I unplug the world and I drown myself in my comfort zone of thoughts.

38

Recognition Rebekah Tews

T

he rage burned. Nothing could quench that fire. It would burn evermore until revenge was accomplished. The black of night turned into a fiery dawn, the fuzzy images from his unmedicated mind pulling into focus. Clouds floated through the sky outside, streaked with red like the wounds in his brother’s neck and chest.

Again the anger boiled—Javed didn’t know who had done it. Silently, he promised Dael that he would find out and avenge his death.

Javed had run into the building only moments ago; he was lucky to have been passing through the area, otherwise no one might have found his brother for a long time. This room was so secluded, he was amazed he had found it. It was in this building Dael had worked at for many years. Javed knew his brother was well liked by his coworkers. Him that he was close to a break through.

He had been investigating this particular case for months. Who ever had committed this wretched act must have known and wanted to stop his brother from discovering the truth and closing the case. That seemed to be the only possible explanation. But what had he discovered before his death?

Javed bent down and carefully closed his brother’s wide, startled eyes; they were glassy, the light from them gone, yet they still gave the impression of ongoing emotion. Javed had witnessed death before; even helped the soul collector in his duties. From his experience he had seen that many of death’s victims had a similar expression after their demise. Yet it was unnervingly different to see the expression on a face he loved.

Slowly, he let his hand fall down Dael’s chest, the sticky wetness of his brother’s blood coming away with him. Unsettled, he turned 39

Prose

away, the ember of hope failing. He must hurry if he was to keep his courage to take revenge on the assassin.

It was a wonder he hadn’t seen the murderer leave—he had been outside the building. He had wanted to tell his brother something, but his original intentions for this trip had faded into a distant memory. All Javed remembered was running into the building after hearing the anguished cry that was his brother.

So, where had the perpetrator gone? It was possible that the killer was still inside the building, attempting to finish off anyone else who had been working on the case with Dael, but that was unlikely. This person seemed to be unskilled; they had let the victim cry out. It must have been one of their first jobs or an act of desperation—experienced assassins left no evidence. The bodies were simply found, days later in some cases, when the body began to reek with decay.

Javed had come to a conclusion: the assassin must have come from the Underlord of the city, where the majority of these jobs came from. Unfortunately, it was useless trying to find the Underlord. Only his very closest confidants knew where he was. The jobs were issued from these confidants to the workers—the assassins. Even those who worked for the Underlord didn’t understand how clients got messages to him, requesting his business. But in any case, Javed reminded himself that wasn’t the point. The point was that he had to find who had killed his brother and avenge his death.

He turned away from the body of his brother. He blinked, not realizing what he was seeing, his mind still out of focus from the lack of medication. Then it clicked. He was seeing the footprints of the murder leading away from the scene. It would be easy to find them, so long as the blood was visible. He opened the door and followed the tracks. Just outside of the building the footprints stopped and turned around. He looked at the prints, puzzled. He thought that he must have accidentally stepped on the trail he was 40

Prose

following, but that was not so. He looked closer and saw that there were two sets of the same sort, one leading away from the door and one going towards the building.

Still confused, Javed looked up, hoping to see something he had missed. He caught a glimpse of a blood-splattered man near the corner of the next building. His heart leapt as he tore after the man. He skidded to a halt next to the man. Disappointment filled his being as he realized he was only looking at reflective glass.

And yet, that would mean he was covered in blood—that couldn’t be possible. Just to be sure, Javed looked down at his shoes—there was blood on them. The deep red stains didn’t concern him, he was bound to have blood on the bottom of his shoes; Dael had been lying in a pool of blood when Javed found him. Javed knew he had stepped in it, he had crouched down, almost to the point of kneeling. It seemed so important to get a close look to be sure his brother was dead.

The bright red blood was explainable, but there were less vibrant spots on his shoes too. Spots that, as impossible as it seemed, were almost dry. And these drops were on the top of his shoes, as though the blood had fallen from above. Was he injured? Had he somehow been attacked? Was this what he had wanted to tell his brother? He couldn’t be certain, but he glanced at his own chest to be sure there was no stab wound there.

He sighed with relief. He wasn’t bleeding. Yet, there was blood all over his shirt. These spots too were in the drying process He looked back to his reflection in the window. The droplets were splattered as though they had exploded from their source.

Baffled, Javed glanced down and saw the blood-splattered weapon in his own hand. Tearing his eyes away from the reflection, he looked to make sure he wasn’t imagining it. And there it was, clutched in his blood-soaked hand.

Suddenly, everything came back to him. Dael had discovered Javed had been the murderer of the Magistrate. He had also figured 41

Prose

out that Javed was not only working as one of the Magistrate’s advisors, but was also working for the Underlord.

The Underlord had been able to pay Javed well and provide him with medication. The catch was that his clear mind had let Javed see the error of his ways. He knew he needed to get out, find a respectable job, and leave the Underlord’s business.

This is what Javed had wanted to tell Dael. He had taken his brother to the small, secluded room and realized his brother would never listen; Dael wouldn’t be persuaded to the fact that the Magistrate’s death was purely an accident, that it was a result of not having medication.

His heart seemed to skip a beat. He had found his brother’s killer. It was an accident, just like the Magistrate, but Javed had made Dael a promise. And now it was time to fulfill that promise— it was time for revenge.

42

Out of the Fire Mark Haight

R

osco Jennings stared down at the woman on his bed. Her chest barely moved up and down, and her creamy pale skin contrasted with the stained sheets. A rubber hose was wrapped tightly around her arm. Another pair of legs stuck out from behind the bed on the floor, varicose thighs on the minty green carpet.

Rosco picked up several empty hypodermic needles from the floor and tossed them into the garbage. The table, dresser, and floor were covered in half-empty bottles, pizza boxes, and condom wrappers.

He turned away from the bed and dragged a large, navy blue duffle bag from the closet. Unzipping it, he revealed a large amount of cash inside. He grabbed a few twenties before re-zipping it. He placed the bills on the nightstand next to the woman’s purse before scanning the room for his belongings. He collected his wallet, some change, and a white rabbit’s foot, worn and almost hairless. He rubbed his thumb on the furry white keychain and stared at the plastic bound picture attached to it. Beneath the worn plastic frame, a young boy stared up at him with gray eyes and dark, shaggy hair. He placed the items into various pockets before entering the bathroom. He glanced toward the mossy ring around the inside of the tub while using the once white toilet now covered in pubic hairs.

He stood at the sink, washing his hands and staring at himself in the mirror. His hair was greasy and his complexion was that of a teenage boy which he attributed to a childhood of rarely washing his hair. He felt he was handsome, with grey eyes and dark hair. In a brown blazer, pink buttoned shirt, and corduroy jeans, he had a sense of style that he felt confident in. He glanced back at the two ladies and smirked. He ran his hand through his hair before turning toward the bedroom again.

43

Prose

Looking down at the unconscious ladies, he smiled. He unzipped the bag and removed a large bundle of cash. He looked down at the money and laughed as he threw it up into the air, watching it float to the ground like confetti from a popper.

He grabbed his bag and left the room, closing the door behind him. He rushed to the end of the hall and made the long descent down six flights of stairs. Before entering the lobby, he poked his head out the door, shifting his gaze from left to right. The lobby of the hotel was dimly lit, even for the middle of the day. The beige carpet was splattered with russet stains, and the walls were discolored with piss yellow streaks. As he stumbled through the stairway door, he was struck with the stale smell of cigarettes and the undeniable presence of mold and decay.

An older woman was standing next to a door labeled office. She was large and homely, with the demeanor of a coal miner in Wyoming. Her name tag read, Momma, pinned to a brown and white, striped apron. She shifted her weight toward Rosco as he hurried toward the doors.

“Hey, where do you think you’re goin’? You still owe me for two nights stay. And that’s not to mention the ruckus you caused last night.”

Her voice was rough and raspy as Rosco paused before moving toward her.

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout the noise. Those chicks were something else.”

Disgusted, she shook her head and held out her hand, palm open.

“I don’t give a shit about your nasty habits, what I do care about is money. You owe me two nights.”

Momma licked her lips and smiled before continuing.

“Although, if you’re interested, I’m sure we could work out another form of payment.

Rosco gagged, throwing up inside his mouth as Momma rubbed her thighs and slapped her ass. He set his bag on the ground and unzipped it slightly, removing several bills before rezipping.

“That’s okay. As appealing as that is, here’s some cash. We’re good.”

44

Prose

Momma took the money, disappointment on her face.

“Hmm, hmm. That’s too bad, we coulda’ had fun.”

Rosco waved a hand and rushed out the doors, duffle bag over his shoulder. He headed around the corner of the building and went toward a Denny’s restaurant at the end of the block for some breakfast.

Charlie Waits walked out of jail and into to the nearest bar. He wore camouflage pants with a faded Pink Floyd tee shirt. The bar was a small joint. The neon beer signs were flickering as Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird blared with static out a tiny speaker in the back.

The bar’s counter was a dark, coffee color with smooth scratching etched along the entire top. The stools were all uneven and Charlie had to hold one hand to the counter to keep steady. He placed a few bills on the smooth top and called out to the bartender who was cleaning a table behind him. The skinny man in a filthy apron looked at the bills on the counter before glancing up at Charlie.

“What’ll you have, buddy?”

“Guinness.”

The bartender turned around, reaching for a tall glass on a shelf and filled it from the tap. He placed it on the counter in front of Charlie before returning to his cleaning.

Charlie took a long chug of the brew before glancing around the rest of the place, searching. The bartender noticed and spoke up.

“Something you looking for, mate?”

“Pay phone?”

“Pay phone? Who uses payphone’s anymore? I thought everyone on the planet has a cell phone. My eight year old niece has a cell.”

“Well, mine doesn’t have service at the moment. So do you know where a pay phone is?”

45

Prose

“Outside, around the corner. Probably the last one in the area.”

“Thanks.”

Charlie tipped back the rest of his glass, and drank the beer down smoothly. He pounded the glass down before he got up and exited the bar. The street was bustling with people moving in all directions. He pushed his way to the end of the street before turning. A nearby hotdog vendor smiled at him, the smell of burnt dogs almost hiding the exhaust fumes from the nearby freeway.

He spotted the pay phone in front of the Sun Dial convenience store across the street. As he reached it, he dug into his pockets and found some change. He placed the coins into the phone and dialed Ronnie’s number.

“Hello?”

“Hey Ronnie, it’s me.”

“Charlie? Is that you buddy?”

“The one and only.”

“Holy shit, man, I can’t believe it. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“You could have visited me any time.”

Ronnie paused.

“You know I’m claustrophobic.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And besides, I always worried they might not let me leave.”

“I would have insisted they let you bunk with me.”

“I bet. So what can I do for you, my friend?”

“I need a job.”

Ronnie hesitated before continuing.

“I don’t really deal with your kind of work.”

“No, man. I’m looking for something legitimate. I’ve spent enough time in a cell. It’s time for a change.”

“Alright, brother. That’s what I like to hear.”

“I have got to clean myself up and get some money quick so I can get out of this town for good.”

46

Prose

“Where’re you planning to go?”

“Home. Portland, Oregon. I’ve got a sister there with her husband. She’s got a couple of kids I’ve never even met.”

“I didn’t know you had any family.”

“She’s the only family I have. She’s been insisting I go for years.

I think it’s time. I need out of this god damned city for good.”

“This place will suck you dry, my friend. “ “That it will. So what do you think Ronnie, you know of a job for me?”

“Have you thought about going back to the military? I bet the Marines would love to have you back.”

“No, I can’t take orders like that ever again.”

“Yeah, but weren’t you at the top of your squad?”

“I can’t have that life any more. I still haven’t been able to wash all the blood off my hands from my last call of duty.”

“It beats robbing houses.”

“I don’t know, if it weren’t for the getting caught aspect, breaking and entering is a slick way of making a living.”

“Yeah, I bet the home owners would dispute that.”

“I bet they would. Not to mention that this last stint in the big house I did was pretty rough.”

They both laughed before Ronnie spoke again.

“Why don’t you come and work with me? My boss is always looking for taxi drivers. The money’s decent and the job is easy.”

“That sound’s alright.”

Come over to my place. I work in a couple of hours and you can come in with me. I bet they would put you in a car tonight, with how under-staffed they are.

“Alright, I’ll be there soon.”

“Good, Lori and the kids will love to see you, too.”

“Yeah, It’s been too long . . .”

47

Prose

Rosco turned the corner onto Main Street and headed toward the train station, his duffle bag in tow. He entered through a turn-style and made his way to the back where a sign pointed him to lockers. The station was bustling with mostly business types as the loud howl of incoming and outgoing trains filled the air with smoke and sound.

When he reached the lockers, he put some quarters into the biggest one available, and then turned the key. Opening the locker, he filled it with the bag. Before closing the locker, he opened the bag and removed a small bundle of hundreds. He closed the door and locked it, removing the key and placing it into his pocket. He turned away knowing that he had made the smart decision not to walk around with so much cash. He knew people would be looking for it.

He strolled onto the street outside the station and waved down a taxi cab. When it pulled up to him, he climbed in. The driver was a dark skinned woman. She wore a scarf around her head and Rosco noticed a blue diamond on her forehead. She was beautiful and her voice was smooth like the beating of a baby’s heart.

“Where to?”

“The airport, and make it fast, honey.”

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you manners?”

Rosco leaned forward.

“Listen, my parents never taught me shit. Everything I ever learned, I learned on my own.”

“Take it easy, man. I was just joking. To the airport, then.”

She turned without another word and proceeded toward the airport. Traffic was light for early afternoon and the sun still reflected off everything. Rosco sat in the middle and kept his face pointed toward his lap while he rubbed the rabbit’s foot and stared at the picture, the boy’s grey eyes piercing his own. The driver sang along 48

Prose

to the radio as they passed grocery stores, banks, a bus station, and then finally came to the airport.

The cab pulled into the front and Rosco gave her some cash before exiting. He walked into the airport and headed toward the purchasing desk. A young girl in a navy blue uniform was behind the counter. Rosco stood in a short line before it was his turn.

“Next please.”

Rosco staggered up to the counter, licking his hand and rubbing it through his hair. He wiped his greasy palm on his pants before removing the wad of cash from his pocket.

“I need a ticket to Florida. As soon as possible.”

The girl typed some info into a computer before returning her gaze toward Rosco.

“Alright, sir. We have a flight to Florida leaving here tonight at ten-thirty. Will that work for you?”

“Wow, that’s sooner than I expected. Yeah, that’ll work just fine.”

The woman typed some more.

“I just need to see your I.D.” Rosco handed his driver’s license to the girl, smiling as their fingers touched.

“Alright, Mr. Jennings. I’ve got you all set up for the ten-thirty flight to Florida this evening.”

She printed out a receipt and handed it to Rosco. He placed it into his pocket.

“Where do I go tonight to check in a bag?”

Charlie loved driving a cab. Its bright yellow exterior housing a brown nylon interior felt like a much needed change. As he drove it onto the road for his first time alone, he felt exhilarated at the concept of a legitimate job with a respectable pay. With only an 49

Prose

hour of training, the taxi company assigned him a vehicle and sent him out to earn his wings.

The traffic was light and he kept the speed within the proper limits. His heart skipped a beat when he heard someone call out “taxi”. He pulled next to the curb as an attractive woman climbed in. Her ruffled black dress did nothing to hide her long smooth legs and exposed cleavage. He grinned like a kid in a candy store.

“Where to, ma’am?”

“The train station please.”

She licked her lips and smiled at his reflection in the mirror.

He pulled into the street and thought that this might not be a bad way to make a living.

“Hey, Rosco.”

Exiting the airport, Rosco turned to find a man in a dark brown trench coat coming his way. He was tall and skinny, yet moved with the agility of a feline. Rosco turned to run, but instead ran into another man in a matching trench coat. This man was short and fat. Both of the men had crew cut hairdos and matching military style combat boots shined to a blinding gleam.

The men in trench coats each grabbed an arm and pulled Rosco toward a baby blue Toyota Tercel. The short stocky one opened the back door.

“Get in. Mr. V. wants to talk to you.”

Roscoe smiled as he shifted his weight.”

“What does he want?”

“You know what he wants. You know what you took.”

“Well maybe Mr. V’s got it all wrong. Maybe it was someone else.”

The tall skinny guy shoved Rosco toward the car.

“We don’t have time for your bullshit. Get in before we make you.”

Rosco dropped to the ground, letting his arms slide out of 50

Prose

his blazer. When he was clear of their grasp, he rolled backward, stood up and ran. He glanced back toward the two men who were following, but he sped up and out distanced them quickly. He knew that they wouldn’t have pull a gun in front of an airport.

When Rosco was a couple of blocks ahead of them, he turned and smiled. He grabbed his crotch and yelled back toward the men.

“You tell Mr. V. to stick it.”

He continued ahead, putting everything he had into his sprinting.

With a childhood of running away from bullies, he had learned the value of staying in shape. He was only in his thirties, yet he had run away from a lot of thugs in his day. He pushed harder until he saw an empty cab up ahead. He rushed up to it, swinging the door open and climbing in.

“Drive!”

The cabby drove. Rosco rolled down his window and hung his head out, turning to display his middle finger to the two men he had just out run. He panted, feeling very satisfied as the driver of the cab half-turned his head toward him.

“Where to?”

“The train station. Make it fast and there’s an extra twenty for you.”

“You got it.”

The cab sped up as Rosco’s adrenaline slowly tapered down. He knew that at this time tomorrow, he would be sitting on a beach enjoying a new and better life.

The afternoon air was warm and muggy as Charlie pulled up to the train station. He had stared at his passenger’s cleavage through the rear view mirror the entire trip, and was sad to see her go. He pulled up to the curb and she handed him some cash.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“No, thank you.”

51

Prose

She climbed out of the cab and ambled toward the train station entrance. Charlie stared at her ass until she disappeared from view.

He shook his head and grinned. The CB radio on dash crackled as a familiar voice came onto the line.

“Hey, Charlie, do you read me? Over.”

Charlie picked up the receiver and smiled.

“Yeah, I’m here Ronnie.”

“Good, how’s your day goin’? Over.”

“You checking up on me?”

“No, I’m just hoping all is going well.”

“It’s going good. Hey, what do I do if I need to take a piss break?”

“Just turn the off-duty sign on and be quick.”

“I’ve got to go, man.”

“Okay, I’ll see you when you get back, buddy. Maybe you can come over for dinner tonight. Lori is cooking chicken.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’ll see you later. Over.”

He replaced the receiver on the cradle and flipped a switch to indicate that he was off-duty and turned on his hazard lights. He climbed out of the cab, locking the doors behind him. He headed toward the entrance, looking for the sign pointing him toward the bathrooms. He made his way toward the back of the large and open lobby and noticed the bathrooms in the back next to the lockers.

Rosco handed the driver some cash for the fare and an extra twenty on top before exiting the cab and walking toward the train station entrance. He went straight back to the lockers, removing the key from his pocket. When he reached his locker, he unlocked it and removed the duffle bag. He opened it a sliver to inspect the contents before closing it and turning his attention to a side pocket.

Unzipping it unveiled some clothes, a granola bar and a gun. It was only a 9mm, but he knew it would get him out of trouble if needed.

52

Prose

He threw the bag over his shoulder and then turned to head out of the station. As he passed the bathrooms, he bumped into a man wearing camo pants and a Pink Floyd shirt. The man snarled at him as Rosco continued without pausing.

“Hey, watch where you’re walking, buddy.”

Rosco ran his hand through his hair as he moved through the crowd of people waiting for the next train. The stench of body odor and cologne was stronger than the exhaust from the train, as a multitude of men in suits filled the place. When he reached the outside, he turned and headed toward a cab parked at the curb. He noticed the off duty sign and kicked one of its tires.

“Can I help you?”

Rosco turned around to find the Pink Floyd guy staring at him.

“Is this your cab?”

“Yeah.”

“Great, I need a cab. Sorry about that business in there, I’m in a hurry.”

The cabby looked Rosco up and down. Rosco could feel the sweat building in his arm pits and back as the humidity blanketed the air.

“Alright, get in.”

“Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, whatever, just get in.”

Rosco followed the driver and climbed in after he had unlocked it. The cabby flipped the on-duty switch and then swatted down the fair meter.

“Where we going?”

“The airport, buddy. Make it speedy and there will be something extra for you.”

Rosco grinned as they drove away from the train station. He patted the duffle bag and grabbed the seat belt to latch when he heard the screech of tires as the cab stopped abruptly, throwing him against the front seat.

53

Prose

Charlie wasn’t happy about giving this guy a ride. He knew that he had only given one fare so far, but he didn’t like the look of this guy. He felt uneasy about his greasy hair hidden atop a pink shirt. The guy was latched onto that big duffle bag as if it were connected to him.

As he was pondering the contents of the duffle bag, a gold Lexus sped up from behind them and screeched in front, blocking his way.

Horns honked behind them as traffic began to drive around. Two large men climbed out of the car. The first one to exit had long dark hair pulled back into a pony tail. With Ray Ban sunglasses covering his eyes, it was hard for Charlie to make out his intentions. The other man had blonde hair cropped short. Both men wore dark suits with dark ties. They both wore scowls on their faces.

As they stood there in front of the cab, Charlie glanced back toward his greasy passenger.

“Does this have something to do with you?”

The greasy man shifted his gaze between the men outside and Charlie. He glanced to the bag and then looked behind him and to the doors. He wiped the sweat from his brow and ran his wet hands through his hair before returning his gaze to Charlie.

“Yeah, they’re here for me.”

“What do they want?”

“I don’t know, man. Just run them over or something.”

Charlie chuckled as he glanced at the two waiting men. He thought he could make out bulges under their arms indicating weapons.

Great.

“I can’t just run them over. Let’s see what the misunderstanding is, and then we’ll get you to the airport.”

Greasy hair shook his head and licked his lips.

“No, no, man. No, they’ll kill me.”

Charlie sighed and reached back, grabbing the pink shirt at the collar.

54

Prose

“What’s your name?”

“Rosco.”

“Okay, Rosco. I’m Charlie. These two guys obviously mean business, they seem to have guns. You need to tell me what they want.”

Rosco looked to the duffle bag and then back toward Charlie.

“How ‘bout this, man. If you’ll help me and get me out of this, I will give you a thousand dollars.

Charlie let go of the shirt.”

“A thousand?”

“Yup. A thousand bucks for getting me away from these guys and getting me to the airport. You do that, and the money is yours, cash.”

Charlie thought about that. He thought about how that money would help him with his goal of getting to Portland. A thousand dollars would cover the plane ticket easily. He glanced at the men again and then held out his hand toward Rosco.

“For a thousand dollars, you’ve got a deal.”

Rosco grabbed his hand and then sat back in the seat as sweat continued to pour down his face. He reached into the side pocket and removed a gun. He kept it low as he showed it to Charlie.

“We’ve got this if they give us any problems.”

Charlie snatched the gun from his hand and placed it inside the back waistband of his pants. He climbed out of the cab before he could hear an objection from Rosco. He marched toward the men.

They didn’t budge as he approached them. When he was only a yard away from them he stopped.

“Hey guys, what’s the issue here?”

Ponytail pointed behind Charlie toward the cab where Rosco was poking his head from behind the back seat.

“We’re here for Rosco. You are free to leave.”

“Why do you need Rosco?”

Blondie took a step forward.

“Our boss, Mr. Vulpini would like to talk to him.”

55

Prose

“And why is that?”

“Not that it is any of your business, but Rosco took something that belongs to Mr. V. He would like it back.”

Charlie thought about the duffle back that Rosco was holding onto so protectively.

“How about this, fella’s. You guys are going to move your car and Rosco and I are going to drive out of here.”

Ponytail and Blondie looked to each and smiled. They each stood a few feet away from the Lexus and the afternoon sun reflected off their sunglasses. Ponytail turned to open the door to the Lexus as Blondie lifted his glasses to rub his eyes, revealing ocean blue eyes. He replaced the sunglasses and then took one step toward Charlie.

“We’re not here to screw around. Either get out of the way or we’ll make you.”

Charlie looked at both men, considering the weapons holstered beneath each of their arms. As Ponytail opened the door to the Lexus, Charlie rushed toward him, grasping the back of his head and slamming it into the side of the car. Before Blondie had a chance to react, he kicked the side of his knee; a sharp crack and tear sounded as muscle and bone break. As Ponytail attempted to get up, Charlie grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved his head just inside the open door. He grabbed the door and slammed it against his head several times. He then kicked Blondie directly in the nose, knocking him unconscious. Seeing that the two men were out of commission, he turned away and ran toward the cab.

He climbed into the cab to find Rosco laughing with a cheering smile on his face.

“Yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. You showed them bastards who’s boss.”

“Sit back and buckle your seat belt.”

Charlie turned, looking Rosco straight in the eyes.

“You better be good for that thousand.”

56

Prose

“Don’t worry . . .”

Rosco patted the duffle bag and grinned. “ . . .I’m good for it.”

Rosco felt like the money in the duffle bag. He felt like things were starting to work out for him. He wiped his sweaty palm on his pant leg and leaned toward the open window. The air was warm, but felt cool on his moist skin. They were several blocks away from the train station and still a ways away from the airport but he sat back and smiled. He looked up to notice Charlie watching him from the rear view mirror.

“Thanks again for all your help back there, man. With my luck, there ain’t no one that can catch me. Might as well call me the gingerbread man, running as fast as I can.”

“Yeah, it’s no sweat. I need the money, otherwise..”

“Yeah, I hear ya.”

Rosco sighed as they drove onto the freeway. Charlie cocked his head to the side as they sped toward the airport.

“So those guys back there, they said you took something from a Mr. Vulpini?”

“I took what was coming to me. I’ve worked for that jackass for nine years, and he hasn’t given me shit for what I’ve done for him.”

“So what’d you take?”

“Let’s just say that after he had a few of us do a job for him, not all of the spoils ended up accounted for.”

“Got it.”

Charlie turned off the freeway and headed toward a road labeled, airport. As they pulled around to the drop off area, Rosco ducked down when he saw the baby blue Tercel. The tall skinny and short stocky men in the same trench coats were standing a few yards away 57

Prose

from the car, attention drawn to the airport entrance.

“Keep going, don’t stop, man.”

Charlie kept driving past the Tercel and continued passed the airport until they pulled into a park several blocks away. A large oak tree gave shade to their vehicle as he stopped and turned off the ignition. Charlie turned to face a nervous Rosco.

“Well, what’s our move?”

“I don’t know, man. Can’t you take out those guys like the others?”

Charlie shook his head.

“No way. They are standing in front of an airport. There will be cops everywhere. Besides, if they are desperate to get whatever you took of theirs, they will have people on the inside ready to pick you up.”

“Shit, man. I don’t know what to do. What time is it?”

The sun was setting and the sky was filled with brilliant splashes of orange and red. Charlie looked at his watch.

“It’s just about eight-thirty.”

“No, that’s too much time. My flight doesn’t leave until ten-thirty.

If I sit for an hour and a half, Mr. V. himself will pick me up.”

“I’m happy to help you out, Rosco, but you’ve got to be straight with me. I’ve got to know what I’m dealing with here if I’m going to be able to help you. So tell me, what did you take from this guy?”

Rosco looked down at his lap before glancing toward the duffle bag and patting it.

“I took this.”

“What is it?”

“I’m kind of a gopher for Vulpini. He sends me out to pick up this or that or deliver a message to this guy or that. A couple of days ago, he asks me to collect something from a client of his, but not to open it. So of course I’m gonna open it, who wouldn’t. And when I see what’s in the bag, I run.”

Charlie shook his head, squinting his eyes in thought.

58

Prose

“I don’t get it, if whatever was in this bag was so important, why did he send you?”

“Because I’ve been with the organization for a lot of years, and he probably figured I wouldn’t have the balls to cross him. He knows I had a rough childhood and he probably figured it had weakened me in some way.”

“Well, then, what’s in the bag.”

Rosco hesitated before unzipping the bag and unveiling the large amount of cash stuffed within. Charlie’s eyes widened at the sight of so much money.

“How much is it?”

“I don’t know. I figure it’s gotta be like a million or so.”

As soon as Rosco zipped the bag back up, he saw Charlie reach his arm to the back of his pants and remove the gun.

“What are ya doing, man?”

Charlie pulled the trigger and shot Rosco in the chest twice without blinking. He climbed out of the cab and opened the back door, removing the body and dragging it under the large tree. He glanced in each direction, yet found no one coming. The airport was so loud with planes and crowded with people that no one heard the shots.

He climbed into the cab and drove away, passing the airport and the thugs waiting for a Rosco that wouldn’t arrive. He drove straight to a self service car wash and sprayed the inside and out of the backseat until the blood was gone. On the floor, he found a blood speckled rabbit’s foot with a picture of a small boy attached. When he flipped the picture, Rosco age 4 was written in purple crayon. He stared down at the picture while rubbing the small speckled rabbit’s foot. He held his gaze on the young boy’s gray eyes for a full minute before sighing and glancing toward the duffle bag full of so much cash and wondered how much blood had been spilled for this money.

How many four year old boys had been ruined before this day?

He brought the cab back to the garage and clocked out. As he 59

Prose

walked out of the building, the duffle bag over his shoulder, he heard Ronnie call out to him.

“Hey, buddy. How’d your first day go?”

“You know what, it went well, but I don’t think it’s going to work out for me, something else fell on my lap and it looks like I’ll be going to see my sister sooner than I anticipated.”

“Wow, man. That’s great. I’m glad to hear that everything is working out for you.”

“Yeah, it really is.”

“By the way, what’s in that duffle bag? It looks heavy.”

Charlie smiled as he continued out onto the sidewalk.

“The future, my friend.”

He turned and left. He reached into his pocket and rubbed the white rabbit’s foot, smiling, before heading for the bus stop at the end of the street that would take him to the airport.

60

Finding Sally

By Daniel Phillips

B

rian needed a new pencil. The one he was using was just crap. He threw it in the trash can in the corner of his cubicle, ripped the paper off the pad he was drawing on, and sent it to the garbage as well.

“Whoa, buddy,” said Stephen, Brian’s coworker and friend who was passing his cubicle. “What did the pencil ever do to you?”

Brian sighed and rubbed his eyes, which were aching from staring at the pad for so long without blinking. “It is a stupid pencil, and I refuse to work with it.”

“Is that so? Work on what?” Stephen asked, reaching into the wastebasket and pulling out Brian’s crinkled up paper.

“Nothing,” Brian answered, doing his best to sound nonchalant.

“Listen, I’ve got to get some work done, so I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Work has never gotten in your way before,” Stephen observed.

He unwadded the paper and gazed at the scribbling. Then he looked up at Brian with a puzzled look. “A tree?”

“It’s a self-portrait,” Brian said, snatching the paper away from his friend. “I’m trying to be proactive and learn how to draw. I’m giving it a shot. I just don’t have the right materials! Plus that R. J. is just—terrible. ” Stephen nodded.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you are trying to draw something too difficult. You should start with something simpler.”

“Really?” Brian asked intently. “Like what?”

“Something small—how about a bowl of fruit?” Stephen suggested.

“I left my bowl of fruit in my other pants,” Brian replied flatly.

“Okay, something around the office then. How about a stapler or something?”

61

Prose

“Mine broke so I threw it away.”

“You can borrow mine,” Stephen said. “I’ll go get it. Be right back.”

Stephen’s stapler was black. It was so nondescript that Brian thought he wouldn’t even notice it on a desk if it wasn’t pointed out to him. He began by placing the stapler on a forty-five degree angle to the edge of his desk and drew an outline of it. He then tried to fill in details like the sliding piece that holds the staples and the square metal piece that turns the staples back on themselves once they have passed through the paper. The little square piece looked too big on his drawing; also it wasn’t square.

For his next sketch, Brian tried to draw lines without looking at the paper and focusing on the stapler. He only looked at the paper when he began a new line to position his pencil in the right place.

When he was done he held the paper up to the light and examined it. “Yep,” he said. “I’m getting worse.” He balled up the paper and threw it into his neighbor’s cubicle.

“Is this yours?” Said a timid voice from over the wall.

“Shut up, R. J.” Brian said. He needed a place away from these distractions. That R. J. was ruining everything! Brian packed up his pad, grabbed Stephen’s stapler, and went to the empty office at the end of the hall. He spent the next work week holed up in that office. He came early and stayed late. Any actual work he managed to complete was incidental—quick projects that he turned out during a break from the stapler drawing. At first it was strict determination. This stapler had to be conquered and captured on paper. A monument that Brian could hold up to show that he was the victor. But as he drew the stapler over and over again, Brian began to notice details that drew his interest. When he saw that the stapler had been designed with round edges he was taken aback.

“It’s so simple,” he whispered. “Of course they should be round, but have I ever seen a stapler with edges like this?” Try as he might, Brian could not picture any other stapler, even though he knew he 62

Prose

had seen hundreds. He spent the next three hours caressing the smooth, cool casing and gripping the handle.

On the third day in the empty office, he began to speak to the stapler. Playfully at first, asking it silly questions and laughing to himself at his own cleverness. On the fourth day he brought in a set of watercolors and some big sheets of drawing paper. He spent his lunch break that day picking out an easel at an art supply store. When he came back, he had a discussion with the stapler and decided that it was silly to go on like they had been. The stapler obviously needed a name; Brian couldn’t go on just calling it “stapler,” just as he wouldn’t like it if the stapler went along calling him “human.” It was cold and impersonal, and their relationship had advanced beyond that stage.

“How about Sally?” Brian asked the stapler. “Sally Swingline.

Sounds pretty good to me. What do you think?” Sally agreed with him, and they got into position for the next painting. This time Sally was posed on the desk over a black velvet sheet.

On the fifth day they didn’t get much painting done.

When they came back from the weekend, Brian returned to his cubicle. Sally sat on his desk and watched as he pulled up his e-mail and began to go through it.

“Where have you been?” Said a familiar voice.

“Shut up R. J.” Brian said routinely. Then something in the e-mail he was reading caught his attention. “Hey R. J.” he said. “What’s this about losing our parking spaces?”

R. J. peeked over the cubicle. “Well, we don’t actually have assigned spaces,” he began quietly. “Some people have just been pressured not to park in certain stalls because other people want them for themselves, even if they don’t get here first. The e-mail is just a reminder to . .”

63

Prose

“Shut up, R. J.” Brian interrupted. “I’ve got to talk to someone with power about this.” He stood up and walked briskly towards his manager’s office. R. J. slowly sat back down in his chair.

A few moments later, Stephen walked by on his way to the copy machine. He paused as he passed Brian’s desk. “There’s my stapler,” he said as he picked it up and walked off.

Brian returned grumbling about not being appreciated. When he noticed that Sally was gone, all thoughts of parking spaces vanished from his mind. “R. J.” he said urgently. “Where did Sally go?” No response. “R. J.!” He looked over the divider at R. J. who was trying to crouch down to his keyboard and make himself smaller. “What happened to my stapler?” Brian said forcefully.

R. J. shrugged and said, “Stephen came by a little while ago. He might have said something about a stapler.”

Brian exploded out of his cubicle and hurtled towards Stephen’s desk. “You shut up Brian,” R. J. said under his breath.

Stephen gathered some papers and fit them into the stapler.

Then he slammed his hand down to bind them. When he looked up, Brian was staring wide eyed at him. His face had gone white as a sheet, and it didn’t look like he was breathing.

“Hey buddy,” Stephen began cautiously. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

“How dare you,” Brian whispered.

The police showed up fifteen minutes later in response to a call from what sounded like a surprisingly happy office worker. He identified himself as R. J. Stills and he wanted to report an assault between his coworkers. From interviews conducted at the scene, the officers were able to reconstruct the incident for their report.

Apparently one employee had suffered a mental breakdown and attacked his best friend. The victim was caught completely off guard by the attack and in a desperate attempt to defend himself grabbed a stapler from his desk and began to hit his attacker in the 64

Prose

face with it. Upon being struck with this piece of office equipment, the attacker immediately ceased his actions and began to cry out, “Why Sally? Why?� He was still muttering the mantra when the officers cuffed him and took him away. The officers noted that another employee, the same who had made the reporting phone call, was laughing so hard he had fallen and broke a rib. He got the rest of the day off.

65

Too Late Kimberly Lender

Good grades, volunteer work, tutoring, popularity, student body president—I had it all. Graduating high school had been a piece of cake; I was ready to take the next step and go to college.

I had visited the campus over fifty times this summer, exploring it, getting my bearings, and I knew that this coming year would be the best yet. College: moving out, wild fun parties, people to meet from all over the country, maybe even from all over the world.

How could life get any better? School had always come naturally to me, so I wasn’t too worried about the studying and academic side of college life.

A year before I had graduated I decided that I wanted to go to New York University, 120 miles away from the home I was raised in. My parents tried to convince me for months to change my mind and attend a local college. Even after my tuition had been paid they continued to beg, but I had a plan and I was sticking to it. I used the excuse that I needed to learn how to fend for myself and that they couldn’t always be there to pick me up when I fell. It took a while, but in the end I convinced them to let me go. They even gave me a motorcycle for graduation so that I could travel easier and maybe come home once in a while.

Unfortunately, I never got the chance; it was the first week that it happened—the event that ultimately changed my life, ending it.

Who knew that a creature so small could have so much power over a human being’s life, could have enough power to end it? It had bitten me as I rode my motorcycle for the thousandth time. I hadn’t even seen it hiding in its nest of web in my helmet as I anchored it tightly around my head. That must have been the problem; I must 66

Prose

have pinned that lethal spider against my skull. It had no choice; it had to kill or be killed. I wouldn’t choose to have myself killed and, based on the venom that coursed through my scalp as the black widow struck, neither did he. The pinch I felt concerned me, but I continued to drive. It took about twenty minutes before a crushing pressure suddenly hit my brain. The venom had made a beeline to one of my most vital organs—I didn’t stand a chance. Immediately, the motorcycle spun out of control as my limp body slumped over and flew from the bike’s seat.

The scene afterwards was not pretty, and it took a few minutes for any passersby to come along and call an ambulance. It didn’t matter, though; it was already too late. As I stood silently looking over my ruined and beaten body, I was the only one out of the twenty people who saw the culprit crawl away from the crime scene.

Too bad that no one could see me as I waited for the expected bright light to appear and take me away.

The paramedics checked my body for any sign of life; I knew that there would be none. If the spider bite hadn’t completely taken my life from me, the accident made sure to finish the job. The paramedic lifted my eyelids one at a time; they stared blankly back at him. He spent longer than I would have thought, gazing into my eyes before finally calling over another paramedic. Before I knew it, the trained men were declaring my fatal condition a result of DUI/drugs.

What!? I tried to yell at them. Are you crazy? I would never be on drugs. Soon the entire team of professionals stood over me, each one agreeing that I had been on drugs. They each took a turn examining my eyes; the pupils were dilated, the skin was pale, a cold sweat still lingered on my skin. They had seen these symptoms many times before, that much was clear; but I would never do drugs. My parents wouldn’t believe them, would they? If professionals told them that I had ruined my own life by doing drugs, would they trust them or the 67

Prose

memories they had of me? I had accomplished so much in my life; the appetite I had to learn more was never satisfied. No one would ever see me doing something as stupid as drugs, would they?

My thoughts scrambled around wildly; suddenly I found myself worrying that my friends and family were going to believe this lie.

Frantically, I raced over to the paramedics. I had to tell them somehow.

I screamed and threw myself at them—nothing happened. I had no affect on this world that I was no longer a part of. Things around me seemed to be getting brighter; I didn’t want everyone I knew to be left with a sad, pitiful memory of me. All I could be to them now was a memory; they needed to remember who I really was, not a lie! That would ruin my parents, possibly destroying a part of my family.

The light continued growing brighter until it completely changed the scene around me. I saw my body disappearing, the red and blue lights of the police cars grew distant, and the siren’s blare quieted to the intensity of small chimes. I am not ready! I reached out for the world again. Just as my fingers brushed the film that separated me, my entire view evaporated.

It was too late.

68

Origin of a Crazy Cat Lady Austin Beckstrom

M

any cat lovers will tell you that you can never have too many cats. Hester B. Woodbridge was once one of them.

At age 30, she had four cats. Her friends cautioned her not to accumulate too many, or she’d become a crazy cat lady.

“How many is too many?” Hester B. Woodbridge would ask.

How many cats does it take to turn you into the crazy cat lady?

She would soon find out. But first, let us start at the beginning of this story, when she was little Hester only. For little Hester’s eighth birthday, her mummy and papa gave her a special surprise: a beautiful white Persian kitten in a pink satin bow. Little Hester loved her right away, and simply had to name her Mittens.

Little Hester simply had to take Mittens everywhere she went. Sometimes she’d have her frolic beside her with a small string connecting them; other times Mittens the kitten was nestled in little Hester’s loving chubby arms so she wouldn’t get away.

Now, Mittens the kitten could have very well grown up into Mittens the cat, and perhaps all this trouble could have been avoided, if only little Mittens the kitten hadn’t decided one day to explore papa’s wheat thresher.

Little Hester was devastated. She lost her best and only friend, and her parents insisted on eating the newly marred wheat, as it would be wrong to be wasteful.

And again, perhaps the memory of Mitten’s tragedy could have been stamped out, if only little Hester’s mummy hadn’t made things worse, and bought little Hester a new cat to make up for the fallen Mittens.

69

Prose

On the day following Mittens’ tragedy, little Hester received Tiger, a playful tabby cat who loved hiding and catching mice. Tiger and little Hester soon became friends, and little Hester forgot all about the kitten Mittens and the wheat thresher—at least for a while.

After a few years, little Hester became just Hester, her small chubby girl figure gave way to a tall and thin teenage girl. One day, Hester and her cat Tiger adventured over to the pond.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that poor Tiger fell in the pond and drowned, making the teenager formerly known as little Hester overcome with sorrow. I wish that was what happened, instead of what did happen.

Hester and the playful tabby Tiger threw rocks in the pond (I call it a pond, but it was actually a small lake) and, because it was a nice sunny summer day, Hester thought it would be a good idea to take a dip in the cool pond. So she disrobed and did. After much calling, coaxing, and cajoling, Hester finally convinced Tiger to join her in the water.

No sooner did Tiger set paw in the pond then a catfish nearly as big as Hester sprang up out of the water and swallowed poor Tiger whole.

Hester, again naturally distraught over the loss over her good friend and companion dashed home to recount to her mummy and papa all that happened to poor Tiger. When she got home, her mummy first wanted to know what she had done with her clothes and her papa asked why she was dripping wet.

As she told them, her mummy gasped and her papa insisted she take him to the pond where it happened—after she had time to get dressed, of course.

While she and her papa travelled to the pond, Hester should have wondered why her papa looked so eager to get to the scene of the crime, and should have inquired why he brought his fishing pole.

But Hester was understandably in mourning for her lost friend, Tiger. And so it was not until that evening when her mummy fried up the huge catfish for the family and their neighbors, and Hester 70

Prose

saw the remnants of Tiger inside the fish, that she understood her papa’s excitement. But still, she listened rapturously along with the rest of her parent’s friends as her papa told the tale of his epic struggle with the monstrous (but delicious) catfish.

A few weeks after the Woodbridge family’s famous fish fry, Hester’s mummy asked her daughter why she wouldn’t talk to anyone or eat anything.

Hester cried and cried to her mummy for several hours about her lost childhood friends, or something, her mummy really couldn’t say, for Hester didn’t enunciate very clearly, especially when she cried (a chief reason why boys didn’t regularly call on Hester, who was, all in all, a lovely child, her mummy would say). And so, after a few hours of holding her dear daughter, Hester’s mummy did what she would always do: she bought her a new friend.

This time she got Hester a mysterious and secretive Siamese named Delilah. Hester was inconsolable and screamed at her mother that just buying her a cat didn’t make everything all better. However, Hester’s mummy just thought that meant Hester wanted another cat. So she presented her a lazy fat tortoiseshell cat named Gumby. When Hester saw her two new cats, she giggled and squealed the way little Hester used to.

Hester loved her two cats, Delilah and Gumby, who stayed with her as she grew older, and when she became Hester Woodbridge at the age of eighteen, she left home to move to the city and live on her own.

But life in the city isn’t always kind on farm cats. During this time, while Hester Woodbridge was in college learning to be a good Elementary school teacher, Delilah would go out exploring the city streets while Gumby stayed home and napped on the windowsill of Hester’s city apartment. Now, I should point out the apartment 71

Prose

Hester Woodbridge rented was very small, and very high up off the ground. And if you think that perhaps Delilah wandered off and got lost and Gumby fell out of the window, I regret to inform you that you’re wrong. I wish that’s what happened.

Here’s what happened. By day Delilah toured the busy streets and quiet alleys and eventually met a dashing young cat with no name. Or, if he had a name, Delilah never knew it. He was very handsome, with one mysterious green eye and a solid brown one.

He never kept his coat as clean as he would like, but he groomed his whiskers whenever possible. He was very charming and becoming; he would say and do all the right things and caught Delilah a mouse to play with on more than one occasion. Delilah liked him immensely.

Perhaps too immensely.

So, you would think Hester Woodbridge, lover of cats, would delight in having a whole litter of new kittens. And you might be right, except for the tragic day Delilah came home to Hester Woodbridge’s apartment, a few months after meeting the handsome cat with no name, that disaster struck once again.

For you see, young women in college in the city studying hard to become good Elementary school teachers often don’t have very much money, and so they can’t pay for things they might need.

Such as repairs to their apartments, say, when the air gets too hot and the windows won’t stay open without something to prop it up.

So, Hester Woodbridge would have a broomstick hold open the window because nobody likes a hot apartment, especially one that smells so much like pregnant cat. Well, the day in question that Delilah came home was not a particularly joyous one for Gumby.

For on Delilah’s return for the day, Gumby hissed at Delilah for causing Hester Woodbridge so much dismay at running off into town in her condition looking for no name.

They may have quarrelled and simply roughed one another up a bit, but fate determined that moment to be the moment for 72

Prose

Hester Woodbridge to walk through the door and startle the cats, causing the very pregnant Delilah to scamper and hide under the bed, and lazy fat Gumby to flinch in the windowsill—Flinching just enough to knock away the broomstick and slam the window with a snap, forcing Gumby to perform a cruel parody of the last seconds in the life of Marie Antoinette.

Now, you might think that Hester should have seen this coming and not let Gumby sleep on the windowsill. Or, you might think that Hester had suffered enough and wish that her poor cats should be spared such ignoble ends. And you may be right, but I am only telling what happened.

Hester shrieked as she watched in slow motion the fate of Gumby and her head bounce onto the carpet. Hester cried for days, phoning her mummy (whom she now called “Mother”) and telling her “yes, *sniff* class is fine, but, no, I haven’t met any nice young men, but, my poor Gumby—no, Mother, I’m not getting any younger, but—please listen to me, Mother: my cat died.”

Perhaps fortunately, perhaps unfortunately, Hester’s Mother decided not to buy her daughter a new cat at this time. But perhaps poor Hester Woodbridge was so far gone it didn’t really matter anyway. Hester’s mummy now called “Mother” did not buy her a new cat because she thought Hester old enough to buy her own cats, but also because she had her own hands full, dealing with papa’s broken leg, and syphilis.

Hester Woodbridge had little time to grieve, for a few days later Delilah gave birth to a litter of pink kittens. Hester didn’t know how to deliver kittens, but fortunately Delilah more or less did it herself, and all Hester really did was throw out her favorite sweater afterwards. (Making sure, thankfully, that no new kittens were in it as she did so.) She named the kittens Mungo, Piglet, Jerry, Bob, Honey and Pepper.

73

Prose

Time passed and Hester Woodbridge graduated college and became an Elementary school teacher in a town not too far (but far enough) from her Mother, though her papa (she had always called him that) now lived in another town, far away.

During the time that Hester Woodbridge became a good Elementary school teacher, in the town she lived in, there was a very nice man named Mark. Mark also had a cat named Bruno.

Bruno was very friendly to Delilah and Mark was very friendly to Hester B. Woodbridge who Mark insisted on calling “Hesty.” Mark and Hesty may have become very, very good friends, if only Mark’s cat Bruno didn’t turn out to be a dog and ate Delilah one day that Mark forgot to feed him.

And so, after being a good Elementary school teacher for three years and a very good Elementary school teacher for one year, Miss Woodbridge lived in a cute little house in a town not too far (but far enough) from her Mother, and farther away (though still in the same town) as Mark and his awful dog Bruno. Around this time her friends, Mungo, Piglet (who sometimes preferred to be called “Pig,” Jerry (now called Jenny), Bob, Honey and Pepper all told Miss Woodbridge that owning four cats, namely Mittens, Tiger, Gumby and Delilah might just someday make Miss Hester B. Woodbridge go crazy. She told them that was just silly. They warned her that people would laugh at her and she wouldn’t understand why, and even her students, who loved her now would not enjoy being near her because she would smell so distinctly of cats and talk to herself. After more time passed, Mungo and Jenny got married, Bob and Honey got engaged, but they stayed with Hester B. Woodridge because they lived in a rather small town and it was hard to find a good job if you didn’t have a college education, and she let them live with her because she enjoyed the company. Soon Paco and Fluffy joined the family after being imprisoned when their last friends didn’t want them, Patches, Salty, Jean and Turtle followed shortly 74

Prose

when they were babies. Others all around the neighborhood soon came to live with Miss Hester B. Woodbridge when they heard from others how kind she was and the milk she’d leave at her back porch.

After even more time passed and Hester B. Woodbridge’s friends died as friends tend to do, Hester B. Woodbridge cried for their loss, but she soon forgot as always and would buy or find new friends to visit and play with Mittens, Tiger, Gumby and Delilah.

Some friends would try persuading her to take more cats in, but she would always tell them, “No, no. Four cats is quite enough.”

75

poetry

Poetry

Barstow to Baker Josh Christensen    Fall 2010 Touchstones Poetry First Place

This land Flecked with shook bolts of desert grasses. This place Sick for trees, far from the stands of ponderosa, far From the smatterings of manzanita. This glinting stead for God's Lunatics and meth hounds alike, men in rabbinical beards, In trailers, waiting for the whole damn thing To blow

77

Poetry

One Morning in December Heather Holland Duncan Fall 2010 Touchstones Poetry Second Place

Just now I’ve slipped from the softness of sheets on skin to savor the silky silence of morning before dawn.

Rusty, our golden retriever nudges me.

I slide the back door open, she runs headlong into icy air.

I start the teakettle toward her singing then sit to scribble this note to you.

Do you ever feel this breathless audacity, this disbelief that moments such as these save a space for you?

78

Poetry

One Date Too Many Darek Purcell Fall 2010 Touchstones Poetry Third Place

I sit, phone ringing, to failure resolved.

When finally I do reach you, you are “glad I called,” and when I come knock on your door you are “glad I’m here,” though not hungry anymore.

Over dinner you ask Will I be wealthy?

And where will I live?

Will I give my wife a kitten?

And how many kids?

Will I spring for two dozen, or just the one rose?

How many carats will I use when at last I propose? as your dinner and fork (on their own first date) box-step unmolested ‘round your plate.

I sit and watch you as though a stranger, testing the balance of your worth 79

Poetry

against my favor.

At last I walk you to your door and inside I know I won’t call you anymore.

80

Prose

Culture Rebekah Tews

Beads of many colors Woven in and out Tracing a pattern Along smooth dark lines Stones intricately carved Turquoise stones shine bright The earth: it gives us all And for it we thank by song and by dance We dance to celebrate A birth, a ranking Of death, of teaching To show our wisdom And by the Magic held In a simple ring Over and under Making natures shapes To the steady drum Yet rejected are we Pushed into corners, Difference makes no differences But teaches it so Until peace is lived Between two nations.

Until then, we sit Labeled and teaching Through string and bead, and dance History’s tales past. 81

Prose

Elias and Adele Heather Holland Duncan

The shore was buried in white-capped breakers the day he set to sea.

Elias was captain of his ship and lover and friend to me.

His captaincy made our future secure he’d told me in that way that left little room for doubt or fear but something about that day had left me as cold as the salty mist that hung in the heavy air as I clung to him in one last embrace and he stroked my maple hair.

I choked on fear as dauntless Elias sailed for the endless deep stood brave in the wake of his bold farewell, braced for the vigil I’d keep, a lonely vigil kept night and day ‘til weeks and months had passed away.

Then one day I opened my door to a sailor with a sea-worn face his eyes gone dark with deepest sorrow, hurts that time could not erase.

He told me a tale of a storm so fierce, as fierce and black as Hell, 82

Prose

a mighty squall that roared with a fury, a wrath only God could quell.

This time, he said, God did not calm the storm.

He calmed a captain’s soul, gave him strength and peace as he strove to keep his men alive and whole.

He worked with astounding calm and command until every soul was free, lowering each lifeboat, arm over arm, into the salty sea.

The ropes he’d used, his men to save, pulled him to his watery grave.

His last words, “Tell Adele of my love. Tell her not to weep for me.

For I will love her and be by her side as long as sand meets sea.”

With a doleful nod, the old man left, left me alone to grieve, alone with the promise Elias made that he would never leave.

And still he lingers here in me, in water and in blood.

Through waves of pain I yearn to wake Elias from the flood.

Come now, my new Elias! Come!

Come my newborn son!

Let me hold thee to replace thy father, who is gone.

83

Prose

From Mexico Jake Snyder

As a child, I remember My family driving up The Mexican coast And then we left the ocean On a long stretch of asphalt That went on for days Blue mountains would appear in front of us And after we passed, they turned blue again Our car and the road were the only things that didn't belong In that wide desert between Sometimes there wouldn’t be any mountains So my eyes would fall asleep I listened for other cars Our tires curiously hummed Pressing my ear to the floor The raw machine roared I tested the differences Eventually riding The rest of the way With this companion

84

Prose

Harvest Jewel: Ode to Apple Tree Susanne Whitaker

Warm days plunge into night; Your silhouette remains But deeper shades of red and gold blush bright upon your season’s strains Sweet with time through sun and cold Until an icy dawn makes ready, harvest, sweet and bold.

One taste, this jewel I savor long.

Full orchard bless my longing eyes until next autumn’s days turn cold Revere sweet sauces, Heavenly pies!

Return those days of red and gold.

85

Prose

Miller’s Hill Karen Bates

When our dust rests, gray moths sleep on the tires that park on pine cone skeletons.

The backbones of skinned cedars are stacked and arranged in a protective box around us; we fall into slumber to the sounds of wind pulling at leaves.

86

Prose

Molotov Cocktail Fever Samantha Herzog

I first fed a cannibal vodka: sliding a red-wine sliver into the vessels you sever with each wild-fire stanza of disconnected decadence and pin-cushion compliments.

He stares me through with telescope bifocals and the hypocrites’ cold bibles to read the tacit, sinful heat that revels in the space among lovers in a public room:

begging for another drink

that’s dripping off the cherry cheek

of the other’s flaming Molotov love.

87

Prose

Red Paper Please Annik Maryse Budge

draw me a blood organ, pulsing, writhing, feel the chalk curves of madness forming under your fingertips then erase it. draw me a new one that won’t erase or tear up red paper please.

88

Prose

Sagebrush Karen Bates

We took the shovel, a bag, drove out to the desert on the edge of suburbia.

Disturbed the soil and brought up roots with a sharp steel V, clothed the plant in plastic and tossed the abducted in the back seat.

Now silver-green leaves, potted, live on our window sill, a bizarre and ugly alien at home with us here— a curiosity, no longer one of thousands.

89

Prose

Splendid Emily Kershaw

It slides off the tongue An unexpected answer to an Everyday question Not “fine”, not “well”, butA swimming, singing, stream The plop-plop-plop of skipping Rocks hitting the pond The endless yawn and stretch On a warm summer’s day The gentle creaking of a New, nearly noiseless hammock Delightful twittering of birds Illusions of ripples in a puddle And a delicious, dreamy breeze Dancing through my hair “How are you today?”

Today, I’m splendid.

90

Prose

The Human Creature Samantha Herzog

Some (the watchers) are kept collared with bad color forever. Fighting a severed fever: a body in mutiny over this shiver.

But we can feel her: some call her mother, nature’s pariah in this photo-synthetic, unconventional shuffle of tricky people.

Now we’re all spinning crop circles in the corners: alien spiders.

But as for the rest of them (foreign animals): they’re barely aware of the takeover.

91

Prose

The Plot Josh Christensen

God holds merely half the game; The rest is serpents and Sir Issac.

This world’s benighted are all eagerness And breathe deep with fish lungs, And stillness abed.

Whereas, I can dream only for lost summer.

In the beginning, God hung the fish’s lungs behind the liver.

Now, the game closes and no one’s come to bring the eternal breath Or a peopled skydom.

The heart knows what I know.

Some jealous other has made the largest Jest, and we play the fools at the tree.

Most will fatten before feigning to strike at the root And blacken their minds.

His jest: We blur ourselves in our organ labors And lose all of ourselves but our labors, Then are sublimated in breathless stone, Unblemished by truth.

92

Prose

To Be a Man Without a Car Josh Christensen

Like a gin-bathed moll from a gumshoe flick, My Buick called me a thankless bastard and refused to turn over.

Her voice was all exhaust and tasted of the music of flat cigarettes.

She rumbled without lilts like a halfway house nursery rhyme, And I was all tonsils and throat And wanted to shoot the teasing minx dead.

I wanted to strip bare the stones, take to the woods, And join a tribe of nomadic forest gleaners.

Let the sun kiss my ass every day.

In three years, I'd return to town, call myself Smith or Stubbs, I'd sport a monocle and discuss paper machĂŠ and tulips.

And always return my library books five days late.

On a cold day like this, I'd stay in and read London By a pinstripe of light through the curtains and think of my inebriated mama Trundling through the Yukon, freezing in a huddle, then slipping through the reporting ice, Too quick for even a word like goodbye.

93

Prose

Tree-Told Secrets on Provo River Trail Heather Holland Duncan

We bid our cheerful farewell to spring, its white and blushing blossoms, then cast no backward glance in changing our summer robes for party clothes.

In these shades of cinnamon, copper, crimson, apricot and plum we’ll dance wild in time to October winds until November seduces us.

Then, we’ll shrug off our coverings, flaunt our nakedness while we wait for winter’s breath to cover us, inch by inch, in diamonds.

There are no dreary seasons.

This world is made of moments, all ripe for celebration.

94

art

Art

The Birds

Bird Kirsten Nielsen

96

Art

Angry Duck Aaron Webb

97

97

Art

Canoes at Legacy Lake Dusty Nance

98

Art

Birth of a Mother Patric Bates

99

Art

Cycle Devin Moody

100

Art

Reef David Jones

101

Art

Drill Allison Hamnett

102

Art

Dragonfly’s Gambling Debt Dahne Anne Davis

103

Art

Giving It All Amanda Bronson

104

Art

Ghostship Kirsten Nielsen

105

Art

Jeff Goldblum Mac Ulibarri

106

Art

Golden Gate Bridge Dusty Nance

107

Art

Off the Plane Aaron Webb

108

Art

Lunch Dahne Anne Davis

109

Art

Reach

Amanda Bronson

110

Art

Out of the Light David Jones

111

Art

Resolution and Synthesis Denver Sasser

112

Art

Redvines

Brooke Nicole Duncan

113

Art

Smoking Kills Hilarie Burrow

114

Art

R’lyeh Earthworm

Aaron Webb

115

Art

Self Portrait in Yellow Shirt Mac Ulibarri

116

Art

Untitled Mac Ulibarri

117

Art

To Avoid Kelsie Monsen

118

Art

Sweet Bones Allison Hamnett

119

Art

Untitled Jake Buntjer

120

Art

Ship of Fools

Patric Bates

121

Poetry Awards Dr. Derek Henderson, Judge

First Place: Barstow to Baker by Josh Christensen “Barstow to Baker” keeps us in the desert for forty days and forty nights, and confronts us with the “shook bolts” of “God’s / lunatics.” This poem gives us a place of no judgement, where we are all sinners and sinned against, where we huddle pre-forgiven in the dry heat, unsure of where the desert will send us next, knowing only how to wait for “the whole damn thing / To blow” Notice, too, how there is no period to that last line, how there is no end to all our blowing away.

Second Place: One Morning in December by Heather Holland Duncan A poem that ends with “breathless audacity” ought always to begin with “the softness of sheets on skin” and a teakettle tending towards the sound of the family dog, and so begins “One Morning in December.” When the poet sits to “scribble this note to you” (i.e. to the beloved; i.e., to you and I), William Carlos Williams sits merrily by, chomping away at his plum. We know a space has been saved for all of us together.

Third Place: One Date Too Many by Darek Purcell The phrase “to make love” used to mean “to court, to win the favor of.” Darek Purcell’s “One Date Too Many,” recalls us to the tedious history of this phrase, belaboring us with the workmanlike tedium of a date headed too far from true love. The insistent questioning of the evening finds its emphatic answer in “I won’t call you anymore.”

122

Prose Awards Emily Dyer, Judge (with Scott Hatch)

First Place: “Big Gulch” by Jeff McCoy “Big Gulch” carefully balances the internal and external in a way that exposes and heightens the conflict; humor and bravado juxtaposed against stress and horror create a tension that pulls the reader to the end.

Second Place: “Wolves” by Cindy Lee Mackert “Wolves” has passages of fine lyricism and seriously interesting conflict. In this story we see something exciting—the emergent voice of a writer.

Third Place: “Pardon” by Whitney Johnson The brief yet insightful and lyrical sketching of this story’s main character/narrator leaves me expectant of more from this author—more of this story, and more of its narrator.

123

Contributors Karen Bates loves creative writing and holds a special fondness for punctuation marks. (Miller’s Hill, Sagebrush) Patric Bates is a student at Utah Valley University who will be graduating soon. Patric likes art. (Birth of a Mother, Ship of Fools) Austin Beckstrom was raised in California though he grew up in Texas. He now lives in Utah with his wife, Tracie, and their son, Morgan Danger. He is an art and visual communications major at Utah Valley University. (Origin of a Crazy Cat Lady) Amanda Bronson is currently pursuing a Bachelor’s of fine arts at Utah Valley University with an emphasis in painting and drawing. Her work has been shown in the Springville Museum of Art, Snow College’s ALT Space Gallery, and Central Utah Art Center. (Giving It All, Reach) Annik Maryse Budge is a ghost appendage of the English department. Fortunately, she has a supportive boyfriend. (Red Paper Please) Hilarie Burrow is a senior in Utah Valley University’s art program. She is currently applying for her Bachelor’s of fine arts.

(Smoking Kills) Josh Christensen (Barstow to Baker, To Be a Man Without a Car, The Plot) Dahne Anne Davis is a writer and illustrator. She hopes to graduate soon from Utah Valley University, though will always be a student of the universe. (Lunch, Dragonfly’s Gambling Debt) Brooke Nicole Duncan is the Vice President for the American Institute of Graphic Arts’ Utah Valley University student chapter.

She was recently accepted into the Bachelor of fine arts program and expects to graduate in April 2011 with an emphasis in graphic design.

She is a closet photographer and likes to chew jimaca. (Redvines)

124

Heather Holland Duncan (Elias and Adele, One Morning in Decemeber, Tree-Told Secrets on Provo River Trail) Mark Haight is an English education major at Utah Valley University who has previously been published in Warp & Weave.

He is married and has two children. (Out of the Fire) Allison Hamnett is currently working on her Bachelor’s in secondary education as an art teacher at Utah Valley University.

(Drill, Sweet Bones) Samantha Herzog has not previously been published. She has a passion for writing and for video games. Though her specialty is poetry, she enjoys the occasional foray into other brands of art.

(Molotov Cocktail Fever, The Human Creature) Whitney Johnson is a twenty-year-old with a strong passion for writing. She is sharing a piece about her hearing to bring others to an understanding of the difficulties of hearing impairment.

(Pardon) David Jones is currently double majoring in a Bachelor of fine arts degree with an emphasis in painting and a Bachelor of science in graphic design. He expects to graduate spring 2011. His works ebb and flow through landscape, abstraction, realism, and process.

He works in a variety of mediums and plans to show his recent pieces in the Spring 2011 Bachelor of Fine Art art show. (Reef, Out of the Light) Emily Kershaw is a junior at UVU and is pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English creative writing studies. (Splendid) Kimberly Lender is currently a sophomore at Utah Valley University studying journalism. She has been writing short stories for five years and loves writing. (Too Late) Cindy Lee Mackert has been President of the Utah Valley chapter of League of Utah Writers and has been a journalist for 125

two publications. She now stays busy attending Utah Valley University while raising three children. (Wolves) Jeff McCoy is a student currently working on a degree in emergency medical services. He also loves to write. (Big Gulch) Kelsie Monsen is an art major with an emphasis in photography.

She will be graduating this December. (To Avoid) Devin Moody is a student at Utah Valley University. He plans to graduate with a Bachelor’s in art education. (Cycle) Dusty Nance is a writer and photographer. Her prose work has been published in Warp & Weave. She is currently working toward a degree in creative writing. (Canoes at Legacy Lake, Golden Gate Bridge) Kirsten Nielsen has previously been published in Touchstones.

She is a Graphic Design major at Utah Valley University and plans to graduate fall 2011 with a Bachelors of Fine Arts. (Bird, Ghostship) Daniel Phillips is a husband and father of two children. He spends his time working, parenting, studying, and writing stories his wife isn’t likely to approve of. (Finding Sally) Darek Purcell is a senior at UVU, majoring in English literature. After graduation, he plans to attend law school. He has also been published in Kronos and BYU-Hawaii’s Kula Manu. (One Date Too Many) Denver Sasser is an art student at Utah Valley University.

He has exhibited at Loyola University Chicago, Calumet College, Handong University, and Atelier West. (Resolution and Synthesis) Jake Snyder has been a prominent figure in the UVU digital media and theater departments over the last decade. He’s been writing poetry because he finds it cathartic and expressive. He is a digital media senior working on his senior project, a sci-fi webisode series.

As a child, he remembers traveling long distances with his family, and his sister says that ‘From Mexico’ captures her experience as well. Professor Alisha Geary is the reason and the inspiration for his 126

continuing to write poetry­—he had stopped and she cleverly got him started again as extra credit in English 2010. (From Mexico) Rebekah Tews has been attending Utah Valley University since 2006, during her sophomore year of high school. She has an Associate’s degree and is currently working toward a Bachelor’s of English. (Recognition, Culture) Mac Ulibarri grew up impoverished in New Mexico with only art as an escape. He moved from New Mexico to Utah at the age of 18 and is currently working on a Master’s of fine art. (Jeff Goldblum, Self Portrait in Yellow Shirt, Untitled) Aaron Webb is a multimedia artist studying 3D animation and digital art at Utah Valley University. He spends a lot of time outdoors with his family and friends, and has served in the United States Marine Corps Infantry. (Angry Duck, Off the Plane, R’lyeh Earthworm) Susanne Whitaker is an English major at Utah Valley University. She currently works as a landscape designer and owns Outdoor Designs. (Harvest Jewel: Ode to Apple Tree)

127