Phoenix - Fall 1998

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Time has passed ~n~ we are at the horizon of the annual Fall Phoenix Literary-Arts magazine issue .

The Phoenix Literary-Art s magazine is dedicated to presenting its material in an unencumbered and experimental manner.

The staff has attempted to create a menagerie of differing media that represents the diverse community at the University of Tennessee.

Love, death, religion, cynicism, and social attitudes are brought to life on these pages.

The s tories that come from each brush stroke, from each shutter opening , from each word are interwoven into a history that we present to you , the reader.

It is not a history of facts, consisting of dates and accounts , b.ut a history of our literary and artistic past, and of our literary and artistic future.

It is a history of our thought contained in the creative effusions of the people who are contained within the s e pages .

Nowhere can something so representative of our populace , a s a human race, be found.

The staff of the Phoenix Literary- Arts magazine present this a s a labor of love.

We have spent many days and nights coordinating and bringing together all of the pieces contained within the magazine.

We have tried to select works of both art and literature that are indicative of this long social history, which are contained in the creative literary-art medium.

We leave you to decitle what mor a l messages and implications can be derived from each piece.

If anything, the material is fun and exhilarating at the same time.

The staff of the Phoenix had fun both choosing and publishing this magazine.

The Phoenix Literary-Arts magazine would like not only to break new ground but also to maintain the long- standing traditions that have made it a unique and exceptional literary-art s publication.

We look forward to exploring these new areas , whatever they may be , and hop.e that the readers will come along on this journey wi th us .

It is a journey that will culminate with roots in a similar place from where it began- the rich creative integrity of the artists, poets, and fiction writers that make up its core.

Joshua Hagan Editor

Covey Ayt . Unth\ed

Hawa N.P. Ware

Art

page Mark Ho s ford

~

Cory Soldwedel Jodie Allyne Hays-Gre s ham

5 6

Katie Daniel

11

Hawa N. P. Ware

12

Peer Pressure

Mark Hosford

Night and Time (one piece)

Katie Daniel

15 16

Venezia

Er in M. Monk .

2~

Church

Jo sh Queener

27

Dell Milan

28

Sabrina Sadaf Si dd i qi

~o

Wendy Carol Robin s on

~

Choosing Love Over Tradition Untitled Summer Sol s tice Untitled ( #1 series) Untitled (autobiograp hical painting)

Envy Untitled The City Re mains Uncovered # II

My Art Project The Showstopper

Maureen Moon ey E.

Richard Brabham III

Non-Fiction Praying Together

Knight Stivender

Poetry Thoma s Golden

2

Alcoholics Unanimous

Tiffany Moeller

Daddy 's Biki ni Queen

Mag Jon es

11 12

Jena Giltnane

1~

Heat Lightning

Untitled The Funeral Parlor

~l l l l l l l mil~[i~iO ~lim~1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

Te mptation Love is Like Being Smacked .. .

Richard Brabham III

14

Sabrina Sadaf Si ddiqi

26 29

E.

Maureen Mooney

3 9029 025 89 3 7 3 0 contenh

Heat Lightning

ThoMa) Go\de.n

Sometimes there are nights that summer sleeps and the winds that heat conceals come and greet me, you know,

I used to walk

barefoot and lightheaded under

nightsk~es

that could've been

clouded over for all I knew, all I

knew was the soundless bolts

crashes of light and little else angry and mute like a voiceless tirade I never asked it why I always assumed it couldn't answer and I never feared it .

So as I stand before your door barefoot and lightheaded feet soaked from dew (or tear) no reason stands how you should fear this fury you can't hear.

page. 2

Choo)ing Love. Ove.l" T l"adition

I

Mark Ho)ford

page 3.

My Ayt

PyO ject

M.aureen M.oone y

3: 30 in the morning is when he call s u s ually.

This isn't to say he won't call at three or at four, but he seems to shoot for that middle groundthe teetering halfpast-the-middle-o~the fuckingnight when I'm sometimes awake but scarcely lucid.

This isn't one of those nights.

Somewhere in the blackness there's a train calling out.

Its whine and moan bends through the cold, starless air, reaching my pillow-muffled ears with its out-of-tune slide trombone wheeze.

A lullaby.

The ease of sleep, its watery comfort, buries me in a well, overwhelms me like drowning.

Wa rm skin again s t the pe rcale s urf, floating, submerged; conscio usnes s buoyed and bobbing , oscillating .

I'm on the perimeter.

Sleep: mounting in gentle, curling ebbs and flows before the wave swallows me whole.

The ring of a telephone changes after midnight, takes on a new identity. When the red glow of the LCD imperceptibly blinks 12: 01 am, the already annoying summons of a phone becomes a chilling expletive.

The telephone knows what state of mind the caller is in; it warns me of the urgency, the desperation of anyone who feels it necessary to break the taboo of ringing someone up after the

page

4

wi tching hour.

People do not call to cha t a t 3: 30 am.

They do not call to tell you they've been given a rai s e or won the lottery.

As exhilarating as good news is, it can always wait until daylight.

If someone calls at 3: 30 in the morning, it's never good new s.

I try to deny the first harpy shriek- reaching my hand out toward the alarm clock, fingers searching for the snooze but ton, frantically tapping a Morse code me ssage onto the smooth pIa s tic: "shut up , shut up, shut up , go away, go away, go away .

It is a blea ting lamb- in- the- j aws- of- arazor- toothed- wolf ring; the scream of children caught in a burning schoolhouse ring.

My hand slides from clock to phone.

I don't want to lift the phone from its cradle, but I know it won't stop unless I answer.

"Wh at' s wron g Gran t ? " To hell with "hello."

I'm not willing to conceal my a.ggravation with pleasant greetings.

Besides , I know who it is.

I turn on the bedside lamp, and my eyes wince as they adjust to the paltry glare of a twenty watt bulb.

"Did I wake you up?

Should I call back late r?"

Later than what? I want to ask, so I do.

"What?

At fi ve- fifteen?"

I fumble around for my cigaret tes.

"I shouldn't snap.

Sor ry. " I'm sorry.

It's "No. just Look, I'll call back tomorrow. " "Don't you fucking dare hang up on me now.

I'm awake now. " I'm angry because I can't find my cigarettes.

I must have knocked them off when I was screwing around with the alarm clock.

"What's wrong?

Untit\ed

You wouldn't have called this late if something wasn't wrong. " "When's the la s t time I talked to you?"

The re 's a TV on in the background.

It's too loud, as if he's trying to hide his voice from someone, as if this conversation is to be kept a secret.

My cigarettes are on the floor, wedged in the space between the night stand and the bed. I reach down with my right hand, brace myself with my left

and balance the phone in between my neck and jaw.

I grasp the pack with the tips of my finge r s.

"I haven't talked to you in a week.

You sounded fine last time I talked to you. Why? Wha t ' s happened now?"

I'm drawing in smoke, drawing him out.

This is his game, his rules.

He never calls and 路simply tell s me, "My wor Id is coming to and end and this is why It's a

I Cory So\dwede\ page 5

foregone conclusion that h e's in a world of shi t, and he 's going to make me beg him to find out the "why."

"I don't know if I should tell you .

"Fuck you, Gr an t.

It's the god damn middle of the night.

Jus t tell me.

Wha t did you do now?"

"It started Friday. " "I talked to you on Thursday , Grant.

You were fine on Thursday. " God , that " Thursday? seems like so long ago.

I haven 't slept since Friday.

It all runs together after a while. " He is pacing.

I can hear it in his voice; he always paces when he 's nervous.

Years ago, he wore a path in my carpet trying to explain hims elf to me . Six yea r s later, -he's wearing out the linoleum in his ki tchen.

I 've heard that at Canterbury Cathedral, In the sanctuary before Becket's tomb, there is a foot-deep impression in the stone floor from the million s of pilgrims that have knelt there to pray for a miracle.

It took over eight-hundred years to wear that floor away.

It would have taken Grant one week.

"You're stalling.

Just tell me wha t happened. " "Everything?"

"Yes, Grant.

Everything.

You can tell me anything.

You know that." I

pa.ge 6

mothe r him now, s oothe him.

It ' s all part of the game.

"I started drinking on Friday. " ." Why?" "I don't know.

I just couldn ' t What does it rna t te r? " Rhe tor ic . He ' s infamou s for his rhetoric.

I pull lin t out of my belly button. " Are you still there?"

I realize I've dr if ted, but my belly but ton seems so "Yes . So you fascinating . were drinking.

Then what? " " I wanted to fuck. " He s ay s thi s with authoritative determina tion, a s though he had announced, "I wanted to swim the English Channel," or "I wanted to climb Everest." He's trying to shock me, to make me jealou s .

It i s n ' t working.

I' ve only ju s t discovered a s mall brown mole in my belly button.

Or perhaps it ' s dirt. " So did you have sex?"

I look for the ashtray and wait for the inevitable.

"Don ' t make me tell it out of order.

It ' s important that I tell this in the right orde r. " He makes me promise I won't interrupt.

I want him to get whatever it is that's bothering him out of his system so I can go back to sleep.

"I wan ted to fuck , but I didn't ha ve anyone to have s ex with.

So I decided I would get me a

prostitute. " is Welsh; Grant his accent has been tempered with a heal thy dose of Bostonian flatnessoleveling his 'a's, shattering 'r's with wrecking-ball precision. This tends to give his speech an eloquent aironot quite English, not quite American. His voice is deep and balmy, alluring in its rich, So when he soothing resonance. says something as colloquial as, "get me a prostitute, " it is done for comic effect .

I don't laugh.

This is another attempt to shock, to wound, to control me .

"So I went down the block to where all the whores and dealers hang out. And there was this new girl.

She'd only been there for a week.

I'd noticed her.

You notice things like that around here. She wasn't used- up yet, but she was very thin and pale. And I wanted her. She has little breasts, like yours, and short blonde hair- the way you used to wear it.

She wa s so youngomaybe eighteen- , twenty- years - old.

So I told her to get in the car.

But then I realized I didn ' t have any money.

I had this little hooker in the car and I didn't have any money. " He's laughing and pacing I roll a tiny ball of belly- button lint between my thumb and forefinger "So I drove back

pa.ge 7

to my place , and we went to my apartment and I took Frank's ATM card6" He waits for my reaction, wai ts for me to admonish him for the theft.

I sigh hea vily into the phone.

This seems to satisfy him because he continue s .

"And I went to the ATM and took out, oh, abou t on efifty, and then we went to a motel.

She was just sitting there on the bed and I told her to take off her clothes; she did.

She was so innocent looking.

She was sitting there, naked on the bed, and she was going to let a complete stranger fuck her. " "That's her job.

What makes you special?"

"You s aid you wouldn't interrupt . " "Sorry." I light another cigarette.

I'm intrigued, disgusted , and hoping it will be over soon.

"She was beautiful and innocent6she didn't belong That's there in that room. when I realized I didn ' t want to fuck her anymore.

I wanted to save her.

She would be my art proj ect. " I've wearied my belly button.

It i s s 0 r e f r om the constant probing of my fingers.

I rollover onto my stomach to avoid touching it.

Grant's voice rises and sighs, "So we talked and did a

page 8

bunch of s pe ed and s h e asked me for F ran k ' s ATM car d, and I gave 'it to her, gave her the pin numbe r.

Then I ga ve he r the keys to the car.

She said she'd be back in a few minutes.

I believed her.

I believed her He doesn't say this with emphasis or despair.

He simply tells me , simply lets me know. " Well . and after two hours , when she didn 't come back , well, I figured I'd go look for he r.

I told the motel manager to call me if she showed up at the room.

I spent the whole day trying to find he r.

Bu t she ne ve r came ba ck out on the street.

On Saturday, I told Frank that someone had stolen the car and t hat his ATM car d was in it."

I break my promise not to interrupt, but I have to know.

"What did he say?" Frank flie s in to r age if you dr ink the last bit of milk but overlooks the fact that you've eaten his $3.50-a-pound steak.

You never know with Frank.

"Nothing.

He didn't say anything.

I guess he believed me.

He called the bank and found out he had a negative balance of two-hundred-odd doll a r s.

Wh en Ito 0 k 0 u t the 0 n efifty, he still had seven- hundred in there."

My cat has jumped upon the bed; he's ba thing him s elfhis small pink tongue linger s over a spot on his forepaw.

"On Sunday, I went out to get so me vo dka , and the car was across the street from the liquor store.

I walked over to it and there were three big black men in itdealers , pimp s- and some woman sit ting shotgun.

I tapped on the window and they rolled it down.

Pot s moke came pour ing ou t of the car6it was a me ss in there.

They ' d had th e car for less than two days and they'd trashed it. ' Thi s is my car, ' And the big guy I told them. behind the wheel says, 'I think you ' re wrong,' and rolls up the window again.

So I tapped on the window again and sai d, ' No. Thi s i s my ca r.' and they all got out, and they could have killed me .

But I got the car back.

I don 't know how.

I guess I acted crazy.

I don't know wh..y I'm ali ve.

I think I have a broken rib.

The big guy came after me with a crowbar or something- at least it looked like a crowbar.

He hit me with i t a couple time s .

It just. . and now my rib . .

It hurt s to breath .

I don't know why I'm alive."

Hi s pacing ha s become furious.

His voice quivers and his breathing is heavy.

I'm flat on my back , staring at the ceiling, wonde ring whe re hi s story is going to take me now.

"So I brought the car home and told Frank I'd found it , but hi s ATM car d was go n e.

Then the motel manager called and told me the girl was in the room and s he was freaking out.

So I went back to the motel.

She had been there since Saturday night, waiting for me.

She attacked me when I got there.

She was screaming at me.

I didn 't know why; I'd been so nice to her.

I told her I ' d take her out to eat at IHOP. That see med to calm her down.

She 1 ike s F r en c h to a st.

Wh e n s he saw I had the car, s he told me he r pimp wa s going to kill her if she didn 't get it back.

I guess she traded the car and the cash for her . . . her freedom? I don't know.

Anyway, she bought herself out of it somehow.

I felt really bad for her, but I told her she couldn't have the car.

But I couldn't let her go back out there to get killed.

How could I do tha t?

Have you ever see n a whore who's been beaten by her pimp? " "No . " There are goose bumps on my flesh.

I light anot her cigarette.

"It's . ugly .

No, not ugly.

It's. tragic.

So I asked her to move in with me. " I cough.

I choke.

The r e i s a pause in the conversation.

The plaintive whistle of a teakettle pierces this interlude.

There is the sound of porcelain a nd metal and gurgling water.

I wonde r if he 's dr inking Orange Pekoe or English Breakfast.

I fm thirsty, but

there's no water left in my I don 't feel like getglass . ting out of bed to fill it.

"S he 's in the bedroom now.

She 's afraid to leave the apartment because she says he'll kill her if he finds her.

He was here yesterdayin the building- looking for her.

We saw him in the stairwell on the second floor.

He . was the gl!y who had the carthe one who I fought with.

He didn't see us, but sooner or later . . I .

Frank's mad at me for bringing a whore home.

She's mad because I won 't . fuck her.

Of course I can't fuck he r; she's my art project.

I can't save her if I fuck her right? " Metal hits the edges of the cup.

A spoon.

He ha s made instant coffee. " What should I do?"

He sips the hot coffee.

He blow s on the surface then slurps gingerly.

I'm silent.

My cat has curled up and fallen asleep on my stomach.

He's purring.

"I think you should . make love to her, Grant.

Or at 1 e a s t pre ten d to . '\ I'm not sure if I mean this .

But it's my turn to shock, to control.

"You don't have to . fuck her.

It doesn't have to be something ugly ."

"Pretend to?

That's OK then, to do that?"

"Yes, Grant.

It's OK to pretend."

He doesn 't

reply.

I can hear Conan O'Brian joking with a guest and a young girl's prickly laughter. " Grant , are you still there?" " Ye s. " His voice is quieter, deeper, menacing.

"That was too easy for you.

It doesn 't bother you?

Why doesn 't it bother you?

"Why s hould it?

Do you want it to bother me? " I squash my cigarette into the ashtray and watch the ember glow then die.

"You want me to be jealous? I'm sorry, but I'm not.

I could act like I am. " "I wish you were jealous."

He has lost hi s edge.

The girl laughs again.

She doesn 't sound like someone who is afraid her pimp is going to kill her.

"I don 't know if I can do it to her- if I can pretend. " lIis voice is trembling.

"T hen don 't Grant.

Toss her ass back out on the where street she belong s.

She's crack-whore and a a thief and she's probably got AIDS. Is that what you want me to say?"

My cat stares up at me, annoyed.

I stroke him behind the ears, under the chin, until he curls back up into a furry ball. " Do you think something is wrong wi th me ?"

The game begins again.

"Ye s.

You're fucked up

page 9

and it's . a waste, Grant.

You 're too talented to screw your life up like this. And the kicker is, I can't do anything fo r you.

I'm two-thousand-miles away and there's nothing I can do to help I'm But you think I can. you. not a doctor; I'm your exand I ' m stressing ex- wife.

You should be in rehab, not making long distance calls to me in the middle of the night."

"I can't do rehab.

I've done rehab ."

"All right.

Fine.

Then It 's taking too die already. long. " I remember Grant 's face the last time I saw it: bloated wi th alcohol, blue circles beneath his eyes, haunted.

He had s pen t the whole night begging me to stay, begging to be allowed to come along. ' At least let me visit you,' he had pleaded.

I told him I'd think about it; I was lying.

Everything is quiet here except for the churning in my stomach and the steady sound of my brea thing.

"I wish you were here ."

His voice hitches as he attempts to fight back the urge to cry.

"If you were here-" She calls hi s name in a que s tioning whoare- you- talking- to? voice.

He say s some thing to he r, smothe ring the receive r with hi shand.

From below those sweet artist's fingers I can hear his soothing

page 10

drone.

What he 's telling her doesn 't matter .

It's the sudden calm assurance he can affect that mystifies me. Like when you remove a pot of boiling water from a red- hot eye, it instantly becomes placidrising steam, the only warning of its scalding temperature.

"Ca n I call you tomorrow?" His voice hisses and evaporates into my ear.

"You know you can." . He won 't. ' Twelve hour s isn't enough time to propel this drama or halt it. He needs time to dig his grave deeper or to begin filling it in again.

Time to sink or swi m.

"I love you .

Thi s he declares with the utmost sincerity.

It is almost a whisper.

The silence on my end of the phone is honest cruelty.

"Well?

Aren't you going to-" "Love " you too, Grant. " It is clipped, and sharp. A formali ty.

"So, it's OK to pretend?"

"If you have to."

"I'll call you tomorrow."

The phone clicks- numbing si lence .

I know if I let the water of sleep envelop me again, I will see his struggling torso being sucked down below the surf; his gurgling cries for help stifled by the crash of the waves.

But I will swim out to him.

The clock glows 4: 00 am.

I am wide awake and out of cigarettes. *

A\cohoHc~

Anon yMou~

Tiffany Moe\\er

-all of these bottles side by side , like troops marching in a parade their brown glass uniforms shiny for inspection lightly shadowing the potent liquid inside (damn where's that opener) ah,

that strong odor - like apples

left overnight,

half- eaten

only we t. ..

i know it's coming

oh,

amazing how the micro-dots on my tongue Stand Up and Scream like fan s at a concert,

restless

exci ted , impa tient (where IS that opener) pavlov's dog and i salivate at the sight of that honey-brown bottle of blis s i'm waiting for the familiar Shhhhh of the top hissing at its bitter separation from the bottle-mouth it kisses (if only i could f i nd tha t ... )

Untit\ed SeYie~

I

Katie Danie\ page 11

Daddy') Bfk;n; Queen

I

Mag Jone.)

He took pictures of you My cat-eyed mother Native on the beach, Looking far into the distance, You hold back your hair.

You stare Into the blue, bright sky.

Thi sis how I knew you.

Who took pictures of you, My black-eyed mother?

Sunset behind you, Looking far into the distance, You hold back matted hair, Bruised eyes stare Into the dark settling around you.

How could I have known you?

Unt;t\ed

page. 12

Hawa N.P. Ware.

(He's got the fifty and the hundred;

she's got the one-dollar coin.

She's an egg and an oven and an incuba tor. and two- step can tap your 6 o'clock nap. and a ripe piece of

She can polka And Susie She ' s learning during She ' s a hole and a skirt ass.

and primps for you And cinches her waist She dons pantyhose and diapers and kisses your face.

She cleans for you

She's lipstick and hairspray and a spiked high heel She's got stars for eyes and a Bardot pout; Lipstick on your collar, daddy?

Mom can get it out.

You can use her and abuse her and She ' ll give you a smile, Get down on her knees And let you ride for awhileWhile balancing the checkbook, And phoning the sitter; Then she'll get up And clean up And start making Dinne r.

(Give him the dollar,

give him the ten;

but working my love,

don ' t attribute to him.)

Jena Gi\tnane page

1~

The Funeya\ Pay\oy

E. Richayd &yabhaM III

A malodorous casserole of death and burgeoning buds pervades each meddling nostril, and puzzles every mourner.

A taut,

ceaseless knot,

curtly invades one throat , welling the unsought teardrops bursting forth now in hot streaks, trickling gently down one's cheeks.

The trembling fingers steady upon the slick , whi te, guarding the soft,

casket

bloodless face,

so elegant and serene, adorned by rose-colored lipstick and a perfect new hairdo.

page

14

page 15

Night. (And TiMe

page. 16

I

Katie. Dan;e.\

The. Show)toppe.y

E. Richayd &yabhaM III

I A motley group of people milled around the auditorium looking for seats. Their large yellow name tags were plain as day.

But their chatter was indisti nguishable.

Meanwhile, Rod choked back some water and pointed an index finger toward the switchboard operator.

The cameras were ready to roll. "Places everyone!" bellowed an anonymous production assistant.

"Quiet please!"

Although the buzzing babble terminated s hortly, the crowd remained full of electricity.

When all was quiet on the set, the production assistant nodded.

Rod retorted with a wink.

This re h earse d exchange signa led the show was ready to begin.

At once, two electric "app lause " sig n s glowed above, and on ei ther side of the stage.

Red and green lights flashed in at a measured tempo all

over the studio. The white .. lights lining the aisle chased one another up on to the stage like an activated chain of domino s . And a well known saxophone an d t rumpe t tun e complemen te d the a udiences' screams.

The br i mming studio made for a funky realm of controlled chaos.

Rod took a heavy breath before leaning up in hi s chair at the si de of the stage to adjust the microphone .

He moved hi s unusually large head left to right, observing the wildly cheering fans.

They all looked so silly wi th their arms stretched high and their mouths open wide.

He noticed so me of the women boasted saggy triceps, and so me of the men exposed stained teeth, and vice versa.

Whatever the case, the crowd's ado had forever amused Rod-i n a peculiar sort of way.

It amused h i m that merel y ordering a stranger to come down to the stage could result in wildly

page 17

orga smic expressions of joy and delight . The predictably spastic reactions of the announced contestants made him laugh out loud.

Seeing the dynamic oceans of hopeful faces made him grin on a daily ba sis .

And he liked wa t ching the mentioned individuals become breathless when they darted down the center aisle .

On occasion, contestants tripped face first into the red-carpeted walkway.

Thus, it was a rare moment when Rod couldn't j ustifya queer-looking grimace .

"What fools!" he thought to himself, "panting like wild animals; each one of them yearning to hear their own names called through my microphone!"

II By all accounts, Rod Ready was the signature voice on the nation 's most popular game show, "The Prize is Priced. " He was a fat man, with goldr i mm e d g 1 ass e s m0 u n ted 0 v e r his hug e s qua r e - s hap e d head, and had a powerful, jolly sounding voice that originated from low in his gut.

Indeed, his utterance was pleasing to the ear, and had echoed all through the a udi tor i um of Studio B for the pa s t twenty- five television seasons.

Consistently, Rod wore oversized costumes that we re r a the r loud, if not tacky . He donne d lot s of silk and sequins, and wasn't afraid of showing off pastels. The plan was to attract attention to himse lf.

Nevertheless, Rod's existence had been relatively anonymous for the past twenty-five years.

No ma t te r what hi sat tire, Rod remained fixed i n his chair-fixed in his chair at the side of the stage behind his large, metal, microphone!

For twenty- five years, the show's charismatic ho st, Bud Barker had hoarded the public's eyes and monopolized their minds.

Wi th his skinny, hand- held microphone , he moved about the audience every day , sucking affirma tion from them like a parasi tic worm.

Whatever the case, Bud Barker thrived on people .

And the unrivaled arrogance of this tanned gentleman with silver hair was somehow appealing.

For twenty- five years, Rod had resented Bud 's

page 18

celebrity stat u s.

III Geared toward the s mall-town American family and retired elderly couples , " The Prize is Priced " was a terribly simple game s how.

It was a simple s how for simple people with simple values.

When contestants were called from the audience, they howled like hungry bea s t s following a Then, similar to headle ss chickens , these kill. tragic people made their way down to contestant's row a t the ba se of the stage .

Simply put, the object of the game was to mo st closely guess the prices of randomly- selected prizes.

Rod had seen every imaginable prize up for bid.

Oak coffee tables, camping trailers , chess sets, crystal clocks, tiny figurines, and pearl necklaces were offered daily.

Over the years , Rod's tongue had wagged obediently, describing these, and countless other prizes , to millions of viewers across America .

All the while, various trimly-curved, doll-like models dressed in bathing suits, groped the prize s under discussion.

But the senseless contestants were never concerned with details of the prizes.

All that was important to those ridiculous , simple-minded so uls , was me eting the glorious Bud Barker.

Although Rod had come to under sta nd this unfortunate truth, he still felt indignant about it.

Rod's anger had been swelling for twenty- five years.

And as hi s glassy eyes continued to scan the crowd, he thought to himself: "Foolish sheep! Why are you all s uch idiots?!"

IV Regarding the game show, the contestant who ' s guess was closest to the act u al retail price won the prize.

After shrieking happily out loud, the winning bidder then advanced into the limelight, and kissed Bud Barker on the cheek, (if the winning bidders were men, they would i nstead , greet Bud wi th a good firm hand s hake).

Soon afterward, they were invited to play another price-guessing game , though, these additional games were more

One could win a new advanced and highly variable. car , truck, or van, by rolling the correct price number s on several oversized, fel t- covered dice.

One co uld win an oak- veneered dinette set by unlocking a large vault-the combination of course being the correct price of the prize.

There was eve n a game that intermingled price guessing and miniature golf.

"What a show!" the sweaty watchers thought collective ly.

Rod did not agree.

If the stage d player won the game (and therefore the prize), bells rang in celebration.

At the sa me time, the victor jumped up and down, kicking wildly like a donkey, and Bud iss ued congr a t ulation s with three light taps across the small of the back.

Then the winne r da shed off the stage, with limb s still flailing.

If the competitor lost, a hideous buzzer would sound as the entire audience released an upsetting ga s p.

These simultaneous noises were truly bonechilling.

Then Bud Barker would apologize with one open-palmed pat against the loser's slumped shoulder.

And the beaten contestant would exit the scaffold fee ling betrayed and disappointed.

In all cases, either a feminine products promotion or a laundry detergent commercial, followed for the next sixty seco nd s of television air time.

Out si de viewers had a chance to go to the bathroom, get the linens from the dryer, or change the baby.

Me a nwhile, Bud Barker moved poetically amongst the st udio audience.

The sexy models changed swimsuits back stage .

As always, Rod remained steaming unnoticeably in hi s throne. " Look at him, s peaking as if it is his s how ... taking all the credit," grumbled Rod 's brain.

"Why can't they under sta nd my worthy role?

It 's completely asinine!"

Here and now , Rod 's mind began to stray .

He wond ere d how hi s lif e might have been altered without the fa med game s how.

Maybe he would have done something meaningful , like rescuing treed cats .

Mo s t cat owners love their cats. He could have been a hero. Maybe he would have done something to stim-

ul ate hi s intellect , like dissecting road kill.

Indeed, animal innards are complex.

Perhaps hi s life would have entailed something be sides sitting in a chair every day and reading stra ngers' names on cue.

All at once, Rod wa s overwhelmed by an unfamiliar feeling.

His heart shuddered with a combination of thrill and timidity.

His torso see med lighter than ever before.

And his appendages tingled th roughou 1.

He wonde red b rea thle s sly: "Co uld I be remembered as something more than a linguistic shadow-the vociferous si dekick-of the great Bud Barker?! " Presently, Rod Ready sent this p'onderous que stio n through all the gray matter in hi s sk ull.

V He had been swallowed by a sea of popularityimpr i so ned by the Ame r ican people.

And the re wa s no land in sight.

He couldn't leave the s how.

Absolutely not.

Rod Ready' s voice was too important.

Too many people required an earshot of his masterful phonation.

Without his voice , there could be no "Prize is Priced. " And America needed the s how.

That 's what everybody sai d behind the scenes.

"No nsense ," convinced one producer when Rod mentioned hi s idea for leaving the s how. " Your voice is unique.

It's one of a kind.

Powerful.

Booming.

Unfor ge t table.

It's pr icele s s, Rod baby. " Another said: "It's your duty , Rod. Your song has unbridled charisma.

People need to hear it.

Your special talent is a ble s si ng from the Lord.

Lea v ing the s how would be like s pit ting in the face of God. " Rod felt caged by hi s gift.

Hi s face sagged like a tired and beaten old man. And his chest collapsed a little bit on h is lungs.

Like an overcooked noodle, he s lumped in his chair.

But instants later , and quit e un expecte dly , Rod' s po st ure stiffened and his drooping visage tightened! His formerly glazed eyes turned alert, s parkling now like preciou s stone s.

And hi s blood flowed quicker than before , and everything that was

page 19

wa s once cloudy became crisp as clear as leaves and grounded cloudless summer skies!

It was a mind- altering revelation!

Rod ~hought devilishly : "Ha! Without my booming, million dollar voice, Bud Barker is nothing!

Without the help of Rod Ready, there would be no Bud Barker! " Rod's rosy skin grew a shade closer to scar let.

And his narrow lips curled upward as his mind traversed through further realizations .

"Wi thout my golden tongue, Bud Barker would have never been rich, famous, and adored by every loving wife in Kansas.

He never would have slept with all of those Barbie Doll game show model s . Nor would he have fired them after they were no longer novel masteries.

Even better, Bud Barker wouldn't have been asked for one cameo appearance on the silver screen. " Rod was enlightened as well as enraged.

His grin was sinister.

And his head was like a blazing furnace, though he managed to keep a steady hand.

Mindfully, he moved his hand to hi s head , and whisked a bit of the boiling moisture from his brow.

"I s hould have freed myself long ago," he muttered under a winded sig h.

His lasting gaze was cold, as he surveyed the masses.

Right away, there was a noticeable vein that bulged from his secreting forehead.

It crimped and curled from hi s eyebrow, across hi s temple, and in to hi s hair line

page 20

in a snakelike fashion.

The throbbing pool of pale blue blood that occupied the vessel resembled a recently rat- filled serpent.

The flashing lights remained in rhythm with the cheering spectators and the earsplitting musiDespite his burgeoncal horns. i ng madness, Rod achieved a regular appearance, brushing his hairline only when ne\essary and wiggling about his seat just enough to get comfortable (not that anyone would have noticed otherwise).

Occasionally, he tapped a pudgy finger against the pulsing blood vessel at the side of his head, unconsciously keeping bea t wi th the ongoing show tune.

Rod's throat was dry , like it had been crammed full of cotton.

He wet his gullet with a la st sip of water.

He didn 't want his voice to crack during his brief starring moment.

Thus , he tried to relax even though Bud Barker would soon thieve all of the viewing eyes.

Rod sat down his glass, adjusted his eyeglasses, and pulled the microphone toward his lips.

He took a deep breath until his belt was unbearably tight.

When the music hi t the right note, he commanded five stra ngers to approach the stage .

During the beckoning, Rod maintained an ominous smile . A careful ear may have detected the shred of evil in his tone.

"Shirley Johnston!

Steven Belachek!

Reberta Simmons!

cameO

bla Zing

eVil

Candace Rodriguez!

Tony Rupert!

Come on down!

You ' re the first five contestants on the 路Prize is Priced!" Rod 's intro rolled smooth as ice from his tongue. For a moment, the maddening reflections had deserted him.

Now he relaxed in his chair and wa tc hed them come.

VI The men jumped promptly out of their neighboring seats shouting " That 's me! That's me!" They clapped their hand s, and gave unreciprocated "high fives" to all the s urrounding people.

Their casual denim pants and youthful strides made today's male contestants highly mobile while charging down the aisle, amongst the disorder of flashing lights and roa ring idiot s.

Bud Ba rke r stood proudly at center stage as they approached.

Tony's boyish grin revealed mo st of his teeth.

His black locks and his oversized University sweatshirt, bounced along with the music as he jumped.

He thrust his fist in the air and made a victorious hammering motion while shouting, "Hey Bud! Hey Rod gave a loud Bud! " Bud bowed approvingly. s no rt , tryi ng to ignore this exchange.

At the same time, Steven's happily- contorted face battled for attention.

His chest was covered by a loose, turquoise tank top.

And above hi s narrow shoulders, he feverishly waved two open fisted palms in the direction of center stage.

Simul taneously, he yelled, "Thanks Bud! Thanks Bud!" Again, Bud nodded receptively.

And Rod gave another hog- like s nort.

Neit her of the latest male contestants acknowledged Rod Ready, the caller of their names.

Rod found this lack of appreciation rather irksome. His body started to tense again, and his insides began to re- heat.

His eyes were becoming pink and beady , like a large rodent.

And his wrinkling snout began to twi tch.

The three women responded far differently than the men , though their reactions remained painfully predictable.

After hearing their names announced , eac h of the women momentarily forgot who they were .

They remained upright in their respec-

tive seats , looking tense and holding hollow gazes in to the blinking ligh t s.

None of the cho s en women flinched until each was alerted by separate, though similarly-envious tugs at their collars.

At her first sig n of awareness, Shirley cupped her red lipped mouth wi th roughly costumed finger s.

It was a practiced attempt to ma sk her Though her pink colored press- on nails shock. exceeded the point of her nostrils, her noticeably-dilated pupils evidenced a bit of hum an greed.

Not only was Shirley at least thirty pounds overweight, but s he got lost on h er way to the stage.

"I'm sorry Bud!" she gasped upon arrival.

"I'm just so excited to be here! " Bud dipped his chin forgivingly.

The audience cheered.

Shirley mel ted in awe.

Rod rolled hi s eyes, as anger continued to warm him.

Of all the newly acknowledged contestants, Roberta had the mo st trouble emerging from her aisle- side seat.

She was a corpulent bea st.

Her brown skin oozed like chocolate syrup from her grossly tight tee- shirt.

The ghastly garment was a custom designed cotton crew, and powder blue, with black air- brushed letterin g that read "Wic hita Loves Bud Barker. ,{" She too, fell astray en route to contestant's row.

"T hat bodacious brown cow can't Rod thought: see 'around those big bouncing breast s . Good God! Look what those melons are bouncing beneath.

It's a ... i t' s a Bud Barker tee- s hirt! " Hi s frown tightened as hi s musings raced on.

"That bitch could have worn a Rod Ready tee- shirt!"

Rod's ugly scowl would have been obvious, had his face not been obstructed by the large metal microphone.

"Of course," thought Rod , laughing a little from within, "s he still couldn't find h er way around those overblown glands-no matter what s hirt she covered them wi th." Rod chuckled out loud in humored disgust.

And the angry fire inside of him was hotter than hell.

When Roberta finally did arrive at the base of the stage, she started hopping up and down in

page 21

an uncontrolled fashion : And her tumbling udders moved more freely and offensively, and her neck jiggled as she hollered toward center stage.

"I can't believe it, baby!

I'm on the show!

Wichita loves you, Bud!" Bud couldn't help but snicker lightly while extending a warmly cued greeting.

Again, the onlookers applauded out loud .

Rod's frown was accented by a na r rowing gla r e, and the blood s upply in his head was prominent again.

Candace Rodriguez was a frail, weathered-looking woman with an olivecolored face that was hidden behind t h i c k c a k e s 0 fro u g e.

Wh ens her e a 1ized her name had been called, she jumped like a cricket from her seat and moved wi th quick, jerky motions, down the red-carpeted walkway.

She had long, spindly legs that crept from her rag g e d s h 0 r t s h 0 r t s.

Over a 11, she appeared to be the type of dame tha t bruised easily, as her limbs were covered with irregular purple splotches.

About halfway toward the stage Candace stopped short, turned abruptly, and rushed back to her seat.

Therewith, she bent her knees to the floor, retrieving a large black satchel from beneath her seat.

From the satchel, she withdrew some sort of homemade handicraft, a t which point a mangled pack of half- empty Marlboros flew toward some nearby seats.

A few of the onlookers scrambled for the estranged smokes like baseball fans battling for a foul ball in the stands.

But Candace gave no attention to the matter.

Without delay, she thrust the

page 22

emptied purse back beneath her seat, and returned in the direction of the stage.

Her anxious eyeballs were widely exposed, and blood s hot. " Oh my God , Bud! It's a miracle!" s he wailed i n a scratchy, smokers voice.

"We're all from a suburb south of Fairbanks, Alaska, and we brought you this!"

Candace twisted her gangly spine and neck around, acknowledging a howling wolf pa~k in the back of the studio.

Actually, it was a group of people, but their behavior resembled that of wild animals.

In the same motion , Candace extended her bony arms, palms upward, toward center stage.

She was presenting so me sort of a homemade object.

Rod's jaw dropped almost to the floor.

He was thunderstruck by this new level of absurdity.

The fire inside of him rose like s moke up a stack.

And hi s ltead began to ache.

He thought: " Oh God no, Candace!

A gift?!

For Bud Barker?!

Oh God, you've done it!"

Keeping hi s slender microphon e elevated above the crowd, Bud strolled across the stage to where Candace was standing.

Her eroding face reflected off the toes of hi s h ighly polished shoes.

Bud stooped down to examine her offering.

His dark eyes worked over the original artifact like a high powered microscope.

Candace's skinny arms trembled nervou sly.

"What in the world could it be?" thought the audience in uni son, leaning forward from their seats .

The gift was a miniature .log cabin constructed from used popsickle sticks and toothpicks.

Hand painted across the roof in alternating red and green letters was inscribed "Alaska loves you Bud" An d the wall s 0 f the cab i n were decorated with numerous multicolored, and illegible signatures.

"We all signed it for you , Bud," Candace said sheepishly.

Again her malnourished figure rotated, indicating the howling pack.

And they barked louder when she turned to them.

At this time, upbeat musical number faded away, and the madly- flashing studio lights slowed to a gentle

Eyin

blink. The audience grew quiet and the tension mounted.

All eyes awaited Bud Barker's reaction .

Rod grew unea s y; his brooding rage had formed a pre ssure everywhere in his innards.

The aching inside his skull wa s more intense now.

And the blood- pooled vessel at his hairline had a quivering pulse .

"God damn you migraines! " Rod 's mind screamed.

His blazed demeanor wa s making hi s though t s foggy.

Hi s respiration was fast and heavy, like a panting canine.

Rod began squirming in his seat while twiddling hi s pudgy thumbs .

M. Monk

page

2~

His beady eyes were now solely fixed on the ho st. By now his face was the color of an overripe t~rnip, and the trembling vein was expanding more and more, and turning purplish.

Sweat rained from his locks, and his brain felt like all the fluid had been sucked from it.

"Whatever he says he won't mean it," said Rod 's struggling brain.

"He's nothing but a fake.

He always has been."

Rod's reddened face looked greasy with broiled perspiration.

His dark nostrils flared broadly , but his breathing was not deep enough.

Like a pro, Bud 's outward response was charming.

He smiled sweetly at the woman.

Everyone else in the crowd scowled enviously in the vicinity of Candace, save her howling companions.

Bud Barker gently seize d the craft from her outstretched hands.

Candace relaxed her arms at her sides and took a cautious step backward.

But her face looked tight as a board.

Bud raised the art work up to the cameras in a statuesque pose. Here and now, the studio was quiet.

"Oh dear , isn't that nice, " commented Bud after a momentary delay.

Candace's joints went weak.

She was so relieved that she nearly fainted.

But her heartbeat was strong.

"That's just fine," Bud remarked with a quirky smirk.

"Thank you Candace ... and thank you Ala ska. " His tone was convincingly sincere. The response made the men roar and female audience coo.

Rod continued to stew behind hi s microphone , struggling with hi s headache , and strai ning to control his wrath.

VII Not one of the three female contestants showed They weren't interestRod a hint of appreciation. ed in who voiced the i r name s.

They only cared to meet the glorious Bud Barker.

They were the same a s the men.

They were all the same; twenty- fi ve years of fanatical people-sheep, in search of a story to tell.

If they couldn't make their own yarn, they could live vicariously the tale of Bud Barker and the " Prize is Priced."

page 24

The mali gnant ire still rose from Rod's gut like invisible fumes.

The boiling blood would move through his flaming torso, up his narrow throat, and all through his head, making his rationale strange and ir regula r.

All eye s, in cluding the tele vi sio n cameras, remained fixed on Bud, Candace, and the homemade log cabin.

It was remarkable how this sort of circumstance held everyone's attention.

That is, everyone except for Rod. Rather than admiring Candace and the Alaskan offering, Rod scowled at a blue- haired old lady in the front row.

She had tiny bones beneath her second-hand clothes, and a face like a turtle. Her weak eyes sparkled, gawking fondly in the direction of center stage .

And her ridged smile made two large dimples in her cheeks that resembled moon craters.

To most, she might have been a plea sa nt looking old bag.

But Rod saw her differently.

He saw her as a fool.

His mind raced, searching for the word s that made sense of her.

But the words eluded hi s consci ous .

Instead, violent thoughts crept into his head.

The ideas were frightening, and he wanted to make them stop.

He pressed his palm s to hi s moi stened forehead, drubbing the prominent vein with his nails . But he couldn't resist the enclosing ho stili ty.

And his headache turn"'ed agonizing.

It was a searing and ceaseless pain all through his inner skull.

Everything was confused and hi s vexation was clouded, like a los t and bitter child.

"Hey Grandma! Grandma!" said the voices inside his head.

"Why don 't you go home to Topeka , and tell your skinny grandson, Jimmy about today 's show! Tell him you met Rod Ready-and he 's a wild and crazy guy!

Go on, you old bi tch ... go home and tell Jimmy!

Tell the grass and the fence ... and the cows too!"

Of course, Rod never vocalized these musing s.

Somehow he knew they were mad.

VIII It was becoming difficult for him to breath now.

Hi s swelling fury felt like a fat man 's heartburn.

His pores had sprayed sweat from his fleshy skin for too long.

And the silk and

I

L....v i_O_l e n_t----IHL....-_f_r a g_il----leHL....-_OV_e----lr

sequ i n s in today ' s costume became dank and clung to t h e cracks in his meaty tissue.

His head was n ow a d ee p, brick red color.

The large blood vessel o n hi s temple was larger, and bluer looking than eve r before.

It wa s thi ck and tigh t ly stretc h e d , like an over- inflated water balloon.

His eyes s eemed to protrude from behind his glasses.

His perfectly- spherical eyeballs were webbed with blo od , and they rest in their sockets like golf ba lls on golf tees.

Soon, his vision went blurry.

His pudgy fingers flailed about the arms of his chair, his oversized skull jerked everywhere, h is s oft body struggled to stay erect in the c h ai r. , and his half- empty water glass toppled to th e floor.

There was a peppery tingling throug h ou t hi s body.

And his last gasp for air soun ded as only a fragile wheeze .

It was a weak and deat hly noi s e , imperceptible amongst the buzz of the a udi e nce .

Then there was a quick and sudden erupti on , like an activated fire hydrant.

Blue bloo d flooded his brain in one savage wave.

And the bulging vein on his temple deflated.

Hi s flesh was pale now.

Wi thout noticing, Bud lowered the li ttle log cabin, and handed it to '1.n adj acent Barbie Doll model.

Then he leaned into his s lender mi crophone .

"Rod, " he said , calmly ge s turing ov e r hi s shoulder, "what do you have to s ay about the gift ? " But for the fir s t time in twenty- fi v e years, his vo i ce did not answer on cue. " Rod , " said Bud, a little flustered . " Tell u s what you think about the Alaskan offering.

I s n ' t it fine ?"

Still , there was no response .

Thereupon, all eyes shifted sideway s toward Rod ' s former s tage position.

They s aw the si lent dead man, wil ted in the corner chair behind th e large metal microphone.

Bud stumbled backward s, dropping his slender microphone to the floor.

There was a horrified shriek f rom the audienc e .

A few of the women fainted.

And everyone knew the show was over. *

page. 2S

T eMptatioVl

Sabrina Sadaf Siddiqi Temptation threatened to erase the rage of their authority.

When blue eyes captivated Like beads of sweat wai ting to be licked off.

And the hope of my dark eyes burned a hole in the fabric of what has been, what is and what will be .

The strength of my native rhythm soothes my soul- reminding me of innocence Innocence of I felt nestled in my Mother's chest- comforted by the rhythm of Her heartbeat.

Sucking the sweet breath of life from Her nipples In a land of milk and honey.

But it is here that I strive for redemption Redeeming myself from words unspoken and thoughts left locked up in the musky attics of temptation As your desire drips down my full lips, over my firm breasts and deep between my fleshy thighs.

My body so firm from the work your wife enslaves me with.

My soul so acidic from the harshness of her presence.

o...

~lo'. o

" . .i!fr''''

""1'~.• <I~

Jf!

iW

~\\.~ .. ftt,:··"":.f

n\

.1.

~~

page. 26

But it is the carving in your eyes that threatens us bothShe and I bonded together through the shackles of your desire.

As Bibles are ripped apart on sacred s oil-

In Jesus name are you my master.

In Jesus name shall I be fre ed.

Was purity lost as I lay screamingnot with unbridled passion- but with shrill defiance of savageness I could not understand?

Cleansing from me the ~ope of better days When goddesses walked with undeniable Grace And the curves of their flesh held secrets that only the most noble of men could unlock.

From a people who claimed refinement barbaric urges seemed only to prevail Denying me my primal right for tenderness Forcing your primitive drive for possession" on me And yet she claims it is the seduction in my eyes that tempts you- like a raging fire yearning to be put out My innate savagery.

My desire to feel you inside me.

As if your whiteness cleansed the most filthy part of my black womanhood But this filthiness is my most sacred temple- where women witness the power of creation And have good reason to be humbled.

page. 27

Envy I

page 28

DeH Mi\an

Love h Ln,e Being SMacked in the Side of the Head by a LavaLaMp Whizzing Thyough the ROOM at 50 Mph

Maureen Mooney

It blind- sided me; cuffi ng me with a welt- raising Smac k!

Tha t word, t ha t emote- shunburie d in the throat (somewhere below the esophagus), cl ois tered in the thoracic region (lingering in my heart like a sniper) - e lev ating itself to tenor promlnence in a fi ve-fingered fist of ho t sticky sentiment.

(I never saw it coming , never had time to duck. ) Ru di mentary in its declaration i t co ll i ded against this impenetrable con s titution re nde r i ng me nebulous , prone, prostrate, won der ing what the hell just hit me whil e indulging the lush irritation of the wound.

Untit\ed

page

~o

I

Sabrina Sadaf Sidd;q;

Pra yiYlg Together

Knight Stivender

My grandmother felt like she was drowning when she overheard my grandfather that morning, talking to the walls as he tried feebly and pathetically to dress himself without her help.

He couldn't breathe well enough to do both things at once. He could barely breathe enough to ask for water, his sweater, his ear drops or pill box when he was immobile, slouching in his navy recliner, his eyes drifting off somewhere past the television and the windows.

This time, as he choked out his words in spite of himself, the oxygen tube in his nose gurgled and clicked more persistently than normal.

At first she thought he was calling for her. She was in the kitchen, just outside their bedroom , peeling a peach and buttering an English muffin for his breakfast. She stepped into the bedroom.

"Bob?" she called . "Are you okay?"

He didn ' t answer her.

Maybe he didn ' t hear, she thought. He hadn't been wearing his hearing aides lately, a fact that had started an argument between them a week before. " There's no point anymore!" he would have yelled at her had he had the air.

The argument had ended when he shut his eyes and shut her out. She still

felt guilty; not because she had yelled , but because she had been able to yell.

Wincing as she watched him struggle with his shirt button s, she was about to call his name again when she heard him mumble, "Please just let me die. Please, God . " She clenched her jaw tightly and pulled at her arthritic fingers. To keep from crying, she recited the Lord's Prayer over and over in her mind like she always did when watching my grandfather .

"Our Father , who art in Heaven ... " she began, twisting a finger with each word.

When he fastened his last button, he turned unsteadiry and saw my grandmother watching him. He hadn ' t tried to stop his tears. He sat down on hi s bed ; he couldn't walk to her or he most certainly would have.

She went to him, wrapped one arm around his skeletal body and held his hand with the other.

She said to him, "Let us pray together. " He couldn't talk anymore because he was completely out of breath. They stayed that way for a long time, the same painful, hopeful look in their eyes, as they spoke silently with one another and with their separate God s. My grandfather ' s God let him squeeze her hand back. Her God let her cry.

page ~ 1

The

City ReM(J.in~ Uncoveyed #- II I

We.ndy Cayo\ Rob;n)on

EditoYia\ Staff Editor Josh Hagan Mana2in2 Editor Cara Polinskj Graphic Desi2ner Katie Daniel On-line Editor Khai Nguyen Art Editor Courtney Watson Fiction Editor Puneet Sharma Non-fiction Editor Neal Maynord Poetry Editor Fred Grim

Facuh'l Advi)OY~ Jane Pope Eric Smith page.

~2

SuppoYting Staff

Jason Aldred Andy Ashby Charles Booth Ande Campbell Emily Chri s tian son Joe Cote Forrest DeMarcu s Jen Hamilton Shannon Leggett Rob Mahurin Elissa May Alissa Nesbitt Evie Rawling s Richard Riley Gina Shrieve s Jodie Si mpson Nina Small Robyn Vi ctory

co py r ig h t 1998 by t h e Un ive r sity of Ten nessee.

All ri g h ts r ese r ve d by t h e ind iv i d ual co n t ribut o r s .

Ph oe n ix i s pr e p a r e d ca me ra - r ea d y by th e s tud e n t s t aff me mb e r s a nd i s publ is h e d two ti mes a yea r .

Wo r ks of a rt , poet r y, fic ti o n, a n d no n- fict i o n a r e acce p te d th ro ug ho u t th e aca d emic yea r . Se nd s ubmiss i ons t o Phoenix, r oo m 5 Co mmuni cat i o n s Bu i ldin g, l 345 Ci r c l e Pa r k Dr i ve, Kn oxvi ll e, Te nn essee 37996- 0 3 l 4 .

Th e Phoenix wo u ld like t o extend spec i a l t ha n ks t o J a ne Pope , E r ic Smi t h , Lind a Gr a h a m, Ka r e n Bay l ess, a nd De b b i e Ta p pa n fo r t h eir val u ab l e ass i s t a n ce i n pr o du ctio n of th i s iss u e. Š

the end.