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A Dedication The characters on this issue's cover represent the contributors for this semester: The Poet, The Writer, The Painter, The Artist , The Editor, and The Designer. As The designer of this issue, I would like to pay tribute to the contributors and their work.

Being an editor of Phoenix is: showing poets how to use Macs, baking oatmeal raisin cookies to keep staff alive for the second round of selections, and hanging flyers at night mid-January in double layered long-johns. It is trying to keep submission forms on tables in February wind hoping that someone will notice and submit something beautiful, something interesting, so that we might have the pleasure of reading it, seeing it, feeling it and sharing. My academic advisor recently asked me to define my editorial sensibility. Though I haven't completely figured it out, I am proud to say that this issue contains stories of places I can see when I close my eyes such as the furniture storage building behind the Green Terrace shopping center in Jeff Horner's fiction (page 4), art I can think about without words, as in Anthony Smith's watercolor (page 23), poetry that speaks to the complication of interpersonal human experience as in Jay McMahan Jr.'s As my Grandfather Succumbs to Dementia I Pluck Tomatoes From the Ruins of His Garden (page 52) and, of course a sense of humor (see next page). Thanks Sam! Our designer thought Jessica Strunk's Guy I Saw at Walmart went nicely beside my letter! While I am thanking Sam I should also thank him for this semester's Phoenix design. We are calling it a rebirth. Sam's design is just the thing to complement our creative magazine. As we move forward with this issue, we are also preparing to look back at what has gotten us to this point; next semester's 50th anniversary issue of Phoenix. It is my hope that this magazine will connect to the audience, and, thanks to all the contributors, I am sure it will. Enjoy! Very truly yours,

Jessica Neal, Editor-in-Chief

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Passions At Green Terrace

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Jeff Horner

New Orleans believed that Pushing Patience would win the Belmont. Thirty to one odds must be a misprint. He knew he shouldn't worry though. No one cares about horse racing outside New Orleans. A fifty-two year old displaced Katrina survivor, he slouched on his favorite slab of sidewalk in the Green Terrace shopping center: in front of the closed down fitness center, adjacent to Teddy's Liquor, next to Boulings Furniture Rentals. Teddy's had half-pints of whiskey for one dollar and seventy-five cents, but they never advertised this. The cheap bottles never get pushed. New Orleans slid an empty half-pint out of his back pocket and stared through the transparent plastic bottle at a blue Honda opposite him. "Damn," he thought. "I need to go check the time anyway. I know that horse can win at Belmont. I just can't bet here, no one can. Back in New Orleans, anyone can. " He rose like a Cajun statue and dropped the empty half-pint into a black mesh trash bin directly in front of Teddy's. When he entered the store, the door erupted with an electric bell. "Hey, Mark," Cameron, the proprietor, said from behind the old wooden counter. "What can I do for you?" New Orleans squinted at the Jack Daniels clock that hung on the wall. "Just need to check the time. I'll probably grab a half-pint too," he spoke in a thick Bayou accent. Loitering by the counter was Norm, a flabby former football player who made the store his own personal bar. New Orleans was usually indifferent toward him, and Norm usually returned the favor. "You really think they'll let him keep this one?" Norm asked Cameron. Cameron responded by merely blowing air out of his mouth as if the answer was somehow pressed behind a huge cloud of carbon dioxide. He bit his nails. "What are you guys talking about?" New Orleans asked. "Crazy Sam," Cameron replied. " He got his wife pregnant again. I hear she 's pretty far along, but that's just I hear." "Didn't social services take the last one?" Norm asked. "That's right. His wife, Hannah, I think that's her name, she was pretty pissed at

him for it. She blamed him for the whole thing ," Norm chuckled , " Some women are never pleased, I guess," New Orleans could not resist any longer, "Who you think 'il win the horse race Saturday?" "I don't watch horse racing, Mark," Cameron said with condescension , Norm laughed enough to appease Cameron , "I used to bet on horses all the time when I played ball. Never could catch a break," New Orleans took a half-pint from the shelf and dropped it on the counter, Cameron poked buttons on the register and then threw the bottle in a brown paper bag, " Buck seventy-five," Norm chuckled again , "I guess those horses 'li keep racing whether we poor boys win or not," New Orleans finally broke a smile, "That 's why the bookie drives the RollsRoyce, and the man on the street can't get a dollar," Cameron smirked, "I 'll see you later, Mark," "See you guys," he said as he left the store, He pulled the whiskey out and threw the bag in the trash, As he crashed back into position on the sidewalk and opened the half-pint, the realized that he had completely forgotten the t ime, " Damn, " he muttered and swigged the half-pint. The whiskey went down smoother than the bottle he drank earlier, Not bad for a dollar seventy-five, Too bad they don't advertise, The cheap bottles never get pushed, As the sun began to descend from its crest in the sky, New Orleans Mark slowly dozed off, Later that day, the electronic bell at Teddy's rang, and in walked a large muscular African-American , wearing a shirt made more of dirt than fab ric, Cameron looked up from the counter and smiled , "Hey, Monterey, what's up? " Monterey lumbered up and shook Cameron 's hand , He opened his mouth and slurred, " Monterey baby brother, Brother from another mother," Monterey and Cameron referred to each other by the same name: Monterey, Cameron never actually learned Monterey's real name, so he gave him a name based upon the one concrete fact he knew about him : his hometown, Monterey called Cameron by the same name because it was the first thing that they had ever talked about. Monterey dug inside a plastic bin beside the counter and fished out four airplane bottles of vodka, He set them on the counter, "Two bucks," Monterey handed two wadded bills to Cameron and pocketed the bottles, " Monterey, you hear anything about these people that are supposed to be living in that shed behind the shopping center?" Cameron asked, "Yeah , I heard, Never seen them, though, I always wondered what was in that shed , You know?" "I have no clue ," Monterey shook Cameron 's hand again, "Alright baby brother, See you later," "See you later, Monterey,"

Jeff Horn er

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Back on the sidewalk , Monterey eased himself down beside the snoozing New Orleans . He dug one of the vodkas out of his pocket and took it down in one gulp. After lighting up a cigarette, he nudged New Orleans. "Wake up, Mark. The sun ain 't even all the way down yet." New Orleans groaned and grunted and finally opened his eyes. He shook his head and eased the grogginess away slowly. It wasn't the police, so he didn't worry. "Hi, Mark, how long you been here." New Orleans and Monterey both shared the same first name: Mark. Monterey was ambivalent about this, but New Orleans secretly resented sharing his name with the man beside him on the sidewalk. Monterey dragged away on his cigarette. "I just got here, brother. Thought it was time to have a drink ." New Orleans hooked his half-pint between his fingers and swigged . "I understand that." As he wiped the sleep from his eyes , he remembered dreaming about the horse race . He thought he saw Pushing Patience beat Secretariat and Seattle Slew. "I'm just waiting on that horse race, Mark." Monterey drank down another vodka . "Oh yeah. Should be good. So , I talked to my daughter today." "What's she doing? " "On the track team in college ." "Oh, that's good, Mark," New Orleans said as he picked dirt from his fingernails. "I miss her, brother. Haven't seen her in nine years." New Orleans hadn't bet on a horse race in a year and a half. "Why's he complaining? It 's just a kid ." he thought. As the sun disappeared and the moon claimed the sky, Monterey and New Orleans sat quietly and unmoving , except for the occasional walk over to Teddy 's to, as New Orleans called it, "check the time". Monterey struck up conversation with a few passersby and asked them for spare change. He made enough to cover si x more vodkas . Both were slouched, nearly asleep, when a faint scream roused their attention . "You hear that? " New Orleans asked. "Yeah, sounded like it came from the back of the building." The scream continued and roused them more. "Sounds like a woman screaming ," Monterey said. A man's voice rose up, mixed with the woman 's screams . Monterey believed he could decipher some of the words . "Sounds like, "Come on, we got to go."" " What the hell's behind the building?" "That shed ." The screams became louder, more noticeable. They sounded like a wailing , a tragic sound, what one would expect a drowning person to sound like if they could be heard. "We should go back there." New Orleans snorted. " I ain't goin' back there. The cops will be here any minute." The screams silenced . "There. They gone now." Monterey gulped a vodka. "We should go back there. Check it out." "I ain't goin' anywhere."

Passions A t Green Terrace

"C'mon, damn it, somebody could be hurt." "It's probably just Crazy Sam and that bitch wife of his." "What if they're hurt?" Instantly, New Orleans thought of an incident, and he being the first one to discover it. He could be on the news and get some money. He could buy a TV.

The backside of the Green Terrace shopping center was nothing like the front. The same lights were back there, but they seemed much darker and unfamiliar. New Orleans had been back there before but only to urinate in the woods farther back. Both were gravely conscious of the police's arrival, and the cops never help the homeless. Lining the back of the building were countless miscellaneous boxes and crates and wooden pallets with split jagged edges and large green dumpsters with heaps of trash spilling over the top. They were mere scenery to Monterey and New Orleans, like some old Hollywood backlot accenting the approach to the desolate white shed. No one was in sight: no police, no people, no screams. "Man, it sure is quiet back here," Monterey said. Gulping another vodka, he and New Orleans stumbled their way forward. New Orleans felt the constant urge to turn back, but he kept thinking of the Belmont. "I sure wish I was in New York," he said. "What's in New York?" That's where the horse race is." "I thought it was in Kentucky." "That's the Derby. Not the Belmont." They continued to inch forward ignoring the ambiance around them: the crickets and cicadas that saturate the South; the faint whoosh of traffic from the interstate a mile from the shopping center. "You think anyone's still at the furniture store?" Monterey asked. "Why?" "Cause that's what the shed is behind here." "The furniture store?" "Part of it. I seen them come back here before." New Orleans stopped and turned a sharp glance toward him. "You afraid they'll call the cops." "They could, brother." "They would have already with the screaming and shit going on." "Yeah, I guess so," Monterey said. "Why you stopping though? We ain't there yet." "I'm not sure you able to go through with this asking stupid questions like that."

Jeff Horner

"I just want to make sure nobody's hurt." Monterey was a lot larger and a little younger and would provide some protection, but New Orleans wondered if the entire endeavor wasn't a doomed expedition from the beginning . "I think we should keep going anyhow." "Of course you do." New Orleans swigged the last of his whiskey and dropped the bottle on the asphalt. "Don't throw it there , brother. Trash it somewhere." New Orleans kept staggering toward the shed. There was trash allover the backside of the shopping center. A little more wouldn 't cause harm . The two finally came alongside the shed and noticed it was in a state of decrepitude like some old haunted house. Much of the whitewash had peeled away and the building itself looked as if it were made of driftwood. As they went around it, they noticed that the barnlike door was wide open . "Somebody was in here," Monterey said. "You go on. It's dark in there and I ain 't got no flashlight." "I got a lighter. Plus the moon 's shining in there." Monterey passed the door and cleared the threshold . New Orleans began to wonder if Pushing Patience would win after all. Swinging Suttree was the favorite, and he had lost a race in his life. It is the Belmont, though . You can't win them all. He saw Monterey ignite his lighter and an orange glow embraced the night air. "Come on," Monterey said. "There's no one in here." "Not yet there ain't," thought New Orleans. He followed the same path as Monterey and entered the shed. Even with the lighter and the moon, it was still rather dark. He crept slowly like one does avoiding mousetraps . The darkness within made the shed feel much larger than it appeared from the outside. "It stinks in here," he said amidst the scents of mold, feces , urine, and sweat which all mingled together like a rancid meal. "Hey, Mark," Monterey whispered, "come over here. Check this out, brother." New Orleans padded toward the orange glow but stumbled over something in the process. "Damn it," he voiced. He felt the item he had tripped over. It was soft and velvety like fabric . "I think you put your feet on this ." Monterey turned the soft glow of the lighter toward him. "Yeah, this is all furniture. It must be where the furniture place puts all the extra stuff they can't fit in the store. There's some bookshelves and a couch over here." "Old furniture can sure whip up a stink," New Orleans whispered. "You find anything else?" "What the hell?" New Orleans stood petrified like an old Louisiana cypress . " What is it?" "Come here and look at this." New Orleans stepped gently and navigated his way through the furniture to the glow of Monterey's lighter. He stood there, black and slumped, peering over a larger piece of furniture, larger than any piece in the room. When New Orlea ns caught a clear glimpse of it, he saw that it was an elaborate king size bed . The blankets, patterned like a musty kaleidoscope, were pulled back revea ling t he remains of once-white sheets. They were covered in blood that spread onto t he

Passions At Green Terra ce

819

floor and led away toward the exit in a sanguine road . "Damn , what the hell is that? " New Orleans stumbled back into what felt like a metal bucket. It tipped and splashed its contents onto the floor. "What did you do? " screamed Monterey. He turned and focused the lighter around New Orleans and revealed the floor covered in piss and shit. " It's everywhere. I think it got on me," yelled New Orleans . Monterey grabbed his wrist. " I think someone was murdered in here." " Murdered? " "Look at the blood, brother. Where else is blood going to come from?" The two staggered away from the bed and stumbled down toward the exit, following the blood . They bumped and stumbled their way into the furniture . Before they reached the exit, they toppled a large bookshelf to the ground. Monterey did not release his grip on New Orleans's wrist as he led him all the way out of the shed . Once outside, Monterey released him and began sprinting away toward the front of the shopping center. New Orleans followed closely behind running at a speed that he felt must be close to that of a thoroughbred. Pushing Patience speed. When they returned to the front of the shopping center, they stopped . "What the hell happened in there?" New Orleans coughed out. "I don't know, brother. I'm going straight to the Laundromat though." "Why? " " It's public. That's where I usually sleep." "I usually sleep in the woods behind the building ." " I wouldn't go back there now. There could be a murderer on the loose." "So what then? " "Come with me. Both of us can sleep at the Laundromat." New Orleans had cleaned his clothes there before when he could gather up enough money to do laundry, and it was a well-lit place and a short distance from the Green Terrace. It was lined with puke-yellow machines that hummed all day and night. The place was desolate considering it was far into the morning hours . New Orleans sat down in a silver folding chair in the back corner of the place, and Monterey pulled one up next to him. " I heard a woman screaming earlier," Monterey whispered tremulously. "I hope some poor girl didn 't get killed ." "There's going to be cops all over that place tomorrow. We won 't be able to even sit on the sidewalk ." This meant no reporters , no money, no TV, and no Belmont. " We may want to find another liquor store around here. It's not safe there anymore." Monterey pushed New Orleans so that he almost fell out of the chair. "How you thinking about that shit when some girl's got killed tonight?" "We're lucky we didn't get killed. " The two tried to get comfortable in the chairs, but it didn't happen . New Orleans squirmed around while Monterey pulled out the remaining vodkas from his pocket . "You want one? " he asked New Orleans . "Sure." They both gulped the rest of them down . It still did not calm them . " How do you sleep in these things? " "I usually put the chairs together. It works better that way." A haze descended upon the two , yet neither of them ever fell asleep.

Jeff Horn er

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When the sun had settled itself in the sky, Monterey nudged New Orleans who had been hypnotized staring at a dryer tumbling clothes. There was a small middle-aged woman wearing a pink bandanna doing her laundry. She had been there for over an hour, but had paid no mind to the two men slouched in the corner of the building . "What do you want, Mark?" New Orleans asked. "I need a drink, brother, " he replied and held out his trembling hand. He knew New Orleans had to feel the same way, and they needed to get the shakes off. New Orleans asked the middle-aged lady for the time. She checked her wristwatch and informed him th at it was ten after eight. Monterey gave him an approving glance. "Teddy 's is open now. Been open for ten minutes." The two rose and stretched their backs, but felt as if they would need braces to stand up straight after a night of slumping in those cha irs . When they walked out into the morning sunlight, Monterey coughed loudly. He pulled out a cigarette . "You think the cops are there yet?" New Orleans held out his hand and noticed it trembling like Monterey's . " I should say so. I doubt they caught the murderer yet." "I wonder when they'll catch him ." " I don't know. It's Friday, though. They'll probably put off an investigation until Monday." Friday already. The Belmont was only one day away. He probably wouldn 't get hold of a TV by then and would have to wait until Sunday to see Pushing Patience's photograph on the front page of the sports section. The two tramped their way from the Laundromat into the Green Terrace. The walk was only about a half-mile, but , going the night before without sleep, it seemed like ten miles. The farther they got, the more their hands trembled; it was like an earthquake in reverse , aftershocks first , primary shock second. Monterey began to think about his daughter and her life in college. " I wonder if my little girl has a track meet tomorrow. I bet she does." "She'll miss the Belmont then." Monterey laughed . "Sure would love to see her run. She's got to be fast. Like her dad ."

Passions At Green Terrace

10111

"Why don't you go visit her and see the meet?" "College is too far away from here. I could ride the bus up there, but I could never get the fare together. Got a dollar to my name, brother." When they approached their slab of sidewalk, they stole a quick glance behind the shopping center, for they wanted to know whether any policemen were at the shed. "Look," Monterey whispered. "Cop car." A police interceptor sat stagnant with red and blue lights beaming. "I bet they investigating." "I hope they can't trace us to the scene," "No, I'd say we're alright, brother." Monterey snorted. "Whether they can trace us or not, we can 't sit on the sidewalk till they leave." "We'll chat with the guys at Teddy's." The two opened the door to liquor store and heard the electronic bell. Cameron stood talking to Norm, who was the first customer of the day. "I was wondering what was going on back there," Cameron said to Norm before looking up at the two. "Morning, guys, what can I get you?" Monterey approached the counter and shook Cameron's hand. "Monterey, baby brother. Brother from another mother." He then turned and shook Norm's hand . "Big brother, how are we this morning?" "We're good, Monterey," Cameron replied. "How about you, Mark? You alright?" New Orleans had already grabbed a half-pint and quickly placed two dollars on the counter. "I'm okay," he responded. "Just waiting on that horse race, yeah?" "Yeah. I'm doubt I'll get see any of it though." "You could always go to a bar and watch it." New Orleans pocketed the half-pint. "I ain't got the money for a bar." Norm chuckled. "The horses go on without us poor boys." Monterey fished out two airplane bottles and tossed them on the counter and then unfolded a dollar from his pocket and gave it to Cameron who hastily slid it into the register. "You guys hear what happened behind the building last night?" Cameron asked. Monterey and New Orleans froze as if suddenly embalmed and stared straight at Cameron. They both had the same expressions like a frightened dog . Finally, Monterey broke the silence. "No, I didn't hear anything," he replied. Cameron immediately began chewing his nails. "Well, you remember Crazy Sam and his wife? Hannah, I think. Anyway, it turns out that the two of them had been living in that shed behind Boulings. They were sleeping on the beds, using the furniture, and I even heard that they were shitting in a bucket." New Orleans could smell it so intensely that he decided to try to hold his breath until he forgot it. "So, anyway, last night--you remember, Mark, how we said that she was pregnant? New Orleans let out his breath audibly. "Yeah , I remember you said that." "Well, with Sam by her side, she gave birth right there in that shed last night. Supposedly, Sam led her through the whole thing. Crazy Sam, can you imagine that? Leading someone through a pregnancy? "

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Monterey and New Orleans stared at one another. Monterey's big black face expanded into an immense smile. He felt instant relief that a poor girl was not murdered and began to laugh and asked, "Was the baby alright?" "It was fine, came out as healthy as it could have. I don't know whether it was a boy or a girl, though." New Orleans, however, took in this information with much chagrin, for he could not believe that they had risked their lives to stumble into the scene of a baby delivery. He had been frightened almost to tears over a baby delivery and had to sit all night on a metal folding chair at the puke-yellow Laundromat. "I'll be outside, Mark," he said. Cameron furrowed his brows. "I guess the story was too much for him. So, what do you think? You think they will be able to keep this one, the Bouling Baby? Maybe, old Crazy Sam can turn it around this time and keep the child. It would make his wife a little happier." Norm laughed again. "Yeah right. You know social services will be by to pick that little bastard up. If they haven't already." Monterey didn't hear Norm's comment. He was imagining Sam and Hannah there, covered in blood, mucus, and guts, bringing the little child into the world. It emerged into that musty, moldy, shit-smelling room and spied its first glimpse of the world. Sam stood over his wife, guiding and coaching her as she screamed obscenities into his face. "Goddamn it, I hate you. How could you let this happen." Finally, he looked at Norm and Cameron with a look of ecstasy. "That's love," he said. "That's love, baby brother."

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The Poet: James Bolton is a senior in English with a bend toward the creative and Journa lism with a bent toward the visual. He drives to UT every morning in his Civic listening to audio books and humming absentminded ly. His wife likes it when he actually finishes a load of laundry .. , and she

thinks his wri t ing 's okay too.

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The Arti st : Rachel Gurley is a North Knoxville native

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to accentuate and modify the perception of the work.

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working on her BFA in Sculpture. In her current work surroundings. She uses light as a primary characteristic She also enjoys illustration, painting, and photography.

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they don't always understand it. Megan is majoring in Ceramics and Drawing, but she has always been an artist. Once she graduates in 2010, she hopes to illustrate some kid's books.

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At the Bottoms of the Dams Andrew Booth Rich says when you dive down there once the light gives out there are tractors and bricks and horse bones with all their colors washed away He says you can see shadows of catfish two-hundred pound size of VW's plowing those umbral fields.

Left: Sca ry Jonah and the Big Fish Megan Ford wa terco lor

As my Grandfather Succumbs to Dementia I Pluck Tomatoes From the Ruins of His Garden Jay McMahan Jr.

The weeds jut above the plants like barbed wire. A cricket chirps across my foot bereft of beauty, And the vines sink as synapses misfireSulking in half death . Why are the tomatoes so small? Once one was as big as a human heart. He put it over my chest and said "We should take a picture. Wouldn 't that be something?" Now they are soft when I pluck them . Their tops torn out by birds . I want to hold them in my hands, But they seep through my fingers.

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The Artist : Anthony Smith is majoring in Graphic Design and will be graduating in the summer of 2010. Since he was young, he was taught to draw realistically, and he always found himself drawing people's faces. After being in college for five and a half years he finds that he is experimenting a lot and is influenced by everything that is around him.

The Poet: Jay McMahan Jr. is graduating with a degree in creative writing. He has two sisters, two parents, and a pet cat, Luna, all of whom he loves. He is influenced by the likes of Kal路 EI, James Wright, and St. Max imus.

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Above: nude girl Anthony Smith watercolor

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Piling Up Jay McMahan Jr.

What a Disaster, Will these dishes pile up forever? Bowls and pans founded on mortar made on rotten meals, That's some shaky architecture for sure. And the girl on the couch reading poetry, She doesn 't love you or me. More importantly- me. It's like the jelly on the case knives we'll never clean; This sticky longingTo believe it meant something to be in an empty field, Grass up to our nipples, laughing in the autumn sun, Cold whispering, "I 'm still behind your ears, don't you forget about me." She reads and reads and reads . Eyes rushing across page, but The way her lips move is forever, Up and down, softly exposing the top teeth. There's coffee steaming from a plastic cup. And I'm a foot away, Erect in the door frame.

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Other than that she can only see cat shit on the tiles in front of the washing machine. She sees no puckered night, relieving her heels for a yawning morning in the bath . She sees no blood on a cop's shoes, no simple white shining inside the crimson. She denies retrospective longing : poetic language is a fat tool bludgeoning life Into a shape to be rendered by the painters in league who smile at the ground. Democrats dancing in a permanent ferris-wheel break room , eating Zebra cakes . Let 's get back to the root, the core , if this is already a lie I want to smell it's thighs I want to send you here, and here and here and here.

Next Page: Untitled 7 (from Attempting Contact Serries) Jonathan Bag by photog raph

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Memories are what guide us to the brown chairs of death Jonathan Stone Phil/ips the baseboards were crooked with outlets scattered on a plastic harbor running a foot above the curled brown of the carpeted floor, the boy said 'I'm surfing the information superhighway' as sparks disappeared in the outlet in front of his soft body that pulsed with each tangle of electricity as though he were suffering at the mercy of fast flashing lights from the fingers of his personal and demented god that is secret and special like erotic words, hidden amidst litter in the yard where the ripped audio-tape rides the dying grass under plastic toys, that is where this little god of indecent pleasures - chips and masturbation and sugar and neon - hides himself and thereby perpetuates his import, concealing his breath as it condenses upon his jewelry, the child god of quick satisfaction and sideways caution. his presence in my room was whole and lumped upon the floor, I hated his accent, and his short hair and teeth, and his dirty back-yard, and his drunk father. I was watching him guide the plug in then rip it out and the blue would sing for a second. my father seemed to be - since he was not in my immediate sight - a vague disciplinary mechanism, one of no human qualities, one in which I could see none of myself, a bearded object in some orbit that produced metal rattling sounds somewhere beyond the kitchen. the sky outside was of the vivid summer type - so red that being earthbound is almost to be a victim of the separate nature of its glory, its distinctness from the things I pick up or smell, my father said (with inflection rising to his own anger terse beneath the ruptured capillaries, rounding eyes) 'you can't come over here anymore if your going to be doing shit like that, alright, alright?' the boy nodded silently just before he turned and ran through the tall grass in between the property lines. the cables sagged, the walls posed as if someone were there to capture their last stand before inward collapse. the construction team continued erecting the pharmacy, the traffic hummed, but the sky and the nearby mower and all of it retreated to silence for my father's words; 'you hungry?'

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The A rti st: David Hoffnung is a bicycle·obsessed BFA from the Tri-Cities. Though concentrating on Media Arts , his real introduction to pursuing an art career were photo-manipulated "reverse caricatures" like the one in this issue. He still prefers to wander freely between forms of media, and is currently working on a video documentary about bicycle culture.

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Above : Untitled Malikah Fernandez charcoal

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The Artist: Malikah Fernandez is originally from Memphis, TN. She began to develop her artistic skills at the Memphis College of Art. Her interests include Art, Dance, Music, Art History and Spanish , and she enjoys using them as the subjects in her artwork. As a junior in Studio Art at the University of Tennessee, she plans to continue to develop her skills, concentrating in drawing and Painting

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The Poet: Jacob Bradsher spends most of his time in a state of confusion. He enjoys 400z 's, yogurt, and khaki pants as well as the English Dept. at UT for complicating his life with distractions and delusions of grandeur. He can be reached for a drink any time in the library's reference section.

Above: Badoom Malikah Fernandez oil

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The Artist: Daniel Maw was born the middle of five children in a town along the Mississippi River. He entertained himself by imitating cartoonists. He witnessed each day in print and on television. Presently, he spends his time avoiding daylight and considering his place in the human predicament. If you wish to buy his pictures, he will sell them to you. www.danie/maw.com

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Above: Sweet Leilani Eric Ikaika Felix plastic sculpture

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Clover NancySisk Carolina air was so wet you could drown in it, so sweet you could serve it for dessert. I heard it whisper my winter away. Drove down back-country roads for miles. Southern dust swept up from my tires, washed city muck from my face . Packed Mom's old guitar and fiddle, bubble-wrapped her lullabies. As the Buster Boy Bridge carried me over the lake, I bathed in sunrise and melted into the water.

Above : Malaise Derek Slagle india ink on red paper done with a q-tip

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The Artist: Architecture and its role within our culture has evolved. The materials and process of structures have changed. Permanence is no longer a goal. Aaron Benson's work addresses these ideas with time, memory, industry, and productivity. It balances the temporal with the permanent, forcing the viewer to question its stability.

The Artist: Derek Siage is a Laboratory Technogist in the Comparative Medicine department of the University of Tennessee.

Above : Her Voice Rhonda Phipps sculpture

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The Artist: Rhonda Phipps explains that "Her Voice" is a medium of communication or expression for somebody or something. To express, vocalize, communicate, articulate, declare, state, assert, reveal, proclaim , announce, publicize, make public, make known , air, vent; utter, say, speak; come out with.

The Artist: Zac Benson is pursuing his BFA in sculpture at The University of Tennessee . His sculptural work deals primarily with wood and renewable materials. He uses wood especially because he is interested in the appearance and texture of it and how he can use what nature has accomplished to create works with a convenient collaboration .

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Me Hanna Malia Kim

My Korean grandmother used to pinch my face to give me the nose she never had. An unflattening of the features . A westernization process. She didn't have to worry I was half caught in the creek bed , half country kid, half not hers. My tongue swollen like a bee sting over An-young. Hello? didn't you know the universal language is numbers, like the number of Easter eggs I found in your yard the number of field diamonds in the dirt the number of curls in your wig that I wore on top of my head like a hat. A miniature oriental. The plastic-stick restaurant booths on the other side of town where I ate stolen chicken fingers from another mother. The two of you sipped coffee next to the piano in the blue-paneled living room. You tea, her coffee, thrown together saying "How are things in your neck of the woods?" Now, several educations and sexual activations later, I'm only two halves buried in separate continents, leaving an empty cup and spilled water ruining wedding pictures. The root of the problem anyway, what started the waitress asking, "Is this on separate checks?" my brother and I up to our necks in gray area, the non-color between too much and too little. Or Libra holding the two with his closed fists while standing on a cliff, perched to save us all. Or the striped shadows on my feet.

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The Author & The Poet: Hanna Malia Kim is a Journalism and Political Science major who will graduate in May. She discovered and developed her love of writing in the creative writing program at UT.

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The thing I remember most about my girlhood in Beijing is the hutong neighborhoods. Especially, the way the houses were smushed together so that each shanty looked like a piece of a bigger thing. Almost like a brick and concrete accordion . I used to pretend that I could jump from one house to the next in giant strides, my shoes making thunks on the pavement, careful not to land in the places where the houses touched. The homes were slanted , with corners worn and steps missing . If you tilted your head a certain way they looked like old kitchen wives with heavy bags on their shoulders. The people who lived in the houses liked to squat low on the sidewalks, spitting into the street, cursing the weather and the war. The shingles of our own roof would come loose and fall away during thunderstorms , joining the rain in its descent to the earth. Our shanty was really one half of a home that had been divided down the middle. Mother and I lived on one side and the Ming family lived on the other. Our house alone in the neighborhood still looked new with clean, solid walls of whitewashed concrete. The inside was dark and stank of cat piss and garlic. The cat had claimed a section of the living room for himself, shitting and pissing neatly in the corner. I was afraid of it and stayed mostly in the kitchen, looking out the window at the people on their way to the market. My mother liked to watch them too, because they usually turned their heads back once or twice to glance at our house. "See? They 're noticing our walls." My mother's smile avoided her mouth altogether, leaving it hard and tight. I could tell she was smiling from a certain softening of her eyebrows. "Our walls are cleaner and more expensive-looking," I said . "More Korean ," she said. Once a week Mother put on some old clothes and scrubbed the walls. Afterwards, her hands would crack and peal from the harshness of the soap. The Mings never scrubbed their walls and our building ended up looking like it had been halfway dipped in bleach. On our trips to the market, Mother would stalk by the Mings' front windows. "Chinese women have no sense of cleanliness," my mother would say.

Blue Glass

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I would nod, taking a second to work myself up for the next giant stride. The day I found the blue piece of glass was the same day the market vendors stopped obeying my father. It was also the day the light hit my mother in a strange way. It was early. Before the wives with small children could come out, but after the old women had already gone. The relatively empty street made me uncomfortable. Usually, I liked to run my fingers across the textured backs of Iychee and Asian pears, hopping from fruit to fruit amongst a purposeful stream of women . Without customers, the vendors looked colorless and out of place. I stayed close to mother, keeping my eyes on the threads that hung from her shirt sleeve. "You're not a toddler anymore. " She quickened her pace, pushing me back slightly until I was left perched between the dumplings and the vegetables . My father hung further back, the shiny buttons on his army uniform peeking through the opening of his jacket. He was standing stiffly, back arched and uncomfortable. The sun was rising at the mouth of the alley, but his figure blocked the light. I squatted where I was , folding my elbows together and resting my head on my hands. Ahead, I could see her approaching our usual vegetable stand. She picked up a few cucumbers and turned to leave. "That'll be 60 Yuan ." "What? " "60 Yuan . 20 Yuan each ." The vegetable vendo r was a tall , skinny man with a pot belly that was puffing up and down like an Adam 's apple. His eyes skipped over to the mouth of the alley, tracing my father 's shadow. His hands were clutching and releasing strands of green beans. "Sorry. " I squinted to make out my mother 's expression , expecting to see the thin, firm line of her lips. But the outline of her body was slightly blurred , tinged with the gray-blue shades of early morning. The light shifted and I noticed my father had left th e alley. " I'm getting the cucumbers to make dinner tonight. " The softness of her voice made my stomach hurt, and I reached down to scrape my palms against the city road . The rough texture of the pavement felt good. My fi ngers traced the outlines of ridges and grains of dirt: definite, concrete and whole . That 's when it happened. I felt a sharp pain in the bottom of my hand so that, for an awkward minute, I thought the road had bitten me. When I looked down I saw that a piece of glass had cut my palm. A flawless , clear-blue piece of glass that was smudged on one corner with my blood . I looked around to see where the glass could have come from, but there was only pavement, and the vendor stands which had wood , cloth and food but no glass. My mother was coming quickly toward me, so I put the glass in my pocket. It seemed as good a place as any.

-----------------Hanna Malia Kim

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My father was an officer in the Japanese army. He stopped by every Monday and Wednesday evening for dinner and sometimes on the weekends . He also stopped by for lunch occasionally and to go to the market. He usually came in uniform , the shininess of his buttons and shoes looking too sharp in the dimness of our home. On the evening after I found the blue glass, he arrived early. He sat cross- legged on the floor playing dominoes with me. When the soup began to boil over on the stove, I ran across the room and stood on my tiptoes to stir it. The broth made sizzling sounds as it hit the burner. The cat was purring. "Yong -hi, come here," my father motioned me back to the floor. Mother remained seated in the kitchen, stroking the cat. She had been silent since his arrival. I sat down. He looked different sitting on the floor. His legs made giant triangles, pulling his army pants taut and exposing his socks. He didn't usually play games with me. I fingered the blue piece of glass in my pocket, careful to avoid the sharp edge. "I found a beautiful piece of glass today." It took him a moment to focus on my words . "Where?" "At the market. I don't know where its from. " " Probably someone's eyeglasses. " I looked at the eyeglasses sitting neatly on his face and tried to picture my piece of glass fitting there. It seemed to be too blue, but I wasn 't sure. I carefully fished it out of my pocket, watching my father. "Do you think it matches?" He took the glass. In my father 's hands, it looked clearer than I had remembered, delivering only the faintest tinge of blue. There was even a slight bend to it, as if it had indeed been part of an eyeglass lens. He studied it for a moment, turning it over in his hands. Then he looked at me, cupping his chin with his hand, thumb on one side and fingers on the other, in a way I hadn't seen him do before or since. " Do you think it matches?" I repeated . He let his hand drop and shook his head. "Its just glass," he handed it back to me, "Is dinner ready yet? " My mother stood up and dished the soup into bowls. She sometimes made Japanese dishes for the nights Father ate with us, but tonight our kimchee-j iggae dinner was decidedly Korean. Halfway through the meal , she finally looked at my father, her lips thin. " I'm sorry there's no cucumber salad. There was trouble at the market. " My father 's face tightened and he shook his head in response. A few strands of his hair, usually combed firmly to the side, fell across his face. "How are we supposed to eat?" she said . " I'll bring you food from the base. " I ate my kimchee-jiggae down to the very last grain of rice . I decided that I liked Korean food better than Japanese food even without cucumber salad. "That stupid vendor, " she said. My father ate his rice slowly, careful to keep his mouth from getting too full. "You should have known. Too many of my men have already been sent home. I can't guarantee you anything anymore."

Blue Glass

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After dinner, my mother hovered in the living room, her hands drawn up, standing lightly on the balls of her feet. She resembled the cat, muscles taught, ready to spring. My father sat at the kitchen table, his glasses reflecting the light from the fireplace. The lenses looked like two small candles burning. "Toshio, would you like to come back with me?" My mother gestured toward the bedroom she and I shared. He took his glasses off and began cleaning them, making sure to get the corners near the nose piece thoroughly. "No," he said. After my father left, I pretended to go to bed. By pretend, I mean I sat in the doorway to the bedroom, half-in half-out, watching my mother stroke the cat.

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The Ming sisters knew that my father was going to leave China even before I did, and told me so afterward. They were two years older than me and knew twice as much. Jia and Jie Ming were stringy, identical pole-bean girls whose upper teeth pushed past their lips, so that their mouths hung open in round 0 shapes. They liked to play outside after they came home from school, tempting me with dangerous yo-yo competitions or loud rounds of piaji-a Chinese version of Pogs. I'd wait to join them until after my mother went to take her afternoon nap. She'd leave the cat to stand watch by the door, his flat cat-lips threatening to meow an alarm. To get past him, I put one or two anchovies in a small dish on the opposite side of the kitchen. Eventually the salt smell would draw him away from his post. I could hear the wet sucking sounds of him eating as I slipped out the door. "How was the market?" Jia Ming's mouth stretched across her big teeth and into a smile. "Did it smell like fish?" Jie said. "It only smells like fish on Thursdays, dumb girl," Jia said. "If I'm dumb you're dumb," Jie said. The sisters fell to the ground giggling, their mouths even rounder than usual. I stood to the side, admiring their synchronization. The glass in my pocket felt heavy, and I wondered what Jia and Jie would think of it. If it would change for them like it had changed for my father. And then I thought that whatever they thought of it, it'd probably be the same thing. "Yong-hi." Jia and Jie had finished laughing and were sitting up, looking at me. Their heads were tilted in opposite directions. I couldn't tell if they had been whispering or not. "Let's do something dangerous," Jie said. "Yes, somewhere far away," Jia said. "I can 't go far," I said. The cat liked to sit at the window and watch me. "Well we'll go without you ," Jie said. I considered showing them the glass again, just to get them to stay. But outside in their yard, standing in front of their dirty walls, I was afraid to take it out. " Let's try the abandoned house at the end of the street," Jia said, "that's not too far." I trailed behind them , purposefully stepping on the gaps between the houses and feeling a little thrilled at my audacity. I thought about mother and whether

Hanna Malia Kim

she was actually sleeping or just sitting quietly in her room, staring at her walls. Either way, I was sure the cat was with her. When we arrived at the house I noticed that its walls, like ours, were made of concrete. But large sections of it were missing and broken. Glass littered the yard and the house on either side of the broken walls. There was so much glass that the ground looked like it was covered in clear, sharp snow. Dark, half-enclosed rooms were visible from the street, and I could even see a toilet, its lid gone, its bowl full of brown rain water. A broken bed frame , wood splintered and sticking up at odd angles, and some old children's toys reminded me that a family had lived there. There was a yo-yo half-buried in the glass. I couldn't imagine anything significant coming from here. Everything looked like only the outer shells of important things. I felt my hand slip into my pocket and wrap around my blue glass. "What do you think of all this glass? " Jie said . She walked up to the house and began examining the scattered glass. She bent so low that the tips of her hair trailed across the broken edges. I took a few steps backward, back toward the houses with people in them . "It's awful," Jia said . She took my hand, her fingers firm and filmy with dirt. It was odd to have one hand wrapped around the glass in my pocket and the other hand wrapped around someone else's. My head cleared and I loosened my grip on the glass, transferring some of that pressure onto Jia's hand. I looked at her, but she wasn 't looking at me. We stayed and explored the house a little longer. On the way home, my hand was smudged with dirt from where Jia had held it, and I was careful not to step in the places where the houses touched .

-----------------On Saturday my mother decided that it was time to visit the Buddhist temple on the outskirts of the city. She made her announcement while scrubbing the walls of our house. Her fingers, curled and wrinkled over rough cloth, were scrubbing the walls so hard I could see places where her skin was coming off. We packed a lunch and caught the 11 :30 bus out of town later that day. I could see the cat in the window as we walked to the station. The mountains surrounding the Buddhist temple acted like a high roof, enclosing the area. Even though it hadn't rained in a few days, the ground, air and wood felt damp and heavy with water. The roofs of the temple buildings jutted out into the small community, only to be sucked back into the leaves and branches of the mountains. It seemed as if the buildings were only partially available, likely to be consumed entirely by the mountains in the coming decades. I could hear the monks chanting in some private corner, their voices reaching much farther here than they would in the city. I wondered what kinds of dwellings the monks lived in, and whether or not they were clean . The doors to the main worship hall were open, leaving almost the whole side of the building exposed to the dampness of the mountain. But once we went inside, I was surprised to find the room warm and dry. My mother took off her shoes and

Blue Glass

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walked quickly over to the table where hundreds of candles were burning like sprinkles of fire. She lit one and placed it at the corner of the table. "What's that for?" I asked. "Your father," she said . Then she went to sit cross-legged in front of the Buddha statue, one pale bare foot facing up toward the ceiling and the other tucked underneath her. I sat behind her, careful to imitate her position. We rarely came to the Buddhist temple and my mother never worshiped at home. Temple trips were reserved for the times when mother couldn't scrub enough dirt off the walls, or when the cat was sick. I just watched her, tracing the graceful outline of her neck, and watching it disappear into the dark depths of her hair. Her lips were relaxed and pink, puffed out slightly. I liked to compare her to the giant golden Buddha statue in the center of the worship hall. Her position, directly in front of the Buddha, and their identical, erect postures made her look like a smaller, mirror image of the statue. I felt the outline and shape of the blue piece of glass in my pocket. It felt round and smooth , almost fragile, and I realized that the glass could have belonged to my mother. Or at least something she owned, like the glass handle of her yellow, blue and red fan from Korea. I felt a sense of elation. In the unfamiliar softness of my mother's mouth, the perfect brokenness of my piece of glass, I could feel the imprint of Jia's hand in mine. I felt like the abandoned house must have felt before it fell apart. Like my father must have felt when he thought about Japan. It was a scattered feeling- not altogether wholeness, but something like it. "What's that?" I was so surprised to hear my mother break the silence that I didn't answer her right away. "What's that in your hand?" "A piece of glass I found at the market." She stood up in one smooth motion. "Throw it away," she said, her lips thin, "you can't carry around pieces of garbage in your pocket." I waited until she was occupied with her shoes before hurrying over to the candle table. I stood the glass up on its side behind my father 's candle. By candlelight the glass looked so blue and thick that it seemed to curve around it, acting as a sort of enclosure. The glass was close to the flame, and I thought the flame might melt a groove in the glass. That night, my pocket felt empty without the glass, and I cried quietly, hiding my face underneath the blanket. But I fell asleep quickly, and in the morning, it took me a minute to remember why I had been sad the night before.

My father left us the following week . He kissed my mother goodbye and gave me a nod while he put on his shoes. I did not expect to go with him. He was going home. On the evening after he left, my mother sat in a chair, staring at the wall. I liked to think that she was imagining the giant Buddha statue in front of her. I remember noticing how scarred and broken her hands looked . There were raw spots and cuts where the skin hadn't healed from the last time she scrubbed the walls.

Hann a Mali a K im

Valentine's Oratorio For Chase Meg Wade He starts a record and the flat black disc circles, "The World Has Gone Away From Me", closes his eyes allowing the sweet soprano to hover over him for a moment, taking time to remember his fishing line sleeping in the icy lake. The man has spent most of his life recreating the routine: catching fish, or trying, keeping some only to see they are never enough or do not taste quite right. In his youth he would augment many, roast some with rosemary and caper, dress them with drawn butter and thyme, but what is simply good does not satisfy, and he has grown old, tired of sifting through pretense. So he continues, growing desperate to discover something more feral, to master the untamed thing waiting below the surface.

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Lake Santeetlah Meg Wade It is strange, to know paradise. To sit and wait for hours as the wind builds ripples that skim across the surface of this lakean echo of the percussive silence inside me, patient in the stillness of these hills . It was different before. The kind of differences that are noticed between early and late fall when the sky grows heavy with cumulous shadows and sudden emergences of light, and somehow I cannot help but wish it were colder. The leaves do not rustle as they did last November, only give way and sink deep into the damp October ground .

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Above : Self Jessica Strunk Sharpie drawing

Index:

Jonathan Bagby

Degan Legg

Untitled 7 Aaron Benson

Untitled Zac Benson

Pelican Well Suited Daniel Maw 100 Donkey

The Different Shades of Wood

bowl James Bolton The Snail

Jay McMahan JR. As my Grandfather Succumbs to Dementia I Pluck Tomatoes From the Ruins of His Garden

Piling Up

Andrew Booth At the Bottom of The Dams Jacob Bradsher

27 28,29 39 39

15 15 21 21 33 33 36 36 33 34 32 16 16

17 31 31 11 4-11 49 44- 49 42

Rhonda Phibbs Her Voice Jonathan Stone Phillips

Love Song Eric Ikaika Felix

Memories are what guide us to

Sweet Leilani Malikah Fernandez

the brown chairs of death Pointed Poetry, at you, by you Nancy Sisk

Badoom Untitled Rachel Gurley Little City Little City David Hoffnung Mania Jeff Horner Passions At Green Terrace Hanna Malia Kim Blue Glass Me

37 39 38

23 23 24 26

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53 51 51 50

Clover Derek Siage Malaise Anthony Smith Untitled nude girl litho girl Jessica Strunk Some Guy I Saw at Walmart Shedding Self Meg Wade Lake Santeetlah Valentine 's Oratorio

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Want to publish your work? Who Can Submit: The Phoenix accepts work from UT students (graduate and undergraduate), faculty, and staff How Much You Can Submit: Applicants can submit a total of 2 prose pieces (Fiction or Non , approx. 5,000 words or shorter), 3 poetry works, and 5 visual art pieces (any media that can be scanned or photographed) . How To Submit Work: All submissions must be accompanied by an application form which must be filled out IN PERSON either at one of our tabling booths, by going to the Phoenix office (Room 5 Communications Building), or to a Phoenix staff member. Written Word Submissions should be submitted bye-mail to phoenix1@utk.edu by attaching a Microsoft Word Document(s). For Visual Art Submissions we accept photographs, CDs, e-mailed digital files, or the actual work itself. Digital files must be Jpegs or Tiff images, at least 300 dpi, and approx. 5" by 8" or larger. Dates And Deadlines: Generally speaking, submission deadlines occur mid-September for the Fall semester and early March for Spring semester. For official dates and deadlines please check our website, look for our ads in the beacon and flyers around campus, or contact us at: phoeni x1@utk.edu or 865-974-3231 .

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The Staff: Editor in Chief Managing Editor Poetry Editor Fiction Editor Art Editor Design Editor Public Relations Director Faculty Advisers

Sean McDougle Aaron Simon Abigail Hammer Sam Mays Jamie Updergraff Jane Pope Eric Smith

Assistant Public Relations lien Larson Copy Editor Molly Rigell 'nda Nguyen Web Designer aron Simon Video Editor lien Larson Video Committee oily Rigell Distribution Coordinators Douglas Johnson James Hauge Music Committee Molly Rigell Lauren Garner James Hauge Flyer Design Rebecca Di xon Sean McDougle Lauren Garner

ÂŠ Copyright 2009 by the University of Tennessee, All rights reserved by the individual contributors, Phoen ix is prepared entire ly by student staff members and is published twice a year, excluding special issues, Works of art, poetry, fiction and non-fiction are accepted throughout the academic year, Phoenix room 5 Communications Building 1345 Circle Park D rive Knoxvi ll e, TN 37996-0314 email: phoenix1@utk,edu

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Literary Arts Magazine Spring 2009, Vol. 50, Issue 2

The University of Tennessee