Voices 2010

Voices

A Student-Produced Literary and Visual Arts Magazine Midwestern State University Wichita Falls, Texas Spring 2010, Volume XXXIII Editors: Adam Henson, Breanne Sill Choice Hopes (above) by Brianna Satter eld Cover Art: Japan by Julia Raymond (front); Vertebrae by Cole Henson (back) ALL WORKS INDEXED ON PAGE 48 BY LAST NAME

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Redemption Arun Rao

The mountains loomed ahead of me as I approached them in a black 1944 Morris. The car shook violently as it summoned the courage to embark up the mountain. With a mighty roar, the car lurched forward and slowly ascended. As I passed the primeval forest shrouded in mystery, I heard the cries of the forgotten echoing around me. Every few kilometers, huge stone pillars with minor deities posing in exotic stances decorated the forest. My destination lay on the highest peak of the seventh hill. A power greater than Chernabog resided there.

The journey was painstakingly slow and I had lost interest in trying to decipher the signs written in Sanskrit. I looked up at my father in the front seat of the car, my mother and my younger brother next to me in the backseat. I woke my parents from their daze and nagged them about why we did not pay the frivolous fee and take a helicopter up the mountain. My father said that the fee was too much; I knew we could afford the ride, and my father was being a Scrooge. I soon got tired of pouting and allowed the low hum of the engine to put me at ease.

By noon, we arrived at Tirupati, a small village sprawled across the landscape. The entire hill was considered sacred land; thus, we walked barefoot from our car into the thicket. I saw a huge stone ruin that closely resembled an Aztec temple; however, it was adorned with intricate deities and patterns. I walked through the ironclad doors that stood at least eight feet high. I had nally breached the temple.

The shrine in the center honored the lord of the temple, the overlord of all lords. His sanctuary was covered in gold and, bathed in sunlight, radiated like a white dwarf. We entered the shrine and walked down the long corridors that were decorated with insuf cient fans that did nothing to vanquish the sweltering heat. I begged my father for some money so I could buy some juice and whined until he gave in to my demands. I made my way to the veranda, grasped the rusting chain link fence, and let the cool drink replenish my energy. I stared into the clearing and saw a small group of people wandering around like lost souls. They were nomadic savages who spoke in Tongues. My heart lurched as one of them turned my way. His eyes had sunken into his skull and a

disease had plagued his teeth. He sat on an old wooden skateboard and pushed himself around. Yama, the Lord of Death, in decades past had claimed his legs. He resembled a rotting corpse damned to walk the earth for eternity. I felt rage swell up within me when he beckoned for some money with a frail gesture. He was in this hell because he squandered his youth in leisure and now expected handouts. I shook my head from side to side, and as I stared into his eyes, I took a long draught from the bottle. I smiled as he cast his eyes down and disappeared into the shadows. The ignorant old man deserved to live his life in poverty and survive on scraps of trash.

I noticed a small child playing with a stick at the edge of the forest. I felt remorseful towards the child because he had to fend for himself. He had wild, unruly hair and a dwarfed leg that wobbled as he crawled back and forth. I was surprised that he was in complete bliss—I had expected the child to be in despair and wailing for the mother that had abandoned him. The child was round and in better shape than most of the others around him. The child’s eyes lit up as a woman walked up to him and led him into the shade. She looked as if she were about to be claimed by death.

She drew from her satchel a small snack and gave almost all of it to her child.

I nished my drink and made my way back to my family.

I held onto my father’s hand as we made our way into the lord’s main sanctuary. The room was illuminated by an ancient ame on wooden sconces. The place seemed to be unaffected by time and the stone oor was cool to the touch. I could make out a golden light emerging from the far side of the room. In the faint, ickering, orange glow, I saw an enormous gure entrenched in solid gold and shiny diamonds. Flowers of all colors adorned him, almost as if someone dyed them with a box of Crayola crayons. He stood almost ten feet tall and cast a powerful and omnipotent aura around him. My eyes widened in amazement at the spectacle before me.

Hindu priests huddled beneath him and scuf ed around to appease his every whim. The incense lled my nostrils and clouded my senses. In my dreamlike state, I could almost picture him standing before me. I knelt before him and prayed for my wellbeing and

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Wow - Julia Raymond

a future that my parents could be proud of. I felt sel sh and also prayed for their wellbeing and the child’s happiness as well. I emerged from my catatonic state, and with a light head, I left the Lord of the Seventh Hill to reign over his dominion.

The world was a cold and cruel place where the strong survived and the weak withered away. The poor ocked to the shrine in hopes of redemption, but were forced to live their lives

I was as weak and defenseless as the child was. My longing for materialistic manifestations had corrupted the bond I shared with my loved ones. I brought suffering onto my parents and there was no point in living a superior life when those closest to me resented me.

in his shadow. For nine years, I had lived my life in ignorance;

he lived in hell.

I nally understood why the child was so happy even though

4 Cancer Trisha Suhr

Enough Alyssa Johnston I’m trying to tell you I’ve had enough, but Your enchanting eyes dance around me Like leaves falling from a tree, Spinning ever so softly, jumping from here to there, Back and forth like a knife slashing into my body.

I can’t resist those eyes, love.

No, I can’t resist you.

Take me in and tell me you love me, just one more time.

Then maybe I’ll tell you I’ve had enough.

Oh Lord, this can’t be true But yes – I heard them say There’s nothing we can do I held on tight to you To keep the pain at bay Oh Lord, this can’t be true Your body is consumed This will not go away There’s nothing we can do Despite the dark that loomed You savored every day Oh Lord, this can’t be true You bravely faced the truth In your cheerful, loving way: There’s nothing we can do

~Editor’s Note: “Cancer” is an example of a villanelle, a 19-line poem consisting of ve tercets and a nal quatrain, using just two rhymes throughout. The rst and third lines of the rst tercet repeat alternately as a refrain closing the succeeding stanzas and joined as the nal couplet of the quatrain.

You shed your chains and ew And left me here to stay Oh Lord, this can’t be true There’s nothing we can do

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Scarf - Mary Yehle

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7 Here’s to You Chris Caruvana lights fall from the ceiling to illuminate her. there she is, the reason oxygen stays in my lungs. the music drowns out the crowd as they sink deeper... my eyes are xated and there she is... i drink to numb the pain and to lay down my guard. she drinks for sport and to lay down her dress. the smoke rises up as if it knows; ashes drifting down as if they don’t. she’s the reason i fell in love with destruction; a destruction that only holds its lover. she’s the reason i can’t hold on much longer; my last strengths are dissolving. so i raise my cup and utter a toast: here’s to you and here’s to me.

Ziggy in Flight - Audra Othell Lambert (above) Dream Mask - Elliot King (top left) Deliciously Evil - Simon Welch (bottom left)

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Blood on Africa Stephen Igbinedion

The killing of hundreds of innocent children during a civil war over several years brought me an unforgettable pain, which still lingers in my mind until this day. It all started when I decided to take a holiday trip to Rwanda. I remembered arriving at the airport walking alongside passengers. With all the smiles and handshakes I got from Rwandans there, I would never have believed that a tribe called the Hutus would want to get rid of another tribe called the Tutsi. I always thought racism was the highest degradation of the human soul by whites on blacks, but this was just too hard to swallow. Still, I never knew how war could bring pain and regret to one’s soul. Some people might say war could bring about the collapse of the big industries, leading to depression, but my journey to Rwanda brought a fresh light to this issue; even though my heart still crushes me to think of the many souls that died during that period, I still have that one thing that some poor or third world countries crave for: HOPE. It is often said that deep within the human soul is a dark hole, one lled with evil, bringing forth pain. These are true words because within the days of my stay in Rwanda, I saw a glimpse of what a “human turned demon” looked like. There are ways in which people can express evil; one way for some people is to take the lives of innocent souls. As the whole country of Rwanda tore itself apart, foreigners were told to meet at a UN checkpoint. I was part of the group that took off early. On reaching a certain village, we were apprehended and held as prisoners by a rebel group. I witnessed as the group leaders gruesomely chopped off the heads of innocent villagers and raped and mutilated young girls. As the days wore on, things began to get worse for us, the prisoners and the rebels. Lack of food became a major problem.

The situation was so bad that on one particular morning, heads were unnecessarily chopped off on the orders of the general. But things were only going to get worse. My conscience still stings me as I write what I saw during those days, how a human being turned into a fully replicated demon and how a helpless child was butchered mercilessly. Looking at how the rebels continuously fed on human esh made my entire body and soul unstable for weeks.

They eventually tired of looking at us foreigners and decided to kill us the next day. Fortunately, their reign of evil came to an end, for we were saved by UN soldiers. As the soldiers directed us to their trucks, I gazed at the lifeless bodies of those innocent children. I turned around to see a foreign lady also looking at the bodies and weeping uncontrollably.

There are ways in which the pain and suffering of war affect people; one way is by shattering the world they once knew. The war

put me in an offensive term, my mind was unable to comprehend and assess what was going on around me. Even though we foreigners were in safe hands, tears still owed uncontrollably from my eyes. I cried for the innocent souls that were killed. I could not understand what I had experienced. Maybe I was in a deep trance—or was the world coming to an end? My heart was beating faster than usual, not because I feared encountering rebels, but because of the picture of how the mothers of the dead children would feel and react. My own heart felt like it had been ripped apart. I cannot imagine what their minds were going through on hearing that their young ones were eaten alive. What was the world coming to? How did the human race get to this stage? All these questions suddenly came to my mind. Could it be that these rebels were angry people or was it that they did all these killings just for fun? Throughout my childhood life, I was taught that the human soul was full of goodness and that bad never came out of good.

This experience shattered all those beliefs. The UN van stopped a few times and during those times all I saw were dead bodies of men, wives, and children. I never dared to touch them for I feared I would collapse and die. The way my heart raced, I was vulnerable to an anxiety attack.

War has its ways of changing people’s hearts into something evil or something good. Often people change just by having a glimpse of the war, which could be painful and remorseful. My escape from the rebels and the arrival at the UN checkpoint made a tremendous impact on my life because I now had a small bite of pain. My life goals changed when I heard a message that the Red Cross needed volunteers. I immediately volunteered. I could at least assist the people who had somehow survived. My goal was to aid any person who needed help. And as I started the voluntary work, I saw how much the war had cost the nation. People no longer cared for anything, be it food, water, or shelter. They just wanted to be with their families and when they heard bad news, they either committed suicide or closed their souls up. In one case, a young mother who had been looking for her child was pitifully reunited with her lifeless son. She did not commit suicide as some fellow volunteers had predicted but went on a killing rampage, killing other women’s children. Crying like a baby or thinking for hours about the human race became a casual process for me. It became my daily routine: cry during lunch, think about the human race during dinner. Until my trip to Rwanda, I had never experienced such pain and war at the same time before. I can now understand the true feeling of pain and remorse and now I understood why some people would just suddenly leave home in order to dedicate

9 their lives to the helpless. The war changed my goals and aims for life. Aside from nishing school or making my parents happy, my main objective was now to aid and help war victims.

I cannot say my thoughts and aims are in synchronization with the citizens of Rwanda; to them, the war had ended their lives, destroyed their future, and killed their dreams. I am sure some good souls turned evil because of the war. I could not imagine what my parents would experience if I were to die, especially my mother, who wanted to move in with me as I left for college.

Even though the war had already begun to subside, I still could not help but notice the fear that was ever-present in

everyone’s eyes. I knew I would go back home, not in happiness, but in regret and pain, for my mind continued to linger on the thought of the killings and how the war had ended the dreams of so many. My mind sometimes drifts away into a trance, searching for a single goodness in the human soul. Sometimes, for weeks I may not have a single reason to have faith in the human soul, but just the hope that one day I might help or aid war victims brings my drifting mind back to the world. Like the lyrics in the song Rwanda by Rancid, even though still heartbroken and blue, my moon shines on.

Closeup - Julia Raymond

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How Much Love Rachel Rex

For every grin I give you the nger For every word I let out a snicker For months I’ve hated you Everything about you From your clothes To your ngers The sound of your voice Makes my skin crawl You’re just as annoying As a barking dog How much love Can I have For you How about NONE

Secrets - Marsha Hofbaur

11 Witching Hour Matt Steimel

I want to believe it’s you behind the privacy But you have a new man, a new life.

Why would you be calling me?

Middle of the night, a blocked number rings— The Silence after stirs my thoughts, Begets memories.

Destroyer of the mind and soul, Take me back to days of old— I survived, but dwell in a six-foot hole.

Queen of the shipwrecked, siren of the seas, Don’t rip this paper heart—Oh, hear my scream!

You cut it cold as I held on to our dream.

This ball and chain keeps dragging me (down).

Your only regret Is that you weren’t around to watch me (drown).

I want to give you what you deserve With a steady hand and a hardened nerve, A single shot to hush the temptress’ lies, This cold barrel set Dead betwixt her eyes.

Here’s to the past— A nal kiss on the cheek.

The more I brood, <bang> The more we bleed.

Diamonds Chris Caruvana

i’m starting to taste blood like a vulture, like a snake. your memory bleeds down my throat. it weathers me away. i’ve never been so close, yet never been so far. i’m grinding on stone. fatigue streaks through my jaw. fast. slow. sharp. your demons embed themselves in my skin, so deep it cries, so deep it trembles. my emotion is motionless. my soul is dry. my mind is sober but my heart is not. you hit me like re and stuck like diamonds.

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Dithering Reality Matt Steimel

The day was just like any other day: without spark, without spontaneity, void of excitement. Inwardly and, subsequently, outwardly, Robert Martly was banal. He was not a good-looking young man, nor was he ugly. He had no scars or anything abnormal or out of place except the one freckle on his left cheek.

His clothes were not vibrant, nor were they tasteless; he was just a bland boy, impossible to pick out from a crowd. None of the other students at school knew his name. Often, his professors would look down at the roll sheet, baf ed, feverishly scanning the nooks and crannies of their brains attempting to recollect his image until nally they would ask “Is there a Robert Martly in the class?”

Everyday was routine for Robert: arise at 7:00 am, attend school from 8:00 am to 12:00 pm, and work from 1:00 pm to 5:00 pm, with very little extra time to spare. The day was just like any other day for Robert; he trudged to work not because he was tired, but because Robert did not like his job. Trudging was the only rebellious statement he was willing to make. Robert was not a confrontational being, and besides, where else was he supposed to get a job? Acquiring this one was one was hard enough— trudging would have to do.

When he entered the small, gray of ce building on the far side of the military base his parents worked at, Janice announced that there was more than enough shredding to keep him busy for a long time. Her intentions were clear to Robert. He was not to dawdle, as he so often did. He nodded respectfully, continuing into the back to the paper shredder. The shedder was an industrial model that could gobble fty sheets of paper at a time without slowing its insatiable appetite.

Of all his duties at the of ce, shredding paper was Robert’s least favorite activity, due chie y to how the paper that was to be shredded got there: laziness! Laziness for the sake of laziness!

For instance, when a storage room was going to be converted into an of ce, the fastest, most convenient way to clear the room full of paper was to have it all shredded. Many times the piles of paper did not even need to be shredded and could simply be thrown out; nevertheless, his boss would check to see that every scrap was destroyed and not just thrown away.

Comic Book Study - Lauren Jones Today was different. While removing paperclips, rubber bands, and other articles that could potentially jam or break the shredder, Robert glanced at a few papers to check the validity and he was pleased to nd social security numbers and such, instead of little Susan’s second grade art projects.

Robert began to shred the papers. At some point during the process, in a wild t of spastic sneezes, he stumbled into the pile of boxes, spilling the contents all over the back room. While gathering the documents up off the oor, Robert recognized a name. It belonged to the commanding general on the base.

Wow, he thought, and with a simple shrug of the shoulders, the general’s documents were placed back into the box with thousands of others to be erased from history. Robert continued to shred thoughtlessly until the document surfaced again on the conveyor belt, heading to the cold, sharp teeth of the shredder.

Without hesitation, Robert reached out, grasped the paper, and took a peek. It was a letter dated a few months back to some lieutenant, suggesting a stricter policy regarding security in the

13 disposal of meaningful information. Immediately, Robert began to visualize the lazy lieutenant moaning and tossing the paper in the shred bin without a second thought. It was entertaining for Robert to recreate the past with partial information from antiquated events. Supplied with old receipts, letters, and so forth, Robert amused himself the rest of the day creating scandalous affairs between different nations and world leaders; he imagined the secret trips to luxurious vacation spots that he knew for a fact congressmen so often enjoyed.

There were many, many boxes to be shredded, more than enough to take up two full days at work. Halfway through the second day, Robert came across an envelope stamped “TOP SECRET.” With his newly found taste for adventure, Robert desperately wanted to open the envelope; however, he recognized the importance of the document yelling at him in bright red ink. He carefully set the package aside and continued to shred.

Throughout the rest of the day, Robert didn’t read another paper; his thoughts were glued to the “TOP SECRET” envelope. At closing time, just before his boss came around to check the trash cans for paper that should have been shredded, he slipped the thick envelope into his backpack.

After dinner, he rushed upstairs. Jittery, Robert opened the government package with sweaty palms and began to read feverishly. Later on, he took a small restroom break, curled up back on his bed, picked up the husky booklet, and resumed where he had left off when—CRASH! The front door slammed open. He heard his mother’s scream ring out and abruptly end. Thundering footsteps made their way up the stairs; his bedroom door was kicked in and splintered. That’s all he could remember when he came to with a throbbing headache as bright lights pounded his eyes.

“Robert Blake Martly,” sounded a loud, deep, raspy voice over the intercom. “What do you know about Project: RK79T?” “What? Who are you? What do you want?”

“Answer the question, Mr. Martly!”

“I’m not even sure what you’re talking about!”

“Please do not make us use force.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t even know what you

are talking about! I want a lawyer!”

“Very unwise.”

At that moment, a door behind him opened, and two men took him from the small dark room he had been laying in, dragging him down a long, bright hallway. There was nothing on the walls: no pictures, no paintings; the solid oak doors were all that broke up the monotony of the white paint. He was dragged down the hall to the last door on the left where he was hurled onto a stainless steel table. He was strapped down by his arms and legs. His head was propped up and strapped down across the forehead. Two more men entered the room, talking amongst themselves. Robert recognized one of the voices as the man who had questioned him over the intercom. The other man, who looked like a doctor by his paraphernalia, walked around him.

He heard a buzz start up, and he was startled when they started to shave his head.

“Are you crazy? What are you doing? You can’t do that!”

With an almost demented smile, the raspy-voiced man said “You left us no choice.”

The doctor walked over to Robert’s left side. “Scalpel.”

“What? What the Hell?” Robert strained to see if the doctor was joking. He wasn’t.

He lost sight of the shiny steel blade about two inches from his head.

“AAAAGGGHHHHHH!” Robert woke up as his parents came running into the room.

“Honey, is everything okay?”

“Yeah Mom, I’m okay. It was just a dream. It was just a dream,” he mumbled to himself confusedly.

“Well, try and get back to sleep, Son, and keep it down,” said his dad, elbowed gently by Robert’s mom.

“Okay, g’night, Dad. G’night, Mom.” As they left his room, Robert looked in his backpack: empty. He turned off the light, got back into bed, wiped his sweaty brow, and puffed his night shirt in an effort to cool himself. Finally, Robert ran his ngers through his hair to be quite certain it was still on his head when he discovered a new scar just above his left ear.

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Death to the Story Dawn Bond

The scream went unheard As steel penetrated the spine Languageâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;thick, sticky, crept down the tome Pooling on the oor, a swell of wet, crimson words Helpless, skewered by the spikes Characters desperate, doomed to an unpenned fate Journeys hidden as script trickles down and obscures Anguish of letters never to speak again One last breath raggedly inhaled Once beautiful leafs rustle, shiver with ruin With nality, beautiful scarlet images burble into the heavens As death grips the slippery soaked spine Darkness delivered, death steals away Once whispering wisdoms now lost Will ensnare minds no more Art was death to the story

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The Last Checkpoint - Brianna Satter eld

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Hassling The Hoff Roxanne Ward

I see a man who seems down and out.

So I ask him what his pain is about.

He says to me, “I’m ruined” and “I have no career.”

So I offer him a burger and six pack of beer.

He starts to slur his words and he soon becomes irate.

I egg him on a little more and he begins to regurgitate.

So, with a ruined pair of shoes I turn and walk off.

This is what happens When you hassle The Hoff.

Brush Yo Teef - Jenny Granberry

Modernism Daniel Reiser

Ithinkthissumsupmoremorethanonehundredyearsofrealmsofmakebelievethatglareintooureyeslikeheadlightsofanoncomingsemianoncomingsemianoncomingsemi.

I think this Sums up more, more Than one hundred years Of realms of make believe That glare into our eyes Like headlights of An oncoming semi An oncoming semi An oncoming semi.

Untitled Sculpture - Tyler Taliaferro Creating Peace - Tylor Taliaferro

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Grahams for Grams Linh Voh

One, two, three—I can count—four, ve, six. Neverchanging numbers and a very stubborn me provide a stoic mien.

However, by life’s terms, I should not be so. There are intricate anomalies to assimilate, bits of life that need to be noticed and taken into account. Despite how I saw the world so clear, so logical, so simple, I nearly reduced the number of enchantments in the world by one.

She is the youngest, the princess of our family fairytale.

Imagine a silly child chasing after bubbles in the park and you’ll see Ann. My little sister is carefree, courtesy of the protective ways of my family; at least, everyone else worked to keep her naivety and innocence. When I looked at her, I saw a youngster that got upset when I bid her to exercise. As a twelve-year-old, fresh-out-of-the-hospital juvenile diabetic, Ann was a tree frozen in winter, dangerously scrawny, and liable to snap with ease.

As a fourteen-year-old, obdurate observer, I only intervened when I was involved. My parents, on the other hand, did all they were comfortable with. They designated a shelf for her diabetic supplies and left the little sprite to maintain it. The shelves stood in the back corner of the kitchen; hers was the second from the top, a couple inches below eye level, but perfect for her.

For what Ann couldn’t handle, there was our oldest sister. She kept a log for everything: glucose levels after meals, speci c details, and carbohydrate calculations for every meal.

The meticulous journal was perfect, easy to read—no blotches or scratch-outs, written in pen. This was Ann’s key to constant energy. With the oldest sister acting as the guardian to the youngest, my mother didn’t have to worry, not that it would do our princess any good. Mom decides what terms of life she keeps, and diabetes isn’t one of them. But, on the off-chance that the guardian is out of sight, I am the next best thing.

One crisp afternoon, my older sister went to work and I wandered around my family’s kitchen. There was enough room for two people to bustle about within the tight space; this time it was Ann and me. Ann’s lunch was the task at hand—easy enough. I griped to myself, questioning why the little princess couldn’t do it herself. She was just watching me impatiently. The black and white journal stood propped up on the kitchen table while I took two steps back and forth, twirling from the counter to the food log. Five frozen chicken strips, a juice box, ten grapes, and a four-ounce container of vanilla ice cream should have been seventy grams of carbohydrates, satisfying Ann’s food-to-insulin

ratio. It would keep her on her feet for a while longer. Grams, grams, grams, that is all it takes. I even laughed at the numbers written down the right side of the page whilst I glanced at the page over and over. Feeding Ann was not a challenging task.

An hour later, I was keeping myself busy in the kitchen when Ann dragged herself to me. Each footstep took extreme effort while she slowly paced in circles. Her pink shirt and fuzzy bear pajama pants never looked so out of place. I thought she was joking; the scene had to be a reenactment of a dying elephant from the Discovery Channel. It was eerie. I asked her if she was all right, but I couldn’t get her attention, even though I held her in place. Searching her eyes, I found abyss; she couldn’t see me through the haze that blocked our connection. Her eyes couldn’t focus on me. I continued calling her and asking her yes-or-no questions. She told me each time with decreasing strength, “I don’t know.” When I stepped back in hopes of nding a hint of the bigger picture, she slowly reached out for me with a hand that had skin so tight, I could see the skeleton that structured it.

Watching her blood-drained face sink to the oor and her body follow suit to lay out in resignation, time slowed down just for me. I tried to help her up; I tried to get her to speak, but those brown eyes would only stare at me without an answer. My mother watched from the corner of the room as if we were a play.

In her bright yellow shirt with disgusting pink owers, the very same shirt that she always wore while going about her own life at home, she called the Guardian.

As for me, I darted for the glucose monitor. Yeah, those diabetes education classes taught me something. I had paid attention. Quickly, I went through the steps that led me to a bloody strip jammed inside a small silver contraption that controlled the princess’s life. The slow countdown started at fteen seconds. I watched each line change its position to form the next dreadful number blocking the infamous one. In those seconds, air wasn’t essential to life while I waited. At the beep, I read sixty. Sixty, when I should have been staring at one hundred and twenty or higher. In general, any value below seventy meant serious trouble.

No matter how I exercised in those days, my legs couldn’t carry me fast enough to Ann’s shelf, only six steps away. My ngers fumbled with the Ziploc bag that held Ann’s scarce Starbursts and battled with the plastic wrapper that con ned the straw for Ann’s juice. Her body needed sugar stat, but in

19 the meantime it was trying to save itself by shutting down.

Hypoglycemia was trying to take her away. I had to act, had to do something to save her. Right then, I heard something inside me, but it wasn’t a voice, it wasn’t a whisper; it was the falling tears that made me feel like my life was steadily being drained from me, drop by drop.

After checking the food log again, I found the mistake: missing Teddy Grahams. Fifteen Teddy Grahams would have supported her light-footed-dancing. The juice and Starbursts had brought the color back to her face. In half an hour, she was her

normal, silly self again, but I was not. Criticism dominated my thoughts for three days and plagued my sleepless nights. Fear took a rm hold of my decisions from then on, but not a fear of failing: I feared hurting an innocent while I was being cocky. My shirking and arrogance was a disease. Details, details, and more details keep people safe, alive. I’ve practiced how to manage diabetes to the point of near expertise, so I can now be my sister’s next guardian or even a diabetic myself.

In regard to my family, they still trust me and I am not blamed. The fear and responsibility I harbor is purely my own.

The sensitivity to situations and conditions I use to mildly dictate my life now branches to my best friends’ lactose intolerance and acid re ux.

The world will fold over within itself before I miss the gravity of another person’s needs.

With a jerk, the curtain that blocked my view into another person’s requirement to live was lifted. The logic of indifference to someone’s life for the ease of my own proved false; I am to be more attentive. It’s my Drifting - Rosa Marrero-Reiser responsibility as a person who lives amongst others.

Life is delicate; it is easily disturbed in various ways for different people. If we can see one another, shall we learn all we can to strengthen the probability of seeing tomorrow? Sometimes, it is as easy as counting one, two, three.

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Othell Sunrise - Jason Spratley

Feeding My Loneliness to the Night Chris Caruvana

the sun has fallen well beyond its limits, and here we are... nothing but two ies in the hold of the night. iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been chasing you for quite some time now; my wings are pretty sore and your spark seems to icker. i swear iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve done this a thousand times. in a darkness inspired by beer and cheap wine, we nd each other intermixing and owing in and out of ourselves like a wave of confusion and steaming desperation. bare instinct leads our emotions into a bitter unveiling of truth and raw nature at its best. it seems to ll the gaps and inconsistencies, but in the morning who will i see? and more importantly, who will i be? many questions are left unanswered, and as i lay here, as i came into this world, i wish i knew what i was doing.

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She is 83 Debora Teixeira

As far as I can remember, Nana had always been 83 years old. I was 12 when she died, and she was still 83. It never occurred to me to ask why she never aged. Every year I asked Grandma how old Nana was and every year I got the same answer. The truth is that we all knew she was not 83 anymore, but no one seemed to be brave enough to ask the matriarch her real age. Nana was a proud woman, a “lady” in every sense of the word. She wore white gloves, high heels, and a small hat as often as she could. She was born and raised in Austria, in a wealthy Jewish family. She spoke ve languages and was an excellent painter; but none of that remained when her memory had failed her. Her speech was slow, combining the foreign with the familiar. She had been, in her days, a remarkable woman. She ed her native country alone to escape the war, married a younger man (which was unusual in the twenties,) and raised her children after her husband left her for another. Life had not been simple—the wrinkles were there to prove it—but she always held her head high. Grandma used to say she was one “tough cookie,” stubborn in every possible way, and that is how she survived. She did not always remember my name, but somehow she knew exactly what chocolates I liked. Nana’s funeral was a happy occasion. Her children loved her, and she lived a full, contented life. Her health had slowly failed her and we were happy to know she would nally rest. After the

funeral, I nally found the courage to ask the question.

“Grandma, tell me the truth: how old was Nana?”

“She was going to be 90 next month,” she said smiling, “90 on the nineteenth of next month.”

A few weeks later, we received a call from my aunt, who was taking care of Nana’s legal papers. She had come upon Nana’s Austrian documents, and had the strangest news for us.

“You are never going to believe what I just found out,” my mom said as I walked through the kitchen door. “Turns out Nana was born in 1899! Do you know how old she was?”

It took me a second to answer her, not because I did not know the answer but because I needed the time to make sure I had heard it right. She was 100! To a 12 year old that was more than just old, it was ancient!

Many birthdays have passed since that afternoon when I learned that my Nana was not only a strong woman, she was also a very sly one. I try to imagine her sitting in her room, burning her documents and becoming someone else. I see her smiling like she often did, raising an eyebrow as she plotted some devious scheme – which to me always involved slipping me candy before dinner. She holds her white gloves in one hand and her head rests carelessly on the other. The re burns small and quick. She pins her hair up and walks out closing the door behind her.

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My Grandmaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s House - Lauren Miller

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The Great Storyteller Kristin Martin Rush, rush; hurry up; so many things to do in such little time! A few weekends ago, I decided to come back and visit home for the long Labor Day weekend and it seemed the only time I was really in my home was when I had to sleep. My mother had so many things she wanted to do and so many things she wanted to get for me while I was in town, we were constantly on the go.

We were getting ready to leave for yet another shopping venture when I realized I had misplaced my purse. I looked frantically around the house, trying to avoid a lecture about taking my sweet time, seeing as I was the reason we were going out. I started scanning the living room as if I had Superman’s X-ray vision, looking in all of the nooks and crannies. I got down on all fours, hoping that a different perspective would give me a better outcome, when something caught my attention. Instinctively, I reached out, grabbing the dusty thing from underneath the coffee table. It appeared to be a regular paperback, still in pretty decent shape for being hidden by layers of dust and grime.

What is this? I wondered, the mystery building within my hands. I started dusting the cover as if I were an archeologist looking for the past, looking for answers.

As the dust started to roll off the binding of the bright orange book, memories started to come back. I hadn’t seen this thing in several years. Finally, the title came into view. My emotions took hold of me as I stared at the forgotten object. This was not some ordinary book full of stories and memories from any old writer; this was my grandfather’s book.

The book in my hand became a time machine, taking me away from this time and age to a time when college seemed as distant as the stars. Here, in my youth, the greatest time of the year came during

summer, a time when summer vacation meant time off from school and going to visit relatives that you only get to see once a year. My memories brought me back to my grandparents’ home in Melbourne, Florida, one of the very few cities on the East Coast that is still home to more locals with generations of history than tourists. My mother, the youngest of seven children, grew up here; she is also the only one who does not still live around or in Melbourne. Their house didn’t look like much on the outside. The little off-white house stretched out over the lot, making the shape of it more like a line than a typical square. The house was accompanied by two-and-a-half acres of land consisting of palm trees, pine trees, and a decently sized pond right smack-dab in front of the house. With this pond came all the native wildlife of Florida: snakes, sh, herons, turtles, eagles, deer, egrets, and the occasional gator that happened to wander in. The minute that my family pulled into the gravel driveway, I felt the rush of excitement and a strain for adventure; this was a natureloving, city kid’s dream. I raced out of the car as fast as I could, straight toward the pond. I would always look down into the murky water, trying to nd life on the other side. There you could see the outline of several sh underneath the blooming lily pads, mostly bass and bluegill, a snapping turtle, which sometimes attacked if you got too close to its nest on the bank, and the outline of an old Indian canoe that peaked out of the water only when the water was very low. I never could stay here for long, because, of course, we were here to see my grandparents, not their pond.

Walking into my grandparents’ home was another story; the inside was an asthmatic kid’s nightmare. The whole house reeked of the smell of cigarettes, centuries-old, that had infused into the

25

Eli - Rosa Marrero-Reiser

carpet, the sofa, and the walls. Fresh cigarette smoke also constantly circulated round the house, making it very hard for me to breathe. The inside of the house looked like someone stole it straight out of the 1970’s: brown carpets, yellow print wall paper, and a dull yellow couch would take you back as if you were in the Twilight Zone. If you continued walking into the house, past the sofa and the bedroom hallway, you would end up in my grandfather’s den. This was his most sacred spot in the house. Nothing girly was ever seen here, except maybe one picture of my grandmother in her prime. His den was his sheer master piece. Like Michael Angelo’s work in the Sistine Chapel or Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, his den was lled with things that de ned his life in an order that was precious to him. He had his coin collection scattered for viewing purposes under the glass coffee table, his precious Seminole arrow heads and other relics framed by the replace, and his ever famous “Bucky Boar” mounted right behind his recliner. Everything in there had a place and a story, setting the stage for the master storyteller himself.

Jack Montrose had the great gift of compelling and touching an audience with the power of his stories.

We would all gather around him, the whole family, the

cousins, the aunts and uncles, just to listen to him unravel a grand tale of traveling down the Saint John’s River where he spotted a rare and endangered, wild Florida panther or of ghting the enemy forces in the trenches of World War II. He told his stories with great emotion and excitement; the smoke from his cigarette would roll around his shaved white head as his eyes would lock on yours. As he wove his brilliant tapestry of imagery and detail, you couldn’t help feeling like you were right there experiencing it with him. Now, as all these suppressed memories came ooding out, one in particular came into the light. I looked back at the past, took a glimpse into my memory of times with my grandpa. I felt as if I were really there, really listening to the master of stories, sitting in his den looking around in wonder at all the relics. Now, I saw myself sitting there, so young, so attentive, so in awe that this was really true. But wait—there I go, distracted by something I had seen out the window. I saw myself start to get up and head for the front door, but my grandpa’s story isn’t even done yet! He was right at the peak of the climax, the most thrilling part of the story, yet I continued out the door! “What is wrong with you?” I yelled to my remembered self, “Stop! Take a little time. Listen while you still have a chance!” but I was preaching to deaf ears. I went right out the door, straight to the pond that I was so consumed with.

The time machine was done with me. I came back to the here and now, left staring through watery eyes at the orange book that lay still in my hands. I continued next page

26 continued from previous page

remember I would later tell my parents the reason I left the house on so many countless occasions was because I couldn’t take the cigarette smoke any longer.

Although this was true, I would leave for hours upon hours, coming in the house on some visits for a total of only thirty minutes. Realizing what I had done, I couldn’t help feeling such great emotions as anger and despair; it was all so real, so unexpected. My mind raced, full of questions looking for answers. Why did I leave every time? Why did I limit my adventure to only that small pond when I could have been exposed to the world? Why did I take all those times with the great storyteller for granted?

My grandfather died on September 3, 2003, before I could share with him some of my stories, my writings, and my drawings. He never got to see me grow into a young lady, something other than that strong-willed tomboy he knew. He never saw me retell some of his stories. He missed it all, but I was starting to see that I missed even more than that.

I wanted so badly to go back, to see him one more time, to actually slow down from the rat race we call life just to sit and listen! As I lay on the oor with his book, Tales of a Florida Fish Camp, wrapped tightly in my grasp, I let it all go, my grief, my questions, and my fury. This lesson, however painful, was the only

true way to understand what I had missed earlier about my grandfather. A man who worked hard all week for just one day on the river or one day with his family, my grandpa understood the importance of priorities and now had passed them down to me. Physically, all I had of him was his book, some pictures, and a steel drum, but inside I had something greater—the memories, the lessons, and a desire burning brighter than the sun to write like he told stories.

“I found your purse. Won’t you hurry up? We’ll miss the sale,” said my mother screaming down the hall like a ghter jet. In mid-turn, my mother eyed the orange book that peeked out from my hand and she stopped immediately. “Where did you nd that?” she asked. Her voice softened, her expressions became mellow and still. “It was hiding, hasn’t seen the light of day for some time,” I explained, “Mom, do you think we can talk about Grandpa and read a story or two later?” The words spontaneously blurted out. She hadn’t talked much about him since he died. She studied me for a minute, wondering why this had come to mind, yet she embraced me in a warm hug. “Sure, Sweetie, how about tonight?” she asked as we started to walk together out the back door. “That would be great.” I sighed with relief, “Really, really great.”

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David - Hanna Segura

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The Last Leaf Roxanne Ward Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no secret Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m dying, My skin bruised and spotted with the reds of age.

My friends have already taken that permanent plunge, and yet I linger, afraid to let go.

My friends, they call to me from the cold, wet ground.

But I stay, clinging to the one who gave me life.

I can be young still!

I can be young still!

But what is this?

A Breeze!

Ah! I have no choice now, But to let my life fall slowly away And let my skin turn brown like theirs.

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Reunion A. Reid

Walk with me again for two miles down this road and I’ll fall into your step for two miles down this road.

I do not hear the monarchs beating their wings this time, but hear your feet for two miles down this road.

I do not smell the honeysuckle in the vine, but breathe your scent for two miles down this road.

I do not sense the crisp breeze weaving through the pine, but feel your gaze for two miles down this road.

My crooked feet carry me, my short breath wheezing, but I grasp your hand for two miles down this road.

I stop, close my eyes, and fade into you after we have walked for two miles down this road.

~Editor’s Note: “Reunion” is an example of a ghazal, a short lyrical poem that arose in Persia. It is between 5 and 15 couplets long. Each couplet contains its own poetic thought but is linked by a repeated word or phrase established in the rst couplet and continued in the second line of each pair. Themes are usually connected to love and romance.

I Am - Mary Yehle (above) Dewdrops - Devin D. Wright (left)

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The Sound of Boars Derek Baker Lost now, where wood and wetland roam together, Dispossessed in night’s long ruin, I hear— Tusks which gnaw at the roots, hooves scratching the bark, And snorts of insolence.

The falling trees become lost in queer silence, And where the eye of the moon grows pitch dark, Saturn gleams like new blood in the sky.

Yet for all my fear of lightless things, The sound of boars is comforting— For, lost as I am, there is life in the dark.

My shadow disappears.

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One Trisha Suhr no one likes to be empty and alone but every day i walk into a cold and quiet home

Self-Portrait - Trevor Hunter

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The Bazaar Diana Kitchens From around the corner she stares— the balloon.

Blood red in color, so alluring, bloodshot eyes are occurring; hands reach out like vines— the attempt/the chase.

Music—in one ear, out the other— nothing to distract predator from prey, the red target, the enticing enemy— so close/so far away.

Silent cries, “it’s all in the mind.”

The bantam zeppelin— the tenacious child— its height— its tears— escaping the atmosphere— she does too— rupturing from the pressure— goodbye, soul.

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Colorful Accident - Tyler Taliaferro

34

A Love Affair Daniel Reiser The clownman plays his broken guitar like he guts a sh.

The apricot woman dances barefoot; black soot shoes her soles.

Eyeballs in all directions stare.

And the glare is felt like thrown, wet cement.

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Happiness - Crystal Whittington (top left) Untitled - Jillian Poole (bottom left) Ball 1 - Kelly Hughes (above)

36

Cotton Patch County - Julia Raymond

37 Tribute A. Reid They rest apart from time, these souls, seldom remembering their rst blooms.

Silky apparitions, those forgotten petals live, pressed between pages on dusty shelves.

Seldom remembering their rst blooms, subtle fragrances grace the darkness, pressed between pages on dusty shelves; we might read the forgotten words.

Subtle fragrances grace the darkness, never alone in those vast archives.

We might read the forgotten words and they may begin to remember yet.

Never alone in those vast archives, silky apparitions â&#x20AC;&#x201C; those forgotten petals â&#x20AC;&#x201C; live, and they may begin to remember. Yet, they rest apart from time, these souls.

~Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Note: This poem is an example of a pantoum, verse that originated in Malaysia. It consists of a series of quatrains in which the second and fourth lines of a quatrain recur as the rst and third lines in the succeeding quatrain. The rst line of the series recurs as the last line of the closing quatrain, and in some English examples the third line of the poem recurs as the second line of the closing quatrain.

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The Morning Debora Teixeira

The morning sun met her sitting by the window. The crisp air kissed her good morning as she stood there, breathing inspiration.

The porch was narrow but warm and inviting. There he was, tall and imperative, but beautiful and compassionate. She spent most of her time with him; every spare minute was devoted to his cause.

A sweet aroma lled the air; the tea was lukewarm, so she did not drink it. She took some strawberries and ate them while she walked outside. Looking back, she saw him, still there, waiting for her to return. Dawn was her favorite time of the day; something about the light and dark captivated her imagination and gave ight to her dreams. Barefoot in the sand, she walked, listening attentively to the crushing waves; each wave was a musical note in her imaginary symphony. Motionless, she looked at the horizon as if she had been waiting for something or someone to come. The sun’s re ection in the ocean was a marvelous sight: orange and red paint strokes on a midnight blue sky, softly changing colors, gently welcoming the new day. The sun rose in the sky; she was now late.

It was a morning like any other, the sun rose like every other day, and the streets were busy in the morning commute. People came and went without even noticing the crispness of the changing air.

That day was nothing but ordinary. She rushed through the streets, pretending not to notice the changes; after all, it should not be too hard to hide them: no one seemed to be aware of her existence.

“Good morning, Emma,” said the voluptuous woman from behind her newspaper. “Good morning, Mrs. Tannin,” she replied, entering the old bookstore, “beautiful day, isn’t it?” Putting the paper down just enough to see her face she replied, “Sure, sure, whatever you say. Can you get those boxes back there for me? We got some new materials that I want ready before we open this morning.” It was a day like every other: the same customers, same remarks, same questions, and the same answers. She did not mind the work; she was glad to do it. The bookstore had been Mr. Tannin’s pride and joy while he was still alive, which was probably why Mrs. Tannin had such a fondness for the little storehouse. The Tannin Store was an old cottage house with bookcases from wall to wall, a true wonderland Emma had grown to love. She carefully took the box of books to the front and began placing them on the appropriate shelves. She had done that many times, and knew the corridors better than anyone else. As she moved the books around, she wiped the dust from her hands on the white apron she had over her dress.

She had tied her long, curly hair back in a ponytail with a light green ribbon that matched her dress. Green was her favorite color; it made her caramel eyes look brighter. She had fair skin and beautiful dark hair. Emma was shy but wise for her age. She had not lived many years, but life had found a way to teach her the ways of men.

Even though she had seen suffering, she conveyed serenity in her

gaze. Her walk was con dent and fearless; even her shadow was impressive and powerful.

The bell at the door set the pulse for their workday. Minutes felt like hours slipping through the hourglass. The nal bell rang and she walked slowly to close the door, ready and anxious to return home. He would be waiting for her, for her touch. He had been her faithful companion for as long as she could remember.

She tried to remember a time when he was not there, but could not.

The walk was long, but she did not mind it. The streets were lled with people coming and going. Small cafes and restaurants spilled their sweet aromas into the sidewalk. The noise was pleasant and friendly. She walked fast now, racing against darkness. The purple skies were closing down and the sun bid the earth good night. There was much to be done and not enough time. At home, Emma walked outside onto the porch once again; he was there, waiting. His face was serene, and resembled hers. Most would say he had been quite handsome in his time. Now he was a faint memory in her heart. She took the small brush and began to work on her painting, carefully lling the lines on the canvas as if it were a sacred piece. There was no doubt she had loved her father, and she was not ready to let him go. The little money he had left her had made it possible for her to have a place to live and nish her studies. The bookstore job had enabled her to retain the autonomy. Although she was very beautiful and quite intelligent, few men would venture to marry a poor orphan. That pleased her greatly because she fully enjoyed her independence. She was dreadfully opinionated, and could hardly control her speech. The night was cool but inviting. She drank a cup of tea while she gazed at the stars, dreaming. The painting was almost nished, but her memory was failing her. Nothing seemed to be right anymore: his eyes, his hair. She quietly cried, frustrated with herself. The wind was strong now and it would be raining soon.

Raindrops fell lightly on the rooftop when morning came to wake her up. The air was heavy, muggy. The sun, hidden behind dense clouds, did not come to greet her as usual. There was no walk on the beach either. The streets were not as busy as usual, matching the emptiness she felt within her soul. The day seemed to be as dark as her mood. The store’s door was half-open, but the lights were off. The room was somber and strangely bare. The bookshelves were there, but the books were gone. She had only been absent for two days: Saturday, the store was closed, and Sunday was her day off. Emma quickly walked around, looking for Mrs. Tannin and the books. They were gone, and there was no sign that they had ever been there. The of ce in the back was clean, and the Tannin’s residence on the second oor was empty, too. Franticly she ran down and out, calling for help. It was already dark outside; the day had become night in what had seemed a few minutes. No one answered her call;

39

Kettle - Julia Raymond it was a nightmare. Back at her apartment, the painting was gone, and there were no traces of paint anywhere. In the kitchen, the table was set for two, and the stove was on. The smell of the familiar was overwhelming. She felt the embrace of his strong arms; she knew them very well. She would not dare look back and face him. Losing him again could be fatal to her sanity. Everything seemed so real, and even if it was just a dream, why not enjoy it for a few moments?

It had always been the two of them, ever since mom had gone away many years before. As she turned around, she felt the oor disappear from beneath her feet and a cry of horror escaped her. Darkness, faint voices, the aroma of uncertainty, they were all suffocating her.

“Emma? Wake up, honey! Oh God, please wake up!”

Her eyes opened, but she fought herself not to look at him.

His grotesque gure looked nothing like the image in her memory.

He looked dead all right—pale, repulsive. “What is wrong honey?”

She dared not answer, fearing the monster in front of her. Could this be a dream, a nightmare? She tried to get up as quickly as possible, her eyes xed on his. His face expressed his confusion as to her reaction. “Honey, why don’t you sit down and take a deep

breath? You don’t look so good. Did something happen? I’ve been talking to that mister in the bookstore, you know which one? He’s thinking of moving to that bigger place around the corner. I mean, the place is not that big but better than what he got now. Emma? Are you even listening?” His words were strange, yet familiar. She knew exactly what he was saying.

“I must be dreaming,” she said aloud, though she was talking to herself. Her eyes searched the room for a sign that she was dreaming, but nothing was out of place. Emma walked towards the bedroom and locked the door behind her. Then she dragged the small bookcase and placed it blocking the door. She was afraid of falling asleep, of what tomorrow would bring. She tried in vain to stay awake, though sleep overcame her and she nally closed her eyes. When she woke up, the sun was shining, birds were singing, and the bookcase was in its usual place, away from the door. The hallway was quiet, no signs of her dead father anywhere. She contemplated going out to nd out the exact day, but her body ached from the tense night. A key turned and the door opened. “What a morning! Did you sleep

continued next page

40 continued from previous page well Emma? I bet you are anxious for your rst day of college!”

She was speechless. He was still there, but now he looked more real. Emma remembered that day very well, it was the day of her father’s accident, the day she lost him. She was too tired to ght him or run away so she sat down and ate her breakfast. He drove her to school just as she remembered, and in the afternoon a police of cer was waiting to pick her up and take her to the hospital. The news of his death had no impact on her. She was numb. The years passed and she nished school as expected, and went to work at the small bookstore, just as she was supposed to do.

At dawn, she got up and opened her bedroom’s window. The air was crisp and the sun shone, but she did not notice it. She could see the waves crashing on the sand, but she felt no desire to take her morning walk. On the porch, a white canvas stood with clean brushes and full paint bottles on the oor. She showered and changed into her green dress, ate her strawberries, and left for work. She walked into the store and ignored Mrs. Tannin; she knew what to do and did not want to waste time with frivolous conversation. Emma took the box but did not bother to put the apron over her dress. When the sun was setting, she walked home with an unusually fast pace. There was no need to eat dinner; she just wanted to go to bed. “The faster I sleep the faster tomorrow will come,” she rationalized to herself.

Her thoughts were racing in her head and sleep seemed far away.

The hours passed and morning came but she had no reason to get up; it was Saturday. She remained motionless until darkness lled the room the next day. Exhaustion slowed her thoughts and she nally slept. She could hardly wait for morning. The day would start dark and gloomy, but at the end he would be there waiting for her, and this time she knew what to do. She knew how to prevent him from ever leaving her.

Morning! she thought to herself, feeling the sunrays warming her cheeks. “Oh no!” she shouted, “No, no, no, there can’t be sun!”

The streets were busy in the morning commute just the same. People came and went without even noticing the crispness of the changing air. That day was nothing but ordinary.

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Apartment Balconies - Elizabeth Callaway (left) St. Maryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Cathedral - Elizabeth Callaway (above)

42

Read Me Kari Bickhard

She tended to sit on her balcony most days, staring intently at the empty eld that sprawled out behind her old house. There was never anything of much interest out there in the overgrown grass. She never seemed to mind much, though, seeing as she spent hours upon days on the attic porch without rails, contemplating nothing in particular. Personally, I never saw anything bizarre in the little snow-white-haired lady that lived only a short distance from my family’s home. My kin told me that Alice was too old and had begun to see things that didn’t exist. I agreed, of course, since I was under the impression that Alice was only now able to see what I’ve wanted so desperately to see all my life: the imaginary.

I sometimes drifted down the road that linked hers to mine and would sit with her on her attic porch with its view of the green plain. Alice never said much, but when she spoke, it was a delightful jumble of mixed up words and illogical statements.

Then there came a day I actually made sense of her advice. It was after I’d asked her something that had been weighing on me for a while; I still remember it all so clearly.

“Alice, why do you stare at nothing?” I had asked, half expecting to hear unintelligible gibberish as a reply.

“Because there is no such thing as a nothing,” she answered haughtily. I felt a blush rise up into my ears at her reprimand. Of course, I agreed with her, but to my eyes it still seemed a barren yard below us, the one even wild critters of the night tended to avoid rather than cross. I knew all too well no one but us could possibly understand that what it was we believed was not as farfetched as it seems at rst.

“Alice, what is nothing?’ I asked as we pondered the trif ewiggs of knolls.

“Why, everything is a little bit of nothing, my dear, or else there’d never be a something,” she told me plainly. I thought of her wisdom for many years after the day the sky shined a vivid storm upon us; we huddled under the balcony, the seat of the shingles, to keep our vigil of the lawn.

Times like these pass by in a haze of responsibilities and drab sensibilities. I grew annoyed at little Alice for all she’d seen and all that she was learning from the weed-tangled pasture, while my happiness faded along with my sense of colors and my longing to see what was mostly unseen.

A sickle moon grinned down on her white head when she nally let me see them. I’d always known it was she that had kept my eyes turned to the boring world of rules and facts.

Together we watched the brambles and winter wheat in their familiar attempts to entice their favorite audience of one into their mischievous plays.

“Alice,” I asked evenly as she stooped against me from the outer fringes of the improbable stage of damp briers and thickets.

“What do you want to tell them?” A single creature sat still amongst the dozens of others and stared through us with huge, golden eyes. Alice drew in a deep breath to reply and the somber cat of unreal, ash purple and pinks blinked once. Suddenly, the dancing stopped.

“Twas brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; all mimsy were the borogoves and the mome rathes outgrabe,” she and the cat both answered in harmonious discord.

“Don’t worry,” I announced to the now-grinning cat as his smile replaced the shard of the cloud-covered moon. “One day, I’ll tell them,” I promised, as a tiny little blonde child skipped out from somewhere behind me and Alice crumpled in my arms.

The cheeky girl twisted around enthusiastically to face me now that she stood next to the cunning cat. “I’ll tell them all again what they already know,” I told this proper, young English girl I knew all too well. “I’ll tell them to stare at nothing like they do anyways, and I’ll show them again what it is like to wonder about everything.”

The girl smiled brightly as the cat’s whiskers twitched about his nose. “That’s it exactly,” he drawled lightly as the moonlight returned only to shy from them like a faded memory.

“Good luck with that promise, Walt,” Alice wished me in a voice I’d never heard so bright.

The cat I knew to be Alice’s Cheshire chuckled richly, “Oh!” and peeled his large lantern eyes at me in a grinning seriousness. “Don’t you go and forget—ever,” he rumbled threateningly. It was an order I knew better than to disobey.

I never forgot what I saw that night or what I’d promised. If I fear anything, it is to forget to wonder about everything . . . and about nothing at all.

Welcome to Wonderland . . .

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Roots are Abound - Kerri Carter

44 World at War Kelcie Bush A wicked match of catch and lob Concluding fatal confrontation and miserable Shrieks cleaves into souls in piercing pitches, Cha ng trembling forms huddled in ditches.

Twitches among shadows remain subverted, Desperately clutching the gun to keep enemies averted Like some worn preacher’s vision of Hell, Illustrating where death-feasting imps dwell.

Pious in his knowledge, he speaks his last farewell.

Creatures of lth and infection it about the mire Ruling over the kingdoms acquired.

Fur-enveloped Princes of Lice and Remains Scatter across the western forefront’s veins.

Flared re frosts the ages of fraught, Frequently announcing attacks on land’s dreadnoughts, If only a concoction of mind, A mixture of anguish, sludge, blood, and grime.

Nostrils burn inside out and a metallic scent lingers about.

Fight below the star crushed lime To revive a broken world; our fragmented time Cries out, seething an excruciating cognition, Descending amongst comrades or opposition.

Cascading debris soaks us; crimson-drenched, Heads bowed down, spirit rmly entrenched, We become men quickly whilst in the fray, And witness together the blooms of generations fading away.

Duane’s Peach - Tylor Taliaferro

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A Tea Party Roxanne Ward Drill baby drill We donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need Alaskan wolves So kill Palin kill.

Cry baby cry We donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t trust the president So lie Limbaugh lie.

Learn child learn But only what we want you to So burn Orwell burn.

Praise child praise But only praise Christianity So pray skeptic pray.

More child more I want another cup of tea So pour baby pour.

Campaign 2012 - Tyler Taliaferro

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~Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Note: The haiku is a major form of Japanese verse, written in 17 syllables divided into 3 lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables. Usually it employs highly evocative allusions and comparisons, often on the subject of nature or one of the seasons.

In this case, something more familiar to an American audience is addressed.

Coffee Haiku Elizabeth Callaway Coffee Addiction Have to Have It, I Adore Want It! Need It! More!

Yowza - Julia Raymond

VOICES Submission Guidelines

Restrictions: Students are limited to four literary pieces and/or four art pieces. All students are required to include a cover sheet. It must have the student’s name, classi cation, major, and contact information (phone number and email address), as well as the titles of each entry and the student’s signature (printed or typed.)

By signing, the student agrees to the following statement: Realizing that intellectual property rights must be respected and are, indeed, protected by law, by signing below, I indicate that everything submitted for consideration by me is original work, I am its only author, and I have the authority to offer it for publication in Voices magazine.

Entries without any of the above requirements or that lack format requirements will not be considered for publication. For convenience, you may download a cover sheet from our website. To access the website, search “Voices” on the MSU homepage or scroll to “Publications” on “Current Student” page.

Format: All literary entries must be in Times New Roman font, size 12, single-spaced, and submitted in RTF (Rich Text Format) in Microsoft Word. Author’s name and the title of the piece must be included on the rst page of each entry. Prose is limited to four pages with the aforementioned formatting. Editors reserve the right to edit submissions and will have the changes approved by the author. Editors have the right to further reformat entries for publication.

Submission Options: 1. Email entries IN RTF FORMAT to voices@mwsu.edu as attached Word documents.

2. Drop off a disc with the entries in the Voices box mounted on the wall across the hall from Bea Wood 210 in the PY building. Paper hard copies will not be accepted.

Deadline: Deadline will be posted around campus during the fall semester and on the Voices website. No late submissions will be accepted.

Selection & Publication Process: Once the submissions have been approved by the author after the deadline date, submissions will be sent to a blind jury. The release date will be announced as soon as posssible the following spring semester.

Opinions expressed by contributors to Voices do not re ect those of the editorial staff, advisor, jury, or Midwestern State University. A blind jury chooses the selections for artistic merit. Editors reserve the right to edit works submitted for publication.

The editors wish to thank the following contributors for their assistance in this year’s issue: Professor Susan Henson, Advisor Professor Gary Goldberg, Art Advisor Jim Henson, Design Advisor Brian Darland, Production Advisor

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Index

48 B

K

Baker The Sound of Boars 30 Bickhard Read Me 42 Bond Death to the Story 14 Bush World at War 44

King Dream Mask 7 Kitchens The Bazaar 32

Lambert Ziggy in Flight 7

Segura David 27 Spratley Othell Sunrise 20 Steimel Dithering Reality 12 Witching Hour 11 Suhr Cancer 4 One 31

C

M

T

Callaway Apartment Balconies 41 Coffee Haiku 46 St. Mary’s Cathedral 41 Carter Roots are Abound 43 Caruvana Diamonds 11 Feeding My Loneliness to the Night 21 Here’s to You 7

Marrero-Reiser Drifting 19 Eli 25 Martin The Great Storyteller 24 Miller My Grandma’s House 23

Taliaferro Campaign 2012 45 Colorful Accident 33 Creating Peace 17 Duane’s Peach 44 Untitled Sculpture 17 Teixeira She is 83 22 The Morning 38

G Granberry Brush Yo Teef 16

H Henson Vertebrae 1 Hofbaur Secrets 10 Hughes Ball 1 35 Hunter Self-Portrait 31

I Igbinedion Blood on Africa 8

J Johnston Enough 4 Jones Comic Book Study 12

L

P Poole Untitled 35

R Rao Redemption 2 Raymond Closeup 9 Cotton Patch County 36 Japan 1 Kettle 39 Wow 3 Yowza 46 Reid Reunion 29 Tribute 37 Reiser A Love Affair 34 Modernism 17 Rex How Much Love 10

S Satter eld Choice Hopes 1 The Last Checkpoint 15

V Voh Grahams for Grams 18

W Ward A Tea Party 45 Hassling The Hoff 16 The Last Leaf 28 Welch Deliciously Evil 7 Whittington Happiness 35 Wright Dewdrops 29

Y Yehle I Am 29 Scarf 5