Voices 2011

Writing A drop of ink slowly moving up and down and left to right on a plain white piece of paper that sits quietly on a smooth desk full of dust from lack of care or perhaps forgetfulness until the ink comes to trembling hands whose task is to record the destiny of rejected souls

Debora Teixeira

Voices 2011

A Student-Produced Literary and Visual Arts Magazine Midwestern State University Wichita Falls, Texas Vol. XXXIV Cover Art: Dendrochronology, Photograph : David Colditz (front) Texture, Photograph (detail) : Priyal Asiri Ranasinghe (back) All works indexed on page X by last name

Beyond the Horizon, Photograph : Debora Alonso

st ia or Bu Californ Ibarra , the Joshua dshield tely n i w e th ple Out of as nearly com asional occ d w tablelan ith only the sert critter w e barren n Yucca or d monotony w n o r w overg e bro st up g up th f the road. Ju uds n i k a e r o b se of clo he sides lining t s a great expan e horizon a h ahead w up against t d e stack med hat see of t s e s s e s tr warren ray but stony-g up the very to prop . as heaven there w p , d n a h hail u other On the tle more than e stuff to th y lit probabl in curdling in he owners a sc there, r mares for Por d beneath n t of nigh le Leaguers. A I, cradled t and Lit as Sarah and ndfather’s w gra l it al b of my ng westward. a c e h t at eadi inside truck, h ing jobs th s, k r o w p er ca old e care ere es We w never becom ight never might tment that m r ts, an apa r paren e u o f o w es mblanc rything with se ends, and eve ose people i h their fr stand about t t ’ n could eople.

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hard-boiled citizens. Before us was nothing and everything, a would-be happy future with each other, living how we wanted or had always hoped to; or there was the worst, the opposite: failure.

The truck had always been in various states of disrepair, tools and detritus – shears rusted perpetually closed, put away underneath the passenger’s seat; weed-eater wire strewn about the footwell like forgotten tinsel; drained cans of beer clattering around the bed – and now it was it down the interstate like a wild, chewed-up animal chomping at the blacktop, the country howling around us. It was ugly; the body was creased in places and the rust had formed, reddish-brown, across the folds of its metal husk like bubbling scabs. A light was missing from the front and the gleaming chromed teeth, was now

toothed grin. Each rough seam in the pavement was made worse by the absence of any kind of suspension. A mild imperfection in the road was enough to send the damned thing lurching upwards into the air for a few moments until it came heavily back down towards Earth, where it would resume rattling down the road as if on the verge of falling apart.

Somehow, Sarah slept through these little catastrophes.

hot coffee in my lap; when the wipers shorted out and began to sweep back and forth across the windshield with not a dreary cloud in sight; when I cried at the fear of starting over somewhere I had never been, never even heard of. All little catastrophes.

All redressed and forgotten after she wakes, rubs the sleep from her eyes with the heels of her palms, looks at me and says, “I’m starving.”

This was a recurring thing.

She was asleep when one of her suitcases dislodged itself from the web of bungee cords I had spun over the truck bed, and burst apart in the midnight air like a piñata full of women’s unmentionables. She was asleep

The places where we stopped to eat – places with names like Birdseye Diner, Skip’s Noble Pig, the scads of greasy-spoon establishments with the word “Oasis” perched upon tall, backlit signs – were all populated by the same troupe of people: some completely lost, others informed, resigned and cognizant of their places in life. Most, however, were like us: between two worlds.

We were riding a current of moxie, headed west for no other reason than to break free, but from what? We had had a place

just outside of Hawley. She slept when I was pulled over for a broken headlight; when storm sirens sounded and I kept us and our things huddled underneath an overpass until the weather relented; when I spilled piping

together; a small apartment behind the junior college, but it had made me itchy with anxiety.

I’d squirmed at the thought of staying there forever, cooped up and boxed in along with other were prisoners to apathy, all of us trapped between the jaundiced own laxity, our own idleness.

And we had had jobs, honestto-god workplaces that we did well by, only living within our means, never quite thriving; but every day I’d sat behind my desk I’d felt my insides turning colder, tightening up into little gobs of fury, turning into – what?

– I didn’t know then. Now I see it was fear, only fear, crawling underneath my shirt and sloppy tie, underneath the pudginess I’d grown comfortable with, behind the lungs I’d punished with cigarettes. I was fat and unhappy, a pig in a cage. And I was scared.

One evening, thirty minutes thought hard for a moment, and then left. It was the beginning of a beginning. I still don’t understand why Sarah had decided to agree to leave with me. How could she?

It was a decision made within the breadth of a few seconds, barely even a full thought. Yet, she had agreed nonetheless.

Maybe she felt the same crisis I did. I’m sure she had felt it, at least known that feeling at some point. I’d even heard her at night, when restlessness was a still blue emotion lingering inside of our bedroom, and I knew that she couldn’t be happy. So we’d left that anxious place behind and found ourselves in limbo in the Southwest, among those wanderers and dreamers sipping coffee inside the vinyl-covered booths of Flo’s Oasis, among those headed places or simply going nowhere in particular.

with pursed lips and brimming eyes, the little golden bracelet I watched as she disappeared into the shop. She emerged a few minutes later sighing, a damp wad of cash in her hand. We bought lunchmeat and bread, and continued westbound, leaving her little bracelet behind. She had kept the charms. There was a little golden seashell, about the size of

the north so that all we could see on our right was the craggy brown and crimson wall of rock, slung low and resolute between the blank sky and rippling prairie. I felt like I wanted to stay there for awhile, if only just to see the effects the seasons had on the looming wall; I wanted to stay in Gallup because I was tired of driving, because I was tired of scraping our way toward the

to a passing waitress who only smile their way. A small Indian boy wandered through the crowd of patrons hawking jewelry (I bought Sarah a leather-woven bracelet arrayed with beautiful turquoise stones). I thought about what it meant to be a dreamer, a wanderer. I thought about the difference between living somewhere and being alive somewhere. Sarah looked at me.

and said, “I’m starving.”

We had to pawn her gold bracelet in Tucumcari. We’d walked around the main drag for an hour or so, looking for the absolute best, most pristine pawn shop in town. She wouldn’t have had anything less.

“If I’m gonna sell this stupid thing to someone I don’t wanna sell it to just any greaseball,” she said. “They’d better take care of it. If we walk in there and I don’t think they’re gonna take care of it, we can’t sell it, okay? We’re place.”

I nodded. We eventually made it to Rough Country Pawn where I watched her pace back and forth in front of the entrance

given to her by a co-worker at the salon; and a simple band of silver with “Daughter” engraved neatly into the side. It was awhile before she started talking to me again.

I sold my father’s ring in Newkirk. We sold some old tools we’d found in the truck bed in Grants. And then we drove into Gallup, New Mexico, just as the sun lit up the vista. The country shone tawnily, the grass swayed and swelled as if the rolling mounds they covered were really the dorsum of some enormous sleeping thing. There was also a small range of mountains there, colored band sweeping across the center like a belt. They ushered us into town and enveloped us from

with activity. Two podgy women scuttled between booths and tables settled by back-slapping townsfolk; the women twirled between parties, alternately setting down enormous, steaming plates of eggs and pork sausages, and picking up their sullied remains. We sat down at a small laminate table only barely big enough for two.

These people weren’t sleepers or dreamers. A young family ate together in the corner booth, their small child craning his neck, gawking at those seated behind him. There were two old men sitting at the counter mumbling to each other and, occasionally,

“Maybe California’s not for us,” I said.

She nodded. “I like this place, too,” she said.

The din of laughter and conversation surrounding us was catching.

Winston Smith We keep our time.

We set our ways.

Synchronizing lives.

Left, right, left.

All together, now.

Pushing forward.

We make things better.

We spiral upward.

Going around life.

Rosalie Saenz

We were smiling.

The Road, Photograph : Sam Bigham

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Juicy Double, Acrylic Painting : Hannah Segura

But she, she was prepared, they say.

Dreading the day that was soon to come.

And the family? Their minds were in every which direction

And she was ready to play, say the loaded up golf clubs.

The full mailbox says she was ready to leave,

The practically new basketball says she didn’t play much,

Scattering every inch of the house.

She was leaving soon, say the college applications,

With playing cards covering it.

Life was good, says the dining room table,

Say all the pictures and jam-packed albums.

And she had a wonderful, caring family,

Four-bedroom house, with bright, colored walls.

She lives with her family, says the big, spacious

Barely broken in and left laced up in the corner.

But not a girl for basketball, say the basketball shoes

Say the bright, colored clothing

Scattered around the room; and a good, high-spirited girl,

A golfer too, say the numerous trophies

Lying in the big, cluttered closet.

She was clumsy, say the scuffed up shoes

Stephanie Ditmore

Moving On

Me vs. Myself

Elizabeth Callaway

I see the Darkness creeping in,

Reminding me of all my sin.

I must keep back the scream I cannot mutter.

The Dark Angels tempt me with a blade

To draw my blood which is a darker shade.

The steel would slide through my skin like butter;

My glee makes me shudder.

To Death I will not give in,

I will block out their torturing din.

I will sing myself a serenade

So the Darkness begins to fade.

Plastic No. 6, Photograph : Jenny Granberry My mind keeps all my woe,

Succulents (left), Photograph : David Colditz Photograph (above) : Viktoria Kling

A Typical Sunday Morning Maria Souliotis

alone. Actually, she had been minutes, but now she became aware of her solitude – and felt alone. She stood shivering while peering into the living room, trying to decide what to do with herself as she zipped up her hooded sweatshirt to ease the chills.

All of her four family members weren’t home. Her dad was picking up an extra shift at work, her mom was doing the weekly grocery-shopping, and her sister was visiting a friend.

Her brother – well, no one really knew. He was off at college on the West Coast but other than that, it was a mystery. If the phone call he made to the rest of the family last week was any indication, he was doing well enough.

Since everyone else was gone, it left her with absolutely

nothing to do, even though there was much to be done as far as her schoolwork was concerned.

It was just that, at this time and place, she couldn’t bring herself to work on any of it. She liked school well enough, and was always concerned about her grades, but quite frankly she was exhausted by it all. Having nothing at all to do was precisely the reason why she now, at 10:38 down on the new Victorian-style davenport that smelled curiously of saline in her family’s living room, feeling more burnt-out than she’d ever been.

The davenport was only about the length of a typical loveseat, so she couldn’t quite her legs. Instead she buried her face in the plain, comfortable throw pillow she had set on one end, prostrating herself on her stomach while letting her legs dangle over the other arm’s edge.

Even though its back was not

well-padded, the davenport’s cushions were quite plush under might as well try to break in the davenport’s fabric and make it less stiff for sitting on. In spite of the davenport’s short length, she found this arrangement rather cozy, and soon became very still, closing her eyes and attempting to drift off. She never felt like she was creative enough to daydream, so she took advantage of her time alone to discard everything on her mind.

Soon after, she slipped into a deep meditative state as her even rate of breathing slowed, calmly forgetting where she was but remaining aware that she was lying down in peace.

To her, it felt like she had stayed this way forever, but in real life it had only been about six minutes. The sunshine of the early autumn day was starting to penetrate through the thick, navy blue living room curtains.

She could sense it with her

eyes shut, and slowly began to lift her eyelids, blinking at the seemingly sudden brightness.

As soon as her eyes adjusted, she was awestruck by the illuminated draperies and decided to do something she rarely did: take a peek through them into the world outside.

Instantly, she was disappointed. There was nothing special about what she saw, and she chided herself. What were you expecting to happen? For a UFO to land? She began to turn away, but as she did, something outside caught her eye. An elderly couple was taking a slow walk down the street. From their gait, she could tell that they were very feeble.

Despite this, they held on to each other, arm in arm, as if they were heading into a debutante dance intended for those who were generations younger. Their steps were unhurried, but they kept walking, looking at each other and smiling as they did so. The more she watched, the

more she could tell that the old woman was very ill. During some of her steps, she stumbled.

However, the old man was able to keep up with her, always readying himself to catch her if, by chance, she fell.

The girl could tell that they loved each other very much.

She was dumbfounded. It seemed impossible to her that a couple so old could still love each other the way they did, even though they were dying.

She couldn’t even see her own parents growing old together and still having the same amount of love for each other as they always did. Then again, she couldn’t stand the thought of her parents growing old. The thought of seeing the couple who had given birth to her, raised her, and provided for her for many years suddenly turn weak and sick pained her. She knew she would never be ready for their death, whenever it may

have been. She wondered, if her parents happened to die when she was already a full-grown woman, if that would make her an orphan. She decided she wasn’t sure.

Before long her arm strength

She slowly sat back down on the davenport, sitting up straight this time. Her thoughts still on the elderly couple, she thought about love. The way they were holding each other had warmed her heart, but also made her very

She knew there was one person she had been in love with after all.

welled up inside her; her chest got frostbitten. Suddenly, she realized that she had never been in love. Not once.

She got angry. Her fury grew as her hands involuntarily punching the davenport, then the air, and soon the living room wall. With each thump against the wall’s surface, her hands’ muscles and bones stung, but she didn’t notice the pain.

her sides. Becoming conscious of the soreness, and knowing she’d have some bruises to explain, she realized she had been wrong.

Thinking back to several years ago, she remembered a boy she had met in school. Until that day they took the same class, he didn’t exist. They were from completely different walks of cliques. They had nothing in common.

Or so she thought.

She couldn’t remember which of them had broken the after a while they were talking on a regular basis before class started. As the days went by, she felt like they were reaching an understanding on a deeply

The moment she knew he trusted her was the moment when everything fell apart. One day before class, she ran into him in the hallway. He was looking rather sullen, and she asked him what was wrong.

Before he opened his mouth to speak, he gulped down a breath and closed his eyes. Opening them, he uttered quietly, “I haven’t told anyone yet, but my parents are getting divorced, and-” His voice cracked, unable to complete his thought. She said nothing, but stepped in, reaching

around him for a hug. Placing her head on his shoulder, she gave him a little squeeze, and as she did so she could sense him returning the gesture. It was all over too soon – looking up, she saw the glances of their fellow students burning holes through them, their mouths agape, as if their simple hug was something obscenely illegal.

Her memory failed her after that. Soon after this incident, the class and the school term was over. She couldn’t recall ever talking to or seeing him again.

Come to think of it, now she couldn’t even remember his name.

She stumbled back to the davenport, trying to lie on it as she did several minutes before, but feeling distraught she didn’t take the time to make herself comfortable. Burying her face in the davenport’s arm, she began to cry profusely, inhaling the curious saline smell of the fabric as well as that of her tears. All

the while, she thought to herself, I can’t remember his name! I love him and I can’t remember his name!

Soon, it was all too much.

She began to run. She ran all away across the house, to the largest bathroom which also happened to be the only interior room with a lock on it. She slammed the door shut and latched it, cloistering herself inside. Turning the faucet on full blast, she cupped her hands and began to wash away the tears that were coating her face in a was nowhere near refreshing; at a lukewarm temperature, it felt overly slimy on her skin.

It did the job nonetheless, and when she could feel no trace of tears remaining on her face, she switched the faucet off and began to blot her face dry with the nearest towel. something she hadn’t done in a long time, and got a good look at herself in the mirror. Her eyes, unsurprisingly, were red from

the crying spell. She stared at and was soon aware that she was unable to recognize this person in the mirror – the person whose

The Hangover

unfeeling expression.

Chris Caruvana

At 11:00 AM sharp, she slowly closed her eyes and inhaled a deep, cleansing breath.

The air rushed up her nostrils in a thin column, burning her windpipe with a refreshing coolness on the way down to her lungs. She could feel the air inside of her restoring her to sanity, but strangely it had no effect on the center of her body – the area of her chest where she was pretty sure her heart used to be.

day after day, night after night, i took you in. you crept into every crevice of my brain. your lips burned my skin, our breathing clouded my eyes, a deep, entrancing haze of passion. my ears drowned in the sweet release of your moaning sighs.

That Glass is Empty : Matthew Hernandez

personal level. They not only had a great deal of common interests, but similar opinions on life. Not necessarily the same ones, but they complimented each other well. She remembered how she felt during these discussions – how he’d look directly at her, the corners of his mouth turned slightly upward in a sort of secret smile meant for her and her alone. It was those times when he looked at her that way that she knew she was feeling something extraordinary.

your blushing face. i was reborn in every palpitation, i cried every note of our melody. i want to burn it all down, each second of this damnation brings me closer to home.

Incantations, Mixed Media : Devan Gill

The Crimson Court, Solar Etching : Audra Othell Lambert

Fantasy Jamison Routson

The sun rose in the South, and the moon collapsed in the sky.

The clouds melted on sight, and the stars froze in place.

It was a wonderful sight, your face in the auburn light.

Trisha Suhr

I love to see him smile – there’s mischief in his eyes My heart skips a beat – it happens every time

Maybe one day he’ll smile at me

Pensieri, Photograph : Judit Pomozi

and a heart beats, in spite of its damage.

I hear my mind whisper, “Hope,”

I remember that I am a girl.

and bright when you shine in.

and amazing

and it is cruel

You know, and you go so slow-

You watch, and you wait.

You pick me up and make me small.

How do I shy away from the one place I want to be?

Your eyes.

Your voice.

I feel it for days. For nights.

and new.

and amazing

and it is cruel

You give me hope-

and I can feel you on my skin for hours.

You open my heart when you open the blinds.

You are the reason my day is bright.

Jennifer Downing

Le Rêve

Gum Can Be Fun, Photograph : Julia Raymond

Smile

The Ring Johny Blevins

Its metal was shiny; the gold was true, with diamonds that glittered and rubies too.

Alone with it there stood a man in a robe, had just climbed down from the horse that he rode.

Silly Self Portrait, Painting : Jenny Granberry

His old hands were wrinkled and spotted with blood, and on toward the ring he tromped through the mud.

And from his thin bones melted aged mellowed skin, the ring and the man were never thought of again.

If planning to propose you can avoid a war, by not hiding the ring in your underwear drawer.

Annie es Inocente

Annie es Inocente

Joshua Perkins

(Translation)

Hoy es sábado. Suena el despertador; son las 6:45 de la mañana. Annie oye los pitidos burlándose de ella. Sin levantarse lo apaga, parando los fastidiosos sonidos. Queda reposando en la cama y toma de la mano su falo inanimado que está al lado de la cama. Se nadan juntos los dos en el mar de fuego; ella llega al lugar ameno. Después de unos momentos de euforia, se levanta de la cama y se viste de negro.

No olvida ponerse el collar en que cuelga el recipiente diminuto de vidrio. Adentro del recipiente hay un gramo de polvo puro, un canuto y una cucharita. “No hay tiempo para bañarme hoy,” piensa ella. Va a la cómoda y saca del cajón superior una bolsa de cocaína, una hoja de afeitar y un espejo.

Luego, divide el polvo en dos proporciones iguales y esnifa gustosamente el analgésico.

Al costado de la cómoda, hay una mesilla con un televisor encima de ella. Está prendido.

Es el canal de historia, y el presentador del programa habla de la xenofobia ya vista en algunas tribus aborígenes en la

Today is Saturday. The alarm buzzes; it’s 6:45 in the morning. Annie hears the buzzer mocking her. Without getting up, she turns it off, ceasing the fastidious rings. She lies reposed on her bed and takes her inanimate phallus that is lying beside the bed. They swim arrives back at the Garden of Antiquity. After some moments of euphoria, Annie gets out of bed and dresses in black. She doesn’t forget to put on the necklace from which hangs a diminutive glass vial. Inside the vial there’s a gram of pure powder, a joint, and a small spoon. “There isn’t enough time to bathe today,” she thinks.

Next, she goes to the dresser and takes out from the top drawer a bag of cocaine, a razor blade, and a mirror.

Then, she divides the powder in two equal portions and snorts the analgesic joyfully. To one side of the dresser, there is a night table with a television

costa sudoeste de Nueva Guinea.

Explica él que “a primera vista con extranjeros, esos indígenas se ponen atemorizados y violentos; y, a veces, matan a sus compatriotas.” Annie piensa, “no temo a nadie.”

El efecto de la droga, el que embota todos los sentimientos corporales, ya ha alterado el sistema nervioso de Annie.

Con la hoja de afeitar todavía a su alcance, la sostiene y se corta el dedo índice. Empieza a sangrar, pero ella no siente el dolor. Chupa la sangre del dedo muy satisfechamente, y aplica una tirita. Baja la escalera, y aprisa bebe un vaso de jugo de naranja, Sunny D. No puede comer por falta de apetito. Le da de comer a su perro, se despide de él y sale por la puerta principal. Vacila unos segundos para asegurarse que ha cerrado la puerta con llave, y se da cuenta de que ha pisado el excremento de perro. Limpia la suela del zapato en la hierba bermuda y maldice, “¡Mierda, qué mala mañana.

Se sube a su automóvil, un

on top. It’s turned on. It’s the history channel, and the host of the program talks about xenophobia which can be seen in some aboriginal tribes on the Southwest coast of New Guinea.

The host explains that “upon these indigenous become times, they even kill neighboring tribe members.” Annie thinks, “I

Ford Tracker del año 2005, y gira la llave de contacto. Recula por el camino de entrada y entra en la avenida central de su barrio. Aún queda una hora hasta que entre al trabajo. Para en una gasolinera para repostar el tanque con combustible. Paga con una tarjeta de crédito a la bomba de gasolina. Se sube a su Tracker otra vez, y vuelve a entrar en la avenida central de su barrio.

“Dios Mío,” dice ella, “¡qué directamente hacia el trabajo.

The effect of the drug, that which dulls all the corporal senses, has already altered Annie’s nervous system. With the razor blade still within her reach, she holds it up and cuts bleed, but she doesn’t feel the pain. Annie sucks the blood and applies a Band-Aid to the wound. She descends the stairs and quickly gulps down a glass of orange juice, Sunny D. She can’t eat for lack of appetite. She feeds the dog, bids him farewell, and leaves through the front door. She hesitates a few seconds

Al llegar al último semáforo, antes de doblar al estacionamiento de su destino, saca una cajetilla de cigarros de su bolsa, Marlboros de marca, y procede a encender uno. Chupa bien profundo el sabroso humo y pasa por el cruce. Por su derecha hay una niña de pocos años caminando al otro lado de la calle. Ésta lleva su mochila a la espalda. Está silbando la melodía de Gloria in excelsis Deo. Annie no nota que la niña está en la calle y sigue derecho. El Tracker se estrella contra la peatona, y el impacto aplasta a la niña, matándola instantáneamente.

to ensure that she has locked the door and realizes that she has stepped in dog excrement. She cleans the sole of her shoe on the Bermuda grass and curses, “Shit, in the morning.

Annie gets into her automobile, a 2005 Ford Tracker, and turns on the ignition. She reverses down the driveway and enters the central avenue of her neighborhood. There’s still one hour until she has to be at work. her tank with fuel. She pays with a credit card at the gas pump.

She gets in her tracker once again and re-enters the central avenue of her neighborhood.

“Oh My God,” she says, “How she continues driving straight morning.

Upon arriving at the last her work parking lot, she takes out a pack of cigarettes from her purse, Marlboros, and proceeds

La conductora, bien colocada por la coca, ni siquiera para su vehículo. Sonríe morbosamente y enciende el porro de marihuana en el regreso a su casa; tiene que esconderse para que no se meta en problemas legales. Abre su parafernalia, esnifa un poco más de su medicina y acelera su vehículo.

Al haber llegado a su hogar, se baja del Tracker y camina al parachoques delantero para ver el daño hecho por el choque.

Hay rayas de sangre y un pedazo de carne adheridos al vehículo. Los dos sirven como recuerdo de lo que pasó hace un rato. Annie alza sus brazos y su cabeza hacia el cielo y clama, El Silencio retumba y ella se ríe pervertidamente en victoria.

Corre adentro del hogar y sube la escalera. Va a su cuarto y entra.

Otra vez abre el cajón superior de su cómoda y saca una pistola, un Ruger 44 de calibre. Va a la ventana mayor de su cuarto y la abre. Sale al tejado y se sienta al borde. Se apunta con la pistola a sí misma, colocando el cañón en su boca. De repente, se acuerda del pasado cuando salía al mismo lugar con su hermana.

Las dos hablarían de sus metas y compartirían íntimamente

to light one. She inhales the passes through the intersection.

On her right there is a very young girl walking to the other side of the street. The child carries her backpack and she is whistling the melody of Gloria in Excelsis Deo. Annie doesn’t notice that the little girl is in the street and continues driving forward. The Tracker smashes into the pedestrian, and the impact crushes the child, killing her instantly. Annie, good and buzzed from the coke, doesn’t even bother to stop her vehicle.

She smiles morbidly and lights a joint of some pot on her way back home; she has to hide herself so that she doesn’t go to jail. She opens her paraphernalia, snorts a little more of her medicine and accelerates her vehicle.

Having returned to her house, she gets out of the Tracker and walks to the front bumper in order to see the damage caused by the crash.

There are splatters of blood and vehicle. Both of these gruesome stains serve as a reminder of

sus problemas familiares. La hermana ya descansa en paz.

Recuperando la vista de realidad, otra vez ella levanta la cabeza hacia el cielo.

Sólo, Dios no se queda callado.

Se remolinan las nubes y El Creador tira un relámpago furiosamente hacia ella. El Tiempo se detiene y la pistola dispara el alivio buscado al cerebro de Annie. Ahora le toca a Dios el vengarse de ella. Todo se oscurece.

Hoy es sábado. Son las 8:00 de la mañana y Annie ha dormido por una semana entera. Se despierta en el manicomio y se encuentra impedida por una camisa de fuerza. Varios doctores entran y proceden a medicarla. La inyectan una medicina neuroléptica, y ella se relaja perdiendo la conciencia.

De vez en cuando ella se despierta y aúlla hasta que defeca en su cama. Su situación actual es debida a la crisis nerviosa que tuvo mientras fue a Inglaterra de negocios. Desde entonces, no ha sido normal. Alucina, grita furiosamente, habla en latín, ora a Lucifer y hace otras cosas inexplicables. Los especialistas

what just happened moments before. Annie raises her arms and her head toward the sky and cries out “I have sinned, Lord, and Annie laughs pervertedly in victory. She runs inside the house and scales the stairs. She goes to her room and enters.

Once again she opens the top drawer of her dresser and takes out a pistol, a Ruger 44 caliber.

She goes to the main window of her room and opens it. She goes out on the roof and sits on the edge. She points the pistol at herself, placing the barrel in her mouth. Suddenly, she remembers the past when she would come out on the roof at that exact spot with her sister.

The two of them would talk of their dreams and they would share intimate family problems.

The sister now rests in peace.

Recovering her grip on reality, once again Annie raises her head toward the sky. Only this time, God doesn’t remain silent. The clouds whirl, and The Creator furiously casts a bolt of lightning toward the lost soul. Time detains and the pistol

neurológicos diagnostican que ella tiene esquizofrenia.

Hoy es domingo de la misma semana. Toda la noche anterior, estos doctores observaron a Annie con equipo de laboratorio, el cual permitió que los neurólogos pudieran localizar la actividad cerebral del sueño. Intentan explicar sus conclusiones a los padres de la paciente. Los doctores de la maldita loca que “la actividad cerebral que Annie experimentó anoche es indicio de que ella se reanimará del sueño muy pronto.” “Además,” enfatizan ellos, “el sueño de anoche muestra un cierto progreso hacia la recuperación del conocimiento.” Los protectores de ella ya se sienten desesperados, y el padre solloza en el hombro de su mujer; en un susurro le dice a ella, “¿Por qué amor mío, por qué Annie sufre tanto? Ella es tan inocente, tan, tan inocente.”

Annie’s skull. Now, it’s God’s turn to take vengeance on her.

Everything fades to black.

Today is Saturday. It’s 8:00 in the morning and Annie has slept for an entire week. She awakes in the insane asylum and jacket. Various doctors enter, and they proceed to medicate her. They inject her with a neuroleptic; she relaxes, losing consciousness.

From time to time, Annie wakes up and howls until she defecates in her bed. Her current situation is due to a nervous breakdown that she had during a business trip in England. Since then, she hasn’t been normal. She hallucinates, shouts furiously, speaks in Latin, prays to Lucifer, and does other inexplicable things. The neurological specialists diagnosed her with schizophrenia.

Today is Sunday of the same week. All the previous night, these specialists observed Annie with laboratory equipment which allowed them to localize

the cerebral activity of the dream. They attempt to explain their conclusions to Annie’s parents. The doctors tell the suffering parents of the cursed lunatic that “the cerebral activity that Annie experienced last night is an indicator that she will revive from her dream very soon.” “Moreover,” they emphasize, “last night’s dream shows certain progress toward recuperating consciousness.”

Annie’s protectors already feel desperate; the father sobs on his wife’s shoulder, and in a whisper he tells her, “Why, my dear, why does Annie suffer so much? She is so innocent, so, so innocent.”

Sunset Shadow (opposite page), Photograph : Clovelle Gardner Righteous Path (right), Photograph : Clint Bennett

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Our Father, Who Art in Heaven

Rosalie Saenz

Christina Caston

I could slumber at the Goddess’ loin

I could battle the urge to bruise and beautify I could take in the glowing rose-tinted aura Should I fail in my homage

I could not endure the bite of icy disappointment Therefore, My lover, you shall remain Locked in my silent obsession

The Things I Never Needed, Linoleum Cut Print : Kerri Carter

Homage

Joshua Nicola Clement

Paradox

the world is going crazy yet everyone seems sane i’m drinking in the sunlight and dancing in the rain i can hear the guns popping but this silence is sweet to my ears in this calm serenity i face my greatest fears all around me is great beauty but malevolence is all i see i can’t seem to get past two yet what i know is three if good is what i’m looking for but i know there’s something else that i will see in time the world is going crazy yet everyone seems sane i’m drinking in the sunlight and dancing in the rain

Paint the Town Red, Photography : Clint Bennett

Trisha Suhr

It was Jouvert Morning in Grenada, a carnival celebration that called for merriment and wild behavior. Men and women would chip-chip behind large trucks of their choice sporting huge sound systems with their favorite calypsonian belting out tunes. There would be a lot of “jamming” and “whining.” Every band had their own color unless you were a jab-jab, then it was tar for you. There would be drinking and shouting. Rarely in dark alleys, one man would offend another and someone would get hurt or killed. Sex was on the mind of most. She could see it in their smiles, in the concentration they exhibited while they rubbed against each other, trying to drive each other crazy.

Nicholi hated carnival. Hated the glitter of it that was so fake and sleazy. The people parading costumes but really displaying themselves. Hated the fact that them.

Analise was looking for a man who would be willing to

. d protect them take them an a h oman wit A single w r r living in thei young daughte s wouldn’t alway neighborhood er h g in an anyth be safe. More th about safety. ed mother preach and STDs love S ID A l, al er ft A carnival, too. er room for Nicholi left h er stomach was the kitchen. H t to cling to des trying its har o She had to d e. n bo ck ba er h e out it. In th something ab ge sa u a lone sa fridge, she saw of and a wedge in its packet e bread pan wer cheese. In the ed k ic p ead. She three slices of br n she spotted io up the half on e fridge door th of er in the corn the mix before to and added that e to pick some she went outsid herbs that she g of the seasonin her school’s 4H r fo had planted wasn’t enough project. There ass through her food here to p melt before it ld teeth, and it wou er’s, but it was h ot reached her m i othing. Nichol better than n g hungry all in was tired of be the time. a slim girl Nicholi was

with long legs that allowed her to outrun a racehorse. Her skin was milk chocolate and when she stared at you with her hazel eyes, the intellect you saw in them pierced you. More interesting than those eyes was the long locks that were her pride and her vanity. Nicholi spent hours grooming them every day.

She turned with the intention of getting the book she had been she had breakfast, but the sound of someone coming up the stairs brought her up short. With a quick scan, she noted the door was bolted but the window was wide open. She could hear heavy breathing as the person approached the window, or maybe it was herself.

Without thinking it through, she grabbed the knife she had used on the cheese and plastered herself against the wall. Whoever it was chuckled, but she could barely hear the sound over the beat of her heart pounding furiously in her ears. The only person she could think of who would approach this early was Pappy Love as they called him. He spent all his time on the corner waiting for her to pass on her

way to school. He would “pseep” at her and try his hardest to proposition her. She had noticed him watching the house as her mother left, and she had locked up tight. If he was back now, then he would be sorry he ever left the carnival.

There was a scraping sound then a hand appeared on the window sill. She didn’t stop to think and failed to realize the hand was far too light skinned to be Pappy’s. The knife hit the sill with a thump, right in the space between the man’s thumb and and hairy knuckles. He grunted in surprise as Nicholi gasped, recognizing her mistake.

Open the door for us honey. It’s ok. I thought you were resting after the late night we had, so we were going to try and come through the window.”

On shaky legs the girl moved to the door. Analise should have called out. She didn’t really think Nicholi would sleep soundly when she was out of the house, the window? What was that all about? Who was this we anyway?

Another man who would leave

after carnival and eventually lose touch? Nicholi open the door with a forcefulness to match her thoughts causing her mother to step back.

“Hi,” was all she said before she turned back into the house and moved into her room only to come back out again with a book.

Her serious eyes narrowed as she scanned the items being placed on the table. There was a tub of K.F.C along with two grocery bags of what looked like bread, cheese, milk, sausage and chicken nuggets.

“What, did you loot someone?” The girl could not hold back the sarcasm.

“Oh no, sweetie. They came from Joshua’s hotel room. These are things he bought last night.”

She smiled at her daughter but didn’t expect one back. Analise knew how disappointed Nicholi got when she went out and brought back these men. But this time she knew Joshua was different. He had to be different.

The man in question smiled at her, but again Nicholi gave no response. She supposed it was considered rude, but she really didn’t care. Covertly she looked him over and saw that

he wasn’t completely white. His skin tanned too nicely for that.

His lips were red and there were laugh lines around them. His hair was black and curly. He had a black man’s broad nose as well, but the thing she wanted to see most, his eyes, were barred to her by sun shades. He was tall as well with a straight back and long legs. There was something in his attitude that screamed money. If her mother managed to keep this one, there would be no doubt that they had fallen in the cream this time. Without another word, she turned and went back inside her room. From in there she heard her mother’s exclamation when she found the breakfast. Her mother would hide it or dump it. After all, they had better food now. In a little while, they would sit at the table to eat and talk about her.

“She’s so serious. Does she ever smile? How old is she?

Is she doing well in school?”

Then Analise would show off her report book or in this case her common entrance results from the newspaper. When she was done, they would forget all about her. But as she waited, one ear alert for the questions, none came. Instead, she heard the of plastic. Her room door opened

and her mother came in.

“Nicki, Joshua and I are going to Monday Night Mass, ok? You want to come with us?”

“No thanks.” Why was she asking? She knew Nicholi never played Mass.

“Oh honey, I know that there have been disappointments.”

Analise paused, searching for the right words to use. Nicholi didn’t give her the opportunity to continue. She didn’t want to hear the hope and the lies.

“How long will he be staying?” And will he be the one to take you from me? The words fought to be voiced, but saying them meant she wasn’t strong enough, and she had to be strong.

How else would they make it through another one of her mother’s depressions when she discovered the man had found someone else?

“He has a name, Nicholi: with reprimand. “He is here for three weeks. I need you to set the table for me. Use Mama’s dishes.” reserved

for

royal

occasions

only. Analise had never used her mother’s dishes for her male friends ever. She preferred for them to see how poor they were. This Joshua must really be something special.

What was she going to say to this man? How was she going to treat him? She looked down at her brown hands and remembered his light ones. Inside her was a small seed of racism, she supposed, as she had often looked at the white tourists and wondered if their version of English was even remotely close to hers. Sure, he was not completely Caucasian, but he was close enough.

He hasn’t been nasty yet, the Nicholi angel said on her shoulder.

Give him a couple of days, then you’ll see the monster he really is, the Nicholi devil said on her other shoulder.

Oh, do shut up, the angel shot back. But Nicholi had to agree with the Devil on this one; so far she hadn’t been wrong. She peeked out at him and saw he hadn’t begun eating. Instead, he stared at the book she had left.

She had read Tamora Pierce’s Wild Mage so many times already she could repeat it word for word.

She supposed he was disgusted by the dog ears and creases on the spine. Well, that was too bad. She took her seat, which unfortunately was next to his, and pretended to ignore him. He didn’t take the hint.

“You like to read a lot, don’t you?” His voice was smooth, cultured, she supposed, with just that touch of humor.

“Yes, I do.” And what’s it to you?

“You ever read the Harry Potter novels?”

“I only ever got to read three of them. I borrowed them from Joshua came, a smile curved her wide mouth; he was on her favorite topic. Her eyes went soft with pleasure and she covered her mouth in a blush. “She was supposed to lend me the rest but someone stole one of her books so her mother told her not to lend out anymore of them.”

“I have some books with me,” he said, “by Roald Dahl. You ever heard of him? Some of his books became movies a while back: Mathilda and Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Did you see them?”

She shook her head no. They did not have a TV, and at Sansha’s house, they only ever watched action movies. Somewhere inside her, hope surged. It sounded like he was going to bring her some “I’ll see if I can get you the DVDs. Let’s see, I also have the BFG with me, that is, the Big Friendly Giant. I’ll bring them for you tonight when I pick up your mom. You like this author a lot?” on the table.

“Yes, I do,” I said. “I found this book knocking around. No one asked for it, so I kept it. I suspect I know who it belongs to, but she doesn’t like to read, only to show off.”

She watched him closely to see what he would do. After all, she had said she stole the book.

It was mildly surprising when he laughed and said, “Well, you are putting it to the use the author intended. Hopefully, this girl

the island.” He nodded solemnly.

Analise came out then and they sat to eat. Here both adults talked and she listened to their voices.

His was deep and smooth with no hint of annoyance or tolerance at her being there. In fact, he included her in the conversations and even asked her opinion. She could hear that her mother was pleased with that.

Never Love

When he did leave in his rented jeep, she felt a pang of sorrow and was so shocked by this response that she almost fell out the door. In just over two hours, had she already gotten so used to this man? No, he had a name: Joshua. His name was Joshua. She had gotten so used to Joshua that she actually missed him now that he was gone.

Trisha Suhr I’m a natural disaster I leave chaos in my wake Your heart is made of glass I touch it and you break My love, you cannot quell The storm I feel inside The levee’s going to break And sweep our love aside

How had that happened?

Leave before the damage Is too great to undo Before the pain corrupts A dream that once was true

hard to contend with. Did she pass to the school you would be attending?”

“Of course. A Crompton always attends the St. Joseph’s Convent. It’s the best school on Photograph : Casi Oechsner

Jodie Blundell

Goodbye Nic (Learning to Deal)

Our Passing

Lindsey Applegarth

Rosalie Saenz

Pop Gran Baltimore row home B & O railroad guards backyard inside bumpy walls wear yellow

Dad says when child walls were white

Gran and Pop’s teeth the same...

I wanted to become him Biologically, Chemically, Existentially;

Parents damn tobacco

the Devil Dad despises fogged house

age 5 i sit between Gran and Pop – soak in – Winston’s breath – desire Winston’s words – so

I needed to feel As though our atoms Could actually Meet and fuse.

First kiss with Nic – age 12 – didn’t even cough – felt so right – cool – smooth – down my throat like dentist’s laughing gas without the high – serenity – breath control – magnetic – not bad teacher shifting self center – point of no pity no concern First kiss with Nic – turned to a session of 6 – one after another – hidden on roof – felt drunk –

And that fusion was dissipating;

And in becoming him, I lost myself.

The ripping was so complete, I began to cry.

I wonder still: if he were ripped Away from himself, Would he house me In that pure vacancy?

And in feeling ourselves Dead and gone, Would we seek to be reborn?

To become something more?

Poison for the Minds, Photograph : Matthew Hernandez

crawling shingle burning shins to window...

In every single brain cell.

And it was so acute And radial and…

Brief…

my

motion detected cage – or – how off balance – follow Nic back to center – conversations

shorter

more frequent –

When i wake – with coffee – after meals – before class – after class – watching movie – waiting – work

after

sex – before bed – after nightmares – lifestyle in 20 pack...

19... 20... 21... stop 21

Double Pink Lines eight times

i’m to trade my best friend of 8 years for a baby Support group of half the life i remember doctors wrong been 5 months Not Easier Unsure whether i’m ready to be a mother Spirit decides...

Slide, Photograph : Novelle Williams Morning

American Mettle Joshua Ibarra It was a vision. The front wheels were cocked to the side, revealing the intricacies of rally mags wrapped in lettered tires.

The carefully crafted hips that appeared to swell up just aft of the shining door handles were taut, poised for action as if the rear tires could light up at any minute, leaving behind nothing but snaking trails of rubber, the acrid scent of tire-smoke.

There was a piece of paper taped haphazardly to the inside of the passenger-side window. On it was written: LOOK NO FURTHER. THIS HERE IS THE MINTEST BUICK RIVIERA GRAN SPORT YOU’LL EVER SET EYES ON. EVERYTHING FACTORY. 455 CUBIC INCH V-8 & 3-SPEED ST-400 AUTOMATIC. ASK INSIDE FOR PRICE. It was a collection of the era’s best go-fast parts tucked underneath the bonnet of nearly

three ferrous tons of American monstrosity. It was Mount Rushmore with a rocket engine.

Still the car loitered out in front of Junior Stupak’s Autoplex day after day, serving as a reminder of the malaise-ridden age of poor fuel economy and overwrought personal luxury coupes, of style before substance, of Junior Stupak’s father and one-time business partner, Phillip Stupak.

Phil had bought the Autoplex (named Auto World then) in June of 1968; it had been a drivethru burger joint, replete with a row of illuminated menus, each sporting beige two-way intercoms fastened awkwardly underneath them. He made Junior tear all twelve of them out of their concrete bases, watching boy strained, turning red with effort at times, tugging heartily at the unwavering steel poles. It took him all summer. When he “Nice doing business with you,” and handed the boy a half-dollar.

O Business in Marfa was slow, but steady. Phil made a buck from what few townspeople there were, selling them gentlyused Tempests, Impalas, and Apaches. Occasionally some blue-blooded couple from up north would arrive in town, hoping to relive whatever tryst Elizabeth Taylor and Rock Hudson may or may not have Giant there years prior. He would rent them his loaner car, a beat-to-hell Cadillac De Ville riddled with bird dung and dozens of hairline scratches from being kept out back between two twisted-up wattle trees. When Harold, the car lot’s ancient mechanic, would swing the creaking De Ville out in front of waiting customers, Phil would knock on the hood the face and say, “Yessir. Here she is. Not much to look at, but she pulls like a locomotive and the A/C’s cold to boot.”

And when it would eventually

stall and overheat, leaving the panicked couple out along some sweeping desert road near the border, he’d be there with Harold, behind the wheel of the dealership’s old tow truck, ready to save them from their wallets.

The rest of his business was done with the border jumpers there. They would show up in faces swollen and red from the sun’s violence. He would give them water, maybe a sandwich, let them sleep on the couch in the lobby; anything they needed to collect themselves. Then, when they were coherent, he’d lean back in his chair and ask, “How much you got?” They’d dance around each other’s languages until, somehow, the Mexican would leave out through the front door, keys in hand, and drive off in a worn out pickup or sedan.

O Junior Stupak was nineteen Buick Riviera burnished in

Emerald Mist, longer than a city block and with more glass than a skyscraper. His father had just pulled into the driveway; he had

to his precious baby with his bike, or to bark back at his wife whenever she poked her head out from around the screen door

Michigan to accept delivery of the car, which he drove back at a breakneck pace, both windows rolled down, his left arm planted

Eventually, Junior learned to play a little further down the street than he was used to. His mother learned not to call for supper until Phillip looked to be

face of his watch glaring by the cold November sun. He made it words upon arriving were: “Not as unlock that car, or I’ll leather your ass. You hear?”

He’d heard. He watched his father brood underneath the hood of the car every Sunday evening without fail, checking its vitals religiously; no grommet went unnoticed, not a single inch of weatherstripping was ignored, every screw and bolt was made secure.

Phil monopolized the driveway, only breaking his attention away from the Riviera to sneer at his son for coming too close

car.

A couple of years later he poring over a ledger, when his heart gave out. Harold found him almost three hours later, slumped wearily over the arm of his chair and facing the window, out toward his beautiful green machine.

A funeral came and went; the Stupaks – now only Junior and his mother – were at a loss.

A month later Junior drove his mother’s car out to Stupak’s Used Auto World, pushed his father’s car out to the front of the lot (he didn’t dare touch the keys), and wrote on the

windshield in China marker: FOR SALE. MINT CONDITION. Junior received a lot of calls about the Riviera, but no one could agree to the price he’d set for it. It sat unsold, a pristine example of his father’s taste.

He slowly began to move into down old calendars featuring naked girls strewn about various scenes, dangling precariously from the wing of a Constellation or peppered with oil amidst a sullied garage. There was a bulletin board on the wall, sown with layers upon layers of business cards; a grimy photo of himself and his mother – her standing just behind him, a single manicured hand on his shoulder – situated near the corner of the desk, and next to it, a picture of the Riviera, a threehaunches and an exaggerated, streamlined boat-tail.

The weeks after that were wrought with change: he further

replacing his father’s mini-bar with a larger waiting area; he he was rigging customers’ cars to break down repeatedly; he sold the tow truck off to some enterprising young men running a demolition derby a few towns over; he took the old DeVille as his own, driving it between work and home, occasionally to the renamed. He did it himself; he spent a whole weekend outside, his shirt off, thrown across the bench seat of the DeVille.

The sign his father had erected was enormous, with a strip of colorful blinking lights lining the perimeter. It read: BIG PHIL’S USED AUTO WORLD Texas’ Numero Uno King of Kars Junior raised this in its stead: JR. STUPAK’S AUTOPLEX We Don’t Sell, We Satisfy More changes came. Junior hired a new mechanic, less

decrepit than old Harold, and another salesman, named Delmar Hill. He’d been jumping trains around the country and somehow ended up penniless in a Marfa bar where Junior bought him a beer. They talked – the people and the weather there – then about their families.

Delmar had none, or none that he cared to talk about, but Junior inevitably brought up his father and his business; how he’d died and left him and his mother up the creek, how he hadn’t yet sold a car. Delmar had said, “Better weak beer than lemonade,” then mumbled something about what his father had left him. They took turns grumbling.

“When I turned 16, my dad tried to sell me a stolen car. Said he didn’t know it was stolen, but I think maybe he did.”

“When I turned 16, my pop showed up to my birthday dinner drunk as hell, smashed a few plates. He was mad about somethin’ but wouldn’t say what, so we just let him stew in front of the TV.” “I saw my dad take money from the offering plate once.

Bastard even winked at me when he did it.”

“My pop never went to church, ‘less someone he knew died.”

They kept on for hours.

Before they parted ways at last call, Junior offered Delmar a job selling cars. “I could use all the help I can get,” he’d said. Delmar didn’t know much about selling, but knew he was broke and might be hungry pretty soon, so he took the gig.

Junior’s new salesman following Monday morning wearing the same clothes he’d had on at the bar: stained blue jeans, a scuzzy denim work shirt, and cowboy boots. It was emergency tie his father had kept in the lap drawer of his old desk and handed it to Delmar.

He’d been a frenetic eater, known to spoil shirts and ties at nearly every meal, so a back-up tie was a necessity. He’d given it to his father as a gift one year (it was a deep red, with a slender green Christmas tree standing erect in the center, crowned with a glistening golden star, made

O and now he was giving it to the former hobo that would help him replace his father. Together, they were a dream team if there ever was such a thing; two sons of nobodies born and reared in the middle of nowhere, selling transportation to other nobodies, as if the transaction had the power to turn both parties into somebodies. Selling cars was a curious game. Junior had seen the aftermath of a successful car deal, seen the smiling faces driving away from the lot, behind the wheel of a new-tothem automobile; he’d seen his father watch them leave from his pockets or placed on his hips, wearing the grin of a winner. It was hard to tell who had won.

“It’s easy as sellin’ happiness,” his father had said. “We don’t sell cars ‘round here. If I want someone to buy a car, I sell ‘em a daydream. That’s what they want. They don’t wanna know how fast it’ll stop or how tight the seat-belts are, they wanna know how fast it’ll go. Hell, if the money’s right I’ll pinky swear it’ll go halfway ‘round the moon and back.”

The pair sold happiness.

Junior’s mother depended on it; Delmar’s new life away from the tracks depended on it.

Sometimes, cars rolled off the lot before they could even be stocked in. Delmar proved to be a natural salesman once he’d shed his grimy rail-traveling clothes. He seemed to have a way of noticing what people wanted, as if his spell of nomadic indigence helped him better sympathize with the wants of others. Junior Stupak, on the other hand, stuck to running the books, although he sold a little when he could be bothered to look up from his ledger and receipt book. They kept a modest business, only rarely overshadowed by the legacy of the other Stupak’s Auto World.

Occasionally, errant Mexican nationals would come by asking for Big Phil, whom they’d heard would sell anyone a car or truck with bogus registration for pennies on the dollar, no questions asked. The pair would set them up with food or water if they looked particularly desperate, but would turn them away soon afterward. It was hard

watching money walk away like that, but Junior was desperate to shake the ghost of his father.

And yet the Riviera sat outside the Autoplex like a beautiful wart. He’d since washed off his car and replaced it with a simple inside of the window. It read: LOOK NO FURTHER. THIS HERE IS THE MINTEST BUICK RIVIERA GRAN SPORT YOU’LL EVER SET EYES ON. EVERYTHING FACTORY. 455 CUBIC INCH V-8 & 3-SPEED ST-400 AUTOMATIC. ASK INSIDE FOR PRICE People still called and asked about it, but he wouldn’t budge.

It was a memento dressed in Emerald Mist, a relic from an age when cars possessed daring, when they were temperamental works of art rather than soulless grocery-retrievers. What his father had lacked in scruples he had made up for in taste. Every time Junior looked out from beyond his desk and saw the Riviera, lithe and motionless,

gleaming beneath the sun like a jewel, he saw it with the same admiration he’d felt when his the driveway. Sure, it was a gaudy pig, but it had character a Chrysler LeBaron didn’t. It was loud and obnoxious, weighed too much and drank too much gas, ran rich and smoked a lot; but it worked hard and looked good doing it. Maybe he’d sell it one day. Maybe he’d keep it around for a long, long time.

Golden Years, Colored Pencil Drawing : Hannah Segura

Escape, Colored Pencil Drawing : Heather Gamble

Guardians (above), The Race (opposite page), Colored Pencil Drawings : Heather Gamble

Figments of Collapse Derek Baker

It truly is unsettling, That weary minds grow plump with little tragedies, While simple ones don’t change at all.

I strangle myself running, Hour by Hour, Job to Job, Black to bright.

Yet despite it all, The future lies behind me in some distant tomb.

Buried next to you.

We are breathing in the dead.

He is cut and sold.

His body is burned; He disintegrates into virtually nothing Amidst the fury of fumes and toxins.

Dead to desire.

Detached from the rest of himself.

They raise him, praise him, And brand a price on his forehead, Changing it so often

Amidst the swirl of air and clouds, A creature lives with his kind.

In the blink of an eye He falls.

He is swept under a current of earth, And there he stays.

Not lucky enough to become a rocky repoussé x-ray, He condenses into black darkness.

And here he remains, shifting around, settling, shifting again.

Crude

Maria Souliotis

Sleep sounds late in my castled hole, Behind a desk barraged by tedious tomes.

But one of these days, I’ll have an early night.

Slumberous neon bliss.

Because with Time cometh Opportunity.

To sail our saffron seas, Past a honeyed isle’s gleam In the brine of my mind, Where I’m grinning in the freeze.

Photograph : Casi Oechsner

Raisa Charles

I am fearfully and wonderfully made All of me, every little bit My big curving smile and proud African nose From the ends of my hair to the tippy-tip-tips of my toes I don’t need your validation, don’t need your applause ‘Cuz I’m loving me for me and that’s joy all on its own

Untitled, Digital Media : Mathew Hernandez

Loving Me, Naturally

Burn, Fire Burn Debora Teixeira

Why do you rip me apart and tear me to pieces cussing my mere existence as if I stood for evil?

Look at me and search deep down to my core and examine my essence and tell me why so much hatred?

I challenge you to prove you are better than your ancestors who tried to coerce me into silence centuries ago.

Am I worth nothing to you?

Go on throw me aside let me burn with the daring voices of young and old who came before me and after me.

But beware the consequences for if we burn you’ll be left alone forever in your ignorance.

Your Lips Read Abyss Jamison Routson

I can manipulate words, Weave them into death sentences Or acts of a miracle.

I can make the Heavens themselves

But I couldn’t even make you smile.

Vinson

Award

Every year, a student writer at MSU is selected among many contestants to receive the honor of the Vinson Award for Creative Writing. Students submit their original works of their merit as quality literature, much in the same way that the Voices selection process is structured. Only one piece, however, is chosen to receive the honor and a monetary prize to boot - not to mention the privelage of being published in the following year’s issue of Voices The 2010 Vinson Award went to Brittany Norman, who is a graduating senior at the date of this magazine’s publication.

By the Tracks Brittany Norman

Skinned knees peeked between the tops of her bright red boots and the bottoms of her too-big denim shorts. Grandpa had let her dress herself that morning. Mama never let her wear cowboy boots except on special occasions, but Grandpa didn’t care one little bit if they were going to the rodeo or just downtown to sit on a bench and watch the trains. “Every day is a special occasion,” he’d said that morning as he tied her hair back in a ponytail that woulda made Mama cringe more than the boots.

The hairdo hadn’t held up to the wind that threatened to blow dark clouds in from the west. The girl squinted off at the horizon, picking at one scabbed knee.

“It looks like thunderin’ weather,” she said, and squashed a grasshopper beneath the scuffed square toe of her boot.

When the bug made a gooey crunching sound she let out a squeal.

Grandpa looked up from the train tracks. The girl stood on

one foot precariously and held the other leg out toward him so he could see the sole of her shoe.

For a moment she was worried. Grandpa looked sad, like maybe he was worried the bug had been someone’s family.

He looked at these old buildings the same way, like they had once been something and now they were just stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe.

He had told her stories while they were walking from the car.

She didn’t know if they were true or not but she didn’t think she believed them. There was no way that building with the boards all over the windows had been a store like JCPenney when he was a kid. It looked more like

it had once been a haunted place on TV. The hotel a few streets down looked like it was about to fall, and there had been people wearing torn up clothes in the dumpster behind the sandwich place. In was a clubhouse or something.

She was hungry, but Grandpa said it was too close to dinner so they couldn’t get any food. Grandma would be mad if he let her spoil her supper. All she’d wanted was a little bit of ice cream, but he’d gotten her a cherry coke instead, so she guessed that was okay.

“Why are those people in the trash?” she had asked.

He’d answered that they didn’t have jobs, but he didn’t

know why they didn’t. She thought it was probably one of those things that he did know the answer to, but didn’t think she’d understand since she was only No one thought kids were smart until they were at least in second grade.

Sometimes he was right when he told her things, though.

Like when he’d said to bring her sweatshirt out of the car. She didn’t want to because it was blue and blue didn’t go with her red boots unless it was the Fourth of July, but now the wind was getting a little bit cold.

“Cold as a frog’s butt.” She was supposed to say it was cold as a frog’s behind, though, since butt wasn’t a nice word. That’s why she only whispered it.

Grandpa looked down at her and seemed to almost smile, but she didn’t think he heard.

“When are the trains coming?” she asked, scraping the gooey remains of the grasshopper onto the curb. He didn’t look sad about it anymore, but there was a funny car coming down the street that had grabbed her attention anyway.

The car was purple, which was a cool color, and was really low to the ground and had big old tires.

When it drove by, the music was thumping so hard it shook her belly. She laughed.

“You’ll hear it when it gets here,” he replied, sitting down on the bench next to the tall spiky fence that separated them from the train tracks.

“But it’s getting cold,” she said. “And I don’t hear squat, anyway.”

He gave her that funny look Mama always looked at her with when she said something that didn’t really make much sense.

Only he couldn’t say nothing about it since she’d heard him say he hadn’t heard squat before.

That’s where she learned it from, and if Mama ever asked she’d tell her so.

She’d also heard him say someone was dumber than a sack of hammers once, and that had made her laugh. The next day she’d told that one to a kid at school, only because he was dumb as all get out, but she’d gotten in trouble anyway. If she ever said it again, Mama said she’d get grounded from the TV. “Why do you like to watch the trains anyway?” she asked, picking up his Dr. Pepper to take a drink even though cherry cokes were better. Everybody said so but Grandpa.

“They’ve always been here,” he replied, like that explained it even though it didn’t at all. “I used to watch them when I was your age. I lived just a little way down the road from here when I was growing up.”

“You lived down here?” she asked, making her eyes really wide. “But there are hobos in the

so happy about something she just couldn’t keep from almost yelling. When he did make a happy sound it was always real quiet and whispery.

“It wasn’t always like it is now, Katie. This used to be like your neighborhood. There were shops around, and that old building down there used to be my school. It was quiet down here and there weren’t many homeless people at all.”

Katie crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you fooling me?” she demanded, turning her head to the side a little bit. “Because I don’t wanna believe you if you’re just gonna laugh at me and say you weren’t being for reals.”

“I’m being as real as can be,” he assured her, patting the seat next to him. “Come on, you look about ready to shiver.”

cars keep you up all night long?”

She didn’t understand how anyone could sleep with that thump-thumping coming from the street all night long.

She climbed up on the creaky, stickery bench and he wrapped her up in half his jacket. Sharing coats was always warmer than wearing one by yourself, even if you couldn’t zip it.

He laughed a little bit.

Grandpa never laughed loud, not like Grandma did, like she was

“Listen,” he whispered. “Do you hear that?”

She squinted her eyes as if it would help her hear better. “No, what is it?”

Before he could answer, she opened her eyes wide and turned quickly toward the train tracks, bouncing on the bench.

“It’s the train, isn’t it? The train is coming, ” They both sat quietly and listened as the soft rumbling sound turned into a low-pitched roar.

“What’s the train got on it?” she asked as the shape of the engine became distinguishable.

“It’s carrying coal, just like it has since I was younger than you. Since my grandpa was your age, even. It hasn’t changed yet, but the way things are going, it won’t be bringing coal here much longer.”

For once, she didn’t ask why not. She was mesmerized by the approaching giant. A loud whistle blew and her eyes lit up.

“I didn’t know they really made

Grandpa pulled her closer, wrapping his arm around her small shoulder. They didn’t talk

as the train went by. She started counting cars. Thirty passed, count trying to read what the letters spray-painted on the side said. She made out a couple of really bad words. Worse than “butt.” Maybe even worse than “piss.”

Grandpa didn’t seem to see the bad parts. He looked like he was happy. Like when he watched those silly old movies that didn’t make much sense at all because people didn’t even wear normal clothes. Movies from “back in the day.”

The whistle blew one last then, Katie felt a raindrop land on her head.

“Grandpa,” she said, hopping down from the bench. “Grandpa, it’s starting to rain. We better get back to the car ‘cause it’s so far and we’re gonna get wet.”

For a moment, though, he stayed sitting, staring at the end of the train as it seemed to shrink beyond the shadows of the tallest buildings in town.

Unseen (opposite page), Photograph : Debora Alonso View from Wichita Mountain (above), Photograph : David Colditz

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ready for tonight.”

“What’s tonight?”

“The Birtchel family is coming over for the football game.”

“What does that got to do with me?”

“They are bringing their daughter over as well, and you are going to keep her company.” was going over to Johnny’s.”

“Not anymore. You are going to stay home and keep their daughter, Staci, company,” she stated calmly.

“But you never let me do anything fun,” I argued.

“You just got done playing soccer.”

“Well, you’re not letting me do anything fun tonight.”

“You will have fun. End of discussion,” she stated with a serious tone that made me

very aware that I had lost the argument and that her decision The doorbell rang, and my parents quickly scurried to the heavy oak door to greet the Birtchel family. I had already made it my goal to spite my mom and not have any fun tonight, so I remained on the white leather couch mindlessly staring at the pregame show on the television. Staci scampered right in to the room, her straight, brown hair no more than shoulder’s length, whipping behind her. Her emerald green eyes were full of excitement as they scanned the room until they landed on me. Her bright, infectious smile drew my attention away from the T.V. and my thoughts away from getting back at my parents.

She ran up to me and quickly introduced herself, then began rambling on and on. In her excited state, her words were coming so fast they began to meld together into inaudible gibberish. She grabbed my hands and jumped up and down,

smiling from ear to ear. My attempt to spite my parents began to melt away as I, too, got caught up in her excitement.

We started playing all sorts of games from video games in my room, to Legos, to soccer in the back yard. All the while, our parents were drinking and hollering at the T.V. Eventually, we ran back to my parents’ room and found the huge, king-sized bed with four oaken bedposts towering out of the corners and a head board that rested against the back wall. To the right of the bed pushed up against the wall was a large desk that matched the bedposts. With a quick glance at Staci, I saw in her sparkling eyes the same excitement I was feeling. No words needed to be spoken: we were both well aware of what the other was thinking and what we were going to do. We couldn’t help ourselves; we climbed onto the massive bed and, laughing and giggling, began to jump on it like it was a trampoline. I turned my back on Staci for just an instant. In that moment, I

felt her shove me in the back. As to myself about how I should have never got into bed with this woman. It wasn’t like me to do something like this. It was her eyes that coerced me into it, I reasoned with myself.

With a sickening thud, my forehead slammed into the edge of the wooden desk.

There was no pain but I felt a warm liquid pour over my face. A salty taste assaulted my tongue as I tried to blink the blood out of my stinging eyes.

I slowly got up and, in shock, walked down the long hallway, blood pouring over the curves of my face and dripping off my eyebrows and the tip of my chin.

I drifted into the living room.

All the adults quickly sobered up and rushed to my aid. The house exploded with a rush of commotion. My parents were nothing but blurs spinning around me. I was unable to focus on anything. My thoughts slowed as consciousness left me as quickly as my blood did. My vision of a world tinted in red by

the blood that still pooled over my eyes quickly fell into a black nothingness.

“My head,” I grunted as I awoke to the soft footsteps on a linoleum hallway and a low murmur of many conversations outside the room. Every sound was excruciating; my head pounded as I tried to block out the noise that penetrated my head. The lights in the room were blinding adding even more to the horrible migraine, the results of my antics from the previous night. A metallic tray with what had to be blood stood just beside my bed, shining red in the bright light that hovered inches from my head. you’re alright,” my mother exclaimed.

“Please keep it down, my head is killing me,” I mumbled. I tried to take in the surroundings but winced at the bright light.

I decided it would be best to just keep my eyes closed tight

above the eyebrow; stiff, plastic stitches that felt strangely like skin. The memories of the night really happened the night before.

and avoid the light completely.

“Where am I?”

The anger pushed the pain out of my mind and I became solely focused on ratting out the little girl who tricked me into bed with her just so that she could hurt me so.

“The hospital.”

Fear gripped me. I couldn’t recall the night before. Panic began to set in as my throbbing mind raced to try and collect the thoughts. I couldn’t get control of the fear welling up in my chest, nor the missing memories of the night before as my breathing quickened. “What happened?” I managed to get out between breaths.

“You were jumping on the bed with Staci. You fell and hit your head. I always told you how dangerous it is to do that,” my mother scolded.

would she do that? When it happened, she came out with you, scared out of her mind, saying how she tried to catch you.”

“And you believed her?”

“Yes, you two were having a good time together. Why are you trying to blame her for an accident?”

Furious at my mother for believing the little harpy over me, the last thing I could do was go to sleep. I laid back in my warm bed, a stark contrast from how cold the rest of the empty room looked, fuming over the injustice that had just been done to me. What was a guy to do? I thought to myself. She just manipulated me, used me and then threw me away like a piece of garbage. As I slowly managed to get my anger over the situation under control, I allowed myself to calm down and think of the mistakes I had made as well. I should not have gotten that close to her should never have gotten in bed with her. To this day I still the scar just above my brow, a constant reminder of how even the sweetest, and most innocent looking girls can cause you a world of trouble.

She pushed me, and now she is manipulating you with her Nearsighted, Photograph : Pamela Allen

My hand shot to my glided over the tender area just

it.”

Now get some sleep. You need

Hedonist’s Prayer Christina Caston Reach for me with your soft breeze that traces through the peaks and valleys Dance for me on your feathered wing that shimmers ebony and silver

Shibaraku, Oil Painting : Hannah Segura

Sing for me your joyous chorus that echoes afore and behind Leave for me your honeyed dew that refreshes and revives Open for me your delicate petal that scents and soothes my soul

To the Stage Mallory Gruszynski

On Friday, November 6th, 2009, school was let out at approximately 12:30 due to teacher in-service. I, along with many others, had already made plans on how I would be spending this extra free time.

However, to me, my plans seemed to be more momentous than the normal plans of getting coffee or seeing a movie. My heart practically stopped completely from overexcitement as the liberating bell rang, as if it were rewarding the students with freedom. As I left Ms. Smejkal’s classroom, I searched frantically for Caitlyn, who I knew would be just as thrilled as her yelling for me, anticipation streaming through her voice.

We had previously bought our tickets to see the Broadway production of RENT the night before they were even available to the public. We’d been waiting months for this day. Finally, it had come. Caitlyn and I grabbed our bags and headed to Appleton.

I expected the ride to drag on for hours, but I found it

went by quickly due to a muchneeded nap. When we arrived at Caitlyn’s sister, Elizabeth’s, apartment, we dragged our luggage through the door and inside to the spare room.

Settling in the living room, we anxiously waited for Elizabeth to It was just getting dark as we left Elizabeth’s, but the lights from the city lit up the hazy sky. parking ramp and ascend the path up to our parking spot on the second level. We found the nearest elevator, which looked as if it held its capacity plus ten.

We decided on taking the stairs.

As we stepped out from the staircase, the frigid November night air whipped at our faces.

The Performing Arts Center was located right across the street, so we hurried to a crosswalk and waited for the little white walking man to signal to us it was safe to cross.

An employee graciously opened the door for us as we entered the building. We

strategically maneuvered our way through all the people.

Shaking from anticipation, I took my ticket out of my purse and handed it to the woman scanning tickets. I was so excited that my legs practically gave out as we walked up the stairs to the entrance of the theatre. We found our seats and impatiently waited for the show to start.

The theatre had always been important to me. The synchronization of music and movement had boggled my mind since I was a little girl. I preferred musicals like The Sound of Music and My Fair Lady to the normal animated cartoon movies enjoy. I had always known the art of performing was beautiful and my appreciation increased as I matured. could feel goose bumps rising on my arms. Their presence accompanied me throughout the entire production. For the next couple hours, I was no longer in a theatre in Wisconsin; I was in

New York City. I was writing songs with Roger and protesting with Maureen. The stage, and the lighting, and the sound were all so real here. This was the purpose of theatre; to capture the audience and make them feel as if the only thing that mattered was the passion occurring on stage. I could feel the songs through the vibrations of the voices. Their melodies carried feet, and stretched throughout my entire body, lengthening my spine and relaxing my shoulders.

This feeling of serenity was like being able to let go of anything I’ve ever thought of or worried about; becoming one with the music, the emotions, and the moment. crept its way to the stage, and I found myself wiping tears from my eyes as I realized in a few minutes the warmth of the stage would be gone. I wanted a button to rewind it all, or pause it; anything to stop this inspiration from ending, but it wasn’t possible. I just wanted to

capture the emotion in a jar like was younger, letting it light up my room every night. Waking bugs had died always left me heartbroken. I felt the same crushing disappointment as I left the theatre that night.

As we headed back to Elizabeth’s, Caitlyn and I talked excessively about the play. When we got back to the apartment, we changed into our pajamas and crashed down on the hard, yet welcoming, air mattress. We needed to be up early the following day if we expected ourselves to sit in line all morning for a chance at front row tickets. The tradition of the RENT tour was to offer rush tickets for $20 to the dedicated fans willing to sit and wait for hours. Caitlyn and I were determined to have those tickets.

We woke up around 6:30, later than we had planned. We quickly scrambled to get ready and hurried out the door. As we drove, I began to grow nervous.

What if we were too late? What if oversleeping meant the end of a line of 50 people? Once again, my heart nearly stopped. We turned the corner and saw a line with only four people. I could’ve cried right then, just knowing I was guaranteed a front row seat was enough. We carried our blankets from the van to the sidewalk and made ourselves comfortable. We’d be sitting here for about three more hours waiting for our tickets to go on sale. We listened to music to pass the time. It didn’t take long at all for noon to come. Everyone front row tickets in our hands.

We waited until we had exited the building to do our “happy dance,” shrieking and crying all at the same time. I stared at my ticket, “Section C- Orchestra, Row BB, seat 131.” I put my ticket in my wallet where I knew it would be safe until the show, but found myself checking every was still there.

as if I wanted to tell everyone my front row ticket, right here.

Aren’t you jealous? Don’t you wish you could be me right now?” I knew we were the luckiest people in the world.

Around 1:30, we began to make our way back to the PAC. my veins. Again, we entered the theatre. “Do you need help member asked us. “No thank you,” Caitlyn replied, “I think we’ve got it.” Walking towards my seat, I needed to remind myself to breathe. Seat 131 was directly to the right of the exact middle seat of the front row. Not only was I in the front row, I was in the middle of it.

The show started, the lights dimmed, and the music began.

I had never seen anything more beautiful than the enthusiasm of the performers. Now up close, I could see every single movement they made; gracefully, and

see it all come together, every part complimenting the other components.

around the stage. Their facial expressions showed the story in a whole new way. Their exquisite talent mesmerized me.

A new love and appreciation formed as I watched.

the performance must end, I was grateful for this opportunity.

The memory would always be with me, reminding me of the existence of talent, passion, and inspiration.

I began to think about the preparation needed to make this show spectacular; not only in the actors, but in every other aspect of the stage. The costumes had been especially designed and sewed for their exact characters. The set was created to exaggerate exact moments in the plot. The lighting was planned out perfectly to illuminate the expressions of the dynamic thespians. The greatest achievement of theatre is to

Caitlyn and I lingered by the stage afterwards; not wanting to believe it was over. When

up faster than I would’ve liked it to. I cried as the cast took their

door, the theatre was practically empty, but the magic that had just been created still drifted silently through the air.

Singing Waters, Photograph : Elizabeth Callaway

The show didn’t start until 2:00, so Caitlyn and I walked up and down the streets of downtown Appleton. We

Icicle Maria Souliotis

During the cold, bleak winter months, the haunting gray clouds kiss goodbye the reluctant drops of moisture that drift down to the rooftops of my city and slip slowly over the abrasive loose tiles to the edges of the eaves, dripping downward but getting frozen in their tracks by a due-north squall, simultaneously merging into a ridged, yet smooth-tapered blade – a transparent stalactite, hovering ominously, threatening like the sword of Damocles, but remaining glued to the outdoor ceiling, melting only when the weather yields, and dripping those little pellets of icy water in constant rhythm onto me, always searing through my fragile, tepid skin.

Signifying Nothing…

Rosalie Saenz Tired and worked, she appeared in the doorway. She brought her foot up behind her and bent sideways, slightly, so as to peel her shoe off in a peculiarly graceful manner.

Watching this display of her body, he felt the guilt, the heat of it, surging up his neck.

He sat on the bed, elbows at the knees, hands clasped, struggling to bring his eyes to hers. He looked different. Hell, at the sight of her. She had walked right into it and had been stopped by it. The mindless chatter she’d prepared to administer to the night’s events deserted her, left her speechless.

She knew something was really wrong.

She mustered a, “Hey, Sweetheart. How was your day?” though awkwardly. She of his neck. All of his emotions would halt just before reaching

as a like there w ys , n o ti la u c arti alwa throat. He g any block in his e discussin m ti d r a h a had problems. ked. ,” he squea “Hey, babe eye ed to avoid He continu contact. hat e matter? W th s t’ a h W “ ll She was sti ” ? d e n e p p er a h doorway, h e th in g in stand d, er right han he h in t o fo left hed s almost wis frozen. He tance ere, the dis th y ta s ld s. u wo d his nerve n a t il u g e d to easing th what he ha h it w n e v r e But to touch he e ir s e d e th e tell her, her overcam to e s lo c e and b ey found rd pause th a w k w a he e th entatively, T . in s e lv e bed, thems edge of the e th m o fr is rose er, placed h h d r a w to d her slouche e center of th n o d n a . h right r to the bed e h d e id u g back, and g, o patronizin He issued n r d denials o half-hearte a s. This was reassurance hly ig admired h e h s ty li a u q

in him. She had that habit, and it bothered the both of them.

Still, he said nothing. They sat down on the bed, and he looked away instantly. Her close presence brought the lump back to his throat. She wanted to slap him into speaking. She had a feeling about what might have happened, but she wanted to hear him say it.

She realized after a half a

to be harsh. “Out with it, love.”

He inhaled, the air scorching his lungs. There was this dense, non-spatial knot in his chest, sucking that air back out, making the breath never-ending. He felt like he could breathe in forever.

His lungs became a vacuum.

Everything about this burns, he out why. Her demand slapped him hard on the back and forced everything out.

“Ok. I slept with someone else.” It was that simple.

There was the smallest transition in her face from

worried anticipation to a form of terror he’d never seen her express before. It was alarming.

She had, of course, suspected this confession but had not known how she would react.

She was scared to the point of as he awaited a barrage of insults and hits and screams hurt even more. The fact that she hadn’t reacted like that only proved how pathetic she was. She wasn’t pissed off or even broken, just scared. Her thoughts were focused on one possibility.

Is he going to leave me?

O They had been together maybe a couple of years and were just engaged when she asked him one of those typical female questions that drove him mad.

“How do you think either of us would react if one of us cheated on the other?” She always tried to keep things broad and general, and all it ever usually accomplished was

confusion.

“Now, why do you want to go and ask a question like that, babe?” He couldn’t even try to mask his irritation. She had been doing this a lot lately.

“Oh, I don’t know.

Curiosity, I guess. Plus, I’ve noticed something about us.”

This was how she introduced observations (usually of their relationship) for his approval.

Her observations were always a little presumptuous but still rather probing and insightful.

Her initial presentation aside, he tended to enjoy what she had to say. Only... she did it too much.

She waited for a sign of acknowledgment from him, a gesture of his interest, but he gave none. She would soon accept that he never would. Her reason for pausing was turning from a common conversational courtesy to a fear of his boredom. He wouldn’t stay bored, not even with her, and she knew it.

“Well, as we both know,

I’m the kind of person who can be in love with two or more people at a time,” she continued.

“So, even though I hate the idea of cheating on you, I can never completely rule out the possibility of it happening.”

She paused again. She seemed insecure about this one.

Maybe she hoped it wasn’t accurate or thought it was a little far-reaching. So far he’d heard nothing that was too unsettling, so he made no opposing sounds, and she kept going.

“Then there’s you. You can’t love more than one person at a time, I know that for sure. But what I’m unclear on is whether you could sleep with someone without loving them. That is something I can’t do, but I believe you’re just the opposite.”

one I’ve ever loved, I’d say that’s a safe assumption.”

Exactly as she had thought.

She had been prepared for the other response, but she had been pretty sure of that one. Either one proposed the same problem.

“I thought so. That’s just the thing. You could go around screwing anything that walks, and it wouldn’t matter as long as you came home to me. And no matter how strong my feelings are for someone else, I’ll never leave you.”

She was saying this like there was a problem that she hadn’t mentioned yet. All he wanted her to do was to get to the point.

She always over-analyzed and dragged things out.

Now, she needed a response.

Knowing her, she had both scenarios thought through and only needed him to point to the right one. He gave in.

She wanted him to ask what the problem was before she said it, thinking it would add to the effect of this revelation, but he ignored the cue. Why couldn’t he just go along with it for once?

“Considering how many women I was with before you and the fact that you’re the only

“There’s always a chance that you could fall in love with someone else,” she said, trying

not to sound dramatic. “If I did, it wouldn’t affect my love for you, but if you did...” She trailed off. The thought scared the hell out of her. “If-if you did, you would have to choose.

And if you fall for someone else, most likely you’ll have lost your feelings for me, you know?”

Again she stopped, but for different reasons: she had to make sure he was still listening (he had a tendency to trail off), and she needed his input. He had to say whether or not this sounded accurate or plausible or impossible.

She sighed, part in frustration, part in exasperation.

She worried so much about the things she couldn’t help, stuff in the future that all the planning in the world wouldn’t stop. Somewhere in the previous two years, they had switched places. He was no longer worried about the soundness of their relationship; she was an insecure wreck. He had become comfortable, and with comfort comes a disregard for possibility.

The better things got, the more she realized that it would end; it had to end.

O

He knew she wanted a solid answer, but the entire idea proposed was purely conjectural.

They wouldn’t really know until they came to it. She was the planning type and couldn’t understand this, try as she might.

“Baby, anything is possible, but losing my love for you is improbable, at best.” It wouldn’t satisfy her, but it might end the conversation. It was starting to get old.

She stood up very suddenly, surprising them both. She did so in order to keep from being sick. The whole situation was pretty funny when given a closer look. They had often discussed the chances of maintaining an open relationship and were always very honest with each other about their feelings (lust or love) for other people. But now that something had actually happened, a claustrophobic sensation took her over, stomach and all; one that no amount of

space would resolve.

“Honey, please. Sit back down, and let’s talk this out.” He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to talk about it, but he felt he owed her an explanation, at least.

She paced back and forth in front of him and spoke rapidly, as she always did when frantic.

“You know, I wouldn’t even be all that worried if I had had a little warning, but you didn’t even tell me you were interested

“Well, yeah,” he said, shocked and a little insulted.

“Well, why didn’t you tell me about her or something? I mean, we could have discussed this and worked it out. I’m not sure I would have reacted differently, but I’d have at least she still would have been angry.

She had chosen him over many done was shown her the same courtesy. But none of this was the real point at hand, and she continued to skip and dance

around the part that worried her most.

Plainly put, this was not at all what he had expected. She was surprised and bewildered, but not really all that angry. She didn’t seem to care too much about what she was saying (though she was convincing).

Something else was weighing heavily on her mind. It was on his too, but he couldn’t quite name it yet.

He reached out for her hand and noticed how habitual the action was. It was like second nature to reach for her. He brushed the thought off as he pulled her back to the bed.

“What is it you’re really upset about, baby?” It would help the both of them out.

Her face straightened despite the tears building up in her eyes.

She had found some form of composure.

“Do you love her?”

O

She was talking to another man outside of school one day.

He waited in the car for her, and as he watched her, he thought of that little observation she had made.

She stood close to the other man. Her body language gave everything away. She really liked this one. He must be the one she had mentioned before.

What is the difference between her feelings for him and her feelings for me? He couldn’t help wondering.

face. “Ok, maybe,” she admitted.

“Well, I’ve been thinking. If it turns out that you love him, what would be the difference between him and me? Why would you stay with me?” She said she wouldn’t leave him, but why?

“Hmmm. I guess because there are a number of ways I can love someone.” She probably thought that was explanation enough.

was just around the corner).

But he was more focused on his previous question. He worked out how he would ask her as she got in.

“So that’s the guy I’ve heard work his way into it.

“How could you tell?” She seemed shocked. At times, she was absurdly oblivious. He gave her a look and a grin crossed her

“Do you think you’ll end up loving him?” He couldn’t help the jealousy.

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t really matter. Nothing will come of it either way,” she replied.

open. They had been married for three years. Things had kind of become routine. Much of their relationship, their interactions, his desire for her, everything was all now habit. He couldn’t live like that. His love for her had died somehow. Well, he wasn’t really sure if it had died or not, but he did know that he couldn’t handle being just... content.

“Well?” she urged. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Go on,” he insisted.

She said goodbye, even hugged him, and walked to the car. He was a little angry at the

to give up pausing. “I can get so mad at you that I hate you sometimes, but I still love you.

I don’t stop thinking of you.

That’s never happened before.”

Now she was sure that had been enough.

“Oh. Well, they vary in their depth and longevity. In one way, I can be completely happy with someone, but it lacks passion, and I end up getting bored. That should be something you can relate to,” she remarked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She smiled.

“Anyway, in another way, the feeling just comes and goes. Out of sight, out of mind, you know?

Then there’s the way I love

“How come? I thought we had talked about that before.”

“Because it would hurt you.

I wouldn’t care too much, but I feel like you wouldn’t be able to understand, and I don’t want to hurt you.” She was decided and would not budge.

“Well, whatever makes you happy, doll.” He meant what he said, but he was still pleased with her choice.

O He dropped his eyes and thought for a moment, mouth

Devil’s in the Details Raisa Charles

The devil’s in the details In the little voice in your head The one that tells you you can’t That tells you you couldn’t Shouldn’t Will never be The devil’s in the details In the rules that run society In the naysayers Them truth slayers The ones who want you to see things their way

The devil’s in the details In pride, in lust and greed He’s in everything that denies the name my soul screams Jah Yeshuwah Yahweh

But God, He’s like my hair Wild, unrestrainable and free An entity no man can break or tame With his rules, regulations or ‘common sense’ God, He’s like the rain Falling on my soul Washing away the lies This world’s been telling me from my birth

God, He’s in me Not in a stone-walled shrine With stained glass windows He’s in the laughter of old friends The kisses of true lovers In the hearts and eyes and minds of those Who know Him

He is bigger than your denominations Bigger than your governments Than your religions More than words or songs can say More than you can fathom

Invocation A. Reid

Soft angel, embrace my voice: breathe music into my touch; whisper soft words and let me blush.

Eidolons

Blue angel, carry my vision: grant sight to my stare; reveal bare truth and let me share.

It’s strange when someone is afraid of the dark, Being the monsters that we are.

The Guardian, Photograph : Debora Alonso

Jamison Routson

Asha Oluwatomisin Adelakun

Self Portrait, Watercolor : Jenny Granberry

know-how like Bouqii, I came up with the most desperate idea.

The day she walked into my classroom, I knew she was different. That morning had been unusual because neither of my siblings, Wanimi nor Bibi, had taunted or accused me of anything. Moreover, Mum had made my favorite breakfast.

So I was in a good mood, all things considered. So when Mrs. Bampe, the class teacher, announced that a new girl was joining the class, I thought, “Hmm, I’m having a great day.”

A new girl meant a potential best friend. All the new girls were my friends for a while, before they drifted off to join cliques like Fiyin’s Pink Sisters.

When Asha walked in, I knew I had to become her friend.

Literally, the whole class took a deep breath as Asha sashayed in; I thought the boys were going to start whistling. Asha had on an expensive An’kara dress with matching shoes, but her bearing was what made her attractive.

She was beautiful, lithe and carried herself well. Knowing that I lacked money like Fiyin, charm like Ama, and the fashion

In front of the whole class, I walked up to Asha and said, “Hi, my name is Seun. Will you be my friend?” Obviously not the best idea, but it was all I had.

Asha looked straight at me, and slowly reached out to shake my hand. And that’s how Asha and I became friends.

The reason Asha was different was that she cared for no one. She was not fazed by what others thought of her or whether they thought of her at all. As a child, I had been taught to act the way others would school, if Mrs. Bampe glanced at me, I’d sit up, straighten my shoulders and pretend to be interested in whatever book I was supposed to be reading.

My parents believed that every child’s goal should be to please others.

Obviously, Asha’s goal was not to please others, but to please herself. For example, the day Fiyin invited her to her clique, Asha turned her

down. Even Fiyin was shell shocked; I guess she had never heard the word “No” before.

Although I was happy that Asha was still my friend, I was surprised. These and many other incidents showed that Asha made decisions based on what she wanted and not what other people would prefer.

One day after school, as Asha and I walked home together, she told me why she acted the way she did. The year before, Asha lived with her sister and parents in the city of Port-Harcourt.

Asha was the baby of the family, and she used that as an excuse for everything. Whenever her Dad asked her to do chores, she’d whine and complain. After a while, her Mum would roll her eyes, and tell the maid to do the chores, mainly because her Mum considered Asha and her sister to be “babies”.

For as long as she could remember, Asha never took responsibility for her actions.

Moreover, she saw no reason to. As a result, she and her sister were very spoiled. But everything changed the day her

Dad lost his job. And, because of bad investments Asha’s Dad had made, their possessions were seized and auctioned. To make matters worse, all of her parents’ “friends” deserted them.

So, Asha and her family moved to Olumi, her Dad’s village. Life was very hard, However, Asha noticed that her sister and parents changed for the better. Her parents became more patient with each other, her high class partying sister got a job to support the family, and even Asha stopped complaining about doing chores.

Another area Asha’s family got stronger in was their faith in God. Personally, Asha learned that her choices and actions had consequences and that doing things based on what others thought one should do was unreasonable. The reason he had done what all his rich “friends” told him to do, which was to play poker. But, a misunderstanding with one of his bosses at the poker table caused Asha’s Dad to lose his job. Even though things became normal because Asha’s Dad eventually found a better paying

job, Asha never forgot that one’s actions were to be based on reason and not the opinions of other people.

When Asha stopped talking, I knew that she had not told me her story on a whim or for pity. But, because she thought of me as her good friend, she had shared her story with me.

At that moment, I knew our friendship was sealed. But, when I got home, Wanimi, my older sister was waiting outside for me.

“Seun, you are in big trouble, Mum found a cigarette butt in our closet.”

“What?” I yelled, “You Wanimi had a way of putting the blame on me for everything, and I had borne the punishments because I wanted her to like me. And it seemed she did because she’d buy treats and goodies when I took the blame for her. But Asha’s story had changed my mentality.

Immediately, I charged into the house with Wanimi right on my heels. If she thought I was going to be punished unfairly again, she thought wrong.

As soon as I saw my parents, I ran up the staircase and into the bedroom I shared with Wanimi. After rummaging through my sister’s unkempt closet, I found her overnight bag. At this time, my parents had come into the room, and my Dad was just about to give the speech he always gave before punishing me. But, before he could, I dumped all the contents Cigarettes, bongs, syringes and what not scattered all over the padded rug. For a second, everything was dead quiet. Then there was absolute bedlam.

Wanimi screamed and ran out as my Dad lunged to grab her.

Mum collapsed on my bed as she began to wail. And in the midst of all the screaming and wailing, I stood and watched.

The next day at school, I told Asha what had happened, and how Wanimi had been taken to the rehab clinic. My parents, Bibi and I had a long talk that night. After that, as I prepared for bed, I said a quick thank you prayer for the change God had used Asha to bring to me.

Photograph : Brittany Norman

Antiguan Fishing Port (above), Photograph : Novelle Williams (right), Photograph : Laura Warren

Robbed Lindsey Applegarth

A man’s eyes jitter down the aisle looking for an empty seat. He dead-ends at the back of the bus like prey backed into a corner. In front of me, a woman hides beside a seat of luggage. Across from me is a six foot four teenager with a tuba.

Diagonal to the back a woman is breastfeeding her twins.

“Need a seat?” I offer the man.

“No.” He sits down anyway with his perception plastered to the ground.

“Where ya going?” “ H..home…” he stutters “I..I.. mean New Mexico...”

“I’m going to San Angelo – heard of it?”

He’s stuttering again, almost as if he had a half-paralyzed mouth, “Yyy..eah. I..I.. think so.

Mom’s in Ruidoso.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“Where ya think?” he snaps defensively hiding his face toward the aisle.

“How would I know?” I say, hoping he’s alright. Something seems to be sinking him into the seat like crushed ice melting into a rag.

“Where’s the one place you get clothes like these?”

I try to hide my confusion with educated guesses, “Khakis and a tee-shirt? I don’t know.

Walmart? JCPenny?”

“You didn’t notice the Crossing his shaking leg, he reveals his tattoo: a mountain layered on top of a sun.

“I’m not trying to be a smart ass. I really don’t know.”

He huffs a short laugh and speaks quietly and coldly, “The pen. First day of my adult life on the outside. You don’t gotta talk to me. I understand.”

“How long since you’ve been home?”

“Fifteen years,” he says. He

sighs deeply, almost allowing a groan to escape his rock-hard jaw clenched like a horse. “I’m not a bad man…just a stupid-ass 15 year old. I grew up inside. Don’t remember no different. Now at thirty, I’m supposed to get to work – adjust. I don’t even know how things out here work anymore. It’s all so different.”

“Meridian,” the driver shouts, “We are here” and with jazz-worthy relief he announces, “This is the end of my shift.

Everyone off the bus… 20 minutes.”

We step to the side, enjoying the stretch. “So,” I ask him. “Does your tattoo mean anything?”

“Yeah. I want to be strong.

You know. Solid and calm.

Like a mountain with the sun to back me up. To keep going, you know. In prison, we do whatever we can to keep going.”

“Yeah, I know a little in my own way. When everything feels painful and pointless and it feels like I’m wandering in some dark fucking desert, I read and write so I can see the hope of the

sun inside me. I’ve never seen that sun before. But I think it’s there because that hope makes me warm. I’ll get there—I’m going to San Angelo.” I light a cig, inhaling and exhaling hope.

The driver is off the clock but still on the block, “Hey you two…Get over in the smoking The man and I step over into the yellow painted square with words painted on the ashdecorated cement: “SMOKE HERE” with a designated smoking sign on the wall.

“Can I get one?” the man asks.

“Can you roll?” “ Buglars…Tops…practically all ya get in the Pen.” “ Here…” I give him the blue bag with the trumpet boy. The man’s leg shakes, as if to make the trumpet boy play.

“Sorry…jus’ nervous…and cold.”

“Here’s an extra poncho.

It was handmade in Mexico.

Why ya nervous around me?

‘Cause, I’m too much of a pothead for ya to be nervous. For real.”

“I…I don’t know how…how to talk to you.” Something like shame, guilt, and fear direct his eyes back to the ground.

everything to be complicated.

It’s like they say, ‘It’s okay.

We’re over; you can date him.’

But what they mean is ‘ Hell no, bitch. Friends know better.’”

“ What’s so scary about me?

My friends make fun of me.

They call me Peace Love and Granola Barbie. Tree hugger.

And I haven’t hit any of them yet. That’s the one way to make me mad. Make fun of peace and love and call me a Barbie. But I keep it cool.”

Blushing, he hides his face in his new-to-him poncho, “No… it’s women… no… me and women… no… woman…

I mean... I haven’t talked to a woman since I was 15. Except a few guards. But they didn’t talk to me…only yelled orders at me.

And I didn’t talk to them except to answer, ‘Yes ma’am’ or ‘No ma’am.’ When I was in juvy, I talked to my Mom, but even she stopped coming ‘round after I

Looking out the window, his mouth opens and closes as he decides to talk further, “No… Not like that. You a girl… I.. I mean.. a woman. I don’t know how to talk to anyone out here.

And here, you… a woman.”

“ Wow. I didn’t think about all that. I am sorry. But for real… no need to be nervous around me. I’m considered one of the guys in most circles… Not much of a girly girl.”

“Oh yeah,” I laugh, “I understand. I don’t get along with many women either. Kinda catty like cats on a hot tin roof.

Always wanting something other than what they are saying.

And they want what they are saying, too. Women want

going to Dallas…last call.”

We put out our last cigs and return to the bus to claim our same seats. I want the man to feel comfortable. That’s sick he’s been so isolated from the world… Women are like half the population or more, right?

So, I try to think of a subject comforting to him, “ …excited to see your Mom?” “Well… been 12 years... I got mad…her being gone and all.

I was in Florida…in juvy. She moved to New Mexico when I on my 18th birthday as they transferred me to prison.”

“Yeah.” I roll my eyes – “Thanks.”

“Huh…yeah.” His thoughts seem deep and his tears shallow.

So I shut up and let him be.

That’s so sad. I know my mom wouldn’t do that to me. I don’t think. Who knows? She might not talk to me again after I did this to her… leaving. I know she loves me but I’m not running from love. I’m running from control. Love just doesn’t work right with control.

The driver hollers, “Reboarding now for passengers

The man’s tears, about to break, suck back into the tide of

“ You seem like a woman to me.”

his thoughts, “You can look at these here papers. It was a long time ago… stupid punk kid. I learned a lot in prison… more than I ever wanted to know…

But there was good things, too… welding… tattooing… drawing…

Get pretty good when ya got the time. In juvy we used to paint water color using wet M&M’s.

I got my GED…probably more than I would have done out of prison.”

“Ya think so? I don’t.” I say no more to control my anger.

Fifteen? Eighteen? Prison?

That’s almost the same age as me. It’s like caging a kitty-cat with a jaguar and then telling the kitty to trust people and be nice. That’s insane according to Einstein.

had a family but they all were busy busting ass so he could go to college one day. He wanted to be an architect. Poor kid, he also wanted to be just like Robbie.

“Oh well, glad to be out.

Waited my whole life it seems for this day. Now I feel like I’m back at kindergarten. But I guess that’s a place to start. One little fuck up skewed the rest of my life. I didn’t do all those things – you know… on that paper.

“Nah, look at da papers stackin’ da driveway.”

“We used to rob rich hoods.

I did it because we were brothers and we wanted things. You know, nice things for the girls.

But this time it went different. I never thought that would be the last house I’d be in for 15 years.

But I did feel something – like I should go home. But I didn’t go home, dammit. Here’s how it went down: Robbie said, “Let’s take dis one.”

“This casa?” Mario asks. “They home?”

Mario was our little bro. He

“They might be home.”

Robbie would reassure Mario if the couple was sleeping on the couch with a machete and a Great Dane. I was with Mario on this one – nervous. I tell Robbie I don’t know about this. Somethin’ smells raunch.

“Come on, putz. You my bro or not, huh?”

They acted more like my family than my own. We were brothers – hermanos. Brothers are about loyalty. I never had a brother til these guys. All I wanted was to keep with my brothers.

So I gave in. “All right, that lock’s mine.”

Mario was all nerves: “Hurry!”

And that made me all nerves ‘cause Mario knew things. But I didn’t listen to my young heart pounding or my legs trying to run without me.

I promised him, “I got this bitch.

Shut up! ...What the fuck? Bingo!

We in.”

Breaking locks was a powerful feeling. It was like no one could ever control me. Boy, I was wrong … dumbass kid.

Robbie took the lead. “Hold it!

Don’t move. Hands up.” He holds ‘em up with his pocket pistol, “I’ll kill you…”

“Nah, let’s ditch this.” I pleaded.

Mario took Robbie’s side, “Como?”

I tried to convince him Bye! Outta here!”

But Mario – Oh, Mario and his damn loyalty. He took what we called brotherly responsibility. He grabbed the rope and pulled out a knife, “I’m on it.”

The man talks to me, staring forward as if he was really talking to everyone who judges him.

I couldn’t hear over my mind.

It was like that Godfather movie

when Pacino hears the train. We watched that movie in prison sometimes. I’d never done that before. No one was home when we robbed the other houses. The sirens – I didn’t even hear them.

Just dizzy…. Didn’t hear Robbie and Mario slip out the window. Cops walked in, knife and pistol on the don’t even like that shit. But I got charged with it all. Them—free as eagles. More like vultures. I took the me a package or two. Never heard from them. Now 15 years later I’m trying to get used to the idea that I don’t have to ask before I piss. Some brothers. I don’t mean that about Mario. I wish him good. Maybe he’s an architect by now, building houses instead of breakin’ into them. I’m But fuck Robbie. Robbie never knew ‘bout being a brother. He didn’t care.

He’s silent. I’m silent besides sighs. Control. I can’t handle it.

How’d he do it? Guess ‘cause he had to. But look at him now. I’m running from my parents, but there’s a higher authority I can’t run from. What are we going to do? Guess this run is a start.