Vortex 39 - March Online

Vortex 39 March 2013 Online Edition

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Vortex 39 Launching April 16, 2013 7 PM Branch Out, Down Town Conway Free Books, Food, Drinks, Music, Fun Readings by Published Students

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Table of Contents Art Untitled, Sarah F. Wilson Swamp Paradise, Taylor Lea Hicks Sunset, Sarah F. Wilson

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Fiction Button Eyes, Kayelin Roberts To Mac, Tre Sandlin Death of the Middle Class, Aaron Paul Riley The Water Horses, Kayelin Roberts The Trap, Elizabeth Furrey Lost and Found, Allison Brass The Night Was . . ., James Cobb A Robin Called Bobbie, Lyren Grate

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Nonfiction Crosses, Lukas Deem

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Poetry Leaves, Taylor Neal The Keymaster, Wells Thompson Smile and Wave, Savannah Moix Hipster Kids Unite, Taylor R. Brady When Teachers Take Flight, Lisa Ference Unsaved Poetry, Sara Cervantes

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Script Because He’s My Son, Sarah F. Wilson

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Leaves

Taylor Neal

I listen to the leaves whisper your name crawling their way through wind and dirt crunching and breaking under the weight of your silence Oh, wait, that’s me

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Button Eyes Kayelin Roberts

He was blue, but such a dark blue that the art of ocean life printed onto the fabric could almost disappear without adequate light. The rabbit sat solemnly on the shelf of the chestnut living room. He stared out over the couch, ignoring the dust that grazed upon his head, his ears, and his plump stomach. Walking by, he held no attraction unless the eye sought out the deep blue blended with the warm brown. The rabbit appeared homely, one ear only held on by a stitch while his black button eyes swayed downward, exhausted.

He was the kind of rabbit that you could see a child holding and cuddling in the middle of the night after the day’s adventures frightened her into her bed fort. He would lay beside her as she counted to ten because the number ten always scared away big monsters, especially if you built up to it. The rabbit would smile at her, giving an invisible wink before happily falling into the girl’s dreams. Together, he and the child fought evil weeds and stomped unwilling mud into pies.

They were saviors of the outside world.

As the rabbit sat upon its perch, he overlooked the daily lives of a man and woman. With his drooping eyes, he watched as they walked to and fro, sat on the honey couch, and, occasionally, he would catch a glimpse of dinner being made. There was a girl, a stranger who roamed the rabbit’s home. She was awkward, he observed, and she didn’t quite fit into the household. Yet, she reminded him of someone, someone who would hold a sword beside him and battle the treacherous dog-dragon, Chompers. That was only a coincidence. The girl never noticed the rabbit like the child had. He was forgotten.

Once, many years ago, the rabbit remembered a time when it sat in a store, waiting to be bought. But, then, he was not a rabbit. He only clung to the hope to be made into something, something grand, for he was mere pieces of fabric on a cold shelf. The ring of a cash register signaled his awaited freedom. Then, there was intense pain, the snip of scissors, and the growl of a machine. Careful hands handled what was left of his once yard glory, and then there became the feel of new, smaller fingers playing. Together, they both created and crafted the rabbit’s being. With a pinch, sounds became distinct.

Another pinch and he could smell the mold of an old house. Lastly, there came sight, acquired by a prick a little lower than the ears and a little higher than the nose. He saw the child and a woman with wrinkles in a house he was never able to return to. They had made him together, a last memento before the wrinkled woman disappeared.

The rabbit kept a hold of the scent of home-baked cookies made that day in order to celebrate his coming into being. That was his first sip of a special clear tea and his first time almost tasting a cookie. Still, he smelled of old mold and baked goods from that day. The scent faded some over the years, but no more than the color of his cotton skin.

A night that Jack Frost could be proud of approached, the same faithful night that the rabbit was placed upon his sitting place. He was happily asleep beside the child until the fearful roar of a bear’s voice sounded over the covers. A strange creature with a round face that was surrounded by thick wild hair from forehead to chin had entered the room.

The small light in the corner did not keep this monster away as he pulled the child’s small wrist and made her stand. She called him Dad. She grabbed for the rabbit and, just as their hands connected, the Dad roared again. She was too old for stupid rabbits.

The rabbit was pulled away from the child as tears rolled down the valley of her cheeks. The Dad was not as nice as the child. The rabbit could tell because of the way he held the rabbit’s hand. He was thrown onto a hard wooden surface before being laid back to gaze out toward a room the rabbit did not know of yet. This room was unfamiliar, for he did not know of a room other than the child’s. The Dad roared again, stomping away to let the child cry and reach out for the rabbit. She was too small to reach him¸ and, eventually, she was forced to go back to the bed fort.

The rabbit sat there, waiting for the sun to come. He knew once it did, the child would come and try to rescue him again. He was only a prisoner for a short while. It had always been that way. Yet, she did not return. The Dad, on the other hand, did come back. He adjusted the rabbit to sit correctly, to look proper and somehow a part of the strange room. . He then disappeared, and a new man took his place. It didn’t take long for the rabbit to realize the name of his new home. It was called a living room. Strange how nothing lived there except for him, a forgotten memory with button eyes.

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To Mac

Tre Sandlin

Day 1 (0.00%)

Inside a sweltering muggy room in a beat down apartment complex, there is a brief glimpse of ice cold sensation which graces the side of my head. At that moment, the coolness brought the only reaction my mind could fathom, a chuckle. It’s the first semblance of humor this grizzled mug has seen in weeks, and I only achieved it by putting the muzzle of my .44 magnum revolver against my skull. Despite recent events, I know that this will still come as a shock to you, Mac, so I want to let you in on why I’ve made this ultimatum. This is why I have you check my mailbox every morning before our 5:00 breakfast. If you find this journal and you’ve done as I asked, then you should find this on the day that God has relieved me from the burdens of this world. This place is perfect for my goal. It may be reminiscent of a tenement house, and the air is heavy with smoke and sweat, but at least it’s better than my house with all those memories. So, Mac, today is the last guaranteed day of my life. This is my oath: On the first day of my last week on Earth, I’ll take my lucky revolver, place zero bullets within its chambers, place the gun against my head, and pull the trigger. For each day I do not successfully end my life, I will add a single bullet to one of the six chambers, thus limiting my life to the end of the week.

I want you to know that I’m thankful for everything you’ve provided for me these past few years. You’ve followed my career, made a killing off of our daily interviews (I’m sure), and, somewhere throughout all of that, you convinced the majority of this city that I’m a hero cop, the so called “Last Hope of St. Michael.” I also appreciate the companionship you have shown me. It’s been nearly three years now since the riots broke out in the East End District, but it never seemed real when the protesters across the world turned to mobs and the sit-inners with picket signs mutated into looters with Molotov cocktails. All this meant to me at the time was a sore back from longer, harder hours and a worn wrist from neverending paperwork; but that all changed when the fire came. I know I never told you much about the fire at the Summit Institute, and I know you were far too considerate to pry, but when the fire took Ethan, and the smoke inhalation-induced coma took Bethany, it was as if the universe had ripped away my senses and left an empty husk in its wake. Of course, you remember what happened next. I can’t tell you how many times I went back up to the funeral home and the cemetery where we held the kids’ joint service, and I would try to recall Joyce’s expressions throughout it all. I just wonder if I might remember some sign, some precursor of what was to come. If I could have stopped her. When I found her body in the kids’ room, all she left was a note which read, “I’m so sorry, but I can’t let them go on alone. I love you.”

I know I said I was alright time and again, and I realize you knew I was lying, but, Mac, trust me when I say that I’ve been more worse off than even you imagined possible. I’ve sunk all my well-being into quelling this chaos, yet, day after day, the smoke becomes thicker, the rioters more ambitious, and I more hopeless. It’s finally reached the brink of what my mind can handle, so I have decided to take a step toward reuniting my family. This is why I have hidden all this from you, because I know you would stop me no matter the cost, but this is God’s choice now; I’ve merely given Him a deadline.

I have no desire to continue trying to fix this festering wound with only BandyBoy Bandages at my disposal. I now have to change the filter on my standard-issue gas mask every few hours, only to find a concoction of blood, soot, and a yellow residue I can only assume is a mixture of dirt and tear gas. You’ve heard me talk about the struggle I face to uphold order, only to find that I myself am sowing the seeds of chaos implanted in the minds of the disorderly. To make matters worse, each day I see more and more of those I live on to protect, join the ranks of either the anarchists or the dearly departed. It’s for all this that I have decided to move on myself. I understand that you believe that my presence alone will bring this city to its senses, but I don’t have it in me to tell you to your face that you guys in the press are far too hopeful.

These rioters don’t believe in symbols or at least not what I am trying to represent. So, as you can see, I’ve thought about this as anyone would about their last choice. I am grossly exhausted and I miss them so much. I believe it’s been commendable enough for me to have gone on this long, but I refuse to keep living in this hopeless, miserable place without them.

Oh, Hell! That’s you at the door.

Note: Keep track of time!

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Day 2 (16.67%)

Well, not too much of a surprise today. I must admit I had doubt that the lord would have such mercy on me as to end my suffering on the first day. In retrospect, I wish I had made an oath to just finish it on day one.

Yesterday ended up being a new low point in the riots when I arrested Tony Moretti or, as you may remember, my old partner. In the rush of things, he pulled a knife on one of the other officers, so I quickly struck him on the back of the head with the butt of my revolver. When he came to in the back of my interceptor, we were almost back to the station. All I could think to ask was, “Why?” And all he responded with was, “How could you?”

Day 3 (33.33%)

Obviously, no luck today either, but now my luck will become probabilities, ever closer to its resolution of certainty. Also, I’ve started placing my hand on the end of the barrel before I stick it to my head, mainly because I don’t like the cold hard chill against my temple. It makes it all seem much more unnatural than it already is.

Yesterday marked a gruesome turn for the protesters. I saw three self-immolation protests amongst the crowds. I’m sure you remember the impact on the South Vietnam protests in 1963 when the press released the picture of that Buddhist monk burning. But, this was so much different. That smell of flesh burning, the sound of screams as the pain took its toll on the martyrs, the flailing charred bits of fire as the crowds looked on in horror. Have things gotten this bad? This all started over economic reform. It was originally called the second Occupy Movement, for Christ’s sake! I can’t keep fighting this, Mac. I never signed up to lose everything I had ever loved only to walk the streets of Hell.

Day 4 (50.00%)

It came down to 50/50 today, and I lost. I know my God damned gun works; I use it daily, and it’s a fucking revolver! I guess that’s just been my luck these past few years though. Everything is a fifty percent chance. You said yesterday that I had been the closest thing this city has had to a success since this whole damn thing started. You spoke of my perseverance, my constitution, my determination throughout the tragedies. Please, don’t take this suicide as an offense against you. I appreciate your own persistence with trying to save this city, but try and understand that I’ve been on the losing end of fifty-fifty chances for quite some time now. I am so weary now. I welcome the peace to come.

Day 5 (66.67%)

Chief told me to take the day off yesterday. He said I have been working nonstop and that it worried him that I had stopped going to see the precinct’s shrink. I told him there was no need. “I’ll rest here soon, and I’ll deal with my issues when I’ve figured them all out.” I never plan on executing the latter.

Day 6 (83.33%)

It isn’t fucking fair. I realize that I agreed to seven days, but I think the Lord is toying with me, making me regret ever leaving it to Him. I cannot wait for tomorrow morning to come. Yesterday, I took a child’s life. There was a man in the crowds who was going to lob a flaming cocktail our direction. I took quick, careful aim and I struck the target right in the leg. I never meant for the shot to be fatal, but sure enough the man fell to the ground and behind him laid the limp corpse of the boy I neglected to see, with blood streaming down his expressionless face. After that, the crowds went mad and took over most of Central. We set up a perimeter to keep the chaos from spreading to Westside and Downtown, and, when all that was done, I tracked down hospital morgue records over the past few hours to see if I could find out any information on the child. Sure enough, I found one who matched his description and was recently checked in at St. Pancras Hospital. His name was Justin Lee Powell, and he was born just a few weeks after my Bethany. I want so much for all this pain to end, but I can’t do it now. I need to stay alive for at least tonight, to remember Justin, Ethan, Bethany, and my dear Joyce.

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The Keymaster Wells Thompson

I am the gatekeeper, held by the heart with chains, attached helplessly to my gate as I watch my keymaster, coyly dancing just beyond arm’s length. As I struggle to move forward, running in place, my heart pounds and my chest compresses, leaving me breathless and wide-eyed and bloodshot.

I can either turn away and catch my breath or reach further; but she’s so close. Maybe she’ll come to me if I just push myself a little further. It’s a lovely thought. Either way, I am the gatekeeper, and I must wait for my key master patiently. Patiently.

And ever so. But I lost my patience long ago, and I feel compelled to reach out, just a little further, even knowing it to be in vain.

They say wait. Don’t look, eventually, all will work itself out. But what good is waiting, locked up in a corner. If I am to die alone, it will not be for lack of trying. Love and hope and wonder and lost glances and fatal crashings and turning over and clinched fists and tight eyes and bitterness. This is everyday life. The fading sunset.

The green flash.

And I am waiting for the day that I may walk through my gate, with my keymaster closely and madly in hand. But how long, and why do I look in forbidden regions to slay my lust for love? But sweet smoke and piercing heat are luring me into a tangled forest of gray. And the vexing elusiveness of love makes me move forward.

Slowly, promising embrace.

Choke.

And suffer the pain in my chest as I pull against my chains. She is there. Out of reach.

Are you my keymaster?

Are you my keymaster?

I wonder how long this will last. Every night I dream, hoping this dance is over. Every morning I’m disappointed. It’s cold. Stagnant.

She has someone else on her mind.

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Untitled

Best of Web Nominee Sarah F. Wilson

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Death of the Middle Class Aaron Paul Riley

It’s 3:32 a.m. as I walk home from a night of carousing and merry-making. As my feet clop dully over the cobblestone, I think about time. We are slaves to it. You spend it frivolously on pipe-dream pursuits, the much sought-after deification of the self. Arrogance of the highest order, foolishness or — ignorance. Who knows? Work those long, grueling hours of your day. Toil away to make the fat cats richer, all the while chasing the proverbial carrot on a string they dangle in front of you, ever so slightly out of reach. Time. The thing we take for granted most; the one thing we truly never have enough of.

I turn and look, and there is her young, teenaged form — perfect, lifeless — sprawled out in the grimy mud puddle on the corner of Lexington and Sixth. I don’t know her real name, so I call her “Middy.” I don’t know what caused her death, or the all-important question — “why?” — the motivation in her slaying. Who could have done this? She was so young, so innocent. So shallow, naïve, so hopelessly dumb. Saddest of all, perhaps, is that she didn’t know the value of her time.

I remember when we met. I was working on a story about her grandfather for the paper. That particular night, I was at a party. I had too much whiskey and coke to drink and smoked so many cigarettes that it seemed like my skin was leaking the stuff. She came over and sat beside me, chatting with another friend of our host. Middy went on and on about the contestants on the current season of American Idol as she sipped a mocha latte from Starbucks. She just loved Starbucks. The thing that bugged me most about her was that she kept flipping her hair in my face like a girl on an elementary school bus. It was the color of the sun in the morning sky. Judging by her small talk, I could tell she was nice and friendly.

But, hints of her cruelty peeked through and piqued my interest. I wondered if she knew I was covering her grandfather, that I would use her like a wet rag, if I had to, to get to him.

And, now, she is inanimate and empty on the ground before me. I look at her once shimmering hair, now mucked, as it floats in the puddle. She was hip. Her style was trashy sometimes, but, to me, on this night, she just seems perfectly plain. Perhaps that’s why she died.

She laid face down, arms and legs splayed like a starfish. She had just come from her lover’s apartment where those same limbs had clung tightly — raw passion like you’ve never known — to the newest victim of her desire. I know this because I had trailed her all night, except for a lapse in judgment: I stopped in for a drink at O’Malley’s, my favorite joint, to wait for her to finish a phone call with her next stop of the evening. See, Middy was a whore, as were the dogs she slept with. I call them dogs because dogs are whores. It’s understood, of course, that they were not dogs at all, but people, with real lives, jobs, insecurities, and the hope for deeper meaning; they wanted purpose. Maybe we’re all whores.

Earlier today, I discovered that Middy was set to visit her well-to-do grandfather at his mansion in the Heights tonight. His name is Goldman, leading the anti-Semites to believe that he’s Jewish, and, with a name like that, it’s entirely likely he is.

This Goldman is unsavory. In fact, I suspect that he is downright sinister. He received his education at Yale and was a leading member of the Skull and Bones Society. He made powerful alliances in those early days of his prime. Rowing competitions — he was a star — night caps, love affairs with wealth (“Eloise”) and capitalism (“Charlotte”,) sex slaves who had broken free of the trafficking ring and had decided they would make love to whoever could win their respect. By Goldman’s era, the object of their respect was the person who was the best at deceiving. Goldman was, and still is, the king of liars.

Now, he is old, decrepit, and death incarnate. He ought to be wearing the ritual robes of his fraternity, and, if he did so now, he would resemble the Grim Reaper, black cowl and all. Instead, he opts for Armani double-breasted suits. A gleaming gold nugget sits on his finger commanding reverence like an aristocrat, and a shiny watch chain hangs gaudily from the pocket of his suit jacket. This last item is chosen because he obsesses over the passing of time. This isn’t verified, but I’m led to believe he hopes to one day learn the art of immortality, but he now knows his days are numbered.

That has corrupted his black heart even more. He’s somehow managed to acquire the key to the city, which he keeps in a lock box underneath his bed. He bought out the media, and he uses it to spread lies, retain his superior position, and keep his lovers by his side. He is vile and vicious; he is cold and bitter like winter’s icy, musty breath. He has no religion except that of capitalism; he has no values except competitive markets, the profit factor, and complete and utter control over the lives of everyone in this city.

Middy loved him for his money. She went to Grand-daddy Goldman every weekend hoping for a handout. At least

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she was willing to work in his company, trading labor for her wages. She seems to have hoped to inherit his fortunes after his death, and I’m beginning to suspect she was out to speed the process along.

Perhaps it was Goldman. I imagine him following her to her lover’s, peering like a peeping tom through the window. He pulls back into the shadows as she kisses her lover goodbye. The darkness engulfs him into its empty nothingness — he is a conspiracy, a shadow. He slides his ancient dagger from its moth-eaten sheath. The blade glints as a beam from the street lamp finds its way to the sleek metal and bounces off again in a blinding point of light.

Goldman continues in his silent pursuit of Middy, turning street corners and dipping into alleyways, ever watchful of her every move. She stops suddenly, on this corner of Lexington and Sixth, to apply some make-up to mask the imperfections on her face. Goldman slides up effortlessly behind her, and, with insanity in his eyes, he plunges the arcane tool into her back, cowardly, effortlessly. Her body slips off the blade and splashes into the puddle in that fateful moment of her short life.

Except, there was no such knife wound. In fact, Goldman is supposed to have been busy tonight sorting through toxic assets and setting up mergers.

There is a poor man that I have seen about randomly. He dresses in rags and sleeps on the street. He proudly displays an anarchy symbol on the front of his hand-me-down coat. Middy consulted with him occasionally. I’ve yet to meet him, but I do know that he is her older brother. He is a hippie, a beatnik, a starving artist. How he acquires the finances to even survive is anyone’s guess, as he is usually out of work. On a few of those random chance meetings, I’ve seen him shooting up heroine, satisfying his addictions in order to reach a euphoric state of existence to escape the slums of his reality. Really, I think he is just bored and confused. He is depressed. His family has told him that money is God and that all of life should be spent in worship to it, yet the odd jobs he works here and there never provide enough of it.

So, he steals and he begs — he is a nuisance to most people — and he sets up a new altar in rebellion to the altar of finance. It is an altar of art and literature, a dream for a free world in which poets reign supreme, where everyone shares everything they own, and where life is about more than just obtaining material goods. This, too, must be a pipe dream.

There he is now. I hide behind a dumpster, afraid I might implicate myself, and watch as he runs to her body.

His eyes narrow to slits as he drops to his knees, scooping up the body of his dear, sweet sister. He pulls her torso out of the sludge and holds her chest close to his own. Her head falls limp to the side like a rag doll. He couldn’t have been the culprit. Not this man. Not this sad man who kneels just meters from me now, rocking silently in the crisp air of the early morning. There is a humming, soft and forlorn, that begins to build quietly from deep within his lungs. The mournful dirge moves me in a way I can’t quite describe.

Suddenly, a mood swing seems to grip him: the spiritual melody dies. He looks at her with rage in his eyes. He’s probably recalling the events of the past few years when she mocked him and spat on him. Nobody else seems to have noticed, but I know for a fact that she had certainly disowned her brother. Instead of offering a hug and a helping hand when hard times arrived, she simply told him to get responsible and make lemonade out of the lemons he’d been reduced to sucking for his sustenance. He must be thinking the same thoughts, as he throws her body back into the mud and stands to full height. The moments flick by as he glares down at her corpse. He spits on her, then, runs headlong into the night.

Obviously, there is reason to suspect this poor man as her killer. He wants a way out of this endless cycle of torment and suffering just like the rest of us. But, he believes that wealth is not the answer to all of life’s woes. He’s not in it for the money; he just wants to get by. I can tell that by watching him. I pity him.

I decide to wait. I hold my nostrils shut because the stench of the garbage — wasted stuff — is too much. My shoulder is cold against the slimy brick building I am leaning against. Maggots squirm next to me in fitful, transcendental dances as they search for nutrients. They will burrow somewhere, develop wings and legs, and eventually, in a metamorphosis that only nature can achieve, they will buzz and fly around, feasting on dung and dead things. They will lay their eggs and hatch larvae of their own, continuing the cycle of this temporal — eternal — state called life.

“Who is it?”

The voice snaps me back. There are two cops, one large, the other smaller, both with average, closely-shaved faces.

“Name’s Middy,” the older, fat cop responds coldly. He looks down at her in sardonic boredom. Several seconds slip away.

“Uh, isn’t there something we need to do about this?” the younger skinny cop nervously asks.

“No. Not tonight. Not this one.”

“No? What do you mean, no? This was obviously a murder!”

“Sometimes, kid . . . sometimes things just happen. I don’t see any evidence this was a murder.”

“Oh, come on. We at least need to bring a team out to make sure, ri—”

“I said no,” the fat one interrupted. “Boss’ orders. You know how Goldman is. She’s dead. End of story.”

“Well, I’m calling it in,” he says as he brings his radio up to his lips.

“Do you wanna lose your fuckin’ job, rookie?” The older cop is clutching the rookie’s wrist. “If you don’t get off this, I’m taking your badge, your gun, and then I’m gonna beat you for being an insubordinate ass. And, then I’ll take you to Goldman.” There was a pause. “How does that sound?”

The younger cop stares back at him with eyes as wide as pancakes. The older cop lets go of his arm.

“F—fine,” the younger cop spits out. “What are we supposed to do then?”

“Toss her in the dumpster. Then, we look for her brother.”

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The older officer is walking away now at a husky pace, leaving the younger one in front of me. He looks down solemnly at Middy. He picks up her corpse and heaves it into the dumpster I’m sitting behind. The sound resounds like a gong, and the green metal shudders. He stumbles off.

Fifteen minutes pass as I think back to my childhood, flipping through pages of memories to pass the time. I feel safe. There hasn’t been a sound except for the wind the entire time. I stand to examine the young female in her new sarcophagus. Her grandfather, when he learns of this, will likely rejoice over her death because he thinks her older brother is willing to work for him for even less pay than Middy received. Goldman believes that his grandson will work for him for the meager salary of cheap processed food and a warm bed to sleep in. Middy’s brother doesn’t need all the costly distractions Goldman has set up to enslave the city.

But, Goldman doesn’t realize that his grandson has had enough. He will not work for him any longer. In fact, I hear that Goldman’s grandson is planning a coup. He and his accomplices will sneak into his mansion in the dead of night and murder the bastard in his sleep. They will tear down the sky-scrapers, burn the banks, and usher in a new era of anarchy and chaos without war or violence. That is, if they can find a leader with enough moral fiber to inspire in them not simply a social revolution, but a total revolution of mind and soul. Then again, I don’t really know what’s going on for sure.

The real story continues, but Middy’s story is done. Her life has ended, her time has run out, her life no longer matters. Perhaps it never did.

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Smile and Wave Savannah Moix

Desk job – staring at the elevator waiting for a new face so I do not commit a repetitive smile – flash of teeth, tilt of head, point the suit in his direction.

Desk job – sighing at the exit, oh! How I wish you were accessible – yep, that is what I am – easily accessible to deliver confidential packages, pick up carefully-packed manilas, depends.

Desk job – slaving over organizational busywork that rocks my brain, strains my shoulder blades. Alphabetical stews or chronological undulations rising and falling within my process of refilling – the secretarial sea.

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Crosses

Best of Web Nominee Lukas Deem

Crosses on doors, crosses on cars, crosses on chests, and crosses on skin: I see them everywhere. Growing up in the Bible Belt hasn’t been easy for me. I went to a Presbyterian church with my family, but we stopped attending when I was very young. It was difficult to get four kids ready each Sunday morning to sit through a boring sermon in uncomfortable pews. Religion wasn’t a concern for me until middle school and high school when evangelical churches started sending out their youth on their great mission. “What church do you go to?” “Have you been saved?” “Do you love Jesus?” As these questions came at me, I didn’t think much of them at first. I never really came into true cognitive contact with religion until my tenth year of school. All of my friends at the time were Christian, and it became known to them that I wasn’t.

Through a concerted effort of a few friends, I was given a bible and taken to church. The church I attended was evangelical.

It was also quite sensationalist, meaning there were speakers with strong voices, the air conditioning was always turned down real low, and the contemporary worship music was emotional.

I read a few books, and it happened: I became a Christian. For two years, as with anything I do, I put forth my best effort to live a Christian life. I stopped cussing, I stopped masturbating, I went to church, I got involved in leadership, I read the bible, and I prayed. I often prayed for faith. I wanted God to make himself as real to me as much as possible. I struggled often with my faith, but never voiced this to my peers or church leaders. I thought about where God came from or the problem of evil. I pondered the idea of infinite. At the age of 18, in my senior year of high school, I made a conscious decision to relax on my Christian morals and practices. This was due to the realization that I had not experienced any improvement in my life as a result of this lifestyle, along with my rational doubting.

During my first year of college, I took a history class and realized how arbitrary religion was. People have been living and dying for different religions for thousands of years, and they will continue to do so in the future. I became apathetic toward religion, and agnostic was the label I began to identify with. This was the start of my path to where I am now: atheism. I do not believe in a cosmic or earthly divine being or beings, or any kind of supernatural power. My family doesn’t like this, so we just don’t talk about it. I am lucky that my parents do not treat me differently because of my choice.

Others are not so fortunate, and this is one of the reasons that we need to speak out as atheists.

The most rewarding experience of my life was helping start and maintain a new club on campus during my junior year. We began The Secular Student Alliance at the University of Central Arkansas. It was only after working with this club that I realized the need for an atheist community. Our club quickly grew and developed a core group. We all became very close and often talked about how much the club meant to us. Just knowing that we were in a room where we were not being judged on our absence of a religion was special. Our club decided to participate in what we call “visibility campaigns.”

These included setting up a table in the Student Union and holding signs that say “Hug an Atheist” while handing out informational pamphlets. Another campaign involved choosing days to wear stickers that say “Atheist, ask away.” Personally, I wear this sticker everyday on the back of my backpack, along with a Secular Student Alliance pin on the front strap.

It was clear to me and my club from the beginning that these visibility campaigns were imperative. For comparison, you can look at the LGBT movement. People are generally afraid of the unknown; if they do not personally know a gay person, they are much more likely to be homophobic. The same applies with atheists. We are stereotyped as amoral, scary, mean, devil-worshiping sinners. Until people are aware that someone close to them is atheist, they are unlikely to be accepting of atheists. During our visibility campaigns, it was very interesting to see reactions of classmates, friends, and faculty as they realized I had, in fact, been atheist the whole time. I didn’t see instant hate or fear as one might think. It was still the same Lukas they had known, but I saw something deeper. I saw the cogs of acceptance and changing perceptions starting to turn in their minds.

Atheists need to “come out of the closet,” because people need to be aware that they are sitting next to them in class, working with them, and drinking with them at the bar. Secondly, atheists also need to speak up so that other atheists are aware that they are not alone and have a supporting community to go to. Often, I see posts online or even hear people say in person that atheists are too loud. Next time you hear this, point out the number of crosses you encounter in a day; there is no comparison. We are only struggling to be accepted and build a community among a sea of crosses.

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The Water Horses Best of Web Winner Kayelin Roberts

Gazing down at the tumbling water, Molly crouched over the edge of the cliff. Her brunette curls twisted around her ears as the fall breeze caressed her face. She slid a finger across her cheek to push an annoying strand behind her ear.

Below, the water breathed over itself with the waves that fell into themselves. In the deep tide, all Molly saw were the rocks that reached upwards toward her. Stretching their nubby arms, they asked for a deadly hug.

The breeze picked up, and the ocean roared. It couldn’t reach the small girl atop the cliffs. Molly smiled at the thought. She clutched her thin jacket closer, ignoring the dust from the surrounding rock as it swirled around her with the wind. Her blue eyes never left the surface of the water as she searched its depths.

Behind her, a loud, deep voice called, “Molly, time to go back to the house.”

Molly peeked over her shoulder with a small frown on her lips.

“But, Grandpa, I’m looking for the horses,” she said. Turning back, she watched the water again.

“If you keep looking, they’ll come out to drown you,” Grandpa said as he came up behind her. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Come now. We need to get back to the house before your parents notice I’ve brought you up here again.”

“Just a few more minutes. I’m sure they’ll come out,” Molly said as she leaned a little closer down toward the ocean’s water. Her grandpa patted her shoulder.

“I know another little girl who was just like you. She watched all day and didn’t see a water horse come out from slumber,” he said. Molly shook her head.

“Grandpa, I’m special. The horses know I’m special, too. They’ll come out for me,” she said, confident yet meek.

Grandpa heaved a sigh before he slowly lowered himself next to her, sitting on a large rock nearby. “Molly, let me tell you another story.”

“One about the water horses?” she asked as her eyes sparkled with curiosity. The old man gave a grim nod.

“One about the water horses and your grandmother,” he began. His gaze traveled over to the waves as his eyes frosted over in thought. Molly gave the ocean one last glance before moving away from the water. She turned toward her grandpa, and her eager eyes watched him.

“Your grandmother and I were around your age, about thirteen, when the ocean had begun to look like this. It was the beginning of winter, and I had dragged your grandmother to this very beach. The waves crashed toward my feet as I ran along the edge of the water.

‘Are you sure there will be water horses?’ your grandmother asked as she kept a distance between us.

‘Of course!’ I told her. I moved closer into the water, its chilled waves frosting my sneakers. I ran across the wet sands, and your grandmother followed closely behind, casting small glances at the waves. I grabbed her hand and gave my most cunning smile. She blushed and returned a shy one. Together, the two of us looked out across the ocean, its salty water leaving traces of sand and cold skin as it splashed our legs. I narrowed my eyes before tugging your grandmother toward a cave under the large cliff at the end of the beach. We entered and gazed at the cave’s insides. Above us hung cylinders, things that dripped water from the last tide.

Dodging the puddles, we circled around the cave to find a rock that had already dried after the last tide and that was large enough to sit upon. We sat and held each other’s hand as we watched the water’s edge.

‘Will they come?’ your grandmother asked. I watched the ocean, looking for the glimpse of a water horse’s mane.

‘They have to. It’ll be a full moon tonight, and it’s almost winter. Mom said that’s when they appear. We just have to wait,’ I said.

‘And, then what?’

I took a moment before finally saying, ‘Then, we catch it?’

‘What if it tries to drown us?’ Your grandmother frowned, a small crease appearing on her forehead. I looked at the crease before grinning.

‘Poke!’ I said, poking her forehead. Your grandmother swatted at my hand.

‘Stop it!’ she cried, and I kept trying to touch her forehead. She scooted away from me then, but only to fall off the rock we were sitting on. She landed in a nearby puddle. Its water soaked into her jacket and pants. As she stood, a gust of wind entered the cave, circling around us. Your grandmother shivered.

I stood up, taking off my jacket and placing it over her shoulders. I shivered a little, too, but returned your grandmother’s thankful smile. Together, we sat on the rock again, our gazes peering out toward the ocean. We didn’t talk and soon we watched as the sun began to set over the water, turning the sky pink, then orange, then purple, and, in its absence, an infinite navy.

‘I’m cold,’ your grandmother whispered. Her shivering increased with every passing hour. I held a finger to my

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lips. I knew we would see a water horse that night and I was determined to.

Your grandmother shivered violently again and stood. ‘I’m cold,’ she said again, her voice harder. I frowned.

‘I don’t want to go. I want to see the water horses,’ I whined.

‘But, they don’t wanna see you!’ your grandmother said before storming out of the cave by herself. As her small form disappeared around the cave’s edge and into the moonlit beach, there was a scream. Jumping off the rock, I ran toward the beach using the light of the full moon until I saw your grandmother again. She was standing, still in my jacket, and her shivers had disappeared.

As I approached, she pointed in front of us. There, a large beast stood, its huge golden eyes glinting in the starlight. Its coat was as black as coal and it did not reflect light as a normal horse’s fur did. Instead, the light seemed to disappear as soon as it touched its skin. It’s long, wet mane dripped cold ocean water onto the sand. And, it watched us with those wide eyes.”

“Grandpa, I thought the water horses were good,” Molly asked, interrupting the story. Her grandpa nodded and laced his fingers together in his lap.

“There are legends where the water horses bring peace to our town, where they are gods that protect us from the terrible hurricanes. Unfortunately, those are not the beasts that emerge from the ocean’s waves,” her grandpa answered.

“Oh,” Molly muttered. Her grandpa nodded and continued.

“It watched us and rubbed a hoof in the sand, puffing smoke out from his large nostrils. With every puff, the nostrils grew larger, and its eyes dilated as it smelled the flesh of humans. Its tail flicked water away from its body, becoming a flash of white. While the horse’s flank and mane were black, its tail was colored white.

With a loud roar from the ocean, another large beast dragged itself onto the sand near the first. A large red fish tail extended from its lower side as it pulled its body closer onto the dry sand with its two front hooves. Large muscles bulged under its golden flank that sucked in the light of the moon just like the first, and its yellow mane became clumped with sand as it slithered along the ground. When it emerged fully, its red backside slowly transformed into the golden flank, its back legs and hooves growing from the scales, and the red turning into hair.

Once the golden water horse fully transformed, it, too, puffed smoke out of its nostrils, its wild amber eyes searching before landing on the children. Together, the two creatures watched the children, and, a third roar brought forth another beast.

Your grandmother turned to me, her eyes wide, before running in the opposite direction of the horses. That was when we realized they weren’t the horses that are in the stories passed down from generation to generation.

I followed her, my desire to capture one of the beasts gone. Behind us, a loud scream mixed with the thunderous voice of the ocean sounded. Loud, rolling thuds followed after us.

I caught up to your grandmother as she was starting to slow. ‘Keep running!’ I screamed as I grabbed her hand and dragged her down the beach. The sound of running beasts following us came closer as they approached the trail on the side of the cliff that led up the cliff to our homes.” Molly’s grandpa took that time to motion to the trail down the side of cliff next to them before continuing.

“We scrambled onto the rocky edges. Your grandmother’s shoes scrapped against the trail as we scrambled up.

The gravel moved under our quickened pace as we climbed.

Sounds of the beast’s huffs emerged behind us as we climbed the trail. The matte black horse gazed up at us with wide, dilated eyes. The moonlight sparked against the dark irises as the beasts watched us, its intended meal, climb the cliff’s side. One of the beasts let out a cry as it watched.

When we finally reached the top of the cliff, your grandmother dropped to her knees as she caught her breath. I watched her for a moment before looking back down at the beasts. One had cuts on its legs where it had tried to climb the narrow path and failed. They were not accustomed to dwelling on land, and it had worked in our favor.

I let out a relieved sigh before looking back at your grandmother. ‘They did, too, wanna see me,’ I muttered. After a moment, the beasts left. The black one started the gallop, and the rest followed.” Her grandpa finished, his gaze traveling over the ocean’s dark waters.

Molly stared at him and gave a soft sigh. “And, you see, child, those are not creatures that you want to meet on any night.” he said before slowly standing. He let out a small huff as his ankles and back creaked from the effort.

“Now, let’s get you back home,” her grandpa said. As he went toward the trail, Molly readjusted her jacket and followed him quietly. She glanced toward the ocean’s water, watching the waves warily as the trail led them down the beach.

She pulled her jacket closer, and her grandpa limped ahead. Molly kept close to him, the ocean looming closer to them.

The sun began to set on the horizon, and, with each passing color of the sky, the ocean grew darker and darker. As they neared the parking lot on the edge of the beach, a loud thunderous roar came from the waves behind them. Turning, Molly looked back at the ocean.

A black horse stood on the wave’s edge. Its hair dripping onto the sand, and its fur sucking in the last of the sunset’s light. Molly screamed, and the beast’s nose began to puff smoke. Beside her, she felt her grandpa grab her shoulder and shove her toward the car.

“Go,” he yelled as he pushed her forward. Together, they ran toward the parking lot, and the beast let out a shrill cry behind them. Molly pushed her feet forward, ignoring the sand that climbed up her legs and the soft sand that slowed her steps.

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The thud of hooves followed them, and Molly ran faster. Her heart thumped in her chest, and her skin grew chilled with goose bumps. The beast made another cry, and her grandpa huffed behind her, growing further and further behind.

Molly kept running, and, soon, her feet reached concrete. Keeping up her pace, she reached her grandpa’s car far before he reached the concrete of the parking lot. Molly turned to watch her grandpa, the beast growing closer to him as he began to slow.

“Keep running, Grandpa!” she yelled. He gazed behind him and, seeing the beast so close, he moved a little quicker. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out his keys and hit the unlock button for the car.

Molly opened her door and jumped inside. By the time she slipped the seat belt over her chest, her grandpa slid into the car. He slammed the door shut and jammed his key into the ignition. Outside the car, the beast roared and shook its head as it pawed at the concrete. It cried again before setting foot on the hard stone, its dark eyes wild as it began to gallop toward the car.

The car started with a hum, and her grandpa stomped on the gas before kicking the car into drive. Smoke puffed from the beast’s nostrils as it neared, its eyes dilating. The car sped away from the beast and onto the freeway. The creature tried to follow, but, soon, it became a small dot on the horizon, roaring and puffing with smoke.

Molly turned her gaze away from the side mirror as the beast disappeared, and her grandpa breathed loudly and harshly as he tried to catch his breath. Molly gazed over at him and she pulled her jacket closer.

“Was that the one you saw as a kid?” she asked.

“The very same,” her grandpa said as he glanced into his rearview mirror to make sure it was gone. He let up on the gas.

“Do you think it’ll keep following us?” she asked as she played with a loose string on her jacket. The heat started to filter through the car, and her fingers felt numb and swollen.

“I think we’ll be fine,” he answered as he glanced into the mirror again.

When they arrived at Molly’s home, her grandpa shut and locked the door behind her with one last gaze toward the road. She went upstairs to her room while her grandpa stood in front of the window, gazing out at the lawn.

Sitting on her bed, she gazed out her window. The dark night’s sky was lit up with a full moon, and the trees around their home glowed. She sat there for a while, thinking and worrying about the water horse. Occasionally, she would stand and pace, but only to sit down and chew on her fingernails moments later.

Then, she heard motion downstairs and the sound of something slamming. Running to the stairs, she saw her mother and father muttering together in front of the door.

“Where’s Grandpa?” she asked as she started to walk down the stairs. Her parents glanced at each other.

“He said something about a horse,” her mother said.

“Nothing to worry about, sweetie,” her father said as he reached down to lightly pat her head. Molly frowned, a small crease forming on her forehead. She walked over to the window and gazed out at the front yard.

There, in the middle, stood her grandpa with a rifle in his hand. He held the gun up to his shoulder, aiming at the darkness hidden in the woods. He shot once, and Molly’s mom ran over to the window beside her.

“What is he doing?” she questioned as her husband came up beside her.

“The water horse followed us home,” Molly said.

“What?” her mother asked.

“It followed us home!” Molly cried as she ran away from the window. Her parents exchanged glances.

Outside, another shot rang, and Molly screamed as she hid behind the couch in their living room.

“Get away from the window. It’ll see you,” she said as she motioned them toward her with her hands frantically.

Her parents didn’t move. They watched her grandpa, and, then, she heard the shrill cry.

Another shot rang in the night.

Molly grabbed the throw off the back of the couch and covered herself with it. The sound of another cry filled the air and again another shot. It continued another time, and, then, it was silent.

After a moment, Molly emerged from the blanket. The front door opened, and she peeked up to see her grandpa.

He stood warily and he smelled like ocean salt and blood. He unloaded the rifle and ignored the questions being muttered by her parents.

Looking at the window, she slowly crawled out from behind the couch. Staying on all fours, she neared the window’s curtain and slowly rose to peek out. There on the lawn laid a horse. It was on its side, and small tendrils of smoke poured out from its skin. Slowly, the fur began to sink into the body, as if eating away at the insides.

Her grandpa looked at her solemnly before walking over to her. Her parents had called the cops, reporting a rogue horse. Her grandpa placed a hand on her shoulder before saying, “That was only the first. They won’t stop coming now that we’ve killed one.”

“So, we have to kill more?”Molly asked, her voice tiny.

“Aye. That we might,” he said.

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Hipster Kids Unite Best of Web Nominee Taylor R. Brady

Blogs and coffeeBrick walls and fencesSepia and black and whiteYou are so deep.

Upside down picture of a treeLet them be post-modern.

Graphic design and confessional Poetry-you are so-deep.

So deep that I hope that you Never surface-that you cripple Under the notes and the journals And the John Greene books Of your teenage angst.

Cripple under your Starbucks cupsGoodwill oxfords and ugly sweaters.

Blogs and blurred out picturesWill to live questionedStir emotionConnection lost.

And the catsYou took them from us common folk-no, we haven’t forgotten.

We want our cats And coffee backThe blogs you can keepAs long as you do not misrepresent Your intent.

Sincerely - A Real Writer

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When Teachers Take Flight Lisa Ference

Watchful eyes restless desks erasers poised to become rockets fidget through the countdown pretend to be her schoolteacher from New Hampshire receiving a call to arms blaze onward

upward

sky face

space junkies

awaiting fate and to the moon Alice the 28th of January Two years past

Orwell’s future One month past

spiral ribbons

that catch the light

fire on the horizon star on tree top smell of fresh shaved pencils tastes like monomethyl hydrazine and bologna sandwiches They screamed gasping gaping gawking gleaming unable to look away as

fuzzy firework

tails escaped the inferno The real challenge was accepting the descent

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20

Swamp Paradise

Best of Web Winner Taylor Lea Hicks

21

The Trap

Elizabeth Furrey Wednesday, 3am

It’s dark in here. Only the light seeping in from the cracks in the wall allows me to see enough to document this experience. So far, things have shown to be damp -- water sliding through the hole in the wall, getting everything in sight wet. If the ink in my log runs, you’ll know why. The light goes out at odd hours. I’ve barely explored my surroundings as to ascertain the reason for this occurrence, but, to me, it seems unnatural. As for food, there is no intentional distribution.

From what I have gathered, something of little substance will show up outside of my door at undetermined intervals. I pray to God everyday that something, delicious or no, makes it to my vicinity before supper time. As for now, I intend to explore my habitat and to see if I can make it feel any more like home.

Thursday, 4pm

The light: it’s been dim all day and now it feels like some heavenly fire burns just outside of my door. Where did it come from? Dare I venture out to see what is at the center of this unnatural brightness?

I DO NOT. As soon as I neared the exit, footsteps resounded throughout the room, knocking me back toward the wall. I can barely breathe. Is this what it’s like to be scared to death? I feel like I’m dying. Get a grip on yourself, Marc.

I will get through this. I will live on. I must live for the sake of those who came before me, so they will not have died in vain. And yet, for the sake of those who still yet may come -- may they find this log and learn from it . . . learn from my mistakes.

I will survive.

Thursday, 8pm

I AM DEAD. This sound! The vibrations! What on Earth could they be doing in there? Is this a new form of torture that I am yet unaware of? What is the meaning of this?

My eardrums feel as though they are about to burst. I can feel it already. Deaf to the world, I’ll lose all the meaning of life. No music to soothe me to sleep. No woman to whisper sweet nothings in my ear – or, if she would, I could . . . not . . . hear . . . it!

I am in agony. I almost welcome perpetual silence as my only friend and comforter. Please, I beg of you, let me be.

Take my hearing if you must, but please let me live.

Please let me live.

Are the Fates laughing at me?

This ringing in my ears refuses to cease and desist.

I’m almost prepared to do what I must. I will do what it takes to make this madness stop.

My attempts at sleep proved unsuccessful. I will use the last tactic I know -- wait the bastards out.

Friday, 1 am

I’m not sure who has won, but my eardrums are quite exploded. I awoke this morning, finding a pool of blood on the floor where my head rested. I ascertain that the blood has come from my ears. I should have been much more upset than I am now, but there’s something in me that sees the good these events have caused. I am no longer subject to the auditory torture that took place only hours ago. Sure, any sane creature would be stark-raving mad about losing their hearing, but I find it to be quite enjoyable. Yes, there are only plus sides to this event.

Like Hercules, I will rise to overcome my obstacles and conquer these exterior threats.

They will say of me, Marc! The Brave! They will sing songs of my tale, stretched heroically in one of Homer’s great narratives. Or so I can hope.

Saturday, 12pm

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I have reason to believe food never existed. Maybe what I thought was eating was a notion of food to fill the void in

my soul. The data that I used to come to this conclusion is that it has been so long since food has presented itself that I’m beginning to believe it is a mirage.

Is food the mirage that covers the darkness in my soul?

I care not. I hunger. I yearn for a morsel to quench this unending pain in my stomach.

If food is a mirage – so be it. I desire it nonetheless.

Please, oh God. Zeus. Anyone? Are you out there? It’s me, Marc. I just want to say . . . I just want to say that I’m sorry. I’m recording this for you. You now have proof that Marc says he’s sorry. I know, it’s . . . it’s been awhile since we’ve talked, and I know we agreed to see other people, but help me? Help me this once, and we’ll be together again. Really. If you don’t, I’ll be dead, and where is the hope in that? See, so if you have some manna to spare, I would be greatly indebted to you. Thanks in advance. Seriously.

Love, Marc.

Saturday, 1pm GOD IS DEAD, AND I KILLED HIM. That’ll show you. That’ll show all of you. When Marc is hungry, Marc means business.

Sunday, 8am

The light feels brighter than ever, yet I do not care. If only you could see what I’ve become.

These hands were meant to create not destroy.

Listen well. The darkness of my soul is consuming me. Without food to sustain its greedy appetite, it’s climbing throughout me, wracking me with pain and agony.

How soon before I die?

Sunday, 1pm

FOOD. I gained some today. One huge, one-inch block of cheese. As I ate, I realized that it is too late for me. The darkness has grown out of control.

Sunday, 3pm

This is it. This is really the end. I was teased so, so viciously. I can endure no longer. One whiff, one morsel of food, and I return to the poor, consuming darkness in my soul. It is unbearable. I can do no more.

Sunday, 5pm

I will venture beyond this place. I will call home today. I must find something, anything that can make this hell of a life I suffer worth living. I will return soon to record my findings.

Sunday, 8pm

I FOUND IT. I FOUND THE SOURCE OF ALL THINGS YELLOW AND DELICIOUS. I chose not to devour it all today. I will ration this manna from heaven. It shall last, and the darkness of my soul shall never again rise to this ungodly magnitude. Yet, there was something on a pedestal, a tasty trophy of sorts. I will investigate further tomorrow. Await my report.

Monday, 6am

R.I.P. Marc

He was a good mouse, a kind mouse. A mouse that will probably be forgotten. All too often are our kind lured by insanity into traps like these.

- Eulogy, Courtesy Phillip

23

Lost & Found Allison Brass

I wake up slowly, cherishing sweet warm moments between the covers, because I know that as soon as I open my eyes, an icy wave of reality will hit me square in the chest. But here, in that fuzzy place between dreams and drudgery, I am able to think. I am able to think about all that has happened in the last four years without choking, without wanting to curl into a ball and hide away. Right now, in my mind, I can find my daughter’s kidnapper.

My brain works at lightning speed as I go over every last little piece of information as I know it. It was four years ago on April 4th. It was Easter. Ellie was six and a half. She was wearing a pink gingham dress and holding a pastel blue Easter basket. We were at the Governor’s egg hunt. She had the sweetest little laugh. It was so crowded; the whole town was there. I only looked away for just one minute . . . I can see her lovely, pink-cheeked face in my mind. I can hear her high, curious voice. I’m pulled toward consciousness, and, even though I’m fighting, reality sets in, ugly and vicious. I scream into my pillow. *

Clean, dressed, and with coffee in hand, I walk into headquarters like a ghost. There is no way to describe the feeling of eyes following you constantly, hearing the quick whispers of gossiping new trainees. If they didn’t know my story before, they knew it now. I just walk briskly to my desk and begin preparing for the day.

“Detective Sullivan.” My captain is a tall and wiry man in his mid-fifties. He is one of my few real friends, like a father to me. But, here at headquarters, it’s all business.

“Sir?” I ask tentatively.

“I heard what happened with the Conrad case. If you can’t handle yourself properly, I’ll have to reassign you to Narcotics.” He studies my face, knowing that I’d never go quietly. I may be good at catching tweekers and bringing down whole drug empires, but my passion is here in Sex Crimes.

“I apologize, sir. That was not my finest hour.” That’s as much as he’ll get from me, and he knows it. My first priority will always be to find my little girl. *

I grab lunch on the go as I make my rounds. My partner Bud and I are a good team. I don’t talk, and he doesn’t listen. We don’t particularly like each other. In fact, we loathe each other, but we make it work. There is something about him that always gives me the heebie-jeebies, God knows why. Everyone else seems to think he’s sweet, if a little inappropriate at times. But, my opinion of my partner doesn’t really matter. I just do my job. We knock on the door to a source of information, and the bastard opens up.

“Detectives! Good to see ya!” Krater cries. He’s a washed up, former convict who still has connections. I hate his guts, but he works for us now, even though I’m pretty sure he’s still working something on the side.

“Any news?” Bud asks. He’s the one who asks the questions, while I look around for anything suspicious. I’ve never been here. Krater usually meets us somewhere, but I guess by now he feels like he has nothing to hide.

“Nothin’ on that one dude y’all are workin’ on. But, I do have somethin’ for this pretty lil’ thing.” Krater looks me over, and I roll my eyes.

“In your dreams, jackass.”

“Play nice, lil’ lady. I got new info on a cold case,” Krater says. He knows this will get my attention. I glare sharply at him and wait. He’ll tell me when he’s ready. We stay like this, just staring at each other, for a few long seconds. Krater is a terrible person, but he gets paid to tell the truth and he’ll do anything for money. Besides, he knows I would never hesitate to arrest him again.

“I was lookin’ around that site, you know, the one with the guys who like kids? Well, I was lookin’ for somethin’ to blackmail a dude who owes me money, and I foun’ somethin’.” Of course he did. This is how things go with Krater. I try not to get hopeful because it’s probably nothing.

“Shoot,” I tell him.

“Well, I foun’ this picture, and it looks a lot like that one that I seen on that one show, you know the one with the blonde who’s so serious?”

“Nancy Grace,” I say. I doubt Krater knows that’s my little girl he may be talking about.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Well, I keep a record of all those missin’ babies. It makes me sad, all those missin’ babies.

Anyway, I foun’ this picture and it look a lot like this one.”

He hands me two photographs, the one that I gave to the press after Ellie’s disappearance and one with a young

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girl wearing only panties, tied to a bed. My blood runs cold. That’s my missin’ baby. *

I crawl into bed. Captain sent me home, telling me that under no circumstances was I allowed back to work until either this case was solved or went cold again. As much as I want to be pacing the streets, hunting down my Ellie, I know he’s right. Bud smirked when he saw me leaving Captain’s office. He’s excited I’m off the case and he won’t have to deal with me. Bud’s never been that sentimental. Tears escape my lids, and I let out a choked sob. I cry and cry until I feel dehydrated and can’t cry anymore. I spend the rest of the night pushing back that tiny hope that tries to grow in me because I know the chances are next to nil that she’ll ever be found. *

Yellow light streams through my window, and birds chirp on my fire escape. I’m in that fuzzy place again, but, this time, I’m yanked into consciousness by a scratching noise coming from the front door. I grab my gun from the bedside table and quietly walk to into the living room. I look around warily. I’m alone, and everything is in its place. Even so, something is wrong. I look out the peephole in the front door, but something blocks it. I open the door slowly. There is a paper taped to cover the peephole. I rip it off the door and read it in a second.

If you ever want to see your little girl again, come to the Aldman building tonight at 11:00. DO NOT bring back up. *

At 10:00, I get dressed and pack my things. I put everything in its place on my belt: gun, phone, pepper spray, flashlight, baton. I call my cop friend, Corelli, to let him know what goes down tonight. He’s not surprised, but he warns me that Captain will be mad. I’ve already accepted the consequences of my actions. Corelli wishes me luck and sends me with backup. *

“YOU.” I stare him down, and, suddenly, everything makes sense. I always hated him and I never understood why. Now, I know. He’s a former convict, and I knew that, but I never asked about it, never wanted to know the details.

We’ve both broken the rules because I’ve got back up, and so does he, in the form of other old convicts and tweekers; but, we’re alone up on the roof of the Aldman building, fifty stories high. Thank God I know my men can see who stands before me. They’ll tell Corelli, and he’ll avenge my grievance.

“Where is she?” I yell, wind whipping at my hair and my jacket. I’m fifteen yards away from him with a gun pointed at his heart, ready to kill him if I have to. He sees this in my eyes.

“Now, now, now, don’t kill me, sweetheart. If you kill me, you’ll never find out where she is!” He’s calm and calculating, and he knows he’s got me. My nostrils flare as I take a deep breath, fighting to think through the anger and pain.

“We have detectives searching your place right at this moment. You should just give up now.”

He begins to giggle. “What makes you think she’s at my place? She could be anywhere. In fact, she could be dead!”

I know this isn’t true. It can’t be true. Why would he hold out on me if she was gone? My phone rings, but I don’t let it distract me.

“You should probably get that, sweetie,” he says in his slow drawl. “It might be important.” He continues to sneer at me as I slowly reach down to my belt and answer the phone, gun still trained on his heart.

In a few seconds, my whole world turns upside down, and I can barely breathe. I hear Corelli on the other end of the line, but it takes a moment for the words to come clear. Finally I understand.

“The lake. He’s got a lake house on the south side. Found mortgage bills. We’re dispatching a crew now,” Corelli says.

“Thanks.” That’s all I can say. I glare at my prey and lower my gun slowly. I watch the emotions shift on his face as he realizes that he’s been had. I hold the power now.

“You forgot to tell us about your lake house, darling,” I say.

“WHAT? How did you find out about that?” His eyes are frantic as he tries to think of something else he can hold over my head.

“Every rapist, every killer, every kidnapper leaves a trail. Surely you know that by now. You took out a mortgage on your lake house a few years ago. We found bills for it at your place, just sitting there so innocently on the table by the door. How could you be so stupid? Don’t you know how dangerous paper trails can be?”

My phone rings again, this time a text message from Corelli. My heart stops in the millisecond it takes me to read it. We got her. I smile slowly, never taking my eyes off of him.

“Now come on, sweetheart. You’re going away now.”

“No . . . no, oh god, no . . . I’m not going back!” I can see he’s going to try to run. I lunge for him, but, instead of running around me, he runs toward the ledge. In the split second it takes me to realize what’s happening, it’s already done.

I run to the edge and stare down fifty stories to see Bud’s mangled and broken body splayed on the concrete sidewalk.

25

Sunset

Sarah F. Wilson

Unsaved Poetry Sara Cervantes

often i fantasize that your desires truly

stretch farther than the your arm’s length you give me just enough of what i long to hear lingering unsure

I was asked if I Have feelings for your Toxicity But it already infects in my mind and I don’t think I told the truth.

I’m sure I don’t when I prepare myself to meet you When I’ve convinced myself To leave you When I betray myself And kiss you.

But your hand rests on my heart And your poison races to my core

27

The Night Was...

James Cobb

The night was . . .

The night was . . .

The night was . . . what?

What was the night?

The night was . . . moist?

No, nights aren’t moist. Cakes are moist.

Damp? No, rags are damp.

Humid?

Yeah.

The night was humid . . .

And dark.

The night was humid and dark.

Well, of course the night was dark. The night is always dark. It’s the opposite of day, which is bright. That’s why it’s night, stupid.

Okay . . .

The night was humid . . .

And . . .

Um . . .

The night was humid . . .

And . . .

Dark? Damn it!

Stop it with the fucking dark.

Now . . .

The night was humid and dark.

Son of a bitch.

Okay, “dark” isn’t going away. So, let’s work with this.

Now . . . dark . . .

Let’s check the thesaurus.

Dark . . . black . . . gloomy . . . sinister . . . shady . . . shadowy . . . murky . . .

Yeah, maybe there’s something there.

The night was humid and sinister.

No!

The night was gloomy and sinister.

Yeah, now we’re working. Okay, what else?

What else?

Hmmm . . . Let’s go back to humid.

To the thesaurus!

Humid . . . moist . . . damp . . . son of a bitch.

Okay, new track:

The night was gloomy and sinister. The air was humid . . .

Um . . .

Okay, back to “humid” for a second.

Now, humid . . . Not moist or damp . . . Let’s see . . . Hmm . . . steamy . . . sticky . . . clammy . . . muggy . . . sultry . . . wet . . . Oh yeah . . .

Wait . . . focus.

Okay, let’s try something with “steamy” and “sticky.”

The night was gloomy and sinister. The air was humid, a steamy, sticky humid that lingers around, making everything muggy and clammy.

Okay. Better. A little too much though.

Hmm . . .

28

Let’s get rid of that “muggy, clammy” part.

The night was gloomy and sinister. The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around . . .

Okay. Not bad.

Now what?

The night was gloomy and sinister. The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around . . .

Now, what?

The night was gloomy and sinister. The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around . . .

Okay, now what!?

The night was gloomy and sinister. The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around . . .

Like . . .

a...

cheap . . .

dime-store, pulp fiction, you fucking hack!!!!

DAMN IT!!!!

What now?

Should I just start the fuck over?

I could if I had actually started in the first fucking place. You need to actually go somewhere for awhile for a start to have occurred. But, you haven’t gone anywhere. You’ve been stuck with The night was . . . for the past two weeks, you shithead!

DAMN IT!!!!

No, this is not helping. I haven’t gotten anywhere, and I won’t if I keep changing the beginning. I’ve gone from The man to The woman to The boy to The car to The boat to The sea to The day to The night. I have to stick with something.

I’m sticking with The night.

Now . . .

The night was gloomy and sinister. The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around . . .

Oppressively . . .

Wait. That’s good.

The night was gloomy and sinister. The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around oppressively.

Okay. Good. Very good.

But . . . what oppresses?

Dictators . . . fascists . . . No, that’s basically the same thing as dictators . . .

What else oppresses?

Mothers?

Wait a minute, don’t want to get Oedipal with this.

Hmm . . .

Back to the thesaurus.

Oppressive . . . cruel . . . overwhelming . . . humid?

Well, I’m in the right ballpark.

Anyway, this could still work, especially since the night is sinister.

Hmm . . . let’s try something.

The night was gloomy and sinister. The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around cruelly. With the darkness of the night, it was overwhelmingly cruel, oppressive as a tyrant. It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but one’s own imagination . . .

No, not “imagination.”

Something else. But, what?

Let’s see . . .

Um . . .

Thesaurus time.

Imagination . . . thoughts . . . dreams . . . fancies . . .

Okay, there’s something there.

The night was gloomy and sinister. The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around cruelly. With the darkness of the night, it was overwhelmingly cruel, oppressive as a tyrant. It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but one’s own thoughts. Nothing to do but to look into one’s own mind’s eye. To look at . . .

Hold on . . .

Something’s not right. Something’s off.

But, what?

The night was gloomy and sinister.

Okay . . .

The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around cruelly.

That’s fine . . .

29

With the darkness of the night, it was overwhelmingly cruel, oppressive as a tyrant.

Nothing wrong with that . . .

It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but one’s own thoughts. Nothing to do but to look into one’s own mind’s eye.

There we go. Something’s off about these sentences.

It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but one’s own thoughts. Nothing to do but to look into one’s own mind’s eye.

Yeah. Something doesn’t feel right.

It was pitch black,

That’s fine.

so dark there was nothing to see

That’s okay, too.

but one’s own thoughts.

There we go!

Nothing to do but to look into one’s own mind’s eye.

The “one’s own” part. Sounds too much like an essay. Remember what Mr. Beggs said: “There’s nothing wrong with pronouns.”

The night was gloomy and sinister. The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around cruelly. With the darkness of the night, it was overwhelmingly cruel, oppressive as a tyrant. It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but your own thoughts. Nothing to do but to look into your mind’s eye.

There we go.

To look at your dreams, your fancies, your imagination. To look at yourself, to really see yourself. To see who you really are. And, not like what you see.

Yes, this is good.

And, what do you see?

Yeah, now we’re cooking.

What do you see when you look into the abyss? What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

YES!

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

Yes!

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

Yes.

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

Yeah . . .

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

Me, I see a hack. I see a fucking a hack. I see a goddamn, lousy writer with no ounce of talent in his soul. A fucking moron who rips off Nietzsche because he doesn’t have an original thought in his body. A pretentious doofus who thinks that philosophical crap will make this dime store, pulp fiction crap look like the next coming of Ulysses! A talentless moron who has no business reading, let alone trying to follow in the footsteps of the legendary writers who came before him! A dumbass who makes Nicholas Sparks look like Margaret Atwood!

And, who is this idiot!? Who is this stupid, sanctimonious piece of shit who has the balls to call himself a writer!?

Well, his name is Marcus Riker, a puny, pitiful, little shit-stain of a man! He’s an ugly, unhealthy, plain, average-looking man who has no redeeming qualities that the opposite sex would find attractive! He uses redundancies all the time, like “plain, average-looking” as if one isn’t clear enough! He’s has no financial hopes, bouncing from job to job like a slut spending all her nights in other people’s beds! He demeans women in the littlest ways, like describing himself, because his pathetic love life is nonexistent, which is his own fault, that he takes out on the fairer sex to make himself feel better!

He’s RUDE! He’s THOUGHTLESS! HE’S A TERRIBLE LOVER! AND, HE JUST PLAIN FUCKING SUCKS!!!! HE IS SO COMPLETELY WORTHLESS THAT THE WHOLE HUMAN RACE WOULD BE BETTER OFF IF HE HAD NEVER BEEN BORN! NO WONDER GALE LEFT YOU! NO WONDER YOUR DAD HATES YOU! NO WONDER YOU CAN’T HOLD A JOB! YOU SUCK, MARCUS! YOU SUCK!!!! … … … …

Okay, let’s try something else.

There was a band of trolls walking through a field to the Cave Of Sorrow in search of a magic wand that creates evil . . .

30

A Robin Called Bobbie Lyren Grate

Mrs. Woodsmen walks into her neat and organized living room holding a mug of hot, black coffee. Her house, +with the overstuffed furniture and scratched wooden floors, is empty except for her. It is late afternoon. She has one hour before she must begin dinner and two hours before her husband will return from work. This present hour is one she has all to herself. Sixty minutes of coffee and television, usually Oprah. She sets the coffee on the stand next to the mauve armchair torn at the ends. There is a small hole burned into the left arm from her son’s friend, Jimmy, and his discovery of fire when he was just a small boy at age five. After she scolded the boys and brought Jimmy, by the ear, back to his house next door, the flustered woman explained, red in the face, his immature, troublesome behavior such as playing with fire, and ruining her favorite chair to his mother. Increasing Mrs. Woodsmen displeasure, his mother patted Jimmy on the head and laughed at how adorable her precious little son was.

Turning on the television now and setting it to the right channel, she adjusts herself in her chair. She carefully yet steadily picks up the mug beside her. Just as she brings the hot mug to her pink aged lips, she hears an obnoxiously loud scream echoing from the cracked and chipped red painted house next to hers. From fear and surprise, the mug slips out of her hand. She is, however, able to regain composure in time before the dark liquid spills onto her lap. “Quite a burn that would be,” she says aloud.

Worried yet excited to discover the owner of the scream and to learn as to why a scream was screamed at four o‘clock on a Tuesday afternoon, she quickly pushes herself out of the chair and runs barefoot out her front door. The wooden screen swings widely out and slowly closes with a creak behind her. Her stubborn feet carry her down the front steps. She slightly trips on the last step, which is a little unstable because it is a step Mr. Woodsmen is overdue in fixing; she is not, however, worried about that right now. The cicadas sing her along as she runs through the browned, dry grass of her front yard to her neighbors.

She stands out of breath. She tries to regain air in her lungs. Breathing in and breathing out. Her heart beats as rapid as a scared, small rabbit. She hesitates before pounding at the front door of the chipped red house: the only obstacle in her way of finding out what the misfortunate could be. She stands on her tiptoes and peers through the front glass window. The blinds are bent on the sides, and a few are crooked, misplaced in the middle, which provides her with the perfect view of the back of Elle’s head whose hair is French-braided like a thick coarse rope in one long braid down her backside.

Elle’s purple and blue veiny hand gently, affectionately pats the back of her son, Jimmy. Her hand moves to the top of his head, and she begins gently, still stroking his buzzed hair. He sits next to her on the couch unmoving, frozen in his place.

Mrs. Woodsmen brushes lint from her sweater and teases her hair with self-manicured fingers. Leaning forward once again, as close as she can to the glass, her nose almost smudges against it; she taps. Elle turns abruptly. Bewilderment crosses her face and in her eyes which brighten into a smile as she realizes it is Mrs. Woodsmen in the front bushes peering in with cross eyebrows and shifting eyes. Elle disappears from the couch and reappears in the doorway smiling. But before she speaks, Mrs. Woodsmen raises her hand and says, “Now, Elle.” She moves her hand to rest over her chest. “I was just fixin’ to sit down and watch my hour of television, and I heard this awful,” she meets Elle’s smiling eyes, “scream. I was so worried I ran right over here. Why, I didn’t even put shoes on.” She watches Elle’s eyes slant downward, examining her bare feet. “Now, is everything alright with y’all?”

Mrs. Woodsmen scans the inside of the house. She turns her head from side to side trying to see if anything looks unusual, but the house looks the same as always. A little dark: the light bulbs in the lamps are never brightly lit. And, the house: a little dusty. Elle is not much of a housekeeper. She is, however, a wonderful cook. Mrs. Woodsmen always shares with other neighbors’ ears, “A husband’s belly will always tell the truth of a wife’s cooking. And that woman obviously knows how to cook, but never much of a housekeeper. She wouldn’t know the difference between Pine-Sol and Clorox.”

Elle’s thin lips stretch into a smile exposing crooked teeth. “I’m sorry, Jaynean. That’s just Robin. She got herself a part in the school play. She’s just rehearsin’.”

Mrs. Woodsmen’s plump face slowly forms a simple smile to show her relief of finding out that everything is just alright with the neighbors and that no one is hurt or in danger like she suspected -- though her heart stops beating rapidly and instead drops back to a normal beating of slight un-fulfillment. “Well, why is she screaming so loud? I nearly dropped my coffee in my lap and to have spilled on my dress, this dress in particular, would have put me in a miserable mood.”

Elle rolls her eyes. “I guess it’s the scream she is havin’ most difficulty with. She can’t get it to sound real enough.”

Elle opens the screen door forcing Mrs. Woodsmen to take a step backward. “If you hear anymore screamin’, just ignore it.

I don’t know how much me and Jimmy Baby’s ears can take of it. You want a glass of sweet tea?” Elle opens the door wider for Mrs. Woodsmen who stands squinting, scratching at her big nose.

The old, curious, blonde woman hesitates. She looks through the broken blinds in the window and watches the back of Jimmy’s unmoving head. “Oh, nah.” She plays with a plastic beaded bracelet on her wrist. “Now, I only got forty five minutes of television.”

31

*

On the first Saturday in October, the air is still stuffy and warm yet the nights now smell of wood smoke and dried leaves; and the sounds one makes on buried sidewalks and through yards is a crunching. Jim removes from his two-bedroom apartment, which he has shared up till this moment with his wife and daughter for almost ten years, six cardboard boxes. Three boxes of clothes, one of magazines and videos, one for shoes, and one small box of odds and ends that he has gathered, packed, and duct taped inside the cardboard box: important not because they felt so to him, but because they should feel so to him. He carries each box from the apartment and places them in his black, dented pickup truck. It does not take him long. No more than twenty minutes. After loading the boxes, all he has left are two large, black garbage bags.

He carries them, slung over his left shoulder, one at a time. He places them in the backseat of the cab of the truck. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he leans against his truck. Chewing on a tooth pick, he looks at the little apartment. He feels no remorse. No sympathy. No need to cry as he climbs into the truck and drives away from the apartment, his family. He feels nothing. He thinks nothing except for a slight grumble in his stomach. He is hungry.

He drives forty miles through the October wind which pushes against the truck until he turns off the interstate. He and his truck bounce up and down over the rough gravel roads through a familiar town: his hometown. The only shopping “mall” consists of Kohl’s and, next to that, a TJ Maxx.

They wait for him in the long driveway: Bobbie, Elle, and Elle’s husband Jeff -- a tall man who wears his pants a little too high which causes them to be too short. They show his mismatched socks, but Jeff-colorblind never notices. He stands with his arms crossed. A bushy brown mustache, graying on the sides, covers almost all of his upper lip. A pair of large round glasses rest on the bridge of his nose and frame his blue eyes. His glasses are crooked, just below one long stretch of eyebrow. Bobbie dances in circles around them. Her hands tingle with excitement while her stomach twists: anxious. She recites lines from the play aloud until Jeff tells her to be quiet, but she continues reciting, whispering through closed teeth. Her soft golden hair blows in the wind around her head and wraps around her face; she repeatedly tucks loose hair behind her ears. She wears a pair of running shorts and a tight spandex running top.

She first learned Jim would be moving into the basement three weeks previous. She was not told exactly why his wife and daughter left him, but she was told not to ask him or mention the life he is driving away from. Though he only lives forty minutes away, they see little of him, his wife, and his daughter.

“He’s just so busy with work,” Elle explains every time he calls and cancels the night before or morning of the day he was to come over for a holiday or a visit. This always confuses Bobbie, “the busy working,” because she is sure she often sees her mother scribbling out checks addressed to Uncle Jim that are tucked in a white envelope, stamped with an American flag, and mailed off to him.

She has always known him as someone to admire. Her older brother, Jimmy, is named after him. He is Elle’s precious younger brother whom she cared for after their parents passed away. Because, at the time, he was still too young to be on his own, she dropped out of college and took a job at the Wal-Mart back home. She accepted it was her responsibility that he have three meals a day. His affectionate older sister even saved a little money for him to go to the local community college. He took the money saved, however, and spent it on a new car. He later wrecked it by knowingly running a red light.

Elle lives with the satisfaction that her brother needed her, and it was her responsibility as an older sister to care for him. If she had not returned home, she would not have met Jeff.

Jim eventually moved north to Chicago and put himself through college to get a bachelor’s degree in political science. Then, after obtaining his law degree, he met Susan. He proposed to her three weeks after their meeting and brought her back to Arkansas. They had one daughter, Lucy, named for Susan’s grandmother. Bobbie and Lucy are nearly the same age though they do not know each other well at all. And now that Susan has taken Lucy and left him, of course, Elle has taken it upon herself to invite him into her home. To care for him until he is ready to be on his own again.

“That’s him.” Elle stands at the end of the driveway. She points with a long, bony finger in the direction of the roaring black truck at the foot of a hill coming toward them. “Y’all, that’s him.” She smiles. She waves enthusiastically.

The truck honks three times. Bobbie can see Jim smiling and waving back. He is different. Unfamiliar than how she has remembered him in her mind. The man in the cab of the truck is older yet still handsome. His arm leans comfortably out of the window. The wind playfully dances with his curly hair. As he smiles and waves, his blue eyes squint and his white teeth shine.

When he steps out of the truck, in tight jeans and muddy cowboy boots, Bobbie is surprised at his height. He is only a few inches taller than she. Bobbie, although only fourteen, is tall for her age. She has the figure of a twenty year old, a face of a seventeen year old, and the innocence of a five year old. She notices that he is strongly built like Jimmy and still has a full head of gold hair like in his senior picture that is framed and hung in the dark foyer of the red house. His face is as sweet and baby-like as hers.

He shakes Jeff’s hand and receives a hug from Elle who takes moments before releasing him.

“You Robin?” Uncle Jim asks stepping over to her.

“Yup.” She smiles. “You Uncle Jim?”

He throws his head back and laughs, “You grown up, girl. You’re all legs now.” He walks over to her and hugs her.

He smells of wood smoke.

Jimmy stands with his hand in his pockets. He looks at Jim and nods. Jeff calls him over to help unload the boxes

32

in the back of the truck. Elle takes Jim’s hand and softly pats it. She leads him into the house and to the kitchen table where she has in the microwave a plate of his favorite dish: cornbread and fried chicken, waiting to be heated up and eaten.

Bobbie takes a box from the back of the truck. As she turns to follow her brother into the house, she nods at Mrs. Woodsmen who stands on her porch with a tall glass of sweet ice tea, patting her hair, and watches the three of them as they carry cardboard boxes into the red house. The plump woman scratches at her nose and thinks that perhaps she’ll have to miss her one hour of television tomorrow to meet the handsome, golden haired man with muddy cowboy boots who has evidently moved into the red house next door. *

A green lamp above him rocks back and forth, creaking with every swing as he sits at the round table in the dimly lit kitchen. Elle flips pancakes and cooks sausage at the old, brown stove. The black iron skillets that hang from a metal rack above her head collect grease from the sizzling sausage. Bobbie quickly moves around the kitchen. She takes a cherry pop tart from the cupboard and a juice box from the fridge. Jim watches her with interest. He watches her flip her hair over her shoulder and how she gently tucks loose strands of yellow hair behind her ear. When she turns to talk to him, her glistening eyes, blue and radiant, center right on his. As if he is the only person -- the first person to exist in front of those eyes. He likes this. Her gaze makes him feel important, as if he were the only one she could ever look up to and admire.

He watches her plumb-shaped lips open and close over the plastic straw of the apple juice carton held in her delicate, merciful hands. She reminds him of a young girl he dated when he lived in Chicago years and years ago. Elle knows not to speak of her in front of him. For the girl who had gone missing was eventually found, choked to death, in the bushes beside a walking trail in the public park by a pregnant woman and her husband.

“I’ll be done at five -- don’t be late,” Bobbie says to Elle before leaving the house and running to the bus stop down the road.

Jim cuts a sausage patty in half after Elle places it in front of him on a cracked tan plate decorated tackily with white and red roses. “Where you picking her up from?”

Elle turns at the sink confused. She stops rubbing the iron skillet with a dirty white sponge. “Who Robin?’

Jim nodded. “Yeah-huh.” He chews loudly then wipes his mouth with the back of his hairy, freckled hand.

“Rehearsal.” Elle grins proudly. “She got one of the lead female roles in Dracula — Maya or Mina or something like that. She takes it very seriously.”

“I can pick her up,” he says then takes another bite of sausage. Chewing with his mouth full and open, he says, “Won’t be no trouble.”

Elle shrugs. “Would help me out some. That way I can have dinner ready on time tonight for when Jeff gets home from work.”

There is a slight silence as he finishes eating his sausage. He reaches for the butter dish in the middle of the table.

“Why you call her Robin? Don’t she want to be called Bobbie?”

Elle sighs. With the skillet scrubbed and dried she is now able to eat comfortably. She sets her plate of pancakes and one sausage patty next to Jim’s and takes a seat. “Robin’s what I named her; Robin’s what I’ll call her. When she grows up, she‘ll want to be called Robin.” She brings her fork to her lips; a piece of pancake is stuck on the prongs- “Get me some butter woman,” Jim says holding the bare butter dish in the palm of his tough hands.

Elle sets her fork back on her plate and takes the dish from Jim. She goes to the fridge, and, un-wrapping a stick of butter, she places it in the dish. When she sits back at the table, her sausage patty has disappeared from its place on her plate, leaving a small pool of brown grease behind. She looks up at him and laughs to herself as he cuts the patty in half.

It’s good to have him in her home again. *

He waits in his black pickup truck in the parking lot in front of the auditorium at the high school. When it is one minute past five, he becomes anxious. Perhaps she does not see him or realize he is there to pick her up. He steps out of his car and leans against the front. From his shirt pocket, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He puts one in between his lips and lights it.

Across the field, the junior varsity soccer girls practice. They call to each other to pass the ball. High-five when someone scores. He is watching them; their strong muscular legs kick the round ball and chase after it. Long hair pulled back in ponytails bouncing up and down.

“Uncle Jim?” Bobbie taps him on the shoulder from behind. In her other hand she holds a plastic container. Inside is a garden salad her mother had prepared for her lunch.

He drops the cigarette to the ground and steps on it. “Don’t tell your mama. She wouldn’t like it very much.” His eyebrows lower regretfully.

In the car, on the drive home, she rummages around in a pocket of her black Jansport backpack until she retrieves a plastic fork and opens the lid of the plastic container. She pushes around the lettuce to better mix the homemade poppy seed dressing. Jim glances down at the salad. His long fingers reach across Bobbie and into the container on her lap. He picks out a cherry tomato. Instead of popping the small, round, vibrant red tomato into his mouth, he bites half of it, sucking on the juice before it dribbles down his clean-shaven chin. When finished, his arms slink toward her again. He picks out the other two cherry tomatoes. “Yum” he says, winking at her. She does not respond. Still, she pushes the lettuce back

33

and forth. He turns down the radio and rests his greenish-yellow eyes, squinted due to the sun, on her. “How was rehearsal?”

She lowers her head. Her bottom lip trembles. “Not so good. I keep messing up on my lines -- and my scream -- I have this big scream I have to do. And, Ms. Carley keeps telling me it doesn’t sound real enough.”

Jim pats her on the leg. “Oh, don’t get sad about it. I can help ya.” He raises his eyebrows as he glances back over at her to see her reaction.

“Would you?” she asks with a change in her voice.

He nods. “Sure, I was the lead role in my high school play, too. It must be in our genes.”

That night, as the others sit on the decaying living room furniture to watch an ABC sitcom, Jim and Bobbie rehearse lines in her bedroom. Jim suggests they rehearse in front of her dresser mirror: a wide mirror that reflects almost all of her baby blue bedroom. Painted on the ceiling is a circle of doves; each dove carries a daisy in its beak. “This way you can watch yourself and work on your facial expressions,” he justifies. They stand side by side staring into the mirror. After rehearsing for some time, she almost feels Jim does not exist outside of the mirror. Only his reflection stands next to her.

When they are to practice her scream, he stands facing her. She cannot meet his piercing stare. She feels almost naked, unwrapped by his eyes probing into her, her vision, her mind, and her soul. Uncomfortable, but not sure why, she laughs lightly then suggests they practice back to back because facing him is too distracting. *

The next afternoon, Mrs. Woodsmen marches over, this time with feet in sandals, to the red house. Elle answers the door. As sweet as Mrs. Woodsmen could be, she invites herself in and marches right over to Jim who sits in a plaid bathrobe and dirty socks, eating sliced red apples from a bowl in his lap. Mrs. Woodsmen sticks her hand out in front of his face and introduces herself. She almost, however, withdraws her hand. There is a second where she feels as if she may have offended him or made him upset. He looks at her with cold eyes, black slit pupils. Then, he flashes a smile showing off an array of bleached white, pointy teeth. His smile brightens his face and his eyes. Shaking her hand, he apologizes for not being appropriately dressed and excuses himself to the basement to change.

“I went to Colombia for Law,” he tells her after changing into a pair of brown slacks and a white collared buttonup shirt.

“In Chicago?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says confidently.

“I didn’t know that was a law school — I thought it was an art school.”

“It is.” He looks over at Elle who smiles and leans over to pat his hand. I’m so proud of you, she mouths. He is silent a moment, somber. He says, “I sure do miss my little girl sometimes, but she sure could be a little crazy bitch like her mother. Let’s not talk about me. Tell me about you. How many kids do you have? I bet you miss them.” He smiles warmly.

Mrs. Woodsmen does not stay long. When her children were younger and would play with Jimmy and little Robin, she would have full conversations with Elle in the front yard or stay for a glass of sweet tea and gossip while the kids played for just a little longer. Even after her two children grew up and moved out, she still enjoyed stopping in every now and then to hear how Elle was doing and read over letters Jimmy sent home from Iraq.

Since Jimmy returned home and sits now on the couch watching television in the dark living room, she avoids going to the house and going in especially. When she looks at him, she sees Jimmy and her son playing outside or riding bikes. Now, Jimmy just sits blankly staring with a beer in his hand. Sometimes he’ll feel her staring at him and move his eyes right onto her. She’ll gasp and avert her stare when he does this.

“He’s doing better,” Elle tells her that afternoon. “He gets money from the government every month — five hundred or so.”

“For what?” Mrs. Woodsmen asks.

“Being a hero,” Elle replies, re-braiding her hair into one long braid.

Later that night, Mrs. Woodsmen shakes her head as each scream carries over through the window. She looks over at her husband who sits with his legs crossed reading the newspaper and smoking a wooden tobacco pipe. She rolls her clear blue eyes.

“I wish she’d get done with that play.”

“Yup.”

“It’s annoying is what it is.”

“Yup.”

“I met Elle’s brother, Jim,” she says but still gets no reaction out of her husband. “He seemed strange. I’ll tell you what, that man has got some empty eyes, but not empty like Jimmy’s,” she tells her husband. “Speaking of, you would not believe what Elle tried to tell me. She told me Jimmy gets money monthly from the government for being a hero. But, I ran into Dawn from their church while I was grocery shoppin’, so I asked her about it,” Mrs. Woodsmen tells her husband whose face is still covered by the newspaper. “And she says it’s because he’s crazy. You know what they call it . . . PTD?”

“Yup.”

“And so, he gets five hundred a month for saying he’s crazy, and I’ll tell you, it’s true. I went into their bathroom one time, and the medicine cabinet happened to be open. I noticed all these pills they got him on. No wonder he just sits there all day not saying a word. That boy ain’t right. His uncle doesn’t seem much better.” A loud scream echoes into the

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open window near Mrs. Woodsmen. The sudden noise surprises her and causes her to drop her knitting needles to the floor. “For heaven’s sake!” she groans. *

Michelle rides her bike over to Bobbie’s house in the afternoon on a Saturday to rehearse. They sit at the kitchen table and eat homemade chocolate chip cookies that Elle had baked upon request just hours previous. Their scripts lay untouched in front of them on the table. Instead, they gossip and giggle over boys they like at school.

“What about Max?” Michelle giggles.

“Max Hanker?”

Michelle nods. She grins. “I hear he might like you.”

Bobbie blushes. “I thought he’s dating Brittney.”

“They broke up. But, you know what I heard?” Michelle leans in closer to Bobbie. “I heard they had sex.”

“No way.” Bobbie breaks a cookie in half. “They’re only sixteen.”

Michelle shrugs. Glancing around her to make sure they are alone, she leans in closer to Bobbie and says in a loud whisper, “I heard they did it four times in one night.”

Bobbie frowns. “That doesn’t sound like a lot.”

Michelle’s mouth drops open. She gives Bobbie an incredulous look. “Well, it‘s obvious you’re a virgin.”

Bobbie blushes. She quickly changes the topic. “Uncle Jim says I’ve almost got the scream down.”

Michelle rolls her gray blue eyes. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to lose your voice.”

Elle walks into the kitchen holding a brown bag of groceries. She smiles at the girls and says hello to Michelle. She begins to unload the groceries. She leaves out chicken to rinse and cook for dinner along with okra and buttermilk to fry.

“Uncle Jim was the lead role in his high school play. He thinks it’s in our genes,” Bobbie tells Michelle.

Elle stops unpacking the brown paper bag. “I don’t remember that.”

Bobbie shrugs. “Maybe it was before your parents died.”

Elle shrugs. “Maybe. Of course, poor kid, I worked so much I missed out on a lot of his high school things. He was such a great student, so smart and popular, too. All of his friends just worshipped him.”

“He still is. Even Ms. Carley tells me my acting has improved.” Bobbie smiles.

Bobbie walks Michelle out to her bike which leans against the back porch. Michelle wants a picture of the two of them with her digital pink camera before she rides off. They squeeze together and smile, then laugh at the outcome: Michelle’s face cut off. Jim’s truck slithers into the driveway. He jumps out of the truck and walks over to the two girls; his lips curl into a smile.

“Uncle Jim.” Bobbie laughs. “Will you take our picture?”

Jim takes the camera. He holds it out in front of his face. Analyzing the picture, he chuckles then tells them to pose again for a second picture. Before he gives the camera back to Michelle, he asks for her name. Bobbie puts her arm around Michelle and explains they are good friends. Jim watches Michelle as she bends over to unchain her bike from the porch railing. Jim leaves them on the porch. He pats his stomach. He’s hungry.

“Your uncle is cute, too,” Michelle says, scanning through her pictures.

Bobbie smiles proudly. “Mom says he’s always been real handsome.”

Michelle’s face drops into disgust. She hands her camera to Bobbie. “Look at this.”

The picture is not of their faces, but a zoomed-in picture of their chests. Bobbie laughs. “That’s just Uncle Jim.”

“I don’t know. That’s kind of weird.” Michelle deletes the photo and puts it in her back pocket.

“Whatever, Michelle, it’s funny,” Bobbie states, crossing her arms and standing firmer in her place. Michelle doesn’t turn to wave or say goodbye, and Bobbie makes a point not to do so either. *

Jim greets Bobbie with a hug after rehearsal on a Wednesday afternoon, nearly four weeks since he has moved into the basement. He lowers his head into the crook of her neck and smells her long yellow hair; she smells of lilies. Bobbie smiles and steps back. She goes to the passenger side of the truck and climbs in.

“I got a new pet.” Jim extends his right arm, resting it around Bobbie’s shoulders.

Bobbie tucks hair behind her ear. She looks at him smiling. “What is it? A dog?” she asks excited. She’s always wanted a puppy.

Jim chuckles. “Nope, it’s a surprise. But, hey, I gotta run an errand, so I guess you’re stuck with me for a little bit, girl.”

He takes her to Wal-Mart. They weave in and out of the aisles, slowing for overweight men pushing carts to their parked cars or women scolding young children for not holding their hand. Jim becomes irritated at the lack of close parking spots; he speeds up and turns left sharply to enter a new aisle, almost hitting a young woman with brunette hair who is holding a baby against her chest. She abruptly stops, frightened. Bobbie’s stomach twists at the realization that the woman was almost hit by the truck she is sitting in. The woman stands firmly clutching her child. She closes her mouth into a straight line, anger and shock rest in the lines of her face and swirl in the darkness under her eyes. She stands and she glares.

Jim honks the horn. Throwing his hands up, he says, “Move it, bitch.”

The super-store is crowded. Only one-third of the registers are open. The fluorescent lights blind Bobbie; they hurt

35

her eyes. She follows Jim through the store, pushes past people, and bumps them slightly when they stop abruptly in front of her to pull something off of a shelf. He takes her back to the pet section in the back of the store. He comes to a stop in front of a cage of white mice; his scaly hands slide into his jean pockets; he bends his knees and gazes into the cage. Hooking a finger at Bobbie without taking his eyes from the mice, he motions for her to come closer.

“Look at ‘em,” he demands, grinning.

She, too, bends her knees. The woman and the baby are soon forgotten, seeped out of her mind and replaced with the images of the white fluffy mice. “I never knew mice could be so cute,” says Bobbie in a high pitched voice, and then adds, “Aw.”

“You pick two,” he says, still watching the mice.

Bobbie turns her head toward Jim. Her hair falls over her eyes hiding her face from his. “Why? What are you going to do with them?”

Jim stands straighter. He stretches his arms, squints his eyes, and yawns. “Set em’ free.” He winks.

The white mice steal Bobbie’s attention again. She peers further into the cage. There is a small one in the corner that she feels particularly sorry for and would like to see it set free. She presses her finger against the glass.

“That one,” she says, then moves her eyes quicker around the cage, analyzing the other mice. She spots another one -- plumper and bigger than the first, but just as adorable and fluffy. She presses her finger against the glass again.

Jim nods. “Good choice.” He leaves her alone with the mice to find a clerk to help them.

“I’m sorry I can’t free all of you,” she says in a whisper, “but be happy for your little friends. They are going to be free. They’ll get to run around everywhere instead of being stuck in this cage.”

Bobbie sits with the box of mice in her lap. She holds tightly onto the top, elated that she will be the one to set them free: her mice, she chose them, out of all the mice.

He takes them in the opposite direction of home, turning on Godwin S.E. instead of Hoyte Avenue. Bobbie peers out the window, noticing the growing distance from home.

She turns to him, hands now resting on top of the box that holds the mice. “Are we going to set them free now?” she excitedly asks.

Jim rolls down the window near him. As the truck comes to a stop at the light, he leans his head out of the window and spits. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before answering, “No, I thought you’d maybe like some ice cream. That sound good?”

Bobbie smiles. “Sounds good to me.” Though, once she realizes he is taking them to the Dairy Queen near Hobby Lobby instead of the one near the local community college, she becomes nervous and wishes she had enough courage to tell him that she does not want ice cream after all and that she’d much rather just return home than have to go to that Dairy Queen right this moment, in the outfit she has on and her hair un-brushed.

Jim parks the truck crooked within two faded white lines. He lingers with his hand on the brake as he notices her hesitation. He takes in her posture: hunched over. She bites her nails as she secretively looks sideways at the fast food restaurant. He removes his hand from the brake and places it on her thigh. Patting her with a light slaps, he asks, “What’s wrong?”

She groans. Leaning her head back against the seat, she shuts her eyes tight. “A boy who goes to my school works here.” The blood rushes to her face. “I don’t know if I want to see him. I’m so nervous. I wish Michelle was here.”

Jim opens the car door slightly and spits again. He steps out of the car. Placing his hands in his front pockets, he leans back onto the heels of his cowboy boots. He walks over to her side of the truck and looks over his shoulder and into the restaurant. He notices a tall teenage boy at the register. Shaking his head a little, he stops by the closed passenger door and, growing irritated, he opens it aggressively, but meets her eyes with a smile, saying sweetly, “Come on. Who cares about a boy? Free ice cream.” His fingers tap on the roof of the truck. When she still does not move, he grows annoyed and frustrated. “Let’s get!” he says sharply. Bobbie jerks her head in wounded surprise. “Sweetheart,” he adds, rubbing her shoulder.

She nods sheepishly. Guilt resides within her that she has upset him. She steps out of the car and follows him into Dairy Queen. Giggling nervously, she says hello to the boy, Max, and asks him how work is going. Finding nothing else to say to him after ordering her M&M blizzard, she stands silently with her hands folded. Sweating slightly, she impatiently waits for Max to fix their order. Her stomach flips and turns as she stands waiting. Her heart beats wildly. She is too nervous to listen to what Uncle Jim says to her. She nods, remaining silent. When Max hands her the blizzard, their fingers brush against one another, and she blushes, turning a deep pink. Lowering her head, she says goodbye and quickly leaves the Dairy Queen with Jim stomping behind her.

She climbs into the truck flustered and happy. She is thinking only about Max, to the point that she is unaware of Jim’s sudden change in mood. His face red, like hers, but he is not blushing. His eyebrows cross and his eyes narrow. His one hand grips the wide steering wheel; the other almost crushes the blizzard from his aggravated hold.

“Idiot!” Jim says loudly, “Messed my order up. I didn’t want Butterfinger.”

“Oh no,” Bobbie says pushing hair out of her eyes. “I’m sure if you run back in, Max would fix you--”

“Who? That ugly shithead?” On his way out of the parking lot, he tosses the blizzard away in the trashcan. Bobbie becomes silent. She eats her blizzard slowly. She bites her bottom lip and keeps her eyes lowered. “Promise your Uncle Jim you won’t ever date a guy like that.”

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Bobbie raises her head, but her voice still remains hesitant and shy. “I’m sure it was a mistake.”

“No, I know his type. Know-it-all punks.” After a few moments of silence, he reaches over to her and tousles her hair. “He ain’t good enough for my favorite niece.” He laughs gently which causes her to laugh, as well. *

The red house smells of collard greens and macaroni and cheese. Hearing his truck, Elle wipes her hands on the torn and frayed rag lying in a heap on the pale beige counter. She walks onto the back porch and crosses her arms. “Bobbie, what are you holding?” Elle asks, looking from Jim to Bobbie.

“Mice.” Bobbie smiles.

Elle places her hand on her chest. “You are not bringing mice into my house.”

Jim’s arm coils around Elle’s shoulder. He squeezes tightly and kisses her on top of her head. “I’m taking care of it.

They’re for Jim.”

Elle rolls her eyes; she pats Jim on the back and says, “Well, I don’t think he’s much better. Living in my house. If he were to get out--”

Jim takes the box of mice from Bobbie. “Follow me,” he says. He leads Bobbie into the house, through the kitchen and down the stairs, to the basement. The basement is dark and musty. Only artificial light floods the room. The floor is cement. Broken furniture and old moldy boxes are shoved in to the corners. The bed of the plaid pull-out couch is unfolded and unmade.

“Uncle Jim, you told me we were setting them free.”

“Nah, I was joking. There for my new pet.” He comes to a stop in front of a glass cage, much like the ones the mice were in at Wal-Mart, atop an old dusty dresser filled with Jim’s clothes.

Her immediate reaction is fear, then disgust. “A snake?” She takes a step back from the cage, crossing her arms and scrunching her face. As if it understands her, the snake raises its small head, its stocky body covered in smooth black and gold scales, and vibrates within the cage as it moves a little.

“It’s a ball python. The guy I bought him from told me the snake is from Nigeria. It symbolizes the earth and is treated special by the people because of its symbolic meaning.” Jim laughs. “Kinda funny that something like a snake could be treated with care. It’s like those Nigerian people don’t realize the thing’s a snake.”

“I hate snakes.” Bobbie shivers as the snake coils its long body into a tight ball, then tucks its head within the coils.

“Aw, c’mon. Come here. You wanna hold a mouse?” He slowly lifts the top of the box.

Bobbie reaches out her hand; she does feel a desire to hold one of her mice. “Hand me the big one; that one is Max. The other one is Bobbie.” Jim reaches into the box and picks up the plump white mouse. He gently places Max in Bobbie’s hand. Bobbie cups her hands around the mouse. She feels his fluffy fur run against her bare skin. She holds him up to her face and smiles at the largeness of his round ears and beady black eyes. The lamp light next to her illuminates and enhances each one of Max’s whiskers.

“Alright, give ‘em here.” Jim takes hold of Max’s tail and pulls him loose from Bobbie’s cupped hands. He walks over to the cage and, lifting the top of the glass, drops Max in.

Bobbie stands horrified. She watches as the snake loosens itself from the tight ball posture, uncoiling and stretching back into one long scaly reptile, its jaw unhinging. A dark smile crosses Jims face as he stares down. “My favorite part.

Get ‘em, Jim. Eat that Max boy right up.” The snake’s mouth snaps shut. Bobbie can hear the crunching of bones. She shrieks and covers her face in her hands. “Oh, Uncle Jim, how could you?” Crying, she runs up the stairs seeking the comfort of her mother.

“We’ll save Bobbie for later.” Jim smirks, securing the lid of the cardboard box and entrapping the smaller helpless mouse. *

He can hear the water running from the upstairs bathroom. She is in the shower. He is on the end of the couch; Elle sits next to him, her arm around Jimmy. Jeff sits in the arm chair in the corner. His eyes open and close as his head nods, almost to sleep. The sun has set hours ago. It is almost pitch black outside. The darkness at night swallows the house whole. It no longer looks bright red such as during the day. At night, it looks black and almost invisible. If not for the lights in the windows, one walking by would not even notice a house there.

When he hears the water shut off, he stands, pulling on his pant legs. He stretches his arms — he is in a hurry.

He has waited so long; he cannot wait any longer. “It’s been such a long day, Elle,” Jim whimpers. He presses his fingers against his eyes. “Such a blow to me.”

Elle nods. “For all of us, baby. What do you need? Can I do something for you, honey?”

Jim wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “I guess I sure would like the house to myself tonight for a few hours. Maybe until ten o’clock or so. Could you do that for your baby brother?”

Elle walks over to Jeff and kicks his ankles lightly. “Get up, you two. We’re going out for dinner,” she says to Jimmy and Jeff. “I’ll tell Bobbie to get ready.” As she turns to leave the room, Jim stops her.

“Oh, Elle, leave the girl be. She’ll be okay here. She’s as quiet as a mouse. She won’t bug me none.”

“But, you just said you were needing the house to yourself. Should we stay instead?” Elle asks, raising her eyebrows, confused.

Jim buries his face in his hands. “Oh, I am not right in my head right now, Elle. I cannot say for sure what I want,

37

but silence is — does sound nice. You know what, I’ll just drop her off at Michelle’s, and she can stay the night there. No need to rush out of her shower.”

Elle moves her mouth from side to side, contemplating the suggestion until she nods in agreement. She picks up her purse from the kitchen counter and follows the two men out of the house. “Love you, Jim, baby. Call if you need me, honey,” she yells behind her.

Once he sees the silver, rusted station wagon reverse out of the gravel driveway and speed off down the long stretch of road, he stands. He leaves the living room. He holds on to the metal railing of the winding staircase and walks up the steps and down the dark hallway. The steam from the open door to the bathroom warms his body, quickens his pulse, and makes him walk faster. He knocks at the door.

“I am so sad about my girls. I was hoping you could cheer me up, Bobbie. Maybe we could rehearse, and, hey, I want to apologize if my snake scared ya,” he says, his hand on the knob.

“Oh,” Bobbie says startled. “Give me a minute. I just got out of the shower.”

Ignoring her, he turns the knob on the white door and enters the room.

Bobbie stands in front of her mirror, over her dresser, combing the tangles out of her hair. Reflected in the mirror, she sees Jim open the door. She drops the brush to the floor. In her white towel, she crosses her arms around her chest.

Her hair, damp and stringy, partially covers her surprised face. Without turning around to face him, she asks him to leave.

He does not. She hugs the towel closer to her chest. She watches him close the door behind him. She laughs nervously, asking him once again to leave. He wipes his sweaty hands on the front of his black pants, and then begins to fumble with his gold-colored, snake-skinned belt around his waist. His greenish-yellow eyes burn into the smoothness of her neck. He wants to inhale her. Inhale her very being. Suck out her soul with one long, passionate intake of breath like he did to the others. He approaches her, smelling of wood smoke. *

Mrs. Woodsmen measures the dark red wool scarf in her arms. She wraps it around her neck, judging if the length would be adequate for Bobbie’s neck: a gift for opening night of the play. She asks her husband, who sits on the couch puffing on his tobacco pipe across from her, hidden behind the newspaper, if he thinks the scarf is a decent length. “Yup,” he says.

She rolls her eyes and continues knitting. Looking across at Mr. Woodsmen every so often, she sighs. “Did I tell you they found ‘em? Jim, you know, Elle’s brother? They found his wife and little girl. Bless his heart. That poor, sweet man. How he is dealing with such news, I do not know. Leanin’ on God, I hope. I mean, sure, they left the poor man, but to be found dead in garbage bags, floatin’ in that creek that runs behind Chestnut Park. Gives me the shivers thinkin’ I used to go there with our babies. Strangled; both of ‘em were. With a belt, they think. But, I wonder if it wasn’t a scarf of some sort because they found gold fibers on their necks. God knows who did it. It was all over the news. Whole town is shaking with fear. You know what I’ll do? I’ll bake him pie.” She nods to herself satisfied. “Blackberry, cherry, apple, peach . . .” She rambles into silence.

She has become almost immune to the screaming and, so, when she hears it travel through her window, she does not drop her knitting. The scream, however, sounds different; it sounds painful and desperate and dies with the same amount of immediacy that it had begun. She once again wraps the red scarf around her neck, deciding it is long enough and now begins to become worried it may be too long. She looks behind her shoulder at the light in the window of the second story of the peeling dark house. “She’s gotten better, don’t you think?” She turns to her husband. “That one almost sounded real.”

“Yup,” Mr. Woodsmen says and turns the page.

38

Because He’s My Son Best of Web Nominee Sarah F. Wilson

Lights come up on the apartment which is set with a couch, a coffee and side table, and a large, rather comfortablelooking reclining chair. There is a door that works as the front door and an opening that works as a hallway to the rest of the apartment. The apartment is decorated with nice furniture; it is organized and very clean, almost sterile. It should give the audience the feeling that a wealthy couple lives there. There is a family photo with a man, woman, and young son sitting on the coffee table. The lights come up on the apartment. MARK walks into the living room, entering from the hallway. He walks over to the liquor cabinet, pours himself a drink, and pulls out a gun. He promptly sets his drink on the coffee table. He paces for a moment, gun in hand. He stares at the gun, takes a deep breath, and then sticks it in his suit pocket before flinging his lab coat over his shoulder. He exits through the way he entered. The room is empty as a gunshot is heard off stage. MARK enters the living room again, carrying what is supposed to be the body of a small child wrapped in his lab coat which completely covers the child. He lays the child down at one end of the couch, puts the gun on the coffee table, and then sits at the child’s feet, staring blankly at the picture of the family. He picks the gun up and puts the gun in his mouth as if he is going to shoot himself through the roof of his mouth. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. The sound of someone trying to get in the door is heard. He shows no emotion. KATHERINE, a woman in her late 30’s/ early 40’s, wearing sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, enters through the front door, carrying a bag of groceries with her. She does not notice the scene in front of her for a moment as she walks in and kicks the door shut with her foot, trying to get in the door. MARK quickly places the gun back on the coffee table. MARK’s character remains completely numb throughout most of the scene, never showing much emotion.

KATHERINE fumbles with everything, trying to lock the door back.

KATHERINE: Hello, hello! It’s a beautiful evening outside, Charlie. I wish you could see it! The sky is so colorful and pink. Mommy brought you a some presents. She got you a nice new Star Wars blanket and some flash cards so we can learn letters tonight. MARRRRRRK, MARK, SWEETHEART, CAN YOU COME . . .

She turns around and sees MARK sitting on the couch.

KATHERINE (CONT’D): Oh, hello darling, didn’t see you there . . . sorry I’m late, we’ll eat by 7, I promise.

She attempts to stumble down the hallway but pauses, noticing the lab coat. She drops the bags in the big reclining chair.

KATHERINE (CONT’D): What . . . what happened? What is that on my couch?! And what is on my coffee table?

MARK: Charlie.

KATHERINE: Charlie?

MARK: Charlie.

KATHERINE: No, no it isn’t. There’s blood. What’s really under your lab coat? This isn’t funny, darling.

MARK: Charlie.

KATHERINE: He’s, he’s in his room. I can go check on him. He can’t move, he can’t get out of bed, so he has to be there.

You never carry him into the living room until 7 o’clock for his show. For his show that comes on every night at 7. It’s only 6, so he’s still in bed, right? That’s when Charlie is on the couch. At 7, not 6. Not now. So what is that?!

MARK: Charlie.

KATHERINE: Stop lying to me! I’m going to go check on him. And everything will be fine. We’ve already lost him once; we can’t lose him again.

39

MARK: He won’t be there, Katherine.

KATHERINE pays no attention to him and walks down the hallway. Moments later, she runs back into the living room.

She is pale and breathing heavily.

KATHERINE: He wasn’t there.

Panicking and beginning to cry.

KATHERINE (CONT’D): He . . . he . . . wasn’t there. He wasn’t there. Mark, he wasn’t there. Charlie he . . . he . . . wasn’t, he wasn’t there, he should be there, my baby wasn’t there though, my boy . . . he . . . wasn’t . . .

MARK: I’m sorry, Katherine. So sorry.

KATHERINE: (Walks up and slaps MARK, then grabs and shakes him while speaking) Where is he, Mark? Where is he? I left him here with you to run an errand, a quick . . . afternoon . . . errand. He can’t walk, he can’t move, he can barely keep his eyes open for more than an hour . . . where did he go? Where did he go, Mark? MARK! MARK: I did what is best for him.

KATHERINE: I want my baby! Mark, what did you do with my baby? Where is he?

She collapses at his feet. Begins to stroke her hair.

MARK: I’m sorry, Kat, I am. I did what was best for him. He won’t hurt anymore. He won’t suffer forever, and you won’t have to suffer forever. I did what was best.

KATHERINE: So, that . . .

MARK: . . . is Charlie.

Walks over and picks up the child’s body. She sits down on the opposite end of the couch, holding the body close to her own and rocking back and forth. She lifts the lab coat up to look at the face, she runs her hand over it, and then covers him back up, beginning to sob again. MARK just watches her quietly as she sobs hysterically for a moment and then begins to scream at him.

KATHERINE: Not again. Not, not again. Not again. Not again. Whyyyyyy? Why would you . . . why? Not again. My baby.

Not again. Noooo, my baby. Why again? Why? Not again.

MARK: I’m sorry, but I couldn’t. No one, not you, or him, deserved what was happening, and I couldn’t let his life, your life continue that way.

KATHERINE: He is only four years old.

MARK: (Sympathetically) Katherine . . .

KATHERINE: WHY?!

MARK: Knowing what we know, what I know. He was just a vegetable, nothing more.

KATHERINE: He was going to get better.

MARK: The boy drowned.

KATHERINE: And survived.

MARK: By who’s definition?

KATHERINE: You rescued him. You pulled his body from the water and you saved him.

You saved his life. And then you took it?

40

MARK: I ruined his life.

KATHERINE: How can you say that? Remember, he fell into Anna’s pool while playing with the kids at Thanksgiving.

And you kicked off your shoes . . .

MARK: I shouldn’t have taken the time.

KATHERINE: (Slowing beginning to stop her crying) . . . and you jumped into the pool and swam to him. It was freezing, but you jumped in. You saved my baby. You saved more than that; you saved our family.

MARK: . . . someone should have been out there. An extra thirty seconds and maybe . . .

KATHERINE: . . . you did everything you could. You got him breathing again. You kept his heart alive until the paramedics got there. You saved him. You kept him alive.

MARK: I shouldn’t have. I should have let him go. Should have just held him until he moved on.

KATHERINE: You gave him back to us.

Breaking from his lack of emotion, beginning to become angry, and yelling at some points.

MARK: No I didn’t! I was late, I was too late. I gave his body back to us, not Charlie.

KATHERINE: But you, but you, you saved him.

Stands up and begins to move angrily around the room, yelling. At some points, he might break down for a moment and then get angry again.

MARK : I tried to save him. I failed. I failed you. I failed me. Most of all, I failed him. I didn’t save his life. He was gone.

He has been gone. And, it’s all my fault. I knew, pulling him out of the water, that it was too late. That, if he did live, he would never recover. But I was selfish. I wanted him and I saved his body. I knew Katherine. I knew we would be miserable and I tried anyways hoping for a miracle. But . . . God damn it, I am the man of this house, the protector, and I couldn’t protect our own son. I should have been out there watching them. Why wasn’t anyone watching them? I made him miserable, pulling him from that water. We should have just watched him die. Should have held him and let him go.

That’s what a good father would have done.

Raising her voice and yelling at him. Their voices remain raised until otherwise noted.

KATHERINE: What are you talking about?! You gave him his life back! You saved him! That makes you the most amazing father in the world.

MARK: What life? I gave him the ability to breathe again. The ability to pump blood. The ability to open his eyes for a brief moment. I gave him machines. I gave him pain. I took away his ability to smile. To laugh. That makes me the worst father in the world.

KATHERINE: He could get better. They said it would take time. But he could . . .

MARK: That’s what we say when we want families to have hope. When we see that a family is trying to hold on. I’ve seen this in adults before. They never get better.

KATHERINE: But, children are resilient!

MARK: He had the capabilities of a 2 month old baby. He wasn’t going to get better. The fact that he could breathe at all after that long in the water made him resilient.

KATHERINE: But with flashcards . . .

MARK: The flashcards, Katherine? The flashcards? He can’t move, he can’t speak, you’ll be changing his diaper forever.

He was in pain and couldn’t tell you. You just had to sit there and watch. He was never going to be more than a slightly

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intelligent potato. He would never walk again, never be able to say more than baby sentences, if anything at all. Is that the life you wanted for your son?

KATHERINE: (Falling back into tears) But you saved him . . . you saved him . . .

MARK: (Calmly sits back down on the couch and takes a deep breath. He stares at KATHERINE for a moment then goes back to being completely numb) No, Katherine, now I have saved him.

KATHERINE: (Completely hysterical again) You didn’t save him! You didn’t! You killed him! You took my son away from me! You killed him. You’re a murderer. Oh my God! Oh my God! Ohmygod! I married . . . I married a murderer!

She jumps up and, still holding the child, begins kicking MARK as hard as she can. He does not fight back but just sits there and takes it for a moment.

KATHERINE (CONT’D): You killer! You son of a mother fucking bitch! You murdering bastard, I could fucking kill you right now! You took my son away. I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. You deserve to go to hell. I want you to die.

Die you son of a bitch you hear me? You’re a murdering bastard. You took my son! You took my son!

MARK: (Calmly stands up and pulls KATHERINE tight to his body while she still continues to kick and yell at him) Katherine, shhhhhh, Katherine. I’m sorry, I am so sorry.

KATHERINE breaks down in tears again and goes still. She begins sobbing. The couple stands silently for a moment, KATHERINE still holding their child in between them.

KATHERINE: I love you Mark, but I hate you at this moment. I hate what you did. I hate it so much. We could have been happy . . .

MARK: How Katherine? How could we have been happy, watching him live like that forever? Machines hooked up to him to make sure he is breathing, knowing that he is in pain, and being able to do nothing about it? We would become stuck, watching something dead breathing. You would become so frustrated with him. You have before, and it would just have gotten worse.

KATHERINE: (She sits back down on the couch, a little closer to MARK this time) Never . . .

MARK: I’ve heard you, Katherine.

KATHERINE: I love him – I don’t . . . I would neMARK: I’ve seen you with the flashcards, begging him to remember something. Anything. Just to say “mama” or “papa.”

We did that when he was 18 months old. We shouldn’t have to be back there again when he turns 18. But we would be. It would be that way for the next 14 years, 20 years, every day until we die. And he would be lying in the nursing home bed next to us. Do you want that for him? A life in a bed? A life that is not really a life at all. Never learning, never seeing the world or doing things?

KATHERINE: A life is a life!

MARK: No, living and simply being alive are two very different things. He had a life, but he would never get to live that life. Date girls, make mistakes, all the crazy things that got us in trouble. He wouldn’t know what love is.

KATHERINE: You don’t think he knew what love is?

MARK: Before the event, yes. After, no.

KATHERINE: (Raising her voice again) I sat next to him every night. I cleaned him. I held his hand and told him things would be okay. I think he knew.

MARK: You were telling yourself things would be okay. Medically speaking, there’s . . .

KATHERINE: (In that angry mom tone) He knew I loved him!

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MARK: But . . .

KATHERINE: FRANCIS MARCUS TERRELL, you already left me to take care of him most of the day . . .

MARK: I had work!

KATHERINE: . . . then took him away from me, you do not take this away from me, too. He knew I loved him and he loved me very much.

MARK: (Leans over and kisses KATHERINE on the forehead) You’re right, baby, he knew we loved him and he loved us.

I never should have thought otherwise. We were a family. Of course, he knew love.

KATHERINE: Thank you. Now you need to leave. Just go away. I want to be left alone.

MARK: I had planned to be gone before you got home.

KATHERINE: Then, why hadn’t you left.

MARK: Not in that way, Katherine.

KATHERINE: I am going to ask you in what way, not because I want to hear it, but because I need you to tell me what you were planning. I need to hear you say it.

MARK: There were two bullets in that gun. One meant for Charlie and one meant for . . .

KATHERINE: Mark, sweetheart, I know I said I wanted to kill you, but I didn’t mean it. You can’t leave me alone, not forever.

MARK: We live in Texas. Once the police get involved, you’re going to lose me either way.

KATHERINE: You don’t know that.

MARK: I killed my own son. The state will see to it that the same happens to me.

KATHERINE: We can fight this, get the best lawyer money can buy.

MARK: I won’t watch you go broke while I am in jail spending money on a lawyer that won’t help.

KATHERINE: (Nervous and rambling) I can’t lose you. You’re my family. You and Charlie. I can’t lose my family.

MARK: Katherine, things would never be the same again. You wouldn’t be able to love me, not knowing what I did. You’re just scared, but it will all be okay.

KATHERINE: You don’t know that.

MARK: I’ve already called Anna, told her that things didn’t look good for Charlie, and she is on her way down. Should be here in about an hour. You can let her call the police, and then the rest of your family will follow soon after. They’ll all be here for you. I’ve left you a good sum of money in the liquor cabinet in cash. It should cover everything you ever need.

Don’t stay here, move away, and let go. You deserve so much more than I was ever able to give you.

KATHERINE sits silently staring at him. She can’t say anything, but instead continuously wipes tears from her face.

MARK pulls out a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and hands it to her.

MARK (CONT’D): You need to leave now.

Curls up in Mark’s arms and kisses him lightly on the cheek. She is still holding the child. She is for the moment calm.

KATHERINE: Just one more minute. Just one more moment, sitting here, on the couch, as a family. Our last moment.

Please don’t move. Stay for a minute. For me. For Charlie. So I won’t hate you when I wake up a year from now. Just a moment.

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MARK places his finger on her lips and kisses her cheeks.

MARK: I love you.

The family sits on the couch for a moment. Nothing is heard. Everything is still. Eventually, KATHERINE stands up, lays the body nicely on the end of the couch. She walks over to the recliner, pulls out the new blanket, and wraps the body in it. She then walks over to MARK, puts her hands on his face, and stares at him. Then, kisses him on the forehead, turns, and leaves. She lingers in the doorway, looking back at them for a moment. MARK leans over and turns out the lights.

The only light coming in is flooding through the door where KATHERINE still stands.

KATHERINE: I loved you, too.

She closes the door behind her and the stage goes dark. A gun shot is heard. The stage stays black for a moment, then the curtain drops.

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Vortex Staff Art Jessica Camp - Section Editor Meleah Bowles Calli Morrison Logan Whittington Fiction Emily Qualls - Section Editor Candace Baker Chase Castleberry Nicole Godfrey Darby Riales Media Mary Mulford - Section Editor Elizabeth Furrey Emily Walter

Nonfiction Chase Night - Section Editor Hannah Bryant Kayelin Roberts Emily Walter Poetry Colleen Ruth Hathaway - Section Editor Chelsea Callantine Christopher Hall Mary Mulford Taylor Neal Sarah Jane Rawlinson Scriptwriting Taylor Lea Hicks - Section Editor Elizabeth Furrey Tre Sandlin Alissa Sexton

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Colophon Vortex was created on a Macintosh iMac, using InDesign CS5.5, Photoshop CS5.5, and Illustrator CS5.5. Theme fonts are It Lives In The Swamp (BRK), Georgia, and Handwriting - Dakota.

Design by Taylor Lea Hicks.

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Judging Vortex has a specific process for editing submissions. All submissions of art, poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and media are considered for both online and print publication. The process of judging consists of all work being submitted online to the Vortex via email: vortexmagazine@ gmail.com. The Editor-in-chief views each piece, ensuring all author’s names are omitted, and then distributes submissions via email to the section editors who distribute them to their team of judges monthly. All judges give a vote of yes, no, or maybe. Work with a majority of yes votes and approval from the managing editors are published. Judges are required to vote against their own submissions to ensure fairness. Only students currently enrolled at UCA are eligible to submit work and they must provide their real name and UCA ID number to be considered for publication.

The views and expressions portrayed in this book by individual artists do not reflect the views of the Vortex of Literature and Fine Art’s staff, and the University of Central Arkansas.

The Best of the Web stories are decided upon by judge and section editor votes. Nominees are the highest scoring in their genre (1 per literary genre, 2 – 3 for art). Nominees are then judged and voted on by the editing staff. On the rare occasion that a tie occurs, both nominated works will be published in the print edition. All judging is blind.

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