THE MUSE

MMIIXIV






Regan Aland

Contents
Staff..4
Letter from the Editor .5
Subscription, by Adelaide Kimberly, featuring art by Garret Mitchell.......6
A Wink, by Reid Carter, featuring art by Mary Parker Wetzler...8
Vegemite Sandwiches, by Ellie Hagar, with art by Julia Jane Duggan and Alexa Ruttenberg..10
Father, by Barrett Potter14
My Cross Country Experience, by Elise Nesbitt, with art by Meg McCalley...15
Backward/Forward, by Barrett Potter...17
Winter in the Desert, by Daniel Neville.18
Rings, by Barrett Potter, with art by Meg McCalley.19
Layers, by Deanna Medina20
Split Decisions, by Barrett Potter...21
Flooded Silence, by Adelaide Dunn, with art by Austin Chapman...22
Young Love, by Alexandra White, with art by Meg McCalley..23
White Noise, by Robin McDaniel, with art by Kara Gravlee 24
Overwhelmed, by Deanna Medina.25
Wisdom and New Life, by Dera Carr.....25
Mythology, by Riva Cullinan.26
The Confession, by Andrew King..27
Sleep, by Caroline Milligan and Annie Sheffield..28
Things Done Correctly are Seldom Done by Your Family, by Sarah Beth Daniel, with art by
Mary Nelson Little.29
Sonnet #7, by Garret Mitchell 31
The Memories Ive Kept, by Alexa Ruttenberg, with art by Julia Jane Duggan32
Mown Lawns, by Adelaide Dunn...34
Happiness Is, by Brantly Sanders, with artwork by Deanna Medina...35
The Grandest Question, by Andrew King, with art by Mary Parker Wetzler...38
A Gun, A Flight, And A Smile, by Ansley Joy Peacock, with art by Mary Parker Wetzler...39
Hawaiian Time, by Bailey Martin, with art by Mary Nelson Little..40
Separation Anxiety, by Caroline Luckie42
Tulips Made of Ash, by Robin McDaniel, with art by Frances Hancock...43
Stage Fright, by Betsy Limbaugh..45
Elaa Taysilla, by Betsy Limbaugh, with art by Meg McCalley46
A Final Approach, by Riva Cullinan, with art by Janey Hollis.47
Work in Progress, by Mary Shelton Hornsby 49
A Missing Link, by Betsy Limbaugh..50
Rib, by Barrett Potter.51
When September Ends, by Virginia White, with art by Deanna Medina..52
A Broken Heart, by Kacy Sandefer....54
Shotgun, by Tucker Deaton, with art by Austin Chapman55
A Greater Plan by Vincent Ziceralli57
Just For Myself, by Anne Merick Hamilton..58
Window Pain, by Stephen Little, with art by Mary Parker Wetzler..59
Bracing the Ground, by Riva Cullinan, with art by Eli York 61
The Paint Brush, by Chaise Belt60
You and I by Chandler Gory, with artwork by Regan Aland...63
Fallen Angels, by Sarah Beth Daniel, with artwork by Mary Parker Wetzler...64
Losing in the Big Leagues, by Jessica Sirkin.65
I see a Family Praying, by Chandler Gory67
The Eternal Affection, by Charlie Boyd.70
Day and Night, by Coke Matthews...71
Jehovah Witnessed, Daniel Neville72
Zeus, by Eli York...73
Through Child's Eyes, by Sarah Beth Daniel, with art by Sunny Nguyen74
From Russia with Love, by Riva Cullinan, with artwork by Julia Jane Duggan...75
Brave and Artful Land, by Mary Shelton Hornsby, with artwork by Dera Carr...76
The Four Seasons, Natalie Buzzard..77
Pain Never Gone, by Lacey Ballard, with artwork by Deanna Medina79
Breaks, by Deanna Medina80
The Politician, by Natalie Buzzard, with artwork by Kara Gravlee..81
Where Trees Used to Stand, by Caroline Milligan83
The Lemonade Stand, Cat Schultz.84
Gone For Good, by Kara Gravlee, with art by Ann Pickering.85
Loblolly, Adelaide Kimberly.86
The One, by Reid Pyburn, with art by Janey Hollis...95





Staff

Adelaide Dunn: Editor-in-Chief
Eli York: Art/Graphic Design Editor

Cat Schultz: Junior editor
Adelaide Kimberly: Sophomore Editor

Barrett Potter
Betsy Limbaugh
Daniel Neville
Deanna Medina
Dera Carr
Ellie Hagar
Mary Shelton Hornsby
Natalie Buzzard
Riva Cullinan
Robin McDaniel
Sarah Beth Daniel
















Cover Art by: Regan Aland
Dear Readers,
First off, thank you for reading this; This being both my letter (theres much more
enticing material below, I swear), and this being our magazine. The Muse is a labor of love,
and although it sometimes feels more like a labor than a love, seeing it all come together like this
feels like watching a child grow up. (At least The Muse wont leave me sorry Mom). Our
faithful staff has spent a year preparing for the strain of these last three weeks, from weekly
writing prompts and critique sessions to meals of CoCo puffs, ice cream cones, and those
chicken sandwiches that, lets be honest, arent always chicken. The fifteen of us have poured
our time and effort into this 2014 edition, and have put up with the not-so-pretty version of
stressed-out me (picture a chicken with their head cut off in the midst of a caffeine high).
To the staff I say thank you, and Im sorry, and thank you again. To Mrs. Trimm, our
fearless leader and mentor, I sing my eternally out-of-tune praises. She has been our captain,
friend, mentor, coach, and cheerleader. There would be no Muse without her, and (I suspect) no
her without Muse.
To you, dear reader, tread carefully. Embark with high hopes and a box of lotion-infused
tissues. This magazine was made with mostly tears and tiny pieces of our souls (a horcrux,
maybe?).


Good luck, and may the Muse be ever in your favor,
Adelaide Dunn
Editor-In-Chief
2013-2014









Subscription
Adelaide Kimberly

She collected perfume
samples pressed between
pristine magazines, bearing
faces of those smarter, stronger,
and more beautiful than
the greasy fingers
smudging inky smiles.

Fragrances tucked into a
drawer, applied when
eyes were battered black,
chest pushed out so
breathing burned,
and personality exchanged for
laughter like broken bells.

She fantasized of nights
with voices calling to her,
eyes tracing her face
searching for a chance
to approach and listen
to the clanging of
her broken bells.

After leaving,
their thoughts would be filled
with Candy Apple,
edition two-twelve,
and Spring Thyme,
Garrett Mitchell
first collected and now
discarded by the identity drawer.

Restless for this perfumed
persons birth, she
consulted glossy friends,
listened to tales of
flashlight nights and
warnings against Paint Me Peony
over Rainy Rapture.
The nights came.
Seated next to the drawer
she collected Moonlight Aura,
peeled away corners
stained with dreams.
She often considered advice
from those all-knowing friends.

Nights faded with
fragrances and words
as average as the readers.
Only Spring Thyme remained
but it is tossed
and she wonders why
this was ever an option.





A Wink
Reid Carter

The aroma of fish filled the air. My boat eased toward the dock during the last few
minutes of the state championship fishing tournament. My mother and grandfather stood
nervously, watching. I knew what lay ahead of me could evoke either undeniable
disappointment or a feeling of accomplishment I had never felt before. Although feelings of
doubt invaded my thoughts, I could tell my mother and grandfather also suspected that my days
catch would be insufficient to compete. Soon after noticing their uncomfortable doubt, I winked
at them, silently communicating that everything would be all right.
As time expired, my boat was one of the last to arrive for the weigh in. Meeting me on
the dock, my mom and grandfather only wanted to know how I thought I did. They didnt
realize I was isolated the whole day and knew almost as little information as they did. I stayed
quiet, only letting my personal spectators know I had caught a limit. I knew it was crucial that
my fish stayed alive for the weigh in, so I bolted to grab the bag I was going to put my fish in
while I waited my turn to weigh in. As soon as I returned with the bag, I hopped into the boat,
opened the live well, and reached into the icy water to retrieve my bounty. Thankfully, this
process went smoothly. As I fished the largemouth out from the live well, the half-pound
disappointment came first, then the three-pounder surfaced, and finally I grabbed the four-pound
kicker I was trying to catch the entire day. I saw out of the corner of my eye the flash of my
moms camera capturing the moment. The sparkle dominating my grandfathers eyes gave me
hope. I thought he had he had seen the leaderboard and wondered if I could possibly be a top
finisher.
At the weigh in by the waters edge, there were three oxygenated tin tanks for the
contestants to place their fish in while they moved down the official line closer to the stage. I
hurried to the tanks in order to keep my fish alive as they flopped around inside the beige mesh
bag. I saw many people in line in front of me who had shown up without catching a single fish.
This boosted my confidence that I could be high up on the podium. While waiting my turn, I
caught a glimpse of the leaderboard. It listed, in electronic red, the top weight of the day at just
over nine pounds. Knowing my total catch would not surpass nine pounds, my shoulders
dropped. Moving from one holding tank to the next, I waited for my name to be called.
Suddenly, I heard blonde haired, blue eyed, tan skinned, bassmaster legend Tim Horton
say, Alright lets see who we have up next. Come on up here and show us what youve got.
Confidence wavering, I stumbled onto the stage with the mesh bag in my hands. I handed the
wriggling bag over to the official, and he put them on the scale. After Mr. Horton asked me a
few standard questions, we both looked up at the scale and saw that the weight reached exactly
7.71 pounds. I was proud but inwardly disappointed that I had not won. Mr. Horton then
mentioned, That outta be a top three or four finish, Reid. Nice catch. Feeling optimistic due to
his encouraging remark, I went back and sat in the stands with my mom and grandfather.
Mary Parker Wetzler
Since I was one of the last people to weigh in, the time for announcing the awards came soon
after my fish were weighed. A hush blanketed the crowd as the awards for the younger division
boomed through the speakers. Like any good awards, the prizes were given in reverse order
from fifth place to first place.
When Mr. Horton finished
announcing the second place
winner, there was a pause. He
spoke clearly and declared that
the first place winner in the 11-
14 year old age division was
Ryan Parks with 9.91 pounds.
I did a double take. The
competitor with nearly ten
pounds was not in my age
group. He was younger! I
realized I might still have a
chance at winning first place.
It seemed like the applause and
presentation of awards for the
11-14 age group took hours,


but eventually it came time for
the older group to be
announced. Before Mr. Horton
broadcasted second place, and I
became unbearably nervous, marked by the uncontrollable shaking of my right leg. When he
called out, And in second place with 7.68 pounds, Seth Butts, I knew I had won. I began to
prepare for my name to burst out of the speakers. After Seth had received his awards and
applause, Mr. Horton spoke excitedly into the microphone, This years winner of the 15-18 age
group is Reid Carter! The crowd broke into applause, and I shuffled up to the stage with gusto
to accept Mr. Hortons firm handshake. Dazed and confused by the waves of prizes and
congratulations from the other competitors, I tried to comprehend what had just happened. The
grin on my face was as wide as it could go, stretching from one side of my face to the other. My
eyes darted around and happened upon my grandfathers. He winked, letting me know that
everything had turned out all right.



Vegemite Sandwiches
Ellie Hager

Erins home was now hosting the conflicting aura of her roommate's, Jerry, melancholy,
and the fun loving Australian band known as Men at Work. This had to be corrected
immediately.
It wasnt the particular song, but the incessant playing that was worrisome nevertheless.
There was a certain pathology that was involved when Jerry was flipped over backwards on a
couch for more than half a day, with any song playing on a seeming eternal repeat.
Listen, you know I love Men at Work as much as the next guy Jerrys eyes flick up
with an aggressive warning that seems to translate God, you better, Ill leave you right now if you
say otherwise. Erin knows him well enough to stay true to the theatrics of Jerrys eyes, so
amends herself with, But the lyrics arent going to change anytime soon. Really, give Colin a
break yeah?
Im moving to Australia. Jerry holds the same detached finality he always does during
most off days.
Erin unpacks the milk from
the groceries she has on the
counter. Ah, well, good timing
there. Youre month to pay rent
and all.
Im going to hate
vegemite, Jerry groans into a
pillow. He sounds absolutely lost
and afraid by this discovery. Im
going to hate it so much.
Is Australia and Vegemite a
two for one deal?
Do you not hear this? Jerry
points upwards toward the stereo across the room, as if cuing the line he just smiled and gave me
a vegemite sandwich. Creepy people just wait for you forcing you to eat vegemite sandwiches
or breakfast or
Technically he met Vegemite-Sandwich Guy in Brussels,
And what the hell do they mean the women glow? Do they actually emit a glow? Have
Australian women evolved to a bioluminescent way of communication?
I dont think the band means it as literal as youre taking it.
Whats a chunder? Please tell me right nowwhat does it mean when men chunder? I dont
want to be chunder-ed, being chunder-ed does not sound pleasant.
Is that why I need to run and take cover? Why do I need to run and take cover?
Jerry.
Julia Jane Duggan
Oh, God, and the music video, have you ever seen the music video?!
Alright, Erin turns around, and collects her hair into a ponytail, signaling the free
floating anxiety Jerrys projected on to Land Down Under has spiraled into hysterics. Jerry
pauses to suck in a deep breath and returns to burying his face into the pillow. Whats brought
this up?
Jerry secludes himself further into the bundle of pillows and couch cushions and blankets
thats been his home for no doubt at least the past 12 hours. They stay like that for awhile, Erin
refusing to relax her prepared-for-process-what-the-actual-hell-is-going-on stance.
Eventually, Jerry sighs and starts, Listen, Erin, I should tell you
Which is precisely when their third and most poor-in-timing roommate, Michael, bursts
through the door. Michaels face is drawn in the exhaustion his work entails, and his tie is bent
loosened considerably and bent to the right. By the customary signs Erins learned over the years
of their roomateship, Michael seems to have most certainly had a day, which is probably why he
tosses his briefcase a little too close to Jerrys head.
No, Michael interrupts Jerrys startled yelp. No, whatever it is, I cannot. Okay, Jerry? I
cannot today.
You cant any day, Jerry grumbles, and reaches for the briefcase, moving it away from
his face, but still half-holding it to keep something close. Jerrys clingy to everything within
reaching distance when hes despondent.
Theres a reason for that. Michael sidesteps around Erin, still frozen in her stance not
letting the moment of almost reason escape, and heads towards the coffee. He pours a cold cup,
despite it being 11 P.M. Erin spares a glance over Michael, and they sends a sympathetic mental
apology for whatever Michaels going to stay up the rest of the night doing.
So, whats it this time? Michael says into the cup, and pauses before drinking as if finally
focusing. Is that Men at Work?
Jerrys adopted a fear of Australia sometime between last night and now.
Ve-ge-mite, Michael, Jerry seems to stress the meaning into over-enunciating vegemite.
Is this about watching Crocodile Dundee a few days ago? We talked about this, Jerry, that
wasnt an authentic representation, or that good of a movie anyway
Shut up, that movie freaking rocks. Jerry shoots up and tosses the briefcase aside.
Michael returns his glare despite what the topic is, and Erin doesnt trust rationality to keep
Crocodile Dundee from progressing to something much more dangerous for their small
apartment and small apartment furniture.
Okay, Crocodile Dundee here guys, Erin cuts between their line of sight, and is pelted
with half turned frustrations from them both. Not to say it isnt important, she concedes to
Jerry, but Im gonna guess theres more going on here right?
Directed back on track, Michaels expression softens somewhat, because however small
Jerrys specific distress might be its still something to him so by proxy them too.
Jerry slouches, with the aggressive outlet of battling over Crocodile Dundees honor
extinguished. He stands, and groans with it. Erin hears cracking.
Im moving to Australia.
Jerry, cmon, were serious. We want to help but we cant when you keep blaming
everything on Australia
Im not, Jerry says, and looks so defeated Erin stops. Well, I mean Im not not being
serious? Im not not moving to Australia. Okay, wait, no, starting over: Im moving to Australia.
Not distracting myself from anything else with Australia, or Men at Work, or vegemite. Im
moving to Australia. Thatsthats it.
Everyones silent. Its begun to rain outside, and theres a intrusive clunking on the
draining pipes down the bricks that connect all the apartments in the complex.
Youre serious? Erin says, because maybe, just maybe, Jerry will throw his head back
and say No, of course, not why would I move to Australia? Whats really going on is
Jerry just keeps, looking caught and sorry and so very un-Jerry it freaks Erin out a little.
Im leaving in a week.
Oh, Michael finally says, leaning against the doorframe looking down at his coffee.
Well, if thats all. He pauses and drinks his coffee, swishing it around as if tasting the idea.
What? Did Australia just jump out of nowhere and claim you?
Um, in its own way, kinda? Jerry falls a little, in a helpless reach that has Erin walking
forward. Then she fully comprehends whats going on and stops midway. As if her hand
electrocuted him just being outstretched rather than there on his shoulder, Jerry twitches a little,
away from them both.
Erin lowers her hand and takes in a deep breath. Explain.
Jerry bites his lip and looks to be pleading with Michael so much in that moment it hurts a
little. He starts rattling on about some promotion, or program, and relocations, and saving the
world through environmental awareness. And Erins listening, she really is, but most of what
shes getting is not so much the reason for going, but what comes with the obvious leaving.
Theres thunder off in the near distance, rumbling off the remnants of the collision its had
far off and away from their home.
Erin is trying to nod, but gets stuck and tilts her head sideways towards Michael who
hasnt moved the mug which covers most of his face.
There were about three months in the original planning of their lodging together. Two of
those months mostly apart, from sheer inability to stand each other. But it had been cheap, and it
had been easy, and it had been accessible for each of their very different lives and very different
plans. Somehow, however, one night in the rare moment they were all together in the place that
was each their home, more forced upon them by the snowstorm than general interest in who
exactly they were living with, Jerry had screamed Monopoly!, Michael had made amazing
coffee, and Erin had almost burnt the place down with popcorn. From then on three months
spanned into seven years, and seven years was ending in one night.
Because she knows it is. Because Jerry is really the one whose fraction of rent is more
dependable and extensive than Erins and Michaels. Because whether or not hell ever admit it,
or theyll admit it themselves,
Jerrys the one whos kept them
from moving to the fluctuating
courses of their rapidly
expanding jobs. Because
theyve had an excuse not to
leave, and now their
excuse is flying to the Land
Down Under in little less than a
week. Because theyre not
newly out of college with a
world around
them. Because theyve
somehow become old, with
responsibilities and more
distance than when they had
started out claiming to have
separate lives. Because now
they really do have lives.
Australia. Erin says.
Yeah. Jerry says.
Youre sure its really Australia? Michael says.
That or a really bad typo on the plane ticket.
Erin rubs the back of her neck, and lets down her ponytail again. And youreally want
like, dont go somewhere just because of
Kind of more than anything in the world, Jerry says, with arms crossed, and looks more
ashamed by that admittance than the actual confession of moving in the first place. He smiles.
Have I ever told you I always really wanted to live in Australia?
In typical Jerry-fashion its common for whats most freaking him out, to then become
what he loves most. For the first time in awhile, Erin allows herself to wonder who will put up
with him if not herself and Michael. How long hell really last with anyone else when his dying
on a couch about Men at Work actually means Im moving away to another country than Wow,
what even is this band? isnt understood.
She wonders who will put up with Michael when his tie is the most insightful broadcast of
how his days been, or when hes told to go to sleep after 72 hours because despite what he may
think hes human, hell stay up longer just in spite.
She wonders who will put up with her.
Instead she says, Even with the Vegemite?
Alexa Ruttenberg
Jerry pushes into his eyes with his hands, Oh, God, but what if I love vegemite? I think
Ill be more disappointed if I somehow end up loving vegemite? He starts walking backwards,
avoiding any obstacles from memory of the room. He opens the closet door to the side of the
room, and rummages about, before pulling out Monopoly.














Father
Barrett Potter

His face looked so much older than I had ever remembered. I hadnt seen him up close in
a long time. He had apologized multiple times to me, and I had heard some of them, but most of
them I spent analyzing his face. He had wrinkle lines around his face and a prominent one
around the left corner of his mouth. At this point, tears were welling in my eyes, half from what
he was saying, and the other half realizing that he had aged and I didnt get to watch.

My Cross Country Experience
Elise Nesbitt

Beep! Beep! Beep! My hand, heavy with sleep, fumbles for the STOP button on the
alarm. Initial thoughts that no human being should be awake at five thirty in the morning sneak
their way into my mind, but I politely push them aside. After all, I chose this for myself.
Emerging from my cocoon, I throw on a running top and shorts and grab shoes. On the way out
the door, I snatch peanut butter crackers. Upon arrival, I spot my coach and the rest of the cross
country team. Soon, we disappear into the darkness, struggling to finish our practice before the
day begins.
Practice: the painstaking nuisance that makes me successful. I need that practice like I
need water. Not even Jesse Owens could have left a trail of world records without it. Just as
practice every day after school and occasional dreaded morning workouts prepare me for meets,
study groups and homework prepare me for exams. I do not always embrace preparation but
have learned its value.
The bus lights lead the way through the blanketed sky as we approach. Today is
Saturday. Race day. After all the practice, the time to prove ourselves has come. My team arrives
to find a field dotted with colorful tents representing our competitors. The air is crisp, not yet
penetrated by the morning rays peeking out from the darkness.
Girls, five minutes, announces a squatty man through a bullhorn one-hundred yards
away, flag raised in one hand. The words ring through my head as I place myself behind the
starting line, one foot in front, ready for take-off. The gun fires, and we burst forward from the
starting line as if Pamplona bulls were hot on our tails. I work to relieve the butterflies fluttering
in my stomach by setting goals for myself: first, the obvious goal of finishing the race; second, to
PR (personal record for those of you who are not runners).
Goals have been effective in my life for more than cross country. Their limitless nature
propels me to dig deeper inside myself. Goals for a future career path are no different. The
precise clockwork of bodily systems invisible to the human eye intrigues me. Science captures
my imagination in search of answers to questions not yet asked. Because of my interest in the
dynamic nature of the human body, along with the idea of benefiting others, I plan to become a
nurse or pharmacist. Whether I am engrossed in the latest Greys Anatomy or elated with the
success of a science experiment, the world of medicine continues to fascinate me.
Fatigue has set in both my legs as if they were made of stone. The interminable 5K soon
becomes a marathon. With each step the desert in my throat grows dryer. I focus on the rush of
wind that blows through my hair and the cheering fans on the sidelines. I pass a sign with the
words 2 MILES printed on it. Unconsciously, my pace inches past the previous state of
exhaustion, and I ride the wave of determination to the finish line.
Determination drives me to finish races, to overcome difficult workouts, and to push
myself to excel in school. My coaches and teachers point me in the right direction; my hard work
and ambition allow me to reach the end and achieve my goals.
The clock revealing my fate flashes before me as I cross the line. 22:28.04. I did it. The
electrifying sensation accompanying a PR spreads through my body like a California wildfire.
The wrenching pain subsides in my chest, and my breathing returns to a steady rhythm. An
invisible smile spreads across my face. Next week the cycle repeats: more practices, new goals,
another race.






Meg McCalley

Backward/Forward
Barrett Potter
*Read this from top to bottom, and then bottom to top


I love you too
I leaned down and whispered goodbye and
his heart rate sped up for a second and I cried
my hands shook as I touched his arm
the needles through his veins supplied everything I couldnt
even though it wasnt enough to save him
my voice cracked as I held on to his breath
stay?
My lips hung on memories and the way hed say my name
I hated him for doing this
the phrase I waited too long to tell him haunted me and
all that was left of him was breath and a note and
everything had happened so suddenly and
the gunshot missed his heart, but struck mine
I missed him
as soon as I walked into the room
I knew he was no longer with me
I felt my own heart beating faster and hated myself for it
I pleaded this desperately
dont leave me now
youre everything Ive got










Winter in the Desert
Daniel Neville

Watch as I fly
in the night bright as day
as the trees flare up, burn away
the sparks fly and glare like men in an alleyway
the people fight and flight as they please
all the while the action is elsewhere
in mountains far away
a soul is murdered and creativity is lost
as the minstrel walking to prayer has life cut from his grasp
all the while, petroleum sets, there is still more to be seen
washed away in my desert scene, where my lover lies
deceased and drawn out, with bleached blonde hair
the sugar skies sing ashen lullabies
as the blue eyes shut and the pools turn to night
the fires burn out, and the sands move as they once did
as the trees flare up, they wont burn away
the smell of gasoline only keeps my tears at bay
I look out at the forest and see my worst fear is confirmed
my love is gone and the desert trees billow
the sand will bring you home to me










Rings
Barrett Potter

Silver rings lay on my bedroom floor.
Two of them, both tarnished and worn,
scratched and aged and etched with time.
I would wear them to appease my father
and to secure my mothers mind,
even though I did not know what they fully
meant to me.
I wore and put them on subconsciously
as a routine and, if forgotten, my fingers
would feel empty and
I would feel
naked.

I fell in love by choice
and neglected all other
responsibilities.
I let him twist my words
and turn my insides out
with every kiss he gave.
I did not know what love meant
to me and so I let him tell me.
And as he spoke, I watched each
lie drip from his tongue,
onto my arms and neck and lips.
And as he lied, my voice became
silent and my screams became
muffled as his whispers deafened
the room.

And as he left,
he left me laying on my bed room floor.
And I was naked,
as my eyes met the words I had once known
engraved in
the silver.


Meg McCalley
Layers
Deanna Medina

I prayed for skin as thick as books,
but bones that bulged from every angle that you looked.
Attempting escape from the one inside,
wrapped up tight by the enemys bind.
But these smothering layers will suit me just fine,
a product of my own design.
Falling asleep on splintered arms,
I ignored all of the signs, and silenced all the alarms.
Now stuck in a well with no water to drink,
if I choose to escape, am I really so weak?





















Split Decisions
Barrett Potter

I whispered that I loved you in your right ear,
and the left side of your mouth curled upward.
Your hands were wide and freckled
and, with the correct motion, they could weaken
my knees
and shoot chills down the back of my neck.
When you offered one of them to me,
I remember thinking all of these things in that split second;
that these hands could help or hurt me
and I was okay with either option.
And you would linger my favorite words
on your bottom lip,
for me to taste over and over and over again.
And your eyes undressed my cynical disposition,
exposing me so you could fix me,
and the world was hopeful and bright, and
it was you, in every corner and every crack;
it was always you.


I whispered I loved you under my breath,
and you asked what I had said;
but I shook my head and you turned back around.
Your smile had faded from your face when you did this,
and I watched as you fiddled with
your hands and counted your freckles
out of uneasiness.
You had 37 on your right, 41 on your left;
and when I told you this, you grew quiet
and I grew cold.
Your lips formed a sentence but you quickly retracted
when I sighed in attempt to avoid hearing what
you had to say.
Your eyes met mine
and I watched as a film of pity and disdain
clouded around them.
My world didnt change
when you kissed my cheek good-bye
and I remembered thinking that, no matter
how hard I wanted you,
it wasnt you,
and it would never be you.

Flooded Silence
Adelaide Dunn

What if the whole world flooded,
up to the very tippy top?
But instead of drowning, we all grew gills,
and swam around all day,
swinging from the stoplights
and splashing up next to the stars.
Id swim to Spain with my newly webbed fingers,
laughing at the swordfish poking at the moose,
full of curiosity at his newfound friend.

Schools of fish become schools of humans,
travelling in packs to find food or shelter;
sticking together in this newfound world.
But fear of the unknown
doesnt ebb their curiosity.
They seek until they fall asleep,
curled up in the soft ocean arms.

I sit up here with the stars,
and smile down below,
because there are no words,
no shouts, laughs, or songs.
Only silence.
The water takes voice,
but leaves us bubbling with empathy.
And I find that silence is the saving
grace
in my underworld world.









* Alabama High School Literary Arts Awards Winner

Austin Chapman
Young Love
Alexandra White

While hanging with friends one hot,
steamy summer afternoon,
we jumped in the pool to cool off.
Grabbing a towel to catch the water
droplets rolling off my back,
I was surprisingly introduced to two
new fellows,
never thinking I would see them
again.

A few months went by without a
thought of these two,
until a stroll with a dog the week of
Thanksgiving in the year 2013.
With a leap of excitement, I noticed
his chiseled face and broad shoulders
glaring through the window while
locking eyes with me, recognizing
one another.

With a slam on the breaks and a
screech of tires, he leapt out of the
car, and
I jumped with outstretched arms into
his welcoming embrace.

Our hearts were thumping with
delight,
Little did I know, he would come
back into my sight.

We rekindled at the Iron Bowl in the
great city of Auburn.
Grabbing my hand and stealing me
away from my mother to storm the
field,
Not knowing he would steal my
heart.

And as eternity continues, so do we.


Meg McCally
White Noise
Robin McDaniel

Three rings.
Sitting. Listening. Waiting.
Reaching for the phone,
then pulling away.
And for what?

How have you been?
Hows school?
Are you still dating that
boy?
When are we going to get
together?
How is your mom?

I dont want to answer.
Its all meaningless
anyway.
Nothing has changed.

Nothing will change.
I know youve tried
to fix yourself.
But not hard enough.

Ive tried to forgive you.
But not hard enough.

I dont remember the last time we talked.
But I dont want to remember.

I dont know how to finish this

Hello?




*Alabama High School Literary Arts Award Winner: Special Recognition in Poetry
Kara Gravlee
Overwhelmed
Deanna Medina

They do not do wrong
but they do not pass the test.
Forbidden to do what they want
forced to do the rest.
We have a hundred percent in love
but a forty six percent in math
they say they teach us what is right
they say that its our ticket to fly
but when they cant pass the test,
they are set on taking their lives.
Did you ever think that maybe the test isnt right for them?
Finding out that they will not win
showing them the future that stands.
Overwhelming the mind
you can only stand there and sit
because you do no wrong.




Wisdom and New Life
Dera Carr
Inspired by Rita Doves Promises

"Every hurt swallowed is a stone"
is what my daddy always said.
It was the last thing he whispered
in my ear before he intertwined my fingers with Thomas.

On this day I couldnt be happier,
so I praised the good Lord above.
And flicked my eyes back at Thomas,
tracing the outline of his black suit.

We walked out of the church- blinded,
both virgins to the new world.





Mythology
Riva Cullinan

She lived in a world
of nightmares and demons
that stayed long past the dawn.
How many nights she cried
for you, her quasi-prince
in button-downs
who fended off the shadows
with pen and cracked paper.
Spinning tales of Aeneas
dragging Troy through the seas
and Hamlet avenging his father-
(leaving out the ending, of course).
You held her through the dark,
whispering of Homers odyssey,
Begging her not to cry
over shapes behind her eyes.
Each smile, though a victory
for you,
remained a chronic lie for her.
Remember the four oxen?
Youd ask. Stronger together?
Dead all the same,
Shed respond. The smiles would fade
as the lights disappeared.
The storys no match for the dragons
inside, clawing at the skin
to break free. Because Troy still fell
and Hamlet as well.
You could never see
how she took your words and shaped
her own demise. The smiles just
a memory of old. In her grave she remained
a snapshot of youth. A glorified pretense.
The result of your mythology.






The Confession
Andrew King

Let us think back to the time
When the lion and the zebra existed in harmony.
To the days where war was only over seas
And the score was only a number for the divine.
It was like every day you gave a new piece to the puzzle of us.
I was full in your mere presence and you were full in mine
Where have the days gone?

Time went on and on. And on.
The clock slowed down when the bills sped up
You quit feeding me and I quit trying to eat, but
Every lion gives in to the temptation of flesh in the midst of stress and
The zebra of you became my feast.
The days went on and the pain settled in.

The light slithered away and the darkness approached.
We were like magnets of the same pole stuck in a box.
Trapped in our own essence you stared up as I walked down.
You walked out without looking back even to say goodbye.
The taxi that picked you up was parked a block past the house.

Oh God what have I become?
Take this cup from me before it roots deeper into my spirit with thorns.
I have changed, please know that.

My hand shakes as I sign the papers for the final sale of the house. Our home.
The windows that we painted together have lost their shine
And the prayer you kept on your bedside table is stained with droplets of loss
I look at the photo of us from the wedding and the dust collects on my fingers.
My reading glasses become nothing but storm clouds.
I ache.

Suitors constantly knock on your door, but
For some reason you fail to answer.
I pray its because you think back to the times before time existed
In hopes of this moment, the moment the lion claws out his mane.





Sleep
Caroline Milligan and Annie Sheffield

I like to rest atop my comfy bed
the light shines through a solid wall of glass
and with my white pillow I do thee wed
I wish the calm evening would always last

Dreamy thoughts run quickly through my still brain
sleepy dreams of royal knights and kings
fighting for the resplendent throne of Spain
they joust in the warm days of early spring

The last I remembered I said amen
my soft pillow is so fluffy and warm
the quiet peace remains till eyes open
the mattress shapes around my restful form

I simply wish I could just stay asleep
leaving this haven would cause me to weep












Things Done Correctly are Seldom Done by Your Family
Sarah Beth Daniel

The ratty scarf fits me like a stiff neck brace. I could have hit it against a rock for an hour
and it would not have melted. For that matter I doubt it would have even dented the layer of
frozen mud that reinforces the aged wool of my late aunt's knittery. The lake water in my shoes
feels as if it is beginning to freeze as I trudge back to the estate I call home. The sentiments of an
overly apologetic fisherman can be heard from behind me. My attendant rushes out from the
house to meet me with a warm blanket.
This is the morning that I began to understand why my aunt left home and departed from
all family relations, mere months before her passing. I was jolted from a dream of Parisian
perfume and sweet pipe smoke, a dream about my parents, by the crashing of a cast-iron skillet
through my bedroom ceiling. It smashed into my bedside table, reducing it to splinters. I
originally believed my aunt had left my uncle because for another man. Some knob-nosed banker
in London.
However, as I fell out of bed, with a string of obscenities flying from my mouth, I
realized she was probably more concerned about being killed by the idiocy of our servants.
Oh Lord. I'm sorry Claudius! Are you alright? However, in this case, it is my half-wit
cousin, Isabelle.
What in God's name are you doing with a pan in the bloody library? It's just then I
looked to the window of my room, It's not even light out yet! My frustration grew. Perhaps I
was the real fool in this because occurrences such as these happened often. Yet I still had the
naivet to expect more from my family.
Are you angry with me, Claudius? her eyes peered into my room past the dagger-like
planks of what used to be an unblemished parquet floor.
I refuse to grace such an inquiry with an answer, my hand tossed the flakes of dust,
insulation, and miscellaneous debris from my hair.
After many moments of silence she speaks once again, Claudius?
My eyes glared up at her, and I felt the irritation gripping at my throat.
May I have my pan back?
God forbid I should inquire it of you, but why, my exasperated tone emphasized the
syllable, Do you need a pan in the library?
To cook, she put simply.
In the library?
Yes.



With this brief conversation, I am beginning to discover the burdens of being the only
sane person living in a house are far more draining than I anticipated. I must have inherited this
wisdom from my aunt by some means, however she was infinitely more intelligent than I, for she
left, and I continue to live in an estate of the incompetently-minded half-wits.







Mary Nelson Little
Sonnet #7
Garrett Mitchell


He turned around and nothing gained
no one to lend a hand
his love had left him in the rain
his love forever banned

Though he stood alone again
no one else he blamed
for none did bane; for he indeed was vain
his fault was his and his alone but ever more the same

His love had found a new
lost to him for ever more
her love for him had flew
the sadness ever sore

Deaths embrace the only way
his soul to leave the fray



















The Memories Ive Kept
Alexa Ruttenberg

We were on our way. The sun-rays were shining down on us through the windows, and
breaking through the fresh, crisp breeze that blew our curly hair everywhere. It was the middle of
winter. Everyone was wearing boots and skinny jeans with scarves and coats. We dressed to
impress, planning on going to elegant places.
We were headed to a part of town that we had been the night before. It was dark-- lights
everywhere-- loud music with dancers in every direction-- shades of colors I have never seen
beforepeople from all over the world, and every single one had a smile on his or her face. It
was just a strip center with different restaurants and bars, just like we would have at home, like
the Summit, but the culture was incredible.
However, this place looked so different in the daylight, but in many ways the same. The
beautifully decorated restaurants had remained in the same spot; the flags of different countries
were still there. The music was still heard from miles away. The faces were still covered in
smiles.
Leslie finds us a spot after circling several times for our big white van to park. Jon opens
the door and we all filed out with confused faces trying to figure out where we were. We were
here last night, but this Sunday morning, everything had changed.
Hello darling! Ive missed you so much! How was your nights sleep? Im so thankful to
have you here with me. I cannot wait to show you these incredible friends I have upstairs. They
are just amazing. You will love it, I know. Come here sweetie pie. Give me a hug! The best
welcomes I receive always come from my Aunt Sonja in her fascinating South African accent.
She welcomed me out of the van as if I hadnt seen her for years, and I had just seen her
yesterday! She was a remarkable person that would do anything for me in the world, and I would
do anything for her. She moved from person to person until she welcomed all 10 of us, including
Leslie who she was only meeting for the second time. Shortly after, Brandon, her son, walks up
and cracks some jokes and laughs, putting smiles on our faces.
He starts dancing as he is pointing to a large crowd of people. We see the backs of people
looking the other way, dancing, and taking pictures. Whats going on over there? I begin to
ponder. Just then, Aunt Sonja grabbed my hand and began to skip towards the crowd singing.
There were people of all ages. Everyone was involved in their own special way. There
were waves of happiness coming off of them like rays coming from the sun. Bright colors of
yellow and orange and green are pulling our eyes in closer. I pulled out the camera and snapped
a few shots of this incredible scene. You could actually hear the drums beating and the
instruments strumming in the picture. It was a culture shock. These kids were running around so
happy to be with their family and friends and welcoming foreigners into their home. These kids
were so poor and had nothing, yet they were the happiest people I have ever seen in my life.
How could it be? How could someone who had nothing be so delightful and bring so much to
others lives?
We had just gotten out of the car. We hadnt even walked up the stairs to meet these
incredible friendsthese amazing people Aunt Sonja cant stop talking about. I had so many
thoughts going through my mind and couldnt help but stop and stare at the beauty in front of
me. I was standing in South Africa; the place where every childhood story my dad has ever told
took place.
It was then that I realized how lucky I was to be traveling and have the family I do. I
realized its not about the new clothes I get and take home to show my momits about the
memories and stories I get to take home and share with my mom. More importantly, that whole
trip was about the life lessons I learned and took home with me. The children who ran around so
happy that day showed me how truly blessed I am to have what I do, and allowed me to
understand how important life is.





























Julia Jane Duggan
Mown Lawns
Adelaide Dunn

I look down at the grass-
green, like summer, cut off at the tips,
modeling a new haircut.
I look down at my own tips,
sprawled across my shoulders and chest
like a mermaid.
Not green at all, but brown,
like the dog poop that would dot the lawn
in the coming days.

The claustrophobic air
reminds me I always wanted to be a ballerina:
pirouette, grand jete, pli
as though Id done it a thousand times before.

I sigh at my tennis-shoed feet,
and paw angrily at the soil,
brought to light
by my clunky performance.

Heaving with effort,
I remember my ballet instructor
telling me I couldnt be a ballerina
because my chest was too large;
ballerinas had to be skinny and graceful.
It was the first and last time anyone told me
that breasts were a bad thing,
and I still dont quite understand.

I reexamine the soil below me
forced into light because
my tennis shoe stole its blanketing.
I feel pity for it.
It scars the yard,
with its spite
determined not to let any beauty
be held if it couldnt be adored.
And I find myself angry at a pock-marked
yard, because neither one of us could be beautiful.
Happiness Is
Brantly Sanders

Sun beating down through the gaps among the trees, the playground appeared to be a
patchwork of shadows and bright light. Children milled around aimlessly, seemingly at the same
place by chance, avoiding interaction with each other and varying vastly in height. In the corner
of the playground, playing silently by himself, was the rule breaker, Noah. At only seven years
old, he might have been the smartest child on the playground, yet his refusal to follow social
norms excluded him from almost every crowd. Watching Noah from a distance, his
abnormalities were nearly invisible as he created his own reality in the corner of the muggy
playground, yet looking closer, he walked around on the backs of his shoes while hiding his arms
inside his shirt.
During his two weeks at summer camp, no one ever understood anything Noah said, only
hearing jumbled sounds that seemed to be his own language. Although he possessed an extensive
vocabulary, he made no attempt to utilize it; instead, he communicated through pointing and
humming exactly what he wanted to say. Noahs autism caused him to act this way, and his
knowledge seemed duller because he refused to share it. However, his intelligence, allowed him
to realize that if he didnt talk or wear his shirt correctly or put his shoes on, he would receive the
attention he desired.
On the playground that day, Noah stumbled over to me with his shoes miraculously
staying on his feet, although it seemed they would fly off at any moment. He laced his fingers
through mine while pointing to a nearby brick wall bathed in full sunlight. While the other
children ran around the bases of a tee ball game and screamed ecstatically when each of them
made a homerun, Noah sat resolutely on my lap; his Velcro tennis shoes dangling from his toes
and his stretched Mario shirt turned halfway forwards and halfway backwards. Several minutes
passed by with him humming notes to a nonexistent song, his arms moving in random motions,
further distorting Marios face, when I finally decided to play a game with him. Because his feet
were practically exposed, we started with this little piggy, and by the time we got to the last little
piggy who went wee wee wee all the way home, uncontrollable laughter spilled from Noahs
lips. Remembering all the games my grandmother played with me when I was a preschooler, I
watched Noahs face change from one that appeared half asleep and tormented to one that lit up
and seemed almost carefree.
Noahs happiness
never lasted long. Although
he craved the attention he
received when he sat on my
lap, his mood would change
suddenly with his face
clouding over and pinching
up while he balled his hands
into tiny fists and banged on
his chest as hard as he could,
yelling with his mouth closed
until his fit passed. His
inexplicable anger often came as a surprise but made the moments when he squealed with
laughter even sweeter.
Deanna Medina
His ability, rather than his disability set Noah apart from every other child I have ever
met. Unlike other children, he never said anything profound or showed any athletic ability, but
he was able to define what he wanted most in life: to be loved. Every time he tripped towards me
and folded himself into my lap, he stole a piece of my heart, and with every smile and innocent
laugh he proved that disabilities are only what we make of them. Noahs simplistic view of the
world was a lesson and a blessing to me; he was his own person without concerns for the
judgment of others, and I loved him for it.
























The Grandest Question
Andrew King

The body is the inherent question
by which we live a spiritual answer.
In a world full of questions
there is turmoil.
In a world full of answers
there is harmony.


Mary Parker Wetzler
A Gun, A Flight, And A Smile
Ansley Joy Peacock
Inspired by Ezra Pounds The River Merchants Wife: A Letter

Dressed in all green she arrived
like she had all season.
Her anticipation of the awaited moment
caused her to become uneasy.
The sights and smells triggered her memory,
she knew the pain that was about to take place.
Hearing the continual gun fire
reminded her that her time was soon to come.

She was now being gathered with the others.
Some of the faces she recognizes,
the others are unfamiliar to her.
They all had one thing in common,
they were frightened of what they all would face.

She was summoned to the start
and lead to where it would begin.
Above the murmuring crowd,
all she could hear was the mans voice
who stood above all of them.
When the gunshot went off,
all of her fear vanished.
Just like a bird being let out of its cage,
she flew around the oval twice,
and then stopped when she couldnt fly anymore.

Her limbs were unusable
and her rapid breathing made her throat inflamed.
When she finally had the strength to stand up,
she saw her name and time displayed for all to see.
To her surprise she surpassed all her expectations.
A smile then spread across her face,
she had done it.
It was all worth it.


Mary Parker Wetzler
Hawaiian Time
Bailey Martin

I faintly hear my mother enter the room, hesitant to wake me up. Wincing in preparation
for the mornings harsh sunrays, my eyes are met only with darkness. Wake up, sweetheart,
my mom whispers, trying to coax me out of bed.
Ugh, I groan, What time is it?
Time for us to head to Atlanta. We cant miss our plane to Hawaii.
This better be worth it is all I can think as my eyes adjust to the alarm clock on my bedside table.
4:00 a.m.
As each of my siblings trudge to the car with their eyes half-closed, my dad places
Walker into his car seat, and our journey begins. As soon as my head hits the headrest, my body
contorts into a reasonably comfortable position (considering we have seven people in one car),
and my world plunges once again into darkness.
Dazed and confused, I groggily open my eyes as the sounds of life fill the car. Walker
screams for Scooby Doo on the DVD player, while Tucker and Perry yell at Lilly for singing
too loudly, the three of them crammed tightly in the back seat.
We are quite a spectacle at the airport, seven tired travelers, hunched over with the
weight of luggage, running with arms flailing, praying we catch our plane. Were all following a
screaming man, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, our fearless leader, who we call Dad.
After repeating this routine two
more times, we get off of our last plane
and are immediately embraced by ladies
with flower leis and headpieces. Aloha,
they all shout in unison, particularly close
to my ear. At this point, we have been
traveling for over twelve hours and have
seen enough planes, cars, and luggage to
last us a lifetime; we just want to sleep.
Wading through a throng of island
natives, we make it to our final mode of
transportation, a rather uninviting, beat-
up taxicab.
The smell of old gym sneakers
fills my nose as I enter the cab.

Thankfully, it is a short, twenty-minute ride to our hotel, but its amazing what luggage in
your lap and six other smelly individuals (not to mention the crude odor of the cab) can do to
your sense of time. What seems like years pass before the driver finally stops and announces that
we have arrived at our destination, The Hilton Grand Resort in Hilo, Hawaii.
The hotel is beautiful, surrounded by tropical plants and animals. The vibrant colors bring
life to the old building. However, we have all week to admire the foliage, and it is getting late,
almost 7:00 p.m. Hawaiian time, which is 12:00 p.m. back home. Between the jetlag and all the
walking, my body aches for sleep.
Hiking up the two flights of stairs to our room is almost more than I can handle,
especially with the burdensome luggage. After throwing the bags just inside the foyer, I make a
Mary Nelson Little
beeline for the bed I have claimed as mine; but before I can bury myself in the warmth of the
covers, my parents summon us downstairs to the resorts entranceway.
Behind the hotel is a plot of well-kept lawn, which somehow seems secluded from the
rest of the world, like a secret oasis. Our parents tell us to sit down.
Highly irritated, we reluctantly plop down one by one next to our parents. As we tilt our
heads, the sky emits beautiful colors of oranges, pinks, and yellows. It is the most beautiful thing
I have ever seen. A hush falls over my family, and for the first time, perhaps ever, no one in my
family makes a sound. We are all mesmerized by this brilliant image in the sky.
I cannot tell you how I know, but I am certain that each of us is thinking the same thing.
After our non-stop, physically taxing day, we took the time to slow down; because we pause for
just a few minutes, we can appreciate Gods gifts. We learn a valuable lesson about enjoying the
moment.
The serenity of the evening is soon interrupted by Tucker punching Perry, and the night is
filled with the usual sounds of the Martin family; but I know that each of our perspectives on the
world has been altered by that simple sunset.


Separation Anxiety
Caroline Luckie

It was an overcast day in the park. The whole day it looked like it may rain at any
moment. It probably wasnt the best day for a stroll in the park, but the man and
woman wanted to anyway. They had just eaten a big brunch.
Its really not a good day out, commented the man.
No, but we need the exercise after that huge meal.
The tension was clearly already there. They had been like this for about a week now. It
was just awkward to talk.
I cant believe you talked to my parents about it, exclaimed the woman.
I had to; no one else would talk to me about it.
No one wants to talk about it because nobody wants it to happen.
Yes, people do! yelled the man.
They continued to stroll in the park.
I already said its not what I want, said the woman, angrily.
I know you dont, but think about me. We have been together so long, I think its
time.
Why cant you realize that we can be together anyway, we dont have to,
explained the woman.
We would be happier if we were.
But, none of my friends are.
Why does that matter?
The woman stayed silent because she didnt know what to say. The woman slowly
walked away, looking at the dark clouds above. She turned around, only to see the
man, staring blankly. He was not coming after her.






Tulips Made of Ash
Robin McDaniel

I put tulips under all the pillows, and then I set fire to the house. There was no other way
out, which is why I had to do it. It started as just a feeling, and I could bury it inside me. It got to
a point, though, when I had to do something about it. I hope Susan wont be mad. It was for the
best, it had to happen eventually.
I woke up to sirens and the smell of smoke and fresh cut tulips surrounding me. Where
am I? Where is my family? A police officer held his hand out toward me and helped me up
because somehow I had ended up on the grass. Did I black out again? The officer started asking
me a million questions.
Susan, what is the last thing you remember
happening before you passed out?
I passed out? Tulips. I remember smelling the
tulips but I was inside the house. I dont know how I got
here.
You dont remember how the fire started, or
getting out of the house?
Sometimes I have blackouts, and I cant
remember what happened after I wake up.
Okay, Susan, we are going to need you to come
back to the station with us to follow up on some questions.
Why did they need me? I didnt do anything wrong.
The next thing I knew I was being put into handcuffs and shoved in the back of the police
car. The whole car ride, the officer was completely silent. I asked him where my parents and my
brother were, and if they were coming to the station too, but he stayed quiet. We pulled up to the
police station, and I was escorted inside. Every single pair of eyes in the room was on me.
Hushed whispers got even softer as I walked through the rows of cubicles.
They led me through a long hallway of doors that all looked the same. Finally we went
inside a room with just a table, some chairs, and a mirror. I had seen this kind of room on TV
before, in C.S.I and shows like that. This is where the interrogation happened which means
these cops thought I set my own house on fire. Why would I do that?
Frances Hancock
The officer sat down across from me and opened up the folder he just received from the
man outside. He got out pictures, and maybe some kind of report, I couldnt tell. He spread the
pictures across the table for me to see.
Susan, do you know of anyone who would have wanted to hurt your family, or your
parents?
I thought for a second. No, nobody would have ever wanted to hurt them that I know
of.
Does the name Mary mean anything to you, or do you know of anyone your parents
knew by that name?
This isnt how it was supposed to go. Susan was never supposed to find out. I didnt
know they would think she was a suspect, I mean its her house, her parents. Why would she do
that? She hates her mom, but she is too weak to do anything about it. Thats why I had to. I had
to take matters into my own hands.
No, I dont know anyone named Mary. I dont know why anyone would want to kill my
family, and I certainly dont know why there were tulips under the pillows.
Susan, I never asked about any tulips.


Stage Fright
Betsy Limbaugh



Anticipation rose deep down inside me
depleting my use of my neck as if it were bound by a neckbrace.
How could this have happened so quickly, yet subtly?
Standing there did not make the situation any more relaxing.
My body was urged to sink into the melting tiles.
The room spun and made me nauseated.
I could feel every breath, every pair of orbitals watching.

As if I didn't have a choice in the matter.
Being reclusive was a positive for me, yet it did have it negatives.
The request was already signed for this horrid task.
Speaking to a group of people wasn't really in my best interest,
Words never flow like honey out of my gullet nor does my brain function
When I am present in such a crowd.

So there I stood over a sea of faces, young and old
All anticipating for words of wisdom to leave my thoughts and enter theirs
Words that I have only expressed through pen and paper, not tongue.
Although the lights limited my sight, the presence was felt
Causing the lump in my esophagus to rise.
My mouth opened and a sound came out
Not English, but a high pitched moan
Like one a young animal would cry out to it's mother.

Silence

I couldn't hold it anymore
My body jolted towards the wings and out the theatre door
"There is nothing good or bad but thinking makes it so"
A phrase I disagree with entirely, dealing with the predicament I was in
Embarrassment flooded my thoughts as I emptied the contents of my stomach.
But the deed was done and I pray that in time, there won't rise another.


Elaa Taysilla
Betsy Limbaugh





There, but not there. Felt, but not tangible. Kehia was a mystery within herself. A subtle
breeze, a blistering storm. Boisterous, yet calming. She danced, flitted, sang, and howled her way
to every realm of the Earth , carrying life with her. Onward she traveled dodging every obstacle
in her path. She tiptoed through the trees and rampaged through the deserts, embarking on
several adventures she experienced before. A free spirit.
Meg McCalley
A Final Approach
Riva Cullinan

He arrives first, places his briefcase atop the dresser and shrugs out of his coat. Sitting on
the edge of the bed, he turns over a pack of cigarettes in his hands. For a few minutes, he
considers leaving but before he has the nerve, she sweeps in wearing that green coat he thinks he
might have bought her. She lays her suitcase on the floor, then, as if on second thought, picks it
back up and turns to him.
We need to stop this, she asserts.
Okay.
I mean it; I dont want to do this anymore. Any of it.
Okay, he repeats.
Damn it, Tom! The suitcase falls from her hand with a noise slightly less deafening
than the action deserves. Cant you say anything else?
What do you want me to say?
Anything, she shouts and then closes her eyes as her voice grows softer. Nothing, I
dont care anymore.
Obviously you do.
Its just that I come in here, say I want to end things and you say okay; how the hell do
you think that makes me feel?
I dont know, he shakes his head and pulls out a cigarette.
Of course you dont, she cries, you never know because you never ask.
Give it a rest, Annie, he fishes in his pocket for a lighter. What do you even
think this is?
I dont know, but it needs to end. He takes a long drag, considering her words.
Then go, he says coldly.
Dont do that, she whines before dropping down beside him.
What do you want from me, Annie? He asks.
I dont know, she clenches the sheets in her hands, turning her head from him.
Just calm down, will ya? He offers her the cigarette; she hesitantly takes it from his
fingers before flicking it onto the carpet.
You shouldnt smoke, she says.
There are a lot of things I shouldnt do, he reminds her as he stands, purposely brushing
their shoulders on his way to the small bathroom.
So where does this leave us? He asks once shes out of view. He washes his face as the
question hangs in the air. When he finally emerges shes stretched out on the bed, hair splayed
over the pillows like a Siren luring him back to the sea.
What are you doing, Annie? He asks.
Just remembering, she answers.
Remembering what?
Why we started this whole charade in the first place.
And why was that? He lies down beside her, both facing the barren ceiling.
Does it matter now? She asks. If its over, why does it matter why it began?
If you dont want it to be over- he begins, turning to face her.
Did you love me back then? She ends his declaration with the question theyd both
been avoiding for years.
Yes, he answers too quickly and she cringes.
How about now? She finally turns to him as well, grey eyes tearing through his skin
and bones. He looks away.
You know the answer to that, he reaches out to hold her hand.
We should get married, she says suddenly. He remains silent, his hand limp in her own.
I thought you wanted to end this.
This sneaking around, she clarifies, we both deserve better, dont you think?
Maybe youre right, he says, his hand losing the will to hold onto her any longer.
Of course I am. She pulls herself up on her elbows and smiles at him.
This does need to stop. He gets up first, refusing to meet her gaze as he throws on his
coat and picks up the briefcase. He places a hand over the door knob and without turning back
says, Ill miss you, Annie.
No you wont, she says coldly, but hes already gone. She wills herself up and shrugs
on the green coat, the one that he didnt buy for her, before picking up her suitcase. Allowing
one last look around, she leaves with the tightness in her chest slowly diminishing. Its a shame
really, she thinks, the room was already paid for.







Janey Hollis
Work in Progress
Mary Shelton Hornsby

A callous hand can shape the world
it holds the tool and shapes the curl
it understands anatomy
and forms the very man I see.

This man is cold and still and rock
he cannot soothe, he cannot mock
were he to speak one word to me
would it cruel or caring be?

The artist thinks his works alive,
similar to a silent hive,
until it bursts with effusive force,
as bees all hasten to end their course.

Ithe Viewerknow he is
by watching closely his irises,
and noticed that, if I look thrice
hell shift his gaze from Paradise.

I see the rivers of gray and beige
begin to swirl in this stone of age,
the wrinkles stretch and fluctuate
and shape the waves, earth, and slate.
His curls begin to twist in wind
and his pointing finger a signal sends
a curse, a boast, I know not which
as he poor, famished, greedy, rich?

I hope, I wish that he would speak
his words, however bitter or sweet.
then he could tell me the men hes seen
and the countless ages that have been

Since man first chiseled him from the pebble of a mountain.







A Missing Link
Betsy Limbaugh

Her car door shuts as she makes her way up to the stone terrace and unlocks the
vaulted white door. She enters and calls out. No answer. She checks the car port and finds
her father and mother's cars are not present. It was common for them to arrive home late.
She shrugs and releases her dogs from the laundry room. A small black and white Boston
darts past her and totters towards the back door, while a scruffy grey schnauzer looks up
at her with wide eyes and cheerily yips. The little dog always brought a smile to the girl
and was as sweet as a lollypop, which is what the girl named her when she was six. Lollie
was always right by her feet when the girl was present and declined to ever leave her
side; the dog was the girl's fluffy little shadow. Leashes hooked onto the canine's collars
and they made their way to their afternoon walk to do their business. With business taken
care of, the dogs were released back into the house. The kitchen was the first room she
walked into. As usual, the white and grey granite island was cluttered with it's usual
heaps of paper that her mother left behind. Messes were her pet peeve, so she busied
herself to neatening the catastrophe. She filed through bills and notes with small doodles
them when she found a family photo, taken seven years ago. It was the four of them,
standing in the courtyard of their great grandmother's garden. A small blonde woman
dressed in a brown turtleneck and corduroys hugged a tall brunette man in a polo and
kakis. Next to the couple stood a mousy blonde girl bearing a small grin and a lanky
ginger supporting a wide smile, both clad in a red turtleneck, plaid skirt, leggings and
marie janes. The ginger was slightly taller than the blonde and stood upright and proud,
unlike her little sister. The girl studied the faces of the photo noticing that almost every
face shared the same traits: the blonde girl had the nose and grin of the father, and the
long, bleach blonde hair of the mother. Yet, one stood out from the rest. She stared into
the eyes of the pale, freckled ginger girl and found no similarities between her and the
rest of the people in the photo. She almost stood out like a sore thumb between the four
of them, different from the rest. Although, she did not look like any of them, she still
seemed like she belonged in the setting. The girl smiled and put the photo down,
returning to her regular cleaning. The small click clack of claws hitting the hard wood
approached her and a long snout begged for attention. She reached down and picked up
the small dog who had been awaiting kisses and cuddles all day. She smiled and noticed
how the two of them were similar and both belonged in the household, almost like a
missing piece to a puzzle. She flipped the dog onto its back and carried it like an infant
up winding stairs, taking it to her rec-room. The tv flipped to ID and she got back into her
regular afternoon routine, one that she repeated every day since she stepped foot in her
household.

Rib
Barrett Potter

If I, a woman, was created from your rib
would breaking that bone dismantle me entirely?
Would I be able to stand up and brush off the dust of your control?
Would I then be able to raise my chin and walk,
one foot in front of the other,
without you going before me?

Imagine if I could speak without being spoken to
and put my love where and into whomever I wanted.

Imagine, if you can, seeing my mind expand,
rising above yours and doing good,
not competing (and if so, for what?).

Imagine me. Confident.
What would that make you?

If I come from your rib, so be it.
But who knew a bone could make something so
extraordinary.










When September Ends
Virginia White

I hate fall, Charlotte complained.
Its just warm enough to feel like
summer but just cold enough to
remind you of the winter thats to
come.
Char, dont look at it that
way. With the cold comes the
holidays, and with the holidays comes
winter break.
Still. I hate fall.
It was late September in
Memphis and the leaves had begun to
change. Their red-orange color
reminded Charlotte and her brother of
the fires at holiday parties to come.
Dude, Im stoked for this weekend. Me, Darrell, Matt, Steve, and Curt are all
headin down to Oxford Friday and stayin at Ole Miss till Saturday night. The boys say
its gonna get wild Friday, but Im savin it up for the Saturday. Dallas had been
dreaming of going to Ole Miss for quite some time, and now that he was in with the frat
crowd, he could hardly contain himself.
I wish I could go. Youve spent the last two weekends in Oxford and I havent
hardly gotten to see you.
I mean Im going to Ole Miss sooner than you think. Besides, you see me at
school all week. Im still here.
No you arent. Char mumbled into her coffee. She watched the steam rise off
the surface in the cold breeze and she smelled the bitter-sweet scent that was so familiar
to her. She looked into her brothers mischievous eyes and wondered what would happen
over the winter. Winter brought Dallas house parties, college acceptances, and bonfires.
How Dallas loved a good bonfire. He got to show off his strength to the ladies building
the fire and make himself look like a man. Bonfires also brought him outdoors, where he
felt the most at home, even in the heart of winter. Charlotte wouldnt have minded them
so much if it werent always so cold. Even when there was a raging fire, her face was
always too hot and her back so cold. So, shed turn her back to the fire and have the
opposite problem. There was no way to enjoy it. Face the fire and feel the burn or turn
away and catch the cold. It was such a lose-lose decision that Charlotte hated to make.


Deanna Medina
Deanna Medina
I think my coffees gone cold, Char said.
Here, have mine. Waitress, Dallas flagged down the nearest waitress. He had
always tried to be there for Char, but sometimes he didnt know what that meant he
needed to be. As she sipped her brothers luke-warm coffee, Charlotte remembered a
walk theyd once had on the beach. It was was a cool, stormy day but an eventful one
none the less. It was the first summer their mother had allowed them to take walks by
themselves, and they had been taking good advantage of their new privilege. As the tiny
rain drop bullettes pelted their skin, Dallas and Charlotte frolicked along the empty
beach. The world was standing still in their exhilarating daze, and for the first time, they
discovered the freedom they had been missing. Char missed the old days where she and
her brother were young and naive and knew deep down Dallas did too. There was
something about the way he was looking at her that she could see he missed seeing her as
much as she missed seeing him.
Char, you know this is my last year here.
I know.
And when I get to college, things are gonna be different.
I know, she agreed. They already are, she mumbled to herself.
I want you to know that even though I wont be here anymore, you still have me
when you need me. Dont let us grow apart, okay? I dont want us to end up like me and
mom.
Charlotte was silent. She never liked talking about her.
And dont do anything stupid. Youre a smart kid, Charlotte. But I know you
cant stay gold forever. But keep mom in line for me. Just try, okay?
Okay, She hated the sound her voice made when she was about to cry. From the
first day her brother could drive, she knew he was already gone. Now it was just so real.
And over. It was all over. The childhood days of innocence could never last, and they
both knew it. The day had finally come when adulthood had begun to hit, and the days of
foolish adolescence were over.
Be safe, she said. I cant lose you twice.
You dont have to. Itll all be over when September ends.

A Broken Heart
Kacy Sandefer

A broken heart
aching and weeping
sorrowful and glum
agonizing and unbearable
a wrecked heart cannot mend
the memories, the experiences
pain wont evacuate
sadness flows throughout every thought
trepidation follows your every move
you cant escape
you cant escape
you cant escape


















Shotgun
Tucker Deaton
I woke up late on this spring morning and cursed myself as I scrambled out of bed
to get dressed and ready for school. In the midst of my early morning commotion, my
father quietly came in the room. I studied his face trying to understand his strange mood
when I noticed it. There in his right hand was an old double barrel 20 gauge. Its dark
brown wood was covered with old scratches and chips, and its steel barrel was beginning
to rust. It was obvious that this gun had been through its fair share of hunts. This was
your grandfathers and your uncles, he said with a slight quiver in his voice. There was
a long pause as these words sunk in. I thought you should have it, he explained while
handing it to me.
My thoughts became heavy as I realized the weight of what my father was doing.
My father was only twelve when my
grandfather lost his battle to cancer. When
my grandfather passed, this gun was given
to my fathers older brother. He too lost a
battle to cancer, but my uncles death was
much more recent. He never spoke much
about it, and I never brought it up. Even
from a young age I knew it was one of those
things you didnt talk about. A father/son
relationship is like that. Some things are just
too hard to explain with words. As I ran my
hands over the polished wood and studied
the engravings in the metal, I thought of
how much this meant to my father. How
many times had he watched his father send
doves flailing to the ground with this gun? How many times had he seen that
unforgettable smile on his brothers face when this gun blasted raccoons perched high up
in the Alabama white oaks? I felt as though I was holding a piece of family history far
more important than any expensive heirloom. This gun knew more about my grandfather
Austin Chapman
and uncle than I could imagine. It had lived life with them. Something I was not able to
do enough. I could see some happiness in my father as he took one last look at the gun
and left the room. Just as he was going through the door, I stopped him. My mind raced
to find the right thing to say. This gun was far more important than anything I had ever
received and I didnt know how to respond. Was I even worthy of something like this?
Why didnt he leave it for me after his death like his father and brother had done? I
thought for sure my father should keep it, but for reasons I cannot fully understand he
wanted me to have it. No words could explain how I was feeling. I wanted to explain to
my father that I knew this gun was something that meant the world to him, but I did not
know how to say it. In the end, thank you, were the only words I could muster, but I
know my father knew what I was trying to say. The love my father had for me and the
love I had for him had just been fully explained in as little as 12 words.
That gun and I have now made our own memories. I have spent countless
afternoons on the edge of a cornfield or waist deep in a swamp staring down its sights.
Its an amazing feeling looking at the warn down places on the fore stock where my, my
grandfathers, and my uncles hands have all rested to steady the shot. I smile when I see
the trigger losing its golden luster where our fingers have squeezed so many times.
Adding my own scuffs to the old wood makes me feel as though I am making family
history, and it seems surreal seeing my own stories etched right alongside those of my
late relatives. To this day when I put that gun to my shoulder I know I am appreciated
and blessed with the best dad and family in the world.















A Greater Plan
Vincent Ziceralli

A single ray of sun illuminates the curtains and awakens me from my slumber
The time is 8:45 A.M. and I should have left over an hour ago
I stumble out of bed and onto the balcony
Staring wistfully into the fertile garden I light the first cigarette of the day
Everything around is beautiful and blooming with life, and has a purpose
The plants function to give us fresh oxygen
The squirrels are delivering the trees seeds to make more trees
The bees are pollinating the flowers
And with a 5 day, scraggly beard, and no family or job, my purpose is unclear
I grew parched from the smoke, and the blistering Alabama sun, so I ventured on into the
kitchen
The refrigerator was barren except for a half-empty case of beer
I thought 9:30 was too early to drink, but after the first breakfast beer, I had a few more
for dessert
I turned on the news and begun to lose hope after seeing so much violence and
destruction
I turn off the television and move to the shower to clear my head
I am greeted with an unfamiliar sound
A phone call


Just For Myself
Anne Merrick Hamilton

Today I saw myself in the mirror
watching myself staring into my soul
I hope to see myself a bit clearer
maybe I will gain a little control

Is this supposed to be the earthly me?
By chance are we forced to live in this way?
The world is gaining my mind and body
help me before I am taken away

Is the pressure to be perfect winning?
my life is what I make it out to be
all I have to do now is start grinning
I need to start living right now for me

Do not stress and just only be yourself
that is all I can do just for myself



















Window Pain
Stephen Little

Youll be fine, babe. This will all pass. Youre going to be fine.
I didnt mean for all of this- the boy coughed violently, -for all of this to
happen.
It isnt your fault, Chris. Believe me, that man is going to pay for it. the girl
said.
The girl sat inside of the curtain until the boy fell asleep after numerous jolts and
flinches. She sat in utter disbelief as a cold rain
started to fall outside the high window. There
was a crack in the middle of the window that
looked like a beautiful spider web, but made the
girl shutter when she saw the moon divided by
the lines of the crack. The wind picked up as
she sat in the small, cramped chair in the
corner, and cracked the curtain so she could see
Chris. She looked back and forth from the
sleeping boy to the crack in the window many
times until around eleven thirty when Chriss
parents walked in.
Thanks so much Angela, Chriss
mother said as his father sat down in the now
vacant chair in the corner. His head was in his hands, and he rubbed his eyes.
Im so sorry about all of this, Angela sobbed, hugging his mother. He didnt
Mary Parker Wetzler
deserve this. Over the mothers shoulder the girl looked at the dad glaring at the cracked
window. A cold wind blew, and the girl turned up the heat as she walked out, telling the
parents she would be back in the morning.
When the girl walked out the sliding, glass doors, she looked to the third floor and
saw the dim light in the window but could not make out the crack in the window. She
wrapped her scarf around her neck, looked at the yellow moon, and saw a familiar sight.
Thick, dark grey clouds blocked part of the moon. Angela tossed open the car door and
threw her phone inside. She sat there until her tears were gone, and until her windshield
thawed out.
A mile down the road, Angelas phone rang. She picked up and heard crying.
Angela, the mother cried, Weve lost him. Our angel is gone. The girl was
speechless before she finally swallowed, then managed to speak.
Im so sorry, she sniffed, to hear that. He was such a, she sniffed loudly.
Such a good man, Mrs. White. She hung up the phone, turned her windshield wipers on
the fastest mode, and turned her heat up, still crying. She took the next right.
Off the right side of the road were men dressed in heavy, yellow and black
jackets, holding heavy duty brooms. Angela began to sob as she watched the men work in
the freezing cold. She could hear the sleet falling on her windshield as she watched the
men sweep the shattered glass off the road.

Bracing the Ground
Riva Cullinan

Memories speak through
rationed breaths,
as nervous eyes lift to the camera,
praying to the wind,
to take you back a years time.

Hoping to find comfort
in the only place never taken
by violent love,

Where you spent your youth
and dying days,
speaking without cause,
or favor.

Today you depend on faulty minds,
rather than tiny truths,
knowing the ground is only soft,
when lain upon alone.

Eli York
The Paint Brush
Chaise Belt

The towering, bland walls of the college library were lined for miles with
manuscripts of every author it seemed like. The extended halls had the ability to lead one
to any genre of book they desired. Large wooden tables were scattered throughout the
building to provide a place for the students to study. To the left of the science fiction
section at one of the large wooden tables sat the girl and handsome young man. It was
quiet, and the mans eyes seemed to be very focused on what he was studying.
Hows it coming? the girl asked. She had sunk down into her firm desk chair as
she gazed at her friend.
Uh, its fine, the man mumbled without looking up.
Is there any way you could help me on some of this math? Its all really
confusing me.
Maybe in a minute. Im very busy right now.
The girl sat back up and tried to refocus her attention to the paper but she couldnt
seem to look at the problems for more than a minute before she would stare out into
space again with a face on. She was looking at the abstract piece of artwork in the corner
of the room. The date on the bottom of the painting was only a mere year ago, yet the
colors already seemed to be fading.
How can a brand new painting diminish so easily? she asked
The paints the artist used must not have been very good. He spun around to
examine the art, but only for a minute before he refocused onto the textbook lying in
front of him.
Hmm. Or the artist just gave up on it.
I dont believe he ever meant to make anything out of it.
So youre saying he was just playing around and then realized it was art?
Not so much playing around, just doing what he enjoyed.
Thats not very fair. The girls hands were trembling and she closed all of her
books up rapidly and began throwing them into her backpack, yet she did not get up from
her chair. Just sat back and tried to relax. Her eyes couldnt seem to stop sliding up to her
friend, but he never seemed to look back, always just looking at the textbook.
You know, he probably didnt mean to make art when he started painting that,
the man softly said across the table.
But it ended up being art whether he liked it or not.
I guess he just should have never picked up the paint brush.
Yeahguess not
In the blink of an eye she had slipped her backpack onto her shoulders and stood
up from the table. Slowly, she pulled the hair that had gotten stuck under backpack straps
out and placed it over her shoulders. Then, she turned around one last time before
walking out to smile softly to the man. He smiled back, and as she walked out didnt take
his eyes off her. She stepped out of the large library doors and in seconds had
disappeared into the sunlight.


You and I
Chandler Gory

The stars are dim.
The air is musty.
The cafs are silent.

We walk together,
You and I.
Side by side.
Left foot, right foot.
You drag your feet,
the soles of your shoes,
scrape, scrape, scrapping,
along the concrete sidewalks.

The smoke from your cigarette,
curls up around you,
gliding under your arm,
wrapping around your head,
like a transparent halo.

You smile and your teeth are sharp,
like 24 little white razor blades.

We walk together,
you and I,
through the dying streets.
the streets sucked up dry,
left anemic,
left to die.

Regan Aland
Fallen Angels
Sarah Beth Daniel

When I say
I love you,
is your first inclination to believe me?

Am I child,
ignorant and unknowing,
to the weight that three words can hold?

My words are mute to you,
or are you deaf to their meaning?

Your granite eyes scream the words,
that you have become too cowardly to mumble.

Quiet my curiosity with one answer:
Did you fall from Heaven,
my Angel?

Because the wind grows envious of the grace in your stride;
a shimmer in your eye rouses jealousy among the stars.

Your soul is twisted and maimed,
a shallow rooted tree after a hurricane.
Your heart is blackened.

Words spill from your mouth,
sweeter and more smoothly than honey,
yet burn my ears.

So you were ripped from the Heavens,
cast under the Earth,
into the Abyss.

For you,
I hold no sympathies.





Mary Parker Wetzler
Losing in the Big Leagues
By Jessica Sirkin


Isabelle stared down at her blank sheet of paper with the bold faced question
glaring straight up at her. What worthy things have you done in the past four years that
make you who you are? She had been sitting at her desk for an hour with her Princeton
application trying to find a place to start. She wracked her brain trying to remember
anything that made her worthy of this amazing Ivy League school she had dreamed
about since she was little. She had always pictured herself finally leaving the south and
experiencing the many new opportunities Princeton would offer. She couldnt think. She
began to get anxious and decided to go to the high school and talk to one of her favorite
teachers who had always been supportive to her.
On her walk to the school she began to think to herself,what have I done the past four
years? I always kept straight As. But maybe I should have taken that AP class my
teacher recommended me for. I should have gone to the summer mission trip to the
Dominican Republic that I missed for Blakes lake party .I should have ran for class
office like my mom had suggested. What did I even do the past four years? I never missed
a night out with my friends, even when I knew nothing good was going on wherever we
went. I never did go to the fundraisers our school had because they were every Saturday
which were the same day as Lukes baseball games. She stopped for a moment and
looked up to her school. She didnt need to hear it from her teacher. She wasnt ready to
face the fact that she may have ruined her chance at what seemed to be the dream she had
been trying to achieve since she could remember. She had let her morals run away from
her. She knew how competitive a school like Princeton was to get into.
She turned around and walked back to her house. She tried to convince herself she hadnt
wasted her time in the past four years, but when she reminisced on all the memories of
parties and baseball games, they didnt seem as fun as they once had. She sat back down
at her desk and tore the half blank, half scribbled piece of paper out of her notebook. She
crumbled it up and tossed it in the trashcan.
Hey hows the essay? her mom asked as she entered her room.
I didnt finish it.
Thats okay theres plenty of time tomorrow. You should take a break for today.
Im thinking about maybe trying some different schools. Princeton doesnt seem
like its going work for me after all.
But youve always wanted that are you sure? Her mom looked astonished, but tried to
stay supportive of whatever decision she chose.
I let other things get in the way.






I See a Family Praying
Chandler Gory

I see a family praying
in the little sandwich shop
at the table across from me,
and I wonder what theyre murmuring
under their breath
with their eyes shut tight.
Their hands are firmly clasped.
The tips of the finger nails on their right hand
are just barely turning white,
and the skin of their hands is rippled
by the squeezing finger tips.
I think to myself that maybe
theyre trying to hold onto God,
squeezing him nice and tight
in between those broken and cracked finger nails.

The last time I said a prayer and meant it
was when I was 12 years old,
and the red fabric of the pew
was scratching my sweating thighs.
I had my legs tucked up under the pew
and my wet knees gripped the
rounded wood.
The fat on my legs
splayed out and I wished briefly
that my legs didnt look like that.

Then the old preacher
told everyone to bow our heads
so I did just that.
I bowed my head down so far
that my chin was almost on my chest
and I made my right hand into a tight fist
with the left hand covering it.
My finger nails were white
I was gripping so tight.

The preacher was talking to God,
and I was supposed to be
praying along with him
but I wanted to talk to God myself
so I started up my own prayer inside my head.
I asked God if he thought the fat on my legs
looked bad
and if he knew whether or not Patrick,
the little boy from down the street,
liked the yellow sundress I had on.

I sat waiting for some voice
to boom in my head,
telling me the answers to my questions
but it never happened
and I just sat and sat
even after the preacher had finished his prayer.
I wondered vaguely if anyone had heard God in their heads
like a big powerful voice with an echo
but I was too scared to ask.

Now as I sit in the sandwich shop,
my legs thin and boney
I wonder what the family is praying about
and why they keep doing it
even when no one ever responds.



Ann Pickering
The Eternal Affection
Charlie Boyd
Inspired by Ezra Pounds The River Merchants Wife: A Letter

When we were bright-eyed and innocent,
my eyes followed you as if forever locked.
However, you never shared a glance with mine.
this silent trend endured as seasons passed,
without notice, I escaped your thoughts.

At sixteen, I was discovered.
Affection was aroused when our eyes met.
Unknowingly, a spark underneath a fire
ceaseless encounters seemed to never satisfy.

At seventeen, my life erupted.
Unforeseen change seemed to shatter my existence.
The earth between us grew exponentially overnight.
Now out of sight in another estate,
the heavens poured down to express my sorrow in your departure.

A fresh canopy of leaves is now overhead.
Your former abode now dilapidated and antiquated.
Traveling to my university attempting to reach you,
I pray you realize my proximity so that we may reunite once more.
I hope your dreams will reconcile here with mine,
as I have finally come to meet you.















Ann Pickering
Day and Night
Coke Matthews

When did the sun become all goodness and light?
When did all things evil happen only at night?

The light through the window signals the race is beginning,
the setting of the sun means nightfall is winning.

Things grow, people work, the daily grind once again
light fades, stars erupt, the hungry mind starts to spin.

Though every days light anchors the mind to the earth
the freedom of night blankets reflections of worth.

Chasing the clocks rules from sun up to sunset
but freed by the darkness to remember and forget.

Everyones favorite, the daylight is bright and heroic.
But the darkness is savored by those reflective and stoic.


Grace Findlay
Jehovah Witnessed
Daniel Neville

Where were you last night when the earth flipped upside down? When the people
of good heart turned bad, and those of a terrible mind turned to angels. How did you cope
with the fear of not really changing, the fear that you were nobody from the start? Did
you lash out at your mother? Or curse at your father? Or did you simply sit in silence for
a change?
I dont know if its better to be apathetic in these events or proactive. Neither
really seems to have a positive outcome anyway. The demons of change seem to be
knocking on all the doors in the neighborhood but mine. Oh well, nobody knocked
before, why would they start now?
As I turn to go back to sleep a sharp knocking comes from the front door for the
first time. I walk down gingerly but excitedly; curious as to what on earth anyone could
want from me.
Hello sir, what is it? I say as I slide the door open to reveal a hooded figure
nearly six feet tall in silken black robes. He appears to be a monk of sorts, maybe not of
Jesus or Buddha, but of Lucifer, or something else possibly.
I have come to show you a better place, he says in a voice as dark and rich as if
it was hand dipped in chocolate from the Swiss Alps.
What do you mean a better place? I ask dazed and confused.
I mean a place where you belong, a place where you can be yourself with others
like you, a place where you can learn and then return to earth when you are ready. He
says this with a bit of regret in his voice, as if he was sad to deliver this news.
Where the hell is this place?
It is a land ruled by a fallen angel, known as Lucifer to your kind, known as the
Dark Lord to his servants.
Why am I going to hell? I havent done anything to deserve this! I say in utter
shock now as I panic.
Because some of the best people go through the worst hell sometimes,
And then I understood this was necessary for me; this would make me into who I
was supposed to be. So I followed the figure into the world, and into the fog, falling in
line with the others outside as we descended into the underworld.



Meredith Featheringill
Zeus
Eli York

Zeus, god of flies and death,
Draw me close.
We are alone,
and our breath,
struggles away.

The soles peel off our shoes,
and stark white gives way,
to ash and dust.
Our uneasy gaits,
Fade,
to feed the worms,
and pad,
the dry stream beds.

The taproot stretches,
when the seed is burnt,
and the earth is cold,
and moist.
Thirst,
is met,
with dirt.








*Alabama High School Literary Arts Award Winner: Second Place in Poetry
Through Child's Eyes
Sara Beth Daniel

Caterpillars captained twig ships with green masts and waxy sails. They would set
an unstable course across an orange tinted ocean encased by rough, black shores. Mighty
swords or wands possessing magical properties could be found scattered on sidewalks
and in the grass. Priceless gems painted the soil. Miracles happened every day.
Dreamscapes passed through blackened skies. They were her sole offer of relief from
night terrors dancing behind shadows.
Curiosity lead her by the hand in everything she did. It enlightened her. However
the Wonder encasing her spirit started to crack. Shadow began to gleam through, blinding
her. The backward steps she took into darkness were called the maturity that came with
growing older. It is a dangerous false progress most people accept as truth. In reality it is
a disease of the mind. It grows as the years pass.
Until one day, she will see sticks on the sidewalks and in yards. Pebbles will line
the street, the bothersome kind that enjoy climbing into her shoes. A child's orange soda
will have spilled into a rain puddle and get caught in the cracks of the asphalt. It will call
her to remember a time where miracles happened every day where ships could be made
from twigs with leaves for sails. However an acute, impatient beep will tell her she has to
be elsewhere. The watch cuffed around wrist will tell her she is three minutes late. Once
more her mind will slip back into its coma of schedule-oriented monotony. She will
continue to forget caterpillar captains, and orange oceans will cease to exist.





Sunny Nyguyen

From Russia with Love
Riva Cullinan

The couple bears the trademark almost-smiles
of generations to come:
pressed lips and wide eyes,
semi-hopeful for the future of their daughter,
my grandmother,
who sits on her fathers lap.
Her mother,
my namesake,
stands beside her family,
one hand on her husbands shoulder,
the other holding her infants chubby fingers.
Id like to think theyre happy,
that they feel safe in their new world,
far away from the home they were run out of,
to seek refuge in the Pearl on Antilles.
In twelve years theyll be in the states,
once again displaced and unsure
but together again.



Julia Jane Duggan
Brave and Artful Land
Mary Shelton Hornsby
*the address where Christina Rossetti was born

The towers and spires are tiny kingdoms
where celestial forces and art and history
have all been evolving for centuries.
Where ancient structures still stand,
their callous rock faces hardened by
the wars they have seen.
Now the bustle of traffic
zips between the along the lines on the
maps,
and the slow-turning hubcaps reflect the
typical hubbub of a restless city,
the big black taxies and the men in suits.
The churning of the wheels slows and
stops,
revealing the bold lines of modern
architecture:
the black, steel-framed windows and
wrought-iron gates.
The rolling resumes with a furious
persistence and the
camel-colored stone and black iron fences
all melt together
on the hubcaps bright silver face.
Finally, the rotation stops again, the
wheels dizzy with spinning.
They now view a dismal gray sky
and a plaque that reads 38 Charlotte Street.*
A woman with a modest plaid skirt and a strong-set chin steps on the bus,
collapses her umbrella, and the bus continues.
The fog clouds the hubcaps view for several hours.
And the cathedral bells ring
as the stuffy, persistent rain settles on the pavement.
When the fog finally clears, the streetlights are
burning with vibrant delight,
the streets are busy with workers rushing home
and aristocrats waltzing to a gallant celebration,
and they all walk by the statues of great men and women
politicians, war heroes, and martyrs.
And late at night, as the traffic sifts through,
and the city grows quiet,
there is an unending pulse,
dark and brave,
that sets the rhythm of the citys streets.



Dera Carr
The Four Seasons
Natalie Buzzard

I walked around the empty room and sat on the barren couch. From there I could
look out onto the street below. I got up and shut the curtains. The walls began to swell,
the air got warmer and I ran out onto the balcony, gasping for breath. I sat down on the
cold metal chair overlooking the abandoned pool.
My only family that night was the moon. A companion since childhood, my only true
regular. No, the moon was more than a regular, never taking anything from me, me never
taking anything from the moon. Its pale glow reached beneath my skin with its healing
touch.
I heard a knock at
the door. I didnt
answer it. I just gazed
upon the face of my
friend with bleary
eyes. The knock
came again. I sighed,
not tonight. The
knocking was
insistent. Im not
working tonight, I
shouted. The tears
came rushing out
again.
Its me, Candi! I
looked back at the
moon. Open up,
sweetie, Ive got ice
Alexa Ruttenburg cream! she
attempted to entice me. My body felt like lead, and I was sobbing too hard to get up.
Im coming in, Candi barged through the door, a tub of ice cream swinging in the
brown plastic Kroger bag in her hand. Oh, sweetie, Im so sorry. She put down the ice
cream and shrugged off her parka. She put her arms around me as best as she could with
the metal chair I was sitting on digging into her arms and chest. What are you doing
outside? Its freezing. Come on, lets go in. She pulled me up off the chair and led me
into the small hotel room.
I sat down on the bed and she pulled the comforter around my shoulders. I pulled it off
when she turned around to get the tub of ice cream. She placed the tub in my lap and put
a plastic spoon in my hand, closing my fingers around it with her own. I relaxed my
fingers and watched the spoon slide to the floor as she pulled the comforter back around
my shoulders. I put the ice cream back on the TV console and let the comforter descend
from my shoulders to my feet.
Where are you going? she asked.
To take a shower, I said.
She scurried into the bathroom ahead of me, making sure there was shampoo,
conditioner, soap, a washcloth and a towel. You dont need this, not tonight, she said,
taking my razor with her out of the bathroom as I began to strip.
I turned on the shower. It was scalding hot, hot enough to sterilize. My skin turned red.
I bore the pain in order to become clean. I scrubbed until my skin was pink and pruney. I
stood under the hot water until the tears would come no more. I turned off the shower and
stepped onto the terrycloth bath mat. I wrapped the robe emblazoned with the hotels
logo on the pocket around my body.
Candi was on the bed watching a rerun of The Brady Bunch. Do you feel better? she
asked. I nodded slowly. Come, let me braid your hair. I sat in front of her and turned
off the TV. She began plaiting my wet hair. At least you got all of this out of it, this nice
hotel room, room service, champagne. And he paid for it, all of it.
But I had to pay more. I said as I hugged a pillow to my stomach and lay down to go
to sleep.



















Pain Never Gone
Lacey Ballard

I remember us walking.
We walked through the crunchy leaves,
the fall trees were brown like the day to come.
We were 16 at the time,
love never lost.

I remember us talking,
sounds echoed through the theater.
But as we were the only ones to laugh,
we were kicked out for constant distribution.
Smiles never faded.

I remember us swimming,
the glistening beach that spring,
water so cool, trees so green,
sand covering our bodies.
Time never wasted.

I remember me watching,
they buried you whole.
My eyes like the beach that spring,
my heart like the trees that fall,
17's too young.
Pain never gone.






Deanna Medina
Breaks
Deanna Medina

He came and I went like the rough waves of the Pacific
into the Hurricane that the radar never detected.
I knew a storm was eminent, blowing towards my face.
It pushed me out and left me a broken house once welcomed.
It altered my path, a complete shift in the continents
but Im not sinking yet not yet.
The cracking of my knuckles echoed under the water.
Instants went by motionless and hushed.
Sshhh come up for air.
My breathless body is shocked by the cold, misty, tears falling from the sky.
I should agree to the undertow but I push it behind me.
No one may ever hear my yells and cries but the waves will never send salutations.
They will fight me with their wrecking rage,
bully me until Im weak,
cut me with their glassy eyes,
and confuse my every direction.
But Im not sinking yet not yet.
The Politician
Natalie Buzzard

Raya adjusted her glasses and looked around the station, it was crowded, like it
was every July Fourth at 8:24 A.M. In the corner, a man in a poncho and cowboy hat
slept. A barefoot girl dodged men in business suits and women pushing strollers. A
family of four stood under the massive dome and took a picture. The station was packed.
A room filled with strangers, and Raya knew none of them.
She was sitting on the bench next to the passed out man in the poncho. He smelled of
whiskey and made a strange snoring noise. She pulled her purse closer to her as she
watched the redhead bump into another man and steal his wallet.
The chaotic play before her was
dizzying. Babies with their
grandparents were going on trips.
Suits were running to catch the train to
work. Men proposed to their beautiful
girlfriends in the spot they first met.
Hello, the attractive man sat down
beside her.
Hi, Raya slid down the bench,
closer to the poncho man.
Youre very beautiful, he said.
Raya ran the tips of her fingers over
the edge of her neck brace.
I really mean it, I saw you from
across the station and I just had to tell
you that.
Raya squeezed her lips together in
an attempt to smile.
Well. I guess Ill be on my way
again, he nodded, his curly brown
hair falling into his blue eyes.
Wait, Raya gasped. She reached
out and pulled his pink lips to hers.
Her fingers tangled in that mess of hair. Her neck brace fell away and her hair became a
luxurious mane. The man pulled away and got down on one knee.
Will you marry me? he asked.
Raya jolted out of her daydream to see the beautiful man dash across the station. She
had seen him everyday for the last four years make that mad dash for his train. On
Wednesdays, he was always fifteen minutes late and on Fridays, he wore a polo shirt
Kara Gravlee
instead of a suit. On Thursdays, he carried an Einstein Bagels bag and was five minutes
early.
He had proposed to her 487 times and kissed her 870 times. 281 days he decided to
ditch work and hang out with her instead. He had asked her out 535 times and 535 times
she had said yes.
She fell in love with him the first time she saw him. He was wearing a navy suit with a
white shirt and red tie. Just like his pictures, which were plastered all over the station.
She saw him later that night on the news; he was running for the mayoral office. Thats
also when she found out about his wife and four kids.
Raya sat back and surveyed the station. The ugly people ran about, disheveled and
grumpy. Their eyes flashed and squinted. She couldve sworn the poncho man looked up
at her from under the brim of his cowboy hat with a knife in hand.
Raya stood up, panting. The station around her swirled with color and movement. It
was filled with a cacophony of sound. Babies cried, women squealed, men shouted, trains
hissed and screeched as they moved in and out of the station with consistency. The
station around Raya began melting in the blinding sunlight streaming through the
windows above the stairs.
Raya ran into the bathroom and vomited. She stood in the silver stall and counted each
breath until they were no longer ragged. She pulled back her hair and fixed her glasses.
She adjusted her dress and checked her makeup. What an awful outfit to die in, she
thought.
Raya returned to her bench in the station. It looked just like the station she died in four
years ago. Everyone in the station was dead like her. The poncho man died of alcohol
poisoning after drinking too much at a party. The beautiful man died in a failed
assassination attempt on one of the state senators. Raya died from falling onto the train
tracks and being run over by an incoming train after being bumped by somebody in a
navy suit. If Raya hadnt been wearing that stupid neck brace, maybe she wouldve been
able to turn her neck to see who had bumped her.
The only reason she had gone to the station that day was to see a psychologist to help
with her social anxiety. Now she was stuck in purgatory and she was never going to
conquer her fear.











Caroline Milligan

Where trees used to stand
now taken over by the dream of man

Nothing lies in the valley of ashes
except the remnants of all of the masses

Turned to ash and dust
filling valleys till they bust

The blue eyes of god behold
all of the misfortune that unfolds

His great Garden of Eden crumbles
as grotesque gardens rise through the rubble

His Adam crumbling in the fowl air
under Eckleburgs hard stare

Dust blankets the world around
where neither hope nor happiness can be found

Mans doing has caused this all
leading to his ultimate fall
















The Lemonade Stand
Cat Schultz

Near the stand that left a musky lemon smell
past the overgrown path in the mint field
sauntered a young woman
toward the man, who, with a smile
lifted up a basket
and a blanket
and handed the woman a vodka and cranberry
she grinned cheekily
and took a sip
and fell to the ground
the grass wilted under the weight
of the mans shoes
as he stood
and started to gather his things
with one cynical movement
he grabbed the glass that had fallen
and started down the minty path
leaving the smell of the old lemonade stand
to cover the smell of the new corpse
that he left behind.










Ann Pickering
Gone For Good
Kara Gravlee

It is only 3 pm but the sky looks like
night. The house rattles with every boom that
comes down from the sky. The lights keep on
flickering on and off. There is screaming
coming from the tiny, grey house in Fayette,
Alabama.
Seriously go away, Isabel shouted.
Come on Isabel. I made one mistake.
Everyone makes them. Get over it already,
Michael said.
How can I get over something like that? I just want you to leave.
No, I wont leave. Plus, there is a tornado watch going on. I cant leave.
Isabel walks over to the window. The rain is coming down, fast as bullets. The
sky is so bright that a she could read a book, but it is as loud as an elephant stampede.
Michael walks over to Isabel and tries to sit by her. Isabel moves closer to the window
and turns her back on him.
Look Im sorry. How many times can I say it before you forgive me?
This isnt something you can just forgive. I dont know if I can ever forgive
you.
Well then where do we go from here?
I think its time for me to grow up. I should probably just leave and move out.
Isabel is looking out of the window again. This time, she sees the sun peeking out
of the dark clouds in the distance. Michael walks slowly to the other side of the house. He
begins to look out of the window as well, but all he can see is dark clouds and flashing
bright lights.
Isabel, put down your bags and get back into the house. You cant just walk out
on me.
I have to move on. I have to leave.
Isabel jumps into her car and drives away. She is heading towards the big city of
Birmingham. As she looks out of the car window she can see the sun in front of her and
the storm behind her. Right when Michael can no longer see Isabel, he gets a phone call
from a woman.
I will be over in ten. Shes gone for good this time right?



Loblolly
Adelaide Kimberly

I ran my tongue along the back of my teeth, feeling the grit there and reminding
myself for the umpteenth time that I need to brush them. My overall feeling of untidiness
was also due to the stench of sweat and the mud that clung to my skin. It was humid out
that night and flies stuck to my legs like sap on a Christmas tree. The old rocker
squeaked in the hot, southern darkness as I slid down further in my seat.
I knew I should probably get my lazy ass up and go inside to Marjoretta, but in all
honesty I just didnt want to. I could smell the pumpkin pie she had baked for me. Its
spicy scent wafted through the screened kitchen window and danced across the porch to
curl under my nose. But not even Marjs hard work could convince me to get up.
I brought my thoughts back to the porch, running my bare feet over the warped
wooden floors and kicking up dust as the rocker moved back and forth. This was my
favorite time of day. God had turned off the suns light switch so her hot rays didnt beat
down on me. At this time of night, I always knew Marj was waitin for me with
something sweet; usually it was some kind of pie. Pecan, cherry, apple, chocolate, or
pumpkin baked fresh every day when she got back from her shift at the local Wal-Mart.
Sometimes, when she was real tired, she would leave the pie in the oven for me with a
spray can of Reddi-Whip on the counter and a sticky note that always read, With love
from Wal-Mart. But most of the time, besides when she worked the night shift, Marj
would stay up and wait for me, cutting me a slice and sitting with me in a contented
silence as I ate. When Marj would wake in the mornin, she would eat a slice of pie for
breakfast. Then, carefully wrapping the leftovers in tin-foil, she would bring it with her
to work and share it with the other cashier ladies at the Wal-Mart.
The smell of pumpkin pie tickled my nose again and I felt my stomach rumble.
Taking in a few more seconds of humid night air, I finally got to my feet, my sixty-five
year old back aching. The screen door screeched as I pulled it open and shuffled through
the plush but cluttered den and into the kitchen. There was Marj, her faded pink robe
standing out against the dirty laminate floors. She did not acknowledge me as I made my
way to the counter to sit down and be served, except to pat my cheek as I gave her a
quick peck.
I awoke at five oclock in the morning; blue sunlight slanted through the old floral
curtains and onto the stained gray carpet. I clambered out of bed and shuffled over to the
dresser drawers, pulling out my typical outfit of faded and tattered jeans and a stained
wife beater. As I stepped into them, I noted that my jeans were much harder to slip on
than a year ago. The wife beater pulled tight over my beer belly and there was less of the
dust colored hair to brush out of my face than there once was. Boots awaited me at the
bottom of the stairs. For breakfast I took an apple from the kitchen and then headed out
the screen door, across the porch, down the cracked cement walk, and onto the road
where I took a right and began the five mile walk to work.
This was my second favorite time of day, when the whole world glowed blue
from reflections of the sky as if God had stuck the suns light switch halfway between on
and off. At this time, the world was still asleep and it was just me and my thoughts. I
thought bout lots of things on my walks to work. Sometimes I would think of Marjoretta
and her pies. Marj didnt used to make pies. It started about a month after the quietness
did. I thought the quietness started because me and Marj had reached that point in our
relationship where we already knew everything about each other. She used to ask me
about work, but she always knew my answer to why should she keep on askin? I didnt
ask her about Wal-Mart anymore because she kept on saying the same gossip about the
same cashier ladies. But then she had started to bake and for a time I would thank her
and tell her how delicious her cooking was. This seemed to make her happy, but after a
while I just felt like she must know how good she is at cookin so why should I keep
telling her?
Sometimes I would think about things like bills or my receding hairline or my
new beer belly while walking. Marj hadnt said anything about me looking old so I
figured it didnt bother her. She didnt look old yet. Marj still looked beautiful with her
honey colored curls and warm coffee eyes. I didnt tell her she was beautiful anymore
though. I figured that was another thing I had told her so many times that I didnt need to
tell her anymore.
But most of the time I thought about my trees and Loblolly. I worked on the
Stacys plantation planting pine trees for paper production. It was monotonous but
beautiful work. Sometimes I thought watchin my trees grow was more beautiful than
Marjoretta, but I never told Marj that once. I knew I would just offend her because I
could never explain the wonder of seeing something so fragile and small grow up to
tower one-hundred and fifty feet tall. Marj would probably tell me that seeing kids grow
up could have given me the same joy, but I know it wouldnt have. Marj had always
wanted kids, but I had my pines, and in the end they were better than children. My pines
grow up to be strong and beautiful. They could never ignore me, spite me, and would
only leave me the day the axe men came and sent them crashing to the ground.
Thinking of the axe men made my blood boil. I had seen them laughing at me as
I stooped over the ground, pressing my finger into the dirt, and dropping a few seeds
from the pouch at my side into the hole I had just created. Many years ago I had tried to
explain to them that trees didnt just come outta nowhere; they had to be planted before
they could be cut down. But they had just laughed, shouldering their chainsaws and
cooing at me to return to my planting. I had giving up on them, knowing at least in this
world I could create life instead of only taking it away.
Loblolly was my first pine. Fifteen years ago I had planted her in the far corner of
the A pasture. She towered almost one-hundred and twenty feet tall by my rough
estimate. Out of all the rows I had planted, hers was the tallest. The farther you went
along the shorter the rows became, dropping in height like the AT&T bars. It gave me
such a sense of pride seeing how much she had grown over the years, her limbs widening
with each rainstorm and roots spreading like smoke. Her cutting would be coming any
day now. Just a few days ago Mr. Stacy had okayed the axe men to start cutting on the
first twenty rows of the A pasture; the trees in these rows had reached regulation height.
I reached Stacys plantation just as the sun was beginning to peak from behind the
pine trees. The axe shack stood at the intersection of tractor paths between pastures A, B,
E, and F; instructions for the days planting were posted on the wall. I unlocked the shack
with my key, shoving the door open and shuffling past the chainsaws without a glance.
Seeing an open sack I had started to work with two days ago, I stooped to pick it up,
placing it on my hip as if carrying a baby, and then exited the shack again. Boots
draggin in the dirt, I made my usual detour around the A pasture to nod good morning to
Loblolly. She swayed in return and it made my heart ache just to look at her. In a day or
two she would be gone, nothing left but a stump and shavings. Unable to bear looking at
her anymore, I then headed off to the R pasture where I was almost halfway done
planting.
The job was simple, I took my pointer finger and sank it into the muddy ground
until the hole was about three inches deep. Then I took a pinch of seed and dropped it
into the hold and used my boot to fill in the hole again. One step and then the process
repeated again. Poke, pinch, fill, step. Over and over until I reached the end of the row,
at which point I would take one step to the left or right and start another row going in the
opposite direction.
I walked home in the deep orange of a southern sunset, one hand on my back and
the other in my back pocket. Darkness had settled when I reached my home; the only
light that was on was the swinging bulb that hung from the center of the porch. I took my
usual position in my porch rocker for as long as it took for all sights of the sun to leave
the edge of the sky. When it felt as if one more dip of the rocker would send me
sleeping, I got up and walked through the house into the kitchen. The light was off which
meant Marj was asleep. With a flip of the switch I found the oven cracked open, the
scent of cinnamon apple flavoring the air. The can of Reddi-Whip sat on the counter
with a yellow post it note stuck to it. I pulled out the pie first, taking the knife that was
already laid out on the counter for me and cut myself a sizeable slice. Placing it on a
plastic Dixie plate I then turned to the Reddi-Whip, peering down to read the note. It
read:
From Wal-Mart
I stared down at the square, yellow paper, sliding it between my tired fingers and
feeling the sticky substance at one end of the sticky note pull at my skin. I wasnt sure
how to interpret the message. This was not the usual note Marj had left for me almost
two years. Where was the with love that usually began each of her notes?
Clenching the paper in my fist I remembered the first note she had left me. It was
almost two years ago, about a month after she had started baking pies. I had found the
can of Reddi-Whip on the counter for the first time accompanied by the sticky note,
knife, and Dixie plate. When I had gone upstairs to go to sleep I had woken Marj with a
peck on the cheek. She had smiled at me and I had told her I loved her. I had told her
she was the best cook in all the world and then she had smiled herself to sleep after
telling me that she loved me too. But we didnt say those things to each other anymore; I
figured we both knew what the other was gonna say so why say it?
Returning from memory back to the kitchen I recycled the note, a horrible thought
surfacing in my mind. What if the sticky note had come from a pine Mr. Stacy had
grown? The worry that Marj was writin on Stacys trees filled my mind as I sat down at
the counter and began to eat the apple pie. Marjorettas message left my mind until the
second before I fell asleep, but at that point I was too far gone to care.
The next day I walked to work, Marjorettas note completely forgotten. Instead all
my mind could focus on was Loblolly. She was gonna be cut that day. It was hard to
wrap my mind around that. It had been fifteen years since I had started working at
Stacys and every day I had made my detour around the A pasture, nodding good
morning to Loblolly. I had seen her grow from a sapling and it gave me the greatest
sense of pride seeing her swaying in the wind. During thunderstorms I was gripped with
fear that Loblolly would be struck by lightning or that another falling tree would come
crashing down on her. And now it didnt matter because at the end of today Loblolly
would be gone no matter what.
When I reached the plantation I went straight to the corner of the A pasture.
Loblolly stood in the far corner, silently awaiting her fate. Resting a hand on her trunk, I
exhaled and then began speaking in my broken bass voice.
They gon cut you down today. They gon cut you down yes maam, yes maam
they are, I said, my voice weighed down by grief. I always knew this day was a-
comin. I known it ever since you was two feet tall. They was gonna come some day
and cut you down. And now my voice was hurting, They gon chop you down today
Loblolly, and now my voice was roughly above a whisper. They gon chop you down
today. Yes maam they are and Im gon be all thats left.
With that I walked away; not looking back I went to get to get my pine seeds. I
had made it to the R pasture when I heard the chainsaws engine rev.
When I walked through the screen door that night the smell of chocolate
surrounded me. I followed my nose through the den and into the kitchen, moving straight
to the oven and removing the chocolate pie Marjoretta had baked for me. I slid the
burning pan onto the counter and glanced around the counter to look for the Reddi-Whip.
I found it, the knife, and the Dixie plate in their usual place. However, there was no
yellow sticky note covering the picture of fluffy whipped cream on the Reddi-Whip can.
There was no loving note from Wal-Mart. It was at that moment for the first time all day
that I remembered last nights message from Marj. I felt guilt rise up in me that I hadnt
thought bout it all day, but then again I had been distracted by Loblolly. And the
moment Loblollys name crossed my mind all thoughts of Marjs missing note left my
thoughts. I sat down to eat a slice of pie, sadness filling me once more.
I didnt think about anything when I walked to work the next day. It was a cold,
foggy morning and mists swirled through the pine trees. The birds sang tentatively, their
voices shrill and tired in the rising morning. The blueness that I loved was not
comforting on this morning and my usual breakfast apple crunched with certain dullness
in my mouth.
When I reached work I headed straight for the axe shack, refusing to let my feet
or eyes wander towards the A pasture. I grabbed the bag of seed without my usual
enthusiasm and then left the door unlocked behind me. Finally, with unnecessary
slowness, I turned to face the A lot, my body shaking and quivering. At first I only
registered that somethin was missing, but as I drew closer I saw that the first three rows
were missing. The axe men had done their job well, leaving nothing but one foot of each
tree that would be dug up by the stump men a few days later. The stumps exposed rings
upon rings, years that the axe men had taken away with one quick slice of their
chainsaws. My mind filled with numbness once more when I reached the end of the first
row.
Loblollys stump was a hacked up piece of wood. It was not the clean cut of the
other trees, but instead it was jagged and damaged. It looked as if the chainsaw had
suffered a seizure halfway through and had slipped off its original course. I stared and
stared, my heart aching until it felt as if it would burn a hole right through me. Mustering
all the strength I had left in me, I began to speak.
Yes maam. Yes maam I knew they was gon cut you down and I was gon be
all that was left, I whispered. With one more glance I turned away for the last time. The
walk back to the axe shack hurt with each step, cracking twigs sounded like gunshots
under my boots. Holding the seed bag like a baby on my hip, I wandered over to the R
pasture.
I didnt plant anything that day.
The lights in the house were off when I got home that night. I sat in my rocker
until what must have been one in the morning. The flies left me alone and even the
humidity didnt seem to affect me that night. When I finally worked up the nerve to
shuffle into the house, I moved with the slowness of the old man that I was.
The kitchen was dark, moonlight casting shadows through the faded floral
curtains onto the stained laminate floors. I moved sleepily across the room, my boots
dragging. I reached down to oven and pulled it open; an odd mixture of old pie scents
filled the air. Glancing inside I blinked once, then twice.
There was no pie in the oven.

















*National Gold Medal For The Scholastic Arts and Writing Competition Winner
The One
Reid Pyburn
Inspired by T.S. Eliots The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock


The clock monotonously clicks away,
his heart nearly beats out of his chest at the thought.
He knows that it will be inevitable
just like the sweat in his palms and sudden stutter.
He prays for more time to think before he is released,
for the real world he must face is not one he enjoys.
As the clock ticks its final tock the bell sounds like siren,
its time to tell her.

The halls are filled with students,
much like animals corralled in a zoo.
Students become lost in the place of peer pressure and acceptance,
but when she comes into his line of vision she and he are the only ones in the world.
The dust settles and they are in, what seems to be a glorious purgatory,
one where they have all the time in the world and no one can take that away.

He stops, the lockers form a great wall,
they exchange the daily glances.
No words are said quite yet,
its not like he could say anything, he is paralyzed with fear.
Fear of the wrong words. Fear of anxiousness.
His thoughts like a mine field,
No matter what he thinks it will be destructive to him.
Say something! What will he say? She can never know

The first bell rings and suddenly the sounds of students flood back to him.
The trance is broken and the real world has become apparent again,
Janey Hollis
lockers close and the moment has come.
His knees like wet noodles,
the first step feels like a mile.
He has the weight of the world dragging behind him.

His head bows in her presence,
however, he looks up to see her eyes glaring right through him.
He fears the absolute worst,
All he can muster up his a measly Hello
However, something is different, she smiles and says something back.
Caught back by the smile he doesnt hear what she says,
They continue about their lives and head to their classes.

All you could say was Hey?
Why cant you tell him how you feel?

Hello? That's it? Idiot
When are you going to tell her how you feel?