2

2014-2015 Muse Staff

Cat Schultz Editor
Adelaide Kimberly Assistant Editor
Chandler Gory Staff Writer
Brock Schumann Staff Writer
Charlotte McRae Staff Writer
Sam Poole Staff Writer
Sarah Beth Daniel Staff Editor
Robert Krauss Staff Writer
Denise Trimm Muse Sponsor

Dear Readers,
Hello and welcome!
I have three groups to thank in my: Thank You! Letter from The Editor.
To my darling staff: The pride I have for my young and old Muslings is the equivalent of fifty
lions. (Get it because a pack of lions is called a pride!) The point I am trying to make is, though I
leave this Muse as editor, I am confident in the ability of my Muslings to keep the heart and spirit
of The Muse alive. Now that the mushy part is over, these people really are the bomb diggity.
They all are beautiful writers and I am so very grateful that I get to introduce them in this letter.
To Trimm: Now that I am done talking about my fifty lions worth of pride over my Muslings, I
need to address one other topic: you, our fearless leader. I could spend a whole book talking
about all the wonderful traits of Trimm, however Ive limited myself to three sentences.
From talking about politics to personal issues, Trimm, you are always there willing to listen and
add her opinion. You opened us up to new friendships, I mean I never thought I would make
friends with a soccer player ( sporting events make me break out in hives), but before I knew it I
was going to my first Spartan Soccer game to watch our Junior Editor, and the other Spartan
girls, kick some grass stained butt. Thank you Trimm, for three marvelous years.
Now that I have thanked my staff and leader, I would like to thank you, Dear Reader, for reading
our little Muse Magazine. You see, it's a special magazine. It has the ability to draw you in and
take you on multiple mini adventures; I will never stop marveling at how tiny letters on a page
can do that. From Black Dogs to Presidents, there is none stop fun and excitement. The best part
is, you don't even have to get off your couch for this! I hope you are comfy and have a warm
drink (Like tea. Tea is good. Go get some tea if you have no warm beverage), for I would like to
invite you to the Mystical, Magical, Mayhem that we have created.
I welcome you to,
The Muse.
Cat Schultz
Editor
Mountain Brook High School

Muse is the literary magazine created, compiled, and edited by the Muse literary
staff of Mountain Brook High School. The writing and art of this magazine were
chosen from numerous entries submitted by students in grades 9-12. Most of the
work in this magazine was created though the year by students in their English and
art classes. Many of our students enter and place in several local, state, and
national contests throughout the year. Mountain Brook High School is proud of the
artistic excellence exhibited not only in these pages but also those published and
exhibited in other venues. We are pleased to announce that several of our students
are in the process of being published.
Adelaide Kimberly, assistant editor of Muse, won the B-Metro B-Published
contest. Her short story: The Krebs Museum, was published in B-Metros April
2015 edition. It also won 1st place in fiction in the Alabama High School Literary
Arts Awards sponsored by the Alabama Writers Forum.
Jennifer Lauriellos novel Eliza won second place in the Books-A-Million High
School Publishing Contest. It can be purchased online and in the Brookwood
Village Books-A-Million store here in Birmingham.
Winning third place in this contest was our own Muse literary staff, who compiled
their first semesters work, which is the core for this magazine.
In addition, our students have won or placed in the following contests: The
Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Nancy Thorp Poetry Contest, the Alabama
High School Literary Arts Awards, and the Alabama School of Fine Arts Creative
Writing Contest.

NOTICE OF NONDISCRIMINATION: The Mountain Brook School system does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, religion,
national origin, sex, disability or age in any of its programs and activities and provides equal access to the Boy Scouts and other
designated youth groups. The following persons have been designated to handle inquiries regarding nondiscrimination policies: Dr. Dale
WiselyDirector of Student Services (Title VI), (wiselyd@mtnbrook.k12.al.us); Mrs. Sylvia HarperPersonnel Director (Title IX),
(harpers@mtnbrook.k12.al.us); Dr. Missy BrooksDirector of Instruction (Title II), (wildman-brooksm@mtnbrook.k12.al.us); Mrs.
Shannon MundySpecial Education Director (Section 504), (mundyl@mtnbrook.k12.al.us). Contact Information: 32 Vine Street,
Mountain Brook, AL 35213, 205-871-4608.

Table of Contents
Soup Can by Adelaide Kimberly
Love by Brock Schumann
Broken Glass of the Past by Elizabeth Statham
Waves of Emotion by Charlotte McRae
A Loving Granddaughter: A Letter by Evans
----Johnson
Its Too Late For This by Sarah Beth Daniel
Lake Encompasses the Fish by Cat Shultz
White by Charlotte McRae
Light Made of Darkness by Brock Schumann
Why by Charlotte McRae
Miracle Maker by Sarah Beth Daniel
Second Chances by Robert Krauss
Dance of the Dead by Emilie Harwell
Seasons by Charlotte McRae
Quiet by Brock Schumann
Storm by Sam Poole
Wait a While by Sarah Beth Daniel
Stitched by Charlotte McRae
Passing Time by Chandler Gory
Body of the Sky by Charlotte McRae
Anchored by Sarah Beth Daniel
The Lonely Song by Meg Hayslip
Scension by Brock Schumann
I Am He As You Are He As You Are Me And
----We Are All Together3 Studies On Names
----by Chandler Gory
Uncovering the Last Frontier by McKinnon
----Cox
Acute Sisterhood by Adelaide Kimberly
A Golden Token by Cat Shultz
State of Innocence by Sarah Beth Daniel
The Taxi Cab by Julia Jane Duggan
Chrysalis by Charlotte McRae
Nixon in Wonderland: A History Teachers
----Dream by Chandler Gory
The Mirage by Charlotte McRae
The Lemonade Stand by Cat Shultz
Can it be Called Defeat? by Sarah Beth Daniel
Behead by Charlotte McRae
City Dwellers by Elizabeth Smith

7
11
12
15
16
17
20
21
23
24
25
26
33
34
35
36
37
37
38
44
44
45
48
50

51
54
56
56
57
58
59
63
64
65
66
67

The Fairytale Withered Away by Elizabeth

----Smith
The Krebs Museum by Adelaide Kimberly
Whats It Like by Charlotte McRae
The Big Brother: A Letter by Margaret Davis
The Wall of Innocence by Ansley Balogh
Familiar Faces by Griselle Aguiar
The Legend of the Lake by Jennifer Lauriello
Thirty Long Friday Nights by Rix Curtis
World Away by Mary Tate Thomas
Dandelion by Emily Bolvig
Girl Next Door by Sara Chandler Mitchell
The Sea by Carlton Randleman
Tube in Cuba by Coke Matthews
Earth by Luke Hartman
Whispers in the Wind by Robert Krauss
Down the Rabbit Hole by Helen Catherine
----Darby
The Kings Princess: A Letter by Kaylyn
----Greene
Ascension by Scott Lepley
A Night of Fright is No Delight by Cole
----Summersell
Black Dogs Make for Unhappy Pets by Robert
----Krauss

68
69
75
77
78
79
80
84
87
88
89
91
92
93
94
98
100
101
102
105

Artwork
Emma Brown
Anne Grey Cook
Sarah Beth Daniel
Georgann Hester
Adelaide Kimberly
Peyton McDougal
Isabell Mulkin
Jake Sansom
Omar Tunager

66
104
Cover, 49
14
35, 44, 55, 63
88, 101
15, 19, 58, 78, 92, 105
76
22

Soup Can
Adelaide Kimberly
Maggie received her letter from Bartholomews Institute for the Especially Gifted in the
spring of her junior year. The envelope was made of thick cardstock with the address handwritten
in crimson calligraphy. The logo was emblazoned on the back bearing a shield with the phrase
In Nomine Confidimus, which Maggie later learned was Latin for In Name Do We Trust.
Mr. and Mrs. Christian, Maggies parents, were so ecstatic when the letter arrived that Mrs.
Christian immediately picked up the phone and called her sister, heading off into the living room
to celebrate the piece of mail and leaving Maggie alone in the kitchen to wonder what on Earth
all the hullabaloo could possibly be about. It was several hours later that Mr. and Mrs. Christian
brought Maggie in the living room to talk.
Bartholomews, Mr. Christian began, his tone was one of excitement masked by a false
sense of seriousness, is a private school up in Maine.
Institution, Dear, Mrs. Christian corrected, her face flushed with anticipation. She sat
perched on the edge of the seat, leaning so far forwards that Maggie wondered how she hadnt
fallen to the floor.
Yes, Institution, Mr. Christian grumbled. Pausing to glare at this wife, who took no
notice, he began again. Bartholomews is a private institution up in Maine. Its very selective
most people that apply never get accepted. We put your name down just after you were born, but
never in our wildest dreams did we think you would get in.
How did I get in then? Maggie interrupted much to both her parents annoyance.

Im sure it is in your letter, Mr. Christian snapped.

Usually students parents put their childrens names down years before theyre born,
Mrs. Christian added, but we couldnt decide on your name, so we sent in your application the
week after I gave birth. Maggie frowned at this news. Yeah, it took you so long cause you chose
the dumbest name out there she thought bitterly.
I know youve never heard of the school, but its a great opportunity- Mr. Christian
started, but he was interrupted again.
John, lets let her read her letter first, Mrs. Christian suggested, passing Maggie the
thick envelope. Maggie hesitated for a brief moment; her mind still trying to comprehend what
was happening before ripping open the letter and tossing the empty wrapping on the table. Mrs.
Christian snatched the envelop and clutched it to her breast Maggie gave her a small frown.
Several pieces of yellow cardstock lay in Maggies hands covered in the same crimson script.
Ignoring her parents hungry stares, she patiently unfolded the letter and began to read.
Dear Magnolia,
Maggie stopped.
How do they know my real name? She demanded, glaring at her parents. Magnolia she
steamed, her grip tightening on the paper and creasing its pristine surface.
There were many things that Maggie disliked in this world. She didnt like seeds in her
watermelon or finger pricks or greasy countertops. She didnt like cheap rings that turned her
fingers blue or school lunches or mud between her toes and she most certainly did not like
basketball. But for all the things she disliked, there was only one thing she hated, and that was
her name. Magnolia Clementine Christian. It was, in Maggies opinion, the most ridiculous name
to ever grace the Earth.

Her mom had chosen Magnolia, which was unfair because her name was Jeannie, a
perfectly normal name that no one would ever be embarrassed by. Raised in southern
Mississippi, Maggies mom had never outgrown her high school glory years as homecoming
queen and class senator, and had, in turn, named her daughter after the state tree of her childhood
home. Maggie had tried several nicknames, including Margaret, Leah, and Mags, before finally
settling on Maggie. Mags hadnt worked because during introductions people always asked what
it was short for obviously a disaster if the goal was to hide her real name. Margaret and Leah
had worked for a while because people assumed those were her real name. However, whenever
computer generated nametags were passed out Maggie always had a difficult time explaining to
her friends that her true name was, in fact, Magnolia. Finally she had settled on Maggie. People
asked the fewest questions about such a common name like Maggie, and thats the way she liked
it.
If her first name was bad, however, her middle name was worse. Her dad had chosen that
one. The name itself might have been bearable if her father had chosen it with a good
explanation, but he decided on it for no reason except that clementines were his favorite fruit,
and he hoped that his child would be just as sweet as the imposter oranges. The fruity name was
only made worse when teachers read childrens books with a protagonist named Clementine that
went on a journey to the library or to bake a cake. If one was going to share a name with a
character in a book, one would hope that the character did something interesting like slay
dragons or fight crimes. Unfortunately for Maggie, she had yet to come across any novel about
Clementine the Dragon Slaying, Super Cop.
But, of all three of her names, Christian was by far the worst. When she was younger
Maggie had been deceived by its commonplace sound, and it served as a kind of saving grace to

10

her atrocious name. It was only till she learned of her lineage did the name take a meaning for
the poorer.
Yes, Stonewall Jackson, Maggie remembered her mother explaining to her long ago,
pointing the picture of the heavily bearded man that stared airily at the ceiling.
We really are related to him?
We really are. His second wife gave birth to a daughter named Julia who married a man
named Christian, and then all the way down the line to you. She beamed with the news as if the
words were going to change my life.
Maggies mother loved to throw out Stonewalls name at parties, claiming that her skills
at chess were a quality that she received from the great tactician. Every teacher that Maggie ever
had suspiciously knew that she was related to the old General, and it was after her seventh grade
year that she decided she would be perfectly happy if she never heard his name again. With a
sinking feeling, Maggie realized that her lineage might have had something to do with her
unexpected acceptance into Bartholomews.
Well of course they know your real name, Maggie. We had to send in a copy of your
birth certificate with the application. Mr. Christian said. Maggie folded up the letter and tossed
it on the table.
Honey? Dont you want to read the letter? Mrs. Christian encouraged. You should
really consider the options. By going to Bartholomews you would be labeled as one of the
brightest students in the country.
Yes. Labeled, Maggie fumed, getting her to feet. I think youve given me enough
labels, she said, moving out and around the table towards the kitchen. As she passed her

11

stunned parents, Maggie gave the portrait above the mantle a furious glare. Just before rounding
the bend, she turned to frown at her parents.
Oh, and mom, just so you know, Maggie snapped, labels are for soup cans.

Love
Brock Schumann
The stars in her eyes shine brightly for the skies above
But they dare not look at me.
They glitter, they glisten, they reflect her every word.
I look into her eyes and see the truth
Her soul, it speaks to me.
It beckons my life, it beckons my heart
How I wish I could be much closer.
But even if I were, it would not matter
Never, can I feel that warming gaze.
Oh, what should I do to get her attention?
What should I say to get her to listen?
I may never know the answer in upcoming days
Much like I will never feel her gaze
The stars in her eyes may shine brightly for the skies above
But they dare not look at me
A love-lost dove

12

Broken Glass of the Past

Elizabeth Statham
Sirens blared in the chilly air that December night. The old mans violent groans
thundered throughout the cramped room as his surroundings blurred in and out of focus. Flashing
lights illuminated the vomit that dribbled out of his mouth as his dense body was loaded onto the
rolling cot. Then, his cloudy eyes rolled back into the recesses of his head, bringing him into the
dim twilight that he was so afraid of.
The gentle gulf breeze did not relieve the antiquated grandmother from the sweltering
heat of summertime in Florida. Her crisp skin strained tightly across her face, forming a flaky
crust around her eyelids. The suns rays penetrated into the wrinkles that formed sacks below her
eyes, turning them a deep maroon. The years did not treat her well, and she looked as if she
might lie down right then and there and let her tormented mind rest. It was a Saturday, and she
did not have to work her usual shift at the local bar where the callous alcoholics of Perdido Key
routinely abused her. However, the mental reminder that they generated was far more detrimental
to her condition than the physical abrasions that she suffered. Her insomnia worsened after the
accident. For she, too, had shared her husbands fear. Whenever her mind would wander, she
would hear her husbands final moans in her sagging ears and feel the wintery air of the past
nipping at her crinkly face.
Her lack of sleep would leave her drained. Each morning she did not have much resolve
to rise. That Saturday was distinctly different, though, because she did have her grandson. He
was all that she had left after the accident. The boys mother was weary about the whole
situation. She knew that the boy was the only being that might provide some form of relief for
his agonized grandmother. On the other hand, he was young, and his uncorrupted mind would

13

not be able to comprehend the tragedy or his grandmothers resulting woe. In the end, his mother
determined that the boy should be allowed at least a day to bond with his grandmother, despite
her instability.
Before sunrise, the grandmother had scavenged scraps from the dumpster of the rundown motel that she currently inhabited. She refused to return to her previous shack that was still
littered with fragmented shards of glass and that still carried the familiar stench of potent liquor.
Yet, she never did drink, herself, as she had an intense aversion for alcohol. The grandmother
met her grandson at the boardwalk leading to the beach just as she used to. However, the boys
mother never used to be apprehensive in leaving her son with his grandmother as she was now.
His mother tried to mask her uneasiness. She called out to the boy, Be good now! Dont
you cause your grandmother any trouble! Do you remember what I told you about using your
manners?
The boy rolled his eyes and retorted, Yes, Mom. I remember.
Upon seeing the woman, the boy frowned. Grandma, whats wrong? he gently inquired.
She was silent.
His pale, freckled face twisted into a puzzled contortion. Wheres Pawpaw? he
questioned.
The woman stared out at the immense, open ocean.
Hes always here, the boy said. Did he not want to see me? he asked, his voice rising
ever-so-slightly. Is he still mad that I broke that historic vase that his Momma gave yall as a
wedding present? I told him I was sorry! he slurred with a hint of anxiety. I even cleaned up
the broken pieces all by myself! he implored.

14

The only response to his cries came from the squealing seagulls that circled above them
in the salty air and the soft whirring of the tide receding into the emerald ocean.
WHERE is Pawpaw?!? WHY wont you talk to me?!? Are you mad too?!? I said I was
sorry! the boy pleaded.
After a moment, her bony hand reached out towards his. She rasped, Come on boy, let
us go.
They started down the walkway, hand in hand. The rough wood splintered their feet as
they thudded along. The narrow path led out into a vast expanse of gleaming white sand.
However, it did not provide cushion as it did in the past, for it contained fragmented shards of
seashells that pierced the soles of their feet just as the shards of liquor bottles had impaled the
womans hollow heart.

Drawing by Georgeann Hester

15

Waves of Emotion
Charlotte McRae
The brows rule the oceans of the face
Fluctuating across the sandy forehead
Shores and shells of beautiful lines they trace
Enough to show youth or age unsaid
Each laps gently on the fellows skin
Dancing and rolling together like identical twins.
The tides expressively morph and roll past
A tsunami, a pond, a joyful river
The brows give a hearts weather forecast
From the most subtle quiver
To the happiest laugh
The surf twirls atop an emotional graph.
Seen merely as unneeded features
The brows rather uncover the feelings of the entire ocean
Brightening and rolling over the faces pearly creatures
With unique emotion
Shorelines and wrinkles can be of ecstasy or pain
But that is only a decision the eyebrows contain.

A Loving Granddaughter: A Letter

Evans Johnson
Inspired by Ezra Pounds A River Merchants Wife: A Letter
While my hair was still short and curly
I played in your front yard with a red bouncy ball.
I sat in your lap as we ate Chips Ahoy
and recalled our laughs from the long day before.
We go our separate ways by the end of the week,
Artwork by Isabell Mulkin

16

only to be reunited within a short time, which is oh so sweet.

At fourteen I came to see you with my family in trek.
Your spirits were high
but your health was not.
When I asked you my name you remembered not,
only to be confused with a girl long before my time.
At fifteen I knew something was up.
The words that you said didnt make much sense.
Mom said you were ill
and needed some time.
At Sixteen you didnt get better,
and still could not remember my name.
The doctor said your mind was somewhere else
and with another person in time.
The things your mouth said sometimes made me laugh.
You talked of silly ideas
and dreamt up things to do.
The doctor said you couldnt help it
and that it would only get worse with time.
You fight to remember the truth each and every day.
When I come and visit you, I see
the wrinkles on your skin, and the grey hair atop your head, and Im reminded
old age has now set in.
When I look into your eyes I can see the struggle to remember.
But deep inside I know happy times are fighting to break out.
I reminisce about our times long ago
and hope that you will someday remember them too.
Now is too soon to go, so stay with me and our memories from long long ago.
As far as the red bouncy ball will go.

Its Too Late For This

Sarah Beth Daniel
If Danielle had any less of a sense of humor which wasn't much to start with she
would have left him by now. No, not her husband. Jack, her flat mate and brother. At least she
was never bored. It wasnt possible when the couch was a different color every time she came
home.
However, this afternoon at work had been an especially stressful one. She would come
home wanting a cup of coffee. Upon entering her shared flat, she would find that her once white

17

cat was now half shaved and a blue-ish shade of mint; the toaster would be playing Bohemian
Rhapsody by use of the timer dings; pigeons would be sitting on the navy blue couch which
had been orange when she left that morning as a nature documentary plays on the television.
The entire apartment would be smelling like fruit cake, which she hated. So needless to say once
she crossed the threshold, Danielle would not end up in any sort of good mood.
I'm home. She mutters, disgruntled.
Today's questions are? He calls from the kitchen.
Why pigeons? Danielle shuts the door.
They scared off the annoying woman that's always hanging around the street corner so I
let them come over to watch Netflix. she hears him start the microwave.
Was what you did to my cat necessary? Danielle sets her purse down away from the
nature-enthusiast pigeons.
Our cat. He corrects. And yes. In every way. Jack pulls his popcorn out of the
microwave once its done and grinds pepper over it instead of salt.
Is the popcorn for the pigeons?
Yep.
And the pepper?
They have a low sodium tolerance.
Noted. It seemed several types of birds had low sodium tolerances according to her
brother.
Anything else? he places the bowl on the couch in the center of the pigeons.
Can you make some coffee?
I gave the last of it to the kid in apartment 3C. He's studying for finals.
Danielle could handle stress at work, the pigeons, the shaved cat, and the new couch
colors, but now the true low of her day had come to fruition: they were out of coffee.
She rests her head in her hands. Jackie, Danielle whines, Why did you do that? Jack
stops catering to the pigeons perched on the tangerine couch long enough to process what hed
done.
Ooooh no. Jack slaps himself mentally for giving away the last of the coffee. I . . . I
uh, he was in for it now. He had broken the one rule in the apartment.
Danielle never interfered when he was exploring his creativity by painting the couch; she
didnt berate his upholstering of sections of the floor; the oddities he brought into the apartment

18

were welcome as long as they didnt clutter or smell; even the shaving and multiple re-dyings of
Artemis the cat werent complained about. However, letting the coffee run out, let alone giving
the last of it away, was sacrilege. And all the Michael Bubl songs in the world wouldnt be able
to help.
Danielles soft steps take her to the red shelves on the wall, on which was perched a
polished saxophone.
Sis, Jack takes a few steps toward her, What you doing there?
Presently, Danielle did not pay attention as she took the instrument from its shelf. Her
eyes shifted to the pigeons. Jack simply takes four steps back. Danielle strides over in front of
the TV. Some of the pigeons have their heads stuck in the popcorn bowl while a couple look up
at her curiously. One even hops up and stands on the edge of the bell of the saxophone she
carries.
Jack instinctively covers his ears just as his sister forces all the air out of her lungs which
creates a tumultuous and unpleasant tone. The pigeon with its head stuck in the popcorn flips
over itself into the bowl completely before streaking out the window in a torrent of popcorn. The
few that had been staring up at Danielle convulse for the first moment of the din before
scrambling over each other out the open window. The one which had been perched on the bell of
the saxophone who had been thinking that he rather liked humans re-evaluated his life
choices and joined his comrades fleeing the apartment a few feathers lighter and a new found
respect for the popcorn he can find on park benches.

Artwork by Isabell Mulkin

19

Lake Encompasses the Fish

Cat Schultz
Lake envelops the fish,
in the dark murky depths
and they live in the gray
as my boat bobs
above them in wait.
My hook lies in wait
for the most foolish
to come take a nibble
of the inevitable fate
that awaits them.
My cap shields my eyes,
from the bright suns burning rays
and my vest provides a rest
for my tired head
that droops on my chest.
My head jolts up as the tug
wakes me from my
suspension of consciousness,
my eyes suddenly bright
as the thought of a catch brightens the day.
My hands tremble in anticipation
as slowly as possible
as to not startle the prey
that will soon struggle
on the other side of the twine.

20

I start my boat as I take

the slow trek back to shore
as my day of rest ends
in the purest relaxation there is to be.
Sitting. Fishing. Dinner.

White
Charlotte McRae.
Oh sleep, oh slumber. You swim in timelessness and dreams in order to escape, to forget.
Yet you never succeed.
August 24, 2012. 4:15 a.m. Can you see me, lying there looking like a curled baby as all
humans do, no matter how old. I look pink-cheeked and peaceful, eyes turned downward like the
moon. The air inside my room is comfortable. Theres a window cracked open to release the ill
and uneven breaths that come from the room next door. All is quiet; all is well in my dreams.
In the hall, a doorknob is turned with too much emotion to be ignored. When the light
floats in, it bathes half my face in yellow, the other half left in the dark. I arise to my beautiful
mother who is shrinking to a force that only the Spirit can create. Mommys frame once trembled
with laughter. Now she heaves with wails. No more. He is no more.
Time ceases like the dream I had so recently been lost in, but this is no fancy. This is a
nightmare from which my eyes will never open. My breaths are uneven, then there are none at
all. My body crumples with my heart. No warm arms can comfortonly his that are now cold.
From this moment on, my body was slave to someone inside me that I had met only a few
times. She dragged my soggy feet to the foot of his bed where my brothers, who resemble my
father so, had also fallen to their knees. And five of us were there; four on the earth bent and
wailing, one opened and free. The hospital sheets smelled a bit sweet, like daddy always did after
a long nap. Yet, his once olive skin no longer stood in contrast as he faded into their ivory

21

presence. Oh, how those glowing sheets felt familiar to me. They were the same white as the
paper he read every Sunday morning next to his Folgers black coffee. White as the sheets Id
seen in photographs of when he was born, again in a hospital. So white as the ones he might have
cried under when his mother left him. White as the silk dress his most beloved married him in.
White as the same dress he would never walk me down the aisle in. Alas, white as the peace he
had finally won.

Artwork by Omar Tunager

22

Light Made of Darkness

Brock Schumann
Started with a tearing, plugging, clicking,
new worlds created and destroyed
you thought it was just plastic, flashes, movement
unsubstantial and meaningless
but soon the world they manipulated
was not just behind the screen and the lights.
Earth cringed at its intangible imitation,
tried guiding her children away from the alien place,
but they paid her no heed and entered it.
Some rose away, some stayed behind,
all feigned indifference, all felt the draw
compelled to continue exploring that foreign life.
Survivors, toughened, defied the temptation,
ascended higher and higher, though the standard had not risen.
Victims, mourned and pitied, disrespected and degraded,
fail again and again to join those who escaped to the real,
or else accept their fate and collapse
into light made of darkness.

23

Why
Charlotte McRae
Its one of those memories you wish you could melt away to. The kind that spills
through everything and never ceases to drop from your mind no matter its simplicity. I question
if it happened in a separate life. I question Why? I always do now.
I was sitting in the itchy grass, a little girl with chubby legs and hair sprouting out of a
pink stained bow. No, I was not thinking about the cycles of life underneath or the reason for
gravity. My mind was not yet trained to waste time questioning why for I had no need to. On
the pavements yellow-freckled skin, my kitten dreams and prays like all cats do, and the trees
mommy planted are just now opening with buds. Malcolm and Keene are scraping knees and
shrilling orders through the lips of GI Joes. And Daddy, Oh Daddy! Hes there, wearing his navy
striped shirt that he never left untucked. He settles on the porch next to mommy and the half
eaten popsicles that sink in the sun. And thats it; all it ever needs to be, and now I question why.

Miracle Maker
Sarah Beth Daniel
Come one.
Come all.
Dont you wish to see the circus?
The dashing ringmaster,
his hat and leaden shoes.

24

The lovely twins,

their two lovely voices,
their one lovely body.
The man of steel,
lifting anchors
and benches full of people.
What was the price?
The mute sisters
now enchanting in voice
and one in body.
The man of steel can move mountains
in a body that he does not own.
The ringmaster grins.
He enchants the crowd
with the miracles they see.
Dont you want to visit the place of miracles?
Place your wish in his hands.
Hell take the pain away.
And give you an act in the circus.
A man who couldnt walk
bounds across tight ropes
and touches the top of the tent.
Youll see a juggler
who once had no arms.
A trapeze artist who was once paralyzed.
A fire-eater once without teeth.
An illusionist once blind.
A lion tamer once scared of shadow.
Whatever you ask is yours
and then you are his.
Your old life can be forgotten.
All that must be remembered is your gift
and its price.
You never have to concern yourself
with the time of year or week,
only the hour at which you preform.
You wont ever lose the roof over your head.
No one will ever steal you from the tent.
Come one.
Come all.
Bring your troubles,
your pains.
Watch the ringmaster shine his smile
and crack his whip.
Hell chase the meddlesome parts of life
away.

25

Second Chances
Robert Krauss
Once he thought there was a way out. He believed this long ago, when the statue of his
king did not lie in shambles upon the street, and it instead stood solidly against the horizon; long
ago, when the bakers hands had not been chopped from their place, and the smell of fresh bread
always lingered about his shop; long ago, when the streets were not empty, and the people would
gather in the square to tell each other that, though they were not as joyful as before, they were at
least alive.
Now he knew the truth: in this place that he called home, there was nowhere to run and
nowhere to hide. His people had lost all that they ever had to Bellans, and they continued to lose
as the years of captivity dragged onwards. Jim bowed his head and sighed, sadly and slowly,
with the expression of one watching a rabbit die a prolonged death in the grasp of python. For
years, he had dodged the same guards, climbed the same pipes, reached the same perch on the
steeple of the old church, and sighed the same sigh.
Meanwhile, the town had grown less and less familiar. Peering through the darkness,
Jim could make out a new set of gallows as well, with their nooses swaying gently in the breeze.
New monuments to the King rose in place of the fountains, and he no longer heard the calm
monotone of the gushing water. Mr. Lowrys incessant coughing, a symptom of yet another
disease from the Bellans, no longer punctuated the night with its staccato cries. The watchmaster
had nailed a Vacancy sign to the Lowrys front door.

26

Yes, mused Jim. None could hide from the Bellans; not from their swords, not from
their sickness. Even worse, few could fight them. Crouching in the morning mist, Jim had
watched a Bellan officer fell ten of his assailants without batting an eye. Hopefully more could
be achieved with the element of surprise. Jim casually waved his hand. Several furtive
movements carried the signal through the still air, around the chimneys and the plated roofs,
finally arcing to a stop with the closing of Captain Lances hand. For a moment, the world hung
suspended as the entire town inhaled quickly, then waited. Jim raised an open palm to the sun
and snapped it into a forward pointing salute.
Accompanied by the roar of an impending storm, the sky darkened as arrows leapt
from the behind the southernmost buildings, behind the steeple. Jim watched them hurtle
upwards, then, with renewed ferocity, descend upon the town square. He smiled; these were
Bodkin arrows, newly smuggled from the North. Better technology he had never seen; they
penetrated even the toughest plate, leaving the victim with a three-inch deep hole in their flesh
and a sudden drop in morale.
The sound they made as they impacted the town square satisfied him, and even more
so the groans of the Bellan soldiers unlucky enough to be given the morning guard shift. If fate
smiled upon him, few townspeople lay among them. Pushing the image of an arrow covered
woman from his consciousness, Jim ordered the commencement of the neutralization phase.
The iron door facing the remains of the statue burst open, and, amidst the groans of
their fallen comrades, Bellan shock troopers filed into the courtyard. These men were adorned
with thick, black plate armor that enveloped their body and obscured their face; each carried a
shield shaded like the darkest nights. They would have to be dealt with quickly; Jim whistled,
high-pitched and urgently, as the first men out of the garrison began to slip and stumble.

27

The blacksmith and his pupils had done their part, and, with the flash of a torch, the
ground that the shock troopers had been so slow to cross bubbled and plumed orange. Consumed
by tongues of flame, the troops of the central garrison fell to their knees as their prized black
plate twisted and hissed, and the voracious flames crept through the iron entrance. Jim dropped
to the edge of the church roof, leaning closer to the agony of his captors, remembering the times
he had tried to hide from them and failed. Such thoughts brought another twisted grin to his face.
Jim prepared to launch the final phase. Deftly, he leaped from the ledge, landing on the balls
of his feet and rolling along the stones into a quick jog through the stiff field of arrows. He
caught the Captain by the arm as he and a platoon of rebels hurried past the burning garrison.
Whats the news? he demanded, coughing at the odious smell of the smoldering Bellans.
The Bell scouts around the perimeter have been disposed of, the Captain responded,
gesturing to the fresh blood coating his blade. I expect we have around a half hour before our
satellite outpost realizes that they never received a morning check-in from the late Admiral
Smeernof. He coldly raised a blood-stained Bellan helmet.
Jim had stared into that same helm before, illuminated by torchlight, while he hid in the
darkened recesses of his familys cupboard. He shivered, turning away from the horrid form of
iron.
Thank you, Lance. Use all the time you can to set up defenses. The Captain nodded and
slipped down an alley, flanked by the soldiers. As the rebels clunked away, Jim hoisted himself to
the closest rooftop, shielding his eyes from the rising sun. He cautiously sprinted along the
patchwork of houses, never once losing his footing. Finally, he reached the guard tower on the
northernmost edge of town and hauled himself into the battlements, greeting the rebels that had
conquered it.

28

What do you fancy for our chances of winning, sir? One asked.
Jim hurriedly removed his telescope from a strap on his belt and rotated the lens until the
outline of the Bellan outpost and all of its activity drew into focus. What he saw sickened him to
the depths of his stomach. Private, weve already lost.
Like a herd of crazed cattle, the Bellans tore down the dirt path that linked the outpost
and the town, some pressed closely to raging horses, some simply running as if their life
depended on it. Knowing the Bellans, it probably did.
The smoke! roared Jim, whipping around to watch thick, black clouds billow from the
barracks. They saw the smoke! Man the battlements! Everyone move into position! And for the
sake of this town, someone tell the Captain that his estimate was wrong! The call echoed
through the old stone walls, beckoning the rebels away from their work on the defenses and onto
the northern battlements; they stopped to gape at the chaotic charge as it drew nearer and nearer.
Jim pocketed the telescope and climbed onto the lower walls.
Inspecting with the ancient stone structure with whatever accuracy possible in full sprint,
Jim decided the wall would buy his men a few moments to retreat to the town square but very
little more. The wedged rocks that composed it were cracked and the cement that joined them
appeared faded and ready and to release its burden at any moment; the Bellans would only need
to sneeze for his pathetic defenses to crumble.
Yet there was no time to judge his chances of survival, as the fastest cavalry of the
Bellans had already arrived, bringing with them the dark clouds of inclement weather. With the
skill and timing of practiced warriors, the riders leapt from their mounts onto the wall, planting
ropes where they landed, and nearly disappearing into the black shade that matched their armour.
One such rider hurled himself to the edge of the wall in front of Jim, pulling himself onto the

29

walkway with one arm as he drew a sword with the other. The scenery changed: shaded stone
gave way to darkened wooden floors. Breaking glass and screams replaced the clicks of the
Bellans footsteps on the stone. Jim reached for his dagger with trembling hands, but his body
refused to cooperate. He knew he was safe in his hiding place; his family perhaps they had
escaped out of the back. Then, in the faded light, he watched a Bellan helm turn slowly towards
him, the metal slits for the eyes focusing on the place where he cowered but now they turned
away, leaving him in the blackness and the silence as the rest of the troopers filed from the
house.
Jim turned and ran. The amused Bellan merely laughed and turned to harass the rebel
defenders perched on the walls.
As more and more Bellans swarmed the northern walls, the rebels who remained
succumbed to both the superior numbers and superior swordsmanship of their enemy. The
Bellans struck with such ferocity, Jims archers didnt survive long enough to fire a single volley.
He glanced over his shoulder to witness the last man minus an arm fall from his post and drop
twenty feet to the cobblestone.
Within seconds, Jim had returned to the rally point at the steeple. Less than twenty lightly
armoured rebels huddled around the entrance; as soon as Jim entered, they swung the massive
oak doors shut and threw as many heavy objects against them as possible. Jim passed the
Captain, who said nothing but stared after him as if Jim had already failed the town. Perhaps he
had. Shutting his eyes against the pain, Jim swung onto the upper beams, climbed into the belfry,
and crawled onto the sloped roof.
The rising tide of doom had already reached the square. Jim watched in despair as those
too slow to the church fell to the stone, bleeding, and were trampled by the advancing infantry.

30

Thunder boomed in the sky as the assault team slammed a steel-headed battering ram against the
church door. Crouching on the roof, he heard the muffled groans of his rebels as they tried in
vain to resist the ram, and then he heard their cries as the doors cracked and splintered. Steel
clanged on steel as the Bellans forced past the makeshift barricades and cut down the hopelessly
outnumbered defenders. Jim heard Captain Lance scream in agony as he collapsed onto the altar.
As the triumphant attackers stepped through the blood that now ran through the entrance
of the church, the slower Bellans that still rushed past the town square began to yell and point.
But Jim could still escape. All enemy resistance had been cleaned from the southern side of the
town; with his knowledge of the city rooftops and crevices, he could undoubtedly escape into the
brewing storm. Then, first only seeping into his subconsciousness, then flowing as a river, burst a
new emotion. As he stared down at his lifelong abusers, captors, tormentors; the murderers of
his family, the butchers of his town, he was not afraid; he was consumed by unadulterated fury.
Jim raged at his cowardice, at the Bellans that faced him, at the life he lived. Now he would
stand. The boy in the cupboard shrieked and backed away into the shadows, but Jim mounted the
steeple and looked out at the Bellans, who chuckled, holstered their crossbows, and began to
climb the church.
Jim gripped his dagger as the first man ascended to the roof from the beams and the
belfry. The Bellan was dispatched with a stab wound in his arm and a kick to the chest, as he had
trained for too many times. Two more hauled themselves from the sides; Jim caught one with a
downward slice, then a quick jab between his shoulder and chest plate. He ducked the first sword
swing of the next, stabbing first just above his knee, then sweeping him to the ground. Both
Bellans twisted and fell from the roof, hitting the ground with a thunk.

31

A small squad appeared from behind the steeple, bristling with shields. Jim backed as far
as he could from the assailants, then charged. When they raised their shields, he leaped onto the
nearest buckler and flipped forwards, driving his dagger into the back of the bearer. His forward
momentum brought both of them to the ground. There was no escape now. Jim managed to drop
most of the astounded Bellans with a slice to the Achilles tendon, but the remaining two dodged
out of the way of his twirling dagger. Breathing became forced and ragged, and Jim squared off
against the Bellans. Only now did he realize blood flowed freely from a deep wound below his
chest.
At the instant that one of the Bellans slowly advanced, Jim hurled his dagger. It wasnt
weighted for throwing, he knew, yet the blade bit cleanly into the torso of the black-clad soldier.
The mace swung without warning, slamming into Jims right temple. No one survived that sort
of impact. Jim tumbled from the church and crashed through the roof of the nearest house.
Moments later he reopened his eyes and stared around him; he recognized the house.
Though it reeked of old death and fire, he found himself comforted as he lay dying. No longer
did he stare into the dark recesses of the cupboard, but he looked around at the features of a chair
here, a stove there. Now his blood had been spilled in his house: for the town, for his family.
Jims pulse faded, and crimson life flooded the floor around.
Lightning flashed, and rainwater rushed to the fallen man, washing blood, dirt, and tears
from his body and onto the streets where the Bellans celebrated.

Dance of the Dead

Emilie Harwell
Blaring sun, drizzling rain
rippling the little river;
it shimmers in the flickering light.

32

She danced dangerously,

used her gift, dreamily exploding,
uncaring of the thoughts of others.
Envious breezes, like ghosts,
compelled her to sail away.
Leaves fell, and created her soul
in their shape and sound.
The smell of spice and pumpkins
filled the air, reminding
those she loved of her.
Her twilight years had come and gone,
her dance affected those who watched her,
those who chased her.
Her soul danced long after she left;
her love covered the Earth in honey;
her dedication filled the universe
with sweet blood, sweat, and tears.
She left a legacy, she left a power
for all those who came after her.
She loved, she danced.
She came, she conquered.
She dreamily exploded,
her gift filled the universe,
and she was grateful,
for she had lived
on her intended path,
set before her by her Father.
She did not know where it led at first,
but trusted, for it soon was revealed,
and she was grateful.

Seasons
Charlotte McRae
Winter
Cold
Frigid
Sticking to my mind like
weak caving bones.
structured the same body
that held a girl much stronger.
Was there enough courage
to shed my calloused skin
for what felt like fragile nudity?
Spring

33

There is something warm inside

Exploding.
Some one I had lost was awakening again
With thawing eyes
Frozen from discipline.
Her stretching arms touched the ice
Melting from the burst
of such a long forgotten morning.
Summer
I was now pulling up
What used to be familiar nature.
The weeds that grew
In the same field of flowers.
But I now knew which would come to bloom.
My knowledge was not of sight
For I was too deep inside
And my pupils were incapable of beholding
Such simplicity.
Instead, I felt.
Not with mere fingertips
But with all I had become.
Autumn
The girl has broken the coffles
They left scars of rust
But the wounds dont bring her pain
Only the reminder of endurance.
She has learned to embrace
Ring the bells!
She has learned to fly.

34

Photo by Adelaide Kimberly

Quiet
Brock Schumann
Frustration.
Its everything I feel.
With every word they dare to say,
With every breath they dare to take.
I am angered to no end.
Only I am pressed to listen.
Only I will be concussed to care.
But does it mean its worth my time?
I wish I couldnt hear.
Only words, when written, have any meaning.
Only words, when read, can make a thought.
Oh, how I hate the way that this world works,
Oh how I hate the way they cease to know!
Show not tell, thats what they say!

35

Why cant words be written?

A pictures worth a thousand words.
An action can give a greater meaning.
Why must they dare waste time with speaking?
Make others worry about nothing?
People have a life to live,
So why cant they be living?
If one should want to make a thought,
If they have no way to phrase it.
If they must make say or talk,
Then write it down!
Show, dont tell.
I dont want to have to listen.

Wait a While

Sarah Beth Daniel

Callow hearts
and dew drop eyes
are aware of a world
Storm
no elder can perceive.
Sam Poole
Time never sprints with the wind
as many wish
it would, sat in a patch of dirt,
Echoes from the west, great hammers will fall,
waiting.
under high rocks all will answer the call,
Time is anchored in space
bring us your arms pariahs of yore,
from inexperience, lack of wisdom,
all faces turn to war.
and oblivious minds
Exiles of the ash stare through crimson glow,
in tiny souls.
What lies beneath the earth guards of the north sing the songs of the snow,
beyond the soil others see: bring us the breath of the marshes and glades,
all the colors
courage is rising again.
they long to be known for.
Rays from the summer shore guide the voices of kings,
A faint breath of air
children of bark will tighten their strings,
passes their lips,
bring us the wits of the warm southern sands,
to escape on the wind
clouds over all of the lands.
to the places holding their hearts.
Brows furrow.
Wind plays with soft tendrils of hair;
their eyes
are fixed upon the Earth.
One day dew drops will turn
toward Heaven
and light from every mouth
will banish shadow.

36

Stitched
Charlotte McRae
Threads in the sky
Tangle around trees and yellow knobbed wood.
Like a guitar
the threads are strummed
and birds buzzle off
to continue the melody

Passing Time
Chandler Gory

37

John cracked open a bloodshot eye and glanced at the large clock across the room. It was
still 3 oclock. It had been 3 oclock for the past four hours and it would continue to be 3 oclock
indefinitely, forever and ever until the sun got too close to Earth. Then everyone would die an
overly dramatic, very H.G. Wells-Ray Bradbury-love-child death. John sighed loudly and ran a
hand through his already tousled auburn hair.
He slid down in the seat with a groan, his jeans pulling against the sticky blue vinyl. The
room was empty aside from himself and the nurse at the counter so he allowed himself to flop his
arms over the wooden armrests, resting his hands in the identical chairs beside him. He sprawled
his legs out in front of him and let out another long sigh, buzzing his lips.
Four hours in a depressing hospital waiting room and counting. Briefly he flirted with the
thought of hanging himself with an IV leak but realized that the hospital probably wasnt the best
place to attempt death. John snorted and rubbed his face tiredly, scrubbing at the sandpaper scruff
on his chin.
Well this sure is a drag, he announced, glancing over at the quiet nurse behind the
counter. She looked up from her paperwork and gave him a polite smile, her lips curling into
what John instantly recognized as pity.
You should go take a walk, she suggested, that smile still frozen on her face. John sighed
and sat back up in his chair, smoothing out his wrinkled button down.
Id rather wait here.
I dont blame you, she said. Her words reeked of manufactured pity. John gave her a
courteous nod and turned back around properly to face the stupid, immobile clock.
It was some time later (3 oclock according to the clock) when an older woman sat a few
chairs down from John. She had on a faded purple dress that hung down to her ankles, resting on

38

the tops of her white sneakers and one of those purses that were big enough to fit the whole state
of Texas inside of it, cows and all. For her first trick, she pulled out a pair of knitting needles and
a bundle of baby blue yarn. John watched as she set to work. The only sounds in the room were
the faint buzzing of the fluorescents and the occasional ping of the needles as they crossed.
After five or so minutes of watching her knit, John went back to staring at the wall,
scrutinizing the occasional chips in the light brown paint job. Soon, he became locked into
another staring contest with the immovable clock, cursing its stubborn hands for not keeping
with the rotation of time.
The woman mustve noticed him glaring because she looked up from her knitting and
studied the clock too.
Nothing worse than a broken clock, huh? she asked. John nodded and smiled tiredly.
Its been bugging me for four hours now, he chuckled.
Thats quite the wait. John snorted and nodded, scratching the back of his head.
Yeah, he murmured, stretching his arm above his head.
Im sure Ive got a long wait ahead of me too. You know how hospitals are. Everyones
always rushing around but I dont know what for. No one ever seems to be in a hurry. John
hummed in agreement.
Yeah, its frustrating.
Whore you here with? she asked politely. John drew his bottom lip in between his
teeth and rubbed his empty ring finger.
My wife Julia, he said, clearing his throat. The woman gave him a sad smile.
Im with my husband. And Im Gwyn, by the way, she said.
John.

39

There were a few beats of silence and John thought that maybe she was going to go back
to her knitting when she turned to face him completely. The wrinkled skin bunched around her
lips lifted into a kind smile and her hazy, aged blue eyes crinkled.
Would you like some candy oranges? she asked as she started to pack up her knitting.
John rubbed his eyes and shrugged.
Sure, he yawned. Giving him another smile, Gwyn scooted over and plunged her arm
into the depths of her purse. John watched in amazement, wondering if her arm was going to
disappear until she pulled out a small plastic container filled with candy orange slices.
Theyre Eric, my husbands, favorite, so I carry them everywhere with me. John
swallowed thickly and stared at the floor. He had no idea what Julias favorite candy was.
I havent had one in ages, he finally managed to say, his voice dropping an octave. If
Gwyn noticed the sudden shift in emotion, she didnt acknowledge it.
Well here, here, take as many as you like. She pried the lid off and offered him the tub.
He pulled a couple out and bit into one, chewing slowly.
Thanks, he said in between chews. She popped one into her mouth too and smiled.
Better than you remember? she asked. John laughed and took another, biting it in half.
Theyre a good dreary waiting room food.
That they are, she agreed. John smiled absently and let his eyes wander past her, again
focusing on the unmoving clock. God that clock is so annoy
Mr. Lewis? John blinked and turned his head abruptly, already starting to push himself
out of his chair.
Yes? he breathed, his heart starting to thud, the sound reverberating in his ears. The
doctor gave him a thin smile and clasped his hands behind his back.

40

I think you should come on back.

Its not visiting hours, John mumbled through numb lips, nervously running his hand
through his hair in three quick successions.
I know, but I think its for the best. Weve already notified your sister-in-laws to come as
soon as possible. John stood all the way up and passed a tired hand over his face, nodding.
Right, ok. Uh, right. Ill be there shortly, he said hoarsely, the words sticking in his
throat. The doctor gave him a sympathetic nod before turning and walking back down the
hallway, his heels clicking. From her chair, Gwyn sighed.
Good luck, she said softly. John nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets.
Thanks, he whispered. And, um, thank you for the orange slices. He turned to face
her and forced a smile onto his face. She nodded silently.
It was nice to meet you.
You too.
John lingered awkwardly for a few seconds, trying to decide if he should say something
else or just leave when the minute hand on the clock jerked forward. He blinked and snorted.
The clocks working again, he chuckled. Then, under his breath, he added, and thus time
marches on. The second hand rounded the twelve and the minute hand swung forward. Time
was finally running out. He turned away abruptly and hurried down the hallway, leaving the now
ticking clock behind.
***
We did everything that we could, but the damage is just too severe. Shes resting
comfortably. It will be any time now, the doctor informed him softly. John rubbed his fingers
along the braille under the room number absently, nodding.

41

Yeah ok. Thank you, he said, staring past the doctor. He studied the gurney at the end
of the hallway, his stomach turning over.
You can go on in now. Her sisters are already in there. John refocused on the current
situation and nodded quickly, shakily opening the door and slipping in quietly.
Her sisters were huddled around the single bed in the room. The lights were all off except
a single dimmed lamp that threw golden light against the cream colored walls, creating a mirage
of shadows. John hung back by the door, hesitant to go any further. He didnt want to disturb the
scene in front of him. The eldest sister was leaned over praying, her lips moving silently. The
youngest of the pair was sitting in a chair pulled close to the bed. Her knees were pressed into the
white sheets as she clung to Julias hand. John cleared his throat and moved forward slowly.
Hey, he said gruffly. Stella, the youngest, looked up at him briefly before dropping her
eyes back to the hand she was gripping.
Youre just in time, she muttered, spite lacing her tone. John shuffled his feet nervously
as he moved to the other side of the bed.
Right, he mumbled. He carefully dragged a chair next to the bed and took the other
hand lying there on the sheets. Her skin was porcelain-pale, barely visible against the sterile
white sheets. The heart monitor beeped slowly beside him and he screwed his eyes shut.
Tick, tick, tick. He could hear the clock from the waiting room but it was actually inside
his head, the sound echoing off the walls of his skull. The old, brown hands spun spastically,
propelling everything backwards. John wanted to take the clock off the wall. Why was it moving
backwards? The black of the back of his eyelids morphed into Julias childhood home, the
backyard. Flowers were everywhere. Julias eyes shone in the lazy afternoon sun. The brilliance
of her eyes filled Johns entire head, the rays of light pushing at the membrane covering the back

42

of his eyes. The preacher was talking but all John could think about was Julias eyes. Then they
were sliding rings onto each others fingers. John rubbed his finger along it, memorizing the
smooth, gentle curve.
Mr. Lewis?
Now they were in a car. It was raining outside, the droplets coming down hard, pelting the
windows and doors. John stared straight ahead. He didnt need to look to know that Julias eyes
were dulled beyond recognition. He held the wheel tightly, leaning forward as he strained to see
ahead of them. He briefly glanced down at his bare ring finger. It sounded like the rain was
denting the side of the car, but it wasnt. No, the pickup truck spinning like a ballerina was
denting the side, crunching metal and glass like paper and twigs. Julia screamed or maybe it was
John. Thunder erupted overhead.
Mr. Lewis
John cracked open a bloodshot eye and glanced at the little clock on the table across the
room. The second hand was ticking diligently, urging time forward. His breath caught in his
throat. Her wedding ring sat to the right of the clock. His was in a drawer at home.
Mr. Lewis, its time to say your goodbyes. We need to get everything taken care of.
John blinked and leaned forward, bringing the still warm hand to his lips. His fingers wrapped
around her wrist, feeling for the pulse he knew wasnt there.
Bye love, he said softly, laying her hand back on the sheets.
The nurses watch beeped with the new hour.

Body of the Sky

Charlotte McRae
The clouds are really His hands
They dangle the birds
write the rain

Photo by Adelaide Kimberly

43

They paint the sunset

and leave fingerprints
of whitely nothing.
The stars are really His ears
Every breath suspended
bleeds into an air shared by all
wept into
prayed into
whispered into
by all
And the stars listen.
The horizons are really my eyes
stained and dripping
under a suffocated universe
a glorious universe.

Anchored
Sarah Beth Daniel
Smile.
Even the dying have that ability.
What can keep the afflicted
from doing the same?
Mirrors reject your entry into her thoughts.
You are forced to study what reflects.
She is aware of places in the mind
that should remain hidden.
Her feet want to sink into the stone
and remain.
With prideful determination.

The Lonely Song

Meg Hayslip
Inspired by T.S. Eliots The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
Lets go, just you and me,

44

We can call it a date, or let it be what its meant to be.

Like a mermaid in the desert, Ive never been so lost,
Ive never felt so clueless,
I cant believe Ive been so foolish.
Thinking you cared, someone cared, anyone cared.
Sometimes the thought of what you did is too much to bear,
But I do it anyway. I power through the pain,
And some people might dare to call me insane
For still wanting you, for still loving you.
I thought you would be that one fragment of sunshine, the one sparkling ray
But its fine. As I always say, Its my own fault anyway.
And through the halls the killers whisper
As everything inside me slowly withers.
The scarlet venom deep in everyones blood,
The scarlet poison that suffocates the lonely
Slithering through the night looking for its next victim,
Searching for the fakers, the phonies,
Hissing when its target lies unfazed
Striving again and again, in a fitful craze
But seeing that it could cause no more pain
Dispersed through the crowd for it had nothing more to gain.
And indeed you must prepare
For the scarlet venom that poisons the lonely,
Slithering through the night searching;
You must prepare, you must prepare
For the people you will see,
You must prepare to build your faade,
And prepare for the lies you must deliver
To finish off the perfect image;
For as you must know, preparation is key.
And prepare yet for the countless hours ahead,
Because before you know it they will all have fled,
So prepared you must be before you let the outsiders see.
And through the halls the killers whisper
As everything inside me slowly withers.
And indeed you must prepare
To ponder, Is this enough? and, Am I enough?
Prepare enough so they dont see your bluff.
With anemic skin, paler than pale
[They will say: You can see right through her!]
My Sunday dress, topped with a mink fur,
My tinted tights to hide my true color
[They will say: But look at that attire; you can see right through her!]
Is this enough
To make me popular, maybe even happy?
Are happy girls the prettiest?

45

Maybe that is the true reason I feel so ugly.

But alas no, for I know what they say,
And I know what they do. I know how they act.
They, like me, have measured their lives with broken pacts.
I know a promise means nothing here; you just have to pray,
Because this city runs on gossip, and if you dont participate, then why do you exist?
So how can I exist?
I know their eyes, glaring with judgment,
The ones who pretend youre not there.
And Im standing on display, for everyone to see,
But they simply stare at me, without acknowledgment.
How can I be free
To forget all my flaws and live without care?
And how can I exist?
I know their smiles, plastered and porcelain,
Whitened until theyre sparkling to cover the wine stains
[But looking closely, theyve had to be aligned!]
I desire to be one of them when I see their diamonds and designer jeans,
But how can I not remember how they are so mean?
Smiles that appear so endearing make me ache.
So, how can I exist?
Should I enter this new world?
Shall I say, yes its okay to talk about my friends
And ditch school to go to the secret place
Where everything is happy and I no longer have to try?
I should have been a roach
Scrambling across the filthy earth struggling not to be squashed
Jealousy creeps upon me, invading my mind and my bed!
Oh how I wish it would lay dormant,
But heavens no it ragesscreams continuing to foment.
Should I, after days of being painfully aware,
Have the power to stop this wicked affair?
But though I have sacrificed and pleaded, sacrificed and wailed,
Though I have seen my face [covered in bumps] whipped and lashed,
I am no slaveand I can overcome this, unabashed;
I have seen my will, my power
And I have seen the haters appraise me, but one day they will cower
And I shall not let them beat me.
But would I have been better,
After the salads, the baby bites, the coffee,
Among jewels and fine china, with you accepting me?
Would I have been better off for a while,
To hide my pain with a smile,
To have put it all away in a little box, one by one
Where nobody will ever see it,
To say: I am Daniel, escaping unharmed

46

To tell you all that I am done,

But then one of the lions glaring at me
Would say: I did not say you were done.
You will never, ever be done
But would I have been better,
And would I have been happier,
After the late parties and binge drinking
Followed by Sunday afternoon tea, with maids cleaning the
rings
And always feeling like a queen?
It is impossible to know if it would have been a dream or nightmare!
But as if a star formed a new constellation in the sky:
Would I have been better off?
If one, looked at me and barked another chore,
And turned to avoid my broken face should say:
I did not say you were done,
You will never, ever be done.
No! I am not a Queen, nor was I meant to be;
No, I am the court jester, one who will do
Anything to make others happy, if only they knew,
Cheer on the King, the Queen, everyone who is above me,
Humble, but glad theyre paying attention,
The sun rises and sets, but nothing has changed, still living in another dimension.
Maybe I will offer my help,
But just be laughed out until my humbleness
Transforms into humiliation
Maybe I am truly the peasant.
I grow frail I grow frail
I shall wear my overalls, worn with play.
Shall I wear my hair in pigtails? Do I dare swing?
I shall retreat back to the playground
Where I have heard the children laughing with joy.
I do not think they will laugh with me.
I have seen them hiding in their secluded forts,
Speaking their secret language, unknown even to the wind,
Oblivious to their future sins.
We have navigated this new world together
But I should now bid adieu
For I must do the one thing I can never undo.

Scension
Brock Schumann

47

AND RISE!
Snaps and cracks filled the wasteland before him as hands burst out of the ground. The
sky began to purple, then slowly red into crimson. Clouds gathered, the wind blew to and fro
haphazardly, any nearby trees and plant-life began to lose their leaves and green hue.
And what he do when he saw this?
He laughed.
A mad cackle. A bellowing, roaring laugh that stretched the miles. He felt nothing but
pride and joy at his marvelous creation. Hed defied God, and it worked. It worked. The
satisfaction and magnificence he felt was none-like any other hed experienced before.
With the hands came out bodies, and with the bodies came out legs and feet. Empty sockets
where human eyes once stayed now had a red, luminescent light behind them. They looked up at
the one who called them, a man cloaked in brown. He stood atop the cliff-side that watched over
the place of their rest. Within their gaze, his laughter came to a close. He gazed upon his
minions, his legion.
His.
Thats what they were, thats all they were to him. He knew it and they knew it too. He
was their master, they were his army, and he would be the one to lead them to victory. This is
what they knew, and that is all they cared to know.
MY MINIONS! He yelled across the wasteland, NOW IS A TIME LIKE NO OTHER! I, ME,
A LONE MAN, HAVE DONE WHAT NONE OTHER HAS DONE! He threw his hands up to
the air, gazed up to the sky and made his declaration! I HAVE DEFIED GOD!
He fell to his knees, tears streaming down with victory around the grin plastered on his
face. Yet, even in his victory, he had forgotten.

48

There was nothing for his knees to hit, for he stood at a cliff.
Stood.
Now, he fell. Gusts of air flew by his body as gravity pulled him towards hell. An undead
army laid in wait for his demise.
And he laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed. He knew what had happened, and
he only had one thought to think.
He had defied God.
But there was still FateThat, is why monsters rule the night.
Hes the one who made them.

Painting by Sarah Beth Daniel

I Am He As You Are He As You Are Me And We Are All Together

3 Studies On Names
Chandler Gory

49

I
Names.
Everything and everyone has a name, you know?
Its all I am me and you are he,
this is that and that is this.
I mean, youve got Hemingway,
rocknroll,
Malcolm X,
Nat King Cole,
Watergate,
Bobby Dylan,
Stalingrad,
dead John Lennon,
Iran Contra,
T.S Eliot:
hey man, this is my mantra,
John F. Kennedy,
and The Holy Trinity:
We Thank Thee Oh Lord, Amen.
II
What good is anything without a name?
We come into this world screaming;
then were given a name.
We leave this world
in a room adorned with flowers and balloons,
everything stinking of anesthetic,
machines beeping in our ears,
and by God,
weve still got that name.
John G. Johnson
loving husband, father, brother, and son
Linda Louise Barton
your existence touched us all
III
Did you know they gave out dog tags
to students during the war?

50

It was in case a bomb dropped

and everything was left
in desolate, sooty horror.
At least theyd know your name.

Uncovering the Last Frontier

McKinnon Cox
Inspired by T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
Join me now in my quest to the wild
To learn of what is not yet known,
Like a dream that has not been dreamt.
Let's surf down roaring rivers;
They are not givers.
The itchy banks where you are to dream
With the fear beyond begging for a scream.
The mountains reaching for the sky,
With what they are trying to pry.
Up ahead is the journey you seek.
Do not look back now for it is too late,
So let us go and learn of what is not yet known.
Out in the woods roughnecks come and go,
Whispering of the beasts beyond the rows.
The rain scrubs the earth out from underneath;
The rain covers up what is not to be seen.
Drops like rocks falling from the sky,
Trying to break the fragility
That was thought to once be stout.
Running down the mountains, jumps off the side
Continuing what is now a tradition,
Blanketing the earth with a layer of reality.
And indeed there will be days of sun
For the rain to hide behind the mountains.
Waiting for the next day to strike;
Indeed there will be time
To take what was thought to be known,
And rewrite the unknown into known,
Time for all the days of misfortune and gloom
To be sought after to replace with joy,
Time for all, time for one,
And time to seek the highest highs,
And time to explore the lowest lows,
Time for one before time for all.

51

Out in the woods roughnecks come and go,

Whispering of the beasts beyond the rows.
There will be time on your side
To ponder the questions of life,
Time to go back to old or strive for new.
A hole that just can't be found nor covered,
A hole that can't be covered let alone filled
[They will say:"How he is so erratic!"].
Walking with shoulders backs and chest high,
Walking with confident eyes and arms,
[They will say:"How he is so boring!"].
Should I,
Choose a stance?
There will be time
For choices to be made that time will flip.
I thought I knew it all, everything there was to know
From the moment I wake to the moment I sleep.
I measure my life in showers.
I know the voices laughing because I stink,
Over the sound of the other side of the wall.
So what shall I do?
I thought I knew it all, everything there was to know.
All eyes were now on me,
While rocks are thrown at my head.
My arms are pinned to my side
Unable to protect what is dear to me.
How can I stop these rocks?
What is it I'm supposed to protect?
I thought I knew it all, everything there was to know.
The heavy mountains peering down
[But in the sun the sides are calving!].
Is it the beams off the ice
That make me lower my head?
All of it's brothers towering behind it.
Should I look up?
What will I see?
Should I lie about who I am?
Should I lie about what I am?
What is it that I've done to prove myself?
I might as well be a grain of sand
That sits along a deserted beach.
Being alone is the only place I know,
Calmed by the sound of silence;
Dreaming... Hoping... For the moment
To which I can be myself.
Dare I? Dare I confront it?

52

Confront the truth and fight for it?

I've tried and tried to reach it before,
Only to be drawn back by what frightens me.
There have been times when I've been near,
Only to be drawn back by the moment.
The moment has sat and laughed;
It was what frightened me that held me back.
Could I escape the fear that binds me?
Of the mountains so great,
The ice and rocks and peaks;
Could I escape the fear
By pretending to be great?
By pretending to be one who I am not?
Should I pretend to be the leader
Who rules above the crowd
With an iron staff so feared?
No I should not;
The truth is the leader
And I should not pretend to know it.
But could I escape?
Could I escape it all?
Could I conquer the mountains
That haunted me during sleepless nights,
Looking down upon me with Macintosh eyes;
The mountains and so much more?
Is it even possible?
To find the hole the need be filled?
Can I escape
The mountain calving down on me,
And hear it whisper
"The Truth"
"That is all."
I may not be the best guy in the world,
But I have my moments.
The lights of the stadium turn on,
Dinner walks into the field
Or flys in from the sky.
Witty, careful, and observing,
Polite when need be but full of good times,
A little erratic
But still falling short.
Seeing my future ahead of me
I shall raise my head and accept the challenge.
Should I walk with the confidence of older men?
I'll wear pressed pants and nice shirts,
I hear the crowds in the hall.

53

Hoping they will crowd to me.

I see the cluster against the wall
Blocking the path of flow,
While more try to push their way through.
We walk past the crowds and clusters
With their designer clothes and bags
Until the door shuts behind us,
And what we hear is silence.

Acute Sisterhood
Adelaide Kimberly
The textbook explains the probability of job success.
No College? College. Job. Success.
Muted eyes calculate monthly wages, silenced fingers graph the stats.
The numbers collide in cataclysmic patterns.
In between is discovered, choreography recorded
in essays with research bearing numbers explaining the probability of job success.
No College? College. Graduate School. Job. Success.
The language is easily spoken. Conjugate the past to describe the future.
Change the y to I and add work on the end.
Comma in the right place do not splice the opportunity to hold
the highest probability of job success.
No College? College. Graduate School. Intern. Job Success.
Measure intelligence in millimeters. Micrometers?
Hypothesize a road to control. Engineer a plan to rule.
Multiply momentum times studies to negate
E=mc2 when not used by those in the uppermost probability of job success.
No College? College. Graduate School. Intern. Job. Better Job. Success.
The simple biology proves genetic ability.
Add another adenine on the capability protein.
Evaluate the chance for X over Y; debate why Y trumps X
in the top percent of those with the highest probability of job success.
Theorize equality. Demand just treatment with rhetoric learned from wizened philosophers
who all bore Ys, and wonder over the silliness of it all.
Give me cubicles or give me death! Anthologize
leaps up mountains to join those in the highest probability for job success
and look down and sneer at the creature heaving the stone beneath you.
Back hunched, unceasing movements are attributed to cavemen from the
highest peak. Actions are theorized and disproved.
Awards usurped, position mocked, credibility flamed.

54

The hroom hroom of the vacuum whines far below. Such a disappointment
to those who attained the highest probability for job success.
No College? College. Marriage. Housewife.
Tears fill the eyes of the educated. No textbook can enlighten
the mountain lifting fools. Deaf to language. Blind to calculations.
Hroom hrooming pauses below to mop the tears of the erudite
so that mountains can be climbed once more.

Photo by Adelaide Kimberly

A golden token
Cat Schultz

55

As the descending hope took its place

I felt it would never retake the space.
The emotions filled with so much taint
Was painted over with black paint
The harps that played a melodic chord
Was cut in half, by your mighty sword
My tears had been burnt by burning fluid
Crafted by some floozy Druid
The one who played the broken harp
And stuck the knife in quick and sharp
You stood by and watched as the scene played
As she lead you through a path, you strayed
Left me alone weeping and broken
Was the trophy, a golden token.

State of Innocence
Sarah 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, inpatient 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

56

its coma of schedule-oriented monotony. She will continue to forget caterpillar captains, and
orange oceans will cease to exist.

Taxi Cab
Julia Jane Duggan
The taxi cab
Was big and yellow
Its sole purpose
To carry a fellow
For years and years it carried on
Honking and happily speeding along
One day a woman arrived
Who changed the taxi's thinking
The woman was glowing and carrying a life
A blessing to her, to others a strife
And it was in that cab
That the woman gave birth
To her child of blue eyes and hair of gold worth
The hospital was where the cab loomed that night
Thinking and thinking with all of its might
It thought and it thought
Then it thought a bit more
Until it realized what it was really there for
The child of new was just beginning its course
And all of a sudden the taxi felt a hint of remorse
Around and around the city it went
Never pausing to think or take the hint
That why should he limit his roads to one city
When there is a whole world out there so so pretty
So he drove and he drove till he ran out of gas
And it was there he found his true calling - alas!

57

Artwork by Isabell Mulkin

Chrysalis
Charlotte McRae
Gone are the days of security and provision,
My caterpillar body found that branch.
The one twig wearing its unpromising leaf has rescued me,
I must accept this moment now.
No more mothering of me
The violin of youth is resting its strings
As I must rest my own
I come.
I come into the dark curtain
I come into the vulnerability
I come into death
Of the old
I swim in pain
I dance inside out
I grow on my own
I whisper a new languagea melody of rebirth
White moons will dip into the night of my vision
My senses will be restored once again
The chrysalis promises freedom
With patience
And the world will be mine to taste again.

58

Nixon in Wonderland: A History Teachers Dream

Chandler Gory*
On the whole, I wasnt sorry, Oswald said casually, staring at his nails.
Really? Not even a little? Kennedy asked, cocking an eyebrow as he glanced up from
his cards. Oswald laughed and picked his cards back up, raising his eyebrows as he rearranged
them.
Nope, he said slowly, popping his lips on the p.
Well, you know, everyone thinks youre a murderer, Reagan quipped from across the
rounded table.
Good! I am a murderer, Oswald muttered, glaring at his cards in the low light of the
bar.
Give it a rest. We all know you had help. Theres no way your scrawny ass pulled it off
alone, Nixon countered as he tossed a few dollars into the growing pile of money in the center
of the table. Oswald laughed and took a long sip of his Bourbon, rubbing at the wet spot his cup
had left on the wood with his elbow.
Whered you get the money from, Dicky? Steal it from the Democrats?
Both of you shut up and pay attention to the damn game. Its your turn Lee, Johnson
growled from his spot next to Nixon.
Calm down Lyndon, youre just mad because youre losing, Nixon pointed out snidely.
Johnson huffed and threw his cards down, shaking his head.
Youre all a bunch of idiots. I wish Lee over there couldve assassinated you, Johnson
said, stabbing a finger at Nixon. Nixon laughed, taking a sip of his Silver Bullet. From across the
table, Kennedy snickered as he pulled a Cuban cigar out of his pocket.
Why me? Im not the only assassin at the table, Oswald said as he jerked his head in
Booths direction. Booth looked up from a side conversation he was having with Lincoln and
furrowed his eyebrows.
Hmm? He asked politely.
Just talking about how Im not the only one sitting at this table whos killed a man.
Oh, right. I wouldnt put it past Richard over there, either, Booth said, smirking.
Lincoln snorted loudly and laughed into his drink.
Youre all ridiculous, Nixon snapped.

59

Quit pouting, Dicky. Its unbecoming, Jackson suddenly sniped, scowling at the men
gathered around the table.
Oh calm down and leave him alone, Ford said gently, shaking his head. Theres no use
in being rude to each other.
No one cares Gerald! You werent even elected! Jackson snapped. Beside him, Lincoln
jumped and frowned.
Now theres no reason to be spiteful, Andrew, Lincoln said calmly. Jackson laughed
and finished off his drink, shaking his head.
Its more fun over there with the communists, he grumbled, throwing his cards down
onto the table. Theres less talking!
Why dont you go file a complaint, then? Nixon sneered. We didnt even ask you to
play, anyway.
Jesus! Why dont all of you be quiet so George and I can pay attention to whats
happening! Adams shouted from the couch near the corner of the room. Kennedy turned his
head and craned his neck to look over Washingtons head.
Have you got the election on, John? He asked, puffing on his cigar. Adams groaned and
shook his head impatiently, shushing everyone loudly.
No, for Christs sake! Jeopardys on! He growled. So all of you need to stop talking!
Through the Shot Glass: A History Teachers Dream Part II
I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Clintons tiny voice said through the
TV, filling the dimly lit bar.
Ha! I didnt know we had Comedy Central on, Nixon snickered. From the other end of
the worn leather couch, Kennedy rolled his eyes and shook his head.
We said the same thing about you, Dicky. Nixons face reddened and he glared at
Kennedy, cursing under his breath.
Youre annoying as hell. Nixon craned his neck and looked around at the other
assembled men crowded around the television set. Is he always this annoying? I mean I know
the guy got shot and everything but that was ages ago. I dont think he deserves any special treat

60

Shut the hell up, Jackson growled from behind the couch, fingering the hilt of the
sword resting in the holster against his thigh. Youre the annoying one. I wish you were still
alive so you couldnt be here annoying us! Nixon pouted and turned back around, glancing at
Roosevelt who was sitting next to him.
What do you think Teddy? Dont you find Jack over there irritating? Nixon glanced at
Kennedy, raising his eyebrows and smirking.
I find you irritating, Roosevelt muttered, rubbing his fingers along the corners of his
mustache. Now I am trying to watch President Clintons career crash and burn so if youll
excuse me. TR gave Nixon one last glare before he turned his attention back to the television.
Hard being the new guy, isnt it? Harrison whispered from his spot on the other side of
Nixon. Nixon turned to look at the quiet man beside him and narrowed his eyes.
Who the hell are you? Nixon sneered. Look, honestly if it came down to it, I could
take Kennedy over there down in seconds. He always was so sickly.
You mean you could take him down like you took him down in the presidential debates?
Oh, wait, John Adams taunted from behind the couch. Jefferson snorted and gave Adams a high
five.
I wouldnt test your luck, Dick. History repeats itself you know, Jefferson said in mock
seriousness, barely holding back laughter. Nixons eyebrows knitted and he scowled, his skin
bunching up in folds.
Youre the most irritating group of men Ive ever met, Nixon snapped.
Youre the most irritating man Ive ever met! Johnson exploded from his spot next to
Kennedy, stamping his foot. Either shut up or get the hell off the couch!
Nixon was about to open his mouth to retort when Jackson wrapped his fingers around the
hilt of his sword and raised his eyebrows. Nixon widened his eyes and slouched back against the
couch cushion. Jackson smirked and nodded his head.
Mhm, thats what I thought!
With a few sideways glances and eye rolls, the men settled back into the couch. Some
moved to the mahogany pool table in the middle of the room and started up a game, but it wasnt

61

long before another loud shouting match broke out, this one accompanied with a chorus of
groans.
* Chandler is the recipient of the Leah Marks Memorial
Portfolio Scholarship given by the Alabama Writers
Forum for the Alabama High School Literacy Arts
Awards.

The Mirage
Charlotte McRae
I was seated by my grandmother,
my face deflating down the window
watching the trees
and the hay
and the heat.
Oh the heat
it brings birds to curdle and smack over carcasses
like bees over nectar
and heaven over the distance.
I didnt realize until then that fourth realm in the road
a puddle
of god caughtStand
between
The Lemonade
time and place and heat and waves.
I thought
I could reach it,
Cat Schultz
but thats never the case
Near the stand that left a musky lemon smell
That
mirage
past
the overgrown path in the mint field
thatsauntered
mirror ofaboiling
heaven
young woman
cantoward
never be
caught
the man, who, with a smile
lifted up a basket
what its reflecting
and aOnly
blanket
may bethe
metwoman a vodka and cranberry
and handed
after
a
lifetime.
she grinned cheekily
and took a sip
and fell to the ground
the grass wilted under the weight

Ph
oto by Adelaide Kimberly

62

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.

Can it be Called Defeat?

Sarah Beth Daniel
On the whole, I was not sorry. I had the small boy in my arms a brown-haired child that
isn't even mine. Madness under a red symbol and black flag had flooded all of Europe. Before, it
had been a call to patriotism, but it left a vacuum of humanity: scorched bodies, broken souls,
and all the amenities of Hell.

63

Now, the cries of victory rampage through the streets as red, blue, and white scraps of
paper cascade onto the street and broken smiles.
My tears flatten the confetti to the boys head. His bony hand reaches up and tugs my hat
which I wore to hide my hair, or lack thereof to the side. He can't speak a word of English.
His entire family had just arrived on the trains with other undesirables as I was
smuggling my fianc to escape from that man-powered Hell. Only the boys mother had seen us.
Never had I seen a more plaintive expression trouble someone's features as she looked from me
to the boy she carried. Pleading.
My fianc had known even before I had to said a word.
Hurry, he had told me.
Dressed in the uniform of devils, my hair shaven, I looked as though I belonged. I nodded
to the mother and she set the boy down and attacked an Officer. She started hitting him, kicking,
screaming. I ducked into the panicked mass of bodies and snatched the boy into my arms.
He tried to bite me as I covered his mouth and ran. I shoved through the rags and flesh.
My heart beat blocked out all other sound. Gunshots had me diving for cover, until I realized I
was not the target.

64

Photo by Emma Brown

Behead
Charlotte McRae
My mind thinks too much
Its damn tiring
I constantly wonder if my wondering will cease its wandering
and rest
Because I cant comprehend God
And I cant trust Him either.

City Dwellers
Elizabeth Smith

65

I hold my breath, keeping out

Polluted air that hovers
Ominously over the gullible
Setting in like cancer.
Its home is the citys core
Among the working class
It works the gears, mass
Producing more.
In this world where I exist
Time has no meaning
Its silenced by grinding gears
The music of the city dwellers.
Dwellers in this city never
Smile; theres no time
Always moving, mass
Producing, wanting more.
Here I dwell, lingering
Among the dumb and deaf,
The blind ambitious who
Measure their worth in gold.
Looking up I remember
A time the sky wasnt grey
I close my eyes as the world
Around me drifts by,
Leaving me behind.
In a moment of weakness
I inhale the odorous fumes
My nostalgic dream shatters
The cancer within me spreads
Soon I will be dead among the rest
Of city dwellers I shall forever remain.

The Fairytale: Withered Away

Elizabeth Statham

66

Inspired by Ezra Pounds A River Merchants Wife: A Letter

When my face wore soft skin and rosied cheeks,
frolicked I about the garden, cultivating plants.
You sloshed by in your oversized boots, squinting at the light,
kneeling at my feet, gifting me the basil seed.
And we went on watching it grow under suns rays:
two young people, without knowledge of the future or fairytales.
At fourteen you called me your girlfriend.
I never dreamed, being cynical,
roaming through the garden. The basil flourished,
nurtured, a thousand times, it sprouted.
At fifteen we succumbed.
I lusted my soul to be blended with yours,
forever and forever and forever.
Why should I tend other plants?
At sixteen you enlisted,
fighting deep in the front lines, towards the epicenter of soaring bullets.
And you have been gone five months.
You lugged your tattered boots as you marched onward.
The basil begins to wilt.
In the garden now, rose bushes have grown, the different bushes,
too thorny to plow them away!
The plants wash away on the seventeenth day, a deluge.
The basil is frayed with age,
over in our childhood garden.
Hope mocks me. I suffer.
If you are coming back for our love,
please write me a letter.
And I will thrust through the thorns
to tend the basil.

The Krebs Museum*

Adelaide Kimberly

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My Uncle Eddy was a hoarder and had been since his junior year of college. I knew this
because he always wore his letterman jacket with junior hand scratched into the leather during
second breakfast. But only during second breakfast. During first breakfast he wore pink
seersucker overalls that were too tight around the middle and purple Nike Jordans.
Eddys what I like to call a High Class Hoarder, or HCH, because his collections are
beyond the typical newspapers or assorted trash. His collections included, but were not limited
to, 1,362 coffee mugs, 45 Kermit the Frog hand puppets, 588 phone cords, 4,095 pictures of
Teddy Roosevelt, and 677 space bars. Uncle Eddys property was so extensive that he built a
barn twenty years ago to store all his goods. When I was younger, he would take me on tours of
his warehouse, taking time to point out each different item and explaining where he bought it.
Ya see that? He would whisper, pointing a wobbling finger at a lamp or a mailbox.
Bought that there fifteen years ago. Yessir, got it from the prettiest gurl I ever did lay eyes on.
Uncle Eddy would then raise his eyebrows as if he had said something extremely meaningful and
I would nod as if I understood. Funnily enough, most of the items in his barn were purchased
from the prettiest girl Uncle Eddy had ever laid eyes on.
Hours later, when the tours were over, I would stagger out of the musty room trying to
remember the difference between a saddle designed in Texas or in Mexico and the exact number
of dried onions he had hanging from the ceiling.
For as much skill as Uncle Eddy possessed as a HCH, his abilities as an engineer were
lacking. Thats why he called us at 3:21 in the morning, waking my whole family to report that
the warehouse ceiling caved in, crushing his precious stockpiles. Sobbing, he begged us to rush
to his house and help him scavenge from the ruins.
Sall gone. All gone, he bawled as the family listened on the other end of the phone
line. It took us almost twenty minutes to understand what happened, and twenty more for us to
pack up the car. Uncle Eddy lived over five hours away in Alberta, Virginia but his tone of
distress summoned each of us from our warm beds and into the Suburban.

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I dont wanna go, my little brother Johnathan whined the entire duration of the drive.
Uncle Eddy is a whack job.
I personally agreed. All of our other aunts and uncles turned out fine, but not Uncle
Eddy. As far as I knew he never married, and spent most of his days moving his lawn on one of
his eight lawn mowers and dusting his collections. I wasnt quite sure how he survived; Uncle
Eddy didnt have a job. A few years ago I asked my mom how Eddy survived with no income.
She gave me a very sour look before mumbling something about welfare and the damn Krebs
Cycle. It was a certain that Uncle Eddy was weird, but Jonathans complaints were to no avail.
My mom was determined to help out her brother and there was nothing we could do about it.
We arrived at 9:05 to find Uncle Eddy pacing nervously in his weedy front lawn. He
brushed his hair behind his ears every few seconds, pronouncing his center part and causing his
silver curls lump behind his ears. His overalls had a large brown stain on the front and he was
wearing crocs instead of his Nikes. This was bad.
As we all tumbled out of the car, attempting to wipe sleep from our eyes, Uncle Eddy
burst into fresh sobs.
Yall came. Oh my lord yall came. Big, fat tears rolled down his cheeks and onto the
ground, watering the dandelions. I called enryetta an Georgie but they didn answer. I can
believe yall came. My mom attempted to sweep Uncle Eddy into a hug, but he wouldnt stop
his pacing. Possibly concerned that another one of us might attempt to touch him, he led us
around his cinderblock house to reveal the wreckage.
Even though I wasnt a big fan of the barn, I couldnt help but feel bad for Uncle Eddy. If
ever a roof was to collapse in a dramatic way, this one would win first prize. The wood was
warped and seemed to shoot up into the sky and plummet down into the ground, forming
mountains and valleys of shingles and plywood. There is no way Eddys hanging onion
collection made it was all I could think as I stared at the wreckage.

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To make it worse, Uncle Eddy had hung a hasty banner in front of the barn from an old
basketball goal and a hockey stick. It billowed feebly in an attempt to hide the scene. Painted in
orange onto a large sheet, the banner read:
Edward Krebs Presents the Grand Scavenger Hunt
Scavenger hunt? Somehow I knew that if Uncle Eddy was involved, this would not be the
typical childrens game. Frowning, I wrapped an arm around Johnathans shoulders and awaited
Uncle Eddys verdict. My family watched in silence as he dashed into the house and back out,
carrying four stacks of paper as thick as a donut box held together with a rubber band around the
middle.
Erybdy take one, he sobbed, dropping the papers onto the ground. My frown increased
as I stooped to pick up the hefty package. I glanced at the writing and began to read.

Inventory of the Krebs Museum

Item
Biology Textbooks
Phone Cases
Jimi Hendrix Posters
Saxophones
Hammers

Quantity
37
361
15
3
124

The list went on and on. This was insane. There was no way we would be able to find all
of this.
All righty, yall get to searchin, Uncle Eddy mumbled, wiping tears from his face. I
cast my Uncle a long glance before shuffling towards the barn, praying the roof didnt crush me.
We entered the warehouse through a gaping hole, ducking under several, splintered
pieces of wood. The inside was dark and musty and reeked strongly of garlic and onion; I saw
Jonathan pinch the bridge of his nose out of the corner of my eye. Dust clouded the air, making
the piles of junk appear like mountains shrouded in fog.

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We began work immediately, grabbing the first items that we saw and carrying them back
out into the light. As the sun rose the air grew hot and dry and sweat poured down my back. I
lifted bikes and boxes, maracas and markers, door handles and dog collars out of the wreckage
and into Uncle Eddys back lawn. He paced the grass anxiously, occasionally letting out a small
whimper when he saw one of his items returned. My mother and father began sorting the goods,
counting pieces and checking them off Uncle Eddys inventory list or what I had started calling
the novel.
After only a few hours, Jonathan scraped his knee on the stand of a life-sized Barbie Doll
and so I was left alone to recover Uncle Eddys trash. I began to dig deeper and deeper into the
barn, sometimes crawling on the ground where the ceiling was low in order to gather new things
and return them to their anxious owner. Blisters formed on my hands but I kept going, ignoring
the dirt that caked my skin and the sweat that dripped in my eyes. Stupid Uncle Eddy with his
stupid barn I thought over and over again, occasionally rephrasing to use more violent language
when I was carrying a particularly heavy object. All the while Uncle Eddy could be heard
shouting and sobbing as I hunted through his barn.
It was nearing three in the afternoon when I came across the forbidden cabinet. It sagged
against the wall; the bottom drawer had come completely out and one of the silver handles had
been knocked off. On all of my tours in the warehouse Uncle Eddy had never told me what was
held in this cabinet. I had asked once what the drawers contained, but my Uncle pretended as if
he never heard anything and so I never asked again. Knowing full well that this was a breach of
my Uncles privacy, I moved across the floor, little puffs of dust stirring under my feet.
Crouching on the ground in front of the metal cabinet, I peered through the gloom into
the drawer to see manila folders lined up one against the other. Without hesitation, I wiped the
sweat off my grimy hands and pulled a folder out at random.

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Flipping open the file, I gently lifted the contents. The first was a grainy, black and white
picture bearing the figure of a smiling young woman. She was oddly dressed in long overalls
and a lettermans jacket, standing in front of a stack of three traffic lights. The next picture held
the same woman in the same clothes, this time with several silver candelabras at her feet. As O
flipped through the photos, I witnessed the same girl, her face always alight with a broad smile
and her blonde hair cascading in waves.
The last picture was especially grainy and I was forced to move closer to the wall so that
light from a hole in the plywood splayed across the photo. A young man accompanied the
woman in this picture, wearing the lettermans jacket. The both beamed and lifted several bags
of hanging onions in each fist. Behind them, painted on the wall was a sign reading:
The Elizabeth Krebs Museum
Slowly, I placed the pictures in the folder and tucked everything back in the drawer.
Sitting against the wall, I felt dust tickle my throat and I began to cough. I choked and heaved,
wiping at my eyes as if I would be able to rub away the foolish smile of the girl and her museum.
*First Place Alabama High School Literacy Arts Awards for Fiction and Winner of B-Metro B-Published
Contest http://b-metro.com/fictioncontest/20336/

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Whats It Like*
Charlotte McRae
Whats it like missing you
I cant explain.
The leaves shiver
But its scorching
Sound drips from my eyes
Am I wailing?
Its not audible.
But I can smell those tear stains
Calligraphy of black and some color I cant explain upon my pillow.
My soul turns inside out
Like a sweater tumbled dry
Just lay me out
Please.
I only have strength to cave in.
Remember those pictures
With your fingerprints
And mine
Telling the real story.
Words that are too loud to be understood.
Close your wings next to my sopping skin
Or are you just the ash
Burnt by the cremator
With a tangled beard and a detached mind.
I still remember when you seeped into the ground
I later screamed
After you dissolved into the Next
Fifty-two years warm and young and old and shared

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By the hot open mouths around the dinner table.

Oh those forks and knives
Had no clue that they would no longer feed you
Or me.
And that beautiful circle
Stitched and sunken by the absence of brain
And held together by string,
again black.
Dont ask me what its like to see your father
Cold
Limp
Translucent
Too dark inside, my pupils wont
Remember.
But Daddy, whats it like to unlock the body, bruised and blue from
A spirit beating to be released.
Daddy, Whats it like to fall with the rain
Every Sunday.
To sit in the kink of His elbow?
Whats it like to be a part of those shivering leaves?
Whats it like to feel peace
And to rest.

*Winner of Honorable Mention in 2015 Nancy Thorp Poetry Contest Hollins University
Also received certificate of Merit in Poetry from Alabama High School Literacy Arts Awards
sponsored by the Alabama Writers Forum

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Photo by Jake Sansom

The Big Brother: A Letter

Margaret Davis
Inspired by Ezra Pounds The River Merchants Wife: A Letter
When I still had train tracks plastered on my teeth,
I dashed around the yard playing tag.
Yall drifted by, not speaking to one another as
the leaves floated atop the withering grass.
And I continued to play
as you two halted at the front steps.
At seven I was called into the living room.
As I stood there, arms dangling by my side, eyes glossy,
my mind exploded with thoughts no child should ever ponder.
Dragged to a new house, everything changed in what felt like a split second.
Once we three had finished unloading boxes,
mom started taking normal breaths.
You suddenly became the captain of the ship.
Why should we look back now?
Going into my junior year,
you found your new home in Auburn.
As you come and go, mainly go,
the eagles soar above as you make your way.
You pull out of the driveway slowly waving your hand.
I break a smirk and the tips of my teeth are seen.
Too bright to miss.

75

Fall semester has arrived,

Light beaming into your room reveals all the dust.
If you decide to depart from the agricultural land,
let us know so we may be in your presence.
And we will not hesitate to all be together again.

The Wall of Innocence

Ansley Balogh
That frosty morning on Christmas day
The young children sprint down the stairs and maneuver their way
Like ants, moving swift
The paper ripped open and exposed the ever so anticipated gift
Sharp and vibrant at first to say
But soon faded after many days of play.
Seasons turned and years passed,
The blocks now placed in the attic among amassed
Pile of forgotten toys.
A love that they had once been given by the boys
Had replaced by girls and cars; making the forgotten frownAnd the wall of innocence came tumbling down.
Like a man who lies dormant during the day,
The once cherished blocks collect dust as they sit and stay.
Reality being the boys had closed the chapter and moved away.
For a moment let your opinions sway
And ponder the importance of that constant play
Then to nothing, removed from the teenagers life as if over the course of a day.
The need to grow should be a gradually pend
Eventually everyone shall come to his or her end
Therefore, avoid rushing the exceptional moments life will present
And learn to slow down and be content.

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Appreciate the forgotten times even those when you would,

Play with the toys where the wall of innocence once stood.

Familiar Faces
Griselle Aguiar

Sculpture by Isabell Mulkin

In the living room, nothing is still.

There is a revving outside
To which my panic answered.
My eyes flickering every which way,
Struggling to focus on one thing.
On the edge of my seat
With my back and neck locked in place.
My shoulders are raised up high
With no signs of relax.
The tension would be relived
If I were to just take a deep breath.
But the firm grasp of anxiety around my neck
Kept me from doing so.
The roaring came to a sudden halt.
My nerves were tingling
As though being tickled by a feather.
An annoying ring echoes though the house.
Then everything freezes,
My mind is silent for once.
The hands of anxiety
Were clawing up my throat
With the sound of every booming step

77

That grew closer to me.

I feel a presence overpowering me
And afraid to look up
I shut my eyes.
A sudden "Hello" seemed to rid of
All the uneasiness I had.
I look up to a man who is strange to me
And from that moment on,
A whole new side of my life
Began to shine though the dark.

The Legend of the Lake

Jennifer Lauriello*
The lake almost looked like a painting. Moonlight twinkled across its surface, and the
wind held its breath in reverence. Every so often, a dragonfly would dance across the sleek
surface of the water, creating tiny ripples where it touched. I watched those ripples, which
expanded quietly before the stillness drew them back in.
I haven't been this close to the lake in a long time. It had definitely changed since the last
time I was here. A few houses were built some time ago, but they were abandoned and are
deteriorating now. The docks that had once extended over the surface of the lake with a proud
sturdiness were falling apart, collapsing into the water to never be seen again. I don't think the
lake appreciated being invaded.
The lake was surrounded by a forest that touched the outskirts of my hometown,
Millbrook. Townspeople used to gather around the lake after they got out of work, and even the

78

younger generations would head down with a group of friends. The lake was everyone's escape,
at least until real estate moguls decided to capitalize on it. They never heard the legend about
what happens when someone disrespects the lake. For the townspeople, the Legend of the Lake
was common knowledge. If someone was to swim in the water or disrupt it in any way, it was
said that the lake would retaliate. The legend easily scared away the newcomers who bought the
lake houses. In time, the skeptics were convinced to leave too, but nobody was entirely certain
how.
It didn't take long for more stories about the lake to begin circulating around the town,
how even the skeptics were chased out, but nobody knew the truth like I did. I kept it a secret for
so long that it began to feel like another story. A lot of times I tried to convince myself that it was
one, but I remembered everything too vividly to let it go. People tend to stay away from the lake
now, even the generations like mine that grew up with it as their safe haven. It is more feared
than admired now, but at least it is at peace.
So I sat there silently, only a few feet away from where the water was softly lapping up
against the shore, allowing it to hypnotize me. I didn't fear the lake. At least, that's what I liked to
tell myself. I believed the two of us had an understanding, and, just as the legend goes, we knew
not to bother each other.
When my parents moved to Millbrook, they were young and hopeful. They bought a
small house on the outermost street of the town, closest to the lake. For a while they kept to
themselves, focusing on their young children, myself and my little brother Adrian. They knew
there was a lake close by, but they never got a chance to hear the way the townspeople spoke
about it until it was too late.

79

One hot, cloudless summer afternoon, we followed a dirt trail through the forest and to
the lake to have a family picnic. At the time, I was ten and my brother was six. Adrian was just
learning the concept of rebellion, which he undoubtedly loved. As soon as we finished eating
lunch, his heart was set on swimming. Even though they didn't know why, my parents
understood that nobody swam in this lake, so they plainly told him no. Adrian fussed and
stomped around, attempting to change their decision, but they wouldn't budge. They tried
explaining their reasoning to him in different ways, like that he wasn't in the appropriate clothes
or that swimming wasn't allowed here, but he wasn't listening. Soon enough, he was marching
down the hill and onto the shore of the lake without a glance back at us.
The water was rippling gently along with the light breeze, and the intense reflection of
the sun off the water was nearly blinding. Shielding my eyes, I watched Adrian kick his shoes off
and wander down toward the water as he left tiny footprints in the sand. My father yelled for him
to come back as my mother jumped up to stop him. I glanced over at my father, his lips drawn
into a tight line under his dark mustache, but quickly returned my gaze to the scene before me.
I found myself standing up slowly, and my father's booming voice was drowned out by
my sudden focus on the lake. I mindlessly walked down to the shore, slipping out of my shoes
and paying no mind to my parents or Adrian. It was as if the lake was calling to me. I felt an
unbreakable connection with the dark, glistening water. It seemed so peaceful, so rhythmic, so
sure. Before I knew it, I felt the chilly water seeping between my toes, breaking my trance.
I suddenly heard Adrian complaining about how it wasn't fair that I could go in the water
and he couldn't. I watched the water recede from around my feet and back into the lake before
turning to look at him and my mother, who was firmly grasping his wrist. She gestured with her
free hand for me to come stand by her. As I obediently walked toward the two, Adrian broke free

80

of her grasp and darted to the water, splashing his way deeper and deeper as my mother and
father screamed for him.
The wind picked up, giving the lake a sort of current. A cloud passed over the blaring sun,
darkening the sky and the water. Adrian was pulled further from the shore, his arms flailing and
his tiny voice calling out for my mother. She rushed to the water's edge, ready to jump in after
him, but his little head disappeared. The small waves collided against each other, and a clap of
thunder rang out from above. I looked up in confusion, not knowing where this sudden storm
came from. The blue sky was coated in gray clouds, and a sudden downpour forced my eyes
back on the lake. Mother was waist-deep, shouting for Adrian, whose head and thrashing arms
had briefly reappeared. I squinted in the dim light to try to see him through the heavy rain and
thrashing water, but I couldn't. Father had run down and was standing next to my mother in the
water, holding her back and trying to convince her not to go out any further. They were
screaming at each other and panicking while I stood there silently, too shocked to speak and too
scared to move.
After a minute, the rain lightened, the wind died down, and the clouds drifted away,
revealing the bright sun. The water calmed and regained its rhythm, steadily creeping up the
shore and inching back slowly.
We never saw Adrian again.
I closed my eyes forcefully, hoping to push away the memory. I couldn't; I had never
been able to. I couldn't help but think it was my fault, either. I don't blame the lake, the weather,
my parents, or even Adrian. There was something that lured us to the lake that day, and when we
heard the legend later on, it all made more sense.

81

The townspeople don't remember Adrian. He's our best kept secret, our regret, and our
downfall. My parents died when I was in my thirties. After Adrian's death, the lake became a
depressant to them. I grew up watching their health decline and their happiness fade, and I
remember wanting nothing more than for our family to be whole again. I knew that wasn't going
to happen.
And once more, over thirty years later, I found myself slowly approaching the lake. The
gentle moonlight made the lake look unbelievably harmless and welcoming. Once I'd gotten
close enough, I took off my shoes. The icy water glided smoothly over my feet and reached up to
my ankles. Suddenly, flashbacks of Adrian running into the water burst into my mind, and I
jumped back from the water defensively. I eyed it fearfully for a moment, hearing my parents'
desperate screams in the back of my head, then cautiously slid my shoes back on. After giving
the lake a final look, I headed up the hill to the forest for the last time, knowing no one
understands the Legend of the Lake like I do.
*This Author has an upcoming book, Eliza, due to her Second Place win of
Books-A-Million Publishing Contest.

Thirty Long Friday Nights

Rix Curtis
Inspired by T.S. Elliots The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
Fear - never a factor
With the toughest, there you stood
You have the will, the soul,
the heart...
But, I always knew you would
I watch you while you're sleeping
So still, so calm, serene
Once you step upon
That football field

82

You're one powerful machine.

My Little Scrapper
Let me begin my three years
Tearing up the dew like a morning deer
Some say its too early for this;
Let me begin, through the long, tough journey,
But full of learning
Exhausted mornings and scorching August afternoons
And my body is screaming to be done soon.
While trudging on is my only choice
Enduring the harsh voice
To lead to an overwhelming comment
I do not want to hear it;
Let me begin bit by bit.
All along they give me no chance
For I am not at first glance.
The doubt and cynicism runs through my mind,
The negativity takes over my time
A pessimistic mob follows me around,
Waiting for me to fail in the grind,
Its impossible, they say is all that sounds,
I keep my head down, blocking it out,
Pushing through the weights that January morning,
Trying to prove whats wrong is indeed their doubt.
And indeed the day will come
For the doubt and cynicism that runs through my mind,
Taking over my time;
The day will come, the day will come
To prepare the man to defeat the man that is across;
The day will come when my toughness must be best,
And the day when what you dread most
Is before you for a test.
The day for you and the day for me,
And the day for a hundred more reps,
And for a hundred more plans and steps,
Before the first snap on varsity.
All along they give me no chance
For I am not at first glance.
And indeed the day will come
To wonder, Am I ready? and Am I ready?
Walking off the turf, trying to be steady
Smallest on field already
They will say: How will he play with that size?
My helmet almost covering my eyes,
My cleats worn away in the flies
They will say: He is too weak for the guys

83

Am I ready?
To disrupt practice?
The day will come later
For there are things I might miss.
I know the things I hear already; it is not news to me
I am reminded everyday
That my size and speed will not play;
I tell myself I am different than what they see,
But they do not seem to care.
How should I handle the affair?
I know the looks; I have received them all
The eyes of judgment,
With the quick head-to-toe glance with a smirk,
I have a disadvantage before touching the ball.
How should I let the looks lurk?
Do I need their consent?
How should I handle the affair?
And I know what I am supposed to be
A big, strong, tall, fast player.
How will I compare?
They constantly doubt,
Because I am too stout.
Oh my desire to be free!
How should I handle the affair?
Do I know where to begin?
I have seen the guys who are too small
To compete, and
Lie around and feel sorry for themselves.
That should be me.
What dignity did I have?
Times are better off of the field now.
Less pressure and more peace;
When will it cease?
I grow tired of the pessimistic doubt.
Should I take the chance,
And make myself a fool?
I have worked and conditioned,
But that is still not good enough
For this sport that is so rough.
I have had times when Ive felt the greatness break through,
And I have had times when I am humbled, or two,
Causing much tension.
So would it be worth it in the end?
After the early morning workouts and two-a-days,
And the weekly film sessions on Sundays;
Would those Friday Nights be worth it,

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To have blood, tears, and sweat

On this turf for a few wins?
All for some overwhelming comment;
They say I am too small for this game,
And I would never last;
I am too slow for the fame,
So would it get in my head?
Would it get in my head?
So would it be worth it in the end,
Would it have been worth my time,
After everyone goes home and the scoreboard turns off
After my football career is
Over
And all I discover?
I cannot put this into words,
For my feelings are absurd;
Would it have been worth my time?
Will I regret it one day?
Will it all be meaningless?
Would I pray
For another day?
I was not meant to be Lebron James or Peyton Manning
I have no business playing this game;
I am not fit for fame.
I will let them know I am here to help,
And will be glad to do it.
I will pay my dues on the sideline,
Ready for any moment.
But, the more I watch from the side,
The more I dwell.
The season is about to end.
I have my routine spot on the bench.
Should I get a better pair of cleats?
I will cheer on my team,
While the cheerleaders chant to each.
I do not think they will cheer for me.
My time seemed to never come,
And I was getting used to the wait;
If only I could play.
I have seen many Friday nights,
The best and the worst;
I never knew how much they could hurt.

Worlds Away

85

Mary Tate Thomas

Even though youre far away,
Know that Ill return and stay.
We live in separate worlds but do not worry.
Ill be coming in a hurry.
Only a few more months and Ill be there.
I know its long, but lifes not fair.
Even though youre across the sea,
It will never be too far for me.
Your world is stricken with poverty and war,
And my heart hurts for you at its core.
I long to see your radiant face
Because of your love and child-like faith.
Things are not what they seem.
Your world has offered much to me.
I no longer believe I am helping you.
You give more to me in all you do.
Your country, Uganda, is a beautiful place,
And you reflect its goodness with your smiling face.
My heart stays in Africa when I come home.
It gives me abundant joy when I am low.
Thinking of it brightens my day.
I truly wish that I could stay.
The far distance that separates us
Makes it even sweeter when I come.

Dandelion
Emily Bolvig
This weed born from childs wish,
From wandering seed, on chance
Might grow here, to flourish in humble earth,
As pariah, who sings in effluent yellows,
Fading soon, to dusty white
To grant childs wish once more.
Webs of yearning no more take flight,
Magic now fleeted,
Bare stem tossed down, forlorn and wasted,
Few recall him, wishes now lent,

Artwork by Peyton McDougal

86

Reclaimed only by Earth,

Giving the last of himself to the soil.
Your evanescent life sought to inspire few,
But with death, a new roar rings aloud,
Shaking tendrils, leaf, and vine,
Touching only those with ears like yours.
I hear it, telling of life
Wreathed in gold, and death interred.
In transient verse, live, my soul,
And toward whatever leads it,
Give the last of thy spirit,
Such as the day ebbs,
Thy withering body can release you
Effortlessly from its tomb.

Girl Next Door

Sara Chandler Mitchell
Downtown Birmingham drifts along past my window, and I know Ive covered all the
bases for conversation. I look across the backseat to the girl in the opposite window and cross off
topics in my mind. School? Check. Sports? Check. Family? Check. Twice. And the empty words
fall out of my mouth, again.
So yeah.
We barely make eye contact for the umpteenth time. I cant tell if she is frustrated or
bored or uncomfortable or just confused how she got here. I continue to grasp for any ideas and
eventually revert back to the common phrase of the car ride, or so it seems.
So, yeah. Yeah.

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Why I cannot come up with appropriate conversation is beyond me. Im pretty sure she
pities me by now, in all of my awkward glory and apparent lack of social skills. Unfortunately
for her, she finally succumbs to the lacking conversation.
Yeah.
Its not a question or a statement or really anything other than a sign of her unmistakable
boredom. She mutters the word as if confirming that friendship is not in our future. She mutters
the word like she is just fine with that.
The BJCC comes into sight in the distance and all of my previous hopes return as if I
havent just endured twenty minutes of empty words and deafening silence. Charlotte and I can
be friends. The new girl next door will trust me with all of her secrets and I will call her to spend
the night every summer evening and we will use walkie-talkies to whisper just about anything,
because that is what neighbors in the movies do.
Charlotte and I enter the back of the building marked VIP Access, and I am suddenly
overcome with an indescribable excitement, as if the sign proclaims my importance to the entire
world. My partner seems to brighten at the sight of the words as well. She nudges me in the
shoulder, and we file into a room filled with basketball referees and official looking men and
women with badges hung on their chests and headsets dangling from their earlobes. Even the
food table, covered in what would be ordinary meats and cheeses from my refrigerator, seems to
shine with an aura of dignity and significance. Before I know it, Charlotte and I are handed
badges and led through another important looking hallway to the ground entry for the basketball
court. With every step, I walk a little straighter and hold my head just a little higher, and I strut
into the arena to await my cleaning duties. Before I know it, I am overcome with the chaos that
accompanies a basketball game. Standing underneath the goal, every movement falls within my

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view and I strain my eyes to predict the moves of the players. Charlotte and I sometimes lean
into one another to glimpse around the goal looming in front of us; though my hopes surge with
the potential of forever friendship and slumber parties, I think she is just trying to locate the
player that she thinks is cute.
The tournament continues throughout the bustling day, and the arena remains full as fans
from different teams replace each other between games. Charlotte and I talk to the referees, take
pictures with the mascots, and gaze in awe at the hoards of overly enthusiastic cheerleaders. If
were lucky, a player will run over to give us a high-five during a timeout, and we will laugh at a
joke he makes, or on the rare occasion that a ball gets knocked out of bounds in our direction, we
will weave through the rows of photographers to recover it and bask in the resulting glory. At the
end of the day, fans stumble toward the exits, cheerleaders collect their drooping pom-poms, and
we take a final glance at the court. The girl next door puts her head on my shoulder.
Our friendship began based on my exaggerated hopes and the image of cookie-cutter
neighbor relationships dancing through my mind. I invited Charlotte to clean the floors at the
tournament because I envisioned us as Miley and Lily, or Carly and Sam, or perhaps two sisters
of the Traveling Pants. But I didnt get what I anticipated when I called the fifth-grader next door
on that warm April day. I didnt get cookie-cutter, or celebrity best friends, or even those walkietalkies, but I got a best friend. Char entered my life on a whim; I dont know what made her
parents decide on the brick house next door or what motivated her to say yes to my random
invitation to clean sweat off a basketball floor. But she has stayed in my life because of the
everlasting bond that began on that day, because her friendship just happened to be the
extraordinary and extremely unexpected result of a simple question, a simple answer, a simply
awkward car ride, and a simply life-changing day.

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The Sea
Carlton Randleman
Inspired by The Garden by Ezra Pound
Like a morsel of flotsam thrown about the bottom,
Angels drift with the ebbing of the crashing maelstrom above
Delicate beauty lost in the torrent
of this, an alien vista.
In this absence of color or calm,
The refuse of the blue crackles toward a homely rest,
Spoiling the undefiled clarity.
The longingness of reason,
Colors dart toward salvation in the crevices.
There is no disturbance,
And concerned are the above
Afraid to take the plunge.

Tuba in Cuba
Coke Matthews
There is a tuba in Cuba.
There has to be.
Like the rain in Spain
And salt in the sea.
There is a tuba in Cuba
All dented and broken
Theres china in China
But fine words are unspoken.
There is a tuba in Cuba
Waiting to be played
Theres chili in Chile
Best in the shade.
There is a tuba in Cuba
Down Malecon way
There is hate in Haiti
I am sad to say
There is a tuba in Cuba
Start a parade
There is ire in Ireland
But dont be afraid.
There is a tuba in Cuba
Get ready to blow

Artwork by Isabell Mulkin

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There are germs in Germany

So we dont have to go.
There is a tuba in Cuba
Strike up the band.
There is a tuba in Cuba
Give them a hand.
There is a tuba in Cuba.
If not,
I am taking one.
*Author is Winner of Martin Luther
King Jr. Essay Contest

Earth
Luke Hartman
Earth
It was given to us
It is our home
To use as we choose
But, if you had nothing
And something was given to you
Would you take it for granted?
If you needed resources, shelter
If you needed food and water
If you needed a home
And then all of a sudden
All of this was given to you
In the form of a gentle planet
Earth
Would you take it for granted?
Would you squander the resources provided?
Would you exhaust the spatial and sustenance capacity?
Would you leave something for future generations?
Would you give up money to preserve your home?
Would you put aside everything to protect the one thing you need most?
We use, and use
And take and take
With no thought, ignoring all warning until

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Nothing
Why?

Whispers in the Wind

Robert Krauss
He jumped.
Cold air rushed around his body, entwining him in a swirling vortex of a substance that
lacked visibility and definite shape. Though his senses offered up no more information, he could
at least feel it. That was a change.
He closed his eyes tightly and opened them, and now he stood upon the earth, listlessly
watching the city shuffle past. Walking, running, driving, biking across the pavement scurried
members of his own species, supposedly his brothers and sisters in his struggle for
understanding. As the visual conundrum on the street crawled onwards, he turned his gaze to the
darkness and quiet of the alley. Two men fought there, one pushed against the wall as he
struggled to escape the clutches of the other dark form. The victims efforts were in vain for he

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soon collapsed into a motionless silhouette. Only one set of footsteps echoed down the alley. Yet
the man staring noiselessly at the scene felt no stirring of soul, no pang of regret: only bland
indifference.
Several blinks returned him to the realm of reality. He awoke again into the swirling freefall two-thousand feet above the land below. Casually, he righted himself, and he stretched his
body into a spread-eagled position to slow his descent.
Yet his memories would not be ignored. The spectral world returned in a flash, this time
showering his mind with images of the amusement park. Lights sparked, bells clanged, people
talked; the woman walking by his side jabbered on about getting a new dog. He couldnt quite
comprehend what she was saying, as if the words spoken next his ear were merely on the edge of
his hearing, but he realized that he didnt really care. Waving away the boisterous vendors, he
calmly led the woman to a towering metal ring that the signs they passed called a Ferris
Wheel. Hed spotted it as they entered the fair and intended to ride it; after all, people
complained that their fear of high places often kept them from such risky entertainment. Maybe
now he could taste the fear that they so readily discarded.
A bored teenager pocketed their tickets, and they stepped into the closest wobbling
carriage. With a mechanical clunk they began their ascent, swaying their way upwards. He gazed
emptily at the sparkling lights and shrinking buildings below. There was nothing to feel here!
Height was a mere change of perspective, a standing up compared to the ordinary sitting down.
Strangely, it seemed that the view evoked grand emotions in everyone else; it was here that the
woman beside him professed her love for him, an admission for which he had no response. Here
that the woman stepped onto the edge of the rail surrounding the carriage and declared that he
must answer him, right then, or she would hurl herself into the night air. Here that the frightened

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worker below jolted the ride to a stop, leaving him and his partner stranded at the crux of the
wheel, silhouetted against the moon. Here that the woman leaned backwards too far and tumbled
from her perch, falling from his sight to the concrete below.
The Wheel shuddered into motion, carrying him around the remaining circumference of
his journey. He stepped lightly from the carriage and strolled past shocked onlookers until the
amusement park was left far behind him and only trees watched his footsteps. Nothing. Nothing,
nothing, nothing changed in his soul.
He had watched her panicked eyes plummet, heard her short, shrill scream; he had even
touched her hand as she fell. Lowering himself to recline against a nearby rock, he realized that
not once had love, fear, hate, or misery graced his essence, while mild confusion reigned
supreme. But, as with most things, these observations troubled him little. He descended into
slumber, sleeping peacefully under the stars.
Then, he awoke, no longer relaxed on a rock, but instead dropping like a stone. The scene
of the little town below him seemed larger, and it continued to grow at a heightened rate. After
spinning again into the spread-eagled position, he heard the incessant buzz of his microphone.
He touched a hand to the radio, and a garbled voice burst through: Hey-zzt Good schzzow,
daredevil, but corpseszzz are only entertaining oncezzz. Pull your chute.
He thought about it. He could do as he had always done and pull the string
tethered to his chest, ejecting the parachute and floating to the ground just a few hundred feet
above the roaring crowd.
The darkness and dank smell of the training room clouded his mind and covered his eyes with
blackness. I cant do this anymore, whispered the man he was facing, one he had worked with
before in the stunt business. John was his name. I cant balance it. I know you can, but- but its

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just not happening for me. This is a better way, better than breaking all the bones in my body, or
smashing my skull, or tearing off a leg, or.... John seemed to be trying to convince himself more
than to persuade the man who stood before him. Eventually, John lowered his eyes, then
murmured, You better leave.
He did leave, but only to the shadows at the end of the hall. A genuine curiosity
compelled him to remain. Hesitating, trembling, John raised a dark object to his head, a
wrapping his fingers uneasily on the handle: a pistol. Squinting, he leaned closer, working to
discern every expression of the wretched man. John shut his eyes and looped a finger around the
trigger of his demise. With fatalistic steadiness, he dragged the piece of metal backwards,
sparking the gunpowder and firing the weapon; in that instant, his eyes and mouth opened into
the extremes. At once his face beheld extreme joy and sorrow, and extreme awe and expectancy,
and extreme tension and relief and then John fell. His body hit the ground with a thump. I
wonder he thought, I wonder. He closed his eyes and envisioned the weapon firing again, this
time at his own head. The weapon clicked and the powder exploded and in the writhing flames
he saw the emotions of John, and, eventually, the order of inevitability settled the chaos into a
peaceful calm.
The voice on the radio shouted desperately now. Pull your chutezz! PULL IT!
IM NOT GETTING YOUR BLOOD ON MY HANDzzzz He clicked the radio off and once
again heard only the rush of the wind. As the airfield below swelled to the size of notecard, then
a letter, then a sheet of paper, he remembered. He recalled the eyes, the face, the movements of
those that would imminently pass from the world. He remembered the emotion, the final
twitches, the sounds before death that were unrivaled by any other experience in life. Perhaps
with death he would feel something.

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He plummeted swiftly to the earth: his altimeter read two-hundred feet, onehundred feet, fifty feet. And for the first time in his life, as he stared into the swaying grass
barely yards below him, something moved within him; an emotion only identifiable by those
who had felt it before, but nonetheless ugly to him. He felt regret.
He hit the ground.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Helen Catherine Darby
A soft rap on my bedroom door. I stand up from the small, twin-sized bed and open the
door. Yes, you are ready to go? implores a thick Italian accent. Before me stands Giulia, a
beautiful girl of sixteen, studying me with enormous, chocolate eyes.
I wait for a moment, admiring her dark brown hair, bouncing in wide ringlet curls and
looking windblown. I answer, Yes, yes! Im ready.
We climb into the elevator with Giulias mother, a squat, slightly rotund woman, smiling
and nodding along to our chatter, though not understanding a word of the English. Between us
stands little Niccolo, Giulias mischievous younger brother. He remains silent on the ride down,
but he never loses the twinkle in his eye or the smirk on his lips. Moments later, we get off the
elevator at the bottom floor of the apartment building. We step out into the street and are swept
into the hustle and bustle of Bari, Italy. Although it is nearly 10:30pm on a Tuesday night, the

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streets are crowded with animated groups of people, conversing with each other in words
unintelligible to me. We work our way away from the hectic main streets and into smaller,
winding alleys in the oldest section of the city. As we turn narrow corners and make our way
down cobblestone backstreets covered by fluttering garments dangling on laundry lines above us,
I wonder in amazement, how do they know where theyre going? Finally, we emerge from the
dark alleyway, and I catch my breath.
I stand in a large square courtyard, surrounded on all four sides by apartment buildings.
Streetlamps illuminate the square, and my eyes, overwhelmed by the spectacle, strain to take
everything in. Young children run in circles, shouting gleefully and playing games. Their parents
stand in groups, conversing amiably and sharing warm laughter. Above us, grandmothers stand
on wrought iron balconies next to potted flowers. They call to each other across the courtyard,
chatting until they yell down to their families that dinner is on the table. It is a scene from a
movie.
Wide-eyed, I follow Giulia and her family across the courtyard to a small pizzeria in the
corner. It has no sign, and Giulia tells me they refer to it simply as our pizzeria. We greet
Giulias father, a fit man of about 45, sitting at a red plastic table outside. His black hair is
streaked with silver, and his dark brow offers an air of mystery. His name is Angelo. While
Mama goes inside the tiny kitchen to order, we sit around the small plastic table.
I breathe deeply and glimpse up at the stars twinkling brightly above us. A warm breeze
wraps its arms around me, and I am engulfed by the smell of baking bread and melted cheese. I
glance down and see Mama coming toward us, her arms stacked full of pizzas. When everyone
settles in, Angelo presents me with a slice, the crust paper-thin and the top coated in thick slices
of mozzarella cheese. The rich taste takes me by surprise. This is different than any pizza Ive

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had before, but it is unquestionably better. The cheese melts in my mouth; the thinly layered
tomato sauce tingles the taste buds in the back of my throat.
Wolfing down the last slice of pizza and slurping up the very end of my Coke Zero, I take
to marveling at my fantastic surroundings. My head is on a swivel, constantly twisting and
turning, longing to capture every detail of this place, this moment.
Angelo chuckles, and I quickly shift my eyes to him, raising an eyebrow questioningly.
You seem to be down a rabbit hole, he articulates amusedly in careful and precise English.
I stare for a moment, then turn to Giulia for an explanation. He means to say, she
clarifies, that you act like you are in Wonderland. Like Alice.
I nod in understanding. Gazing back out into the night, I agree with Angelo, musing,
Things just get curiouser and curiouser.

The Kings Princess: A Letter

Kaylyn Greene
Inspired by Ezra Pounds A River Merchants Wife: A Letter
While I learned how to tie my shoes
I played with my Madame Alexandra dolls, brushing their hair.
You strut with your briefcase, bustling work,
you carried me to the car, buckling me in.
And we went on living in my castle:
the King and his princess, without fret or chores.
At age thirteen, you dropped me off.
I shed a tear, you being proud.
Driving the car, you watched me enter.
Encouraged, hundreds of times, I savored.
At age sixteen, I took the wheel,
I learned your secret ways.
Passing and passing and passing.
Why should I leave this paradise?

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At age eighteen, I departed,

I explored a new castle, by the city of rising suns,
and I have been gone for only a semesters time.
The trumpets sounds from far away.
A bounce in my step as I went out.
The golden gates still open, vines grown, many tangles of vines,
trimmed every day!
The sunflowers bloomed early this spring, in pollen
the bees travel to the head.
Entering the golden gates,
they bring you joy. You grow in wisdom.
I canter down the road on my horse, through the broad, open gates
I do not tell you beforehand.
For watching the smile on your face
would make the best picture.

Sculpture by Peyton McDougal

Ascension
Scott Lepley
The art of winning is hard to master;
so many others seem filled with the intent
to be lost yet convinced that their loss is no disaster.
Most fall further every day. Accepting what is given.
Forgetting what they wanted.
The art of losing is soon forgiven.
But some desire to be the master.
To see fields of green and white smiles.
None of these will bring disaster.
The beginning of the journey is always

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Keen, draped in ambition.

Tacile as a pain.
The middle is
Known, stretched to cover the day and fill the gaps.
Woven of work.
The end is
Felt, marked by reward of material.
Blessed by happiness.
Through a prolonged battle a champion rises.
Never once wounded by fear of failure.
Never once stricken down.
Soon comes a plentiful reward.
A New Eden, imbued by bliss.
All at the hands of labor.
Finally, content!
This is called living.
But the art of winning is hard to master.

A Night of Fright is No Delight

Cole Summersell
A good many strange things have happened to me in my brief time upon the Earth, but
one predicament stands above the rest because it filled me with terror and taught me a
meaningful lesson. To put it dramatically, it was the time I thought I was being held hostage by a
family of Saudi Arabians.
The setting was Blackberry Farm, a stupendously expensive resort nestled among the
majestic hills of Tennessee. My parents were splurging on a meal for my moms birthday, and,
being a wee lad with an appreciation for fine dining akin to that of a moose, I was deposited in
the hotels large communal outbuilding and game room. I found a particularly comfortable sofa
in front of a fireplace and was instructed to stay put and read a book. The cold, early January
evening was sure to be one of peace and relaxation for all.
No sooner had my parents left than a mysterious Middle Eastern man in a bright orange
shirt slid in and seated himself at a computer. Somewhat miffed at the invasion of my privacy
and a bit frightened, I ignored him and continued to read my book. It wasnt long before a large,

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jolly man (whose name, I would later learn, was Zed) of a similar complexion burst in trailing a
college- age daughter. He shuffled to the fireplace where I was seated and turned his protruding
backside to the flames. Mind if I block de fire? he boomed. Ive got to warm up my he
trailed off. One by one, more people with funny accents emerged from the freezing night until a
family of five was assembled behind the piano. Much joyous singing was sung and merriment
made in a strange and foreign tongue. I was, by now, more than a little spooked.
I fervently wished these frightening strangers would go away, but fate decreed that I
would not get off that easily. Room service promptly arrived bearing a traditional American feast
of hamburgers for the extremely appreciative foreigners. Sinking lower and lower into my couch,
I was mortified to find the family sidling in my direction. The matron of the family, making up
for her broken English with bizarrely expressive hand motions, inquired if I had eaten dinner.
With a regrettable lack of foresight, I replied that I had not.
Then you will eat with us! she exclaimed, overcome with glee. My meek and polite
excuses were to no avail, and I was quickly herded into an adjoining conference room. As the
door clicked shut behind us, the longest twenty-minute dinner of my life commenced.
I was introduced to Zeds two college-aged sons, Osama the orange-clad and Achmed
(with an odd emphasis on the Ach), as well as his wife and daughter whose names have since
escaped me. A young American boy trapped in a room full of strangers from land of al-Qaeda, I
was understandably terrified. I pecked at my burger and was as polite as I could be in the face of
their small talk, but Zed was not satisfied. You are a man! You must eat! he proclaimed. With
my best manners on full display, I choked down a bite and declared it delicious. I courteously
squeaked that I just wasnt hungry, thank you, all the while wondering why they were acting so
manically friendly and just what they were fattening me up for.

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The dinner crawled agonizingly to a close, and I was challenged to a round of pool with
Osama, who graciously let me win. One can scarcely imagine my joy upon hearing the door
burst open and my mom, who had received my string of frantic and furtively sent text messages
half an hour after they were sent thanks to the spotty cell service, shout Cole!
Introductions were made all around, and the other mother told mine just how lucky she
was to have such a wonderful son. These people were not, as I had suspected, crazy Jihadists
plotting to strike against the West by kidnapping an innocent and helpless youth; rather, it was a
retired OB/GYN and his wife traveling to America to visit their children in college and go skiing.
They werent evil, as my ignorance and well-ingrained stereotypes led me to believe; in fact,
they were some of the nicest people Id ever met. Had stories of horror and atrocity from the
Middle East not clouded my instincts, I might have realized that sooner and would have had, at
the very least, a pleasant evening. While horrible and often untrue stories almost always come to
mind when confronting strange situations, perhaps we can learn from the positive ones and
realize that most strangers are anything but dangerous.
*This Author is a First Place winner of Creative Non Fiction
ASHLA Awards

Tghir

Artwork by Anne Grey Cook

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Black Dogs Make for Unhappy Pets

Robert Krauss
Barking echoes in the crowded hallways and mingles with the shouts and laughs and sobs of the
passing students.
It flows back and forth, gradually growing in volume but shrinking into concealment when
listeners begin to take notice.
Clicking paws pace back and forth and the foreboding starts to creep in, veiled by reasonless
unease, and the dog moves closer.
The canine stops and whines for a soothing embrace, its eyes cushion the passerby who stoops to
gratify the poor, pleading creature.
Too late, the dog has polluted the heart and its tar blackness flows through the veins; under the
weight, the limbs collapse and the victim drops to the floor.
The sun rises and falls on the purposeless being, who half-heartedly writhes in sorrow and pain
in a vain effort to escape, finally rising, shakily, when the dog steps up from his chest.
He departs again for his original destination, walking once more among the mysteries and joys
and sorrows of life, with the claps of his shoes jumbled with the clicks of the dogs feet close
behind.

Artwork by Isabell Mulkin