2013

SPRING ONLINE

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Spring Online Edition

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Suffering Poet by Eric E. Gonzalez ........................... 3

Sunset on Moss Lake by Laci McGee .............................. 3

A Slipping Thing by Alex Collins ..................................... 4

As the Sun Rises by Jordan Lescallette ........................... 4

Cactus Flowers by Laci McGee ........................................ 5

A Small Apology by Alex Collins ..................................... 6

Blue Jay in Silence by Eric E. Gonzalez ........................ 10

A Writer’s Paradise by Shae Crawford ........................... 11

The Stand by Brooke L. Montgomery ........................... 12

When I’m Home by Brooke L. Montgomery ................. 13

Pitter-Patter by Brooke L. Montgomery ....................... 14

My First Love by Brooke L. Montgomery ..................... 15

Photo by Guyon Prince ................................................. 16

Song of Agency by Guyon Prince ................................... 17

The Park Bench by Shae Crawford ................................ 18

Legacy Sponsors ............................................................ 22

Legacy T-Shirts .............................................................. 23

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The Suffering Poet

By Eric E. Gonzalez

My brush strokes the page, And yet, none see its markings; My words have grown cold, And my thoughts, oh, so bitter; The artist writes never more.

Sunset on Moss Lake

By Laci McGee

A Slipping Thing

By Alex Collins

A tender palm, upturned as if to pluck the primrose petals from the ageless sun remembers calmer years in sepia and wrinkled monochrome. A pair of eyes observes a slipping thing — a kite, a string— unseen in future memories, unheard in future dreams—and suddenly, they come to understand the way in which a life is something like a sympathetic link.

As the Sun Rises

By Jordan Lescallette

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Cactus Flowers

By Laci McGee

A Small Apology

By Alex Collins

Amanda’s dad drowned in his swimming pool. He’d been drunk and he just fell in and didn’t come out. She told me that while I sat watching the tattoo artist put the permanent word on my wrist. I wanted to tell him he needed to straighten the stencil, it was a little crooked, but I hated the thought of disagreement. The OCD that everyone told me I’d always had--which I always denied--was defeated that day.

After four years of truly believing I was the only person in the world with the correct answers to what everyone else called “life’s questions” (a phrase I hated to say aloud, though it permeated my thoughts), another two years would go by before I’d hear from Amanda. There was one friend, my best friend (my only friend), who said he was gay, though he proclaimed his deeply con-fused love for me almost every day. We met in an anato-my class. I drew pictures during the lectures and he ad-mired them. We laughed at each other’s caps and gowns, we blew bubbles and listened to Joni Mitchell in my room, we threw cream soda bottles in the parking lot. We were innocent. We couldn’t come to a single agree-ment, not even on dinner plans. Especially not dinner plans.

I generally try to avoid those little clichés that humans cling to so frivolously. “Guilty pleasures,” for example. I cannot understand the logic of “guilty pleasure.” To me,

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the phrase establishes that it’s okay to take pleasure in something as long as it doesn’t violate some mysteri-ous definition of what is acceptable for people to en-joy. If a violation occurs, then you ought to feel sorry for yourself--but not too sorry. That sort of hushed giggle that comes with admitting a “guilty pleasure” proves the passive aggression of the phrase, so that you don’t immediately realize how you are allowing someone else’s moral constitution to govern your be-havior. To feel guilt in pleasure is to be ashamed of your true identity. These were the thoughts I had at sixteen, and they growled in the cave of my worst fears; high school revolved as much around ac-ceptance as it did denial, and I was afraid of both. I was cynical and presumptuous, and I couldn’t find a person to agree with.

I had this art class though. It was beautiful. I said eve-rything I couldn’t say anywhere else, not even at home, or with my only friend, or at the noodle place where I worked and where I had my first kiss and where I let a guy (he was a drummer) take off my shirt and see what there was to see. In the art class, I paint-ed and ate burritos and listened to the best music--the stuff that would stay with me through college, that I would learn to play on my guitar and sing every morn-ing in the kitchen, the music that would connect me to the love of my life (cliché acknowledged), the songs that would weed out all the weirdos and find the few

friends I would love so much I couldn’t help but be-lieve in God.

I mostly painted varying watercolor renditions of hands reaching through space and holding planets (with the working titles “Across The Universe,” and “Hands Across the Water,” because of The Beatles). I found a deep symbolism in the paintings, defined my-self through them, searched in them for what high school taught me to seek. I stole a lot of supplies from that classroom.

I saved $300 in a box labeled “Tattoo” (because of The Who song, but also because I wanted a tattoo and I didn’t have a savings account). I had this idea that I’d get a ridiculous weapon--I pictured an AK-47--with a flower growing out of it. I was obsessed with 1967, 1968, and 1969. I connected with hippies on such a personal level that I didn’t even talk about it (except in my art class) because I couldn’t handle the idea of someone disagreeing. I was always disagreeing with someone, though never intentionally, and I was always apologetic.

Two years after the art class ended, Amanda called. As children, Amanda and I spent our time outside, and her dad drank a lot and burped a lot, and made us huge plates of poached eggs and toast. Amanda’s mother was known for stealing money from people

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and complaining about her feet. When I think of Amanda, I think of breakfast and yelling.

I was nineteen when she called, and I was with my only friend. We were sitting on the swings at the playground, drinking cream sodas and smoking pipes (we only did things that made us feel pictur-esque). The taste combination was bizarre but won-derful. Amanda called and told me she was kicked out of the Army or something, and she wanted to catch up. I hate catching up with people. I told her to come with me to get my tattoo.

I watched the word come alive on my skin while Amanda talked about her dad. She had a picture of a dragon she’d cut out of a tattoo magazine. She didn’t cry. She told me how Boot Camp took the emotion out of her. I noticed her huge biceps. I wanted to con-sole her but it didn’t seem like anything was wrong; and I was struck with an odd feeling. As delighted as I was to see this immensely meaningful word drawn in cursive on my body, I felt sorry. I saw her life next to mine, and I thought of my education and my art class. Suddenly the tattoo seemed like a secret I des-perately needed to keep. I knew I’d never be comfort-able showing the word on my wrist, and I would say things I didn’t mean about it. I felt a smile come to me, bringing with it a small apology. I love it, I thought, and I’m sorry for it.

Blue Jay in Silence

By Eric E. Gonzalez

O'er the tombstone sits the blue jay Perched comfortably upon chiseled rock, But from the stormy skies above Black thunderheads swirl down like smog.

The jay is silent.

A smoky cloud of grim foretelling.

The jay is silent.

The cloak of Death—his midnight robe.

The jay is silent.

Young lovers weep, Old couples bellow, For dear hearts lost in that ebony mist. Drunkards swoon And lame men croon For mothers jotted on His list. But the amorous ties of love Like thread are cut with a snip— So easily broken. Why question what sleep holds When eternity is but a dream?

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Seek not the road that leads to misfortune, Lest you should tread upon said path For the Reaper eternally beckons

The jay is so silent.

A Writer’s Paradise

By Shae Crawford

The Stand

By Brooke L. Montgomery

She sits alone tonight with weary eyes She should have left him from the very start She’s tired of believing all the lies And searching for the courage in her heart. He sits alone, ashamed of what he’s done He can’t erase the past and can’t explain Just why he did exactly what he’d done, To rip apart her heart that bleeds in pain. She sits alone, afraid of what she knew She has to find a way to leave it all He’d copied what he’d seen his daddy do. He sits alone, just asking himself why She sits alone, gathering up her pride Just as he stands, her heart has said goodbye.

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When I’m Home

By Brooke L. Montgomery

You wait for me where you are free to roam Where sorrow’s gone and death is left behind So, I won’t fret, I’ll see you when I’m Home And where the sea is beautiful with foam Where illness is no more, pain cannot bind You wait for me where you are free to roam You’re waiting there beneath Love’s massive dome Where hate is gone and there is peace of mind So I won’t fret, I’ll see you when I’m Home It’s where the broken hearted do no groan I’ll see you there, you won’t be hard to find You wait for me where you are free to roam It’s where the lonely never walk alone Where perfect’s true and nothing good’s confined So I won’t fret, I’ll see you when I’m Home You’re where all things are made anew and known And where our eyes no longer will be blind You wait for me where you are free to roam So I won’t fret, I’ll see you when I’m Home.

Pitter-Patter

By Brooke L. Montgomery

Lovely is the sound of raining Soothes the soul and calms the lover Tightly drawn, and intertwined, one Underneath the pitter-patter Gentle laugh, oh! timely pleasure Strengthening the bond together Rhythmic pace, eyes locked, hearts embraced Underneath the pitter-patter

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My First Love, Jesus Christ By Brooke L. Montgomery

My first love was unseen Yet the changes He made in me were visual First love lies Inside my fragile heart Resting at peace Still waters inside my chest, my entire being Trusting Him forever, for it was He Who Loved me first Only He can Vanquish the fiery arrows of the Enemy Just as I was, I went to Him-and Entered my heart, did He, when I was six Salvation restored my soul for eternity Under sin’s curse was I when born, but He Saved my very soul because He loved me Crushed for my iniquities How great was the cost Rose again after death took him for three days I’m alive in Him, faultless to Stand before the throne because The nails washed me as white as snow

Photo and poem, “Song of Agency”

By Guyon Prince

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The Park Bench

By Shae Crawford

Wandering out of his familiar hallway, Jim follows a younger couple to the front door of the retirement home, escaping the eyes of a young lady at the front desk. She is busy speaking with a new resident’s family as he walks steadily out the front doors into the parking lot. He searches for his old pick-up truck--he doesn't have his keys, but his wallet is tucked safely into his back pocket. Smiling up at the bright sky above, Jim decides to take a walk on this delightfully warm March day. He follows the sidewalk into a neighborhood near-by and admires the large stammering trees over the walkway, shading the scenery with a dark green cano-py.

Mindful of cracks and unevenness in the sidewalk be-low, he treads carefully, but blissfully. He feels free. He begins to grow weary, but sweet melodies of song birds lure him further along the path beside beautiful brick homes. Searching for his house, he scans the street ad-dresses, not recognizing street names. Finally tired of walking, he searches for a place to rest. He comes to a quaint little park bench, sits, scooting back and forth until balanced; and then he straightens his back with the white wooden planks. His mind wanders to far-off times and places, and for a moment, he lets himself re-member.

Jim retrieves a worn and tattered photograph from the

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creases of his leather wallet. He runs shaky finger-tips over the surface of the black and white photo and tenderly caresses the young and beautiful face of a woman. How long has it been since he last touched her face? Ran his fingers through her golden hair? Or kissed the lips of her sweet mouth? He shakes his head, holding the photo between thumb and pointer. His shoulders sink into the support of the bench be-hind him, and several minutes go by as images of his wife flash across the screen of his memory.

The hearty, drifting of laughter from children across the street stir him from his reverie. He misses the cackles of laughter from the hearts of his little ones. He is saddened, realizing that now his own children have grown into adults with their own lives and wor-ries which have settled into the folds of their faces where happiness and grief sit, forever making their mark. He hardly recognizes these faces. He wouldn't know those wrinkles or glazed eyes if he were to run into them walking down the street today.

He thinks about the last time he saw his son's strong hands in his own, and goes blank in an attempt to block the pain. He studies his own frail hands and notices the rigidness of squared digits marked with age. His heart sinks a little. How much older he is now! He runs one pointer finger along the dry and cracked crevices of his other hand, tracing along the calluses covering the pads of his fingertips and palms. These are the roughed up hands of a working

man. These scars hold a treasure of experiences and memories: the firm grasp of his handshake, the many grievous prayers, the years of hard work. These are the depths of an old man’s hands stained with life.

Suddenly, he is startled by the low rumbles of a near-by engine. He looks up and immediately recognizes the maroon logo covering the sides of a bus, reading: Goodman's Nursing Home. The bus doors swing open as brakes ease into a soft whisper. A young driver ris-es, moving toward the entrance as sunlight bathes his kind and familiar face.

"Hey Jim, are you ready to go home?" the young man asks, taking his arm and helping him up from the park bench. Jim rises slowly.

"Your new nurse was alarmed when she couldn't find you this afternoon, but I told her not to worry since I knew where you were.”

Gentle tears break from the corners of Jim's wrinkled eyes. He looks down both sides of the street, and real-izes for the first time—he is lost. He feels the cruel re-ality that he is not young anymore. It is like a fierce, cold wind threatening all he knows and loves. He sighs in deep and frustrated lament. His spirit weak-ens as reality threatens the bright and dazzling candle light that burned with passion only moments ago, fueled by his fond memories. He used to be somebody worth knowing, and now, he was no one—just a frag-mented old man. As his mind flickers and flames

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cherished memories, he lets out a deep, sorrowful breath as if he might blow out the light.

Releasing the driver's hand, he sits down in the front row and nods to the young man. The hissed breath of the closing doors extinguishes the faint glow as if smoke plumes wisp away the remains of Jim's fleeting memory, much like the final breath of a freshly dark-ened candle light. Jim sighs and looks out the large win-dow, pausing upon the sight of the white bench. He sits back, closing his tired eyes. The bus engine roars back to life and pulls away from the neighborhood park bench, and back into reality.

LEGACY SPONSORS

Our thanks and appreciation to our sponsors.

Dr. Jessica Mallard, Dean

Sybil B. Harrington College of Fine Arts and Humanities

Dr. Bonney MacDonald, Department Head

English, Philosophy, and Modern Languages

LEGACY STAFF

Managing Editor—Laci McGee

Recorder and Staff Editor—Shae Crawford

Staff Editor—Dane Glenn

Staff Editor—Carmen Terrell

Treasurer and Staff Editor—Trey Wallace

Faculty Advisor—Dr. Pat Tyrer

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