Trillium

Piedmont CollegeArt & Literature Journal

25 Ceramics27 Drawing28 Painting31 Photography42 Graphic Design

3 Twilight Drifter Liat Faver4 Waiting in the Corn & Rye Emanuela Curtale 6 Faces of America Emanuela Curtale7 Blue as Weak as Will Abigail Black8 Black Leather Boots From Memphis Emanuela Curtale9 Deus Sex Machina DeAnne Carswell10 Hovercraft Liat Faver11 . My Place Carol Martin12 Violet Meghan Meeks13 Ashes to Dust Stephen Westbrook14 King & I DeAnne Carswell15 Untitled Meghan Meeks16 Song By Myself Matt Varnell18 Oh Nothing Quentin Self19 Prayer of Billy Bye-You DeAnne Carswell20 Of Paradise DeAnne Carswell21 Nightscape DeAnne Carswell22 Pros and Cons DeAnne Carswell23 Witness Abi Black

ART

POETRY

PROSE

TableofContents

MUSIC*

44 How to Have a Bad Start to Your Day Tracy Howe46 The We of Me and the Other Michele Moore48 Hair Jessica Allen50 What It Means to Be a Man Mak Mcallister54 Untitled Tyler Dale57 Caroline Dont Write Home No More DeAnne Carswell58 I am Gray Ian Vencil62 Wiglaf Stephen Westbrook

Youve Been on My Mind DeAnna Barber and Wes Bower Third Times a Charm DeAnna Barber and Wes BowerAll I Want DeAnna Barber and Wes BowerThoughts of Passion Michael Houser California Michael Houser

We believe that creative thinking and innovation are key components of success in any aspect of life, regardless of profession. Our journal's goal is to promote and share the creativity that exists campus-wide at both the Demorest and Athens campuses of Piedmont College.

Our journal strives to give a top quality forum for the best creative work of Piedmont's undergraduate and graduate students, faculty, staff, and alumni, from all majors and professions. Each year, we work with the college's English and Art faculty to award a $100 Trillium prize for the best student submission in each of three categories: art, music, poetry, and prose.

This year, we had nearly 400 submissions, setting a new record and making our jobs as editors all the more challenging and pleasurable. We hope you enjoy the final selections for this year's issue as much as we do and will consider submitting your own creative works for our next issue.

Starting in 2010 Trillium submissions have been openned to music as well, we have a acompaning website that host the PDF of the publication, more information about the publication, & links to the music online.

Welcometo

Trillium

www.piedmont.edu/art/trilliumSo please, dont forget to listen to the music

*

By natures lawsDeath came todayWithout a cause.Absurd and gray,

Death came today,Suspended grace,Absurd and grayWith sallow face.

Suspended grace,A stark a airWith sallow faceDeath hovered there.

A stark a air.Ancient and wise,Death hovered thereAnd took her prize.

Ancient and wiseWithout a cause,And took her prizeBy natures laws.

3

poetry

By natures lawsDeath came todayWithout a cause.Absurd and gray,

Death came today,Suspended grace,Absurd and grayWith sallow face.

Suspended grace,A stark a airWith sallow faceDeath hovered there.

A stark a air.Ancient and wise,Death hovered thereAnd took her prize.

Ancient and wiseWithout a cause,And took her prizeBy natures laws.

3

Poetry

A small horned lark was the fi rstTo tread upon a deserted battle fi eldNow fl ooded with morning sunlightCreeping onto dry soil and armoryLeft behind to embrace familiar armsAnd the smell of warm food cookingUpon a friendly fi re.

Behind the black mountain mistA rooster awoke a sleepy VirginiaAs the morning reached slowlyTh e open fi elds and green pasturesShedding beams on ripe fruitsLazily hanging from coarse branches,Wood fences, a brown toad restingIn a tin bucket next to the well,A tool shed door hastily closed in the eagernessOf warm milk and a good nights sleep.

Tall hickories stand on the hilltopsBears and raccoons sip pleasantlyTh e fresh rushing watersWhile back in the farmhouseYoung women chase geese and ducksNaughtily scurrying on the wet grass;Some days the geese hideIn the blueberry bushes growing tallBut hardly covering the dark mountaintopsTh at keep the women patiently waiting.

She remembered his last gestureAs merely a soft caress, early at daybreakHe rode an auburn horse and dressed in blueGolden buttons shimmering in the sunlight

in the

Emanuela Curtale

W Caiting& ornye

4

A small horned lark was the fi rstTo tread upon a deserted battle fi eldNow fl ooded with morning sunlightCreeping onto dry soil and armoryLeft behind to embrace familiar armsAnd the smell of warm food cookingUpon a friendly fi re.

Behind the black mountain mistA rooster awoke a sleepy VirginiaAs the morning reached slowlyTh e open fi elds and green pasturesShedding beams on ripe fruitsLazily hanging from coarse branches,Wood fences, a brown toad restingIn a tin bucket next to the well,A tool shed door hastily closed in the eagernessOf warm milk and a good nights sleep.

Tall hickories stand on the hilltopsBears and raccoons sip pleasantlyTh e fresh rushing watersWhile back in the farmhouseYoung women chase geese and ducksNaughtily scurrying on the wet grass;Some days the geese hideIn the blueberry bushes growing tallBut hardly covering the dark mountaintopsTh at keep the women patiently waiting.

She remembered his last gestureAs merely a soft caress, early at daybreakHe rode an auburn horse and dressed in blueGolden buttons shimmering in the sunlight

in the

Emanuela Curtale

W Caiting& ornye

4

As he rode away from sleepy dark brown eyesLeaning on the porch in a white dressHe looked back, and hoped to return soonTo the kind scents of that homeWishing to return soonTo the sweetness of Virginia.

Th at morning the boys were in the fi eldsHorses silently wagged their tails in the shadeAnd the young women collected the eggs;Mama Rose prepared a loaf of breadWhile little Sammy was lockedIn the chicken coop, as hed always beWhenever hed have the impudenceTo whistle at one of the girls;Noises of cattle and women workingEchoed upon the mountainside.

At days end, the young workers and girlsRested in the tall wheat as cool breezesDisturbed the once motionless fi eldA hawk fl ew above the silent meadowsBreaking the silence, which came pleasantlyAs the sun wished good repose to Virginia.

In the moonlight everyone gatheredAround a warm fi reWinfi elds fi ddle resonated softlyAmong the hoot of the barn owlAnd the crackling fi rewood;Th e smell of the distant streamAnd the red cedar close bySurrounded the patient waitSilently lingering upon everyonesTired and rusty eyelids.

Further away, yet close enough to catchA glimpse of the far-off fi replaceHorse hooves crushed dry leavesAnd hickory nuts belonging to familiar soilEight riders on dirty saddlesPointed at the distant fi re in silenceMaking their way towards itWith empty leather fl asks;On an auburn horse, the youngest riderHad just the strength to embrace the sweetnessOf being back in the arms of his Virginia.

5

Poetry

Emanuela Curtale

Good God! Must it always be ninety degreesevery godforsaken Sunday morning?He curses and spits on the hot concreteshaded by nothing but the tall billboards.

Ive seen the face of America on a sunny day, hed sayNobody questions the meaning.

Door opens and shuts, repetition has become a habit.Some live off of good loving, others on loose change that pays off for the necessities of the day;He buys Pall Malls cause theyre cheapTh e fl avor, the pleasurenah, that aint the caseNothing in the satisfactions of his life are done for pleasureFor what then? Beats me, he replies.Getting a kick out of life, man, is as damn goodas sticking that knife in warm fl eshTh e relief s temporary, but you know its a matter of timebefore your see the stains on your fi ne leather.

Leather couch, leather car interiorsI got stuff fi lls my house, he says

Nothing he says has any valueTh e way he holds the steering wheelthat detailTh atll be forgotten, along with all the stuff , andthe questions asked by the girl behind the counter

Reds. Th atll be all. Door shuts, again.

It was on a sunny Sunday morningthat he saw the face of America, he said.

Kid, that aint good for yaWould I be doing it if it was?

He smirks, the lady shakes her head,You better quitEventuallyEventually aint a promise, boy

He saw the face of America in lost gazes, in his crumbled dollar bill and the noise on the freewayof racing cars on burning concrete.Billboards have become part of the landscapeand the shade is not enough to protectthe squirming worms from drying in the heat; those too, will be forgotten.Memories dont belong where the passing of timesmells like stale boots drenched in mud.

Leather boots stain the clean fl oor tiles of the gas stationPrices rise, fl uctuate: who pays attention?All we know is that its a sunny day; He sees the face of America in a dirty rearview mirror.

AFacesof

merica

6

A day is piledon the fl oor,monumental mountainsulking alone. Limp spent smellingof the toiling hours,they begin the choreographed dancelight against dark.God forbidthe infi ltrationof red into white.

Th ey reclinelanguid and fat,full of the day,its dye cast down , already forgotten.

A deep wicker basket,edges rough jaggedas old pine branches,cocoons soft memories,overfl ows and thrustsits burdened meaningonto the crisp fl oor.

Th ey look up, tell all.

A blue as weak as will,jeans unbuttonedpuddle and peer,knowingly smirking upward.Once in wicker now on tile,they smile carpet,wink berberwhere they lost themselvesto summers sultry night.Where clothes wereno longer necessary.Where capabilityexceeded possibility. I smile.

Momentarily,I share the secret and let memory slideinto its place,toss carelessnessinto the wash, waitto see what comes.

For a moment,my complexionbetrays my pleasure.

Abi BlackWill

7

Poetry

Long distance information, give me Memphis TennesseeTrying to get in touch with a young manI met in the spring under the shade of a cherry treeHe wore a grin and black leather bootsAnd insisted that the heels were worn outCause he was a rambling man and born freeAnd I was simply trying to fl atter himBut he seemed upset when I saidTh at those looked like some fi nely polished boots to me

And he explained that hed never be tied downNot to a woman, not to the name of a townHe smiled with milky white teethAnd did not understand when I wished him luckIf he were to ever come across himselfOn the corner of an empty street;He said he never had any fearBecause hed never gather mossWith those black leather boots at his feet

Last time I saw him I was waving him goodbyeAnd he seemed disappointed when I did not askWhere his train was headed toBut I bought some gin and fi lled his fl askTh at hed drink without inebriation or memoriesWhich I hadof one nightWhen I was playing and I snatched his maskAnd made him sing a melancholic tuneBare footed under the stars of the south

Th ey told me you called againJamming telephone lines down in town hallAsking of me and where I could be foundI said hes just a friend, thats allAnd he wore some fi ne leather boots!Th ey said you didnt leave a numberBut I know the place to call;Th e phone boy took the messageAnd he wrote it on the wall

8

An anodyne is the dustswirling around a tail-lightretreating, glowing redlighting a special that onlyrides joy in the middle of the night. With thighs stuck to leatherin a sensuous kiss, Im gone in 15 seconds.Tires squeal like banshees screwloudly.Gunning, gassing, and a little bit of romancing it:Jungle love, Creole lustsomething akin to voodoo;a Death too small to wipe steam from a window.Fight me fast, embracedinside your steel cage;leash me loose, and Ill strike while therod is hot.Vicissitude of attitudeapply a tourniquet tothe fuel pump, andslow the bitch to a crawl.Leave the remnants behinduntil its time to get on the roadagain.

DeAnne Carswell

eusDM

Sexachina

9

Poetry

Bumblebees hover the hours awayOutside my windowsEvery day.

Outside my windows, there they areConsistent,As an ancient star.

Every day I watch the freeImpervious bumblingOf the bee

Savoring, in spellbound easeOutside my windowsOn the breeze.

Every day their hours spentIn oatingNot in owers scent.

Shiny bees, not in the treesOutside my everyday windowsIn blatant bumble-tease.Funny bees.

Liat FaverovercraftH

10

I forage for solitude amidst the unrehearsed beauty of natureCicadas deafening din displaces harsh city racketsFirefl ies fl icker luminosity like so many stars Entire galaxies twinkle within a childs graspand captured in a bell jar illumine the end to a late summer dayDusk descends like glitter glueShadows expand to the sky A simpler life dances in candle fl ame tipsas silhouetted dragonfl ies skirt across the airfrom tin cut out lanterns

Carol Martin

yMlace

11

Poetry

Stephen Westbrook

shesAtoDust

Th e dust that fl oats in sun streamed airHas slowed its tangled waltzAnd decelerating yetEventually halts

I note each there, mote by moteAnd lie with bated breathFor to appear the tunneled lightTo call me into death

But rather see the paused tearOn nameless mourners cheekAnd, blinking once, in darkness fallTo dream perchance to sleep

Th e saline smell harkens meAgain I see the dustAs though to ashes not to sunI go, as all things must.

Th e sunlight fades as even fallsBut heightened clarityAllows me still to see the dustTh at now envelops me

13

Crumpled in the corner,eyes stinging and defyingdirect orders not to crythe welts rise like bread,the ringing in ears isdeafeningthe bruises,god, the bruisestheyre violet already.

Meghan Meeks

12

Stephen Westbrook

shesAtoDust

Th e dust that fl oats in sun streamed airHas slowed its tangled waltzAnd decelerating yetEventually halts

I note each there, mote by moteAnd lie with bated breathFor to appear the tunneled lightTo call me into death

But rather see the paused tearOn nameless mourners cheekAnd, blinking once, in darkness fallTo dream perchance to sleep

Th e saline smell harkens meAgain I see the dustAs though to ashes not to sunI go, as all things must.

Th e sunlight fades as even fallsBut heightened clarityAllows me still to see the dustTh at now envelops me

13

Poetry

You got me all shook up, babyhe says, leaning resplendent in sex and rhinestonesagainst a fastidiously clean countertop, nextto a blissfully burned out and overall dull husband.

Book him a room at the Heartbreak HotelI listen, while eating a hunka, hunka burned toast,eyes trained on twitching hips thatescape spousal observation.

Return this one to sender, sugarhe croons, while appreciatively stroking my bananas,a silken murmur, barely heard over the others bran crunching.

I cant help falling in love with youhe smirks, with a guttural growl, anda trademark windmill and pelvic thrustclueless, mister stares dimly into an empty bowl.

Lets kill him and dump his body in the ghettofaltering steps trip on a thought,oh, to be a Memphis queen, thinking Apron is a town in Ohio.

Shaking Bedlam, like a nod of denial,Sorry, Elvis, I cant do the jailhouse rock with you.

DeAnne CarswellIingTheandK

14

15

i dont wanna bea mystery to youi want my bookdog eared withfrequent readingsand well knownpassages markedfor quick reference.

Untitled Meghan Meeks

Poetry

I celebrate the fi elds:they run beside me;they run inside me.

I am the only poet.

Poetry is all of methat is only me.

Yes Democracy!Yes Anatomy!Yes Autonomy!

Divine?

Life

O were thy splendor

Not so

Spiteful

I can tell everyman nothing,But will give each of youMy frame,

Fame:

burnt out salesman stuck in cold subwayselderly, forgotten, rocking slowly to deathshe trembles in closet, footsteps of soldiers

yet steadies her horse: vigorous, proudfor crackling life within test tube vilesthe working man rests, embers blazing

to unearth

lifedeathmehersatandarwinscopesropessticksstonesbeatlesbattleslostwonbodyarose

16

I love me; I hate me; I am not meBut were it not for all I see,Were it not for someone else in me,Th e Universe would not resideIn greenest mountain Or the crystal sea.

Do you not dare to see?Do you not,Can you aff ord to not,See thyselfOn the walls of an eternal hall?

O Brother!O Sister!O Mirror!O Sword!

o christ

blackest ashes defi lingwhite satin, he who knew no sinGod made

myself

myself thy glorymyself thy shame

I celebrate these ashes:

Blessed blaze!Celestial cremation!

Aquatic graveyard,In the Baptismal slain,To remission this cancer

ofsins

No longer song by myself but with Th ee.

17

Poetry

To live dead while still alive,Th e frivolous fades to inscrutable proportionsRevealing the miniscule motivations Once sought for.To seek neither to appease nor to please the fellow man,So he will say, he was a good man when he dies.

Th e same words stumble forth at the drunkards oblation.What weight do words carry? Any mans a good man when desires Bear no distinction.He burned for something, He breathed for somethingHe blinked for something.

Mere existence grants no star for goodness,No matter how many men you declare good.

Th e nihilist lives for nothing, and in that he lives for something.As the negative state of something Nothing does not exist.Ignorantly devoted to nothing, He lived for Himself.Find me a nothing And prop it up and bow down to it,But I suppose any something is nothing bigger than you. Any something leaves you anywhereSoon found to be nowhere.

18

Fifth heart, the fi lth artSlap, drop the Molotovride on a screamall the way meanaway from cleaninto the swampof this big, boogie stomp

Amen.

DeAnne Carswellye-You

19

Billy

Poetry

Standing amidst a Caribbean swirlof bottles catching rays,waxing prismatic on high-shined tiles;fl avored cigarslend a fruity scent to the air.A coconut breezecarried away by citrus.Speckled overzealous sequins form red glittered shoesmake the world a dance fl oor. Holding spirits,eyes shimmering liquid vitality,cutting like a hook-nosed scythe,used by ancestors past.

Plumed, herringbone hat,pedestal turned upside down.She put herself therebecause no one else would.

Brown and brown,broken only by red,proud breasts jutting forthwithout a warbling cry.Fiery,powerful,knowing soul, whose life is nota feeble fl uttering journey,barely rippling the wind,but the soar of a winged virago,eyeing her prey.

Contentious ennui,fetched by admiration,escaping a run-down brick cagethat could never contain the likes of her anyway.

DeAnne Carswell

02

An anodyne is the dustswirling around a tail-lightretreating, glowing redlighting a special that onlyrides joy in the middle of the night. With thighs stuck to leatherin a sensuous kiss, Im gone in 15 seconds.Tires squeal like banshees screwloudly.Gunning, gassing, and a little bit of romancing it:Jungle love, Creole lustsomething akin to voodoo;a Death too small to wipe steam from a window.Fight me fast, embracedinside your steel cage;leash me loose, and Ill strike while therod is hot.Vicissitude of attitudeapply a tourniquet tothe fuel pump, andslow the bitch to a crawl.Leave the remnants behinduntil its time to get on the roadagain.

Lone moth hoveringin the penumbraof shifted time; smoke blown across wingssends it fl uttering high,to imprint itselfupon the moon:a solitary cameo in the night sky.

DeAnne CarswellNightscape

21

Poetry

Busted up Converses,bottoms falling out.Wild shoes,running past the fury of life.

Holding steady,in butts and dried fl uids,under heavy, bent knees,as a line is snorted from a contaminated sink.

Vibrating drums,reverberating against a smoky haze,fi ghting strong into a horde of stomping pillars.

A drop of blood on a fi shbone headfrom a gashed lip,split after too many bad wordsand weed laced with PCP.

Busted up Conversesgave as good as they got.

Just another pleasure-seekersprinting through a revolving doorthat wont stopa continuum of vice.

Filthy rubberstainted with foul life,tap-dancing away from empathyand into someones spilled beer.

Gritty old treads,catching fallen embers,quickly evadingmemory making.

DeAnne Carswell

rosandons

PCSouls slapping time,singers singing, ka ka kaka ka ka,to a downward swirling beat.

Busted up Converses,ready to grow up.Ravaged shoes,bearing the weight of child.

Ill-cased feet,strapped in stirrups.Torn up sneaks,traded for tiny ones in pink.

22

23

Witnessing springs messenger uttering by, ashing her colorsthrough the air:

She reposes on an oak branch, stillbarren and cold withpolite springs hesitancyto approach, thenlights on a grass bladethat so , green sword of certainty,natures persistent truthvoicespeaking with the unspeakableforce of tendrils thrustingthrough concrete.

Nearer ies the messenger,her transparent and gossamerword-wings dusting the ground.

Purple, rich as eld heatheron these word-wings,blue like deep sky,gold like tyranny and the sun,giving life and taking life,green like the earths cradle,black like creations patient sigh

All grouped together in oneshuddering breath of windand wings.

God rewrote the worldon butter y wings,tentative, tranquil, shiveringpersistent message:Spring is approachingto bloom (for a season).

WAbi Blackitness

Poetry

art

Untitled Amber Eller Stoneware

Untitled Joshua Green Stoneware

Art

25

Ceramics

26

Untitled Joe Windgate Stoneware

Untitled Joe Windgate Stoneware Sideview

Burning Fire Krystle Lee Vickers Charcoal

Untitled Joe Windgate Stoneware Side View

Drawing

Untitled Joe Windgate Stoneware Sideview 27

Bones Krystle Lee Vickers Charcoal

Burning Fire Krystle Lee Vickers Charcoal

Art

Untitled Joe Windgate Stoneware Side View

Drawing

28

Untitled Amber Harmon Oils on Canvas

Untitled Stefani Baker Oils on Canvas

Painting

29

Untitled Brandi Lee Oils on Canvas

Untitled Amber Eller Oils on Canvas

Art

30

Butterflies Cara Kenney Oils on Canvas

Untitled Brandi Lee Oils on Canvas

Lilly Sarah Sullivan Oils on Canvas

Photography

Butterflies Cara Kenney Oils on Canvas

31

Art

Womb Cara Kenney Photography

Photography

32

Scarecrow Carol Martin Photography

Untitled Sarah Nelms Photography Lilly Sarah Sullivan Photography

Scarecrow Carol Martin Photography

33

Lilly Sarah Sullivan Photography

Art

Untitled Sarah Nelms Photography

34

Floating Christie Johnson Photography

Never-ending Autumn Michelle Payne Photography

Mailboxes Elizabeth Walker Photography

35

Bubbles Micro Sarah Hicks Photography

Mailboxes Elizabeth Walker Photography

Art

36

Untitled Sarah Nelms Photography

Red Hat Carol Martin Photography

Boys Carol Martin Photography

37

Art

Eli Christie Johnson Photography

Boys Carol Martin Photography

40

Empress Tree Carol Martin Photography

Untitled Brandi Turpin Photography

Jackson Street Brandi Turpin Photography

41

Art

Run Cara Kenny Photography

Jackson Street Brandi Turpin Photography

Napoleon Cara Kenney Poster

42

Throwback Brandi Turpin Photography

Graphic Design

prose

Wake up annoyed that the dog is standing by your bed whining and the cat just poked you in the eye. Pretend you dont have to go to the bathroom. Turn over. Hear the dog lay down next to your bed. Th e cat is now walking on your hip and doing that thing with her paws where her claws pierce through the covers and catch your skin, get stuck in the covers, and begin yanking. Turn over. Sit up. Go to the bathroom; closing out the dog and cat. Next, go to the kitchen. Let out the dog and cat. Open the door to the refrigerator, stand and stare absently noticing that there is no Eggs Benedict pre-prepared waiting for you. Close the door. Wonder how you got so old so fast and still have managed to live in a house with cruddy gold carpet. Shu e back to your room. Maybe you could go back to bed. Lay down for fi ve more minutes. Chastise yourself for getting back in bed on a weekday. Mindlessly run through your to do list. Th is is overwhelming. Notice that your bedroom set has never matched. Visions of Better Homes and Gardens play in your head. More overwhelming. Commend yourself for the remarkable courage it takes to get out of bed every day. Get up and dressed. You have a meeting at 10:30 but it is only 8:00. Decide today is the day you will start the discipline of reading your Bible in the morning. Find a cozy spot with good light. Realize you dont have a cozy spot with good light. Cuss about your house being so dark. Close your eyes and apologize for cussing while you are holding a Bible. Sit on your bed and open to a passage. It is Old Testament. It is all about Gods vengeance on your enemies. It is violent. Be thankful your enemies dont carry swords. Wonder who your enemies are. Wonder if anyone considers you their enemy. Find a familiar passage that reminds you you are loved and capable. Wonder why you have put this off for so

Tracy Howe

44

long. Say prayers on your knees. When your feet start to tingle, run through the names of family and friends more quickly. Pray for His Will instead of the litany of requests you had in mind. Stand up. You cant feel your feet. Jump when you here the phone ring. Hobble to pick it up. Someone asks for Andy. Th ats not you. Th ey apologize and hang up. Th ey call back. Still not Andy. Enter the heading Wrong # in your cell phone so you will not answer this unidentifi ed number. Jump again when the dog scratches at the door. Make him wait because he scared you. Realize he cant let himself in and open the door. Notice that you are hungry. Notice that his paws are muddy. Notice that you can barely see the prints on the old carpet and grimace. Opening the can of dog food makes you lose your appetite. Stare into the pantry anyway. Jump when the phone rings again. Wonder why you are so jumpy. Turn on the TV for company as you answer the phone. It is Terry who lives in Tennessee. You havent talked in a month. She is getting a divorce. She has decided she is gay. Wonder if Tennessee is a good place to be gay. Listen as she unravels her tale. Ask less questions than you have, and decide there are things you will never know about your friends and maybe that is okay. End the call. You need coff ee. Realize that if you dont get out of the house in the next fi fteen minutes you are going back to bed. Are you even dressed? Yes. Out in the sun shine you take a deep breath. You sigh with relief that you are single, and decide, at least for today, this is a good thing. Remove the large limb that fell over your car last night and head out to your meeting.

45

Prose

I wanted a hoe for my fortieth birthday. Turning forty brought with it the urge to kill the unwanted and sow the desired. A fi rst for me, the city girl from neighborhoods in one phase or another of what is so benignly called re-gentrifi cation. Besides their use against weeds, the hoe is the rural womans weapon of choice against unwanted snakes. By the end of the summer, my plants produced not one tomato; I still didnt own a hoe, and a sometimes seen snake had become ever-present. But my problem snake was not in the vegetable garden. No, my representative of original sin lived like a preposition on, beneath, or beside my dock. Yes, dock, that assemblage of wood on water implying leisure, gin tonics, and vulnerability to the lower regions from being so often in a bathing suit and barefooted. We like to name things. It gives us the illusion of dominance. I named the snake Bitey fi ve years ago when I fi rst encountered him, or her. According to my old trusty fi eld guide, water snakes are harmless but willif handled inappropriatelybite down hard. Lovely. Is it poisonous? Does it have a triangular head? Visitors wanted to know. I didnt want to get close enough to study his head. I assured everyone he was not poisonous. My on-line reptile reference told me that Nerodia sipedon, a.k.a Bitey, has an anticoagulant in its saliva causing the bitten victim to bleed profusely. On that note, I asked a heat-packing friend to come over and shoot the damn thing. He missed. Over the years, I thought I had a social contract with the snake. I gave up coff ee and newspaper on the dock during his prime sun hours from 8:30 to 11:00. If I needed to jump in and cool off after running, he would slither out of the way as I came down the steps. At the most, I saw only a few inches of tail disappearing into the rocks. I preferred not to see him and he seemed to understand this. Th en one afternoon, I went down to swim and Bitey stayed his ground. Over the next few weeks, my routine was totally thrown off by the big sluggish snake constantly on, beneath, or beside my dock. Mr.

46

Bitey had ceased to be more afraid of me than I was of him. From the top of the steps, I could see him through the binoculars. It was then that I thought his head looked a bit triangular. I read a new source on water snakes. I learned that when they feel threatened, they could are out their head making it look triangular. A few days later, I went down the steps hot and sweaty, ready to jump in the lake, and there was Bitey hanging out next to the canoe. I banged on the boat. He didnt move. Insolent snake! I wanted to scream. I am human and you are the other! I slapped at the ground behind him with a stick. He barely moved. I slapped the ground again, and again. If I had had a hoe, I would have hacked him. For a few days, I was remorseful for my impotent rage. My elderly parents were coming to visit and I thought it best they not meet Mr. Bitey. Th e clerk in faded denim overalls at the hardware store suggested mothballs. I asked my fathera long time believer in the virtues of mothballsto bring some up from Atlanta. So much for the smell of clean mountain air. Bitey didnt mind. He fl ared his head and lay right on top of them. Th e snake caused a lot of commotion. At last, I turned my head in the timeless tradition of unjust complicity as my brother and father went down the steps with a shovel and a rake, both intent on putting Bitey and the question of his dubious identity to rest. My father dropped his rake, startling my brother poised with the shovel, and once again, Bitey eluded a violent assault. I was relieved. I wanted to rise above this loathing. Labor Day has come and gone now and I havent seen the reptile in weeks. Amid the fading light and lingering aroma of mothballs, the little dock on the emerald green lake has been re-gentrifi ed. I sit alone upon it in the evening wearing socks, shoes, jeans, and a sweater against the approach of winter. Already, I think of next summer. Next summer, I will try to keep my own head from fl aring out.

47

Prose

I wanted a hoe for my fortieth birthday. Turning forty brought with it the urge to kill the unwanted and sow the desired. A fi rst for me, the city girl from neighborhoods in one phase or another of what is so benignly called re-gentrifi cation. Besides their use against weeds, the hoe is the rural womans weapon of choice against unwanted snakes. By the end of the summer, my plants produced not one tomato; I still didnt own a hoe, and a sometimes seen snake had become ever-present. But my problem snake was not in the vegetable garden. No, my representative of original sin lived like a preposition on, beneath, or beside my dock. Yes, dock, that assemblage of wood on water implying leisure, gin tonics, and vulnerability to the lower regions from being so often in a bathing suit and barefooted. We like to name things. It gives us the illusion of dominance. I named the snake Bitey fi ve years ago when I fi rst encountered him, or her. According to my old trusty fi eld guide, water snakes are harmless but willif handled inappropriatelybite down hard. Lovely. Is it poisonous? Does it have a triangular head? Visitors wanted to know. I didnt want to get close enough to study his head. I assured everyone he was not poisonous. My on-line reptile reference told me that Nerodia sipedon, a.k.a Bitey, has an anticoagulant in its saliva causing the bitten victim to bleed profusely. On that note, I asked a heat-packing friend to come over and shoot the damn thing. He missed. Over the years, I thought I had a social contract with the snake. I gave up coff ee and newspaper on the dock during his prime sun hours from 8:30 to 11:00. If I needed to jump in and cool off after running, he would slither out of the way as I came down the steps. At the most, I saw only a few inches of tail disappearing into the rocks. I preferred not to see him and he seemed to understand this. Th en one afternoon, I went down to swim and Bitey stayed his ground. Over the next few weeks, my routine was totally thrown off by the big sluggish snake constantly on, beneath, or beside my dock. Mr.

46

Bitey had ceased to be more afraid of me than I was of him. From the top of the steps, I could see him through the binoculars. It was then that I thought his head looked a bit triangular. I read a new source on water snakes. I learned that when they feel threatened, they could are out their head making it look triangular. A few days later, I went down the steps hot and sweaty, ready to jump in the lake, and there was Bitey hanging out next to the canoe. I banged on the boat. He didnt move. Insolent snake! I wanted to scream. I am human and you are the other! I slapped at the ground behind him with a stick. He barely moved. I slapped the ground again, and again. If I had had a hoe, I would have hacked him. For a few days, I was remorseful for my impotent rage. My elderly parents were coming to visit and I thought it best they not meet Mr. Bitey. Th e clerk in faded denim overalls at the hardware store suggested mothballs. I asked my fathera long time believer in the virtues of mothballsto bring some up from Atlanta. So much for the smell of clean mountain air. Bitey didnt mind. He fl ared his head and lay right on top of them. Th e snake caused a lot of commotion. At last, I turned my head in the timeless tradition of unjust complicity as my brother and father went down the steps with a shovel and a rake, both intent on putting Bitey and the question of his dubious identity to rest. My father dropped his rake, startling my brother poised with the shovel, and once again, Bitey eluded a violent assault. I was relieved. I wanted to rise above this loathing. Labor Day has come and gone now and I havent seen the reptile in weeks. Amid the fading light and lingering aroma of mothballs, the little dock on the emerald green lake has been re-gentrifi ed. I sit alone upon it in the evening wearing socks, shoes, jeans, and a sweater against the approach of winter. Already, I think of next summer. Next summer, I will try to keep my own head from fl aring out.

47

Prose

She has her long brown hair in pigtails when she meets him at a baseball game in 1992. She shaves her head and knows life is going to be diff erent. She whips her bangs out of her eyes and smiles as they cuff her.

A. Hes staring at her. Heck, they were all staring at her. She knows her rear looks good in denim and even better in very little denim. But when he stares at her, pride wells up in her heart. Fifteen years old and oh-my-god-hes-hot is staring at her like she is oh-my-god-shes-hot. Beat that Jennifer Markowski.

B. Th ick brown locks dont shave off easily. First she has to lop off the length with the rusty knife that lies on the counter. Th e gas station bathroom is badly lit. Th ey always are, she thinks. Fluorescent lights are doing nothing for her pale skin. He says its transparent. He says he can see it glow in the dark. She considers tanning.

C. His breathing is soft and smooth. Not like the movies at all, she thinks. All her friends say their boyfriends snore. He doesnt. Just breathes in and out like hes wide awake, peaceful as can be. She walks closer to the bed, and runs her fi ngertips along the cheap motel comforter. It feels like plastic, like a plastic sheet that a child wears when he wets the bed. God, I wish he wet the bed, she thinks. He breathes in. He breathes out. No noise. It pisses her off .

A. He reaches out and brushes a piece of peanut shell off her shoulder. Everyone else is watching the little white ball fl y high over the stadium while hes pulling out a piece of her hair. She giggles. It hurts but she giggles anyways. She turns around and stares him, beautiful him, in the eyes. Later, she will give him her number and tell him to call. For now, she just watches him smile a beautiful smile.

B. When her brown hair sticks out from her head like it doesnt know quite where to turn, she knows its ready to be shaved. She closes her eyes and holds the shaver to her forehead. She channels Natalie Portman, Brittany Spears and Kanye Wests girlfriend. She hates all three but they are her only comfort as she erases all memory of him from her head.

Jessica Allen

48

C. She grimaces as she sees his face. His lips are set in a near smirk as he sleeps. Still no snores. Still pissing her off . His white t-shirt is rumpled at the collar. She hopes thats because someone grabbed him by it today. Maybe they shoved him up onto a wall and spit in his face, she thinks. But she knows if he was grabbed today, it was probably by a woman who doesnt know what kind of mistake she made. Lucky shes not in bed right now with him.

A. He pushes himself onto her in the backseat of a car. He makes her believe shes his and there isnt anything she can do about it. She knows that it is her fault for wearing her denim shorts and letting him smell her hair. He wont let her go. Her mind, her body, her hair. Its all his, he says. She thinks about how her hair was in pigtails when she met him at a baseball game.

B. Her head is perfectly shaped. It is round like a honeydew melon. It is smooth like a wallpapered wall. It is small but not too small. Her hair is gone. It is littering the bathroom fl oor and sticking to the sides of the sink because the ceramic is still wet from when she washed the mascara off her face. She tries to wash it down the drain but it wont go. She cries but she knows that now that she has shaved her head, she is going to be diff erent.

C. Her hand is steady as it places the barrel on his head. She thinks, Im not shaking at all. And then she pulls the trigger. She shoots him. She knows that the police are going to come. She has no silencer. She has no get-away car. She has no alibi, no excuses, no pleases left in her. She sits on the green shag carpet and wipes a bead of sweat off her forehead. Her too dark foundation comes off on the back of her hand and she sighs, knows her face isnt glowing. He cant see her anymore. She thought her hair was gone and he was gone. Her hair grew back and now she shakes her bangs out of her eyes as they cuff her.

49

Prose

It was two oclock on Sunday evening in May (turkey season) and I was about fourteen years old, like my Papa used to say just old enough to raise a little hell and still young enough not to own up to it. It just so happens that this particular Sunday we were havin family over on account of the hawg Pa had killed a few days ago and we were all down to dinneryou know, one those Sunday dinners where there seems to be enough food to feed the heavens themselves, and God could have some seconds if he wanted them? We had butter peas so tender they fell apart in your mouth, fried okra, (or okree as Pa calls it) crock pot macaroni and cheese with little bits of fresh bacon from the hawg Pa shot a couple days ago, pork chops (from that same ole hawg), apple cobbler that no words could bring to justice and a few lesser dishes that were just as good. Needless to say everyone was in a fi ne and dandy mood when they got to lookin at the spread we had for us. Today was gonna be the day. I couldnt thinka no better time, and between me and you I was getting kinda antsy seein as I had been awaitin for a week already. I was gonna ask my Pa for the new double barreled Remington 870 that had just come in to the hardware store down town which I had only went and looked at for at least an hour after school for the last week. I knew if Is to wait much longer, any chance I had with Mary Joe wouldve been up in smoke. Shes the girl Im kinda keen on at school and she dont know it but I see how she looks at Willy, another kid in my school, whose dad just gave him a 30/6 special ordered straight from the Sears Magazine for Christmas; I heard his Pa lets him use it whenever he wants to now. If Is to have me one of those I could go ahead and move out into my own house I think. I mean I could put food on the table and protect mine that what a mans supposed to do anyhow, right? Th e sooner I get one of those the sooner Im a man. Th ats how I feel about it anyway. What eats my insides all up though is that if it werent fer a little mishap last year about this time I would already have one. Pa was gonna take me out in the fi elds to kinda christen me as a man you might say. We were gonna plow up a fi eld and he was gonna LET ME DRIVE. Boy, was I excited; I couldnt believe it. Th ere aint no telling how much persuading he had to do with my Ma just to let me come with him. You see being her youngest outta fi ve kids she was kinda protective if you

Whatita

50

know what I mean. So Pa showed me everything there was to know about the tractor and I sucked it all up like a desert in a drought, and pretty soon I was plowin up the fi elds like I owned the farm. Come lunch time, I came in with Pa and was planning on grabbin a PBR from the fridge and sittin down on the porch in the rocker and talkin about things like how Jackson was the best damned president that ever lived and if n the South woulda won things a been a lot diff erent when my dear mother came over and saw it on the back of my head. Th ere was the biggest ole tick that you ever seen just a sittin there getting fat off my blood like he was sittin at one of those Country Cookin buff ets downtown. Of course this agitated Maw to the point where she was positive I had lime disease in a few seconds, while Pa sat in the rocker out side the kitchen sayin,

Th e boys fi ne; hes a chip off the old block. You seen how well he took to drivin that tractor, woman. Hes hard-nosed just like his old man. Th is only agitated my mother even more to where she tole Pa that he could back out to the fi elds or Hell, whichever one she didnt care as long as it werent nowhere near her or her baby boy. After Mad been pullin on the tick for at lest fi ve minutes, my aunt suggested that we put some rubbin alcohol on the tick so as he would let loose of that powerful hold he had. I went along with it cause I fi gured anything that would help me get back out there on the tractor would be worth a try. So she rubbed some here and dabbed some there until she had about poured the whole damn bottle on my head, but nothing was shakin that ticks hold. Th is is when my mother bless her soul came up with a sure-fi re plan to get that tick off yet. She said we orta light a match to the tick and thatll defi nitely force him to let loose. Well, unbeknownst to my mother or aunt apparently, when alcohol and fi re get together they like each other so much that wherever one is the other one has to be too, so as soon as she lit that match to that tick the whole back of my head blew up in fl ames. We musta been a sight no doubt, me running around in a panic hitting every wall, door or chair in the house, and my Aunt and Ma right behind just beatin the ever livin Hell outta my noggin until I found the bathroom, or toilet I might say. Th anks only to God that I was okay, and the only thing that I had to deal with was an extremely bad hair cut and the smell of burnt hair for about a week that I couldnt shake no matter how many showers I took. Needless to say my Ma swore to me that she would never let anything like that happen to me again no matter what Pa tried to talk her into lettin me do. So there went my chance at ever becoming a man I thought until I saw that Remington double-barreled 870 in the hardware store. If there was anything that could make you a man that could. And today was the day I was gonna talk Pa into askin her. I fi gured it would be best to get her when she was drowsy from all the food she ate, with apple cobbler still on her mind, and nappin on the couch with one of her cats--probly the old fat one that seemed to be her favorite cause it used to be Grandmas or something. Ugliest damn one if you ask me and I woulda sooner shot it than picked it up as mean as it looked. But anyways, so I waited till after dinner to poke Pa and remind him to ask. He kinda looked at me with a half frown and said hed see what he could do.

51

Prose

I could hear them through the door in the other room when he said, hunny I was a year younger than him when my Pa took me out and showed me how to hunt. If you dont let him grow up hes gonna get picked on or much worse hell start likin to sew and knit or something. You gotta let me take him out and give him his own gun. Th is was followed by some mumbling from my mother and then of course he wont be able to take it out unless I say. Give the boy a chance, Marlene. Th en he walked out of the door with a smile on his face and said to go outside and wait in the truck he would be there in a second. Th e whole way down to the store I could hardly keep in my seat. I felt like I could run faster than Pa was drivin the truck. All I could think about was hearing the abloom, abloom of the double barrels as I took down a critter in the woods and showed them why I was a man. Pa kept ramblin the whole trip about when I could use it and what a big deal this was to Maw so as to dont screw it up. But I never heard any of that as I was way too busy picturin myself with the shotgun locked and loaded in one hand and Mary Joe in the other kissing my cheek and tellin me how manly I was. As soon as we got it out back at the house I wanted to go shoot it, but Pa says that tomorrow will be a better day; no need to startle the neighbors on a Sunday specially anyway. He didnt understand, though. I had waited as long as I could to become a man, plus it werent fair no way cause he had been a man for a long time and enjoyed it rightly and what not and now it was my turn too. So I set off with a plan to sneak into the barn in which Pa had put the gun where he locked it up right before he went to bed. Th ere was an old board that could be pulled off just big enough for me to sneak through and thats exactly what I planned on doing right before the sun came up in the morning. I laid awake all night in bed day dreaming about all of the critters and varmints I was gonna bring to justice in the morning and how everyone in class would be wanting to be like me too instead of just Willy. All the guys at school would ask him if they could come over and touch it while the girls would faint from my sheer manliness as I walked by. Needless to say I never slept a wink and around four I was already snuck out of the house with no problem and makin my way toward the barn and the gun. Everything went as planned and I was out and in the edge of the woods with my shotgun when the moon was all you could see pretty much still. I had managed to sneak a lantern out of the house as well, which I thought would be perfect to spotlight a critter if n I could fi nd one. Soon enough the lantern laid on two yeller and green glowin eyes from what looked like a big ole opossum. Here it was my chance after all I looked down the smooth sight of that shotgun and gripped its perfect manly wooden handle and breathed my last breath as a youngun and pulled the trigger. I heard the abloom, abloom, but the sheer force of the gun knocked me down and I lost my senses for a minute. When I woke up all I could hear was my dear Ma screaming bloody murder and my Pa cursin everything in tarnation. Th ey were comin down the hill in front of our house just as fast as they could one to make sure I was alright then kill me and the other to just go ahead and kill me. While I knew the end was near for me no matter what I let into a speech in my defense sayin that as a man it was my job to protect our house from that despicable abomination of an opossum that was

52

attemptin to break into our house and scratch the women all to pieces and eat up all the leftover apple cobbler and so on it was purty elegant for the tight spot I was in if I do say so myself. Just as I had picked my self up, brushed off my night gown, told them how their son had slain this here opossum in lieu of tryin to protect our estate, and almost won Pa over I hear my sweet Ma let out a sob. Me and Pa turned and looked and saw her standing near the bush where that spawn of Satan opossum was. Only it turned out not to be no opossum at all in fact it was my mothers favorite ideous cat that grandma had passed down to her before she passed herself. Right then and there I knew I didnt have no prayer whatsoever. I knew that I could kiss being a man goodbye for ever. Mary Joe wouldnt ever wanna kiss me now, the guys at school were never gonna let me live this down, my Pa was madder than hell at me, and I had just killed the only piece of Grandma that Ma had left. Th is was worse than my damn head catchin on fi re. Ill never be able to forget standin at that festerin felines funeral with all my family gathered round hearin my mother pray for my soul more than that damn cats, and wonderin when in the hell I would get my next chance to become a man.

53

Prose

I had arrived at my destination, 1155 Sesame Street. Th at was his apartment. It was a major downgrade from his penthouse, the one he lived in before falling from the limelight. I ascended the stairs to room 104. Th e door was open. I could smell the sweet aroma of chocolate chip from ten meters away. As I walked in the door I saw him sitting there, waiting for me. His once vibrant blue fur now faded and thinned from years of substance abuse, and his once bulging bright eyes now drooped with regret, as if they were a window into his soul. Youll have to make this quick. I have a Uh Doctors appointment. Sure, I replied. Ill be brief. So tell me how it all began. It was back in high school. I think my name was Sid. Its hard to remember things after youve been through what I have. I was on top of the world. I was the fi rst string line backer for the best team in the state, three years running. I had everything a guy could ask for at that age: girls, money, friends. I was all that Until I got mixed in with the wrong crowd. My buddy Oscar, I think youve seen him before, told me to follow him out back behind the away bleachers one day. Once we got there he pulled it out of his can, the cookie that started it all. I still remember it today. It was oatmeal raisin. I had never seen anything like it before. He held it out to me, and I took a bite. What happened next, I still dont remember, but when I fi nally came to my senses, I was handcuff ed naked in the back of a cop car. Needless to say, my popularity faded quick. Th ats awful, I said. And you still hung out with that guy? I had to. Nobody else wanted anything to do with me. Plus, Oscar was my only way of getting what I craved. I had to have more of those sweet, succulent morsels. Th e weeks following are all a huge blur to me. It was constant partying, just one giant cookie binge. Chocolate Chip, Oreos, Fig Newtons, anything and everything that could even be loosely considered a cookie. Heck, by the time the cops got me, I was under the impression that I was chilling on the Death Star, eating double fudge with Kurt Cobain and the Keebler Elves. So the police did catch you? Yeah. Excuse me a second. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a syringe fi lled with insulin, enough for a whole nursing home. He didnt even need to search for a vein. Th is was second-nature to him.

Tyler Dale

54

Whats that for? I asked, already knowing the answer. Th is addictions had some nasty consequences. Im lucky that diabetes is the only thing wrong with me. Anyway, back to the story. Yeah, I got busted. On one of our nightly rampages, Oscar and I decided wed jump the local bakery, and score some more of the good stuff . I wasnt thinking, man. I was too busy having fun. I had no cares for the future. Th e only thing I cared about was getting my fi x. I was happy if I could get one just one more cookie. Th e cops felt bad for me, though. I owe them my life. Im sure you saw the news report. Yeah. Th e baker was killed in the fi re. Th e one caused by the oven. Th ats the way it went down in the books. Th e truth is, that baker didnt know what was happening until I was on top of him. I beat him to death, right there in his bakery, with a framed family portrait. I killed him, man, then torched the place. I was a I know this sounds kind of redundant, but I was a monster Id rather we not talk about that incident any longer. Tell me about your stay in prison. To be honest, thats the part I remember least. I had some strong stuff , man. In prison?! Yeah, man. Powdered sugar. It was a parting gift from Oscar. He taught me how to hide it in my Cavity And I dont mean the ones in my teeth. You mean Yeah. Not exactly my proudest moment. Sni ng that stuff was one of the craziest highs Ive ever had. And for a guy like me, thats saying something. Isnt prison where your career began? Yeah. Turns out Big Bird was pretty good buddies with my parole o cer. Long story short, he needed someone to advocate a healthy lifestyle, someone to tell the kiddies to stay away from unhealthy decisions. For reasons I still dont know, he thought I was the perfect choice. Personally, I wanted to tell him where to shove it. You dont know BB like I do, man. Th at guys a prick, but he has my ticket out of that hellhole, that, and he promised me all of the cookies I could possibly imagine. Are you serious? He gave you that stuff ? How could he do that? He knew that you had a serious problem! BB didnt care, man. Hes in it for the cash. Youve seen the show. All of those cookies I ate. Th at was all real. Dear God Hes the real monster. Ha! Try telling that to the media. After my little incident backstage, I cant even show my face anymore Yeah. Ive seen Elmo. He still hasnt recovered. Th e doctors are giving him six months. Poor kid. I didnt even mean to. I mean, with all of that red fur, I couldnt even tell he was bleeding. I thought we were just messing around, but you know what those cookies do. I know, I wish you the best of luck with everything thats going to come from

55

Prose

I had arrived at my destination, 1155 Sesame Street. Th at was his apartment. It was a major downgrade from his penthouse, the one he lived in before falling from the limelight. I ascended the stairs to room 104. Th e door was open. I could smell the sweet aroma of chocolate chip from ten meters away. As I walked in the door I saw him sitting there, waiting for me. His once vibrant blue fur now faded and thinned from years of substance abuse, and his once bulging bright eyes now drooped with regret, as if they were a window into his soul. Youll have to make this quick. I have a Uh Doctors appointment. Sure, I replied. Ill be brief. So tell me how it all began. It was back in high school. I think my name was Sid. Its hard to remember things after youve been through what I have. I was on top of the world. I was the fi rst string line backer for the best team in the state, three years running. I had everything a guy could ask for at that age: girls, money, friends. I was all that Until I got mixed in with the wrong crowd. My buddy Oscar, I think youve seen him before, told me to follow him out back behind the away bleachers one day. Once we got there he pulled it out of his can, the cookie that started it all. I still remember it today. It was oatmeal raisin. I had never seen anything like it before. He held it out to me, and I took a bite. What happened next, I still dont remember, but when I fi nally came to my senses, I was handcuff ed naked in the back of a cop car. Needless to say, my popularity faded quick. Th ats awful, I said. And you still hung out with that guy? I had to. Nobody else wanted anything to do with me. Plus, Oscar was my only way of getting what I craved. I had to have more of those sweet, succulent morsels. Th e weeks following are all a huge blur to me. It was constant partying, just one giant cookie binge. Chocolate Chip, Oreos, Fig Newtons, anything and everything that could even be loosely considered a cookie. Heck, by the time the cops got me, I was under the impression that I was chilling on the Death Star, eating double fudge with Kurt Cobain and the Keebler Elves. So the police did catch you? Yeah. Excuse me a second. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a syringe fi lled with insulin, enough for a whole nursing home. He didnt even need to search for a vein. Th is was second-nature to him.

Tyler Dale

54

Whats that for? I asked, already knowing the answer. Th is addictions had some nasty consequences. Im lucky that diabetes is the only thing wrong with me. Anyway, back to the story. Yeah, I got busted. On one of our nightly rampages, Oscar and I decided wed jump the local bakery, and score some more of the good stuff . I wasnt thinking, man. I was too busy having fun. I had no cares for the future. Th e only thing I cared about was getting my fi x. I was happy if I could get one just one more cookie. Th e cops felt bad for me, though. I owe them my life. Im sure you saw the news report. Yeah. Th e baker was killed in the fi re. Th e one caused by the oven. Th ats the way it went down in the books. Th e truth is, that baker didnt know what was happening until I was on top of him. I beat him to death, right there in his bakery, with a framed family portrait. I killed him, man, then torched the place. I was a I know this sounds kind of redundant, but I was a monster Id rather we not talk about that incident any longer. Tell me about your stay in prison. To be honest, thats the part I remember least. I had some strong stuff , man. In prison?! Yeah, man. Powdered sugar. It was a parting gift from Oscar. He taught me how to hide it in my Cavity And I dont mean the ones in my teeth. You mean Yeah. Not exactly my proudest moment. Sni ng that stuff was one of the craziest highs Ive ever had. And for a guy like me, thats saying something. Isnt prison where your career began? Yeah. Turns out Big Bird was pretty good buddies with my parole o cer. Long story short, he needed someone to advocate a healthy lifestyle, someone to tell the kiddies to stay away from unhealthy decisions. For reasons I still dont know, he thought I was the perfect choice. Personally, I wanted to tell him where to shove it. You dont know BB like I do, man. Th at guys a prick, but he has my ticket out of that hellhole, that, and he promised me all of the cookies I could possibly imagine. Are you serious? He gave you that stuff ? How could he do that? He knew that you had a serious problem! BB didnt care, man. Hes in it for the cash. Youve seen the show. All of those cookies I ate. Th at was all real. Dear God Hes the real monster. Ha! Try telling that to the media. After my little incident backstage, I cant even show my face anymore Yeah. Ive seen Elmo. He still hasnt recovered. Th e doctors are giving him six months. Poor kid. I didnt even mean to. I mean, with all of that red fur, I couldnt even tell he was bleeding. I thought we were just messing around, but you know what those cookies do. I know, I wish you the best of luck with everything thats going to come from

55

Prose

55

that. Anyway,- I was cut off by the loud ding of the oven. Uhh Kid, I hate to cut this short, but its time for that doctors appointment. But I still have more questions. Seriously, kid, you need to go. Can I at least get a picture? Otherwise Mr. Purdy is never going to believe Look kid, I like you. I think youre a good kid. His voice now lowering to a growl. Th ats why I dont want you seeing what is about to happen. I think its time you leave before things get ugly. I rose, grabbed the few things I had brought with me, and briskly walked to the door, too afraid to look back. Before I reached the stairs, I heard the distinct noise of a cookie sheet hitting the fl oor, followed by a loud OM NOM NOM NOM NOM. I couldnt help but feel pity for the Cookie Monster I mean, Sid, as I slowly navigated the stairwell. I walked out of the apartment complex and slowly made my way to my car. I remember reaching for my keys, and immediately dropping them when the noise of the gunshot reached my ears. I looked to Cookies window only to see the blue fur stuck to the window with his blood, like something a child would make for their fi rst art project. I stared at this for a long time, thinking, realizing that I was the last person he ever spoke to. I was the one he poured his heart out to. I felt a tear roll down my cheek. Th e cookie monster wasnt such a monster after all. I knew that once he got to heaven, God would have a fresh batch waiting for him.

56

DeAnne Carswell

CH

M

DWaroline ont

omeore

riteNo

Irony is sitting at the depot, waiting for the midnight train to Georgia. Electricity hums, and cheeks are brushed sallow, cast a deeperhued yellow under the dingy glow of fl uorescents. A letter peeks, almost fearfully, from her coat pocket, and more are safely bagged in the battered satchel at her raggedly shod feet. Every light patter or deep boom of a falling footstep results in a fl inch, as the minutes creep too slowly by. Frenetic eyes constantly skimming for a threat; real or imagined, threat lies in every molecule of the overlycrowded, dimly lit waiting areas stagnant air. A bell shrilly peals: it is time to board. Home: a thought warmed by the remembrance of patchwork quilts, sizzling frying pans, and the sharp, yet soothing, lullaby of chirping crickets burrowed deeply under canopies of dew soaked grass, or perched atop Night Bloomers, their posts safe until dawn claims its blossom. Home is future, here is now. A melody of shu ing feet, easy to get lost in, joining for a mecca to go anywhere but here; making a choice, freely leaving the city with at least one dream intact, before being voraciously consumed and hawked into the gutters with the rest of its refuse. Dreams, she came with many, but is leaving with only one: to get outthe quicker, the better. To get away from smoothly whispered lies, followed by heavy hammering fi sts, followed by smoothly whispered liesby her, to those back home. A hand slams down to grip, a steel-enforced grasp, her shoulder. A diff erent remembrance: a boot that kicks, a knife that sticks, and a man who swore hed never let her leave. Body guided like a fl eshcovered battering ram through the horde; her eyes trying to connect and hold fl eeting glances of curiosity tinged with modicums, barely enough to overfl ow a thimble, of concern. Th rough the mob, through doors that open as automatically as the gates of Hell do for the fallen; out of sight, cuff s rattle the base of her skull, curses vibrate, oscillate, through ear canals. An achy shoulder forms a welt, after meeting the unforgiving metal frame of a beat-up Cadillac. Th e pedal touches the fl oor, and she hears demons scream her name amidst the roar of an antagonized engine. A deserted street, slicked wet with tears from Heaven, refl ects the neon glow of stop lights that stop nothing and street lights that illuminate the past. Tall buildings blur and vision tunnelsblind, the city

left behind: Wish granted.Th e sound, a cacophony of crows cawing: a murder. Eyes, eerily vacant,

focused on high: tree branches interlocked in eternal swordplay. Caroline dont write home no more.

57

Prose

DeAnne Carswell

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Irony is sitting at the depot, waiting for the midnight train to Georgia. Electricity hums, and cheeks are brushed sallow, cast a deeperhued yellow under the dingy glow of fl uorescents. A letter peeks, almost fearfully, from her coat pocket, and more are safely bagged in the battered satchel at her raggedly shod feet. Every light patter or deep boom of a falling footstep results in a fl inch, as the minutes creep too slowly by. Frenetic eyes constantly skimming for a threat; real or imagined, threat lies in every molecule of the overlycrowded, dimly lit waiting areas stagnant air. A bell shrilly peals: it is time to board. Home: a thought warmed by the remembrance of patchwork quilts, sizzling frying pans, and the sharp, yet soothing, lullaby of chirping crickets burrowed deeply under canopies of dew soaked grass, or perched atop Night Bloomers, their posts safe until dawn claims its blossom. Home is future, here is now. A melody of shu ing feet, easy to get lost in, joining for a mecca to go anywhere but here; making a choice, freely leaving the city with at least one dream intact, before being voraciously consumed and hawked into the gutters with the rest of its refuse. Dreams, she came with many, but is leaving with only one: to get outthe quicker, the better. To get away from smoothly whispered lies, followed by heavy hammering fi sts, followed by smoothly whispered liesby her, to those back home. A hand slams down to grip, a steel-enforced grasp, her shoulder. A diff erent remembrance: a boot that kicks, a knife that sticks, and a man who swore hed never let her leave. Body guided like a fl eshcovered battering ram through the horde; her eyes trying to connect and hold fl eeting glances of curiosity tinged with modicums, barely enough to overfl ow a thimble, of concern. Th rough the mob, through doors that open as automatically as the gates of Hell do for the fallen; out of sight, cuff s rattle the base of her skull, curses vibrate, oscillate, through ear canals. An achy shoulder forms a welt, after meeting the unforgiving metal frame of a beat-up Cadillac. Th e pedal touches the fl oor, and she hears demons scream her name amidst the roar of an antagonized engine. A deserted street, slicked wet with tears from Heaven, refl ects the neon glow of stop lights that stop nothing and street lights that illuminate the past. Tall buildings blur and vision tunnelsblind, the city

left behind: Wish granted.Th e sound, a cacophony of crows cawing: a murder. Eyes, eerily vacant,

focused on high: tree branches interlocked in eternal swordplay. Caroline dont write home no more.

57

Prose

At times, I am reduced to color. Around the lunch table, my friends and I will be talking about a normal subject like how we all wish we were rock stars and someone will bring race into it: Ian, you can play bass or drums. You have rhythm, youre black. I am gray in almost every meaning of the word. I am my own color, yet a mixture of prescribed black and white. I defy the norms and extremes held by both. I refuse demeaning stereotypes and generalities. I dont have the luxury of using racial slurs: whom should I hate or demean? Th e blacks for siring me or the whites for giving birth to me? No, I cant do that. What separates humans is not what part of the world one is born into, or what shade of brown we share or do not. What separates humans is the unwillingness to give a person a chance to prove their worth by what they do. Being concerned about colors staying solid only hinders movement to a common goal. Im not black, Im not white, Im both; Im gray. Im black, Im white, Im neither; Im gray. Im glad that I was never allowed the ability to honestly choose a side. Th roughout my life Ive seen the good and bad of both colors. When I was about ten years-old, I lived in Tampa, Florida, and I saw my father pull into the driveway through my bedroom window. I dont remember seeing the police cars until I opened the front door and saw two white policemen pointing their weapons at my father, his hands high, his voice intense: Ian, get back inside. Dad, whats happening? Go back inside. When the guns came down and my Dad was allowed to enter the safety of the house, I was told what had happened. My father had fi nally gotten a stable job working for a small business owner across town. I dont remember the owners name, so Ill call him Jim. Jim let me borrow his car today, so I drove it home after work. It appears that a lot of the cops in Tampa know Jim and when they saw a black man driving his car, they thought Id stolen it. Th ats why they followed me here. Th ats why they had their guns trained at my head. Th ey called Jim and he confi rmed that Id borrowed it. Th en they holstered their weapons and left. No Whoops, sorry Mr. Vencil. Just my life and a scare for my little boy. Th is was the start of my secondary racial education. Ian, when you go into a store, keep your hands out of your pockets so its obvious youre not stealing anything. If a policeman ever says anything to you, be respectful. Th ey might take lip from a white kid, but youre not white. If youre ever pulled over, explain exactly what youre doing and keep your hands visible Im reaching into the glove compartment to get my registration. Im reaching into my pocket to get my license. Dont get shot for being unclear. Ian, What are you doing walking with Rachel at night? Th e sad truth is that some black men pimp white girls in this city. You have no protection out there. Th is advice has kept me alive and out of jail and that is no exaggeration. Once, I was with my best friend Simon, who looks like a polar bear with black hair on his head. We were shooting at targets in the dried up lake bed behind his grandmothers house. Our friend Trevor had

58

brought a few very loud weapons, and we tried them out with cautious enthusiasm. I was the oldest at seventeen and wed set up a range and made sure we had ear protection and shot into a thick berm created by the missing water. Th e day was hot and the woods were beautiful. Th e guns were boisterous and exciting, and in the boondocks of Florida, everyone has a gun. We walked up to the targets, I held a black Colt twenty-two pistol and I wondered if I had hit anything at all. I hadnt and we laughed about it. I thought I might have done better if Id been shooting the sleek, silver Ruger Trevor hoarded. Th en from behind Turn around real slow boys! I turned and saw a badge. I dropped the Colt and put my hands in the air. Simon and Trevor did not, but instead slumped in annoyance as if to say Oh brother. Th e Sheriff s deputy was young and white. His hand rested on his own weapon, I had no idea what would happen next. To my surprise, his face changed from defensive to embarrassed. Put your hands down, he said, moving his hand when Trevor reluctantly dropped the AK-47 hed bought from a gun show. I reluctantly dropped my hands. I love shooting too boys, but someone called about the noise. I like the way you guys set up this range but you got to keep it down. Now what are you boys shooting? He looked at the guns, and I slowly calmed down. When the Deputy left, my friends laughed about how I threw away the gun and tossed up my hands, seeing as I was the only colored guy. I didnt laugh. I went back to the house because Id had enough for the day. My fi rst school of race was a lot of fun. When I was a child, my sisters and I were sheltered from racist society by my parents who made sure we had a multicultural pallet. I remember living in campus housing while my father attempted to fi nish his degree in Ames, Iowa. My playmates came from all over the world and were totally diff erent: Asma and Honey were from Pakistan, Sasha and

Alorsha were from Russia, Curtis and Olivia were black, and Th omas was Autistic. Th e others whose names I dont remember were Korean, Swedish, and Hispanic. My best friend was a white kid named Jonathan with whom I got in trouble when my mom caught us peeing behind the apartment complex. What are you? some kids would ask. I didnt know what they meant. I asked my mom. What am I? She smiled down at me with her pretty blue-gray eyes and her white face crinkled up into a smile.

Tell them youre an American Indian. Mind you, this is the same mother who told me that her friend Paul McCartney was coming to Des Moines and wouldnt be stopping by How rude! Naturally, at fi ve years-old I perpetuated my mothers speech. Im an American Indian, I told my friends. Oh, they said, and I was satisfi ed to be able to give an answer. In hindsight, Im even happier she said that. She showed me that it didnt matter what I was. I was me and that was good enough. I fi nd those who arent mixed at a disadvantage. I belong to but one race, the human one. Th ose who allow themselves to be identifi ed by their race sell themselves short. Say it loud, Im black and Im proud! Say it loud, Im black and Im proud! I heard a girl in my youth group say when I was fi fteen. We were in a predominantly black church in Tampa. Th e Word was good and so was the praise and worship, but the youth group had a rap atmosphere. I never really got a good grip on hip-hop as my parents instilled in my sisters and I a love for Stevie Wonder, Th e Beatles, Billy Joel and Micheal Jackson, but as I made friends it grew on me. Why be proud, I thought, what does being black have

59

Prose

anything to do with the right to be proud? I sat in a chair with a confused smile on my face. Th is is a major diff erence Ive found between American white and American black culture: blacks seem to feel the need to prove they are black when no one with eyes can miss it while whites dont seem to feel the need to prove anything at all. Respect should be earned, no matter what color you are, not given just because you shout Black or

White Power. Excuse me, my nigger friend, a black kid said, passing me to get to his seat. Same church, diff erent day. My face must have twisted into the question my heart felt because he corrected himself: Im sorry, half-nigger friend. Why do we do that? I ask myself. Why do we disrespect ourselves with words we hate? I say we meaning blacks yes, but humans too. I see females call each other slut, bitch, and whore when they wouldnt let someone else call them that. Ive heard men refer to each other as the most vile names, but they only get off ended depending on who says the words and why. Th is double standard angers me to the point where there are certain words I dont use, unless of course, I intend malice; however, I do not use racial slurs. I can remember every time I have been called nigger and I remember that neither of my parents allowed me to use it. I also refrain from calling any woman bitch. Th e worst whipping I ever got from my father was when he thought I had yelled at my mother. Id like to claim I have a very healthy respect for women. My verbal attacks are based on what a person might do, not how one is made. I think thats fair. Here is an argument for my own worth: I can lift over one hundred pounds with little struggle, grow crops, raise livestock and cook them all to taste. I can dress well, run three miles without warming up, live by the Ten Commandments, eat with a fork and knife, chew twenty times and refrain from belching. I can manage accounts and regulate spending, but what does any of this matter if all one sees in me is some dark-skinned boy who is less human than him or herself? Culture may be valuable enough to perpetuate, but I dont see a need to keep color going. When I think about culture I think Eat the meat, spit out the bones. What I mean by that is keep whats good, throw away whats bad; this is my existence. If ones tradition or behavior is bad, he or she should change that tradition or behavior. I still choke on a bone now and then. My tertiary school of race came when I started dating. I had had my heart broken by my second girlfriend and was still clueless when I went to visit my friend Jo, who had just broken up with her boyfriend. We sat in my old schools baseball dugout, protected from the heavy rain and we swapped sob stories. I held her because she was crying, and she was like a sister to me. Dang it Jo, I said, Why cant I just date you? I was joking, but only half-way. Oh, my parents wouldnt like that. I missed the serious tone in her voice, so I kept playing. Why? Th ey dont like black guys? Th eyre not racist. Th ey just dont think its right to mix the races. Even when racism doesnt wear a white robe and burn crosses on your front lawn, its still racism. I was shocked. I realized I had stepped in this one and I felt sick. Why? My mom told me that if I ever got pregnant with a black guys baby I should abort it because his life would be too hard. To go through with it would just be selfi sh. Th ats ridiculous. How does one know how a kids life is going to

60

be unless youve seen the future or already determined how he or she will be treated?

I am that kid. When I was seventeen my Dad told me that my white Grandparents had said the same thing about me when I was in the womb and my mom confi rmed it with a silent and ashamed nod. I hold no malice for them because once I was out, they loved me. It also helps that they arent the only people who have threatened my life. My Dads response to

Newt, you have such well behaved kids, used to be Yeah, if they werent, I wouldve killed em. To which, people would laugh and my Dad would look down at me, smile and say: Th ey think Im joking. I always knew he wasnt. My Dad changed, my Grandparents changed. I want everyone to change and Im not writing these things because I want pity, I want to show the reader that evil, love and change belong to all mankind. Just recently, I attended a church and raised my hand to defend my relationship with a white girl. I said that in the Bible, God says that the only thing he cares about is that the two believe the same things. A preacher turned around and said to me: Doesnt nature show us that Blue Jays and Cardinals dont go together? With that comment, he threw away the Bible and natural order as every creature reproduces after its own kind. I brought up the fact that one can cross a black horse and a white horse and get another good horse to which he gave no argument but encouraged those who believed it is wrong to mix the races to raise their hand. Why? he said, To protect the children. He was wrong again because Im the child; Im the purple bird.

I dont feel any guilt about it, he said, I was taught this from a little child. I wondered if he ever asked himself why he was taught that. Th ere is always a reason for why we teach children things. I believe your spirits fi ne, but youve got your own race. No, I thought, I have no race but the human one. Youre welcome to worship here anytime, and everyone that raised their hand against my very existence shook my hand as I left that church for the very last time. I cant walk with people who teach evil and call it good. People like them should spit out the bones. Its nothing personal, they said. We think youre a great guy. What is that if not racism? Im okay to go to church with but they gossip about one of their own if she dates me? Of all the gutless hypocritical things to say. Heres how you protect children: when someone threatens them you stand up for them because theyre too small to speak for themselves. Wishing theyd never been born is a cowards wish. My life has been hard for two reasons, neither being the color of my skin: because of mistakes Ive made and because individuals that should have stood up for me refused to. Now I stand up for myself as every individual should learn to do.

True Racism is this, that one is of lesser value than another because of something he or she cannot or should not change. Th is is living evil and this is prohibitory thought. Value is in potential and actual good. Ones actions either add or subtract from value. Live in love and in addition; that is the important thing. What one does means more to me than anything else and Ill take honesty over love any day. Id rather be hated for the truth than loved for a lie. Id be grateful to be mistreated for something Ive done, not for what I was born. What I write about now is not hate, but a plea for understanding: I hate to be misunderstood. See me, meet me, know me. I have thoughts and ideas, strengths and weaknesses, loves and hates, passions and vulgarities, judge me for who I am, not what I am. I am Ian.

61

Prose

Second fl oor, connecting rail to Heorot and Mere overlook, the slightly pompus voice of the elevator boy pronounced. A couple

of peasants slipped off the mirrored brass elevator, giggling to each other as they looked over their shoulders at the venerable warrior, now a little more aged than able, and the geeky nephew behind him. Th e elevator fi nally cleared of onlookers, the old king let his shoulders sag and his oaken shield rest on the fl oor with a mu ed thunk. Do you think that, even once, you could act more like the heir of the Geats and less like a wimp? Beowulf intoned in that solemn accent that always made you think he was talking down. Just for fun, Wiglaf brandished his pan fl ute, ignored his uncle and began to blow across the tops of the bamboo reeds in slight syncopation, the opening lines of Th e Girl from Ipanema. He thought it would drive the monger crazy. It did. Damnit boy, this is no time for music! Dont you remember where were going? Dont you remember what is at the top of this building? Th e old man raised one eyebrow, then let it fall. Well Yeah Uncle, I do, Wiglaf fi nally replied. Its a monster. Just like Grendel was a monster, just like his mom was a monster. Wiglaf was tired of monsters, and to be honest, Grendels mom had been kind of cute. I just dont understand why we have to be the ones to do this. Surely theres someone else who is capable. I mean, it isnt like you havent put in the hours here, and youre not exactly as young as you used to be. Wiglaf worried about his uncle sometimes. Th e old man was, well, old. He was a great king and all, but Wiglaf wasnt sure that the dragon would have the necessary respect for a great king, nor that he would be willing to make the fi ght handicapped accessible. I mean, they werent taking the stairs anymore. Th ird fl oor, Mens wear and jeweled cups. Why cant the thanes handle this one on their own? Wiglaf repeated the oft asked question. His uncle sighed. Wiglaf was just not warrior material sometimes. It is our realm, the king began, using the royal we for eff ect, and it was our servant who stole the goblet from the wyrm. For a minute, his guard almost let down. Th is is what it is to reign, Wiglaf. Th en the faade returned and the moment was gone. We shall vanquish the demon beast and restore order to the kingdom. Wiglaf sighed and pulled his fl ute back out. Wryly, he pieced out the opening of Chopins Funeral March. Beowulf, mistaking it for an imperial war march, grinned darkly, picked up his shield and set his teeth. Th e door opened one last time and the nasal voice of the elevator boy was all but drowned out by the fi ery roar from the roof. Th e soon-to-be the last of the Wgmundings, tucked his instrument away and unsheathed his sword as he followed Beowulf into the holocaust.

Stephen Westbrook

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