Applause, Applause, UA Fort Smith

Applause

Applause is a creative arts magazine published by the Applause staff and supported by
the University of Arkansas — Fort Smith English Department

All entries are evaluated on literary merit and works for publication are selected by the Applause Staff.

We welcome all future submissions in the categories of essays, poetry, drama, short stories, miscellaneous works (songs, etc.), photography, and artwork from UA Fort Smith students enrolled during the 2005 – 2006 school year. Deadlines for submissions for this year’s magazine will be announced during the 2005 fall semester. All written entries must be submitted by email as a Microsoft word document attachment or pasted into the message box of the email. Entry submission information is available on the class website. www……

Any UA Fort Smith student may participate in the Applause club by attending its regular meetings and may join the magazine staff by enrolling in ENGL 1401 Publication Staff.

Applause 2005 – Volume XV

STAFF:

Robin Mink, Rick Eby, Leroy Farmer, Amy Bramucci, April M. Russell,
Alicia Agent, Nichelle Christian, Connell A. McNally,
Jaime Brannam Hand, Lysa Jamison, Lynn Mixon, Krishana T. Christian,
Courtney Lane, Brent Brewton, Jeannie Waller, Ken Waller, Christen Moon

Faculty Advisor — Carol Westcamp

Acknowledgements

Applause would like to thank the following people for their advice, expertise, support, or encouragement...

Marta Loyd, Ann Scott Winters, Karen Stauffacher, Dennis Siler, Susan Whitlow
The UA Fort Smith English Department
Weldon, Williams & Lick, Inc

Cover Art
Tara O’Donnell and Adam Nichols

A special thanks to Lisa McElroy for all of her help and for always being able to find the time.
You are truly a miracle worker. To all those who submitted their work for publication

Thank you!
Robin Mink, Editor

Copyright Notice: Every story, poem, essay, and visual image in Applause magazine is the sole possession, of and is individually copyrighted by, the student/creator of the specified piece.

Any reproduction without written consent by the student/creator is prohibited by law

Table of Contents

Love Blooms: The Secret Message of the Pear Tree ------ Angela Ritter

Autobiographical Poem --------------------------------------------- Kelly Crofford

Old Maverick ------------------------------------------------------------ Kimberly Williamson

Towers -------------------------------------------------------------------- Lisa McElroy

How Do I Choose? ---------------------------------------------------- Rick Eby

The Shoe Box ----------------------------------------------------------- Kim Rauser

“Metaphysics, Epistemology, and Reason” -------------------- Edward Lockhart

“Another” ------------------------------------------------------------------ Edward Lockhart

A Stripped-Down Model of a Girl ---------------------------------- Jaime Brannam Hand

Road Kill ------------------------------------------------------------------ Jeannie Waller

My darling, My darling, My caterpillar ----------------------------- Janet Lynn Graige

Paper Medal ------------------------------------------------------------- Clifford D. Cope

Daddy’s Funeral --------------------------------------------------------- Loretta Gedosh

3:00 a.m. ------------------------------------------------------------------- Meagan Gramlich

Twilight Reflections ----------------------------------------------------- Courtney Narmour

Sailing ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Ken Waller

Injured (Heartbroken, part I) ------------------------------------------ Jaime Brannam Hand

Circumstances (Heartbroken, part II) ----------------------------- Jaime Brannam Hand

A Sad Old Smile -------------------------------------------------------- Micheal Robert Werley

Rainbow ------------------------------------------------------------------- Stephanie London

Crash Tested ------------------------------------------------------------- Leslie Kidder

Life -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Stephanie London

It Was Monday ----------------------------------------------------------- Leroy Farmer

Love of My Life ---------------------------------------------------------- Gwen A. Scamardo

Josie and the Paper Roses ------------------------------------------ April Russell

The Naivety of Innocence --------------------------------- Nichelle Christian

Guiding Hands ------------------------------------------------ Alicia Agent

Lessons ---------------------------------------------- April Russell

Wedding Bells and Shotgun Shells -----------------------------------Alicia Agent

Black Flash ----------------------------------------------------- Courtney Narmour

A Four Letter Word -------------------------------------- Loren Farrar

"The Single” ---------------------------------------------------- Jessica Watkins

Dodging Turtles ----------------------------------------------- Loren Farrar

Soap-Flavored Words -------------------------------------- Micheal Robert Werley

The key to the ignition of my happiness ----------------------------- Alicia Agent

Emperor of the Valley -------------------------------------------- Brent Brewton

Untitled --------------------------------------------------------Amy Bramucci

Who says you can’t teach an old boyfriend new tricks? ----------- Alicia Agent

Christmas Eve -----------------------------------------Courtney Narmour

The Beginning of One Fine Day --------------------------------- Michelle Mudd

Bell Towers and Children ------------------------------- Jeannie Waller

Baseball Days ---------------------------------------------------------Ryan Colley

Comfort Food ------------------------------------------------------------ Kim Rauser

Pockets ----------------------------------------------------- Micheal Robert Werley

I Remember Riding ------------------------------------------- Ken Waller

Christmas Joy ------------------------------------------ Loretta Gedosh

Just Another Day ----------------------------------------------- Ken Waller

Mabel ------------------------------------------------------------ Loretta Gedosh

Mockingbirds Glade ----------------------------------------- Brent Brewton

The Journey Home ------------------------------------------------Rick Eby

Love Blooms: The Secret Message of the Pear Tree Angela Ritter

Janie Crawford’s journey in Their Eyes Were Watching God, is one fraught with pain, danger, joy, and sorrow. It is a journey that she must take to answer the questions burning in her very soul. She must know if the secrets spoken to her by the pear tree are truly attainable. They must be, for she can feel them in her very being. These secrets are the gauge by which she will measure all of her relationships, weighing each one to see if it is of the correct weight and measure. Hurston alludes to a woman’s feelings, “The dream is the truth. Then they act and do things accordingly” (Hurston 1). In Janie’s heart, no matter how long the road, nothing less than the dream will do. Janie’s ideal of marriage is spoken to her spirit while she watches the pear tree in bloom. This is knowledge that could only be passed to her from a higher being. She has nothing in her immediate life to corroborate such a vision. She had been raised by her grandmother, who has never been married. Janie herself is a product of rape and not love. The ideal marriage of the time is centered on possession and security as the defining mechanism of love. If a woman has a roof over her head and she has a husband who keeps her secure, then she should be happy and content with that life. Janie wants a man who speaks to her in the poetry of the pear tree, one who understands the dance of the bee and the bloom. Janie’s first relationship does not fit the dream from the start. Logan Killicks is the ideal man in the eyes of Janie’s grandmother. He will provide Janie with a home and land and, most important to Nanny, security. Janie does not want to marry Logan from the very beginning. He does not look like her dream and he definitely does not speak in the poetry of her dream. The only catalyst that propels Janie into this relationship is her feeling of duty to Nanny. “Did marriage compel love like the sun the day?” (21). Surely if this is all that marriage is supposed to be, she will begin to feel the dream in Logan. As time passes, she realizes he does not measure up to even a granule on her scale. Soon her eyes begin to search the road for the dream that her heart still longs for. The dust of the road conjures up a vision for Janie in Joe Starks. He begins to woo her with the dream of change. She is at first skeptical because he still is not tipping the scale in the right direction. Hurston opines that, “Janie pulled back a long time because he did not represent sun-up and pollen and blooming trees, but he spoke for a far horizon” (29). If Joe Starks was not to become the ideal, then perhaps she could see the ideal from the far horizon he would take her to. Janie’s dream spoke to her of a partnership that would be equal in all things: a partnership that would share in passions and intellect. This was not to be with Joe Starks, for his dream spoke to him of being the “Big Voice.” This left Janie no room for equality with Joe Starks. In fact, she became so buried by Joe that she could no longer see the road let alone the far horizon! “The years took all the fight out of Janie’s face. For a while she thought it was gone from her soul” (76). After Joe’s death, Janie is able to look upon the road of her heart again and dream of the far horizon. The day that the dream becomes a reality and the scales finally find their balance, is the day that a vision named Tea Cake walks into her life. She has searched for the dream for so long and with such disappointing results, that she is afraid to believe that Tea Cake could be that dream. He is young and vibrant and so alive and Janie no longer feels such things about herself. The more time she spends with Tea Cake, the more she hears of the secrets revealed by the pear tree. She has finally found that equality of spirit that she has longed for. Tea Cake is her equal in deed, in voice, and in passion. Life with Tea Cake would not be a picture of perfection. Life by definition cannot hold such a promise. Janie’s feelings for Tea Cake could be summed up in the old adage ‘Love is blind.’ Janie gives a peek into the mind of a woman in the very beginning. She recounts that, “…women forget all those things they don’t want to remember, and remember everything they don’t want to forget” (1). Yes, life with Tea Cake would have its ups and downs, but he had spoken to her the secret of the pear tree. This was a secret that only the dream fulfilled would know. Even the pain of Tea Cake’s death could not take that dream from Janie. Janie’s journey would take her through many ups and downs. In he forty years she would experience many things: dealing with the reality of her being, losing her Nanny, two loveless marriages, physical abuse, the rapture of great and powerful love, and the loss of that love. This was a journey that Janie had to take in order to find absolution in her life. She had to know if this love that was spoken to her at the pear tree truly existed. Her life could not be complete until she had realized this dream. Even though her time with Tea Cake would be short-lived, it would hold the key to the peace of her soul. The very memory of the love that she had experienced with Tea Cake would be her sustaining force. She would wear it like a blanket to protect her from the elements. “Here was peace. She pulled in her horizon like a great fish-net. Pulled it from around the waist of the world and draped it over her shoulder” (193). She no longer had to search for that far off horizon. She had been there and brought it back with her in her heart.

Works Cited Hurston, Zora Neale. Their Eyes Were Watching God. 1937. New York: Perennial, 1990.

Autobiographical Poem
Kelly Crofford

I would call whenever I was upset or needed to get away.
I caught lightning bugs and put them in a mason jar.
I sipped coca-cola in coffee cups.
I performed imaginary plays under the old sycamore tree.
I picked blackberries.
And I ran through the yard, but never too close to the road.
It was my safety spot, my peaceful place.
During the winter I would rest my head on the floor in front of the stove.
A vent would blow warm air directly on my face.
No matter what time of the year, I sat in the front porch swings.
I think they will always be my favorite.
I preferred to sit under couches instead of on them.
A cowbell would symbolize running in to check the mail.
Always being told to go out and come back in if I had forgotten my manners and did not speak to say hello.
My pump-handle, that crazy old man, he couldn’t hear.
Burnt Sunday chicken and after that, trips to Sonic.
Cigarettes still hidden beneath the big bush outside,
The sound of an oxygen machine.
When they moved I was so confused.
I hated to drive by what seemed the house they had abandoned, leaving me as well.
It would be years before I understood, over cups of tea and tuna fish sandwiches.
Not by blood but by love, my life was shaped.
A class of 1999 tassel hangs on a tombstone.
A cowboy and a soldier’s body lay inside.
I stand ready to serve my country.
A Christian, teacher, and friend to all waits patiently
performing each task the Dear Lord sets before her.
A student lives willing to learn, asking God to direct her path.
I drive past and watch the lightning bugs move freely about the sky
and realize that is how it should be.

Old Maverick
Kimberly Williamson

Green flecks of paint, like dust
Cling to your rusted physique
The cold winter laughs as your engine reheats
Your years of use have caught you unwary
Shaking and rocking, you find your regularity
Sitting and idling ready to progress
The door is pulled open and screeches in dissent

A warm body slides into your ratty seats
Holes spitting yellow foam from beneath
A foot moves to the petal and revs till you delay
But forced into gear you begin to move away

Moving slowly over the wet road
The heater hums to action
Spitting bits from the old fan
Only a few metal ejections
Then air begins
Stinky and cold at the start
But hot and heavy by the time I disembark
Turned off and left unguarded in the cold lot
Years of service left you ugly
Theft is of no thought.

Towers
Lisa McElroy

Just as the Towers came crumbling down before the world’s eyes on 9/11 a very private and special tower in my world, my mother, started crumbling down on 9/12. As New Yorkers started cleaning up their devastation of the previous day, I began the devastating task of packing my mother’s things to move her from her warm little house she had lovingly cared for, to the unknown territory in a retirement village apartment.

arrived at my mother’s, still stunned by the previous day’s news, not realizing the irony of the situation that morning. The towers lay on the ground in the state of New York; towers of boxes cluttered the bed of my truck parked in the driveway of the house I had grown up in. Two wars, like the twin towers, were in the air. Mom met me at the door with tears in her eyes, wringing her hands. Our nation faced war against unknown terrorists, and Mother faced the war of her life, hers, the war of independence. The media coverage coming from the television in the den gave images, sounds, and reports of missing people in Manhattan. They stirred feelings in Mom she hadn’t felt in many years. With a far away look, Mother said to me, “I feel so sorry for those poor people looking for their loved ones. I remember the day I got the telegram your daddy was missing in action. I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was the sickest feeling, not knowing if he was dead or alive.”
had heard this story many times before, but it didn’t have the impact it had that morning. What she shared with me had always seemed like another world, something I could only relate to out of a history book. Yet, now I could imagine how Mother and the seekers on the East Coast felt that morning. “You know, this is also reminding me of Pearl Harbor, only we listened by radio. This hard watching with my own eyes.” She began to cry again. I cried with her. In order for her to face her own war she was focusing on the news. It was overwhelming for an 82-year-old woman to experience so much in one lifetime. The painful packing had to begin. We started in the kitchen. Mother continued wringing her hands while she paced the floor. I opened the first set of cabinet doors and started sorting through the messy shelves. The chaos reminded me of the 9/11 chaos that we simultaneously were watching on television. Going through the pots and pans I touched each one lovingly, remembering the foods cooked in them. The Sunday roast pan, the mashed potato pot, each held sights, smells and memories. Mom wasn’t able to make any decisions at all. Not wanting to choose what could be kept or what had to be thrown away or sold, I had to keep my tears where Mother couldn’t see. Having to be strong at that moment was not an easy thing to do. After accomplishing a few cabinets, Mother was anxious and already tired by noon. She offered to buy me a hamburger to get away from the house for a while. We called her favorite drive-in, The Yellow Umbrella, and ordered our regular fare, a hamburger, fries and a coke, picked it up, then drove to Creekmore Park to enjoy the sunshine and get away from the visual part of the news. At the park, we pulled into a parking spot and prepared our little picnic in the truck. The park was full: there were many there having lunch, or having a walk. As spectators from our seats in the truck, we listened to the radio. The radio DJ announced that in remembrance of the events of the day before, they would be playing the National Anthem at Twelve Noon on the dot. Play it they did, and immediately Mother said, “We must get out and stand.” We did! My mother, strong as the twin towers had been a few days before, stood transfigured before me. At that moment, her silver hair that shone just like the towers, changed to that of a young woman: An American patriot with her hand over her heart singing the Star Spangled Banner with all the pride of a young bride whose husband was overseas imprisoned in a POW camp in Germany; A WWII veteran in her own right, who kept the home fires burning and waited while she wondered if her husband lived during the days he was missing in action; finally word came the Germans held him prisoner for defending his country, our country. Yes, I saw this beautiful strength in my mother as she stood there singing. The feeling of pride surpassed any I ever felt for Mother before.
young mother of two little children, who strolled along the walking trail, saw us standing there singing. The radio blared loud enough the mother stopped her walk and by example showed her young son how to put his hand over his heart. Again, I was so proud of my mother and the tower of strength in her soul that led a young mother to teach her young son patriotism. We finished our lunch and it was time to resume our private war, packing mother’s house. Neither of us wanted to do it, so we returned to her house without talking about it. Once again, I tackled the devastating task of removal, of sadness, just as those in New York were removing sadness from ground zero. Cabinet by cabinet, I separated what could be used from what had to be discarded. The lump in my throat continued to grow with each box I stacked. Our world would never be the same. Everything seemed to be falling around us and there was no stopping it. That afternoon, complete denial took over mother. She ignored the packing and watched the news. Occasionally, she would take something out of a box and set it back out, like it was just not going to happen. When my sister-in-law, Susan, arrived later in the day to help, relief that I didn’t have to carry the pain alone anymore was a welcome feeling. Susan and I became towers that day. We had been estranged for several years due to family “stuff.” War and pain changes those relationships. New Yorkers pulled together to salvage what was left from the fall of the towers, Susan and I pulled together to salvage and make things work for mother’s transition. We packed the house and the move was made to Mother’s new home in which every effort was made to make it warm, cute and comfortable. Hoping new things would make it more exciting for Mom we had her sofa and chair were re-upholstered in lovely fabric; as well as buying other pieces of furniture that fit the new abode she would now call home. The transition took time; unfortunately we only had a few months in her new little apartment before a stroke resulted in her having to move to the nursing home. Chronic pneumonia, a result of a cancer Mother had 38 years prior, was taking what was left of mother’s strength. Her silver hair that shone in the sun, just as the towers had, didn’t shine anymore. It was all we could do to get her to the beauty shop most weeks. She didn’t like leaving her room. That way, she didn’t have to acknowledge where she really was. Mom’s tower finally toppled—a simple fall, a broken hip, a final stroke, the last pneumonia. My four other siblings and I watched her leave. We all stood vigil beside the steely lady who had given all. As she took her last breaths, we cried, but cheered her on to a better place, begging her to not look back. Her strength wasn’t gone; she had passed it on. Just like the fall of the towers on 9/11 gave the nation strength of renewed patriotism, Mom gave her babies a faith of knowing that all would be well, and that it was her time to go. With her last breath mother’s left hand rose up and grasped something in the air. That arm hadn’t worked in months. We saw that as a sign, as one last tower of remembrance that there is strength beyond what we can see with the eye, feel with our hearts or hear with our ears.

How Do I Choose?
Rick Eby
So many choices and so little time.
Who do I see? Where do I go?
Hoards of ideas inhabit my mind.
How do I choose what to do?

I’m an Artist, a Student, an Entrepreneur.
Creating and learning and living in love.
Options bombard me like hail in a storm.
Where will I find guidance? Inside or above?

Exploring my music, my life, as it grows,
I’ve got to find focus, on me, and on you.
Working together in life as it flows,
how do I choose what to do?

Cleaning my mind using paper with lines,
as songs and ideas, expressions of love,
sprout from my being like tree climbing vines.
Where will I find guidance? Inside or above?

Finding my feelings, in loving and life.
Searching and singing, dancing I go.
Building, or writing, or playing the fife,
how do I choose what to do?

The Shoe Box
Kim Rauser

This place I love, didn’t think I would, but I do. I arrived here on a bus a week ago, and after being on it for two days I was glad to be off of it. For two days I had sat next to an old lady that smelled of ben-gay and moth balls, I thought that this is how my Aunt Mable and her house would smell and the thought of it filled me with dread. It doesn’t smell that way at all though. It smells of gardenias, she has them planted all around her house. Aunt Mable goes out early in the mornings and picks the older blooms that have already completely spread their petals, and the whiteness of the blooms have just barely been kissed with a hint of beige, speaking of their deaths that are just around the corner. She brought them into the house and placed them in delicate china bowls filled with water. The blooms float around on top of the water and seemed to me to be happy that they are being of use in the last days of their lives. So, here I am sitting on the beach with my toes dug into the sand with nothing but my thoughts, the steady sound of the waves crashing on the shore, and the cries of seagulls calling out to one another. Aunt Mable’s house is further inland but within walking distance, and this has become a favorite spot for me since I have came here. The tall sand dunes give me a sense of seclusion. Privacy is something I don’t have much of, which is strange since I am the only child. My mother is always hovering over me. The way she acts you’d think I was going to disappear. Fact is there are times I wish I would. I just don’t fit in, and all the other kids at school are so much better than me. They are all perfect, perfect faces, perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect in everyway. I’m not perfect, far from it. I hate the whole thing, but mostly I hate myself. Saying so drives my mom crazy, I mean delirious out her mind crazy. I think that’s why she sent me here, but there wasn’t much of an explanation, just that I needed to know where I came from so I wouldn’t forget. With that I was packed up, put on a bus and sent to North Carolina. When I got off the bus in town Aunt Mable was there to pick me up in her old beat-up pick up. Who would have thought that an old lady would drive a pick-up. As we headed to her house, I stole looks at her from across the seat. This was the only living relative on my mother’s side. I imagine my grandmother would have looked a lot like my Aunt Mable, had she have lived this long. What surprises me is that I look like her, I didn’t think I looked like anyone, but now I find that I do. For example, we both have the same long straight nose. I hate my nose! She also has the same curly mousy brown hair as mine, except hers has more gray than brown, but I can still tell it’s the same. I am not crazy about my hair either; I wish it was blonde and straight like the girl in that shampoo commercial. For some reason confessing this to mom makes her angry. She always says, “Leah, you should not say such things! Be proud of who you are!” That’s easy for her to say she has blonde, fairly straight hair (wavy she calls it). Well maybe it’s dark blonde, but it’s still blonde. My grandmother died giving birth to my mother, and Aunt Mable raised her. Then mom went off to college, met my dad, and they got married. They moved to Boston, where my dad writes for the paper. We’ve lived there all my 14 years of life and until now have never met my Aunt Mable. The thing I noticed most about my aunt is that she has these gray eyes, and although they seem to be happy peaceful eyes—there is something else there…almost painful. Like they know things that shouldn’t be known. Any way mom is not at all like my aunt. Mom frets and worries all the time and always wants to know what I am thinking or feeling. When I do tell her she just always flips out, she just doesn’t understand me or what I go through at school. Anyway I don’t like to talk, people talk all the time and really don’t have anything to say that’s important they just talk to be talking. That’s what I like about Aunt Mable she’s quiet and doesn’t make me feel as though I always have to be talking or something’s wrong. That is how the ride home from the bus station was, quiet and peaceful. Mable hummed a song and took in everything around her as if she was seeing it for the very first time. Strange. Later that night we sat together at the small dining table for dinner and talked, over our Lentil soup. I told her about my school, my friends, and my favorite band The Beatles. She smiled and chuckled saying that she had seen them on The Ed Sullivan Show last week, and remarked how “The drummer, Ringo whatever was a good looking young man.” I like John though; I think he’s my soul mate. It really flipped me out though; I mean my mother listens to Dean Martin and Perry Como. How lame is that? After dinner, Mable began clearing the table, and cleaning the kitchen. I hate to do dishes, but if I didn’t help my mom would find out and I would never hear the end of it, so I got up too and told her that I would wash. She thanked me saying we could do them together, and added, “Many hands make light the load.” As I ran the water, swishing my hand through the water to make more suds, my aunt finished clearing the table and putting away the leftovers. When she finished she came over and rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, so that she could help rinse. That’s when I noticed it. Unable to stop the words that tumbled from my lips I asked, “What is that?” pointing to her wrist. Aunt Mable lowered her head to look and sighed heavily. I immediately felt stupid, leave it to me to open my mouth and insert my very large foot. I quickly apologized and said that it was none of my business. Aunt Mabel looked at me mournfully and patted my hand and said, “No Leah, this is your business, in fact it’s your legacy.” I was confused, what did she mean? She continued and explained, “This is a tattoo I received while at Dachau, a Nazi death camp for Jews.”

was speechless. I knew my mother’s people were German, but it never occurred to me that this kind of thing was a possibility. My mother had never spoke of it. “Why was I never told?” I asked. “Because your mother thought it was my story to tell and we both wanted you to be older when you were told,” replied Aunt Mable. She took my hand and led me to the table, gesturing for me to sit, saying “Lets talk.” Aunt Mable went to the tall china cabinet in the dining room pulling out a drawer she retrieved from it a shoe box that had been cover in wallpaper with a small rose print, that was beginning to turn yellow with age. It was tied neatly with a wide lavender ribbon. Returning to the table with her box she sat with me and began untying the ribbon as she explained, “Your grandmother Ruth and I were the only ones to survive in our family. After the war Ruth met a young man who also had survived but also had lost his family. They were married and your mother came along shortly after.” She carefully lifted the photos out of the box, as though they would blow away and never be seen again, like the ashes of so many of our people burned in the death camps. “These are all we have left from that time, everything else was stolen by the Nazi’s. We only have these because our father buried them in the rose garden for safe keeping.” I sat staring at the faces of my family who from across the years spoke out to me saying, “Remember.” “Ruth had grown so weak in the camp, she was nearly dead when the Americans liberated the camp. Poor thing she never fully regained her strength or health, and I guess the strain of carrying a child and giving birth was too much for her.” she said with such sadness in her eyes. “Your grandfather, Markus—here he is” she said passing me a photo of a proud looking man, “he was killed in Korea. When we all came to the states he joined the army.” All through the night we talked. As the story unfolded Aunt Mable cried and I cried with her. It was horrible what was done to my family and all because they were Jews. As my aunt spoke to me of these things everything about me that I had once hated became special to me. My hair that I had thought of as plain and mousy, was now my crown and glory, my nose once long and straight, was now proud, my great-grandfathers nose, and Jew was no longer a label that I despised, but it now the very thing that defined me. Funny thing is, that I had never realized that it was I that did not understand my mother, instead of the other way around. Laying in bed that night, I took in the fragrance of the gardenias feeling that this Saturday would be the first Sabbath that I actually was looking forward to, and for the first time in my life going to Synagogue was important. So like I said here I am sitting on this beach. I am alive, I love my nose and I love my hair, and I will NEVER forget.

“Metaphysics, Epistemology, and Reason” Edward Lockhart

Outside me, things are simple, whole, complete Within me, I know just how, just why, I know I have the power to control, to shape the world within my mind, my soul the seat, the hallowed houses of my reason, self-control. I know… Each Time I drop the stone, it falls. This is more assurance, comfort, power, than any faith in god. I am my own, I make my own I smile, I sweat, I struggle, shape the world within my mind, the world outside. I am mine. I am. I.

“Another”
Edward Lockhart

Another letter, I’ll never write
Another, phone call I’ll never make
Another gaze into a starry night
Another grin splayed ’cross my face
Another weekend night alone
Another chance for introspective thought
Another place, I don’t feel at home
Another, wasted word is lost

A Stripped-Down Model of a Girl
Jaime Brannam Hand

My eyes are an ocean of kudzu along the wayside
My lips are a blooming mimosa on a sultry summer day
My hands are dying to feel you from the inside
My feet are aching on a dusty road, trying to find my way
My heart is bleeding, trembling in terror
My soul whispers to it: “Don’t be such a fool."
My common sense flogs me for each and every error
My conscience is in a coma, allowing me to break every rule.
My dignity has been trampled to shreds in vain
My pride has taken the high road and left me here
My glory was stripped from me with much pain
My courage has finally given way to floods of fear
I speak from the hollow of my being
Indirectly poisoning my own words
To many, the ghost of me isn’t worth seeing-
As mundane as a flock of passing birds
You saw me through the window of pretense
Dialect exchanged, opinions formed
Yet we still cannot cross that spiky fence
Though we’d feel better once our souls have warmed
Why must we complicate ourselves?
Why must the earth swallow us so?

Road Kill
Jeannie Waller

The car skidded, slid sideways across the yellow line, and ran off the road bouncing over a ditch. The driver yanked the steering wheel to the right, got the car back onto the road, but Nathan was thrown out and he landed in the ditch. He hit his head on a large rock, breaking his top two vertebrae, severing his spinal cord. Metal crunched, tires squealed, glass shattered, and then the noise stopped. It was a few seconds before Nathan tried to get up, arms first, then his legs. “I can’t move,” he whispered. He felt pain in his chest, an urgency to breathe, and tried to suck air into his lungs. Only tiny bits of air flowed—barely enough to keep him alive—he slipped into unconsciousness. An hour passed before Nathan awoke. His mind began to clear, and he remembered what happened; his eyes adjusted to the darkness, to the shadows and shapes. He tried to move his head to look around, but his head, like his arms and legs, did not move. For a moment, he looked at the sky and then moved his eyes as far to the left and to the right as he could and realized he was in a ditch. “How far am I from Patrick and the others?” he wondered. “They must be in the car. Maybe Patrick went for help or is looking for me. He’ll know what to do.” The thought of his best friend eased Nathan’s fears. Patrick was, after all, a senior and brought Nathan into his gang of friends in spite of the three year age difference and in spite of the others’ objections. “Any minute,” he thought, “they’ll find me. It’s okay. They’ll find me.” Minutes past, an hour, then an hour and half, and in that time, Nathan tried over and over to use his arms and his legs, tried to breathe oxygen deep into his lungs, listened for sounds of a rescue, but nothing happened. His eyes were heavy, and he wanted to go to sleep but was afraid. He heard a car coming down the road, and then it stopped. The car doors opened and shut. “I’m here,” Nathan whispered, “in the ditch.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth making a ticking sound. “Tick, tick.” There were voices, but he was unable to distinguish what was being said. Then to his horror he heard slamming doors and the car drive away. “No wait,” he mouthed. “Tick, tick.” He wondered if the driver of the car was going for help. “That’s it,” he thought. “It won’t be long now.” Nathan felt something in his hair and tried to move. It crawled onto his forehead. He looked up and saw a rat looking down at him. Nathan clicked his tongue louder. The rat ignored him, it crawled over his face and down his arm, where it began to lick fresh blood that oozed from a laceration and when it was full of blood, it began to nibble at the edge of the cut taking small bites of flesh. Nathan clicked and clicked, but the rat continued to eat. In a few moments, the car came back, and the rat ran away. Nathan heard another vehicle, maybe a truck. Then more voices. “I’m here,” he whispered, as loud as he could. “I’m here, look in the ditch.” He tried to move his arms, even his head, but nothing happened. He clicked and clicked; yet, no one heard. He heard mumbled voices. “Dead,” Nathan thought, “did someone say they were dead?” A siren blared getting louder until Nathan saw the lights reflecting off the clouds, then more voices. “They’ll find me now,” Nathan thought, “they’ll look around.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “If they don’t find me…they’ll find me.” He clicked and clicked, but no one heard. Nathan felt something on his cheek, he tried to raise his hand. He cut his eyes, trying to see. The rat was back and had begun eating the outer skin off of Nathan’s cheek. While the rat nibbled at his cheek, the doors of the ambulance slammed shut, people began to leave and the night reclaimed its silence. Nathan was still in the ditch. Tears rolled off his face, and he tried to sniffle, but his nose was not responding to his brain’s simple request. Clouds covered the moon, and the night’s darkness hid everything from Nathan’s sight. He heard sounds in the dried weeds along the side of the ditch. An opossum shuffled into the ditch, sniffed the blood on his arm, and chased the rat away. Although Nathan couldn’t feel it, he saw the opossum when the clouds moved from the face of the moon. “Get! Get!” Nathan whispered, “Get away from me!” It sniffed Nathan’s arm and then his face. Its dark eyes looked into Nathan’s own eyes. Nathan felt its tongue licking the blood off his cheek and smelled its rotten breath. It scratched and sniffed Nathan’s mouth and tried to push its snout past his lips; long hard claws tried to pry Nathan’s mouth apart. Nathan pressed his lips together, holding them tight by clinching them in his teeth. The opossum’s sharp claws tore away Nathan’s flesh, but after a while, it turned away from his mouth. It climbed onto his chest and rooted at his shirt, tearing and pulling, trying to get past the cotton material—scratching, pulling, and biting. Nathan remembered what his grandfather had said after finding one of his cows dead: “Worst thing I ever saw. A possum had burrowed up in that cow and was eating from the inside out.” Nathan screamed without a sound. He blew a little air from his lungs out his mouth at the opossum, but the air didn’t get past his chin. He screamed in a whisper: “I’m not dead, go away.” The opossum’s tail whipped back and forth across Nathan’s face. He felt more stinging on his cheek. The clouds covered the stars and the moon, and a light rain fell. More creatures came to the edge of the ditch. He heard them sniff and growl. A fight between two coyotes broke out not even two feet from his head. The rain fell harder drumming his face. Lightening exploded in the sky, and thunder rumbled. The ditch began to fill with water. The opossum crawled away, and the other animals ran for cover. “Good,” Nathan thought, “at least the animals won’t bother me.” It rained for over an hour, and the ditch began to fill with water. The water covered Nathan’s ears, then up to his chin, and up to the corner of his mouth. He felt certain he was going to drown. Every once in a while, a car sped by, and a few even slowed down; but none stopped. The water began to cover his mouth, and he didn’t even know when the rain stopped. His nose was the only part of his body left uncovered by the water. “Maybe I’ll open my mouth and let the water fill my lungs,” he thought. “Better than being ate by possums.” He opened his mouth, and water rushed in; but instead of breathing, he swallowed the dirty water. He thought about his mother and wondered if she had heard about the wreck. “She won’t miss me for hours,” he thought. Finally, the water in the ditch began to recede, and Nathan’s face emerged from the dark, muddy water. A coyote came to the ditch, sniffed Nathan, and quickly took a bite out of his cheek. It shook its head to tear what its teeth didn’t cut, and then ran off into the night. Unlike the bites on his body, Nathan felt this pain. Salty tears rolled into the open wound, and the salt burned. Nathan gasped for more air. The opossum came back, and buzzards soared in the sky getting closer and closer to the ditch—closer to Nathan. Another opossum climbed into the ditch, and the two began to hiss at each other. When the morning light began to stake its claim, Nathan, barely alive, was being pecked by buzzards that didn’t seem to mind that he was closing and opening his eyes, or that he was moving his mouth, or puckering up his face. The opossum had ripped through his shirt and had eaten down past the muscles of his abdomen. He barely saw it as it worked its way deeper. Nathan closed his eyes and clenched his teeth while the buzzards pecked at his lips and cheeks, tearing and eating his flesh. Then he heard voices, children’s voices. “Look in the ditch,” Nathan whispered. More tears fell, and the buzzards pecked, and the opossum didn’t mind the voices coming down the road. “Look at them buzzards,” a boy said. A rock flew into the ditch, and the buzzards flapped their wings but didn’t fly away. Another rock landed in the middle of the flock, hitting Nathan on his face. The buzzards flew. “Bet it’s Seth’s dog,” the boy said. “Been missing for a couple of days.” “Don’t look,” a girl’s voice said. “Please look,” Nathan whispered. “God make him look.” The opossum began to climb out of Nathan and up the side of the ditch. Nathan heard the children walking closer. A shadow passed over Nathan’s face. He tried to talk, but all that they saw were his lips moving—what was left of his lips.

My darling, My darling, My caterpillar
Janet Lynn Graige

Caterpillars green
We hump, arc
Swing, cling
Our world a single blade of grass
Hoping,
Waiting,
Dreaming of
Beautiful butterfly wings.

Paper Medal
Clifford D. Cope

Upon his back he lay, his final day.
Into the sand his life poured from him,
There upon the sand of his own land.
It was there he met the victorious ones..

From his shattered armored vessel he did crawl,
Only to escape such flames, compelled from hell,
Alone; here he was left, failure of war.
Onward in fury the gallant and heroic charged..
That is heroes; perceived and seen by many.

Though here; through my eyes I saw bravery,.
For reluctantly into his pocket he did reach..
From there he retrieved a picture of life,

1. 1. picture of two; like father, like son.

In his hand he did hold - his life.
That life; in which he must now leave..

1. 1. hero that he was - medal in hand..

Daddy’s Funeral
Loretta Gedosh

The Arkansas sun burns hot through my mourning clothes as I walk toward the church. I feel beads of perspiration forming on my neck and running down my back and my pantyhose, bought hastily last night to match my borrowed black dress, are a size too small and pull uncomfortably. Black is not my color. I am an autumn, the woman at the makeup counter had told me years ago. I should never wear black, she said emphatically. It heightens the yellow undertones of my skin. But black is traditional for funerals and my cousin Pearl was kind enough to let me wear one of her dresses. She’s a winter and can wear black, so she has lots of it in her closet, along with bright reds and blues of different shades. I admire her for her looks. “She’s a stunner,” Daddy always said.

Daddy. I walk down the aisle toward the front of the church, and as I approach the casket, I see him lying there. He looks out of place against the blue satin fabric and it provides a bizarre backdrop for his lifeless remains. I take my place alone on the front pew, my gaze fixed on the steel gray box and its occupant. The sanctuary is stifling, with only fans to stir the air. But my heart is cold. I search for something in Daddy’s face that will warm me, but even the part of him that I hated and feared is not there. His eyelids conceal the lifeless eyes. I long for them to open and wink at me like they once did long ago when there was still fun in them, and they twinkled like Grandpa John’s. His skin is almost as white as his hair, but has a yellowish cast. Jaundice, the doctor told me. From the liver problems. His skin looks fake, like a Halloween mask, and I know it’s cold. I feel the stares on my back and hear the unspoken thoughts as the congregation wonders why my eyes are dry. I want to cry, not because I’m expected to, but because I know it will warm me inside. But I don’t. Brother Paul takes his place behind the pulpit and begins to talk about Daddy’s life and I know this is hard for him. There isn’t a lot that he can say that is fit for a final speech about this man. When Mama died, the church was full and the preacher’s words flowed easily. There was much about her to praise. Thinking of Mama warms my heart a little and I am able to feel something again. Her tenderness and thoughtless devotion to our family was what kept us all from falling to pieces in a thousand different directions. She was our anchor as we four kids stumbled along toward adulthood. It wasn’t until later that we lost our way. Two years ago, Joey ran his truck into a tree and killed himself. Instantly, they said. Don is serving ten to twenty years at the state penitentiary for manslaughter. “You never knew how to hold your liquor,” Daddy always told him. I never understood what that meant and wondered if Daddy’s way was what could be called holding your liquor. I didn’t think so. My sister, June, lives in California and never comes home. Not since Mama died. She laughed when I called her about Daddy. “Thank God that son-of-a-bitch is finally gone,” she said. “Now maybe I can have some peace.” I pray that she will. Daddy doesn’t look peaceful. I’ve seen lots of dead people and none of them really looked peaceful to me, just lifeless and cold. Except for Greatgranny. But there was a peace about her when she was still living. Daddy never looked peaceful when he was alive, not even when he was asleep. A fly buzzes around my face and the overpowering aroma of carnations is giving me a headache. I never can smell carnations without thinking of a funeral and they always make my eyes water and my nose run. I dab at my nose with the handkerchief I had placed in my handbag before leaving the house. It‘s the one Mama embroidered for me for my high school graduation. I study the tiny blue forget-me-nots on the soft white fabric and gently finger the pale blue, crocheted border. “I put forget-me-nots on it,” Mama told me when she gave it to me, “to remind you never to forget me.” I close my eyes and say, as a prayer, “I’ll never forget you, Mama.” As I wipe my nose again, I hear whispers. “Look. She’s finally giving into her grief.” I want to shout, “No! There’s no grief in me for this man. There’s no tears in me for him.” But I sit silently It’s just the carnations, I say to myself. Mama said they used carnations for funeral flowers, because they lasted longer than other kinds. Mama knew a lot of things, little details like that. She wasn’t book smart, but she was wise and had an endless supply of information stored in her head. Daddy hated that about her. Said she was “full of useless garbage that nobody cared about anyway.” I always thought it was jealousy talking when he criticized her like that. He had been to college, had a diploma to prove it and bragged about it at every opportunity, especially when he’d been drinking. It hadn’t helped him get a good job, though. It was just a piece of paper that hung in the living room of our tiny house. “It’s not good for anything but to catch the wood on fire,” Mama would say under her breath when he threw his education up to her and called her an ignorant Okie. The choir is singing “Amazing Grace,” the only church song that Daddy liked. I remember times when us kids were young and Mama would play on our old upright piano. This, of course, was before Daddy sold it for drinking money. When Mama sat down to play, Daddy would say over and over, “Play my favorite, Mae. Play it one more time.” Something tugs at my heart and I fight hard to push it aside. I glance again at the lifeless shell in the casket. I mouth the words “son-of-a-bitch” and feel somehow liberated that I can speak those words in his presence. I know Mama would disapprove of me using such language in the house of the Lord and I regret giving into the impulse. I think again of Mama’s funeral and I know my grieving for her isn’t finished. I miss her. I miss her soft-spoken manner and her gentleness. And I wonder, as I have many times, what our lives would have been like if Daddy hadn’t been there. I used to pray at night for him to be gone. Not that he would die. My Baptist upbringing and fear of eternal damnation wouldn’t allow that. But that he would decide to leave, like Mr. Watson who lived down the road had done. Just disappear and never come back. I prayed for that every night when I was growing up. Each day, I would come home from school, hoping Mama would be on the porch with the news. But there would be Daddy, sitting close to a bottle of some kind and looking some degree of mean. When I was fourteen, I finally stopped and started praying for Mama to take us kids and leave. But she didn’t. I never blamed Mama for not leaving him. I knew she couldn’t make it on her own and she seemed to love him through everything. I guess she saw something in him that none of us kids could see. When she died, my sadness was doubled, knowing her chance of a good life, of one without meanness and anger, were gone. I hear Brother Paul’s funeral sermon coming to a close now. I’ve heard plenty of them in my lifetime and recognize the words. The pianist softly plays “Peace Like a River” and the choir joins in. Mr. Oliver, from the Oliver Funeral Home, and his son, Jim, Jr., walk toward the back of the small church and signal to each row in turn for its occupants to stand and walk to the casket. The mourners are few, but more than I expected. I recognize some of Daddy’s beer joint buddies, looking somber and painfully sober. They look as if they haven’t seen this side of happy hour in many years. A few odd cousins, aunts and uncles and two of Mama’s good friends complete the procession and then the choir makes its way past the casket. I know the time for me to be alone with Daddy is coming, and I feel myself trembling inside. Even in death, he frightens me a little. Finally, Mr. Oliver noiselessly approaches and whispers in my ear to take my time. Time for what, I ask myself? Time to learn to love this man? Time to grieve for him? Time to shed a tear for his lost soul? I’ve spent twenty-two years on this earth and I don’t need any more time with this mean, old man, living or dead. I rise and walk firmly down the aisle and toward the front door. I hear Mr. Oliver and Jim, Jr. gasp and the pianist skips a beat. I don’t care, I think to myself. I don’t have to pretend any more. He can come back and haunt me if he wants to, but until then I don’t have to deal with him. And if God turns me away at the pearly gates because of my cold heart, and I have to meet Daddy again in Hell, I’ll face him then. Lucifer, too, I guess. But today, I don’t have to. I don’t have to go home, dreading his foul mood or his unpredictable temper. Today, I have been set free. I’ve had my life sentence shortened by the grace of God and Daddy’s liver. The car from the funeral home drives me to the cemetery and I stand with Daddy’s friends and family members and watch the casket being lowered into the dry earth. The smell of pine trees on the nearby knoll unlocks a long-hidden memory. I see myself as a child in the front yard of our old house, playing with a new litter of puppies in the shade of a small grove of pine trees. The fallen needles offer a cushion and I am lost in the moment of play, unaware that Daddy has come outside and is standing on the porch, watching me. Strong emotions tear at my heart as I allow memories of his angry, drunken voice and my terror as he is upon me, snatching the puppies away. I block further memories of the incident, horrible and chilling, from my mind and turn sideways for a moment. Knowing all eyes are on me, I suddenly feel embarrassed and turn slowly back toward the casket as Mr. Oliver places the fake grass over the gaping hole. No, I cannot cry for this man. I cannot care the tiniest bit that he is dead. Do I even care that his soul is probably in Hell at this very moment, beginning its eternal sentence of damnation? I don’t want to think about that. I only know that Mama must be watching me from Heaven and feeling sad for me that I have become so hardhearted. I really want to cry, but I’m not sure what or who the tears would be for. I have shed many tears at night for myself and for my brothers and sister and for Mama, but it’s impossible to cry for the man I call Daddy. Later at the house I shared with my father for over two decades, the small kitchen table is weighted down with food from the church. The funeral attendees, except for Daddy’s drinking cronies, stand around, eating cold ham and potato salad and speaking in hushed tones. Occasionally, someone approaches and speaks an encouraging or sympathetic word or phrase. “Maybe now your Daddy can find the peace he never had here on Earth.” Or, “He’s at rest now.” Or, my personal favorite, “Now your Daddy and Mama can be reunited in Heaven.” I hold my tongue and smile. They mean well. They care about me. Maybe they cared about Daddy at one time, before the alcohol and the bitterness changed him. I walk to the thread-worn sofa and sit down next to Aunt Liz, Daddy’s sister. She smiles and puts her arm around me and gives me a hug. “Have you decided what you’re gonna do now, Sarah Jane?” “Stay here, I guess.” “You could go anywhere you want to now. Start a whole new life, if you wanted to. Memphis is a wonderful place and I’d love to have you come stay with me for a while.” “Thanks, Aunt Liz, but I like my job at the café and I like teaching Sunday School at the church. I don’t think I’d be happy anywhere else. I think I’ll just stay here, at least for a while, and get used to living alone. Who knows, I may love it now that I don’t have to…now that he’s…” My voice is surprisingly unsteady. “Hasn’t been easy for you, has it, honey?” “Not exactly,” I say, feeling much closer to some kind of emotion than I want to be. “I brought something today,” Aunt Liz says as she opens her handbag and rummages around for a few minutes. “I thought you might like it.” “Ah, here it is,” she says as she pulls out a faded photograph, yellowed and torn around the edges. She hands it to me and I look at my own image. “It’s me,” I say with a smile. “I’ve never seen this one. When was it taken?” “Honey, it’s not you. It’s your Daddy. When he was just a year old. I found it when I was cleaning out the attic last spring. I meant to send it to you, but I was so busy after your uncle had his stroke and all.” Her words continue, but my mind doesn’t hear. I look into the sweet face of this child who looks so much like me. Finally, without resistance, tears begin to form and spill onto my cheeks and chin and down onto my borrowed dress. At last, I can cry for my Daddy. Not the one I knew all these years who tormented those around him, but the one in this picture that I hold in my trembling, unsteady hands. I look at his blond curls and impish smile, and I can almost feel the softness of his round body and his chubby hands. In this picture, he is innocent, his future ahead of him with endless possibilities, and he resembles nothing of the man we just buried. As the tears flow and the sobs come, I sit enfolded in the comforting arms of my aunt as she pats and rocks me. With the tears comes a pain that’s close to unbearable. Yet, somehow I know that beyond the tears, beyond the pain, there are better things to discover.

3:00 a.m.
Meagan Gramlich

Sharpness
Pain
Pressure
Pain
Piercing
Pain
Screaming
Pain
Splitting
Pain
Relief
Cries
Sobs
Sighs

Twilight Reflections
Courtney Narmour

When the sun has extinguished its fire and the moon
Rises quietly in the deepening dusk,
The land beneath takes on a new identity. The woods
Are then the home of trees covered with diamonds
And silver deer that graze in the meadow’s deep quiet.
They glance up occasionally, their brilliant eyes shining.

Silver beams of light from the moon
Steal into the darkest corners of the woods.
The lake is shining
With a lustrousness like diamonds.
The call of the tree frog breaks the quiet.
It is a whole new world, the dusk.

I once took a walk in this land of dusk,
To see for myself what secrets the woods
Held for me behind the shadows and the quiet.
The light of the moon
Was all I needed to guide me. It’s shining
Is brighter than any lantern. More like diamonds.

As I walk silently down the path in the dusk,
I begin to imagine what it was like in these woods
A hundred years ago. Had Indians trekked through the same
Quiet, their moccasined feet soundless, their tomahawks shining?
Or had Spanish conquistadors, lusting for gold, diamonds and
El Dorado have marched relentlessly under the same moon?

Perhaps sprites played under the moon,
Like those in the Old World would believe. Or shining
Mermaids under the lake’s surface, glittering with diamonds.
Or perhaps, as the puritans concluded, the dusk
Was filled with witches, demons and hags, breaking the quiet
With their unholy screams in the woods.

Or maybe a runaway slave crouched in these woods,
His heart pounding with fear, the moon
Shining on lips in silent prayer, quiet,
As two men rode by his hiding place, their guns shining.
Their eyes searched greedily, like hunting for diamonds.

These thoughts flitted through my head as I walked in the woods.
I looked with joy upon the shadow-time the Creator made: dusk,
To reflect on past and present in the silver quiet.

Sailing
Ken Waller

I tasted the sea from the warm wet mist. The salt air filled my nostrils like fresh caught fish just unloaded on the wharf—before sunrise. After searching out the channel markers, I immediately turned off the Yanmar diesel—leaving the safe harbor at Port Everglades. The sloop, after disengaging the power, began its loss of forward thrust against the one and two foot waves. The bow dropped down a few feet, then quickly recovered, and then raised to the height of equal distance, which it had lost seconds earlier. The saltwater lightly sprayed me as it splashed up over the dodger; this tasted like canned sardines. The customary dolphins, which swim like torpedoes at the tip of the bow, did not follow us out of the harbor. The boat slowed, and then stopped any forward movement; however, it continued its up and down movement like that of a surfer treading on top of the water getting ready to ride the next big wave. Back towards the port the coastal lights illuminated the night sky, creating a bright dome over the populated cities of South Florida. The hull reflected on the water’s surface unbroken by the waves—the image enhanced by the city’s lights. The boat’s movements turned into a gentle up and down motion to match the calm seas. The light wind to my back filled the sails. The seagulls flew around the 45-foot mast, searching out food scraps like winged rats. Suddenly, splashing sounds broke the calm; something moved about—not a water bird. I grabbed the hand held spotlight and searched with its bright beam, tracing the swirling water. Off the starboard side I found the mischiefmaker cutting the water from left to right—a huge hammerhead shark. Big, round, and about twelve feet long, it worked its head in a hammer like motion almost hitting the boat. The boat keeled starboard as I grabbed the railing and looked the shark in its eye—only feet away from death. As quick as the shark appeared, it disappeared, divining deep into the water. Earlier, I contemplated doing man over board drills when we cleared the channel, but now that would have to wait. Sitting down after the shark’s intrusion, I began to relax and enjoy the night. We completed preparations before leaving the port. Already past midnight everyone else had long disappeared down the companionway, to the galley, and left me to sail to Bimini—time to set the sails. With its roller furling and rigging, I could handle the 42-foot sailboat from the cockpit. I set the main halyard and the sail popped as it took the wind. The boom, pulled tight by the wind, struggled against the secure line. The bow rose up the second the sails responded, giving renewed forward thrust. I grabbed the wheel and set a South Southeasterly course by the mounted compass. The boat leaned to starboard, and the bow dipped down low bringing the sea back with its upward motion. The boat climbed and fell back to the sea in steady motion. I unrolled the jib to pick up speed. The sheet popped as it took the wind. The boat reached 6.5 nautical miles per hour and rooster tailed towards Alice Town, finally, a peaceful night with calm seas. The sound of the water hitting the hull changed to a steady beat of the hull rising and falling against the waves and the wind filling the sails. The boat leaned a little more starboard; I could almost touch the water. Again, a disruption from the water made me look overboard—I saw a large dorsal fin. The shark surfaced and his closeness more alarming; I recognized the intruder. I quickly adjusted the main sail, pulling it in tighter, causing the boat to tip a little more towards port. I did not plan on being dinner. As the sloop raised, the predator slide easily back to the depths of the sea. I settled back and continued on to Bimini knowing that in the morning everyone on board would not believe my shark story. Just as the sun rose, I began making a lot of noise trying to wake everyone. I had a fish story to tell, and I wanted to see their reactions. I rolled up the jib and dropped the main sail. I wanted to slow the boat and wake everyone because it would take a few more hours to reach Alice Town. The others began climbing up the companionway and grumbling about sleeping in and wanting coffee. I stopped them all and began my story trying not to embellish it too much. As I expected no one believed me. They wanted to jump in and swim. I warned them, but they jumped in away. I retrieved my mask, snorkel and fins, because I wanted to see this big fish clearly if he followed us—I jumped in. The clear water allowed me to see all around, not a fish in sight. I swam down to the keel and checked it for damage—no teeth marks. I swam back up and got out of the water, the others followed. I remembered that the drills needed to be done soon. Again, I recapped my story and everyone laughed, not a believer among the group. I cranked up the diesel and decided to have the two kids jump in first, with their mother following. The boat picked up a little speed, and I did not need to explain the drill. The kids jumped in followed by their mother. “Man overboard,” we yelled. I cut the engine and turned the wheel sharp to starboard, which moved the bow to port further slowing down the boat. We tossed out life preservers. I saw a dorsal fin when it broke the surface of the water—my heart pounded fast. Before I could yell, the dolphin jumped out of the water and did a playful back flip. Now, my turn came to jump in and the water felt wonderful as I patiently waited to be picked up. Then the morning fell into the routine of housekeeping chores and getting ready for docking, the excitement gone. No one ever believed my shark story, not even to this day. I looked for him all the way to Nassau and for the next fifteen days. I thought he would reappear back in the channel heading into Port Everglades, but he did not show himself. I felt disappointment and relief for I really did not want to swim with that big fish, but on second thought it might have been fun.

Injured (Heartbroken, part I)
Jaime Brannam Hand

Thanks for 4 a.m. Wednesday—no sleep
You’re welcome for 2 a.m. Sunday
and many Saturday-Sundays before
and a Monday once
and a Thursday-early Friday once
(actually, thanks-for real-for the Thursday)
You were my hero that night
my protector from the lurking dark
You were my savior Sunday morning, even
saw me at my worst, up until now
This breaks the record—this is my worst
Shatters everything I thought I believed in
Did you sleep last night?
Dumb question—I know you couldn’t
But did you think I would?
There for a while I thought I was the best
But was I too good to be true?
Let me tell you—I am nothing but true.
I thought I could topple that pedestal
Of whom were you thinking when we were together?
—Ouch—I know that hit a vein
These words are blood from my screaming wounded soul
“Apply pressure to the injury,” says the textbook
How can that help, when pressure got me where I am?
“Give it a week,” I stammered, knowing I can’t hold out
A week is twenty years right now, and maybe all in vain
And there is nothing in your veins
When it all spews out through your broken heart

Circumstances (Heartbroken, part II)
Jaime Brannam Hand

I have nothing for you
Nothing except
An apology
An outstretched hand
An offer of forgiveness
acceptance
A belief that love will prevail
will light the way
A truth only we can know
can tell (and also fear)
A word of advice
A piece of my mind (though I know you won’t listen)
I know all the totals match
it all should add upv
it ought to be clear
But who says love equals physics?
It equals perseverance
sacrifice
bloodshed
tearshed
a light breeze on the hottest of dog-days
What cannot be said in the spoken word
Must be in the least implied with a metaphor
A written language unmatched by any audible tongue
In my native grammar
-words on paper
I say my love is still yours
This I cannot deny

A Sad Old Smile
Micheal Robert Werley

The old man was a permanent feature in Grandma’s house.

I was four years old before I realized that no one else could see him. By that time my cousins had all discovered their imaginary friends, so I just assumed he was mine. I didn’t really think it was fair that I only got to see mine when I was at Grandma’s, but at least I never got into trouble over some bit of imaginary friend mischief like Sam or Sherrie or Erik did. Of course, mine didn’t play like theirs did, so I did lose out there.

I never felt the need to describe him like my cousins did theirs. I think they were, more than anything, trying to convince themselves that they were real. I still remember Sam’s “He’s big…really big,” and Sherrie’s exacting description of every little detail. And Erik, I swear Erik’s friend must have been part chameleon, because every time he described Meemers the poor guy was a different color. I got off easy; my friend was just a sad old guy in an old brown suit.

And their names, their names were wonderful: Erik’s “Meemers” and Sam’s “Fudgerdoodle.” One of the few times Sherrie included me in her games was when she introduced me to Snookerdee Bocrinkle and told me (rather snottily) that I had to introduce my friend to her.

I was actually ready for this. I’d asked the old man his name right after I first realized that no one, not my parents or grandparent or any of my aunts or uncles, was going to introduce him to me. He was quite surprised at the question. That was when I realized that no one else talked to him.

He looked at me with that sad smile he always wore when he watched us play, you know, the kind of smile that never quite reaches your eyes. He smiled at me a said, “My name is Aaron Michaels, but you can call me whatever you want.”

Well, since he wasn’t family or one of my parents’ close friends, I couldn’t call him Uncle Aaron, and I sure couldn’t call him Aaron because he was an adult and that just wouldn’t be right. So I chose to call him Mr. Michaels.

When I told Sherrie his name, she laughed at me. She started making fun of me because my friend’s name wasn’t fancy; it was plain, just like my friend. Mr. Michaels frowned like he did any time one of us was mean to another, and I got the feeling he wanted to say something to her. Jimmy beat him to it. It was one of the few times my older brother stood up for me among the kids. He did it through the years at school. But he was seven years older than me and six years older than Sherrie, so he didn’t play with us much at Grandma’s. He spent most of his time with Uncle Frank working on the old Desoto that he eventually started driving. Later that day, he told me that I never had to justify anything about Mr. Michaels to anybody. Then he looked up and smiled, straight at my friend. I still think that Jimmy could see him, too. It was years before I got the chance to ask him.

One day, when I was eight, I was playing over by the garage by myself when I stepped on a broken bottle. A shard of glass went straight through my foot. It hurt so bad that I didn’t even scream. I must’ve been in shock, because I just sat down and stared at the blood pouring out around the glass. The other kids were playing on the swingset on the other side of the house, and Jimmy was at work with Dad. I probably would have sat there at least until I passed out, but I wasn’t alone. I had been trying to quit seeing him, but Mr. Michaels was still at Grandma’s. Everyone else’s friends had left them when school started, so I tried to disbelieve him. After all, I was eight. I wasn’t supposed to have an invisible friend. I’d quit believing in the Easter Bunny; of course a six-foot-tall rabbit that goes around hiding eggs and leaving candy for kids is kind of hard to swallow. I did still believe in Santa, however. You don’t give up a load of toys each year just because you might look a little silly.

I still heard him though, no matter how hard I tried not to. He told me to just calm down and not to move. He said he’d be right back. A minute later, Uncle Frank came running around to house. He picked me up and rushed me to the hospital. Seventeen stitches and a little bit of nerve damage. To this day, I still don’t have all the feeling in that foot, but at least it’s not ticklish.

After the excitement was over that night, I overheard Uncle Frank and Grandma talking as I was nodding off. I can still remember the exact words. “Well, it was the damnedest thing, Mom. I was just sittin’ in here watchin’ the game and I barely heard this voice say ‘Frank, behind the garage. Stephen’s hurt. Hurry.’ I never believed you before, but I guess he is real.”

Grandma just smiled at him and said, “I told you. He watched over me when I was a child; he watched out for you and your sister; of course he’s gonna watch your kids, too. He told me when Erik fell outta the tree and broke his arm. That's what he does. Mr. Smith is our family’s Guardian Angel.”

My last though as I drifted off was that Grandma was wrong. His name wasn’t Mr. Smith, and he couldn’t be an angel. He didn’t have any wings.

I was fourteen when Jimmy brought his newborn son to Thanksgiving Dinner. That was the first time I heard “Mr. Smith” discussed openly. Great-Grandma made the observation that, with the addition of little Timmy, Mr. Smith would now have a fourth generation to look after. The adults joked around about our mysterious guardian, but there was a palpable tension to the jokes, like they didn’t want to believe he was real even though they did. While they were talking about him at dinner, I’d seen him. He was standing beside Jimmy looking down at my new nephew. He was wearing that same sad smile I had first seen years before.

I made it a point to find Grandmother that evening. I was never really that comfortable around her. Jimmy was her favorite. He was born the day after Great-Grandpa died and sort of took his place in her life. She never really talked to the rest of us kids. But I had to get past that barrier to find out about Mr. Michaels. After about twenty minutes of innocent seeming chit-chat, Grandmother had had enough. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “What are you digging for? Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden? If this is about my will, it’s done made out and Jimmy gets everything.”

I laughed weakly at her humor even though I knew she probably wasn’t joking about the will. I thought for a moment and finally asked her about Mr. Smith.

She gave me a funny look and said, “You shouldn’t poke fun at women in their declining years.”

It took me a few minutes to convince her that I was serious, but finally she told me what she knew of our mysterious Guardian Angel.

“Me and Jacob, your great-grandfather, bought the house shortly after the previous owner had passed on. Your great-uncle, Dale, was about a year old at the time and we had just found out that your grandma was on her way. The first five years we lived in the house the most unusual thing that happened was that the roof sprung a leak and we had to re-shingle it. That wasn’t too bad for a sixty-year old house. The first time we knew there was someone else there was when your grandma was about four. I was washing dishes when I heard this voice say, ‘Mrs. Evers, get out to the yard. Emma’s in trouble.’ Without thinking, I rushed outside and found her in a tree with a stray dog growling at her from the ground. From that point on, whenever one of the kids got themselves into a problem in the house or the yard, Mr. Smith, as we took to calling him, would let me or your great-grandpa know.

“After Dale and your grandma was old enough to look after themselves, Mr. Smith seemed to disappear. When Emma got the house, Mr. Smith let himself be known when your mom or Frank needed help. That was when I decided that he must be our Guardian Angel. He kept the tradition going when Jimmy and you and your cousins came along.” From what I saw at dinner, he planned to keep that tradition going with Timmy, as well. I asked her if anyone had ever seen him. She gave me another funny look and said “Phaw. You don’t see Angels. They just let you know when you’re needed.”

As an afterthought, I asked her who they bought the house from. I was shocked by the answer.

That Saturday, I spent seven hours at the library pouring over old newspapers and title deeds. I found my job quite a bit easier than it could have been. After all, I had the names I needed and, with the family Bible, the dates were easy to figure out.

The house was finished in late 1846. The owner was quite proud of his work and had good reason to be. It was a fine house. He and his wife moved in with their three-year-old daughter. They had four wonderful years before tragedy struck. While playing in the yard, the little girl was bitten by a snake. She died that evening. The grieving parents had found out less than a week before that she was going to be an older sister. They raised their son and, for the most part, went on with their lives, but the father never forgave himself for his daughter’s death. He was in the house working on the baby’s room. He was less than fifty feet from her. He felt that if he’d only watched her closer, he could have gotten to her in time. He outlived his wife by nearly twenty years, and he spent them living in the house having only occasional visits from his son and grandchildren. After his father died, Aaron Michaels II sold the house his father built to my great-grandparents.

Through the years he watched over Timmy and his sister and then my daughters and all their cousins. Whenever any of the children were visiting their Great-Grandma, I knew they’d be safe. Mr. Michaels was watching over them.

Last year, after that nasty rainstorm flooded half the town, we found out that the timbers in the basement were rotten. Grandma had joined Grandpa the year before and the house had been left to Mom and Dad in her will. They didn’t have the money to fix it and even though it was over 150 years old, it wasn’t in the historic district so the city wouldn’t help fix it. In fact, they told us that we had to tear it down.

As I stood there watching the bulldozer level the place where so many of my childhood memories were made, all I could think about was Aaron Michaels. I told Jimmy that I hoped the five generations of kids he had watched over through the last hundred years made up for the one he lost. Jimmy said he hoped so as he smiled down at my grandson, Aaron Michael, who was watching the bulldozer with the amazement that every three-year-old boy feels while watching those hulking monsters.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and I turned around. As the last timber fell in that grand old house, I watched Mr. Michaels, my imaginary friend and my family’s Guardian Angel slowly fade away.

And the smile finally reached his eyes.

Rainbow
Stephanie London

The storm rages with droplets of thick blood
Raining down on a wide-open field, wind
Swaying a burst of dandelions, to end
Their summer days. Then a warm break of light
Slices through a cloud, with just a bright bud
Of sunlight. Weathered field grass that did bend,
Starts to regain what the rage made it spend.
A bluebird shakes his damp coat with a thud,
Looking around to see how his world changed.
Now dry, this bluebird decides to explore,
Ascending into the indigo sky,
Away from the violet storm that raged.
Out of nowhere, the sky opens its door,
Colors of a rainbow begin to fly.

Crash Tested
Leslie Kidder

I rose with the first crow of the rooster and awoke before Kate. As I put on my flannel shirt, I looked to our big ol' country bed, and Kate's head resting beautifully on the soft down pillow. Kate's hair draped and crisscrossed the pillow - like lines of our communication. Her bare back looks so soft, warm, and misleading. Truly, it was her dreams that were strikingly peaceful. I stood watching her breathe for the longest, watching the subtle up and down and in and out — the involuntary motions of life. I heard the quiet. Our quiet. For a moment, I felt like crying, so I moved on with my country morning. I turned to Kate for one more look and see her hand reaching across the bed for me. She returns it to her side, empty-handed like it has been so often of late. It's so hard to know where I stand with her. I tie my tennis shoes and head for the horse barn. Crash has become my favorite over the years. She is a bay with black socks and of thoroughbred origin. I know she has a fondness for me, too. I can sense those things. She greets me with a neigh and a bobbing of her head. I slip on her bridle and elect the bareback saddle for our jaunt. Crash goes for my pocket, knowing I always keep a few sugar cubes there. I guess my patterns are predictable. I stretch a final body wake-up and climb aboard my morning steed. There are a couple of reasons I like spring and fall the best, and this annual trip to Kate's grandmother's farmhouse during the autumn ranks near the best of them. We've only been here a day and a half, and already the city, the phones, the bills, and the head games are fading. Our differences even seem to reduce in all this acreage. No, I couldn't live here, but my soul insists on getting its toes tickled in this dirt every so often. Crash is frisky and it would be so easy to just let her go and leave all my pain behind. It’s too bad I didn’t pack a sack lunch and a sack of oats, we could have just kept going. Our current destination, however, is a clearing by a creek in the far back pasture. When Kate's grandfather was living, this little corner of his world had Kate's name on it. He took great pride in her place and perpetually kept it up. It is getting brushy, overgrown, and rugged these last few years because her grandmother couldn't manage all the acreage alone. Kate used to tell me that was her favorite spot in the whole world growing up and spending her summers here. Damn, I can see why, its picturesque beauty, and it's just as ingrained in my soul, too. Such innocent soil and unhampered growth. I remember a few sunsets we've seen there. A few even led into sunrise. Those were the days! I don't know whether Kate will inherit this farm or not. I don't know that she'd be happy here. I don't know that she can count on me being here. There is so much acreage between us that I don't know much, it seems. I do know that this horse is sure-footed. I know that the incessant clucking is getting further behind me and that Kate's probably awake now. This country air is wonderful. I dismount at the creeks bank and let Crash off the bridle to graze. Her saddle comes off too, and it gives the air a smell I love. Horse. Crash puts her nose in my back, pushing me towards the water. I go. She follows. I sit by the water's edge, and she drinks. Her head rocks, her mouth wiggles, and her nostrils continue to breathe. She delights my heart. When she stops drinking, she drools over my head. I kiss her by the nose and her whiskers tickle my face. Then she walks off to start a morning graze. Even if she leaves me, it wouldn't be a wasted walk back to the house. I look at my reflection in the water, remembering that I forgot my coffee thermos. How long has it been since we made love? A month? Two? Three? When we used to touch, talk, and connect, the world sang. Now, as I'm touched while the world sings, most times Kate isn't even around. I mean, I see her and I hear her, but where do I go to feel her again? Have we moved past each other so fluidly that we can never get back in sync? The water feels good to my face as I splash away the melancholy. I take off my tennis shoes and let the water wash through my toes. My hair is tickling my forearms as I lean back. I hear the sound of a motorcycle coming this way. Are you coming for me, Kate? Will you have my coffee? Am I what you need? Ah! Too, too much to think about. Over my shoulder I see the motorbike, it brings out the tomboy in her. I see her hair flying. I can't help but smile; she can still make me so incredibly happy. “I thought you might like your coffee. You left it in the kitchen,” Kate chirps, thrusting the talisman. I sense that she is optimistic that I will invite her to sit with me. I do. She takes off her boots and socks, tussles her hair, and kicks in the water. Crash comes to inspect the intruder; she passes. Snorting, she nudges my hand to my pocket. I oblige; she leaves. “Grandma said she just had the bike tuned up for me. It's running great. Wanna go for a ride?” I read the excitement in Kate's face. But she never could read past a book cover. I'm riding Crash. I'm cherishing this fine country morning. Crisscross. “Maybe later. We'll ride into town or something. Crash and I have some catching up to do. But don't let me stop you.” I focus on the ripples my feet cause and her abrupt halt. “Well, I just meant around here. Rev the ol’ engine up; conquer new territory and all. Nothing special. Later is fine,” Kate trails off, not knowing what to do with herself. Later is always fine. We've put off so many things because we knew we'd be spending our futures together. Too bad we never reminded ourselves to pick up the things we put off. Maybe then we wouldn't be at the stage we are now. We desperately need filler. I've grown accustomed to our distance. Now it makes me slightly irritable when she invades my time. Did I get to this place all by myself? “How 'bout some coffee?” I ask, raking my fingers through my hair, watching the water slip past. Feeling so many things slip past. “Grandma said she'd rent us a movie when she goes into town if we'll give her a title.” “A movie? Here?” God, we are opposites! The words are out of my lips before I can soften them. “A movie is fine; I don't care what we get. Something you've been wanting to see would be good,” I back peddle. My eyes peel the sky, rummaging our complicated layers. Who would want to stay inside, and when this day pulls its shade to night, who would want to miss the brightness of a universe of stars in a country sky? Nights made for lovers to hum their heart songs and for dreams to wrap words of possibilities. Nights when innocence can be lost in a lover's hand. Nights to renew a floundering and echoing heart. Kate catches these transitions of prayer and feels uncomfortable. “Maybe I'll just tell her to skip it. Maybe I'll just go back to the house and wait for you to come back,” shoving her feet back into her boots. Am I really doing something wrong here? Am I cold? Embittered because we feel more and more like strangers? Am I the only culprit that can see what we have become? “No, please don't go yet. Show me where that rope swing is again. The one you used to play on as a kid.” “It's down the creek a'ways, do you want to take the motor... let's walk there. C'mon.” She reaches for my hand and dusts off my butt as I stand. Crash takes notice of our movement and starts towards us. We splash in the water's edge and surface-chat about how well her grandmother looks. Crash follows, plodding through the water. I love the sound of a horse. I slip her a sugar cube for constancy shown. She swishes her tail. There's a small bend in the creek, and as we turn with it, we see what appears to be a new rope hanging from a limb. “That wasn't here the last time was it?” Kate questions. “No. I remember you saying something to your grandmother about it finally rotting off; I bet she had it replaced for you.” Things rotting off the limb. An unused extension of one's self cannot sustain life without food. If the sex never comes back, will it kill her? Would it fall off and rot? Ah! Too, too much to think about. “Let's try it!” she pipes out, with investment. My God, there's life in the ol' girl! I shouldn't be surprised though; this is her magic. The substance that never gives me the chance to leave. Always, inevitably, she comes back with something I love about her, before she slips away again, like a magnet pulling me near only to repel me away again later. If she could just remain consistent, perhaps we could find the strength.

1. swing the rope to her as she waits on the shore. “Something's missing,” she says and looks at it like a lost puppy. I study this confusion and should be the master of this state by now. So many things go by her. I figure it out, ask for the rope back, and tie a huge knot in the end. Her face seems so pleased at the simplicity of the solution. I wish I could feel better about saving the day, but that heroine left ages ago during a previous chapter of our romance. I feel so empty. Kate's walked away from me while in mid-emotion and abandoned me there, while on the forefront of some self-awakening. She's left me to stuff and tuck my near revelation away in my caged soul, resulting with my intensity corrupting itself into shame. I have to distance myself if only to stay alive. In that water seeks its own level, surely, I must do the same to her. Some shrink once tagged it passive aggressive, but it's actually just trying to stay afloat in a chasm of indifference. How did we get to this point when we promised only to bring laughter and fulfillment? When did the transition happen? Is it linked solely to sex or the absence of it? Is there ever any going back, or have we plodded the course of separation without a physical division? Ah! Too, too much to think about. Kate swings on the rope, letting out a banshee scream. Crash raises her head and follows the motion above the water. Kate hollers again to win my attention and flies off the rope, doing a spread eagle only to belly flop on the hard water.
2. rush zips through me. I panic as she sinks like a rock. Surprise! No matter what processes in my head, I love her. I plod over to her. Crash clomps along too. Hi-ho Silver and Tonto. I prepare to hold her crying body on my shoulder. I prepare to say overly nice things if only to make her feel better. I prepare to sell out my inner thoughts of leaving her to make her pain go away. Kate swooshes out of the water, laughing. Not mild giggles, by any means, but a wild brouhaha. I'm alarmed. Now Crash is the one confused. Kate drapes her wet body over me laughing with such intensity. I can't help but get caught up in it. Before I know it, before I can stop it, our lips meet. Her tongue seeks the depths of my mouth. This kiss is just one of those themes of what have made us survive the years and our differences. Her hands push my shoulders down, taking me to the water's bed. She rolls me over, soaking me in the cleansing cool. Urgency. Passion unleashed. She's crying and kissing me. Her tears are distinguishable from the water. She feels the loss. She wants it back. She wants the colors. She wants the play. She wants the heart songs. But Kate rides a Honda and I ride a horse.

Life
Stephanie London

I dreamt of a time when growing up and doing “grown up” things was important.
Going to the mall, the fair, or a football game without a parent
were the important goals in life.
But still, growing up meant losing that childhood innocence.
The first car meant getting a first job.
Being free meant being responsible.
Freedom with conditions.
I knew of independence, but I also knew the rules.

I knew those lost childhood days,
playing softball in the middle of summer, coming home with every inch of body covered in dirt.
Staying out late, playing tag with the other neighborhood children.
Jumping on the trampoline on a nice fall day, the cool breeze floating past my body as I turn and jump, hitting my face as I drift asleep.
Racing to the swings at recess (the “cool kids” toy) to see who could go
the highest and making extravagant jewelry from the fields of flowers that
grew beyond them.

I loved those days, but can’t go back.
Instead, I met myself in the middle, taking knowledge and dreams into that next stage of life.
Responsibility comes in many forms: school, homework, involvement, work, living on my own.
I remember those childhood days and defiant years.
I’m not throwing them away, but putting them in a safe place while life goes on.
I hear the bell tower chime – it’s time for class.

It Was Monday
Leroy Farmer

Every day was Monday. Nothing changed throughout the days. No matter what day of the week it was, that day was Monday. The relentless pace of combat operations in Iraq demanded that missions were conducted without regard to calendar or clock. Days melded together so much that I often forgot what day of the week it was. So I quickly decided that everyday was Monday. My team was stationed in Ba’qubah and that day I had to run a convoy 120 miles south to Sammara to check in on another team stationed there and then 200 more miles south to Tikrit. We always made good time driving the large SUV’s in convoys. We learned early on in the war that the faster and more aggressive we drove, the harder it was for the enemy to accurately gauge when to detonate a roadside bomb, or when to shoot a rocket at the vehicle. So at 90 mph and weaving through traffic like race car drivers, we made it to Sammara in short order. The team warned us that the locals had recently become distant and acted strangely around the soldiers they were familiar with. That was enough to remind us to stay vigilant. On our way out of Sammara, we have to travel through the market district. Market areas are the most dangerous areas for ambush. The enemy knows that if they open fire on American troops from a large crowd that those troops will not recklessly return fire into the crowd and endanger innocents. The market was only a mile away and tension was building. We had to slow the convoy speed down between 10-15 mph because of traffic and pedestrians. Each soldier scanned the crowds more intently. We looked at people’s hands and tried to determine what was in them. We looked to see if the streets emptied out when we arrived, which would mean that an attack was imminent, or if the people were simply annoyed by our presence. This time driving through the market area was uneventful. A sigh of relief, there would be no market ambush, this time. After making it though the market area, we began to accelerate and the noise from the huge engines in the SUV’s muffles every other sound. Within a moment, the ancient Tower of Babel comes into view. Driving past the Tower of Babel in Sammara always commanded my attention. I could not help but to recognize a piece of ancient history and human folly as well. I was awestruck. But being awestruck in Iraq can get a soldier killed. A rifle-shot pierced through the SUV outmatching the droning engine noise. The bullet broke through the door glass and passed within inches of my head exiting the roof of the SUV. I was surprised but not astounded. A gunshot produces a sound like nothing else. Everyone reacts differently to gunfire; anger was my reaction. “Stop the fucking truck now goddamn it!” I jerked so hard on the door handle that I broke it as I exited the truck. I drew my pistol and gripped it with both hands. I leveled it with my eyes and tucked in my elbows. I ran toward the area where the shot originated. Nearby road noise and screaming voices faded to a whisper. I could only hear my feet pounding against the ground and my heart throbbing. I began scanning the vicinity. I allowed my anger and adrenaline to gain control of my faculties and I viewed everything through tunnel vision. All I could see was what was in directly in front of me. Without peripheral vision I could be leading my team into an ambush. I paused just for a second to remind myself to look everywhere, and then continued. I wanted a target more than my next breath of air. Whoever shot at us wanted to kill me or worse; they wanted to kill one of my soldiers. Those facts made my anger boil into a rage. I wanted to kill whoever had shot at us. I located two targets I wanted them dead and I was going to have my way. Two males were running from the scene; one with an AK-47, the other with a pistol. I moved my index finger off of the slide and positioned it on the trigger. I started squeezing the trigger when I noticed that neither of my targets were adults; they were two boys. I released the trigger. I lowered my pistol two or three inches and looked intently at the targets. There was no doubt about it they were boys. My stomach knotted up. I ordered my soldiers to halt their pursuit and to take up security positions to my left and right side, their barrels pointed away from the boys. I would not let them shoot these children. I was the leader. That burden fell to me. I had no choice. I had to shoot these boys now, they ambushed us. Attacking us made those boys the enemy, but weren’t they still boys as well? Iraq was no lecture hall where moral decisions were made after lengthy debate. Decisions were made instantly, with a reality and profoundness impossible to appreciate in a safe and comfortable classroom. I raised my pistol again. I took aim and fired six or seven shots at the target’s back, the oldest one with the AK-47. The first two shots found their mark. The target started a forward tumble. A third round hit him, but not in the back. The bullet struck his head and caused it to twist. It twisted just enough that I could see his face and eyes. I could see his eyes glaze the moment he died. I charged forward at a full sprint toward the fallen shooter. I ran down a deep gulley and into sewer drainage where the boy’s body lay jerking. I kicked the AK-47 away from his hand out of instinct. He was dead. I wasn’t running to him to treat his wounds; I was getting a better shot at the other boy. As I ran closer to get a better shot I became nauseated, but I could not let that interfere. I took aim, but both of my hands were trembling. I stopped and fired another six or seven rounds; all of them missed. I released the near-empty magazine from my pistol. I took off at a sprint again toward the boy, reloading as I ran. After I slammed the fresh magazine into the well, I stopped again. I aimed my pistol again and squeezed one shot at the second boy. I shot him in the right thigh. The hollow-point hydra-shock bullet tore a mass of flesh from the child’s leg and left a cavity that could easily accommodate an adult fist. I kicked the pistol he had dropped away from his reach as he lay prostrate in the mud. It skipped several feet from him. I snatched the boy up by the sleeve and flipped him over, bouncing him off the ground. My cocked pistol was about two inches from his face. My rage still boiled and adrenaline caused my hand to tremble. I looked into the crying eyes of a child, not an enemy soldier. The boy begged in broken English, “Mister, Mister, Please! Please not kill me! Not kill me mister!” more tears rolled down his face; a face that could not have aged more than 10 years. I had killed one child and now I contemplated killing this boy. I knew this kid would never run and play, or climb the monkey-bars at school again. I was no longer morally numb. I could not kill another child. My rage calmed and I holstered my pistol so I could fill the bleeding flesh cavity with a curlex bandage. I took out my field dressing to secure the curlex in place. As I tightened the bandage in place, the boy’s pleas for mercy became cries for his mother. “Mommy, Mommy! Please Mister, Mommy, Mommy!” I tried to reassured him that he would be okay. The reality and finality of this situation filled me and my humanity would be suppressed no longer. I turned away from the boy and buckled to my knees. I vomited. As the other soldiers approached I wiped my mouth and tried to compose myself. But the vomit dripped down the front of my body armor and onto my trousers. “You okay Sergeant?” “Yeah I am alright. Let’s get the kid to a field hospital… Was anyone hit?” “No.” “Alright, establish a security perimeter around the area until we are ready to move out.” “Roger that.” Another soldier and I carried the younger boy up the hill to a field ambulance. A couple other soldiers brought the dead boy, now zipped in a body-bag, up the hill and threw him next to his friend in the ambulance. I ordered the security perimeter to collapse and for the convoy to proceed so we could make it to Tikrit before sunset. When I arrived in Tikrit I began writing a report of the day’s events. I asked another soldier what day it was. He said, “It’s Monday Sergeant.”

Love of My Life
Gwen A. Scamardo

Out of the mists of some other life,
You came to me.
Hurting
seeking
needy
Looking for something that you thought couldn't be.

From the first, a pull was there,
Sensed
fought against
finally embraced
Slower for you than for me.
But once embraced, no letting go.

Where before I thought my life full,
You came in,
lit up the empty spaces,
Filled them with your love.
And became the love of my life.

Now we love each other,
Please each other
fill each others needs.
How long do we have together?
Nothings guaranteed.

But for our time on earth and then beyond,
You'll always be
The love
of
my
life.

Josie and the Paper Roses
April Russell

Josie hadn’t missed a sunrise in twenty-five years. Even on those bleak winter mornings, when the wind raced across the ashy coastline and through the quiet frozen streets of Catyville where it grabbed the icy branches of the spindly elm trees and spun them in a dance of creaks and snaps, Josie could be seen tottering down the shiny cobblestone walkway in her faded apricot sweater. Her routine, meaningless by some accounts in the small whispery town, never varied except on those days when the vendors in Chitwood Square received their new stock. It was on these mornings that Josie took extra time to ready herself for the day’s adventure- packing her blue linen purse (instead of the smaller brown one) with an extra apple and two quarters to buy the Sunday Gazette. On these special days she wore a different scarf, too. It was light green, the color of fresh spring grass, she thought, and trimmed along the edges with tiny faux pearls. She wore it because the man who sold the paper roses would always tell her that it brought out the color of her eyes, and that always made her smile. “I do say, Miss Josie, that scarf sure do bring out the color of your eyes. How’d you like a nice paper rose?” Josie would smile that same tender, timid smile she gave to all the vendors who had come to know her over the years. The market didn’t officially open until nine, but when the merchants saw her making her way down Pike Lane with morning sun burning bright behind her narrow, hunching shoulders, they would grab their keys and begin unlocking the heavy wooden crates for her to rummage through. Although she rarely bought anything, the men never seemed to mind. They looked at her with a mixture of awe and intrigue, feeling strangely blessed by her unshakeable presence. For hours she would float through the maze of tables and boxes stacked high with everything from fresh fish to overpriced Italian rugs. With her hands, their tiny wrinkles a reminder of her fading youth, she would stroke each item, relishing the touch of the silky fabrics and cool glass pieces against her skin. She marveled at their colors: rich emerald feathers and bright magenta beads all spinning like a kaleidoscope before her eyes, dizzying her with an intoxicating swirl. The air around the marketplace buzzed with the sounds of life. The men shouted greetings at one another and heavy machines bumped and growled near the ports. The ocean slapped hard against the rocky shore, sending a relaxing hum into the salty breeze that floated past the tiny shops. Josie would stop and breathe it in deep, as far as it would go, her heart pounding. Next, she would take her seat at Willard’s stand, one of the last stops on her way home. His rose shop sat at the far side of the market square, the last vendor before the new seafood restaurant that had just came into town. “Catyville’s a changin’ everyday, Miss Josie,” Willard would say. “Ain’t nuthin’ ever stay the same.” She’d pull the lumpy apples from her purse, taking care to shine each one with the hem of her sweater before handing one to him. “No ma’am. ‘Bout the only thing I know the same ‘round here is my sorry ‘ole luck.” Then Willard would laugh. His was a deep, wheezy, raspy sort of laugh, one that both contrasted and complimented Josie’s shy, simple giggle. His hands shook slightly as he ran the rusty blade of his pocketknife through the ruby skin of the apple. “These here teeth would fly right out my head if I tried to bite into this thing.” And then with his tongue, he’d flick the plate at the roof of his mouth, sending the porcelain dentures shooting in and out of his moist purple lips like the head of a turtle. The roses rested in barrels around their feet and in dusty ceramic pots along the handmade tables that faced the eastern pier. From a distance they looked animated, as if an artist with a giant paintbrush had dipped down and blessed the dreary sky with a dash of color. They fascinated Josie with their simplicity and beauty. She’d watch in quiet amazement as Willard would wind the thin sheets of paper around the wire stems, each fold delicate and unique as the creases than ran deep within his dark, tired face. It was a trade he had learned from his father, the same man who had moved him and his brothers to Catyville a year before the flood had came through and took them all away. Since then life had been solitary, much the way it had been for Josie all these years. There were a few around who remembered it. The rest had just heard the tale passed on in barbershops and grocery store isles, where women with long cigarettes and babies on their hips would shake their heads in dismay. They would lower their voices whenever she’d pass by, pretending not to see her or that they didn’t know the truth. Frank had been Josie’s husband for the better part of his life. He was a fisherman and one of the best that the town had ever seen. Pictures of him and his prize-winning catch still lined the musty walls of the Catyville town hall. Frank had gone out one day when a storm struck and never returned. They found his boat two miles out on sea, the sails torn to thin strips by the harsh Atlantic winds. Josie waited hours that day, the story went. She waited long into the night on the eastern pier until the men returned in their search boats, a spotlight illuminating their solemn, stony faces. She walked home that night in silence and hadn’t spoken to anyone since. Even Willard, who she had sat with for decades, had never heard more from her than a weak laugh or sigh. Her eyes told him enough, he would tell the other vendors when they pressed him for answers- her eyes had said plenty. From Willard’s she would make her way towards the abandoned shore. Stepping out onto the creaky pier she paused, letting out a painful moan that shattered the silence of the mid-afternoon and scared away the seagulls that had been perched near the end, bathing in the leftover sun. She walked carefully to the end, leaning out as far as she could go, allowing the cool mist to blow against her face where it mingled with the moisture that filled her eyes and moved slowly down her cheeks. She reached into her bag and pulled out the newspaper she had picked up along the way, settling down into the spot where the seagulls had once been. She opened up the paper and began to read. Her voice floated out across the water, proud and clear, regaling each word to an invisible husband. She didn’t stop reading until she had finished each sentence, even the tiny ads that announced a sale on furniture or a band that was coming to town. Each syllable drifted from her mouth and sank sweetly into the deep blue sea where it was trapped with the fish, and the men, and the boats that would never again be seen. Gracefully, she rose to her feet and pulled the paper flower from her purse. In one smooth motion she tossed it from the pier and out into the sky. That same angry wind from years before snatched it up, twisting and twirling it like a shiny baton before dropping it to its watery grave. Josie watched as the petals darkened, floating for just a few seconds before filling with the cold, powerful fluid that would eventually drag them down. She then turned, pulling her sweater tight across her body, and headed back up the pier and down the tiny cobblestone streets that led her home.

The Naivety of Innocence
Nichelle Christian

White canvases are splashed with vivid images of days gone by.
The late 60’s and 70’s were speckled with flowers of innocence.
The problems of the day and the exploits of the future have
engulfed every crevice of the blank sheets.

I can hear my father screaming with joy and beckoning my sister and
I to come and look at the television. He is ecstatic! The first man has
walked where no man has walked before…on the moon. My dad is yelling,
“Look, he’s walking on the moon!” “Look…look!” He was filled with mad
excitement, while jumping up and down at the sight of this marvelous event.
While his two little girls,speckled with flowers of innocence,
joined in on his excitement and tried to grasp a
part of the future that was taking place before their eyes. The canvas is now
shining in vivid bright colors with a sunrise that permeates
to the very soul and refreshes the mind
and the spirit.

I go to school as the civil rights movement is fanning across the nation. My parents’ never spoke of the differences that overshadowed me during the day. I go to school, out west, during a new age, not even knowing that it was the age of equality. I rode on a school bus across town at a considerable distance to an unfamiliar place. I got rejected on the playground as I tried to join in with the other children, whom for some reason, did not want me to join in. The naivety of innocence was my companion. I go home to the apartment complex and play with the children who play for the joy of it. We played everyday in full contentment. These children resembled the ones’ who had rejected me on the playground at school. The differences between the children at the apartment complex and the children at school in their treatment of me, I never tried to decipher. It didn’t matter. Innocence was my best friend. At the complex, were they like me and didn’t know that society had already divided us? Or were they, like me, lost in the naivety of innocence? This experience does not allow the blemishes of the day to wilt one flower that speckles my heart. The canvas is shining bright and my soul is not discouraged. I look at my father and the world he has created for me is still the same… and it is beautiful! For, I saw myself in my father’s eyes.

I move down South and got the first realization of my color. I am ridiculed because
of the fairness of my skin and the long length of my hair. My accent does not fit
in…in the South. I am told for the first time that I am white by other children who, in my
eyes, look just like me. I ask my father, “Why Do they call me white?” He frowns and regrets
out loud the day that he brought my sister and I down South to live.
Disappointedly he says to my grandmother, “They didn’t even know what color they were until we moved down here.”

My dad has walked in the naivety of innocence. Although, he was not allowed to enter places where the signs read “white only” or “no colored,” he chose to walk and see everyone as being the same. So too, he taught us that it was the inside of a person that was important, not the outside. He guided my sister and me in that same innocence for as long as he could, never did he make a complaint of the limits that were placed on him by society in our presence. Society didn’t destroy the world he had created for himself and for us in his heart. He held on to his dignity an

text only
Prospective Students	Current Students	Alumni & Giving	Parents	Community

UA Fort Smith > Academics and Degrees > Colleges > College of Arts and Sciences > English Department > Applause

Applause