1. Bohemia -- July 2011

What is a Bohemian?? “Bo•he•mian•ism is the practice of an unconventional lifestyle, often in the company of like-minded peo-ple, with few permanent ties, involving musical, artistic or literary pursuits. Bohemians can be wanderers, adventurers, or vagabonds.” Wikipedia.com

The Bohemians at bohemia-journal.com report on the artistic scene in Waco, Texas. They showcase their work, highlight their personal interests, and share their life experiences.

Adopt a Bohemian::Our Bohemians need sponsorships in order to pursue their Bohemian endeavors. A monthly sponsorship of 25 dollars or more will put your business on the website in ad space next to your favorite Bohemian’s blogs, and would in part ensure that your Bohemian is off the streets, well-fed, safe, and clothed for another month.

Are you Bohemian? We are looking for “Bohemian” writers for the blog. Bohemia’s goal is to support 15 - 20 gifted writers in the community. Ideally, we want our writers to be able to support themselves and their craft. We are look-ing for writers who are passionate, young or young-at-heart, adventurous, funny, artsy, and BOHEMIAN. Bohemians are tech savvy and can post family-friendly articles in “blog-style” language. Please submit to [email protected] an example of your work, a bio, and a short essay, “Why I Am a Bohe-mian.”

page 3 • bohemia • july 2011

Bohemia

Amanda Newhouse-Hixson

Editor Extraordinaire

Take OffBohemians live to explore

Hit the road, take flight

As Bohemia launches into the universe

Our writers were challenged to take

inspiration from their journeys

Eric remembers Scotland

Jack channels Falkner in his ode to

New Orleans

Amanda R. is with the band, out on tour

Noelle meets a stranger on the

Greyhound

Jim experiences a road trip through the

eyes of his lab, Marcy

Laura goes to outer space

And I hit the beach

Do you care to join us?

Dear readers,A few months ago, I decided that Waco needs an art and literary journal. There are so many talented, creative, and artsy people here whose talents go unrecognized. I wanted writers to be able to see their poems and short stories in print. I wanted artists and photographers to be able to showcase their work and reach new audiences.

Special thanks to Jim McKeown, my former English professor at MCC, for mentoring me and being a friend all along the way. Thank

you, Penney Simpson, who saved the day! I called her frantic and overwhelmed with content and no layout. She put the sample issue together in one night. Thank you Rebecca Melton, gallantly driving all over town selling the ads, sometimes with kids in tow and into the night. She did the impossible and sold the whole issue in record time. Thank you Laura Walton for being my idol and (to my greatest delight) creating “Rocket” for our cover. Thank you Jessica Randazzo for our gorgeous cover shot. And finally, special thanks to Ayla B. and Gracie E., my little model muses and 2nd grade “tweens.”

Thank you writers, photographers, friends, and family. Putting Bohemia together has been great fun and I have met so many people who believe in Bohemia, believe in me, and believe in our community. This issue is dedicated to my teachers, especially the ones who said, “Amanda, you can do anything you want to do.”

Much love,

MCC alumRuthie Foster

returns to Waco for a night

of brilliant blues on the Bosque.

Sat., Sept. 248 p.m.

Tickets go on sale August 15.

www.mclennan.edu/brs

Our Bohemia StoryEric Doyle

We are believers and doubters, itinerants and natives, soccer moms and face-piercing misfits– bon vivants and motorcycle mechanics.

Our Bohemia is founded in contradiction: populated with third grade teach-ers and rogue scholars, power-tie businessmen and graffiti artists.

We are gypsies with mortgages, poets in minivans. We’ll leave Waco as soon as we graduate; we’ll be buried here beside our parents.

We’ve climbed Machu Picchu and played tour guide in Rome, accidentally stumbled into bordellos in Budapest. We’ve never left the state.

We’ve collectively canceled out each other’s votes for years.

We agree on very little except that

Waco can be lived more artfully.We are not Greenwich Village or old Montmartre. We will not ape the modes of LA and London: that affected disaffection, that anemic irony.

We are Central Texas, and our Bohemia will be of our own design.

We are likely to be provincial, unrefined, embarrassingly earnest. These are the risks of honesty.

We are the anti-zeitgeist, the everyday poets; collage artists playing in the Louvre. We’ve no grand designs, no rebellious credo. Bohemia is only a way to make our lives more human.

photos by: lisa hathawayphoto by: jessica randazzo


Colleagues and Contributors

Owner and EditorAmanda Hixson

Executive AssistantDamion Kidder

Design DirectorPenney Simpson of Shackworls Design Group

Staff WritersJim McKeownEric DoyleAmanda RebholzNoelle Argubright

PhotographersJessica RandazzoLisa HathawayLindsey Springer

Ad SalesRebecca MeltonLinda Carter Hill

Web Site ModeratorBenn Stimmel

Business ManagerJoel Wilkins

Contributors: Laura Walton, Jack Larimore, Jessamyn Deeds-Page, Cynthia Barrios & Joe Rooster. Look for Bohemia on Facebook and visit our blog www.bohemia-journal.com. Bohemia accepts submissions year-round. Send your work along with a 3 to 5 sen-tence bio and picture to: [email protected].

Issue one:: Launch7 .................................... out of this world poetry

10 .......................................Beall Poetry Festival

13 ...................... ticking hearts and blooming cogs

20 ................................................space traveler

19 ..............................................................grace

21 ..............................................bourbon sunrise

26 .................................... this one’s for the fans

30 ................................tales from the hound #3

32 ............................................marcy’s vacation

34 .......................solace calling, so who’s calling

Special thanks to Laura Walton for creating the metal rocket seen on the cover of this issue and throughout. Visit lauraliveshere.com to see more work by Laura Walton.


1300 Lake Air Dr. Waco, TX 76710254-732-0773www.plotzbooks.com

Sell and Buy Quality Used Books


Out of this world

poetry

If I Were a RocketLisa Hathaway

four, three, two, one..at last

the chains that bind me are released

I am set free to explore

with a loud rukkus

I knife through the air

as I dazzle the crowd

I receive some of the most

amazing yet blank stares

grab your camera, get ready

get set..go.. I am about to put

on a show

as I strip an outer layer

the one that gave me the boost

fuel for the fire to climb

as I propel higher and higher

I see nothing but darkness

along with tiny dancing lights

it’s all calm on the front

no one left to fight

It’s peaceful here

Goodnight....

photo by jessica randazzo


HomeJessamyn Deeds-Page

Oh, final frontier, where all voyagers roam

I look at you now from this place we call home

So distant, each comet, each planet, each sun

But here, where I sit, I can touch every one

I gaze out my window, inspired, alone

So grounded, down here, on this world we call home

My heart is in orbit; my mind is in space

My soul is six light years from this dismal place

No world is too distant, no quasar too far

No galaxy eludes, I can touch every star

Each black hole, or nova, or cluster of light

Seems closer to me than my next breath tonight

But my mind is on something much further from me

That place that I long for, but never can be

One far away speck gave my ancestors birth

I see, green and distant, a planet called Earth

Conflict Jim McKeown

Light traveling at the speed of sound, Sound traveling at the speed of light, Small wonder i can neither see Nor hear.

Darkness in the morning, Moon light at night, Small wonder i have to feel my way Around you.

Come to me and stay away, Go and hurry back, i wonder what you want And what i need.

Out of this world

poetry


RelativityCynthia Barrios

I returned to you as fast as I could Faster than anyone has ever returned to anyone Faster than light

It was my invention, you see Powered with quantum strings and relativity Set in a twisted hive of humming plasma rings It was my beauty

You called me reckless But at night you’d sigh And whisper of your failed experiments With teleportation and uncertainty

They called me genius And sent me to fly Twenty of my minutes, 10,000 of yours I pressed the gas just a bit too hard And shot into the black at ten times the speed of light

You spent five years waiting for the flash in the night that would be me In the time it took the ship to slow I turned it around in your hazy year With that man you met in Chicago And when I realized what I’d done, you’d been alone for three

I did the figures I knew that each neuron firing in my brain Was a day and a half for you That one thought of you were several months of You forgetting me

One day you wrote an equation on the side of a coffee cup, The letters and numbers lined precisely up And while a tear traced its way down my cheek, You grew old and built the teleporter You dedicated to me And to the death of relativity

I came back to you as fast as I could Faster than anyone, anyone Has ever come back for anyone Twenty minutes to travel uncounted trillions of miles But I was too late

Poetry

Out of this world


by Jim McKeown

In the mid-70s, now retired Baylor English Professor, Robert Kolmar, founded “The House of Poetry.” He established it to promote the love and reading of poetry, and, more importantly, to provide a venue for local poets to come together and read and share their work. In the 90s, Mrs. Virginia Ball, a 1940 Baylor graduate in English, attended a meeting of The House of Poetry. This en-counter inspired her to establish the John A. and DeLouise McLelland Beall Endowed Fund to honor her parents and to encourage the writing and appreciation of poetry.

Since 1995, Baylor has organized and hosted the annual Beall Poetry Festival, which has brought numerous renowned po-ets to Waco for a three-day symposium on poetry. Among the writers who have attended are Louise Glück, Adrienne Rich, Pulitzer prize winner, W.S. Merwin, Billy Collins, and Nobel Laureate Derek Walcott. This year’s poets included Natasha Tretheway, Susan Stweart, Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill, and critic George Lensing. The 17th annual festival, held April 6th to 8th, upholds the stellar reputation of this event.

The festival began on April 6th with a meeting of the House of Poetry. The opening reception was held in the foyer of Armstrong Browning Library, and the readings followed in the Cox Lecture Hall in the basement of the library.

Three Baylor students, Kimberly Gibson, Hannah Minick, and Erica Smith, whose poetry was selected by the committee for this year’s awards, began the readings. The next hour and half was filled with readings from local poets. Then, noted poet Gary D. Swaim, Creative Writing Faculty Advisor at SMU, lectured and read several of his poems. Comments were inter-spersed with his poems, which illustrated several of his points. He said, “Good poets see the whole world with sharpened eyes, and reflect wide-ranging experiences.” He mentioned Ranier Maria Rilke as the poet which influenced him the most.

Dr. Jesse Airaudi, this year’s chair of the House of Poetry, commented that the event was, “a great opportunity for poets to come to Baylor and experience the atmosphere of poetry, while sharing their own work.”

17th Annual Beall Poetry

Festival at Baylor University

Jim McKeown has an MA in Literature from Baylor University and an MFA in creative writing from National University. He teaches literature, creative writing, and composition at McLennan Com-munity College. He lives in Waco with his wife, two cats, and their faithful Lab, Marcy.

Photo by Jessica Randazzo. Stained glass window at Armstrong Browning Library at Baylor.


The group returned to Cox Foyer for a luncheon, which was followed by a workshop conducted by Anne McCrady, a poet based in Henderson, TX.

According to her web-site www.InSpiritry.com, she founded an in-novative company to put “words to work for the greater good.” Anne’s efforts have supported vibrant communities to improve social justice

and progressive social change.

Her workshop focused on strong opening lines for a poem. She said many things make a strong poem – the title, images, the last line, inner truth, emotion, structure, and cadence, but the first best place to capture the reader is with a strong first line. A handout provided examples from about ten poems by some noted poets, including Tony Hoagland, Natasha Trethaway, and Margaret Atwood.

A good example from this selection was “There is a Light in Me” by Anna Swir:

Whether in daytime or in nighttime

I always carry inside

a light.

In the middle of noise and turmoil

I carry silence.

Always

I carry light and silence.

Anne then challenged the workshop to write a poem using Swir’s title as a first line substituting a new word for “light.”

Eager to participate, I wrote:

There is a sigh in me,

when I leave the office

heading to class, or

when a good student

has not done her homework.

There is a sigh in me,

when class is over

and I head home, or

when I stir a cup of tea,

and the aroma takes me

back to when my mother

would sit with her tea

as I did my homework.

As every writer knows, workshops and sharing work are great sources of inspiration.

Anne concluded her talk with admonitions to “read, write, read, write, read, and keep a journal.”

The main events of the festival were all ahead, however. The three poets each had individual readings. George Lensing delivered the keynote address, the Virginia Beall Ball Lecture in Contemporary Poetry.

Wednesday evening saw the first reading by Natasha Tretheway. Natasha was born in Gulfport, Mississippi and earned a BA in English at the University of Georgia, an MA in English and Creative Writing from Hollins University, and an MFA in Poetry from the University of Massachusetts. She cur-rently serves as a professor of English and holds the Phillis Wheatley Distinguished Chair in Poetry at Emory University.

She read from her most re-cent collection, the Pulitzer Prize-winning Native Guard, which deals pri-marily with stories of a black regiment which served the Union in the Civil War and memories of her mother. One of the poems from this collection, “Again, the Fields,” has a particularly poignant tone,

No more muskets, the bone-drag

weariness of marching, the trampled

grass, soaked earth red as the wine

of sacrament. Now, the veteran

turns toward a new field, bright

as domes of the republic. Here

he has shrugged off the past – his jacket

and canteen flung down in the corner.

At the center of the painting, he anchors

the trinity, joining earth and sky.

The wheat falls beneath his scythe –

a language of bounty – the swath

like scripture on the field’s open page.

Boundless, the wheat stretches beyond

the frame, as if toward a distant field –

the white canvas where sky and cotton

meet, where another veteran toils,

his hands the color of dark soil. (31)

The second poet to read appeared on Thursday, April 7th. Susan Stewart was born in York, PA and earned a BA in English and Anthropology from Dickinson College, an MA in poetics from Johns Hopkins, and a PhD in folklore and folklife studies from the University


of Pennsylvania. Dr. Stewart is the Avalon Foundation University Professor in the Humanities and Professor of English at Princeton University. She has several vol-umes of poetry, includ-ing Columbarium in 2003, which won the National Book Critics Circle Award.

Much of Stewart’s poetry has unusual structure and tone. Most are too long to re-produce here, but one of her shorter, more interesting pieces is “shadow / Shadow”:

You came upon me like a shadow

and you came into me like a shadow

and there you dwelled within me

and I in you;

we were cast on the black water –

we were cast by the will of the wind

--then drawn onto the darker

shore where no things grow

and the dry leaves gather

and we cannot recognize

the forms of light. (84)

Stewart’s poetry has a gentle and smooth cadence, which provides enough concrete imagery to allow the reader to delve deep into the thoughts behind the words.

The shining star of the festival, however, was, as always, saved for the last night – the Friday reading. Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill (pro-nounced, “knee-ala nigh donal”) had a delightful voice. As an add-ed treat, she read her poetry first in English then Gaelic. She was born in Lancashire, England of Irish parents and moved to County Tipperary, Ireland when she was five. She studied English and Irish at University College Cork, receiving a BA in 1972. She currently lives near Dublin. She has served as a visiting professor at Boston College, the University of Notre Dame, and Villanova University in Pennsylvania. She writes exclusively in Gaelic, and her poetry has been translated by a variety of well-known Irish poets, including Seamus Heaney and Paul Muldoon. She lamented that her latest collection of poetry, The Fifty Minute Mermaid, had not yet been published in the states.

An interesting piece – which demonstrates her native-born talent for story telling appears in her collection, The Water Horse. All the poems she read have the feel of a talented story teller sitting before

a roaring fire on a windy night, sharing the myths and legends of Ireland. “You Are” is representative of her poetic abilities:

Whoever you are, you are

The real thing, the witness

Who might lend an ear

To a woman with a story

Barely escaped with her life

From the place of battle.

Spring, the sweet spring, was not sweet for us

Nor winter neither.

We never stepped aboard a ship together

Bound for America to seek

Our fortune, we never

Shared those hot foreign lands.

We did not fly over the high hills

Riding the fine black stallion,

Or lie under the hazel branches

As the night froze about us,

No more that we lit bonfires of celebration

Or blew the horn on the mountainside.

Between us we welled the ocean

Waves of grief. between us

The mountains were forbidding

And the roads long, with no turning.

The annual Beall Poetry Festival provides a real feast for poets and lovers of poetry. Mark your calendar now for April 2012. The Baylor Website will provide updates as they are available. Visit http://www.baylor.edu/beall Ï

Works Referenced:

Ní Dhomhnaill, Nuala. The Water Horse. Winston-Salem, NC: Wake Forest U.P., 2000 Stewart, Susan. Columbarium. Chicago: U. of Chicago P., 2003 Trethewey, Natasha. Native Guard. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2006


“People just drop stuff off here all the time.” Laura is standing outside the stand-alone ga-rage that serves as one of her work stations, paint-spattered and happy to see us. She’s explaining the stacks of junk huddled about her workspace, trailing around the outside of the ga-rage, filling a whole storage shed out behind. I spot a 60s-era radio, the re-mains of an ancient sewing machine, an industrial auger nearly as big as Laura, and what may be the infa-mous lead-lined refrigerator from the fourth Indiana Jones film. Those are the bits I can identify, mixed in with rusting pieces of furniture, horse-shoes, and rubble – watched over by a burlap-and-plaster mannequin seated regally on a chipped wooden chair.

It’s all been picked over, split open and harvested for parts, the husks left here like some macabre boneyard of forgotten objects.The interior of Laura’s home is even more startling: sculptures scattered across most surfaces, art on every wall. I don’t mean art hung on the walls (though there’s certainly a good bit of that) – the walls are ac-tually art. “My house is more studio than house,” Laura explains. “For some reason I like to clear every-thing out and work in the kitchen.” Apparently, on the kitchen as well. The walls are haphazardly painted with a complex brush stroke pattern (or is it sponged?). “I was trying out a new painting technique for the theater and I thought I’d try it out at home

first – I got halfway through it and thought, ‘Ok, it works.’ – and quit. So now I have half the wall painted.” There’s a set of interlocking wheels jutting out of the hallway wall, la-beled cryptically like some sort of fortune-telling device, an expensive-looking telescope in the study, and more computer parts than one person should ever own.“If you ever have any electronic parts, don’t throw them away! When they die, they can come to me.” Laura’s artwork is made up of these junked items, welded together, quite literally, with more organic pieces. “Most of my stuff, as you can see, is collage-y,” bits and bobs fused into meaning. But for someone who uses so much technological detritus

Laura Walton::: Ticking Hearts and Blooming Cogs by Eric Doyle

photos by: jessica randazzo


Laura’s Gallery

Biological Imperative

Crop Circuit

Tree

Blue Tower


in her work, she’s “actually not all that technical.” In fact, Laura’s col-lege education focused on medieval literature – seemingly a far cry from modern sculpture and art, especially art that makes use of so many com-puter parts.

Case in point: what appears to be a blackened treestump, desiccated and frail-looking, jutting out of the ground in her front yard. Clear wires bloom from its fissures, winding around its sides, covered in what looks like dried tree sap; one of them ends in a mottled green-and-black tuber like some diseased pus-tule. It’s a lightbulb. Into one side of the stump is stuck the inner work-ings of – something. A lightswitch? Power outlet? The whole thing is fairly disquieting. It’s only on closer inspection that I see the exposed re-bar, realize it’s all made of concrete. I had thought I was looking at some unholy perversion of nature, but it’s not even that – it’s a simulacrum of nature, built entirely by human hands. Somehow that makes it even more unsettling.

“I like the mix of organic and ma-chine, that melding of digital and analog.” Laura’s work is posthu-manist, in a sense: focused on the dissolving line between biological encoding and technical program-ming, growing beings and manu-factured objects. She draws on the earthy, gritty groundedness of the medieval past to inform her vision of a digital future. In some ways, it seems to be a statement on the pres-ent: that we are the awkward middle children of history, profoundly between in this pregnant moment, expecting the birth of something entirely different from ourselves. Rushing madly toward our own obsolescence. These are the sort of topics that interest Laura.

“There’s this theory that, technologi-cally speaking, we’re on an expo-nential curve – and at some point we’re going to hit a straight upward curve. Some thinkers ascribe it to developing quantum computing and finally creating an AI that is more intelligent than we are. And the instant we do that, all bets are off, because we can’t conceive what comes after that – because the AI is more intelligent than we are. I firmly believe that this is coming, and probably within our lifetimes.”

This futurism melds with Laura’s academic roots to create some truly unique artwork: propped outside her door is a piece of castoff plywood, painted with the face of a medieval Irish saint. A computer’s hard drive is affixed to his face. A harsh col-lision of past and future.“These particular ways of looking at the world seem to be two sides of the same coin. Really the medieval out-look is so of the earth – you know, with the Arthurian myths, all they’re talking about is stewardship of the land, stewardship of the people. It’s

very hierarchical.” This provides a stark contrast with futurist visions of society, with the digital revolution and the collapse of class division. “I think that’s one of the reasons why my work is so collage-based.” Laura takes pieces of past and present and tries to envision the future – to chart the human trajectory and envision art forms yet to come.

Laura is especially interested in biologically based art. “I was read-ing that someone had created a fluorescent bunny. They spliced a gene into this rabbit to make it glow bright green.” The moral questions raised by this sort of advancement are profound: should humans be tinkering with the biology of liv-ing organisms to create art? “I think there should be serious limits to this sort of thing – but you cannot stop it. We have the tools; it’s just a mat-ter of time until it happens.” These are the sorts of things Laura hopes to help answer – not by providing them herself, but by creating art that forces us to ask the same questions that keep her up at night. Ï

photos by Lisa Hathaway


1. diminishing returns The way you can go for months sometimes

without noting the details, like

the deals you make to keep certain friends,

the flowers that open, live, and die without you,

and the roots that bloom, and the red red flags

that shout “Warning! Pipes, Underground!”

as alien here as any yoofo and equally ineffable.

Or the way a poet’s thighs go soft and limp,

just like anyone else’s after summer’s over.

I wasn’t looking. They stole my pass

and then I could only watch the crowded sky,

perfected in the mirror of the river.

these clouds float still as rocks, and there’s that sense

of nauseous overwhelm that we (unbelievers!) call awe:

upside-down and least expected, falling away

from the core of things, a passage

beneath the shade of a day-hidden star.

2. interim The way going into yourself becomes a threat.

The way one day, and all unnoticed, your insides

turn against you and others, like holly spikes that burst

from soft green, or brown spikes of crown-of-thorns

in rows as neat as you please. Or maybe the way

you scrabble in dried leaves for that old alchemy

(the eye and the circle, the blood and the semen)

in bits and bytes, in circuitous light,

in noiseless noiseless current, and the vital paths.

It was enough, wasn’t it? Enough to have held

more than even you can cry over, held it hot and electric

in your hands, your arms, your strong strong legs,

in your soul as old and grainy as oak? Enough

to have had? To have been? To have lived?

3. nova Or maybe it’s just the way the sunsets fall in late winter,

when each night is as long as an eon.

Or the way you linger over increasingly small pleasures,

like ripe roasted corn with fresh-churned butter

from the neighbor’s Guernseys, finally

like honey and locusts. Or the way you sit and wonder

at how you almost died, again and again and again,

of some grand passion or other, their names gone,

their particulars as faded as last season’s marigolds.

Too late, the trail became too steep.

Past the young father and the younger-still son,

past the pendant grapes and ripening berries,

past vistas and valleys, watershed moments,

it shines: the summit, and a peculiar

unity—oh, the height!—its choices rise

narrow and harsh, and also beautiful.

We cry out; we are thusly born,

raging and clinging with one small hand

to this old generous breast, as we thrust the open

and empty fist into the star-strung blackness.

Space TravelerLaura F. Walton


FAVORITE SONG:

Don’t have just one, but do you remem-ber “Music From The Hearts of Space”? Remember driving in the middle of the night, nothing going but NPR and the highway? How you felt like you were anybody and no-body at all, and that was a good thing?

Hey, it’s still around. I just discovered this.

FAVORITE WEBSITE:

My favorite website at the moment is Recyclart at www.recyclart.org. This chang-es weekly, though.

FAVORITE FOOD:

Either green curry or peanut butter and ap-ples. I could live happily on green curry and peanut butter and apples.

FAVORITE RESTAURANT:

Bangkok Royale or Jason’s Deli for their salad bar

FAVORITE PIECE OF CLOTHING:

This is a specific generalization, get me? A pair of Levi’s jeans that has just been demot-ed from “wearable in company” to “only for

painting in.” It’s the most comfortable stage in the life cycle of pants.

FAVORITE BOOK:

Oh wow…too many to list. How about Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy.

FAVORITE GADGET:

My Droid. Period.

FAVORITE KEEPSAKE:

A scratchboard drawing of a dragon given to me by my son when he was eleven

FAVORITE MOVIE:

Coppola’s The Black Stallion and Men In Black. The first helps me remember to cry, and the second helps me remember to stop.

FAVORITE QUOTE:

“I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.” ~ John Ashbery

Or, on other days: “The philosopher Didactylos has summed up an alternative hypotheosis: ‘Things just happen. What the hell.” ~ Terry Pratchett

Laura F. Walton is an artist and writer living in Central Texas. Her poetry has appeared in national publications such as Glitterpony, Bathtub Gin, and Kalliope, and she shows her artwork in Waco, Dallas, and elsewhere. She also does theatrical design and teaches creative writing classes for adults. Visit her website at www.lauraliveshere.com. Photo by Jessica Randazzo.


Music – monthly concerts and annual opera

Theatre – four productions each year

Visual Arts – three on-campus galleries

Hispanic Heritage Festival – annual spring celebration

Casa de Café – literary and arts event benefiting

A Storybook Christmas

www.mclennan.edu

Next Up: Nancy Weems on Sept. 11 McLennan Steinway Series – free

concerts spotlighting MCC’s Steinway pianos

Dr. Ben Carson on Sept. 20 McLennan Distinguished Lecture Series – annual lectures by nationally known speakers

Ruthie Foster on Sept. 24 Bosque River Stage –

outdoor amphitheatre with free summer concerts and other performances


My first kiss came from the cherry-sweet lips of a Grace dressed up like a Catholic schoolgirl. Perched on the fake-marble countertop of a men’s public restroom, she was Aphrodite on a Corinthian pedes-tal—and she had so much to teach me about love: highschoolers always kiss with their tongues. Girls think cuddling is weird, their shirts (un)button from the wrong side, and they never want to hear me say “I love you”. In fact, it’s better not to talk much at all.

That Grace isn’t my Grace—not that my Grace is really mine. My Grace is Scotland. Rather, my Scotland is Grace. Either way, seven years after the first Grace dropped me like Enola Gay, I found myself sprinting to-ward a Scottish bus station and my second, departing Grace.

That Spring was a good season for me. Maybe the best. I had studied abroad before, but not for a full semester, and this time I would actually be taking classes at a foreign university. There were fourteen of us from Baylor, six staying in the same dorm. For the first time I had no car, no cell phone, no fam-ily or friends anywhere nearby. What I had was a BritRail pass, three class periods per week, and a wanderlust born of the knowl-edge that this was an experience I‟d only have once.

St. Andrews was a quiet college town, its cobbled streets calmly bustling under the

watchful eyes of its dozen steeples—except on Tuesdays, when the pubs were roaring and drunk undergrads roamed the streets looking for love, or home, or the town’s lone folk band. We never did figure out why Tuesday was the drinking night. On any other night we might break into the ruined cathedral to scale someone’s broken legacy and ar-gue philosophy. Or we might go for a walk through the storied Old Course, the home of golf. One night some of us went down to the beach in the wee hours and had an epic sea-weed fight in the freezing wet moonlight. It was utterly different from anywhere I’d ever been.

I vaguely recall the first time I met Grace in our high-ceilinged dining hall, though I didn’t think much of it at the time. She was just another American from a university I’d never heard of, taking a semester abroad like the rest of us. Only later would I see her as beautiful. She’s the sort of girl that grows on you.

She was prettier than she looked. With a freckled nose, a crooked grin, and a face that could scrunch up like a raisin, she was more adorable in motion than a camera’s cold eye could capture. That grin was catching. You couldn’t help but smile around Grace, es-pecially when she was excited about some-thing. “What if,” she’d ask wide-eyed and abruptly, “we had kangaroo legs and had to

hop everywhere? How would we ride bicy-cles?” From anyone else, questions like that would raise doubts of mental competency. From Grace they were somehow natural and endearing. She was always barefoot and running, or playing her bagpipes, or telling stories about pirates. She loved the beach, though the North Sea was freezing cold, and could never quite get the hang of throwing a frisbee.

She was part of our group—and our group was all there was. We’d all left family and friends and significant others six time zones back and I, for one, hardly gave them a sec-ond thought. My Scotland was too perfect to care about what I’d left or who I’d been or what would happen afterward. It was a fairy land. It was green and flowering, the big-gest pests were bunnies rather than coyotes, and their bumblebees were so fat and slow-moving that I’m unconvinced anyone with a pulse could be stung by one. I’d left the real world behind.

I was different in Scotland. For a boy who’d worn shorts all his life, putting on a coat and scarf every day felt like playing a character. I guess I was. I’d always disliked groups of people, but in Scotland they were always in my room, talking about our next train trip or rugby or EuroVision. I grew used to the rain and slowly differentiated “pants” from “trousers”. I listened to Ryan Adams and


Simon and Garfunkel instead of death metal and prog rock. I smiled more.

Grace was always smiling. Maybe that’s why I loved her. She was usually underfoot, rid-ing the merry-go-round in Lade Braes Park when we tired of Ultimate Frisbee, or pranc-ing round in circles with me trying to learn the traditional Scottish Ceilidh. Everywhere we went she was laughing and asking her non sequitur “What if…?” questions or de-manding a piggy back ride or chasing bun-nies. Through it all she kept grinning that crooked grin, enjoying every unshod step. She was my Scotland.

That’s why I chased after her when I real-ized she’d gone. Richard Gere would have caught her. Hugh Grant never would have let her go. Harrison Ford would have leapt onto the speeding bus, defused the bomb, and shot three terrorists in the head. I am not leading man material. I had no plot twist to save me as I puffed up to the station and watched my Scotland disappear behind a cloud of diesel fumes. The Vodafone lady on the back-of-the-bus advertisement smiled cheerily at me as she rumbled around the corner. Bitch.

I am no great lover. Romeo embraced the happy dagger; Marc Antony, his sword. I took a nap. Days later, I came home. I didn’t keep much contact with Grace after that. Scotland isn’t part of the real world; there’s no room for Grace in Texas. Still, when Hurricane Ike came along and we were told to stay inside and board up our windows, I went out. I walked Baylor campus, barefoot in the rain—and found I was still in love. Ï

grace

FAVORITE NEW ARTIST:

Seryn

FAVORITE SONG:

Josh Ritter’s Another New World (search YouTube for the incredible live version re-corded at Koncerthuset, Copenhagen)

FAVORITE WEBSITE:

LaughingSquid.com

FAVORITE FOOD:

Brazilian Churrasco


Around here? Kitok.

FAVORITE BOOK:

How about a series? A Song of Ice and Fire. (I wrote my MA thesis on it. Yes, seriously.

FAVORITE KEEPSAKE:

I have a toy John Deere tractor my grand-father bought for me before he died. I was too young to remember him, but I’ll always keep that tractor.

FAVORITE MOVIE:

Glory

FAVORITE QUOTE:

“[H]e wrapped himself in quotations - as a beggar would enfold himself in the purple of Emperors.” ~ Rudyard Kipling

FAVORITE GADGET:

I have a love/hate relationship with my GPS.


I have a corduroy smoking jacket that I love.

FAVORITE PICK-UP LINE:

“If this was a Cold War, we could keep each other warm.” ~ Josh Ritter

FAVORITE LIE:

I really enjoy conspiracy theories. It’s amaz-ing how difficult it is to truly prove a thing.

FAVORITE JOKE:

Something crass, I’m sure.

Eric Doyle holds degrees in philosophy and medieval history -- neither of which seems to be very employable. He lives in Waco, has an unnatural ha-tred for pigeons, and washes dishes for a living. Photos by Jessica Randazzo


It was the third day when Steven Cuthbert realized what was different. The sense of pe-culiarity began to seep into his senses on day one. He had walked these streets many times before, but this time things were different. Everything about the city had a different feel – not so much the city as his interaction with it. Nonetheless, for three days, he could not put his mental finger on the identity of the difference.

Many things were the same. He lodged at the Maison Dupuy just as on all the previous visits. The sounds of jazz and the blues tick-led his ears on every street corner. Bourbon Street was as uninviting and he as devoid of interest in it as ever. That was different, at least from early trips to the Crescent City. And it was unseasonably mild for late April, not to mention the virtual absence of humid-ity. But neither of those anomalies was the source of the aberrant feel.

I’ve been here before. When was that? The first time or the second? Wait… yes… it was the first time. I remember this lobby. There’s a nighttime-only bar on the second level that overlooks the lobby. Yep, there it is. She was staying in this hotel. That’s right. We came here the last night and hung out in the bar until they kicked us out. She was drunk, I’m sure. What year was that? Well, it was right after Elizabeth and I broke up. That would

have been… ninety-seven. Wow… that was fourteen years ago. Seems like yesterday and a distant memory at the same time.

“Yes, ma’am. Grande skinny vanilla latte, please.”

I wish this Starbucks were in the lobby of the Dupuy. Oh, well. It’s worth the walk..

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Steven walked along the narrow streets of the French Quarter back to his hotel on the first morning of his visit. He arrived the night before and immediately crashed in his hotel room. He fell asleep to the thought that maybe – just maybe – he actually was get-ting old… or at least older. It was a thought he kept at a distance as much as possible.

Something is different – the feel of this place. What is it? Do I not want to be here? Okay, seriously, that’s just silly. But some-thing is different. No clue what’s different, but something is.

I remember this corner. That was the first trip, too. She was over there. It was the first time I had ever seen… She was so appeal-ing, so intriguing, so… wrong. But I remem-ber that made me want her even more.

The memory flooded his mind, such to the point that he could not walk. Steven just

stood on the street corner as other people brushed past him on their morning walks. His eyes were fixed on the opposite side of the street. He sipped his coffee and visual-ized how the encounter took place – him sit-ting on the street corner where he now stood, her standing against the wall of the bricked building. She glanced over, and they made eye contact. He looked away in shame. He could sense her softly laughing at him with-out even looking back across the street. But the intrigue would not let him go. He glanced back to find her coyly smiling at him with a slightly raised eyebrow and a subtle nibble of her bottom lip. He looked away and tried to act as if he hadn’t even noticed her. But the allure of it all brought his eyes back to her every few seconds. She noticed, and he noticed her noticing. Finally, he stood and walked away. The visual encounter from afar was more than enough for him, at least at that point in time. He slithered off into the night in his direction; she slithered off into the night in her direction. That was the end of the affair.

“Welcome back, Mr. Cuthbert. Enjoy duh mornin’ stroll?”

“Yes, sir, Willie. You know I’ve always had an affinity for the Quarter in the morning – the earlier the better. You know, before all the mayhem begins?”


“Yes sir, Mistuh Cuthbert. I understand. It’s a shame so many people don’t know nothin’ ’bout duh Quartuh ’cept duh mayhem. Lots a diff’rent sides to duh Quartuh. And dere ain’t just two sides to dis quartuh, neithuh, if ya catchin’ my drift.”

“Hmmph… Yeah, I’m catching it, Willie. This place has so many sides to it you need more than a quarter to see them all.”

“Dat’s duh damn truth right dere.”

“Say, who’s playing over at Snug Sunday night?”

“I’ll check for ya, Mistuh Cuthbert. Dere’s been a piano man playin’ Sundays here late-ly. I ’spect it’ll be him, but I’ll find out for ya. Not gonna go dere tonight for Ellis?”

“Unfortunately, no. I have to work tonight. This is a work-first trip.”

“I see, I see. Well, don’t work yaself too much. Gots tuh enjoy duh Harbor at some point while ya here.”

“I’ll be there Sunday night no matter what.”

“Dat’s my man! Catch ya later, Mistuh Cuthbert.”

“Steven, Willie. Steven.”

“Ya tell me dat every time ya come stay wit’ us, but ya know I’m still gonna call ya Mistuh Cuthbert.”

Steven smiled and walked to the elevator.

“Ya gonna make it ovuh to Acme?”

“Lunch. Tomorrow.”

“Attaboy.”_________

My mother would be a fish out of water in this place._________

The line at Acme was surprisingly short for noon on a Friday – only about ten people. Steve took his spot in line on the sidewalk along Iberville Street.

I remember making fun of Mom and Papa when I was a teenager. Why would you want to watch people? That sounded so boring. Now I love it. Yep, I’m getting old. Whatever, I’m only thirty-five. It’s not like I’m knocking on death’s door.

When was the first time I came here? Let’s see… It was right after the divorce. That was

a good trip. Totally revived me. This place always has done that. Don’t know why, but it has.

What to eat? Gotta go with the oyster poboy. Maybe a cup of gumbo. Chicken or seafood? I’m thinking…

“Steven Cuthbert?”

Chicken.

“Wow… Julie Kaufmann. How are you?”

“I’m doing well. How are you? I haven’t seen you since high school.”

“Yeah, let’s not count the years.”

“Oh, I know. Do you live here?”

“No, I’m just in town for a few days. Work stuff. What about you?”

“Yeah, I live here… over near Chez Nous.”

“Really? That’s awesome. Did you sustain damage?”

“No, it’s a second-level place. It was my grandfather’s… been in the family forever. He died when we were in high school and left it for my parents. They rented it for a while, but after Katrina they had a hard time filling it. I came down a few years ago to look after it for the summer and just never left. It’s just my kind of place.”

“I love that part of town. The music scene over there is wonderful.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“I work at little coffee shop in the Quarter, near the Square. I was in sales for years and then woke up one day and accepted the fact that it wasn’t for me. Came down here that summer and never looked back.”

“That is so… wonderful. I’ve wanted to do something like that for years; I just can’t seem to pull the plug.”

“I know what you mean. It took me a few years to get up the courage to do it. Once I did, it was the best thing for me without a doubt. The simple life is a much more enjoy-able life.”

“Cuthbert!”

“Sounds like your table’s ready.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Hey, it was really good to see you.”

“Yeah, same here. How long are you in town?”

“Just for a couple more days. I fly back Monday.”

“I feel so rude for not even asking anything – just blabbering on. Where do you live?”

“Um… Austin… Texas.”

“Yeah, I know where Austin is, silly. What are you doing there?”

“Not much, really. Just work and… well, work.”

“Do you still write?”

“Yeah, some. There just doesn’t seem to be as much time anymore. The job really weighs me down most of the year. … Say, um, forgive me for being a bit forward, I don’t even know your situation or anything but… Well, I’m going over to Snug Harbor tomorrow night. Would you wanna join me and catch up some more?”

“That would be great. I love Snug. It’s just a couple blocks from my place. Where are you staying?”

“Maison Dupuy.”

“Nice. Well, look. Here’s my number. Just give me a call tomorrow sometime, and we’ll hook up.”

“Outstanding. I’m really glad you noticed me.”

“Me, too. We have a lot of catching up to do. Let’s not count the years, though, right?”

“Hmmph. Yeah… right.”

“Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Julie Kaufmann. Wow. She’s one I always wanted to see again. One of the few from high school, I suppose. She’s aged well. Still has the eyes. Could stare into them for hours._________

The warmth and mugginess was to return that day. The sadistic part of Steven’s nature looked forward to it. He sat on the balcony of his hotel room, sipping a cup of coffee and picking at his room-service breakfast. It was early Sunday morning, just after dawn. This was his favorite part of the day in the Quarter. Everything was quiet and peace-ful in the early morning hours. The closest things to noisy were the street sweepers and trucks unloading goods at restaurants and bars. He was intrigued by the stark contrast to the revelry that enveloped the Quarter

Bourbon Sunrise continued


only hours prior. He called it a “bourbon sunrise.”

Steven walked to his satchel and pulled out a poem he wrote during a previous visit – it was titled “Bourbon Sunrise.”

Along the road we walked together,

Placing time on our shelves.

How much does the hour weigh?

Nothing stands in our way

But ourselves.

We see the dangers around us,

Making choices we make so sincere.

But nothing is unclear if it’s something.

Voices from afar pealing—

Shapes on the ceiling

We are.

All our steps have disappeared,

The distance is faded.

All we are is who we are,

Existence is jaded.

All our steps have reappeared,

The danger is traded.

All we are is who we scar,

The anger is shaded.

Maybe I should learn to try—

A message of warning.

Maybe I should learn to fly

Around here this morning.

I could learn my heart to show,

And surely flee disguise.

I could learn to let it go,

And surely see sunrise._________

“Mistuh Cuthbert. How you doin’ tonight?”

“I’m doing well, Willie. What’s shakin’?”

“Oh, ya know. Nothin’ but ya hand and my hand.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

“Snug tonight?”

“You know it.”

“Cab for ya?”

“Yes, sir. Please.”

“My pleasure, Mistuh Cuthbert. My pleasure.”

“You know, Willie, if I never make it to New Orleans again, I’m quite certain you’ll be what I miss most.”

“Den ya ain’t goin’ to the right places. Heh, heh, heh, heh…”

“No, my man. You’re the best.”

“Well, thank ya, Mistuh Cuthbert. How’s ya visit been dis time?”

“Good. Different, but good.”

“What’s diff’rent?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure out what’s different for the past three days, and I just can’t get it. But something’s different.”

“In a bad way?”

“No, no. Nothing bad. Just… different.”

“Hmmmm… Maybe what’s diff’rent is you. Ya know? Jus’ at a diff’rent spot in ya life.”

“Maybe… That’s a good point. I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

“Sometimes ya gotta look at things a little diff’rent to see why dey diff’rent.”

“Like I said, Willie… I’ll miss you the most.”

“Aw, shut up and get in ya cab. Al’ight, Mistuh driver. Mistuh Cuthbert here goin’ over dere to Snug Harbor.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m what’s different. _________

Julie Kaufmann. I should have asked her out in high school. I wonder if things would

have turned out differently if…

“Well, you beat me here.”

“Hey, Julie. Yeah, that may be a first for me.”

“I’m notoriously late.”

“That makes two of us.”

Steven and Julie made their way to a table in the back room. The conversation was quick and easy, like two old friends even though it had been nearly two decades since they last spoke. They discussed everything from work to relationships to family and old friends. He shared with her about his marriage and di-vorce. She shared with him about her broth-er’s death. The bond of trust and comfort still was there after all the years.

After the show, Steven walked Julie to her place. She invited him in for more conver-sation. He accepted, and they sat on her balcony, sipped on red wine and continued swapping stories from yesteryear.

“How did the guys miss you all these years?”

“Maybe they didn’t… Ha! No, I’ve dated plenty but I just don’t have any desire to get into anything serious unless there’s long-term potential. So far, I’ve not found that person. I’m okay by myself. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love to meet the right per-son, but I’m not afraid of being single. What about you? Think you’ll ever get married again?”

“Maybe, I dunno. Not sure I’m marriage material.”

“Why do you say that? I’m sure you’re a lot different than when you were married the first time.”

“Yeah, but I’ve learned in the past year or so how careless I’ve been with relationships since then. Not that I treated girls wrong or cheated or anything. I just always felt the need to be in a relationship. So I was miser-able when I wasn’t in one and would get into one anytime the opportunity presented itself whether the person was right for me or not. The past year has been good for me to deal with some things on my own. I’m now right where you are. I’m not afraid to be single.”

“And they say that’s right when you meet someone.”

“What do they know?”



“Ha! Yeah, seriously. So, why didn’t you ever ask me out in high school?”

“What?”

“Steven… The whole school knew you had a crush on me.”

“Well… Hmmm… Since you put me on the spot… I dunno. We were good friends, and I didn’t think you would have ever thought of us as anything…”

“You should have.”

“What?”

“You should have asked me out. We were good friends. And that’s usually a pretty good basis for a relationship. Whatever, though. That was years ago. You missed your chance. Besides, you were still in your shell. But I don’t think you’re in that shell anymore.”

“No, I came out of the shell after my divorce – probably too much so.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just did a lot of stupid things in the few years after the divorce – a lot of things I wish I hadn’t done. I’m solid in my faith, and I trust in God’s grace. But there are things I genuinely regret. People who say you shouldn’t have regrets never made the mis-takes I made. Or they just have a completely different set of values, I suppose.”

“That’s possible. But your mistakes don’t make your life. It’s what you do with them.”

“I totally agree. I’ve reached peace about those things. There’s nothing I can do oth-er than not make the same mistakes again. I’m in a really good spot right now when it comes to past mistakes and even future pros-pects. For a long time all I did was look back and peak forward. Now I pretty much just live in the moment.”

“That’s the way to be.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty much at the best point in my life right now. I mean, sure, I’d love to quit my job and take the plunge like you, and there are plenty of dreams and goals ahead. But by and large, I’m in a great place right now. But don’t be surprised if you look up in a week and I’ve quit my job and moved to New Orleans.”

“Just make sure there’s water in the pool be-fore you dive.”

“Good point. Well, it’s getting late, I really should go.”

“You can just crash here if you’d like. I don’t have to be at work tomorrow until noon.”

“Thank you, but I need to check out in the morning and get to the airport. Flight’s at 11. Besides, I’ll be back to town in June, and we can pick up from here.”

“Sounds like a date to me. Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“No, I’ll walk. It’s not that far.”

“Trust me. It’s not as safe as it once was, if it ever was. Let me get you a cab.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll just catch one on the street. … Thanks for a really fun night. It’s a lot of fun catching up with you.”

“Let’s not go another however many years it’s been.”

“How about in a couple months?”

“I’d like that. But don’t feel like you have to be here for us to talk. You can call me anytime. I’m not opposed to rekindling a friendship.”

“I’d like that.”

Steven left the apartment and waited for a cab on the street corner. He then realized the difference.

That’s it. There’s no relationship residue. All the other times I’ve been here, it was within a few months of the end of a relationship. It’s always been my oasis. Not this time. I’m just here. That’s the difference. I guess Willie was right, the difference is me. … It was good to see Julie. I missed her. I can’t wait to get back here in June. She’s still as beautiful as ever. It’s a shame we live so far apart. I wonder what it would take to… oh, never mind…

“Taxi!”_________

When Julie arrived at work the next day, all eight people in the coffee shop had their eyes glued to a small television in the corner of the room.

“What’s going on?”

“Plane crashed leaving Armstrong.”

“Where to?”

“Austin.”

Julie cried.




I guess Pearl Jam doesn’t count as a new artist. Nor Faulkner or Poe. So I’ll go with Hurray for the Riff Raff outta New Orleans. Unless Johnny’s Body counts as a new artist. If so, go with Johnny’s Body.

FAVORITE SONG:

“When the Music’s Over” - The Doors

FAVORITE WEBSITE:

www.sporcle.com

FAVORITE FOOD:

GOOD duck and andouille sausage gumbo


Snug Harbor Jazz Bistro in New Orleans ... (in Waco, Beatnix Burger Barn)

FAVORITE BOOK:

The Sound and the Fury ~ William Faulkner

FAVORITE GADGET:Snoopy Pez dispenser

Jack Larimore has a BA in journalism from Louisiana Tech University. He works in sports communications but would rather write about other things most of the time. Among other things, Jack has four collections of published poetry - The Well (1999), Paragon Paradox (2001, 2006), The Scribbler (2003), Metamorphosis (2006). He also is the front man for the Waco band Beat to a Pulp. Jack lives in Round Rock, Texas, with a comfortable recliner, an old oaken desk, persistent random thoughts, and some strange guy named Larry. Photo by Lindsey Springer.


I could go on for days on this one! But, we’ll go with short denim skirts or five-inch heels. Tough choice... OH! You mean favor-ite piece of MY clothing. Well, I gotta go with my Jordan Rhudy / Benn Stimmel 2012 presidential campaign shirt.

FAVORITE MOVIE:

Can’t pick. Either Wonder Boys or Dead Poets Society ... If you just MUST pick one, pick Wonder Boys.

FAVORITE QUOTE:

“Really the writer doesn’t want success... He knows he has a short span of life, that the day will come when he must pass through the wall of oblivion, and he wants to leave a scratch on that wall—Kilroy was here—that somebody a hundred, or a thousand years later will see.” ~William Faulkner


Hello. My name is Jack. I write poetry. I sing in a band. I’ve been known to cook a little. I love to shop. And I’m not gay.

Congratulations and good luck to the editor and staff of Bohemia magazine

from the Music Association of Central Texas!

Meetings at 7:30 pm on the first Meetings at 7:30 pm on the first Monday of each month at El Chico on the circle in Waco, featuring special

guests, networking and a jam session.

In 2011, we awarded our first two scholarships to incoming college

freshmen at 2 local colleges!

Like us on Facebook facebook.com/musicassociationofcentraltexas

Resale Super Center

Mon-Sat10:00 am - 5:30 pm5301 Bosque Blvd.

Waco, TX 254-751-0211

Stroll on down for all yourchild’s needs!

PantsSmarty


by Amanda Rebholz

“If you play ‘Stairway to Heaven’ one more time, I swear I’ll kill you myself,” Dusty growled at Nick from where he sat on top of the bar, swigging Jack Daniels straight from the bottle and glaring blearily at us. Nick looked at him in surprise, and then, maybe just to spite him, strummed the opening chords from ‘Dueling Banjos’ instead.

“Could you both just shut up?” I asked hope-fully, my hands bracketing my aching tem-ples. Between all of the fighting and the lack of substantial food, I wasn’t feeling so hot, and the two of them bickering was not on my agenda of stuff I wanted to listen to. In truth, Nick’s guitar had been bothering me for hours already but I was too apathetic to speak up; I just wanted a good night’s sleep and a hamburger, but neither of those things were forthcoming. Not here. Maybe not ever again.

We were on tour when the rumors began; we heard whispers of them in venues, and the crowds began to thin out at each consecutive city, some of the kids even showing up in surgical masks to protect them from germs. Being on the road, you don’t have much time for watching the news, but we were getting it in snatches from radio programs, club own-ers, our manager Dave who was always on his computer checking for emails. Basically, the virus was a mutated strain that had origi-nated, as best anyone could tell, from a mix-ture of environmental factors. The radiation coming out of Japan, the oil spill in the Gulf, the resonant aftershocks coming from Haiti. Those were what had started it, according to the conservatives yelling on their radio shows, and it was easy to imagine them sit-ting holed up in their station headquarters, red-faced and ranting about the Democrats and Obama’s birth certificate even as the un-dead pounded their fists on the door to get in. Me, I don’t think I’d want to eat Glenn Beck’s brain even if I was dead, but every-one’s got different tastes I guess.

People had been joking for years about the Nostradamus prophecies, about 2012, the Mayan calendar, all of that. It was Y2K all over again, with people stockpiling canned goods and bottled water, building panic rooms, talking about exit strategies. It was

easy to laugh about it then, when it seemed like an impossibility; when the natural disas-ters began happening one on top of the other all over the world, you could feel people’s nerves beginning to fray. They were afraid, and what happens when you get a lot of scared people on one planet?

Chaos.

But us? We were in our own world. Ask any-one who’s ever been on a tour, whether it’s a band or an author or any public figure; days run into weeks and you forget the date, what city you’re in, the season. You only know life inside your tour bus, and that’s exactly what we had been going through. My band, Faint Pulse, had just been signed to a major label and were promised everything from airplay on MTV to headlines at big summer festivals if we got our album sales where the label thought they should be. We were a rock metal outfit with a chick singer, you know the type, and we were selling out a lot of the small venues we were playing--- at first, at least. There were four of us then; Dusty with his drum kit, Nick and his guitar, Brandy and her bass and me. Brandy and Nick had been together for a few months, which the crowd ate up; people rooted for them like they were Brangelina or something, which we all found funny because they were the result of a drunken hookup after a gig one night and kept on sleeping together mostly because of the convenience in proximity. There are only so many games of solitaire you can play on the road, you know.

We were in Dallas when things really started to get bad; when we pulled up at the club, the whole street looked deserted. I’d heard that they had recently rezoned Deep Ellum and a lot of the good clubs were gone now, board-ed up and abandoned, but this... this was a ghost town in what was one of the biggest metropolis areas of Texas. All of the win-dows that weren’t boarded up were broken out, and we couldn’t see any people walking around. The venue was locked tight from the front, and the talent entrance in the back had a big ‘Closed’ sign on the back.

First Dave was on the phone, trying to reach the manager, but he couldn’t get a signal; his iPhone kept spazzing and blinking out, and he was cursing Steve Jobs’ name like

it was his personal deity when he realized he wasn’t going to make the expensive little thing work. Then he was trying to get online, but again, nothing, which was weird because he had one of those long-range wireless cards and could usually get Wi-Fi anywhere we went. We were all a little unnerved at that point, I think, and it was Nick who spotted them first.

“Well I guess if the gig’s cancelled, no one thought to tell the fan club,” he said mildly from the front of the bus, and I got up to look over his shoulder and see what he meant. Out the windshield there was a group approach-ing us, walking like they’d all ridden horses too long; they were swaying, lurching from side to side as if a leg was asleep. Some of them wore our band t-shirts, which was a lit-tle flattering, I guess. Nick pressed the but-ton to open the bus door and stepped down onto the cement, holding up his hands.

“Hey, do you guys know what’s going on?” Nick called out to them. “We can’t get the club’s owner on the phone... did the place get shut down or something? We’re sup-posed to be loading in!”

One of the girls was very close to him then, and I could see Nick checking her out. With Brandy or not, he had an appreciation for the finer things in life, especially if they wore push-up bras and t-shirts with his name on them. However, his face was more confused than anything, and I saw his brows knit to-gether. “What is this, some stunt from the label? Faint Pulse, haha, you’re dead, I get it. Did they organize a zombie walk or some-thing?” he asked the girl. Through the wind-shield she was close enough that I could see her face, which looked like someone had taken a rip out of her cheek or something. You could see teeth through the hole; if it was makeup, it was a real bang-up job. She wasn’t breaking character either, just listing to one side as she reached for Nick.

“Uh... look, I gotta get back to the bus,” he said uneasily, backing out of her arm’s reach, and he hurriedly came back up the stairs and shut the doors to the bus. The girl slapped the door, her palm making a resounding ringing sound through the aluminum. We all huddled around the windshield now, Dave pressed behind the steering wheel, and stared.

“This One’s For the Fans


All of them were dead. And not Hollywood-zombie dead; Hollywood wants you to think those things’re all rotting and shambly and moaning for brains. They’re not; most of them still looked perfectly alive, except they had one or two serious wounds. Don’t get me wrong, a few of them are pretty rank and their guts are tumbling out of holes in their bellies or they’ve got a leg torn off or something, but most of them could pass for people until they get awfully close to you. Talk about snakes in the grass; you think it’s some normal fan, and then she gets closer and you realize she’s one of them. I’m sure that contributed a lot to how the infection spread so quickly. It was hard to see them for what they were until it was too late.

“What the hell is going on?” Dave demand-ed a little breathlessly. “This is... this is not funny. What the hell is this?”

The street was beginning to show signs of... well, I hate to say life, but sort of. People were shuffling out of open doorways, lurch-ing around the front of cars. All of them had that swaying, unsteady walk, like drunks try-ing to maneuver in stiletto heels. They didn’t moan or anything dramatic; they didn’t make a sound except their feet scraping over the cement, and somehow that was a little more upsetting than if they’d been calling for our brains. At least then we would’ve understood what they wanted.

“Looks like zombies,” Dusty said quietly. We all shot him a look, but without any good reason; he’d simply vocalized what we were

all thinking. The girl scraped her hand down the door again, making me jump since I was standing closest. I was glad that the label had sprung for the good tour bus, the one with the keypad to gain entrance and not just a simple locking mechanism that could get jammed or broken off.

“Zombies aren’t real,” Dave argued, but I could see the wheels turning, could tell that he was remembering the kids in Wichita with their SARS masks over their mouths, the kids who weren’t drinking anything but bottled water. The club security, who looked jumpier than usual and refused to let us hold our usual meet and greet. We’d assumed it was just snotty security and had apologized to our fans via a Twitter post, but.... maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe we’d been disconnected for so long we’d actually missed the signs of a zombie apocalypse happening just outside the venue doors.

“Look, we can’t stay on the bus,” Brandy piped up, her duffel bag already slung over one shoulder, her bass held by the neck with her other hand. “If they are some kind of zombies and they surround us, then we’re trapped, and the way this thing guzzles gas we won’t get very far before we have to stop and refill. I say we get into the venue and hole up until help comes.”

“At least in the venue there’s bound to be food,” Dave reasoned.

“And booze,” Nick said hopefully. “Alright, I’m in.”

We all gathered our stuff, shoving it into our backpacks and pulling them on, shutting off our electronics. We all brought our cell phones, though I’m not sure why; Dave’s wasn’t working, so I didn’t know why we assumed the reception towers were going to start being useful again. Old habit, I guess. We only had a small group of them close enough to contend with at the moment, and there were five of us.

“Remember, aim for the head,” Dusty said with a grim, humorless smile. He was the horror movie buff among us, and while he may have thought this was some great ad-venture, some video game come to life, the rest of us were less than amused by the situation.

Dave swore, then pushed open the door hard. It caught the girl off-guard and she stumbled back, her dull eyes shifting to stare accusingly at him from a few feet away. Her hands came up to reach, and Dave batted them away hard, then pushed past her to go to the venue’s back entrance. “Locked,” he mumbled, although if he’d been expecting anything else I wasn’t sure why. He began to slam his shoulder against the door, which was somewhat rickety looking, and Dusty hurried to help him. The two of them kept banging themselves into the door and they were making a lot of noise, which was at-tracting more of the things; Brandy, Nick and I were standing uneasily right behind our friends, trying to gauge how much time we had to do something useful.

continued next page

Illustration by Joe Rooster


Nick took the initiative, swinging his guitar hard. It uppercut the girl closest to us, who wore a Faint Pulse shirt; her head snapped back and I heard the definite crunch of bone breaking, probably her jaw. She didn’t moan or grunt, just took the hit like Tyson, and her head lowered to stare at us. Her chin was split wide open to show bone, but there was no blood, nothing. That’s when we knew for sure, and Brandy whispered a prayer as Nick swung again.

The girl went down, her fingers twitching to-ward us as if her hand meant to crawl up my pants leg; I stepped on the back of it, hear-ing bones break like twigs. “Is that any way to treat your number-one fan?” Nick teased me, but gallows humor wasn’t my forte and I pulled away, feeling sick.

The guys finally got the door open and we poured inside, hurrying to shove it closed behind us again. They’d broken one of the hinges, so Dave hurriedly began to pile crates and boxes against the door to rein-force it, and within moments he and Dusty were wedging a big table across the door handle to make it very difficult for anyone to barge in on us. We went through the store room into the main part of the venue, and Dave closed the storeroom door behind us and broke the door handle off to lock it.

The venue wasn’t big by any stretch of the imagination, but it had a fully stocked bar, a stage, a dance area. There was a coat room and a walk-in-closet-sized room that was supposed to be a green room for the talent. Apparently they hadn’t been too worried about accomodating us; the green room was equipped only with bottled water and juice, a fruit bowl, and a tray of cheese cubes that were wilting in the lack of air conditioning.

“Stingy bastards,” Dave sighed. “I asked for sandwiches.”

We settled in making it some kind of com-fortable; we reinforced the doors as best we could, checking for other entrances we might’ve missed, and then laid all of the left-behind coats and jackets from the coat room down on the floor to make a pallet of sorts. We searched for food but all that was avail-able to us was what was in the green room and the few granola bars and candy packets that some of us had in our backpacks. There was plenty of bottled water though and a ton of booze, not to mention cans of soda, so we wouldn’t get dehydrated any time soon. And help would be coming, Dave kept saying, a

mantra he was clinging to. Help would be coming.

A week later, we were still trying to think that way, but it was definitely hard. We’d eaten the fruit basket and cheese first be-cause we knew they’d go bad and to waste; now there was only the drinks, and we were pacing ourselves with those. Crashing from a sugar high made you feel like hell, but the water was too precious to chug; we stuck to sodas when we could, beer when we had to. We tried to entertain ourselves, telling sto-ries, making up games, and yes, playing our instruments unplugged, but after a week you sort of run out of things to say. We were sick of each other’s company, something that had happened even on the best of times in a tour bus. Still, I think touring meant that we kept it together longer than some people would’ve; we knew exactly how to get on each other’s nerves and as a result, exactly how to defuse most situations before they escalated.

The pounding was the worst part; those things knew we were in there. Maybe word got around in their undead community, I don’t know. In Dawn of the Dead a charac-ter thinks that maybe the zombies came to the mall because it was a place that meant a lot to them. Maybe they saw our gig fly-ers around town and thought they’d come for a little zombie jamboree. All I know is that it started with about ten zombies and by the end of the week, there had to be closer to two hundred. They were relentless, too; they didn’t need to sleep or eat, didn’t have bathroom breaks. Their whole purpose in life was to beat on the doors of the club and try to get in.

The problem was, the door wouldn’t hold up forever under that kind of pressure, and we knew it.

“Do you think it’ll hurt?” Brandy asked me, her eyes hollow and wild from beneath her bangs. She was dehydrated, sleep deprived, and hadn’t touched Nick in three days; I wondered if I looked as rough as she did, as haunted. We had tried to keep putting on makeup and changing clothes in the begin-ning, freshening up in the bathroom, but with the water not running and the lights not working, it seemed a little more than a fu-tile exercise in lingering humanity. Now we looked as bad as those things outside. The only thing separating us was our pulse, and if that isn’t irony I don’t know what is.

“What?” I asked. “You mean when they bite us?”

“Yeah,” she whispered.

“I don’t know. I bet. I mean... it’s a bite, you know? I don’t think they’re gentle about it.”

“I know... I just... I’m scared, Liz,” she told me with a sigh, trembling. She looked like she might’ve been crying if there’d been enough liquid in her to manage tears.

“Me too,” I said to her, swallowing. I thought about my mom and dad back in New York, the ones who’d taken me out to dinner to cel-ebrate the band getting signed; I wondered if they were alive or dead. If I’d been home with them, I might’ve been dead a long time ago. Instead I’d just been on the road, a no-mad with no ties, and so when disaster had struck I’d been more than a thousand miles from home.

“I can’t get anything on the radio,” Dave said from where he was fiddling with the buttons and dials again. For awhile there’d been an automatic message stating that help was coming, that there were search and rescue teams and army personnel moving through the metroplex seeking survivors, but the broadcast had gone off the air at four that morning. Dave had been frantically try-ing to find it almost hourly since, clinging to the idea that help was still forthcoming. That someone would get us out of this.

“Just turn it off,” Nick said dully. “There’s never anything good on, anyway.”

Dave snapped off the power button, then flipped it over, slowly took out the batteries as if to check them. They hadn’t died, we all knew. The radio itself had. The airwaves were dead, as vacant and empty as the stares of the people outside.

“You guys,” Dusty said quietly, slowly, “I’ve been thinking.”

We all looked at him, waiting.

“The people outside... some of them have Faint Pulse shirts on, yeah?”

“They were probably on their way to the gig when they got attacked,” I said, resting my head on my hand to try and stop the aching. “So what?”

“So,” Dusty said, pursing his lips, “we haven’t cancelled a gig in the whole two years we’ve been together.”

Brandy stared at him in disbelief. “What’re you saying, Dusty?”

“Look,” Dusty said, taking a breath, “help isn’t coming. We all know that. We’re out


of food and have been for a full day now... what’re we going to do? Sit in here and starve to death? Turn on each other like ani-mals? I don’t know about you guys, but that isn’t exactly how I want to die.”

None of us wanted to die at all, but we all stared at him as we let it sink in.

Dave hooked everything up to the backup generator, some sort of jerry-rigged maze of cables and our instruments and the club’s PA, but somehow it worked. Our music was loud and clear, the notes as on-key as every-thing had always been.

“You guys ready?” I asked quietly into the mic, standing before it, my fingers curled around the metal stand. With the lights out, with the PA turned up, it felt just like old times. Standing by the store room door, Dave jerked, and we all heard a splintering sound. Our noise had incensed them; they were breaking in. They were in the store room now; only one door separated them from the open dance floor of the venue and the raised stage. I leaned into the micro-phone again, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “We’re Faint Pulse, and this is the last show on Earth.”

Dusty swallowed and raised his drum sticks, clicking them together. “One, two, three, four!” he shouted, and we launched into the hit single, the one that was supposed to play on MTV. The store room door flew open a second later, and Dave’s gurgling screams were drowned out by our guitars and drums, by my voice. It hurt to sing; my throat was so dry the notes were cracking, and I saw Brandy’s fingers bleeding on her bass strings.

We played the hardest we’d ever played; we tore through the song, and if we were off-key no one was around to mind. The zom-bies shuffled into the dance floor, some of their faces bright red and fresh, dripping with Dave’s remains. We kept playing, refusing to falter; I closed my eyes and sang harder. I heard Dusty’s drumming falter, then stop, and Nick’s guitar whined hard as a string broke mid-strum. When they grabbed for my clothes, I pretended it was like when I would stage-dive, when the fans would claw at my jeans and t-shirt, lifting me over their heads like a sacrifice to a pagan god.

“We love you, Dallas,” I managed to say into the mic before it was torn from my hands. “Thank you, and goodnight.” Ï


I’m completely in love with Mark Jenkins. He’s an artist who makes sculptures out of clear packing tape and puts them around towns... they’re truly incredible.

FAVORITE SONG:

“Hold On” by Tom Waits.

FAVORITE WEBSITE:

Passive-aggressivenotes.com or Regretsy.com.

FAVORITE FOOD:

Avocados. If I could live on an island popu-lated entirely with avocado trees, I would be so happy.

FAVORITE BOOK:

The Stand by Stephen King or Heart Shaped Box by Joe Hill.


My comfy torn-up jeans, and a really soft t-shirt my friend Joe Garcia printed for me. He makes the best shirts in the entire world, I practically live in them.

FAVORITE GADGET:

My camera, I take it everywhere I go.

FAVORITE PIECE OF MUSICAL GEAR:

My iPod. I can’t actually play an instrument, but I can put together one awesome playlist.

FAVORITE KEEPSAKE:

All of the passes and wristbands and badges from the various concerts and conventions I’ve worked... I have stuff from every tour I worked on, and every festival I’ve done.

FAVORITE QUOTE:

“If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days… It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you’ll do it, despite re-jection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire.” ~ Charles Bukowski

Amanda Rebholz has been writing since she was old enough to hold a pencil, and has been published with the Waco Tribune Herald, American Horrors, Bloody Disgusting, Fangirltastic.com, Pretty Scary, Morbid Curiousity, as well as worked as a photographer, music promoter, press liaison, screenwriter, voice actress, and an emcee for multiple horror film festivals. Photo by Amanda Reholz.


My name is Harold, I’m just a good guy,

Tryin,’ oh, just tryin’ to make it in this Time

I am who I am, never been accused of bein’ shy,

But I just try, try to be a good guy

I’m on my way to Waxahachie

Leavin’ my life in Mississippi

Tried to get a piece of that prosperity

To keep up with this social sanity

So I got a job from Bryson Chicken Company

I would hang those poor souls by their feet

See ‘em dangle, slice their necks, nice and neat

Attached to some machine

But that’s all I’d do, you see.

The blood would flow

The pile would grow

And ooh, how they’d howl

As they boil and disembowel

But I didn’t hear it

It was a job, I had to do it.

Oh, the smell, my friend,

The smell of Sin

One day I cut myself good

They say I didn’t do as I should

I went to the doc

I needed a shot

Chickens got this bacteria, you see

Now the company don’t care for me

After seven years of service in loyalty

They wouldn’t give a shot to poor ol’ me

Now I’m sittin’ next to you bumpin’ and bumpin’

On my way to Waxahachie

For something far better, you see

Just tried to get a piece of that Prosperity

From Bryson Chicken Company

My Prosperity lies here on this bus

Not bettin’ on a horse or an uppercut.

The choice is yours

If you’re rich or if you’re poor

Prosperity does not equate happiness

It’s up to you, but pardon me, I digress….

Tales from the hound #3

Poem & Illustrations by Noelle Argubright

Sitting in a Greyhound station

Looking for my next Procrastination

My Procrastination finds me

He bows his Head and takes a seat


Noelle Argubright, a native of the 254, hails from beautiful Lake Whitney, Texas. She re-turned back in September to this time zone after six years of Art Schoolin’ and Life Livin’. She paints, writes, and rides bikes. She’s lived on the road, in the forest, and in paradise. She welds, eats cow brains, speaks German, and knows way more about Southeastern Vernacular Masonry Tactics than anyone should know. She is pleased to find Waco surging with a Creative Culture poised to blow everybody’s mind. Photo by Lindsey Springer.


The local music scene here in Waco has to-tally rocked the socks off my bare feet! I dig Fonedead, Married with Sea Monsters and Johnny’s Body. I also can’t get enough of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes.

FAVORITE FOOD:

Curry! Fresh fruits and veggies. Especially watermelon, carrots and spinach. Yum!


You can find me lurking around Beatnix.

FAVORITE DRUG:

Laughter. It’s the best medicine.

FAVORITE BOOK:

I’m currently reading Everybody Who Was Anybody: The Biography of Gertrude Stein by Janet Hobhouse. It is facinating. Other favorites include Still Life with Woodpecker and Even Cowgirls Get the Blues both by Tom Robbins, The Boy who Harnessed the Wind, by William Kamkwamba and Bryan Mealer.


Cut-off shorts, Keens, tank top. Bandana. Its been my uniform since 2005.

FAVORITE GADGET:

My record player

FAVORITE PIECE OF MUSICAL GEAR:

The six foot record collection that goes with my record player.

FAVORITE KEEPSAKE:

My aunt Meridith made a quilt for me when I graduated high school. It consisted of fa-vorite T-shirts of the entire family. It’s been keeping me warm for years!

FAVORITE QUOTE:

“We do not inherit the Earth from our Ancestors, we borrow it from our Children”. ~Ancient Indian proverb


If you were a booger, I’d pick you first.


by Jim McKeown

Recently, my wife, our faithful lab, Marcy, and I took a triangular trip from Waco to Tampa, Florida, to Philadelphia, to Louisville, Kentucky, to Knoxville, Tennessee, then home. After over 4,400 miles of travel, we arrived home at 1:30 am, and I was beat. As I sat down to write about our trip, Marcy licked my hand and asked - as only she can - if she could tell her side of the story from the back seat. She might be the first back-seat blogger in history. Anyway, here is her story.

PS: I did help her with the typing, and I se-cretly fixed a few misspellings. --Jim

Hi! I’m Marcy, and I just got back from a long ride with the people that live in my house. First of all, let me say, I LOVE to ride in the car. But the driver guy teases me. He knows I like it, and sometimes he asks if I want to go for a ride, and I get all excited. Can’t help it, it’s a Lab thing. So, I jump in the back seat and off we go – to the garage to put the car away.

I am not sure of “driver guy’s” name. He comes when people say “Dad” or “Hon” or “Baby” or “Papa Jim” or “Jim.” Maybe I’ll call him “Treats!” He does have good ones! The big girl that lives with us also comes when Treats says, “Hon,” or Moh-nah.” She pets me too, and best of all, she lets me fin-ish some stuff from her bowl every morn-ing when we get up. I think I’ll call her “Bowls.”

When I see suitcases, I know it’s time to vis-it a smelly place near my house. It doesn’t

have a bad smell, it just has a lot of them. Sometimes I go there and get pinched and stuck and prodded, but when I see suitcases, I go there for a while and hang out with other dogs and cats I don’t know. I figured out the first time, if I am nice to the people there, I get extra bones and petting. So, it isn’t too bad.

Well, anyway, a long time ago, I saw a lot of suitcases and bags. One morning, we all got in the car while it was still dark. I figured I was going to the smelly place, so I could finish my nap there.

We started riding, and it sure was taking a long time to get there. I fell asleep, and when I woke up to a strange sound, it was light, and I was still in the car. Bowls was talk-ing about water and food, and Treats needed something he called “gas.” We stopped, and I smelled some awful stuff near my window.

I heard some weird sounds, and then Treats opened the door and put on my leash and took me to a nice grassy area. The seat of the car was really soft, but I love the feel of grass on my paws. Now, I like to do my business in private, but this time, I really couldn’t be quite so fussy. I finished and Treats gave me some water. I could smell some bones and bacon strips in the car, but I didn’t get any that time. I looked around, but nothing looked or smelled right. An aw-ful lot of huge, loud cars moved all around us. Finally, we all got back in the car and started to move.

Bowls was talking about some smelly things she had in her hand. She snuck a piece to

me in the back seat. It was good, I think, be-cause I swallowed it without chewing. But it was so small! And I needed a drink of water after eating it.

By this time, I figured out the smelly place was not where I was headed. Where in the heck were we going? Oh, well, I decided to finish my nap.

When I woke up, it was dark out and we were stopped in front of an open door. Treats took some stuff out of the car, and then brought me inside. I never saw such a small house! My bedroom at home, which I have to share with Treats and Bowls and one of the cats, was bigger than this whole house!

I didn’t like the smells on the bed or the floor, so I slept in the other room on a cool, hard floor. I really didn’t like this room, because Treats and Bowls do their business there, but I got no bad

smells, so I made do.

When it was light, I got up because I had to do my business. I woke Treats, and he took me outside on the leash. I don’t know why he worries so much, if I wanted to run away, that piece of rope wouldn’t stop me! As long as he keeps my food and bones coming, I am happy! Anyway, we went to this tiny park surrounded by a lot of doors. A lot of dog smells were there. Some of them scared me! A little girl came and tried to pet me, but a big girl yelled at the little girl and she ran away. She smelled nice. I wish she could have rubbed my ears a little bit. Then, as if he knew what I wanted, Treats scratched my ear while he talked to the two girls. I’m not going anywhere! Except where Treats and Bowls go!

Anyway, back in the car, and before I knew it, we were stopped again. This time it was in front of a big house with nice grass. I smelled something strange, kind of like wa-ter, but it smelled a lot like the stinky food those cats that hang around my house eat. I am so glad they did not come with us!

The house was nice, but they had slippery floors and steps! They wanted me to go up the steps, but I said, “No way!” This house was also owned by a dog, a big brown furry girl who smelled quite nice. We growled at each other a few times, then it seemed she was okay with me being there, so we got along. I did not want to stay there, though. The yard had these gigantic bugs flying all over the place. Yeech!

Marcy’s Vacation


FAVORITE NEW ARTIST: Gina Sicilia, my niece. A wonderful R&B singer, writes almost all her own songs on 3 CDs.

FAVORITE SONG: “Blue Gardenia” sung by Ella Fitzgerald

FAVORITE WEBSITE: Bohojo -- of course!

FAVORITE FOOD: Turkey and all the trimmings

FAVORITE RESTAURANT: Chinese: Cathy House; Italian: Dante & Luigi’s in Philadelphia; Steak: 135 Prime; Casual: Cheddar’s; Japanese: Shogun; Thai: Bangkok Royale; Cajun: Buzzard Billy’s. (We eat out a LOT!)

FAVORITE BOOK: Too many to list, but Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier, Middlemarch by George Eliot, Villette by Charlotte Bronte, The Centaur by John Updike, Niels Lyhne by Jens Peter Jacobsen, and The Odyssey by Homer are at the top of the list

FAVORITE PIECE OF CLOTHING: Richard Dawkins tee shirt with a large red “A”

FAVORITE GADGET: My Droid

FAVORITE KEEPSAKE: A stone my son gave me when he was about 5. He found it at a nature center we went to every week.

FAVORITE MOVIE: Casablanca

FAVORITE QUOTE:“...a life lived soberly, without the light burden of dreams, was not a life worth living -- life, after all, had only the value that dreams gave to it.” ~Niels Lyhne, Jens Peter Jacobsen

Three little girls, one big girl, and one big boy also lived there. They were all nice. One little girl petted me all the time. She was my favorite.

Then, one morning, we got back in the car and starting riding again. We rode a long, long time, then we stopped in a terrible place! It had cars and people and giant build-ings and noises and smells I could not even imagine existed! This place had steps, too. I went up one set, just to try them out, but that will not happen again! I don’t like steps, and that is that!

We only stayed there a short time. The boy answered to “Dad” and the girl “Mom,” but I never smelled them before. They were okay, but they didn’t pet me. Treats kept say-ing my name, Marcy, and good girl, while petting me. The boy and girl didn’t say much. They did talk about some other dogs. Maybe they were sad because no dog lived with them. Well, that is a shame. Every dog should have a family.

When it was light, I went to another house nearby where a yippy little dog lived. She really smelled funny, but we got along okay, even though she did steal a bone from Treats when he was about to give it to me. This house had a tiny yard with no grass. People all around walked by when I wanted to do “you-know-what.” The yippy dog was there too. She didn’t seem to mind all the people.

Then, Treats came and got me from Miss Yippy’s house, and we got back in the car. After a long time, we pulled into a big yard with lots of dog and cat smells. Treats took me inside, and two dogs ran at me bark-ing. They were on leashes, too, so nothing happened. Then a big boy came and took me away and put me in a little room with a bed and a water bowl. This seemed like the smelly place back home, but it was way dif-ferent. I heard the car pull away, and I won-dered if I would ever see Treats and Bowls and my house and the cats again. This made me really sad.

Every day I got my regular food, and they took me outside for business. One day, they took me to this place with a whole bunch of other dogs. Some I didn’t like the looks of, but two of them were nice. They had thick, black fur like me, and they smelled famil-iar. I saw them all the time and we played together in the grass and in a huge bowl of water! I tried the water. It tasted like dog.

Nearby, these giant dogs with long faces and big tails stared at us and made some funny noises. We barked at them for fun, but they didn’t do or say anything. I didn’t see any-one petting them, either.

One day, this man came and took me out and got me all wet. Wow, did I LOVE that! Then, he rubbed me all over and over with a great big, soft, fuzzy rag. I REALLY loved that! Then, guess what? He gave me one of my favorite things – a bacon strip!

I didn’t go back to my room, but they took me to this large room with two other dogs. They also had been wet. One was a big whiny, dog with thick, fluffy hair. The other was a small white dog that must have been cold, because it shivered and shook itself awful. Something was up.

I heard some noises that seemed familiar, and the boy who gave me the rub came and put a leash on me. He took me outside and there was my car!! I was so excited I barked, and yelped and cried as Treats bent down and petted me. I gave him a kiss, even though I know he doesn’t like my tongue on his face, but this was a special occasion. We got back in the car, and there was Bowls, too. All to-gether again!

The next day, we got in the car and went to a strange place and got in a really shaky thing that made a lot of noise and smelled awful. All of a sudden, we were in the water, but not getting wet! We rode around for a while, and saw some birds and people, who were in other things on the water. Then we went back to the house with the odd cat. I was tired after all that excitement, so I slept. When it was light out again, we got in the car.

I could not imagine where Treats and Bowls were taking me now. I saw and smelled and heard so many wonderful things! What else was there to do? We rode a really long time. It got dark, then light, then dark again.

I heard the car stop and looked up, and guess where we were? In my yard! In my house! My bowl with the food and water were right where I left them! Even the stinky cats were happy to see me! The big cat looked at me, yawned, and walked away. But nobody was as happy as me to be with all the familiar smells and my bed and my yard. Ah! Home sweet home! So that’s the story of my ad-ventures, Bye-bye!


“Come home,” the texts said. I was resting my head on the passenger side window, the vibrations numbing my face.

Jody was the one with the car. I was the one that was always willing to drop everything and go. I had been squatting with her for over a month, writing her Composition 101 essays for 20 bucks a pop, cleaning up the pad every few days or so to earn my keep. She called me her “pet” to be funny, but I didn’t like it.

That morning, Jody woke me up wanting to go to Galveston, and by “morning” I mean 12 o’clock. She had heard that there was this free concert, you see; some of our friends were going, we’d meet them there. It was gonna be a big deal. And I had nothing bet-ter to do, obviously.

“Okay.”

Jody, keenly aware of my daydreaming ten-dencies, inconspicuously challenged me to take the fastest shower I had ever taken in my entire life. I laughed so hard I think I snort-ed and then ran tripping over myself to the bathroom, loving the idea of a challenge.

Random friends had started to stop by to chat, because people were always in and out. Moments later I came back out into the living room, met with a gallery of shocked looks. I had to catch my breath, because back then I still smoked, but managed to paunch up a little in a proud pose.

Jody dropped her jaw, dumb-founded. “How in the world could anybody possibly take a shower that fast and be ready to go?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t know why I liked the feeling of exceeding everyone’s low expectations. It was always my minor thrill. You didn’t think I could do that, did you?

“Come home,” the texts said, but I really wanted to be on my own. Or, honestly, I didn’t know. The vibrations were numbing my face.

We were stuck in traffic, miles from the beach amidst the honking horns, car hop-ping, screams and yells of spring break rev-elry. You would think we would have been stressed out, but we had found the remnants of a joint and my rambling thoughts relaxed her and reminded her constantly that, “Man, this is all just part of our adventure, remem-ber?” And she was laughing and feeling like our conversation was deep.

The wrappings from our Taco Bell burritos cluttered the dashboard, fluttering in the conditioned air—another contest, “Who Can Eat the Most and Belch the Loudest? Go!” Our windshield was spanning like a giant TV screen projecting in the outside world.

“Come home,” I could hear on my voice-mail. “She’s fine; don’t worry about her.” “I just miss her.” Avoiding is easier when you don’t know what to say.

Then there was Roberto, Roberto Cruz. He was on my voice mail too, so professional and upbeat. He saw my SAT scores and was really excited. “Our university will offer you the experience that you are looking for.” He was diligent and never gave up hope. We had that really good conversation that one time and he knew I was the perfect fit. “I’ll be in my office today, Amanda. Give me a call.”

The beach was packed. The pack was parched. The music vibrated all over the yard.

Jody elbowed me. “Let’s trade shirts!” The public exchange brought a few shocked looks and that’s all that she wanted, of course. She was making new friends already, drawing attention, drawing a crowd. We were hard to miss in our matching frayed jean shorts, flip-flops, and long hair. Her legs sprouted crazy out to nowhere and up to her ass. Her hair was flaming, an orange and red dye-job—loud and messy, how she liked to be. And I was silent but deadly, dark and pretty, a spot of angst in my eyes.

I mellowed out into the blues-driven guitar. Lost. I wanted to move closer to the stage, but then I was dragged away. “Look, there they are! I see them over there!”

“We’re going swimming! Quick, take off your clothes!”

“I’m only in my bra and underwear!”

“It’s okay, no one is looking! Let’s go!”

I was the one that was always willing to drop everything and go, but momentarily I was mesmerized as these kids were beckoning and the lazy sun was parting, sitting almost setting on the tip of my shoreline oceanic view.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!”

I heard more echoes. “Your university is waiting!” “Come home, come home.”

And so I threw my phone into the water. I don’t know why, but I threw it out there into the endless sea… as far, far, far away as it would go. And for the remainder of the eve-ning, I floated in glorious bliss.

That night, Jody drove us home, slurry si-lence, a fumble for the radio. I guess she had bummed too many sips from our con-cert cohorts—here and there, more than we noticed. Or the sun had scorched her brain. She swerved the car. I jerked. But before she screamed, I was already taking over. I flipped us around and got us back on track, back on the road in about two seconds flat. Jody didn’t know I was lucid like that. I al-ways am.

“How’d you do that, pet?” she said sideways.

I like exceeding when there are low expecta-tions. It always gives me a minor thrill.

When we got home, I went back into my lit-tle room, locked the door, and began writing an essay of my own.


Bohemian Storytellers

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MIDWAY READS

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Excerpt from “I Still Follow” by Mike GuinnDYiNG speecH

WACO CULTURAL ARTS FESTIndian Spring Park, University Parks Drive

FESTIVAL DATES+ Friday, Sept. 16, 7 pm - 10 pm+ Saturday, Sept. 17, 10 am - 10:30 pm+ Sunday, Sept. 18, 11 am - 5 pm

www.wacoartsfest.org

8TH ANNUALPOETRY SLAMW/ MIKE GUINNSATURDAY, SEPTEMbER 17TH 7-9 PM

The 2011 Poetry Slam will feature local poets and spoken-word artists from all over including members of the DFW Brave New Voices Youth Poetry Slam. Nationally acclaimed poet, Michael Guinn, is the founder of Fort Worth Poetry Slams and the DFW National Youth Poetry Slam Team.

Also, join us for Word Fest when One Book One Waco and Midway Reads announce the Waco-wide read at the festival.

POETS HOW TO SIGN UP:Please send a sample of your work for review by Saturday, September 10, 2011.

CONTACT INFO:Mike Guinn Poetry Coordinator(817) [email protected] www.facebook.com/mikeguinn

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