Currents Literary Magazine

Currents Art and Literary Magazine 2012 1C U R R E N T SA r t A n d L i t e r A r y M A g A z i n e 2011-2012

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Currents Art and Literary Magazine 2012 3

EDITOR’S NOTE“The End.” It sounds ominous, dark, and apocalyptic. In the beginning, even I hadmy qualms about this theme. I worried that every piece submitted would be morbid andour magazine, rather than being inspiring, would be de-pressing. However, the studentson this campus have surprised me yet again. While some would see our theme of “TheEnd” one dimension-ally, the students here at CNU embraced this theme and embodied itin ways I never could have imagined. The works submitted this year are full of depth andtruly show the creativity of the students on this campus.This year our theme of “The End” was particularly pertinent. During our longstruggle to procure funding it looked like this might be the end for Currents. It was alow point for me and at times even I had doubts that we could produce a magazine thisyear. All of this changed when I saw how much support we had on campus. Seeing thelarge number of students who submitted literature or art has been such an awe-inspiringexperience and makes me so proud to call myself a CNU student. Now, I want to as-sureyou all that Currents is not going anywhere.To those who submitted, I cannot thank you enough for sharing your art with us.Not only are you brave enough to share your voice with the thousands of students whowill read this magazine, but you are also a large reason that we have been able to publishthis year. Your unending support and passion has touched me in a way I cannot describeand, believe me when I say, I could not have done this without you. With that said, pleaseenjoy the 2011-2012 issue of Currents, “The End.”

Faithfully yours,Becky WrayEditor In Chief 2011-2012

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Corinna Campbell - The Memory

Emily Mummer - Away

Daniel Gordon - Road Work Ahead

Eric Batiste - Bored, Pondering a Picture on my Living Room Wall

Linette Lee - Red Riding Hood

Rebecca Smith - The Youthful Shadow

Erin Gallagher - Happily Ever After

Cassie Hart - Another Season

Marielle Gernade-Willis - Cloud Observations

Emily Cole - Vanessa: A Sestina

Lindsey Pritchett - Country Roads

Meghan Cantwell - The Spell and the Moon ...

Olga Slobodyanyuk - Fragile

Erika Barker - The Beginning in the End

Jadyne St. Julien - Untitled

Hannah M. Hunt - Sun Shines on an Insomniac

Peter Banks - Somewhere Down the Line

Gabrielle Hunt - john eight seven

Victoria Rupert - The Frame and the Painting

Amy E. Harrison - Abby

Scott Stevens - Sunglasses

John O’Brian - She Looked Like Latvia

Meghan Cantwell - The Rift in Peace

Meghan Cantwell - Half empty half full

Sally Grace Holtgrieve - One Year Ago Recollections

Ana Petillo - The Dreams of the Night

Charlotte Proctor - You & I

Jeanette Corey - A Cause of Symptom of Love

Peter Banks - Somewhere Down the Line

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Brayden Tomsinson - Journey

Karin Dyer - Sun Bathing

Nicholas Denson - April Showers

Nina Salzberg- 2 Sizes 2 Big

Laura Glady - To the Horizon

Corinna Campbell - Doll & Flame

Whitney Walton - Dinner Table

James D. Cheeseman - High Lights

Nick Denson - Crawling Towards the Sun

Leslie Haynes - Path of No End

Brayden Tomsinson - Jane Doe

Corinna Campbell - Screaming Doll Monoprint

Karin Dyer - Saginaw

Graham Hunt - The Endless Feed

Melissa Williamson - Bursting

Allison Stough - This is It

James D. Cheeseman - Up in Smoke

Brayden Tomsinson - Five Thirty

Graham Hunt - Housebroken (Mr. Fluffums)

Inhye Hong - Fish

Emily Jackson - Night Watcher

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Editor-in-ChiEf

Rebecca Wray

Art Editor

Sarah Wister

AssistAnt Editor Loretta Wicka

LAyout Editor

Stephanie Barstow

fACuLty Advisors

Dr. Mary Wright Kristin Skees Art JudgEs

Elizabeth Moran Belle Pendleton Jody Cutler Brendan Varley Christi Harris Gregory Henry Alan Skees Kristin Skees Margaret Bowen Philip Morrison Elaine Viel

studEnt LitErAturE JudgEs

Tessa Packer Shannon Wicka Kara Spencer Rebecca Smith Meg Cantwell Daniel Gordon Marlaina Peelen

Art PhotogrAPhEr

Phil Morrison

The Currents staff would like to give a special thanks to all of the faculty who donated to the maga-zine. Your contributions were greatly appreciated and went to recognizing those students who have displayed exceptional work.

Cover art by Sarah Wister

CURRENTS STAFF


LITERATURE AWARDS

1st PLACE

Corinna Campbell - The Memory

2nd PLACEEmily Mummert - Away

3rd PLACEDaniel Gordon - Road Work Ahead

Editor’s ChoiCEEric Batiste - Bored, Pondering a Picture on My Living Room Wall

ART AWARDS

1st PLACE Artist Brayden Tomsinson: Jane Doe, Five-Thirty, Journey

2nd PLACE

Karin Dyer: Sun Bathing

3rd PLACE

Nicholas Denson: April Showers

Editor’s ChoiCENina Salzberg: Two Sizes Two Big honorAbLE MEntion Graham Hunt: Housebroken (Mr. Fluffums)Whitney Walton: Dinner Table Corinna Campbell: Doll & Flame

AWARD’S & RECOGNITION

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FIRST PLACE



FIRST PLACE


Most of my past, is passed outon silver-lined platterswith delicate engraving in my parent’s hand.

All the scrapbooks tell stories-with only aged photo imagesand little inked in dates,

but I don’t remember those days,after the sun shined on half the film roll-and I guess I might blame myself for that.

Sometimes I get glimpses of the lost worldof the left behind child, the sweet happy one,that sang and danced of her own soul’s accord.

That must have been before the cloudy days rumbled inand the breathing became a numbing frostthat bit my tongue and threw up my heart.

No! They must be somewhere, in the recessesof my mind, where hope wanders quite lost--the small child waits...

I half day-dreamed her once,her golden curls and gapped smiles.When she spoke, it was with butterflies.

Her brilliant delight grinned at life,with summers at grandma’s pool and splashing aroundwith her brother, and popsicles that melted too fast.

It always went too fast,and I grew up,and I forgot...

...but it must be there somewhere.

The MemoryCorinna Campbell

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Away I have a need to run Where life will slow,To shores where come no harsh and heavy cares And soft sea-breezes blow.

And I have want to be Where no time comes,Where the heartbeat is in the waves lapping, And out of the noise of the town.

E m i l y M u m m e r t

SECOND PLACE


I have a need to run Where life will slow,To shores where come no harsh and heavy cares And soft sea-breezes blow.

And I have want to be Where no time comes,Where the heartbeat is in the waves lapping, And out of the noise of the town.

SECOND PLACE

Karin Dyer - Sun Bathing

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Matt spat to the side, wiping his dirty hands on his dusty fluorescent vest.

As he looked up, sweat rolled from the brim of his hard hat into his right eye; it reddened and stung. Doug dropped another load of dirt and gravel from the backhoe into the bed of the dump truck. Matt yanked his hard hat off to wipe his brow with the sleeve of his t-shirt. They had been working this job for about two weeks, and it would take at least another two.Matt slipped his hand into his pocket as he waited for the switch with Doug that would speed the passage of time. Heat rolled up from the asphalt in waves. Doug continued digging skillfully, while Matt fingered the gold loop in his pocket and its protruding hunk of compressed carbon.Little noise came from the apartment complex to their right and even less from the high school across the street. But between the low rumble of the diesel engine and the thunderous crash of the large rocks and chunks of soil slamming into the bed of the rusty dump truck, the backhoe more than made up for their silence. Cars sped by, ignoring the large signs reading “Slow; Road Work Ahead.” Matt glanced at some of them, but the drivers just rolled past, or worse. He had long since grown accustomed to the traffic passing

him at fifty miles per hour, a mere fourteen inches from tearing his arm off. They all seemed to think so little of him. Many of them gave faces of disgust, a few even offered him the finger as the passed, as if they were angry that he was standing in the lane closed by orange traffic cones, slowing their commute. “Ungrateful jerks,” he muttered in disgust, “Out here fixing their stupid utilities and that makes them better than me!?”Matt had actually graduated high school at the top of his class, then attended one of the best four-year universities in the state. While at college, he had earned degrees in physics and construction engineering, which was why after only two years with Turner-Goodman he already outranked Doug, who was ten years his senior. In college, he had also met Catherine.Matt dropped the ring back into his pocket and tried to shake her from his mind. “Take a break, man,” he said, turning to Doug, “I think we’re almost there. When we reach the break, we’ll call it a day; get a head start on the weekend.” “Catherine, again?” Doug asked. Matt nodded, not meeting his eyes. Doug climbed down the side of the yellow monstrosity speckled with rust, and clapped a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself up there, man,” Doug cautioned, “I know you’re a good operator, but

THIRD PLACEDaniel GordonRoad Work Ahead


THIRD PLACEDaniel Gordondon’t let yourself get too distracted. These things are still dangerous. One slip and—” “Thanks, I’ll be fine,” replied Matt, really not wanting another sermon from Reverend PerfectMarriage. “Alright. Just know I’m here if you want to talk about it.”“I’ll be fine,” Matt emphasized, signaling the end of conversation. Thankfully, Doug walked off in search of shade, leaving Matt with his thoughts.As he grasped the smooth metal handle to hoist himself into the backhoe’s cab, Matt caught a glimpse of his watch. The same watch he’d worn since his grandfather had given it to him on his deathbed seven years earlier. It was 1:08, the exact time of day when he had first seen Catherine. Her soft brown hair flickered in the light, and her deceptive amber eyes sparkled. She glided across the checkered floor of the deli. She asked him for his order, but he couldn’t find words. He stammered for a bit before his best friend and college roommate, David, cut in, telling their beautiful waitress that Matt wasn’t used to pretty girls, and that he’d have the turkey club. After she left to put in their orders, Matt hit David, but when she gave him his bill Catherine slipped Matt a note with her phone number and said she’d really like to see him again. That had quickly become the best year of his life.

Matt sat down on the worn upholstery of the backhoe’s pivoting stool, buckling the lap belt. The machine roared to life as he cranked the key. He moved the levers skillfully, realigning the bucket with the trench they had created. He began to scoop a thin layer at a timeDust settled on his tongue. It tasted bitter, just like her kisses. He could still remember their very first kiss. They had driven far away from the city, out where they could see the stars. The chill night had drawn her close as they gazed up from the back of his Silverado. Her lips were like honey, pouring over his. A twinge of pain shot up his arm. He glanced down to see that he had sliced his left index finger on the rusty dashboard. He brought it to his mouth and spat the blood away as he examined the cut. It stung, but it looked clean, so he turned back to the trench in front of him. But his work could only hold back thoughts of Catherine for so long.Three days and two years into their relationship was the first time Matt felt the sting of her betrayal. She had begged for forgiveness and ultimately, he gave in. But it hadn’t stopped there. She had cheated on him at least two other times that he knew of in their five year relationship. Her kisses used to leave a sweet taste lingering; now they tasted as bitter as the dust he was stirring up with the backhoe’s metal claw.

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Matt looked up at the tattered shreds of caution tape hanging limp from the telephone pole, and his hand slipped back into his pocket. She was never going to stop cheating on him. He loved her, though. And he needed her. As desperately as he tried he could not stop loving her. She hurt him so much, but his heart still overflowed for her. He was trying to ignore the signs that it might be happening again, but he couldn’t. The late nights, repeated calls to a “Josh” she claimed was a client, and emotional distance were becoming too much for him. He was suffocating. He could not possibly propose to her. And yet he had to. Here was the ring, in his pocket. It had taken him half a year just to save up for it, since Catherine didn’t contribute to rent or groceries. Matt dug monotonously. The heat was unbearable. He knew he had to end it. He’d gone to the Orioles’ game with his old friend David the night before, and he didn’t even know the final score. They’d spent the whole game talking over every detail of Matt and Catherine’s relationship. David held nothing back, telling Matt how hard it had been to watch him let Catherine walk all over him. Matt argued with David, fighting to preserve his love, but David had shown him that the girl that he loved no longer existed. But maybe it would be different after

he proposed. They’d be making a commitment, getting married. But they had made a commitment to be exclusive at the start of their relationship and she hadn’t honored that. It ended tonight; Matt knew it had to.He glanced down, surprised to see the top of the broken water main staring back him. He took out a huge scoopful of rocky clay on either side of the pipe then shut the backhoe off. He pulled the ring out of his pocket and stared at it in the sunlight. The diamond was beautiful, sparkling in the bright afternoon. With all his resolve Matt hurled the band 10 feet into the earth, to the deepest part of the trench he had just completed. He surveyed the area, once again wiping his forehead on his sleeve. When would all this heat break?The driver of the white Mercedes was reaching for a CD on the floor as he crested the hill. He never saw Matt as he jumped down from the backhoe to head home and take charge of his own life for the first time in the last five years.


Nicholas Denson - April Showers

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EDITOR’S CHOICEBored, Pondering a Picture on My Living Room Wall

Nina Salzberg - 2 Sizes 2 Big


EDITOR’S CHOICEBored, Pondering a Picture on My Living Room Wall

You’re standing in the foregroundof some vast, arid field, filledwith tall tall grass and Acacia trees,large umbrellas saving small plotsfrom the immense swell sun settingover low mountain ranges on

the horizon.It’s all black and white from here, but I’m sure that sun is a deep orange,and that grass, a dry, weary yellowand those trees, an enduring green.And you, weathered and brazen, arestanding impossibly close, beckoning melike a dog. But you are no dog. Your ears, trunk, tusks, and you, are Huge! There’s more.That thin pane of glass,the only real thing between usoffers me a reflection of myself.Indulging the calm comfort of my living roomMy eyes struggle between two images juxtaposed;one of adventure; wild, unpredictable, You!and one becoming far too familiar.

If I should grab hold and climb through that frame, I could end up only one of

two places.What’s the worst that could happen?

E r i c B a t i s t E

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Red Riding Hood walked through the forest To visit her dear grandmotherWhile I was learning thatRoses are red and violets are blueAnd my brother played kickballWith the big, red bouncy ball stolen from gym classThat left a stinging imprint on his stomachRed and blotchyLike the blush that crept up my neckThe first time I dyed my hair redAnd my teacher insisted on teasing me about itApparently it was the same red as the strawberriesThat I ate on my sixteenth birthdayRight before I drove through that red lightAnd blue lights followed me for half a blockPutting me in the backseat to chase the red flashing lightsOf the ambulance that carried my brother’s first wifeWhose dress was stained red with their first childAnd we cried over the rosesThat we used to decorate the candlelit ballroomThat blurred as I danced with my husbandWho insisted on reading Red Riding HoodTo our twins who had a fondness for nail polish


Red Riding Hood



Specifically ruby red on the dog’s nailsLike the shoes in my mother’s favorite movie

That we watched non-stop in the hospiceBefore we buried her

In the red dressThat she wore when daddy proposed

Kneeling on the steps of the house with the red door

That he promised to buy herWhere I watched my own children grow up

Playing with my old redheaded Raggedy Anne doll

Who sat in the windowsill when my twins foughtOver who got to wear red to their first

homecoming danceThat had the theme of old Hollywood

And the red carpet that broke my husband’s fallAfter the heart attack that took him away from

meAnd I cried for days before taking that carpet out

backAnd striking the red tip of a match

That lit the candles on my 60th birthday cakeMade of red velvet with cream cheese icing

And I looked at my twins and their husbands as they sang

In my dead husbands voice in my ear before I fell asleep, “Red rover, red rover send Ruby on over.”

Red Riding Hood

Linette Lee

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Candle; this beam of light shines on a dark faceface that sits silently without an expression

with a long lean nose and a pair of thin lipsthe eyes sag with old age,

wrinkles dig creases in the facedrawing lines to all imperfectionsalong with thesheen of the face (which is sunken and hollow,lost all of its youth through the work in the fields and the hard sun)face just like leather from an old cow hide

casting a shadowsee! (the face is now young but with a more angular shapeHe realizes he can no longer obtain) whilethe shadow reminds him of old fonder yearsage, is justsomething one can’t hide

The Youthful Shadow


The Youthful ShadowRebecca Smith

Corinna Campbell: Doll & Flame (Honorable Mention)

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ERIN GALLAGHERHappilyE v e r A f t e rOnce upon a time, there was a prin-

cess. She was very little, still an infant, and her parents were the king and queen of a very small kingdom. She wasn’t a perfect little girl. She loved attention and praise. She was a very happy princess until one day, when her parents brought home a prince. He was a tiny little thing and needed more at-tention than she did and she began to feel neglected. Not too long after the prince was brought to the kingdom, he started misbehaving. He would throw tan-trums and objects and made strange noises. He couldn’t control himself. Worried, the king and queen took him to a wizard, who informed the parents that their son was cursed. Over the next few years, the curse got worse and worse and the prince became a Beast. The princess begged and wished and prayed that the curse would be broken. Her motives were not entirely pure for, though she did want her brother to be freed from the curse, it was not easy living with a Beast. He stole her toys and broke her dolls. She would go to her parents but they were busy running the kingdom and dealing with the Beast and thought she was just trying to get more attention.One of the wizards finally told the king and the queen what they did not want to hear. The curse could not be broken. Worse, there was more than one curse. The princess stopped wishing for a cure and wished for a way for the curse to be mitigated. She felt bad because when he stopped being the Beast, the prince was always very sorry for what he’d done. In his heart, he was a sweet child but the curse was strong.With each year, he became more and

more of a Beast. The sorcerers found more unbreakable curses and nothing seemed to work. No spell or potion or charm stopped the Beast for long and the princess stopped wishing for a way to stop the Beast. Instead, she started begging any power that would listen for protection. The Beast tormented her. He ate her food and stole her possessions. He would fly into terrible rages and tear down doors and put holes in walls. Not only did the Beast damage the cas-tle and her possessions, he would come after her. The princess did not bruise easily and none of his abuse was ap-parent on her skin. But the pain from his blows stayed with her constantly. The princess slept with a hidden staff just in case he broke into her chamber one night to attack her. She went to her mother but the queen dismissed her pleas as cries for attention. “Imagine how he feels,” she would tell the prin-cess. “He can’t make any friends and he’s struggling with his studies. You are lucky. You can make friends so eas-ily and you are good at your studies. Stop overreacting.” It became so bad for the princess that she prepared one night to run away from her kingdom. Her mother caught her as she climbed out the castle window and reminded the princess that she couldn’t support her-self. She had no way to make money or feed herself or protect herself outside the safety of the kingdom. The princess had to remain.The princess tried her best to please her king and queen but struggled. If she didn’t succeed, if she fell short of their expectations, their disappoint-ment filled her with shame. That her success was taken for granted, that her achievements were acknowledged


ERIN GALLAGHER

with the same joy as her ability to dress herself, was made worse by the Beast, whose small successes were celebrated. Between the two of them, the Beast was the one who was permitted to fail. And the princess was expected to succeed for them both.Her godmother never came. No helpful dwarves visited. She made a point of be-ing nice to everyone she met but no one was a fairy in disguise. She wouldn’t hold her breath waiting for a prince to come and rescue her. She still smiled for people but there was little true joy left in her heart. Her wishes, once so thought-ful and elaborate, died one by one under the abuse of the Beast until only one was left: I want to get out. It was a simple wish but one that seemed unattainable. She couldn’t leave her parents’ king-dom because she had no way to support herself and would likely wind up dead in a ditch. She knew the Beast would never be sent away. The queen refused to discuss it whenever the suggestion was made, insisting that family came first and that she would never send away a member of her family. Even the king tried to show her that the Beast was out of control, despite the continued stream of wizards and spellcasters, but she re-fused to see it.One day, the princess’s wish was granted. She received an invitation to a far away kingdom, where she could learn to support herself. It was every-thing she’d wished for and the king and queen agreed to let her go. Gleefully, she departed with as many belongings as she could fit in the carriage. The rest of her possessions she had stored and locked away. She moved to the far away kingdom and found friends among the far away kingdom’s inhabitants. For a while, everything was perfect.It was perfect until she was forced from the kingdom, sent home for the annual feasts. In her absence, the Beast had

gotten worse. He’d forced his way into her chamber, where her belongings had been stored under lock and key. He’d ransacked her chambers, forcing his way through the lock and pulling out chests and boxes from where she had stored them. He’d stolen her books and ripped several of the small paintings she collected. He left food in her room, en-ticing wild creatures to invade and chew what he’d left behind. She was always ready to return to the far away kingdom, with her friends and her freedom. The Beast had grown more violent and what little control the king and queen had over him was quickly slipping away. The princess would gladly have spent all her time in the far away kingdom but every year she was forced to return, her temporary freedom torn away from her with heart wrench-ing surety every summer. And every summer, she was forced to live with the Beast. The memory of her freedom made her time with the Beast even less bearable and her blessing felt more like a curse.She leaned against her battered, bro-ken, splintered door and sobbed. She’d stopped wishing for things a long time ago. She wasn’t a princess, after all. She was an ordinary college student. The king and queen were her hardworking mother and father. The castle was sim-ply a much abused house. The wizards and sorcerers were doctors and psychol-ogists. Their potions, spells, and charms were therapy and medication. There was no cursed prince. There was only her six-foot-tall, violent, short tempered brother whose “curses” were the doc-tors’ diagnoses. There were no godmothers or dwarves or fairies. There was no valiant knight or charming prince coming to rescue her. She could wish and wish and wish all she wanted but nothing would happen. magic only exists in fairy tales.

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And againThis year, as it was last,I find myself movedBy the changing of theTides, the winds, and The rains.

There is aNotion that is broughtOn by the movementOf the earth that causesEach season to comeAnd to go.

It is oneThat compels you to lookInto yourself with a newAdmiration for what was And is and what is, with faith,Meant to be.

C a s s i e H a r tAnother Season


Jellyfish cloud swimming slowlyThrough the sundried light,Your twirling tendrils leakingWisps of grey upon the coming night,Floating across rainbow-splattered patches,You seem so content in your existence.

Cloud ObservationsMarielle Grenade-Willis

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It’s hard to determine why God takes a life so young,So promising, a vibrant lover of art,

Just nineteen years old and full of life.The community stricken with grief,

She passed on a Sunday, in the bright yellow sun…flowersAdorned her memorial, the beautiful girl, Vanessa.

I’ll always remember seeing fireflies with Vanessa.My sister’s age, one year of college completed, too young

To leave the world. I’ll never see flowersThe same way, nor will I see art

The same way. An unexplainable grief,How could someone take her away in this life?

I am thankful for every passing moment of my life,Because I’ll always remember a girl named Vanessa,

Whose cruel end fills me with griefAnd tangles my thoughts with the sorrow of someone young.

The only way to ease my soul of this is through the written artOf poetry– words, words which adorn like flowers.

Vanessa: A SestinaEmily Cole

Whitney Walton - Dinner Table (Honorable Mention)


The day she was buried– friends, family, flowers,Were present in the celebration of her life.Synonymous words, “fashion” and “drawing” and “art,”So significant for the girl we miss, Vanessa.Billy said, “Only the Good Die Young,”And I said, only the remaining feels grief.

What can we do with this grief?It won’t wilt or fade like flowers,It seems we are too youngTo see someone take a lifeEspecially one so innocent– VanessaWill forever be remembered in her art.

Talented beyond measure, her artGave us drawings, paintings, doodles, to help us with grief.I will smile, yet my heart will frown when I hear the name “Vanessa.”Now, whenever I see sunflowers,I will think of her mother, her friends, her life,And how she was too good, too innocent, too young.

We miss you Vanessa, the world is at a loss without your art,I’ll always remember how young we all were, struck to our cores with grief.When I visit your grave, look for the sunflowers, there won’t be a day we won’t think of your life.

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I watched my toes as I stretched them out as far as I could in front of me and wondered what

it would be like to have duck feet. My tummy grumbled as I pressed my toes in the back of Daddy’s seat. We were going to West Virginia. A place my family calls Bluefield but, on the mail we get from there, it says “Bluewell.” I’ve never seen a field or a well there. It’s all moun-tains and lots of blue. Sky and cars and store signs and sometimes even people, when it’s really, really cold and they’re all frostbitten from shoveling snow. I wondered if Frankie would turn blue when he died? I leaned forward and tugged on my Mommy’s black sweater sleeve. “Mommy, what’s a brain tumor?” She turned to look at me, kinda frowning as she brushed a strand of frizzy brown hair from her face, “Why do you ask?”“Well, that’s what’s eating Frankie’s brain, isn’t it? You said that’s what makes him say funny things.”She stopped frowning and turned back to her laptop screen full of lines and empty white boxes, “It’s a type of cancer, kiddo.”Cancer? CAN-cer. Sure, sounded a lot like Campbell’s soup. I imagined Frankie’s brain turning into chicken noodle. I asked, “Is my brain going to turn into chicken noodle soup, too?”Mommy chuckled at me and Lind-sey told me I was crazy, “It’s ana-tomically impossible for your brain to turn into chicken noodle soup.

They’re not even made up of the same material.” I must have fallen asleep because, when I woke up, Mommy was shak-ing my shoulder telling me, “Wake up, baby, we’re here.” I groaned, I didn’t want to wake up. I was comfortable but I wasn’t wearing my jams and drool was pooling out the corner of my mouth, making my lips feel all chapped. I felt Mommy’s cold finger tap the tip of my nose, “There will be cook-ies inside and it’s snowing!”I sat up real quick and unbuck-led my seatbelt, “It’s snowing? SNOW!” I grabbed my Nintendo DS as I jumped out of the car; Huge white flakes were falling from the sky and there was a layer of white on the pavement. I stuck my tongue out and threw my head all the way back, trying to catch them while I watched the cars passing on the street from upside down. Daddy bumped my side with one of the big suitcases he was carry-ing and said, “Let’s go say hello to everybody, you can play in the snow later, son.” I stood straight like a GI Joe for a moment then I launched like a rocket across the wooden planks of the porch, flapping my arms like an eagle, my feet making ka-blump, ka-blump, ka-blump noises as I went for the screen door. I turned and shouted back at everyone, “HAHA I beat you!”Lindsey walked up beside me and tried to ruffle my hair, teasing, “Yeah, you little cheater! Everyone else is carrying bags. Way to help out.” She opened the door and I

Lindsey PritchettCountry roads


Country roads snuck inside ahead of here. Frankie was sitting at the kitchen table right in front of us. He looked like this painting I had seen in art class once only he was an old wrinkly man with an odd hat instead of a woman with a really big earring. The painting was from something called a “Renais-sance.” Frankie was just from West Virginia. I tried to say hi to him but I was swarmed by three old ladies. They bombarded me with their fat bellies and flabby hugs, touching my shoulders and the top of my head sawing things like “Oh my, look at how tall you’ve grown!” It was frus-trating because I was too short to see their faces and I was stuck. My Granny’s belly was the only one that wasn’t fat so I ducked through the hole that formed between her body and Vesita’s. Mary, the third of the three sisters, laughed and offered me a cookie.Lindsey told me the recipe for the cookie has been passed down for generations. It’s a cookie called “Pizelle” and I only get to eat them when we visit Frankie in West Vir-ginia. They are not blue. They look like flat waffles, kinda like the cones you eat ice cream out of but better and just a little sweeter and they have cool patterns on them that look like edible coloring book pages. They are the best so I took the entire bin from Mary’s wrinkled hands and went to sit down at the table next to Frankie. Frankie smelled strange and looked a lot older than when he had come to Virginia to visit over the summer. His face was rounder, like his head had gained weight, but the rest of him was skinnier. He big, fat belly from summer was almost com-pletely gone. The skin on his face as saggy and wrinkled and there was this really big scar circling half of his bald, shiny head. Vesita sat down beside us at the table

and gave me a coke. The can must have been left over from the summer Olympics because it had the rain-bow symbol of the circles tangled together with white cursive letters that misspelled “Coke.” I popped the top and made sure it tasted normal. I asked Vesita when my cousin Josh would be here, wondering what it was like to have curly grayish brown hair sticking up all over my head like hers did. Vesita smiled, making her blue eyes shine funny, “They’ll be here right before dinner. Maybe in an hour or so?” She asked me questions about school and how I was liking my first season of touch football. I answered her questions but watched Frankie. I had heard Mommy and Daddy talking about a “mental breakdown” last summer. They had said that was why he had visited, he had forgotten who he was because of the brain tumor and he was going to go through Chemo at the hospital downtown. He looked almost nor-mal. We had gone to visit him every year, sometimes a few times a year. He was sitting in the same wooden chair he used to sit in and he was drinking the same see through brown liquid he had poured from a bottle that said “Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7” on it. I had wondered what would make him want to drink a number when I had still been five and he said it was all in God’s plan and the old man upstairs hadn’t taken him away when it was time. Mommy had scolded him later because he told me to enjoy life and make as much mischief as I could because one day I would meet a lady and she would make my tummy feel fuzzy warm nad my heart would feel all clogged up like I’d eaten too many happy meals and I would have to behave really well to impress her. He didn’t say anything as I sat there. Vesita was watching the other

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women cook. The old ladies were all Frankie’s sisters, my Granny one of the three. They were telling my Mommy that Frankie didn’t know anybody’s name anymore but he knew who we were. Their conver-sation was boring, about Frankie’s doctor’s appointments and chemo-therapy results. There was some talk of a church, a reverend, and I think they said “mausoleum.”The women prepared the food, pots steaming on the stove top and open-ing the oven every few minutes to check on whatever was in there. On the counter top that divided the kitchen from the living room, they piled the food with a stack of plates on the end. I ate as many cookies as I could get away with since I never liked the food they made for Thanksgiving dinner. Just as my Daddy and my Grandpa were pull-ing out an extra table and setting it up, Josh and his family walked in the door. I was so excited I ran to the door to greet him and asked him if he wanted to play football. He was much taller than me, now, so I only came up to his tummy. I looked up and tried to touch the top of his shaggy brown hair. He pushed me into the kitchen so we were out of the way, “Hey! We can play football in the snow after din-ner, buddy. Maybe your sister can even be QB?” I agreed and asked if he would sit next to me at dinner. He agreed and laughed. My Granny announced that it was time to eat so everyone piled into the kitchen, holding hands to say the blessing. I stood next to Josh and fake elbowed him instead of standing still and being quiet. Everybody rushed for the food but I sat down and played my Nintendo DS because Mommy always fixed my plate, making sure I got plenty

of green beans and turkey and very little mac’n cheese. She told me it was full of “protein” and I should eat it all if I wanted more cookies later. It was more like she was feed-ing me poison to make sure my gag reflexes worked.Frankie waited until Maria, his daughter and the last in line to get food, had sat down across from him. Then he stood up and told us he had an announcement. I saw my Mommy touch Maria’s arm and smile at her, but it didn’t seem like a happy smile. Frankie cleared his throat and explained, “You all know I’ve been going through chemo and it’s been a hard few months. I called you all here this weekend because I don’t know what’s going to happen but I do know I am not getting any-more chemo. I want to stay here, in my house, in West Virginia” Maria pushed back her chair, blonde hair flying out to hit my Mom in her face, saying, “Dad, you know you don’t have to do that. The doctors said there’s a really good chance the next round of chemo will get rid of the tumor and you’ll be okay for a while.” We were all silent. Frankie got mad and said, “A while. It’s going to come back after that and we’ll have to go through this whole damned process all over again. I’m done. The doctor said the choice was up to me.”Mary walked over to them and put her hand on Maria’s shoulder, “I went to the appointment with him and the doctor told us he has time. Somewhere between a month and six months before..” She didn’t fin-ish her sentence. Maria brushed her away and left the room. Everyone was quiet for a while, until I asked, “Does this mean you’re going to die sooner?”


Mommy scolded me, “Nicolas! You shouldn’t say things like that!” Frankie said, “Yes, I’m going to die sooner.”Mary suggested we all needed to be optimistic but Frankie said there was no point running from the truth.No one argued with him or tried to tell him he couldn’t. The old ladies shuffled out of the room and I saw a tear start to run down Josh’s face. He brushed it away before it reached his jaw and pushed his plate away from him. I counted the months until my birthday. It was November so I counted December, January. Two months. I asked Josh, “Is Frankie going to be here for my birthday?” He didn’t know the answer. Lindsey didn’t either. We didn’t go to West Virginia again until December, when I was on break from school. We spent three days there before Christmas. Frankie didn’t know anyone and when we went back to visit for New Year’s, he slept almost all the time. He didn’t smoke and he didn’t drink seven and he was always in a wheel chair. Lindsey didn’t visit with us at New Year’s. She said she didn’t want to remember him like that. I just wanted to remem-ber him. I would sit in my chair and memorize the wrinkles in his face, counting the lines around his eyes and on his forehead. It was like counting the rings on a tree to see how long it had been alive instead it was wrinkles. I wasn’t sure if the wrinkles were good or bad. Frankie had a lot of them. He still wore his hat, the one that was flat on top with a third of the rim a baseball cap has. I know this because we had learned fractions in math and I wanted to compare everything to a pie chart. After New Years, we went home and I returned to school. Frankie

stopped going to the hospital for check ups. I heard Mommy talk-ing on the phone about “Hospice” and how the people would come to his house to take care of him there. Everyone was always so sad. My birthday was at the end of Janu-ary. I wanted to go to West Virginia, again, so we did. We went bowling. Frankie was there but he didn’t say much. He sounded like I did when my allergies got really bad when he wished me, “Happy Birthday.” I blew out my candles and wished that Frankie would be okay. He seemed so tired and not normal. He was skinnier than my Granny when we had visited this time and there wasn’t any coke in the fridge. Even the adults had stopped talk-ing about his condition or as though he was sick. They would talk to him as if he would respond, ignor-ing his silence. It was really weird, they would even put a plate of food in front of him at dinner time, just like they did for me. Just like me at Thanksgiving, Frankie didn’t touch any of the food. I smiled at him, we had that in common. If it didn’t look good we just weren’t gonna eat it! Later that week, we were back at home and I was doing my math homework. It was a fractions sheet and I was dividing up pie charts into thirds and fourths then color-ing them with the bright crayons from my Crayola box. The phone rang and Mommy picked it up. On the tv it said “West Virginia” was calling. It made me laugh because it sounded like the entire state had picked up a telephone and called us. It was funny because mountains don’t make phone calls! They don’t have hands! But the mountains called my Mommy that day and they made her cry.

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The more privileged time I spend with you, the more I want to know.The more time I spend being yours: the one you strive to please and tease, The more I wish to learn all about you.I wish for you to know me, too.The delicate ties we have made are growing stronger, even with ease.And as the days pass I learn more and more, and with this knowledge I glow.This knowledge; the knowledge of you has put me under a spell. If it were up to me, I would never stop learning:Who you are is what consumes me with a yearning……Which utterly refuses to be quelled. If I have to slow my research to a crawl, to learn only one lesson of you a day, I will do so.I will do so to keep you.For that one lesson a day will move me the way the moon moves the sea; The way that you move me.

or a lovesick kid who’s read too much John Keats

The Spell and the Moon or the Beginningor the Honeymoon Phase

Meghan Cantwell

Currents Art and Literary Magazine 2012 33James D. Cheeseman - High Lights

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FragileThe flames flickered before my eyes, dancing their wild dance from the em-bers. From the stones of the earth, they reached their tongues and white hands to the darkening sky, as if in prayer, sending their offerings of black, ac-cursed air to the gods. This is no less than the Immortal Ones deserved, I knew then. And as if they could see what I was thinking, which at the mo-ment even I had trouble doing, a loud rumble of thunder trembled its way into my bones, occupying me like the tense This was the reason for my cur-rent pain, however much joy it might have brought me in the past. How dare any spear or sword rest itself in the side of my companion, so proud and mighty like a god himself? I turned my head warily, perhaps wishing that if I deny his end for long enough, Fate will have pity on me, make the nightmare be just that- a temporary scare of the night.But alas, the gods were not so good-hearted. The shape on the ground still lay unmoving, as if already the cold grip of death had closed around its throat. I scrambled to my feet, tired muscles screaming in protest, for all they wanted was rest now. Dropping to my knees beside the iron-clad figure, I felt for a pulse, fingers clumsy and ner-vous. I didn’t need to, however. Bright green eyes opened slowly, like two moons waxing, perfectly synchronized.I felt like I should say something, share some comforting words, make the pres-ent circumstances just a little better. En-courage him, and tell him I was there. But I said nothing, my lips opening and closing, mind trying to reach for any-

thing to express the sorrow I felt, grasp-ing my heart in its unforgiving grip. And so, he was forced to speak, his side washed crimson where cold steel had pierced all-too-mortal flesh. “Christine...” recognition flickered in his emerald eyes. “What happened?” I could tell it was hard for him to get his breaths out, and sympathy for him washed over me. I couldn’t stand watch-ing him fade away. He was already pale, his eyes glassy, though losing none of their brilliant luster, I thought. Once more, I was at a loss for words. Finally, I let out a staggering breath, beginning to recall the battle, his wounding, slow-ly but surely. I ended with bringing him here, barely able to withhold the tears that threatened to spill over, wash my cheeks with salted, warm water.As I finished, he was silent, too. I thought I’d lost him already, but then he took a deep breath, and found that it hurt. A shaky, gloved hand reached to touch his own side, but I gently took it between my own. Not wanting him to hurt himself.Another rumble of thunder stretched the silence on between us. Finally his eyes rested on me, and with a picture of perfect calmness, he asked, “I’m dying, aren’t I, Chris?” The familiarity tore at me. He’d always called me that... now should be no different. But it was the last time I was to hear myself referred to by that nickname. It was his sole right.I considered lying, encouraging him and saying that everything would be fine. That he’d rise to fight another day, but before my eyes, my comrade was wilting like a rose left out in the cold

Olga Slobodyanyuk


of winter. Lying would be cruel. To in-still false hope in something, only to have that torn away. Instead, I just nodded my head. Not because I had nothing to say on the matter, but perhaps because I had too much to say.He lifted his head, grimacing with effort. I blinked in surprise, but scooted to help him up. The effort to stand was great, but he was a warrior. The fools preferred to die on their feet. Halfway, he realized that standing was beyond his powers right now. I hugged his shoulders from behind, feeling bad that my tears were soaking the collar of his shirt now. I felt something cool on the top of my head, and looked up, just in time to see a bolt of lightning flicker on the edge of my vision, as if I’d imagined it. The fire, once burning so brightly, now hissed a sharp protest at the water falling from the sky, interrupting its tribute to the heavens. The thunder boomed overhead once more, as the raindrops fell faster and in greater numbers.I heard a quick, little exhale on his part, and I realized he’d smirked at me. “You’re crying, aren’t you? That’s you, up there in the sky.” he said lightly, tak-ing a shaking breath and relaxing. He tired from fighting death off, I’d imagine. His eyes closed, but I could feel the slight rise and fall of his chest as the rain poured down from the stars.

I sat, arms wrapped around him for I don’t know how long. It could’ve been only moments, or whole hours. But as ev-erything must come to an end, so did he, and I heard the last breath escape him as if it were a sigh, and then he breathed no more. I bent over, pain stabbing so hard at my heart that I couldn’t fight the tears. They spilled down like the rain, and per-haps at one point, they were.How some things seem immortal, he did, too. Sitting near the hissing, protesting fire and not hearing it, I wondered how he could be taken away so easily, my friend the warrior. His story was over now. But mine was not... perhaps I seemed immor-tal to someone else. When really, all of us were as fragile as little glass statuettes, glittering in the sunlight and shattering on contact. And when the rain washed my eyes clean and I was shaking, not because of grief, like but a few moments ago, but with cold, I stood. Something he was un-able to do, that mighty god. I laid his head gently on the ground, and turned away.The fire had died with him, and there was nothing else to do. I waited for the rain to die down, as well. It had cried itself out like me. What little was left drizzled lightly along, as if skipping and whisper-ing its little rhythm.And the rain washed the memory of his death from me.

Nic

k D

enso

n - C

raw

ling

Tow

ards

the

Sun

36

as the dark, winding road disappears underneath me like a midnight colored ribbon, I drive. My

headlights show me the way, acting as an illuminated compass. I hold on to the hope they’re pointing me in the right direction as tightly as I hold on to the wheel I’m using to guide me there. Tears fill my eyes while your words bounce around my head. They keep bumping together, pushing each other out of the way, each one trying their hardest to be heard loud and clear. As I sip on my iced mocha, almost as cold as the pearled hands I’m trying to keep tame, I forget for a second where I’m going, because it tastes as if I’m going to see you. The familiarity of this scene fills my heart with the racing anxiety and excitement I used to feel as I got closer and closer to you. Only, I’m driving home… But, with each mile I’m getting further and further away from the only home I’ve ever known. It was easy until now, to drown these thoughts in distractions, but as the darkness closes around me these loose ends tighten around my throat, causing me to choke on my cries. Apathy has been my friend, yet it flees on this cold and rainy night, leaving me with my only enemy: myself. The crushing silence is broken as the ring of my phone dances in the air. It’s you. I answer with shaking hands and a trembling voice, and I find that after a month, still the comfort of your voice fills my soul. The urge to turn around and curl up with you is almost unbearable. I bask in the warm embrace your words create around my body, and listen. It’s all I can do. You start to build a display case, crafted with emotion, shown by tongue, and place your heart inside for me to see. Second guesses are born from the paranormal cries of the ghosts with in me, and fill my lungs as I slowly breathe in your voice. The weight of the world I created is almost as heavy as the burden I’ve built with my bare hands. I tell you I need time, that I need space. You tell me you’ll wait. As relief escapes my lips in a sigh and the shine of my tears dulls, I’m able to see. What I see is a beginning; a blurred light at the end of the tunnel.

The beginning in the end.

The Beginning in The end

Erika Barker


Leslie Haynes: Path of No End

38

In this crazed asylum; four ways out exist.Only existing --- but not quite functional;

All made to keep in and completely dysfunctional Currently manifesting is a silent silence,

Constructed of a muteness that one’s dreams only can emulateAnd if it is unleashed, one’s visions will subconsciously dissipate

While lucid thoughts savagely rape the mind.The asylum is operating strictly on yesterday’s time. With dimensionless visions of distorted perceptions

The asylum conjures up fabricated truths and an ill-written reality. Plagued by a mutilating reek that is corrosive to memories.

With forgotten objectives- the mind is left empty.As are the words that speech refuses to speak.

Nothing to exist, so nothing can escape.yet in this asylum, everything has a place.

but within these four exits,the exits one will never face.

untitledJadyne St.Julien


Brayden Tomsinson - Jane Doe (1st Place)

40

Corinna Campbell - Screaming Doll Monoprint


Exhaustive in its retributionAll-powerful allocutionBorn to cure the natural expressionOf loss, defeat, despair, depression

The beauty of the night rejectedForced happiness, believed, injectedAnd the world is all infectedWith a too-convincing smileFeel it on your skin, the breezePush it down and make believeThis is all you want, you needSoak in it for a while

I remain, dream of escapeClose my eyes, my mind, and waitThe burn lightens and fadesEnds another counterfeit day

I feel the cooling windAnd I can breathe againTrue relief as night beginsThe acting’s over nowPretty in velvet, glowing pearlsMica shine and silver curlsA deeper shade of black unfurlsAnd only bare Truth is allowed

Sun Shines On An Insomniac

Hannah M. Hunt

42

It could be lingering out there somewhereLike a hungry beast

Ready for his evening feastAnd the cities stand tall with prestige

It is the candy coating for the jawsOf the End, waiting patiently

We do not know how far there isHow far our efforts will go

Until the droplet of fireUpon the collapsing tower of wax

Will be put out in an instant Or as a fade into tomorrow

As the future spreads its wingsThe machines that move below

Look onward with wide eyesBulging from skulls that grow full

Of paranoid fantasyWe predict apocalypse

And the fault of it to be placedUpon the Divine

That which we depend onAnd will also place blame upon

So as to not look the part of the guilty sourceThe cause of the crash and crumble of civilization

And when we all goIt will be before we even know

Just what came upon usAnd the force of the End

That came and conquered prosperityMade our blank slate its territory

The machines and their dependenciesWill not be around to bring about conflict

Because the End will hush it allWith a gentle hand

Over the widened mouthsOf oh-so-arrogant Man

Somewhere Down the LinePeter Banks


Karin Dyer - Saginaw

44

inevitably, i am jaded byyour callous judgement, passed overmy prone exhaustion, after i’ve depletedmy selfin an attempt to collaborate with your irrationality

were i sheof the town squareyou would shrugraise your stone, sayingheyi’m as close as it gets.

G a b r i e l l e H u n tjohn eight seven


Graham Hunt - The Endless Feed

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Melissa Williamson - Bursting

The Frame and The Painting


Victoria RupertOne day upon this lifeI found that shame and guilt I knowMy lies they served to hide meBut beneath hid sin, my foe

Lifelong painting of this pictureBut the paint was wearing thinAnd the canvas grew to heavyFor the frame I’d put it in

The wear of this old pictureIt threatened to exposeThe shattered, broken frameOf the person no one knows

For long I’d kept myselfMy flaws, my sin, my shameFrom being in the pictureFor fear I’d lose my fame

The painting is now fadingAnd it’s time that I restoreThe underlying structureMy soul, my heart, my core

I must expose the rotTo rid my frame of deathAnd rip away the badUntil only good is left

Long and painful is the processBut I know it must be doneFor the frame must hold a paintingMore special than just any one

This new painting shows it allYes, even of my flawsFor my flaws tell of a storyThat’s enough to give one pauseYes, I am a failureAnd my deeds can’t make me rightBut because of JesusGod sees me as perfect in His sight

My painting is His masterpieceFor Him it will displayTo show His love and goodnessAnd the price He had to pay

To know that it is ChristI will always be proclaimingNo commission could be greaterFor my imperfect frame and painting

The Frame and The Painting

48

Abby zooMEd through the grocery store, her granddaughter prac-

tically jogging behind her motorized wheel chair. She was pissed. Pissed that the produce people were in her way. Couldn’t they see she was in a wheel chair? Were they blind to the fact that she wanted the goddamn apples that they were blocking? She huffed, whipping her chair around. The basket of the wheel chair was inches away from knocking over a fruit display. She didn’t even care. She hoped she’d accidentally knock it over. She imag-ined fruit spilled all over the floor, the produce people run-ning around, having to pick up every last piece. Maybe then they would get out of her fucking way. She sped towards they dairy section, glaring at a young, produce boy as she passed him. The boy had messy, long hair and headphones in his ears. He recoiled from her and quickly looked away.Abby’s granddaughter trot-ted behind her. Abby glanced back once, expecting Sophie to look bored or to be on her phone. She wasn’t though. She was attentive, waiting to pick something up if Abby

needed it. Abby was tired. Weak. Her arm trembled as she reached for a loaf of bread, so Sophie quickly grabbed the loaf and put it in the basket. She harrumphed a sort of thank you. She could have gotten the loaf herself if Sophie has given her a chance. She flew past the bread, pass-ing the brightly colored ce-real boxes. Abby sped by the cookies and cakes, Little Debbie obnoxiously smiling at her from a box of Swiss Rolls. Zebra cakes, Twinkies, Cosmic Brownies; she raced by them all. Then she stopped short at the spaghetti. She eyed a familiar blue and gold box, angel hair, and she was back in New Jersey, back in her old house. She was stand-ing at the stove, a wooden spoon in her hand. On the opposite side of the kitchen stood a big man with dark brown hair. He had his shirt-sleeves rolled up to reveal his hairy, meaty forearms. “You stupid bitch!” He screamed, his cheeks bloom-ing into an ugly ruddy color. She stood still, gripping the spoon. The heat rising from the boiling pot behind her made sweat pool in the small of her back.

Amy E. HarrisonAbby


“You stupid, fucking Pollack! I wanted angel hair. Angel hair! You hear me, you cow? What are you, stupid?” Abby could smell his breath all the way across the room. She felt the heat of the pot behind her as she screamed back, her voice shrill, the words cutting him. She saw the pain in his face, his eyes glossy from whatever he had been drinking. She said awful things, terrible things that made the man stop short, his hands gripping the wooden chair in front of him. She ranted on and on, feeling the heat of the boiling water behind her. She wanted to pick up the pot. She wanted to throw the scorching water in his face. She wanted to hit him in the head with the sear-ing metal. She wanted to watch his unconscious, bruised body lie lifeless on the floor. She just wanted him to stop screaming at her. She didn’t stop yelling until a little figure appeared at the kitchen door, wide-eyed and terrified.“Mommy?” “Grammy?” Abby snapped out of her memory, still staring at the blue and gold pasta box. Angel hair. Her hands gripped the steering bars so hard that her knuckles were white. Pain shot through her hands, up her forearms. “Grammy, did you want to get some pasta?” She looked into her granddaughter’s face, her green eyes wide. “No, definitely not.” Her voice

was unintentionally harsh. She sighed, too tired to right her wrong. She knew Sophie would forgive her for snapping. She always did.As the headed towards the check out counter, Abby spotted Karen with her full cart. Abby eyed a few of the fun cook-ies and cakes she had sped by in Karen’s basket. Sophie was lucky. Abby’s mother would have never bought frivolous treats for her children. Abby watched Karen smile upon see-ing the two of them.“Hey, Mom.” Sophie returned the smile. “You got Swiss Rolls! Those are my favorite.”“Of course I got them for you. They were on sale too. I couldn’t pass them up. Ready to check out, Ma?” Karen asked. Abby noticed the kind look in her eyes. She nodded. Karen put her hand on Abby’s shoul-der and gave a slight squeeze. Abby closed her eyes at the pressure of her daughter’s hand, wishing she wouldn’t let go. She was too fatigued to lift her hand and squeeze back. Instead she gave her a weak smile.Abby felt Sophie’s eyes on her as the check out woman slowly rang everything up and bagged their groceries. Abby wanted to shout at the woman and tell her that you never put bread on the bottom of the bag, but she could only breathe heav-ily and glare. She didn’t like the way Sophie was looking at her; like she was pitying some

50

sick animal. She kept giving Abby sad, long looks. Abby tried to imagine what she was thinking, how Sophie probably felt sorry for her old, miserable grandmother. She had heard her apologizing to the produce people behind her back. I’m sorry, she’s tired. I’m sorry, we’re not having the best day. Abby felt like a sullen child. She felt small and shrunken in the large, bulky wheel chair. Sophie stood close to her mother. They were standing in front of Abby in the checkout line. She watched as Sophie rested her head on her moth-er’s shoulder. Abby instantly thought that 22 years old was too old to be doing something like that. She bristled, wait-ing for Karen to shake her daughter off, or tell her that she was too old for that. She wasn’t a baby anymore. But Karen snaked her arm around Sophie’s waist. Sophie sighed and said, “Oh Karen.” Oh Karen? Abby was floored. Then she thought of her mother, stern and stoic. Katie. She has called her Katie once to her face. Her mother looked at her, with tight lips and nar-rowed eyes. She had taken her hand and slowly made it a fist in front of Abby’s face. “Katie?” she had said through gritted teeth. “I’ll give you Katie.” She had never called her mother by her first name again. She watched her daughter

and granddaughter in front of her, and she softened. Karen laughed and patted Sophie on the back. Sophie turned and smiled at her grandmother. As she looked down on Abby, Abby caught a glimpse of So-phie’s bright, green eyes, and her wide smile. It was like looking into a mirror: freck-les splashed all over her face, auburn, wavy hair, high cheek-bones. She half smiled back, but looked away quickly. She didn’t want Sophie to see the tears that pooled in her eyes.On the car ride home, Abby was relieved to be heading back. She wanted to rest. She enjoyed listening to Sophie telling her mother a story, her clear voice filling the car with its youth. She smiled in the front seat, taking in the af-ternoon sun and the autumn leaves that canvassed the lawns. She even smiled to a neighbor who waved at their passing. Suddenly she saw a movement toward her right.“Karen look out!” Her scream filled the car as her daughter swerved the car. A truck door swung in front of their passing car, a man emerging from its tarnished cab. He was wear-ing low-slung workman’s pants and his hat was on back-wards. Abby’s heart thudded, her shock quickly turning into rage. The man barely noticed them as he stepped onto the road. He was black.“That stupid, fucking nigger!”


Silence. Karen’s hands gripped the steering wheel, her knuck-les turning white from the pressure. Sophie gasped in the backseat. Abby instantly felt a sinking sensation and pictured a little blonde Sophie, with shaggy bangs. She kept pushing her hair out of her face. Abby watched her from the couch as she droned on to Karen about Medicare costs. She was so angry with her fourth husband for screwing her over. She had no benefits. And all she could see out of the corner of her eye was little Sophie, who was sweeping her bangs of her eyes.“Get your hair out of your face! You look like a nigger!” Sophie had stayed so still. She didn’t get up or cry, she just sat there, gawking at Abby. So-phie didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. How could you? Abby didn’t think Karen would have ever let her see Sophie again after that. It had taken a year after that inci-dent for Karen to even speak to her again. It had been two years before she could see So-phie. But she was right there in the backseat, silent after Abby’s exclamation. She was too ashamed to look into her granddaughter’s eyes.No one said a word as they helped Abby into the house. Karen put away Abby’s gro-ceries. She carefully removed the bread from the bottom of the bag, and gently placed in it

the pantry. To the pantry she added Abby’s crackers and Jello mix. Then she separated the fruit and the vegetables, and put them in their respective bins. She put all of the meat into the freezer. Abby watched Sophie as she retrieved Abby a glass of ice water. She noticed how Sophie took her time, lin-gering at the sink while her mother continued to put away Abby’s groceries. She handed the glass to her grandmother, and she looked hesitant.“Sit” was all Abby said. Sur-prised by the harshness of her command, she tried to smile. Sophie obediently sat down across from her grandmother. She looked down into her lap.“You.” Abby pointed at So-phie, and she slowly raised her head to look into her grand-mother’s eyes. Abby looked right at Sophie’s face, directly into her green eyes. “I remember when you were a teeny, tiny baby and your mother had just brought you home from the hospital. And you wouldn’t stop crying and you wouldn’t sleep. I looked down at your in your crib and I picked you up. My little baby. I wrapped you nice and snug in a blanket and we sat on that couch. I put you right here. Right here under my neck and you fell asleep, breathing on my neck, your little heart pounding. I can still feel you right here.”

52Allison Stough: This Is It


As I look in the rearviewI nearly catch a glimpse of you.I look the same way you did,Same double chin resting on the starchedCollar of a blue dress shirt.Same son of a bitch as the blackFord Explorer changes lanes without a signal.Same blue eyes behind the mirrored glass Of bright yellow Oakley’sYou wore to your funeral.

Maybe they were used to Hide your true feelings for us. The feelings not even the Booze could mask. Or maybe they Allowed you to act a bit more like Thompson,With less remorse. Either way, I’m sure You’re wearing them now, Hiding lies from angels, once again.

SunglassesScott Stevens

54

Cold as winter,

with the sad love

of hidden light

trapped in the stone

walls of February’s garden.

Kindling, perhaps, the soft

Fire of cancer and

Decay between her

Pale, elegant

Fingers.

As if holding

A red poppy,

And as though

she would rather

kiss the silent flower

of weary and cloaked

melancholy than to

taste any of the

blooming passions

in this world...which

have yet broken

like senseless dust

on her smooth,

cold eyes.

John O

’Bria

nSh

e Lo

oked

Lik

e La

tvia


James D. Cheeseman - Up in Smoke

56

Brandon William Rift is going to die today and the state of Texas

can add another murder to its con-scious. Aimee concluded her edito-rial just before her laptop died in the detention center’s waiting area. She snapped it shut and sighed. The writ-ing had worked her up. She picked up a magazine, a three year old News-week, and flipped through it for what must have been the fiftieth time. She was trying to distract herself from the event that would happen that night that she had been powerless to stop. After about an hour of wait-ing, a guard finally appeared behind the window of the locked door. He opened it and stepped into the room. “Ma’am, you need to lock that up.” Aimee glowered at him as she picked up her laptop and walked briskly into the locker room. She turned the key, tucked away the laptop under her coat, and slammed the locker door all with too much force. She walked back to the guard and stood in front of him expectantly. He simply stared at her face, not making eye contact, until she was ready to go in. He went though the death row visiting rules quickly, and with little interest as they walked down the hall. Finally they reached the long window of the visiting center. Aimee looked in and saw that the room was empty, all three of the steel tables shining from their latest clean. The guard had stopped in front of the door to the visiting center and was looking at her, this time making eye contact.

Aimee stared back at him, not quite knowing what to say or do. “Well?” she finally demanded. “It’s not your fault.” “Excuse me?”“You did what you could. You shouldn’t be angry with yourself.”Aimee was caught off-guard, and before she could respond the guard had opened the door for her. She walked in, turned to him to say…what? Something. But he was gone. The door on the opposite side of the room buzzed and she turned to see Brandon enter the room.

***She had imagined he would be dis-traught; or hopeful, or emotional. He was calm, however. As she listened to him speak about Hermann Hesse, as he had so many times on their previous visits, she couldn’t stop her eyes from filling with tears. He had noticed; of course he had noticed; he was Brandon. He stopped speaking and waited patiently. She wept qui-etly, her body shaking from the effort to hold in the sounds of suffering she had let out at home for the past months every time she thought of Brandon in his prison cell. Brandon: her brother. The brother she couldn’t save despite having been a defense lawyer for more than thirteen years. Her hair, which had begun to turn grey on her 40th birthday, fell down around her face. Brandon reached across the table and pushed it behind her ear. The intercom buzzed and the guard’s voice said, almost gently,

The RiftMeghAn CAntweLLin Peace


“Mr. Rift”. This snapped Aimee to attention. Never before had a guard called Brandon by name. She frowned in concentration, but then Brandon began to speak, drawing her attention back to him. “Aimee. It’s okay.”Her face burned hot pink. How could he say it was okay?“It’s not fair, Bran Flakes.” He chuckled at the use of his child-hood name. She hadn’t even realized she said it. She glared at him.“How can you laugh! How can you? Brandon…we failed! Do you realize that? Do you understand?”“Aimee—”“No!” She stood up and walked around the small room. She rested her hands on the table next to the one where her brother was seated.He waited patiently. He had always waited patiently. Aimee remembered how he had held her as she cried about her first boyfriend dumping her when she was fifteen. Brandon was just two years older than her. When nor-mal brothers would have mocked and joked and prodded, he simply held her, waiting for her to calm down and tell her story. He had been the mother to her many other times to make up for the loss of their oven. That is what they had called their biological mother who left their father and the two of them only weeks after Aimee was born. Their father, Brandon James Rift, had tried to provide for their emotional well-being. He had always tried, but where he had failed, brother and sister had filled in the blanks. Aimee had regained a modicum of self control. She turned to face him and he was smiling. A small smile that was still unfamiliar to her. She had seen

it begin to appear on his face about 6 months before, when the second appeal had just begun. “Why are you smiling?”“Because I have peace.”So simple. So…“Brandon, I wish I had the comfort you do. I wish…I wish I could have saved you.” Aimee whispered the last part.“Come here, please.” Brandon said, as he was not allowed to stand.She sat back down at their table and she took his hands, throwing a defi-ant glare toward the two-way mirror behind which the guard stood. No sound came over the intercom. She held both of his hands in hers.“Bran Flakes. I am so sorry. So sorry.”“It’s okay. You are not responsible for this. You hold yourself accountable for things you cannot control. As long as you do that, you will never forgive yourself for this. But you must, Cookie Crisps. You must.”She tried not to laugh. She failed. “Now, let us talk about something fun. Hermann Hesse—”“Hermann Hesse is only fun for you.” Aimee looked in her brother’s eyes and saw the gleam that had been absent before. That gleam had characterized him in their youth. It had been replaced by despair, then anger, and then that mysterious peace. It gave her a glim-mer of hope to see that gleam again. Hope for what she did not know. “Brandon, I don’t understand how you can act, how you can feel so peaceful. Your life is ending. For nothing! For a stupid misunderstanding and police incompetence!” She shot another look at the mirror at this.Brandon sighed. “It’s hard to explain, so I won’t even try. But this phrase has always proven

58

true: Shit happens.”She slammed her hand on the table, her rage suddenly aflame once more. He quickly grabbed her hands by the wrists and leaned forward to look her dead in the face. “Stop, Aimee. Just stop.” At first she struggled to pull her hands away, but thought better of it and released the fists she had clenched. She sighed loudly, and was swept up by a wave of catharsis. She cried. She cried and cried and cried.She cried until the end of the two hour visit. Brandon rubbed her hands with his as she did this. Realizing the time, Bran-don whispered to her in the last moments before he would be taken. “We had no chance, sis. We never did. I came to terms with this quite some time ago. But I didn’t express it because…because you needed to fight for me. You needed to strive for something bigger than yourself.” She looked up into his eyes as she gasped between sobs. How did he understand her so much better than she understood herself, even now? After she had grown so old? “You felt washed up before, but these appeals gave you a new start. You tasted again the excitement of the chase, which had gotten you through so much shit in the past to the success you have now. I’m glad this is happening to me—” She let out a short scream. “Why!”The door did not open. Behind the mirror the guard clenched his fists and sighed.Brandon put his hand to her face, now brought to tears by his sister’s pain. “I am glad this happened. It brought me peace when nothing else would. And it gave you something to live for. I can die happy now because I know you will be fine. You can take the flame inside of you

and discover something else to light with it. You need to be passionate about some-thing! I am so happy I was able to give you that something in a time when you most needed it.”Behind the mirror, another guard entered and stared in surprise at Prisoner 0066 touching his visitor. He reached for the buzzer but was stopped by the first guard. “Let them be.” “Chris--” the second guard said begin-ning to contradict him. But he saw the determination on his face and stopped. Then he said more gently: “They’re ready to take him now. We have to get him.” “Just a little more time,” Chris said turn-ing to look back into the room.Aimee let out one last sigh and with it she leapt across the table and held her brother in her arms. He grasped her tightly, not wanting to let go, but knowing he must; expecting to soon. He pulled away to look her in the face again: “Find something, Aimee; something to fight for. Most importantly, fight for yourself because I can’t anymore.”“I don’t want you to go. I don’t want this to end!”“Nothing is ending! You’ll remember me as I really was, not as these people or these machines see me. Use my memory to guide you and I will always be con-tent.”The Supervising C.O. stormed into the room behind the mirror. “What the hell?” Chris said nothing and pressed the buzzer reluctantly. Aimee gasped again. “Brandon!”He held her tightly again as the Super-visor and the second guard came in to take him out of the room. They pulled him out of Aimee’s grasp. Chris came in


and stood between her and Brandon as they walked him out. Her brother looked back at her and smiled.“I’ll take you to the witness area now, if you want to go.” Chris said as gently as he could.Aimee looked at him and frowned, feeling sad, but also calm. Something was filling up inside of her. It was deter-mination.“No.” She said. “I don’t need to see him in that… chamber. But will you give him a message for me?”

***Brandon had finished with the chaplain and had given his journals to the warden, asking him to leave them in his sister’s care. Chris came in to escort him to the cham-ber.As Brandon was being strapped down, he looked up at Chris and said: “She didn’t come, did she?”“No she didn’t.”“Good.”“But she wanted me to give you something.”Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture of the Rift siblings as kids. On the back it said: To Bran Flakes. You will inspire me forever. I love you. Cookie Crisps. Brandon smiled his small smile, and then he grinned and said to Chris: “May I keep this?”Chris nodded and left the room, running from the words he knew Brandon would say:

“Thank you.”

Brayden Tomsinson - Five-Thirty (1st Place)

60

Me

gh

an

Ca

ntw

ell

Half emptyhalf full


I love an empty page.The way it waits to receive writing, or calligraphy: the penwoman’s kiss.Everything is possible for an empty page.And then, the decision! The kiss!The kiss of death or of life?A writer may never know.But for all the tribulation and strife;Still, is there anything sweeter than that first word so wonderful; so terrible; or just so-so?It doesn’t matter what it is: it is the commitment to it!“Yes! I want to write this, even if you think it is shit!”I adore a full page.All is still possible with a full page.It could begin you!You could have written a book of a touchstone, or of a wily sage.Or admittedly, it could end you.The important thing is to fill the page.

Gra

ham

Hun

t - H

ouse

brok

en (M

r. Fl

uffu

ms)

62

It was dark; the kind of night where it was hard to tell where the lake ended and

the sky began. I inhaled and the scent of grass and lake and asphalt and cold filled my lungs and heart. I realized my eyes were shut and opened them to Jimi staring. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Smelling the world. She does it all the time.” Stephen answered for me. “So, you’re like, snuffing up life?” He tossed his curly hair from his eyes and grinned. “Sure. How eloquently put.” I gazed back.“Well snap out of your life high and help us with the movie, would you?” “I am.” I said. “I was thinking about how if this were a movie we would have to figure out how to portray the familiarity in that murky lake smell; explain that indescrib-able joy when our feet first sink into the mud each time we enter.” It was the first ever International Observe the Moon Night; we were sprawled out at the top of a hill over looking the lake, Jimi and I on one blanket, Stephen and his gui-tar on another. Stephen had been picking the chords to Maggie May, a song we had fallen in love with upon hearing it in Lords of Dogtown. We adored artsy, coming of age films; Breakfast club, SLC Punk, Farris Bulers’s Day Off, anything about a group of friends growing up. It was ominous re-ally; I think we loved those stories because all along we subconsciously recognized we were part of one. We were in the same place here and now, be it random chance or fate, but soon we would have to take control of our own destinies. We would be tossed into the adult world commonly

known as society, expected to make some-thing of ourselves and not end up total shit heads. If we were a movie we would have been in the carefree, generally easy section of the story at that time. The part where ev-eryone’s driving around with the windows down and music up, showing things are as they should be. The part typically before the bad stuff goes down. But in the world outside Hollywood, “bad” doesn’t just hap-pen all at once. Instead of suddenly appear-ing and making you start, it seeps in slowly from around the edges. It tricks you into believing if you ignore it and focus straight ahead, you may beat it to the future, before it closes in on you. “I’ve got it.” Said Jimi. “The beginning will fade in to a shot of the bright sky and what you think is the sound of waves crash-ing. My voice will say ‘We were masters at skimboarding, it was our trade and our pas-sion, but alas, we were stuck in Springfield.’ Then the camera will pan down and you’ll see the whoosh whoosh sound is really just cars zooming past on the beltway. Que Mu-sic.” Stephen struck up an upbeat tune and began tapping his foot until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I leapt up and pulled at Jimi’s arms. “Let’s dance!” I begged. “Again?” He moaned, but he was already standing up. I grabbed his hands and spun and twirled, laughing and jerking him ev-ery which way. He let me spin in and out of his arms and leap about him in circles while Stephen played on for several min-utes. Finally he collapsed on the blanket. “Sit down baby. Please? Settle down.” “Never!” I shouted and took off, running

Sally Grace HoltGrieve

O n e Y e a r A g or e c o l l e c t i o n s


and laughing hysterically. I ran until I thought my chest would burst, and then pushed on. I panted, “I’m alive” with each thud as my feet hit the ground and sent a shock from my legs to my head. When I fi-nally slowed to a stop, I turned and looked behind me, winded but refusing to double over and gasp for breath. I stood there and eyed the two shadows I’d left on the other side of the lake. Stephen, my best friend and the singular most beautiful soul I’d ever known, and Jimi, the wild boy I was doing my best not to fall in love with. I noticed a path I’d never ventured down up ahead, but I choose to go back to where I came from, to the familiar, before I lost sight of even their shadows. “He has drive, but what drives him?” Ste-phen was saying as I trotted back over to the blankets. “Discussing John?” I inquired while plop-ping down and letting Jimi take my hand. “Of course.” Jimi said, though I didn’t need the answer. John was Stephen and I’s third musketeer. We had always been the three amigos, the three stooges. Summed up, we were Stephen the sad one, John the

angry one, and Sally Grace the crazy one. John was not with us that moonlit night, he didn’t like to do things like sit around and gawk at the moon. He didn’t like to do things in general.“It’s a passion he’s lacking.” Stephen said, seeming to read my thoughts. “I mean my thing is music, it’s what I live for and love. I don’t think he loves anything.”“Yeah.” Jimi nodded. “My reason is surf-ing. It’s what I was born to do. I just know that. What do you live for?” He poked me.I cocked my head. “I live for living, I sup-pose, because my ‘thing’ is writing. Paint-ing with words. I’m lucky in the aspect that unlike you, there is no such thing as good surf for writing. There is no good or bad weather. It all just is, and you make what can out of it. And unlike John, I don’t give a shit whether I’m the absolute best at what I do or not.” “I’m okay with being unimpressive. I sleep better.” Stephen grinned, quoting Garden State, my personal favorite from our movie stack. We left it at that for now, there was never a conclusion, never really is for anything.

Inhy

e H

ong

- Fis

h

64

Emily Jackson - Night Watcher


The thick folds of night Are deep and dark with many secretsOf stars and fallen tearsFrom bedroom windows high off the groundThe rich melodies of nightAre deep and dark with trembling notesOh, I feel them in my bonesA leaping and a crouching down beneath The black man’s tattered shoeKeeping time on a broken pavement squareAnd the people’s dreams, every deep dark night they slideInto his melancholy narrow trumpet and they linger there insideUntil he blows them out onto the street And they go a crouching and a leaping into a mama’s armsAnd nestle against her baby’s ear, a whispering with her croonThen light as the black man’s tuneThey trickle down the broken pavement and head down towards the moonPast the splintered rocking chairs that moan every beat or soLawd, the heat so hot it makes the rockers swoonAnd the dreams scamper on the porch in between the shifting feetAnd like a wild, midnight dance they twirl and leap between the black bare feetThey shuffle up into the bright city lights and stay a whileUntil a strain of music calls them from a distant streetThey fall down, far down and thenInto a lonely trumpet mouth they slide againAnd they sleep there till the black man sways and blows them on their way Up to the moon riding a sad, slow tuneAnd they fill the deep dark night with wishful musicA crouching and a leaping into the thick black nightTrembling against the scattered house lightsThe dreams circle, slide beneath every darkened bedroom doorAnd the music rises and falls like a sleeping sighUntil on the verge of sleeping lips they slide into a singing fantasySinging as a lullaby for a weary mindWhisper goodnight.

DREAMSNIGHT

THE

THE OF

Ana Petillo

66

My dear and troubled friend, your pain is too much,your fight is too tough. If only a touch,

could ease your pain, I’d hold you through the night.If you wait, I’ll tell you it’ll be alright.

The sorrow and the pain will be no more.I’ll work with you to shut that painful door.

We can do it together, you and I,we can undo your hurt and say goodbye.It will be tough but in the end you’ll see,your pain will transform to forever glee.

We can do it together, you and I,We’ll fix you up, so you will never cry.

Charlotte ProCtorYOUI&


Charlotte ProCtorI&

Your presenceunderlines the scene, for me,and I hear everythingin colors.

(untitled)

Sideways looksa little inside jokeand, by extension,the ground beneath you silk strands and you don’t knowwhere to stand:how not to make it break.

(untitled)

i like to feel the hard and soft of youtight sinews all throughand smoothness overtop

Jeanette Corey

ACAUSE ORSYMPTOM

OFLOVE

68

It could be lingering out there somewhereLike a hungry beast Ready for his evening feastAnd the cities stand tall with prestigeIt is the candy coating for the jawsOf the End, waiting patientlyWe do not know how far there isHow far our efforts will goUntil the droplet of fireUpon the collapsing tower of waxWill be put out in an instant Or as a fade into tomorrowAs the future spreads its wingsThe machines that move belowLook onward with wide eyesBulging from skulls that grow fullOf paranoid fantasyWe predict apocalypseAnd the fault of it to be placedUpon the DivineThat which we depend onAnd will also place blame uponSo as to not look the part of the guilty sourceThe cause of the crash and crumble of civilizationAnd when we all goIt will be before we even knowJust what came upon usAnd the force of the EndThat came and conquered prosperityMade our blank slate its territoryThe machines and their dependenciesWill not be around to bring about conflictBecause the End will hush it allWith a gentle handOver the widened mouthsOf oh-so-arrogant Man

Som

ewhere D

own the Line

Peter Banks


70

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