Fetters’ RunThe Ohio University–LancasterJournal of Art and Literature

Volume IV – Spring 2006

“A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.” - Emily Dickinson

Staff

Editors

Tracy KellyBrett PranskyThomas OgilvieKellie Doty

Advisors

Dr. Scott MinarJennifer LaRueDr. Shun Endo

Layout and Design

Brett PranskyTracy Kelly

Dr. Scott Minar

Introduction

When Fetters’ Run was first published at Ohio University – Lancaster, just a few years ago, we knew it would be both fun and fulfilling – and a valuable learning tool – for all of us. Yet few of us understood, I think, the effect such a journal has on campus life. Fetters’ Run has challenged and delighted us; it has frustrated and thrilled its student editors; it has moved and enthralled its readers. In short, it has done its job. I hope these poems, stories, pictures and drawings captivate you as they have captivated me.

Special thanks this year are owed to Dean MaryAnn Janosik and Mr. Jeff Whitehead – who have generously supported the production of the magazine – and to Fetters’ Run co-advisor, Jenny Larue, who has contributed both funding and her talents to the task of securing a printer. Our grateful thanks go to these supporters.

Scott Minar

Associate Professor of English and

Co-advisor to Fetters’ Run

Contents

Jeff Caivanosullen notes 1

Kathleen CampbellHappy Hunting 2

Margee DixonMan in Crowd 4Institutional Green 5Risen 6

Kellie DotyNaked 8Deportation 10

Sarah FosterThe Brooks Boy’s Coat

11

Elisa GonzalezMoving Again 12

Jennifer HolbrookThe Mother-in-Law: an Epigram

13

Jennifer LawrenceThe Distinguished Opossum 14Mother’s Cooking 15

Savior 16Between Us 17Fortune

18You 19

Gary LeMasterBeep-Beep-Beep 20All conversations are the same21The Baldwin 22Oatmeal’s better than no meal23Outpouring 24

Jeff MoyerNot a Bob Ross Painting25

Monica PhillipsContentment 26Black and White 27

Brett PranskyThe Price is Right 28It 29The Rains 30The Meadow 31

Andrew WatersThe Ohio Center 34

Jamie Wirth

The Traditional Service35

Jeff Caivano

sullen notes

monday is hard waking up to cats.somehow it’s not the sameas a woman, although they arecheaper and less complicated,but still have to visit the doctorfor their annual check-up.

i wish i wasn’t born in Idaho. allthe cool people are from Jersey, exceptBelushi, but he is from another countryso it doesn’t count. he died too young.

maybe if i did more push-upsor ate right, or cut my nose hair,i could find a woman like Frank.but Mia was too young.

if i had someone, i would make lovethe way Sinatra drives notes,from the rumble of his throatthrough mercy of his chinas though he were singingfor a loser like me.

but i don’t,

so i can’t

Kathleen Campbell

Happy Hunting

They lay in that ravine for a day.Nobody saw them, and, if,the kind lady, a passer-by, had not seen dyingheadlights, wellthat culvert is too steep.

The old station wagon loud and faded and rusty,Paw and Happy called it the ‘dog car.’On the way home after a long day of pursuing,stalking taught by their father,

and the fathers before that.Average day during an average rabbit season,filled with hunting, huntin’ dogs, rabbit gunsand Jim Beam for warmth.

Close to sundown, with just enough daylight.To collect and load the dogs,they wanted to make it home in time.

Cussing, as always,they barely noticed the front tire when it slipped off the berm.One hard jerk, and they were Evel Knievel, airborne.The ‘dog car’ over and over,

reached the bottom where it rested, upside down.When it ceased to move and the tires quit spinning,all was quiet. The dogs, thrown clear, roused quickly.Driver and passenger were not able to say the same.

Alive, Paw was pinned by the steering wheel,upside down at a weird angle.Happy, hanging right beside him,had given up the ghost.

Hour after hour, headlights came and went.Paw spoke one more time,he wasn’t sure, but thought Hap might have moved a bit.He didn’t move after that, because, although Paw conversedhe got no reply.

The beagles crawled back into the station wagon.They slept, curled together, to keep warm.The old men slept in the front seat. One warm,one cold, they could not stay that way.

Margee Dixon

Man in Crowd

Strung along rivers ofTransit, drawn to rapidFlow and warmth of wires

Electric. Craving theCloseness, heat ofBodies. Plunging and

Rising, the mob of beady,Wild eyes. Those who fear,Refuse to be alone.

Margee Dixon

Institutional Green

In this room there is no wonder.Numbers became demonic.Lunatic. Simply watch the way

It swirls beneath the surface,Cracks and shreds above it.No exorcism can purge the

Face. You have to run through it,Find the eye, and spike it.The storm foreshadowing a future.

Margee Dixon

Risen

Filthy creation of plywoodWings, corroded cockpitWheelbarrow. TiresRooted along wood’sEdge heaved from mildewLeaf drifts. Passengers’Benches upturned mossAnd scraping of fungus.

Nightcrawlers pried fromCradles. Under the seats,Civilization lost. Secret map,Grooves, pathways. TheInsects bored and lived. You,Dirty, dishonest checkingGages with your cockedBucket-hat and rusted oil can.

I still imagine that craftShuddering ascent then,The smooth flying above.Below, house miniature,The face of the tree line.And somehow I see you.Beneath, your body

Still lying with the snails

Kellie Doty

Naked

I toddle down the aisleOf yellow Bluebird bus #4.Everyone scoots a little closerTo the edge and looks away.Squared shoulders,Deep Breath,I carry on.Mental note to self:“Invite the new girl to sit with me.”

We gather aroundThe poinsettia draped tableListening to all the ways I can’tMeasure up to Bob.Squared shouldersDeep Breath,I carry on.Mental note to self:“Make everyone feel special.”

You come homeBut your black Dodge Ram 4x4Pulls into the wrong drive.The neighborhoodCloses its doorsSquared shoulders,Deep Breath,I carry on.Mental note to self:“Listen when others are hurting.”

I write a lineOf poetryExposing myselfIn front of the class.Squared shoulders,Deep Breath,I carry on.Mental note to self:“Pen in Hand.”

Kellie Doty

Deportation

We arriveLugging suitcases.I hold my son’s handAs we disembark.

Other travelers file in.The conductor calls“Last stop.”Sulfur looms the air

Forming lines,I pray not to lose him.I squeeze his handAs we head off to shower.

They say work will set youFree. My son collapsesBeside me. AsphyxiationBy religion.

Sarah Foster

The Brooks Boy's Coat

held my breath going past,always a foot wide marginon all sides.

dried snot on sleeves stood out,a body in a bathtubfull of blood.

smelled like seventeenmillion fertilizer menfrom the old Chicago.

wish I could wear itnow, bury my facethere and never come out.

Elisa Gonzalez

Moving Again

Moving again in my old guilt,I swim with practiced strokesand only a tiny gaspat the chill.

Moving again in my old guilt,I find it familiar as the holesand patched placesin an ancient sweater.Stretching out my arms,I test the snugness of the shoulders:a little tight; still fits.

Moving again in my old guilt,I run with ease and muscle memoryborne after years of laborand long practice.

Jennifer Holbrook

The Mother-in-Law: an Epigram

Constant mother,warm embrace.Smiles,gently sliding her rusty, jagged knifebetween your ribs.

Jennifer Lawrence

The Distinguished Opossum

Wake upthe sun has disappeared.Rolling tightlyunder warm blankets and hazy dreams.

The opossum’s cigar.

He’s awake, sifting in your garbage.He has your father’s cigar

waiting for that light.

Jennifer Lawrence

Mother’s Cooking

Rummaging through cabinets,she watches me.I tell her she has failed.She smiles serenely, used to bitter words.

Cold silver coins and crinkledgreen are pressed into open palms.This is her peace offering.

I point at the shelves.Tiny yellow cans shine in the dim light.

“Look.”

She glances down at her paper.I stamp my foot lightly,the beasts scatter from beneath.I am a raging goddess,my followers,worship for crumbs.

“Look!” I say again,Ignored by her.

The cans are lined upby variety, best of choice.

“Well, at least the dogs are fed.”

Jennifer Lawrence

Savior

You should have left her on the side of the roadeven though she knew she didn’t wantto die.It would have been a good punishment,but you are humanlike me- and it made you a hero.

She shattered more windowsthan I did when I was nine.Searching for bats in mausoleums nearan abbey of forgotten monks.I lost many sticks and friendsbecause of those bats.

Your house smelled like catsand piss.Strange bugs crawled over floorboards,I pressed hands into my mouth when we slept.Walls made of sheets and permanent marker etchings.Open windows, an oven door left downto heat the housethat eventually burned.

We drove to the store,two a.m. past curfew.I was underage.They wouldn’t give you what youwanted- poor friend,you never got it.That’s why you flagged down a car.

to save the world.

Jennifer Lawrence

Between us

The silence of the bridge,our feet dangle.

I’ve waited for you.

There is a calm in the branches,trees bow under the eerie glow.

I watch clouds pass by,headlamps, the backlight to our scene.

This is a play.the Hero presses lips to fingers.She is stunned, pacified.

We’re holding hands on the edge.I am waiting to jump,But you don’t let go.

The roots in the embankment,fingers rooted in mysteryentwined around mine.

I could turn around,climb the barrier alone.There is so littlebetween us

with the worldbelow our feet.

Jennifer Lawrence

Fortune

I ripped the cellophanecarefully, so the fragile future would not break.

I held one straw colored triangle between my fingers,you grasped the other end.1-2-3, it cracks.Crumbs spray the tabletop.

We pulled so hardthe paper sauntered to the floor.You picked it up, flipped the paper over.Since when are fortunes blank?

Jennifer Lawrence

You

Two faces pressed together in a boothnext to our portrait of a flash in the dark.

A ticket stub crumpled.

The single that was playedevery day on the radio-to bring us home.

And that time you told me,later those words were made into a song.The book, the man,who described a shotgun to the head.

I thought I was flying,but it was just you pushing my swing.

Gary LeMaster

Beep-Beep-Beep

Fear and expectationSoak the sheets, alongWith hours of sweat.Finger grooves, emptyNow, crease my hand.

Lights, red, green,Wires, leading toGod knows where,Keep track of lifeThat has yet to live

The antiseptic smellPurges all

Gary LeMaster

All conversations are the same

Today my words seemedEerily familiar. Yogi saidIt best, Déjà vu, somethingOr other. All over again,The same people, the same“Hi, how ya doin?”“Great, how’s the kids?”Skimming the curdWhile blithely reducingThe whole of humanityTo empty questions

Would my neighbor beShocked if I actually said“What are you feeling?”I’ll never know, I’mNot that brave.On second thought,Bravery has nothingTo do with it. I justDon’t care that much.

Gary LeMaster

The Baldwin

Christmas was never ChristmasUntil my Grandmother sat down.Delicately she would placeHer fingers on the pearly,Glazed ivory. Slowly atFirst the music would come,Then speeding up, filling theAir with off key carols.Knowing that Bing was rollingIn his deep slumber, weLaughed and becameFamily, for an hour onceEach year.

Christmas comes now, andThe illusion of maturity hasCovered the simple joyOf that one hour. That andThe fact that the BaldwinIs gone, resting under itsDusty cover. I see myGrandmother’s eyes eachYear at Christmas, hopingThat she can make us familyAgain. A part of me

Wishes she could.

Gary LeMaster

Oatmeal’s better than no meal

Every situation had a saying attached.In that slightly shaky tenorStriving to dispense wisdom,In quarter sized drops.Like so much sugar,Those words stuck with me,Often in hidden placesWhere I wouldn’t find themUntil the glare of a sceneBrought them back to light.

Too many times I complainedAbout his sayings, his discipline,His being.I needed a father.He needed a grandson.We both missed the point.

Gary LeMaster

Outpouring

So far past sick ofPolitics, correctness, losingFocus for the sake of feelings.Fuck it. I’m done beingClintonesque. Not that there’sAnything wrong with that.Dammit! There I go again,Worrying that you,Whoever you are, mightBe offended thatI choose to call a spadeBy no other name.This is it, raw, real,Bloody like myDaddy’s porterhouse.Go ahead, be a glutton.Eat the whole thing.Like you ate my life.

Jeff Moyer

Not a Bob Ross Painting

The red Pontiac looked strangely out of place,an uninvited guest in nature’s living room,a grand damn intruder.

Upon the catfish’s face,such peculiar scenery.

Metal and gasoline plungedinto peaceful serenity.

In a car underwater,pulse quickening.

Expecting to awakewith water in the ears.Sweats.Screams.An increase in heartbeat.

Monica Phillips

Contentment

Sunlight on bare skin,Guarding that simple pleasure,

A lighter garment,Only the sun.

The nude diverCuts the stillness.

A robin, motionless,Suddenly stabs the sod.

White blossoms rippleAcross the fields.

Monica Phillips

Black and White

Black and white,Trimmed in silver,You sit perched.

Wrapped in your favorite blanket,Hands clasped near your chin at prayer position,I wonder what you’re dreaming of.

This piece of forever,Capturing you in all your stillness.

Brett Pransky

The Price is Right

I turn my head sharplyto the right as he says it.“Them damn boogeys always win.”He says it with convictionand jealousy.

We have learned to forgive these things.Another generation, we say.We treat the old as we would a child,expecting their transgressionsand excusing them in advance.

My name is Pranskunas,or at least it was. Butthat name wasn’t American enoughat the time. People need work, and no one wouldhire a dirty slav. Waldislav begatWalter, three generations ago.

I wonder what that day feltlike, signing a new namefor the first time. American, I suppose.I bet he slipped a time or two,signing this or that. And I betit scared him when he did.

I turn my head sharplyto the right as he says it,holding back something I’d liketo tell him as we watch a man namedJefferson win a new car.There’s just no way to reasonwith someone who cares

so much about game shows.

Brett Pransky

It

Some say it’s like breathing.This always makesme groan. I breathejust fine when I’m not doingit, and so do they.Catch phrases are counterfeitsecret handshakes.

Others say you must doit every day, workat it like a job.This is also bogus.Truth is, it comesand it goesas it pleases.And differently for everyone.

Everyone asks me why I do it,I never answer them.Something tellsme they wouldn’t beimpressed with my reply.There’s not much to it really.

To behonest, I doit for the same reasonmy dog does it,only I write,and he wags his tail.

Brett Pransky

The Rains

A scorching hot sun appears above the Ozarks and chases away the fog. As light wins the morning, a lowland farm comes into view, its domain stretching to the circular horizon. Chickens and cows compose harmonic hungry chords, singing for a breakfast that should be a memory. Someone has forgotten about them. The wind, carrying clucks and moos, also carries the creaking of distressed wood. There’s a cadence to it, like the stroke of a metronome. The sounds are out of place. The fields are under water. The rains saw to that. There are no more loans and no more credit, and now there’s no more crop. It was cotton, but that’s irrelevant now. Later, when the bankers come, their ears will lead them to the source of the odd symphony. Men in suits will find desperate performers, drowned spectators, and finally, the conductor. He’s swaying in the barn, gently keeping time from a high beam, arms dangling next to his hip pockets. A searing hot sun rises, and hope is out of rhythm.

Brett Pransky

The Meadow

I'll never forget that dog. He was a hound of some sort, full-grown and floppy-eared, beautiful, but something short of purebred. A filthy coat of matted fur covered a hale, stout frame; he was strong, and had been eating well. He had the look of a stray pet, but not a lost one. Someone may have owned him once, but no one owned him in that place. It must have happened some time ago, this losing and finding. You could see it in the animal’s walk. Strides were long and sure, those of an experienced hunter rather than those of a misplaced visitor. There’s something fascinating about feral things, about creatures that taste civilization and spit it out. Theirs is a different kind of freedom.

His fur probably began as a mix of black and bright white - back when someone washed and brushed him - before browning over time in the wild. Black spots randomly dotted his heavy shoulders and head, mixing with a dirty brown base and making the hunter almost invisible against the tree line. It’s Nature’s way of protecting her own, I suppose.

I watched limp ears flap up and down as he ran across the open field. He reminded me of a fledgling bird trying to fly for the first time, untested wings pumping and straining. I could hear the wind blowing, helping him along. As the hound ran faster and faster, I could have sworn that, at any moment, he would achieve the right mix of speed and lift to remove himself from the earth and fly away, attaining yet another kind of freedom. From the trees, the birds cheered him on.

Then he stopped. Instantly. And a cold-wet nose dove into the weeds. I started at the frightening speed of it, at the quickness of wild things. A taut silence stole the noise from the wind and the birds. Like me, they stopped to watch that magnificent animal. Like me, they were disappointed that he didn’t fly away as we believed he might.

The dog's head shot up again as quickly as it had plunged just a moment before. I was so startled by the speed of it that I nearly pulled the trigger of the hunting rifle on my hip. That’s what I was doing there; I was hunting, getting in touch with nature while wearing a fluorescent orange vest. I suddenly felt quite silly.

The hunter’s nose pointed to the heavens, his mouth opened, and a ball of fur flew from his mouth up, up, up, into the air. As the ball reached the peak of its ascent, I saw the long ears of a rabbit.

I became the rabbit. I imagined myself being snatched up in God’s maw and tossed into the air as both food and toy. I became an animal’s dinner amusement, something used for nourishment and sport, perhaps equally for each. And I became a hunter, not the kind born wild, but the feral sort that knows both the kill and the joy that comes from tasting the civilized and finding it unpalatable. It’s Nature’s way of educating her own, I suppose.

It didn't struggle at first, the rabbit, I mean. The shock of its impending doom hadn't subsided yet. I understood. Moments before, when God launched my body into the sky, I hadn’t felt a thing. Panic stilled my every response, made me numb. Everyone, every thing freezes at the first realization of inevitability. At that moment, to that helpless creature, the hound was a vengeful god, snapping up an absolute innocent as a plaything. And at that moment, as someone’s lost pet found

the day’s food and enjoyment, my own death became a real thing. It became inevitable as I stood frozen in a meadow with a hunting license pinned neatly to my back.

As it fell, the rabbit began to howl. The sound of terror felt too large to be associated with something so small. It was a man-sized scream. It could have been mine. The hunter's jaws snapped shut, and the silence returned. Up and down, the muted game continued, and I marveled at the horrible order of it. A kind of precision emerged from the events, a regularity to it that could only be called natural. Uncivilized, quick, terrifying, orderly, precise, and natural. I’ll never forget that dog.

A twig snapped under my boot, and the hunter – who once had a name, like Buck or Buddy - turned my way, taking notice of me for the first time. A fresh kill hung limply between his teeth. The dead thing dropped to the ground, and the hound ambled over, as if I were somehow familiar to him. He stopped right in front of me and sat down, tongue dangling and eyes focused on me as if he were waiting for a command. There was a light, obedient look on his blood-covered face. What was I to him? A rabbit, or something else? What was he to me?

His tail wagged as I closed the lever on the bolt-action hunting rifle and took aim. The dog didn't freeze. It didn’t know how.

The birds flew from the trees as the report of the rifle echoed over miles and miles of God's creation. I could hear the birds again. I removed the orange vest with the license pinned to it, and placed it on the ground next to the dog, next to my rifle. I found a comfortable spot by a fallen tree and sat, looking up at the sky, obediently waiting my turn.

Andrew Waters

The Ohio Center

It was our first time there

Two young brothers with Dad

We finally got to see our heroes live

Rockers & Ultimate Warrior headlined the card

You never forget watching stars

in person instead of T.V.

Serene and Strong are Fathers who provide a safe harbor

We were with heroes that night, but it wasn’t the performance.

Can’t afford anything while on welfare. We have no idea how he paid for the tickets.

Jamie Wirth

The Traditional Service

I prefer to go to Church by myself.I don’t want to make eye contact. I wantThe traditional service.The ceremonial motions. I don’t wantTo listen to the sermon. I don’t wantOthers opinions.I prefer to go to church by myself.

Fetters’ Run

Submission Guidelines

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”- Maya Angelou

Fetters’ Run is looking for the very best in undergraduate poetry, short fiction, creative non-fiction, art, and photography. We are always working on the next issue, so we welcome submissions from any and all students at any time of the year. Undergraduate status at the time of submission is the only condition we enforce. Fetters’ Run is for Ohio University-Lancaster students of all ages and all majors. Basically, if you created it, we want to see it, and we want to see it right now.

We prefer to receive submissions electronically, either in the body of an email, or in an attached MS Word document. Please include contact information so we can keep you informed about the status of your submission.

While we try to respond to each and every submission we receive, the large number of items sent makes this a very difficult process. Your patience and understanding are appreciated.

Send your submissions and questions to:

fetters_run@yahoo.com

From the Editors

Thank you

There are always people to thank - faculty, staff, and administrators, for example - because without these, Fetters’ Run would not exist. For their support, we are truly grateful. But there is a more important group that needs recognition.

The students of Ohio University-Lancaster have responded to our call for submissions with great enthusiasm, and it is for this effort that we are most grateful. Administrative support, while necessary, creates little more than a blank canvas. Students - whether poets, fiction writers, essayists, or lowly editors - are the ones who turn that blank canvas into art.

We would like to thank the contributors in this journal for allowing us to display their work, and we would also like to thank those contributors who do not appear in these pages, since their submissions raised the bar to a wonderfully high level, making our jobs as editors both difficult and rewarding.

Thank you for sharing your art with us,

Brett Pransky Tracy Kelly

Thomas Ogilvie Kellie Doty

Special Thanks

Artwork Provided By:

Katrina Azbell

Miriam Green

Mary Ann Harlan

Jeremy Hedges

Meranda Inman

Andrew B. Miller

Ryan Murphy

Shawn Porter

Alison Rice

Jessica Strunk