The Universityof Mississippi

FreshmanWriting

MagazineVolume 2 - Spring 2010

The Universityof Mississippi

FreshmanWriting

MagazineVolume 2 - Spring 2010

PoetryOnce A Lover, Twice a Stranger ........................1

by Brian Hatch, Oxford, MS

Future Prospects ................................................5by Jacob Waalk, Monroe, LA

Out With the Old, in with the New ..................8by Ryan Brown, Memphis, TN

Disastrous First Love .......................................16by Aleigh Pons, Florence, AL

Child’s Play ......................................................17by Brian Hatch, Oxford, MS

unpretty ...........................................................24by Sidney McLeod, Natchez, MS

His Eyes ............................................................28by Endia Mickey, Oxford, MS

Thunder ...........................................................32by Lexis Herron, Memphis, TN

An Educated Mind ..........................................36by Keosha Moorehead, Como, MS

What Is This World? .......................................37by John Jordan Proctor, Glen Allen, MS

February ...........................................................42by Liz Martin, Memphis, TN

Tall Tall Tree ....................................................47by Neely Claire England, Hernando, MS

Unconditional Carelessness ............................50by Krista Large, Houston, TX

Fiction, EssayRoaming Hearts .................................................2

by Morgan Hall, Annapolis, MD

A Tasty Experience ............................................3by Meghan Pettigrew, Glen, MS

The Taste of My Origins: Ecuadorian Food......6by Nataly Travez Garcia, Quito, Ecuador

My Daddy ..........................................................9by SaraBeth Morris, Flowood, MS

A Life Changing Leap ......................................11by Tyler Hughes, Bay St. Louis, MS

Home and Beyond ...........................................14by Elsie Okoye, Anambra, Nigeria

Growing up in the Kitchen .............................18by Ida Lutie Pryor, Savanah, GA

A Thousand Waters .........................................20by Jacob Elrod, Carthage, MS

Sykia .................................................................25by Jim Barrett, Oxford, MS

The Last Laugh ................................................29by Molly Loden, Fulton, MS

The Key Ingredients ........................................33by Hope Russell, Pearl, MS

Southern Cooking ............................................38by Haley Halford, Brandon, MS

My “Second” Best Friend ................................41by Andrew Anderson, Nashville, TN

YOU ..................................................................43by Brian Hatch, Oxford, MS

Need For Speed ................................................44by Eric Spangler, Atlanta, GA

Ringing in the New Year .................................48with Pain Medicationby Mary B. Sellers, Brandon, MS

Volunteer ReadersKeith Boran, Jessica Stock, Abby Greenbaum,Mandy Murfee, Matt Saye, Whitney Hubbard,Amy Mark, and Chip Dunkin.

Editor, Milly Moorhead WestAssistant Editor, Ashley Gutierrez

ArtistsNatalie Moorer, Nashville, TN..........Cover, 8, 12,

23, 24, 31, 40, 43Aleigh Pons, Florence, AL .....Inside Cover (i), 32Krista Large, Houston, TX.............................1, 37Rachel Bronstein, Alpharetta, GA ..........2, 17, 28,

42, and Back CoverNeal Tisher, Mobile, AL .......................................4Emily Macon, Jacksonville, FL...........5, 13, 27, 36Adam Grace, Forest, MS....................................10Madison Shepard, Memphis, TN................16, 35Kate Mislan, Glen Carbon, IL .....................19, 49Andrew Anderson, Nashville, TN .....................41Ashley McMahan, Austin, TX .....................46, 47Tyler Storey, Columbia, TN...............................50Sofia Helberg Jonsen, Stockholm, Sweden .......51

Venture Table of Contents Volume 2 - Spring 2010

Cover Art by Natalie Moorer

iPainting by Aleigh Pons

Laura by Krista Large1

Once a Lover, Twice a Strangerby Brian Hatch

I met a Stranger in a classI met her once but not at lastShe asked me for a cigaretteThen the turning wheels were set

We talked and talked back and forthBut where were we going? South or North

School was done But it was not fun

You were goneAnd I was forced to move alongUntil you saw me thereSaw me with your beautiful stare

We met again and wasted no timeYou told me your secrets, I told you mine

Now I ask you to come with meI’ll be Mickey and you be Mallory

Once a Lover, Twice a Strangerby Brian Hatch

I met a Stranger in a classI met her once but not at lastShe asked me for a cigaretteThen the turning wheels were set

We talked and talked back and forthBut where were we going? South or North

School was done But it was not fun

You were goneAnd I was forced to move alongUntil you saw me thereSaw me with your beautiful stare

We met again and wasted no timeYou told me your secrets, I told you mine

Now I ask you to come with meI’ll be Mickey and you be Mallory

Seagull by Rachel Bronstein

Roaming HeartsMorgan Hall

Much do I see in the eyes of menand womenyet rarely do I seecontemptfor life is spent with a roaming heartlusting for purposefor happinessfor lovewhilst the cruelties of this world continue tomock usyet they continueto temper our spirits

Many have I seen come and gofrom my sightmen of valor alongsidecourageous soulsof womenhow they stand talldauntlesslyunyielding to failure,welcoming to victory

Long have I waited for thesegiantsto return yet solace does not come to those whomerely waitlove does not come to those who thinknone of itbut to those who strive forth intothe mistsof the unknownby their faithby their passionand hope for a bettertomorrow

Much have I seen come and goin this world of roaming hearts.

2

A Tasty ExperienceMeghan Pettigrew

If I had to pick the most memorable experience I have ever had with food, it wouldbe the time I took a weekend trip with my family to New York and ate a very famousrestaurant called Tao. Tao is a restaurant that you are almost guaranteed to see a celebrityif you go. This restaurant is very expensive, but I must say it is worth it. Tao servesalmost anything you could think of. The three things I enjoyed the most that we hadwas the sushi, steak and dessert.

The sushi we had was delicious. I do not even like sushi but we all enjoyed it somuch we had to order more. This sushi was not anything like I have ever had before.The sushi we ordered was some sort of shrimp roll, smothered in a really tastefulsauce. At first I was a little skeptical about eating any, but my aunt talked me into itby reminding me we were at a five star restaurant. This sushi was so unbelievablyincredible it did not even taste like sushi. It just melted in my mouth. The sushi wasthe best thing I had there, and if I went back and could only order one thing thesushi would be it.

The steak was our main course. They brought out a tray of all different kinds ofsteak, sliced up in little tiny bite size pieces. This was also like nothing I had ever hadbefore. I have grown up eating steak at our family owned restaurants that we have intown, but this was amazing. It was all cooked just right, and it was so hard to quiteating it. The steak was not the best part of the meal, the sushi definitely was but thesteak was very memorable also.

Last came the dessert. We ordered a chocolate fudge cake smothered in strawberrieswith a lot of different flavored ice cream on the side. This may sound like a typicaldessert but it was definitely cooked to perfection. To this day I can remember howmuch I loved this dessert, and I wanted to take one back with me to the hotel.

When our check came it was well over three-hundred dollars. I know this pricesounds ridiculous, but it was not because of what we ordered, but because of howfamous this place was. We saw the New York Yankees football team there after thegame. This place was so delicious and I can remember the taste of the sushi, steak anddessert. My family has been dying to take another weekend vacation to eat at thisamazing restaurant ever since we left. When we are all together and the subject of thetrip gets brought up, Tao is what we talk about. If I could pick one place to go backto and eat, without a doubt, it would be Tao.

3

Artwork by Neal Tisher4

Sicily by Emily Macon

Future ProspectsBy Jacob Waalk

Become a broken marble statueand get lost on the island of Milo.

Lose your sight, your hearing,your taste, and your smell…leave only

the frozen, hardened, and numbsense of touch, and maybe then you’ll be loved.

Half-naked and armless, you arestill a masterpiece without a sin to lament,with a face to last for untold centuries,

petrified in unseeing stare at creation.Feel the warmth of knowing that unknown people

stand gawking at the “genius” of your beauty.

Go and visit Venus, just for a night,and join the immortals, forever in sight.

5

The Taste of My Origins: Ecuadorian FoodNataly Travez Garcia

Every year, for almost 60 years, since my grandmother had her sons and daughters,we get together in my house to cook something that is known as Chigüil. My mother’sfamily comes from a city called Guaranda, better known for its carnival. 50 years ago,my mother, uncles and aunts were part of this population. My mother and her wholefamily moved to Quito, which is the capital city of Ecuador. There she met my fatherand they got married. Even though my mother’s family does not live in Guarandaanymore, they still get together at my house to cook this delicious dish.

The Chigüiles are basically made of corn flour, eggs, water, and cheese. It alsoneeds the leaves of the corn plant in order to wrap all its content. Once we have themix wrapped, we boil it and wait until the flour gets transformed into somethingdense. The best complement for chigüiles is coffee; nothing is better than a glass ofblack coffee made at the same time as this wrap. “You have to eat it when it is stillhot,” my mother used to say. A chigüil has a special taste that cannot be describedwith precision, what I can say is that it tastes like corn with cheese. Not sweet, butsalty. Because it is dense, is hard to eat without a beverage, and this is why my familyeat it with a coup of hot black coffee.

This dish is specially made on every Carnival each year generation after generation.The special attractiveness of this is, of course, the special moment where grandparents,parents, children and grandchildren help washing the leaves, or making the mix, orboiling the wraps. The second special attractiveness is the difference between this foodand food from other countries. Finally, I have found that what makes a dish special isnot its flavor, but is its history as well.

Year by year, during the 12 years that my grandmother lived with us, my familyknew that on carnival we had a meeting at my house. That day starts normally; wewake up at 8 in the morning. My aunts and my mother go together to the supermarketlooking for the ingredients. Days before, they all had collected the leaves from a littleplot of land on the outside of the city, owned by one of my older aunts Ana. Almost 5years ago, my mother and I went to help her in this hard job. It is important to knowhow to collect the leaves; we cannot use a broken leaf. One leaf is used to wrap onechigüil, and because we are a big family, normally we cook 150 chigüiles. To collect150 leaves is the hardest work I have ever had.

The process of cooking starts at 3 in the afternoon. Everybody has to wash theirhands, and make a big space with an empty table for the dough. My grandmother and

6

my older aunt were in charge of the dough; at the other side of the kitchen, my motherand two other aunts put cheese inside the dough, finally they wrap it, and the lastaunt takes care of the wrap and the boiling water. My cousins, sisters, and I liked tostay in the kitchen looking with interest what the big people do, because we wantedto learn how to do chigüiles, so that we can preserve this dish. Right now I think I amnot good at learning, I still cannot cook chigüiles.

On the other side, the men of the house did not do anything in special. They justsat at the couches and started to make some jokes about wives and their ability tocook. My father in special was used to sit in the table waiting for the first chigüil toget out of the pot. I can remember him eating at least 3 or 4 chigüiles in less than 30minutes. The best of this arduous job was to sit all together at the end of the day andeat chigüiles while somebody came up with some jokes about the food.

Things have changed. Now we just look for other siblings that cannot do it as wellas my granny used to do it. This year for instance, I will not be able to be at home,and probably not all my aunts, uncles, and cousins will be there. Traditions alwayschange and every year less members of our family feel attracted by this event. The lasttime I talked to my mother I asked her if somebody will be going to my house tocook, and she told me that for this year’s carnival it will be only my mother, father,brothers, and sisters.

Now that I am not home, my memory is the only thing that I have left, and ithelps me to remember all kind of tastes. This is special. When I came here, I justfound that nothing is similar to what I used to eat. Not even fried chicken! Chigüilesare not even popular in my country; perhaps we are one of the few families that cookthis in Quito.

In addition, our food is a mix between Spanish and native food, and this is the mainreason why mestizos are used to eating this food as well. The principal ideology of nativefood is the fact of sharing with the family and the community. The chigüil is a dishthat is shared in carnival to all the people that go and celebrate with them. And I thinkthat for many years, that was our ideology too; cooking not just for eating, but forsharing a moment with family and friends. Every time I remember it, I just can smellthe aroma of this food. I wish in the next years my family would continue to practicethis tradition that makes us feel at home. Every bite given to a chigüil is an experiencethat tastes not just to food, but also tastes to my origins, and my family origins.

7

Roses by Natalie Moorer8

Out with the Old,In with the New

By Ryan Brown

We met that summer, a face I can’t forget

My heart regrets the mistakes I can’t correct

Your smile excites my soul, whenever in sight

I feel the warmth in the ominous winter night

The being in the mirror is torn to his essence

From a past of burning fire, calmed by your presence

She left me incomplete, with a heart locked by fear

With an expression solemn and stern,pupils blocked by tears

She left my heart to you, hardenedand compressed to stone

With her spirit stained in my blood,her memory carved in my bones

But though left alone, I stand reborn as the Phoenix

Engulfed in the embers of passion,ignited by the name, Brittany Ennix

I yearn for greater commitment, avoiding deceit andinevitable endings

I abandon past angels and demons, optimistic for anew beginning

For roses weren’t red, and violets weren’t blue

Sugar wasn’t sweet, until I met you…

My DaddySarahBeth Morris

As I reflect on my childhood, the memories I have with my dad bring me great joy andlaughter. My father is an interesting man; while a business man, he still has his inner “hippy,”and outdoorsman characteristics. A lot of my memories I have of my dad are set in the out-doors.

Between my sister and me, I was the one most interested in nature, so my dad took meon camping trips. He didn’t have a son, but he had a tomboy. I can remember on the triphaving to go to the bathroom and begging my dad to drive me to the bathhouse. He said itwas silly to drive to a bathhouse when I could just go in the woods. At the time I was furiousbut looking back I laugh at his attempt to toughen me up. My favorite part of that trip waslying on the bank of a river with him, naming the stars. My dad and I derived a quote fromthose trips which is “Let’s talk about camping.”

On Saturday mornings I remember waking up to my dad yelling “feed the birds.” We useto have horses so we own a decent amount of a land. Scattered all over our land are many birdfeeders. It was a ritual to walk around with my dad, screaming at the top of my lungs “feedthe birds” while we filled up all of the feeders. Saturday was a day of getting things donearound our house so if I wasn’t inside helping my mom clean then I was outside with mydaddy in the dirt. He would let me sit in his lap and drive the lawn mower. We also startedmany gardening projects together. My favorite part of that was finding earthworms and put-ting them in the compost pile.

My dad loves giving original gifts. Every year my sister and I get something “Mississippimade.” Whether it’s a Wyatt Waters book or handmade jewelry there is always something neatbehind his newspaper wrapped presents. He also loves to give weird gifts. Dad is normally theparent to buy the stocking stuffers at Christmas. For instance, this year in our stocking wehad fishing tackle, deodorant, travel size shampoo, and pencils.

My dad has had horrible eyesight for as long as I can remember. My family and I haveenjoyed many laughs over his sight-seeing mishaps. One night daddy decided to scramblesome eggs. He sprayed Pam into the skillet, or so he thought. My sister and I came into thekitchen following a horrible chemical smell to see where it was coming from. The Pam wasn’tgreasing the pan so my dad continued to spray more into the pan. My sister and I screamed atmy dad to stop. We then took the can from him and read the label out loud “Wasp Spray!”All three of us fell on the floor laughing at his mistake as well relief we didn’t all get blown up.

My dad and I share a special bond that grows stronger as I grow older. We have so manyquirky jokes and traditions. He has a very different way of teaching his children life lessonsbut it has kept me on my toes over the years. Whether it was watching me at every single ballgame or taking me camping, my dad has supported me and been there for me. Businessmanor Hippie, I owe him for the difference he has made in my life.

9

Barn by Adam Grace10

A Life Changing LeapTyler Hughes

As we began to barrel down the narrow air strip, the three person aircraft began toshake. The single propeller of the plane began to make sounds I did not think airplaneswere supposed to make. I examined the pilot’s expressions, trying to notice if thesesounds worried him, but he seemed more relaxed in the pilot’s seat now than he wasbefore, when we were waiting for the air space to clear for take-off.

I began inspecting the aircraft that would be carrying the three of us 10,000 feetabove the earth. The weathered floorboards under my feet made the age of the planeapparent. This flying sardine can had obviously been around the block a time or two.My observations gave me mixed emotions – this plane was a very reliable one, or thepilot desperately needs an upgrade.

I watched my life flash before me as the plane began to ascend from the runway.Many questions came to mind during this time: Why am I doing this? What if theparachute malfunctions? What if the pilot passes out? All of these questions fadedquickly as I gazed upon the southeastern Louisiana landscape. This sight was one toremember. There were a few large upper level clouds that the mid-afternoon sunshown upon, making the clouds seem like gates to a new world. I had never witnessedanything so breathtaking before in my life. The plane ride itself was worth the trip.

As I continued to gaze out of the window, the jump master informed me that wewere half way to our “desired altitude.” This caught me off guard and it felt as if wewere in the air for an eternity. Time was passing as slowly as it ever has. Secondsseemed like minutes, minutes like hours. At some point, uneasiness turned to excite-ment, and nervousness to anticipation. I was as ready as I would ever be.

“Let’s do this!” announced the jump master. My stomach dropped. I did notknow what to think simply because I did not have time to. Before I knew what wasgoing on, I was hooked up to a complete stranger, and the door of the plane began toopen. Although it was a humid August day in the Deep South, as the door opened,the temperature dropped forty degrees. I grasped the handle above the opening andthought then that this was one of the most important things I would ever do.

Skydiving would not get me through college. It would not guarantee my firstmajor job as an adult. Jumping out of a plane would not give me the money to pro-vide for my future family. But taking the leap would in fact give me the self-confi-dence to accomplish anything life had to offer. If I could jump out of a plane at10,000 feet, what couldn’t I do? I took a deep breath, counted to three, and took themost important step of my life.

11

Jump photograph by Natalie Moorer12

City Arial by Emily Macon13

Home and BeyondElsie Okoye

I am seventeen years old, the third of five children and have spent most of my life in thecity/state of Lagos, the commercial capital of Nigeria. This city is the most diversely and largelypopulated region in Nigeria, and probably Africa. Its population includes some or all of thetwo hundred and fifty ethnic groups found in Nigeria. Its official language is English, althoughit was originally a Yoruba (Ethnic group) state.

The eldest man in Awka-Etiti (a village found in the eastern regions of Nigeria) once said,“Mmadu agaghi eji n’ihi na ubi nna ya eruka ahihia were gbahapu ya,” meaning: a personshould not abandon his father’s farm simply because it has been overgrown with weeds. Myfather has lived by this proverb all his life and, as far back as I can remember, he has strived toinculcate this value into my siblings and me. Though we live in the city, we have learned thatour roots, culture and origins will always be in us no matter what revolutions the place of ourorigin might undergo or how our kinsmen change.

Lagos is a rowdy little coastal state (the smallest in Nigeria), stuffed to its seams with people.Like all of the other states found in Nigeria, it is found on the earth’s equator. Due to this, theweather has little or no variations and can be easily predicted (moderately hot or moderatelycold).

Anything can be found in Lagos, from timeless pieces to bargain items, from present dayheroes to unsavory characters. The avenues for shopping range from open market squares toupscale boutiques. In the market squares, items for sale are displayed on crude wooden tablesand advertised by tongue twisting calls from sellers. Others items are carried around on theheads of hawkers. In this setting, every item can be bought at almost any price. It could belikened to a showdown; either the buyer or the seller leaves the bargaining floor at a loss. It allcomes down to the weaker bargainer. This ever-present bargaining of Lagosians, and Nigeriansin general, washes into boutiques, and depending on the boutique visited, goods range from thefamed ancient Nigerian artworks bought back from our British colonial masters to masterpiecewatches and flawless gems.

The famed phrase (or advice) told to all first timers in Lagos is “shine your eyes.” Thissimply means be aware of yourself, your belongings and your surroundings—be cautious.Lagos like every other heavily-populated city has its scenes of crime and criminals but, theseunsavory characters are somewhat balanced out by the many great individuals found in thesociety which include Wole Soyinka-Nobel Laureate, Chinua Achebe-Writer, Dora Akunyili-Minister of Information, Enoch Adeboye-Pastor, Nwankwo Kanu-Footballer, Aliko Dangote-Industrialist amongst many other Nigerians who are not acclaimed, but who offer themselvesfor the betterment of the people and the society.

Due to these great diversities, my movement in Lagos was always restricted to where I was

14

driven to by the story-telling family driver, when he was available. My father believes that;“Eze naani ya kwu aga gba oto.” Which means: the king that goes about unaccompaniedcould be said to be naked. As such, my siblings and I are clothed with chaperons of varyingkinds twenty-four hours of everyday.

Although I have lived in Lagos for seventeen years, I barely know the directions to anyplace beyond my estate. I have been sheltered and I am practically a stranger to the city’sbeauty. My father is through and through an over-protective male.

My grandfather once said, “Karichaa adighi naani n’ulo otu onye,” meaning: no one canclaim the monopoly of strength in a house. This wise saying is the embodiment of the practiceof most African men (including my father) as they often live by the unspoken rule that anentire village is needed to bring up a child. This rule is almost taken literally seeing as in mostAfrican homes, both nuclear and extended families are found living together.

Awka-Etiti compared to Lagos, is the land my father calls my home. My family and I havespent most of our Christmas holidays in Awka-Etiti. It is at best, the family reunion location.I always anticipate our journey to Awka-Etiti not because of the thrill of homecoming myfather hopes for, but for the gathering of loved ones.

In Awka-Etiti, all my paternal and maternal relatives are but a stroll away. With all therestrictions of the busy city of Lagos forgotten, I am free to come and go as I please; everyoneis set loose like the thick cocoa, banana and akwu vegetation of this rural setting.

Walking on the dusty streets of Awka-Etiti is a pure delight as there are no worries such asbeing tackled by an unseen motor-cycle or being accosted by an unwanted admirer. Everyoneseems to know everyone else in Awka-Etiti, even those from the city. On exchanging pleasantries,they carry on in the slow pace of rural life.

The most striking difference between Lagos and Awka-Etiti is probably the difference inthe smell of the air. In Lagos, the air is gentle and sweet with the scent of good cologne, orstagnant, thick and chokey with the smell of smoke from exhaust pipes. In Awka-Etiti, the airhas a permanent woody smell, occasionally tinged with the smell of firewood and cookedfood. It almost seems like Awka-Etiti is locked at a permanent equilibrium while Lagos is yetto settle between the two extremes.

Lagos is the place I call home but, in actuality it is really just a home away from home.Awka-Etiti is the land of my ancestors, where my future husband should be from (if I intendto please my father) and where all departed kinsmen are laid to rest. It is also where my fathergrew up, where my parents were married, where my father set off from to conquer the city,where I am in close contact with all my cousins and where I am allowed to explore uninhibitedand live free; but I will probably never live there—beyond a Christmas holiday.

15

Monkey photograph by Madison Shepard

DisastrousFirst Loveby Aleigh Pons

new beginningfresh start

nice peoplebest friend

completely opensecret flirtation

first loveignorant youth

dragged alongstubborn mind

over exhaustedbroken spiritclosed boxnever again

16

Grasses by Rachel Bronstein

Child’s PlayBrian Hatch

I feel like a kid again

Genuinely like a kid

My heart races fast

My mind acts quickly, to stifle

A lover who has been scorned

Scorned not torn, ready for more

I wish the best and all of my luck

But, that I am the one you find at

night, too

I knew once before, but really not at all

It’s fitting that I should be a child again

I tried to walk before I could crawl

Crawl towards solace, on digits of ten

Still I know how to act

What happens, happens

A deep breath sharpens the mind

Count to twelve, all will be fine

17

Growing Up in the KitchenIda Lutie Pryor

I don’t have one experience that led to a significant change of my life, but rather, a combination ofexperiences concocted who I am today. My mother went to thirteen years of cooking school, where shelearned different styles of cooking and about different cultures. Dad was a cotton farmer and owner of afarming company he had inherited from his father who came from respectable people.

Both my parents used their experiences to parent me and my three siblings and give us a most idyllicchildhood. We were given the best of both worlds; we could play in the dirt and raise chickens, and showerjust in time to go to cotillion or the country club. I am the youngest but my parents and siblings allencouraged me to partake in the conversation, talking about politics, school, friends, work, literature,poetry, science, math, languages, traveling, and more. Sitting around the dinner table was my secondaryeducation that was just as crucial and influential as my schooling education.

Dinnertime was always an event, in the best sense, at our house. When I was growing up my oldersisters, Amanda and Jane were in High School; Amanda was the poster-child for the nineties. They hadfriends that would always come over for meals and to stay when life in their own house was a little toomuch to bear; Kimberly was always over for dinner during her parent’s divorce, Taylor lived with us onesummer and worked in the yard, and John Hopkins used to come every Sunday for breakfast dinner onlybecause mom could make mass quantities of delicious food. We would all sit around the table, familyand friends alike, for hours eating and talking about politics (my parents must have had a lot of patienceto listen to kids ranging from eight years old to eighteen, talk about politics), education, and ethics. Thisis where I learned compassion, to help others whether in a small sense like just offering scrumptiousfood or in a large sense like offering a stable home life to those who need it. I also learned to have avoice and opinion about important things early in life; this was very influential to my development.

The kitchen and dinner table were the center of a plethora of experiences, good or bad. I remembersitting in the kitchen with mom and dad, watching the announcements of the presidential elections.Throughout the campaign, I had heard all about both candidates and what their platforms represented.My parents, encouraging us to explain why we admired one candidate over another, made us defend ourreasoning. This demonstrated to us that we are responsible for the claims and statements we make.

Being treated as an adult starting at a young age gave me the opportunity to appreciate my ownopinions and gave me a confidence that led to many successes in high school and hopefully to continuein college. Our parents persistently remind us of how proud of us they are and how capable we are to besuccessful in whatever we may choose. Because in the past we have been so open, I believe my parents’encouragement to be true; if we were not able they would tell us.

Not only were we expected to be responsible for our words but our actions as well. In high school,Amanda developed an eating disorder. Mom cornered my sister in the kitchen and demanded to knowwhy she was “slowly killing herself.” After this incident Amanda received help and regained control overher eating habits. This showed me that the people you love may be self-destructive but this makes you

18

KIWI and Other Fruit by Kate Mislan

love them more, one’s concern for those of whom they love makes more of an impact than we can everknow. My parents encouraged and reprimanded when necessary demonstrating a non-selfish love. Becauseof this experience I have been able to help one of my dearest friends, Lucy, with her eating disorder.These experiences showed me the responsibility of loving someone and the responsibility of our actions,whether the consequences are positive or negative.

Not all the memories from the dinner table are dramatic or exceedingly significant, rather the collec-tion of the ordinary memories have become one great story and little lessons learned. When I was younger,I was terrified of tornados; north Alabama was an ill location for this fear. One time while sitting at thedinner table in candle light because the power had gone off, the tornado alarm went off. Everyoneremained seated and continued conversation casually while I jumped up from the table, grabbed a sterlingsilver multi-faceted candlestick from the dining room table, and ran into the closet underneath the lowerstaircase. Dad asked me when I came out what the rest of the family was going to do if the tornado hadbeen life threatening, to which I replied that I figured they already knew where to go to be safe and howconsiderate I was being by grabbing the candles, and we still laugh at that story today. Smaller storieslike this one still have noteworthy impacts on my person, I am still rather sarcastic/ironic and this amongother experiences show that I can react appropriately under serve circumstance. I want to be a surgeonand quick and efficient reaction time is a good skill to have.

Events that occurred in the kitchen have molded me into the person I am today and will continue tomold me. When I go home during breaks, the first place we all end up is in the kitchen talking aboutschool and all other things relevant to life. The kitchen has always been a forum for our family andfriends; memories and news are shared with smiles and tears. My parents’ use of their diverse back-grounds created a superb secondary education for me and my siblings. We not only learned proper tablemanners around the table, but we learned to be considerate, strong-willed, patient (not always the easiestwith the delicious food), respectful, and loving. A collaboration of events and stories from the kitchen and dinner table shaped me into the person I am and the person I will become. Because my family took the time to sitaround the table and discuss, teach meto cook, what he/she would have donedifferently, or help with homework, Ihave developed into a healthy person—body and mind.

19

A Thousand WatersJacob Elrod

I spent the majority of my life in a small Mississippi town that borders the BrivickRiver and Louisiana. The name of the town is Sleyter, complete with a kudzu-ladenwelcome sign that adorns the city limits. Sleyter is simple by design. Nestled on itssouthern side is the town square which consists of the typical buildings: city hall, thecourthouse, the pharmacy, and the clinic. Three miles north of the town square laythe homes of Sleyter’s inhabitants. Structurally, each house appears to be identical,with two stories of square rooms that are patterned with windows and topped off witha shingled roof. Near the woods that separate the river from the town were my houseand the house of my neighbor, Clayton Frick.

I can remember waking up one morning in April when I was twelve years old.The light peered through my second story window and pierced my eyelids. Sighing, Ilaboriously rolled out of bed and made my way downstairs and into the kitchen to getsomething to eat. It was Saturday and both my mother and father were gone to mygreat uncle’s funeral in Alabama. I was a responsible child for my age and capable ofgood reasoning, so my parents felt secure in leaving the house under my care. I grabbedthe first box of cereal I could see through my still sleepy, sticky eyes and began to pourit into a bowl. Unexpectedly I heard a knock on the front door. Turning the cold brassdoorknob and pulling against the weight of the wooden door, I created a sort of politeyet wary crack and prepared to greet the visitor.

A boy of my age stood at the doorway with wandering eyes and looked at me whenhe noticed the door was open. He wore a long sleeved collared shirt and was about twoinches shorter than me with brilliantly parted blond hair that was freshly combed.“Hello,” the boy said in a clear accent, “my name is Clayton Frick the second. I am yournew neighbor and I would like to make friends with you.” Not knowing how to respondto such a greeting coming from a twelve year old, and being slightly delirious fromlack of sleep, I opened the door and said, “C’mon in.” Due to his age, I disregardedmy manners and shuffled back to the fridge to get the milk for my cereal. Against thelight of the still open door, I could see him wandering lazily about the entranceway,touching various whatnots and pictures as if he lived there. I stood there watchinghim contemptuously as if he had violated my title as the new man of the house.

“What is your father’s social standing?” he asked holding one of my family’s portraits. “Whacha mean?” I asked cautious of the nature of his question. He pursedhis lips and said impatiently, “What does your daddy do for a living?” “He works atthe mill in Jasper,” I said, and then added my personal touch of defense. “He is a fore-man, which means that he pretty much bosses people around.”

20

“Mmmmm...” he said still looking at the picture. “My father is an accountant. Hehas been reassigned from his job in Boston to manage the bank in Jackson.” Lookingback down at my cereal, I realized that I had been defeated and that I didn’t likeClayton at all.

“Let’s go exploring,” Clayton said, “I am your guest and it is your responsibility toshow me what little this town has in it.” For a moment I thought leading him outsideand then shutting and locking the door, but I knew how disappointed my motherwould be at such behavior. Therefore I grudgingly complied and led him out the door.We walked through the neighborhood of houses that could be told apart only by theircolor. Praying that a brier would tear into his neatly ironed shirt, I then backtrackedand took him through the woods to show him the river.

The river was sacred to the people of Sleyter. During the Civil war it was used bythe Confederate Army as a natural defense against the Union. It was a terrible yetmagnificent marvel that roared along its banks sweeping away anything that dared todeny its course. “This is all there is to see?” he asked in a spiteful tone, “This is unac-ceptable.” Enraged, I looked at him. He had just offended the one place where I feltlike a man. I remembered how my father would take me fishing there for hours andhow we would leave with only sunburns and a loss of bait, but I always left with asmile on my face. Clenching my fist, I looked at him, but I reminded myself of howdisappointed my father would be if I were to strike someone who didn’t physicallyharm me first. “That’s it,” I said. “Figures,” he scoffed.

I led the way back through the woods with the leaves crunching beneath my feetand the river’s wind ripping against my face. We were nearly to the point where thegreen paint of my house could be seen when Molly, Mrs. Inez’s Labrador retriever,wearily crossed our path. “That is a fat ass dog,” Clayton said. This time the intent toinsult was obvious in his clear deviation from his normally proper tone. “She is preg-nant,” I said defensively. “My dad says she is going to have puppies any time now.”“Well, she doesn’t have to look so repulsive,” he said indifferently.

We had now made it back to the doorway of my house. Grinding my shoes againstthe doormat to rid them of the red clay from the river bank, I opened the door andsecretly hoped that Clayton wouldn’t follow me inside. My hopes were shattered whenI heard the door slam and the squish of his muddy shoes against my mother’s carpet.“Alright, show me something cool,” he said, “the coolest thing you have.” “Alright,” Isaid. I thought, “This will show him.” I took him into my parents’ room and pointedto the wall. Against the white wall hung a proud display of color that was a paintingmy grandfather had brought back from Germany after he returned from World War II.He had chosen it as a gift to my grandmother because he was a simple man and it wasbeautiful and expensive, the two things that men like him believed to be the mostmeaningful gifts a man could give to a lady.

21

Clayton stood, hands in pockets, scanning his eyes over the painting. I stared athim curiously, and our eyes met. His left eye twitched slightly, and a twisted smilegrew on his face. “Oops,” he said calmly. I watched him, and the purpose of his wordsbecame evident as he deliberately lunged forward, hands outstretched, and in oneswift movement ripped the painting off the wall. I looked down in disbelief as he sat,legs outstretched, leaning his back against the wall. He wore that bright, twisted smileon his face and held the ruined painting like a trophy. “OUT OUT OUT YOUSONOFABITCH!” I exclaimed. His smile melted away and he ran out of the house.

I sat in the darkness of my living room that evening, hating Clayton. Watchingtelevision, I tried to block the events of the morning from my mind. I began to shedtears at the thought of my grandmother’s ruined painting and then sobbed at the thoughtof how angry my parents would be at the sight of the ripped canvas. Suddenly the television flashed a brilliant white and the noise of a weather alert sounded. Bold redlettering panned across the screen and the prediction for flash flooding was focused onSleyter. It was then that I noticed the rain pounded with fury against my roof.Curiously I edged toward the window near my front door to watch the rain.

A pale face was looking inside, it was Clayton. Jerking open the door, I looked athim and waited for him to speak. “I came to apologize,” he said looking down, hisgolden hair pressed flat against his face. “My actions were inappropriate.” “GoodnightClayton,” I said and began to close the door. “Wait!” he exclaimed jutting his fingersin between the shutting door and its frame. I stopped my arm from shutting the doorand regretted not pulverizing his fingers. “What?” I asked annoyed. “I want to goback to the river,” he said, “I feel like I didn’t appreciate it before.” “Are you crazy?” Iasked, “It is going to flood at any min-,” but my words were useless because he hadalready begun to run toward the woods.

Rushing forward and fighting the pressure of the rain at the same time, I knew Ihad to get to Clayton before the Brivick River did. I sprinted through the dense woodsfeeling the thin branches whip against my face. My breath was short as I inhaled thecold wet air. Panting, I came to the clearing fifty feet from the river. Clayton’s blondhair radiated against the setting sun and glistened in the rain. “Look what I found,”he said. Through the pelting rain I squinted to see him. He knelt down and picked upsomething. The object squirmed in his hand. It was one of Molly’s puppies. With onepowerful push of his arm Clayton slammed the small dog into the oak tree that hadsheltered it from the rain. I screamed and lunged toward him, but my feet betrayedme and I fell into the muck. Then, in a split second, the most terrible noise I had everheard pierced my ears. A vibrant flash of Molly’s beautiful, white coat tore across theair as she lunged toward Clayton’s neck. They fell onto the ground as Clayton screamedand then gargled as Molly jerked Clayton’s head violently from left to right. Fear para-

22

Road Lines photograph by Natalie Moorer

lyzed me, and I was unable to move. Raising her head, Molly turned around and staredat me with her old familiar eyes. Even in my fear I could see the beauty of the darkred blood against her white muzzle. We stared at one another for what seemed to bean eternity and she then turned around and began to carry her puppies one by oneaway from the river. Gripping the earth and regaining my footing, I edged towardClayton and took one last look at him. He lay there, eyes lifeless, his collared shirtstained with the blood that washed out of his neck. I turned south and walked towardthe courthouse, away from the mighty Brivick.

The flood was the largest that the town had seen for generations. The Brivick hadwidened five hundred yards and devoured my family’s home. My mother was broughtto tears about the loss of the house and especially my grandmother’s painting. I wouldoften embrace her, and she would smile and thank God that I was still alive and hadnot drowned in the flood like the neighbor’s son whom we had never met.

23

Young Woman in Stairwell photograph by Natalie Moorer24

unprettySidney McLeod

Everyone seemed more beautiful More exquisite in every wayShe could never tell anyoneThe things she wanted to sayThey’d laugh and say she looked “fine”But “fine” wasn’t enoughThe other’s eyes shone like diamondsWhile hers seemed to fadeBoiling hot

Growing insideEnvy soon took overIt never seemed quite fairComparing herself to othersWould soon be her downfallShe felt like no one was thereStaring in the mirror All she saw was a blur with hair

SykiaBy Jim Barrett

It was the first time that I left Thessaloniki on a weekend trip that truly experi-enced something Greek. I had finally settled into my dormitory apartment with myroommates Ben and Richie, the latter of which came with me on the excursion, andhad attended the first few weeks of class at the American College of Thessaloniki.But, I was finally going to get the chance to see what life was like outside of theschool in Greece’s second largest city.

The school was providing a trip to the village of Sykia which lies about 150 milesto the east on the Aegean coast. Twenty of us were signed up to visit a vineyard thereand learn about the wine-making process and upon our arrival, were greeted by thefamily who owned the vineyard. Five little children followed our bus up the dirtroad to the house, which looked like nothing more than a couple of sheds cobbledtogether. In the middle was a porch with a wooden dining table surrounded bybenches, mismatched chairs and rusted articles of the past.

We began our duties that morning by cutting down grapes and tossing them intocrates. The bad grapes we would cut down and leave on the ground in order to allowthe vine to continue to grow. With my hand oozing blood due to an accidental butself-inflicted wound from a rusty grape-knife, I quickly headed back to the house toclean up so I could continue with my work. I walked up to the porch where theolder women sat preparing dinner and one of them tended to my hand by cleaningit with ouzo, the national alcoholic beverage of Greece, and then bandaging it witha white cloth. I learned that day that there are multiple uses for ouzo…

After another few hours of hot, backbreaking work Richie and I decided to headback to the house for a snack and a cigarette. What we didn’t realize was that ourentire group had the same plan. The Greeks who had been working with us in thefields were noticeably confused by what we were up to because they didn’t normallybreak for lunch until three o’clock, but they didn’t seem to mind as they went backto humming their work songs tossing empty crates over the rows of grapes waitingto be picked. However, Arian, our trip leader, was becoming increasingly irritatedby our laziness and ordered us to return to the fields.

Richie and I, along with a Greek-American student from New York City namedBen, decided instead to check out the wine-press and waited for everyone to leavebefore we snuck to the other side of the house. The two brothers that were workingon the wine-press, both with identical scruff and Camel cigarettes hanging fromtheir lips, invited us to jump in and squash some grapes. We were ecstatic jumpingin that juicy purple pool with our pant-legs rolled up.

25

“If you stay in there for a while, my friend, the grapes—they go to your head,”bellowed one of the brothers.

“Duuuude,” Richie said. “We’ve got to stay in here all day!”Ben and I both yelled in agreement as the press slowly began to fill up with our

fellow students who noticed that we were getting out of all the hard work.The rest of the workers, students and Greeks alike, slowly began to migrate to

the house where the mothers had begun cooking the fish we were to eat for dinner.The porch was transformed to a covered, open-air dining rooming with which itseemed the whole farm revolved around. I’ll never forget that meal: fresh fish,salad, bean soup, with wine and ouzo to wash it down. All of us stuffed ourselveswith great food, and repeatedly thanked the women for the feast.

Being from the Southern part of the U.S., I naturally began to compare GreekHospitality with Southern Hospitality and I came to realize that both people treatguests with the upmost respect and generosity. I felt connected to this family becauseof my heritage and the traditions I had grown up with, but I wasn’t in reality. Theyshowed me that you don’t have to understand what your guest is saying to includethem in the festivities. You can toss your cares to the wind and let yourself go is whatthe happy eyes of the old women serving us seemed to say. Back home, it would’vebeen more of a conversation about families and different anecdotes. This familysimply opened their doors and showed us what farm-life in rural Greece really was.

After our meal, Richie and I were given a plastic bottle full of sweet wine fromour hosts and we decided to share with some others. Ten of us, mainly study abroadstudents, sat in a circle and continued to marvel at how far we had traveled in only afew weeks, and proceeded to finish the wine. Sitting in that circle at sunset surroundedby the mountains, friends, and our wonderful Greek hosts is a scene that will neverbe erased from my memory.

Meanwhile, the two old brothers that owned the farm were coaxing their son toturn his car stereo on so that everyone could dance. And dance they did, startingwith the children who danced around their grandfathers and waved branches tenfeet taller than their fragile little bodies. Their parents came next. These two couples,instead of forming a half-circle holding each other’s shoulders decided to form afull circle dancing around the children. Finally, the grandparents danced and receiveda rapturous applause when they finished.

After the dancing, one the brothers from the wine-press, gave Richie and me aride to the house where we were staying

“I was an amateur race car driver. I still race when I’m not helping Papa at thevineyard,” he said. “Racing was my first love, wine was my father’s.”

After he said this, he slowly increased his speed until we were flying past farmsand finally other traffic. I caught a glimpse of the speedometer. It read 130 km/ha,

26

photograph by Emily Macon

and was climbing. In what seemed like 10 seconds we arrived in the village, butrather than take us to our house he jumped the curb and started to do “doughnuts”on the sandy beach. He returned to the road but had gotten a flat tire.

“It’s OK, we can walk the rest of the way,” I said.“Signomi, my friends. I hope you enjoyed you’re evening, but I’m afraid this is

where we must part ways.”This was the last I saw of the Race Car Driver but every day, even back at school

in Mississippi, my mind returns to those mountains and that little house and thosefields filled with grape bushes.

27

Fountain by Rachel Bronstein

His EyesEndia Mickey

What are these balls of lightThat grab hold of me in an act of spite?

Lipid pools of aqua blueI am captivated by their luminous hue

As they tighten their graspI can’t help but simply ask,

“Why do you hurt me so,To taunt me constantly and still not let go?”

The only answer I receive Is the cold touch from a hand unseen

Unseen to me although I know it’s thereBut a bright new world owns my stare

Yes! The shackles are no moreAnd I am free to walk out the door

And as I turn to bid this scene goodbyeI still can’t help but wonder why

Each time I long to be set free I let them those eyes take hold of me

28

The Last LaughMolly Loden

January 6, 2010—one year to day that he was buried, and one year to day that Isaid goodbye to my best friend… I know what you are thinking, that this is going tobe one of those depressing stories from my past. Well, you couldn’t be more wrong.This is the story of how one man changed my life and taught me how to smile.

Iven “Pudd” Loden was a man like no other. He had a hard life, but he was constantly smiling. He was successful, but he was always humble. He was quiet, buthe could always make me laugh.

Papaw Pudd, as I liked to call him, worked all 94 years of his life. He was good atmany things. He was the one that taught my father how to work in the propane gasbusiness, and he was there to help when my dad decided to start his own company inthe industry. Papaw Pudd was still riding in the gas truck just six months before hepassed away. He knew a lot, and he would constantly share his wisdom with me.However it was laughs that we shared more than anything.

Around January of 2008, my papaw’s health began to decline. He was 93, and hisdoctors had decided to change his medicine. He didn’t respond well to the changes.His mind was still strong, but his body just couldn’t keep up. Papaw Pudd still livedon his own, and once he could no longer take care of himself my father, along withhis brother and sister, had to make the decision of how best to take care of him.Unlike many people who would have sent him to a nursing home, they decided tostay with him. So, every third night my father stayed with my papaw. This meant Iwas able to spend a lot of time with my papaw, as well as share a lot of laughs with him.

It was in October 2008 that Papaw Pudd and I shared our last big laugh. My fatherwas working around the clock pumping gas. We could tell that it was going to be ahard and busy winter, and my father was already working himself to the bone. It washis night to stay with my papaw. We had already eaten dinner, I was back at homeasleep, and it was late-very late.

It was around two o’clock in the morning when my father was awakened by asound in the living room. As he got up to check on everything, he already knew whathe was going to find. My papaw liked to get a snack and watch the local gospel channelduring the night. To my father’s surprise, however, he did not find my papaw eatingand listening to the Gaither Vocal Band. Instead, he found my grandfather in a stateof shock and excitement.

“You will never believe what I have found-a goldmine, a pure goldmine!” shoutedmy grandfather. As my Papaw Pudd was trying to control his excitement, my fatherwas trying to figure out exactly what he was talking about.

“What did you find?” my father asked tentatively.“$1,500, and I just found it lying here in these pants!” my papaw responded back

29

excitedly.“You mean my pants, the ones that were lying on the couch?” my father asked

knowingly.“Well yeah, I guess, if those were your pants, ‘cause that is where I found the

money,” said my papaw.“Daddy, that is my gas-pumping money! Customers gave me that, and I have to

take it to the office in the morning,” my father responded franticly.“Well, that could be a problem-being as I hid it all,” stated my papaw dryly.Thus began my dad’s and Papaw Pudd’s hectic search for $1,500. Now, my Papaw

was not one to hide things in the most obvious places. He was smarter than that. Notto mention that he lived through the Great Depression and learned why you shouldhide your money in your mattress. They found $400 dollars in his billfold hidden inall the pockets and folded in a variety of ways. $300 was found throughout the kitchen,and $600 throughout the bedrooms. They found another $100 in the pocket of PapawPudd’s pajamas.

By this time, it was four o’clock in the morning, and they had only found $1,400.My father was exhausted, and he had to get up a six in the morning to go to work.They decided to call it a night with $100 still missing. The next evening, with twohours of sleep and about two days’ worth of work behind him, my dad came homeand shared with us the events of the previous night.

The next day when I saw my papaw I couldn’t help but ask him, “Why did youtake the $1,500?”

“Well Sugar, the money was in the pants, the pants where on the couch, and thecouch was in the living room of my house. I guess I just assumed that meant thosewere my pants,” Papaw Pudd responded dryly. He then gave me a sideways glance andhis crooked smile, and we were both laughing like maniacs.

Shortly after that long and amusing night, my Papaw’s health declined drastically.He was soon bedridden, and few short weeks later he could barely recognize me. I didnot go visit him like I should have once he reached this state. I only wanted to rememberhis crooked smile and the way he could make me laugh. He died the first week inJanuary 2009. I did not cry, and I honestly could not really explain why I was notcrying. I knew that it was going to happen, and I knew that his dying only meant hewas no longer suffering.

I once overheard my father tell my mother that I reminded him a lot of his dad.Hearing him say that was my proudest moment. Papaw Pudd was gentle, but strong.He was loving, kind, and genuine. He was intelligent and successful. He was every-thing I am striving to become. None of these traits that we share, however, is what Ivalue most. What I value most when it comes to Papaw Pudd is that I got to sharewith him the last laugh, his last great-big-laugh.

30

Young Man with Reflection by Natalie Moorer31

Tower by Aleigh Pons

ThunderLexis Herron

As the day got still and quiet and the clouds closed in overhead The calmness in the air relaxed me,The wind was whipping, blowing the trees back and forth making a sensitive noise to my ears.As the rain began to fall from the sky, it was like the heavens were crying out for help.The roaring of the thunder shook the porch I was sitting on making me a little uneasy,I felt like the heavens were trying to tell us something,but we could not understand,as the rain began to slow it was like the crying out for help stopped,I felt better when the storm was over; I got up turned out the light outthen went inside.

32

The Key Ingredients to GeometryHope Russell

Ms. Sowell was an interesting enough character. Her hair was as tame as a lion, her eyesas fierce as a gale, and her voice as booming as the miner’s TNT. This was my ninth gradeGeometry teacher. I never really enjoyed Algebra and I was told that it was because of thatdislike that I would genuinely enjoy Geometry. I usually was not one to attempt to disprovethe logic of intellectual thinkers, but after day one I knew this theory could not possibly bemore wrong. Ms. Sowell’s ability to teach was about equal to that of a turkey’s ability to fly.No angles or measurements were ever discussed in class, only the whirlwind of her derangedfamily-life. You see, it had happened again. Once again I landed the single teacher of Pearl HighSchool that was going through a divorce. The previous year it had been my English teacher,Ms. Pauly. Our class did not prepare for the state writing test—which having a passing scorewas mandatory to graduate, instead we discussed much more important things such as whetheror not the moon landing of 1969 was staged in Arizona. Poor Ms. Pauly was in therapy now.

I guess that Ms. Sowell awoke one morning and at a loss for a final project, and in des-perate need for a little TLC, because later that morning she announced that our grade wouldsolely depend upon our ability to cook or more specifically, bake. I thought that she was jokingor had completely lost her mind. What relevance did a cake have to do with geometry? Withthe stunned attitudes of dunce sheep, she herded us into groups of four or five and handed ustiny slips of paper with our assigned types of cake. When I looked at her specifications I wascompletely dumbfounded. Her instructions may as well have been a death sentence: “Make athree tier cake entirely from scratch.” After reading that, I didn’t think that it could get anyworse. Making a cake completely from scratch was like asking me to sprout wings and fly.The dreaded list continued: “Keep your recipes. Have icing and decorations.” Then I read it.The geometric nightmare of a twist, “The dimensions of the cake are to be as follows: base:circumference of 18” middle: circumference of 15” top: circumference of 12. Your flavor isstrawberry. Good Luck!” Luck just was not going to cut it for this monster of a project; I needmuch more than luck. I needed a miracle.

When I took the project home and showed my mother, we mutually concluded that Ms.Sowell would more than likely be joining Ms. Pauly in therapy. But there was no point inputting off the daunting task any longer. I personally have never seen a circular cake pan thatwas any larger than 9” across much less one doubled in size! So, with a requirement of a basecircumference of 18” improvisation was required. After much searching, my mother and Ifinally managed to find a pizza pan that spanned this massive circumference. Once a recipefor a strawberry cake made from scratch was found, the ingredients acquired, and the groupnotified, I began bracing myself for the battle ahead. My misfit group of a jock, an “artist,”and an exchange student slowly arrived at my home, and with a final breath we tied on ouraprons and went to war.

Splattered with batter and loathing strawberry flavoring more than ever before, my war-torn group collapsed in victory once the pans were in the oven. It was the eye of the storm,

33

the moment of pause between battles, for we knew that our task was far from over. As we allsat around my kitchen table, I examined my fellow soldiers. We were all so different. I neverthought that Dillon Walker, Mr. Popular himself, would be seated at my table licking the grittybatter off his hands, or that Jordan Enriquez, a Goth, would be smiling and laughing withKevin Warren, the German foreign exchange student. My mother equated this hodge-podgegroup with the teens of The Breakfast Club. We were all so different, but we were all united insurviving this disaster of a final project. There was a certain element of beauty found in thatthought of unity.

I was suddenly snatched from my daydreams as the fateful timer sounded. Slowly wepeered into the steaming oven. Miraculously, all three peachy layers had baked perfectly.Cautiously and praying for God to smile favorably on us, we removed the pans and began toattempt to get these monstrous layers out. Trial number one was finding a plate that was largeenough to hold an 18” base. This was quite the feat and required creativity. The result washalf of one side of a refrigerator box covered in aluminum foil. Trial number two was actuallygetting these massive layers out of the pan without them ripping in half. After lots of panshaking, prying, gritting of teeth, and with a little luck we managed to get all three out—almost painlessly.

Then the time came for the sticky, pink icing. This was a nightmare! It was adhesive assuper glue and literally ripped hunks out of the cake. At this Jordan, Dillon, Kevin, and Iexchanged tense glances and erupted into laughter. With flushed faces and tear stained cheekswe began damage control. After some remixing and piecing back together, a rather lumpy,lop-sided cake was the result.

Standing back with the rest of my brave cadets, I realized that this cake was quiet possiblythe worst end product I’d ever had a hand in producing. It was massive, and goopy, and sticky,and reeked of putrid strawberry flavoring, but it was one of the most beautiful sights I haveever seen. It was truly a masterpiece, our masterpiece. It was in this moment, standing therestaring at the beautiful disaster consuming my kitchen table, that the perfectionist in me meltedaway and was replaced by someone far more daring—a side of me that wasn’t scared of giganticcakes with gooey icing, or an eclectic group of misfits. Facing my fear of the seemingly impos-sible and merely surviving was the icing on the cake literally.

Life doesn’t come in a box with handy step-by-step directions on the back; it’s just notthat simple. Life is much more likely to put you in a group that’s less than adequate for thetask and then hand you a tiny slip of paper with big expectations; but if it weren’t for thosemoments you would never discover the delicacies that you can cook up. Just imagine if lifedid come with cookie-cutter recipes on the back, then we would all be the same. Therewouldn’t be the Goths or the jocks or the perfectionists of the world. In that moment of quietvictory, I looked at the people in my group and realized, not only the beauty of our labor, butthe freedom we found outside of the directional box.

34

Surfin by Madison Shepard35

Columns by Emily Macon36

Cups by Krista Large37

What is This World?John Jordan Proctor

What is this world where we live and we breathe?Where we drive to Wal-Mart for everything we need A world of impatience and a sea of trash A number four, supersized and make it fast

What is this world where money thrivesWhere chasing the paper is the point of our lives Where the Right is wrong and the Left are crazy Where our values are lost and our kids are lazy

What is this world where spouses cheat Where we sacrifice to make ends meetWhere corruption is common and honesty is not Where the ice is melting and the world is hot

What is this world that needs Him so bad Where we should all say a prayer before we get mad Where we should be quick to accept and slow to judge Where we should forgive everyone the way He forgave us.

Southern CookingHaley Halford

My Saturday mornings as a young five year old girl would not have been completewithout my unskilled and clumsy hands alongside my granny’s wrinkled and wise ones.We would spend our early Saturday mornings preparing an assortment of delicioussouthern breakfast foods for my family. Almost every week my cousins, my sisters, andI would spend Friday nights at my granny and granddad’s house and the Southernwarmth poured out of my granny’s kind heart. She would make anything from chickenspaghetti and banana pudding, to chicken and dumplings and angel food cake withhomegrown strawberries.

The breakfast food my granny prepared was and still to this day is my favorite ofout of everything in her cookbook. She and I would get up early, get the flour out andwould begin to heat up the kitchen. My favorite thing to make was the biscuits. I loveddigging my hands into the soft flour and transforming it into a plump, sticky ball ofdough. Granny would show me how to knead the dough and prepare it to be cut upin circles, so it could become a wonderful flakey piece of heaven. When I finally gotto the last step of pulling it out of the oven, I pared it with the only syrup worthy totouch this piece of heaven, Blackburn’s syrup. This syrup was the only one I had everknown and the only one I ever wanted to know. It was stored in a jar as big as myhead and had so much sugar it made my head spin. My biscuits and this wonderfulsyrup went perfectly with the other items my granny and I prepared. The smell of thesizzling sausage and bacon, the thick grits, hardy gravy, and fried eggs filled the houseand brought my sleepy sisters and cousins to the table.

My granddad, who had been up the whole time reading the paper, would walk inthe kitchen as the cooking was coming to the end, fill his coffee cup up, and give mygranny a kiss on the cheek. We would all then sit at the table, and my cousins, sistersand I would sing the blessing. This was a tradition that my granddad loved, but wehated doing every time we held hands. When the singing was done, everyone woulddig in and my granny and I would look at each other and smile then dig in ourselves.

After everyone cleaned their plate, we cleaned up the kitchen and Granny and Iwould begin to plan the menu for lunch. It never took us long to decide on what wewanted to prepare. We would have chicken salad sandwiches and green beans. I wouldalways come up with the idea as I looked at the rising dough Granny and I had puttogether the day before. This dough, after being baked at 350 degrees, became thebest bread we ever put in our mouth.

38

We would mix the yeast, honey, flour, and a lot of other ingredients that combinestogether and creates a big ball of dough. It usually took a whole day for the yeast torise enough to make golden, fluffy bread. When it finally got to the perfect height wewould stick it in the over and then start to create a chicken salad so good you couldscream. The mixture of ingredients, when I first made chicken salad, sounded so grossI would not eat it. Then the next time I went to Granny’s I gave in because I alreadyknew how scrumptious it would be. When we finally started to prepare the chickensalad, the absolute worst part was peeling the chicken off the bone. This process takesforever it seems like, and when I would finally get done my fingers would be burnedbecause I peeled it too soon. My granny always told me to wait and let the chickencool, but like most five year olds I was impatient and did not listen. As soon as thechicken was taken out of the boiling water, I would dive in and pretend it did nothurt. We then added an assortment of things like pickle juice, mayonnaise, mustard,and whole bunch of other stuff that made it so good. The green beans were simple.Granddad would bring them in from the garden, and then they were put into a pot ofboiling water. We would add a cut of onion, salt and pepper, then let them sit.Granny always said, “you don’t need to add a lot to something already perfect.” Whenlunchtime finally came around and we were all starving hungry from playing outside,we gathered around the table, sang the blessing, and dug in this delicious sandwichand green beans.

When dinner planning came around there was only one thing that could satisfythe hungry bellies of my family, chicken spaghetti. The combination of tender piecesof chicken, soft slippery noodles, and spices mixed so perfectly it makes you wonderwhy you would eat anything else on this planet. This is the one dish my sister, Erin,would not have anything to complain about, and would come to expect every time wemade a trip to see Granny and Granddad.

Now that my cousins, sister, and I have gotten older, we do not have these won-derful enlightening weekends. My sisters and I have gone to separate colleges, exceptfor my oldest sister, and I can’t remember the last time I spent more than an hourwith my cousins without it being a holiday. Time seems to go by much faster than itdid when I was five years old. I do not stop and think about how simple things usedto be standing beside Granny, kneading dough and running around with my cousins.I am always writing a paper or getting ready to go out on the town with friends. ThenI get a phone call from Granny, and it seems like time pauses for the few minutes wetalk. I go back to feeling like that five-year-old girl without a care in the world, exceptfor getting the recipe just right.

39

Photograph by Natalie Moorer40

Huckleberry by Andrew Anderson

Dogs can be useful for many things—companionship, transportation, food, andservice to the handicapped. I consider my dogHuckleberry as a service dog.

I got him when I transferred to Ole Miss.I transferred to get away from the absoluteinsanity that was my everyday life at WestVirginia University. I would stay up on averagealmost every night till 4 am. I would rarelystudy and cared more about having fun thangoing to school.

I came to Ole Miss with onegoal: to graduate with a GPA abovea three point five. I realized, basedon my extensive experiences atWVU and talking with my father,that in order to achieve this goal Iwould need discipline. I wouldneed to put myself on a regularschedule that I could do every daythat would over time become routine.

I knew that to stay on routine I wouldneed something to force me to be disciplined.So my twin Brian and I decided to getHuckleberry. He is a ten-month-old, seventy-pound, blue-tick coonhound. If you do notknow what type of dog that is, it is the mascotfor the University of Tennessee. We wanted toget a big, active and trainable dog, and ourneighbor back home has coonhounds, so wedecided to get one.

Huckleberry keeps me on track and hemakes sure I remember why I left my friendsand older brother back in Morgantown.Huckleberry forces me to stay on trackbecause I have to let him out around nine amevery morning, in-between classes and twice a

night. That means I have to go to bed at thelatest by midnight every night. If I don’t then Iwill have a mess to clean up. Huckleberry fallsasleep around ten pm every night, so when Isee him go over toward his dog bed, I knowthat I should be heading to bed too.

He is also my alarm clock. When he needsto go outside to use the bathroom, in themorning or any time of the day, he rings astrand of bells with his nose that we have

hanging on the door handle. If that doesn’tget me up, then his very loud howling

will. I live in an apartment complexand if I get three noise complaints Iget kicked out if the apartment. Sowhen he starts barking, I have to

get up. Huckleberry also keepsme in check because when Iwant to spend all night out

partying or hanging out withfriends I cannot. Huck needs to be

fed three times a day and walked twice a day.Over time he has also become like my

triplet, my second best friend. He goes out onthe lake with me and my family and swims.He likes to run with us and chase us aroundthe backyard. He goes on bike-rides withBrian and me. He is always with me, just likeBrian. Without Huckleberry I fear I would bethe same person I was at West Virginia, just atOle Miss. He is like a service dog becausewithout his help it is hard for me to stay faith-ful to my routine. He is helping me reach thegoal I came to Ole Miss to achieve.

41

MY “SECOND” BEST FRIENDAndrew Anderson

Flowers by Rachel Bronstein

FebruaryBy Liz Martin

Where did February go?

It seems like yesterday

I woke up and it was February 1.

Now it’s already March.

Where did February go?

It seems like yesterday

Was Valentine’s Day

Now it’s already Spring Break

Where did February go?

Next thing I know I’ll be waking up

And it will be April, then May

Before you know it,

I’ll be graduating

Then I’ll ask myself

Where did time go?

42

Clean Break photograph by Natalie Moorer

YOUby Brian Hatch

It feels good to be able to move along.For more than I can remember you've been

on my mind.I would have done anything to be with you,

and I'll still do anything for you.It's just that now I can get out of bed and

enjoy the things that make life worth living.You see I was so enthralled that I was

damn near blind and mad at the same time.Yes, it would have been lovely.

From that perspective I couldn't imagineanything grander.

Still, it would have been bitter sweet. It wasa Catch 22.

There is no doubt that I was deeply in love.No, that's out of the question.

In my heart I knew it was hollow.I saw it as if it were a vivid dream.

As mad as it seems, I was not afraid.I was willing to jump off a cliff with no

parachute.Good thing I waited: now I'm ready to fly.

43

Need For SpeedEric Spangler

When I was growing up, life always seemed to want me to go faster. To this day Idon’t understand why. I was the youngest of three kids. My brother, John, is four yearsolder than me and my sister, Jennifer, is six years older. They were always very close andplayed together a lot. I always tried to keep up with them. Physically, I was less developedbut my leg muscles were strong. I didn’t want to be left out.

This obsession with speed started when I was three years old. While its origin isunknown it manifested itself with a need for speed. My Mom was cooking dinner onenight and the three of us were outside racing on bikes. Strong sibling rivalry prevailed.There was no way I could compete with the restriction of training wheels. I asked Momif I could take the training wheels off my bike. I informed her that I could not keep upwith my siblings. I whined and told her that I hated being the last one in line. My Momtold me, “Three year olds don’t ride bikes without training wheels” and went back inside.My Mom thought that the subject was closed, but I had other ideas. I went to my Dad’sworkbench for a wrench and began taking off the training wheels.

The workbench was covered in tools like a messy teenager’s room is covered withclothes—there were tools everywhere. There were so many different size wrenches; Ididn’t know where to start, but I got lucky and found the right one. My brother and sister watched me, snickering the entire time but did not tell on me. Finally I had theirattention! I got on the bike and they pushed me in the grass to help get me going. I drovein circles for a minute then was off and never looked back. I realize now that was myfirst brush with speed. I quickly pumped my legs until I felt the wind in my hair. Eventoday a windy day reminds me of that first breath of freedom.

At age five I got a bright red, electric powered ATV (all-terrain vehicle) for my birth-day. This thing was awesome and my siblings were jealous. My sister always wanted thepink motorized Barbie car, but my parents thought it was stupid. I went through manyexpensive batteries and ran it so fast that I always had to take it to the shop. But no worries, my siblings and I also had roller blades, which were pretty intense. My olderbrother showed me how to take the brakes off of the wheels. We would race on the rollerblades, down the hill in front of our house, without brakes. I’d go as fast as I could andwould jump into the highest grass possible to stop, right before a crash. After the firsttime I beat him he began to take me seriously. He taunted me no more about being a“baby.” Looking back I also understand that racing fed my need for speed.

People were always stopping their cars and yelling at me for my speed on my variousmachines. Once the mailman took me home, rang the bell and told my Mom I’d raced infront of him. My Mom did not know how to handle the situation. As I grew she began torealize that I knew what I was doing. Although I had a need for speed, I was under control.I followed her rules and wore my helmet and kneepads. She put reflectors and lights oneverything so no one could miss me. The problem was I constantly discovered new ways

44

to go faster and drove my parents crazy with requests. My life revolved around discoveringnew ways to feed this need.

When the electric ATV could no longer keep up with me, I decided I needed a fastervehicle. The next bright idea I had was a dirt bike. After much badgering I won. For mytenth birthday I got a dirt bike. It was a Dual Sport 80cc, bright yellow, with spokewheels, a headlight and a taillight. It was like a miniature sports car because of the sixspeed transmission. It was the perfect present for a ten year old kid. My mother closedher eyes when I raced around the yard. She added layers and layers of pads after my firstcrash into the metal fence. My Dad took me to courses where I could be set free and goas fast as possible. I sailed over bumps with mud flying everywhere. The bike and I werebrown and dinged up by the end of the day. Georgia red clay does not wash out ofclothes. This was something my brother couldn’t do! I got a lot of recognition in myfamily for this need, and I was the only one getting this kind of attention!

When I turned fourteen I traded the dirt bike in for a blue moped. While it was“street legal” it was still a dangerous machine. Looking back I don’t know how I got awaywith it. I was expanding my territory and needed some means to ride around town andvisit friends. I could go anywhere! Now I did not have to depend on my siblings whocould drive. They were often “too busy” to take me to my friend’s house so I solved theproblem on my own. I couldn’t go as fast as a dirt bike but I went as fast as I could on it.For two years I’d return home black and blue, bloody or with various body partsinjured. If I was not careful, the curb would rise up for a crash or send me sailing overthe handlebars. Now my mother closed her eyes when I walked in the door!

At age sixteen I got my driver’s license and realized the moped wasn’t so cool. I soldthe moped and used the money to buy a fire engine red, 1986 Chevy pickup. I loved thistruck, but it had too small of an engine in it, so after two months my Dad and I put a 350crate motor in it. This made it go much faster. My need for speed was now satisfied bylarger vehicles. Ever since age sixteen I have had a passion for cars. I took all my earningsand purchased fast wrecks. I am in the process of restoring a 1975 MG Midget, a Germansports car. My most recent car with a lot of speed is my 1980 Camero Z28. It has bluewith white stripes and is built to compete in drag races. This is the same car as the yellowone in the movie, “Transformers,” called “Bumblebee.” My need for speed developed intoa grown-up hobby.

Looking back I realize that life didn’t want me to go faster, I did. I needed to go fastto keep up with my siblings. It was really a need to belong, to be a part of something andto join in the sibling rivalry. I felt left out of their play because of my age. It’s toughbeing the youngest, especially by four years. Speed helped me be a part of the group. Itmade me into the person I am today. Over the years I have been battered, bloodied andbruised. I drove my parents crazy and littered the driveway with fast vehicles. I lovedevery minute and have yet to slow down. I don’t know my need to go fast has not beensatisfied. It’s grown from a three year old’s love of a bike to an eighteen year old with afast sports car. All I do know is that I still need to feel the wind in my hair.

45

Palms by Ashley McMahan46

Tree by Ashley McMahan47

Tall Tall TreeNeely Clair England

Tall Tall Tree looking at meTilting to the left and swaying with the breeze

Old Rugged branches with finger-like leavesReach out their hands looking for something

to clingBrown, dark bark etched with wounds

from Mother Nature’s storms

RainDrips

Drips Drips…

like a river’s running courseFrom the tip of her trunk she towers graciouslyOver all God’s creation meant for you and me

Tall Tall Tree looking at me

Ringing in the New Year with Pain MedicationMary B. Sellers

Wisdom teeth are viewed as a right of passage to the general teenage population. Iwatched as all of my friends went into surgery one after one, each disappearing for acouple of days, and then reappearing with fuller cheeks and a suspicious-looking cocobutter chap stick, no memories of how they got to their houses, and few commentson their disappearances except, “It was great” and “I didn’t feel a thing.”

It always perplexed me when they described it as “great.” How could anyone intheir right mind think getting teeth dug out of their gums as great? And how do theyactually know if they “don’t remember a thing”? It made me uneasy and even morecurious because they seemed mysteriously calmer and wiser with their wisdoms out,like a band of surviving veterans from some war waged in their mouth, them comingout as the victorious, if slightly groggy and swollen heroes.

They chalked their personality changes up to their pain meds, but I didn’t buy it fora minute. They reassured me that “when my time came” I would love it, and not toworry about it. I began viewing my wisdoms as something precious, and decided thatI’d rather not sign myself up for finding out what actually goes on in the mysteriousDr. May’s office. I felt like I was in that Twilight Zone episode where everyone whoreaches a certain age must go in to “the doctor” and be “fixed” for the next chapter intheir life. It ultimately was discovered that they rewired your entire body and facialstructure to look like a plastic Barbie and Ken doll while wiping your memory clean.I was mystified, terrified, and completely certain that at my next dentist appointmentI would opt out of getting the little buggers removed, and settle for a life of no temporary memory loss and slightly crooked teeth.

Of course, when you don’t pay the bills and are relying on your parents for a dis-posable income, their word is law. It just so happened that one of my wisdoms gotinfected conveniently over Christmas break, and before I knew it, I was sitting in theoffice of the infamous doctor himself. I tried to remain calm, reasoning with myselfthat if I did happen to die, or meet a fate worse than death, I’d had a pretty good lifewith few regrets.

The office smelled like teeth, or what I would imagine them to smell like—an oddmix of chlorine and formaldehyde, and I felt like I was going to be sick. To make itworse, my mother began recanting the story of her own wisdom teeth, and how theyhad had such a hard time that she was put into the hospital for a couple of days. Iasked her if this was what she thought a pep talk should be, sarcastically, and she

48

Coke Can by Kate Mislan

finally quieted down with an apology and the “I was only trying to help” look. I hadsecretly known all along that I would, eventually, be faced with this. It was kind oflike childbirth, I’ve always known that “someday” I’ll have kids, but I’ve never given itmuch thought, nor imagined it happening in the near future. Except, you can’t take apill to stop the teeth from coming in—so it’s a much more one-sided decision thangetting pregnant, and I’d rather not keep and raise the teeth after they’re out.

He finally swept into the room, his white coat gleaming in the bright fluorescentlight. I stiffened and braced myself for my impending doom, but he merely smiled atme and announced, “You’re going to need all four out.” He then went on to list all ofthe possible consequences and risks to wisdom extractions including, “I could possiblybreak your jaw, or cause your sinus to squirt blue and red. You’ll be popular at the nextfootball game.” He laughed and clapped me on the back, obviously finding his jokeextremely amusing. I merely grimaced and held on to the back of the chair weakly. IfI had had any sort of reassuring thoughts before now, they were all killed in that oneinstant.

Before I knew it, I was sitting in the room where I was to have my surgery, twistingmy fingers and mapping an escape route in my head. I examined the window to myleft, and ultimately concluded that the glass was probably much too thick to break andthat there was a lock on it. The door was open, but I suspected that I would probablybe seen walking away and in due course would be returned to this very room by eithermy mother of a nurse. The doctor came in, hooked me to the I.V. and the nursestrapped a small tube under my nose and told me to “breathe.” Then, he began askingme about my friends and myboyfriend, if I’d had a goodChristmas, and I wondered if he reallyknew just how transparent his motiveswere. I was not about to let these people take away my memory and“mold” me to fit my societal role. Iwould resist! I would be the first tostand up to this type of conspiracyand find out what exactly they reallywanted! But, oh! I was becoming sodreadfully dizzy… and the room went black.

49

Father by Tyler Storey

Unconditional Carelessnessby Krista Large

He loves meI love him notIt’s hard to flee When your legs are caught

I will never forgetThe promises madeI hope you feel regret Our bond you betrayedFeel threatened by herNo excuse for a manClaim that life was a blur With a beer in your handWhen your vision is clearAnd you can finally seeKnow that I am not your daughterYou were never a father to me

50

Snow by Sofia Helberg Jonsen51

From the EditorOn the last day of putting this wonderful 2nd edition of Venture Online together, I am full of

relief but also full of gratitude. Our designer, Larry Agostinelli from theDivision of Outreach here at Ole Miss has once again proved his geniusin working wonders with the words and images of our Freshman writersand artists. We could not exist without the support of Outreach and theinspired talent of Larry.

Having completed the selection, I want to let all the writers whose work was not acceptedknow that we had over 50 entries and only just over half are included here. You all have talentand we at Venture encourage you to pursue it. This year’s entries have strong dialogue, comedicscenes, drama, suspense, dog attacks, and stories about food, travel, and home. There are lovepoems, poems of determination, simple and honest writing.

This Freshman Writing Project started in the summer of 2009 when I met with Doug Robinsonin the Freshman English Department. He called in the new Director of the Center for Writing andRhetoric, Bob Cummings, and together we plowed forward with a call for entries, enlisted Freshmanwriting teachers as readers and judges, and turned out Volume 1 last November. That edition was40 pages. This issue has 56 pages!

The talent of our young students has always been apparent to those of us in the classroom, butnow everyone can log on to the English Department website (look under links) and read the maga-zine no matter where they are. Students can send the link to their parents and friends anywhere inthe world to show that they are now published authors and artists!

I want to give well-deserved thanks to Ashley Gutierrez, my assistant editor, who worked as adiligent liaison with both readers and students, sending entries back and forth for review and to meas those results came in. I also want to thank the readers who took time to read and respond to thework.

My continued thanks go to my friend Deborah Freeland, Senior Designer in the Division ofOutreach, who encouraged me with this project from its inception. She puts the magazine inISSU for online viewing on the Outreach site. Just three months after the link to Volume 1 wasup, she called to say that there had been over 2500 “hits”!

Finally, to the students who go above and beyond what is required to make a grade by thinkingand writing about your own life experiences, you have our admiration and thanks. We look forwardto more creative endeavors from each of you.

Sincerely,Milly Moorhead West, editor

52

Larry AgostinelliDesigner

Mobile photograph by Rachel Bronstein

Editor

Milly Moorhead WestEmail: mmwest@olemiss.edu

Assistant Editor

Ashley GutierrezEmail: agutierr@olemiss.edu

venture@olemiss.edu