The Flagler Review 2010 by Flagler College

Cover Art:

France; Chartres By: Ashley Bowman Review Staff:

Senior Editor: Leila Kandret Fiction Editors: Daniel Barton & Caroline Watson Poetry Editor: Holly Hofer Non-Fiction Editor: Saira Khan Graphics and Layout Editor: Steffi Shook Editorial Staff: Stephanie Boilard, Matt Deangelis, Christina Fritts, Tiffany Knowles, Robert Neff, Megan Parker, Sharron Reyes. Faculty Advisor: Jim Wilson The Flagler Review staff would like to thank Laura Smith for all her knowledge, support and encouragement this year.

Table of Contents 4 Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Note 6 Passing a Picnic by the Bay By Daniel Barton 7 Footpath to the sea By Christie Oakes 8 Mustachioed Blues By Drew Vigna 10 Fireflies By Erin Smith 15 The Open Road By Evan Tisdale 16 Broken Innocence By Vanessa Cox 17 The Complications of not being Christ By Steffi Shook 18 Home By Hannah Locke 20 A Change in Atmosphere By Mackenzie Betrone-Harpst 24 Write What You Know By Drew Vigna 27 The Lamp Lighter By Saira Khan

28 29 30 32 33 38 39 40 42 47 50

Night By Hannah Locke Artwork By Kathryn Delia Autumn By Drew Vigna Tantalizing Terror By Vanessa Cox Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Ask By Matthew DeAngelis In waiting By Ashley Bowman Black &White By Hannah Locke Buzzing Fireplaces By Renae Andruse Little Miss Muffet and Some Other People By Jonatham Hooper Koh Kho Khao, Thailand By Hannah Locke Feet Find My Father By Shea Hardiman

What is the Flagler Review? An alarming number of people asked me this question over the past year. Once, in mentioning the Flagler Review in casual conversation, a fellow English major stopped me to ask, “What is the Flagler Review, anyway?” I was so taken aback by this question, I came back with a “Wait, what? Seriously?” Or something equally as ineloquent & non-English-major-like. With my appointment as the Editor of the Flagler Review in my final year at Flagler, I set out to breathe some life back into our small, but significant, literary journal. For the past few years, the Flagler Review could only be found in the dark depths of cyber space. With our foray into the age of online literary journals, we lost some of the Review’s charm. It sat in obscurity, losing its presence here on campus. When the Review published one of my short stories last year in the Spring 2009 issue, my elation was dampened by the fact that I could not physically hold my published work in my hands. I was baffled that of all the publications found on campus, the literary journal wasn’t one of them. As all English majors, writers, & literary connoisseurs alike know, there is something about holding a book, the weight of the pages, the dog-eared corners marking years of love & the satisfaction when you turn the last page & close the door on yet another world. There is no other feeling like it. I didn’t want anyone else to feel the sense of loss, of incompleteness, that I did last year, which is why I set out to bring back the printed Flagler Review. However, after many a meeting & many an idea, the staff & I came to the realization that we could not print the Flagler Review with a professional publishing company. It wasn’t for a lack of trying, but sadly, a lack of funds. There was no possible way we could swing it. We could never sell that many cookies or wash that many cars. I felt the one hope I had for the Review was gone. That is, until I attended the Florida Literary Arts Coalition on campus in November. While taking a break from manning the welcome table, I took the opportunity to look around at the other literary journals in attendance. With their shiny, vibrant covers & tightly bound pages, I felt as though the other journals were mocking me, like the Flagler Review would never look like them. It felt like high school all over again. They were the cheerleaders with tanning bed tans & overly coiffed hair, & we were the kids who sat in the back of the class with a perpetual zit on our chin & polka-dot socks peeking from under too-short jeans.

Then I came upon a table with our answer, what made the Flagler Review, as you now see it, possible. The answer was spread out on a fold -out card table: journals printed on regular computer paper, bound with varying colors of rubber bands. The poor college student’s answer to a published journal. So, in true writer fashion, where “good writers borrow, but great writers steal,” I swiped the idea of the handmade journal as the answer to our problem. With the Review’s outward makeover complete, it was time to decide what would appear in its pages. We wanted a journal to reflect every aspect of creative writing on campus, which is why we added a screenplay genre and accepted more experimental pieces this year. With our final selections, we chose a diverse range, spanning across time, peoples & the world. It beats with the pulse of our student writers. A Flagler College student’s life does not solely center around the campus, so, naturally, neither would their work. After countless hours locked in a study room of the library with varying snack foods, we chose the pieces that appear in these pages. Of course, the caliber of any literary journal rests heavily on the works published. However, any journal would not be what it is without the dedicated people working within it. I will fully accept the clichéd route this may take, but still say that the Flagler Review would not be what it is without the enthusiasm & tenacity of its staff members. With everything I have, thank you for all the time & effort put into our literary journal. Though the Spring 2010 issue of the Flagler Review does not boast a fancy cover or professional binding, it is, however, honest. So this is what we have to offer: a tiny, rubber-banded gem.

Leila Kandret

Passing a Picnic by the Bay By Daniel Barton reminded me of flower-clad women dancing the flamenco, a Japanese dogwood, the koto of birds, a mother stopping to shut her purse before pursuing a cherry-blossom daughter on the grass, her Easter dress stained by noon. The bay rippling jade through mirrors of whispers sang to me voices of Spring.

A celebration, the parents lowering their eyes for idle chatter, strawberries. A day for remembering beauty waited beneath the cold, in the shade of an oak where a father sinks deeper in his chair, sipping on the laughter of seagulls who hang in the wind like origami kites.

I wanted to remember a day like this but forgot that serenity only happens in the present tense, that memory is satisfied desire and I was content then, as a child, not understanding happiness because I did not desire it as I do now the pleasure of running with smiles, of sleeping with shoes off in the dirt.

Footpath to the sea By Christie Oakes

Mustachioed Blues By Drew Vigna Dale I grew a moustache because I’ve always wanted to have one since I was a little kid. I remember watching movies in which mustachioed men would stroke their moustaches at various times of particular interest, such as when they were deep in thought, or when something clever or funny came to their minds. I suppose it might have seemed to me then, subconsciously, that their moustaches were a mystical source of wisdom or understanding, which they could milk, so to speak, when they needed to, by simply stroking them with their fingers. And, because I admired the mustachioed men in movies when I was still too young to grow one of my own, there was an extra aura of specialness about them to me. So, naturally, when my potential for growing facial hair caught up with my ambition, I grew out my damn moustache. Cindy At first, before it began to really come in, it was actually kind of sexy. It gave him a rugged, scruffy look that just worked with his features. It kind of tickled when we kissed, but at that point the hairs were so short that it wasn’t a bit unpleasant. I’d never admit this to him now, because it would only encourage him, but, yeah, at first I kind of liked it. Dale What’s the matter with a person, anyway, that they can get so worked up over a moustache? A moustache!? It’s just a small panel of hair above the lip about two-and-a-half inches long, which men have been growing on their faces for centuries and centuries. What could possibly upset someone about that? Cindy He started to change after it began to really grow in. He was slightly more stubborn and self-satisfied; he would listen to me less and less, until it got so I couldn’t even have a normal conversation with him

anymore. He made me feel like I was intruding on him and the moustache all the time; like he wanted to be alone with just it. Dale Of course she acted crazier and crazier every day, like I wasn’t listening to her when I clearly was. The real problem was that all she ever really wanted to talk about was me getting rid of the ‘stache– every conversation would somehow eventually arrive in the exact same place. I would just try to avoid any confrontation I saw coming, but, she never made it easy. I mean, as a mustachioed man, there’s only so much you can say to a moustache bigot. Cindy I finally gave him an ultimatum. I said, ‘It’s either me, or the moustache.’ And no, I wasn’t overreacting; he wasn’t the same person with that thing. It was like the longer the hair got on his face, the longer it was growing the other way, into his head, until it eventually got up into his brain and intermingled with it so that it could control his mind. I really don’t regret it for one second. I’m just glad I won’t have to look at that repulsive thing anymore. Dale Was it a mistake? Well, let me see… I guess it was pretty shocking to find out that someone I thought I knew was actually that shallow and narrow-minded. So, in that sense, I guess it did shatter some of my naivety and idealism. But, on the other hand, it was also a learning experience– and whatever doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. Besides, I don’t regret ending my relationship with her, because I’ve started a new, even more fulfilling relationship now with my moustache– and that will last a lifetime.

Fireflies By Erin Smith When the rain slowed to a dull drizzle and the thunder followed the lightning out into the sea, Wolfe rose from his memory haunted cot and walked to the sink under the round window. He turned the rusty handle and plunged his hands into the icy water. The muddy soap frothed in his hands. When they turned red with cold, he turned off the tap and wiped them on his pants, walking to the door. He stepped out onto the lighthouse balcony, lit infrequently with bulbous yellow lamps. The sun rose behind the clouds. “Lovely morning.” Horatio said from beneath Wolfe’s feet. Wolfe looked down. Horatio pulled himself up through the small trapdoor in the grated metal floor. His bloodshot blue eyes had lost some of their luster but his blond hair had begun to grow back, soft like peach fuzz. “Depends on what you mean by lovely.” Wolfe leaned against the railing, turning his eyes back out to the ocean. Horatio sat next to him, his feet dangling through the railing slots like a child. “I’d be angrier if it were sunny. Juliet hates sunny days.” Her name made Wolfe’s stomach tighten. Juliet. Juliet scowled at the sun and hid her eyes behind darkly tinted glasses. It had been sunny the day they met. --- --- --The sun reflected off skyscraper after skyscraper, their great walls mirroring the sun into Wolfe’s eyes. His large sweaty palm tightened on his suitcase and he squinted up. Sweat dripped into his eye and he wiped his sticky face with his white shirt cuff, the smell of sweat and cheap laundry detergent assaulting his nose. His stomach growled. He stopped at a small restaurant with newspaper covering the wide front window. Inside, large green lamps decorated every table of the cool sanctuary. Wolfe inched through the tables, dodging waiters in crisp black uniforms. A petite figure in a white and blue sundress, her ankles crossed, sat at the otherwise empty back counter. As he drew near she pushed her long dark hair behind her ear. As he sat down two stools away, he tried not to stare.

“What’d you want?” A pimply boy asked from behind the counter. “Ah,” Wolfe glanced at the menu behind the boy, “a number three and a glass of milk.” The boy mumbled something incoherent and lurched away, his shoulders sloping in apathy. He looked the same age as the girl to Wolfe’s left: too young to live alone, too old to need a father. The boy handed Wolfe a frosted glass of milk and the girl flipped a page in her notebook. Her chin in her hand, she hastily scrawled in bright blue ink, her elbow occasionally knocking against a discarded plate with a halfeaten piece of toast. “My name is Juliet.” She didn’t look up as she made the announcement. He swallowed. “Wolfe.” She dotted a period and looked at him. Her large, striking blue eyes dominated her fresh young face. “New?” “How’d you know?” She smiled, exposing a slight overbite. “Suitcase.” He laughed. “I just got off the twelve forty-five.” The pimply boy handed him a sandwich on a blue plate. “Are you living in the Lake District? I heard they just opened the apartments there.” She picked up the discarded piece of toast. “Tinturn Apartments, if I ever make it there.” “I’m in Vignette Apartments, a few blocks away.” She idly munched on the toast. “We’re almost neighbors.” “I guess so.” The cuckoo clock on the wall chirped, the small bird peeking it’s tiny feathered head out of the wooden doors. Juliet glanced up at it and put down the toast. “I’ve got to go.” She stood up and collected her notebook. “Nice meeting you.” She slid a small cream card to him, her fingertips brushing his. “You too.” She smiled and slipped on a pair of large angular glasses with dark lenses. “Call me.” --- --- ---

He didn’t see her again for another month. During those weeks he frequented the restaurant often but ignored the clean card waiting in his wallet. She sat at a small glass table in a gingerbread café, her hair pulled back with two silver chopsticks. Her fringe framed her face. Wolfe stood awkwardly next to the counter, a yellow legal pad in one hand and a cup of coffee in his other. She looked up at him and smiled. “Hi, stranger.” “Hello again.” He gestured to the empty chair across from her. “May I?” “Be my guest.” She closed the magazine in her hands. “How’s the Lake District treating you?” “Pretty well.” He glanced at the familiar cover. “You read the New Yorker?” “Once in a while.” She replied. “You?” “New subscriber.” He smiled sheepishly. “A poet, eh?” He mock bowed in his chair. “You’ve found me out.” She pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “It wasn’t hard. The early grey in your hair, the melancholy in your eyes. You have all the markings of a poet.” She smirked. “Except for your shoulders.” “I’m glad I fit the stereotype so well.” He paused. “And you?” She smiled and her bangs fell right back into place. “What do you think?” “You aren’t as stereotypical, or I’m a very bad judge.” She laughed. “I doubt you’d have guessed anyway. I write flash fiction, not that there’s really a market for it. I’ve only sold two pieces since I moved here.” “When was that?” “A little over a year ago.” “You look like sixteen.” She laughed. “I’m nineteen. I was very young, maybe too young.” She shrugged. “But here I am.” She cocked her head. “You never rang.” “Mmh?” The coffee burned his tongue. “My card, you never called.” She smirked. “I expected you to with the way you looked at me.” Wolfe’s ears burned. “You reminded me of someone.” “I always remind people of… someone. Who is she?” “She died.” Wolfe said. “I was fifteen.” “I’m sorry.” She fished another card out of the leather bag slung

over the back of her chair. “Call me. I wasn’t just being polite. Everyone is lonely here.” Her voice was soft and her hand shook. “Even you?” Her head rocked from side to side as though rolling the idea around like a peppermint in her mouth. She shrugged. “Any plans for tonight?” She pushed her bangs aside. Her wrist and her hair echoed his memory of Iris. A surge of fear warned him no, but he pushed them aside. This was the city and everything was different. --- --- --Wolfe arrived at her nondescript door in the white and gold hallway at seven sharp. He adjusted the sleeves on his pinstriped suit; he hadn’t worn it since his cousin’s wedding three years ago. He’d still been in his twenties then. There was silence from the other side of the door and he shifted uncomfortably. He raised his hand to knock again when Juliet threw open the door, fresh from the shower with a tiny towel wrapped around her torso. She kissed his cheek, laughing breathlessly. “I’m so late.” She pulled him inside. “Don’t mind the mess- I’ll just be a moment.” She dropped his hand and disappeared into a white room in the left. Wolfe followed her. The room, lit by a gold and crystal chandelier, contained a piano and two mostly-empty bookshelves, all three covered in clothing. A sheer dress and a pair of white stockings hung from the chandelier, socks scattered in an irregular pattern covered the top of the piano, and pair of white cotton underwear flopped over a wooden bust of Shakespeare on the bookshelf next to the piano. Wolfe looked away, uncomfortable at being so completely surrounded by her. “Make yourself comfortable,” Juliet called from another room, “kitchen’s down the hall.” “Thanks.” He ducked back into the burgundy hall. Dust stirred when he entered the cramped kitchen, jumping up into the air and hovering in the light pouring through the window over the sink. The red door of the refrigerator creaked when he opened it. A red and white carton with fried rice sticking to the half-open top, a round bottle of half-empty Jamaican rum, and a tall glass bottle of milk stared back at him, the lone occupants of the refrigerator. Wolfe unscrewed the cap off the milk and sniffed carefully, then pulled a highball glass out of the drainer. A piece of off-white stationary lingered on the front of the ancient refrigerator, informing Juliet to buy more yoghurt and to take her

medicine. It was signed “Horatio.” Wolfe finished his milk and left the kitchen. Juliet stood in the hallway in a short white lace dress. She pirouetted to him in black satin heels; with the added three inches she came up to his chin. Her skin trembled as she fixed his tie, but voice floated, light and sanguine. “Are we ready?” --- --- ---

“Fireflies” in its entirety can be found in the online version of the Flagler Review at http://www.flagler.edu/flaglerreview/

The Open Road By Evan Tisdale Three sprays of Old Spice, and a Hit of tobacco from a wet pipe. Extra cream, covered in coffee. The Ominous glow of neon streetlights like a Pistachio-eyed Cyclops staring down at me. Entrapped in this stone tower, I am no maiden. No prince on white horseback is coming to Rescue me. Shoot me now hot copper bullet, like an Orange â&#x20AC;&#x2122;59 Impala blasting Cajun songs on the AM radio. My escape from yawning logic is a Drive down route 95. Freedom lies on the horizon.

Broken Innocence By Vanessa Cox

The Complications of not being Christ By Steffi Shook Every Wednesday you could find us trying to stay on the invisible tightrope that our deity has drawn. Constantly falling and cracking our heads on the unbending cement. We pray under dark roofs in dark rooms We hold hands and feel Him through them We stitch over stitches til we’re nothing but a giant red abscess with a few glistening staples. We walk with an incurable headache, it would be a sign of penance and pride if we had fallen once, not six times an hour. We promise to always be good and then We go to school and curse. We bite boys’ necks in dark rooms. And our tennis shoes slip through the invisible thread. Some just stay up so well, doing tricks to the amazement of the masses below as we once again scoop our brains off the sidewalk. We know what can happen if We stray and jump off edges just so We know what is below. Sometimes we doubt if there’s a tightrope at all, if we have to hold an unattainable standard, But that means we have no faith while the others can step onto thin air So we crack ours skulls on the nearest tree branch hoping God will see but He knows we do it much too light

Home By Hannah Locke 1. On the lake outside We balance Over quick ripples And slime-slicked logs That rock our canoe, disrupting Our familial rhythm, tipping Toward upheaval. My father told me My mother had An abortion Before she had me. A brother, A sister. We quietly paddle against The wind, the motion Makes me dizzy. My mother still Doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know I know. On late summer evenings We guide the canoe To shore, Dine beneath night jasmine, Secrets, Faint shadows On the other side. 2. In December My grandmother tip toed Through our house, Keeping her tears Puddled under her. On the porch, chimes flutter, Orchids quiver

Under the weight Of heavy wind. Around the table we sat, One chair empty. His dishes dusted With old fingerprints, Stale laughter. We were silent At that meal. Outside Sandhill Cranes mourn Beside stiff grass, Bloated fish. 3. Years ago a cardinal flew into our house. It squawked; we screamed. Leaves shifted and plates fell as we jumped on the couch to reach it. My mother got a fly swatter out. Eventually it flew into the breakfast room window, reaching for the lake. We picked up the pieces and buried her out back beside our weeping willow. 4. I remember lying On a mattress, by an open Window waiting To be wrapped Like a child-mummy, Prayed over, before Sleep kidnapped my small body. The cat curls By my head, covering Mouth and nose, The scent of her Familiarity Keeps me calm, no more Thrashing, no more crying, I am a big girl now Grown-up and gone.

A Change in Atmosphere By Mackenzie

Betrone-Harpst

Scuba diving is the only activity in which entering backwards is sanctioned – required, even. In no other facet of life have I ever so easily given myself over to gravity, turning all sensory organs to the sky and meeting the onrushing world without any acute knowledge of what may be found below. But why this distinction surprises me, I’m not sure; diving is entirely different than anything else I’ve experienced in life – how I imagine falling in love would seem. So I allow myself to be swept up in its current, ignoring the logic that usually pervades all aspects of my life. I indulge in this irrational desire, leaving the safety of the boat’s edge by tipping myself and my weighty scuba gear backwards, falling off the edge of reality and plunging from a two-foot cliff into the oblivion that is the Caribbean Ocean. Its embrace has a welcoming familiarity, and we are instantly in sync, two companions previously separated by immeasurable amounts of space and time, both irrelevant now. It is as though I never left. Diving is a cyclical losing awareness of oneself only to regain it with acute authenticity. ... Having been startled awake by the shrieking alarm of a dive watch moments before, I silently creep down the wooden ladder of the bunk bed. Throwing a tattered hooded sweatshirt over the bathing suit that has served as my pajamas for the past five days, I ease my way past the squeaky screen door of my sleeping cabin, quiet as a fugitive. The sand greets my feet with the dry coolness of early morning as I pad barefoot into the lodge and towards a never-ending source of Folger’s finest; I quickly fill up my cup and steal away to the solitude of dock. A low line of clouds caps the horizon, giving the Bahaman sun only a small window of opportunity to make a statement in its rise before disappearing again behind the haze. And though I am alone, it doesn’t miss an opportunity to put on a show, barreling into the morning in an array of yellows, oranges, and reds. The ceiling of clouds traps the light, reflecting it directly down onto the water in a glow that burns my eyes and seems to have too much energy for so early in the day. The sun pushes through the clouds with fiery strength, the pigments bursting through the vapor in narrowly filtered rays, streaking the sky like

hundreds of spotlights. At the first traces of warmth, the tranquil ground surrounding the dock springs to life as hundreds of sensitive plants stir. Responding to the heat, they rise from their bed as I did from mine, leaving their horizontal positions of sleep and stretching themselves awake towards the sun. The instructors at Forfar International Field Station have spent the past week teaching us about the Mimosa pudica, whose movements are the results of a rapid change of internal cell pressure, but I am unable to watch their sunrise dance and not see a congregation of worshipers paying homage to their god. The dew that clings to the tiny ferns sparkles in the glow, reflecting the spotlights that have fallen upon them. Though timid if I approach them, their tiny leaves closing in clam-like fashion and shirking from the touch of even a lone finger, the sensitive plants are ignorant of my presence now. The flora and I are hopelessly dazzled. The sun completes its ascension through the clouds, a barrier to which it remains oblivious, and emerges through them wholly unblemished. Dive master Ryan silently climbs onto the dock to join my vigil, coffee in hand, and together we watch the light penetrate the clear Caribbean Ocean. My heart makes its swooping plunge, a sensation becoming increasingly familiar, and its beat changes – not in speed but in intensity, matching the pace it always finds in the seconds before I leave the safety of oxygen and topple headfirst into the thicker, unknown world of water. “Great day for diving,” Ryan murmurs, breaking the silence. I turn my face from the sun, grinning at him. He grins back, a private joke between two optimists. It’s always a great day for diving. ... Heading for the dive boat, knees lifting to my chest to make room for the flippers which are flinging piles of seaweed and sand with my every step, I see Ryan see me. He laughs, taking in the spectacle of belts, dive weights, hoses, and tanks that I have become. My prize for winning is few stolen minutes with the best diver I’ve ever met, the chance to sit in awe of his stories for the short bit of time before my fellow students clamber onto the boat and we become a vessel full of aliens, masked by immense amounts of gear, ready to enter a new planet. They arrive too soon, and as we roar off into the horizon, I am once again amazed by Ryan’s ability to find underwater landmarks when equipped with nothing more than his memory. The trip is pierced by the

cries of seagulls and shrieks of “ARE WE THERE YET?!” Soon the boat’s motor shudders to a stop, and the ocean slaps the hull a few times, indignant of our breaking of the smooth surface that had been moments before. The surf disintegrates quickly, and a pane of glass replaces the choppy wake, giving me a clear view of the coral reef sixty feet below which I am sure I can reach out and touch. The shores from which we have come are but a speck in the distance, separated from us by a two hour boat ride and an unimaginably perfect ocean that I can’t wait to fall into. Falling takes an eternity, giving me hours, days, to believe that the ocean has dropped out from underneath me and I will fall forever. Falling takes but a moment, always leaving me wishing to return to a place where time is suspended, all ties to the world are cut, and I am just a particle, floating along on my own accord. But the ocean always meets me, a placid nurturer waiting to envelop me whole, to shroud me completely in a way that I have yet to experience anywhere else. The initial plunge shocks me with its frigid grasp, its invasive urges attempting to displace the air in my nose with the salty water that has become my environment. Water pressure is measured in atmospheres, one unit for each 33 vertical feet descended. Though it technically equates to 14.7 pounds per square inch, ‘atmosphere’ seems the only term able to capture the essence of the change from air to ocean. The water’s mass pushes upon my body and forces the air out of my wetsuit until it is as flush to me as a mermaid’s scales. The flippers, such a hindrance on land, mold to my feet until they are but an extension of my legs, propelling me forward with scarcely an ounce of effort. My unwieldy apparel, uncomfortable and awkward just moments before, now shapes to my body; one atmosphere, a world of difference. Sinking to the ocean floor is something that cannot be done too quickly. Divers are taught to regulate their descent into the unknown, to contain the excitement of entering a new world in order to conserve the structure of their ear drums, sinuses, and other air pockets in the body. In a place where peripheral vision does not exist, I am limited by the blinders of my dive mask, my world restricted to a six-inch pane that forces me to focus – on the boat, on its anchor, on anything stationary that will distract me from the magic of the ocean floor and my subsequent plunging. With the patience of a four year-old waiting for Santa to arrive, I dutifully drift the bottom, where my restraint is awarded by a

blur of sights â&#x20AC;&#x201C; blues, greens, STINGRAY!, pinks, teals, ANGELFISH! I putter about in Ryanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s trail for a while, following in the bubbly wake of his flippers, before allowing myself to be swept up in the current, floating along with all the purpose of a tumbleweed as an hour passes. The muffled silence of the ocean is too soon broken by a muted whistle, calling me back to the world of oxygen, now two atmospheres and an entirely different planet above me. I force myself to rise, too soon breaking the surface and swimming resignedly in the direction of the boat, acutely aware of my awkward limbs, the pressure in my ears, the immense weight of the gear on my back. Hoisting myself onto the ladder, I drop my mouthpiece and heave a sigh. While I never notice the buoyancy of the ocean relieving all the weight of the world, I receive a rude awakening each time I leave its grasp. The motor roars to life angrily, churning the placid surface to a frothy mess and obliterating my view of the reef below, whisking me away from my nautical haven and back the solid mass of land, of reality. My classmates squawk and prattle around me, detailing for each other the serpentine dance of a moray eel, the purposeful trek of a spiny lobster, the undulating stroll of a peanut worm. Amidst the chattering these little birds, I remain quiet as a sea cucumber and silently long for the muffled world of the ocean to engulf me once again. Their inability to fully convey any of this magic irritates me, the injustices ringing in my ears long after they have been uttered. Jerking my hair from the sticky tangled plastic of the scuba mask, I turn my back on the ever-nearing island and watch our dive spot recede into the distance. Stealing a furtive glance at Ryan, I notice that he has taken the same position I have; he catches me looking and smiles. I think that I have spent the past week falling in love with Ryan, though whether this magic is rooted in him or he is simply the moonlike reflection of my love for diving, I cannot say. My entire trip has been a tangle of love, for my snorkel, for the sensitive plants, for my sandy sheets, a heaping pile of emotion that is not to be sorted. I do not know how I will ever have the strength to leave. I do know that tomorrow will be another great day for diving.

Write What You Know By Drew Vigna John needed to write a story for an English class, but he was plum out of ideas. The hour at which he needed to turn in the assignment was steadily approaching, and, as he sat in silence at his computer, tapping his fingers on the desk, the miasma of procrastination in the room was almost claustrophobic. If he had had some kind of illegal substance to ingest, to lubricate the creative process, he may have taken it, but, he had no such substance, nor any motivation to go procure one. Think… he thought, think… But nothing was thunk. Instead his scant thoughts went round and round in ever-smaller circles in his head, like a dog chasing its tail– leading to nothing. He considered filching some preexisting idea that he liked and passing it off as his own, but, as soon as his mind decided upon a story that he liked, he inevitably began contemplating how he could put a unique and interesting spin on the original idea, filter the writing style to that of his own, and transmute whatever the original length to fit a two to three page story; which, he realized, all in all, would require just as much if not more work than simply coming up with something original would in the first place. Dang, he thought, dang… Okay, okay, stop it– think. You need an idea, any idea, something, that’s all, just something, a starting point, a jumping off point, somewhere to go– just stop it– think. Write about something that’s happened to you, something interesting; that’s what people do, right? But nothing interesting ever happens in real life, it’s just walking around to different places, doing things, talking to people, eating, drinking, sleeping, thinking, breathing– stop it, you need to think. Okay, okay, go out, do something interesting, then write about it. Go talk to one of the bums down on Washington Street; that’ll be interesting. But…talk to one of the bums? I’m not gonna do that, they smell too bad and people would be looking at me, I don’t want to do that. Plus, I don’t have time. I just need to– stop it– think. He threw is head back in his chair, rubbing his face brusquely with his hands, and let out a frustrated, amorphous scream. He took a deep breath, sat up in his chair, and leaned forward, looking at the screen. The lonely curser blinked ceaselessly amidst the ocean of white. After a

couple of moments, John’s eyes suddenly lit up. Wait a second, I’ll just write about…this! He hurriedly lifted his hands to the keyboard and typed a first sentence: ‘John needed to write a story for an English class, but, he was plum out of ideas.’ He paused, reading the sentence, then wrote another: ‘The hour at which he needed to turn in the assignment was steadily approaching, and, as he sat in silence at his computer, tapping his fingers on the desk, the miasma of procrastination in the room was almost claustrophobic.’ He stopped, realizing he had about enough to constitute a first paragraph. He reread it. As he did, there was a strange, hollow feeling in his gut, which he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He began a new paragraph, trying to recall some of the futile thoughts he had pondered when he first sat down to write: ‘If he had had some kind of illegal substance to ingest, to lubricate the creative process, he may have taken it, but, he had no such substance, nor any motivation to go procure one.’ He stopped again, rereading it. Something felt off. The vague hollow feeling that he had felt a moment before was now even stronger, as though he had initially had a stomach full of food, and it was somehow slowly beginning to rapidly dissipate from his body. He wrote a few more lines, and could tell now, for certain, that something was not right. He rubbed his stomach with his hand, looking down at it. He lifted up his shirt curiously, wondering what was the matter with him, only to find that, to his bewilderment, there was quite literally a hole in the middle of his chest, going right through his body, about one foot across. He dropped his shirt again, shook his head and wiped his eyes, then looked again. The hole was still there. What the hell… He looked up again, stupefied. John had been occupying time and space for 20 odd years now, and never had he seen anything remotely like this. But, other than the hollow feeling in his chest, he felt quite alright. He wrinkled his brow, and then tentatively decided that he should continue writing, for he was curiously enlivened by the autobiographical direction he had taken, and, of course, the clock was sonorously ticking. He typed a few more sentences in the same vein, ignoring the feeling of depletion that was now spreading through his body. He tried to concentrate solely on the writing. He continued typing, and presently he had completed a whole page. He stopped, and went to pull up his shirt again, but, as soon as he angled his head down slightly, he found

that his legs were no longer below him: his body simply stopped after his buttocks, like God had taken an eraser to him. John looked around the room frantically, not knowing what the hell was going on. He couldn’t get up now, and he noticed on the clock that there were only twenty-seven minutes remaining until his class would begin. You’ve got to keep going, he thought, just don’t think about it. He raised his hands to the keyboard, and began typing, faster than ever. As his typing accelerated, the hollow feeling became even stronger. He felt as one does after excreting a large bowel-movement, only this feeling was not in his bowels, but rather it steadily moved up his body, as his bottom half slowly disintegrated. He glanced downwards briefly, every so often, but, with a watchful eye on the time, he reminded himself that he had to keep writing. Soon enough, John had reached the 2 page mark, and he was just about done with his assignment– except for the ‘d’ in ‘The End’. By this point, his entire body had disappeared, save for the tip of his right index finger, which hung in the air above the keyboard, as though the rest of his body was simply invisible. He was, in an ineffable way, aware of this, and of what would happen the moment he pressed his finger to the final key. The hollow feeling had transcended anything that he could possibly describe, and his cognition and awareness had synthesized into a fleeting, transient amalgamation. His thoughts now felt like faint breezes of wind, not bound to a body, and he had to abandon them after a few seconds, lest he be carried away on them through the air, indefinitely. He did not know what to do, and he had little time in which to do it. It was either the ‘Period’ key, or the ‘Backspace’ key. To be, or not to be…

The End

The Lamp Lighter By Saira Khan You said you weren’t a fighter, a lover not a fighter As we sat on the corner of James and High You bit your cigarette and took out your lighter Watching heavy lidded lovers neck nearby As we sat on the corner of James and High I thought I’m not a lover, oh god I’m just a writer Watching heavy lidded lovers neck nearby And your cigarette ablaze like your conversation starter I thought I’m not a lover, oh god I’m just a writer While the street lamps lit up and multiplied And your cigarette ablaze like your conversation starter Blew a cloud of blue smoke into a starless sky While the street lamps lit up and multiplied You recognized the lovers, Ravissant and the man beside her, Blew a cloud of blue smoke into a starless sky Then looked away from their lips wet with ardor You recognized the lovers, Ravissant and the man beside her, While you put out your cigarette, put back your Zippo lighter And then looked away from their lips wet with ardor. You said you weren’t a fighter, a lover not a fighter.

Night By Hannah Locke the night I found out my cat died my mother was at my house cooking she covered the boiling pot of chili and uncorked the wine two hours went by before she said I would need support tonight I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what she meant I said do you want to stay the night she said no I said did someone die she said no Did my cat die I stared down at my empty bowl and drained glass not moving then I left the room leaving her with the pain she felt for me Alone.

Title By Kathryn Delia

Autumn By Drew Vigna The leaf was a faded but still vibrant golden yellow, emanating an ethereal melancholy about the baroque angularity of the skeletal branches’ static egression. No matter what the particular color of an individual leaf, whether a bright green flushing yellow, a somber orange contemplating red, or finally a withered brown graying with old age, each color had an uncanny way of subtly illumining the late Autumn afternoon, engendering it with a radiating soul that imbued the day with an introspective repose. Up close a single leaf was a colorful compact earthen treasure (or else a cryptic treasure map to Beauty that ultimately pointed to itself), but, standing about ten feet from the trunk of the tree, staring up into its branches, the leaves of the tree became composite with the clear, milky azure sky that spanned the vast firmament beyond them in an unending sigh, framing the pale yellow, orange and reds of the leaves, and the damp brown bark of the tree – whilst invigorated by the breathing of the breeze – as though each component were complicit in some symbiotic rapture that arched beyond the comprehension of the human mind and could only be felt as an infinitesimal, tingling resonation of the soul. A brief rush of wind loosed a leaf from its precarious perch on a branch, causing it to slowly seesaw down in the stillness of the wind’s wake; the leaf’s lofty, irregular spiraling movement downward a quiet dance which, in its airy delicacy, signaled the formal end of this leaf’s existential inevitability: from the initial seed out of which the tree sprouted growing upwards spreading its limbs out broadly upon which scattered fingers of branches arose blossoming leaves which then bloomed and ultimately fell back to the earth from which the tree had once sprouted, completing the cycle. Within the interim of the initial sprouting of this tree and the eventual falling of this particular leaf, reality had trundled on about the tree in its unceasing, behemoth progression; lives had been lived and expired, structures significantly more vast than the tree had been erected, and man’s approach to existence had subtly shifted, while the tree’s cylcical progression continued. The fallen leaf was now free of this cycle, and the remainder of its life would be ordained by the random effects of the wind and other elements. Loosed from the cyclical precept of the tree, the leaf was now

engaged in infinite potential. It could theoretically wind up on the opposite end of the globe; it could change a personâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life from an epiphany inspired by its beauteous form; it could become stuck against a rock and fractionally erode its shape into the surface of the rock forming a fossil for a civilization thousands of years later to uncover; or it could of course simply deteriorate silently into the soil causing nothing other than more soil. An infinite number of possible trajectories of reality could occur in which this leaf played at least a fractional part, and yet one must nevertheless remember that all of the leaves on all of the branches of each individual tree were somehow once miraculously compacted inside the tiny seed from which the tree grew.

Tantalizing Terror By Vanessa Cox

Don’t Ask By Matthew DeAngelis You walk down the street with a hand covered in oil, caking under your fingernails. Just off another day on the job. A half finished cigarette catches your sight. You light it and feel that cool drag down into your chest. Not a real smoker, you indulge when it’s free. A woman walking by raises her eyebrow in disgust. You could care less what she thinks about you as you walk eagerly towards Dexter’s Lounge, a notorious dive bar in the north end of Hartford. You walk past the market which has never sold you a winning lottery ticket despite its promises. You hear the Cholo fucks hurling insults at you ranging from “Wop” to “Guinea.” You feel the bitter winter breeze do nothing to move the slicked back hair atop your head. You have developed a routine which you cling to, the only part of your life worth upholding since nothing exciting ever happens. Your day at work done, you just want a beer and to finish your day. Dexter’s always has a wide range of patrons, especially on a Friday. It’s been a long day, waking up at seven a.m., dressing in your clean work suit, having a breakfast of two eggs, three sausages and a glass of milk. You take your showers in the mornings. Work went as it always did, without a hitch. You hadn’t been late since you started working there almost a decade ago. It’s almost eight o’clock and the game is on, Syracuse vs. Uconn. You’ll root for Syracuse just to make your night interesting, drinking the standard seven beers and departing. Sitting down, Gerald, the bartender, takes your order. Always the same Budweiser after a long day at the shop. When Gerald brings you your beer, you nod, acknowledging another day in your routine to be quietly nearing its end, cycling into the next day to start all over again. The first sip goes down and you say salud, praising the structure in your life. It’s not much but you’ve managed to make the most of it. Gerald says “I don’t know how you can drink that Bud Heavy. It’s like a kick in the gut. Oh Marty, Oh Marty.” He’s like that, and you like him because he makes you laugh. He takes your mind off work, off two dead brothers, a divorce, and a one bedroom apartment which got robbed two months ago. The second sip goes down smooth as you remember how angry the robbery made you not because of the missing money, but because of how disheveled your home was left.

You haven’t eaten since noon and the bowl of pretzels sitting in front you goes through several refills during the next fifteen minutes. You take the time to look around the bar. A table of suits rests in the back corner; two of them are drinking margheritas. To the left of them sits a table of four co-eds. One woman has a tiara on her head with the number twenty-eight, the age your wife left you for another woman. Take another sip, it goes down even smoother than the second. You order another beer because Syracuse is winning at half time. You notice these same crowds each night you come, but even in your mocking of them, you wouldn’t change them, as they have grown so comfortable in your framework of associations. You like the peace of this bar. Three beautiful women sit at the end of the bar by the bathroom, and you are intoxicated by their perfume as you walk by. As you piss in the urinal, you can’t help but notice the advertisement for Hector’s Credit Union draped around the urinal cake. When you exit you notice a man dressed all in black sitting in your stool, talking to Gerald. The man is clean cut and well dressed from head to toe. They both give searching glances around the bar. When you stumble up, you don’t notice how you’ve dribbled on the inseam of your pants, but you do notice the man’s eyes. They have a jade green quality. You think for a minute that he has the smoothest shave you’ve ever seen. Gerald says, “Ah see, Marty I was just telling this gentleman all about you. I said a buck toothed, grease ball with an auto mechanic shirt was gonna come lookin for this seat. You didn’t disappoint my friend.” You nod your head with a smile. The man moves over one stool and lets you sit back down. He holds out his hand, “Henry, Henry Willicks.” You shake his hand back, noticing a small black bag under his feet. You tell him it’s nice to meet him and get back to watching the game. Syracuse still leads and you order another beer. Henry tells Gerald to put it on his tab as he buys himself a glass of white wine. You say “You didn’t have to do that.” Henry replies, “My pleasure.” Three more beers go down, coupled with two more trips to the bathroom. On your way by, one of the women makes a comment about your stench. You only shower in the mornings though, and you don’t want to waste any time getting to Dexter’s. Henry keeps buying you beers. Syracuse has the lead with five minutes to go. Finally you muster up the courage to ask Henry what’s in his bag. He tells you he thought you would never ask, and a look of uneasiness passes by on his face like rapid agitation. He reveals a small

metal statue and places it on the bar. It can’t be more than eight inches tall of gray metal. It has tiny arms and legs, the legs welded together and the arms welded to the body on each side. It has one sideways red eye, and a speaker at its neck. It has no face. You think Henry’s crazy, and for a moment it makes sense to you why he spoke to you in the first place. You ask “What is that supposed to be?” “This is Rust, he can answer any question, even about the future.” Every part of you wants to get up and leave, believing this man to probably be a lunatic, but the alcohol keeps you rooted to your seat. It also dawns on you that you have nowhere better to be. You say, “Bullshit.” “Try it, ask him anything.” “How many beers will I drink tonight?” A slow grumble comes from the speaker located at the robots neck. Rust was so small, and its voice full of static. It says, “twelve,” before becoming mysteriously silent. After seeing your shrugging of shoulders, Henry declares, “Perhaps you’d be better with the answer ‘however many I buy you?’” You shake your head, trying to count how many you’ve already had. You have no idea, but Gerald has joined the conversation. Henry tells him about Rust. Gerald begins to laugh, inciting Henry to make a bolder prediction by turning off the television. The crowd gives a low roar of disapproval, but Gerald asks, “What will be the final score of the game that was just on the television.” Rust makes a low grumble once more before saying with a seemingly aching syntax, “Syracuse will win the game 84-80.” Gerald looks at you, sees your smile. The television flicks back on, much to the approval of one obese male to your left wearing a tattered trench coat, hobbling around on a cane. He yells “bout fucking time!” a little too loud and Gerald raises an eyebrow to him. The final score of the game matches the robot’s prediction. Henry offers to buy the bar a round of drinks. He looks pleased. A flutter in your stomach precedes a burp. You ask, “Does it work like that with everyone?” Henry responds “yes.” Gerald begins calling people over. As the crowd gathers, Henry downs his wine in a hurry and stands on the bar, much to the chagrin of Gerald, but announces, “Folks, Patrons, I have here a robot who can answer any question you ask it. Just ask one at a time, in an orderly fashion and I think you’ll see that point proved.” There is a fit of laughter throughout the bar, but some of the younger customers seem intrigued. Henry continues, “As for what to ask, there are some rules, you cannot ask Rust a question which will give you a significant monetary gain. The game just now had thirty seconds left

until the end and Gerald wasn’t betting or allowing anyone to bet on it. Also, questions of death and love in a direct manner will be flatly rejected. I can ask these questions, I am the interpreter and if you don’t like Rust’s rules then don’t ask any questions.” There is a distinct silence which catches the crowd. It lingers for a moment as you pick your brain, intrigued by Henry, but coming up empty on questions. Finally, a black man wearing a Chris Webber jersey from his Michigan days perks up with a question. He asks, “Will I get that new Yankees fitted in the mail tomorrow?” Rust tells him, “yes.” The man animates, explaining how he has a girl he’s trying to impress for lunch the next day. You never realize quite how gurgled the robot’s voice sounds until the bar begins to circle where you are sitting to get a peak at the spectacle. People ask question after question and you keep drinking, switching to a nursing pace. Someone asks, “Will the Knicks win tomorrow?” Rust doesn’t make any sound at all, and Henry explains how the man could run off and gamble with Rust’s response. The robot just sits there idly, quietly, its eye somehow fixated on you, but you can’t be certain. The woman with the tiara asks, “What will I get for my birthday tomorrow?” to which the robot responds, “A blue sweater, a pair of diamond earrings, and a new pair of gloves.” An older adult male, who you notice as the docile Scraggs Jones, stands from the bar, asking “Will my wife’s surgery be a success on Monday?” The robot tells him “no,” to which Scraggs makes a brushing off motion, turning to a friend with nervous laughter. The questions keep coming, as do the answers. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Dexter’s Lounge so active. Still, your brain finds no suitable question. You just want to head home at the end of the night, and slip on your pajamas. But tonight, the snobby, beautiful women speak to you, and for a little while you’re able to forget the gap in your front teeth, your gut hanging over the belt of your pants, or whatever stench they made you aware of earlier. When you come back from the bathroom, your seat has been taken, but Henry picks you out of the crowd. Henry says, “Marty, what is it that you want to know? Keep thinking or I’ll ask for you, friend.” You ask Henry personal questions about his job, his hometown, and his girlfriends, before you know it you’ve covered him in a drape of your own self interest. He tells you he is a twenty-six year old from Massachusetts who doesn’t work. He tells you he has many girlfriends and something close to envy burns in your chest. You haven’t slept with a woman since your wife left. You ask him, “How did you get that thing

anyways?” “I won it in a dart game back in Boston off some professor from MIT. Told me he didn’t want it anymore, but that was after the game. Don’t know why you wouldn’t want the ability to know what will happen tomorrow.” As he says this, two women, one blonde with a petite frame and baby blue eyes makes her presence felt on Henry’s shoulder. Her friend is rather heavyset, but she places herself firmly to Henry’s right and puts a hand on Rust. Henry snaps around, “Don’t touch him. Ever. Only I do that.” The girls seem put off and walk away, when the blonde asks “Will I get the job I interviewed for today?” Rust’s negative response causes Henry to start laughing, and you can’t help but join in. The girls scamper away. --- --- ---

“Don’t Ask” in its entirety can be found in the online version of the Flagler Review at http://www.flagler.edu/flaglerreview/

in waiting By Ashley Bowman

Black & White By Hannah Locke I have a photograph of my grandmother on my desk. She balances on a fence, crosses her legs, lets them dangle. A dog sits beside her, most likely placed there by her mother. Her hands lightly graze the posts, as if she doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to get a splinter but needs the practicality of it. Her father left when she was nine. She lived among women who cooked in a diner, danced on weekends, curled their hair every Wednesday. When my Yankee grandfather came to town I think she wondered if he would leave her too. But he stuck around, became as Southern as pecan pie, cheesegrits, sticky heat. I think it was the cooking that bound him up here, never crossing the state border again. I have a photograph of him too, in uniform, before they met; his angled body turns into the camera, his cheeks glow. It must have been stuffy beneath deck, selling cigarettes and playing cards with sailors around the world. It must have been even stuffier in his well-bred home by the rocky New England shore. Sometimes I set them side by side, wondering who they were as singular beings.

Buzzing Fireplaces Renae Andruse Static of last words buzz through electric space; drunken meteors shocking our fingers and ears like wet batteries. Your empty hands resemble outlets— I flip my throat breakers and pray to tripped power lines that you will not notice you are a lightning invaded chimney; soot on you, dirt on me (I never should have spoken candlelight words). Maybe you'll tell me to go get the flash light, but maybe you'll ignore my match scarred fingers or maybe you'll mistake them for a flame of their own sort. You're the type to guard the refrigerator and call the power company right away— I'm the type to get impatient with hold lines and discover what writing by candlelight, what being without light-bulbs, could do for the sonnet of my heartstrings, for the metaphors of minds; but girls like me never get their power turned back on without having to wait a little first. Fiddle with your knobs, find out that your upper breaker is linked to a smoke alarm I then am forced to euthanize like a electric wrecking ball. So pardon me while I bathe myself in homespun ashes—

for I confess, I would rather be in a fireplace than florescent lightning, and I, I actually am the chimney that you invaded with your lack of lightning because you could never speak candlelight words. Dirt on you, soot on me.

Little Miss Muffet and Some Other People By Jonathan Hooper Old King Cole, that merry old soul, In his robes white and silk, Was fixing dinner for his fiddlers three When he discovered he was out of milk. “Miss Muffet!” King called to his eldest daughter, “Could you run up to the store? I need you to pick up a gallon of milk And maybe a couple things more.” “Oh, good!” young Miss Muffet cried Skipping to the door with glee. “I just can’t stand listening all day To those screeching fiddlers three.” So off to the market Miss Muffet ran While this little fiddler stayed home. The other little fiddler ate all the roast beef, And the last little fiddler had none. And who was the one to cry, “Wee wee wee,” All the way home, you ask? After meeting a family of bears on a walk, Miss Muffet nearly completed that task. “But no!” she exclaimed, “I cannot turn back! I promised, and obedient I’ll be! I’ll get that milk and I will not give up No matter how good that porridge seems!” Miss Muffet pressed on, right past those bears Who watched with puzzled stares. Baby bear said, “That’s funny. She’s afraid of spiders But she don’t mind a family of bears.”

After much more walking she finally arrived At the Market for All Your Food Needs. Miss Muffet skipped up to the counter, “One gallon of milk, if you please.” The clerk at the counter, Mother Hubbard her name, gave her an idle stare As Muffet went to the fridge to grab the milk. And saw that the fridge was bare. “Sorry, hon,” Mother Hubbard said, “We’s all sold out right now. If y’all want dairy items You’s gonna have to milk a cow.” “Phoo,” Muffet said, but this was alright. Her friend Jack owned a cow, A nice brown cow by the name of Tuffet. “I think I’ll go see Jack now.” Off she went to find her friend Who lived in a ramshackle shack. When she arrived she knocked at the door, And to the door came Jack. “Why, hello there, Miss Muffet! Say, how do you do?” “I’m feeling swell, swell indeed. I’ve come to ask you a favor, but first, I must inquire on this tree!” “Oh, that?” Jack replied, pointing to a pot. “Why, that is my beanstalk, you silly! I sold my cow for it just the other day. The beans make a scrump-tu-ous chili!” “You sold your cow?!?” Miss Muffet cried, “You sold your cow to whom?” “An old hooded woman,” Jack replied, “With a crooked nose and a broom.”

Miss Muffet sighed, and said to Jack, “Well, I must be going now. I’ll have to find this hooded woman And ask to borrow her cow.” Over the river and through the woods, Not knowing quite where to go, Miss Muffet wandered, and thought to herself, “This would really be hard in the snow!” Until at last she came upon a cottage Made of gingerbread, gumdrops, and cheese. She knocked at the door, and called, “Open up! I need some help, if you please!” In a flash the door swung open to reveal A tall scowling creature looking down. T’ was a grey and white, pointy-eared wolf Wearing slippers and a pink nightgown. “Have you brought me goodies?” the wolf inquired. “No,” Muffet said, “What I wanted to ask you was Do you happen to own a cow I could borrow, Or do you know a hooded lady who does?” “A hooded lady?” pondered the wolf. “Why yes, I do know someone like you said! She lives by the well at the top of that hill. Go find her, her name is Red.” “That hill looks awfully steep,” Muffet said, “I wonder what I should do.” “Either you climb the hill and find Red,” the wolf said, “Or you stay here and I eat you.” On that note, she made up her mind And headed for the hill. But halfway up she froze when she saw

Tumbling toward her Jack and his ex-wife Jill! “Look out!” Jack cried. “MOVE!” screamed Jill. “I’m gonna break my crown!” At full speed, they collided with a BAM! And tumbled to the ground. “Wake up, Miss Muffet, are you alright?” Asked Jack, splashing water from his pail. “She’s fine!” shrieked Jill. “But look at me! I broke my crown and a nail!” “Wh-what happened?” Miss Muffet groaned. “I sure don’t feel very uppity.” “We took a nasty spill,” said Jack. “My, you look worse than Humpty Dumpity!”

Then Muffet got mad! She stood up and cried, “I’ve taken enough of this bull! I’m just going to go home now! I don’t care if the milk pail’s not full!” “You mean you didn’t get the milk?!?” Old King Cole cried when she got back. “No, Dad! I did not get the milk!!! Can’t you see I’m a little out of whack?” “All I can see is that we have nothing for dinner!” Pouted the King at his throne in dismay. “Wait! What’s that stuff the chef makes for those vegan fiddlers? Of course! We’ll have dairy-free curds and whey!” “I hate curds and whey,” Miss Muffet growled, When there was a knock at the door, and a “Moo!” It was Jack. “I felt bad about what happened today, So I bought back Tuffet, my cow, for you.” “Gee, thank you, Jack! You’re a real pal.

Wanna share some of this dinner?” asked Miss Muffet. “Sure! Here, hop on the cow!” And the two of them Sat eating curds and whey on Tuffet. When they were almost done, along came a spider. “Aaaauuugh!!!” cried Jack, throwing fit. Miss Muffet stared blankly and shrugging, She took her hand and smashed it.

Koh Kho Khao, Thailand By Hannah Locke The night we skinny dipped we found ourselves in trouble about spitting watermelon seeds at one another in an outdoor setting, a game not acceptable in a country so far from home. A few slimy seeds fell from my hair while I stood there, between Manny and Sergio, shivering and covered in spit, watermelon juice, and minor bruises. Stacie and Kelley formed a half-moon around Mike, our leader, while he scolded us like his five children sent to separate corners with our noses to the wall. Sarah Jane turned twenty on the island. She never had a more exciting birthday than the one she spent in Thailand. A small, contained fire stood on a tiled table under the pavilion, a bowl of watermelon slices stood away from the fire, but not forgotten. Pastor Preecha, our host who kept us shoveling, painting, and laying brickwork during daylight hours, rotated skewers of pink meat, white balls, and some sort of fish. We didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ask questions, we just stuck the scouring utensils in our mouths and chewed. The red sauce, reminding me of BBQ sauce, slipped off our skewers as we tried to cover every surface of meat with it. Folding chairs circled halfway around the fire, like our own holy shrine. A mass of bugs, decorating the flood lights in the pavilion on the sticky night, twinkled like we had strung white Christmas lights around the beams. Massive crickets clung to our shirts, then raced through the eating bodies and onto the other side of night. Our stomachs, satisfied with the unidentified meat, a few glass bottles of Coca-Cola and Fanta, and the expensive Western cake we found in a neighboring town. Our game of seed spitting started when we cooled our mouths with the chilled fruit. Some of the girls placed the seeds with their tongues in the palms of their hands. Some of the boys declined the watermelon altogether, claiming they would wait for more skewers from the fire. The five of us spit our seeds into grass peeking around white sand that had spilled out of the wheel barrel earlier that day. Manny shot two seeds in the direction of the grass, when Tiff stood up from her chair, flexing one foot and bending back on the other. The seeds tangled in the tight curls of her weave. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t notice. But we did. Twenty minutes later, removed from the pavilion under damp

trees reflecting the moon, we stared at the ground. Mike went on about how childish we acted and how Thai people would have distorted images of us. I looped my fingers through my curls; Stacie licked her sticky fingers; Manny focused on keeping his breathing even-tempered; Kelley smiled then frowned, her dimples appearing and disappearing; Sergio opened his mouth to say something, but never did. In the pavilion Pastor Preecha splashed water onto the fire. A few people climbed the stairs in search of their rotating fans and damp sheets. Plastic dishes stacked in the sink while flakes of dried paint mixed with soap suds. Chunks of leftover cake stuck to the cement, the dogs would later find. Told to straighten up and find something productive to do with the rest of the evening. We scattered. *

An hour later I am waiting beyond the basketball court, away from the pavilion, beside a dirt road, our single way off the island. I hold a small yellow flashlight, turning it off every time I hear voices in the distance. Low clouds shade the moon, directing shadow-box characters across tree trunks. Every sound behind the leaves disturbs me. I wait for the others. The five of us, plus the birthday girl. Stacie, Kelley, and Sarah Jane skip around the court. When they reach me, they bend over, sucking in humid air like water. “We did it,” one whispers. I can’t tell who. “Not yet,” I say. “Where are the boys?” “Manny lost his video camera.” I roll my eyes. An old truck drives around a bend in the road. We jump, caught in the act, diving behind thick trees. The truck passes. A few minutes pass. Two figures cross the basketball court, talking to one another in quiet tones, not worried if anyone sees them. We meet them in the middle of the dirt road. “Ready?” “Ready.” Four flashlights stream thin pillars of light onto the uneven ground. A slight wind dances around us, not cool enough to stop our bodies from sweating. We walk at a steady pace, three and three. I keep my flashlight pointed forward, jerking it to the right or left when I hear a faint noise in the brush. Darkness surrounds us. We turn onto the main

road, the only paved road on the entire island. Every few yards a street light uncovers spilled trash, a broken fence, more jungle fighting its way onto the road. Two miles stretch before us to the beach. We pass small houses on stilts, the one-room pink-stuccoed shop we buy our recycled Fanta and packaged Thai snacks, and water buffalo who roam at a safe distance, making the stretch of grass beside the road into an invisible fence. I keep my imagination from wandering into scenarios involving a stampede, running, screaming, and lots of blood. I shine my flashlight into the nearest tree. I wonder if I could climb that, I think. I begin counting imaginary steps toward the tree. Twenty steps or maybe 12 leaps? We pass the danger zone. A sign to our right reads Tsunami Warning: One Meter. The road stops winding and begins a short gravel path to the shoreline. The thickness of the jungle clears out. Only broken twigs stick up jagged in soil, remnants of former trees. Crumbled structures of previous resorts now lay under earth. We are the only ones on the beach. I cannot see where the sand ends and water begins. No street lights line the beach, the moon peers through scattered clouds. The sky resembles navy, what I imagine the bottom of the ocean to look like. We are beneath it all, beneath the sky, beneath water that once rose, beneath a culture foreign to us. We strip our sweat-drenched clothes from our bodies and dash for the rising waves. Alternate ending--Our mischief unites us; it is what we remember of each other.

Feet Find My Father Shea Hardiman I hate feet but I love my Father You wanted to mend wounded football feet but you ended up with white-haired storytellers listening to life through a face mask letting them lay down their pain giving them the ability to walk again I hate feet I hate vacuuming their withered toenails that reproduce across the sterile floor under those piercing lights that reveal all imperfections But I love when they can tell I am your daughter Are you happy Dad? when you sneak down to the basement to smoke cigars? Is your face really smiling when Ms. Slaine brings you homemade jam week after week with every appointment? Because you never eat jam A life through charts built around recording otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lives only to file them away a life of Mom yelling Tom, you have to do those write-ups tonight! Tom, can you hear me? And can you forgive me Dad? your little girl who trapped you in your box? And sometimes do you feel as though you might melt under those blinding lights? day after day heating your tools to three hundred degrees after every patient erasing any trace of substance that existed before now I hate feet All the Mr. and Mrs. gray faces Oh, how they love you Dad they tell me about Dr. Hardiman for most who arrived by bus in groups you are the one who listens And to you they are people

not a number, not a stat, not a date, not a dollar They are stories But those stories are weights loaded daily they take their toll Are you angry, Dad? When mom teases you about God? When you walk down to that basement? When you listen to the gospel songs that you hide do those words help you get up in the morning? In your darkest unintentional thoughts did you ever blame me Dad? Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re tired I can see your eyes change they mirror your gray hair and your tapered pants that rest on your brown leather lace up work sneakers and your buttoned down short sleeve stripe collared shirt with matching tie pens loaded in pocket glasses resting on the bridge of your nose When you come home you change into your ripped maroon t-shirt and cargo shorts And even though the couch is open you choose to lie on the floor with the golden retriever youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; re tired Do you wish you had become a dentist, Dad? When you finally do sit on the couch Mom makes you squeeze her feet I hate feet I love when they walk in the office and can tell I am yours But do you want me in that chair, Dad? or is this the last place you would want me to stay? This one poem will not reach your inbox but one day by chance you might find it and you will think to yourself she knew.