Castings 2016 by Christian Brothers University

S T 2016 A C JUDGES Poetry

Ann Marie Wranovix Vincent O’Neill Prose

Kristian O’Hare Jeff Gross

Fine Art and Digital Photography Nick Pena

Jana Travis

I N STAFF G S ADVISORS Karen B. Golighty Nicholas Pena

EDITOR Olivia Betterton

PRINTING

CB Publishing and Solutions

LAYOUT & DESIGN Alexis Gillis

3 DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

5-26 Table of Contents

5-6 Intro 7-8 Top 5 Ways to Beat the Stay-at-HomeMom Blues 9-10 Foggy Woods 11-12 Serenity 1314 Equine Thoughts 15 October Day 16 Impossible Ascent 17 Válka 18 Mír 19 Like a Star 20 Sunset 21 Ode to Brother Tom • French Quarter 22 Serene Elevation • Psalm 95, Verse 4 23-24 Spring 25-26 Fog

POETRY

27-28 Intro 29-30 Overtime 31-32 Stages 33-34 Morning Time 35 Late Nights 36 You’ll Be 37 Knit Into Me 38 Bulbous Orb 39-40 The One That Got Away 41 Replaced 42 Chronic Dysthymia

27-42

FINE ART

43-66

PROSE

67-68 Intro 69-74 Withering 75-82 The Losing Man 83-88 Mississippi Station

43-44 Intro 45-46 Play With Me 47-48 Skeletal 49-50 Post-Shower Ritual 51 Selfie 52 Anuran 53-54 She Was Asking for It 55 Skull Study • Who 56 Arches • Summer Daze 57 Dreamer 58 Alan 59 Let’s Build Some Tension 60 Communication Breakdown 61-62 Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? 63 Ballet Hands 64 Ghosts 65-66 Love Bites

67-88 4

PHOTOGRAPHY TAKES AN INSTANT OUT OF TIME, ALTERING LIFE BY HOLDING IT STILL - DOROTHEA LANGE

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

Top 5 Ways to Beat the Stay-at-Home-Mom Blues

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

Foggy Woods

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

Serenity

“PHOTOGRAPHY IS THE ONLY LANGUAGE THAT CAN BE UNDERSTOOD ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD.” - BRUNO BARBEY

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

Equine Thoughts

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

October Day

Impossible Ascent

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

Vรกlka

Mír DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

Like a Star

Sunset

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

French Quarter Ode to Brother Tom

21 DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

Serene Elevation Psalm 95, Verse 4

22 DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

Spring

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

Fog

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

“POETRY IS AN ECHO, ASKING A SHADOW TO DANCE.” - CARL SANDBURG

POETRY

Overtime Sun-kissed visage, Dry flakes peeking Behind each finger And a faint scent of sweat One by one They pushed letters Into their respective boxes Weighing them down Aching, breaking, shaking His bones clashed And caused him pain As he raised his sprouts Until they were twenty-three But sickness plagued these hands Tubes dug into his skin, Unbreakable above his twitching body, Brewing chemicals to keep him alive

Robust coffee swirled in my mother’s mug White drapes blocked out any hopeful sunlight But the beeping of his heart And the dark murmurs of the doctors Were the most ominous of all Grudgingly, he takes a sip of water Wishing to get out of bed “When can I go home?” His thick voice peeps Our eyes meet My mother’s coffee goes cold The answer rises like bile, “It’s comfortable here.”

POETRY

Stages Paper thin hands— They could crack at any time. Hands crippled by arthritis. They are used to providing care to others, but now they no longer need to provide. Scarred from working in the garden; her hands: cut and bruised Strong hands holding mine as I help her out of the car. Her hands are no longer in the kitchen cooking everyone’s favorite fried chicken. Her hands are no longer reviving barely living plants back to life. Her hands holding mine as I sit beside her reading the mail In a stale, pink-walled nursing home. “What day is it?” as she shakes her head. “I always forget.” “A new one,” I smile.

“BREATHE IN EXPERIENCE, BREATHE OUT POETRY.” -MURIEL RUKEYSER

POETRY

“TO HAVE GREAT POETS, THERE MUST BE GREAT AUDIENCES.” -WALT WHITMAN

Morning Time

Eight in the morning: Coffee beans, Bacon, And nicotine.

Silence pats the roof Like rain in the spring. “Is he alive?” My grandmother sighs.

Rolling out of bed, Religiously like a ritual. Yawning a stretch And stretching a yawn.

The door creaks And he saunters through Like a gazelle Trapped in a zoo.

Our bodies ache But time ticks on. “Is he awake?” I laugh.

Avoiding eyes And saying our goodbyes, His breath encloses Like morning dew.

At the table We say our prayers And wonder if We’re going anywhere.

Slamming the door, He leaves once more. That was the last morning Time stood still.

POETRY

Late Nights

I watch his hands, steady and unwavering, every movement intentional. I watch him roll back up the ‘rillo he just destroyed. Hands so graceful. Handling fragility with ease. I have seen it hundreds of times. He reaches out and touches my face. His hands are warm, just as gentle as they looked before. My heart starts racing. “Are you ready?” I look into his eyes and let out a whisper, “Ready for what?”

You’ll Be

Forever my baby you’ll be. Tiny fingers and tiny toes, with daredevil curls, a shimmering blonde. I’ll love you for always. Forever my baby you’ll be. As I crimp every imperfection, and cut out my dislikes. I’ll guide you for always. Forever my baby you’ll be. As you grow older I’ll press you into a perfect image. I’ll change you for always. As long as I’m living Forever my baby you’ll be.

POETRY

I feel the weight of you against my skin, a delicious pressure. You tell me that I'm the one for you. I do my best to agree. When I wrinkle up next to you I feel the patterns of your skin merge with mine. Knit into me as you place your hand against mine.

Knit Into Me

You kiss my bruise and cut the strings. I brighten against your words as you stitch my wounds. I syncopate my pattern with yours as I learn to erase. Knit into me as you wrap me in your arms. You are always there waiting to take away the blame; to forgive. Laughter leaves warmth as you bind us from the void. Knit into me as I place this ring upon your finger.

Bulbous Orb A small bulbous orb was Bulbous Orb put into my mouth. beady On the on its outside chew it was then bumpy the berry yet bake c soft. She would o But, Mother. r still, of my e. the fruit favorite had a was a sweet flavor squish The earthy that of summer. brought faint memories POETRY

POETRY

The One That Got Away Confidence I lack so much confidence And all my accomplishments Are not positives, because they remind me of you… Relationships In all of my relationships I tried to seem okay, but I was faking it There’s no one I’ll find like you… I can’t keep my mind off you. … Because your eyes shine like the summer sky And now they’re staring at another guy I pray our paths cross another time… Because you loved me to the sun and back And I acted like I wanted none of that And when the good ones go there’s no coming back… It’s hard for me to stomach that.

“I WOULD DEFINE, IN BRIEF, THE POETRY OF WORDS AS THE RYTHMICAL CREATION OF BEAUTY .” -EDGAR ALLAN POE

POETRY

Replaced

His arms wrap around you… Where mine should be His hands lock with yours… Where mine should be His eyes gaze into yours… Where mine should be His fingers touch your face… Where mine should be In your heart he fills the space… Where I should be

You fought me alone and you’re failing. You say that you’re sure to change, but you love the pain. I hurt while you sleep. I won’t let you forgive, I won’t let you erase. You were never the right one to bear the weight of something fueled by words. You slipped into the void as silence left you cold.

Chronic Dysthymia

All the times you stayed and wondered why you were to blame, I was always there waiting. With chains all around you I’d kiss your gentle burning bruise, leaving the past unspoken. But it was never enough. You faded like a played out song as I numbed the pain.

POETRY

“ART WASHES AWAY FROM THE SOUL THE DUST OF EVERYDAY LIFE.” - PABLO PICASSO

FINE ART

Play With Me

FINE ART

Skeletal

FINE ART

Post-Shower Ritual

FINE ART

Selfie

Anuran

FINE ART

“ART

IS ANYTHING

YOU CAN

GET AWAY WITH.” - MARSHALL MCLUHAN

She Was Asking For It

FINE ART

Skull Study

Who

Arches

Summer Daze

FINE ART

Dreamer

Alan FINE ART

FINE ART

Letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Build Some Tension

Communication Breakdown

FINE ART

Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?

FINE ART

Ballet Hands

63 FINE ART

Ghosts

Megan Mosier FINE ART

FINE ART

“IN ART AS IN LOVE, INSTINCT IS ENOUGH.” - ANATOLE FRANCE

Love Bites FINE ART

“THERE IS NO GREATER AGONY THAN BEARING AN UNTOLD STORY INSIDE YOU.” -MAYA ANGELOU

PROSE

WITHERING

Daisy stretched her toes towards the floor and landed on the hardwood with a quiet thud. She paused for a moment and glanced at her sleeping sisters. Rose was still hogging all of the blankets in their shared bed. Violet, the oldest, was stretched out as wide as her small frame would allow. Lily was curled into a compact ball with all of her blue blankets cascading from her bed like a waterfall. The dull gray of early winter morning was beginning to swallow the room. Daisy hopped from one discarded clothing item to the next to avoid the chilled floor. When she came to the closet door, she held her breath. It creaked as she pulled it open, but only Violet tossed a hand across her face in response. Once inside the closet, she knelt before the Daisy-sized door that led to their tiny attic. “Gabe?” she whispered with her lips pressed to the keyhole. She replaced her lips with her ear and smiled. “I’m coming,” she replied as she slipped through the door. Daisy pulled the dangling string and a weak yellow light sputtered around the room. “Hi,” she said. She moved to the back corner, poised on her tiptoes, careful to avoid the floorboards that creaked the loudest. The blankets she had laid out for Gabe to sleep on were nearly stiff from the cold. Daisy shook them out and folded them up. “I’ll bring different ones,” she told him, flicking a small moth from one. Daisy heard a creak from the bedroom and dropped the blankets. “I’ll be back,” she told Gabe and reached out to hug him goodbye.

At breakfast, the stillness of the cold morning had long been lost. “Mom! Where’s my doll?” “Rose is pulling my hair!” “Lily took my coat without asking!” “Daisy isn’t talking again.” Their mother busied herself at the stove, pretending she couldn’t hear their trivial complaints over the sound of the bacon sizzling in the pan. Their father came up behind her and kissed the back of her frizzy, blonde head. She grabbed his hand before he continued towards the door. “Please don’t go today,” she murmured in his ear and pressed her lips to his neck. “Martha, please. Let’s have a good day,” Richard said, pulling back, “I’ll be home early tonight and grab us a pizza so you don’t have to cook.” “We’re having pizza tonight?” Rose asked, her tiny pink nose stuck in the air, “I hate pizza!” “Too bad, kiddo,” her dad said as he tousled her hair on his way out, “I love you!” “Love you too!” the bustling house shouted back. Martha stared at the bacon until it burnt and she had to busy herself making a new batch. After breakfast, the house settled into the steady hum of a lazy Saturday. Violet retreated to her room to read whatever trashy magazine she had borrowed from a friend. Lily spent her time trying to be like Violet, though her magazines were still filled with search and find puzzles. Rose was taking scissors to her doll’s curling hair. And Daisy was sitting on the floor of the bathroom with the door locked. “I don’t know. Mom doesn’t really talk much any-

PROSE

more,” Daisy said to Gabe. “I saw her in her room the other day brushing her hair. She had a knot in it and she just kept yanking at it until the comb broke. I don’t want her to brush my hair anymore.” She looked at herself in the mirror, trying to twist and turn her golden hair into a braid. Her small fingers couldn’t keep hold of the thick strands. Daisy shook her head at Gabe’s response, “I don’t really think anyone cares if I don’t talk though. I think they like it.” She gave up and let her hair fall in a newly tangled mess down her back. “Daisy? Who are you talking to?” Rose’s whiney voice interrupted them. Daisy didn’t respond. “Are you girls hungry?” Martha called from downstairs. “I’m making peanut butter and jelly.” “I hate peanut butter and jelly!” Rose yelled back. Martha took a deep breath and suppressed the urge to scream, “Sucks for you,” at her eight-year-old. She started making the sandwiches, taking into consideration the ridiculous requests for “only a little bit of jelly” and “I want peanut butter on the left and jelly on the right” and “no crusts.” As she moved to take them to the table, her elbow knocked off a paper plate. She stared at the sandwich lying on the floor for a moment before picking it up and slapping it back on the plate with a quick blow across the dusty crust. “Lunch is ready,” she called up the stairs. She stood at the sink rinsing the knives, waiting for the sound of their slow and unenthused footsteps. Not paying attention, she sliced her finger. She thought nothing of it as she stuck it under the

water. As she watched it run the color of tomato juice she looked back to the knife. She took it off of the drying rack and held it for a moment, watching the teeth wink in the weak winter light from the kitchen window above the sink. Martha pressed it against her palm until the first tooth bit into her skin. “Mom?” She dropped the knife in the sink and spun around, “Yes, sweetie?” “Can I have some milk?” Daisy asked. She wrapped her hand in a dish towel and turned to the fridge. “Mom,” Violet said, hauling Rose behind her, “I found Rose in the attic talking to herself.” Martha begged herself to feel interest, concern, or anything along the lines of maternal. Instead she felt a dull thud beginning in the back of her skull. “Sit down. Eat,” Martha said to Violet and Lily. “Now tell me what’s going on, Rose.” Daisy had perked up in her chair at the mention of her attic. She locked eyes with Rose’s beady green ones. “I have a friend in the attic. His name is Gabe. I take care of him and he talks to me sometimes when I’m lonely,” Rose said. “Obviously he’s not real,” Violet said from the table. “Yes he is!” Rose retorted. Daisy was seething as she listened to Rose’s lies. Rose was doing what she always did- taking what didn’t belong to her. She wondered how many times Rose must have eavesdropped on her in the attic. “You don’t know Gabe!” Daisy screamed. The house went still. Even Rose had to take a mo-

ment to recover. She hadn’t expected her lie to have been called out so quickly. “Yes I do!” Daisy almost fell out of the high bar stool as she charged towards Rose. “Gabe would never talk to you!” she screamed. She punched Rose in the nose as hard as she could and then ran for the stairs. “Oh my God,” Violet and Lily let out in a simultaneous breath. Martha scooped up Rose and set her beside the sink. “Let me see. Let me see.” Rose was bawling her eyes out and screaming over and over, “She hit me! She hit me!” Martha had to dig through Rose’s dark curls, bouncing around her face with each over exaggerated cry, to find her nose. A small trickle of blood kissed the top of her quivering lips. “Go make sure Daisy is okay,” Martha called to Violet and Lily. “Maybe after her exorcism,” Violet mumbled and ambled away with her sandwich in hand. Martha had sedated Rose by sticking her in front of the television with a wet rag held under her nose. She pressed her fingers to her temples and swallowed three Tylenol on her way upstairs. Daisy was in the attic, holding the blankets and crying into them. “Daisy?” “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please don’t be mad,” Daisy’s words came through blankets, snot, and tears in a garbled mess. “I’m not mad,” Martha said. She sat down beside Daisy and pulled her into her

lap. She breathed in the soft lavender smell of her golden hair. There was a time when that smell warmed her heart and made butterflies go wild in her stomach. Now it was bitter and made her stomach turn. “Who is Gabe?” Daisy lifted her face from the blankets, surprised at the question. “He’s my friend. He lives in here. Rose doesn’t know him. He hates Rose.” “Can I meet him?” Daisy stilled. She looked up at her mother, unsure about her intentions. “I guess so.” Daisy stood and walked to the back of the attic, ducking under the beams as they became lower. She returned to her mother with her hand outstretched, wrapped around air. “This is Gabe. Gabe, this is mom.” “Nice to meet you,” she said, reaching her hand out and pretending to shake it. Daisy couldn’t be certain under the pale light, but she wondered why her mother was crying. “Dinner!” their father called as the loud creaking of the front door filled the small house. Martha peeked around the corner and watched him balancing three pizzas and the mail while he slipped off his boots. The girls were already pounding down the stairs at the sound of his voice. “I want the cheese!” “Dibs on the garlic butter!” “Daisy punched me!” Richard looked to Martha for confirmation: a necessary ritual when it came to Rose’s tales. She nodded.

PROSE

73 “That true, Daisy?” the father asked, taking a seat beside her. She didn’t respond as she busied herself smoothing out her napkin and adjusting her paper plate. Martha shook her head and mouthed, “Later.” She handed out pizza slices quickly, desperate for them to be done eating and getting ready for bed. She kept her eyes on Richard, but he kept his eyes on his girls. “Can we eat in the living room?” Violet asked. “No,” Richard said at the same time Martha said, “Of course.” The girls heard the answer they wanted and scrambled into the living room with their plates and cups balanced in precarious positions. They were left alone. Relieved, Martha stood and wrapped her arms around Richard, kissing his cheek. “I missed you,” she said. He sighed in frustration. “I missed you too,” he said. He stood, grabbed his pizza, and headed for the living room. Martha stepped back and stared at the empty table. It was long past midnight and the house was in a deep sleep. Martha slipped out of bed and wrapped Richard’s heavy work coat around her and headed upstairs. She crept through the girls’ room, dodging toys and clothing she must have asked them to pick up fifty times that day. She went into the attic and sat down in the corner. “Gabe?” she whispered, “How are you doing?” She paused and took a deep breath, ignoring the feeling of insanity that was hanging over her head. “Gabe, it’s mommy. I just want you to know that I love you and I am so sorry. I should have kept you. I should

have taken care of you. I’m so sorry.” She could hardly breathe as she began to cry. Martha crept back downstairs to find Richard awake. “What have you been doing?” he asked, looking annoyed by the tears on her cheeks. “Daisy said that she’s been talking to a little boy in the attic named Gabe. Where in the world did she come up with that name? I know we didn’t tell them what we were thinking of naming him. They didn’t even know I was pregnant.” Richard was quiet. “Maybe this is what I get. For what I did to him.” “Martha, we couldn’t have him. We’ve been through this so many times. He was going to have Down’s Syndrome. We crunched the numbers backwards and forwards. There was no way in hell we could have given that boy anything he needed.” “We could have tried.” “Look around you, Martha! We’re going to be with our four girls on a street corner by next month! You think that kid would have been better off here?” Martha crawled back into bed and rolled over so her back was to him. He moved to wrap his arms around her, but she moved away. Richard sighed in frustration, “You have to stop using this guilt as some excuse not to take care of the four you still have. Do you understand me? You’re their mother and you need to act like it.” “I’m no mother,” she mumbled into her dampening pillow. Richard turned his back to her. He turned the light out and tried to ignore the new presence he felt in the house.

“WRITE HARD AND CLEAR ABOUT WHAT HURTS.” -ERNEST HEMINGWAY

PROSE

THE LOSING MAN

The fly landed on the first empty square of the Sunday crossword puzzle. He twitched like flies do, and loitered on four down: between night and day. Al shooed the fly away, and brushed his palm over the newspaper. How did a fly get in the house already? No one’s been outside yet, Al thought. He tapped his pencil on the table, bouncing the eraser off the tabletop. “Morning, Dad.” Nick stretched into the room, yawning as he opened the refrigerator. “How long have you been up?” He looked at the half-empty shelves. I should probably go grocery shopping for Dad before I leave, he thought. Al rolled the pencil between his fingers. “Since sunrise.” Dawn’s four down, he thought. The time between night and day. He wrote in the letters, carefully curving each line. The pencil slipped out of his hand and dropped to the floor, lead breaking against the linoleum. He bent down to pick up the pencil, and saw Nick’s tennis shoes laced on his feet. He’s already got his shoes on first thing in the morning, Al thought. “What you got planned for today?” Al felt his back pop as he straightened back up to the table. Getting rusty, he thought. Should’ve stretched this morning as soon as I woke up. Diane would’ve reminded me. “Packing and more packing. The same as yesterday.” Nick’s voice carried out from inside the refrigerator. He pulled out a half-full milk jug. “This milk’s about to go bad, Dad. Just so you know.” Al’s head felt heavy as he straightened up. “Why the rush to get everything packed today?” He glanced down at the crossword; the clue for six across read ‘mother’s best.’ Diane always bought a new jug of milk before the old one ran out. Al ran his thumb over the broken pencil point.

“Dad, I told you yesterday.” Nick sat down at the table, across from his dad. His glass of milk fogging in his warm hand. “Today’s move-in day. All the freshmen have to be at the dorms by tonight.” It can’t be today. That’s too soon. “Are you finished packing?” He looked up at Nick. His hair was damp. He’s always taken short showers, and never dries his hair good enough. “Almost.” The chair creaked as Nick slumped into the seat. “I’ve got a lot more stuff than I thought. And I don’t want to forget anything.” He brought the glass to his mouth. “It would take me less time if you would help me,” he said against the rim. Al ran his thumb over the broken pencil point. Need a sharpener now. “It seems like you’ve been packing for a year.” Nick tapped his fingers on the table, watching his dad’s hands fiddle with the broken pencil. That pencil lays in his hand like an extra finger, Nick thought. “Do you have a pencil sharpener somewhere in your boxes?” Al traced the empty boxes on the crossword; six across has got to be ‘milk.’ Nick set the glass on the table. “Probably.” Al nodded. “Would you mind finding it for me?” He looked at Nick. Sleep still clung to his eyelashes. Didn’t wash his face in the shower. “Now?” Nick set his glass on the table. “I can’t finish the crossword without a pencil.” What would tomorrow morning look like without him at the table? Al pressed his thumb against the broken point. “Just use a pen. They don’t break, and you don’t have to sharpen them.” His fingers were still curled around the glass. “I can’t do a crossword puzzle with a pen. What if

PROSE

I mess up?” Al laid the broken pencil on the table. “Just scratch it out.” Nick shook his head. “But that’ll mess up the page.” “Geez, Dad. I don’t know. Be careful and don’t mess up.” “Come on, Nick. Just go find me the pencil sharpener.” Al folded his hand over Nick’s. “Please.” Nick stared at his dad. His eyes focused on the glossed look of his dad’s eyes. “Are you okay?” Al relaxed his grip. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Six across is ‘milk’. “I’ll be okay.” He watched Nick brush his hand over his lips. Nick stood up from the table. “I’ve got a lot of stuff to do. So I’m going to get started. I’ll be in my room packing if you need me.” Splatters of milk freckled the table where Nick had been sitting. Al wiped the milk off and then wiped his hand on his pant leg. The afternoon sun burned against Al’s back, warming the fabric of his shirt. Al had misplaced his house key. He thought he had tucked the scratched metal into his pocket, and nestled it between the folds of inner fabric. The front door had clicked shut, but Al felt sure he’d be able to get back inside. Now he stood, shuffling his feet on the dirty carpet of his welcome mat, feeling around his empty pockets for a lost key. Where did I leave that key, he thought. He pulled tufts of lint from his pocket and flicked them from his fingers. He watched the lint cling to the air as it fell. “Dad?” Feet hit the brick path behind him. “What’re you doing?” Al turned to see Nick, five feet behind him. “Hey, kid.” Lips pursed. “I can’t find the key.”

“Why are you outside?” Nick held flattened card board boxes in his hands. Al’s eyes fell to the brick beneath his feet. The brick path was once clean, kept nice by Diane, but now it was three years overgrown with stray weeds. Al rubbed his fingertips together. Diane’s fingernails always had pieces of dirt stuck under them, he thought. “I was going to get the newspaper.” He looked at Nick. Nick’s forehead furrowed. “I thought you already got it earlier this morning?” He ran his thumb across his fingertips. Did I already bring the paper inside? “Yeah, you’re right. But now I’m locked out of the house.” Nick brushed past him and bent down. Throwing up the corner of the welcome mat, he said, “We always keep the key here, Dad. Remember?” I could’ve sworn I stuck that thing in my pocket this morning. “Yeah, that key.” “Dad, you should just start keeping this on you.” Nick picked the key up. “It’s just going to be you using it now. If I need to get into the house, I’ll just knock.” Nick clicked open the lock and pushed open the door. “Besides, it seems like no one loses their key more than you. It’s ridiculous. Especially because we keep the spare key under the mat.” Nick shook his head, and held open the door for his dad. Al stepped through the doorway. “When you were little, your mom used to make me wear it on a necklace, because she got so tired of me losing it.” Nick laughed. “That seems like something Mom would do. She always made sure my shoes found their way back to my room.” He followed his dad into the kitchen. Heading for the cabinet, he pulled out a glass. Al walked and sat down at the table, a weight on

the rickety chair. “She was like that. A real creative type.” Diane made sure I always had that key strung around my neck every morning before I left for work. I don’t remember when we started leaving it under the mat. The newspaper lay in the center of the table, opened to a pencil-stained crossword puzzle. A pencil sharpener lay next to it, shavings spilling out onto the tabletop. Al picked up a half-sharpened pencil and drew circles on the corner of the paper. His eyes read the next blank row. Five across: Odysseus’ quest. The circle darkened with each turn. “You do that thing every day.” Nick walked to the freezer and opened it. “Is there one that you haven’t done yet?” He grabbed a handful of ice and dropped it in the glass. “I find them interesting.” Al tapped his pencil on the table, and brushed off the extra lead dust from the paper. “Did you ever study The Odyssey in high school?” “It was a journey right?” Nick sat down at the table, across from his dad. Al nodded. “Something like that. It was your mom’s favorite story. She was always quoting it.” Always telling me I should read it. Reading’s good for the mind, she said. “Do you remember any of them?” Nick rested his elbow on the table, and stared down at his water. The ice cracked against the glass. “Any of the quotes?” Al ran his fingers over his knuckles. “No.” He gripped the pencil in his hands. Nick nodded. “I remember she would write notes and put them in my lunchbox when I was in middle school. I used to be so embarrassed.” He took a sip of his water. “I wish I had her notes now.” The crossword puzzle seemed to take up the entire

table. Odysseus’ quest, he thought. Nick cleared his throat. “I’ve got to finish packing.” He glanced over at his dad. Al tapped the eraser on the paper. “I’m going to finish loading up the rest of the boxes and then later this evening, maybe you and I could eat dinner.” Al pressed the pencil down onto the table. “Would that be okay?” The answer is ten letters across, Al thought. “Dad?” Nick tapped the table. Al looked up at Nick. “What?” Nick’s eyebrows cinched together. “What do you think about dinner tonight?” “Yeah. Let’s eat dinner tonight.” Nick nodded and stood up from the table. Homecoming, he thought, and penciled each letter in a box. “All right. I’ll be outside loading my truck.” He left his glass in the sink and walked out of the kitchen. Hurry and get dressed, he thought. Al spit the toothpaste into the sink. “Two minutes and we need to walk out the door,” he said to himself in the bathroom mirror. His eyes caught their tired reflection. Diane made this seem so much easier. She would’ve known what to say to Nick. How to handle him leaving. Al rinsed the toothbrush off under the running water, and watched the mint suds swirl down the drain. “Dad?” Nick’s voice sounded out in the hallway. “Where are you?” “In the bathroom. Be out in a minute.” He set the toothbrush down on the corner of the sink, careful to not let the bristles touch the basin. Footsteps grew louder and the door shuddered as

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Nick knocked. “Did you decide what you want to eat for dinner? I’m going to run and pick up something.” “Dinner, already?” “It’s almost six. When were you planning on eating? Midnight? I want to be at the campus with a little sunlight to spare.” “All right. Be back soon.” Al heard the back door shut, and a few moments later, Nick’s truck rev to life. Gone again, he thought. He squeezed the toothbrush in his hand. What am I going to do when he’s gone for good? Al reached for a damp toothbrush. He felt the wet bristles. Did I already brush my teeth? Diane set Al’s shoes by the front door every morning. He loosened his tie and took off his shoes first when he got home from work. The tie always found its way to his closet and his shoes sat by the front door. Diane never complained. She enjoyed the organizing. “Al?” Her voice carried up the stairs. “Are you ready yet? Nick’s got to be at school in ten minutes. Do I need to take him?” “I’ll be down in two minutes. Just finished getting dressed.” Al buttoned up his shirt. She’s always rushing everywhere, Al thought. We’ll get there on time even if I leave the house five minutes till. The school’s right up the road. Al looped his tie around his neck, and finished tying it when he heard shuffling behind him. Nick’s small head peeked around the bedroom door. “Dad?” “Yeah, buddy?” Al tucked in his shirt, and tightened his belt around his waist. “Do I have to go to school today?” Nick folded his arms over his stomach. “I don’t feel good.” “What’s wrong?”

“I think it’s my stomach.” Nick frowned. Al smiled. “You were okay last night when we were playing Monopoly.” Nick’s eyes stared at the floor. “What’s going on at school today?” “I don’t want to go. It’s just a stupid class spelling bee.” He pouted. “But you’ve been practicing so hard lately. You’ll do great.” “I’m not as good as the other kids. They always laugh at me.” “Do you want me to come up there and watch?” Al bent down eyelevel to his son. Nick shook his head. “I can if you want me to. I can come on my lunch break.” “None of the other moms and dads’ll be there. It’s just for English class.” “All right. I won’t go.” Al brushed the hair back from Nick’s forehead. I wonder when Diane’s going take him to get another haircut. “Just remember, it’s just one day. Try your best, but don’t worry. Okay?” Nick nodded. “What are you two doing?” Diane stood in the doorway. Her pencil skirt was starched against her legs. “We are late.” She caught Al’s socked feet. “And you don’t even have your shoes on yet?” Al ran his hand over his chin; stubble pricked his palm. “I need to shave, too.” He looked down at Nick. “Why don’t you let Mom take you to school today? I’ll pick you up this afternoon and you can tell me all about the spelling bee.” The two left the house in a flurry of lunch bags and car keys.

Al nicked his chin while shaving. A small cut that bled like a deep wound. He tore off a piece of toilet tissue and stuck it over the cut. His face was damp with shaving cream and dried blood when the police officer knocked on the front door. “Mr. Saul?” The officer carried a driver license in his hand. “Yes?” Al wiped his hands off on his pant leg. “What’s going on?” He could see another officer standing at the end of his driveway. “Sir, I need you to confirm that this is the residence of Diane Saul?” His face hardened. Al felt lightheaded. “She’s my wife.” He stared at the officer. “Diane Saul was involved in a fatal car crash this morning around 9:30. She ran a red light and a car hit her head on.” Al’s eyes focused on the officer’s badge. The gold paint flaked at the corner. “Her air bag failed to deploy and she died upon impact.” His words fell into the air. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” Nick. “What about my son?” “There were no other passengers in her car.” “She was taking him to school.” Al rubbed his fingertips together. “The crash took place heading west.” He tapped Diane’s license against the palm of his hand. “It looked like she had just dropped him off.” A voice came over his walky-talky. He glanced back at his partner who was pacing the driveway, and turned back to Al. He held out the license. “We’re still going to need you to come identify the body.” His eyes fell to the ground. Al took the license from the officer. Diane’s license

lay cold in his hand. She was smiling in her picture. He gripped the plastic, pressing the edges into his palm. He thought about Nick at school, standing in front of the class and sounding out words. Al shivered and realized that he had forgotten to put on his shoes. Al flipped the kitchen light on. Fluorescent light filled the room. The last traces of sunlight seeped through the window blinds. Nick would be back any minute with the dinner. Last dinner with him before he leaves. Al stood at the kitchen sink and turned on the faucet. The water disappeared down the drain. He washed his hands, letting them linger for a moment in the hot water. We’ll need some silverware, he thought. He turned off the water, and began opening drawers. The first one he opened had trays of unsharpened pencils mixed with pens. He left it open, pulled out the next drawer. It was filled with measuring spoons and ladles. Where are they? he thought. Al moved onto another drawer, pulling it out and rifled through it. He pulled out another and another, until all the drawers were open in the kitchen. He stood in the middle, hands clenched in a fist, searching. Nick opened the front door. “I’m home,” he called out. “I bought Italian from that one place we love.” He paused in the kitchen doorway, arms full of greased-stained brown bags, and looked at his dad. “What are you doing?” Nick watched his dad struggle for breath. His body shook. “I was looking for the forks.” Al rubbed his hand over his mouth. Nick set the food on the table, on top of Al’s crossword. He walked over to the third drawer Al opened and pulled out a fork. “They’ve always been here.” He grabbed another one and shut the drawer. “Dad, you okay?”

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Al pressed his thumbnail into his fingertip. “I looked there. They weren’t there.” Nick set the forks on the table and began to unpack the food. He placed two plastic plates of spaghetti in front of each chair. “Come sit down and eat, Dad.” Al gripped the table as he sat down. “Where’d you find the spaghetti?” he asked. Nick pushed the bag to the corner of the table and sat in the chair. “I told you. From that Italian place we love. You know, on the corner of First and Second Street.” Al nodded, and picked up his fork. He dragged it through the sauce, and watched Nick as they ate. Nick bent over the plate, bringing his mouth to the spaghetti as he ate. Al nibbled. Half-eaten spaghetti cooled between father and son. Nick dropped his eyes to the floor. “I will miss you, you know.” Al twirled his fork in the spaghetti. “I’ll miss you, too.” He laid his fork down. “Are you sure you want to go?” Nick laughed and stood up from the table. “Am I sure I want to go to college? Yeah, I’m sure.” He went to the sink and washed his hands. Over the running water he asked, “What are you going to do when I’m gone?” “Gone?” “While I’m at college. Are you even listening?” Nick glanced at his dad. “Hand me those plates so I can throw them away.” Al grabbed the food-stained plates and brought them to the sink. He set them in the running water and sat back down at the table. “I’m probably going to find you starved to death on the front porch one day, because you lost your house key and can’t get inside.” Nick laughed and turned off the

water. Grabbing a hand towel, he walked toward his dad. Al’s eyebrows creased. “I’ll do no such thing.” He folded his arms. “I may be forgetful, but I’m not that bad.” “Yeah, I know, Dad,” he said. “I’m kidding.” Nick finished drying his hands and tossed the towel onto the counter. “But, still. This time next week I’ll be at college and you’ll have the house to yourself.” Nick scratched his temple. “I’m just a little bit worried.” “When will you be back?” Al ran his fingers down his chin, stubble from this morning. “I’ll come back on the weekends. It’s just a twohour drive. Maybe one and a half, depending on how fast I drive.” Nick leaned against the counter. Al glanced down at his crossword. Blank squares filled the page. “You promise?” He looked at Nick. “Yeah, of course, Dad. I’ll be back really soon.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost eight. I’m going to go so I can unpack my stuff before the sun sets. Okay?” Nick watched his dad trace his fingers across the crossword puzzle. “Try to finish that thing before I get back.” Al nodded, but his eyes clung to the blank squares. “See you soon, Dad.” Nick rested his hand on his dad’s shoulders, squeezed once, and then walked out of the kitchen. Nick’s footsteps echoed in Al’s ear and disappeared in the sound of the door shutting. The Sunday crossword puzzle was the only thing Al could remember. Morning dawned with a hazy memory of yesterday: the half-finished crossword puzzle frozen in the center. A housefly landed on the corner of the newspaper; it twitched across the puzzle. “Nick, did you leave a window open last night?” The house was silent, but for the tiny buzzing of a fly’s wings.

“WRITING IS THE PAINTING OF THE VOICE.” -VOLTAIRE

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3 rd

MISSISSIPPI STATION

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I guess it’s time to head home, she thought. Her bags were all situated and settled for the trip home. All her friends were already gone, so there was no one to say goodbye to. Turning her key into the ignition, the car started to cough and then turned on. “Great, hope this piece of junk gets me there.” She made her way off the campus. She went to school in Jackson, Mississippi; it was a small school in a much smaller city. There really wasn’t much to do there but study. The night life consisted of going to the small coffee shop that was run by college students. Each night was filled with the same board games and people trying to be artists. It wasn’t an exciting place to live; nothing good ever happened. The drive home was much worse. The road was straight and flat, trees on either side. It was quite easy to fall asleep at the wheel. Paige was only 60 minutes out of Jackson, and her eyes were already heavy. “Uh, my goodness, let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!” she screamed trying to wake herself up. Paige hated driving. Driving always made her tired, not to mention it was morning and she forgot to get her morning cup of coffee. Each mile felt like ten. The drive home was about 10 hours without stops. “I need coffee!” she said to herself, hoping to keep herself company due to her radio being busted. “There has to be a gas station somewhere! Come on, Mississippi. Where are the people?” The miles kept spinning around the tires. “Finally found one!” The exit looked okay, just a Denny’s and a family-run gas station she thought. Her gas tank was half full. I might as well fill up while I get some coffee, she thought. When she pulled into the station, she was

only one of two cars there. The pump didn’t accept credit cards, she noticed. “Great. Hopefully someone is working the counter”. Before leaving her car she made sure the doors were locked. Well, that’s comforting, she thought looking at the other vehicle. The other vehicle was an older truck covered in mud: a typical redneck truck. Great, redneck land. When she walked into the gas station, the odor hit her like a stone wall. Years worth of fried grease and cigarette smells collected on the walls and ceiling. What a dump, she thought. The station seemed to be running on one light bulb, probably in an attempt to hide the grease from the health inspectors. Please have some Starbucks bottled coffee. I’m not drinking it unless it’s been bottled. The station was set up like any other station: shelves, refrigerators, and horrible greasy food. But, unlike most gas stations this one was missing all the commercial products. How do they not have any cold Starbucks? she wondered. “Can I help you, honey?” an elderly lady was sitting behind the counter reading a magazine and smoking. “Yes, do you have any cold or bottled coffee?” “Why would you want cold coffee? Coffee is drunk hot.” The woman puffed on her cigarette. “I take that as a ‘no’.” Paige said looking back over the few options she had. “That’s right, if you want something cold, take a Coke. We have all types.” All types? Coke is one drink unless you are talking about diet cherry or vanilla, Paige thought. “Okay, I’ll just get a Coke.” She took her bottle to the front counter to pay. She realized that she only had a few dollars in cash. “Shit! Please tell me you take credit cards?”

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“Sorry, honey, we only do cash here. The Coke is only a dollar.” “I know, but I was wanting to fill up for gas.” “Ah bless your heart. Sorry, sis, can’t help you. But down the road there are several more stations that should take a card.” “Okay, Thanks. I should have plenty to get there.” “One Coke. Is that everything?” She took in another puff. Did this lady just black out of the conversation? We just went over this, she thought. “Yes, that’s everything.” “Well then, that will be one Washington.” She blew a thick cloud of smoke from her mouth and held out her hand for the dollar. “What about tax” Paige said. “You don’t tell, I won’t tell.” The woman chuckled with a smoker’s voice. Paige handed her the dollar. “Have a nice day,” the lady shouted and took another puff from her cigarette. I’m so ready to be home. I hate this place, Paige thought. The truck was still parked at the station. Some early 20-year-old redneck was sitting on the pickup bed. He wore a wife beater and a pair of jeans. His bottom lip was filled with dip. Trash, she thought. He just sat there. Staring at her, like it was the first time he had ever seen a woman. He didn’t say anything. He just sat there staring. Paige didn’t know what would be scarier, him just watching or him talking to her. She picked up her pace. Her walked turned into a sprint for the car. She got to her car; pulled out her keys. She kept her eyes on the man. Each second felt as if time was slowing down. “Where are my keys? Where are my keys?” she

mumbled under her breath. Her hands were running a race in her purse looking for them. “Ah! There they are!” She pulled them out and tried to stick in the lock, but her hands were shaking. She looked up. The man was gone, but his truck was still there. Her hand got worse. She held the key with both hands to get it in the lock. The car unlocked. Time to get out of here, she thought. She put the car into drive and put a heavy foot on the gas; she made it back to the interstate. She was so focused on not dying that she forgot completely about the gas situation. This was her first time driving through Mississippi by herself. All she could think of was getting home and not taking the wrong road to the back woods. She pulled out her iPhone in hopes of pulling up her GPS. “Great! No signal!” She threw the phone in her passenger seat. She looked for a map in her dashboard. The map would not have been any use to her, she was unsure on how to read a map. The road looked the same as the first several miles. Where do I get off? Do I get off? She reached over for her phone and pulled up iTunes, trying to calm her nerves down by playing some music. “Stay calm and just listen to the music.” She told herself out loud. “Just stay calm!” It was 1:00 in the afternoon. She had been driving for a few hours. Her car began to rattle. “What the hell is happening?” she screamed out loud. The car’s engine shut off. Looking down at the dashboard, the gas-gage was past empty. “No! No! I forgot to fill the stupid car!” Paige jumped out of the car and walked around it as if that would make it start up again. “What am I going to do?”

It was hot. The afternoon Mississippi sun was beating down on the road, which only intensified the heat against her skin. Paige checked her phone for any hint of a phone signal. The signal was as dead as the road that she was stuck on. She grabbed the bottle of Coke and her purse and started walking. Nothing, absolutely nothing on this highway, she thought. After spending the past three miles by herself in the middle of Mississippi, Paige would happily take a ride on a cow if it meant getting her to the gas station. The temperatures in Mississippi and Hell were the same. The road went forever. Flat, for as far as the eye could see, though her vision was interrupted by the heat bouncing off the road. It was afternoon, not a soul in sight. “Where the Hell are all the people?” Paige mumbled under her breath. Paige pulled out her phone and pushed the home button. The battery was low, as was the service. No way to call for help. No one knew she was there. Her bottle of Coke was doing her no good as it was sugar, warm sugar at that. “I need a car, any car,” she cried From the haze in the distance rose a figure, a large white van. Paige began jumping and screaming for help. The car noticed her, pulling over. The window rolled down, with a slam as it fell off its track. On the side of the car it read, Saint Peter Catholic Church. Being raised in an all-girls catholic school as a kid, this brought mixed feelings to Paige. However, at least he wasn’t that redneck guy plus anything beat walking by herself in the heat. An older man was in the driver’s seat, resembling the stereotyped priest from high school that everyone used to talk about, the type that abused children. His nose was long, hooked at the end, bald head with few white hairs growing from

the side. He was dressed in a black suit with a white collar. However, it was not a cassock. His head came out of the window socket like a snake leaving its hole. “Can I help you, miss?” he said in a smooth southern accent. Paige took a moment to respond to the man. She wasn’t sure. But after all, he seemed to want to help. She thought to herself, at least he isn’t a redneck. “Yes,” Paige said. “My car ran out of gas a few miles from here. Would it be possible for you to take me to the nearest gas station?” “Why bless your heart. I know of the perfect place for you. Hop in.” Though her gut told her not to, Paige had few choices, none of which were good; either die by herself on the side of the road in Mississippi, or hopefully get some gas with help from the man. She got in the van. The van had scratched up leather seats and smelled like someone had left a Big Mac from McDonald’s in it for weeks. Looking around the car, she noticed items that brought peace to her: a Bible was on the dashboard, a photo of what she assumed was his family laid on the floor, along with many tools for gardening and bottles of water. “How far away is the nearest gas station?” she asked. “About five miles from here.” Paige sat there, holding onto the seatbelt as if it were her rosary, unsure of the choice she had just made. The old man put his foot on the gas, filling the van with the smell of gas fumes. The van took off, causing the Bible to fall onto the floor. She picked it up off the dirty floor of the car looking in at the first page that said, “This is the Property of Holly Banks.” This isn’t his she thought looking up at the man. PROSE

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“I’m Paige, by the way. Thank you for helping me out back there.” “Yep, no problem. Fredricks is my name, Mr. Fredricks.” This began to make her question everything. Why did he say Mr. and not Father Fredricks? After all, he was dressed like a priest. Why Mr. and not Father or Brother? Also, the names did not match. Whose Bible is this, she wondered. Maybe he was just a caretaker for the Church. After all he had garden supplies. “Do you have any kids?” She asked because he obviously wasn’t a priest. “No, no kids, no family. Just me.” Just like a knife running down her back, she began to think the worst. If he doesn’t have kids or a family, why does he have that picture? But, it explained why it was on the floor of the van. “Do you work at the church?” She held her seatbelt even tighter, as if it could protect her. “Nope, not very religious.” Why is he dressed like a priest and driving a church van? Who is he? Looking around the van, she started seeing things that she hadn’t noticed before. The rips in the leather looked more like scratches from fingernails, and the dents running along the dashboard were the same. Faded red spots ran across the ceiling and on the floor. She tried to keep her self together. It looked like blood but it could have just been paint. Her mind continued to tell her the worse. What have I gotten myself into? she thought. She kept her eyes on the miles waiting for the miles to count themselves down. As each mile went down her stomach began to tangle into knots. She began to shake just like at

the gas station. The miles were flying by much faster than when she was driving. This is way more than five miles, she thought. She looked at her phone in hopes of having some signal or a way to tell where she was. The phone was dead, completely dead. Her stomach became almost unbearable. She tried to hide her fear, but was having a hard time. Tears began to roll down her face. She looked back at Fredricks trying to hold herself together. “How far away is the gas station?” Her voice was trembling. No reply. He just sat there. Looking at the road. “I said how long till the gas station.”

“ART IS NEVER FINISHED, ONLY ABANDONED.” -LEONARDO DA VINCI

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