A Journal of the Arts
Produced by the Humanities Division of Columbia State Community College
Columbia State Community College, a Tennessee Board of Regents institution, is an equal opportunity and affirmative action employer and does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, gender, sexual orientation/gender identity, religion, ethnic or national origin, sex, age, disability status, or status as a covered veteran in educational and employment opportunities, and is committed to the education of a non-racially identifiable student body. Individuals needing this material in an alternative format, e.g., hearing or visually impaired formats, should contact the office of disability services. Columbia State Community College is accredited by the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools Commission on Colleges to award Associate of Arts, Associate of Science, Associate of Science in Teaching, Associate of Fine Arts in Music, and Associate of Applied Science degrees, and technical certificates. Contact the Commission on Colleges at 1866 Southern Lane, Decatur, Georgia 30033-4097 or call 404-679-4500 for questions about the accreditation of Columbia State Community College. CoSCC PERC-01-04-16, Parris Printing, Nashville, Tennessee - 1,000 copies
In Memory of Dr. Marvin Austin Professor of English from 1976 to 2008
“I have had all I can stand of not taking myself seriously.� - Kurt Vonnegut, Bluebeard
STAFF 2015-2016
EDITOR
Beverly Mitchell
CONTRIBUTING EDITORS
Ana Basoa Joseph Cook Shelly Ganter Emily Gaskill Brittany Hall Shane Hall Jeff Hardin Susanna Holmes Susan Pobst Anne Reeves Michael Sztapka Judith Westley
STUDENT EDITORS Chris Osborne Victoria Waters
CREATIVE COORDINATOR Susan Pobst
COVER
Entertain Stuart Lenig
CONTENTS Poetry Sam Cook
Nyctophilia
6
Rebecca Mischke
It Left Me
7
Turning 45 - The Milestone
10
TiAnna Cotton
More
11
Chris Osborne
From My Vantage…
18
C. Stojak
Dad. Deferred.
19
Karen Moran
Daydreaming
22
Broken 23 Judy Westley
African Violets
26
How to Forget That Certain Someone 28
Ken Powis
Beware the Ecotroll, My Son!
31
Ocean Sunset
33
Europe Modena-Dooley
Hope for Tomorrow
52
Feather Alsup
What I Love
53
George J. Wilkerson
Seven Was Not Six
14
Kelley Pujol
Shih Tzu n’ a Cell Phone
36
Paul Hitchcock
The Talk
43
Susanna Holmes
I Have a Horse
47
Benjaman Alexander Judd
Chronicles of Noah
56
Prose
Images Emily Gaskill
Italian Riviera
8
Kendra Connor
Luminous
9
Michaela L. Baswell
Journey through the Barren Lands
12
The Girl of Withering Light
13
Brittany Warden
Untitled
16
Evan Gentner
Shelved
17
Stuart Lenig
Travel
20
Aleta Fowler
Neon Night
21
Kendra Connor
Radiance
22
Hope Perry
Passion Flower
24
Frosty Leaves
25
Carl D. Jones
Village Chief
29
Kim Klein
Ballerinas – Crazy Elf
30
Evan Gentner
Shore
32
Brittany Warden
Untitled
34
Harley Chambers
Confused Puppy
35
Serious Dog
42
Kendra Connor
Companion
46
Evan Gentner
Sydney
51
Mariah Dawn Clifton
Hope
52
Lyndsie Worley
Unmasked
54
Natural Profile
55
5
Nyctophilia Sam Cook
I shine like a star at noon; covered by the light which brightens your smile and mood. But, when that light goes away, and the night comes to play, you hide in your room from the light of the moon.
6
It Left Me Rebecca Mischke
It left me today My thoughts, my love Into a deep dark abyss As it lay upon the tip of my tongue I considered it worthy of air, of notability, of oration Many notes of reminders A yellow river of Post-its Cover my space Just another induction to stimulate Why has it betrayed me? Age set aside Deteriorating my brain Was it age? Or was it, I forget Once again It left me today
7
Italian Riviera Emily Gaskill
8
Luminous Kendra Connor
9
Turning 45 - The Milestone Rebecca Mischke
Who runs? Many or a small amount? Have you ever felt like just leaving? No destination No plan, no map Enough gas I want to end up out west. Wait tables at a small coffee shop where no one knows my real name or my past. I’d serve runny eggs and crisp bacon to strangers No one to miss No one to worry Just leave No dismay about material things Life one day Live one day Details are obscured Unknown place to lay my head at night Unknown bank account Take pictures of the desert with an old Polaroid instant camera Wave photos dry in the Grand Canyon air Turquoise bracelets will clang My Cree ancestors will speak to me I will listen I will whisper back
10
More TiAnna Cotton
These people tell me I’m great yet say I’m making mistakes, That I have to be more, that I need to be more. Is it not enough to be kind when every day I could lose my mind? What more can you ask for? Don’t look at me as if I’m not the person who can own the world, Or be ashamed of me because of medals I’ve yet to earn. I don’t live to please you, and I’m not singing the blues because of you. So please, spare me these rules you have stashed in your head. These people tell me I’m a star yet say to raise the bar. I have to be more. I need to be more. It’s not enough to turn pain into power, Or keep on a smile every day, every hour. I’m sorry that I can’t be more. Don’t look at me as if I’m not the person who can own the world, Or be ashamed of me because of medals I’ve yet to earn. I don’t live to please you, and I’m not singing the blues because of you. So please, spare me these rules you have stashed in your head. Ridicule my name. Play your mind games. I’ll survive with or without you. There is nothing I cannot do. At the end of the day, I will be more for myself. Not for you or anyone else. These people tell me I’m great yet say I’m making mistakes, That I have to be more, that I need to be more. Is it not enough to be kind when every day I could lose my mind? Don’t look at me as if I’m not the person who can own the world, Or be ashamed of me because of medals I’ve yet to earn. I don’t live to please you, and I’m not singing the blues because of you. So please, spare me these rules you have stashed in your head. What else is expected when I give it all? What more is required when I have answered every call? Stop asking for more, stop asking for more.
11
Journey through the Barren Lands Michaela L. Baswell with Carol Edwards, Chelsea Doy, Haley Hicks, Jonathan Curtis, Terry Bus
12
The Girl of Withering Light Michaela L. Baswell with Carol Edwards, Chelsea Doy, Haley Hicks, Jonathan Curtis, Terry Bus
13
Seven Was Not Six George J. Wilkerson Seven was not Six. He was not Nine or Four or Eight. He was Seven. He was called Seven by all of his friends, although they all had nicknames. Two was Snake-eyes. Six and his twin brother were Boxcars. Four was Little Joe. And Three was Craps. To be Seven was to be special. Or so his mother told him. To be Seven was to be outstanding, to be unique. It didn’t matter that the others called him odd. Nine was odd too. Some said she had too many dots and teased her about it. “You can never have too many dots,” his father said, then, thinking better of it, he added. “But you have just enough.” Nonetheless, he wanted more. And he wanted a nickname. They called One Ace and he had just one dot. You would think that seven dots would warrant some sort of clever name. But no. The only name he ever heard was spoken in a whisper. It was…‘Loser.’ ‘Loo…ser’ was what his friends whispered whenever he showed up. They didn’t want to play with him. That’s because they weren’t really friends, even though they hung out with him sometimes. “Please don’t call me that,” he would say and Ace would reply “Sorry…that’s just the way we roll…Loo…ser.” And that really hurt. “That’s not me,” Seven would say. “I’m not a loser. I’m not.” So he avoided them. And it seemed that the more he stayed away the happier they were. They actually seemed glad he wasn’t around. He would watch quietly as they bounced around, doing their little dance, rolling across the floor and coming to rest with a big sigh and a grin. Then one day, he heard a little voice. “Hey…don’t sweat it.” 14
He turned around and there was Eleven. She winked. He didn’t know what to say. “None of it matters,” she said, adjusting one of her dots so that it sat at a jaunty angle. “We’re all just bones…all of us.” He stammered. “But…they…” She shook her head. “Forget them,” she said, pointing across the floor. “You can ride the rails…with me.” He blinked. “I can?” he asked. “But I’m not sure. I mean…I never…” She nodded. “Sure you can,” she said. “You and me…we’re naturals.” He smiled. “Naturals,” he said. “I like that.” She reached over and rubbed his middle dot. “Just call me Yo Yo,” she said. “And I’ll call you Big Red.” “Big Red,” he said to himself. “I like that.” “You get bounced around,” Yo Yo said, “but it don’t matter.” She pointed up toward the sky. “Blame it on the big guy.” Seven blinked; his dots flashed off, then on. “He’s the one calling the shots,” she said. “We just roll with the throw.” He nodded. “I guess that’s true,” he said. “I just never thought about it.” Again, she gestured skyward. “For some it’s all the luck of the draw, but for us squares…” she pointed toward him, “…it’s purely a matter of chance.” And she slid across the floor until she was right next to him, turned to look him in the eye, and winked. “Fasten your seatbelt,” she said. “It’s going to be a bumpy night.” 15
Untitled Brittany Warden
16
Shelved Evan Gentner
17
From My Vantage... Chris Osborne
From my vantage. We sat here, alone. Writing hymns with lost pens Our hands together, praying Knowing we knew. Our words like our dreams, fade. Amen
Naked forms. Her breath. My breath. Our breathGone. Heavy soul. I crushed a wasp under my sole, Both could not bear the weight.
18
Dad. Deferred. C. Stojak
Today I saw you out there in your drug induced psychosis Ranting and frantic, yet talking to no one Cars racing the highway, you striding parallel They don’t even see you or notice your hell. I thought about stopping, thought I’d offer a ride But where would you go to? No places to hide Should I offer some money? Or friendly conversation? Could we speak and be cordial? Would you really even know me? Would you bellow and blow or pray to your savior? Speaking in tongues. Constant. Erratic. Behavior. I doubt we could exchange any similarities. I know you, but you don’t know me. I know you, you’re broken and lost. Your soul is in terror, and oh what a cost! I saw you today, and I wanted to talk. Ask how you’ve been and tell you about the kids. But you don’t know me. You fell away. Destined to be my hero, but you went away. Succumb to chaos. Dysfunctional hypnosis. I left you on the highway, let you pass right by me. Maybe some other time… Maybe… Someday…
19
Travel Stuart Lenig
20
Neon Night Aleta Fowler
21
Radiance Kendra Connor
Daydreaming Karen Moran I sit in class thinking about the weekend thinking about what to do, where to go, and who to bring along but mostly I’m thinking of you. The way you look at me with those puppy dog eyes and a smile that can brighten anyone’s day I often wonder if this is all a dream and that I’m going to wake up from it soon. I hope not because you’re the perfect example of a daydream.
22
Broken Karen Moran The tables are about to turn and my walls are about to come down no more holding back now no more excuses no regrets no more second guessing myself no more feeling like i’m broken I wish you could have seen what you meant to me but you pushed me away closed the door on us and threw away the key I miss you this emptiness is killing me I didn’t want it to be this way but i guess destiny just got away from me I’m searching for a way to say all the things I’ve been wanting to say you left me broken down and wondering I thought that this time would have been different I’ll never give up on us is all i would hear you say what happened to that person that i thought i knew we used to be good together we used to be so in sync but some things are about to be made because I’m breaking these chains I’m stepping out I’m setting myself free it’s time to do this my way I’ve opened my eyes I’ve finally seen can you see it written on my face? The tables are about to turn and my walls are about to come down no more holding back now no more excuses no regrets no more second guessing myself no more feeling like i’m broken Now that it’s over i guess you should be on your way there’s nothing keeping you around here anymore you showed me a side of you that I’d never seen before you left me broken and feeling so helpless i didn’t know what to think I really thought that things would have been different this time around The tables are about to turn and my walls are about to come down no more holding back now no more excuses no regrets no more second guessing myself no more feeling like i’m broken
23
Passion Flower Hope Perry
24
Frosty Leaves Hope Perry
25
African Violets Judy Westley As I lean across the bathroom windowsill to pinch spent blossoms off the violets, I wonder how it is possible to keep a thing fresh and attractive. Nature conspires against it. Just this morning, on this very spot, you stood holding my thickened waist and fingered my delicate outcrop of silver hairs. * Usually we choose new violets together. You lift the white plastic pots with both hands, close to your face. Sometimes I hear you mumble to a single flower: how pretty. * African Violet Magazine: packed with feeding plans and expert grooming tips. Full-color photos of prize-winning violets seduce with their stylish frills and curvaceous foliage. All the growers say: It’s a labor of love, endowing their creations with trendy female names and questionable ambitions: Bianca, Irish Flirt, Music Box Dancer. As I lumber through the day in my tree-trunk body, wishing I were a violet. * Orchids versus Violets. The secret debate roils in my heart. For so long, I have loved only violets, pleased at the touch of their velvet leaves. But now, on occasion, an orchid in a shop window will turn to me its speckled face and bare its pink throat.
26
* My first violet is still my best, pushing forth a constant, fist-sized throb of blossoms. I found it in Housewares at the Kmart, purple and alone in its bib of leaves among the marbled philodendrons. I found you at a party, alone among the pinstripes and Arrow button-downs, wearing a green collarless shirt, your eyes a glittering blue that said: Someone get me out of here. I felt a purple pulsing in my chest. * Walter St. Paul discovered the African violet in the Usambara Mountains of Tanzania in 1892. He dug up specimens and brought them back to Germany. Today their descendants are legion— thousands of hybrids, sports, spontaneous mutations. But the wild violets are dying, their rainforests vanishing like thinning curls of steam. Therein I find the whole story of torrid love: the stunning discovery, the possession, the uprooting, the giving over of our whole being into other hands, hands that work in us a thousand small changes, at last leaving us passionless on a dark continent of loneliness. * Last summer, a dozen violets erupted all at once, the windowsill a battleground of color—crimson, indigo, high intensity pink. We fought a lot, words bursting, crowding the air. One afternoon, you brought me home a cyclamen— cool weather plant, but somehow still in bloom. I placed it in the center of the shelf among the violets. Its heart-shaped leaves spread wildly, its white flowers lifted high, like small flags.
27
How to Forget That Certain Someone Judy Westley
Do not return to the groomed parks, to the brick paths, cracks padded with moss. Sleep undisturbed, with your fingers laced, your face and toes turned up. Do not sing during breakfast. Trace no letters or shapes on the damask napkins. Read travelogues for cities south of the equator. Purchase suede-lined gloves and broad-brimmed hats. Wear orange or lime, but not pale yellow. On Fridays, indulge in chocolates and crushed sugar cubes. Eat. No meager portions. Eat the larger half. Do not name flowers blooming in someone else’s garden— Nicotiana, peony, columbine—Do not repeat them. When their complicated fragrances come at you, Step back. Watch television. Laugh. Admire The incandescent, unmarked bodies. Stay indoors. In late autumn, when a strong storm Strips the trees, let them flail and soak.
28
Village Chief (Woodcut) Carl D. Jones
29
Ballerinas - Crazy Elf Kim Klein
30
Beware the Ecotroll, My Son! (With apologies to Lewis Carroll) Ken Powis
Beware the ecotroll, my son! The jerky gait and frumpish mop That slays the madres of the young And stalls the keen eveledrops With warnoks and the kiner maub The Ecotroll perverts the souls By slashing through the soupenflesh Of young and vinea-minded foals With chass and sackawm trickery The tacochawts look out to sea The thousand fiends of dubious fame Contrive to brew a poisonous tea To post and freeze top veldemen The cruel and zyrac Ecotroll Enlists the aid of tenincoin And groups of unsuspecting droll So, heed the warning of the dogs Beware the Ecotroll, my son Don’t ever leave your back exposed And stay before the rising sun
31
Shore Evan Gentner
32
Ocean Sunset Ken Powis
The ever-lengthening shadows On the surface of the foam Cast kaleidoscopic colors As the sun slides slowly home The backdrop of vermillion Of scarlet, pink and gold Fused with multi shades of ochre In an epicanthic fold As this panoply of color Fades gently out of sight The moonlit dappled darkness Draws the curtain of the night The frothy, frosted icing foam That crested on the waves Like a sparkling, lacy, bridal veil Shines only in the days The ghosts of ancient mariners Rise from the ocean deep To relive their seaman’s memories From before eternal sleep I await the magic morning As the cycle starts again When the streams of glorious sunlight Come rising o’er the main
33
Untitled Brittany Warden
34
Confused Puppy Harley Chambers
35
Shih Tzu n’ a Cell Phone: A Retelling of Puss N’ Boots Kelley Pujol
Dedicated to Jennifer Spaghetti and Abby Poodle - wherever you are There once was a woman who had been very beautiful. She was still very well preserved, but in an architectural kind of way. Her name was Lady Lola and she owned the most prestigious dance agency in all of Italy. She also owned a very nice and very new Lexus. But one day, Lady Lola received an e-mail from the United States. The e-mail was from Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas, and it invited her to become a Vegas showgirl. Since this had always been her dream, she accepted immediately. Then she tapped her fire engine red hair and said, “Poo–Poo, whatever am I going to do about my children?” She called her children to her. She had three children, two grown boys and a young girl of fifteen. The boys were named Antonio and Mario. The girl was named Jasmenia. “Children,” said Lady Lola, “Momma must go to America. Antonio, you shall be in charge of the dance agency, as you are the eldest. Mario, you shall be given the Lexus as you are the next to the eldest. The two of you must work together to continue the dance agency and make lots of money.” “But what about me, Momma?” asked Jasmenia. Lady Lola looked at Jasmenia as if she had just suddenly remembered her existence. “Well, I suppose you must continue dancing. Don’t worry; you have your cell phone and your Auntie Nai-Nai.” Then, in a cloud of perfume and Versace, Lady Lola was gone. The brothers gave each other a high five and raced for the car keys. Young Jasmenia looked at the cell phone in her hand, and at Auntie Nai-Nai who was busily licking one of her feet. I think, dear reader, I have neglected to mention one pertinent fact: Auntie Nai-Nai was a Shih-Tzu. Young Jasmenia was beyond depressed. She knew she could not count 36
on her brothers who were both frivolous and foolish. “Whatever will I do?” she thought. “Soon my cell phone will die, and this Shih-Tzu isn’t even a very good Shih-Tzu. She eats entirely too much, has an under bite, and even smells bad. I probably couldn’t even give her away, much less profit by her.” Young Jasmenia lay her head in her hands. “If you were to give me your cell phone while you are at dance practice, I could solve your problems,” said Auntie Nai-Nai. “What can you do with a cell phone but chew it up or…worse?” asked Jasmenia skeptically. “What have you got to lose?” asked Auntie Nai-Nai. So, Jasmenia gave Auntie Nai-Nai the cell phone and went off to her dance practice. While Jasmenia was at dance practice, Auntie Nai-Nai sat at a sidewalk café, enjoying a cappuccino with extra cream and a biscotti regina. Because this was Italy (or perhaps because this is a fairy tale) no one thought it unusual for a somewhat disheveled Shih-Tzu with a milky moustache to be sitting at the café with a cell phone. At just that moment, the famous art director of the Ballet Italiana sat down her bag and cell phone at the table next to Auntie Nai-Nai and went up to the counter to order. In no time flat, Auntie Nai-Nai made excellent use of her under bite and ruined the director’s cell phone. As the director returned with her espresso, she reached for her phone and saw that it was crushed. She sighed heavily. “Can I assist you?” asked Auntie Nai-Nai. “Well,” began the art director, “my cell phone is ruined, and I must obtain a male dancer for tonight’s performance. He doesn’t have to be very good, just handsome, and very strong. Whatever shall I do?” “You are in luck,” answered Auntie Nai-Nai, “For I have a cell phone, and my mistress, The Contessa of Spangheletti, owns the most impressive dance agency in all of Italy, and she is an accomplished ballerina herself. Perhaps we could provide you with such a male dancer.” “If you could, I would be ever so grateful, both to you and your mistress. The diva, the Ballerina LaGrande, needs a new dancer each night to lift her 37
during her finale, and she would not be at all pleased if I failed her.” “I have heard of this Ballerina LaGrande,” answered Auntie Nai-Nai. “She is French, is she not, and well, very grande. Have you ever considered replacing her?” The art director looked very frightened and whispered, “Oh no! Watch what you say! She is no ordinary diva. She has, well, powers. Can you help me?” “Consider it done,” said Auntie Nai-Nai. There the art director and Auntie Nai-Nai parted, and Auntie Nai-Nai proceeded to the dance agency. There she found the brothers of Jasmenia engaged in frivolity and foolishness. She went easily unnoticed as she opened the file cabinet marked “Hunky But Not Very Good Male Dancers” and chose several to be sent to the Ballet. Once her task was completed she returned home. Upon her arrival at home, she took the cell phone and called each of the male dancers. She told them they were to say they were sent to the Ballet by the Contessa of Spangheletti, or she would see to it that their legs were broken! Of course, the dancers agreed to this, as they were quite vain, not particularly bright, and rather proud of their shapely legs. The next day, Jasmenia awoke to find Auntie Nai-Nai sitting on her chest. “Hurry and wake up!” said Auntie Nai-Nai. “Today you must do exactly as I say. If you do exactly as I say, your future and your fortune will be assured. Now, first, you must eat your breakfast.” Jasmenia leaned up and looked at the bowl of cold fettuccini sitting on her bed. “You didn’t, eh, taste it, did you?” “No,” snipped Auntie Nai-Nai, “now hurry, and remember, you must do exactly as I say.” Before she knew it, Jasmenia was standing in front of the theatre with Auntie Nai-Nai. Just then, a car pulled to the curb and the artistic director of the Ballet Italiana began to exit the vehicle. “Quick,” said Auntie Nai-Nai, “rub some of that dirt on your face, rip your shirt and mess up your hair. Then throw one of your shoes in the gutter and fall down!” 38
“But I love these shoes,” began Jasmenia. “Exactly as I say,” pronounced Auntie Nai-Nai. Then, turning in the direction of the artistic director, Auntie Nai-Nai began to shout, “Help! Help! Someone has assaulted the Contessa of Spangheletti! Help, Help!” The artistic director ran over to Auntie Nai-Nai and Jasmenia immediately. “This is an outrage!” fumed the artistic director, “and right here in front of the theatre! Have these ruffians no shame? Dear Contessa, please, you must come in and calm yourself.” With these words, she lifted Jasmenia from the gutter. “It is even worse than you can imagine,” said Auntie Nai-Nai, “for these hooligans have taken the purse of the Contessa! It contained her keys, her address, everything. She is now afraid to return home for fear these criminals may attempt to kidnap her in order to ransom her for her fortune!” “That is horrible,” said the artistic director. She whipped out her new cell phone and immediately booked Jasmenia a suite at the finest hotel in the city, plus arranged to have several designers visit her that afternoon with some ready to wear, all at the expense of the theatre. “No less can be done for the Contessa of Spangheletti,” said the director, “and you must return tonight to the theatre and watch the ballet. I will send my own car.” So, while Jasmenia was relaxing at the hotel, Auntie Nai-Nai wandered around the theatre. Finally, she spotted a dressing room door that read “La Diva LaGrande.” Auntie Nai-Nai nudged the door open just in time to see La Diva devour a live rat. Auntie Nai-Nai swallowed hard. The rumors she had heard were true. La Diva LaGrande was an ogre! But Auntie Nai-Nai could not stop at this point in her quest. “Bonjour, La Diva,” said Auntie Nai-Nai, “I have come to pay my respects and offer my services.” La Diva turned around and looked down at Auntie Nai-Nai. Slowly, she smiled but it was not a happy smile. Her teeth were pointed and there was still a piece of rat hair caught in one of them. “What possible service could you provide me,” she asked, “unless it was dessert?” She laughed at her own joke, but it was not a happy laugh. Auntie Nai-Nai’s blood ran cold. 39
“One as great and powerful as yourself never knows when one will require a lowly servant to carry out a task that one such as yourself is entirely too mighty and strong to perform. This is my most humble suggestion,” said Auntie Nai-Nai. “Foolish beast,” answered La Diva, “did you not know I can turn myself into anything, even the smallest animal?” “You are even greater than the stories that are told about you! How powerful you must be! You could turn yourself even into a miserable little dog like me?” asked Auntie Nai-Nai. La Diva waved her ringed and bloated hand, “That is nothing,” she said, “even smaller.” “This is most incredible! How powerful you are! You could even turn yourself into a little mole?” La Diva chuckled. “Any ogre worth his or her salt can do that,” she answered. “I am so honored to stand in the presence of such power and greatness,” exclaimed Auntie Nai-Nai, “to turn yourself into an ant, now, that would be something to see.” “Well, watch this,” said La Diva as she stood up. La Diva began to spin rapidly until she was only a blur of colors. Then, when all the colors had faded away, there lay on the floor where she had been standing a black ant. Auntie Nai-Nai walked over to the ant and making good use of her under bite, crushed it in her jaw. “Ta Ta, La Diva,” said Auntie Nai-Nai. Just at that moment, the artistic director appeared at the door. “La Diva has left us,” said Auntie Nai-Nai. “She said she is bored with ballet and will not return.” “But what about tonight’s performance?” asked the artistic director. “Who shall dance the lead?” “Never fear,” said Auntie Nai-Nai, “I am sure the Contessa of Spangheletti will fill in for you after your great kindness to her this very afternoon.” 40
“I will be forever in your debt,� said the artistic director. And so, it came to pass that Jasmenia danced the lead and became the most famous ballerina in all of Italy and eventually all of Europe. Even the King of France was enchanted with her. He even hinted that perhaps she would be a good match for his son, le Dauphin, but since Jasmenia had two brothers who were both frivolous and foolish, she was not too anxious to marry. Jasmenia also knew that ever since Auntie Nai-Nai had crushed La Diva in the form of an ant, Auntie Nai-Nai had a distinct dislike of French food.
41
Serious Dog Harley Chambers
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The Talk Paul Hitchcock I had a long talk with my father tonight. It wasn’t creepy or uncomfortable like most father and son talks are. Of course, we are both full grown men now, so we can now discuss full grown man stuff, and I can finally understand what Dad means when he says some of the things he says. I had had a hard day, so the evening being a nice cool spring night, coupled with the fact that the huge Hickory tree out in the backyard had managed to lose a few branches during the last storm that had blown through, gave me the opportunity to burn some of the fallen limbs. It was mostly smaller stuff that I had cut up so it could be burned in a fire pit. I don’t know why, but for some reason just watching the flames lick the wood and rise and fall with the wind, and hearing the crackling of the fire as it consumes the wood is just so relaxing. It was a clear night, fairly dark, because there wasn’t much of a moon to speak of. There was a slight warm breeze blowing in from the south, but there was still enough of a chill in the air for a cozy small fire. I got the fire going good and sat back to relax, almost falling asleep. That’s when I heard him clear his throat. He did it regularly, I guess because he was a smoker for so many years. It startled me to the point that I just about turned my chair over when I jumped. I had of course thought that I had been alone all this time. When I recovered, I looked across the fire to the other chair and noticed my father sitting there. “Hey Dad, I didn’t see you sitting there,” was all I could think to say at the moment, still trying to recover my composure. “I have been here the whole time Paul, I don’t know how you could have missed me,” he replied with a grin, then lit a Winston cigarette and made himself comfortable. We sat in silence for a few moments just enjoying the fire and the silence and solitude of the beautiful Tennessee evening. The conversation started out slow, but then picked up as conversations tend to do. We started with the usual small talk about all sorts of things. We talked about his career in law enforcement, and how that had come to an end. I loved hearing him tell the stories of camaraderie between him and his colleagues. He sat there and told stories that I had heard many times before about practical jokes they would play on each other and all the colorful characters he had had opportunity to meet over the years. Even now 43
they were still just as funny and we shared several laughs. We spoke about the trouble I had gotten into with the law; and my bringing shame to the family name, although he didn’t seem too concerned about that part. “You did what you thought you had to do in order to provide for your family, you made a poor choice. The question is did you learn anything from the experience?” he asked. “Yes sir, I did,” I replied. “I learned you never know who you can trust, and that crime doesn’t pay.” “Well, in that case, it was well worth making the mistake, son. “We sat for awhile longer in the silence just enjoying the glow from the fire. “You know, I made my fair share of mistakes growing up,” he stated, “and I guess it’s because of those mistakes I became the man I am.” He lit up another cigarette and then finished his thought. “I did things I’m not proud of in my life too.” I sat and listened as he talked and then asked him what it was that he had done that was so bad. “I put hands on your mother, a better woman you will never find, but I did. I always felt bad about it afterward, but that still didn’t keep me from doing it again the next time I lost my temper.” He sighed and looked me right dead in the eyes. “That’s something you need to watch out for son. You are my son, and, as they say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You got my temper, and it’s ugly. You need to be a better man than me and control it instead of letting it control you.” He leaned forward and stretched his hands toward the fire. I could see then clearly that the hands that had always been so strong and tough on me as a child growing up, were now older, and more feeble looking. “I have for the most part Dad. I just let things get to me to the point I get so mad that it literally gives me coronaries,” I laughed, trying to bring some levity to the subject. “It’s no laughing matter son,” he raised his voice a little, but not in an angry way, “get control of it before it takes you out.” He leaned back in his chair and spoke again in a calmer tone “would you mind doing me a favor, since your Mom doesn’t speak to me anymore? Would you tell her that I finally realized what my temper cost me, and that I am sorry?” I could see the tear roll down his cheek by the firelight as he asked this favor of me.
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Somehow for a boy, even one that has grown into a man, watching your father cry is just a hard thing to see. I had only seen my Dad cry one other time in my life, the day my Mamaw, his mother, died. He barely made it through the eulogy. “Sure I will Dad, but I’m certain she already knows.” He just nodded in agreement. We spoke for what seemed like hours about every possible subject you could think of. We talked about my kids, my grandkids, his great grandkids. He told me that I had done a pretty good job with them. To hear my Dad tell me that brought about a feeling of pride. I had done something that had pleased him and therefore, I was pleased. It is funny how as children we rebel against our parents and try so hard to grow up to be different from them, only to one day hope that we can somehow measure up to their expectations of what they had hoped we would become. Knowing that I had done something that my Dad was proud of me for gave me a since of accomplishment. “All you can do, as a parent, is try to give your children the best of yourself and teach them right from wrong and hope that it sticks in this world today,” he said. I agreed and we continued to talk. We talked about college football, “Go Gators!!” That’s our team. If we couldn’t find anything else to talk about, you could bet we could spend an hour or more talking football. We would first discuss the team, and then the coaching staff, as if we were some kind of experts in collegiate sports. We spoke on into the night until the fire had burned down to just embers. I yawned, because I had been up for some time and it was getting late. I got up to go into the house. I stepped around the fire pit and shook my Dad’s hand. “I really enjoyed our talk tonight Dad. We should do this more often.” Dad just smiled and said “I’m always here Paul, anytime.” I turned to walk back toward the house and as an afterthought turned to ask him if he wanted to do the same tomorrow night, but when I turned he was gone. I smiled in my heart and turned and walked on into the house. 45
Companion Kendra Connor
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I Have a Horse Susanna Holmes I am apparently one of those women who never entirely quieted a girlish crush for horses. The first conversation with my father that I truly remember concerned my earliest equine love, Fury, the black stallion of the 1950s television show of the same name. I was maybe five or six years old. My dad was painting the side of the white clapboard house we lived in. I can see him now, working, but listening to me, too. I told him I really needed a black horse. He was noncommittal. Wonderful father that he was, had I been just a little older I would have realized that there was nothing in his daily life that indicated any interest in the expense and care of a horse. And so I lowered my expectations and as I grew older contented myself with reading everything I could find about horses: Walter Farley’s Black Stallion series, National Velvet, anything about the thoroughbred Man O’ War. I very much disliked Black Beauty – not the horse, the story. Eventually, all that adolescent prose led to exciting, vivid narratives I made up in bed at night before falling asleep. I would replay again and again the climactic life and death scene when I would mount my beautiful chestnut (by then I preferred the red horses) and gallop across the countryside - jumping hedges and fences along the way - to save… well, there were various scenarios, all too involved to share here. My interest waned in the decades that followed. I was busy with school, friends, and later, family, and career. And then, one day our children were gone and I began to feel once again – fifty years later – the old pangs of want and I knew that I needed a horse. I have a horse. I am sixty-four years old and ride a beautiful, big, soft-eyed gelding. When he came to me, I changed his barn name. Some say that’s bad luck. I haven’t really had any bad luck with him, well, not much, except that one time when I hit the ground and my body went electric and then there was the ride at Laurel Hill when we got caught in wild rose briars and I rode for several hours afterward bleeding with my shirt ripped in two down the back, and I suppose I could count the time I was almost decapitated. Still…….. There’s something about a horse. 47
I’m not sentimental enough to believe that my horse loves me, certainly not in the way our Border Collie, Pippin, loves me. But he seems to enjoy my company on occasion. He likes a light touch on his soft nose, a scratch on his ears or withers, a brushing down his back. And, fortunately for me, he likes to amble up and down a trail all tacked out with me on his back and then, when I cue him, let fly in a running walk so fast it surprises people. One time during a lesson my riding instructor was trying to teach me to canter. As I said, Pie’s a big fellow, 16.2 or 3 at the withers with beautiful long, straight legs and I guess he just didn’t think the area was big enough for him because he wouldn’t canter but just go faster and faster at the running walk. As my teacher watched him, she laughed aloud, delighted, calling out, “I’ve never seen a horse move that fast that wasn’t galloping.” That’s Pie. Or Pilot. A double-registered Spotted Saddle/ Tennessee Walking Horse, his official name is Allen’s Favorite Starbuck. Starbuck must be for the beautiful white mark that graces his finely shaped, almost feminine head. Allen is for his heritage bloodline. He was called Big Mate when I got him. Eight years old then, he’d been called that for a long time. But it wasn’t a good fit for me. I have to credit my husband Mark with the name Pilot. He’d thought about using it, remembered it as the name of Mr. Rochester’s Newfoundland in Jane Eyre. I wanted the name. I asked for the name. And Mark gave it to me. And neither he nor his horse, Crook, minded. While I adore Pilot, and more importantly, trust him more than I would most other horses, he is not perfect. I am not tall and as I get older I seem to be less tall than I might have once been. I will never be able to mount him from the ground. Moreover, to my sometime embarrassment, dismounting presents its own challenges. Luckily for me, Pie is exceptional and he either doesn’t care or has decided to put up with my short stature. But the trouble doesn’t end there. To safely get off this high horse, after dragging my leg over his back, I must then pause, lean against this great animal with my left foot still in the stirrup, kick out and drop what seems like six feet to the ground. Most of the time, the process works – with some minor jarring. Occasionally, it doesn’t. But I don’t really want to talk about those times other than to say that Mark makes a point of standing near just in case…………….. My fastest dismount was involuntary. It was late October and our first ride in a couple of months as I had been recovering from my second knee 48
surgery. Mark and I were riding the Natchez Trace trail from Highway 7 north toward the new 840 bridge. It’s a beautiful area to ride – the vegetation a bit close in places – and the horses seemed to be enjoying the trail and its minor challenges as much as we. We had just come out of the woods that separated the Trace parkway from the old Natchez Trace Road. Pilot and I were leading and stopped on a bank of grass overlooking the parkway on our left, the old road on our right, enjoying the open air after the closeness of the woods. Behind me I heard Mark softly speak the first syllable of my name, “Sus………..,” and then I was in the air, horizontal, seeing Pie beside me, an empty saddle on his back. I slammed onto the ground, not soft with grass, but hard-packed, my body charged with the violence of the impact, electrical currents surging through my legs. Mark was on the ground, standing over me, asking, “Are you alright?” Because of the shock and the pain I couldn’t speak for a moment. And then I cried, “I’m paralyzed! I’m paralyzed!” Somewhat surprisingly to me, Mark didn’t fall to his knees or offer aide. Rather, while still standing, he said, “Susanna, move your legs. You’re not paralyzed. Move your legs.” Of course, he was right. I wasn’t paralyzed and I did move my legs. Meanwhile, my friendly horse had turned to me, head down, checking me out, with an expression that read, “What are you doing down there?” I was down there because a bicyclist had chosen to ride the old road that morning and had come up behind us very fast and very quietly. Pilot must have caught a glimpse of the bike almost upon him and he reacted with a spin, a 180, hard and fast, and I went flying. Mark had seen the bicyclist a moment before and had tried to warn me, but not in time. I was hurting, but ashamed of my earlier panic, and assured Mark I was okay to ride. He helped me up and we found a fallen tree. Somehow I mounted and insisted we continue. We rode on for another thirty minutes up and down several gullies until I realized that I was experiencing too much pain for pleasure, so we turned back for the two hour ride to the trailer. It was tough, as was dismounting and the ride in the truck going home. Five days later when the hurting wouldn’t stop I learned I had fractured a vertebra. I learned something about my horse as well. Like any prey animal he is susceptible to the flight instinct, but here’s the thing…………. he didn’t bolt, run off with me, or trample or drag me. He stayed his ground after the initial scare. If I had done as well as he, I’d have kept my seat. We ride most often at Laurel Hill, Garrison Creek, and Sewanee, maybe my favorite place. In the two years since my fall I’ve settled into the acceptance of Pie as the only horse I’ll claim as my own. I’d convinced 49
myself that I needed a shorter fellow, 15 hands or so, but I’ve come to realize that I’m not going to find another horse like him. For a rider like me, he really is the best in so many ways. Good-natured and patient. Admittedly, sometimes a little hard-headed when he’s not been ridden often enough. But smart. Fast when I want him to be. And graced with beautiful confirmation. He likes people. He likes me. Not because of treats because we don’t give our horses apples and carrots and so forth. He likes our touch, maybe our smell. He comes when I call. As long as Mark helps me with mounting I’m okay. And that’s okay. I’m not the only person on the trail who uses a mounting block or a fallen log or an overturned bucket. And I confess that I’m always proud to be on him when we trail ride. I particularly enjoy compliments from other riders, true horse people who know how to measure quality. In July of 2013 we sent the horses to our trainer Jason to get them into shape. Both had gained too much weight and Mark wanted to take Pilot out west for some trail riding. I remember well Jason’s comment to me about my horse. He mentioned that he’d gotten a call around midnight the night before from an acquaintance who had spotted one of his horses (Jason has about 40 on the place) miles away. One of his mares had apparently gotten through a fence. The next morning Mark and I had gone out to Jason’s to ride and I suppose he wanted us to know that Pie had had a busy night. As I prepared to get him out of his stall, Jason told us about the runaway horse and then looked at me and said, “I rode your horse to find that mare and bring her back.” And then he added, “He’s the best horse on this place.” Why would I want to ride another? When I meet women who ride, who live and work with horses, I am always impressed with their confidence, their athleticism, their physical presence. I don’t have all that. I came to riding and working with horses too late. But I have a bit of it. I’ve learned a few things.
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Sydney Evan Gentner
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Hope for Tomorrow Europe Modena-Dooley Hope for tomorrow, to stand together. To be different but unique. To help others and not put down. To just make a dream come true. Together we have each other, and together we have power. Let’s not make a dream become a dream, but make a dream come to reality.
Hope Mariah Dawn Clifton
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What I Love Feather Alsup
I love the stars their constellations and mystery. I love books and the magic they hold. So I love magic! I love snow its beauty and wonder, soft and cold. I love music that provides sound to thoughts. I love heartbeats. Our internal metronome for our dance through life. I love the rain that washes away the old. I love my friends who surround me with their love. I love my family and their support. With all these things I love what I love least is Me. But what makes me start to love me is You. So of all these things I love, I love you most.
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Unmasked Lyndsie Worley
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Natural Profile Lyndsie Worley
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Chronicles of Noah: Labors of the Son, an excerpt Benjaman Alexander Judd Noah first learned of the depth of the villager’s hatred for him when he was four years old. Because his mother was ill, Noah went down the mountain for help – alone. While in the village, he received no kindness. Lone children would run from or attack him with rocks or whatever else they could throw. Adults would ignore him, giving him threatening looks that showed their desire to be rid of him. If he tried to enter a store, he would be faced with the same treatment, literally being kicked out. He tried for hours before giving up. Bruised and injured, he unconsciously wandered into the cemetery trying to stay clear of any people. The gray clouds completely blocked out the sky and threatened heavy rain. Finding a grave marker with a large, stone-angel kneeling in prayer, he sat against it in the fetal position and buried his face in his knees. He began to cry. Several minutes went by; his tears had stopped but still his face was buried in his knees. “Here you go. Now please stop moping,” said a young girl’s voice. Noah raised his head enough to see the girl leaning over him with one hand on her knee and the other holding a bottle of medicine out to him. Showing a comforting smile, she continued, “This will make your mommy all better, so please stop crying.” Standing up, he cautiously took the medicine and sniffled, “Thank you.” He examined her as she was obviously not a villager. The girl seemed to be six years old. The left side of her shoulder-length blond hair was tucked behind her ear and a violet lock hung in her face. She had big, violet eyes. She wore a pink shirt with a red heart on it, a white jacket tied around her waist, a white skirt, and white shoes with pink laces. “Um, hello-o-o,” she said waving a hand in front of his face – getting his attention. “W-What,” he responded, holding the medicine bottle close to his chest. Giggling, she introduced herself, “Hi, I’m Kerry.” She held out her hand. 56
Taking it, he said, “I’m Noah…Why are you giving me this? Don’t you…hate me?” She looked shocked by this and cried, “Hate?! I could never hate you!” She looked at him lovingly and chimed, “I love you silly. And, I already knew who you are – you didn’t have to tell me.” “How?” he asked, cocking his head to the side in confusion. Patting him on the head, she cheerfully cooed, “I’d be a pretty horrible big sister if I didn’t know my adorable little brother’s name.” “…Little brother,” he thought. He opened his mouth to ask more but was cut off by two voices. “That is enough – Kerry,” said one of them – annoyed. The other mocked, “How cute!” Kerry huffed and puffed out her cheeks. Noah moved to see around the grave marker. He found two older girls standing there. Kerry walked from behind the marker and faced the two girls. “Geneva,” she said to the younger one – her tone equally annoyed, “Deana,” she called the older one with some hostility. Geneva was the younger one, maybe nine years old. She had waist-length, glistening silver hair and fair skin. Her proud eyes were a light blue. She was wearing a button-up, white dress shirt – with a red bow tied around the collar and black frills at the bottom of the sleeves – tucked into a long, black skirt with white frills at the bottom; black knee-socks; and brown shoes. Deana was the older one at about twelve. She had silky, black hair that fell past her waist. Her skin was similar to Olga’s, and her eyes were a sly, mischievous deep blue. She had a rather overly developed body for her age. And her outfit was a skin tight, black half-shirt – exposing her midriff – a belt of a black miniskirt and low-heeled shoes. She wore black lipstick and nail polish. They walked toward the two younger children. Noah moved back – allowing Geneva to confront Kerry. While the two stared each other down, Deana strolled up and took a seat besides the standing Noah against the marker. He squirmed under Deana’s amused gaze. “You’re cuter then I thought – little 57
No~ah,” she said, pronouncing his name slowly. She gave a small laugh. “I’m Deana – a lilim. My cousin and sister over there is Kerry – a succubus. And, the bitch who acts like she’s better than everyone is Genie – a vampire.” “Deana,” Geneva near-barked. Deana rolled her eyes and smirked in response. “Whatever – Genie,” she said tauntingly. Geneva pinched the bridge of her nose as a show of her irritation. “Kerry, what part of ‘Do not confront Noah’ did you not understand?” “His mommy is sick and –, ”Kerry began with false honesty. “That is an excuse – she will be fine in a day or so with or without medicine. Now answer my question.” “He is my–” “I don’t care.” “He could be any of our–” “I do not care.” “He might even be your–” “Enough!” Geneva had reached the end of her patience. “Do not lump me in with some whore’s misled notion of…” She didn’t finish, only making a sound of disgust. “What are they talking about,” Noah whispered to Deana. Deana opened her mouth to answer but was interrupted by a stern Geneva. “Not. One. Word. Deana.” Deana raised her hands in playful surrender. Geneva walked over and stood over Noah. He quivered under her harsh stare. She raised her hand toward him. He lowered his head and squeezing his eyes shut – readying to be hit. He was surprised and relaxed when her hand simply patted his head awkwardly. Walking away, she called, “Deana, we’re leaving. Get Kerry.” Deana stood up, patted herself off, and walked toward a protesting Kerry. Grabbing Kerry by the back collar of her shirt, Deana swung her over her 58
shoulder like a rag-doll. Then, she began walking after the vampire. Kerry thrashed around – ordering to be put down. Soon, all three were gone. Some time passed before he made his way home. Taking the long way around the village and hiking up the snowy mountain, Noah returned home and gave his mother the medicine. It was glorious. Noah stood in the middle of an exquisite garden. Everything – the sky, plants, and even the ground – seemed to radiate with light. The tall hedges that turned – shaping the garden into a labyrinth – were twice Noah’s size – with vines interwoven in them blooming with yellow and white flowers. The various arches of the garden that reached higher than the hedges were bending trees with the flower growing vines wrapping around them. Noah had been here before, and like before, it was just a dream. And, just like every time before, there he was. In front of Noah – in the middle of the garden – were two large, parallel, golden trees with a plethora of shimmering, gold leaves. From somewhere in the leaves of each tree, a silver chain shimmered in the light and coiled around his arms – pulling them up; they met over his chest and were locked with an iron padlock. Similar chains came out of the ground and coiled around his lower legs and pulled back into the ground – holding him down on his knees. He looked almost exactly like Noah except his hair, skin, and irises were stark white; his clothes, lips, nails, sclera, and the inside of his mouth were all black. The ‘Other-Noah’ looked up at Noah with the same crazed, smiling expression he usually had and said, “Hurry up – ‘King’. He’s waited long enough, so get off your ass and move.” And, just like that, Noah woke up – his head in his arms, sitting at the wooden kitchen table. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “You had that dream again – didn’t you?” said his mother without looking at him, washing the dishes. “I wish he would tell you what it is he wants you to do and who it is that’s waiting.” Noah had been having this dream ever since his encounter with Deana, Geneva, and Kerry a few weeks ago. The location of the dream was always the same and the boy was always there, and he almost always said the same thing. Noah was worried at how serious his mother got whenever he had the 59
dream and how curious she was at what the other him would say. As Olga finished the dishes and turned toward him, he decided to get some answers. He asked, “Mommy, do you have any other kids?” She stiffened for a moment before asking, “Why do you ask moy syn?” He retailed his meeting with Kerry, Geneva, and Deana. “I see,” she said. After a deep sigh, she continued, “Well, Noah – moy spasitel’ –, yes I do have other children in this world. Три – three – including you: a girl and two boys.” “Can I meet them?” he asked hopefully. “Maybe,” she responded vaguely. “Oh… Well, what are they –” “Noah… I’d rather not talk about it.” He whimpered and sank in his seat. “What about those girls I met? How are they my sisters?” She sighed before speaking unhappily, “Undoubtedly, they are your father’s children.” Noah knew nothing of his father: his mother didn’t talk about him but the villagers would whisper about his father when they saw Noah. Curiously, he asked, “And, my dad, who is he, and is he really the immortal evil?” Giving a heavy sigh, she answered in a tone that made Noah nervous, “Lucifer, he is your otets – your father.”
“Lucifer,” he repeated.
“Yes, near three hundred years ago, he ruled this world. Some believe he is dead, others wish he is, and some believe he’s alive – I and the people of these villages are the latter. As for ‘the immortal evil,’ he may be immortal but…to be honest I don’t believe there is evil. There is factual, objective right and biased wrong. There can be multiple sides to a situation – calling one good or the other evil is mere justification. “So then, what would you like for dinner later?” 60
This was her way of ending the conversation.