Venture Table of Contents Essay, Letters Volume 1 - Fall 2009
Poetry Alphabet Soup .......................................1 Mary Sellers, Brandon, MS Blades of Grass ......................................2 Alexander Pipes, Madison, MS Chug A Lug ............................................3 Ashley McMahan, Austin, TX Energy Poem ..........................................6 Amelia Allen, Atlanta, GA Frustration Poem ................................13 Lili Wallace, Nashville, TN Good Morning .....................................16 R. W., West Point, MS Laundry ...............................................21 K. K. Jenkins, Columbus, GA Love Poem ............................................24 Mary Sellers, Brandon, MS Love Song .............................................25 Mary Sellers, Brandon, MS Masquerade .........................................26 Virginia England, Jackson, MS Nursery Rhyme ....................................27 Melissa Blassingame, Madison, MS Untitled Poem .....................................28 Melissa Blassingame, Madison, MS Poem .....................................................29 Farris Miller, Jackson, MS Swallow Freed .....................................30 Charity Scott, Tupelo, MS Trapped ................................................31 B. H., Charlottesville, VA
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George .............................................14-15 K. K. Jenkins, Columbus, GA Letter to Dad ......................................4-5 Brandon Robbins, Mobile, AL
Short Stories Faith ...................................................7-8 Danielle Smith, Oxford, MS Flash Forward ..................................9-12 Randi Watson, West Point, MS Here, But Now They Are Gone .....17-20 Jack Mason, Oxford, MS Love Note ........................................22-23 Samantha Donahue, Brandon, MS Understanding ...............................32-34 Kate Basler, Baltimore, MD Letter from the Editor ..........................35
Volunteer Readers P. Keith Boran Chip Dunkin JoAnn Edwards Mark Franks Jennie Gunn
K. K. Jenkins Mandy Murfee Patricia O'Sullivan Matt Saye James Thomas
Artists Virginia England (painting) Cover, ps. 13, 27, 28, 34, back cover Ashley McMahan (photography) ps.12, 16, 24 Randi Watson (painting) ps. 26, 31 Charity Scott (photography) ps. 6, 15, 20, 21, 23, 25, 29, 30
Alphabet Soup Mary Buchanan Sellers
I’ve swallowed the blues somehow. Gotten them stuck in my throat, wheezing up notes and hiccups through my nose until I’m red in the face. They’re in me, now creeping down the inner lining of some damn biology term
and cutting a corner of two more (or four), and a half. When it tickles I screech, stomp my feet, fling my hands in some jazzed out halo
that spells out my own, personal Gettysburg address to my butter knives and soup spoons. Yes, yes fellow citizens, I will not perish
from this earth! (I will live to eat many more alphabet soups). It’s in my toes and knees, jangling up all sorts of tunes that sing America to sleep.
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Chug a Lug Ashley McMahan Girls are in dresses Boys are making messes The music is booming Two kids are loosing He shoots, he scores! One lonesome cup is left standing Chug a lug Take out your keys To penetrate the blue can if you please But don t drink the punch, Because you ll be sure to see your lunch It isn t very classy Chug a lug The infamous red cup It sits empty so fill it up Sway to the beat Who cares if you have two left feet? Go out there and be crazy, kid. Live like you mean it no regrets Chug a lug
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Letter to Dad Brandon Robbins
Dad, If this has found its way to you then I am already gone. We both knew it was a possibility. I went to war and in war men die. You and I have had talks where I would need you to set me straight. Now what kind of son would I be if I didn t at least try to return the favor. You raised me to be a fighter. To triumph over adversity and I have tried to do that to the best of my abilities. Any wrong I may have done to you Dad, I apologize for it. I know we haven t always seen eye to eye on everything, but we still could be honest with each other, and so I will be honest now. I am proud of you. Proud of the sacrifices you made so I could do football, baseball and boxing, and just enjoy being a kid. Proud of the determination you instilled in me. Proud that you pushed me to be stronger and gave me just enough responsibility to stumble but not to fall. You were the inspiration for the man I have become, so all I can hope for is that you are as proud of me as I am of you. You did more for me than I could ever repay. You fixed my car and fixed my heart when they were both busted. You taught me that being a grown up and being a man aren t the same thing. You told me once that if you don t live by a code then you aren t worth anything. Honor, courage, integrity, and strength are all important. You said that if you didn t keep your word then you aren t a man. A handshake is worth something and you can t go back on it. These are things you ingrained in me. I need you to do some things for me dad. I need you to be strong for Little John and Amy. My brother and sister will need you as badly as I used to. Keep the jeep for me. Take care of it. It meant a lot that you taught me how to work on it. Spending time with you meant a lot
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to me while I was growing up. You being in the first row at every game and every fight meant a lot to me too. But you did something that tops all this. You made sure I was smart and strong. Thank you. I take after you and we both know that we aren t good with words so I will wrap this up, Pop. I just want you to know that I hold my head high and smile when People say that s John s boy. And that is true. I am your boy through and through. I am very proud to have been your son. I love you, Dad. Your spitting image, William C. Bailey
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Energy
by Amelia Allen
Energy is the source of life that guides me through the daylight It gives me hope when nothing else seems to go my way A friendly smile or a sweet song
Allows my soul not to be weary for long
But I know some things are just meant to be
Like the loss of a loved one that stings inside of me
My sweet mother went to be with the Lord, you see And I miss her so because she is not with me
I know that my plans may fail and my dreams may die, I know I cannot just stand by
But I will stand tall – and not be afraid
For I know that she is in a place that I cannot see
My sun will always shine and I will forever keep in mind That my energy brought me through the long days,
And I will continue to say
I can take whatever comes my way Flower photograph by Charity Scott
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Faith Danielle Smith Her name is Annie. She was born on the coldest night in Alabama. The snow came down light that night, as if it were too selfish to give the world its all. Little Annie herself, didn t seem to want to face the world that night either. It took three doctors and a room full of specialists to get her out, but she finally came. Her big brown eyes opened up and glided from corner to corner, taking everything in. And as if what she saw satisfied her, her tiny chest heaved a big sigh, her eyelids shut, and she slept. Eighteen years passed, and Annie had turned into a beautiful young girl. Her favorite thing to do was dance. It was her basis. She grasped it and leapt with it. It was her happiness, her pain, her laughter, her hurt. It was hers. It was unlike anything else in her life. Boys came, then left, arguments with her parents lingered, friends were friends, then weren t, but dance was always there. Throughout her life, Annie had never really experienced struggle. She had a few break ups, some death, and tiny moments where she felt lost; but there was nothing ever major. She was captain of the cheer squad, student body representative, class favorite, an A student, beautiful, and loved unconditionally by her parents; she had everything. Her senior year, she was accepted into the school of her choice. Her summer was filled with sun, countless days by the pool, parties, nights at the lake, and love. It all ended too soon she thought, and on an unusually cool summer day, she said a teary goodbye to her parents. Her emotions were mixed, she didn t want to leave them, but was ready for something new, something different, bigger, than her small town life. She felt rebellious in a way. She felt like she was running away from a life that was never meant for her. But as she thought through her tears, she realized that this life had been her home, and always would be. Her flushed cheeks and honest brown eyes made her mother cry and hold on tighter. Her dad stood back and looked at his little girl. He went through the memories of him pushing her in her swing set, her adorable, high pitched voice yelling IM FLYING DADDY!, to her awkward teenager stage, to this beautiful young woman who was standing in front of him. She had so much going for herself. He thought “yes, it’s time.” As she drove away, the sadness she felt loosely slipped away in the wind, and excitement and fear took its place. Her freshman year started off smoothly, she made friends easily, her boyfriend attended the same college, school was easy, and she made the dance team. She was on her own and loved it. Home was a far away thought. As the warm, easy air faded, and the cool autumn air slowly began to settle in, so did a change in Annie s life. School began to get tougher, she had no real connection with the friends she made, her boyfriend was distant, and dance wasn t the same.The girls were mean on her squad. Every day at practice their cold looks hit Annie hard, and she didn t enjoy dancing anymore. How had everything slipped away so fast, or had it even been there to begin with?” She wondered. As the world started moving forward, Annie stayed behind; she was an afterthought. She didn t understand, she had given her everything, but it wasn t fully accepted. She was lonely and didn t have anything or one to comfort her. This was not a familiar feeling for her, and it became too much. Her world was too different now and she was lost in it.Two months passed, and she caved; she couldn t do it any longer, and ran before the rest of it caved on her. She bought a one way ticket out. She didn t know where she was going, but out sounded good. She could no longer be submerged in what she was leaving behind. She needed to find her basis
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again. The train sounded and the tracks began to move. She saw people that didn t seem like they fit, families that loved, kids that belonged, and people without everything; she began to see life. The train went on, its tracts, chnk. chnk. chnk; over and over again. Annie cried. The train went on. It finally stopped. Annie was in a new place. It was cold and big, and it scared her, but she pressed on. She slept on a cot in a church that night. She was surrounded by others who had been lost long before her, and who still were trying to find their way. After her first night, Annie decided to spend the rest of her stay there. She met Carl, he had lost his family in a drunk driving accident; he was the only survivor. There was Sue, her mother and sister had both died of leukemia; she had spent all of her money on treatment and care for them. There was Lily, she was addicted to heroin and had two toddlers, and another one on the way. Then there was Will, he hadn t lost anything. He never said a word, but he came every day at six o clock in the morning, and would leave around eight o clock at night. He helped clean, feed, and clothe. When there was down time, he sat and drew or read a book. He never verbally, said anything, but his presence, physically said everything. He believed in the ones that were lost and hurt, and if they needed anything, he was there, waiting. Annie watched him all week. He was beautiful and tender, and always dressed in simple khakis and a t-shirt; there was something so peaceful about him. Annie wondered what his story was, and why he was so committed to this daily routine. The week pressed on, and Annie began to feel life again. She started helping out after a day or so herself. She passed out blankets at night, served soup, washed clothes, and played with the children while their parents went out those beautiful, bold mahogany doors to the opposing world to look for jobs. On Annie s last night, as she was writing a letter to her parents, Will walked towards her, grabbed her limp hand on the table, held it in his, and said, the Lord has great things planned in our life, because nothing that is of the spirit is left out to dry and headed for disaster; nothing, he is with you. Annie watched him walk away in awe. That night, Annie heard a guitar being played in the distance. She felt the vibe of the chords move throughout her body, weaving in and out of her heart, and knew that this was the end of her journey. She couldn t sleep that night, Will s words had been so powerful and that moment that their eyes was of true honesty and pure sincerity. She awoke the next morning and found herself sad to leave. It was time though, she felt it. She said her goodbyes to the few she knew, made her cot up, and packed her small suitcase. She started to cry as she left that big, grandous building that held so many people and their pain. As she walked outside, it started to snow. She went to the train station and bought her ticket and sat and waited. She thought of her past week and heaved a big sigh; her heart was weary, but strong. As the train started to move, she looked down at her ticket and noticed the date. It was her birthday. Had that much time really passed?� She started to stare out the window and watched the snow. She watched as a thick, white blanket formed over the warm earth. So pure, so wholesome; there was a lot of it, and it fell; it fell hard.
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Flash Forward Randi Watson Flash. An artist named Teri is drinking pickle juice out of the jar. It is the third jar that she has finished off in the last week, but the baby inside of her, now weighing in at seven pounds and three ounces, is taking it all in happily, and will be for the next eighteen years of her life. It is March 22, 1991, and the last jar of pickle juice sits half empty in the refrigerator as her mother, numb from an epidural that she will talk about for the rest of her life, gives birth. The baby is surprisingly a girl, so they add an “i” to her name: Randi. The name is now neutral and, therefore, will be the source of quite a few jokes later on in her life. Her mother laughs and realizes that her first baby has discovered every recessive trait that illusively hides in their gene pool: blonde, blue-eyed, fair. Not only is she recessive, but she is the black sheep and will be for the rest of her life. Flash forward. It is May 30, 1993, and Randi’s little brother, Jon Michael, is born blue and screaming with air around his lungs. He is epileptic, just like his mother, but this fact will come about later in Randi’s life as she learns how to be mature and handle situations that are very much out of her control. Flash forward. It is October 18, 1995, and Randi’s little sister, Katelyn, is born. Katelyn is a healthy, dominant child but is quite a bit more stubborn than Randi would like, so she promptly ignores her until she gets half of her face ripped off by a dog in a baseball park. After witnessing the event and watching her beautiful four-year-old sister bleed a giant pool of crimson, Randi truly starts to become a big
sister. The mothering, nagging, and worrying begins that makes every sibling’s eyes roll, and Randi loves it. Flash forward. It is 2000, and Randi’s father, an engineer and anti-people person, loses his job and decides to move to the family from the map dot known as West Point, Mississippi to the big city of Brandon, Mississippi. For Randi, the move is the worst thing that could possibly happen to a pubescent girl who has been looking forward to middle school with all of her childhood friends. She, therefore, lashes out in a fit of rage and makes sure that she does not make many friends at her new school. Fifth grade consists of C’s, pinching the boys so hard that they bleed, and talking to her cat. A year later, Randi calms down and picks up a paint brush. She trades in the blood for red paint and starts getting inspired. After having college art history courses shoved down her throat since she could walk, Randi begins to think. She is thinking, scheming, crafting images from everywhere and everything: the colors, the lights, the feelings. Then she starts to think on canvas, and something wonderful happens. Art. Life. Freedom. Flash forward. It is night. Jon Michael has a nightmare and runs to Randi’s room. Wolves again, just like the night before. He crawls into bed next to his sister and, after a few words of groggy but heartfelt comfort, he falls back asleep. Randi is dreaming. Randi is awakened. Her little brother lies stiff as a board, arm outstretched, shaking, not breathing, steadily turning blue. At first, she thinks that he is joking around. She grabs his arm and tries to pull it down, but it will not budge. He is stuck in time, like
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a movie skipping after the disc is scratched. When she finally realizes that something is wrong, she calls for Daddy, not Mamma. Daddy rushes in and flips Jon Michael onto his left side, letting the oxygen find its way back to his brain. He stops shaking, starts breathing, falls limp, and sleeps again. When the scene is over, Jon Michael is taken to the hospital, Mamma cries, and Randi feels like she has just watched someone on the brink of life and death. Will he fall? Will he make it? No one knows, but he does. Flash forward, just a little bit. Randi is taught what to do when her Mamma has a seizure. She learns what medicine to take out of the little red case and shove down her Mamma’s throat. She learns what “grand mal” means, and she learns why her little brother stops breathing and turns blue. It is a life lesson that Randi never forgets or takes for granted as her Mamma suffers, as her little brother suffers. It is not fair. Flash forward. As a freshman in high school, Randi has developed her awkward shyness once again. All of her friends are guys, and they will be for the remainder of her life. With boys in general, she feels like she can be herself and not have to live up to any expectations of femininity set for girls at age fifteen. Most of these girls are pencil thin, loud, flirtatious, spontaneous, and, worst of all, hazy in the head from years of perfume abuse. Randi, however, likes to wear black, read, test herself to see how long she can go without talking, draw in her sketchbook, and be completely weird as possible. For some guys, this behavior is a direct turn-off, either leading to complete disgust or acceptance as “one of the guys.” For some guys, such as the oddly blonde, beautiful, and intelligent Kyle Carpenter, this kind of act is a big turn-on. To Kyle, Randi is the most beautiful girl in the world, no matter how many times she denies
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it, and he makes sure she realizes his affection for her. Flash forward. Nine months pass, and Randi and Kyle are inseparable. They know everything about each other: the deepest, darkest secrets, the strangest fantasies, and even the smallest hopes. Neither one will admit to loving the other, but everyone else can see it. Everyone. With countless pokes and prods from her friends, Randi decides to grow some balls and ask Kyle out. He says yes, gives her her first kiss a week later, and says “I love you” with such heartfelt sincerity that Randi becomes brave enough to say it back. These events lead to countless self realizations for both Randi and Kyle as they explore the strange and wonderful clockworks of love: giving, sharing, learning, being truly happy. It is just too good. Flash forward. She has discovered the canvas, the brush, the paint, the inspiration. Her friends, A-Train and Juan, and her loves, Kyle, Katelyn, Jon Michael, and Mamma, give her a profound inspiration that she has never found anywhere else. Chuck Close and Frida Kahlo give her the knowledge of what to do, how to paint. Portraits emerge, and they are the most wonderful creations that Randi has ever done. Through them, she discovers passion, the color of deep red, the reason for breathing. With every stroke of her brush, she becomes more of her own person, and the world opens up in a whirlwind of primary colors and possibilities. Where in the world did all this life come from? Flash forward passed all the high school mumbo jumbo, and get to the stuff that really matters. Randi and Kyle are seniors in high school and are truly in love. They have been through so much these four grueling years, and they
have a profound respect for one another that few high schoolers ever have for their significant other. Life is rushing by so fast. It stops, and in a surprise twist, a third party is introduced into the beautiful mess of Randi and Kyle. He is a six foot five, two hundred and fifty pound football player with a sad story to tell: initials C.B. He works to destroy everything that the beautiful pair have worked two and a half years to build up, and in the end, he succeeds. Flash forward. Randi’s best friend is a thirty-eight-year-old high school physics teacher, and everyone thinks that this fact is strange. She does not care, though. They have been through the same struggles, have the same personalities, and feel the same instinct to help others. The mothering instinct gets both of them in trouble as relations grow between Randi and C.B. He is dangerous, unpredictable, and she never sees it coming. Flash forward. Randi makes the biggest mistake of her life as she gives in to C.B.’s insatiable need to be cared for. She lets him control her. Kyle is heartbroken and all alone. She dies inside. Flash forward. Surprisingly, Randi wins a National Scholastic Art Award and is whisked away to the big, the bold, the beautiful New York, New York. Here she discovers a light in the inevitable darkness. The city is buzzing, humming, alive with such vivacity that she can hardly contain her amazement. This place is the place to be. The lights, the sounds, the colors whizzing by in torrents of red, blue, yellow, green. Everything is neon. People here are so colorful and diverse that it feels like the whole world has converged onto the little island of Manhattan. There are so many languages being spoken, so many faces being seen, that Randi has a sensory overload and
starts to cry. It is just too beautiful. How could she have not known about this place? Everywhere there is art, magic, inspiration. She meets Diane Sawyer, Paul Giamatti, Tom Otterness, and Zac Posen. There is such inspiration in the air that she never wants to go back to her old life. She wants to start again here. One day she will. Flash forward. Three months. She is battered, bruised, and ill-abused to such an extent that she does not even realize it. C.B. is the vampire sucking out every ounce of happiness and self-preservation that she has left. She has become isolated against her will. She is completely his and not her own. She is in the dark, and there seems to be no light to hope for. Every time he hurts her, she wonders why this is happening. She does everything right. She takes care of him, gives him support, gives him stability, listens, comforts, tries to love, and all he can do is take advantage. He causes a change in her, a change that results in the formation of a hateful, spiteful, bitter, and disappointed little girl who is supposed to be a woman. Randi cannot believe that someone so evil truly exists, and she is heartbroken. Before him, she had such a good view of the world. What a pity.... Flash forward. In a fortunate spur of events, Randi discovers Kyle again. They are both lost, but together they find the strength to love again. Kyle and Randi’s best friend work to free her from the abusive bonds of the third party, and they succeed with dire consequences. C.B. is so completely set on vengeance that he blackmails Randi’s best friend. The result is five to ten years in prison for a wonderful physics teacher with three children and a husband of fifteen years. Life is not fair. She hopes he burns in hell. Flash forward.
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After starting college, being diagnosed with PTSD, and chopping off her newly red hair, Randi is slowly starting to pick up the pieces of her life and is trying to discover who she is again. She is not the same: stronger but harsher, wiser but sadder. She has set new goals, new standards, and has become a better person, but she has developed new fears as well. Range Rovers, flashbacks, and insomnia haunt her day and night, but she deals with it. It is all she can do. Kyle is in St. Louis living the amazing life that Randi always wanted for him.
He chooses to be her comforter, her protector, even though she feels that she has done nothing to deserve him, and they just love. Even though life is hard, she finds some small thing to live for each day. It is a color, a sound, a voice that makes her say, “There is still beauty in this world. I do not want to leave it.� Now, with a new life ahead of her, Randi drinks pickle juice and ponders what to with her day. She picks up a paint brush and begins. Flash. Flash. Flash. End.
City in Brown and Light photograph by Ashley McMahan
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frustration poem Lili Wallace frustration in a bottle it was forced down my throat each drop burned like a bolt of fire searing my insides i could feel it ripping through my stomach that hot, hot frustration they all look at me and laugh not because of the pain, you see i hide the pain quite well but because they think it goes unnoticed do they think that it will only sting or leave a blistering burn do they think that i wont hear
the lacerations they make in words my wound is gaping, oozing, boiling i want to sew it up why cant they just accept hatred is a lingering potion that only gets more poisonous with time the hole begins to grow deeper sucking in all the light but i know my heart burns with pain and every heart can heal but their hearts burn with hate making it impossible to feel
Art submission 1 by Virginia England
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George KK Jenkins
Every minute, a woman goes into labor experiencing pain yet also the thrill of knowing her life will be wonderfully changed with her new baby. How do mothers know the change will be wonderful? What about the mothers who do not have a healthy, normal baby? Three months before my aunt’s due date, she went into labor and experienced the terror of thinking that her baby, George, would not live through the night. No time was promised for George as he helplessly lay in an incubator. Hours passed, then days, and he continued to grow and breathe more and more on his own. Practically living in the hospital, my aunt and uncle’s terror was turning into hope, and they finally they got permission to take George home. His life was a miracle. Living with his parents and two older brothers, George continued to grow as a healthy child, or so we thought. Years passed and George was not walking, talking, or showing any signs of maturing. After being taken into the hospital, George was thoroughly tested and the problem was discovered. As the doctors told my aunt and uncle the diagnosis, their previous hope once again turned to fear. George was autistic and also had been without oxygen for some time during his birth. This caused a lack of oxygen to his brain, consequently disabling it from fully developing. The shock of George’s autism settled into grief, but grief eventually turned into determination. My aunt got involved in anything that had to do with autism. She stopped working at her office and got together with other parents of autistic children to spread knowledge about the disease and get the children help. When it was finally time for George to begin school, my aunt wanted him around “normal” children so he could watch and learn how other kids his age acted. Because George was still unable to communicate, the only school that would take him was a private school. He worked well there, but after about a year of school, something inside George snapped. The doctors think this was due to the frustration George felt because he was not able to communicate with others, but there is no way to know why it really happened. Self-mutilation was what they called it. George would violently bang his head on the wall or floors, bite himself, push his fingers backwards until he
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was screaming with pain. Watching him go through this was depressingly horrifying. He was forced to wear helmets, have a padded room, and have adult supervision at all times. Medicine was the only thing that could calm him down. These tantrums changed everything. George was kicked out of the private school and placed into a school for kids with special needs. His family was no longer able to take him to restaurants, stores, or many other public places in fear of a tantrum. This was not only physically and mentally exhausting for George’s mother and father, but his two older brothers had to face the ridicule and jokes that friends made about their brother. The oldest brother got in fights at school trying to defend George’s honor when others poked fun at him. Their family was falling apart trying to keep George together. Finally, the family found hope in an institution in Atlanta where George would be observed to find ways to teach him how to cope with the world around him. My aunt would live with George during the weeks at the institution and bring him home on the weekends to see the family. Although it was difficult splitting the family up for five days of the week, it was the best way to get George help. For three months, my aunt and George traveled, and each week George was showing progress. The institution taught him sign language as a way to communicate, which drastically helped his tantrums. They helped him understand pictures in books, and how to play with toys such as trains and cars. When George finally came home for good, it was obvious that the three months away made a world of difference. For the next year, George began to learn more sign language and eventually started to pronounce words. Finally, his family was able take him to restaurants, birthday parties, and vacations. Last March, George had his seventh birthday party. He is learning new things everyday with constant effort and help from his family. Is it fair that they have had to struggle with autism? Some may feel pity for George and his family, but others who really take the time to get to know them see the family’s love that has only been strengthened by coping with this disease. Many people are thankful for money and success, but George’s family has given up these things in order to be thankful for life and happiness.
Planet Green photograph by Charity Scott
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Good Morning By R. W. Good morning, As my head goes bang! bang! bang! Against your back wall. I’m lying on your bed with my head going bang! bang! bang! Confusion first, Numbness last, The glinting of knives on linen. Do you know that your sinning is blackening my smile? Every time we go outside all the people say, “What a beautiful pair Making babies everywhere, and we don’t care.” “It’s alright, as long as she won’t fight.” “It’s alright.” And it’s funny how no one knows the rainbows beneath my clothes: The blacks and yellows, greens and blues all for you. It’s true. They’re all for you. You. You. You ask me to wear your ring. What a funny thing, And I say, “Oh no! Oh no! That baby making’s just for show.” “Oh no! Please just go!” But no. And my head goes bang! bang! bang! Against your back wall.
Fenceline photograph by Ashley McMahan
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Here, But Now They Are Gone Jack Mason
On the keypad of the elevator he invoked the law of the button: the more it’s pressed the faster it will work. But the doors do not open any faster, and once inside, he is accompanied only by the mrrrr sound from the motors that lift the metallic cube upward. It is a reflection of his day, the monotony in it. No rhythm, no upbeat or eighth notes just one constant mrrrrr. He reached out and started a smiley on the reflective surface; the grease expended on the index finger, he moved the middle to finish the job. “No f-you my friend.” He said to his new friend. “She is coming tonight and there is nothing to stop that.” The smiley face just grinned. Then the red 3 above the door turned into a red 4 followed by the disappearance of the smiley face to reveal a hallway. To him, this is not just a walk. This is a red carpet trot bristling with the same emotions that celebrities must have on the night of a movie premier. In his mind, heads poke through cracked doorways eager to ask about tonight, brass doorknobs become microphones and tiny peep holes a camera lenses. “Yes she will be here tonight,” he said to the first door on the left, and continued on to the next. “Well, see. We worked it out ya’ know.” He stretched a smile across his face and delivered it with a half-hearted wave.
When he stood before the next door he stopped and posed like he would for a fashion photographer. He sent the candid expression, the stern one, the passionate one, into the peep hole which reflected the hallway lights. To him it would serve as the flash from the camera, one continuous flash. He paused, rested hands on hips and leaned forward to the door knob. “Yes, I am very excited.” He nodded to the next question in the self-interview. “Certainly, yeah, I guessed with the trial and all…well you know, she wouldn’t want the bad rep…ahem…publicity.” The last door on the left would have the locks that the keys he fumbled out of pocket would connect with the tumblers. “Sorry fellas, you have to stay out here,” he said over shoulder as he entered his apartment. Clothes decorated the interior like sprinkles cover an ice cream cone. But despite the clogged sink that emitted a putrid smell that seemed to hover above a dark liquid that formed a black ring around the water line, despite the food that existed in various levels of decomposition like an eighth grader’s science project, weeks old, despite the body odor and lack of any traditional signs of a humble abode, it ain’t bad, he thought. He flopped on the couch and flipped the T.V., the void into life. Changed a couple of channels, avoided the news, until he found the infomercials and stayed.
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The hands on the clock clapped twice, two more hours had passed. She had still not come. He felt silly to have believed her when she said, “I’ll stop by at about three, okay.” He thought back to a week ago, when he stood before the judge. He thought to the bailiff’s extended hand with a paper in it, to a man that could not speak fluent English and stuttered the best part –Not Guilty. He continued with the recollection and realized that after the star witness, the victim had off’d herself, and the prosecution lacked any real evidence to stick him with thirty to life on a rape conviction anyway.
If she walked through the door right now, and started with an excuse that went like, “Well what had happened was…” he would believe her before she finished. It would be just like old times. Instead the big hand on the clock tapped a few more numbers before he decided to open the small cedar box on the coffee table. The interior of the box was lined with green felt that cradled a bag of pot on one side and a tiny white bag on the other. He laid out the needed equipment, also contained in the box. He pulled a chair beneath the fire alarm and disabled it. Cannot be too careful now. He had lucked out before, but if some freak mishap went on, it would be tough to argue the heroin on the coffee table doesn’t belong to him. The powder dissolved into liquid, drew up in the syringe. The veins bulged, and a quick pop cleared the way for the needle point. A blood flash
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in the chamber and he pushed the combination in. Thousand one, thousand two, thousand three…and out. Outside his apartment complex a car stopped and a young woman exited. She crossed the street and held the lap top bag saddled around her shoulder still on her hip. The ladder to the fire escape had been lowered; the plan had been set in motion. She climbed up and onto the metal mesh walkway. The view had begun a slow growth with each flight. The slow surrender of the night to the pre-dawn haze, where in just ten minutes, a building half a mile away could no longer be a shadow, but still visible enough to count the number of windows on the second floor. For now, she still had enough time. Through the exterior window into his apartment she saw the syringe stuck in his arm, his mouth gaped open. She wondered if he had overdosed, saved her the trouble. The window had been worked upward enough to allow her fingers to fit underneath it and she opened it up to as far as it went. She leaned in, felt a faint pulse and then looked at the red line that drew down the length of the arm from where maybe a drop or two of blood had run. She dropped the bag into the first clear area she found and moved to disable the fire alarm. The chair against the wall did not adjust her focus but the fact that the alarm had been tinkered with did. She looked back down at him and wondered if he had known the plan, through mutual friends or a pot luck
guess. The thought to cancel, hold for a clear sky, went back and forth in her head like a tennis ball hammered by two athletes. The doubt brought forth a string of memories that had withered and all but died. She remembered his voice before the rasp, the clarity and near beautiful radiance he had in the sun. Now his complexion had paled to that of a ghoul. “The man,” she said and rubbed her hand along his cheek. “The man I loved turned into this.” In her mind he would bolt up, pull her close and tell her the truth. He would tell her that he’d never do that again; it would start with a kiss and in time she could come to love him again. He tried to open his eyes, but felt a pop against his head. It felt like he bumped into a wall head first. The high blocked the pain. The vision cleared enough for him to see her. The nerve impulse shot down the spinal column, to move, up, stand, and he imagined the fibers from the carpet against his feet to help him get motivated. Really, he just lay there with a half-stupid grin on his face. A thick gray stream bellowed from inside the couch and hung suspended from the ceiling like from a giant cigarette. She walked to the laptop bag, grabbed a stack of letters and photographs and dropped them on the fire. The flame became visible and converted the stack into gray wings that slivered with black. They rise and float about the apartment like crows do to a battlefield.
He managed a wide smile at her undressing. “No.” The red dress she had on got tossed onto his face. Somehow though, she had felt like this would have been the moment he sat up to confess. With the fire quick at his feet, he would spill all. He didn’t, and she couldn’t wait any longer. She had changed into a new outfit, dropped her hair from the ponytail and stood over him with a fifth of Ever Clear in hand. “Say hi to Rachel.” She poured the contents of the bottle over him, over the dress over the seat cushions and in seconds the whole couch was turned into a modernistic funeral pyre. Not much time remained before the alarms housed in other rooms and the hall way went off, but she had one last thing to do. Everyone felt he had done it, and she would send a message back to let them know that some people did the right thing when it mattered. She raced to the bag on the floor, retrieved the last item a thumb thick stack of fluorescent orange paper. The papers burst out the window like confetti from a pop gun. She opened the door of the apartment with her shirt, hurried down the hallway and got into the elevator before she lifted her head. The doors closed and before her a smiley face emerged. She did not know who drew it but went with it anyway. Have a nice day Chris she wrote. She slept until late afternoon and woke up around six to catch the evening news. A couple of mindless
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segments go on and then before a commercial break, the newscaster eluded to a big fire that had broken out in an apartment complex–one of the three stories coming up. She could not help but be excited. Her message would be read to the local area and everyone would know that if the law didn’t stop the criminal, someone would. She had a brief day dream about how people would praise this person or these people that had become vigilantes. That sounded even better. These people. At about the time she had started to think about others, the video on her T.V. screen switched to the film from the morning. It showed Chris’ apartment complex, completely burnt to cinders. A few surrounding buildings also had caught fire. “NO!” She screamed at the sight of white body bags on stretchers. “There were alarms in other rooms, in the hallway. NO!” She felt a sharp pain in her stomach. The anchorman came back on, and read the message printed on bright orange paper that the arsonist had left as a mark. He read it with a solemn face: “Another begins the slow burn of an eternity in hell.”
Door photograph by Charity Scott
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Laundry KK Jenkins
Everyday I run through clothes and my hamper fills I think of doing laundry and I get the chills. Eventually my large rolling hamper overflows And the floor around it is covered in clothes.
My drawers are empty and I have nothing to wear But the thought of doing laundry is too horrible to bear. I make up excuses and wear things of my friends “I’ll wash it for you tomorrow” I pretend. Desperately down to the laundry room I roam It is all so overwhelming that I plan a trip home.
Plant in Window photograph by Charity Scott
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Love Note
Samantha Donahue When I was seven years old, I could take on the world. From fun dance classes to little league football, I felt good, like shooting-that-last-basket-in-my–first-game when-I-am-still-the-new-kid-in-town, kind of good. When you’re seven years old and in the first grade you’re on top of the world. Mostly because Mom and Dad still packed school lunches, helped with homework, and took me to practices. Being in the first grade was no big deal when I was seven and could take on the world. Being eight however, was tough. You couldn’t imagine how hard the teacher was, how judgmental the kids were, and how short recess had gotten. Writing in cursive was harder than training an elephant how to hop on one leg like they did in the circus. Nobody wanted to be different than anybody else in the second grade. Sara Jacob, who sat next to the cute boy named Alex, had shiny, blonde hair and pretty smooth skin, but not me. I had thick, red hair with straight bangs like a ruler across my head and a freckly face. “Samantha, when you’re older all the boys will love your red hair. It’s beautiful,” my Meme would tell me. Second grade was just tough—looking for the coolest lunchbox, trying to fit in, and hunting for my soulmate was just an overload. In the middle of our new math lesson on how to add three numbers at once, I decided to find a husband. “Okay,” I told myself, “take your pick.” There was Robert Shoemaker who had a funny smell like when my bunny Snowball poops in her cage or there was Jeremy Miller who wore that same Ninja Turtle shirt everyday. Kyle? Andrew? Monroe? There had to be a fit for a soulmate in here. I looked around and then found the perfect companion. Yes, Alex Lebl, the cute boy that sat next to Sara Jacob. One time Alex asked me if he could borrow my violet purple. I, of course, said yes and flashed him the prettiest smile I could. That was the man for me. Alex had pretty, silky brown hair with brown eyes. His skin was darker than mine but not a tan, leathery color like our teacher Mrs. Cox. He would be the perfect match. Besides, he won “Little Picasso of the Week” for his drawing of the orange pumpkin back in October. That is how I would get him. Maybe he would like me over stupid Sara Jacob if I drew him a picture. I would draw his name in rainbow colors and sign my name at the bottom like Walter Anderson’s picture of the dog. Mrs. Cox pulled out my favorite book: If You Give a Moose a Cookie and began reading it to the class. Since I have read that book a million times, I worked on Alex’s drawing. I took out the red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet purple and began drawing his name. I made sure I picked the violet purple because that was his favorite. I practiced constructing his name on my white notebook paper with a pencil first. I thought it would be clever to write it in cursive to show him that I had achieved this week’s task. Making the letters straight with a ruler, I mastered my design. I decided after drawing his name that adding a little love note on the back wouldn’t be bad either. “Hey. You’re cute. I like you. Do you like me? Circle YES or NO. Samantha.”
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My focus was interrupted when Mrs. Cox tapped me on the shoulder and told me to go to lunch. Betrayed and embarrassed, I looked around and found no one sitting at their desks. Why did no one they tell the scraggly tooth redhead that we were getting up for our only meal? I figured this would be a perfect time to sneak my love note into Prince Charming’s desk. I signed the note with a heart at the end of my last name and folded it. I didn’t want Mrs. Cox to know what I was doing, so as she waited for me outside, I knelt down like I had seen in my dad’s hunting videos. I threw the paper into Alex’s cubby and ran into the hall to meet my impatient teacher. I didn’t eat much of my ham and cheese Lunchable that day. It felt like I was getting ready to get on stage for my dance recital. I was slow to throw my trash away and was last in line for the bathroom, so that he would read my note while I wasn’t in there. I was certain he would agree to my letter but didn’t want him to propose in front of the class. When I approached the end of the hall, I heard a great roar of laughter coming from the room. Surely, Reid Newton, the class clown, tripped or made a funny joke. They couldn’t be laughing at me and my love note. Surely Alex was not showing it to everyone. Laughter and pointing fingers followed me to my desk as I sat down, humiliated. There, my love note was on the floor facing up so everyone could see. It hadn’t made it into the cubby like I was so sure it had. Jeremy, Robert, and the whole gang was amused that I thought a boy like Alex would like a girl like me - a redheaded, freckle-face kid. Alex then circled the ‘NO’ on my love note and threw it to me. Embarrassed, I stood as I felt tears swelling in my eyes. Heartache took over my tiny body. I wanted to collapse and sink into our cold, tile floor. Mrs. Cox entered the room and quieted everybody. I wiped my tears away quickly and sat back down. Class went on, but still, I was the laughing stock of my classmates. Alex never looked back again and asked me to borrow the violet purple. He never looked back at all, as a matter of fact. Although I had the coolest lunch box, and the best friends, I had no soul mate. Being eight years old was tough. Those first graders had it so easy with their easy teachers and their easy homework. We second graders, on the other hand, went through some pretty rough times. Rejection at its best caught me by surprise. Maybe it was because I look different than the other girls in my class. Maybe my Meme was lying when she said my hair was beautiful. What I would give to be in first grade again because when I was seven I could take on the world.
Pool photograph by Charity Scott, with additional design work by Larry Agostinelli
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Love Poem
Mary Buchanan Sellers
This isn’t a love poem or story about love. It’s a wish that I’m throwing out into the pooled stars on the
ground. Hello, earth, green, black and blue by days of little feet stamping you deeper and deeper into yourself.
You know yourself much more than I ever will. Even though it feels like I’m stomped on under the sunshine and the moonlit
rains that come to steal my dreams in my waking hours. I am loved by the bandits of my books, and live between the lines like a pirate
queen, abandoning commas like ships and hurling periods into the gray blue of the ocean’s office depot printer paper. $4.69.
Ten Dollars in Color artwork by Ashley McMahan
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Love Song
Mary Buchanan Sellers
His face is a russet oval as he looks at me and I become lost in the deepness of ocean eyes. He stands with an expression of violet flowers inside his smile. He examines my fingers—five white fuses so capable of destruction and beauty and folds them into his chest. The new cherry welt is almost hidden in the tresses of his coat sleeve. We are standing on a bridge that reminds me of a seashell. Its tidy white paint has chipped methodically to a baby pink hue that draws all sorts of visitors—artists, poor men, and lovers.
I believe the sea is sad when she sees two lovers looking out to her. She is the ever shifting force, the capricious current that will never stay still long enough for…
Quick embraces that tighten heartstrings, sobbing quietly and neatly executed in a pillow, discovering the sobs were silly after all, and loving more ferociously than before.
I remove my paper hand from his, its tear still coloring the air unashamedly. We stand, shoulders tickling, my feet pointing due north, while his pause at northeast. We stand like two dark ghosts against the evening sky.
Mushrooms photograph by Charity Scott
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Masquerade Virginia England You wore a mask Faithful, caring, honest Fooled by your songs Deceived by your words I am filled with disappointment You weren’t who I thought you were
No longer hiding behind your disguise I see who you really are Selfish, shallow, dishonest Your songs now meaningless Your words now empty
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Just Juan artwork by Randi Watson - top Tied Up At the Moment artwork by Randi Watson - above
Nursery Rhyme:
Why so dreary, little mouse? Your whiskers shake like storms. Is someone here, a cat perhaps, to try and cause you harm? For I shall make it go away, whatever scares you so. If it be a pesky stray, I’ll simply tell it go. No sir, said mouses, no feline here if only that were it. My mother’s gone and father too; no kitty has such wit. The fields have left and with them went my family’s little house. It’s sad for me, but don’t you fret, for I am just a mouse.
The air, they said, was brown and black so farmers had to go. I hope they found a better place, but who can really know. They brought in other people, too, in silly yellow hats
Melissa Blassingame
Who rode big pets like dinosaurs that carried toys and mats. They built with blocks a big, big place where people come to play. All kinds of humans all around are there from day to day. They buy new things in blues and greens and every pretty shade. Such lovely gifts are surely worth whatever debt I’ve paid. This must be better, mustn’t it, than simple trees and grass? Sure we have to go away, but nothing ever lasts. So don’t be sad for me, dear sir, though you may have your doubts. The field is gone as is my home, but I am just a mouse.
Work in Progress artwork by Virginia England
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Poem
Melissa Blassingame
The crazy comes and goes As a hummingbird flits its wings we change Your sadness nicks my joy My lack of confidence slices your comfort in half Our feelings melt then flow to the next pole To form again, a new glacier of emotion
But flowers that wither in harsh cold Are brought to life again The warmth after winter makes us wiser Through all the seasons of our flaws There is one constant You and I are We.
Field of Red artwork by Virginia England
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Poem
Farris Miller
You were so nice My heart was cold as ice When I said those things to you I wish you had known they were not true You said that you love me I couldn t say the same
I was completely to blame Tears came into your eyes Because of all my lies Tears rolled down your face I wish I never had put you in this place
Fire photograph by Charity Scott
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swallow freed charity scott
a darkness forms encompassing all that ever was, smothering what trace of life was left in the year before taken away so abruptly as i try to stand on my own two feet i realize you were my crutch “i fall deeper into a world i can not explain” and am now laying on unfamiliar ground laying still beneath the darkening celestial bodies weighed down by bitterness and pain my reluctantly listening ears are met by a new tune as “the earth sings mi fa mi” your words are drowned out, the world calls out to me to rejoin the living, it screams to me “wake up the sun is rising without you” my body too weak to move, my soul shouts out “... then i defy you stars” my soul no longer dwells in that oubliette with “if i can’t find my happiness, i’ll soon devour yours” ringing in my ears, i have my own happiness my own place in this world, now I’m crutchless because all you ever were was an affliction hindering me from walking freely i’m a free spirit a swallow learning to use its wings with a point of view that can not be obscured “just lasting this long I feel relieved to let repetition save me” White Bird photograph by Charity Scott
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Trapped by B.H. Trapped. Caged. She feels. Miles between but still he holds on tight. Struggles entwine her. Flee. Free. She wishes. Forever entangled in his web. The aggression pierces like venom. Trapped. Forever. She is.
Nail Biter artwork by Randi Watson
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Understanding Kate Basler
Dear Daddy, from millions of miles away, I am sorry I have not contacted you prior to this letter but I feel as though now, I owe you my words. I am obliged to offer you an apology because just five years ago I shut you out of my life without ever taking the time to open my eyes to a domain that my world has labeled “unacceptable.” This summer has altered everything. Here is all you have been waiting and hoping to hear. I promise. I remember it just like it was yesterday– June 6th, 2008. As I ran for the door, I managed to trip over my awkwardly long legs. You know how I always do that. Of course since Serena, my own flesh and blood, was too intoxicated to fix Veda and Lucas’ lunch, I threw some hot dogs in the microwave and grabbed my keys. I could hear Bill O’Reilly’s voice resonate through the walls of the house as I rushed to the appalling mini van you and Serena purchased upon the twin’s arrival. I was late, of course. I sped, ironically, over to the Long-Green Retirement facility where I would begin my eighty hours of community service on account of the five speeding tickets that I received in the past six months. Stellar. Long-Green was a large white house with a wrap-around porch that sat at the base of the Black River here in South Carolina. With perfect blue shutters and freshly cut grass, Long-Green captivated my senses as I coasted up the gravel road. Would the people be as nice as the environment that they had been placed in? Would I hate it? Probably. Even though this place might be pretty upon first glance, it could be ugly inside. That’s how everything in life is. Appearance has nothing to do with reality.
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Old people are gross. They smell, have fake teeth and do nothing but play cards and eat Jell-O. I walked up the steps and checked in. Janice, the lady at the front desk smiled at me the whole time I was standing in front of her. Freaked me out. She debriefed me on Long-Green’s day to day routine that they had planned out for me. I would visit rooms, attend art classes, serve meals, and socialize with the elderly when they needed personal entertainment or attention. I was immediately introduced to twenty-five of the twenty-seven residents and they seemed pretty okay. No one blew me out of my shoes or anything and honestly, their names left my brain after about three seconds. At least they did not smell and I made sure to ask if they served Jell-O there. They don’t. I laughed. Hilarious. She gave me a tour of the place and showed me where most of the residents, weather depending, hung out. I looked over at the sterile tables that sat on the brick porch and saw the only two residents I had not yet been introduced to. Chance and Seamus were their names and they were apparently “always together” and “best friends or something.” She also mentioned that they were the least social people at Long-Green and I was lucky if I got them to say absolutely anything at all. They mostly kept to themselves, drank a lot of coffee and read a lot of books and quiet stuff like that. Theirs were the only names that I remembered that day. I religiously observed these two mysterious men and was able to notice lots of the little things about their vastly different personalities. Seamus wore only blue and Chance wore only black with an occasional
white undershirt. Seamus read mysteries and Chance read historical biographies. Chance preferred cream in his coffee and Seamus took it black. The one thing that I noticed more than anything was the one thing that they had in common. They both looked at each other in the same way. Their honest eyes pierced through each others in such a way that sent chills up my spine even in one hundred degree weather. Beautiful. The house was four stories and Seamus and Chance had rooms next to one another on the third floor. I always managed to find something to do for them like refill their coffee, change their sheets, or serve them snacks that they clearly did not want. These countless efforts gave me no conversation or successful social interaction with the men. One Monday afternoon Seamus’s door was cracked and as I walked past I heard someone softly crying. I peeked in and saw Chance with his arms around Seamus, comforting him and wiping his tears from his aging face. That was when I knew. You know when you watch romantic movies and when they say “I love you”, you cannot help but feel like you want to be someone’s second half. You want to have that connection, that can’t breathe, can’t sleep, World Series kind of love. Well, when I saw Chance sitting next to Seamus that afternoon, I felt exactly how I feel when I watch those kinds of movies. Daddy, I hope you understand that this is the first time in my closed-minded life that I have ever been surprised to feel what I felt. Dad, you have to understand, I wish my story ended here. I wish that there was not a sad ending and I hoped that things would never have to be this way for these two men or for you, for that matter. Although tragic,
this is the most important part of my story so listen up. Please. It was my last week at Long-Green and I arrived early on a Monday morning because I wanted to have a cup of coffee while the sun rose over the Black River. I know, you’re probably surprised to hear that because I never gave a rat’s ass about pretty things like that before. As I drove up the driveway, I saw an ambulance taking Seamus away and Chance running after it. Chance ran like any seventy-something man would run. His legs were stiff and his back was bent but there was something about his step that broke my heart. He ran like he was losing the only person who kept him sane, the only person who understood, his second half. I got out of the car and Janice explained to me that Seamus had suffered a heart attack and was being rushed to the hospital. Chance was not allowed to ride in the ambulance nor stay with him in the hospital because he was not a family member. I left Janice standing there and rushed over to Chance, helped him up from the gravel road, and stuck him in my car. We sped over and sat in the waiting room. That’s when he said the only words I would ever hear him say. He said, “Thank you.” I smiled, with a tear in my eye, and told him the only words he really needed to hear. “I understand...” We waited in the waiting room for twelve hours until Seamus finally passed away. Chance and I were allowed to say goodbye to Seamus but I opted out and let Chance go in by himself. I do not know what Chance said to Seamus but I have a feeling that there was more silence than there were words. That’s always how they were, men who simply just understood each other through silence and visual
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exchange. Their relationship did not consist of complexity or pride. It just simply was. To nobody’s surprise, I got fired from Long-Green and received no credit for my community service hours. I got an email from Janice though, informing me that just six days after Seamus died in the hospital, Chance passed away in his sleep. Janice thinks it may be from his diabetes or some other bullshit medical reason. But Daddy, I know why he died. Chance died because he was not allowed to be with the one he loved. He died because this world won’t allow certain people to love each other. As cliché as that sounds, it is true. Chance is finally able to be with Seamus. They run free together now and their story has changed my life.
Daddy, from millions of miles away, I need to tell you that I understand why you left. I will tell you that I understand in the same way that I told Chance I understood. If you’re willing to talk to me, I would love to meet David. I am sure he is an amazing person. I am sorry it has taken me this long to come around. I hope you can forgive me. I never told Serena about all of this because I know she would never understand. I think you need to see you believe. Like I said before, appearance has nothing to do with reality. I love you. From millions of miles away, Iris
Bridge over Green artwork by Virginia England
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Co-Editors Milly Moorhead West 111 Somerville Office: 662-915-3174 Home: 662-380-6875 Email: mmwest@olemiss.edu Doug Robinson 101 Somerville Office: 662-915-7678 Email: djr@olemiss.edu
venture@olemiss.edu
Shade artwork by Virginia England