Notations Spring 1995
A Student Publication Sponsored by the Department of English Murray State University Murray, Kentucky
Notations Staff Managing Editor ............................................ David R. Ross Art Editor .................................................................. Riggs Editorial Staff ................................................... Alison Ward Travers Houck Production Assitants ....................................... Robin Stalion Jennifer Brewer Sarah Goddard Kris Lawrence Scott Nanney Jessica Stowe Trisha Starr Ben Durbin Faculty Advisers ..........................................Squire Babcock Ann Neelon
Editors' Note: We would like to thank the Office of the Dean, College of Humanistic Studies; the Department of English; and the Department of Art for their financial and technical support. Thanks also to Professor Dale Leys of the art department who juried the art submissions, and to the student volunteers who helped with the production and promotion of this magazine. Finally, thanks to all Murray State students who submitted their work.
Table of Contents Artwork
Untitled .Jennifer Bronwyn Walker ..................................5 Untitled .Darwin Tomlinson ............................................. 9 Untitled .Shane Gregory ................................................. 27 Untitled .Eric Warman ....................................................30 Untitled .Darwin Tomlinson ........................................... 34 Untitled .Joey Gottbrath ................................................. 36 Untitled .Jennifer Bronwyn Walker ................................ 41 Going To Hang Out At The Church .J.D. Wilkes ........ 51 Untitled .Shane Gregory ................................................. 56 Untitled .John Wurth ...................................................... 60 Space Migration .Michael B . Gage ............................... 64
Poetry
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Inky Midnight No 172 .Elizabeth Ann Bennett ..............6 The Thrill of Rock Climbing .B . Stuart-Falwell ............ 7 Library .Tonya Basinger .................................................. 8 Breakfast Literature .Pamela Dawes ............................26 The Thing To Do .Gwen-Marie Lerch ........................... 28 "Interstate Navy" .Robert F. Harris ..............................31 Chicken Bones -Valerie L . Bean .................................... 32 On Communication .Bryan Miller ...............................33 The Woman in the Airport .Valerie L . Bean ................35 Neverland .Jessica Ray .................................................. 37 Kilimanjaro .Bryan Brown ........................................38 Chance .Roger Campbell ................................................ 40 Sight .Ken Allgood ......................................................... 52 Sodom and Gomorrah .Eddie Sheridan ....................... 54 The Young Fur Seal .Ki.Ho, Byun ................................ 57 I Saw a Dolphin Today .Madelian March .................... 58 Plant Love .Wm . Cartwright .......................................... 59
Poetry (continued)
Claira likes Peaches .Eric T.Anderson ...........................61 62 Untitled .Doo H. Yoon ..................................................... September Journey .Barbara Kern .................................63
Fiction
Angels Unaware -David Russell Ross ............................ 10 The Referral .James Cain.............................................42
Cover Art Untitled .Liz Riggs
iI Jennifer Bronwyn Walker
Inky Midnight No. 172 My sister dyed her hair black. In childhood portraits she was the golden child Angelic, golden halo at The beach And under the Christmas tree. In later years, She turned to the bottle. But now she's going back to her roots. With her halo gone she will probably change into One of those fallen people who Wear black berets and Write Poetry. Elizabeth Ann Bennett
The Thrill of Rock Climbing The rock is hard as his hands are hoisting me up to the starting point. I'm shorter than most. These shoes he bought, the tights are mine. Carabiners clicking rope. I breathe and reach up coasting it seems inside I'm dying straining to be graceful him below me cheering these shoes he bought are killing my feet the top is through these branches -painfully there. The question is whose obsession is this of chalk bags bolted routes testosterone pumping pushing Red point Topping out freedom for him the thrill and outside these rocks lives Nothing. No, I won't dare cop out from his expectations lacing the pain that he bought hoping outside these rocks I remain. B. Stuart-Falwell
Library The thin hum of the light. Whispers in another language Tickle my ear, but leave it untempted. I am wrapped up in my solitude tighter than in my leather. The building is cold But the flame warms me As old pages crackle, Kindling against my harsh young hands To ignite dead worlds again. The guardian shelves, Rows and rows like gravestones, A smell of forgotten flowers In a funeral parlor. But there is beauty here yet, And life. A bee on its last tour Before winter, I hungrily buzz fertile pages. Gardens of growth Enamor me, I take away pollen on my fingers until it grows on my lashes; Until leaving the shrine at last, The clouds read like poetry, The rain falls fast with songs. Tonya Basinger
Darwin Tomlinson
Angels Unaware I
1
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"Miss Chelsie! You smokin' again? Shame, shame on you, girl." Chelsie Chandler did not turn her head. She continued smoking her cigarette and looking at the children of her fourthgrade class out on the playground of Tharpe Elementary. They were jumping, screaming, laughing, fighting and romping in the warm morning sun. "You a certified teacher, here smokin' in the janitor's closet, said Wilson Wallace, "'mongst all these oily mops and rags. What's wrong with you, girl? You gonna set the schoolhouse on fire and get both us fired. Chelsie picked up her pack of Salem lights and flipped one up for the old janitor to take. "Fire this up, Wilson, and chill out." The janitor reached over with his strong, creased black hands and slipped the cigarette from the proffered pack. "Whoowee! Damn, we smokin' menthols now." "Wilson, if you don't hush and let me watch these kids so they don't kill one another 1'11 ... I'll." "You'll what, Miss Chelsie?' Wilson lit the cigarette hanging loosely on his bottom lip. "Tell your Daddy?' "Yeah! 1'11 tell him you're sexually harassing me and he'll make the school board vote to lynch your black ass." "Whoowee! You havin' PMS now or what?" "Now I remember why I stopped smoking in the first place. I got too fuckin' tired of putting up with you having something over on me all the time just because this is the only place on the entire campus a person can smoke without getting bawled out or lectured to." "Girl! Wash that mouth.'' The old man sensually exhaled a long deep stream of white smoke from his mouth and nos-
trils. He was glad to have his smoking partner back. "Jus' cause your rich Daddy is school board chairman don't mean you can come cussin' and smokin' in my closet." "I really forgot how much fun you are, Wilson. This is an added plus for me falling off the non-smoking wagon." "Girl, if you hadn't started back you'd probably killed somebody. I bet yo' husband's 'bout ready to tie you up in the attic and make you start smokin' again." "He did tell me to start back so I wouldn't get fat, the bastard. I think 1'11 tie him up in the attic and starve him to death." "Hmmm. I betcha them chinuns of yours 'bout decided they gonna boycott school 'less you start smokin' again. You been a real angel cake." "How do you know, Wilson? You been spying on me again? I bet you do have holes drilled in the girls restroom ...or the boys." "Hee, hee, hee. You funny as a dose of the cripplin' clap, Miss Chelsie. You need to be on cable TV. Shoot. Everybody on this end of the hall been hearing you yell at them chirrun like they's orphans or worse." "Hell, since they moved the junior high to the new school there isn't anyone but my class and you down here on this end of the hall." Chelsie leaned over in her chair to get a better look at the playground from the partially open greenpainted window. "My God, I wish some of my wonderful scholars would boycott school. Just look at that." Wallace maneuvered around so that he could get the same panoramic view of the playground. The long, wide window was open from the bottom and partially pushed out. From this vantage point the two adults could see the entire length of the schoolyard where more than fifty elementary school children were busy playing. Miss Chelsie's class was on the far end of the playground closest to the open janitor's room window. The long dark, green glass prevented anyone from
seeing inside; however, anyone inside could see out the partially open window. The only visible hint that the children were being watched from the janitor's room was the steady stream of white smoke that drifted outside. 'Whatchew lookin' at Miss Chelsie?" "That boy right there. Just look at him. He has no clue whatsoever. Wilson watched the fat little red-haired boy that Chelsie had identified. The boy was walking in small circles in a patch of dust, watching something unknown to anyone but himself somewhere on the ground. Suddenly the boy fell over on his back and began kicking his heels into the dust. "I've got to go out and stop him or he'll be filthy as a pig. Not that he isn't already. I've had to tell him to take a bath four times since school started this year and it's not even October." Wilson put a finger in his ear and scratched. He watched the little boy for a while. "What's his name?" "Ralph Oliver. What makes some kids so adorable and others so positively revolting?" Wilson shrugged his narrow shoulders. He snorted two plumes of smoke from his nostrils like a belligerent old timber mule out in the cold Tennessee morning. "Honey, to me when they's that age they all angels. It's when they get bigger's when I starts findin' 'em revoltin'." Before Chelsie could leave her smoky perch, the boy crawled to his feet. He resumed walking in circles, only now he was watching something in the sky. "He's not even going to brush himself off. Some kids. I don't know what his parents tell him. Not much from all indications." Wilson took one last long pull off the fiery butt and then put it in a half full Diet Pepsi bottle. "Hey! I was drinking that!'' "Sorry, Miss Chelsie. Sometimes we does things we
shouldn't without even thinkin'." "Oh, you're throwing that at me because of what I said about Ralph. I'd like to see you after you'd put up with those little hellions all day." "That's right. They all jus' disappear when I show up with my mop." "I guess I'd better hush up or you'll take away my smoking privileges." The two adults sat in silence. Both lit up cigarettes and watched the kids play. A raucous kickball game was underway on the far end of the playground. The girls of Miss Kelly's fifth grade were beating the fourth- and fifth-grade boys. A dozen or so third-graders all clung to the merry-go-round as several sixth-grade girls ran round and round, pushing it faster and faster, to the squealing delight of the younger children. "I don't know why they don't take that damn thing off the playground before somebody falls under it and gets crushed," Chelsie said. Wilson continued watching the red-haired boy. He noticed the child was now sitting by himself in the center of a huge black tractor tire. He was picking his nose. The boy was oblivious to the loud, frenzied action going on all around him. Wilson thought he was singing to himself. "Look at that. That's what I'm talking about," said Chelsie. "Talking to himself all the time like some kind of idiot. And picking his nose. Oooh gross! He's eating it. My God, I'm going to barf." She began pecking on the green glass and poked her head out the open window. "Ralph!" she yelled. "Ralph Oliver! You stop that! Ralph!" She continued shouting out the open window until the boy looked up. "Ralph you quit that! You'll get worms!" "There you go, Miss Chelsie. Now them kids'll know you in here watchin'." "Yeah, and they'll know I'm in here with you and that'll probably get us both fired and me divorced.'
"Well you the one knockin' and yellin' like some kinda she-devil in heat. If you tryin' to hide your smokin' place you sure gotta funny way. Why don't you smoke you another one and calm down?" "I'm sorry, Wilson. There's just something about that kid. I know I shouldn't be like this but he just makes my flesh crawl. He won't sit still in class. He's always talking to himself ... nobody'll have anything to do with him. I've got him sitting by himself in the corner, but that doesn't help. He's a constant irritation to the class." Wilson squinted his black eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. "A week after school started this year he showed up. I'm not convinced he even belongs in the fourth grade and to beat it all he's got the most nasal Yankee accent you ever heard." The old man yawned. "He has the personal hygiene of a hyena. And he tells the most god-awful lies ... well ... stories, I guess." "Meybe you oughta have the special education test him. He might need somethin'." "I recommended him for evaluation two days after he got here. They say he's somewhat low functioning but normal. I just don't believe it. I think I'll bring him up again and see if there's something else they can test for." Wilson stood and picked up a long bushy mop from a rack behind the door. "What kinda wild stories?" "Huh?" "What kinda wild lies does he tell?" "Well ... when I ask why he keeps talking to himself, he usually says he's talking with angels. Can you believe that? Once he told me he's an angel on a special mission. Oh yeah, sometimes he can't get his homework done because his dog talks to him. Sleeps with him too, I think. It's what he smells like." The old man nodded.
"I can't help it, but he just irritates the fire out of me for some reason. I've had other kids who were much more trouble. There's just something about him." "Meybe he just needs somebody to be nice and pay attention to him." The 11 a.m. bell rang for about ten seconds. Chelsie took a last quick puff and then put the smouldering butt in the Diet Pepsi bottle. "Been fun, gotta run." The next afternoon, after the students and most of the teachers had left for the day, Chelsie stepped out of the school building and walked toward her car. As she passed by the front window of the main office, she thought she heard a familiar shrill voice outside. Then she saw Ralph beating a mop on the concrete steps beside the cafeteria. He was singing Jesus Loves Me softly to himself. "What are you doing, Ralph? Aren't you supposed to be home?" "Mr. Wilson's paying me to help him beat out the mops! He says he thinks I'm going to be as good as him at it." "Won't yourmother be worried?' "Mr. Wilson asked me yesterday after school to ask my Momma if she minded me helping with the mops today after school. She said go on and do it and leave her the ... alone about it." "How will you get back home, Ralph?" "I just live over there." Ralph pointed toward the row of small rental houses in the neighborhood to the far left of the campus. "I can run all the way home without losing my breath." Chelsie could see the top of the cracker-box house that Ralph said he lived in. Ralph put down the mop and picked up another from the pile of six or eight. "This is the first job
I've ever had. I think I'm going to be a janitor just like Mr. Wilson when I grow up." Chelsie stared at the strange little boy. "Don't you want to be a fireman or a policeman?' "No." He continued at his task. "A ballplayer? ..." "No." Well. Make sure you do your homework when you get home." "That's part of the deal." Chelsie waited, but the boy offered no more. "Part of what deal?' "Mr. Wilson said I could help him out as long as I got all my homework. He said he'd be checking in with you about it." "Oh, he did?" "Yeah. That and the baths." Chelsie waited and then asked. "What baths, Ralph?" "He said since I'd be getting so dirty with these mops every day that I had to make sure and take a bath before I ate supper at night. To get off all the mop oil. He said I didn't need to contaminate my bed or anything or I might go blind." Chelsie watched the boy methodically beat the mop against the concrete step. "I'll see you in the morning, Ralph." "Bye." Chelsie was waiting for Wilson in the janitor's room the next morning at recess. "You're just an old softie, Wilson." She offered the man a cigarette. He took it, turned an empty trash can upside down and sat on its bottom. Yells and shouts from the children on the playground echoed in the janitor's room. "I'm a softie? Who you been talkin' to girl, my ex-wife?" "I mean Ralph Oliver. He told me about y'all's deal." The old man smoked and did not speak.
"How much are you paying him to beat mops?" "I pay a quarter a mop, if it's done right. I got more dirty mops. You want in on it?" "You gonna pay me to do my homework and take baths before supper?" "If you need 'em." The old man sniffed at the young woman. "You smell like a Texas cathouse. Smoke n' cheap perfume." "Back off, heathen! I was ready to give you a nice guy award. See what that kind of thinking gets you? Sniffed at like some coon dog's ass." The two smoked without speaking. "That was awful nice of you. You make me feel ashamed of myself," Chelsie said. The old man looked up and then winked. "Ralph had all of his math homework done this morning and it wasn't too messy. And he came in looking fresh scrubbed and acting almost normal." "You decides you want that moppin' job after school, 1'11 show you where to scrub up yourself." "Back off you filthy old cuss. I think you are trying to sexually harass me." "Me? Naw. I jus' want you to tell that daddy of yours he better get his politics right if he wants me to turn out the vote up on the ridge for him again." "Oh yeah, I forgot you're the one who keeps getting him re-elected." "I do my part girl. And you know it." "I know you do and that's why I want to thank you for helping Ralph. He's almost starting to act like a normal human." "One man's normal is another man's idiot." "You just can't take a compliment, can you, Wilson?" "I don't know. You give me one and I'll see."
For the next few weeks, Chelsie stopped each afternoon outside the school building before she left for home and talked with Ralph. Wilson had the boy clomping erasers, emptying trash cans, sweeping the concrete steps and pulling weeds from around the school building. Ralph was almost always by himself and he was usually talking or singing. "He is making real progress, Wilson. You're the one who should be teaching special ed. How come you know so much about some kids?" "Girl, I just always remember my momma's favorite scripture." "And what's that?" "Hebrews chapter thirteen verse two." "And ..." "And what?" "What does it say? I don't know every flippin' Bible verse there is." "You just need to knock the dust off your Bible, if you got one. Look it up and read it for yourself, woman. You the college girl, I'm the heathen, remember?" "You keep an eye on those kids. 1'11 be right back." "Where you goin'? You ain't smoked your half-a-pack this recess." "I've got a New Testament in my desk. I want to see what kind of scriptures you're throwing at me." "Girl, Hebrews is Old Testament. Don't you know? No wonder these kids is so aimless." "I thought Hebrews ..." "I'm twistin' your tail, girl, it's New Testament. Go get it." Wilson seated himself beside the open window and felt the cool morning air on his gray-stubbled face. He tried to find Ralph on the playground. He saw the boy alone, as usual, tossing a large wad of rolled-up notebook paper into the cen-
ter of the tractor tire. Even from a short distance, Ralph often missed the large, round target. Chelsie returned to the janitor's room, thumbing the thin pages of the small black book. "Hebrews. Hebrews ... Chapter 13 ... OK. What verse again?' "Two." "Hmm. Here it is. 'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.' Well how about that? It sure fits." "How you mean?" "I don't know anybody any stranger than Ralph.'' Ralph Oliver and several others were absent from school the following morning. Chelsie had announced to her students the afternoon before to be prepared for a math test. There were five empty desks at 8 a.m. "Class. Miss Amy here, you all know Miss Amy, is student teaching for us this year. She's going to watch you take the test while I leave the room for a few minutes. I don't want anyone talking or up out of their chairs while I'm gone. Understood?' The students intoned in uninspired unison, " Yes, Miss Chelsie." After the young student teacher handed out the quiz to the students, Chelsie left the classroom to grab a quick smoke down at the end of the hallway in the janitor's room. Chelsie knocked on the wooden door and then entered. "You'll have to beat out your own mops this afternoon." "Why's that? Wilson took the cigarette extended from the open pack in Chelsie's hand. "Ralph's out today. I think he's got the math flu. Several kids seem to be stricken with it." "His Daddy's supposed to be comin' for a visit." "You mean Ralph's father doesn't live at home?"
"He said his daddy's gettin' outa prison somewheres in Michigan.'' "My God, what was he in for?" "I dunno. That's all I could get outa that boy." The smoke hung heavy in the janitor's room. None of it seemed to escape through the partially open window. The smell of the oily mops, disinfectant and the thick cigarette smoke began to nauseate Chelsie. "I gotta get back into class. The cheaters'll already be finished. I sure hope Ralph is all right. I guess I'm starting to like him, huh? Maybe there is hope for me, you think?" "You keep hangin' around me here in this janitor's room, girl, and I'll straighten you out. You gonna be all-right." "You got any more relevant scriptures for me today?" "You jus' keep workin' on the one I give you." After the third day's absence, Chelsie looked in the top drawer of her desk, checked her master roll and found Ralph's mother's name. Chelsie knew that the family had not lived in Tharpe long enough to be listed in the old phone book, so she'd have to call information. "Miss Amy,'' Chelsie called to the young woman who was tutoring some of the slow readers at a table in the back of the classroom. "Yes, Miss Chelsie?" "I have to go to the office for a moment. Class, y'all mind Miss Amy and we might not have the spelling test this afternoon." "Yes, Miss Chelsie." Chelsie started to grab a quick smoke before she made the call, but decided she'd call first and enjoy one or two cigarettes before returning to the class. She walked up the long hallway to the main office. "I need to use the phone, please." "Do you need to sit here?" the secretary asked.
"No, that's OK. It won't take a minute. She dialed information and found the Olivers were not listed. "Can you tell me if the number is unlisted or what? Do they even have a phone?" "Ma-am, I do not find a number, listed or unlisted, by that name in Tharpe. Sorry." Chelsie heard the operator disconect the line. "I guess I could go over to his house and check on him after school," Chelsie said to the phone receiver as she placed it into its cradle. "Did you say something to me?" asked the secretary. The next afternoon after school, Chelsie saw a solitary red-haired figure sitting on the merry-go-round. She walked toward the boy. "Ralph. Why haven't you been in school?'Chelsie could tell that the boy had been crying. "Ralph. Are you sick? Is something wrong?" The little boy began to sob. "He ..he ..." His lips trembled and big wet tears rolled down the little boy's dusty face leaving muddy trails. "He won't let me come to school. And he ...he.. he hit me ...in the ...stomach!" He began crying so hard he almost could not catch his breath. "Oh Ralphie!" Chelsie took the little boy in her arms and hugged him tightly. "Ralphie. He won't hit you again. I promise you. Who hit you Ralph?" The boy did not answer. "Was it your father?" she asked quietly. "It doesn't hurt all that much. Momma told me not to cry about it or tell anybody." "Why didn't your momma stop him, Ralph?' "He hits her too.", Wilson found Chelsie and Ralph out on the playground. "You two look like beat mops." "Ralph, why don't you go on inside and wash your face
off in the bathroom. It'll make you feel better." The two adults watched the chubby little boy walk slowly across the empty playground. "I'm going to have to report this." The old man pulled out a pack of Camel non-filters from his shirt pocket and offered Chelsie one. He lit hers then his. "You sure you need to?" "What else do you think? He might kill him if I don't!" "He might kill him if you do." "What?" "Meybe it's best to see if the man'll just leave. I doubt he's here to stay." "You don't know a thing about such as this. I have to report it." The old man looked at Chelsie with a dull expression. She could see the tears welled in his soft brown eyes. "You know, life is so strange," said Chelsie. Wilson looked up and met her eyes but did not speak. "My daddy never hit me, not once, in his life and he probably should have wore me out every other day. Ralph, on the other hand, is one of the gentlest souls I've ever met. One of the strangest for sure, but he is just a little boy. A poor boy in a broken home. I've got to help him." "YOUthe teacher," Wilson said quietly. Chelsie filed the report with the Department of Human Services, but since Ralph had no visible signs of abuse, no action could be taken. At the case hearing, Ralph's mother was accompanied by the father. The mother was a short blackhaired woman with bad teeth. She told Chelsie to quit petting Ralph and mind her own business. "But this ...man hit your little boy in the stomach. And he hit you too!" "No he didn't! You didn't see it." "I know Ralph was crying. And he told me so."
Ralph's father glared at Chelsie and did not speak a word throughout the meeting. His lean jaws worked beneath clenched lips and teeth. Chelsie could see the hate in the man's eyes. He was tall and thin, with black hair and coal black eyes. Ralph's mother was a small plain-looking woman. Ralph's father lit up a cigarette. Delicious smoke filled the small clean office. "Sir, there's no smoking in here," said the young human services caseworker. The man continued smoking as if he hadn't heard. "Sir, you'll have to put that out." The caseworker turned to Chelsie. "The child tends to exaggerate. You've said so here in your six weeks report." She turned to Ralph's parents. "We will be monitoring this situation." The next morning Ralph did not return to school. After the 8 a.m. bell rang, Chelsie waited for Miss Amy to show UP. "I've got to go check on something. You watch the class." "Smoke one for me," whispered Amy. Chelsie began to reply, but didn't. She walked outside the building and started for Ralph's little house. She began to pick up her pace until she was almost in a dead run. Her low heels clicked on the tarred pavement. Before she got within three hundred feet of the little house, she had to stop and catch her breath. "Lousy cigarettes." She walked up to the dirty white door of the house and knocked and knocked. The house appeared to be abandoned. She looked in the front window and could see the furniture in disarray. There were no signs of life. "My God, Wilson was right," she muttered. Chelsie walked quickly back to school, dialed the Human Services number and told the caseworker that Ralph was
absent from school and that she was unable to get anyone to answer at the door. The women met ten minutes later at the front door of Ralph's home. The caseworker knocked and knocked, but no one answered. "Hey, whadaya want?" A rumpled looking elderly man came out onto the porch of the house next door. "Do you know where the people are who live here?'asked Chelsie. "Have you seen Ralph?" "You mean that little retarded red-headed boy?" "Ralph's not retarded!" shouted Chelsie. "He's special. Where is he?" The man rubbed his sleepy eyes. "I dunno. I heard 'em all yellin' and screamin' and stuff over there last night. I started to call the law, but they just up and took off. " "Took off where?" asked Chelsie. "I dunno. I saw 'em put some stuff in an old car and just drive off last night." "Was the boy with them?" asked Chelsie. "Hell, I guess. It was late. Too damn late for normal people to be up moving out. I guess they decided to skip out on the rent. Are you all the law or somethin'?" The man rubbed his sleepy eyes. "If you are, I want to report some loud cars that keep rippin' up and down the road all night. I can't sleep." Chelsie came to school early the next day to clean out Ralph's messy little desk. Crammed inside a spiral notebook with a bunch of loose homework papers was a crayon drawing that Ralph had colored during art class. It had a little redhaired boy standing on an empty playground with a mop in his hand. He was waving to two adults, a woman and a man, behind a glass in a building labeled 'School.' Both adults were smiling, waving with one hand and holding smoldering cigarettes with the other. Underneath the picture, printed in blue crayon, were the words: My Best Friends. "Wilson, look at this."
The old man's hands trembled as he held the crayon drawing. "I should have listened to you and not told, I guess." "You did what you had to do. You did the right thing. You wanted to help that boy." "Wilson, you're the one who helped him. I wasn't just unaware, I couldn't hardly stand him, remember? Why don't you keep this. I can't bear to look at it." The old man took the crayon drawing. "I'll put it up right here." The old man took a thumbtack out of a little Band-Aid box on a nearby shelf and pinned the picture on the wall beside the mops. "Meybe now you'll stop smokin.' Leastways in here." The two adults sat in silence and watched the children running, laughing and playing in the cool morning sun. "Wilson?" "Yeah, honey?" "You got any chewing gum?" David Russell Ross
Breakfast Literature She went to work leaving his breakfast covered by a good morning love note. He ate the cold eggs slowly and read the good morning love note Like a Post Wheaties cereal box label.
Pamela Dawes
Shane Gregory
The Thing To Do I laughed today. I couldn't help it. It seemed like the thing to do. I was in the funeral home, watching the undertaker straighten the flowers and wondering why they're so picky, when suddenly he jumped. You made a noise. I knew what it was. Someone forgot to take the battery out of your watch, but you still scared the hell out of the man. So, I laughed. I had to. I laughed again, standing in the horse pasture, arms folded and letting the wind mess my hair. Like you used to. Deliberately. Deliberately thinking of the way you used to walk, slowly kicking at the knee-high yellow prairie grass, pointing up at the stars. Ad astra per aspera, you'd say. You never told me what it meant. That's what dictionaries are for. At first I thought it was the oak trees, or the wind coming up off the creek. I heard a faint noise in my mind. Almost like a beep. I went back to the house and got out your favorite watch, the blue one with the cracked face and twisted band. I took it with me to the burial. And before they closed the casket, I slipped it in. I thought it might be appropriate if you beep
on the hour, every hour, for all eternity. Reach a star through difficulty. Gwen-Marie Lerch
Eric Warman
30
"Interstate Navy" Projected against the landscape Huge convoys scream all night Sailors and their rigs Mounted over the wheel Weathering the fight Ride the tide Ride gray waves Reverberating nineteenth band Gray-dashed-white Rumble down the painted lines Riveted in your starships Phantom......friend Ride. Robert F: Harris
Chicken Bones It's when I stare at the size of him that I know. It's when I walk the future under the boardwalk I see him climb towards me in black satin robes and chicken bones dangling from his ears. I feel the cold chill of winter on my neck all covered with bruises. The metal bites deep and I taste the nauseating taste of metal. If I scream I will surely die and his kiss will be forgotten. If I give in I will surely be changed and be his lover for a day. Lover for a day, I say, is it all just to be his lover for a day. In his hands he grabs my breast and gently kisses me with lips of moleculed water; cold like rivers in winter and snow on your face. At this touch I am his and all sirens ring with his metabollical laugh. I am the trip of pure inhumanity. If you try me, I'll give you a ride, with black robed death waiting icily upon the throne of lies and deceit. I smile at his laugh and turnaround to see the sun fade into a faint star. His look has told me, his touch has whispered all is well in my hands. Watch out for my life, he says. I disregard his statement, for I know his life is already mine. I felt the snow on my body and to the south I see the rivers stop their flow for ice to capture its surface forever. Valerie L. Bean
On Communication Having walked in late you lean over, asking, "What's going on?" By the time I can explain, and I keep explaining, explaining.. . The projector man comes out holding burning reels in one hand and a fishbowl in the other, shouting expletives into his shirt. You pretend not to notice. You ask, "Where to next?" You know I can't answer that till you give me back my lips. The smell of abandoned theaters stinks like hell.
I think I'll stay inside tonight, handling celluloid with gloved hands and cooled air. Release my voice I will show you how on the open walls of buildings I will show you a grainy documentary on the history of words projected from a tiny hole in the back of my throat. Hurry. The skin on my neck is too tight; It hurts to swallow. Bryan Miller
Darwin Tomlinson
34
The Woman in the Airport In her vision of green velvet, she ran her fingers through the contents of the holder. It rang so clear in her glittering earlobes, the sound of turning heads and glances by strangers. Far in her memory served the low pitch of others, of times of gatherings and kisses of passion. Her fingers held the white stem of fog, its kiss so much deadlier than before. Swimming towards her now was the wave of society with voices like the wind and bells tolling like the end doth come. How did she do the jig? And the waltz on these days? Only her scarf can be her dance card in the days that she lost the world. The scarf of true mirror, the scarf of true reflections. She will always be the beauty in green as long as she thinks it SO.
Valerie L. Bean
Joey Gottbrath
Neverland Once upon a time in a land of fair gilded towers of shining plastic walls rose high under the feet of gentle giants. Peasants with simple hearts toiled with tin shovels Knights with wooden swords rode upon horses with manes of string.
Lee and Grant led their charges and the war was won The Dark Side of the Force was always defeated. Alas bleakness fell upon that happy land as it succumbed to the shadow of the growing giants their hearts becoming cold with age. And now the towers no long glitter but lie dusty, covered with cobwebs; a forgotten palace awaiting a new class of peasantry. Jessica Ray
Kilimanjaro They are gone, I stare down at the page. Blank. Empty the words are gone. When I was young. The words fell like rain Across the page, Like sunlight on a deep blue sea.
I would sail that sea, Conquer it, Damn anyone who'd try to stop me, Drink it in, Damn them all! I remember the pain Coursing through me like Good liquor, Then the drugs, Power raging through my veins like lightning. Who am I? I don't know anymore. I don't know anymore. My mind and body Broken. The gun is heavy in my hand. Where is my strength? It slipped off the page.
The sun is rising. They will come no more.
I know They will come no more. Bryan Brown
Chance Pow! Just that quick. Luck, I guess. Took out Only a nick. Two days later The sole survivor. How heavy the thoughts. Why not me and none other. Chance. God's muse. Pull the numbers. Roger Campbell
Jennifer Bronwyn Walker
The Referral Leroy heard the engine cut off as the car came to a stop outside his farmhouse. He checked his watch, 7:30 p.m. Right on schedule. His face cracked open into a tobacco-stained grin: Showtime. He came out of the kitchen and stood in front of the hall mirror. The clean overalls and fresh t-shirt made him itch, but that was okay-all part of the Game. His face still tingled from the shave, the first in a week. And that wart on the bridge of his ... It looked bigger now that his whiskers were gone. His wife had nagged him till the day she died to have the damn thing removed, but Leroy finally told her to shut up or he'd give her something to really complain about. When you carry something around on your face for fifty years, there must be a good reason for it being there. Footsteps on the front porch were followed by an enthusiastic rapping on the screen door. Leroy took his time crossing the living room. When he saw the man waiting for him, he didn't try to suppress a smile. "Mr. Rogers? I'm Paul Couturie! How are you this evening?' Leroy opened the door and allowed the man a limp handshake. This is going to be special, he thought. Paul Couturie was little more than a kid, nineteen, maybe twenty years old at the outside. He wore typical salesman garb, a fitted blue blazer with patterned tie, white shirt and grey slacks. His blond hair was stylishly short and his blue eyes were direct and steady. At his feet lay a black display case and a large, rectangular cardboard box. "Come on inside, Mr. Kutree," said Leroy. "Ain't safe to be standing around outside at night in these parts lately." Paul Couturie's brow raised in curiosity. "Just last week a fella in the next county got kilt by a mountain lion, least that's what
the sheriff thinks got him. Right in his own backyard." "Goodness," said the salesman. Leroy held the door as the salesman hustled his wares into the living room. "I didn't know such creatures were so daring." "Well, it ain't typical." Leroy took a seat on the couch and motioned Couturie toward a small wooden rocker. "But there's a lot of things runnin' around these hills at night." Couturie set down his load and turned the rocker to face Leroy. He motioned toward the television playing in the corner of the room. "Mr. Rogers, would it be all right if I turned the volume down just a tad?" Without waiting for an answer, Couturie crossed the room and pressed the power button, throwing the screen into darkness. Leroy noted to himself that the kid was experienced enough to eliminate as many distractions as possible. Good. A challenge. "So, Mr. Rogers," Couturie began, trying to find a comfortable position in the rocker, "do you have family nearby?" Leroy hesitated. Couturie already knew that Leroy's wife had passed away; the question came up when the salesman scheduled the appointment a few days earlier. "I got a daughter and two grandkids live in Clarksville." The lie was part of the Game. No reason for the salesman to know his only child had moved to Arizona after her mother died. Said it was for a drier climate, but Leroy knew it had more to do with him than Tennessee humidity. Leroy leaned forward. "Any trouble finding the place?" "No sir, not at all." Couturie began unpacking the machine from the cardboard box. As Couturie worked, his eyes swept the room. Leroy noticed that his attention lingered on the encyclopedias displayed on the mantle over the woodburning stove. Leroy knew exactly what the salesman was thinking: "This old man has bought from a traveling salesman before!" Leroy began to massage the wart on his nosefirst, to hide his smile from Couturie, and, second, it was a
life long habit whenever he became excited. The encyclopedias had been his first time. He'd been bored or he would never have let the fat, Yankee salesman in the door in the first place. While the man yammered away, the idea of the Game came to him in a flash of inspiration. He stopped the salesman in the middle of his presentation and agreed to purchase a set of his books. When the salesman handed over the heavy box, Leroy dropped to his knees screaming: "Didn't know you was goon' throw the damn things at me!" and "Would you kill an old man, is that it?' The dejected salesman left soon after, taking with him Leroy's promise not to sue. The price? The encyclopedias out of his own salary. In the time since, Leroy had amused himself with all kinds of salesmen and their companies. State law gave him the right to change his mind on anything purchased in his home for three days after the sale. It was as simple as canceling the check and dropping the company a letter in the mail that he had changed his mind. Then the company would try to get the product back-and that was when the fun began. In the backyard, a satellite dish aimlessly searched the southwest sky. The company that installed it had long ago written it off as a loss, which it truly was since Leroy had no clue to its operation, prefemng to rely on the rabbit ears that came with his portable television. His ancient pickup truck sported a cellular phone. In the kitchen, new non-stick pots and pans. Sometimes he would get to keep the stuff he bought and sometimes the sheriff would come out and make him give it back. Either way, it was all part of the Game. Couturie finished assembling the device and abandoned the rocker to sit on the floor facing Leroy. Leroy took a sip of beer from a can on the end table. "Care for something to drink?' he asked the salesman. Couturie regarded Leroy with eyes as calm as a lemur's. "No, thank you," he replied. "Maybe later. Mr. Rogers, this is
the Home Sanitation System 1000 or HOSS for short; the very finest home cleaning appliance on the market today." The HOSS-1000 was canister-shaped, about two feet tall and painted red, black, and chrome. Assorted cleaning tools were attached to its top and sides. It reminded Leroy of a robot in one of those Star Wars movies he had picked up on Channel 6. He took a sip of beer and said nothing as Couturie retrieved a small white filter from his display case. "Mr. Rogers, do you smoke?" Leroy replied by lifting a pack of Lucky Strikes out of his front overall pocket. He removed a cigarette from the pack and lit up. Couturie smiled and Leroy noticed how full his lips were, like a woman's. He shifted uneasily. Couturie plugged the electrical cord from the machine into a wall outlet. Turning a dial on top of the machine, the HOSS-1000 began making a low, humming sound. Couturie took a wooden bracket out of his display case, fastened the filter to its edges and placed it over the intake of the machine. "Now, Mr. Rogers, as we talk, the HOSS-1000 will begin to sanitize the room's air." Couturie launched into his presentation about the company that manufactured the HOSS-1000, including details about the machine's engineering principles, nationwide sales, and other general information. Leroy slid forward as Couturie assured him of the company's steadfast guarantee to .... "Is this gonna take much longer?" Leroy said. "My program comes on at eight o'clock." "I'll make every effort to move this along, Mr. Rogers. Now if-" "I sure wish you could have come a little earlier, Mr. Kutree. I'd hate to miss my program." Leroy felt a rush of exhilaration as he noted the flicker of annoyance in Couturie's eyes. "I'm truly sorry, sir. It's my habit to conduct business in the evening hours. Let me continue." Before Leroy knew what
was happening, Couturie removed the filter from the machine's intake and held it inches from Leroy's face. Startled, Leroy leaned back but the salesman brought the filter even closer until the material almost brushed against his nose. Leroy saw the once white cotton fibers were now stained a filthy, nicotine yellow. "Do you love your grandchildren, Mr. Rogers? Did you know this is what they breathe when they visit you?" "Git that damn thing out of my face!" Leroy said and shoved Couturie's hand away. Couturie sat back on his haunches, his face a mask of contrition. "I'm sorry sir. I just wanted to be sure you got a good look at what the HOSS-1000 could do in terms of air purification. I-" Leroy saw his chance. "You saying my house is dirty? You come in my house and insult me. I oughta-" Couturie's face was a deep red. "Goodness, no. I certainly didn't-It's just that most people don't realize how dirty things become, even in a. ..a well-kept home such as yours." Leroy watched Couturie's back as he dug around in his display case. He crushed out his cigarette in disgust. The kid was falling apart. Not what he'd expected at all. Of all the salesmen he'd encountered, Paul Couturie was easily the worst. Couturie plugged in another cord. When he turned, he held a large, metal, funnel-shaped lamp shade with the biggest light bulb Leroy had ever seen. "Watch this." He flipped on the bulb and began to beat the cloth cushion of Leroy's couch with his open palm. The result was an astonishing cloud of dust, lint, and foreign debris amplified thousands of times by the high-powered glare of the salesman's lamp. "Jesus H. Christ!" Leroy roared. He waved a hand in front of his face. "Turn that damn thing off-right now!" He began to massage the wart on his nose again. Crazy little sonof-a-bitch.
Couturie attached a hose to the machine. Leroy realized he was preparing to vacuum the floor. "Okay, Mr. Kutteray, tell me how much this contraption runs. I ain't got a lotta' money to throw away on some high fallutin' vacuum machine." Couturie dropped the hose to the floor and bowed his head slightly. He turned and surveyed the room with its worn furniture and dirty green carpet. With a sigh he turned back to Leroy, his eyes clearly full of pity for Leroy's situation. "I guess you're right. This machine is probably out of your reach." Leroy bristled. "Well, if that don't beat all. So now you're saying I'm too poor to buy your damn contraption. I got news for you, kid. If I wanna' buy-" "I didn't mean to insult you." Couturie held his hands apart in a gesture of submission. "I only meant that-well, nine hundred dollars is no small amount for people these days. Particularly those-" Leroy stood and stomped out of the room, re-entering a moment later with checkbook in hand. "Nine hundred, is that right?" he asked, looking for something to write on. He made a mental note to call the bank in the morning to cancel the check. He'd play the Game with the company that made the stupid machine. Time to get this idiot back on the road. Couturie picked up the large family Bible lying on the end table next to the couch. Leroy's name was engraved in gold on the cover. Expecting Couturie to hand the Bible over. Leroy was surprised when he casually took time to trace the first few letters of his name with a fingernail. Leroy snatched the Bible away and wrote out the check on top of it. Couturie waited on the floor with his hands folded in his lap. "Lovely Bible, Mr. Rogers." Leroy handed Couturie the check with a small flourish. "There you are, Mr. Kutree. I reckon that gadget of yours might come in handy after all." Leroy's forehead creased as
he remembered a question he'd meant to ask earlier. "You know, when you called, you said I was referred to you by someone. I don't recall you ever mentioned who gave you my name." He smiled though he felt the first pangs of an oncoming headache. "Of course," said Couturie. He fished a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, held it up to the light. "Glover. Mr. Richard Glover." Leroy's smile disappeared. Richard Glover had shown up on his front porch almost two months ago, peddling Bibles. Leroy had needed only about five minutes to come up with a plan. He agreed to purchase a Bible then sent the salesman on his way without incident. Leroy vividly remembered the incredulous expression on the salesman's face when he returned three weeks later to deliver the engraved Bible and pick up his check. "My name ain't right, Leroy had said, handing the Bible back to the salesman. "Leroy is spelled with a capital R." "But Sir," the salesman stammered, "I asked you to spell your name out for me. I even doublechecked it. You never said anything about a capital R." "A smart fella' like you should have enough sense to spell Leroy. I ain't about to pay for something that ain't right." Leroy finally offered to give the man twenty dollars for the Bible. Although this was substantially less than the agreed price of $89.95, it was all Richard Glover was going to get. The salesman took the twenty and left. "Uh, how exactly is it that you know Mr. Glover?'Leroy asked. Paul Couturie rose from the floor and attached Leroy's check to a clipboard which he placed inside his display case. "Well now,'' he said with a laugh, "we salesmen run into each other quite a bit on the road. I met Mr. Glover about a week ago in a hotel bar in Nashville. Nice fellow, don't you think?" Leroy stood and offered Couturie a hand. "Mr. Kutree,
I'm a little tired. I think I'll head off to bed soon if we're about done here." "Of course," Couturie replied. "Let me just-" Suddenly his eyes widened in alarm. "Mr. Rogers! What on earth is that thing?' Leroy swung his head wildly in both directions. Facing front again, Couturie was studying his face intently. "Hold still," the salesman commanded. He reached out with a forefinger and flicked. Leroy felt a sharp pain and his hand went to the side of his nose. "Goddamn!" screamed Leroy. "I'm sorry, sir," said Couturie pleasantly. "It's just that this seemed to be bothering you all evening." Couturie extended his finger and Leroy could see a small, flesh colored bump under his fingernail. Leroy pulled his hand from his nose and saw that it was covered in blood. Couturie flicked the wart to the floor. Leroy balled his hand into a fist and swung with all his strength at the salesman's leering face. A moment later, he screamed in pain again as he clutched his broken hand. Couturie's skin was like porcelain-smooth, cold, and extremely hard. "You're not very imaginative, are you?'said Couturie. "How disappointing." Leroy turned and ran. He made it through the living room and kitchen and out the back door. He even had the presence of mind to point himself in the direction of his nearest neighbor, over a mile away, just before he felt icy fingers close around his neck. His energy and will dissipated, he collapsed to the freshly plowed ground on his back. Couturie stood over him, a silhouette in the moonlight. "Mr. Rogers? I'm sorry to bother you again but your program is about to begin. Also, there may be some advanced features on the HOSS-1000 we should review before I leave. There's an instruction manual, but it's somewhat confusing." Couturie laughed. "I've complained about it to corporate but
they don't pay much attention to those of us who work in the field." He glanced around. "And I'm certainly in the field." Leroy began to blubber-tears, spit, and blood mixing in small puddles beneath his eyes and mouth. "Oh, come now, Mr. Rogers. Be a good sport. After all, I've been in the game a very long time." Couturie dropped to his knees. A moment later, his face became visible in the moonlight as he laid his hand over Leroy's heart. James Cain
J.D. Wilkes
Sight My grandmother sits by her window looking, waiting for someone or something. "Won't you take me away? My life is such a bore." The veins in her eyes tell me of stories cried over, laughed about and hoped for. What is she searching for? Have those little girl eyes cried out for her mother? She thought she saw a monster washing its face in the basin by the kitchen door. "That's your cat Pogo, you silly girl. Go back to sleep. I don't want to hear you crying anymore." What will she see? Have those adolescent eyes laughed at her young lover? She came to her house riding a mule and brought Shasta daisies and country cured ham. "Will you marry me my sweet peach blossom?" She said "yes" and left through the kitchen door. What is she seeing? Have those mature eyes cried over her dead brother? He died in his wife's arms while sleeping away a long hard day of blood, sweat and work. "One more week and I'll buy you that stove." He never feared Death nor where it did lurk. What has she seen? My grandmother no longer sits by her window looking, waiting for someone or something. "My time is done, you must take my place." The veins in her eyes went cold one day
as she leaned back in her chair with a smile on her face. Did she ever find what she was looking for? Ken Allgood
Sodom and Gomorrah I watched the two men enter through the city gates and I prayed that their eyes would not have to witness the evil that lurked not in the dark alleys or secluded hideaways, but in the houses of the magistrates and the elders and the priests who mixed their blessings and their blasphemies into a vile concoction of the Devil's wine, of which they were drunk, even when they prayed on bended knee. I joined the crowd as they demanded pleasure from these strangers, felt every good or decent thing in me screaming in desperate agony while my humanism crushed them under its self-righteous heel. I strained my eyes to see these men, to somehow apologize for myself as I viciously advanced upon them.They must have felt our probing eyes and their wicked gaze grasping and clutching at their radiant, spotless images, for they shed many tears. Their grief was short lived. They made us blind.
I felt my flesh begin to bum, to peel away from my bones and whither away, cursing my blinded stupidity all the while, welcoming my pain and cursing my God and praying for it to stop and wishing I would die and hoping I would live. My eyes began
to return and I saw the world of fire and I saw the old, the young, the weak, the strong, the righteous, and the wicked all returning to the dust from which they came, some struggling some praying, some screaming, and some just dying, embracing the pain and the torture in exchange for a moment of redemption. I watched the two strangers leaving, dragging a man and his family behind them and I saw the man's wife turn in agony and look upon her city with sad, confused eyes and then she was salt and her husband never even turned around to see. Then I stopped looking because my eyes were no more and I was glad I died. Eddie Sheridan
Shane Gregory
The Young Fur Seal You are the Crown prince of the sea. Your fur shines like a jewel, Your eyes look like the morning star.
You are ruler of the sea. Your cry occurs to a leopard, Your beautiful figure looks like a pearl.
You are a peacemaker of the sea. You never show arrogance, You look like a gentleman.
You are a meditator of the sea. Anxious for the new world beyond the horizon, You are sitting alone on the rock. As if you have become a saint. Ki-Ho, Byun
I Saw a Dolphin Today I saw a dolphin today. The beauty of her innocence overwhelmed me, Filling my lungs and heart with hope and inspiration. For one brief moment all evil seemed absent. I saw only her playful naiveness Riding the blue sea waves. I cried tears of joy.
Glancing into the horizon, I drowned my lightheartedness. The naked beauty of the sea was scarred, By a grey naval ship claiming to protect. My blood ran cold in view of man's mindless efforts Raping the virginal natural world. I cried tears of fear. If only man could see Through the eyes of the dolphin, the horizon could lead into a new day of peace And harmony for all inhabitants of our Earth. I gazed back to the dolphin, An image of utopia fills my mind. I cry tears of hope. Madelian March
Plant Love The procession alights with light-hearted heralds Dancing in the tree tops upon every leaf; Her path lit by leaping bolts of silver; Soft whispering of undreamt worlds, of pleasures unknown, of Falling drops, signal Her arrival. She gathers me in her embrace, Teasing my hair, my skin to arousal, Holding me, tempting me with her fresh taste. My rival for Her attentions, the handsome Earth, Leaves me green. She leaves us both, Fleeing with the breaking clouds, Going where I cannot follow; Gone to grow new loves, Gone to awaken old loves with new dreams. Her passing leaves me dazed and thirsting; Thirsting, sweating for more. Wm.Cartwright
John Wurth
Claira likes Peaches In these dim halls, many memories still live in the thoughts of the old. Some walk listlessly, talking quietly to themselves, lost far away to the past. Others speak lovingly of friends and family and of favorite pets. Sometimes you hear crying coming from a room with a closed door. I walk by an old man sitting in the lobby waiting, waiting for anyone at all. Back in the dining room, they're playing bingo and eating beans. And as I turn to leave, to go back into the sunlight and the now of life, I feel a soft tug at my sleeve, and find a gray haired lady, who smiling, says, "Claira likes peaches." Eric T. Anderson
Untitled Like an unripe green persimmon, When this unripe wild tangerine will turn yellow The girl promises her younger brother To pick some yellowed tangerines for him. Over the narrow winding road Through the mountain pass She is married off At the village beyond the mountain. A bramble thorny tangerine tree fence Eating much of the splendor of sunset Becomes the yellowed ripe tangerine. As the boy looks at The tangerines on the trees His sister's smiling face rises in his mind. Doo H.Yoon
September Journey autumn's breath, like perfume for the soul, takes us flying through cobalt skies waving farewell to summertime dreams for this is our rebirth, our time to dance to our own song and fly with the angels of golden dawns ... harvest moon and scarecrows fill the fields and thenight winds guide the ancient leaves along sidewalks and lonesome country roads, sketching their stories into the pavement... hot august nights are long forgotten and we open our souls to september's hand -finally, our journey begins ... Barbara Kern
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Michael B. Gage