W/C VOL ONE
WRITERS’ COMMUNITY CHAPBOOK SERIES: VOLUME ONE Copyright © 2012 (Electronic) / © 2013 (Print) All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the contributors. DESIGNED BY TYLER FIELDS In collaboration with Lone Empire (www.loneempire.com)
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This book is for every lover of words.
The Writersâ€™ Community would like to thank each of the contributors for their pieces, creativity, and continued support. Thanks to the Ball State University English Department and printing presses for their services and commitment. Thanks to local Muncie venues, especially Be Here Now and Village Green Records, for always opening their doors to the writing community and other local arts. And finally, thanks to officers Elysia Smith, Ben Rogers, and Tyler Fields for their tireless work on this book, in the community, and as writers.
The Writersâ€™ Community is a collective of writers, readers, and general lovers of words based out of Ball State University in Munice, IN. This book highlights the creative writing of several of the Communityâ€™s members.
A War Against God Kevin Brown
Sinclair Dream Scott Bugher
Pulling Nails John Carter
Children of Quiet Places Tyler Fields
One Little Piggy Went All the Way Home Camille Isis Germain
Better Critique Nick Gilmore
Hangnail Brent Holden
What Crime Has He Comitted? Michael Knoll
Skin Bruised Blue Rochelle Martin
A Very Pretty Blonde Woman Ben Rogers
Wastered Matt Ryan
Halcyon Days Joseph Samaniego
[Untitled] Brent Smith
How We Drowned Elysia Smith
I Collected Dead Animals, but Iâ€™m Not a Serial Killer Esther Wolfe
W/C VOL ONE
I scream, Poseidon Fight back you bitch! Throwing Molotov cocktails into the Mediterranean from an unremarkable sling of sand, pissing distance from Pompeii. Damn every gyro-littered riverbed from the slum that once revered itself Rome to the harvested plains of flooded Elysium. I taunt Osiris Like the has-been he is, Play “Glory Days” while he binge drinks his way to pre-mature mummification. Cut the bastard to pieces and take Isis to Paris for some prime cunnilingus while no one stays to scour the Sahara for her husband’s tumbleweed limbs. I plague Valhalla With paparazzi sagas in the Asgard Informer, front page iconography, a wedding ring hides like a Senator’s whore in the bottom drawer of Odin’s desk as he sows his Yggdrasil seed on a fertile Valkyrie intern’s chest, promising her a full-time position after the elections and Ragnarok end. I drink Samsara like a cold Chai latte with a double shot of arsenic.
A War Against God
Krishna’s trusty six-shot hosts a gentleman’s game of Russian roulette, but that Vishnu wannabe, come-and-go motherfucker hasn’t played a turn since his religion’s stoner rhetoric was culturally hip. I paint Muhammed on a Ford pick-up, badass flames shooting from his hands, it’s Mecca Man! Comic book talk bubbles ‘don’t be a fag’ and ‘woman, you best cover dat ass or Allah’s gonna be whippin out his dick’ but he won’t because he’s a bitch, like Poseidon. I spit Hosanna on parole from Catholic Education, geriatric incense molests my skin, a rebel incendiary with church wine like Greek fire. I’ll burn my rosary with the cardboard cut-outs they call the body of Christ, and until these gods start fighting back I’ll consider this battle won.
A dim luster, Tyson & Holyfield fighting through smoke laminates blue stars, sticks of neon, a two a.m. sky on a black vinyl purse. Five whiskeys, my lips meet the mouth-vacuum of a toffee nosed twat. My first December May romance results in a cry face from a rusty apple. A binder holds her. She wants to escape like Demianâ€™s sparrow hawk cracking through its shell. I am her shell, but made of granite. She needs a cocoon of frail porcelain. I am not her Sinclair dream.
It starts with a hammer and a crowbar, or as we call it on the farm, “a wreckin’ bar.” In front of me is the decaying body of an old shed built by my great-great-grandfather. The caved-in roof, broken sides, and rotting wood make it lean up against the side of the barn. The tin on the roof is peeled back like a half-picked scab, each sheet the deep rust color of blood—not “oh-I-pricked-my-finger-blood,” but dark, vital blood. Pieces of siding are missing, exposing the broken ribcage of the wall frame. Despite the warmth of the sun burning my skin, I can feel the clammy, moist air from the dampness of the shaded interior. Inside, bits and pieces of disused farm equipment and scrap wood rust and rot to pieces. In my hand is the work-smoothed handle of the hammer, the end a solid weight that feels reassuring. In my other hand is an old “wreckin’ bar,” not the normal sized one, but the extra long one that hangs in the tool shed. Its weight, unlike the hammer, isn’t reassuring, but challenging. When my arm lifts it, I can feel my muscles at work, watch them push and move under my skin. Beside me is a bucket of old nails, rusted, bent, broken, snapped, torn, and some twisted. There are heavy nails, used to secure 2x4’s (or as we say, two-b-fours), and smaller nails, made with a natural twist for securing roofing tin. Carrying the bucket, wreckin’ bar, and hammer, I walk towards the body of mold, mildew, and metal. Climbing up the sloping side of the shed, looking for the spot where I left off on the roof the day before, I pull out nail after nail. I set aside the wreckin’ bar, hooking it on an exposed rafter, and work my way down the line of nails holding the sheets of tin to the rafters and nailers. I lift the hammer and I can feel the muscles in my arm working, connecting and pulling on my bones and tissues. Bringing the ham-
mer down with a BANG that echoes around the farm, I pound the metal down around the head of the nail, so I can hook the hammerâ€™s claw under it. Flakes of rust turn to powder and discolor the metal further; each hammer-fall creating bruises and dents in the roofskin. The deep red rust colors the head of the hammer like blood marking a murder weapon. At first, the nail doesnâ€™t budge, sticking in the wood like a barbed splinter in the skin of the roof, but once I get under the edge, it begins to loosen, centimeter by centimeter pulling free. As I pull, I feel the muscles in my arm tensing, the feeling of having strength, the feeling of exerting that strength, of being alive to exert strength, and then comes the most perfect moment, when, with a small pop, the nail gives and slides out to be dropped in the bucket. Each nail is like this, well, not exactly like this. No nail pulls the same. Some take longer to get loose, some are barely held into the wood, and still others simply break, snapping cleanly off as you pull, the shining, untouched-by-rust insides glinting under the sun. Some of the nails even refuse to be removed from the tin, instead wrenching out a piece of the metal with them, leaving a torn hole like ripped flesh. The release of the tension in my arm comes with the small feeling of some kind of accomplishment that the nail that was in the falling apart wood is now gone. I look over my shoulder at the pile of tin on the ground, and then at the empty portion of the roof. I feel the muscles in my arms moving under my skin, my lungs taking in the air. My body dismembers this body. The dampness from the inside of the shed mingles with the hot sun and the blue-sky-breeze, and fills me with the smell of the clean, darkness of the earth. I breathe in that clean air, and focus on the way my lungs feel. I can feel the muscles deep in my body moving, expanding. I feel the air rushing
in, filling all the small places between my organs’ flesh. I hold the breath; make myself aware of the body of air in my body of flesh as I stand on this body of metal and wood and earth that I drew it from. I slide back off the wall for a rest and sit down on an old fencepost lying in the grass. I can hear barn swallows and redwing blackbirds in the trees around the barn, and killdeer call from the grazed-short grass in the pasture. The breeze picks up, and throws over me the coolness of the tree-shade, and the rich, redolent smell of the sod around me. Looking at the space where the shed sits, I imagine what it will look like once it’s gone. Locust and maple trees that have grown up around it will be free to extend their branches in the space where its roof stands, and the sun will be able to reach the cold earth that the shed takes up. There’s an odd emptiness, but fullness that will come with the shed’s removal. The space next to the barn will look more empty, devoid of a structure built to hold the first vehicle on the farm, but eventually only used as a space to store trash and broken tools. Eventually, though, with its removal there will be a fullness that cannot be replicated with any number of physical objects. Once the shed is gone, the bare earth will remain, like the piled-in dirt of a new grave, but in time, that too will be gone. The grass will grow where there is only spongy wood and wasted tools, and trees will cast shade over clean earth, not rusted sheets of tin. Running my hand over the smooth wood grain of the hammer’s handle, I get back to my feet. With the weight of the bucket of nails in my other hand, I walk back over to the shed, and, crawling back to the roof, I get back to work.
Release The sunâ€™s light bled over the horizon and lit the sulking fog below the deer stand. Frost clung to each window and made cracks like halos around our heads. A heavy silence beat down onto our backs where the cold licked at our necks. In the center, my father ignited a single flame into the heater and I could hear the tank below us breathe gas into the fire. He told us to take off our gloves as he breathed into his hands, and I saw the condensed air drift white like smoke and evaporate above the fire. Between the palms of his hands where I felt his breath between my fingers, he held me and my sister inside the warmth between us. They shuttered and I felt the beating of his heart pulse like a whisper from his hand into mine. He looked into each of our eyes and smiled, youâ€™re warmer now. Outside, the sun threw long shadows across the sharp angles of the rocky hills. We heard the snap and crack of the frozen grass and my father looked away into the direction of the sound. Our eyes followed his eyes follow the deer around the stand until he released our hands and grabbed for his bow in a single motion. His eyes were low and I saw the fire of the sun in them looking out to the animal. I could feel a pulse through my hands as the cold dug deeper and deeper toward my bones. My father groped behind him near our feet for an arrow. He nocked the arrow and inhaled deep to hold his breath as he reared the string between the vibrating grip of his hand. I could see his beating heart push life into the string one pulse after another, after another. I heard the gas sputter for a moment before it emptied. The single flame in the center faded and died in a long sigh of release. The sun in my fatherâ€™s eyes burned red. The sun had risen. The cold spilled over our shoulders and into our lungs until I was breath-
Children of Quiet Places
ing deep. I took my sister’s hand and could feel the phantom of my father’s evaporate into the impeding cold. His muscles shook around the tension of the string. The fire’s gone. My words drifted thin like smoke and as the silence bloomed between us, he released.
The Emptiness Surrounding When the light turns green, I look to my sister in the driverâ€™s seat. Outside, the trees that grow crooked and bald crawl past her head out the window. She smiles into the distance before her and says, Are you ready? I can feel the car toss and swerve as I step between her legs. The act is short and practiced. When I place my hands on top of hers, she lets the steering wheel go and the immediate weight of the car slips between the tendons of my wrists. Outside, the trees are gone and I can see the ground slope and fall into steep hills around us. My sister places her palms on my shoulders and I can feel the weight bear down. Here we go, I smile. Here we go, she breathes into the top of my head. Before us, the road skirts the precipice of the dam and the lake looms to our left. The rocks to our right. And for a few short moments, I can navigate her terror pressing into my shoulders. On the table beside the door, there is a bowl of keys next to a porcelain disk. It says, God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. In the kitchen, our mother is folding clothes into a duffle bag looking to the flowers on the wallpaper. It bubbles and sags. She gathers each garment into her hands and looks at the motion of her wrists and she tucks the fabric in on itself. She watches each fold and pats the top when she places it into the bag. She repeats. Behind her, I stand next to my sister staring into our motherâ€™s back, watching the seams of her shirt shift like waves above her shoulder blades. I look to my sister and think, Are you ready? After she places the last piece into the bag and nestles the
Children of Quiet Places
porcelain prayer into the clothes, my mother stares into the wall and we stare into her back. She says, That’s all, and turns to look us in the face. The tears are small on my sister’s cheeks and they nestle into the corners of her mouth. She smiles, I’m scared. Our mother says, Me too, and hugs us into the night. When the light turns green, I look to my sister in the driver’s seat. Outside there are trees. The weight of the car shakes between my fingers, through the tendons in my wrists, and up into my shoulders where I can feel my sister’s palms. She says, I’m scared into the top of my head. And as the vibrations swim between us near my shoulder blades, we fall headlong into the emptiness surrounding.
Camille Isis Germain
There is no metaphor nor slur, not a blasphemous incantation, slander, slam, scold, smear or any scandalous remark to illustrate my ire morphing into malevolence and so, I will the purged chunks I am choking on to spew out while I watch you peel back the foreskin of your reddened, blistering, uncircumcised stump with the same sausage-like fingers that dig into each of my hip bones until my peached ivory turns to blue and purple swirls. You scavenge my limp, dizzied body as though I were your slop to feast on, your possession. The room, it slants, deluding my vision with shifting scenes of colors, stars, and faces that contort to decomposing portraits which drain my idled bag of bones, sedated with 700 mg of Cyclobenzaprine (sye kloe benâ€™ za preen) and still the puke does not rise, causing me to envision the laceration of each fold of fat from your bulging torso instead.
I refuse to suspend disbelief. The story is too obsessed. Its protagonist is a green olive floating in a dirty martini. I feel as though you want to write about an Indian casino but you never went to one. If you went, you would cash in on all of the details and neglect the context, like a recorder taped to the underside of the playing table. That’s cheating. The story is falling apart. It’s “Native American” casino. If I wrote savages, I would nix the time travel and buffalo imagery. It’s more of a feel-good pornography than a nonfiction nature piece. What were you not thinking? Use that. Use this: Once upon a time your inherent cyclical theme bored me to tears. Really love your use of use, though. I feel as though you want to write something expensive but you haven’t started. Don’t start. You’ll aim for tiramisu and it will taste like baklava. You can’t spell fiction without “fuck”. You can’t spell ejaculate without a cringe. So don’t. But what about the title? I bet you didn’t coin that yourself. I’m beginning to think this story is not about me. There is no story without me. If I never went to Oklahoma then neither did you.
Use that. Your plot is organic and characters dynamic. Use that. Your story is historically inaccurate. Perfect. Use that. Weak. Static. Yet interesting, interesting, interesting? No.
You pluck at your stitches like theyâ€™re harp strings, singing yourself into a contended sense of stagnation. You lie in bed, lost in stolen pain pills, cold air filtering through the cigarette burns in your rat-eaten blanket, your head resting on a pillow, yellow with smoke and grease from your unwashed hair. Your apathy rots your mouth and mind, caustic to the future you say you want but are too comfortable to reach out and take. Youâ€™re decorated with open wounds because scratching is a hell of a lot easier than washing out the fleas.
The Cosmos turns with the promise of unlimited possibility. The wheels of creation are greased with this lie. All things must end. At the limits of the celestial march, The end of the endless, The tightening sigh Of the rubber band before the snap. Like the night when we met, For a time. You wore pastel, like a smearing of Pigmalionâ€™s clay. I wore admiration and the belief the whole complexity of forever was open to us. But now I dip my hands in the bowl of Pilate. You have chosen Barabbas.
He slips between gnarled legs to swim. Blonde curls float on the surface, Each curl the point of a fan in The chlorine water, filled with giggles and splashes. Polyester leeches cling to his skin, dragging him under. Cicada voices chatter, abruptly cut off As the mother lunges. She croons to him, rubbing his skin Cold and blue.
She was a very pretty blonde woman. She didn’t have a nose, just a gaping hole in the middle of her face. She didn’t have ears, just gaping holes on the sides of her head. She didn’t have eyes, just gaping holes where her eyes should have been. Where her mouth would have been most proper, where a gaping hole would have been most valued in the evaluation of the leading men, there was only impenetrable flesh. A famous doctor examined the very pretty blonde woman in a rather prodding fashion. He concluded that, without a doubt, she did not have a face in the proper sense. She was, in fact, a faceless very pretty blonde woman. —Sir, ejaculated a student. I fail to see how this very pretty blonde woman can be a very pretty blonde woman if she has nothing of particular interest to make her a very pretty blonde woman. She has no facial features, at least as far as our understanding of faces has come to understand faces. How can this very pretty blonde woman fail to have a face, in the proper sense of the term, if she is, in the proper sense of the term, a very pretty blonde woman? The doctor was dismayed. He prodded the very pretty blonde woman a second time. To his considerable surprise, he found that the very pretty blonde woman had no arms and legs. Where arms and legs were most natural to man, the very pretty blonde woman had neither arms nor legs. What’s more, the very pretty blonde woman had no organs. The doctor performed all of the available tests. And in all of this, the very pretty blonde woman revealed not even the slightest hint of an organ. The very pretty blonde woman was just a body. Several years later, a second doctor performed a new investigation. He prodded the very pretty blonde woman just like the first doctor. He claimed he was more careful, however, thus distin-
A Very Pretty Blonde Woman
guishing him from the first doctor. In his report, he claimed that the very pretty blonde woman was, in fact, just organs. She had no body in the proper sense of the term. The second doctor claimed the first doctor got so wrapped up in wanting the very pretty blond woman to have a body that he took the organs of the very pretty blonde woman to be a body when in reality the very pretty blonde woman was just a bunch of organs which did not really fit together, thus leading the second doctor to the conclusion that the very pretty blonde woman was, in fact, just organs. A third doctor grew tired of the prodding non-sense of the first and second doctors, so she herself went to perform an investigation of the very pretty blonde woman. However, after entering the room where the very pretty blonde woman was kept, the third doctor found that the very pretty blonde woman, in fact, did not exist. Where there should have been a very pretty blonde woman, there was neither a body nor a pile of organs. Nothing was to be found. The third doctor attempted to publish the results of her brief inquiry regarding the matter of the very pretty blonde woman but, before she got the chance, they declared her barking mad and had her committed.
Machismo is something of novelty and days gone by Boys trying to be men trying to be Marlon Brando Splashing suds of beer on their heads What a waste. They probably don’t even know who Brando is or was Yet here we are Think global kill local Hipsters are just bros in tight clothes who are sensitive because they make art Effeminate because of their style and love of Prince, Styx, or whatever other Garbage they find in the trash in blowing through the parking lot of Walmart The hipsters called the rednecks bros because the bros went pro and came to college I hate America and you can too I live half for passion and half for art I foxtrot to a song called “Yearning” It smells like L’Sayres bought tween fragrances It makes me want to vomit I vomit I vomit How the hell did I end up in the bathroom? Like everything else in the West we have stolen it from the East Named it our forefather Separated it by streets Intersected in roundabouts Lifestyle centers are where the rich go to consume and Where the working class goes to work
At the maximum part-time allowance of hours their employers do Not have to legally provide healthcare. The benefit to working your whole life Is dying before you realize the consumer whore that you are It is na誰ve to think that life on the dime is not a reality Laugh your fucking ass off like there is meaning to all of this And that the meaning is something outside of us, Outside of humanity. Man, women, transgender, queer, gay, lesbian, warlock, wizard, and child. Of course we all know that politicians are a commodity, Rhetors of the damned and yet they are damned by their audience
I Dear Thales, Goodbye… What a thing to say, when we mean “I don’t want to leave.” And really, I don’t. This is merely my hermit-thrush song… the hollow whisper rushing from a seashell… thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season. We said that Phoenix was the place for birth (and of course, rebirth, but we know what that entails; life is very long), and now that Halcyon is born – and I’m so glad, someday he’ll be handsome and as tall as you – I feel ready to let go. For so long I have been dead, dying with a little patience… my hands have grown so thin… I’ve passed the stages of my age and youth… I told myself that I could not grow old and have no children… Human nature has condemned me – I feel nothing… It is time. Don’t shed a drop for me. Remember me when you hold Halcyon, and let him remember my song – the one I’ve sung since that first night we brought him home from the hospital, and, when he couldn’t sleep and we were waiting for the rain, I lulled with him with a hush. With a love which has lasted a million years, “Phlebas the Phoenician”
II Teaching Him the Rain Put the note back in the desk. Still warped along the edge that was nearest the tub... Need to stop reading it… Her copy of Virgil lying open to a single marked line; Conditque natantia lumina somnus.1 What she left us: the sound of water only. If only I could sing… If only he could hear his mother’s song… Cruel April... Stony rubbish… He’s crying now. Take him to the shower. Turn the faucet knob. A trickle – drip drop drip drop drop drop drop; then, incomprehensible gush, a voice bubbling up without direction: ee um fah um so, foo swee too eem oo. The showerhead’s warm hush consoling the curtain’s tears as they slide down. Feeble cataract on plastic and porcelain. Do you hear her, Halcyon? When you’re older, will you wear glasses and catch her memory on your eyes on misty nights? He can’t sleep. Has to take a walk. Chilly out. For a while, nothing, not even a thought. Then, wet prick on scalp, one after another, suggesting their presence, yet ephemeral. Still mist hanging in the interstices, pervasive; cold indigo between the glow of street lamps having orange ideas; skin pulled up into bumps like round droplets. That hush... That soaking in... That softening of the hard ground as – plish! plash! – through deepening puddles, through the nearly-still aqueous points floating in space, appearing in the light, and – upon gentle collision – lingering as a veil on the panes before his eyes. Incandescence 40
through that wet film, diffusing into a cobweb of gold-veined bursts around the bulbs’ heads without depth; “…a joy for ever,” the world seemed to say. Now he’s crying again. Turn off the faucet. Hush.
1. ‘Conditque… somnus:’ “…and so sleep closed her swimming eyes”; from Virgil’s Georgics, Book IV, when the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice is recalled.
Iâ€™ve lived a little life with you. Newspapers piled up outside our suburban door. Headlines hidden in a yard overgrown. The neighborhood peddles by. A judgmental wave with simile smiles. Our children round the corner mouths tied with the finest fibers of twine. Carrying their tongues in mason jars. Reminding us our parents made mistakes too. I am the unfather in this little life. I stay in bed all day, until I can no longer sleep. 43
I remember the unspoiled birds but only stir before six am to clean the fridge with my bare hands again and again, until the rhubarb stains of last summer donâ€™t remind me of the farmerâ€™s markets we forsook to the sound of waking. Our limbs were numb with light. We wore filtered green, the shade of arcing canopies before diving head first into the lake. The weeds there wrapping like jewelry around our throats. You pulled and pulled were always but the mangled cattails refused and soon you were only beads reflecting my face.
The sparrowâ€™s heart was outside its body When she rescued it Saw it flicker Like a jewel The tangibility of death Was a relative and continuous distance That was measured Like a parallax In carcasses and nests of eggs And could only be grasped In instantaneous And infinitely stretching Moments That expanded And collapsed And ripped the bottom of her mind Out Like paper She developed a long history Of finding them And standing vigil She drugged bees
With spoonfuls of honey Held up To plum tree blossoms She brought a crab home from the beach And it rotted On the weathervane
Kevin Brown hails from the Lilac Village just outside the city of Chicago. He later moved to Indianapolis to study at Nativity Catholic School, where he learned everything from proper penmanship to the evils of premarital sex. At the age of 18, Kevin Brown met the devil at a crossroads. She installed Celtx on his macbook and taught him how to love. The rest is history. J. Scott Bugher is a retired Nashville session musician, selling oil painter, and published writer. He operates an online literary magazine called Split Lip at www.splitlipmagazine.com. For more on his creative endeavors, visit www.jayscottartist.com. John Carter, an aspiring connoisseur of awkward moments, alcoholic cider, and contemporary Lego sets, is a nonfiction writer and co-founder/co-managing editor of a Creative Nonfiction magazine (Embodied Effigies), who hails from the small, without-a-stoplight town of Gaston, Indiana, and who finds the process of writing in third person for a contributor’s note an extremely difficult experience, but one not without the perk of being relatively free from typical form restrictions, allowing him to flex his absurdly-long-and-probably-not-actually-grammatically-correct sentence writing skills in an effort to appear “fun” and “creative,” despite considering himself, at times, to be a rather un-fun, un-creative person (though not really, he’s just being facetious here for voice). His favorite color is green, and his favorite punctuation mark is the comma. Tyler Fields hates the idea of definitives. Or does he?
Camille Germain I usually talk about cats in these. - Contributorâ€™s Note Nicholas Gilmore is a senior telecommunications major at Ball State University. When he graduates, he plans to make a swift move to Los Yorkveronto. Nicholas receives inspiration from pop culture, gin, and tedious people-watching. He appreciates you for reading his work as you are about to do. He almost feels a sort of intimacy with you. Brent Holden did not contribute a contributorâ€™s note. Michael Knoll is a writer of fiction, poetry, and screen. He currently resides in Muncie, IN. Rochelle Martin is a photography major at Ball State University. She does a bit of this and that. Ben Rogers postulated the existence of libido, an energy with which mental process and structures are invested. Ben Rogers developed therapeutic techniques such as the use of free association, in which patients report their thoughts without reservation and in whichever order they spontaneously occur. Ben Rogers proposed that dreams help to preserve sleep by representing as fulfilled wishes that would otherwise awake the dreamer. Matt Ryan is a writer and a photographer whose work has been published in the Ball State University Honors College annual publication The Odyssey.
Joseph Samaniego, born at Fontiveros, Old Castile, was a major figure of the Counter-Reformation, a Spanish mystic, Catholic saint, Carmelite friar and priest. Joseph Samaniego was also a reformer of the Carmelite Order and is considered, along with Saint Teresa of Ávila, as a founder of the Discalced Carmelites. He is also known for his writings. Both his poetry and his studies on the growth of the soul are considered the summit of mystical Spanish literature and one of the peaks of all Spanish literature. He was canonized as a saint in 1726 by Pope Benedict XIII. He is one of the thirty-five Doctors of the Church. He also enjoys long walks. Elysia Smith listens to trance music, eats smoked salmon, and has too many cats. She doesn’t know what that makes her, but is fairly certain you’ll come up with something. Brent Smith lives in Indiana and attends Ball State University. He is majoring in Creative Writing and minoring in Telecommunications. He writes Poetry, Flash Fiction, and Nonfiction. He is inspired by his favorite musical acts such as Nick Cave and mewithoutYou. Esther Wolfe is a junior in the Honors College, and is double majoring in English Literature and Philosophy. She is also the Dean’s Council Representative for the Ball State English department and an assistant editor for Stance, Ball State’s international undergraduate philosophy journal. Esther looks forward to pursuing a career as a literary scholar and professor of literature, with specific research interest in post-colonial theory and systems of oppression. She would tell you what she enjoys doing in her free time, but she kind of doesn’t remember what it’s like to have any.
Kevin Brown Scott Bugher John Carter Tyler Fields Camille Isis Germain Nick Gilmore Brent Holden Michael Knoll Rochelle Martin Ben Rogers Matt Ryan Joseph Samaniego Brent Smith Elysia Smith Esther Wolfe
This is volume one in the Ball State University Writers' Community chapbook series. This book highlights several pieces by members of the Co...