Issuu

Pensworth Spring '15

Pensworth: A Journal of Alumni and Student Writing and Art

New Series No. 12 Spring 2015

Edited by Becky Branham, Student Editor Michael Prewitt, Student Editor Cristy Hall, Faculty Advisor Jamey Temple, Faculty Advisor and Managing Editor

sponsored by Sigma Tau Delta and the English Department University of the Cumberlands

Editors’ Note Pensworth appears annually in the spring. Alumni and students of University of the Cumberlands may submit work for consideration for the next issue by the last Thursday before Christmas break. Submit original poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, photography, and artwork online at www.ucumberlands.edu/pensworth. Visit the website for details on how to submit your work. Since its first issue in 1985, its revival in a “New Series” in 2003, and now its current online format, Pensworth has provided an outlet for alumni and students’ creative work, and our thanks go to all who have submitted work to the journal. We believe the current issue once again shows an impressive array of talents. We are proud to publish in this issue the winning manuscript of the University of the Cumberlands annual Creative Writing Award, sponsored by the English Department. Submissions for the Creative Writing Award are accepted in late February and early March. Contact the English Department for submission guidelines. We are also pleased to present the winning piece of University of the Cumberlands annual The Next Generation Creative Writing Award for local eighth grade and high school students. To learn more about this contest, visit www.ucumberlands.edu/pensworth/contests.php.

Front Cover: Joshua Thomas, “Koi Fish”

Contents Spring 2015

Poetry Careful Strides, Becky Branham...........................................................................1 Fervor, Mythcah Godsey....................................................................................... 2 Unfound, Jerome Rutherford................................................................................ 3 Gathering, Justin Adams...................................................................................... 5 Gardeners, Justin Adams...................................................................................... 6 i know my uncle by his hair, Michael Prewitt..................................................... 7 sock monkey, Michael Prewitt............................................................................. 8

Fiction Death Before Dying, Cordellya Smith............................................................... 10 Come What May, Daniel Noe............................................................................ 15

Creative Nonfiction Make Believe, Sarah Rainous..............................................................................25

The 2013-14 Creative Writing Award Winner What They Donâ€™t Know, Becky Branham.......................................................... 29

The 2014 Next Generation Creative Writing Award Winner Three poems by Alisha Prewitt.......................................................................... 35

Becky Branham

Careful Strides I feel you a stone bruise embedded in the soul of my foot. Drops me to my knees like an evening prayer. I want you like I want sawdust for cereal Like a thirst for which there is no quenching. You walked out leaving stones in your path and Iâ€™ve stepped on every single one.

Becky Branham, Careful Strides

Mythcah Godsey

Fervor You my dear will always be the lingering fragrance of Acqua di Gioia on strands of black hair slipping through my fingers and busy streets of Nashville on a Tuesday evening looking back on Thursday

Mythcah Godsey, Fervor

Jerome Rutherford

Unfound Donnie is gone. His world ended yesterday in a sudden ceremonious flash of unnatural light, with a loud booming roar, with the black-smell of grainy gunpowder. Iâ€™m sure his departure created more attention than his arrival. The hills and valleys of life were a struggle for a boy. They grew as he grew, always just out of reach, and always casting a longer shadow. He searched for the dragon of reality, and constantly found the cold tracks of an unknown beast. He crested the hills with cries of warning, and tried to recruit an unwilling army of listeners.

Jerome Rutherford, Unfound

He stood on the bare peak of the last highest mountain, Alone. His voice did not echo as usual from the dark empty void of the last valley. Donnie became Houdini. He escaped his beastless world to search for the dragon in another. No chains will bind his box. No water will baptize his magic trick. Twelve lines will end his biography.

Jerome Rutherford, Unfound

two poems by

Justin Adams

Gathering I carry storm-downed limbs in armloads to the sinkhole others had filled with the empty jars and broken bottles of a long marriage.

Returning, climbing the slope at dusk, I see your shape against the quilted clouds, gathering, bending, gathering again.

Justin Adams, Gathering

Gardeners Leaving my wife’s hand, reluctant, I turn from the exhaust churning car, noticing the broken-armed storm door, windblown, against the aluminum siding. There, the three-paned kitchen door holds a worn brass nameplate etched Gardners, the earlier family who raised walls around some forgotten sharecropper’s log frame. Gardeners among dirt farmers, who planted little seed to survive past the season, they instead raised trees in rows, out the front door, the east door. Summer mornings, trumpet flower sun trills between tasseling corn and low branches before bodies of maple and cedar spread their shape over the still house. And I ask myself, having closed the outer door by hand, did he, Old Mister Gardner, plant those trees for the dozen or so mornings before tobacco cutting when he could peer out the east facing bedroom window, see the dark of west leaning leaves and breathe Let’s stay a while to his wife’s sleeping ear.

Justin Adams, Gardeners

two poems by

Michael Prewitt

i know my uncle by his hair he has little tight curls of wiry black corkscrews that cling onto his scalp like roots in the ground. and their cousins covering his chest and pot-belly which i only see in the summer when he mows his yard almost daily. he also has a bristly mustache, a flat and mostly straight line that only dips a little at the edges. it is like his voice, also flat and deep with an imagined harshness that comes out the nose, a voice that says “i’m not expecting much out of this world” while loving it under the mustache’s coat.

Michael Prewitt, i know my uncle by his hair

sock monkey This whole thing is one giant sock monkey whirred and whirled around and around at fantastically unsafe speeds and cautiously unraveling for hundreds and thousands of years. One day, it will disintegrate in one great explosion, hard beans fumbling frantically out of the wool, filling the bright sky, raining over us all in one vast torrent of legumes.

Michael Prewitt, sock monkey

9 Joshua Thomas, Contemplate

Fiction

Death Before Dying Cordellya Smith

I can’t remember when I started trying to figure out what

death really meant. Death was a foreign concept. It was a fleeting thought that made me wince and then left my mind almost immediately; it was like Chernobyl, the fall of the Berlin Wall, or the splinter my mother pushed out of my palm with her number twelve needle. I didn’t think about death; it was an abstract concept I heard mentioned most often on weekend visits to my grandmother’s house.

Breakfast at my grandmother’s house on the weekend was

a family event. The men would go outside and shoot cans and buckets off fence posts. I always paid attention to where they were shooting so that I could go back later and pick up the brass shell casings; they were the perfect size for Barbie doll drinking glasses. While the men practiced their shooting the women would help grandma cook. They’d fix tenderloins, chocolate gravy, homemade biscuits, oatmeal, apples, fried eggs….When everything was ready, the adults would sit in the kitchen talking and eating while the kids took plates and ate in the living room or on the front porch. We’d run in and out for more fixin’s. It was during those times that I heard bits and pieces of what the grownups were saying.

They always seemed to start with the weather. It was always

unusually wet or dry for the season; the weather was never just right. The older I get the more I realize that instability is the only Cordellya Smith, Death Before Dying

thing about Kentucky weather that you can count on. When the required discourse on the weather ended, there was always somebody getting married or having a baby that was worthy of a line in the conversation. That would lead to a mention of somebody who’d “forgot where they came from.” Then, inevitably, there was always talk about somebody in the family, church, or surrounding community who had died. The references to death made an impression on me because my concept of death was not yet fixed. I was trying to figure out what death meant. I remember hearing things like this:

“Virginia died Wednesday from cancer. Poor old thing was

skin and bones after it got done with her. But, she’s in a better place now.”

“Were her children with her in the end?”

“Yeah, all of ’em but that middle boy. He’s still in jail for

stealing that car.”

Another time I remember hearing someone talk about an-

other neighbor of ours. That conversation ran a little like this:

“Verlin got killed this weekend. He got drunk and got his

tractor in a bind; he was trapped under it. Poor man was dead before the ambulance could even get to him.”

I learned as I listened to years of bits and pieces like this that

it seemed preferable to die quickly or during sleep. When the grown-ups talked about violent deaths, I lived them in my nightmares. I was especially afraid of drowning. My fear was so bad at one point that I started holding my breath every time our car passed a pond just in case we magically left the road and landed in the middle of the water.

Then I grew up. The world became a busier place. I stopped

noticing all the ponds on the sides of the roads as I whizzed by them. I stopped going to breakfast at grandma’s house. In truth,

Cordellya Smith, Death by Dying

we all did. I hadn’t thought about the breakfasts or the snippets of conversation overheard in childhood until recently. Now I find myself sitting at the chairs in the kitchen of my mother’s house involved in the conversation instead of running in and out for more chocolate gravy or another biscuit. As an adult, I am now even more convinced that it is better to die quickly.

One thing I am certain I never heard as a child running in and out of grandma’s

kitchen was the word Alzheimers. That is surely the worst death of all; there is nothing that is more frightening than the idea of losing a little piece of oneself every day.

Dylan Thomas wrote of death saying we “should

not go gently into that good night.” But, what happens when the person dying is dying inside a little bit every minute? How do you fight something you

“But, what happens when the person

cannot see? It turns out there is truly a fate worse

dying is dying

than death; losing oneself gradually without realiz-

inside a little bit

ing it is taking place is far worse than death.

When grandma first started to get Alzheim-

every minute?”

ers we thought she was spending so much time alone that she was losing her mind. “You tell them girls,” she would say, “to get out of that closet and stop making such a racket in there. Their daddy will be home soon and he will bust their bottoms if they mess all that up again.” Unfortunately, the children she heard playing in the closet had been grown and gone from home for decades. Their little voices were just echoes of the past and their daddy had been resting in his family plot for years.

Then things got worse. Grandma stopped hearing her own memories play one

last time in her head and started imagining things that never happened at all. “There are Mexicans in the attic,” she would whisper confidentially. “I don’t mind them being up there because it keeps those kids out of the cold, but I sure hope they don’t break my lamps.”

Those were the first years. As time passed, grandma lost even more of herself.

She couldn’t remember if or when she had eaten, so she always said she was full. The muscles underneath her skin seemed to slowly dissolve until all that remained was loose skin draped over bone. Cordellya Smith, Death by Dying

The family gathered for Thanksgiving at her house and

everybody brought a dish. We left her plates of leftovers so she would have her favorite foods to eat for the next few days and wouldn’t have to worry about cooking. We thought she might find the food more appetizing than the Ensure drinks Aunt Lorainne coerced her into drinking every day. She was upset later when we threw those plates of food away because she had been planning to eat it when she got hungry. From Thanksgiving to Christmas that year, she never really got hungry.

Then cousin Levi died. We picked her up for the funeral and

helped her get ready. No longer able to stand alone, she ambled unsteadily down the aisle toward the coffin with family supporting her on both sides. As she looked at him, a smile lit her face and she said, “He sure is a pretty thing, ain’t he?” There were no tears. There was no outward sign of grief or remorse. He could have been all dressed up in his best suit because he was going to prom.

It was then that I realized grandma was just like Levi; the

only part of them that we could touch was the shell. The consciousness inside them that made them unique had evaporated like water from the bucket hanging on the porch post overnight. The few drops that were missing were nearly invisible to the naked eye, but they made a critical difference. Levi left us suddenly, unexpectedly; Grandma left us a little at a time every day for years. Her consciousness seeped away into an abyss until there was nothing left of grandma but the brass casing on the outside. She had died without the inconvenience of death.

I still believe it is best to die quickly or in one’s sleep, but my

thoughts on death are now inextricably linked to thoughts of Alzheimer’s disease. My philosophy teacher’s lesson on la tabula rasa floats to the top of my mind when I think about this now. I

Cordellya Smith, Death by Dying

hear him say we are all born blank slates and our experiences with the world change and shape us. We write our life stories on our slates and they are perpetually changing. What I donâ€™t understand is what happens when the slate is wiped clean, and there is no way to put anything more on it? There is no way to rage against the dying of the light when the lights go out one lamp at a time and the monster turning them off wipes its footprints as it leaves each room.

Cordellya Smith, Death by Dying

Daniel Noe

come what For over a month now, I’ve watched Glen Cartwright stare out the same window every day, out the back of Siler Ridge Nursing Home, across the rolling hills of pines. I know that he takes a seat in that wicker chair five minutes before the sun rises every morning and leaves about ten minutes after it sets. I know that he compliments the nurse who brings his food in the same way every day and that he only leaves his seat to relieve himself. Glen doesn’t seem to notice me stand there beside him. He seems preoccupied by the Kentucky mountains outside. That is alright with me. I sit in the chair next to his and look out the window with him. The sun sends out just enough light across the horizon to make the fog stand out in the dark valleys. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks, after a moment. “It is,” I answer. He looks at me then, for the first time. Glen is a good-looking man for eighty-seven. His white hair combed neatly, with the part meticulously straight. His face clean shaven. His eyes glisten in the light as if he were always on the verge of tears. He could have easily been a movie star in that golden age of the silver screen, with Betty Davis

Daniel Noe, Come What May

and Marlon Brando. He smiles at me, showing a perfect set of white teeth. “Glen Cartwright,” he says, offering me his hand. I hesitate, not sure if I should take it or not. He pulls it back. “I forget sometimes,” he says. “Some folks don’t like to shake hands. And that’s all right.”

t may

Glen turns to the window again. The sun finally peaks above the distant tree tops, bathing the room in a fiery orange glow. He closes his eyes, taking in the warmth. Then he lets out a long sigh before he speaks. “I was born in these mountains, you know. As a boy I could tell you every creek and tree there was to tell of. I knew where the fresh springs were to get a good cold drink.” He opens his eyes, smiles. “The water would be so cold, in the middle of summer, it would freeze your teeth until they hurt.” “That’s a good memory you got there.” “Don’t let this place fool you.” He points around with a long finger. “There’s nothing wrong with this mind up here. They like to say I’m having the beginning signs of Alzheimer’s. But I say, I’m eightyseven and I forget things. It happens. When I start forgetting to go to the toilet and messing in my pants, I’ll worry about myself.” I laugh at that, and Glen does too. “At least the trees are still here,” he says, changing the subject. “Give it a few more years and they’ll all probably be gone. Won’t be anything but skyscrapers, like New York City.” Daniel Noe, Come What May

“People forget how beautiful the land is.” “They do,” he nods. “I traveled all around, when I was younger. I saw New York, London, even Tokyo once. None of them were like this.” “You traveled with your wife, didn’t you?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. “My lovely Anna.” The thought seemed to make his voice sadder, but his face lights up. “We played the piano, she and I. We were married for sixty years, spent over forty years of it travelling around the world.” “What made you stop?” “I got too old,” he says with a heavy sigh, “and Anna got the cancer. She fought it for as long as she could. My children put me in here after she died. I still miss her. More and more every damn day.” “You’ve been here for a long time now,” I tell him. “Do you ever go outside?” “They won’t let me.” He jerks a thumb in the direction of the nurse’s window. “They say I’m too old, that my heart might give out.” “What do you think,” I ask. “Oh,” He looks down at his hands, their fingers intertwined in his lap, “I suppose they’re right. But it would be a sight nicer to pass on out there, not cooped up in this godforsaken place.” Glen reaches over to pat me on the hand and stops just short. I think he remembered the hand shake and thought better of it. He sits there staring at my face for a moment. “You know,” he says to me at last, “you’re awful young to be in here. About my son’s age, I would guess. So why are you here?” Now that is a good question. I have to think about it. “I don’t know really,” I answer him. “Everything is just the same, every day exactly like the one before. People just act like I’m not even here.” “I know that feeling,” he says with a slight laugh. “I guess you could say I’m here doing a little soul searching.” “Fancy that,” Glen says. “You come here to search for a soul, and

Daniel Noe, Come What May

I come here to let mine go. Strange how life works, isn’t it?” I nod. A nurse brings him a tray with his breakfast on it. He thanks her politely and tells her how lovely she looks. She passes me by as if I’m not sitting there. Glen begins to eat, slowly. His hand shakes as he brings a spoonful of eggs up to his mouth. Some of the smaller bits fall onto the lap of his brown pajamas. “My father was a coal miner,” he says between bites. “Not like coal miners are today, all business and big machines. He dug it himself, him and his brothers, right there on their own land. The same land my granddad dug it on and his daddy before him. That’s just how it was back in those days. They dug a hole big enough to crawl into and knocked the coal loose with a pick. That’s where two of my uncles died, and one of my brothers. The mountain just closed up.” Glen stops and wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “You know why I’m here, don’t you?” I ask him. He nods. “Yeah, I think I do.” “And you don’t mind?” He thinks about it for a second, finally he shakes his head. “No. Don’t guess I do.” He goes back to eating again. “My mother owned an old piano. The upright kind, that stands against the wall and weighs a ton.” He laughs at something in his own head. “My daddy sure did go on about how heavy it was. He said when he and Momma moved back here from Virginia, it was the hardest thing ever to get situated. But momma persisted. And I’m glad she did. She taught me how to play it at night, after I got done helping daddy in the mines. That was a different thing then too, the young ones working alongside the grown men. I remember it being so cold out there, the wheels of the carts would freeze to the rails.” Glen turns his pale eyes to me. “I’m sure you’ve been down in a lot of them, haven’t you?” “Yes,” I answer, “too many.” Glen turns back to what is left of his meal, and sits there in Daniel Noe, Come What May

silence. I realize I like Glen Cartwright. He is a good, honest man. To tell the truth, I see no reason for him to be in the nursing home. He seems perfectly capable of caring for himself, and his mind is far from gone. But I know the hand that I have been dealt, and it is going to be a hard one. So I begin, “How long has it been since you played the piano, Glen?” He rests his spoon on the tray and pushes it away from himself a little. He leans back in his chair with a sigh. The sun is higher in the sky now, a burning orange ball of light that sends our shadows creeping across the floor in long thin lines. “A few years,” he finally says, “maybe ten.” “Can you still play?” He raises his hand from his lap and stares at it. Closes his fingers slowly and lets them out again. “I don’t know. Possibly.” I point across the room to a small wooden table. There is a plastic chair setting there beside it. With a small push, I know Glen sees a grand piano. A deep brown, French-polished Steinway. He smiles the first truly happy smile that I have seen on his face. “Maybe you should try out your skills on that one,” I tell him. “I could,” he says, “but I might have to get you to help me.” “I can’t. You have to do this on your own.” He nods. Then he pushes himself up out of the chair. He stands shakily, and slowly makes his way across the black and white tile floor. I peak into the nurse’s station window as I follow him. The nurse looks up from her romance novel, her glasses perched on the end of her nose. Her face never changed, but I know she is curious. Through her eyes, there is nothing but an old man hobbling his way to a table in the corner. I see the recognition on her face. There is nothing over there to hurt him, nothing he can hurt himself with, so she lets it go, back to her book. Glen makes his way to the table, with its plastic chair that is a sick

Daniel Noe, Come What May

shade of yellow. He sits down, on what he imagines is a soft leather piano bench, and rubs his fingers along the beautiful wood only he and I can see. “I don’t know,” he begins. “It’s been so long.” A single tear finally spills from his eye, rolls down his cheek. “You can do this. I know you can.” He slides the fallboard back. He brushes his fingers along the white and black keys, careful not to “At first, I think he press any of them. He turns to me again. is dreaming of be “What should I play?” I think about it, and pull the thought from his ing young again, in mind as if it were my own. “How about Robert front of thousands Schumann? Carnaval.” A smile emerges, his face bright with joy. “That of people. But I am was my wife’s favorite piece.” wrong. There is With that, he touches the keys and begins to play. The notes ring out sweetly against the walls of only one person. the nursing home. He closes his eyes and lets his mind lead his hands where they need to go. His ar- His lovely Anna.” thritis seems to disappear. His fingers dance nimbly from one note to the next. At first, I think he is dreaming of being young again, in front of thousands of people. But I am wrong. There is only one person. His lovely Anna. She is the only one there to see him play, because to him, she is the only one that it mattered to. The nurse looks up from her book again. She sees Glen sitting at the table making chords with his hands. She knows he had been a pianist in the past, the whole staff does. He has never acted like this before though. I know what she fears. That his mind has finally snapped. That the Alzheimer’s has finally taken him. I am almost done now anyway. “Open your eyes Glen.” He does as I ask. He sees his wife there beside him. She looks like she did fifteen years ago, before the cancer robbed her of everyDaniel Noe, Come What May

thing, before she was bedridden and unable to speak anymore. Her hair was white, even then. But it flows down over her shoulders in great curls. Her lips red against her pale skin, her eyes as green as the pines that Glen likes so much. Tears spill down his tired cheeks. His fingers falter slightly on the keys, but he doesn’t stop. His lips quiver with the effort to speak over the lump that has formed in his throat. “My love,” he whispers at last. Anna’s lips move and form words with no sound. “I love you,” she says. “I love you too.” The nurse sets her book aside and picks up the phone from the desk. She punches a number and a person picks up on the first ring. “Dr. Stanford….” I can hear the doctor answer as if I were the one talking to him. “Good morning, Betsy. How is everything?” “I think there might be a problem with Mr. Cartwright.” “Glen?” “Yes.” There is the sound of shuffling papers and then he speaks again. “I gave him an evaluation myself just yesterday. What seems to be the problem?” “Well,” I see the uncertainty pass across her face. “He’s sitting at the table in the corner, and he seems to be playing piano. I could have sworn I just heard him say that he loved someone.” “All right,” the doctor says, “I’ll be right there.” It is time to end it now. Anna fades from Glen’s sight and his fingers stop. “You miss her so much, don’t you?” “She was my life, my first and only love.” “Do you wish the two of you were together again? Right here. Right now?” He sniffs, wiping the tears from his cheek with the back of one

Daniel Noe, Come What May

hand. Then he shockingly shakes his head. “No. I wouldn’t wish her back onto this earth for anything in the world. She’s gone on to a better place than this. I’m sure of that. I will gladly go to meet her, if I can.” I have encountered many people at this point in their life, at the same crossroads that Glen Cartwright is steering himself down. Few ever answered the way he has. I meet a lot of people who just want to die, and a lot who are too eager to wait. Glen is different. He has longed for death for a while now, not to stop any suffering or pain that he might have, but to see his one and only love again. “You said you know who I am.” “I meet a lot of people “I do.” “And you still don’t mind?” who just want to die, “I’m ready, my friend.” Friend. Now that is a first even for my imand a lot who are too mortal ears. Never has anyone referred to me as eager to wait. ‘friend’. I understand everything at that moment. Death is not something that is inevitable. It is not Glen is different.” a bitter end to a great life, or a deserving end to a bad life. To some, like Glen Cartwright, it is a new beginning. And those few embrace it with open arms. “Thank you, Glen.” He nods. “My mother always said, ‘Come what may.’ I guess I agree with that.” I lay my hand on his and lean over next to his ear. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. Glen doesn’t answer. Instead, he closes his eyes, and lets his soul leave his body without a fight. It rushes from his mouth and nose, from the tear ducts in his eyes. A white cloud swirls around his head before it lifts itself up and out of the room. His soul takes form again, in the rays of the sun through the window. He isn’t sitting in the wicker chair, staring and reminiscing. He is dancing, hand in hand, with Anna. He lifts her arm in the air and she twirls around him as Daniel Noe, Come What May

they both laugh. She stops with her body pressed against Glen’s, their feet slowly floating above the ground. They stare into each other’s eyes, really seeing each other for the first time in years. Their lips meet, and they fade away into the light. I look at the body that sits at the little wooden table. The twinkle leaves his eyes as his hand slips away from mine. If I could shed tears, I think I would. But I have known the outcome all along. There is no way to stall it, only a way to ease into it. Betsy comes through the door with the doctor on her heels. Glen’s head gently hits the table with his eyes staring out the window. Dr. Stanford runs to his side and places his fingers on Glen’s neck. I know it is too late, but they have to check. Once someone feels my touch, there is no turning back. I step between the two, careful not to touch them. The close proximity is enough. Betsy clutches her chest and shivers. She thinks for a moment that she may be having a heart attack. She is not ready for her end yet. Neither am I. So I let her be. I walk to the door and look back one last time. I see Glen’s head resting on the keys of that piano. His face content and relaxed. He is finally at peace. I turn and walk through the door. Somewhere down the long hallway, with its harsh lights and stark white walls, I disappear. I am sure I’ll be back. I always am. Editor’s note: Daniel Noe passed away suddenly before hearing of his work’s acceptance. Not only was Daniel a Cumberlands’ student, but he also was a father, husband, and a talented musician and writer. We are honored to publish his work, letting his voice forever be heard.

Daniel Noe, Come What May

Hanna Wright, Eveâ€™s Choice

Creative NonFiction

Make Believe Sarah Rainous I was in the upstairs bathroom, analyzing myself in the mirror. That bathroom had the harshest light in the house, bright enough to coax all my insecurities out of hiding and display them to me like big neon signs. I ran my fingers along my jawline. The clash between the unusual pinkish hue of my face and the natural skin color of my neck was stark. I leaned into the mirror, both hands steadying myself on the cool white countertop. From this distance, I could see my short, wimpy eyelashes, plus the ever-present troop of small blackheads on my nose. I squeezed some of the gunk out with my index fingers, then washed my hands and stepped back. Just leave for work now, don’t do this to yourself. I bit my lip and glanced at the open door. Reaching over, I tapped the wood with my fingertips, pushing enough to leave the door just slightly ajar, so that my mom wouldn’t see if she walked upstairs. Then my eyes shifted back to the problem. With my baggy gray t-shirt on, you couldn’t see how not-skinny I was. I wasn’t fat, but I did have some fat on me which, according to all the pictures I saw every day, meant I was not beautiful. My hands slowly lifted my shirt up to my ribs, and my hips rotated from side to side, so I could see every angle. I felt my eyes water. My hands released the shirt, which gently slid back down to my hips. Then my hands placed themselves up on my waist. With my stomach sucked in, they pinched closer and closer together, like they were trying to reach each other, but there was some overgrown mass in the way. My eyes watered even more, and I almost let one tear slip – There was a sharp rap on the door – thank heaven I closed it – and my mom poked her head through the crack right after my hands sprang down to my sides. “You ready to go, honey? You have to leave now in order to reach the Waltons’ house on time. They do still want you to come over today, right?” She frowned, looking hard at my watery eyes. “You alright?” I made my voice sound light. “Yeah, I’m fine.” “You sure?” Her voice had that dubious, I-know-something’s-up-but-I-won’tpush-the-issue-if-you-don’t-want-me-to tone. I hesitated. “Yeah, I’m sure.” I did not want that kind of deep discussion this morning.

Sarah Rainous, Make Believe

I spread the door open and slid past my mom, careful not to hit the full coffee mug in her hand. I jogged down the stairs, snatched my purse from the entryway, and opened the door. “I love you!” my mom called, still upstairs. I bit my lip again, then wordlessly slammed the door, like I hadn’t heard her. I had been babysitting four-year old Alexis almost every day for a month now. I loved that little girl. I had never enjoyed getting to know someone that much before I started babysitting her this summer. She called handstands “stand-ups,” liked eating bagels for breakfast (one half with jelly, the other with cream cheese), adored Elsa from Frozen, hated getting her hair brushed, and had fun playing dress-up. She loved me back. Even admired me. When my hair was pulled back, she wanted hers “According to every that way. When I wore a sleeveless shirt, she book, magazine, chose her favorite blue tanktop to wear. It was unnerving knowing I had a waist-high copycat billboard, commercial, strolling next to me. Yet it was nice, too. She was always watching, but never judging. TV show, and movie I Today she decided we had to attend a ball so we could dance and meet the Prince. I asked had ever seen, I did not her whether this was a different kind of ball than the one we’d attended yesterday or the day qualify as ‘beautiful.’” before, and she assured me it was, so I agreed to accompany her. We pulled out all the stops getting ready. Her finest blue Elsa dress was donned, the most sparkly fake jewelry found homes around our necks and wrists, preposterous hats nested on our heads, and then off we tromped to the ball downstairs. But before we reached the stairwell, Alexis halted. While I looked at her puzzled, she grinningly glanced up and down at our getups. Then she asked me the simplest, most hard-to-answer question: “We’re beautiful, aren’t we?” My jaw dropped a bit. According to every book, magazine, billboard, commercial, TV show, and movie I had ever seen, I did not qualify as “beautiful.” My thoughts rushed back to this morning, in the bathroom. In my mind, I saw hands pinching my sides until they hurt. I felt my diaphragm strain as I sucked in my stomach as far as Sarah Rainous, Make Believe

I could. But when my eyes wandered up from my stomach, it wasn’t my face that had tears rolling down. It was Alexis’s. Her freckled face was splotchy and her happy eyes were now bloodshot. The image made me sick, and I felt tears welling up again. I stared down at Alexis, taking in her floppy white hat, cheap purple necklace, and grandmother’s high heels barely clinging to her toes. Silly and adorable. I could never say, “No, we’re not beautiful,” not to her, ever. And I couldn’t say, “Yes, you are beautiful,” because then she would ask about me. But there was a little girl smiling up at me. And her hair was in a ponytail because I had a ponytail. I knew how Alexis talked. If she had asked whether we were beautiful, then her young, innocent eyes already believed that we were. “We’re beautiful, aren’t we?” I bit my lip and knelt down so I was looking right at her rootbeer brown eyes. Resting my hands on her small shoulders, I said, “Yes. We are.” Alexis nodded in agreement. Then she twirled back around. “Come on, we’ll be late.” She hiked up her dress and clomped down the carpeted staircase to our make-believe ball. I stared down at Alexis until her white hat disappeared into her playroom. Then I started slowly walking down the stairs to join her.

Sarah Rainous, Make Believe

Katie Herrington, After Hours

Creative NonFiction

What They Don’t Know Becky Branham

2013-14 Creative Writing Award Winner A person’s memory is an interesting thing. Information, feelings, scents and memories are all stored inside a part of the brain waiting to be called upon when they are needed. Then there are those moments, those feelings that you don’t want to call upon— the ones that manage to creep to the forefront of your mind after you’ve spent days, months, sometimes years trying to push them away, hoping that if left in the back of your mind long enough they will slowly disappear. You wait for them to disintegrate into a dust that will settle over your mind just like lost equations, forgotten dates, and the preamble to the constitution that you were forced to memorize in fifth grade. They don’t. Forgetting is a lot harder than the human populace makes it out to be—I did try. Let me back track. *** When I was five my mother’s brother, my uncle, sexually molested me. Even now, those words in black type escaping from the tips of my fingers seem so unlikely… don’t they? Perhaps to you they do not. Those words hang there like a sleeping bat, upside down in a world right side up, words that I have left inside a very padded box, the word FRAGILE stamped across alternating sides. You’ve read those words more times than any agreeable person would ever want to. News headlines flash them across your screen, memoirs, journals, stories told in confidence. For the first time this will be mine.

Becky Branham, What They Don’t Know

The family was at church and I was left with my nanny and Robert—my grandmother and my mother’s brother. I have very vague memories of Robert. I do remember that he lived with my nanny for a while, lurking in her basement and avoiding the family for the most part. My nanny was sick that day and was lying in bed when Robert asked me if I could come help him with something. Maybe at five years old I was excited that an adult was asking me for help or maybe I had just be conditioned to listen to the nearest adult, either way I went. This is the part of that fragile box that gets hard to unpack. The part where I tell you what happened. It’s not that I am scared of telling you and I’m not entirely scared of your reaction, but I am scared of mine. You must understand, I’ve spent the majority of my life telling myself that perhaps it wasn’t real, that these things that happened were only a part of my five-year-old self ’s nightmare. I have turned, spun, and flipped these events over and over in my mind trying first at five to understand what had happened, tying to recognize the fear that coursed through me in that dimly lit basement on my nanny’s old sofa. Over time I have realized that there isn’t a five year old that could invent or imagine such a story—something that took time coming to terms with. In the basement, on an old sofa I was molested. The part of me that I had barely understood was different from my younger brother was rubbed, scoured, and squeezed until chafe and burning. I kept my eyes closed, my head thrown back so that when I did open my eyes to release the tears fighting to escape the only thing I could see would be the ceiling. With one hand he held both of my tiny wrists while telling me that my sobs would wake my sick nanny and that I would be in trouble. Finally, after what seemed like many days the sound of gravel crunched and cracked from above, with the pressure on my wrists relieved, I sprang from the ratty old sofa, running. Flying up the stairs that led to the basement. Through the gate that opened up to the front yard. Into my grandmother’s house, I ran as fast as my short legs would take me. When finally there, I threw myself onto the bed in the Becky Branham, What They Don’t Know

guest room and cried. Eventually my mother came searching for me. *** Last term I submitted a poem that I had written my sophomore year in college. The poem “When Momma’s at Church” was up to this point my only attempt at writing about my being sexually molested. I was inspired by the poetess Ai and her ability to construct poems that contained such strong and vivid themes and images. Ai is what the world of poetry considers a “persona poet.” Ai managed to write about her own sexual abuse through persona and so then I thought why couldn’t I? My poem was a reflection of what my mother had said to me when I told her what had happened in the basement. I remember trying to make my mother believe what had happened to me, crying the entire time while trying to explain. I told her and her response, only one short sentence, “Oh sweetie, God would never allow that to happen to a little girl.” Ever since that day in the guest room at my nanny’s, I have let that one sentence that my mother cooed haunt me. My mother’s response tortures me even more than what he did to me. *** After being found by my mother and receiving no words of help or even recognition of belief, I didn’t speak of the event for another two years. Within those two years my dad and mom divorced and my dad’s mother (my favorite grandmother), my nana, moved into our home and began taking on the role of mom that my real mother never could. I was seven years old and sitting on the couch reading while my nana watched a Lifetime movie. The movie involved a young girl who was molested and there I sat faced with memories that I had tried to let go of. I had tried to believe what my mother had said and forced myself to never speak another word because in her eyes it had never happened and all children know that when your parent tells you something then it must be true. A parent’s word is law. Suddenly I began to feel guilty and ashamed wile my nana watched her Lifetime flick and without warning I began to cry. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?” my nana questioned. “Can we change the channel, please?” I asked while trying to wipe the sudden tears rolling down my cheeks. “Of course, but will you tell nana why you’re crying?”

Becky Branham, What They Don’t Know

So I did. I forced myself to remember and to tell her what had happened. My nana, unlike my mother, listened to me. I could tell she believed me and she began to cry as well. My nana asked me if I had ever told anyone else that this had happened so I told her about my mom and how she had responded. Immediately my nana wanted us to tell my father but for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to do that. The idea of telling my father was embarrassing. I even asked my nana, “But, what if that really didn’t happen? What if I really did just imagine it, it could’ve been a nightmare, right?” My nana pulled me onto her lap where we sat there and cried but she promised that if I didn’t want her to tell that she wouldn’t. Now, looking back, the right thing may have been for her to tell my father. Maybe she did and I just never have and never will know about it. But, at the time my nana gave me the best thing she could, she listened. My nana is 72 years old now. I’ve never brought the subject up to her again and sometimes I wonder if she remembers. Sometimes I am tempted “I forced myself to remember and to to ask her if she remembers the scene like I do, tell her what had happened. My nana, but I am too scared. What unlike my mother, listened to me.” if nana has forgotten? She has obtained a peaceful mind and why would I want to ruin that by reminding her of something like this? I can’t and I won’t. *** Growing up I was always told that I was too mature for my age. My nana, my aunt and cousins, even my grade school counselor commented on how mature I acted and spoke. I never put too much thought into those comments, normally taking pride in my maturity and relishing in the idea that I was equal to the adults. But, perhaps what they meant to say was that I was unusual for my age. Perhaps I should have tried harder to be a kid, enjoyed my childhood more, made my imagination last a little longer—there was no use. Did I mature quicker than the other kids because of what happened to me? Did I lose my virginity when I was twelve because I felt like my sexuality was something that I needed to hurry and control? Explore it at my own volition so that I could take ownership of it? Is my constant need to have a boyfriend along with my fear of being Becky Branham, What They Don’t Know

alone a result of being sexually molested? I don’t know. I’ve read the articles—the ones that give statistics on kids who have been sexually abused. Maybe you’ve read them to? They normally sound something like this: “Such and such percent of children who have suffered from sexual abuse will begin to willingly have sex by the age of eleven.” “Children who have suffered from sexual abuse are nine times more likely to lead lives of promiscuity during adulthood than children who have not.” “Children who have suffered from sexual abuse will more than likely bury their selves inside of fantasy fiction novels and resurface with tattoos quoting said novels.” So maybe the last one specifically applies to me, but what about the others? Since the age of twelve I have had seven sexual partners. Is this a number that would correlate with other victims of sexual abuse? Is this number one that I should consider more heavily, be more ashamed of myself than I already am? Or should I compare it to others and feel gratified upon discovering that this number is on the lower end of the spectrum? I wouldn’t call myself promiscuous by any means, I was in a relationship with six of those seven (whatever counts as a relationship at the age of twelve) and all of those relationships exceeded a year. As for the other one, we are at least still on speaking terms (rebound sex is never good for anyone). I will more than likely never know the answer to any of these questions. Do I really need an answer? Is a professional opinion of my past, present and future behavioral issues really going to make what happened right or easier to cope with? No, at least, not for me. *** During my freshman year of high school I took a citizenship course. I honestly cannot remember how the topic of conversation turned to sexual abuse, but it did and just like that day I found myself watching that Lifetime movie with my nana, I began to cry. One of the senior girls in the class, who clearly thought I needed a grasp on the real world when I asked if we could change the subject, shouted that I needed to “toughen up” and pay attention because these were the types of things that happened in the real world. What she didn’t know was how aware of that fact I already was.

Becky Branham, What They Don’t Know

There is no answer to how a child should go about dealing with memories of sexual abuse. The truth is that you are going to be reminded of it when you least expect to. The sudden joy and elation during the day will quickly turn into a surly sort of depression. How do you explain that to your friends and your loved ones when you are barely able to understand it yourself? Should there be a specified time when a person who has suffered from sexual abuse confesses this to their new acquaintance? “Hello my name is Becky. My favorite color is purple, I enjoy pepper in my tomato soup, oh and I was molested by my uncle when I was five.” I suppose at best your new friend would at least be able to erase hurtful terms and phrases from their vernacular along with avoiding crude and vulgar jokes that may send you into a sudden sulky and hurt state that would be uncomfortable to explain. But most likely they are going to count you as a total basket case who needs a good therapist. Living with these memories and these questions has been painful. I have seen depths of depression that I hope to never revisit, but there is no guarantee that I won’t find myself in those places again. Sexual molestation is chronic regardless of whether the instance happened once or multiple times—I live with it every day. I read the newspapers and I envy the victims I read about because their culprit was at least caught, but then I think about the thousands of others, men and women like me who will never have that satisfaction. But what satisfaction is there to be found? So the person is behind bars— they will never suffer the way that we have. It’s not going to end—I don’t expect it to. I am always going to remember that day. I will never be able to forget the struggle and a part of me will never be able to forgive my mother. At times it seems as though I will never win. I have and I am. Every day that I learn to forgive myself for what happened, every moment that I am in control of my life is my way of winning. I guess in the end it doesn’t matter what they don’t know— it’s what I know. What I know is that I am living my life and finally speaking out about being sexually molested.

Becky Branham, What They Don’t Know

2014 Next Generation Creative Writing Award

Poetry by Winner Alisha Prewitt, Whitley Co. High School

sunrise red and black squares swirl in with the fog, earth’s ceiling a muted grey, lending a reason for hope and chance. there’s nothing like good company, nothing like a beautiful scene unfolded with a beautiful heart and mind to share it with. some mornings are made for memories. this morning has lingered in my heart much like the smell of woodsmoke lingers on an old flannel coat. six a.m. came — and went. seven. eight. nothing — yet everything. mother nature was a disappointment that day, but i think she knew i needed something something different than what i came for.

Alisha Prewitt, sunrise

hiding salt and water mix, making a gentle rain. but sometimes it isn’t gentle, sometimes it’s fast and hard and full of hate. darkness encroaches upon you, is this how you wanted to spend the evening? probably not. who would? but it never asked you, you had no choice. so you run away and hide, tucking yourself away from the world. but you can’t hide from yourself, and that’s the worst part.

Alisha Prewitt, hiding

the waiting game rain splatters on the windshield, trying to drown the sound of your heartbeat. five minutes becomes an eternity. trying and failing to block out your thoughts. nothing can shake your fear. then you see him â€” red face, big jaw, tired eyes, hint of a smile. you canâ€™t stop now. your breath comes in gasps, trembling hands. you do it. you run. now the waiting game begins.

Alisha Prewitt, the waiting game

Contributors Justin Adams, Alumnus Becky Branham, Graduate Student Mythcah Godsey, Alumna Katie Herrington, Sophomore Daniel Noe, Freshman Alisha Prewitt, HS Student Michael Prewitt, Sophomore Sarah Rainous, Sophomore Jerome Rutherford, Alumnus Cordellya Smith, Graduate Student Joshua Thomas, Senior Hanna Wright, Senior