New Voices, Spring 2016

Spring 2016

New Voices: Lander University’s Student Journal

New Voices is a publication of the College of Arts and Humanities Lander University 320 Stanley Avenue Greenwood, SC 29649 Student Editorial Board: Andrew Akins Delshawn Anderson Faculty Advisors: Dr. Misty Jameson Dr. Amy England Dr. Andy Jameson New Voices congratulates Frank Davis, Winner of the 2016 Creative Writing Award, and Kayla Frost, whose painting Expecting was selected as this year’s cover artwork. newvoices@lander.edu www.facebook.com/newvoicesLU

TABLE OF CONTENTS ART Dreamer Sky by Jiajing Wang .......................................................................................................................... 1

FICTION “Cherries” by Frank Davis ................................................................................................................................ 2 “To Be a Bird” by Kendra LaGreca ............................................................................................................... 7

ART Remnants by Kayla Frost .................................................................................................................................. 9 Isla Mujeres by Jiajing Wang......................................................................................................................... 10

ESSAYS “The Way of Communication on the Camino” by Kenneil Mitchell ............................................. 11 “Contradicting Stereotypical New York” by Breanna Butler .......................................................... 15

ART Ripples by April Chaffins................................................................................................................................ 17 Heavens Created by Rachael Caddell ........................................................................................................ 18

POETRY “Ours” by Graham Duncan ........................................................................................................................... 19

ART Archway by April Chaffins ............................................................................................................................ 20

FICTION “Standing in the Doorway” by Nathaniel Lagrone .............................................................................. 21 “The Courtesy in Cowards” by Christopher Hemphill...................................................................... 23 “The Truth in Dying” by Jessica Rabon .................................................................................................... 25

ART Fisher by Jiajing Wang .................................................................................................................................... 27 ACKNOWLDEGEMENTS ................................................................................................................................. 28

Dreamer Sky

by Jiajing Wang

1

Cherries

by Frank Davis

Creative Writing Award Winner

The hanger was empty; a sheet of dust and rusted metal were its cravat and its suit. The wind was of particular torment this late afternoon, and the day was close to death. Blood dripped in the sour sunset, and an air of sombreness spread throughout the airfield.

A group of young men in leather coats sat at the edge of the hanger, gathered around a table, sharing cigarettes and stories.

“I shot down five krauts today!” boasted Jack.

“Oh shove off, you’ve been here a total of three days. You’ve barely been in the air!” shouted another pilot, Leon, back at him.

Leon dealt the group a round of cards. It was their favorite way to kill time while they waited for the alarm to sound.

Jack grabbed cold, or what passed as cold, drinks to give to the crew. He passed them out, slowly and methodically, and took his seat around the table. He clasped his hands together, and they continued to play. Instead of money, practically worthless, they bet favors or beers. They were a fortunate group in that they had a radio with which they could pick up a few signals of civilian communications, usually entertainment, but if they were lucky, they got news of home.

The radio belched out music, this time one particular tune that was a favorite of Jack’s.

“Quand nous chanterons…le temps des cerises…”

The men joined in, despite only Jack being fluent in French. He had heard it as a child from his mother, who happened to be French despite moving to America soon before Jack’s birth. The song reminded him of her, and sometimes if he listened hard enough, he could hear her singing it.

The men carried on until the Major stepped out of his nest, what the boys called his office, and eyed them all with an icy gaze.

“Fall in!” he said.

Everyone jumped up from relaxed and recreational postures into two sharp and straightened lines. There was not a sound among them, aside from the shuddered breathing of every man standing.

Jack himself was sharp at attention; not a single emotion was in his face or his eyes. His blue eyes looked like glass against the Major’s briefing.

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“Alright boys, we’re flying tonight. Intelligence tells us there is a shipment of supplies heading behind our lines to reach a German regiment in under an hour. We’re going to show those Hun bastards just what American aviation can accomplish!”

The Major’s voice rang with a great thunder, always moving the men to silence with reverence. Everyone gave his support as the men quickly went into their machines. Jack grabbed his pistol and put it into his holster and climbed into the cockpit of his plane. He watched as the ground crew was readying the runway, and soon they were in the air, looking down onto the coast and ocean below.

The clouds were darkened, and the wind was harsh. It was almost impossible to see, and the radios were barely operating. Jack kept his eye on the various dials and instruments, watching everything carefully in case one of the mechanics had screwed up. For a while they kept in formation, just as they had in training a few weeks before. Suddenly, he heard someone on the radio.

“Germany’s finest! 12 o’clock!” the radio barked.

“Shit.” Jack maneuvered the stick to get his aircraft out of the way.

Several battle cries were heard over the radio, mixing with each other in a strange cacophony that sounded unnatural. Jack and the others in his crew were fighting for their lives.

Jack somehow found a reprieve in the dogfight to send out a message.

“Hey, Leon, how’re you holding up? Need any help?” he asked with a slight smile.

Leon shook his head in his cockpit. “Of course not, idiot! This isn’t my first time in a plane!

If anyone needs help, it’s your sorry ass.”

Jack laughed as he spun his plane around. However, his happy mood didn’t last. He looked out into the sky and saw the moon. It was as pale as death, and a sudden fear gripped him. He looked onto its silvery surface and saw a grinning skull laughing at him.

Your plane’s parts are slack And your comrades’ futures are black And you’ll join them soon, Jack “Like Hell!” Jack shouted.

He shook his head violently to dispel the apparition. With a newfound concentration, he could hear bullets flying at him. And could even occasionally see the shrapnel against the cockpit’s cover. Over the radio he heard jumbled orders of attempts at reformation. Jack tried his best to 3

follow up, despite almost no one else being able to hear or care for that matter. As he fired his machine gun, taking as many planes down as he could, he heard one more voice over the radio.

“J…ack. Ja…ck.”

The speaker coughed, and the radio cackled.

“H-hey is that you Leon? What’s going on? Are you okay?” Jack shouted as he outmaneuvered and shot down another German plane.

Leon’s laughter over the radio was followed by a series of coughs.

“Yeah, it’s me. Is the battle over? I can’t see anything. Goddammit! There’s blood in my eyes!” he shouted.

Jack looked around the open air and noticed that the German planes were retreating.

Despite everything, they’d somehow driven them off. He quickly grabbed his radio and replied to Leon.

“Yes, it’s over Leon. Let’s head back to base, okay?”

“O…okay Ja…ck. You still owe me for the last game, remember?” Leon’s choking voice rang in Jack’s head.

“I know, Leon; I’ll pay you back when we return, okay?” Jack replied, trying to hold back tears.

Leon laughed.

“You really are a piece of shit aren’t you?” Leon said before his radio went silent.

The radio buzzed with static, and then a dark silence. Jack looked around and couldn’t see anyone. He was beginning to panic and fighting his fatigue. Jack shouted out calls on his radio to others in his unit. “MacKenzie! Ross! Where are you? C’mon someone answer, please!” His fingers gripped the microphone, but he heard nothing. He saw nothing.

Minutes passed by like hours. Jack looked at his dials and instruments; they didn’t make any sense. He was supposedly going north, but that couldn’t be right. He’d just passed the hanger, south of the battlefield. He tried to move his controls, but they wouldn’t budge. His plane continued moving southwards, over the ocean and into the cloudy sky. He went back to the radio, hoping that maybe Leon would answer him, somehow still alive.

“Leon, can you move? What’s your status, where are you?”

In the deafening silence, Jack’s eyes drooped low, and his head slowly sunk into his chest.

4

He awoke with a sudden start, and his plane was somehow in the ocean. He looked around and saw bits of machinery and twisted, smoking iron strewn about the waters. He opened his cockpit and looked around, but he was alone. There was no one around within his view. He sighed and leaned back into the plane, grateful to be alive.

As his eyelids drooped, he started again. He began to panic, heavy sweat dripping off his brow. He stood up and shouted. “Is anyone out there? Please answer! Anyone? Please…”

He climbed out of his seat, and looked around desperately, until he began to hear a faint sound.

“Jack, Jack, it’s me! It’s Leon!”

Jack’s tired eyes closed again but reopened quickly. He looked into the direction of the voice and saw Leon, injured, clinging to a piece of wreckage, some yards away. How he missed him when he looked around, he didn’t know.

He started to move towards him when he heard a gunshot from behind.

“Gott…verdammt ameri…kaner. Sie töteten meinen…kameraden!” a voice shouted.

Jack turned his head and saw a wounded man. His once-black leather jacket was stained crimson, and his arms were pierced with scraps of torn metal. He held a pistol in his hand, but it shook, and he was clearly off balance.

He yelled something incomprehensible and fired a shot towards Jack; however, due to his injuries, his shot missed his target entirely.

“Goddamn crazy bastard.” Muttered Jack under his breath.

Jack looked up again and started to swim away.

“Jack, over here! He’s going to kill you if you don’t move, you stupid bastard!” Leon shouted.

Jack shook his head and swam as quickly as he could away from the German pilot.

He swam for what seemed like hours; his arms were sore, and his lungs felt like they were about to burst. He finally took a break and rested under the calm cloudy sky of night. His reprieve wasn’t for very long though; the soldier finally caught up to him.

Jack dug his hands into his pockets and felt the grip of his pistol. By some miracle, it hadn’t been knocked out with the landing.

He pulled it out and steadied it as best he could, despite his shell-shocked state and the water around him.

“Amerikaner!” the soldier yelled.

5

Jack spun around, gripping the pistol in his hands and pulled the trigger. The weapon’s chamber unloaded and each burst of hot metal found a home in the soldier.

His hands trembling, Jack swam over to the soldier’s corpse and saw what he had done.

Clasping the dead man’s hands, he closed his eyes and found a tear rolling down his cheek. He looked into the face of the man he had killed, and with his hand, softly closed the corpse’s eyelids.

Jack whispered, “Oder vielleicht möchten Sie in Frieden ruhen bevorzugen.”

He let go of him, and continued to swim towards the beach.

Sometime later, he had reached the beach and wondered what had happened to Leon. He searched as best as he could but saw no signs of anyone else. The moon above was cold, and he decided to sleep and search more tomorrow.

The next morning, he awoke with company. There was another body on the beach; it was slumped over, either dead or unconscious. He walked over to it and looked at its face.

“Hey Jack, can’t wait to be pilots, right?” Leon’s voice rang into the morning air, drowning out Jack’s endless stream of scarlet tears.

6

To Be a Bird

by Kendra LaGreca It was almost closing time at Ruby’s Diner. Mondays were always slow, which meant that the employees got to close up shop early. Bird Jenkins did a little happy dance as she wiped off the counters in the kitchen.

Her real name wasn’t actually Bird; it was Lilith, but nobody called her that. Her dad was an avid bird watcher, and when she was little, he would always call her his little bird, and the name just stuck. She couldn’t escape it even now.

Bird glanced at the clock and willed the customers to stay away. She had too much to do to be stuck here all night. Between working thirty hours a week and being a full-time student at the community college, she practically had no time to herself. Bird liked it that way, for the most part. She liked to stay busy. Tonight was different though. All Bird wanted to do right now was go home, curl up by the fire, and read a good book.

When she heard the door chime, Bird groaned inwardly. I have the worst luck. Still, she put on a smile and stepped through the swinging door to greet her customer. “Welcome to Ruby’s!” she said in a voice more chipper than she felt. “What can I get for you this evening?”

Her customer, an elderly gentleman, ordered coffee and a slice of apple pie.

“No problem, I’ll have that out to you in a jiffy!” She scurried back to the kitchen and started a fresh pot of coffee, retrieved a slice of pie from the cooler, and waited for the coffee as her foot tapped to an unheard beat. As soon as it was done, she poured a cup and set it on the tray with the pie. Just as she picked up the loaded tray, the bell chimed again.

Bird sighed and plastered yet another brilliant smile on her face as she backed through the swinging door. “Welcome to….” Bird stopped mid-sentence, staring at the couple with the toddler who had just walked through the door. Her smile faded.

Okay, don’t freak out, just breathe. There’s no way that it’s them, she thought. What if it was, though? Oh God, she hoped not. She looked at the little girl. Is that my little girl, my baby? Her throat caught, and tears sprang into her eyes.

It had been two years, to the day, since she had watched the nurse carry her baby away from her. Only two years since the couple left with her little girl. It still hurt. She felt like her heart had been ripped out of her chest, even though she knew she was doing what was best for her baby and for herself.

7

Bird had left her little Texan town soon after that, moving as far away as she could. All she wanted was to start fresh and forget about the child she gave away. . . .

“Ma’am?” the older fellow was looking at her, obviously concerned.

“Huh? Oh.” Bird blinked, forcing herself back to the present. She smiled her too bright smile and handed the man his pie and coffee. “Here ya go, sir. I hope you like it.”

She set the tray down and wiped her sweating hands on her apron.

She has my eyes, Bird thought. Don’t. Just stop. You came here to move on with your life, so do it. Ignore her and do your job so you can go home and forget.

Bird clenched her fists. She wished more than anything in that moment that she really was a bird, that somehow she could shake off her sorrows and fly away, fast and free. But she wasn't a bird, and no matter how much she wanted to, she could never fly fast enough to escape her past. She had to face it.

Swallowing hard, Bird squared her shoulders and took a deep breath before putting on her happy face once more. Then, her heart racing, she approached the table, determined to ignore the little girl with the big, blue eyes staring up at her.

“Welcome to Ruby’s.” She said. “What can I do for y’all tonight?”

8

Remnants

by Kayla Frost

9

Isla Mujeres

by Jiajing Wang

10

The Way of Communication on the Camino

by Kenneil Mitchell The Camino de Santiago is an immersive and profoundly meditative experience, one that can draw a pilgrim inward and away from society’s identity politics. However, the size and diversity of the pilgrim community and local communities along one’s chosen path can create occasional, inescapable complications to communication. I had the opportunity to contrast the sometimes quiet, sometimes curious, and—on one occasion—hostile conversations while I journeyed along the Vía de la Plata during the summer of 2015.

One of the reasons I went on the Camino was the fact that I needed to complete my study abroad requirement for the Honors College. In speaking with the professor of Honors travel lab, Dr. Carlos Mentley, about the opportunities available, he mentioned the Camino de Santiago, and I was hooked on the magical mysticism he added to the pilgrimage. As travel plans were made and preparations were underway, my classmates and I grew palpably excited for the opportunity to momentarily set aside our pursuits of academic knowledge. This pilgrimage was a great chance for us to embark upon a journey of self-reflection and perhaps even a deeper level of self-discovery.

The Camino de Santiago, translated as “The Way of Saint James,” is a medieval pilgrimage with multiple paths, each ending in the Spanish town of Santiago de Compostela. St. James was a Christian apostle who traveled all around Europe to help spread the word of Jesus Christ to the masses. According to americanpilgrims.org, after his beheading in Jerusalem, “His followers carried his body to the coast and put it into a stone boat.” The website continues by stating his body “was guarded by angels and carried by the wind beyond the Pillars of Hercules (the Strait of Gibraltar) to land near Finisterre, at Padrón, in northern Spain” (“History”). His remains were then buried in the Cathedral of Santiago. This is why countless people make a pilgrimage to the Cathedral, hoping to attain a spiritual and mental cleansing of sins as well as guidance for their various quandaries.

There are many different Caminos to choose from: France (Camino Frances), Spain (Vía de la Plata), or Portugal (Camino Portugués), among others. Dr. Mentley explained that he wanted us to do the Vía de la Plata, one of the longest and toughest Camino opportunities available, because it is less commercialized than the Camino Frances. He wanted us to have a more natural connection with the Camino, and the Via de la Plata would provide more time to enjoy the mountains and valleys we would eventually cross, without worrying about racing each other in 11

order to get a bed for the night. It would also provide us the most opportunity to soak in the Camino spirit. It turned out to be a life-changing journey that had its communication struggles as I quickly I found myself surrounded with pilgrims from different parts of the world such as Australia, Germany, Denmark, Spain, and Italy.

St. James’s service and sacrifice for the Christian faith shaped the initial atmosphere of the Camino de Santiago where the Camino spirit revolved around strangers walking either in silent contemplation or in conversation with other pilgrims or natives, eager to help one another in any way they could. Still today, the typical vibe among pilgrims seems to amble between positivity, service to others, a competitive spirit, and silence. The various reasons a pilgrim undertakes the Camino contribute to the eclectic feeling of the Camino. Some go to challenge their bodies. Some seek to look within themselves and grow closer to God as they walk. Others go to Santiago to pay homage to St. James for surrendering his life for God’s work and hope that doing so will help them find peace within themselves and gain a sense of gratefulness for all the troubles they have encountered in their lives.

I had my own troubling experience in which my language was the cause of conflict with one native. In the middle of my pilgrimage, I was walking to Ricobayo in the hot sun that baked the group like potato chips. We were walking from Campillo early in the morning where Dr. Mentley wanted us to visit the San Pedro Church before walking to Ricobayo. The walk grew arduous as the hours passed and the sun climbed higher in the sky. Through literal peaks and valleys, we finally arrived in Ricobayo after 21 kilometers (a little over 13 miles) of walking the entire day.

Tired and sweating profusely, I saw a bar to my right and decided to go there to eat lunch with my group.

When I entered the bar, I noticed a drunk man with dark hair, tan skin, and dark eyes holding a large glass of beer in his hand. I waved at him, but he didn’t respond. Thinking nothing of it, I sat down with my group to eat. After a while, the drunk man turned around and began speaking to us in Spanish. We explained that we only spoke a little Spanish and that we were pilgrims. He became irritated and directed his vitriol toward our group as his volume grew louder for everyone to hear. We decided to pay for our meal and got up to leave, but I found the drunkard in my face, repeatedly muttering in Spanish “No peregrino (Not a pilgrim).” I was cornered as he began messing with my scallop shell necklace (the traditional symbol of a pilgrim) while telling me I wasn’t a pilgrim. As two members of my group yelled for me to come with them, I stood frozen 12

with fear. Eventually, I had enough of him berating me and breathing his alcohol-laced breath in my face. I began moving and shouted to the sky, “Yo soy peregrino (I am a pilgrim)!” The drunkard became wide eyed and then held his hand out for me to shake, and I walked away smiling. This incident showed me that the language barrier can cause tension on the Camino, especially with the locals.

The Camino, however, doesn’t always have these types of moments. It is more often a place where communication begins based on human interest. Race and language become less like a barrier and more of a characteristic arousing curiosity or interest. Most of the pilgrims I talked to asked me where I came from, why I was walking on the Camino, and how I was feeling at certain moments.

The only time my race came up happened when I finally arrived at Santiago de Compostela.

It was overwhelming to finally arrive at Santiago and see so many people all around me, pilgrims included, shopping and walking. I was physically exhausted, waiting in a long line to get my Compostela (a certificate that shows ones completion of the Camino de Santiago) when I noticed that a woman kept looking at me. I waved at her, and she still kept looking at me. She finally came up to me and asked enthusiastically, with a British accent, if I was from Africa. I politely said no and explained that I was from America (South Carolina). I don’t think she heard me, though, as she explained that I was one of the few Africans she had seen during her entire Camino.

Looking back, I was caught up in another situation that isolated me from other pilgrims based on my differences. The difference between the two situations was that the drunkard picked me out because I didn’t speak Spanish, and the British lady picked me out because I was black.

While both situations made me feel weird, I didn’t understand why she would be so excited to see a person of color. It was as if she was in a zoo pointing out her favorite animal. I wasn’t offended but was a little taken aback that it took over a month for someone to suddenly point out that I was a black man, considering the way the media paints racial tensions across the globe. It was as if she held a mirror in front of my face to tell me that I was black when nobody else even mentioned it.

It’s weird how communication, even if not intended to be harmful, can change one’s perspective on an entire trip. This moment showcased that, no matter where I go in life, some will pick me out because of my color, whether positive or negative.

Then, I reflected on my Camino and realized that I was one of the few black people on the Vía de la Plata route. I came across one other black man from France who was born in West Africa.

13

His name was Yawo, and he was with his French girlfriend named Sarah. I met them near the end of my pilgrimage while walking to Finisterre, the “End of the World” as pilgrims call it. I hit it off really well with Sarah and Yawo, despite walking through weather so hot that waterfalls of sweat were stinging my eyes and drenching my clothes. Throughout our physically taxing walk, I talked with Yawo about West Africa, and he told me about some of the social customs he was used to when he lived there. As I am writing this, I am now realizing that I talked to Yawo about him living in Africa, instead of him being African. This was probably the reason I was so taken aback by the British lady picking me out by my race.

In retrospect, it was strange yet fulfilling to have been rarely looked at like a statistic but more as a human being. Rather than spending most of my time preoccupied by asking myself why people still make judgments based on the color of a person’s skin, I was instead able to reflect on what I had done with my life so far and what my plans were for the future. The Camino is a spiritual journey that tests a person with conversation, silence, and the voices inside, telling one to say something or nothing at all.

Many people are afraid to travel as it can expose them to unknown territories, whether internal or external. The fear of the unknown can cause some people to close their minds to personal growth and make judgments about anyone who is different. The Camino de Santiago has the power to break that fear and encourages pilgrims to face difficult conversations within themselves and with other people. It can also encourage them to make changes in their lives, only if they allow it. The people I interacted with, whether positive or negative, taught me multiple lessons and helped make each step in my journey worthwhile. Whether our journey is about gaining answers, questions, or clarity, we all have to keep walking to make a difference in the world.

Works Cited "History of the Camino." AmericanPilgrims.org. American Pilgrims on the Camino, 30 Aug. 2015.

Web. 4 Feb. 2016.

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Contradicting Stereotypical New York

by Breanna Butler When I departed from my first airplane flight, North Carolina to New York, my legs wobbled as I attempted to regain composure. With only one swift glance back at the marvelous contraption that helped me cross several states in three hours, I was swept off into the hustle of cosmopolitan life. Derived in the mid-1800s through “popular journalism, literature, and entertainment,� stereotypes have been nonchalantly placed on New York and its natives by outsiders like myself for decades (Jackson, Keller, and Flood). Even though I arrived here with this distorted, mostly negative, idea of New York and its residents, I quickly discovered how misunderstood these culturally diverse people and their beloved city actually are. Throughout my trip, I uncovered New York’s true identity. Instead of being an unsafe and polluted city occupied with rude people who drive poorly, New York is one of the safest places in the United States, is typically clean, and is generally filled with friendly people who drive fairly well.

Since the bombing of 9/11, New York City has upgraded into a high tech security society.

Every corner has at least three police officers patrolling either by riding horses, walking with service canines, sitting in booths, or driving by in cars. The trained service canines also crowd doorways to sniff out potential threats as each passerby rambles past them, single file. I recall being one of these passers many times, such as when I eagerly awaited a ferry ride to Staten Island and back. A skinny dog with a blood-red harness obediently smelled around me for any signs of bomb residue as I made my way to the boarding area. Later on, the service canines made a reappearance before I entered a Broadway theatre where I, once again, had to be searched.

Although I was originally apprehensive about security in New York, I quickly reassessed this assumption after seeing so many different precautions in place. This was only the first of my stereotypical ideas to be proven wrong.

Before this journey, I imagined New York with looming sky scrapers covered in flashy advertisements that flickered neon hues from the horizon. I also imagined gigantic sewer rats scrounging around crowded sidewalks through crumpled paper, half eaten pizza slices, and broken beer bottles as a heavy layer of smog choked the residents and car horns, train wheels, and screams pierced the icy air. Although some neighborhoods in New York, like Manhattan, have buildings covered in artistic graffiti and do have littered sidewalks, most areas like Brooklyn are bursting with cleanliness. Brooklyn has a public library trimmed in golden hieroglyphics, wide 15

clean sidewalks, and a dog park in the middle. Residents from all around New York gather throughout Brooklyn to enjoy the area and eagerly swapped stories with me.

Incidentally, almost everyone I met in New York (not just in Brooklyn) happily chatted with me about local delicacies and historical sites while riding the rails. Even the waitresses were friendly. At one lavish restaurant, the waitress generously served each customer quickly and politely. The waitress would tell me tales of New York mystery and hidden delight in between servings. Everywhere I went there was a new mystery and ethnic neighborhood to explore with some interesting inhabitants. Orthodox Jewish men scurried about wearing old-timey black and white suits, with long braided pigtails peeping out from underneath their hats. Women wearing delicate veils covering their faces filled their baskets with fresh fruit and vegetables at a local market, and I could not help wondering what color their eyes were. People dressed in Comic Con costumes fluttered in the streets and headed towards the train station.

In fact, I met many of these eccentric people on this state’s complex transportation system.

New York has a vast range of transportation, from taxi to ferry, but is most known for its subways and trains. Since New York utilizes these enormous vehicles as a mode of transportation, railways span throughout the state. Along with the added railways, each street is occupied with residents walking to their destinations, making car transport a nightmare. As a result, car drivers in New York need—and usually display—significant amounts of talent and patience.

Attempting to make my return trip, I accidentally arrived at the wrong airport, but I was graced yet again with the assistance from a native New Yorker who gave up her seat on the bus that would take me to the correct airport so that I would not miss my flight. As soon as I got in line to pass through security in the right airport, I was stopped by security for another bomb residue test. This time, however, the service dogs were absent. I was cornered by two buff men equipped with latex gloves and chemical wipes. The chemicals stung as my hands reddened to the touch of the wipe. I had to wait five minutes, and even though I half expected the people behind me to become impatient, they calmly waited the five minutes with me. When I was finally cleared by the security officers, the lady behind me—another New York resident—offered some lotion to soothe the burning pain in my hands. Heading into this journey, I had a stereotypical idea of New York City and its residents, but now I see that I need to understand another culture before I critique it.

Works Cited Jackson, Kenneth, Lisa Keller, and Nancy Flood. The Encyclopedia of New York City. New Haven: Yale U P, 2010. Print.

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Ripples

by April Chaffins

17

Heavens Created

by Rachael Caddell

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Ours

by Graham Duncan When the moon Reflects the sun Down to the shore And reveals A silver crescent Above the palmetto trees Sandlappers Carolinians We become a tiny beacon Of that same silver, Alone but together, In the middle Of a dark sea of navy blue.

We become a reflection of Brightness, Our brightness, After the sun has set And until it rises again.

Palmettos bend But they do not break.

19

Archway

by April Chaffins 20

Standing in the Doorway

by Nathaniel Lagrone Rust and Michelle were lying in bed, watching TV and drinking, when there was a soft rapping on the door. Michelle craned her neck toward the source of the sound.

“Now, baby, we’ve asked you not to bother us when we have our door closed,” she called out. From the other side of the door came Leda’s hushed voice.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just wanted to tell you I’m going out.”

“I guess she wants money for gas,” Michelle whispered to her husband. “She’s gonna be blowing a hole in our wallet with that car.”

“You need gas money, baby?” Rust shouted at the door.

“No. Elliot’s here to pick me up.”

“Well, all right. You just make sure that door’s locked when you come back. And tell Elliot I said hi.”

“Ok. I will.” They heard the rhythmic creak of the floorboards as she walked down the hallway and the blinds rattling as the front door snapped shut. Moments later, Elliot’s engine groaned into life outside, the wheels of his truck spraying gravel rocks into the yard.

“Mama says she spends too much time with that boy,” Michelle said. Rust snorted.

“She’s lucky he gives her the time of day if you ask me. You know there’s gotta be plenty of girls his own age down at Tech.”

“I think that’s what bothered her about it.”

“What? Nah –Leda’s a good girl. We don’t have to worry about her and Elliot. It’s that phone she spends too much time on.”

“You’re right.”

“I think I might take it from her tomorrow.”

“That’s good, baby.”

They returned their attention to the television. A movie from 1985 titled Smooth Talk was on. Michelle pointed to the blonde leading actress.

“That looks like Katie. She’s such a cute girl. I wish Leda still hung out with her.”

“Which one was that?” Rust popped open another can.

“She used to come over here a lot a couple of years ago when they were both in middle school. She’s a cheerleader.” Michelle thought this fact said a great deal about Katie.

21

“Oh well, baby. That’s just how girls are.” Rust laughed knowingly and took another swallow. They watched the rest of the movie but agreed it wasn’t very good. They turned off the TV and pulled the frayed edges of the quilt around them. Rust had to be at the grocery store by eight the next morning, and it was already past midnight.

He was almost asleep when his wife spoke his name into the darkness.

“Rust?”

“Mhm?” “Don’t forget to take that phone tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, baby. I will.”

But Rust never did take Leda’s phone because she never came back home. They awoke the next morning, and her room was empty. For several hours they called her but received no answer.

So Rust went to work. By the time he had come back, neither he nor Michelle seemed to be sure how to proceed. Rust opened his mouth with the hope that the inchoate feelings that swirled in his gut would form into words, but nothing came out.

Michelle busied herself instead, cleaning the house with an unusual amount of aggression.

Rust stood in the doorway to his daughter’s room and wondered if maybe Michelle’s mama had been right after all.

22

The Courtesy in Cowards

by Christopher Hemphill I usually find Dr. Vega sprawled out on the wooden picnic table behind the diner, near the dumpsters. The hospital is across the street. He enjoys leftover chili from the diner; it gets thrown out at the end of night anyhow, so I don’t mind giving him a bowl. I never ask why he doesn’t just grab food from the hospital cafeteria—it sure beats the shit we’re serving. It’s been this way since my freshman year of college. Our conversations never begin where they last end. He’s the only person who makes me laugh during a fifteen-minute smoke break on a thirteen-hour shift. I’m positive he hates cigarettes—well, at least that’s what he says when I offer him one.

“How’s it going, kid?” Dr. Vega leaned up off the table.

“I’m on hour ten, with seven dollars’ worth of tips.” I lit a cigarette. “Needless to say, it’s been a shitty night.”

Steam from the chili took hold of the frostbitten air as he peeled back the plastic wrap.

“Stop whining,” he said. “When I was around your age, I was making ten bucks a week at Larry’s Chicken Shack, off of Third and Grace Avenue in D.C.” “How come you always do that?”

“Do what, kid?”

“I give you free chili. The least you could do is pity me.”

“Did you hear about Judy Garland?”

“Yeah, what about her?” I pulled out another cigarette and sat down at the table.

Garland was my mom’s favorite actress. Mom lived in Kansas all her life before moving to Chicago in the early forties with my dad. She and I spent an hour on the phone last week arguing about whether Garland’s death had been an accident or a suicide. I hoped that this conversation wasn’t what that one was. People like my mom and Dr. Vega, old people, have a way of suckering you into conversations that have nothing to do with you.

“I got five patients in the ICU just like her.” He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief clamped to the right pocket of his coat by a Howard University pin. “So I don’t have time to pity you.”

At this point in our relationship, I knew better than to question his non sequitur, unsolicited analogies. He, like so many of my professors at the university, had a way of tying a pillow around your stomach before punching you in the gut. Nevertheless, I smiled.

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“So, tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Why do you always hang out near the dumpsters?”

“The same reason you smoke cigarettes back here.” He set down the bowl of chili.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I see the other waiters and waitresses at night out front smoking. These dumpsters have been my safe haven since I started ten years ago. You’re the only person I’ve ever met back here.”

“Maybe my coworkers are assholes.” I lit another cigarette. “Maybe they don’t understand me, maybe I hate the front of the building because people stare in my face, and maybe the dumpsters are my safe haven, too.”

“Maybe.” He finished the last of the chili and tossed the plastic bowl into the dumpster.

We heard an ambulance in the distance. Dr. Vega hopped down off the table, brushed off his shirt, tipped his hat at me, and jogged back across street into the night. I put out my cigarette, walked back around to the front of the diner, and finished my shift.

24

The Truth in Dying

by Jessica Rabon Without a second thought, Jack joined the Air Force straight out of high school. No one saw it coming, not even his mom. He began in the reserve, like most, then was stationed back in his home town at the age of twenty-two. Drinking was the Force's favorite pastime. He visited the local bar at least four nights a week. Jack liked to go to watch his buddies’ hidden selves come to life. He thought he knew his comrades, but soon, with a touch of liquor, they were completely unknown to him.

Back at the same bar a couple years later, the bartenders have changed. There is a young lady now. Jack walks in blissfully unaware of how she is going to disrupt his current comfort. The regulars line up along the stools, and she starts at the opposite end of Jack. So close, but he is still clueless. His gaze finally shifts from his buddies to her just as she approaches him. Her nametag reads “Rachel.” Her tousled curls overwhelm her delicate cheekbones. Her eyes are dark and quizzical. "What can I do you for?" His mind races as he combs over her light Southern voice; comrades are oooing and whistling like children. The crackle of laughter signals that she has moved on. He is blissfully aware of what will happen.

After the honeymoon, he takes his wife to New York. The people rush by them, almost knocking Rachel into a lamp post. She has to coax Jack away from fighting. When they drink, Jack becomes protective, and she becomes flirtatious. They try to make it work.

Supposedly, pregnancy makes a woman glow with happiness. To Jack, Rachel was an angel.

To the rest, this petite young lady had grown impossibly plump; sweat clung to her skin as she tried to get around without bumping into anything. He loved her, truly. No one could love a woman as much as he did; it just wasn't possible.

At forty-five, he and Rachel had four toddlers running around. They were grateful kids.

They took after their father in that they liked to watch people. The family frequently visited the park. Rachel would go out and push their little girl on the swing while the boys played tag. Jack sat on the same green bench every time they came. Best view. He would simply watch his homely wife enjoy herself and their kids. This was the only way he kept going.

In the midst of this happiness, darkness followed. He kept it concealed. The musky odor of smoke lingered around him softly; he thought he was the only one able to smell it. It calmed his nerves as he grew older. He wasn't ready for the inevitable.

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Jack was on the way to some obscure bar in the city hoping that the argument he'd had with his wife would be settled with a bottle of booze. A car ran over the curb with no warning. He hadn't even reached the bar yet.

Lights caught up to him. Hospital gurneys, tubes (so many tubes), and pouches of blood.

The windshield glass had punctured his abdomen, revealing the pearl-like clusters. The slimy white baubles were tumors. It was too late.

Light beams towards Jack as he slips away slowly. The doctors order nothing. They have given up. What could they do? Nothing. Not a single thing. He no longer owns his story. The truth in dying is that no one gets to decide the last things he sees. No one gets to say goodbye.

26

Fisher

by Jiajing Wang

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New Voices is published with the financial support of the Lander University College of Arts and Humanities and the Department of English and Foreign Languages.

The editors would like to thank Dean RenĂŠe Love and Dr. Jeffrey Baggett for their encouragement and assistance.

We would also like to extend a special thank you to both Dean Love and Karen Hammond for their work in establishing the Creative Writing Award this year.

**Congratulations, Seniors! You will be missed!**

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