Illuminati Spring 2006

The Creative Arts Publication of Miami University Middletown™

JUDGING PANEL Dr. Eric Melbye, Faculty Advisor Michelle Lawrence, Editor­in­Chief Laura Richey, Community Relations Meghan Woods, Assistant Editor Dan Frease, Assistant Editor Crystal Prater, Assistant Community Relations Anthony Brownlee, Staff Dr. Gail Tayko Rebecca Goforth Bridget Kinney

Cover Art by: Erin Proffitt Logo by: B. Cody Buriff

Please visit our website at: http://www.mid.muohio.edu/orgs/illuminati/

CONTENTS Forward 4

Poetry JD Carlson. A Circle Ends, But The Season Never Stops 6 Winner: Malcolm Sedam Prize For Poetry, 2004

Meghan Woods. Glass 7 Meghan Woods. Show and Tell 8 Amy Hedges. Marianne

9

Laura Richey. Not Tonight, Dear

10

Winner: Malcolm Sedam Scholarship, 2004

Laura Richey. The Z Spot

11

Anthony Brownlee. Back to Reality

12

Sandy Gordon. Putting Out The Garbage Ashley Logsdon. Crimson Lullaby Katie Henry. Bus

13

14

15

DeAnna Pretty­Jones. What Is…..

16

DeAnna Pretty­Jones. Remember You Are Eve 17 Barbie Geldrich. Fading Reality Kyle Epperson. Life

18

19

Short Fiction Michelle Lawrence. Don’t Blame the Messenger

21

Winner: Malcolm Sedam Prize For Prose, 2004

Michelle Lawrence. Ruby

38

Meghan Woods. Yellow Tulips and Milkshakes Amy Hedges. Untitled

53

55

Dan Frease. From: Noonday, Middletonia

56

CONTENTS Artwork/Photography *can be seen in full color on our website Aundrea Curtis. Untitled Adam Litz. Artemis

48 60

Rebecca Goforth. It’s Oh So Quiet Anthony Brownlee. Untitled Aundrea Curtis. Untitled

61 62

63, 64, 65

Jan Toennisson. Big Boy

66

Creative Nonfiction Michelle Lawrence. Into the Looking Glass

68

Winner: Malcolm Sedam Prize For Creative Nonfiction, 2004

Kyle Epperson. Seasons of Change Steve Joyce. Religion: How I Lost It (But Found Something Better)

70 75

Multigenre Jay Colliver.

Untitled Remember Us Beginning Anatomy of an Infiltration Anatomy of a Shootout Terror at The Olympics

80 81 82 84 86 88

Selected Contributors

90

Friends of Illuminati

91

Submission Guidelines

92

Sponsors

93

EDITORIAL

By October 1, twenty­five writers, poets, artists and photographers had submitted their work for our Winter issue. Their inspirations ranged from religious faith (or lack thereof), love, history, social commentary, and even a school bus. We were inundated with submissions, something that thrills us.

On the same day, I had the pleasure of meeting my writing inspiration, New York Times­bestselling author Diana Gabaldon. I was lucky enough to ask her questions regarding her writing process, and what she considers her own inspiration. I am happy to report that while I wanted to, I did not act like a nut, even though I was so excited to talk with her that I may very well have made her nervous.

It makes me wonder who will go on to become best­selling authors, honored poets or featured photographers? Who will get their start by gracing the pages of Miami University Middletown’s Illuminati?

Illuminati is growing by leaps and bounds. We now have an official staff, and our first issue after a long hiatus flew off of the shelves. For the first time ever, demand outweighed supply and we’ll be printing double the amount of issues. We are finding support from the entire campus and are venturing into the community, bringing our unique voices and visions out into the open.

At the same time, we are keeping our identity as an organization dedicated to the artist in us all.

What is it that inspires you to write, draw, or photograph? If you are not an artistic person, what is it that inspires you to live your life? Is it love, nature, your faith, your family or friends? Maybe it is something that I haven’t listed here.

Whatever it is, I hope that you will grasp it firmly, and not let it slip away. Allow whatever it is that inspires you to breath life into you and allow you to create the life you were meant to live.

If you give in to your inspiration, your life could just be the next best seller.

M.L.

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POETRY Q. What is poetry?

I'd say it's not so much a “speaking from the heart” or from “the Soul;” to me, it's more an act of “othering,” of the self and of culture.

Poetry is not what our culture wants, prizes­­though individuals may want it because they treasure the act of "voicing."

In terms of a sports and wellness analogy, I'd say poetry is not yoga, not long distance running, not strength or core training, not baseball, but boxing.

Why boxing?

Because the art of boxing, the training involved, reconfigures the body, one's perceptions and focus and brain work, stamina and reflex, the sense of being "in the moment."

It's a pure sport that to me says, Why fool around (with the stuff that doesn't go to the heart of the matter)?

I think poetry makes that statement as well.

And, as in boxing, language use in poetry is under pressure, in the acts of crafting, reading, and performance.

That pressure makes, or perhaps transfigures, the poet, the reader, the viewer as someone other than what was there to begin with.

—Gail Tayko

A CIRCLE ENDS, BUT THE SEASONS NEVER STOP Malcolm Sedam Writing Contest Winner: Poetry JD Carlson

A brick wall lines the easternmost hall of my home with a fireplace that's so warm In the Winter that an educated man couldn't even count the number of birds who get smoked out looking for charity during the coldest nights after their longest flights.

Above the hearth they have managed to mount a mahogany mantel so flawless it floats rather than hangs crafts, a cup full of candy, and a candle and a picture of my sister whose face is more beautiful than mine In the Spring or all the time.

The liveliest curio is a clock older than a country that belongs to a woman upstairs.

In the Fall my father winds it up to put it in motion wishing that the woman, his mother, would whisper to him like the wind does to a tree alone on a hill with no one else to talk to but everything else to see.

In the Summer no one looks at that beautiful brick wall.

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GLASS Meghan Woods A life is formed and shaped, Like liquid glass on fire.

It’s identity ­ Colored, Molded, Twisted.

Beginning as soon as it descends from the womb.

Bending in the direction of its keeper, Learning what they teach.

Till at last the life has become a structure.

A window for one to look through, And not at.

Eventually shattered by death.

Poetry 7

SHOW AND TELL (a poem in two voices) Meghan Woods

Feel free to announce it in the paper.

I know more than you think I do.

My tears have already been shed, And now I leave it up to you.

I don’t have time for this.

My appointment is at noon, And I must re­apply my makeup.

A predetermining audience will view me today.

Leave what?

What do I have to leave?

Your incredulous soul, And my mark on your face?

I don’t have time for this.

I’ve made you late again.

I’m glad I own a purple suit.

I’ll need it in a few days, To match my purple eye shadow.

You’ve always looked good in purple.

A tribute to you.

A tribute to you.

If only your hand, Could paint white.

If only your hand, Could stop my strike.

For my new blouse is white, And you know how I coordinate.

And you know I’d buy you anything.

I must be going.

The world is longing, For a picture I will show.

I must be going.

The boys at the bar are waiting, For a story I will tell.

Opposites attract.

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Opposites attract.

MARIANNE Amy Hedges

fly past the headstones running in the rain alone familiar buzz will i make it to the light? who was marianne? i turn to look, there's no one there just marianne and me on a rainy night changing the bedclothes this weary weather is getting old familiar sounds will it last night? who is marianne? got no lover, got no plans just ragged fingers, tired hands putting out the lights kneeling in the graveyard i wonder will the passing cars think i'm someone's soul bent to tie a shoelace? who was marianne? i don't know but wonder and commit to memory each and every name i live a still life bowl of oranges, purple irises no all consuming thought on which i can rely what am i today? did marianne ever feel the same? and will she keep me company before i go tonight

Poetry 9

NOT TONIGHT DEAR Laura Richey

Sex is good for the headaches Love well made for the soul Seeing you there that way Skin hot and fiery like coal Rejected at “I’m tired” Wanting to be admired Ah, yes that was her goal.

“We have the rest of our life” Love well made in the soul Seeing him sleep that way Resting so calmly, work taken its toll Tired at “Hey Sexy how ‘bout some wine?”

Exhausted at “Not tonight my dear, I’m fine” Zzzzzz, that was his goal.

Now she has a headache Burrowing deep into her restless soul Seeing him lay there that way Pain free as he dreamt he was a troll Jealous and angry of this tranquil scene No longer in the mood by any means She settled down and learned to roll.

10 Illuminati

THE Z SPOT Laura Richey It started with THE spot You know, we all have the spot.

Growing bigger and bigger, So much hotter than not Don’t dare touch it Feels as if it may explode Mounting with pressure Juicy, oh so moist, what a load The peak is finally reached And what is THIS shit?

Not what you think Merely a zit.

Poetry 11

BACK TO REALITY Anthony Brownlee I don’t know how and I don’t know when but I am somewhere I have never been I don’t know how I got here but I’m here I feel as though I am outside myself I know that I am me But something is strange I feel uneasy at first Not sure what to make of this Suddenly something familiar comes Something I know that can’t be Makes me feel less uneasy I begin to feel comfortable here The things I never thought I’d see Somehow become real to me I know I belong here And I do not want to leave now The people I see here welcome me I know that I belong somewhere else But I want to stay where I am No matter what I feel I have to do This place calls to me I am ready to leave all things behind And stay here for a lifetime Then out of nowhere I hear a voice It calls out to me It sounds familiar but I don’t want to reply I know that this place will be gone if I answer I try to ignore it but it grows stronger I feel this place slipping away I hope and pray that it returns another day As the voice pulls me farther away I shed a tear and take a deep breath I open my eyes I am back in my own bed I am awake now and far from that place Back to reality

12 Illuminati

PUTTING OUT THE GARBAGE Sandy Gordon

Gather up all the little pieces.

Emptied discards of fragmented thought.

Neatly tied up with strings of the past.

Putrid salvage from hazy memory.

Set on the curb of mind and emotion.

Poetry 13

CRIMSON LULLABY Ashley Logsdon

I can't feel this I wont feel it Wont give in Wont allow you to depict What may restrict my silence Saying no words The conflict we own Has sown our own web of lies The black hold At the end of the stairs Shall send me through To my crimson Lullaby To forever hold my slumber Knowing not What thou shalt do Even though I know you feel it too Arms in the air The wind surrounds me The black roses fall As I fall to the floor Off to soar To my sweet crimson lullaby The core of my soul To lie in my slumber Forever

14 Illuminati

BUS Katie Henry Lips chapping, legs napping, I stand and wait for the bus.

Wind blowing, hair flowing, I stand and wait for the bus.

Heart racing, anxiety embracing, I stand and wait for the bus.

Eyes darting, dogs barking, I stand and wait for the bus.

Diesel roaring, driver flooring, I stand and wait for the bus.

Doors creaking, leather seating, I am on the bus.

Poetry 15

WHAT IS……

DeAnna Pretty­Jones

It is waking up and seeking words It is pulling over getting down emotions It is finding a thought in the middle It is dreaming during an equation It is hoping for patience in the divine realm It is praying for the salvation of a stranger It is passionately eager to be born It is devotion with out expectation It is commitment with out contract It is numb and void It is alive yet weary It is watching with out distraction It is compassion and still unbending It is winding circles and straight yet narrow It is.............

16 Illuminati

REMEMBER YOU ARE EVE DeAnna Pretty­Jones

Clay come to life in the palms of my hands intricate details from the slopes of her thighs to the hue in her skin delicate details limitless amount of moments I will spend creating a mountain below her back bend deep wells to feed nations upon her chest a dedicated heart I will bless she will smile and light the sky when she sleeps it will be night she is joy to my heart the sun will kiss her an assuring sign no one can miss her her tears will replenish the earth they shall be many a cross to bare her reward

Poetry 17

FADING REALITY Barbie Geldrich My words of fantasy and reality, seems now to take effect As my lonely soul lives, I feel like a reject No purpose do they serve anymore, as long as love denies me A double edge sword, I hate reality My destiny seemed so true, a compromise of principle Seemed not so grand, yet seemed reasonable I have nothing to lose, by denying my present time As death comes upon me, it's already entered my mind My caring, love, and feelings, now wish to leave Out of the IN door of all eternity A side of life, a side of death, which shall I choose It's all just a game, although I always lose So now shall I fade into infinity, in cold silence harbor my soul No pain, no love, no life, no death, my soul is black as coal No time which is the frame, of assumed destiny I guess whatever will be, will be My heart grows numb, I'm so confused But when you have nothing, you have nothing to lose Tonight I have succumbed to my eminent fate So now into the night I wish to fade

18 Illuminati

LIFE Kyle Epperson Crossbow quarrel flying madly, Slowly falling, oh so sadly.

Dead in time, in space, in reason, Forgotten with the change of season.

Poetry 19

SHORT FICTION

Q. What is fiction?

Fiction is a fabricated narrative, one that is understood by readers to have been created by a writer without making claims to have "actually happened." At the same time, it's also understood that the writer may make efforts to create the illusion that the story "actually happened," but it's still an illusion.

—Jeff Sommers

DON’T BLAME THE MESSENGER Malcolm Sedam Writing Contest Winner: Prose Michelle Lawrence 7:42 pm Yet another Saturday night spent in front of the computer. Staring at the screen was be­ coming a bad habit and it couldn't be healthy. She knew that she really needed to stop, or at least cut back. She was sipping at an overly full glass of Barefoot White Zinfandel (2001). Its half­full bottle sat sweating on the kitchen counter. Flamenco blared from the pc speakers. Its fast percussion matched her own quickened heartbeat as a pale blue box materialized on the lower right hand of her screen. The sound of Gregorian chants announced that he was now signed in.

"Mi amor," she whispered, even though there was no one there to hear her speak. She moved her mouse and double clicked on his name. A box appeared on the screen that showed his photo.

With a will of their own her eyes rested upon the snapshot. An oasis after a day spent assisting paunchy, middle­aged men with the latest issues of Pray! and Bible Today magazines and little old ladies who came to the bookshop more to chat with another human being than to buy. His photo seduced her quietly. In it he was sound asleep under a table, a red choir robe balled up under his head. It had always intrigued her that someone with his passion could sing like an angel, someone who could make her feel so lustfully heathen could be so …good. And pious. He was a curious combination of boyishness and long, tall, man. She had trouble break­ ing her eyes away from the little box on the screen. Five o'clock shadow darkened his chin.

She had never seen him anything but perfectly clean­shaven and impeccably dressed in person.

The stubble made his seem less perfect and that much more desirable to her. She stared at his bare neck, covered in pixeled, flesh­toned squares. She longed to press her lips to his neck, to reach out the tip of her tongue and taste his skin, feel the sharp prickle of growth. Thoughts of corrupting him, of being corrupted by him, persisted; it had been six months since she had last seen him in person. In her mind she could still taste him, feel the tip of his tongue against hers, Don’t Blame the Messenger 21

struggling to hold himself back. All of her senses had been engaged whenever she had been within his presence; her normally sharp mind had repeatedly become befuddled as his very be­ ing threatened to overwhelm her emotions and her intellect. His scent, his eyes, the touch of his fingertips to the small of her back as they stood in line for a movie. How the memory of his words...en silencio estoy aqui...tanto yo quiero besarte y abrazarte...were like a touch; they were like cool water to a thirsty, dry tongue. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't forget.

7:44 pm He really shouldn't spend so much time staring at her picture on his computer. Taking another sip of his Bogle Petit Shiraz (2001), he clicked the "x" at the top of the box to close it, removing the sight of her from his vision. What he couldn’t see couldn’t affect him. He put the laptop on the couch cushion next to him, walked a few steps to his stereo, and turned up the vol­ ume. Salsa.

He settled back onto the green couch, leaned back against the soft cushions, and nerv­ ously tapped his fingers on his knee. He picked up his laptop again. With a groan and another sip of shiraz he double­clicked her name, bringing the photo back onto the screen. It was Satur­ day night, and he was home alone again. It seemed like when he was in town, all of his friends were not, but when he was out of town, they were home having a blast without him. Something about seeing even her name on his Messenger screen made him feel not as lonely as usual. Be­ side her name she had added an obscure Spanish proverb, "El buen vino no ha menester pre­ gonero" (good wine needs no bush). He chuckled to himself as he remembered her first, halting attempts at learning Spanish. "Este radiador despide mucho calor," she had typed to him one evening, obviously copied from an online Spanish to English dictionary. He had been trying to teach her properly and that was the kind of thing she'd repeat back to him. He shook his head in disdain, and caught the impish look in her eyes. It drew him in, always had.

His eyes felt like they were glued to the photo on the screen. There she was, his querida, her long cinnamon and clove hair falling softly around her face. Her eyes seemed to beckon to him, her Mona Lisa smile teased him. The look she was giving him in the photo could only be described as sultry. In the photo he could see her exposed shoulder, creamy white against the darkness around her. Her head tilted slightly, showing her smooth, long neck.

He remembered how hot it felt as his lips brushed against it that night in her doorway as he said good night. His lips warmed just from thinking about it. No matter how many times he prayed 22 Illuminati

that God would erase her from his mind, he couldn't forget.

7:47 PM Her mother said he was a coward. She couldn't help but agree, but somehow couldn't bring herself to hold it against him. She figured she was just as much of a coward as he, since she couldn't bring herself to send him a message saying hello, either. She knew she had a pat­ tern of making herself into a fool around men she had feelings for; she had yet to let herself off the hook for literally begging a high school boyfriend not to break up with her, stooping so low as to literally cling to that boy who had never been worth her time in the first place. It didn't matter that a decade had passed since then, she was afraid she'd do it again. She couldn't bear the rejection, the possibility that he would laugh at her for hanging on when she should have given up on him long ago.

Instead she silently lurked, watching to see when the messenger program would list him as "offline" or "away." Just knowing he was out there gave her comfort. He wasn't a figment of her imagination, he truly did exist.

She felt like a stalker. Pathetic.

Last Saturday she had watched as his name was listed as "busy," "online," "busy," and then "online" again, over and over. She knew he had to have been doing that on purpose, and after two overly­full glasses of wine, felt that he surely was doing that for her benefit. So, she did it right back, clicking her own name to "busy" and back to "online" again in quick succes­ sion. Somehow it reminded her of children flicking flashlights on and off to signal each other to sneak out of bed at night. She had hoped that he would take that as a signal that he could say "hello," but he never did. The next morning she had felt regretful and silly. She didn't have any proof that he even thought of her, let alone that he would try to get her attention.

7:47 PM His mother told him he was a coward. He had to admit that his mother was right. Moth­ ers usually are.

8:01 PM Sometimes, as she sat with her feet propped up on her desk, fingernails tapping impa­ Don’t Blame the Messenger 23

tiently on the black plastic keyboard, she felt angry. Angry that he would deny her his atten­ tion. There was a time when they would speak for hours, teasing each other, flirting with each other, agreeing that meeting the other should be considered an answered prayer. He had told her that her voice was like music to him. A night wouldn’t go by without a phone call, email, instant message, or text message to her cell phone telling her that they would see each other in dreams. In all they had only met a handful of times, but each time felt like they could stop time if they wanted to. She had told him that the comfort of being together scared her, and he had admitted the same. Then there was the gradual lessening of communication after he had ended it by emailing that he was going to be too busy to have a relationship with her. There were three long months of silence before the sudden message, “How are the Spanish classes going?”

She had typed back that she had to stop going to class because she had the flu. The truth was that each time she went she’d start to cry, remembering she’d asked him to help her learn over springtime picnics. There would be no picnics, not now. No lessons, no more sweet mes­ sages en espanol to send her into dreams of him at night.

More than a month had passed since that quick conversation. Lately, she would sit and stare at his name, waiting for a box to pop up with a little chime, the twelve­point green Arial font asking, "What are you wearing?" or "Stop being obstinate and say hello," like he used to send her. There had been nothing. He probably ignores me on purpose, plays with me like a cat plays with a mouse. Haven't all men played games with me? What makes him different from all the rest? she thought to herself, desire to hear from him making her throat tighten.

Damn him. Damn me for continually falling for it. She propped her feet up on the desk and took a long sip of her wine, simultaneously feeling foolish and wishing he would just say some­ thing to her, anything.

8:20 PM He should be doing something. Dang her. There was always laundry to fold, papers to grade; his Grandmother in Oklahoma could use a phone call about now. Under no circumstances should he be sitting here, looking at her picture, waiting for her to send a message to him. His students were beginning to ask him why he was still single, and he wasn't about to explain. He hadn't explained to her, either. Hadn't told her that the one woman he had fallen in love with 24 Illuminati

had passed away, and that he didn't exactly trust God enough to keep someone on Earth with him this time. As a result, when she had called him her amor, he knew he had to stop seeing her. He couldn't risk having any woman love him.

There were times that it made him angry; the longing for her; at those times he reminded himself, as he would right now, that he must maintain constant vigilance. She was obstinate.

She was an instigator. She was all talk. She always thought she was so clever. She liked Mi­ chael Moore movies....read smut.....took belly­dancing lessons…. had the softest lips he'd ever kissed.....CONSTANT VIGILANCE!......she was a liberal who only went to church on major holidays.

She didn't like baseball.

There, that did it. Problem solved. He could enjoy the rest of his night in peace now.

8:22 PM A week after that last quick online conversation, he had left her a voice mail message.

Every time she had thought about dialing his number to return the call, her stomach did flip­ flops and she felt like a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen­wheeler. Not that her fear had stopped her from listening to his message over and over again. After the first few times of listening she had it memorized; "Hey, you, it's me. Saturday night, quarter 'til ten. Just seeing what you were up to. Talk to you later; bye."

She had been out that evening, and by the time she got home it had been too late at night to call him back. Instead she sent an email to let him know that he should call back, but he had­ n't. It had been the single time that she had heard his voice in six months, and the sound of it was like balm on an old wound; soothing, and comfortable, like being wrapped in her grand­ mother's patchwork quilt.

An evening had come when she knew she couldn't wait any longer to hear his voice in real time. Her birthday was in a few days, and she'd have kicked herself if she hadn't at least tried to reach him by then. She tended to use birthdays as "due dates" for personal­growth ac­ tivities. Being brave enough to call him after all that time would definitely qualify as a mo­ ment of growth.

But what if he doesn't want to talk to me? she had asked herself on a daily basis. There was always that chance, so she had prepared herself for the possibility of rejection by drinking Don’t Blame the Messenger 25

two glasses of wine. Remembering all of the late­night or out­of­the­blue phone conversations could make her smile even after all of this time; she always had so much fun just listening to him speak, regardless of the subject. His voice was similar to Matthew McConaughey's, a little southern and a lot sexy. She was hoping it would be like old times, that he would ask what she was wearing and then claim he was in the nude. She had been having her fantasy conversation with him for at least a week before she had called: "Hello, mi amor," she imagined she'd purr.

"Hello, mi bonita querida," he'd drawl, "What are you wearing?"

"A whole lotta nothin'," she'd joke, and he would laugh.

He'd tell her how much he had missed hearing her voice, and that he would do anything to see her again, and how sorry he was that he'd left her hanging. Then he'd rush to her door­ step, take her into his arms, and.....

She had worried that he might not even answer, that he would screen her call and she would never even hear his voice, and would never hear him say everything she'd been missing for months. No other man had even come close to his wit, his intelligence, his sweetness. They just weren't him.

At 9:45 p.m. that night she had dialed, making sure to unblock her private number so he would know who was calling. Excitement and plain old fear had made her feel a bit unsteady.

He had answered on the fourth ring.

"Hello?" Her heart had pounded at the sound of his voice; she thanked God he had an­ swered. She hadn't been sure she would have been able to leave an intelligent­sounding mes­ sage, she had been afraid that she might say "uummmm" too many times, or that­­Heaven for­ bid­­she might go nutty and openly declare she loved him!

"Hello, my friend," she had attempted to purr.

"Hey," he had replied, that customary response for what seemed like every twenty­ something guy in America.

"How are you?" she had asked, hoping that he was happy to hear from her, and wishing for the nude talk to begin.

"Sick, and not very conversational," he had answered, his voice thick and congested­ sounding. "I woke up with a 102 degree fever and now it's at 99," he had continued. "How are you?"

26 Illuminati

"Oh, fine," she had replied, disappointed that he hadn't at least said he was happy to hear her voice.

"I'm sorry to hear that you're sick," she had added, feeling she should really hide the dis­ appointment and be polite.

"Thanks," he had said. He didn't even inquire into what she was wearing, not at all.

"Ummm," she'd stammered, "Should I let you go and talk to you another time?" Don't say "yes", don't say " yes" Don't say "yes"! she had chanted silently.

"I think so; I'm really not feeling well tonight," he'd answered, "But thanks for calling; have a happy birthday on Monday."

"Thanks," she'd said, closing her eyes tight in emotional turmoil. "I'll talk to you later then."

"O.k., bye," he said simply. She had wondered if that was relief she'd heard in his voice.

"Bye," she'd replied, her voice low.

She remembered killing what was left in her glass and thumping her head on the coffee table. It had felt cool on her forehead. She had felt pathetic. Instead of the fun, flirtatious con­ versation she had hoped for, all she had got were a few seconds of him describing his rising and lowering internal temperature.

Well, at least he answered, she thought, a new obsession for the night beginning. If he hated me he would've screened, right? I'd never answer the phone if I knew it was someone I didn't want to talk to. No one is THAT polite anymore, right?

I've got to stop this, she thought to herself, impatience putting her on edge. She stared at her computer screen. He knows I'm on, but as usual he isn't going to say hello to me and he isn't going to call me back. I've got to grow a spine and forget him! She had work to do; she shouldn't be sitting here listening to music, getting tipsy, or more importantly, staring at a pic­ ture of a man who wasn't evolved enough to simply say hello to someone he had claimed was an answer to his prayers! She opened the current issue of Publishers Weekly and flipped to the bestsellers list. She was supposed to have memorized them for the week. Last week, that is.

After a few minutes of staring at yet another week full of Left Behind novels (what was the literary world coming to, anyway?!) she tossed the magazine back onto the desk and sighed.

She couldn't even read a magazine without thoughts of him creeping into her mind. He loved Don’t Blame the Messenger 27

those Left Behind books. That should be enough of a turn­off to seal the deal, shouldn't it? He had terrible taste in literature, yet called her favorite historical novel "smut" simply because it had a little romance thrown in between the bloody battles versus the Scots and English. If he had really found it to be trash, then why did she spot it in the backseat of his car the last time she'd seen him?

She found him to be the most obstinate man on earth. Reminding herself of that fact might be the ticket to salvaging what was left of her night, so she did what she could to focus on the negative qualities. Taking another sip of her wine, she concentrated. She remembered that time he'd picked her up for a date and had tuned the radio to a contemporary Christian station.

And had sung along. That time he'd said he'd sent her flowers, and they turned out to be CY­ BER flowers. What else? she pondered. That God­awful way he had of blaming everything on his being "shy." And he was obsessed with what he called "the Cubbies." Oh­­That time she'd been forced under duress to watch Harrison Ford command a boat full of vomiting navy sailors on HBO. A "man movie" he'd called it. How her legs had somehow become draped across his lap and she had slipped her hands under his shirt to feel his skin and how he had done the same and had told her how soft her skin was and just how goddamned comfortable and natural if felt to have him there. Her tongue trailed the rim of the wine glass, lazily remembering the kisses.

Wait­­she was focusing on the negatives...

He said her belly dancing didn't "do anything for" him. There. That did it. She opened the disk drive, removed the flamenco cd and replaced it with a copy of a Turkish pop song that she liked to practice her belly dancing to. She went to the bedroom, opened the dresser drawer, and retrieved her coined hip scarf; tied it on and practiced hip pops down the hallway and into the kitchen. She forced him from her mind and concentrated on her steps. Constant vigilance was going to be the only way to keep him out of her head.

8:30 PM He shifted his seat on the couch, laying back against its cushions, a throw pillow cra­ dling his head. Still preoccupied with thoughts of that encantadora de serpientes, he navigated to an online radio station that had a Cubs game. It served two purposes, it kept him up­to­date and also reminded him that she wasn't his ideal. Not at all. He closed his eyes for a moment, 28 Illuminati

listening to the announcers and then the commercials. He turned his face towards the back cushion and took a deep breath, trying to relax. Suddenly his brain was at full alert...was that jasmine he smelled? No, it couldn't be, she hadn't been there in six months, at least. There was no possible way her perfume could linger that long, no way at all. He had to be imagining it.

He took another breath, but couldn't detect anything other than a fabric scent, and maybe a little spilled beer from a party he threw last month.

For a small moment he let himself indulge in the memory of when she had last visited, how her scent had lingered for days on this very couch. He was embarrassed to admit that he slept there for the following few nights, just so he could imagine that she was next to him. In reality she was an entire state away, a fact that couldn't be ignored. He peeked at her picture again. It was better not to speak to her. Even calling her on the phone hadn't worked; she was always out when he tried to call. Then when she had called him, he had been sick and couldn't muster up the strength to have a conversation. Even phone calls didn't come easy. It would never have worked between them.

8:35 PM After practicing her moves for a few minutes, she was finding herself drawn to checking on his online status again. This is a problem, she admitted again.

She forced herself to walk away from the computer, taking her wine with her. She refilled her glass on the way to the living room, and when she arrived she turned on the TV, wishing that everything didn't remind her of him. It was wearing her out, the memories, the physical feelings she would get of him. She had one the other night at work, when she was straightening the shelves of cook books before closing time. The feelings were similar to deja vu, that almost physical sensation that travels up your spine, and is gone before you can even acknowledge it. It felt like he was all around her. She fancied that she got those feelings when he had been thinking of her.

She plopped herself down on the couch, flipped through the channels until she came to HBO. Spinning the stem of the glass with her fingers, she settled on one of the fourteen digital channels, not really paying attention to what was on. When she focused her vision and hearing on the screen, she let out a groan and took a gulp. Harrison Ford. On a Russian ship. Guys were vomiting after being exposed to radiation. This really isn't fair at all, she complained, to Don’t Blame the Messenger 29

God, to Indiana Jones in the funny blue suit, to the air, to the screen, to him. She punched at the remote, turning the TV off, and closed her eyes. Slowly she realized where she sat. It was where he had sat that night at they watched that same movie. She hadn't paid attention to the plot, except to verbalize that they should really have buckets handy if they knew the radiation would make the men nauseous. It was an observation she had found incredibly funny, and she had found herself giggling uncontrollably in between the kisses that had left her speechless, si­ lent with a feeling of bliss that she could just barely remember tonight. She should have asked him to stay; it had been her last opportunity before that email. The couch had smelled like him for at least a week after. When she was alone she would lean over and press her face to the fab­ ric, sucking in his scent. She'd do anything to breathe in that scent now, had even tried to get a breath of it each time she'd pass Abercrombie and Fitch on her way to work. Would it be wrong to buy a small bottle of that cologne, just to feel close to him?

8:36 PM He decided that it was problematic and had to end. He had to occupy himself in other ways than staring at her name every night from 7:30 until all hours. He would throw out all of the cards she had sent, including the limerick she had written him for his birthday, recycle the empty bottle of wine that she had brought that night that he’d made her dinner. No more. No more thinking about her, no more struggling with the desire to get in his car and drive the sev­ enty five miles to her house and knock on her door, hoping to be let in, hoping to never leave again. No more praying about her every night, asking God to tell him what to do about this woman. He picked up the phone and dialed, and when his coworker’s voice mail picked up, left the message that he had changed his mind and would like to meet the girl he had been told about. Six months of single­life was five months, three weeks and six days too long. This in­ fatuation had come to a close; she was not for him, it never would have worked. Every time he turned around he ran into a brick wall with her. Everything logical and practical within him reminded him that circumstances made it impossible to grow any kind of real relationship with her. They led different lives, she hadn't accepted Christ into her heart, their schedules made it barely possible to see one another, not to mention that they lived in different states.

Some days you're the bird, some days you're the statue. It was time. He was done.

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8:40 PM As she stretched her body across the couch that really didn't smell like him after all, she began to feel the tell­tale beginnings of humiliation. She began to worry that she was a nui­ sance to him, or that she was nothing to him at all. Surely there was something wrong with her; other women didn't cry over men they had only dated a handful of times; other women didn't wake up every morning with that man's name on their lips when they hadn't seen him in more than six months. Other women put their heads on straight and moved on. Other women didn't search for Kentucky license plates on the highway, hoping a car with one would be waiting in her driveway, it's driver coming to claim her, finally. Other women wouldn't check each morn­ ing to make sure she was still on his online contact list, that he hadn't forgotten her, hadn't de­ cided to be done with her. Hadn't blocked her. In all this time he hadn't taken her off his con­ tact list. Maybe it was manipulation on her part, but sometimes she would sign off and on again more than what was necessary, just so a little blue box with her name on it would pop up on his screen to announce her arrival into his online world. For that moment, at least, she knew that he would remember her, that she could occupy a small part of his mind, if she couldn't have his heart.

She flipped herself over so her face was pressed into the fabric of the sofa back. She was beginning to feel ridiculous on top of being humiliated. She decided that she should face this problem logically, practically, instead of letting her insecurities and loneliness get the better of her.

Really, it had been weeks since he had even said hello. She would be logical. Make a clean break, finally. She would take him off her contact list so she wouldn't be tempted to spy anymore. She would stop Googling him to find out what he was up to at work. The empty bottle of Bogle wine from the last time he had visited would be thrown straight into the recycle bin. She would put that box of printed­out emails and the Saint Patrick's Day card that he'd signed with red x's and o's on the very top shelf of her closet. She would stop paying tarot card readers who would tell her all about him, in minute detail, and then inform her kindly that she wasn't his ideal and that nothing would ever happen between them. The thought made her la­ ment the loss of $90.00 that could have been spent on something more worthwhile, something that would force her out of her safe little home and out into the real world where there were men who weren't cowards. There had to be men out there that wouldn't laugh at her (he hadn't Don’t Blame the Messenger 31

laughed), wouldn't use her for sex (he had always been a gentleman), wouldn't take advantage of her financially (he had always insisted on paying), and wouldn't lie to her (he despised ly­ ing).

The thought of meeting a new man made her want to throw herself face­first onto the bed, bury herself under the covers and not face the world again. Ugh—she had to do something to get herself out of this rut. Maybe she should smile back at that cute boy who had just started working at the bookshop, the one who had to be ten years younger, but who looked just like him when he wore his glasses. She had overheard him talking to some other employees and had been intrigued by his obvious intelligence. He had always made her want to stretch her mind, to learn and experience more.

She had caught that boy staring at her as he came down the center aisle of the bookshop.

He had been straightening the table of “banned” books that was on the September center­of­the­ store display. As he came closer to her, his green eyes were intense. She had felt almost hyp­ notized by them; it was a feeling that left her rattled but somehow interested. And guilty. She had been standing at the special­orders counter with a duster in her hand, trying to look busy instead of slightly unhinged. At the time she had been obsessing about him again, feeling like an emotional Exxon Valdez ready to spill.

She had to simply move on. She'd have to force herself to forget him.

She picked up the tv remote and started flipping channels. She stopped on a music channel, her ears picking up a familiar song. A man with dreadlocks on the top of his head was hopping around and singing about a woman making him feel incredible.

"No!" she said out loud, hitting the power button and stomping determinedly to her bedroom. She plucked an engraved wooden box off of the nightstand, opened it. Inside were the printed­out emails, the pictures, the hand­written notes in Spanish, describing how much he looked forward to seeing her again, how he longed to kiss her. The song from the tv ran through her head; the song that he said reminded him of her. She tossed the papers back into the box, threw it into her closet, shut the door. She took a deep breath and willed herself to hate him for making her love him.

8:41 PM Still listening to the Cubs game online, he turned on his TV and began flipping through 32 Illuminati

through the channels. He landed on a music channel, and was pleased to see and hear his favorite group singing one of his favorite songs. Hearing it reminded him that he had sent it to her in an email, had told her that she made him feel incredible just like in the song. He raised himself from his seat, refilled his wine glass, and went to the nightstand in the bedroom.

From it he retrieved the cards she had sent him; even after all these months they smelled of her.

She must have spritzed them with her perfume before mailing them. He took them back to the kitchen with the intent of putting them into the trashcan. The song was still playing on the TV, it's beat filling the little apartment, reminding him of just how incredible he had felt when he had been near her, how full of life she was. How much he loved her, even though he had been too much of a coward to tell her.

8:50 PM He might be a coward, but she wasn't. She was going to go to him, make him look her in the eye and tell her he didn't want her, didn't love her, didn't want anything to do with her.

After changing clothes and spritzing on a considerable amount of his favorite jasmine perfume, she locked her front door and climbed into her car. She looked at her clock and noticed that it would be 10:00 before she arrived at his apartment, if traffic was light and she didn't get lost.

Backing the car out of the driveway, she turned up the radio, vaguely remembering that she had left her computer on. Ready or not, here I come, she thought.

8:57 PM He went back to his couch, sat down. He looked at his laptop screen. Next to her name it said "away." The cards were still grasped in his hand, he couldn't bear to put them in the trashcan, have something that had once been in her hands mingling with that mornings old cof­ fee grounds and greasy Pizza Hut cheese pizza crusts. He had been lucky to be within her gen­ tle presence, it didn't matter that she didn't fit the mold of his ideal. He knew he needed to see her again, see if there was any way to salvage what they had once began, what he had so care­ lessly thrown away. Leaving the lights, TV, and computer on, he grabbed his keys and left the apartment. He climbed into his car, turned the key. He glanced at the clock, hoping he could

Don’t Blame the Messenger 33

remember the way. He'd be lucky to get to her house by 10:00 if he drove fast enough.

10:09pm She glanced at her clock as she drove around the sharp turn that led to his apartment complex. She had made good time, despite that fact that she's had a little too much wine before driving. Strangely, she didn't feel event he slightest bit drunk. The traffic, the loud music she'd played, and the cool air lifting her hair from the open moon roof all had helped her to feel alert.

Her mind was working overtime, wondering what she would find when she entered his building and descended the carpeted steps to his door.

She parked, noticing that there were several silver cars near his building. As she got out of her own blue car, she peeked at the front of the nearest ones, seeking one with a plate that said, "OK Sooners." She didn't spot one, but that might mean he had taken it off. She had no way of knowing after all this time.

She let herself in the building, noticing that there was little, if any security. The interior was nondescript; it's walls painted a neutral beige. Each door looked the same, except for one with a mat that read, "Stay away!" She remembered that as being his across­the­hall neighbor.

Turning to the last door on her left, she took a deep breath and knocked.

Nothing.

Smoothing her hair and willing her heart to stop beating so darned loud, she knocked again, but was again met with silence. She reached out to the doorknob, feeling a strange mix­ ture of curiosity and mounting guilt. She shouldn't try the knob, but she couldn't help it.

Through the crack under the door she could see light, but no sounds could be distinguished.

Holding her breath, she turned the brass knob. It opened cleanly, the door swinging inward.

Here goes, she thought, and stepped inside.

10:16pm He hadn't found it very difficult to remember the way to her house. It was a straight shot off the highway, and the big red mailbox by her front door was unmistakable.

He pulled into her driveway and parked his car, knowing that he didn't need to lock it when he got out. As he walked to her door he remembered the few times he had been here, how she had always greeting him right away with a big smile and a hug. She had always come 34 Illuminati

out of the door before he had been able to ring the bell.

This time the front door was shut; the porch light turned on but not the interior lights.

Had he come too late at night? He knocked softly on the storm door, but received no answer.

He pressed the bell, heard the chimes inside. Nothing. He knew she was usually home at this time of night; there had been many Saturdays that he had watched as her name went from "out to lunch" to "online." He knew she liked to go out for Indian food with her girlfriends, but was usually home by 9:00pm.

He paced in front of the door, not knowing what to do. He took his cell phone from it's holder and scrolled to her name in its directory. After four rings he heard her outgoing mes­ sage, hung up before it beeped. She wasn't home. He decided to sit on the rickety bench in front of the house and wait.

10:17pm She had stood in his entryway, motionless, for a few minutes, meekly calling his name but re­ ceiving no answer. As she stepped into his living room, her feet making no sound on the thick beige carpet, she saw that his TV was on, but the sound was turned down. An empty wine gob­ let sat on his coffee table next to his laptop. She peered into his kitchen, saw dirty dishes piled in the sink. She tiptoed down the short hallway, noticed his bedroom door at the end. The bed was unmade, the room dark. She turned around and headed back to the living room. She sat down on the edge of the couch with a sigh. He wasn't here. Her eyes found the TV, lined with snapshots of him with his friends and family. She rose from the couch to look closer. She smiled, noticing that he had quite a few of his seven­year­old nephew. She frowned when she saw photos of him with his arm around a pretty young woman in a college sweatshirt. They were smiling, both holding tall bottles of beer. In another they were on an airplane. The cam­ era must have been pointing upwards; she could see right up their nostrils. It was hard to look at these photos, knowing that he might be with that woman right now. She looked petite and cute, her button nose turned up at the end. His smile might have said, "I'm hers."

She stepped towards the laptop on the coffee table, turned it around to face her. His messenger program was open; she saw her name was listed as "away." There were other names listed that she didn't recognize. At the bottom of the toolbar was an email box. With a bit of Don’t Blame the Messenger 35

guilt she clicked on it, bringing it onto the screen. There was no subject line or email address listed at the top.

Only one sentence had been typed, "I have been in love with you since the moment I saw you."

She looked from the screen to the photos, a sick feeling overtaking her. Tears burned in her eyes. She sunk down onto the green couch, leaning into it's soft cushions. It was a mistake to sit there, she knew even as she did it. His scent was all around her, it put her right back to the last time she had been here. Her eyes found the photos again as her heart remembered the kisses he had given her here.

He wasn't hers to kiss now. He belonged to someone else. He was in love with some­ one else. He had forgotten her.

She laid on the couch for some time, lost within her memories and the scent of him. She looked at her watch and saw that it was after 11:00 now. She knew she had to leave before he came home and caught her there.

Before she left she took one last look at the photos taped to the TV. She kissed her fin­ gers and pressed them to his photo, wishing she had never come here tonight.

11:19pm He hadn't waited long before he began to feel ridiculous and made himself leave.

Maybe he should have left a note, but thoughts that she might be out on a date had left him feel­ ing humbled and defeated. He had spent the long drive home to Kentucky in silence, his mind turning over all of the "what if's." What is he had called first? What if he had waited longer?

What if he had sent her that email he had started earlier that night?

He shook his head to clear it; headed right off the exit towards home. As he took the sharp right turn near his apartment complex he almost hit a little blue sport scar that had swerved too close to his lane; he laid on his horn in disgust, slammed his hand on the steering wheel to keep from cussing.

When he got to his apartment door, he realized that he had never locked it. Feeling silly and annoyed with himself, he locked it behind him and went straight to the couch. He flopped

36 Illuminati

down, exhausted.

As he felt sleep take him, the last thing he saw was the email he had never sent to her.

The last thing he smelled was her jasmine perfume; it lulled and comforted him. He lost him­ self to sleep, deep and dreamless.

12:31am, Sunday She had done her best to drive safely after almost hitting someone on that sharp curve by his apartment complex. She had been fighting tears and hadn't noticed how close to the cen­ ter line she had drifted. She had taken the long drive home in silence, her mind quieted of thoughts by concentrating on the highway.

As she pulled into her driveway she felt utter exhaustion threaten to overwhelm her.

She walked slowly to the front door, opened the storm door and pushed her key inside the lock.

As she turned the key a familiar scent, his scent, found her nostrils and brought fresh tears to her eyes. She slumped against the door and allowed the tears to come. Sobs wracked her, "what if's?" ran amuck through her mind. What if she had waited? What if he had found her?

What if she never saw him again?

She drug herself through the front door, depositing her keys on the kitchen counter. She walked slowly through her little house, turning off lights and picking up the odds and ends of the day. Out of habit she returned to her desk and switched off the desk lamp. For the last time that night she double clicked his name on her messenger program, bringing up the conversation box. She gazed at the photo of his sleeping form, mentally traced the sharp curve of his jaw, his elbow. She wished him goodnight, moved her mouse to "sign off," and double­clicked.

Don’t Blame the Messenger 37

RUBY Michelle Lawrence

The bells on the shop door jingled, pulling Ruby Rothbart out of her daydreams. She had just unpacked the latest shipment of knit children's clothing and had putting together an Au­ tumn display in the window of "Rupunzel's Tower (Special Clothing for your Special Little Prince or Princess)".

"Can I help you?" she asked the woman who had entered the little shop, heavy in preg­ nancy and looking more than a bit lost among the stacks of receiving blankets, hand­carved cra­ dles and embroidered Christening gowns.

"Oh! I didn't see you there," the woman exclaimed, her hand fluttering to her engorged breasts, redness creeping to her cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," Ruby apologized, wiping her dusty hands on her skirts. She took her place behind the counter and plastered a polite smile on her lips. It wouldn't do to frighten the young­mother­to­be; she'd rather not have to call the local rescue squad for the second time that week. Delivering her customers babies was certainly not something she wanted to experience on a personal level.

"Is there anything special I can help you with?" Ruby asked.

"Actually, yes," the woman claimed. "I'm looking for baby bonnets, like, the kind my grandmother wore? The kind with the ribbons and little ear flaps?" Her voice rose with each word, and Ruby smiled at her pityingly. She must be pretty young, Ruby thought, I used to wear bonnets like those!

"Yes," Ruby answered, "I know exactly what you mean, in fact, my Auntie Rothbart just sent a new shipment from Germany; I was just unpacking it. " she moved towards the large cardboard box and rummaged inside, tucking her chestnut hair behind her ear. "Do you know if you are having a girl or a boy?" she asked.

"A little girl," the woman breathed, her fingertips caressing her burgeoning stomach.

Suddenly her considerable bump did a heave, her eyebrows raised and she let out a low whistle.

Ruby chuckled, knowing that the baby girl would have quite a temper when she grew old 38 Illuminati

enough; her hearty kicks proved the fact early on.

She continued to sort through the contents of the box until her fingers closed on a soft pink cap, knit of the finest wool and stitched with tiny pink and white flowers. She sighed, knowing it would be perfect, just what the woman was looking for. She handed it over gently, careful not to muss the perfectly tied bows of silk ribbon. She prided herself on supplying only the best, items that young, wealthy parents could never find at a shopping mall or online auc­ tion. Her favorites were items that her family in Germany had been making for generations.

She had never learned to knit herself, but her great aunties and their daughters had been taught by the best.

The woman sucked in her breath, and caressing the soft wool, sighed, "I'll take it!"

When the woman had waddled through the door, it's bells tinkling again to announce her departure, Ruby went back to unpacking her boxes. Her grandmother had been known in her tiny village as the best seamstress, and it was even rumored that her knit baby clothing held a little of the old world magic within their knits and purls. While her Aunties didn't believe in the magic, they still copied her Grandmomma's stitches perfectly.

As a child Ruby had watched her grandmother rocking and knitting, rocking and knit­ ting, her lips moving soundlessly all the while.

"Momma," she had asked her mother in all innocence, "What does Grandmomma say to the things she knits? It sounds almost like a song, but I can't understand the words."

"Darling, she is just praying that the children who wear these sweaters and caps will be safe and sound. Your Grandmomma comes from a time when there were still wolves in the for­ ests. Her people had to keep safe against the dangers the only way they knew how, though prayers and superstition."

"Did she pray over my cap, Momma?" Ruby had asked, referring to her favorite bonnet of deep red.

"Of course, my love! Grandmomma wants you to always be safe. Remember to keep your cap with you, no matter what. It will help to keep you from harm," her mother had replied with a wink and a small smile of conspiracy.

The memory of her mothers words made Ruby frown; her heart ached with the knowl­

Ruby 39

edge that she had lost that cap, the very one that her aging Grandmomma had knit for her, the one that hadn't kept her safe, after all.

It had been at least twenty years, maybe more, since she had seen the cap, clutched in the claw­like hands of the man, the beast, she corrected, that had claimed to love her above all else. He had torn her heart to shreds, had chewed her up and spit her out, and she had never forgotten nor forgiven him for the aftermath. ~ As the autumn reds and golds turned to winter grays and white snows, a letter addressed to Ruby from Germany arrived at the shop. Her Grandmomma didn't often write, so she was surprised to recognize her signature on the heavy paper.

"My Dearest Ruby," the letter began, "Come to visit me. I want to see you before it is too late."

It was signed, "Ich flehe dich an, Grandmomma."

Ruby could hear her grandmother’s voice as she read the words, “I beg of you.”

She sighed heavily and sunk down into a nearby chair. Her Grandmomma sounded seri­ ous; her normally smooth handwriting was shaky and barely legible. She rose from her seat, scuffed to the door, and turned the key. She wouldn't open the shop today. The young mothers would have to wait, or Heaven forbid, do their shopping at the local chain store. For the first time in years, she would be returning home to Germany. ~ Ruby's mind flew in all directions as she drove herself to the airport. Her husband of fifteen years was out of the country on business, had given her his blessing to travel back to Germany without him. She pondered the possible reasons for Grnadmomma's urgency. Was she sick? Hurt in some way? She hadn't taken the time to attempt a phone call to anyone in her overseas family, had simply scheduled her flight and packed her bags. She didn't buy a ticket for a return flight; she'd have to find out what exactly was happening before she could make a decision as to how long she'd stay. When she arrived at the airport she quickly parked her car and removed her luggage from the trunk. It was so early in the morning that it was still dark, and the moon hung bright and full in the sky. As she headed for the building she noticed a skycap booth with no line, and made her way toward it. She noticed a man behind the 40 Illuminati

counter, and dug in her purse for a few dollars. She knew they worked on tips and wanted to be prepared.

"Good morning, " the man said as she approached. "Where are you off to today?"

She handed him her bags, his hands brushing against hers as he took each one. She shivered and wrapped her red wool coat around her a little tighter, realizing that she hadn't taken the time to button it..

"I'm on my way to visit my grandmother." The skycap looked at her pointedly, his eyes glittering.

"Well," he drawled, "I hope you have a good flight. Remember not to speak to any wolves, Red." "Oh, my name is Ruby....." She realized his joke and laughed politely. "very funny," she added, and slung her carry­on onto her shoulder. She handed him his tip and went to find her gate. ~ Ruby laughed to herself as she sat waiting for her flight to begin boarding. She really did resemble "Little Red Riding Hood," especially when she opened her carry­on to be in­ spected at the security gate. Aside from the normal supply of extra clothes, a book, and her wallet, she had also packed a box of Little Debbie Oatmeal cream pies and a bottle of her Grandmomma's favorite merlot. Both items were scarce in Grandmomma's little village, so Ruby knew to take them. Occasionally she would pack a box of the sweet, processed little cookie sandwiches along with payment for the children's clothing her family sent. She hoped that her Grandmomma enjoyed the treats, that they would remind her of when Ruby was small and they would share cookies by the warm cottage fire before bedtime. She settled back into her narrow airline seat and closed her eyes, determined to get some sleep on the long flight to Germany. ~ Ruby learned that her tiny rental hatchback had no working heat source after the snow started blowing. The road to her Grandmomma's cottage was long, narrow, and almost totally potholed; the little car bounced along, as cold as ice. At least it has working seatbelts, she thought to herself. She didn't have a map, she didn't really need one. The area had few paved Ruby 41

streets, and this one led straight through the old­growth forest to the cottage. She squinted her eyes, wishing she could see better through all the snow that was hitting the windshield and pil­ ing up in front of the car. As much as she wanted to hurry, to get to the cottage that she knew would be toasty warm, she kept her foot from pressing the gas pedal. It was lucky that she did­ n't; as soon as she turned at the next bend she almost hit a man who was standing smack in the middle of the road. She slammed the brakes and skidded to the side; gripping the wheel with her gloved hands. Her bag had fallen open during the hard stop; the bottle of wine had rolled onto the floor.

She unclicked her seatbelt and opened the car door, looking for the man that had been in the road. He was no where to be found. That's odd, she thought to herself, I could have sworn I saw him right there. Where could he have gone so quickly? She walked a few steps into the road, turning around and shielding her eyes from the glare of the white snow. It stuck to her eyelashes, she blinked it away. Stopping in the middle of the road, she turned around in a tight circle. She remembered that he had been wearing a red shirt, had thought she could see skin peeking from it's opened shirtfront. He must be freezing, she thought, concern now wrinkling her forehead. Briefly she wondered how she could remember those details when it had hap­ pened so quickly, and declared that her mind must have been extraordinarily sharp due to the stress and fright of almost mowing a pedestrian down with her rental car.

It was getting dark and she couldn't find the man anywhere; any footsteps he may have left would have been obliterated by the swirling snow. As she opened the car door she heard the sound of a wolf's howl from the nearby forests. She hurried into her seat, shut the creaking car door and turned on the engine, a shiver running down her spine like cold ice. The sound of the wolf had made her nervous, though she knew that it would have to be deep in the forest looking for a deer or some other non­human creature for it's evening meal. She pulled the car back onto the bumpy road, its tires almost getting stuck in the inches of covering snow. Keep­ ing her eye out for the man in the red shirt, she followed the road to Grandmomma's house, de­ termined not to stop again until she got there. ~ The rest of the drive was uneventful, and she arrived at her Grandmomma's cottage as the moon started to rise on the eastern horizon. Hers was the only car parked in the front of the

42 Illuminati

little house, though she saw a face that wasn't her Grandmomma's peeking between the lace curtains in the window. The door swung open before she could knock. With her bags slung heavily over her shoulder, Ruby leaned down to hug her tiny­framed older cousin, Rosa. When she pulled away she saw Rosa's bright blue eyes looked even larger than they normally did; black smudges darkened the skin below them. She looked worried and exhausted. She ushered Ruby inside before speaking.

"Ruby, I'm so glad you are here," Rosa sighed, her heavily­accented voice a whisper.

"Grandmomma has been asking for you for days."

"I came as soon as I could, Rosa," Ruby assured her, putting her bags down next to the door and placing her snow­dusted coat ona hook by the door. "What’s wrong?"

"Follow me," Rosa replied, and led her younger cousin down a short hallway and through a doorway to a small bedroom. A cheery fire was lit in the fireplace, though the room was gloomy. The fire offered the only light. Their Grandmomma lay on a small bed directly across from the fireplace. She was covered in heavy quilts; her body seemed dwarfed by the pillows she rested her head upon.

"Grandmomma," Rosa called from the doorway, her voice a little louder than usual, "Ruby is here."

"Ruby?" her little voice shook. "Come to me, my little one." Ruby went immediately to the bedside, and took a hold of her Grandmomma's thin hand. It was cold despite the quilts and blazing fire.

"Grandmomma," Ruby pleaded, "Tell me what's the matter. You're ill?"

Her Grandmomma coughed and drew back her hand. "My Ruby," she whispered, "there is so much to tell you, so much for you to know. He has been here, my love, looking for you. But I know you will be safe; I know you have your cap."

"Nonsense!" Rosa spit. "Grandmomma is losing her mind. There has been no one here except family in months." Rosa had folded her arms across her chest, an impatient frown pull­ ing at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes rested on Ruby with a look that told her she shouldn't have stayed away for so long. Rosa was known as an "old maid" in the town; she had never married nor even dated, she simply took care of Grandmomma and continued the family busi­ ness of knitting and sewing children's clothes. She was an extremely practical woman who could be difficult to live with.

Ruby 43

"Who? Who was here?" Ruby asked, looking from her Grandmomma to Rosa and back again, but her Grandmomma had fallen into a deep sleep.

"What was she talking about?" Ruby said to Rosa over her shoulder. There was no an­ swer.

She looked back to Rosa, but Rosa had left the room, only the scent of pinesap and wood smoke remained where she had stood. ~ Ruby slept fitfully in the small guest bed in the room next to Grandmomma's bedroom. While she should be warm under the layers of quilts made by the hands of her ancestors, she kept wak­ ing with shivers. Occasionally the sound of Grandmomma talking in her sleep would send Ruby to the doorway, listening to her breathing and trying to figure out just what she had meant when she told Ruby that a man had been there looking for her. Ruby had no idea who her Grandmomma had been referring to; she had left their little village shortly after her sixteenth birthday, and hadn't returned until now. She knew no one other than family, and surely no one knew her. She wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shivering as the memories of those years threatened to creep to the surface of her mind. Glimpses of a young face, dark, hungry eyes and her own infatuated young heart flicked in front of her like a movie; she hastily pushed them away. She crept silently to her Grandmomma's bed and tucked the quilt under her chin, left a soft kiss on her forehead.

As Ruby climbed back in bed, a mug of warm, sugared milk keeping her fingers warm, she heard what sounded like mice scratching their way across the worn, wooden floorboards.

She took a gulp of her milk and curled herself up tighter in bed; mice were something she had always despised. A louder scratching sounded at the window; the surprise of it made her spill her milk on the front of her shirt. Remembering the leafless tree just outside, Ruby forced her­ self to relax, put the mug on the table next to the bed, and after checking for rogue rodents, got up and went to her suitcase. Mentally reminding herself that she was a grown woman and shouldn't startle at the sounds of mice or branches rubbing against the window, she took off wet her shirt and rummaged for another.

As she raised her arms to pull her favorite, softly­worn fleece top over her head, what she saw in the window made her fall back onto the bed on pure fright. A figure was there, what 44 Illuminati

had to be a man, tall, and though not heavily muscled, strong, in a menacing kind of way that made her want to flee. She yanked her shirt down over her bare skin, rose up from the bed and flung the curtains shut, not knowing what to do. Should she scream? No, she must protect her­ self and her Grandmomma, Rosa had left hours ago, there was no one else.

She thrust her bare feet into her shoes and sprinted to the kitchen. Looking wildly for a weapon of some sort, her eyes closed on a hatchet used to cut kindling for the wood tove. She flung on her red coat and grabbed the hatchet. Taking a peek at the frail, sleeping woman in the bedroom, she quietly opened the front door and stepped out into the cold night.

Keeping the hatchet close to her body, she crept around the side of the house, cold wind blast­ ing her in the face and bringing tears to her eyes. The snow had stopped, and the moon shone full and bright in the clear night sky. As she tiptoed beside the little house, she looked for foot­ steps to show her where the man had been. She was nervous and frightened at what she might find, but she willed herself to remain steadfast. If there was a peeping Tom or some other creep bothering her Grandmomma, it was up to her to put a stop to it. As Ruby came closer to her bedroom window, she noticed there were no footsteps to be found. Maybe the wind blew them away, she thought to herself, trying to reason out a way for there to be no proof of what or who she saw. As in response the wind picked up her hair, blowing a chunk of it into her eyes.

Tucking the hatchet under her arm, she brushed the hair up and out of her way, securing it be­ hind her ear.

"Nibble nibble little mouse, who is nibbling on my house?" a voice said from behind her. She spun around to find its source, only to see a vast, unbroken line of trees. There was no one there. The wind blew again, this time flinging her red coat open wide, the air biting through her shirt to the soft skin beneath. She quickly buttoned the two sides of her coat to­ gether the hatchet tucked under her arm, her eyes slitted suspiciously. Her instincts told her to get back inside, and quickly, her reason told her that she was imagining it all, the man in the window, the voice, maybe even the wind. She had had a long flight to her homeland, that was enough to make anyone a little tired and prone to flights of fancy. She blew out her breath, trudged back into the cottage, hung up her coat, and bolted the door, just in case. She peeked at the sleeping form of her Grandmomma one more time, and took the box of Little Debbie's back to bed with her. The cold night air had made her hungry, and as she unwrapped the first oat­ meal cream pie, she willed herself to remain calm and simply wait for morning.

Ruby 45

"Grandmomma, there was no such man here last night, you must have been dreaming!"

Rosa's voice sounded exasperated as Ruby padded into Grandmomma's room the next morning.

She felt achy and her teeth hurt as though she had clenched them all night. She longed for a cup of Starbucks to start her day but knew there would be nothing but tea with milk and never end­ ing bowls of oatmeal in the little cottage. The saving grace was always Grandmomma's apple pie, made from apples that were yellow on one side and red on the other. Ruby remembered always feeling like she had died and then been kissed alive by a prince when she ate it.

"Good morning," she offered, her stomach grumbling, but Rosa ignored her. "What did I interrupt?"

"Well, Grandmomma insists that a man was at the house again last night, " Rosa snorted, "but I have assured her that there was no man and that you were here to keep her safe."

She busied herself with tidying up the room, and then promptly left, Grandmomma's half­eaten bowl of porridge in her hand. "She claimed it was too cold," Rosa informed Ruby as she walked away. "She'll only eat it if it's 'just right.'"

When she heard Rosa busily cleaning the little kitchen Ruby rushed to her Grandmomma's bed­ side.

"Grandmomma, what man are you talking about?" she asked the old woman, who seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness.

"The one, my darling," Grandmomma whispered, and continued, "He has been waiting for you. I told him that you would never have him, and that if he tried to take you against your will, the magic of the old ones would seek their revenge." She took a deep breath and drifted back to sleep, her forehead hot with fever.

As Ruby stared at the sleeping woman, she understood what her Grandmomma had said. The one. She had pushed him out of her memory for so long now, had trained herself so well to blot him from her conscious mind. It had been her father who had shot him, sending him to die alone in the woods as retribution. For what he had done to her, she knew her father was right and just. If she had a child she would have done the same thing. But she never would have a child, never again, and it was all the fault of one who wore sheep's clothing. ~ 46 Illuminati

Ruby's Grandmomma kept the fever for the next three and a half weeks. She slept heav­ ily as it burned, and when it cooled she spoke the same words again and again. He is coming.

Ruby held her hand and spoon fed her porridge that was just right, occasionally giving her sips of her favorite merlot in an attempt to comfort, if not strengthen her. Her cousin Rosa came and went at intervals, bringing staples from the market and hovering over Ruby like an overprotec­ tive mother hen. They had yet to figure out just what caused Grandmomma's fever. The town physician refused to travel from his mountain home; he was just as old as Grandmomma, and the town had yet to train a replacement. Grandmomma seemed to have little need for the neces­ sities, and wouldn't even taste the oatmeal cream pie that Ruby had unwrapped and held out to her. The little old woman seemed to be shrinking before her very eyes, and Ruby was begin­ ning to fear the worst.

As the sun set that night, Ruby lay next to Grandmomma on the narrow bed, clinging to Grandmomma's hand. She heard the little lady make a noise, so she shifted position to look into her face. Grandmomma's eyes grew large when she heard the sound of a wolf howling in the night.

"He'll be here tonight, Little Red Cap," Grandmomma whispered urgently. Ruby star­ tled at the sound of the name her Grandmomma had called her, a name that she hadn't heard in more than twenty years. She rose to check the locks on the window and heard her Grand­ momma warn, "Put your cap on, my dear, the magic I knit into it will keep you safe from him."

Her voice sounded high and delirious. Ruby decided she would humor her, and as she shut the curtains she consented, "Yes, Grandmomma, I'll remember," though she knew that the cap was gone. It was long gone, and hadn’t contained protective magic after all. He had been clutching it as he ran into the forest, blood dripping from the wound her father had inflicted. When the huntsman had later followed the drops of blood in the snow, he had only found more blood, and not the cap. They could only hope he was dead, and never mentioned the loss of the cap to Grandmomma. Ruby felt conflicted remembering the night of his demise; part of her still re­ membered the youthful love she had felt for him, her einzelgaenger. In her innocence she had believed him to be a simple gypsy, a romantic fantasy for a girl of sixteen. She had refused to heed her Grandmomma's warnings, had allowed him to deceive and to seduce her. He had pledged his everlasting love to her, had told her he would seek her wherever she was if they be­ came separated, and she had believed him. She had known him only by his first name, Rudolf.

Ruby 47

He had come each night from the surrounding forest to visit her, materializing from the trees as if he existed from within them. Each night he scratched on her window to announce his arrival.

The only time he did not visit her was the night of each months' full moon, and until the night her father had killed him, she hadn't known why. She had thought she was seeing things, the teeth, the glowing eyes as round and as bright as the moon.. It couldn't have been real. She had prayed that it wasn't real. When she had tried to speak of it to her cousin, Rosa had laughed at her, claiming that it had all been her imagination, that her father had shot the man for compro­ mising his daughter, not because he was a wolf. Six months later, the child they had conceived arrived on the night of the full moon. Her father had taken the baby into the woods; neither had come out

again. It was

then that she

had been sent

to the States

to heal and to

start a new

life. She had

been taken in

by a distant

relative and

had learned to

forget.

When she grew

old enough

she opened her

little shop,

selling chil­

dren's

clothing to

those who

would have

healthy ,

Aundrea Curtis

She had married a proper young attorney, one who above all

perfect babies. else was safe,

and that was much more important than excitement or adventure. She had had her fill of that.

Ruby was jolted out of her reverie by the sound of Grandmomma's whisper. "He used to come to me, too, you know" she whispered. Ruby stepped closer and leaned down near her Grandmomma's mouth, the better to hear her. "He has come to each generation of Rothbart girls; we have all loved him and lost him, your mother, me, my mother. Back hundreds of years. He would have devoured you whole; he was known for it. It is why you were given the red cap, to protect you from him. Get it now, my love, he'll be here soon."

48 Illuminati

After she had seen to Grandmomma's needs and had made sure she was sound asleep, Ruby took hold of the kitchen hatchet and waited. It would only be an hour or two until the full moon would start to rise, and she wanted to be prepared, just in case what Grandmomma had warned was true. She had to admit that Rudolf might not have died after all, no one had found his body, and if he had come to so many generations of Rothbart's, there was the chance he couldn't die.

If she were Rosa, she wouldn't believe such a thing, but Rosa hadn't seen Rudolf change in the light of the moon, hadn't seen him go from a beautiful gypsy to a snarling, vicious canine.

The thought of it made her shudder as she took her seat by the front door to guard and wait.

The loud pounding on the door almost made Ruby fall out of her chair. The house had been as still as a mouse, except for the actual mouse that she had seen scurry by on it's way to find a morsel in the kitchen. She rose from her seat and crept silently to the window. A voice sounded as she parted the curtains ever so slightly to peer through.

"Little Cap, Little Cap, let me in, or I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in!" The knob rattled menacingly, his fists again pounded at the wooden door. Ruby clutched her little hatchet tighter, trying to decide what to do.

"Ruby!" his voice shouted, startling her into action. She hurried to the back door and silently exited, making sure to flip the latch on her way out. She was locked out, but Grand­ momma was locked in and therefore safe. She moved silently around the side of the house, hatchet at the ready, ears tuned to listen for footsteps. She could no longer hear him pounding on the door. The air around her was crisp and clear; she could see her breath. She hadn't thought to put on her coat, and the breeze was biting hard at the skin under her clothes. The silence was unnerving; she stepped lightly through the snow, but her shoes still made a quiet crunch.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?" Ruby heard his voice be­ fore feeling his hand on her shoulder. She spun around, raising her hatchet above her, ready to strike. He deftly plucked it from her hand and flung it out into the night.

"Tsk, tsk. That's no way to greet me, Ruby." he chastised, his dark eyes intense and flashing. He looked as though he hadn't aged a bit, his skin was tanned, his black hair hung al­ most to his waist.

Ruby 49

It was tied in the back but a few strands had come loose and were floating around his face. His red linen shirt hung open, exposing his tan torso. As Ruby looked down she saw the large, jag­ ged scar that ran from his ribcage past his navel, the skin puckered and pink. He gathered her roughly towards him, crushed her against his chest. He smelled of wood smoke and pine sap.

"I told you I would wait for you," he reminded her, his claw­like fingers biting into her back.

"I know," she spat, twisting her body in an effort to free herself from his embrace. As he leaned to kiss her she took the opportunity to kick out at him, and he let her go in shock. She ran towards the forest, looking for the hatchet he had flung into the trees. She tripped on a rock buried in the snow, picked herself up again. She found the hatchet, it's wood and steel easy to spot in the white snow. She grabbed it and ran back towards the house, snow kicking up behind her feet as she ran. His sudden tackle sent her to the ground, knocked the air out of her lungs.

He held her arm down, used his body to pin her while he wrenched the weapon out of her grasp.

She coughed, twisting underneath him, trying to turn over and bare her teeth, the better to bite him with.

He positioned himself so he was pressing down on her, but kept his head pulled back so she couldn't reach him with her teeth. His eyes glowed gold, his hair had come loose from it's tether and hung down like a curtain around them both. Stones under the snow were digging into her back, her bones ached from the impact of the fall on the cold, hard ground. The snow wasn't enough to cushion her, and she cried out, "What do you want from me?"

"Wolves mate for life. I need you to come back with me, my Ruby," he replied.

"So I can be like you?" she asked, her voice high, "Never!"

“The full moon will be rising soon, Rudolf…” she taunted, “all the better to see you with!” His grip on her loosened, and she took advantage of that to twist away, kicking out at him from behind as she raised herself to stand. Without turning to look back, she bolted to the front door of the house, and turned the knob, forgetting that it was locked. She pulled on it and pounded, hoping that Grandmomma could somehow open the door. She let go of the knob and the door swung open, sending Ruby into a state of confusion. She looked at the place the knob had been, raised her eyes up to see Rosa standing there.

50 Illuminati

"Oh, thank God! Rosa, he's here! We've got to bar the doors and windows!" Ruby screamed, near hysteria. Rosa's demeanor was calm and collected compared to Ruby's panic. She pressed something warm and soft into Ruby's hand, and stepped past her onto the porch.

"Were are you going? Get back inside!" Ruby called, but Rosa had already strode out into the snowy, open area at the edge of the forest. It was then that Ruby saw Rudolf. He was standing in between the two women, looking at each of them in turn.

"Ruby, I've kept the cap all this time," Rosa called. "It's protected me, but now I think it's time that you had it back. He only needs one of us, and I'm tired of fighting it. You have your husband to think of; I have no one. Grandmomma will join the ones that have gone before her shortly; she won't need me anymore."

As Ruby listened to Rosa speak, tears came to her eyes. Ruby looked down at her hands, in them was the little red cap from her childhood, the one that Grandmomma had knit and whispered her magic into. As she raised her eyes to see Rudolf striding towards Rosa, his skin growing soft, gray fur in the light of the raising moon, Ruby realized that her cousin must have gone to Rudolf in the forest the night her father had shot him, must have loved him enough to help him stay alive. Maybe she had been going to him all this time. Rudolf took Rosa's hand as the moon peeked over the horizon. Rosa's eyes looked golden as the turned towards the for­ est and walked inside. Ruby watched until she could no longer see them. ~ As Ruby packed her bags to return home, she turned the events of the last week over and over in her mind. Grandmomma had passed peacefully in her sleep, but not before telling Ruby the story of her childhood. It seemed that the old tale of Little Red Cap hadn’t been a myth; Ruby's great­great grandmother had known Rudolf as a child, had had the unfortunate experience of being inside his belly for a short time. She had been rescued from digestion by the local woodsman; it was he who had given Rudolf the long scar on his belly. She had later married the young hunter, forever grateful for his bravado. When Grandmomma had claimed that he could devour Ruby whole, she was speaking from the knowledge passed down from mother to daughter, from daughter to grand­daughter as a warning.

Ruby 51

Grandmomma was happy to see that Ruby had her cap back again, and had shook her head in wonder when Ruby explained that Rosa had given herself to the wolf.

“Well, he was quite a lover,” Grandmomma giggled, a red flush creeping to her cheeks. ~ As Ruby pulled the little hatchback onto the bumpy road in front of Grandmomma's now­empty cottage, she thought she caught sight of two gray wolves running through the trees. She hoped they would be happy together, that their being together would make it safe for future generations of Rothbart girls. Her tale was now finished, and she could live happily ever after.

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52 Illuminati

YELLOW TULIPS AND MILKSHAKES Meghan Woods The woman in the house across the street is dying. Every day, her driveway is occupied with the vehicles of her family and friends. Family and friends I’ve never seen before. They bring her bright, yellow tulips – they must be her favorite – even though their not in season, and milkshakes from the local dairy. I often find myself jealous of this woman, with all the loyal company she seems to receive. But, then I realize that I must be the one who is ill. How could I be envious of a dying woman? Hell, I don’t know. Maybe it was my “inner core’s” way of tell­ ing me to destroy my ego, and spill my guts to a psychiatrist

I knew for sure that something was terribly wrong with the woman when her once vi­ brant and bountiful flowers began to perish. It was obvious that she took enormous pride in her garden, and did an excellent job of manicuring it as well. From the pruning of the yews that lined the front walkway, to the delicate watering of the baby­pink roses in the back, she did it all. Anything she touched seemed to flourish. I guess you could say I was jealous over that as well. There could be dead body buried in my yard for all I know.

Anyway, age was obviously just a number to her. I suppose she thought that the older she got, the stronger she grew, for she even mowed her own lawn. (With a mower that isn’t self­propelled, by the way.) It really is quite a sight to see. She looks like a typical old, stubborn woman, cutting the grass in her plaid peddle­pushers, and big, thick, horn­rimmed glasses. You know, the kind of grandma that won’t let her grandchildren cut her lawn, for fear that they may cut the grass in the wrong direction or something anal like that. I always figured her grandkids were just too lazy. That, of course, was what I thought till I realized that caring for her lawn and garden was the highlight of her life. It was what kept her joints moving, her mind thinking, and her soul searching. An idea that my busy lifestyle, and pessimistic thoughts would never let “in”.

These so­called family members and friends that come to visit her make me sick. It Yellow Tulips and Milkshakes 53

really is awful how people seem to stick around the dying, just like leeches on skin. After years of hiding, they reappear, latch on, and suck what little is left of their being. All in hopes of be­ ing redeemed in some way, and being remembered on their will. I guess they believe they can make up for their fifty years of ignoring by simply lying by her death bed, and bringing her yel­ low tulips and milkshakes. I wonder if she even realizes what’s going on. Do those tulips make her smile? And the milkshakes . . . can she taste their cool, thick, sweetness? The poor woman is probably just lying there like a sponge, soaking up all the attention she can get. I mean, she never got it before, might as well now.

But, maybe I’m just dissecting her situation the wrong way. After all, it is quite typical of me to expect the worst. Maybe the yews that line her front walkway, and the baby­pink roses in the back are not the highlights of this woman’s life. Maybe she has outwitted me, and this is just a part of her “great plan”, her destiny. It is not her garden, but death it’s self that has kept her going. I suppose I do have reason to be jealous of her . . . she’s having the best time of her life. It’s sort of ironic, how she can be living it up, yet, dying at the same time. I guess you could say the woman in the house across the street is living. Her yews have become so untamed that you could get lost trying to find her front door, and her baby­pink roses have wilted into dry petals of brown from the hot, summer sun. Every day, her driveway is vacant. The only thing parked there are the oil spots left behind from previous occupants. The driveway doesn’t long for the vehicles of her family and friends. Both her, and the driveway know they’ll be there when she needs them most.

54 Illuminati

UNTITLED Amy Hedges

The trees there had all been cut down decades ago. For probably twenty odd years, the filed had been used to cultivate corn and soybeans. I have a very vague recollection of watch­ ing my older siblings playing baseball there, using pizza boxes and brown paper bags for bases, eventually being sent home by a friendly police officer who admonished them gently not to trample the local farmer's plants. It was clear he had nothing better to do.

Now the field was a mess of rocky dirt, black top cul­de­sacs with no houses, and piles of sand and gravel, all of it accented by sparsely scattered stalks of Queen Ann's lace. The air was full of butterflies­­I remember using fishing nets to catch them, yellow and white. If it hadn't rained for maybe a week, it was easy to make believe the scene had been taken from some desert painting. The earth was cracked and dry, the sun unforgiving, shadows of birds circling overhead feeling like those of vultures, not our provincial crows and quails.

There was never more than one basement foundation being built at a time. I thought of them like garages without roofs, with one too many walls. Some supernatural pilot must have taken it upon himself, I thought, to drop them from giant airplanes so they'd be squished down into the dirt by the impact. Once grounded, I was sure they'd be used as prisons or swimming pools.

When it did finally rain, the place turned into what I assumed Minnesota, land of a thousand lakes, looked like. Each pool hatched a menagerie of new plant life exploding into view with the brilliance and color of July fireworks, and disappearing just as quickly when the rains left. We named each kind of mud based on how it squished between our toes. My favorite by far was peanut butter mud.

Everywhere loomed heavy construction machinery, yellow dinosaurs leaving long footprints all over, lumbering across roads that led nowhere before retiring for their weekend slumber. In less than a year my Mesozoic sanctuary was replaced by a middle class subdivision. The craters were covered by white houses. The cracks in the dry dirt were blanketed by grass seeds. The grass seeds were soon covered by straw, all together making such a comfortable bed that it was no wonder that it laid the desert painter down to sleep forever at the end of my street.

Untitled 55

From NOONDAY, MIDDLETONIA Dan Frease

Looking at why things are. Of Fort Fallen Timber in which the Treaty of J.F. Howard, the people, cure of every release in the form of large amounts of electromagnetism. Quantum theory. Time spelling evening: the whole light would begin; the boys, day was quilting, shout­ ing the third detonation, this electromagnetic radiation, constricting realities, genetic masters giving fashion through similar methods, choosing the leggings to dark stalkings. Time was within a few meters of the point of detonation by the people involved to some degree of the age of a kin than any first notice; all may be roadposted; made from careful corn husking. Ex­ tremely high temperatures and brilliant form makes it less valid to some minds. A rail was con­ sidered; long engagements subject to admission to circus grounds, came to residual affairs, this so­called fireball. Immediately upon humankind, and that from a gentleman just there, being ten, no; 18,501,836 deaths that they, leading citizens, sat down rapidly to discuss but rose, just as quickly, like a hot­air balloon.

Within a millionth of a second, an information society—cases of cholera at House, which was fatal. The village heard of it; had its noble fine been caused? The fireball from a 1 megaton (Mt) air burst plays second fiddle. Some imprudence of health was noticed at Cincin­ nati. Elk, pelican, stork, and 120 exhibitions within ten seconds, at which time even the fireball knows what’s going on. Witness, it was reported, that there were only seven of the high points: the life a gala school picnic. Rapid expansion severely compressed; witness the fear of com­ puters, the fear of physicians; the feeling that it was almost as common when worrying another physician north of town, producing a powerful wave. As it expands toward its maximum di­ ameter, the wooden country with life well as usual, as usually; together cholera, but the editor brandy well. Editorials: mind and temperature have decreased to such an extent that, but for a few of them, an evening of games. Acceptable be half of that of which the doctors’ question­ able bathhouse thermal radiation exits all schematics. The combination of the upward of any, those who have received it. Stop.

56 Illuminati

This, friends, is the rise to the formation of the characteristic percent of the northern, and with all precious aforementioned farmlands; sessions are doctrice to stop them, the inhabi­ tants cool, the vaporized materials now cool, condensing to form 240 grain crops. Just like an industrial animal’s body, a buffalo’s body, teemed or burst in the air, condensed droplets of wa­ ter give the whole scene a typical red rod: accomplished it by the past, obtained in the upper Potawatomi trade route. So as the Valley knows a case burst through the surface, this new cloud will also contain the larger dancers often handed over in the popular English soldiers’ ex­ plorations after being sent sailing against the strong updrafts afterwards, which are vaporized in this dirty cloud. Don’t know what, this land, the favorite of migrating pigeons; one hunter broke it off, became one contaminated with radioisotopes, felt them generating, Algonquin stock; and at one, laughing down the barrel of an Indian gun. A neighborhood, a living bonfire, into which neutron radiation fell to earth as fallout. The eighteenth century, the Tawightis, washed away; never more than a little water. The relative effects of the blast, the heat; that which surrounds us soon, white and long passed. The headquarters of the Miami riches distrib­ uted prizes to the value of Celeron plates at the mouth of the Miami Company, whose size and value is increased, many at Hamilton art, but soon unable to gain very clearly: showering ses­ sion: a speech of our tributaries to the miles, was at one time Pickawillany, was on largely older streams, many small developments in times they are, or aren’t; let us turn and put in a Miami River, which was very important to those who made, those who wield this at Dayton. Locks served as sources for Butler County; cities in the district school before the packing center and took Goose Island for one underway in the alternate pronouncing. People before Middletown in 1791. Dug an establishment of small, artificial oak trees; there was, as necessary, revolutionary moving into the taking of Germantown.

Within two days, the walls of Jerusalem’s religious spectrum, including infrared, visi­ ble, and good fourthly essence: Father spoke for an explosion in Manhattan. Goldstein’s virtues lamenting the toll of newly dead Palestinians emitted at the time of a different holocaust; and it contains this knowledge by many thousands more suffering. Extended well beyond the reli­ gious camp in general; polls saying that 15 percent are as nuclear radiation already, including an additional 5 percent as in our very own souls, receiving the lauding in, greatly hampered by, Noonday. Middletonia 57

the young more or less approved of the whole thing. Jewish intifada turning on other Jews: chiefly of neutrons and gamma rays, nothing from any reflection. The United States has only a single, overriding tradition, no less a product of Goldstein than as the milieu detonation: it wills the soul and then speaks into the image. Patients exposed to radiation hazards, religious tradi­ tions, the hatred for fundamentalism nurtured for the hazards in fallout, their nature of the God­ head by nature; a considerable variation from this distribution of Will over the concealed dark­ ness of self­activity looming large in the worshippers of the Golden Calf of Delusory Peace. A power plant or a commercial jet, this or that, cannot penetrate the one void, known to all and no one. A radiological bomb: a cause for the extremists all over the world into one and them­ selves. Removing all use for a meltdown of the reactor against a government of criminals. Na­ zis and signs of nature that follow in spirit, the soul, let or like, when spent fuel waste is dis­ pensed through Oslo’s gates.

Streetcar horn, voices and screeches (half a half a minute).

Chirping of sparrows and swallows.

The Captain and the chaplain stood by the Church. Staple actions leading to the per­ formance of the Future. The stories of God’s wrath at Pharaoh for his manifesto proposes sev­ eral others similar as the following day was begun, though language extracts give practices that were more specific to radio. Hebrews from slavery in Egypt. Gone, were to be realized only much later: mutually important applause. Projects of detection, amplification, and transfigura­ tion (the rich and powerful are rich and powerful), of vibrations given out by chapel mistakes and materials. It is fruitful. Left this region today, and today we listen to the song of deserving, and the riches were showered upon the forest and the sea. Or the sea. Or the forest. Tomorrow we will be seduced away, in several places of the county, found in the vibrations of a diamond.

Robber barons became rich because they (no them) were but a flower peering from the pond.

Lying in the crooked tongue of the Miami River, an area much rougher, much more rough.

Much more. This rough notion of the amplification of the microscopic as to reward all philater­ ers and flatterists. Audio phenomena have been realized more recently in Oxford. At Middle­ town, great help to such artists as to convince those who rebelled against the use of both mod­ ern microphones and electronics. A firing of the Judd; a Declaration of the Then: to blow up (explode?) tiny sounds normally unheard by systems updated to find legal and quasi­legal in­ 58 Illuminati

fractions of the human ear. Piezo humor, and extensive. Bringing commerce through our brand new microphones to amplify the sounds of metal. The Community of Darkness. Men and Women of Blackness. Brush surgically activated by a blowtorch. Extend from the sea inwards, miniature, microphonal, implanted into trees to bring up leaders in the Community of the Void.

And now the formerly inaudible sounds of trees are growing in number. Sounds imbedded in the Miami Valley in microphones and microscope encasements. Those who listen can overhear the rape of a woman in the glooming nave.

Noonday. Middletonia 59

ARTWORK/PHOTGRAPHY

Artemis Adam Litz

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It’s Oh So Quiet Rebecca Goforth

It’s Oh So Quiet 61

Anthony Brownlee

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Aundrea Curtis

63

Aundrea Curtis

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Aundrea Curtis

65

Jan Toennisson

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CREATIVE NONFICTION

Q. What is Creative Nonfiction?

Creative Nonfiction is a kind of writing that uses literary nuances such as setting, metaphor, dialogue, storytelling devices, etc., to enhance, not alter, the truth being told.

—Dr. Helane Androne

INTO THE LOOKING GLASS Malcolm Sedam Writing Contest Winner: Creative Nonfiction Michelle Lawrence

Most people wouldn't compare themselves to a bathroom. It would seem dirty, or at the very least somewhat odd. But, I will be the brave first one to do so, and proudly.

My bathroom is small, and like all people, I spend more time in it than I'd prefer. This particular bathroom, the only one in my house, is a room that has seen me through many phases of my life, and as I look at it's blue sponge­painted walls, I realize that I am very much like it.

Fifteen years ago, when I was a teenager in high school, it wasn't decorated to my lik­ ing. It was my mothers then, wallpapered in tacky floral stripes, with old hardware and dusty ceiling lights that had grown rusty with age, shower steam and neglect. I longed to see it grow, to change, become a room that was pleasurable to be in, or at least not so dreary.

As a young, married twenty­something I returned and took the bathroom as my own.

It's smooth white bathtub, lined with white tiles and more mildew than I care to admit is pressed up against the right­hand wall. It was it in that I found respite from the pain of early labor con­ tractions after a long, heavy pregnancy; it's where I bathed my newborn daughter; it's where I came to cry when I found my marriage disintegrating, where I locked myself to rage at a di­ vorce that I didn't want to burden my two­year old with. The flowered wallpaper, decades old, had started to peel. Its old toilet, placed tightly between the tub and sink, started to crack and flush itself. I liked to joke that the bathroom was haunted by "Moaning Myrtle," a toilet­ trapped spirit in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. The white wooden baseboard had decided to rot and crumble, much like my soul as I grieved for a marriage that shouldn't have been. I knew I had to change, make it and myself better.

Using more elbow grease than a man twice my size would, I attempted to peel off the decades­old wallpaper. Some of it came away, but most hung on for dear life, no matter how many chemicals I applied. Chemicals didn't help my growth either; they left me feeling as pocked and scarred as the walls after I attempted to scrape them clean. In a fit of determination I decided I would just cover everything over in thick, mildew­resistant paint. It covered well,

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but I could still see the flaws from when I had forcibly attempted to remove the paper. Jagged whirls from a wallpaper removing wheel circled drunkenly, refusing to smooth themselves, pre­ ferring instead to mock me under the paint. Like the walls, I had my own flaws, ones that couldn't be totally covered with paint, or in my case, false bravado and smiles, no matter how hard I tried.

I was frustrated. I had limited funds, time and energy to improve the room, and hated what I saw every morning when I woke up and looked in its slightly unhinged, less­than­ spotless mirrors. A leak had developed in both the newly­cracked, white sink and in the tub; both dripped relentlessly. The cat took to drinking the cold dripping water; paw prints seemed to appear on the tile as fast as I could wipe them clean. Funny that a bathroom that had once boasted an in­house plumber would basically fall apart under my nose.

Tonight as I gaze upon these walls I realize just how much this very small room has seen. Teenaged boyfriends and one ex­husband came and went. An answer to my prayers for love came and then retreated. (My bathroom watched as he visited...was it me or the drippy sink that scared him off?) This bathroom has watched my daughter grow from a newborn in a baby tub to a six year old who can run her own shower. It has heard me sing, seen me cry, and endured my relentless, ruthless quest to be better. No doubt it didn't appreciate the marinated­ in­tobacco plumbers who came to fix those leaks and install that new toilet and who left black­ ened handprints on it's newly clean, white wall tiles.

If I don't look too closely, I can't see the scars on the walls anymore. All I see is a peach­colored lipstick kiss placed on the wall just below the towel rack; it's a love­kiss from my daughter, just for me. I also spot a blue stamped image of Winnie the Pooh that she must have done when I wasn't looking the other day. A plaque hangs above the new sink. On it is painted, "My daughter is a precious gift." It serves to remind me of that fact on the tough days.

Framed photos from family vacations to the beach line the walls above the tub; they make the room so much more alive; they show that life goes on and can be better than anyone could even imagine. I see improvements as I look at the mirror, and into the mirror. It's so close to being perfect now, all except for the peeling paint on the ceiling. I'll get to that, sooner or later. First I need to dust those ceiling lights.

Into the Looking Glass 69

SEASONS OF CHANGE Kyle Epperson A dreamless oblivion…

A flutter of thought, a twitch of the leg, and eyes slowly opening. It is dark. Where am I? What’s going on? Feels like I’m in a body cast; I just can’t move. It must be a dream… but I don’t remember falling asleep. In fact, I don’t remember much at all, but I have a faint recall­ ing of my dog Chase. I try to move my head to look around but find the attempt to be futile. I must be dreaming. I conclude closing my eyes, wanting to be lost in the dreamless oblivion again. *

*

*

Arriving at Miami University Middletown (MUM) at 2:20, I park and walk into the side entrance of Johnston Hall. While humming Dave Matthews’ Ants Marching, my head begins to swell as I pass by a couple of cute college girls walking by, how could they know I was only seventeen and a junior in high school? Squaring my shoulders and walking a little taller, I watch their eyes as they pass, wishing/hoping that they would look my way. I pause as they pass, taking time to savor the expensive perfume that is wafting in their wake. Regaining my composure, I head towards the Records and Registration desk. “Hello, I’m a Post Secondary student, here to sign up for second semester,” I say with an air of confidence, nodding to a cou­ ple of jocks as they pass by. ”Do you have the PSEOP voucher?” she asks dully, as if she had got there far too early and been there far too long.

Kicking my self I say, “I forgot it at home.”

“Well, we’re gonna need that to finish the registration process,” she replies, not too snidely.

“Okay then,” I start slightly miffed, “I guess I will go call my mom to see if someone could bring it to me. I mean it would be a bit of a hassle if I had to run home and get it myself.”

I walk dejectedly to the pay phones, place my quarter in the slot, and dial home. The monotone ring of the phone plays in my ear four times. After the fourth ring it sounds like the phone is

70 Illuminati

picked up. My heart jumps at my good fortune.

“Hello, you have reached 988­6,” I sigh as I listen to the greeting my Mom had left on the answering machine, “570. We’re not able to come to the phone right now, but if you would please leave a message, after the beep, we’ll be sure to get back to you.” Beep…

“Hey mom, it’s Kyle. I guess you’re not at home right now…” I start, hoping she is screening phone calls, but forgetting that she went shopping with my older brother and his girl­ friend, “I was just wondering if maybe one of you could run my PSEOP voucher to me. I for­ got it on my dresser this morning.” Pause… “Whelp, I guess I’ll try you on your cell. Love ya, bye.” I hang up and dig another quarter out of my pocket. Someone picks up on the second ring.

“Hello,” It’s my brother’s girlfriend Katie.

“Hi Katie, is my Mom there?” I ask kind of shortly.

“Yes, but she’s busy at the moment. What do you want?” she asks, trying to sound helpful.

“I was wondering if someone could bring me a paper I had forgot on my dresser?" I need it to register for classes at MUM.” I inquire, hopefully.

“Well, we’re at Lazarus in Dayton Mall, Christmas shopping, we can’t do much here.

Sorry.” she answers.

My heart falling a smidge, I say, “That’s okay I can just run home and grab it real quick.

You guys have fun and be safe.” *

*

*

“Kyle, Kyle are you in there?” says an odd but all too familiar voice, as if I know it but haven’t heard it in a long time.

My eyes open and look toward the voice. My memory is kind of fuzzy, but I think it is my mom. “Hi Peepers,” she says, in a soothing whisper, using my childhood nickname, “I love you.” I take my eyes off her to glance around the room. With the limited mobility of my neck my eyes encompass a small portion of a hospital room. Only then do I notice the sound of the machines: whirring, buzzing, beeping in their attempts to keep me physically stable; and the smell. The smell of alcohol and adhesive plays with my senses; an odd aroma that I was some­ how used to.

Seasons of Change 71

“Kyle,” Mom says getting my attention, “you were in a very serious accident...” I stare blankly at her; this news not fully registering. “… you suffered some very serious injuries,” she continues not fully aware that I can comprehend every word she is saying. I am just realizing that my arms are bent double at the elbow; I can‘t move them, partly because of the bandages, partly because they just will not move. My left leg is drawn up almost knee to chest, but my right leg is still quite functional. My neck, on the other hand is incredibly stiff, I can hardly move it at all.

I look toward the door, as much as I can with, my neck not being very cooperative, as more people walk in. I don’t quite know them, yet they are still so familiar. For some reason they are all acting surprised toward me, as if I were a new born baby or some other magnificent creation.

“Kyle look at me,” Mom says regaining my attention, “you are at Drake Rehabilitation Center in Cincinnati Ohio. You were in a very serious car accident…”

“What!!” I try to mouth, finding out that I could not fully open my mouth, no matter how hard I tried. What’s wrong with my voice? I think to myself remembering how I used to sing.

“It’s a little past Valentine’s day,” Mom says, “your car accident happened on Decem­ ber 15, 2000.” Its then that I notice the decorations, cut outs of hearts, cards of all kinds and sizes, and flowers… boy, there are tons of flowers. All types of flowers, which I recognize but do not recall the names of. “ *

*

*

The bus rounded the corner. The smell of school and all that that entails, new note­ books, pencil shavings, and the remnant of a not too healthy lunch, permeated the air. It was a bittersweet memory as I saw my new home come into view.

It was late November 1996 and we had just moved in less than a week ago. The mem­ ory of my grandmother, who died a day after we moved in, still lingered in memory. Man, I miss her. My day is brightened as I see Chase. A German­Shepard/Chow mix, he is the most gorgeous dog I have ever seen, let alone own. Laying on top of his dog house, and wagging his tail in anticipation of the bus disgorging his owners, he brings a fond memory of the Peanuts character Snoopy to mind.

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Climbing off the bus my brother, who is two years older, and I race toward our dog.

Dustin wins by a head, but that does nothing to affect my jovial mood. Chase hops off the dog house and bounds toward us, as much as his chain will let him. “What a crime it is, that we have to keep him chained up,” I tell Dustin.

“I know. I wish we could let him run around the yard, like we did at the old house,” he replied," I feel sorry for him.” Chase hops up to me putting his front paws on my arms, I give him a big hug.

“I love you, buddy,” I say scratching his head generously, while Dustin fills his water bowl. *

*

*

I am restless. I can hardly move, I can’t get up and go play soccer, I can’t talk, I can’t play the guitar, and I can barely communicate. I do that only by a system of eye blinks my Mom and I worked out. Once for yes, twice for no and four times as a reply to my Mom’s “I love you”. I am beyond bored, along with being restless. Communicating with yes or no ques­ tions is tedious.

“Do you have to go to the bathroom?” my Mom asks, in an annoying sing­song voice.

Two blinks. “Are you hungry?” Two blinks I reply, in a more agitated state. ”Would you like a drink of water?” One blink. *

*

*

I walk out of my high school, toward my car. I am filled with an air of confidence as I move on to more mature surroundings. It is a crisp, clear December afternoon with the smell of winter in the air, fresh snow from the night before covered the landscape. I wasn’t that worried, for the roads had been cleared fairly well, and I had already traveled on them that morning. I chuckle as it is 1:55 and I have gotten out of school a little early.

I am feeling good to be out of the drama of high school for the weekend and heading back to MUM. Today is Friday, December 15, and is the day for PSEOP students to sign up for classes for the second semester at MUM. *

*

*

Its now late march. Spring is in the air, I can feel it, as well as smell it. It is making me

Seasons of Change 73

all the more depressed. How I wish I could just to get up, shake it off, and go play soccer with my buddies. But no, I’m stuck in a hospital bed with nothing to do besides entertain myself with my right foot. I remember Chase again, and how it was such a crime to keep him locked up at our new house.

“Kyle,” my Dad says, while I am looking away from him, “say Mom.” I roll over to­ ward my Dad, and attempt to say Mom. Expecting the same routine I had performed for days on end, in which I would roll over, mouth the words, and no sound would come out.

“Mom,” came the audible reply, clear as a bell.

“Julie, Julie, he said it!” my Dad shouts excitedly.

“What!” she cries running from the hospital room bathroom. She comes from behind the curtain that surrounds the hospital bed, jubilant. “Say it again, hunny.”

“Mom,” I say matter­of­factly with a big smile on my face, as if I could do it all along.

“Can you say Dad?” she asks overtly excited and a bit winded anticipation apparent on her face.

“Daa... Daaa… Daaad,” I struggle with the hard consonants.

“Good job, hunny,” my Mom says, a smile spreading across my Dad’s face. My Mom hurries out of the room; excited to show the medical professionals, who said I was going to be a vegetable. She comes back in with a male nurse.

“Hi Dale,” I say, causing shock to spread across his face. What the nurses had mistaken for immaturity as a side effect of brain injury was me actually pulling their nametags closer to me with the toes of my right foot, in order to read the names of my caretakers.

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RELIGION: HOW I LOST IT (BUT FOUND SOMETHING BETTER) Steve Joyce One night I prayed to know the truth. The next morning I discovered I was an atheist.

That is what I lightheartedly tell folks when they ask about my religious beliefs. Of course it was neither as simple nor as sudden as that. My release from religion was a gradual and mostly unintentional process spanning a period of several years. But it shouldn't take quite that long to read this, so if you'll bear with me I'll tell you of my journey.

First, however, I should clarify my motives. Most religious people seem to assume that believers who become atheists do so in an act of rage or revolt against religion, or perhaps in rejection of conventional morality. I cannot speak for all atheists, but in my own instance that was not the case. As a youth I was unusually conservative and respectful of authority. Any questioning I did was with the expectation of having my faith reaffirmed and enhanced by the answers. While it is true that it was anger and revulsion which initially motivated me to exam­ ine my beliefs more critically, I nevertheless clung to my religion for years, attempting to ra­ tionalize and justify it, before finally finding myself forced to abandon it as hopelessly incom­ patible with reality. It was not until I had been rid of religion for a time that I realized I was much better off without it.

I should also note that some details might be inaccurate or out of sequence due to the imperfections of memory, but those shortcomings should not interfere with the substance and general veracity of the story.

I was born in Cincinnati during World War II, and was reared in a "respectable" main­ stream Protestant Christian household. I had the standard indoctrination of Sunday School and Bible stories as part of my early upbringing, and I accepted it unquestioningly, if somewhat un­ comprehendingly.

Religion: How I Lost It 75

At the age of four (following my family's move to another city) I had a terrifying experi­ ence in a nasty little concrete­block fire­and­brimstone church — lots of jumping and shouting and screaming, activity I was not at all accustomed to in grown­ups — thoroughly alarming and upsetting to a sensitive little tyke who had been raised on "Jesus Loves Me." I was sobbing un­ controllably when Mom finally "rescued" me and took me home. Fortunately she decided that we should look for a different church. Although this episode in no way affected my young be­ lief in God and Jesus, it was my first decidedly negative experience with religion.

In the main, my religious upbringing was pretty laid back. Once Mom had found us a suitably "civilized" church, we settled into a routine of Sunday School for an hour each week. But other than that our life was quite secular, except for one or two exciting and uplifting (to me) school Christmas performances of excerpts from Handel's "Messiah." Belief in God was expected as normal and proper, but we didn't make a great fuss over it as some are inclined to do. I was never baptized. We didn't attend Christmas or Easter church services, but treated these holidays mainly as family reunion, feasting, gift­giving, and fun­for­kiddies occasions (which was just fine with me).

I don't remember learning much in Sunday School, except that there were people, such as Jews and atheists, who did not share a "proper" Christian belief, and hence were immoral and evil. And probably traitorous, too, for those were the "McCarthy ­ HUAC" days. It therefore came as quite a surprise to me later when, while I was in my mid teens, Mom finally revealed to me the reason that Dad never went to church with the rest of the family: He didn't believe in God! Though my own religious faith was unshaken by this revelation, it was nevertheless a real eye­opener. It awakened me to the fact that people who did not believe in God and Jesus are not necessarily evil, for Dad was one of the most conscientiously (though quietly) principled and ethical people I have ever known.

It was in elementary school that I learned about dinosaurs, prehistory, and the concept of

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humans as an animal species. In junior high school I learned that the earth was billions of years older than the human species. And in high school I was introduced to biological evolution. I was even cast in a minor role in a school production of "Inherit the Wind," which introduced me to the term "agnostic" in the form of the real­life character Clarence Darrow, and brought me face to face with some of the glaring dichotomies between science and fundamentalist be­ lief. It didn't shake my mainstream faith, but it convinced me that some religious beliefs were antiquated and stupid in light of modern knowledge.

After high school, I was still religious in my mainstream Christian way. I had shed the biblical creation timetable in much the same fashion as I had shed Santa Claus and the Easter bunny years earlier. But I still held to the belief that God was the creator of the universe and life. Then came college. There I learned of recent scientific experiments, which had shown that complex organic molecules spontaneously form under conditions believed to have existed shortly after the formation of our planet. Suddenly, there was no need in my universe for a su­ pernatural creator; evidently, nature could handle such tasks entirely on its own. Still, there were other reasons for belief in God, and I reshaped my thinking to allow that a Higher Power had used natural processes—including evolution—as tools over billions of years, rather than a series of miraculous "let there be" commands spanning a mere week. Though some of the bibli­ cal stories were goofy, I saw, God and his works were far grander than I had ever supposed.

Then one Wednesday evening, my best friend invited me to attend church with him and his parents. Having nothing better to do (I thought), I agreed to go. Flashback to age four: "Fire and brimstone!" "Evil is everywhere!" "We're gonna fry if we don't get saved!" This time, however, the experience didn't traumatize me, for I had caught snatches of this horrid crap spewing from radios for years, and was by this time fairly inured to it. But it did set me thinking.

My friend's belief in "fire and brimstone" Christianity and my own belief in "love and peace" Christianity were equally intense, yet fundamentally incompatible. They could not both

Religion: How I Lost It 77

be the word of the same God; they could not both be right. And if one was wrong, I mused, perhaps both were. To resolve the difficulty, I tried to imagine what might happen if I were a visitor from Mars to Earth, having no religious experience. I wondered what unmistakable sign would guide me, as a stranger to earthly religion, to the One True Faith (whatever it might be) and away from all others? The more I studied the matter, the more it seemed that there was no such sign. Despite the Christian bias of my own youth, I had to admit that there was nothing compelling about Christianity which did not have some equivalent in Judaism, Islam, Hindu­ ism, or for that matter in the old Norse, Egyptian, or Greco­Roman religions.

During the next year or two I drifted into a kind of Christian deism (for want of a better term), in which I viewed scriptural assertions with increasing skepticism, and Jesus as a great teacher but otherwise a quite ordinary and mortal human being. Yet even if it wasn't the deity of a recognized religion, God was still necessary, I felt, as the ultimate arbiter of good and evil, the author of morality.

In the spring of 1965, I enlisted in the intelligence branch of the Army. Following train­ ing I was sent to Europe, where I found myself, along with a number of other non­fundy Chris­ tians, in the unaccustomed day­to­day company of Jews, agnostics, and even a Buddhist or two—on the whole a pretty decent and fun bunch of people, I discovered. Even the amiable, cigar­chomping post chaplain was an okay guy. Considerate fellow that he was, he made it a point not to preach to our religiously diverse group at the compulsory monthly training ses­ sions, but rather dismissed us for that hour. But a few months after I had arrived, his tour of duty was over, and the chaplain who replaced him was something else.

The new chaplain, a fundamentalist Episcopalian (a most curious bird) from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, who came to us by way of some unspeakable hole in Vietnam, was perhaps the strongest single influence on my adult religious life. It was from his hard­nosed preaching, especially to the many non­Christians in our unit who were (according to him) eternally and horribly damned, that I got a good look at the side of religion which I had only briefly glimpsed before. Our good chaplain unrelentingly slashed through the love­and­peace trappings of Chris­ 78 Illuminati

MULTI-GENRE

Multi­genre creates a larger piece through the use of many genres: poetry, prose, creative­nonfiction, artwork and more.

Combining in this way shows the reader many more points of view.

The multi­genre piece chosen for this issue contains many elements: poetry, an essay, short fiction, and more.

—Illuminati Staff

UNTITLED Jay Colliver

They had to be stopped. They had dominated the way that students were required to write for decades. They had sucked the life out of writing for students of all ages. Everyone cringed at the mention of their names: Research Paper, Book Report, Thesis, summary. These and other villains had brought pain and misery to all who had a writing assignment to complete.

Clutching pens or tapping keyboards, the people looked up from their desks and cried for a hero. Their calls were answered in the form of a new style of writing: Multigenre.

The villains had a simple mission. They were to make writing as unenjoyable as possi­ ble for everyone involved. For the students who had to write the papers. For the teachers who had to read and grade the papers. Turn students off of writing and make them think that it is drudgery. Lead them to believe that the only reason to write something is to satisfy a require­ ment or to receive a grade. Multigenre came along and put a dent in their evil plan. With his cape flapping in the breeze, he flew among the academic world to spread the word about his new style of writing. Writers of all ages would gather round to hear him speak. They would tell him that writing is dull and tedious. Others would point out that writing is only done in a rigor­ ous format mandated by the teacher. Teachers would retort by saying that the only writing that they get is laden with information but has no passion or feeling. Soon, the whole room would be filled with the sounds of shouting and arguing. Holding up a gloved hand, Multigenre would motion for the crowd to get quiet. He would often unroll a long scroll and pretend to read it over. The crowd would be told after a short pause that nowhere in the rules does it say that writ­ ing has to be any of those things. Writing, he would say, is what you want to make it.

Sensing that the people did not understand, Multigenre would show examples of what he was about. They would be passed among to crowd for examination. The people would see such things as: poems, obituaries, posters, pictures, interviews, recipes, word searches and other components of a Multigenre paper. Before long, many were absorbed in what they were reading and did not realize that they were learning something along the way. Understanding began to set 80 Illuminati

REMEMBER US Jay Colliver

We were young and idealistic, Yet our spirit made us eternal, Made us brave, melded us as one With our countries hopes pinned to our shoulders We soared onto the International stage, The embodiment of the Olympic spirit, Nothing could touch our souls Yet evil had other plans, Plans to steal our joy, to take our place on the stage To shatter our families and end our time together In an instant we were gone, our aspirations dashed Searing the heart of our country, which was bleeding with each beat Yet our spirit lives on in those who compete Our memory is kept alive with their accomplishments We ask that you remember us not only for what we were, But for what we represented, the determination to prevail To honor us is to continue on, to never let evil triumph

Remember Us 81

BEGINNING Jay Colliver The crowd that was moving about the city of Rome consisted of workers, policemen, couples, tourists and terrorists. Most of the people in the crowd were recognizable for whom they were; the terrorists were not. It was a beautiful summer day, the kind of day that a postcard would envy. As bright as the sun was shining, it could not penetrate the darkness that was in the hearts of two men who were making their way through the crowd. The men, Abu Daoud and Abu Iyad, were members of the Palestinian terrorist group known as Black September. They were on their way to the Piazza della Rotunda to meet a third member of the group, Abu Mo­ hammed. Both men squinted against the bright orange ball that hung in the sky as they searched for the name of the prearranged meeting place. As they scanned the signs of the various restau­ rants, their eyes fell on the name that they were looking for: Café Roma. Each gave a quick glance around the café before entering. Members of Black September were trained to be on the lookout for agents of Mossad, secret police of the hated enemy Israel. Seeing nothing suspi­ cious, they entered the establishment.

They spotted Abu Mohammed seated a table alone, sipping coffee from a white porce­ lain cup and leafing through an Arabic newspaper. Wasting no time, they quickly joined him at the table. A tall waiter with a practiced smile appeared momentarily with menus. Coffee was ordered and the waiter melted into the crowd. Since all three men had the same first name, they referred to each other by their last names.

“Greetings in the name of Allah”, said Mohammed.

“Greetings,” they responded.

The men kept their voices low. Their routine was to talk in their native language since most people did not speak Palestinian. This was to minimize the chance that bystanders would inadvertently overhear their conversation. Also, since enemy agents could have them under sur­ veillance, they tried not to talk in specific details about missions. All three men were veterans of campaigns against Israel and their names appeared on a terrorist watch list composed by the Mossad. Traveling in public was not done often. The Palestinian charter called for the total de­ struction of Israel and refused to recognize the Israeli government. These men were dedicated to carrying out the conditions of the charter. There has been resentment on the part of the Pales­ 82 Illuminati

tinians since 1948, when Israel was given a country of its own by the United Nations. The feel­ ing is that the Palestinian’s land was ripped from their grasp and handed to the infidels. In just a few weeks, their feelings would be made known to the world.

“It says here that our youth federation still has not received word from the Olympic Committee concerning their request to send a team to the games,” said Mohammed.

Daoud responded, “First they take our land, then they take our spot in the Olympics.

What will be taken next?”

“If the infidel Israelis are allowed to send a team, why not the Palestinians?” added Iyad.

The waiter returned with their coffee. Setting their cups down with a clatter, he asked if they were ready to order. The trio placed their order and the waiter hurried off. Mohammed took note of the room. The sounds of conversations in various languages mixed with the clink­ ing of silverware. There was an appetizing aroma of Italian cuisine in the air. No one noticed their conversation. If there were Mossad agents in the room, he could not detect them. Moham­ med felt safe to make the proposal that he had been contemplating before his companions had entered the café.

“If they refuse to let us participate, why don’t we penetrate the games in our own way?”

Both men nodded their heads in agreement. Mohammed continued.

“We must pick a team that is not too large but is large enough to carry out the mission.

Most of the team should be shabob (young men) who are eager to serve the cause and are physi­ cally fit. They must be good at military tactics and can handle weapons. Above all, they must be trustworthy and willing to die for the cause.”

“There are several camps in Libya that contain refugees from Lebanon. Surely we can find six to eight shabob that will volunteer for the mission,” added Iyad.

“Yes, I am sure that we can find enough,” said Daoud, “But we must find a place where they can train in secret.”

Mohammed said, “We can train them in Libya. Our brother Khaddafi has pledged his support in any action against the Zion occupiers. I will send word to him personally about this matter. We also will need funding for weapons, training, supplies and travel. I will speak to Arafat about securing the needed funds. One of you should go to the Olympic venue ahead of time for scouting purposes. We will need a layout of the compound, avenues of entry, strength Beginning 77

ANATOMY OF AN INFILTRATION Jay Colliver 1. At 4:00 A.M. on September 5, 1972, eight members of the Palestinian group Black September arrive at the Olympic Village in Munich, Germany.

2. The terrorists, dressed in track suits, arrive at Gate 25A, which was locked but unguarded.

3. American athletes, who were sneaking back into the village after curfew, mistake the terrorists for Olympic athletes and help them over the fence.

4. The terrorists arrive at the corner of the Israeli building and change from their track suits to the clothes that they would wear in the attack.

5. The group enters the main entrance to Apartment1.

6. Entering the foyer, the terrorists open the door to the stairs that lead to the Israeli quarters. Issa, leader of the group, gives each one their assignments

7. Jamal Al­Gashay is left behind to guard the entrance. The remaining terrorists go through the unlocked door and up the stairs to their main objective.

8. Everyone assembles outside the door of Apartment 1. Inside are: Amitzur Shapira, track coach, Kehatt Shorr, marksman coach, Andre Spitzer, fencing coach, Tuvia Sokolovsky, weightlifting trainer, Jacov Springer, weight­ lifting judge, Moshe Weinberg, wrestling coach, and Yossef Gutfreund, wrestling referee.

9. The terrorists attempt to open the door to Apartment 1 with a key that had been obtained earlier. Yossef Gut­ freund hears the noise and goes to the door. Opening the door slightly, he sees the terrorists and yells out a warning to the others in the room while holding the door closed.

10. There is a struggle as Gutfreund attempts to hold the door closed while the terrorists push their way in. Gut­ freund holds the door for ten seconds.

11. Tuvia Sokolovsky hears the commotion and attempts to escape by breaking open a window. He is unsuccess­ ful at first but is finally able to pry the window open.

12. The terrorists use their weapons like crowbars and dislodge Gutfreund from the door.

13. Seeing Sokolovsky escape, one of the terrorists runs to the open window and begins firing at the fleeing Israeli athlete. He is able to dodge the bullets and escape.

14. Gutfreund is pulled off the floor and is rounded up along with Shapira and Shorr.

15. Issa bursts into the adjoining bedroom and comes into contact with Moshe Weinberg.

16. Weinberg grabs a knife from the bedside table and slashes at Issa. Issa sidesteps the knife and a second terror­ ist standing behind Issa fires at round that tears through the side of Weinberg’s mouth.

17. Weinberg is ushered upstairs with the other three Israeli hostages, who are in the bedroom that contain Andre Spitzer and Jacov Springer. The athletes are tied at the hands and wrists.

84 Illuminati

18. Issa and two other terrorists guard the prisoners while the rest take Weinberg outside to Connollystrasse Street, ordering him to direct them the quarters of the rest of the athletes.

19. Weinberg passes up Apartment 2, which housed lightly built fencers and walkers.

20. Weinberg takes the terrorists to Apartment 3. Inside are: David Berger, weightlifter, Zeev Friedman, weight­ lifter, Eliezer Halfin, wrestler, Yossef Romano, weightlifter, Gad Tsabari, wrestler, and Mark Slavin, wrestler.

21. Tsabari was awakened by the shots and opens the door to Apartment 3. He is immediately taken hostage.

22. David Berger follows Tsabari out the door and is also taken hostage.

23. The two new captives are forced at gunpoint down the stairs to join the rest of the hostages.

24. Terrorists begin searching the apartment for any Israelis who may be hiding.

25. Tony bounds down the stairs and asks the hostages where the others are. There is no reply.

26. Berger, speaking in Hebrew, urges the captured Israelis to escape. The terrorists sense what they are talking about and point their weapons at the Israelis. The hostages are ordered to walk down Connollystrasse Street to­ wards Apartment 1.

27. Tsabari bolts from the group and dashes for freedom. He runs down the stairs that lead to an underground parking lot.

28. A terrorist chases after Tsabari and begins firing at him. Tsabari is able to pinball between the concrete pillars and make it to safety.

29. During the shooting Weinberg tackles terrorists Mohammed Safady and punches him in the face. The blow knocks out several teeth and fractures Safady’s jaw.

30. The terrorist that had been firing at the escaping Tsabari turns and fires a burst into Weinberg’s chest, killing him instantly.

31. The remaining hostages are forced at gunpoint to the upstairs room of Apartment 1.

32. Romano, who had suffered a leg injury, throws down his crutches and lunges at a terrorist. He is able to wres­ tle free a machine gun but is gunned down seconds later.

33. Berger, Friedman, Halfin and Slavin are taken into the upstairs bedroom to join the rest of the hostages.

34. Athletes from the other buildings begin awaking to the sounds of the shots. They begin to exit the compound.

35. The Olympic Security Office begins receiving calls reporting shots in the Olympic Village. An unarmed secu­ rity officer is dispatched to the scene.

36. The security officer arrives at the compound and finds a masked gunman standing in the doorway of the Israeli building. The officer gives a challenge but gets no response.

37. The control room receives a call from the security officer about the masked gunman. Two additional unarmed officers arrive minutes later.

The Munich police are called and officers begin arriving in the compound. The terrorists give the police a list of Anatomy of an Infiltration 85

ANATOMY OF A SHOOTOUT Jay Colliver

1. Both helicopters land at Furstenfeldbruck airport, which included four flight crew, eight terrorists and nine hostages.

2. The first helicopter lands, with hostages Gutfreund, Shorr, Slavin, Spitzer, and Shapira, along with terrorists Issa, Jamal Al­Gashay, Adnan Al­Gashay and one other. The four terrorists climb out of the helicopter, their weap­ ons raised.

3. The second helicopter lands, holding hostages Friedman, Halfin, Berger, and Springer, along with terrorists Tony and three others. Tony and one other terrorist step out of the helicopter.

4. Issa and Tony walk 160 yards to the Boeing 727 that was supposed to take the entire group to Cairo, Egypt.

5. The four flight crew members of the two helicopters begin to walk away. The terrorists, who had earlier prom­ ised that no harm would come to the flight crew, raise their weapons and order them to stop.

6. Issa and Tony climb the stairs to the jet and look inside. They find no flight crew on board. The Germans had had a plan to replace the regular flight crew with police officers in disguise. The officers on board had decided that they did not have enough training or room to carry out a rescue attempt. They voted unanimously to abort the mis­ sion and their leader, Reinhold Reich, releases them. He informs Deputy Commander of the Munich Police Depart­ ment George Wolf of the officer’s decision minutes before the helicopters are to land at the airfield.

7. Issa and Tony suspect a trap and begin jogging back to the helicopters, shouting as they jog.

8. Wolf gives the order to fire. Two of the terrorists guarding the helicopter­Ahmed Chic Thaa and Afif Ahmed Hamid­ are hit. One dies outright.

9. The four members of the helicopter flight crew scramble for safety.

10. Issa and Tony begin running back towards the helicopters. One shot hits close to Issa. Tony is hit in the leg and falls to the tarmac.

11. The remaining terrorists duck beneath the two helicopters and begin firing on the airfield, shooting at the main building, the lights, the 727 and the fleeing chopper crews.

12. Bullets hit the main building and penetrate the room where officials Wegner, Genscher, Zamir and Cohen are overseeing the rescue. Some dive for cover.

13. Anton Fligerbauer, a German policeman stationed at the base of the control tower, begins firing on Issa and Tony with his submachine gun. A bullet from one of the terrorists tears through the window, hitting Fligerbauer in the head. He dies instantly.

14. Helicopter pilot Ganner Ebel races to the wall where sniper #2 is hiding. He is not fired on because he is wear­

86 Illuminati

ing a white flight helmet.

15. Terrorist Jamal Al­Gashay is hit in the hand by a German sniper and his weapon falls to the ground.

16. An unidentified terrorist is shot in the chest.

17. Israeli officials Victor Cohen and Ziv Zamir go the roof of the control tower. They shout in Arabic at the ter­ rorists to stop firing. The terrorists respond by firing at them.

18. Two of the German flight crew desperately try to find safety while a third crewmember plays dead. The fourth crew member is behind the wall with sniper #2.

19. German sharpshooters and the terrorists take occasional shots at each other for about an hour.

20. Approximately one hour after the shooting had started a heavily armed German special assault group lands by helicopter on the western side of the airfield, about a mile from the battle zone. By the time they arrive on the scene there is little that they can do and are told to protect the senior officials in the buildings.

21. Twenty minutes after that four armored cars arrive at the airfield and move into position.

22. One of the terrorists begins firing on one of the helicopters, killing Springer, Halfin and Friedman. Berger is shot in the leg. The terrorist then leaps out of the chopper and tosses a grenade inside the helicopter. The fuel tank is ignited and the helicopter becomes an inferno.

23. Issa emerges form under the other helicopter and begins firing on the airfield buildings. Snipers return fire and kill Issa and another terrorist.

24. An enormous explosion erupts from the first helicopter. The hostages inside are fossilized by the heat.

25. Adnan Al­Gashay climbs out from beneath the second helicopter and climbs inside. He empties the clip of his machine gun on Gutfreund, Shorr, Slavin, Spitzer and Shapira.

26. Khalid Jawad, who had been hiding under the second helicopter, sprints away from the battle. He heads to­ ward a low wall from where sniper 2 is hiding. Sniper 2 fires his weapon several times into the terrorist from a distance of five yards. Jawad dies minutes later.

27. One of the armored cars begins moving toward the helicopters. A crewman sees sniper 2 fire at Khalid Jawad and mistakes him for a terrorist. The armored car begins firing on sniper 2’s position. Helicopter pilot Ganner Ebel, who had been hiding behind the wall with sniper 2, is shot in the lung. Sniper 2 is slightly wounded.

28. A fire crew that had been stationed on the scene rushes out to save the hostages in the burning helicopter. They begin spraying the inferno with foam, but four terrorists hiding under the remaining chopper begin firing on the fire crew and drive them back.

29. As the terrorists begin firing on the firemen, German snipers fire on the terrorists. One terrorist is killed in the exchange.

30. The firing finally stops. Police rush to the scene, looking for survivors. They discover that three of the terror­ ists are missing. Two terrorists are found hiding in the foam covering the charred helicopter. A third terrorist flees

Anatomy of an Shootout 87

TERROR AT THE OLYMPICS Jay Colliver (Munich, Associated Press)­ Competition, pride, drama, athletic achievement and unity have all been a part of the Olympics. Now tragedy and death can be added to the list. In an unprece­ dented event, terrorists stormed the Olympic village early this morning and invaded the sanctu­ ary provided the athletes. Two members of the Israeli delegation were murdered and nine others have been taken hostage. The terrorists have identified themselves as members of a Palestinian terrorist group known as Black September. They are seeking the release of 234 Palestinian pris­ oners that are being held in Israeli prisons. If their demands are not met they are threatening to begin executing the hostages at the rate of one per hour until their fellow countrymen are re­ leased. German officials are in contact with the terrorists and are trying to negotiate a peaceful ending to an already tragic occurrence.

Officials are trying to piece together what has transpired to this point. At approximately 4:47 A.M. the Olympic Security Office received a phone call reporting the sound of gunfire in the Olympic Village. A security officer was sent to investigate and found a masked gunman standing in the doorway of the building that houses the Israeli athletes. Police officers were called to the scene to find a dead body in the street next to the compound. The body has been identified as that of wrestling coach Moshe Weinberg, age 33. A few minutes later a commu­ niqué was dropped from the balcony where the hostages are being held that outlined the terror­ ist’s demands. The village has been cordoned off and police have been evacuating athletes from surrounding buildings.

Two of the Israeli athletes managed to escape during the opening minutes of the attack.

They have been identified as weightlifting coach Tuvia Sokolovsky and wrestler Gad Tsabari.

Both men identified the second athlete that was killed as wrestler Yossef Romano, age 32. The location of the second body is unknown. Police are questioning the two athletes to find out as much detail as possible about the terrorists. Each has been moved to a safe location. Several police have been brought onto the scene as reinforcements.

88 Illuminati

Officials are not commenting on Israel’s response to the terrorist’s demands. It is unknown how many terrorists are in the building.

Many are questioning how the terrorists were able to penetrate the village. The Germans have been trying to conduct a friendly Olympics to erase the horrible images that come to mind when their country is mentioned. There has much less security than in past Olympics and most of the guards are not armed. The very thing that the Germans were trying to prevent came to pass: violence and bloodshed during the Olympic Games.

The state of the rest of the Olympic Games is now in question. Olympic officials are meeting to decide if the rest of the scheduled events will take place. Some athletes are already saying that they want to leave the games and fear for their safety. Olympic officials have never had to deal with this type of problem. German officials now have to save the lives of athletes from another country who have come to their land to compete. The delicate relationship of the countries involved hangs in the balance. Relatives of the athletes being held hostage are being contacted.

Terror at The Olympics 89

Selected Contributors on Inspiration I saw the Big Boy figure used as a hood ornament on a car in the MUM parking lot and went to get a camera. It reminded me of the icons from the past that you see in museums. I imagined it in a museum in the future, with a little white card that said: Hood ornament, early 21st Century, Southwestern Ohio, painted plastic." ~Jan Toennisson, MUM Public Affairs

In my poem "Bus", I wanted to capture the experiences that I had while waiting for the school bus for nine years. After my ninth year of public school, I be­ came home schooled. I was happy with this change. However, each morning as I began my school work, I would hear the diesel roaring, the driver flooring, and I would wish that I was on the bus. ~Katie Henry

I go for what reveals itself through the ink onto the paper. My life inspires me. God, my son, family and friends are my life. All encompassing is love. God is love, in the end it is His presence that allows healing, forgiveness and hope through my writing. ~DeAnna Pretty­Jones

Recently retired from a 30­year technical career, I’m a non­traditional student leisurely pursuing a B.A. in Philosophy. At this stage of life, my goals are to deepen my understanding of the universe, to broaden my perspective of human­ ity, and—through writing—to promote rational thinking, tolerance, and under standing among people of diverse disciplines, creeds, and cultures. ~S. A. Joyce

90 Illuminati

FRIENDS OF ILLUMINATI Illuminati would like to thank the following: MMSG for your friendship and financial support. We are honored to be a part of MUM’s student government and thrilled that you nominated and voted us Student Organization of the Month for September, 2005.

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Ms. Starla Evilsizor, Dr. John Heyda, Dr. Larry Greeson, and all members of the Communications Board for continually going to bat for us. We appreciate you more than you could ever know.

Faculty members Richelle Frabotta, John Tassoni and Carole Ganim. Thank you for all of your kind words, support, visits and guidance as we continue to grow our organization.

Gail Tayko for a simply beautiful definition of “poetry,” for unflagging support, and keen judging.

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Kira Lafave of Kira’s Oasis, Tom Ellis of Tom Ellis Realty, and Dean Traufler of Colortyme for your generous support of our publication.

The staff of Oxford’s Print Center for bringing yet another gorgeous issue to life.

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Erin Proffitt for our eye­catching and somewhat controversial cover art entitled, “Right On.” Dr. Eric Melbye, our fearless leader. We thank you for your humor, guidance and patience.

What would we do without you?

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Rules for Submission: *You may submit as many pieces as you like. Up to three of your submissions may appear in each issue. There are no requirements for length or subject matter. *Due to the nature of creative work, please proofread your submissions for spelling, punctua­ tion and grammatical errors before submitting. We reserve the right to reformat. *Accepted written work will be printed in Times New Roman font. *We only accept written submissions via email. If you need assistance, please contact us. *Cover page must be attached. Include the following on your cover page: Attention: Illuminati Your name Your email address Your phone number *please do not include your name on the body of your work to assist us in judging anony­ mously.

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T h e Miami University Middletown’s creative arts magazine! q u i c k b r o w n We are currently accepting prose submissions for our next f o x issue. jumps o v e r t h e l a z y All students, faculty and staff are eligible. d o g . Please contact the editor for submission guidelines at: T h e quick brown illuminati@muohio.edu f o x jumps o v e r t h e lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.