Bellerive, Issue 14: Chimera by Pierre Laclede Honors College

Chimera 2013

Issue 14

chimera

1. An illusion of the mind.

2. A fantastical creature composed of disparate parts.

CoverArt:

Gabriella Black

Pierre Laclede Honors College

University of Missouri-St. Louis

TableofContentsStaffAcknowledgements

William Morris

Daphne M. Rivers

Terri Berg

Brianna Clampitt

Ellen Huppert

Aladeen Stoll

Steven M. Baker

Laura Schuhwerk

Benjamin Luczak

L.M. Clark

America: Inception, Evolution, Purpose, Impact, and Law Biographies

Staff Photograph

Staff Notes

Faculty Advisor

Gerianne Friedline

Art Committee

Emma Figueroa, chair

Aaron C. Clemons

Michael Goers

Editing Committee

Courtney Henrichsen, chair

Nicole Bonsignore

Andy Henderson

Suzanne Matthews

Hung Nguyen

Melissa Somerdin

Hope Votaw

Layout Committee

William Morris, chair

Brett Lindsay

Colleen O’Neil Milne

Public Relations Committee

Sam J. Imperiale, co-chair

Karlyne Killebrew, co-chair

Alex Hale

Bowerbird

Doll Lover Bruce on the Blackboard Sea Maiden Blue Orchid Lovers In the Cutlass Uncle Walt Esther, to Miss Russia Colors of Germany Adventure Kim Jonghyun The Broken Hearted Geisha Ha Long Bay Something Stolen Gestation Essay Contest Winners Rape in Antebellum

Dummy

Ciara Reeder Suzanne Matthews Emily Dorn Sam J. Imperiale Ellen Huppert Diana Miller Gabriella Black Elizabeth Eikmann 49 50 51 53 54 55 63 64 66 67 68 69 75 76 77 78 84 85 87 96 103 104

Handsome Stalin, 1902

half-smiles from a grey photograph, straddling a divide between a childhood beaten and maimed and stark Bolshevism—happy in his distance from his scars, broken arms, alcoholic fathers, exile and expulsion—blissful in his nearness to crime and revolution

there is a balance to him, or so he believes—he traces the careful lines of capitalism across the Tsar’s economy and sees within it the echo of his own life; there is a power that sucks dry the son, the student, the citizen, the bank account, the sweat of the brow, and leaves its husks to die on the street

he learns, and learns to want to grip the workers of his state with an iron fist, to wield them as a hammer to strike and take his due

Stalin half-smiles, young and grey— thirty million deaths a gleam in his eye

Brianna Clampitt

—1—

He pressed his weight against the door, sighed and clenched his eyes shut tight; thought he could hear her breathing on the other side. No. No, no, no. That’s not right. It wouldn’t be.

William Morris —3—

Membrane Divide —2— Gabriella

Unseen, Unheard

Tiptoeing through the room lithe legs pirouetting upon floorboards polished with dust motes dancing joining in to partner where arms once held the two; sunbeams softly streaming, curtain panels weathered fine hang delicate, yet regal, match the ethereal flutter of her hands— fingers placed just so; silence sounds as whispered tunes while music plays for her ears only— a distant memory.

Limbs glide, there’s harmony feet deftly arch and lift still—breaths exhaled, weep a soul remembers laughter, love, gone these many years. Eyes of gray that rarely gleam; Their light seen dimly lit reveal another lost soul unseen— her heart beats, bereft.

The Lady of the Sidewalk

Rare indeed you are, among the wooden ladies on the street. Fair-framed like a noble woman tall and proud, standing between the curb and the cracked sidewalk, clutching fiercely at the ground with elegant earthly feet, arms bent, but upraised in cosmic understanding.

Gentle, veined hands wave at the world, then age as brown flakes of skin mark the passing of your years. They fall like ragged pieces of dark paper with hidden heroic stories, whistled to children in the wind who rake the pages of your life into piles like playthings.

Grey guests dance as necklaces about your throat, gathering your young, who fall slowly and silently, and the rocky ground becomes their stony pillows for sleep. Their spines stretched out slowly like little defiant lances, pleading for life-giving graves in the ground.

Sam J. Imperiale

—5—

—4—

Diana Miller

A Boy

Springtime on the Shuttle

and she boards from the Meadows— boots at mid-calf, deep pink dress at mid-thigh, legs bare. She stretches them, seated with book in hand, brown hair hanging in loose waves, cloud-soft and spilling down her shoulders, drifting round her face, silver piercings glinting in her nose and ears and lips like rain. The shuttle ghosts over the morning dewcooled pavement, and she reads— alone in a bubble of quiet vitality, a modern urban Venus at ten in the morning on South Campus.

—6—

—7—

Brianna Clampitt Ellen Hup-

I Remember You

You were like a summer afternoon. I took a nap in you, and in an attempt to sleep, I searched for all your cool spots, but could find none.

And when I woke up, I was startled because I could have sworn I heard the screen door slam, but the only noise was the humming of the fan above me.

And when I woke up, my lips were stuck together and there was a bad taste in my mouth.

Like a fat cat in the corner, you yawned and looked up at me. “Fool,” you said.

You were like summer. Slowly, you dwindled away from me.

And as the wind grew colder, I began to remember all the things I liked about you. And then you were like winter.

—8—

Jessica Duncan

—9—

Dennis the Philoso-

Terri Berg

Consider the following scenario:

Girls A and B come into the classroom together, just before the Professor, laughing and talking about something they had done over the weekend. Shortly thereafter, Girl C comes jauntily into the room, thrusting her bag to the ground and taking a seat in front of Boy A. Boy A recalls smelling Girl

C’s heavy, rustic perfume on her many times, as she often comes jauntily into the room, thrusting her bag to the ground and taking a seat in front of him, but he cannot identify the smell by anything other than its belonging to Girl

C. Girls A and B continue their conversation as the Professor glances over the class to take attendance, and Boy A wonders if Anyone Else smells Girl

C’s heavy, rustic perfume. Boy A asks himself, Why would Girl C, who appears to be my age and does not carry herself in an especially odd manner, wear a perfume that has such a particular effect? He begins to wonder if Girl

C’s perfume is, in fact, Old Woman perfume, and tries to recall his many encounters with Old Women in beauty salons and department stores, when he was a younger boy—encounters that had familiarized him with the pungent strength of Old Woman perfume and had made it one of the stock qualities he could use to describe certain smells (much in the way of words such as Musky or Citrus or Vanilla for most people), but cannot remember what Old Woman perfume smells like because he is overwhelmed with the power of Girl C’s perfume. As a result, Boy A decides to make a snap judgment and associate Girl C’s perfume smell with that of Old Woman perfume, effectively nullifying his concern at being unable to identify said smell by any descriptors other than those that are already in the smell’s name (i.e. Girl C perfume). Somehow, still, Boy A is dissatisfied with his conclusion. He quickly realizes, as the Professor begins discussion, that he (Boy A) does not understand why Girl C would wear such a scent, when other, less intrusive perfumes should be readily accessible for someone of her sort. This brings Boy A to an impasse, where he must ask himself, What is ‘her sort’? Asking this allows Boy A to, via another snap judgment, conclusively identify Girl C as a particular type of person, thus justifying her choice of perfumes. Boy A reflects on his few encounters with Girl C. Most recently, Girl C knocked

—11—

William Morris

—10—

Boy A’s thermos off of his desk, while stretching her arms. Previously, Girl C asked Boy A if he burned Vanilla incense, because he (according to Girl C) smelled like the Vanilla incense that she often burned. Boy A wrote this interaction off as meaningless at the time because he often drank coffee that was lightly flavored with Vanilla. Otherwise, the only things Boy A could say about Girl C were that she was often late to class, and her hair was usually wet and in disarray. These statements, though faulty and based on a short range of interactions, were all that Boy A had to make his snap judgment by, and (though a snap judgment was, by virtue of its limited and hastily gathered evidence, not guaranteed to be accurate) Boy A felt the need to make such a judgment in order to satisfy the inner questions that were clouding his thoughts. Boy A concluded that Girl C was a frequent smoker of marijuana. He justified this by way of further defining the heavy, rustic smelling Girl C/Old Woman perfume as the ideal scent to mask the powerful odor of marijuana, making it the ideal perfume to douse herself in as she hurriedly trotted her way to class, late, because she had been up smoking too late the night before. Girl C’s hair was always washed (Boy A derived) because she wanted to keep the odor out of her hair as well as her clothes, in order to keep a more respectable appearance in the collegiate atmosphere. Finally, her knowledge of incense was an extension of her marijuana usage, as both are burned and produce an odorous smoke. The interaction in which Boy A’s thermos was knocked off of the desk by Girl C as she stretched her arms did not seem to be of particular importance in his case against Girl C (though he believed the other evidence to be strong enough to justify withholding this one piece of potentially faulty logic), as it could be an extension of:

A. His bad luck with coffee

B. Her muscle stiffness due to sleeping uncomfortably on a futon in someone’s basement after a long night of smoking marijuana

C. Her lack of attention/motor control, as a result of smoking earlier that morning

D. His placing the cup too close to the edge of his desk that morning

Thus, Boy A could not necessarily use this last incident as evidence one way or another in the case of her marijuana habits and perfume choice. Satisfied, Boy A joined into class discussion and used the aroma of his coffee, which coincidentally smelled of Vanilla, to block out that of the Girl C perfume for the rest of the hour.

—12—

—13—

The Hipster

Sivya Smason

For Ira Kaplan

A pashmina afghan coiled around his neck. Felt fedora propped atop his shaved head. Tangerine-colored sunglasses shield his eyes should the sun pierce the walls of the shop.

In square-toed shoes of animal skin he moseys about, rummaging through the bins and bargains.

A spyglass and a boogie board. Tattered sweaters and floral nighties. A toy cash register.

Penguin-decorated wrapping paper.

He saunters by, eyeing the goods. Which object will next be examined?

Which recycled item tickles his fancy?

He locks eyes with a distressed piece of furniture.

His finicky fingers linger on the surface of the secondhand nightstand, revealing a moustache drawn on the seam of his index finger.

“Excuse me, sir, how much for the bedside table?”

“29.99, just as the tag says.”

He lifts his fedora and strokes his luscious mane.

“I’ll take it for 15.”

“25 and you’ve got yourself a nightstand.”

“20 and you’ve rid yourself a nightstand.”

Never underestimate a hipster in his natural habitat.

Benjamin Luczak

And suddenly the guitar writhes and shakes and the feedback builds like a wave rising and cresting. Undoing strings and turning knobs like a mad, frantic Dr. Frankenstein and suddenly you’re dancing, you crazy old man. You sage. You’re dancing and it’s not noise but a pristine chaos, a joyful wailing and the guitar bucks and rears like an untamed stallion and for a moment it looks as though you might take flight higher and higher on the jet trails of your beat up guitar but the sleepy bassist and sloppy drummer keep you safe and sound. And it is now perfectly, joyously clear what you mean. What you said without lyrics or words or schematics or structure. And the guitar is up, up, above your head twirling and whirling and the throng is right there with you, high above it all.

—15—

—14—

Kamikaze Clowns Coming in the Clouds

(From a manual found in the front seat of a tiny clown car)

Sam J. Imperiale

Do not waste your laugh lightly or lisp a long line badly. Run willy-nilly around the center ring with a silly song to sing. Rid yourself of earthly cares; peddle smartly your whimsical wares. As Kamikaze clowns, it is our mode to remain true to this comic code.

Keep your rubber nose in the best position; exercise constantly your clown condition. Squirt one another with water flowers, jump into small pools from tall towers. Three feet before impact’s dash, smile and make a great big splash. Many have landed with eyes wide open, children’s smiling faces a lasting token. Of your dedication your brothers will know so, after twenty years, you may honorably go.

No puny parachutes for us!

In pink and purple parasols we trust! Floating down from big top’s heights, giving boys and girls such a fright. It’s for them our lives we give. In comic fashion, we hope to live. And, when a Kamikaze clown dies, it’s in a tiny car that the body rides. No pallbearers or ornate earthly casket; just put him in a false-bottomed basket. Lift it up at the grave’s side and into the hole our brother will slide.

—17—

Creep

You’re so close.

I want to drive to your house stare longingly at your door and break through the broken screen just to close more of the distance. I won’t go in or disturb you; you shouldn’t have to worry that something is wrong. But I need to feel my arms wrap around something familiar. I try so hard to be independent but after all this time I just crave your attention your eyes your time.

I promise I’ll be nice if you make me young again.

—19—

Lauren Kenney

—18—

Zombie

Sarah Bo-

The Boy in the Crimson Veil

Chartres

Daphne M. Rivers

Gun smoke, panic, and flashing lights—it’s the sort of thing of celluloid fantasy, a tide of anger slams into the shores of our fear and complacency. When it washes out there is only you, the boy in a crimson veil. Neighborhood heroes and saviors line the pavement, purposeless because of the hole in your face. The real tragedy is them picking up your pieces, arranging them so they are presentable to those who knew you best. But they won’t know you—boy in a crimson veil, gunned down in the ghetto of our dying hopes and dreams. In the morning the light will touch everything the night made dark, except you, except us. The villain who gave your soul to God or the Devil will retreat to the shadows, though nameless, though faceless, he will not be forgotten. The stain of your existence shall forever be embedded upon these concrete stairs; my child will endure concrete stares from those who watch her play there. The chorus of that night will replay in our waking thoughts: your pointless cries for help; fists slamming violently against the door; then silence, a moratorium on fighting to live. I would not open the door, wanting no part in the hell that followed. I could never have helped you. Believing that a soul lost is not gone, I wed myself to your last moments and whisper these words to you in my dreams, “Do not fear the shadows; God dwells amongst villains too.”

—20—

—21—

Kaylyn Bauer

The Hog Farmer

Karlyne Killebrew

Another dreary day is drifting by me in the town of Quiet, Oklahoma. Wake up and get fed by the wife, along with the rest of the mice, then head ten miles down the road in a beat-up red Ford pick-up to the shed where we keep the hogs and feed them. Old Harold Mason the Hog Farmer is my official title in this town—not that it ever gets used much. I’ve been living here for all thirty-three years of my life, and save two deceased parents and my peculiar little wife, Mercy, no one has ever had too much to say regarding me except that I did what was asked of me and stayed out of the way.

It’s Tuesday, so after I toss the feed to my herd I’ll head on over to the bank to take care of my biweekly business. I had to sigh with a spoon full of oatmeal in my mouth as I went through the day’s events in my head: go see Hank, make small talk, look over records, strike a deal of some sort that gave him an extra holiday ham and me more tax season pocket money. It was predictable and unavoidable. I made my way to the door, glanced back at Mercy standing idly by the sink, staring into space in a ratty pink bathrobe, and shook my head.

The bank didn’t go anything like I planned. First of all, Hank apparently didn’t work there anymore. He had ran off to Kansas City with that hussy he’d been seeing, leaving his wife and two boys. The whole town knew about her, but I still acted appropriately surprised when I heard. Instead, I was greeted by some heavily made-up girl who appeared to be in her early twenties with proportions so full she looked like she’d been drawn by a Disney cartoonist.

“Harold!” she squealed.

I couldn’t believe it. It was our neighbor’s daughter Lila Anderson. I thought she’d gone off to school. I had heard she matured a lot there, too. Looking at her now, I see the rumors are right. She smelled like trouble: a jezebel’s perfume and a wandering eye on a young, virile, overly-sheltered girl. I tried to keep the talking brief, wondering how much she knew about the business Hank and I were in. She knew what she was doing and business

continued. She finished up the transaction and I made my way home.

It seemed like a long drive home. I could barely see the road in front of me for imagining the curves on the Andersons’ little girl. Praising God that I had made it home safely, I eventually manage to pull into my driveway, deciding it was best to take a cold shower or perhaps just see my wife.

After calling around for her a few times, I found her note on the refrigerator door. It said she’d gone out for a moment, and that I’d missed a phone call. Checking the answering machine, I’d found out it was from Lila. I didn’t know what she wanted, but I could tell it probably wouldn’t be worth the trouble if I called back to find out.

I looked between the phone and the note for a minute. Prematurely exhausted by the sheer amount of thought going on in my head, I decided to just go feed my hogs their evening meal and push them both from my mind. I lugged the sack of feed around and dropped generous servings into the multiple troughs in the pen. They weren’t eating but instead were crowding around something else. I walked into the pen and pushed through a few of them to see my wife’s half-eaten body lying in the center, her broken neck cocked to a very uncomfortable-looking angle. The only possibility I could surmise was that she maybe had jumped from one of the ceiling beams. I could come up with no reasons why. I guess it wouldn’t be too much trouble to call Lila back after all.

—23—

—22—

It's Killing Her

Words bubble up, and tumble from her mouth. Letters sticking to her lips, ripping; tearing.

They slither to the pages, black and red and slick.

All around her, colours fade and blur, as the world disappears.

The words keep pouring out, she cannot slow, she cannot stop. Fingers stained and aching, she has to let it out.

Words smear and bend and stretch.

They take a life of their own. They shift and stir, to fill the page. Finally coming to rest. She sits back shaking, wipes the ink from her lips. She sees all that she has done. This sickness, this madness. Creativity is a disease.

She’ll purge her soul, penning it to paper.

No cure in sight, it never ends.

She’ll write until her life is spent.

Molly Heilig

I have a rough number, ballpoint on pink cardstock, tucked between my chest and bra. Thick lines from a girl, a siren with her plaintive wail, made lonesome singing love songs to hot spotlights over pretty heads. What the card has is a number, a name; what the card holds is a direct line to a warm body in this city, tonight. I did not mean to keep it. It was placed and forgotten before the late late night became the very early morning. I can feel it now. I can feel the outline. Now I have remembered. The corner needles the slope of my breast, every breath.

Before my sliver of sleep between cab door and deadbolt, I listened to 4:47 a.m. and every songbird sounded like a crow. I am tired. I am sleeping with laundry and longways twisted comforters, anything soft and space-consuming.

Think: large thoughts, think: surrounded, think: full.

Aladeen Stoll

I have a rough number

—25—

—24—

Tornado Song of a Wayward Daughter

She wanders highways soundless as a cloud And follows where her guiding breezes blow, Grey eyes on the horizon, head unbowed.

She takes her pleasure far from any crowd; Her backroads wind where fewer motors go. She wanders highways soundless as a cloud.

When moonless nights fall thick as any shroud, She rounds the curves before her wide and slow, Grey eyes on the horizon, head unbowed.

This is her escape. She never vowed To trust all that the Bible says is so. She wanders highways soundless as a cloud.

When whirlwinds come and sirens wail aloud, She breathes the tumult from the ground below, Grey eyes on the horizon, head unbowed.

She is free and rapturous and proud And knows all that she’ll ever need to know. She wanders highways soundless as a cloud, Grey eyes on the horizon, head unbowed.

Brianna Clampitt

—27—

Amusride —26— Mary High

William Morris

Milk Eggs

Bread

Orange Juice

Protein Bars

Whiskey

Clever ways to describe the bits of memory that still pop up occasionally without sounding too Victorian for struggling with the loss of a metaphorical “you” that really represents myself

Yogurt

Bananas

—28——29—

Grocery List

Roderick Now

Terri Berg Jason N. Vasser

I have eaten the hamburgers, and hot dog— at the stadiums, in the parks. Even the healthy Kosher dogs with a dill pickle— on the side. I’ve consumed them, the way the roar of the crowd at the ballpark swallows the cries of those searching for their own past time— the one their ancestors played before their names were replaced by mascots adorning ball caps, jerseys, and the inevitable stuffed animal waiting to be sold.

I have savored the smokiness under American cheeses with Dijon, like a wolf might consume the insides of rabbits unaware of their demise.

I have eaten my way up and down the coast respecting the local fare—the way a pimp might consume the bodies of women destined for lives beyond street corners and hotel rooms, that wear a glaze of sweat like a sheet, a dental dam preventing orgasms to surface the oceans of their shame.

I have eaten the fish and chips too, without fail accompanying a Guinness, the way I imagine Irishmen do in Pubs worlds away, where I have yet to grasp their concept of what green really is. I did it in festivals, and pseudo–hole–in–wall restaurants serving their fish and chips wrapped in imitation newspaper. And I attacked my food head first like a grand African American moose, whose nappy antlers pick and pry, looking for the truth inside

the flaky flesh of fish, tempered and matched with the crisp of fries—with the satisfaction of the Guinness chasing my meal, looking for something anything real— even the bratwursts, explosive like the cherry bombs in the hood on “independence day.”

I have eaten them all except for one, sick as I slouched like a bag of potatoes in the corner of a room, I ate them as surely as England ate Ireland, and regret too the way I devoured their treats like ants in a colony eat one leaf, yearning so much for yams, cassava, and beer made from kola nuts, instead I devoured this stuff like Jesse Owens gobbled hurtles in “L-shaped” leaps into the Ohio Sky. I am riding lips first across my life, as if my hunger—my hunger were the only way out of this lonely skin I’m suck in.

Hunger —30——31—

Mrs. Knaudi

When Mrs. Knaudi pranced into class her quirks were met with teasing, She didn’t mind the children’s sass in fact she found it pleasing.

She encouraged her students to be creative and aroused their imaginations. She called on the ones who were vegetative and used sock puppets for visualization.

It surfaced one day her husband at play in bed with another woman

When she stapled her finger and didn’t wince and laughed, “High tolerance to pain.”

I should have known she was lying since she put a bullet right through his brain.

—33—

Sivya Smason

Saved from Cat —32—

Grateful,

Sarah Myers Luczak

The man woke up one morning to find a tree in his apartment. The combination of the smell of wood and the angle of the morning light on his forehead gradually brought him around. Still in a daze the man sat up, yawned, and moved to the bathroom. The bathroom was originally a broom closet, but the apartment’s previous owners had installed plumbing. The combination of limited mobility and recently installed plumbing made the bathroom feel like a public restroom stall, but without the invitations to a good time scrawled on the walls. In fact, instead of obscene graffiti, the bathroom walls were covered by a string of numbers which ended underneath the toilet. After relieving himself while blankly staring at the numbers, the man returned to his room and promptly tripped and fell over a root, hitting the ground with the palms of his hands and rapping his head on the floor. The man sprawled on the ground, cursing his cat for serving no other purpose than being a road block. Not quite ready to get up yet, the man turned over onto his back and it was then he noticed the tree. At first, he marveled in the beauty of the tree’s canopy. The midday sun was streaming through the maze of branches and vibrant yellow, almost gold, leaves. For a moment, the man forgot about how much he hated his cat. This peace was quickly replaced with stupefaction at the sight of the tree. Then the hangover descended, causing a dull ache. The man struggled to stand, inching towards the tree and using the trunk to pull himself up.

Here is a tree in my apartment, the man thought dully. Was it here last night? He attempted to pierce through the veil the alcohol had mercifully used to cover the events of the previous evening. After getting back earlier than usual, around 3 a.m., from helping a colleague with hypersurfaces, he proceeded to get wine drunk at the bar near his house and had attempted to impress a redhead with his knowledge of transcendental numbers. This quickly deteriorated into him shouting the volume of the redhead’s breasts, which he calculated on a spherical coordinate field. He was promptly thrown out.

Unbeknownst to the man, around 2 a.m. the tree had burst through

—35—

Benjamin

—34— Reach

Gabriella Black

the floor, spread its roots out as far as they would go, and stretched toward the ceiling. One root had snaked under the bed and spooked the cat which ran hissing to the refuge of the space between the refrigerator and the wall. Another root had curled around the armchair. A third root had managed to pry the liquor cabinet open and drink two bottles of whiskey. The man stumbled into his apartment, dead drunk after being thrown out of the bar, and collapsed on his bed, completely missing the tree. That night the man had dreamt of math and fractals, seeing patterns twirl and twist in his mind. The man also, rather strangely, dreamt of the woods of his childhood. The man often dreamt about math, but this time it was different.

No, thought the man, there definitely wasn’t a tree here last night. The man felt the tree with his hands, carefully at first as if the tree might suddenly react, and then roughly as if challenging its very existence in his apartment. The man pulled some branches. The man pulled a leaf off and smelled it. Yep, the man thought, sure smells like a leaf. There’s a tree in my apartment. Jesus. Well, thought the man, might as well accept it. The man stepped back.

It appeared as though the tree had been growing in the center of the man’s studio apartment the whole time and just now decided to vault into maturity. The tree was positioned centrally, and its roots could touch all four walls. The man’s apartment resembled a rather spacious cell block or a very luxurious interrogation room, but the man had managed to turn it into something resembling a monastic cell. The walls had been plain cement blocks until the man covered them with white paint and, in a flash of creativity, bought some black paint and absolutely covered the walls in mathematical diagrams, pictures, scrawls. The man had derived the constant for logistic growth, e, to so many decimal points that the north wall of the apartment was covered floor to ceiling in numbers. These numbers continued marching on into the bathroom on the east wall. They gave the man something interesting to look at while taking a dump. A heap of construction supplies next to the east wall resembled a bed. The west wall of the apartment gave refuge to a chifferobe-turned-liquor cabinet, a makeshift desk he had found in an alley, and a bookshelf from his college residency at Cambridge. The bookshelf was covered in books. The man liked to read. The space between the

walls was now occupied by the tree. The canopy of the tree covered 95.7 percent of the ceiling. Due to some construction error, the apartment had one window that was just about head level, and the tree had thoughtfully covered it with its branches so as to bathe the apartment in splendid yellow light. A more artistic soul might remark that the window now resembled stained glass. The tree kind of fits, the man remarked, and he wondered idly if he could model the branches’ arrangement using the fractal math he had dreamt about.

The man had few friends and lived alone, except for his despotic red tabby named Gödel, after the Austrian mathematician who found the gaping hole in the center of mathematics. The man hated both the cat and Gödel equally, one for being a roadblock and the other for marring the only thing the man found beautiful in this life.

The man’s occupation, if one could call it that, was as follows:

Every couple of days or so the man would get a call. The callers would introduce themselves and tell him about their dissertation. One would have trouble proving a theory about optimization of triangles in graph theory. Or trialitarian algebraic groups. The man would usually ask just one question. If this didn’t work, the person on the other end of the line would invite the man over for dinner. The man would arrive, usually by bus, be treated to a nice dinner of either steak or pasta and then, with amounts of coffee and amphetamines that might induce epilepsy in others, help with their dissertation. These sessions would usually go long into the night, often with the two of them solving the problem around the 4 a.m. euphoria. They would put on the finishing touches when the first rays of light would peek into the house. Then the man would receive a paycheck or bundle of cash which he would promptly spend on alcohol before staggering home to sleep. This Spartan-esque lifestyle devoted to the cult of mathematics had turned him into a sort of medicine man of academia. The man would meet some 100 or 150 people a year and remember none of them, but he could remember each and every paper he worked on. His name was passed in secret around the cramped desks of doctorates of mathematics and written on slips of paper which were promptly destroyed. The man, rather naturally, was oblivious to it all. In fact, he was oblivious to anything that wasn’t related

—36—

—37—

to mathematics.

The man was oblivious to the days of the week. The man was oblivious to the months in the year. The man was oblivious to the outside world. He was oblivious to technology. The man did not own a computer or a cell phone. The man was oblivious to the fact that he didn’t pay any rent. The landlord of the building had a humanitarian streak in him and let the man stay for free in the studio apartment, mainly because the landlord thought the man was homeless or mentally deranged. As far as he could tell, the man had no family, friends, or close relations. Besides his cat, the man didn’t really have anything.

However, the man had mathematics, and she was a cold mistress. The man would wake up every day, and where others would start the day with coffee, the man would start the day with a proof. Sometimes it would be the Fundamental Theory of Calculus. Other times the man would be at the store, purchasing alcohol, and would be suddenly filled with the inexplicable desire to calculate the volume of all the alcohol on the shelf—a calculation the man could do rapidly and without effort. The man had no need to keep abreast of the current world of mathematics; the man was the current world of mathematics. One day, while helping a colleague out with a basic number theory paper, the man absentmindedly scribbled something he had been thinking about on a napkin. The man had developed a heretofore unheard of solution for endless generation of prime numbers. The colleague, flabbergasted, preserved the napkin and brought it to a cohort of his, who promptly converted the idea into a paper that revolutionized mathematics. The man, characteristically, was oblivious.

Now there was this tree. The tree kept mostly to itself throughout the last few weeks of winter. Occasionally the man would find a book open on the ground to a certain page with a root lying away from it. The tree managed to find the man’s college copy of Walden, and it irked the man to consider the possibility that the tree liked reading about itself. At first he had a problem keeping alcohol in the house. The tree was a thirsty soul. At times the man would return with a handle or two of whiskey, later to find both bottles empty and a number of glasses strewn about the floor. He solved this problem by leaving a saucer of whiskey next to the cat’s milk. Gödel was

suspicious and did not appreciate the new rooming arrangements, often using the tree’s trunk or roots as a scratching post. The man would sometimes wake in the middle of the night to the frenzied yelpings of Gödel, who had been imprisoned in a cage of branches towards the top of the tree. The man believed Gödel deserved it.

The man had been doing fine until this winter when he looked in the mirror and noticed the cross hatching of lines on his forehead, like a deeply etched Cartesian plane. It was at this point that he wondered about his age. Then the feeling of vacancy started.

Something was absent. Sitting in his room, looking at his frantic artwork and wrinkled forehead, the man felt a vast hole in his being. He could feel the dust begin to collect on his shoulders. The man tried to console himself with mathematics, but mathematics began to feel cold, where it once had felt warm. The man felt incurably lonely, abandoned on a mountaintop in the wilderness. He threw himself into his work, going a whole week without sleeping, working on three or four papers a day. He began making small mistakes, rounding errors, which soon culminated in full blown logical errors. The small, potted plant he had kept before the tree, instead of wilting and dying, broke the pot with its roots, overextended itself, and died. One day he opened the blinds when he meant to flush the toilet and flushed the toilet when he meant to open the blinds. He forgot where he lived and relied on his drunken muscle memory to lead him home. Soon he would become another nameless casualty. No one would remember him.

The tree, miraculously, brought him back. It brought him back through its tussles with the cat. It brought him back in the way it bathed the apartment in colored light. It brought him back in the way it almost seemed to lean over his shoulder when he was working at his desk. Or in the way there would always be a shot of whiskey waiting for him when he got home. It reminded him of something, of someone, but he could never name what or whom exactly. Whatever it was, it chased him through the last gasp of winter on towards spring.

On the first day of spring, after picking up the dropped copy of Walden, the man discovered an old box of books from high school. All memories of high school had been thrown out the balcony window of his brain

—38—

—39—

to make room for Euclid’s postulates and the homology of algebra. There was one memory though, and it came fluttering at him like a leaf in the wind as he beheld his battered high school copy of an obscure German publishing of Cantor’s Theory of Transfinite Numbers. But it wasn’t the theory that caused the man to pause; it was the memory of a girl he sat next to in homeroom.

The man struggled to remember her name. He grunted. Sweat broke out and began pouring down his brow. The cat, awakened from his nap, hissed and retreated into the corner. The tree, tensed up, withdrew its branches to the ceiling and waited. The man struggled and struggled until he felt the two sides of his very brain squeezing together to pluck this memory from the well of time. He struggled harder than he ever had on a math paper.

Her name was … what was it? What was her name? He thought desperately. It started with an M. He was sure of it. Mary? No, that wasn’t it. Mandelbrot? No, that was a mathematician. Mrr … mrr … Miranda. That was it. And like the click of a well made box, things fell suddenly and beautifully into place. Like watching the givens for a proof line up and point the way towards the solution, the man’s memories aligned themselves in perfect accordance to whom he was as a person, as a human. The man suddenly remembered his name. It was Paul. He remembered his age. He remembered his parents. He remembered everything.

It was as if someone had chucked a brick through the stained glass window of his musty, rotting, decrepit cathedral of mathematics, and all his memories of the outside world came pouring back with a burst of brilliant light. In high school, Paul had been the fifteen-year-old senior: a freshman, taking senior classes. In homeroom, he had met Miranda. Just saying her name, now, in his dank room, sent chills of joy and fear up his spine—something he had not felt in a long time.

Miranda had wanted to be a linguist, and Paul had fallen madly in love with her when she had proclaimed mathematics “a dead art” and calculus to be “organized cheating” because one can’t assume something has zero thickness in order to take a limit. She had taken him under her wing that first semester. They had kissed once, sitting on the bench outside the school in the falling snow, and Paul remembered the absolute joy and the simplicity of

it. The snowflakes had fallen in her hair, and she had looked so beautiful, so perfect. But not the beauty of a proof. This was a different beautiful, something he felt in his being—in his soul as opposed to his head. But it was on that day, cruelly, that both his parents died in a freak car accident. The roads were slick with black ice and so, Paul told himself, it was no small wonder they had died. The numbers were not in their favor. Having no relatives to tend to him, Paul was soon adopted by a pair of hard foster parents. On the surface, these parents looked fine, but underneath they angled for their foster son to be perfect. He would change the world, they said, whether he liked it or not, and he would change the world for them. They pushed and pushed him. He was rewarded with work and punished with work. Paul, standing in his room, had a brief and piercing memory of a next door neighbor, who was about his age, asking Paul if he knew what fun was. Paul honestly couldn’t tell him. He relaxed by deriving constants. He had derived π out to 11,000 decimal places by this point. Paul had retreated into his cathedral and locked himself away from the world. Life became easy for him: a series of proofs to solve and papers to write. He soon attended Cambridge. Then after graduating, with no incentive to find a job, he spent fifteen years ambling about helping people out for a living.

Paul felt dizzy and sat down. For once he was conscious of the time. It was midafternoon on a glorious spring day. It was, he thought happily, a Wednesday. Gödel cat-napped in a pool of light on the bed. The tree was still there, looking majestic. Paul looked at the tree. The tree looked at him. Paul felt like he owed the tree something and so he said: “Thank you.” The tree, almost imperceptibly, bowed, and then shrank. It now resembled a maple bonsai tree. For once, Paul was aware of the beauty of existence and he drank it in like whiskey.

“Damn,” Paul said, “this is a really shitty apartment.”

—40—

—41—

Eric to Battle

On becoming men

Jason N. Vasser

Remember Mickey D’s in the summers after track, it was 1989: before my parents divorced, before your pops got sick, back then we ran in heats, our young Pumas would barely touch the lane running, running fast, past time— for our parents, for the crowd, too fast to see the end coming— to all we understood about being boys and becoming men.

Going skating, we wore what we called “Cosby” sweaters, ball caps with flipped rims, and eyeglasses without prescriptions—all in the name of looking older like our fathers with beards, careers, and swag.

We’d talk to girls in hopes of understanding the mystery behind the French Kiss while every other weekend for a while, my sister and I would visit French Quarter Apartments to have Dominos with a stranger, my father, and some chick, and I would remember when all of us— would pile into your father’s van like logs—you know, the one with the TV and the blinds—and we’d ride all the way to Orlando for face paint, in matching shorts—you know the corny ones with the orange and green spots—and matching tube socks.

This was all we knew for years until gradually it stopped and was replaced by jobs. Remember when we had a beer with my dad and we spoke of yours? At the veteran’s home, alone, we went to see him that day, me and you, and watched the Olympic Track & Field events seemingly from the stands with him, the way he used to.

—43—

—42—

Terri Berg

Psych Ward

The black man with the barrel chest, who used to spar with Spinks, wanders the fun house filled with frowning clowns and wavy mirrors. Having walked the serpentine path to the lounge in Ward F, he takes his meds and sits in his chair.

As the TV flickers, he sips his Coke. An aura of calm settles over his head and drifts down to his toes.

The river of voices ebbs and flows into a slow trickle.

As the chair’s cracked plastic arms morph into rabbit fur, and the static of the soap opera whispers into a white blur, silence settles into his soul.

Bob Vass

—44— Chip Houser —45— Stickery Thicket

No one told me that the years were golden, when Mom and Dad liked Ike. My world was a two-story definition of bricks, windows, and doors where comedies and tragedies played out on small stages with imaginary theater wings— the tiny places between rooms.

A backyard between small fences— the little piece of dirt that was our dream. Where captains sailed stick-masted ships and astronauts flew cardboard space capsules on limitless journeys through time. City farmers turned the earth in spring, yielding tomatoes and cucumbers, harvested with the utmost joy.

Then, icy blankets forgave the darkened world, and we played late in the white brightness at night. Explorers braved the cold in tennis-racquet-snow-shoes, trudging toward the pole, and slid down Art Hill on anything we could. It was Christmas then with real holiday smells: Mom’s room-mother cakes and little plates of pignolata. Time enough for her to play Santa.

Somewhere between Eisenhower and Nixon —46—

Sam J. Imperiale

Perhaps it was tears that marked the changes in the world. Not really old enough to understand why Mom was weeping over JFK, I watched cartoons in between the rider-less horse and John-John’s salute. And then suddenly awakened to the pain: Cousin Ronnie in ‘66, and we wept together over Bobby and Martin, then counted the body-count-cut-outs on Walter Cronkite’s graphic— a few every day slowly built up to Fifty-eight thousand two hundred and twenty. I saw Tricky Dick finally leave office.

The tree of my memories is almost bare; years have fallen like leaves between the small fences and now lay underfoot to be crushed into little shreds left to feel and comprehend. A few might remind me that it was real. My almost-forgotten youth existed somewhere between Eisenhower and Nixon.

—47—

Bowerbird

How little have I learned? Am I just a bower bird building boisterous nests for mates I can’t impress?

—49—

William Morris Mini Mushrooms

—48—

Steven M. Baker

Bruce on the Black-

Dummy Doll Lover

Lothario, Lothario

Poor boy being flung around

By a two-foot terror in white ribbons.

He keeps a smile all the while, With pounding fists and parted lips. She beats that pretty face till it cracks then gives,

Spoiling her Sunday best as she stoops in the dust.

In a cotton dress baptized in tinctures of red, she severs

His playful extremities, squeezes his head

To pry it loose and leave him unmade.

Keep smiling, young Capricorn.

Smile while she screams.

Just the two all alone together

In the only child’s church, where

Daphne M. Rivers

Empty swings sway in the breeze and Father’s watchful eyes close, Hallowed ground where the trees are living minarets

But the grass won’t grow

Poor boy, his armor, shield, and sword lay gleaming, Discarded in the sand.

Naked and confronted with godly rage—a toddler’s rage

Lothario says nothing, does nothing

He won’t say “I love you” like the box says he should

He won’t hug and kiss like it says he can

She sang to him—he didn’t dance

Poor girl, she had a dream, and he didn’t give a damn.

Gnarling baby teeth, saliva spraying

Lilly white ribbons cradling

Swollen eyes, wet cheeks

Fingernails grating plastic, breaking and bleeding

She wages war on his indifference

Keep on screaming.

—50——51—

Terri Berg

Sea Maiden

Back when I’d only seen her from afar, Her distant form was cause for some surprise; But seeing her close, underneath the stars, I found myself more startled by her eyes. Some say they are the windows to the soul, Containing hints to one’s identity; And now I must believe that this is so, For looking in her eyes I saw the sea. Her irises were colored murky green, Her pupils dark as far-down ocean floors; Around her eyes, completing well the scene, Her face was tan as sandy island shores. I turned away, wishing for solid ground, From eyes that could lead anyone to drown.

Brianna Clampitt

—53—

Orchid

Aladeen Stoll

Ellie’s forehead had left a greasy imprint on the windowpane the night before. She positioned herself on the uncomfortable windowsill once again and tried to touch the glass in the same place. Watching for Patrick felt crazy, but books wouldn’t hold her attention, and the television was in the other room, much too far from the window. How would she make sure he came from the right direction? Something was happening with him, and she needed to know what it was. A week ago, Ellie had gently placed one of their wedding photos, the one with both of them wound up in her long veil, face down. Patrick hadn’t even noticed.

Ellie stretched her eyes open as far as they would go after squinting for so long into the night. “This is crazy,” she told herself over and over but did not move. It was dark outside, the street quiet and dull. Nothing interesting would happen; she knew that, as sure as she knew she would sit, selfdeprecating until his key was in the door. Patrick wasn’t cheating. He was in the med school’s library, studying until his own eyes crossed. “He wouldn’t cheat.” Ellie’s words were no comfort and disappeared as quickly as her breath on the windowpane.

She forced herself to look away from the street below. Their apartment was three stories up and looked out over a worn, brick road and many other squat apartment buildings. Behind her, within the apartment, Ellie was confronted with the major source of her suspicion—the flowers. She tried not to look at them, but they were there, in the darkness, dying. Patrick brought the first bouquet a month ago. He’d swung into the kitchen with them, braced by a hand grasping the door jamb. He held a fistful of fleshcolored peonies, each bloom the size of her face.

“I thought since we couldn’t have a garden, I might bring you the fruit of someone else’s labor,” he’d said.

She’d said, “Beautiful.” Patrick had been trying to be kind; they could have a garden. Their apartment had been chosen with that directive in mind. There was an accessible fire escape that received full sun. Unfortunately, Ellie couldn’t manage to grow anything. When Patrick started cracking jokes, Ellie Ellen Hup-

—55—

Blue —54—

had stopped trying.

Headlights flashed across her eyes. Ellie slid from the windowsill until she was only peeking out. It wasn’t their car, but Ellie was relieved for the change of scenery. The car was an alarming shade of orange, even in the dark, and it pumped bass out into the night. Ellie’s wood floor picked up the vibration and tickled the arches of her feet. The car paused at the stop sign and then moved slowly on, leaving the world quiet in its wake.

She looked at the clock and thought that if she went to bed at this moment then she would get six hours of sleep, but she knew she wouldn’t, not until Patrick was home. This was crazy. She was acting crazy. Maybe Patrick enjoyed bringing home flowers every other day. Perhaps he stole them from people’s yards as he passed. That would explain why there were no purchases on their bank statement. The habit was getting out of hand though. She and Patrick were drinking out of the same glasses every day because they’d run out of vases. The damn flowers wouldn’t die fast enough.

Another car stopped at the sign below. It was their little white Corolla. Ellie backed away from the window and watched as her husband parked, climbed out, and removed his backpack from the passenger seat. There were no flowers tonight. Ellie turned on silent feet and made her way to the bedroom where she pretended to sleep until Patrick was warm and steadily breathing beside her.

Three days later, on Ellie’s day off, she decided to go to the little farmer’s market near Patrick’s university. She told herself it was an innocent venture and that she would call him later to see if he wanted to get lunch. She followed the route that Patrick normally took when he walked. It was a hot day, and within a few minutes the sweat was thick on her forehead and upper lip. She watched for victims of Patrick’s pillaging, examined flowering bushes, and checked alleys and gardens. She looked for pots and window boxes. There were a few tulip beds here and there, but they were not the same fluorescent shade of yellow as the ones in the stein behind her kitchen sink.

She considered giving up and calling Patrick for lunch, but as she pulled her phone from her pocket, Ellie spotted the source of the mystery flowers. There was a two-story brick house on a small hill with a crescentshaped sidewalk. The front slope of the yard was landscaped perfectly—long

but not very wide. Edging the sidewalk were poppies and along the front of the house were the bare heads of peony blossoms, come and gone. The second story had a wrought iron balcony, with more flowers in bloom. Baskets of begonias swayed beneath the balcony and their vines spilled over farther still. There was even a waxy-leafed magnolia tree at a corner of the house with tightly wound petals preparing to unfurl.

Ellie crossed the street and walked down the block to a small sandwich shop. There were a few students inside, but the tables outside were unshaded and thus empty. From a hot metal chair Ellie had a mediocre view of the brick house. She ordered coffee and waited. For a long time nothing happened. The waiter visited four times; lunchtime passed by, and Ellie didn’t call Patrick. Finally, when Ellie felt like the boredom had reached critical mass, the owner of the house came out onto the balcony.

A woman. Ellie considered her. The distance made it difficult to judge, but the woman looked older. The cut of her apple-green dress was reminiscent of the 50s and so was the set of her mass of black hair. The vibrant shade of the dress set off her dark skin beautifully. Ellie wanted a closer look so she decided to walk by. The woman caught Ellie looking at her and waved.

Ellie waved back, a quick motion, only once from side to side. She lowered her face but not before she noticed the woman’s thigh under the hem of her dress. Ellie tried not to compare the sight to her own pale, blotchy, freckled skin.

“Who is the woman you get the flowers from?” Ellie asked hours later as the door to their apartment opened. Patrick stood with his keys and backpack in one hand and some of the woman’s poppies in the other. The hand with the flowers fell.

“A friendly neighbor,” he said.

Ellie had planned what to say, but the scripted speech caught in her chest. She settled for asking “Why?” and opened her palm to the array of flora around them.

“El.” Patrick closed the door and walked to the sofa. He let the flowers fall from his hand; they brushed across the floor, their round heads deflating. “I thought you two could be friends. She knows how to get things to

—56—

—57—

grow. I thought she could teach you.” He paused. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. It’s very weird,” Ellie said. She wanted a fight. To yell and throw things. But she didn’t want to scream at the top of his hanging head.

“I’m busy all the time; I wanted you to have a friend. Coralie’s … nice.” Her name came from the back of his throat, and he was anxious; Ellie could tell because he scratched the same spot on the side of his head every few seconds. “I didn’t want to tell you at first because I was worried you wouldn’t like her. Now, I think you would get along great, but I didn’t know how to explain.”

Ellie stared at him. Had he noticed yet that she’d eradicated all of the flowers? Pushed them deep into the dark recesses of a trash bag and scrubbed their watermarks out of every single one of her glasses? There wasn’t even a petal left, and the blood red poppies on the floor were the next to go. For the first time in weeks, their house smelled like bleach instead of floral perfume.

“You know what it looks like,” Ellie said, fists clenched.

“El, please. Do you think I would have brought the flowers home if that were the case?” Patrick looked disgusted. He had cheated once before, a few years ago when they’d first started dating. It was a worm in Ellie’s mind that she could not pull out.

Defeated, she sat next to him. “You could have spent that time with me. You could have come home.”

“You need a friend that isn’t me. You need a hobby.” He tried to take Ellie’s hand, but she moved it away from him.

“You can’t pick friends for me. I don’t even care about the stupid garden anymore.”

“You did.” Patrick’s voice was low.

The room was quiet. Ellie stared at the print of her forehead on the window a few feet away. Patrick stared at his hands.

“Maybe if you met her you would feel better,” Patrick said.

A few days later they stood on Coralie’s porch. Patrick held a bottle of Riesling, and Ellie held her purse so tightly that she left fingernail imprints in the soft, rose-colored leather. Coralie swung the door open. She wore a

gauzy yellow sundress, and her feet were bare. Her hair was pulled back and braided to one side.

Patrick beamed at Coralie, Coralie smiled brightly at Ellie, and Ellie tried not to run away. No recognition registered on Coralie’s face from their previous interaction, and for that Ellie was grateful.

Inside the house, they sat together in Coralie’s living room with glasses of tea, small disks of bread, and fruit jellies in porcelain jars. For an hour Patrick tried to subtly highlight why the two would make good friends. He said things like, “Her family is from North Africa, but she was raised in France. El loves French films,” and “Coralie’s a botanist, she specializes in orchids.” He scratched at the side of his head.

Ellie nodded when she needed to. They talked a little about foreign movies but not about gardens. Ellie watched her husband interact with this beautiful stranger, looking for signs of an intimate relationship. There was no precedence for this where she came from. In her hometown, if your husband was meeting secretly with another woman, then he was cheating. End of story. Ellie’d seen it over and over again growing up—first from fathers, then high school boyfriends and baby daddies. She had believed that she and Patrick were different but doubted the wisdom of that now.

“What do you do, El?” Coralie asked.

Inwardly, Ellie’s body revolted against hearing Patrick’s pet name come out of the woman’s mouth. She held her ground, though it felt like most of her body wanted to leap away, even if it meant leaving the rest of her behind.

“I work in a call center.” Ellie was confused. She’d assumed that Patrick would have told Coralie all about their situation, about Ellie dropping out of college to support them while he was in med school.

“And later you want to …”

It was very difficult for Ellie to keep her emotions off of her face— not only the confusion but also the building anger. Ellie got the distinct impression that Coralie thought it was unfortunate that she worked guaranteed, good hours at two dollars more than minimum wage.

“I mean, as far as an end goal, I’d like to work on sustainability in the community I grew up in.”

—58—

—59—

Coralie smiled at Patrick. “You think you’ll move back to Kansas?”

“I know we will.” Ellie did not like the implication. Patrick was looking through the stack of books on Coralie’s glass coffee table. Both women watched him.

“Shall we eat?” Coralie suggested as she stood and, after adjusting the fall of her skirt, walked into an adjacent room. A minute later soft music eased the silence.

Patrick caught Ellie around the waist as she rose. “Thank you,” he said meaningfully. Out of habit, Ellie lifted her face toward his but he let go before their lips touched. “I don’t want to be rude.” He walked into the dining room. Ellie followed but only so she could ask for the restroom. Although the question was directed to Coralie, it was Patrick who answered.

“Up the stairs and to the left.”

Ellie intended to call her mother from the bathroom to try and get an outside opinion, even if it was a biased one, but the bathroom was aglow with a faint violet light, and she put her cell phone back into her pocket. She slipped inside and closed the door gently behind her. The purple lights were on tracks where the walls and ceilings met. A few feet beneath them, reaching into the dim night, were Coralie’s orchids. Directly across from Ellie there was a large window, a rectangle but for the top, which was round. A streetlight, filtered by the frosted glass, backlit the biggest of the orchids.

When she turned the light on, the scene was even more surreal. The flowers were in terra cotta pots with holes near their base through which the plants’ roots sprawled like green fingers. The pots were placed on a tiled shelf, and it looked like Coralie had the bathroom set up so that she could water the plants without moving them. There were drains every few feet along the floor. The tub and toilet were plain, and there was one small mirror above the sink. Ellie walked slowly around the small room. Most of the orchids had at least one spike heavy with flowers. But the largest, the one with the windowsill to itself, had four spikes, each with at least seven open, pink faces and one or two balled buds, waiting to bloom.

For the first time, Ellie considered asking Coralie about the flowers. She did want to learn how to keep beautiful things like these alive. Ellie moved toward the big orchid and reached out to caress a petal. It leapt from

the stem at her touch.

Ellie let out a soft “oh” and reflexively glanced at the closed door. After a few moments of deliberation, she pocketed the fallen flower head. Downstairs, she could hear laughter and Patrick singing loudly along with a man on the record. Ellie had heard Patrick sing only once before, on their second or third date in his tiny car. They’d pushed her curfew to the limit, and he sang so she would stay a little longer. Then, his voice had been soft and hesitant. According to her watch, she’d been in the bathroom for nearly fifteen minutes. He did not seem concerned. It was time to go back.

“Sorry I was gone so long,” Ellie said as she entered the dining room. The table was set, and Coralie was cracking an egg over a dish full of pasta noodles.

“Are you feeling well?” Coralie asked. She discarded the eggshell and moved around the table toward her. Coralie looked concerned. Ellie looked at the crow’s feet around Coralie’s eyes.

Coralie lifted a hand as if to check Ellie’s temperature, and Ellie caught a thread of cigarette smoke. It must have been nestled in the woman’s hair or the fibers of her dress. Her movement thrust it toward Ellie, who stepped away from the smell more than the extended hand.

“Pardon me,” Coralie said, and looked embarrassed as she pulled her hand away.

“I’m fine. I got caught up looking at your flowers.”

Patrick nodded at Ellie. He looked relieved.

“To answer your question from before, Coralie, I am interested in conservation. I think I would like to be a consultant on implementing environmentally friendly practices. I’ve done some research on colleges in the area, and a few look promising.” The words poured out of Ellie in a rush, and she could feel her heart gaining speed in her chest.

Coralie began stirring the raw egg into the noodles; the motion made an unpleasant squelching sound over the low scratch of the record player. “That’s great,” she said, distracted by something within the walls of the pot.

“When did this happen?” Patrick asked.

Ellie knew the easy answer. “I started looking at schools about a

—60—

—61—

month ago.” In truth she had an entire folder of bookmarks for local universities, National Geographic articles, and conservation blogs; it had been her hobby until Patrick had made the flowers a more pressing issue. The hard answer was it had not really “happened” until the words left Ellie’s mouth.

“I’ll still be in school next fall,” he said.

Sitting at the table with Coralie still stirring and Patrick waiting, Ellie shrugged and then she smiled. —62—

Steven M. —63—

Lovers

In the Cutlass

we could drive for miles without words a silver thread tying us together unseen, unspoken circled around our ears

I gaze out the window dreaming of former mountains and hills as you bite your lip and drive inside the memory of when you were a boy fearless climbing anything you were asked wondering where pieces of that might have drifted

Laura Schuhwerk

we can’t see from the sun in our eyes but we don’t care it just reminds us that we’re alive so we drive for miles the wind carrying us a silver thread circled around our ears

the sun starts creeping in, pulling us back to each other and with a sigh for a new day you roll the windows down and the air pours in like a warm blanket

I put my arm out the window and let my hand ride the wind like I always did as a young girl imagining where the wind stopped and my hand began as the day finds itself you reach for my leg making sure I know you’re there you must have forgotten about the silver thread so I let you

—64—

—65—

Uncle Walt

You came into my life bearded and hairy-chested With shirt undone and hat cocked and you told me— You told me flat out:

“This is how you do it, with both hands upraised And mouth bellowing, and you don’t give a Fuck

What other people think.” For a while, It was all too much. I hid when you came over. But in quiet moments, When the world writhed in Ecstasy at my feet, I saw the grass To be the beautiful uncut hair of graves. And then I went and found you, Sitting quietly on a bench, Waiting for me to catch up.

Benjamin Luczak

Esther, to Miss Russia

Shine your pearly whites, my dear— your glittering opals gleam. Those orbs of optical perfection reflect more than they take in. Your tiara is the star of Russia, the wonder of the world.

But listen; ease your ear to hear below the earth—in dust I lie. My pageant parade led to the king’s chamber. My prize? Brutish beast, manic monarch who fought with the sea.

Lashing and slashing always a threat— if not by my husband, his henchman Nooses and knives surrounded me, little princess, queen of the world. And what would you do? What did I do? Would you risk your breath in the name of World Peace?

My teeth are crumbs and my eyes are sockets, but I rest with sisters and brothers in expectation— my name is on the lips of millions.

L.M. Clark

—67—

—66—

Adventure

Suzanne Matthews

The boy loved books. Even before he was born he loved books. His mother read to him throughout her pregnancy, passing on to him her brown eyes and love of language. Throughout those nine months, she nourished him with the nutrients of her body and the words of her favorite authors. And on the day he was born, as the nurses cleaned him off across the room, she could feel he was still connected to her.

In the first months of his life, while his father and the sun and the world still slept, the boy would beckon her with a soft cry, and she would go to him.

“Buenos días mi angelito. ¿Quieres una historia?”

The little infant would grab for his mother, hungry for her embrace. Smiling.

“

Sí, sí hijo, I have a story for you.” She rocked him slowly and read to him. In no time at all, he’d drift back to sleep to the soothing tones of his mother’s voice, still clinging to her breast.

As he grew, he saw the books in his mother’s hands and grew to love the sound of a page turning as much as he loved the sound of her voice.

He enjoyed the colorful pages of his books, filled with exciting, animated characters. They were trying to tell him something, but he didn’t know what. Soon he was telling his own stories, narrating whole plots in his unintelligible baby language. When he was big enough, he would grab his mother’s books from their shelves and enthusiastically turn their pages back and forth, listening to the sound. He liked his mother’s books better—they were bigger, and they had more pages to play with. Seeing this, his mother decided to dismiss the age-appropriate children’s books at bedtime and started, instead, to read him her favorites. This was their little ritual. And to the child, it was sacred. By the time he was four, he was actually beginning to read them.

However, things changed when her esposo left. The cochino had taken nearly everything with him but the baby. The bookshelves, once endowed with tales of adventure and wonder, lay barren, and the house, stripped of its

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Reeder —68— Colors of Germany

Ciara

family and furnishings, grew cold. In the following months, she slowly began to rebuild her collection of books—finding treasures where she could with the little money left over each month after the bills were paid. However, as time dragged on, she grew distant from the boy. She found it hard to even look at him, to see his father in his young face. She started drinking again. Soon she was drunk every day. She no longer read to him. Then, after he spilled her vodka on one of her books, she no longer allowed him to touch them. She moved the books into her bedroom, away from the clumsiness of young hands. He craved his mother, missed her. He longed to sneak into her room and lie next to her. To once again live in her world of books, to see their bindings perfectly aligned on the shelves, like a row of soldiers standing at attention. As the months passed and the bills piled up, she was forced to take a second job at the local bar, disappearing further from his life.

But on his first day of kindergarten, she came back to him—the boy saw a glimpse of the mother he once knew. His mother had woken early and made him breakfast. She was even singing. The morning passed too quickly for him. As the babysitter waited to take him to school, his mother came in with his jacket.

“You’re going to love school, mijo. There are so many things you will learn. So many books to read. And there will be many boys, just like you. You’ll make many friends.”

“I’m scared,” the boy said. He wasn’t really scared, but he wanted her to keep talking.

“You are so smart, mi amor, you’re not going to have any trouble making friends. But just in case, take this.” She handed him a copy of Huckleberry Finn—his favorite book. “Te amo, mijo. Be great.”

He left with his babysitter. He was sure that school was going to be the turning point that would bring his mother back to him. As he approached the classroom, he realized he really was scared and wished she were there to comfort him. He shuffled into his classroom. Children were running this way and that. Looking at the chaotic scene in front of him, he was unsure of where to go. He saw two boys talking nearby and thought he heard one of them say, “Tolstoy is my favorite!” Boys really were like him. Relieved and with renewed courage, he approached them.

“My mom loved Tolstoy! I never read him yet, though,” he said.

The boys looked at him with squinted, judging eyes.

“What? ... I thought you said you liked him?” He suddenly felt very embarrassed and shrank back inside himself.

“I said Toy Story,” said one of the boys.

“Yeah, weirdo, it’s not a him,” said the other.

The boy had never heard of Toy Story, and his tanned cheeks colored to a nice mauve. He thought as soon as he got home, he would go to his mother and ask her about this story. He lowered his head and walked away, too afraid to say anything further. He walked to the large round table and took a seat while the children played around him.

When it was time to begin, the teacher called for the class to settle down. Once everyone had found their seats, she began introductions. “Okay class, we’re going to start. When I call on you, stand up and tell the class your name loud and clear so they can know who you are.” She looked at the boy. She had noticed earlier how alone he was and thought she would help him out. “You there. Tell the class your name, honey,” she encouraged the boy.

“It’s Tollllstoy,” the boy from earlier shouted, dragging out the name in a taunting manner.

The class erupted with laughter.

“Tolstoy?” questioned one girl.

“What kind of a name is that?” said another.

“A weirdo’s name.” The whole class was talking about him. The young teacher, seeing that this was turning ugly quickly moved on, trying to spare him more embarrassment. He didn’t speak for the rest of the day.

When the last bell of the day sounded, the boy raced out of the school’s doors, hoping his mother would be there waiting for him. As he ran toward the doors, he thought of that morning and was full of hope. However, when he was met with the indifferent babysitter—and later, with his staggering mother—his stomach sank with the realization that nothing had changed. She had came out of it only long enough to send him off that day. Nothing would ever change.

He began to use this to his advantage. While his mother was at work or sick, he’d sneak into her bedroom and steal a book. She never noticed; she

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never even read them any more. Every night he lay in bed and entered a new world. One in which he consorted with the characters of Hemingway, Faulkner, Hawthorne, and Twain. He knew also the names of Garcia Marquez, Fuentes, and Paz.

“It’s important to know where you come from, mijo,” his mother once said to him.

He was quite the prodigy. If he hadn’t gotten his books wet, maybe someone would have noticed. Now, away from the mess of the house and the strong, sharp odor of her chastising breath, he quickly grew to love his new secret life. These were his adventures. When he finished one book, he replaced it with another. However, there was something deeply unsatisfying in having only one book at a time. He missed the stacks of books that once surrounded him like a fort, making him feel safe.

But this was his life. Every year he started school with the hope that his mother had returned, and every year he was disappointed. He never made any friends. By the time he reached second grade, he barely spoke at all.

He was now seven years old. These days when recess was called, and the class ran to the playground, the boy walked, almost automatically, to the tree at the far end of the pavement. In his prior two years, he had tried to join them, but since that first day, he knew he didn’t belong. He preferred his books anyway.

He sat against the tree he had come to love and opened his book. He looked at the kids running around on the playground. Maybe he should try to join them, he thought. Maybe now, after all this time, they would give him a chance. He put his book away, walked back to the playground, and joined a game of tag.

“Can I play?”

“Sure. Get in the game,” said one of the boys. The boy felt exhilarated. He had taken his first step toward making friends. However, it wasn’t long until he realized that he had made a mistake. Every kid was running into him:

“Tag! You’re it!”

One right after the other. Each boy getting more forceful, pushing him harder and harder until he finally fell down. Defeated, he caught his breath, swallowed the lump in his throat, and walked back to the tree. He was Lennie, plain and simple.

His new teacher had been watching him for the first few weeks of school. She decided to approach him, “What are you reading?”

But the boy didn’t answer, and she was forced to look for herself. Of Mice and Men. The boy saw the puzzled look on her face. It was the same look he got from everyone at school. It said he was different.

That day, when he walked into his house with the sitter, they found his mother, kneeling in the bathroom. She looked like she was praying.

“Mami, are you okay?”

She didn’t answer him. Stumbling into the kitchen, she turned toward the girl.

“It’s okay, chica, you can go home.”

The girl left, and the mother resumed her post on the couch. The boy went to her bookshelves and grabbed a book. Maybe this would make her feel better. He brought her the book, but she looked right past him. Finally, he held it in front of her. She took another drink and slapped the book out of his hand, “¡Vete!” Go away, she said.

Tired of the rejection, of the puzzled looks, he ran to her room crying, and he grabbed his favorite books. He stuffed as many as would fit into his little duffle bag and, passing his sleeping mother, walked out of the little house.

Where would he go? He thought of Huck’s words: “You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.” He loved Huck. Huck was his favorite character of all. He loved Huck’s sense of adventure. He knew he could get to the river undetected through the woods behind his house. He had walked it many times on his own adventures when his mother was sick. By the time he reached the river, the sun was beginning to set. He walked along, dragging the heavy bag. He wasn’t sure how he’d make a raft, but he knew he had to do it. Eventually, he stumbled along a little abandoned boat on the side of the river. He lifted his little duffle bag into the boat, finally relieved of its weight. He pushed the boat as hard as he could, moving inch by inch farther

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into the water until the current began to take the boat, and he jumped into it. Safely ensconced in the little boat, he smiled. His adventure was starting. He didn’t know where he was going and, at that moment, he didn’t care. He would set out just like Huck; maybe he’d even make a friend like Jim. However, the river’s current grew rapid, and the boat started to rock furiously. He noticed a small amount of water puddling in the boat and realized why the boat had been abandoned. The water started to soak his bag. His books were getting wet. He struggled to move the books away from the water, pulling them out of the wet bag and placing them away from the leak; however, the weight of it all was too much, and the little boat tipped over. The boy and his books were spilled into the river. He was scared. However, as the world slowed down to a loud blur, he looked around and realized he was getting what he always wanted—a world in which he was surrounded by books. And, for a moment, he smiled.

—74— Emily Dorn

—75—

Kim Jonghyun

The Broken Hearted Geisha ブロークンハーテッド芸者

Sam J. Imperiale

On a cool and foggy morning in the black volcanic soil, between the trunks of giant symmetrical pines, a geisha buried her diary, hidden in a bamboo box. She had written in dark characters on pages white as Fuji’s crest of ancient feudal wars and her forbidden love for a samurai.

Her proud warrior had wielded his sword against an opaline sky as sunlight glinted off the blades of shining steel, reflecting glimpses of crimson cherry blossoms which now temper the coldness of her beloved wounded tiger. Still clutching his sword, he searched for a sign of her.

An absent heart felt the blood of her fallen lover, and as his longing looks gazed into her eyes, she drew his knife from its scabbard and held it high to see the mirrored image of them both, forever frozen on its blade for an instant.

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Ellen

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Hup-

Ha Long Bay

Something Stolen

Diana Miller

There was a man on top of me, pinning me to the bed, and he had an odor about him, his heavy, fat stomach squishing me. His small, dark brown eyes stabbed into my face as he held himself up over me by one arm. His free hand fumbled with his thing, and I knew that was bad somehow. Really bad, whatever it was that he was doing, I didn’t have a name for it. I lay on his bed, which was covered with a green and brown floral bedspread, situated toward the middle of the room, up against the only wall with a window. Shaking. Scared. Silent.

Quick, little breaths forced my chest to rise, and though I remained mostly quiet, they were mixed with choking gasps. My face scrunched from the effort of my puny attempts to heave him off. I seemed to shift back and forth, present, other times, not so much. Body stiff, but still terrified, I tried to bend upward. Forced into looking up out the window just to avoid his eyes, I noticed a small spider web in the corner of the wooden sill where the paint was beginning to peel and a fine layer of dust clung to the surface. Everything upside down. A golden-colored framed painting of Jesus hung on the opposite wall, staring down at me. What did he want me to say? Why didn’t I scream?

At first, I had struggled, but my foster father was so much larger than my nine-year-old body. I couldn’t even move his arm. Covered in black hair, his daughter’s name tattooed on the bicep. God, he was strong.

He had called me into his room, after his wife, Magdalena, left for the supermarket. Just like the other times. Not even bothering to close the bedroom door all the way, he had me sit on the edge of the bed while he unzipped his pants and pulled his thing out. Just like the other times. I tried to turn away, leaning back as far as I could, but he grabbed my hand, yanked it forward, and made me touch him. There.

Ugh. It was gross!

“No!” I blurted out, staring down at the brown and gold swirls in their bedroom carpeting. Those other times I had tried to hold my hands in my lap—tight and hard—and tried to avoid him. I was just no match for

him; even though I was tall for my age, I had no muscles. Now, abruptly brought back to earth by his slap across my face, I whimpered, my face pale. The sting and heat of it swept across my cheek.

“Touch me! I want you to hold it,” he demanded, “Like this!” When I fought against doing what he wanted, he put his other hand over the back of my head, pulling my blonde-brown hair, and tried to force my face onto him instead. My hair was so long, he wrapped it around his hand. Grunting with effort, I tried to let go. I didn’t want to touch him. I’m going to be sick. Help me. Oh God, help me!

“I don’t want to!” I clamped my mouth shut, lips pressed firmly against my teeth, and closed my eyes to what I saw. Hair sticking out all over, like a bunch of twisted pipe cleaners. But only the black and brown ones. His breathing sounded funny; I tried to lean away.

He wouldn’t listen to me. He didn’t listen. But I listened … his breathing changed to panting … he gripped my hand even harder and forced it up and down, like pushing up and down on the long handle of a bicycle pump. Stuff dribbled out. Gross. Oh God. Oh God. I promise I’ll be good from now on!

“Leave me alone!” I pleaded. Normally very careful to stay out of sight, I hadn’t been able to do so today. It was Saturday, and he was home, otherwise he’d be at work at the telephone company.

Mr. Zamora shoved me onto the bed. His rough treatment was a shock, my thin legs felt almost wrenched apart, but I struggled to keep them closed, even when his fingers dug deep into my thighs. He pressed his weight down upon me. I was more frightened now than when he’d had me in his bedroom those other times and made me touch him. Why was he on top of me? Please! My breath hiccupped in my chest, and I turned my head away from him, noticing the sweat beginning to bead across his forehead, the two deep horizontal furrows glistening. Was he going to kill me? That icky breath exhaled all over my face was about to make me throw up. Jalapeño peppers and salsa hung in the air. I barely managed not to gag. I hurt down there but didn’t know why. What’s he doing? I just didn’t understand. He grunted. It sounded like a pig.

His body shifted, belly hair scratching against my skin, and I screamed. He shoved his hand over my mouth. My eyes frantically skittered

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away from his face, and I looked over his shoulder. All of a sudden it was like I was looking down at myself. I sat up in the corner of the room, near the ceiling, and I watched myself, confused. Did I die? There were pants pooled on the floor, around his brown legs.

A tear slid down my cheek.

As I looked back up into his face, Mr. Zamora bared his teeth in a grotesque mimicry of a smile and brought his face close to mine. He said, “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Short hair gleamed, black as coal. Squeezing my eyes shut as hard as I could, I ground my teeth till my jaw hurt, and I felt his laughter rumble through my body.

Get off me. Get off. Get off. GET OFF! The refrain trumpeted through my mind on some kind of endless loop.

I twisted my face away, this time toward the bedroom door, with my cheek indenting the quilted pattern of the bedspread, looking for salvation. I glimpsed a figure out of the corner of my eye. To my everlasting shame my younger brother, Brad, was standing in the bedroom doorway, in his green t-shirt and blue jeans. I watched Brad’s hazel eyes blink, it seemed in slow motion, as he stared at me, hand frozen on the doorknob. He didn’t say a word, and that scared me. Say something! Our foster brother, Alex, the Zamora’s real son, a couple of inches taller than Brad, was mute, but more like he was an observer taking everything in. He liked to laugh and boss us around, but he just stood there. Why didn’t they say anything? Their silence confused me.

Mr. Zamora’s body shuddered for a few moments, and I hurt so badly, but he wouldn’t get off of me. Instead, his body shifted. Feeling nauseated, I was suffocating. Fingers damp with sweat, I grasped at the stark white sheets where the bedspread had pulled down. My legs barely touched the floor and I tried to … do something.

I promise I’ll be good. Starting today. Really!

“Get out of here!” Mr. Zamora growled, and his chunky cheeks wobbled when he turned his head and looked over his shoulder. Before he turned to go, I caught Brad’s face, still frozen in shock and amazement. I guess that’s a normal response for a seven-year-old boy. His short, dark brown hair stood up on end looking like he’d been zapped with electricity. Brad’s skinny little

legs ran him away, with Alex in his blue Keds, right behind. Heaving his body off mine, his hairy legs scratched across my legs, and Mr. Zamora said, “If you say anything, I will kill you. You and your brother, so you better keep your mouth shut!” His slight Spanish accent made it sound more threatening. Then his oily complexion darkened in anger when I failed to respond, and he snarled, “Do you hear me?”

My eyes fell to his curled fist and I trembled, waiting for it. Somehow I ducked. Shamefaced and angry—but mostly afraid—I felt Mr. Zamora finally, finally!, get off me. Pulling his zipper up, he smirked. Hesitant, I slowly bent down to pull my panties and favorite pink stretchy pants back on, but nodded my understanding, throat clogged. I left my foster parents’ bedroom, head hanging, staring at the olive green carpet. I didn’t know what had just happened. My body hurt, and my legs quivered. It felt like I’d fall down if I didn’t walk close to the wall while the green shag carpeting heaved up and down before my eyes. The odor of hot peppers clung to my face; I could smell them, even though I was breathing through my mouth. Tears traced salty streaks down my cheeks. I felt sticky. And bad. I was bad.

Today was the end of something, but what? And Brad had been a witness to it. Will I get in trouble? Is he going to tell on me? I’m sorry. Whatever I did, I’m sorry!

Half stumbling down the hallway, as a fog swirled around me, my stomach clenched in on itself. But it was just too much, and I crumpled to my knees under a wooden cross hanging on the old, faded plastered wall. Smudged fingerprints registered. None of the other kids in the house came near me. I curled up on the carpeted hallway floor, closed my eyes, and tried to breathe.

Later, sitting on the raised front of the red brick fireplace, I glanced up as Alex approached. At twelve, he was kinda cute, with his brown skin, dark eyes, and black hair that curled just above the edge of his shirt. “Puta,” he said with a knowing smile as he sauntered by. What did that mean? Half the time, Brad and I didn’t understand what any of them were saying. And Brad, with his sly little look, jammed his fists into his jeans and kept quiet, even though he was usually talking a mile a minute.

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The front door opened, and Mrs. Zamora wiggled through it sideways. She held the screen door open with her foot, carrying a brown paper bag of groceries in one arm and her big, bulky black purse across the other. Her dark hair gleamed, caught by the afternoon sun as it poked through the lattice work outside. Her fat arms, swinging like a hammock between two trees, squeezed out of the short sleeves of her blouse. She loved to cook. Shrugging her purse off her shoulder, she squinted in my direction, and asked, “What’s the matter with you? Why are you just sitting there? It’s a good day to be playing outside.” Her big, black eyes usually didn’t miss a thing.

Stammering, I mumbled that I’d just come inside to rest for a little while.

Mr. Zamora appeared and offered, “Here let me take that. Are there any more groceries in the car? I’ll get them for you.” Eyes crinkling in his face, I watched him as he smiled a welcome and walked toward her. I practically gagged. On the way out the door, he ruffled his son’s hair and clapped him on the shoulder, winking.

Alex, being nosy as usual, started rummaging through the bag, and grinned. “It’s tacos tonight, and rice pudding!” He did a funny little shuffle, as if dancing to a tune that only he could hear.

Mrs. Zamora’s skirt swished as she walked across the living room, past the maplewood end table with its curved edges—a framed photo of the family, smiling faces beaming, on its surface. She glanced down at it and said to no one in particular, “This needs dusting.”

“How was the car today?” Mr. Zamora asked. “Did it give you any trouble? I had Manny take a look at it, and he replaced the brakes.” He was proud of that car, always wiping it down, keeping its dark blue surface shiny.

Brad was nowhere to be seen. As usual he was hiding. I went inside myself, leaving them all behind. My thoughts rolled up and down, just like a roller coaster. I felt tired, and wrapped my arms around my midsection, suddenly cold.

He was a thief. Mr. Zamora had stolen something from me, and in the days and weeks—and years ahead—I’d come to realize he had stolen more than just a single thing. But I still haven’t found whatever it was. My

memory isn’t totally clear about those fifteen long months. Boy, isn’t that nuts? Sometimes it’s crystal clear, other times it’s murky like mud-stirred puddles, or even absent altogether, just a blank screen.

Brad and I barely ever acknowledge that period of time. His silence somehow condemns me. Quite frequently I see it all over again. Like if I turned around, that house, that room would be right in front of me again just as plain as day, and I could walk back into it. Different words are heard, different tones of voice used, different conversations held. But the outcome is always the same. It’s like it happened yesterday, or last month, it’s not something old from long ago. I see Mr. Zamora’s face and it hasn’t aged; I’m afraid of running into him. He reminds me of the actor, Edward G. Robinson. The similarity in their faces is so strong, they could be brothers. I hate any movies with him in it. The nine-year-old child inside me sees it all so clearly. She quakes in fear, wailing in protest, begging for forgiveness. He’s never stopped stealing.

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Pierre Laclede Honors College

Excellence in Writing Awards

2012-2013

1000-LEVEL COURSE

Eric’el Johnson

“A Strange Meeting: Wollstonecraft and Voltaire”

Instructor: Kate Dwiggins

Honors 1201: Cultural Traditions II

2000-LEVEL COURSE

Emily Dorn

“The Balance of Anderson:

Nietzsche’s Apollonian and Dionysian in Fantastic Mr. Fox”

Instructor: Dan Gerth

Honors 2010: Contemporary American Cinema: Wes Anderson

3000-LEVEL COURSE

Elizabeth Eikmann

“Rape in Antebellum America:

Inception, Evolution, Purpose, Impact, and Law”*

Instructor: Dr. Kathleen Nigro

Honors 3010: America’s Slave Narratives

CREATIVE WRITING

Diana Miller

“Something Stolen”*

Instructor: Geri Friedline

Honors 2020: Writing about People

*These pieces are featured in the book.

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—84— Gestation

Gabriella Black

Rape in Antebellum America: Inception, Evolution, Purpose, Impact, and Law

Elizabeth Eikmann

Slavery in American lands finds its roots long before America declared itself a separate nation. The trade began in Jamestown in the early 1600s and persisted throughout the nineteenth century. Citizens of color, although freed, were fighting for equal rights through much of the twentieth century. The height of the slave trade and its conflict found its place in midto late-nineteenth century America. Antebellum America was a time of conflict and division, with many struggles between freedom, power, independence, and domination. A most chilling aspect of the struggles within antebellum America was that of sexual violence and its ties to slavery and the slave trade. This essay will discuss rape and sexual violence in slavery and the slave trade in America, describing its inception and evolution, its purpose for white slave owners and traders, its impact on both enslaved females and males, and its place in the nineteenth century American legal system.

Slavery was a system that functioned in a way wholly reliant on the commodification of humans. The process was permissible through the widely held belief in the commodification of the enslaved by the white slave owners and traders. The enslaved were first commodified as financial assets and objects; this idea endorsed and legitimized the view of the white man and of the slave trade as a whole. According to Edward E. Baptist of American Historical View, “A transmutation of words and meanings allowed sellers and buyers to endow actual human beings with the universal and abstract qualities characteristic of the commodity” (1632). Baptist goes on to say, “Commodification is a process that takes place in the eye of the commodifier, not the commodified” (1636). In this sense, the commodification was solely in the mind of the white man and existed through his distorted definitions of humans and objects. Going further, Baptist writes, “In the case of slavery in the Atlantic world, the fictions of commodification were powerful enough to ensure that some people were treated as objects” (1638). Through the eyes of the white slaveholder, the commodification of those he was enslaving was enough to justify the treatment of humans as nothing more than his own property. This commodification was largely created with

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the “simultaneous forgetting or denial that [the enslaved] were human beings created in the matrix of family and culture with their known capacities in financial arrangement” (Baptist 1636-1638). With the forgetting and denying that the enslaved were in fact humans, created not as commodities, but with an identity and awareness of life and emotion, came the depiction of the enslaved “in mystical terms as standardized objects: units of trade, transparent in history, and ready for sale and use” (Baptist 1622). With the initial commodification of enslaved humans, they were transformed into symbols of monetary constituents and objects ready for sale and use.

Through the making of the enslaved into commodities, they were used, measured, and valued for their monetary worth. Baptist goes on to reference Ballard of the slave-trading firm Franklin, Armfield, and Ballard, who “supplied field hands and carpenters to the … new plantations of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Arkansas in the late 1830s,” stating that “Ballard saw not enslaved people but goods that lived only in relationship to abstractions of cotton and credit” (Baptist 1636, 1619). Through this abstraction, enslaved humans were transformed into ideas of objects and economy, and thus, into ideas of property. Consistent with this idea of humans as property, the enslaved “started as luxuries and were transformed into necessities in the eyes of their users” (Baptist 1636). The enslaved, in the white man’s view of them as necessary commodities, were called to fulfill roles of a sexual nature, with no voice of their own to be had.

Although the enslaved were, in fact, a “false commodity,” the legitimizing of this process ultimately led to sexual violence toward the enslaved (Baptist 1625). Because it was an accepted ideal, “commodity … intertwined with such intimacy that coerced sex was the secret meaning of the commerce in human beings, while commodification swelled its acts with the power of rape” (Baptist 1621). This commodification “created a particular commercialized category of enslaved … that focused white fixations” of sex and power and their domination over the enslaved (Baptist 1642). According to Danielle McGuire of Journal of American History, “Rape … served as a tool of psychological and physical intimidation that expressed white male domination and buttressed white supremacy” (907). Rape and sexual violence were exerted upon the enslaved as a way for the white master to exert and prove his power

of body and mind not only over the enslaved female but also the enslaved male. McGuire continues to say that “white men used rape and rumors of rape not only to justify violence against black men but to remind black women that their bodies were not their own” (907). Eventually, rape was transformed into a “weapon of terror” used to “dominate the bodies and minds of the African American men and women” (McGuire 908). Because of the domination and power the white man held over both the minds and bodies of the enslaved, as Thomas A. Foster of the Journal of the History of Sexuality writes, “rape can serve as a metaphor for enslavement” (445). In this way, the act of rape stood as a symbol of slavery and of the slave trade as a whole—a complete domination over and violation of the entire mind, body, and soul.

If rape stands as a symbol for the domination and power the white man held and exerted over the enslaved and as a representative for slavery itself, then rape must also embody other ideas of reasoning behind slavery, such as economic, political, and social benefits. McGuire states, “White slave owners’ stolen access to black women’s bodies strengthened their political, social, and economic power.” In part, McGuire accounts this advancement in power and status to the rape of the enslaved “partly because colonial laws made the offspring of slave women the property of their masters” (908). Not only did reproduction bring more property for the white slave owner, but this increase in property meant an increase in assets, an increase in laborious output, and eventually, an increase in monetary profit. Andrea Stone of American Literature also concludes that the white slave owners’ “nonrecognition of rape meant that the master could increase his ‘stock’ by impregnating female slaves” (70). The commodification of the enslaved and oversight of the crippling aftereffects of rape proves that, in antebellum America, “the crime of rape was more about power than sex” with that power yielding political, social, and economic benefits (Davis 77).

Through the benefits gained by the white slave owner, new identities for both the white man and for those enslaved developed through the sexual violence forced upon those the white man enslaved. Baptist clearly outlines this idea when he states:

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Like ideas about honor and manhood, independence, and whiteness, the collective sexual aggressiveness enabled and valorized by the slave trade helped form a group identity for slave owning white men. Market participants were all greedy for male and female labor in the fields, and for reproductive labor in the slave quarters, but also of fancy maids. (1644) In this way, the white slave owner identity expanded from one of owning and trading humans into one of a trader, harborer, breeder, and that of a sexual perpetrator. The “fancy maid” became the identity thrust upon the female enslaved by the white man through the sexual violence he forced upon her. Baptist elaborates, “Such men were not interested in particular ‘Maria’ … but in their own ‘fancy’” (1644). That is to say, the white slave owner, if he had ever recognized those he enslaved before he commodified them as human, used the act of rape to completely eliminate the enslaved from being seen as anything other than property. The enslaved female lost her name, no longer a “Maria,” but instead a “fancy” object made to fulfill the white man’s own sexual pleasure. The term “maid” was used in conjunction with “fancy,” implying that the act of rape was a sanction of the enslaved woman’s duty or job. For the white man, his act of rape formed a piece of his identity within the slave trade and society itself and attempted to transform the identity of the enslaved woman and man, as well.

The idea of a “fancy maid” did not, of course, emerge out of antebellum America or out of the country’s involvement in the slave trade. The white man’s fixation, curiosity, and obsession with the black female body as a sexual attraction began in a place and time long before (Baptist 16411642). According to Baptist, “From the beginning of the European-African encounter, attempts to claim that black female bodies were disgusting because they did not obey European gender roles” rang strongly throughout European culture. This view, evolving slightly into the nineteenth century, changed into the belief that “black women were inherently sexually aggressive,” especially “in contrast to allegedly chaste white females” of the time (1641). The white man’s complicated infatuation with the black female body—that being their “disgust” due to this stark contrast to that of the white woman—then transformed into one of sexual fixation. Baptist states

that “the rejected black female’s body returned in the fixation on the fancy maid,” (1641) in that the black female’s rejection subsequently sparked sexual desire in the white man.

Through this transformation and emergence of the white man’s desire in a “fancy maid” came the emergence of sexual violence in the slave trade. Enslaved women became the “sexual prey of all white men” and were “sold as both house servants and sexual companions” in order to “focus white fixations” of speculation and sexual pleasure (Baptist 1641-1642). Formally enslaved Essie Harris, as cited by McGuire, reported that “‘the rape of black women was so frequent’ … that it had become ‘an old saying …’” (909). However, seen in the eyes of the white slaveholder, rape in the eyes of the enslaved black women was always the same. Foster states that, for the white man, “Physical sexual abuse of women and girls under slavery ranged from acts of punishment to expressions of desire and from forms of forced reproduction to systems of concubinage” (446). According to Stone, this “logic of the slave code omits any recognition that for black women … rape injures physically and psychologically” (75-76). Because of this, “women of color … waged constant rhetorical and physical battles against … the sexual assaults of white men” (Baptist 1622).

The psychological and physical battles that rape caused enslaved women to face, in turn forced enslaved women not only to physically fight coerced sex but also to fight for their identity and for their sense of family. Baptist speaks about the white man’s rape as a display of a “stark imbalance in power” which forced the enslaved women to choose between “negotiated surrender on the one hand and severe punishment and possibly death on the other” (1644). Because of this imbalance in power, “resistance … was typically ineffective” (Baptist 1631). Often, “Slave owners, overseers, and drivers took advantage of their positions of power and authority to rape slave women, sometimes in the presence of their husbands or families” (McGuire 908). Karen Morrison of Slavery and Abolition states that enslaved females, as victims of rape, “struggled to maintain their dignity but were unable to withstand the brutal onslaught,” accounting “family dissolution and personal shame” as the resulting toll (31). The use of rape was not only a display of power but also a way to diminish the idea of the family unit within

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the enslaved community. Rape was the “brutal division of human relationships” that further commodified and dehumanized the enslaved (Baptist 1630).

The sexual violence that was used to dehumanize and commodify the enslaved was not specifically limited to the enslaved woman, however, but also extended to the male population. In this way, rape of the enslaved female was a way to challenge and diminish the black male’s idea of masculinity. According to Foster, not only did the entire empire of slavery diminish the enslaved male’s idea of masculinity, but the integration of rape into the trade “violated the masculinity of black men who were denied the ability to protect vulnerable female dependents” (446). Foster references a statement made by the formally enslaved, Lewis Clarke, “who declared that a slave ‘can’t be a man’ because he could not protect his female kin from being sexually assaulted by owners and overseers” (445-446). However, Foster goes on to say, “Those who tried to protect their spouses were themselves abused” (446). Rape of the enslaved man by both the white male slave owner and the white female in antebellum America occurred as it did for the enslaved black woman, with a meaning much the same.

The sexual assault forced upon the enslaved male by both the male slave owner and the white female also exerted ideas of power, domination, punishment, and at times, affection. Like the view of the black female, the view of the black male body by the white male and female was laced with contradiction and confusion. Foster cites these conflicting messages as “embraced by Anglo-American culture … on the one hand [voiced] repulsion for Africans, framing them as beastly, ugly, and unappealing, while on the other hand [viewed] them as hypersexual.” Paralleling the view of the black female further, “Anglo-American culture had a long-standing view of black men as particularly virile, promiscuous, and lusty” (Foster 448-449). Through this view, Foster explains, “sex between masters and male slaves undoubtedly occurred, sometimes in affectionate and close relationships, but also as a particular kind of punishment” while “sexual contact between white woman and enslaved men ranged from affectionate to violent” (452, 459). Just as in the case of rape for the enslaved female, “The sexual assault of enslaved black men was a component of slavery and took place in a wide

variety of contexts and in a wide range of forms” (Foster 464). Also, it is important to note that “white men were not the sole perpetrators of sexual coercion or the sexual abuse of enslaved black men and women” and that in all cases of white-on-black rape, “the apparently affectionate relationships of enslaved women [and men] and white men [and white women] took place within the context of absolute power over life and limb and therefore must not be viewed as consensual” (Foster 460, 459). Foster asserts that it is “safe to say that, regardless of location and time period, no enslaved man would have been safe from the threat of sexual abuse” (484).

Lack of safety from sexual abuse in terms of location and time was a piece of the saddening reality for the enslaved, but safety from sexual abuse in terms of the law was also an unprotected right. Foster states, “sexual assault took a wide variety of forms, but the common factor in all was the legal ownership that enabled control of the enslaved body” (448-449). In other words, it was a legal impossibility for them to be protected at all, as they were the property of the white man. As cited by Stone, James Madison wrote in his 1788 article of The Federalist that “the slave may appear to be degraded from the human rank, and classed with those irrational animals which fall under the legal denomination of property,” but is in fact “protected … in his life and in his limbs, against the violence of all others, even the master of his labor and his liberty” and shall be seen “as a moral person, not as a mere article of property” in terms of the law (65-66). Under Madison’s statement, the enslaved were protected under the law in terms of violence inflicted by others, including his or her master. From this, one would infer that rape and sexual violence would be classified under the term violence and therefore legally protected. However, Stone goes on to reference Thomas Cobb’s 1858 article, Inquiry into the Law of Negro Slavery and states, “a slave was merely a chattel” and, in legal terms, “was not recognized as a person.” Cobb’s article continues, “the Negro in slave America, protected … by municipal law, occupies a double character of person and property” (qtd. in Stone 66). It was the enslaved person’s occupation of a double character that rendered them legally unprotected from sexual violence.

Under the law of the time, the enslaved embodied this idea of a double character in the eyes of the white owner and member of legal status—

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seen as a form of a transparent person and of property to be owned, bought, and sold. First, this placement of double character on the enslaved “potentially benefitted whites who could hold slaves as persons accountable for criminal acts, yet it limited slaves’ ability to act legally in their own self-interest,” specifically in terms of seeking protection under sexual violence and rape (Stone 66). In this way, as Stone continues, the “enslaved women raped by their masters still maintained the ‘double character’ designation: they could … be tried as criminals and sold as property, but as victims and survivors of masters’ sexual abuses, neither system of laws protected them (68). Not only did the enslaved go unprotected from sexual violence, but it is important to note that “legislation extending protection to … slaves against rape would have undermined their dual role” (Stone 70). Not only would this dual role have been undermined but also if the rape of the enslaved is emblematic of the slave trade itself, the entire system of slavery would have been undermined as well. This protection would have been difficult to provide through the antebellum understanding that “the slave lacked protection from sexual abuse by her master because he could not trespass on his own property.” Simply said, “It was, therefore, legally impossible for a master to rape his slave” (Stone 67). This remained true “until the turn of the century, when female moral reform made significant strides on rape law reform, that southern white men begin to consider rape a distinctive wrong” (Davis 76).

During antebellum America, white slave traders and owners evolved into masters of sexual abuse by way of exerting their power and domination over the enslaved through sexual violence. With its beginnings in the commodification of humans and its end, through the eventual abolishment of slavery, rape in the slave trade in America served as a tool of power, sexual desire, and humiliation. It was also a demolisher of the family unit, a challenger to ideas of masculinity, and a way of achieving political, social, and economic successes. Through all of these purposes, rape went completely unrecognized by the law, leaving the enslaved male and female vulnerable and completely unprotected.

Baptist, Edward E. “‘Cuffy,’ ‘Fancy Maids,’ and ‘One-Eyed Men’: Rape, Commodification, and the Domestic Slave Trade in the United States.” American Historical Review 106.5 (2001): 1619-1650. Web. 15 Nov. 2012.

Davis, Thomas J. “Patriarchy, Politics, and Power: The Law, Rape, Race, and Reality in Slavery and Segregation.” The Journal of African American History 91.1 (2006): 73-80. Web. 15 Nov. 2012.

Foster, Thomas A. “The Sexual Abuse of Black Men under American Slavery.” Journal of the History of Sexuality 20.3 (2011): 445-464. Web. 15 Nov. 2012.

McGuire, Danielle L. “‘It Was like All of Us Has Been Raped’: Sexual Violence, Community Mobilization, and the African American Freedom Struggle.” Journal of American History 91. 3 (2004): 906-931. Web. 15 Nov. 2012.

Morrison, Karen Y. “Slave Mothers and White Fathers: Defining Family and Status in Late Colonial Cuba.” Slavery and Abolition 31.1 (2010): 29-55. Web. 15 Nov. 2012.

Stone, Andrea. “Interracial Sexual Abuse and Legal Subjectivity in Antebellum Law and Literature.” American Literature 81.1 (2009): 65-92. Web. 15 Nov. 2012.

Warren, Wendy Anne. “‘The Cause of Her Grief’: The Rape of a Slave in Early New England.” Journal of American History 93.4 (2007): 1031-1049. Web. 15 Nov. 2012.

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Biographies

Baker, Steven M.

Steven M. Baker is a forty-four-year-old lifelong learner, who returned to school after he was laid off from his job in corporate America. He is currently an undergraduate at UMSL, pursuing a BFA with an emphasis in photography. Steven hopes to start a new career as a professional photographer. He says that he learns from subjects by “merely looking at them through my lens.” For now, photography is his hobby, and he enjoys the occasional video game.

Bauer,

Kaylyn

Kaylyn Bauer is an undergraduate at UMSL, pursuing a BS in biochemistry and a minor in psychology. She enjoys science and reading.

Berg,

Terri

Terri Berg is an undergraduate at UMSL, pursuing a BFA with an emphasis in painting. She plans to pursue an MFA and become a professor of painting and drawing. Terri says that the inspiration for her work comes from “history, life, and the world around her.” She is interested in developing her drawings as preliminary studies for oil paintings. Her work is currently focused on exploring the human condition. She loves learning about art and its history and being inspired by nature.

Black, Gabriella

Gabriella Black is an undergraduate at UMSL, pursuing a BIS. She plans to work as a mortician while pursuing an advanced degree in psychology. Gabriella says that she is “also a wife and stay-at-home mom.” The inspiration for her photography comes from light and shadow, through which she seeks to capture the evocative nature of light and to demonstrate its effect on the subject.

Bogaski, Sarah

Sarah Bogaski is an undergraduate at UMSL, pursuing a BFA in art education. She hopes to teach high school while working on a master’s degree in special education. Sarah’s ultimate goal is to teach at a local children’s hospital. Her linoleum block print was inspired by one of her favorite television series. Sarah’s biggest passion besides painting and photography is printmaking.

Clampitt, Brianna

Brianna Clampitt graduated from UMSL in spring 2013 with a BA in English. She was a contributor to Brain Stew during her time in the Honors College. She enjoys daydreaming, long walks in the woods, and voluntary seclusion. Brianna says that she has “no current career path and several underwhelming job offers.” She also admits to a “committed relationship with the internet.”

Clark, L.M.

L.M. Clark is a former teacher, current copy editor, and perpetual writer. She is pursuing an MA in English to address all three of these loves. She is grateful for her husband and two kids, who provide her with all the love and support she can imagine. Most of her published work has been nonfiction and poetry, but she is testing the waters of fiction with an ever-bolder step.

Dorn, Emily

Emily Dorn is an undergraduate at UMSL, who is studying Japanese. She plans to pursue a career as a translator, an interpreter, or a teacher. Emily is a huge fan of foreign music, especially that of Asian cultures. Her series of drawings focuses on music personalities from Korea. When she is not drawing, she loves learning new choreography but admits “my hip-hop skills are quite lacking.” Emily is also a huge fan of American television series and has watched her favorites at least three times. In addition, she runs a fashion blog with her best friend and says that she also “makes fancy beverages at a local coffee house.”

Duncan, Jessica

Jessica Duncan is an undergraduate at UMSL, pursuing a BA in English. She says that her writing is “usually inspired by random thoughts” that somehow turn into poems. Jessica hopes that her readers can relate.

Eikmann, Elizabeth

Elizabeth Eikmann is an undergraduate at UMSL, pursuing a BA in English with a minor in American studies and a certificate in gender studies. She plans to eventually earn a PhD in American studies and teach at a university. Her essay in Bellerive was produced in an honors class that focused on slave narratives. Elizabeth says that “through the course literature, we were exposed to all kinds of themes and experiences.” She decided on sexual violence because she said it “shocked and saddened me the most.” Elizabeth will be serving as Gender Studies Program Assistant at UMSL during the 2014 spring semester.

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Heilig, Molly

Molly Heilig is an undergraduate at UMSL, majoring in social work. She plans to eventually work in elementary schools. She says that most of her writing is “free writing,” and she tends to write “whenever the mood strikes,” focusing on “dark” pieces that come from the “difficult times” in her life. Molly adds, “I’ve always been a rather morbid person and drawn to things that are dark, even when I was really little. I think there is beauty in shadows, all you have to do is embrace it.” Molly is also an avid reader and enjoys spending time in bookstores and cafés with her husband and friends.

High, Mary

Mary High is an undergraduate at UMSL, pursuing a BA in history. She plans to pursue a master’s degree and start a career as a teacher. She says “my dad fostered a love of both photography and the outdoors.” Besides photography, she also enjoys other outdoor activities such as camping and bicycling.

Houser, Chip

Chip Houser is pursuing an MFA in creative writing at UMSL, focusing on fiction. Before returning to school, he was an architect for twenty years in Italy, Germany, Colorado, and St. Louis. His writing and illustrating, both of which began during his career in architecture, tend to draw heavily from the people and places that he encountered during his work and travel. He spent years illustrating greeting cards, t-shirts, and even a mural. He says “the ink-and-watercolor style” of his submission is “representative” of where life has taken him. “While my illustrations tend to be light and silly, my writing leans in the other direction and sometimes ends on a decidedly dark note.”

Huppert, Ellen

Ellen Huppert is an undergraduate at UMSL, majoring in biology with a minor in French. After obtaining her degree, she plans to get a teaching certification for secondary education. In her free time, Ellen enjoys painting and draws on her personal interests and experiences to create her art.

Imperiale, Sam J.

Sam J. Imperiale is an undergraduate at UMSL, pursuing a BA in English and a creative writing certificate. He will graduate in May of 2014 and plans to earn an MFA in creative writing. Sam works part-time for the School of Professional and Continuing Studies at UMSL. He is a returning student and draws inspiration for his writing from his life experiences. He was a marine on active duty for eight years and a carpenter building new homes in St. Louis for twenty-two years. After losing his carpentry job in the Great Recession of 2008, he decided that earning a degree would open the door to new opportunities. He says that his poetry is the “bittersweet” reflection of the life that he has lived.

Kenney, Lauren

Lauren Kenney graduated from UMSL in May 2013 with a degree in psychology, a minor in English, and a certificate from the Pierre Laclede Honors College. When she is not crushed under the weight of graduate school applications and “real world” responsibilities, Lauren enjoys meditating, reading, writing, and spending time with friends. She hopes to enter a master’s program for industrial-organizational psychology starting in fall 2014.

Killebrew, Karlyne

Karlyne Killebrew is an undergraduate at UMSL, majoring in English. She plans on a career as the editor of a fashion magazine. Karlyne says that the inspiration to write comes from the “little details in life” and that she produces the “largest amount of work” when she is under a deadline. She is passionate about social equality, which greatly shapes her work. She admits that “people-watching” is sort of a hobby for her, where she looks for the “creative ways that people react” to such struggles as heartbreak or illness. Karlyne also likes to learn new skills such as crafts, cooking, or anything “that will afford me the leisure to be lost in thought.” She adds, “Perhaps that’s why I enjoy writing so much.”

Luczak, Benjamin

Benjamin Luczak is an undergraduate at UMSL, seeking a double major in mathematics and English. He hopes to teach high school or college classes in the future. Benjamin says that his “inspiration seems to strike anytime and anywhere, and usually under the influence of a caffeinated beverage” at which point, he scrambles for the nearest scrap of paper before the idea is gone. Benjamin loves pop music, and admits that he needs to read more.

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Matthews, Suzanne

Suzanne Matthews served nine years in the U.S. Air Force before she decided to pursue her education full time. She is currently a senior at UMSL where she spends her days studying English and feeding her addiction to books. Her favorite things in this world are literature, travel, good food, and red wine. After graduation, she plans to attend graduate school and to continue studying English with an emphasis in contemporary American literature.

Miller, Diana

Diana Miller is an undergraduate at UMSL, majoring in interdisciplinary studies with psychology as her primary field. In the future she plans on working with people suffering from PTSD. Diana says that the inspiration for her poetry “comes primarily from nature,” imbuing various forms with human attributes or writing about specific locales. She enjoys photography, drawing, reading, hiking, and white-water rafting. Diana has two terrific grown children to whom, she says, “I owe a debt of gratitude on multiple levels” and a significant other, who is “supportive of all that I do.”

Morris, William

William Morris is an undergraduate at UMSL, pursuing a BA in English and creative writing and honors certificates. William says that he is “inspired by whiskey and David Foster Wallace.”

Myers, Sarah

Sarah Myers is an undergraduate at UMSL, studying social work. She plans to attend graduate school and obtain a master’s degree in counseling. She wants to specialize in a focused field and help others heal from trauma. Photography is her hobby, her favorite pastime, and her passion. As long as there is nature and wildlife, Sarah will have a camera.

Reeder, Ciara

Ciara Reeder is an undergraduate at UMSL, pursuing a bachelor’s of science. She plans on applying to medical school. A two-week trip to Stuttgart, Germany in the spring of 2012 sparked her love of photography. Ciara says, “The vast number of colors, rich history, and unique lifestyle captured my eye everywhere I went. I swear I experienced Germany through my camera lens!” She has started a small business with a few clients, but has plans to expand as more people become interested in her work. Ciara figure skates or plays the violin when she has time. She also writes and has an unpublished novel, about the love affair of a British soldier and an American beauty set during the Revolutionary War.

Rivers, Daphne M.

Daphne M. Rivers is a recent graduate from UMSL. She earned a BA in political science and a professional writing certificate. She hopes to find a writing job while attending graduate school. Daphne says that she “loves to read stories that are melodramatic with elegant prose but are a little bit creepy and provocative.” Her inspiration comes from casual observances of random events and an ongoing crisis of faith. Daphne says that any “rhyming that occurs” in her work was used unintentionally, and she leaves it in places “because of what it adds in terms of mood and pace.” She hopes that people will enjoy her writing and looks forward to the opportunity to share more.

Schuhwerk, Laura

Laura Schuhwerk is currently a graduate student, pursuing an MA in art education. Writing has been her passion since she was young. She loved losing herself in the stories. She recently started working on a children’s novel. In the future, she hopes to work in the field of education where she can share her passion for art and literature.

Smason, Sivya

Sivya Smason is an undergraduate at UMSL, majoring in psychology. She says that most of her ideas come from letting her mind dwell on “a thought longer than it should have been thought about.” Sivya adds that this usually occurs when she is driving or when she is alone, and admits that “it can be kind of dangerous” for her to be alone. She brags that her accomplishments include finishing an entire venti frappachino from a local coffee shop. —101—

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Stoll, Aladeen

Aladeen Stoll is a recent graduate of UMSL who earned a BA in English and a certificate in creative writing. She currently works in the deli department of a highend grocer, which seems to be the lot of a few recently graduated English majors she knows. Aladeen does some of her writing by a window in her studio apartment from which she has a nice view of her neighbor’s flat screen, a fire escape, and a couple of plastic owls that someone generously left out to scare the pigeons. It is very posh.

Vass, Bob

Bob Vass, who earned an MFA in creative writing, is currently furthering his education in the field of mental counseling. He is a retired high school English and History teacher who is presently interning at a state mental hospital—an experience which inspires much of his writing. Being legally blind and a writer, Bob is no stranger to overcoming struggles. He spends much of his time helping others overcome their trials by volunteering with his church and various civic organizations. In his downtime, he likes to hike and listen to audio books.

Vasser, Jason N.

Jason N. Vasser, who earned an MFA in creative writing at UMSL, uses his life experiences in his work. He says that he “writes best when the world is hard.” Jason became interested in poetry while attending Visual Performing Arts at Marquette Middle School. Currently he likes using poetry to help mentor youth in the community. While attending UMSL Jason used his poetry as a model while guest lecturing in cultural anthropology, the Applied Credit Program, and the First Year Experience program. He currently serves as the Coordinator for the Writers in the Schools Program for the English department. Jason ultimately hopes to become a professor, teaching poetry at the collegiate level. His poem “Hunger” is after Tim Seibles’ “Appetite”.

StaffPhotograph

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Left to Right: Andy Henderson, Hope Votaw, Emma Figueroa, Suzanne Matthews, Alex Hale, Karlyne Killebrew, Sam J. Imperiale, Nicole Bonsignore, William Morris, Melissa Somerdin, Aaron C. Clemons, Michael Goers, Colleen O’Neil Milne, Hung Nguyen, Courtney Henrichsen, Brett Lindsay, Gerianne Friedline.

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StaffNotes

Faculty Advisor Note

Fourteen issues of Bellerive have now taken distinctive shape and developed their own identity. I now have had the pleasure of participating in the evolution of ten issues. The process never gets old, and the experience is always both exciting and humbling. From reviewing submissions to offering this published book, Chimera has been a remarkable experience.

The word chimera, teases the senses, and the diverse meanings of the word capture the imagination. Chimera has been used to describe monsters as well as magic, terrors as well as temptations, nightmares as well as wishful thinking. Diverse—even contradictory—as these meanings are, all are linked to conceptions or images created and assembled by the imagination. As is this book.

The title Chimera, then, offers an extraordinary assembly of diverse conceptions and images created in the imaginations of our featured writers and artists and brought together through the dedication of our staff members. These distinctive works visit darkness and light, explore the difference between what is perceived by the senses and what actually exists, and peel the layers that conceal (or construct) conceptions of self and other.

Thank you to all who shared their creative talents with us. Without you this book would not be possible. Without you the imaginative encounters this book invites could not become a reality.

With pleasure and, yes pride, we offer Chimera, the fourteenth issue of Bellerive. Enjoy!

Gerianne Friedline

Layout Committee

Our responsibility was to envision and develop the structure and order of Chimera. The tradition established and innovated in past issues of Bellerive creates a sense of coherence and growth from year to year. For Chimera, we wanted to stay true to the Bellerive tradition while still creating a book that would be unique in its form, tone, and style. The quality of the poetry, prose, and art included in this issue made the task of arrangement especially daunting for us. With so many powerful and diverse works, we strove to present the book in an order that would show the individual beauty of each piece while simultaneously forming a cohesive collection. The great teamwork and careful thought that go into publication make the product that much sweeter with every issue.

Public Relations Committee

As members of the Public Relations Committee, our collective experience was rewarding and eye opening. People often forget that book production extends far beyond simply organizing writing and artwork. The PR committee has the daunting task of making sure everyone knows about the book, wants to buy the book, and decides to submit to the book for next year’s publication. While it wasn’t hard work it could be very tedious. We sent out notification e-mails to our submitters—a very long list of burgeoning artists who trusted us with their brain children. Also, we had to revise and construct biographies for the published submitters, which sometimes meant we had to hunt people down and say, “Tell me your life!” But it was fun. Committee members had the privilege of learning what first inspired people to write, draw, or take photographs, as well as seeing what continues to inspire their artistic journeys. We crawled outside the limiting world of our academic fields as one biology major and two English majors came together to help market our staff’s creation. The simple gratification of producing something both the Honors College and the artists can be proud of makes the adventure worthwhile.

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Editing Committee

To the aspiring Bellerive submitter,

When you read this year’s sensational edition of Bellerive and become entranced with the perfectly placed words and symbolism in the poetry, prose, and short stories, you will inevitably ponder how impressively accurate and precise every word is in the issue. Naturally, you’ll wonder if these talented submitters are free from all grammatical sin. No need to be intimidated or shy to submit your work to this prestigious publication. Have no fear—the editors will be here.

Yes, we editors are the unsung heroes of Bellerive. We wear our capes to protect and serve all of our talented submitters with a quiet pride, never demanding any recognition. So, whether we are rescuing a fragmented sentence, resuscitating an unfinished theme, or merely deciding to emphatically “throw an M-dash” in one of the many locations we were seduced to place one—we will be here, valiantly defending your work with our red writing swords as your ever-faithful servants.

So we implore you to capture special moments in pictures, or allow them to live eternally through your words. Submit to Bellerive without hesitation. You will be saved from scrutiny, and no egg will need to be embarrassingly wiped from your face, for we will work tirelessly to ensure your published works will be as immaculate as the first fallen snow.

Faithfully yours,

The fall of 2013 Editing Committee

Art Committee

Despite being enemies last year, Photoshop and the Art Committee have decided to call a truce. We came into this year knowing how mean Photoshop could be and opted to rise above its malevolence and work together to create an awesome issue of Bellerive. Since we were no longer arguing with the software, we were able to sift through the art selections and feel incredibly inferior to the amazing artists that submitted their work. Without such remarkable submissions, we would not have been able to produce an issue like Chimera. Art has brought us cynical honors students together so that we can say we are honored to have been a part of Chimera and proud of all the hard work we put into maintaining Bellerive’s excellence.

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