Bellerive, Issue 5: In Defense of Angels

/n old daJS there were angels who came and took. men b!:I the hand and led them awa3 from the cit!:/ of destruction. We see no wh ite-winged angels now. [5ut Jet men are led awa!:I from threaten ing destruction: a hand is put into theirs1 which leads t hem forth gentf.!J towards a calm and bright Ian~ so that the!:/ look no more backward and the hand ma!:/ be a little child 1 s.

- G eorge E_liot

Acknowledgments

Editors

Olivia Ay es

Christy Rudloff

Matthew R. Trost

Editing Committee

Matthew R. Trost, chair

Nathan Hunton

Elizabeth Lee

Jason Martin

Jeanie Me yer

Lisa Vrabel

Missy Yearian

Alison Ziedler

Art Committee

Christy Rudloff, chair

Kurt Helmer

Layout Committee

Olivia Ayes , chair

Shannon Pendleton

PublicihJ Committee

Kate Drolet, chair

Phil Strangman

Biographie s/Communications

Fa culty Ad v isor

Brandon Demp se: ·

Nanc y Gle aso n

W.

Julie

Heather

W.

Julie

Geri

Seth

W. William

Geri

IE_ditors ' Notes

Olivia:

It has been a phenomenal experience working on Bellerive. The coming together of brilliant minds, how ever time-consuming and (sometimes) dissonant, has made the experience much more fulfilling and memorable I will take the memories and experience from these years on my literary quest, knowing that w herever I end up, Bellerive was my first induction. I give thanks to Matt and Christy and everyone in the class for all the hard work. Each of your roles was necessary and irreplaceable for the success of this literary publication. And to N ancy, you have been our" Angel" (haha), and I thank you for your unbelievable support. And to the future editors, have as much fun with creating the next issue as I did, for there will be nothing like this experience again.

Christy:

As art editor, I had a particular vision for this Bellerive . I wanted its appearance and artistic content to stand out among all the previous issues. Through much time and effort, I believe we have accomplished something extraordinary. I'd like to thank Nancy for giving me this opportunity to be involved in this publication, my co-editors Olivia and Matt for their support throughout the process, Sally Troung for her assistance in the creation of the cover, and m y committee members Kurt and Phil. .. you are gods among men.

By the time Bellerive: In Defense of Angels is released I will have graduated from UMSL and moved on to the next stage of my life . I will never forget this amazing experience. Thank you.

Matt:

We come like convalescents into real light as we first unlock our senses to the arts: in our minds it bums like napalm on our rooftops and charges our infants to scream and lust for the first time. It melts our earplugs, chisels our teeth to razor points . And so my job as editor has never been to lay harness to its neck or to maim its spirits - only to frame it, perhaps dust its gloss occasionally. May the first moment you, reader, risk to gaze too close at it (as I have done) be the moment its fury escapes the dimensions we've placed on it, leaping out onto your brain like a fountain of flaming semen, branding you to the adoration of it forever.

IAdvisor's Note

Each year we begin Bell eri ve with notes from me as faculty advisor of the publication. This year, like the previous ones, I am delighted to write a few words about this issue, In Defens e of Angel s. Rather than writing about the publication, however, I would like to share a few thoughts about the talented people who put this work into print.

First of all, I would like to thank all of the students, faculty and staff who submitted works of fiction, poetry, art and photography for our student commit- tee and class to consider. I urge those who had works selected, as well as those who didn't, to continue to offer your creative works for possible publication. Each year we collect works for the upcoming issue during the winter semester; this year will be no exception. I am grateful to those who trust us with so many wonder- ful artistic creations.

Secondly, I would like to thank the entire Bellerive class for the privilege to assist with its work. I wish each student in the class and all of you reading this publication could experience the process from my perspective. I am constantly surprised and pleased by the way students express their opinions freely, but in the end when decisions have to be made, set aside personal preferences and con- sider the views of others and the audience of our publication. In Defense of Angels reflects the efforts of my students to listen, to consider and to reach a consensus on all aspects of its production. I don't think the members of the class realize just how talented they have become in the selection, editing and creative processes that are necessary to produce a book.

Lastly, I must mention our three editors for this issue. Christy Rudloff, our art editor, graduated in December, and her place on the staff will be difficult to fill . Serving as editor for two years, Christy prepared and edited the art and photography with a sense of humor and a strong commitment to quality. Matt Trost chaired the Editing Committee and did so with amazing ability and patience. We were lucky to have such a gifted writer and editor for this issue. Lastly, Olivia Ayes served as the layout editor, and this marked her third year as a member of the editing team for Bell eriv e, a new record for the Honors College. She ha s given a great deal to the tradition of thi s publication, and I w ill miss hav- ing s uch a re liabl e and gifted layout editor. For three yea r s, Olivia ha s man a ge d to m eet d eadlin es with a ge ntle s pirit and d e termin a ti on. l w ish th a t l co uld ela b- orate mo re on my oth e r tw e lv e s tu de nts' contri b uti on s to thi s publica tion, but because of space a nd tim e, l ca nn ot. Pl ease ta ke a loo k a t th e li s t o f those w ho worke d ha rd to pro du ce In Defe nse of !\11 gc ls, a nd jo in me in ce le bra tin g its arrival and the effo rts of o ur h o nors st u dent s a nd the contr ib ut o rs to thi s issue of Bell eri ve.

Nancy Gl easo n

Moon Travel

Ever landed somewhere new

And just feel like it's home

Some long-lost mythic you

That makes you say, "Yeah, I like it here, fits snug."

When city street strolling

Catching grandma's laundry

Dancing in a breeze from Street signs and family

Thanksgiving wafting from Mid-town restaurant chimneys

And street lids puffing cotton balls

Like papa's cherry oak pipe

On your way to those

Pantheons resting across

Reflecting basins sitting calm

Like Nordic legends

Halls of paradise towering straight

Up like Babel

With a blinking red Illuminati eye

Linked by water

Rivers of life

Refreshing great-grandfather whistling

Bronze hymns upon still

Rocking chair as you

Shuffle the wheat fields

Of ebony memory

Where big brother fallen football hero

Stands forever a man

Re membered though lost Ii ke

Summer day s of baseball

From dawn to th e settling blanket of night

Where no all ey sca res you

Every co rner unfold s those sec re t spots

Like games of hidd en ba se and s pace man

Where moon trave l is sa fe

Because you ne ver rea lly lea ve home

W William iJeltao

Secretly, for nearly fo~r we_eks, the _professo_r has been watchin but now that the first substantia~ chills of wmter are the air and the J 1 the girl, two sisters have begun to play mdoors and out of sight with increas · anct her cy, he can only feel, much like the time following his first drink of liq mg frequen. years ago, that a bright and alluring p eriod of his life has abruptly ce~:~s~rna_ny The pitiless memories of the gr~ater life ~ow are o~y t_o be dulled away b : 1st. are his chief after-school hobbies: dustmg, growmg 111, and acquiesc· Y h~t urges to masturbate (all of which require tissue paper, he thinks to mi~ga to his ment). The tissues, for which he thinks his bathrooms and bedrooms are _rnudse- ·11 b h' d · h m es- perate want, w1 so~n e 1s excu~e to . nve to t e _grocery store, where he Will also purchase replenishments for his refngerator, which shorted out in last night's storm

He remembers the way the girl jumped about in her yard prior to those first thunderous precursors, leading her sisters down the granite porch steps and across the crabgrass front yard as the horizon turned gray. With a twist of her neck, the girl's brown hair swished and swayed about, a fickle comma in the middle of some erotic passage. The rain came prematurely, and so the parents of the girl rounded the sisters into the foyer of their house across the street, and thengloatingly, he thought-turned off their living room lights so the girls could properly watch the lightning. This melodramatic storm, like every other weather change during this repulsive month (November), symbolized to the professor a power greater than his own, one that could unseat even his grandest stubbornness or her wildest anarchy. The girl's goddess-like power to bestow upon middle-age mortals like him the miracle of an erection has made early autumn a seas?n. of great, if short and messy, joy; but now with the random cumulonimbi dnfttn~ toward St. Louis like war blimps, he begins to assume that his plight, one ?~rn;e his cruel, cruel testicles, is not so much a battle of personal willpower than it 15 beginning of combat between him and God. urnes

She never brings toys with her to play- for that the professor preso fan· she is too old, nearing eleven at least, an age at which, though she sho'_"'~y-col· tastic physical developments must be beginning to realize the effects brig The . ' ·1· to boys. ored plastic and words like "B'Gosh" have unto her marketabi ity ly accou· · I' · b the on f r gu s sisters, and more importantly their loyalty to her, seem to e 1 a1<e up 0 trements to an otherwise stark play-arena· the sisters' screams could ntha11 just c1 h · ther rke a symp ony of kazoos . Meanwhile, the girl, perhaps a leader ra f gaJ11e 5 1 pl aymate, always seems quite knowledgeable about the nuancest ~he profes:~: Rin g- Around-the-Rosy, Tag, and Hide-and-Go-Seek, so deft th\tietieS of tr eJ1t ass u~ es he him se lf, after nearly two decades of analyzing the SU these rect1:r 5 of and irony in M d f' . h' . Have erie " I O errn st 1chon must be missing somet mg. h aps as tc1f" p ay · ' er , 11 s I -sess ions ac tu a ll y been s mall e xamples of a larger sy stem, _P perate 1 esson.s betw b dd ' which o ee n u 1n g me mbe rs of female kind, le ssons 7 contras t to hi s th . . I ·niness ' e grotesqu e' s, honest ye t anta goni s tic 101

If so, the professor thinks grimly, the lesso n is li kely to say one thin g: Be carefree now and forevermore! You, pench-f11 zz prin cess, nre too yo1111 g for th e ted i11111 of the adult world!

But no matter, he thinks-the girl is a tran s ient thin g, both in th e immediate and in the symbolic, capital-G sense: she will grow old (un attrac tive), or 1 will die beforehand. That I secretly want to have sexual intercourse with her w ill not change her happiness-go-luckiness, and conversely her inherent nature w ill not change my private desire for her flesh. You, girl, are worth very little to me, in any case only as a temporary stimulant for a particularly sensitive section of my anatomy, and so the deepest hold on me you can or will ever achieve is one in the subconscious id-negligible, really, when you consider my tolerable home, my sufficient clothes, my fine book collection

Nevertheless the professor is slowly coming to the realization that it is not the girl herself who is symbolic, not at all, not in any sense, but that the situation is fraught with imposing symbolism. His mother, father, and all but one cousin are dead, and he's not had children (to fulfill what he thinks is a child's main duty to his or her parents: to have pity). Not only does he quietly disgust himself with what is obviously his lack of any lasting interpersonal success, he also, ironically, thinks himself into so many circles over the girl that he has come to several rather Freudian conclusions- one of which says that his failure to yet breed, as should be a goal of any self-respecting mammal, stirs in him a reckless desire to sexually aggress she who is the helpless. It is all, in his mind, some sort of convoluted reverse-Electra-complex, worsened by the fact that he loathes visiting doctors, psychiatric or not, and that he, imprisoned by the state laws against statutory rape and engaging-in-harmful-behavior-with-a-minor (laws: originally the tools of God!), can't seem to give up his thirty-or-so remaining years to a prison sentence. Nevertheless he clenches his jaw, summons into his heart and mind a great dose of will, and resolves to forego any further thought on the matter. Instead he will direct his energy toward the hasty acquisition of binoculars .

He stands before a small, thrifty shelf of plastic dinnerware, pretending to compare the prices of sets of bowls. His left forearm hovers indecisively at his gut. Hanging from his right arm is a red plastic basket in which he has collected tissue paper (2 bxs), hamburger meat (1 pkg), American cheese (2 pkgs), malt liquor (to grd frsh. cmp. pprs.), and bread (1 loaf) all of which cause him to doubt his ever being an adept, or at least scrupulous intellectual, having often railed against laziness and intemperance to his colleagues in the English department. He glances over his shoulder periodically, never quite finding the perfect moment at which to capitalize. If she, the mother, were to see him eyeing her daughter, he assumes that to follow would be two scenarios: the mother would recognize him as the goofy neighbor playing around at the community grocery store; or, she'd recognize him as an ivory-skinned lecher with a covetous palm directed at her daughter's supple, supple thigh.

. tupid or aro used to rea lize the irony of this situati . He is not too s . . on, in fa . . ·t even fuels hi s desire . Perhaps God, that gruff for ct he appr.ec1athes it, t ated thi s situ ation for the professo r's torment. It cannernan of ')' thtng as ere l . j i ot be a e.vei ' h ery reason for going on t 11s erranc nas been placed taunti

·stakethatt e v ' . fl . f · ngly

1111 · ts section like food m the re ec hon o an empty spoon Th in the frozen mea . e pro- . , t top after the supermarket will be the Wal-Mart Supercenter d fessor s nex s th f. . . 0wn ,J l--ere he intends to purchase e mest m v1s1on enhancement· heh the roau, w • . . , as . tt ,J down on a torn-out sheet of notebook paper his estimates on the probabl JO eu . h " b' " d 1 e distances from which he will be observmg t e ro m, an pans to ask an atten- dant exactly the perfect piece with which to view this range.

There is, now, the temptation to step closer to the girl. She is prodding with her forefinger the plastic covering over a package of pork chops while her mother is occupied with the cheap take-to-school packs with the tiny slices of lunchmeats and crackers, and will occasionally glance at the lobster tank. The girl's hair is brown, hanging over the shoulders of her puffy, lime-green winter coat, which she has unzipped to reveal an equally lime-green t-shirt, on which he can make out the embroidered figure of Winnie the Pooh. She is clad in blue jeans and white tennis shoes, one untied, prompting in him all sorts of Nabokovian puns at which any of his colleagues might roll their eyes knowingly. Some day he will write a short story about this scene, publish it pseudonymously in the less- er of the university's two literary magazines, Bonterre, edited by undergraduates. He will, of course, write in a few chops at his colleagues, who will vaguely recog· nize the references but fail to grasp who could've known about the liaison between Dr. Wales the grammatician and Stephan Stein the imagist poet. . What amazes him is that even an inefficient convoluted literary nund such as his cannot distract itself from what has bec~me a demanding erection. Not even the lobster tank could suppress this one.

J H d

l'k sh1elc1

e oes not step, but strides toward the girl basket hung 1 e a over his crotch d b d ' d' to con1· . , an en s over the t-bone steaks once again preten ing . th pare prices H h . ' t hing e . . · e peers at er discreetly. She is still fingering a steak, wa c ees impression in th 1 t' Hes below h' e meat made by her finger rise up again into the pas ic. 35011, tm a frost-c d 'b . . . f me re drawn · . overe n section on which the girl has, or so a crude picture of a cow t· ~1li

"It' · , r,, s gorgeou · ,, "but I n1 a yo u' ve f s, man artiste, the professor says to her, ,, Just orgotten to sig . · . know · how fa r can h' h n your work. Plagiarism is everywhere you

Sh la ig -sc hool-level understanding of French take a man? J ,r~1,1nd h. .. e oo ks reco . .h. J ot unut 1rn. Her ch . k ' gnizes 1m coolly as her neighbor, but uo es n ee s are ros . h h . Ill He po · t Ywit t e cold of the mea t fr eeze rs. . r 1,ut ~•( f in s to her ct · ·f I J ··1w1n~, '' orgot to sign ·t,, h ra wmg and grins. "lt' s a bea ut! u ut c . "I~it. I' e sa y , "All . . . 1t' sh.:•

"It' s gon s. a rti sts sign th e ir work, so that no 01

"B na melt wh en , b ,, ut still n-. .,i someo ne uy s 1t anyway. ' • 11 Yei ea r c' t , " , es tres cxce l/c11tc. Humor me.

The girl starts to step toward her drawing, and, more importantly, toward him, but before she breaches the three-foot mark the mother intercedes and says, "Can I help you?" She has her daughter's brown hair, but not as long, and high- lighted in key places.

The professor smiles. "I was just admiring your daughter's drawing here. I'd been looking at buying some new plates, noticed the two of you as my neigh- bors across the street, and fancied encountering you here at the store by coincidence. May I just say that in the summer it's a joy to hear the sounds of children playing in the yards? It adds life to an otherwise sterile suburban neighborhood."

She looks at him cautiously, says, "I'm sure we've introduced, but I'm having a hard time remembering your name."

The mother does not look literary, so he cannot resist: "H. H. Jordan. But all of my students call me 'Hummer'. I teach English literary expository writing."

She nods and introduces herself as Judy Bradshaw, a marketing director for a local cafeteria chain.

"Pleased to meet you, Judy," the professor says. He carefully switches the basket to his opposite arm and extends a hand, which she shakes lightly. He throws her a hint: "I catch them playing every evening when I drive home from work-your daughters, I mean. They' re beautiful."

The mother follows on cue, touching her daughter's shoulder. "This is Elise." Elise looks down an aisle and rolls her eyes.

"Hello, Elise," says the professor. He decides that, even given his strong will towards the girl, he also, really, wouldn't mind a night with the mother, not one bit. He looks at Elise. "And where are your sisters this early evening?"

The mother answers, "They're at home with Noah."

"Noah?"

"Their father," she says. "My husband." And the professor thinks: Historically, when ever has that mattered?

"I see," he says. "Well I shouldn't be keeping you any longer, should I? I myself must decide whether to start working through paper proposals when I get home, or to procrastinate until tomorrow instead. What day of the week is it?"

"It's Wednesday."

"Ah,"

h e says. "Hump-day."

The professor sees that the mother's reflexive grin surprises even her. A chuckle, m aybe, would have escaped, had they been alone. She may not be sure how exact ly to inte rpret th e professor: walking idiosyncrasy or just absent-minded orator? "Y es," s he asserts.

But th e professor remains cool; he know s that he is too much a contrived person to be e ith er. "I oug ht to be going, th en ," he says, and looks at Elise, " so n11 revoir." She do es no t rea ct. Th e n, ba c k at th e moth e r: "lf we happe n to mi ss each other, I wi s h you a whol eso me, ha ppy holid a y seas on."

"And you to o," s he sa ys, turn s a woy and lea ds her doughtcr off.

Encountering young Elise at the supermarket has prompted the t t Kayla Bee's Candies, a small confectionary wedged between thProfessor to s op a - ff h b 1 d H e fitn center and the DMV in the plaza o t e ou evar _- e wants to purchase ess et jellybeans (popcorn, blue-raspberry, and ginger flavored), foil-w gour~ocolates, and a series of gl~ss containers in w~ich to store th~m, for the ::t~ed guests, hypothetically. 1:fe himself hates the th1:1-gs, both candies and guests if being an aficionado of milder flavors (those certainly no more tart than grap ' e those no more free-willed than a well-tipped escort), but suddenly his home~ Jellly, h . H" d . 1 s ack of treats has begun to en:barrass im. is rmn circ es around any number of memories dug up from his personal catalogue of shame.

For the professor, Halloween night had begun with boiled noodles, cold Ragu, and a yellow coffee mug filled with, well, something above forty percent. He ' d planned to spend his evening flipping through a photo album from his parents' estate, to watch the hallowed saints of his own life pass by in unchangeable still frames. This exercise had pervaded most of his holidays. Though he did not lament the past or permit nostalgia, he flipped on anyway to remind himself that, yes, there is a God, and yes, He hates you, but most importantly, though there is a God, His real name (unutterable?-ha!) is Irony and He's got one thumb on His Nose and another on top of your little head, grinding you into dust whether or not you believe in an afterlife -which, Ironically, there isn't. In short, the professor was planning to mope and flip pages and drink-think: thoughts like, Much the way the holocausts of Hiroshima and Nagasaki marked the end of Modernism, the scorching of my liver and the pickling of my brain mark the end of my depression.

With a glass of something-anything above forty percent-in his hand, he could become his own predestined, melancholy genius. (Such was how li e would describe himself within the silken, unfastened reality of drunkenness.) But he had no idea that the persistent ringing of his doorbell- seven times-would or could distract him, let alone mark the decisive end of his amour propre.

The professor ambled to the door and found three trick-or-treaters sta~ding on his porch. The forerunner, the oldest, who he would later discover as Ehse, was dressed as a ghost, her costume fashioned out of a simple white bed sheet. The yo ungest was a clown, and the middle had dressed as a patchy cow-one lacking u dders, he was prone to notice The trio cried "Trick or treat!" . · ' · id v0u

Imm edia tely the professor said, "Would it be a trick or a treat tf I to ' that th ere is no God?"

The gir ls h ad n't understood him-a small miracle, really. 1 '' I "O ·

r, m any case, happy Halloween" was the professors ie as s um e you ' h f ' " re er e or som e ca ndy or the like. "

Ca n.dy!" th ey· sa ng .

"A , .

a v .t bl ren t we the e uphoric bun ch," sa id th e professor, and addel 'fo

en a e houseful f t · , h f ct ones

dit11

· g H . 0 rea ts; 1t s ju s t a m a tter of finding t e per e .

k, roo , · r -iem to w ait, spun around and found some tn d his b'1

e rnotioned fo tl . th' g 111 ht

m s wooden hutch . He returned to the door keeping one ha nd behtn

"What is it?" asked the oldest.

"Keeping with tradition, I require a jo ke, firs t ."

"Why didn't the skeleton cross the ro a d ?"

"I don't know," he said . "Go on ."

"Because he didn't have any guts! " And a ll three g irl s fo rced la u gh te r that echoed down the street. If he didn't quell th e m now , he'd h a ve to ge t u p fr o m his chair perhaps six more times tonight.

"Very, very clever," he said, and thrust hi s hand a t th e m . In hi s p a lm w as a porcelain ashtray filled with swirled peppermints. H e him se lf didn't s m o ke, but had originally kept the ashtray for the sake of once-addicte d r e la tiv es. H e co ul d not remember what had motivated him to buy or place th e p e ppe rmints in th e basin. "Take one."

But as the oldest reached for her piece, he subtly withdre w th e tray. "You look to be in, what, fifth grade?"

She nodded. Her arm remained suspended, still reaching for the candy (which, the professor saw, had vastly disappointed the siblings). Her fingernails sparkled white with glitter-gloss.

"I bet you can't tell me the reason we celebrate Halloween," he said. "Why?"

"I'm curious if you know."

"What do I get if I tell you?"

"Candy, and a promise."

"What kind of promise?"

"That your intellectual future will never be in doubt. That there is a life of study and literary accomplishment ahead of you."

"You sound smart."

"I'm learned, not solitarily intelligent," he corrected. "We must differen- tiate between knowledge and talent, regretfully."

"I only said you sounded smart."

After a moment: "Aren't you going to answer my question?"

"About Halloween?" she asked.

. He peered through the eyeholes in her bed sheet and s_aw ?row;,1 eye;, rmged with black paint, squinting skeptically, but clear and twmklmg. That s the one," he said.

"I don't know," she said. "I thought it was some holiday invented to give kids presents. Kinda like Christmas." . .

"Why, you're exactly right," he said. He placed two nunts ~n h~r o~- stretched palm. He allowed his forefinger to graze her wrist as he did this, s e bagged the candy without noticing. She thanked him. . tu f Af , · d was awash m a mix re o ter closing the door, the professors min 11 d t" al· Her complete confusing feelings - though in retrospect they were ad hri en ihc his closet found · ke he z· fi He roote t oug ' ignorance ma s r extremely appea mg or sex . 1 d his two bed there an unused white bed-sheet, wrapped it voluptuous y aroun pillows, and buried his face into its cottony bosom.

er the da y which marks the beginning of th

On Sunda y mor~ln'?' gs the professor' s door. He , ha ving been a~ ,seek 0 nct ber the gir rm k d hirt d •va en d week in Decem ' ers w ea ring his v -nec e r s an nav y-blue bo e by the doorbell, ans~d down his thighs. Elise, on the other hanct is " ' Xer h . h hang mi w ay 1 ti h db d ' •v eann shorts, w IC 1 . waist-lencrth jacket, an e as c ea an , li p-gloss t g pink toda y, cop10us Y· a t, , ennis shoes. tr •n himself from arbitraril y thanking God. "Why hell ,,

He must res a1 ' .o, he says .

"Why hello " she repeats.

I I h 1 ?"

"Might I be of some e p to you.

"Yes." · h I d th t?"

A moment passes. "And how m1g t o a .

"I have a school project." . . 1 ,,

"I'm anxious to hear the topic-but come m, come m.

He steps aside and allows her to proceed into the open fo f er. "In the living room, please," he instructs her as he shuts the door, and ~otions to the lo ve seat with the pink and light green flower upholstery. Her clothing matches it. He is standing still in the foyer, afraid, however belatedly came the thought, to reveal himself. "I'm hardly prepared for a visitor today. At first I thought it was the deliveryman. The university is always sending me important express mail over the weekends," he lies.

"Not that I don't enjoy the work, even though it is the Lord ' s prescribed day for rest." Unconsciously, he sneers at the ceiling. "But in a package' s stead, I have to say that this visit is quite charming." He pauses thoughtfull y " But again, I wish I were prepared."

"You've got bed-head," she says.

"Does she imply that I should make n1yself more presentable?"

She says, "If I were a lonely old man, I'd do my hair every morning. You know, m case a lady visits."

He is speechless. What follows her comment is an impetuous jog into his bedroom to_gather clothes in which to change. He shouts to her. "I'll just take a rnmute to tidy up, if you have the time." He has no choice He cannot leave a st atement such as hers unanswered. He either has too much. or too little pride. ~he see~s cool enough about it. "Mm-hmm."

the Ii JuS t ?omg to rinse off in the shower," he calls. He thinks he mi ght open qu~'rMcab1hnet and offer her a drink afterward. m- mm."

The professo t k h. ? Doe s sht' know? Perha h , r a es is shower cold. Is she leading him on. arenf must not kno!s e_ s ~enerally absent-minded about things like this . Her TNoc1li" character is s e is ere, and he cannot allow them to know: this shad y. in g ,1 . a man to Watch Th 'd rs sin g ' r song. Similar to th · e professor is nervous. He cons1 e . 111c1 ~e~ a fool of himself eBways of dancing, a woman seems to like it when a ma. 1 ~11,rt'~~- Unf t · ut she is e to !I r 1 or unately he l k no woman, only a girl; she is someon . iudr, · ac s gross coordination skills, adeptness at kickball inc

After the shower he stares at the mirror. No time to shave-imagine the embarrassment of a cut! Dry the hair, part it left, but comb the back down, and squeeze those few front strands into clum_ps together, so they ha~g down the forehead , creating that youthful look. Tuck m the button-down shirt; see about getting the belt to that third notch. All very simple really. Pretend you're going to prom: suspender belts (check), brown sports coat (check), diamond-patterned socks (check). All, but the deodorant! Reach up the shirt with it, careful not to stretch the fabric-wipe, wipe- and look: ravishing- or, rather, handsome. Remember the masculinity.

He emerges into the living room smiling, rather calm considering everything. On his forehead is a thin, barely perceptible sheen of moisture, which might be sweat or the humidity of the bathroom. Elise, for the duration, has found entertainment underneath the fingernail of her left pinky. She has not unbundled: apparently she is not planning on staying long. But still: imagine! She has waited lzere in his house while he showered.

"How do I look?" he wagers.

She turns to him as he parades past. "Strict," she answers.

"I see."

She tells him to sit down. Clearly, she instinctively knows he will obey her, or at least fail to protest; she must be used to submissive boys. But he was going to sit down anyway. Wasn't he? Distantly, he is ashamed.

"By the way," he says, settling into the couch opposite hers, "shouldn't you be at church?"

"Wh ?"y.

"To which religion do you ascribe?"

"I'm a Catholic."

"Have you skipped Mass?"

"No ."

"You' re missing nine o'clock service right now. Everyone seems to go to nine o'clock service."

"Maybe I went earlier."

"Maybe you did."

"Or maybe I'll go later. Me and my family go to twelv e o'clock."

"So you' re a good girl," he offers.

"That' s not what my parents say," she admits "I ne ve r want to gD t0 churc h ."

"Why not?"

"It' s borit1g ."

"f s n' t sc h oo l a lso boring?"

"Sc hool' s boring too," s he sa y A, "but C od doe s n' t giv e ~)U~ grad es .:'

"A more d e vout Ca tholi c might Ji sa gn•c ." He i's intHna te with the process of flunking from God' s sc hool, fa miliar with th e p a rti c ul a r no ise a nd tas te of it; it sounds like som ething s wa llow e J , with lim e a nd s ug a r.

one."

. h ,, she sa ys, but insis ts, "bu t I'm n ot being rn.

" I don' t like churc ' ean to a . ,, ny.

t Catholic might disagree .

" A more devou t ? "

" have I ever been mean o .

Who f lings when you called me a lonely old man ,,

"You hurt my ee " .

"I never call ed you that.

"You implied it."

"I don't know what that is," she says.

"What what is?"

1. d ,,,

"It means you suggested something without reall y sa ying it. " 'tht"

"'Imp 1e . . . .

"I didn't 'suggest a •

"Wait-what didn't you suggest?"

"That you're old and lonely."

Oh. "Thank you, then," he says.

"Don't thank me. You're smart enough to know it yourself." He cannot admit to this.

"But what's 'devout' mean?" she asks.

"It's just another word for a person who's weak and desperate."

"What's being Catholic got to do with that?"

"You don't read much, do you?"

"That's why I'm asking you for help," she says.

"And help is a thing I'm glad to do," he says.

"But don't you need to be in church?"

"God told me I didn't have to go."

"R 11 ?" ea y.

"T 1 " ru y.

"You're lucky, I guess."

The professor leans forward, crosses his legs, and slips his hands between his overlapped knees. "I know it," he says. "I know I'm lucky." He clears his thr "N t oat, ready now to move on; he cannot maintain the charade any longer. . 0 th at we've once strayed too far from the topic, but let's focus on your not having read any books."

"Let's."

:/irstly, you must explain your project."

"V;'e're reading A Light in the Forest. It's about an Indian."

I m familiar with it " the\'

"~ . ~ w ; . . e says we have to 'find a symbol and write one page about use it m the story ' It' ,,

" An . · s pretty tough for grade school, huh? he5 froll1 his seat d Yf:hing but elementary. But I think I can assist you." He Ifurthce shelves an mds hi D · · . • · o f in his stud H 5 icti_onary of Philosophy and Relzgzon from one th storage 0 docu.mentfi·k e _on occasion uses it as bathroom reading, and for ;or u¢ th~ word 'li oht' ethhis home's utility bills "I'd suspect that since the au !J1b01, cot rect?" b m e title of the work, th~n 'light' must be an important sy

She agrees uncert a in ly.

He sits down next to her and flips elaborately thro u g h th e book " Le t us see . Light...yes, right here. Light, it says, histori ca ll y, has been conside re d bo th scientific and Divine illumination - in o ther words, as truth ," he says . "So yo u could read the book and look for an y p assage wh ere th e protago ni s t finds o ut th e truth, and then write your paper on how he has seen th e ' light. "'

"Okay."

"You've heard the 'I saw the light' before?"

"They say it on TV."

The professor says, "Now you know that there's a whol e histor y be hind it."

"It was on a weight-loss commercial."

"I'm not surprised," he says. "But enough nonsense. Why don't yo u tak e this book home with you, in case you need it for anything."

She thanks him and receives the book.

The professor begins to think, that if he were ten years younger, twenty pounds lighter, blessed with another half-a-head of hair, living in an apartment or city loft removed from this christened suburban hell, and if the girl were six years older, old enough to escape peremptory statutory rape under the state of Missouri's laws, which the professor has spent no small amount of time researching, and if her immaculate parents weren't around, he might have a chance. In this burdened lost land, this white-shingled Dis; he is the mangy forlorn packless alley mutt doomed to charge for bitches eternally never in heat. This girl, this Elise herself is an existential question: the professor's time is running out and he is afraid it will be all over soon the way it came for his mother and father (emphysema, heart attack) and he is not sure at all what "time" is except the invention of God, that blank medium onto which so many millions of legions of self-conscious mortals have spewed their righteous paints, and so he wonders will there ever again be a time when his timing is right?

He never used to think about lifting weights. He was a University Man. His mind was strong and conductive and bright and precious but he found out that copper turns green in the weather, green for the bursting pleasures of youth. Back before then, he had aspired toward doctoral studies. He had casually worn brown in those days and had never thought of walking shit.

There was a woman, a fellow adjunct instructor and student of American literature, named Lynne, a petite blonde-and-rosy doll-like creature with whom he shared his lunch breaks, some fifteen years ago. They had talked about Richard Ford, the Call of Communism in Eastern Europe, and debated as to whether the Modernists were more pertinent today than were the meta-fiction and d~constructionist contemporary authors. They were happy and the professor was kmd to her even though he liked conversation with his students better. He liked L1nne because she argued with him, but his feelings halted altogether when he realized she wasn't curious about him just enamored, and didn't think he was as brilliant as he did. '

. love with him-he could tell that. He could f 1 he was m ee th But 5 nded their dialogues, the way no one interrupted e aura bbl that surrou • . th , the bu e f world of the lunchroom disappeared ma wave f 1 em, the wa y tl1e Styro oamhad to have known it. They saw the couple's eyesol ikterature tl Everyone • T 1 f· 0c ed · 1eory , d saw the fragility of 1t. o eave a mgerprint would h into other s an 1.k d ave t · one an b he had liked her, or at least 1 e sharpening his n...e aint- d ·t So may e " 1 ntal ed e 1 · st her. She was smart, and for that he also wanted her sexually, but h ges again h d di'd not want to use her for that. e Was kind to er an She was always smoking, or on her way out to buy cigarettes. l-I ct· h f 1 "Se ,, h , e idn't l.k t nding next to her so muc or or so ong. an, s e d say in th 1 e s a ' at coy voice of hers ...

"Not now," he'd s~y. This_ w~s how he'd_ always flirted .. He would be reading Hemingway. He hked the 1nd1fference of 1t, the raw certainty and saf of it. But she always coerced him onto those colorless university verandas. ety

One day she said, "I wonder if you wouldn't mind putting this cigarett d ?" e out for me when I'm one.

"What? Why? Do it yourself," he said.

"On my arm, I mean."

"What?"

"When I'm down to the filter, I want you to put this cigarette out on my arm. I don't know if I can do it myself, so I want you to."

"I think you've had too much espresso. Or not enough."

"Why must everything for you be so goddamn chemical?"

"Sorry," he said.

She dragged, and added, voice heady with smoke, "You' re rather taciturn for a student of dialogues, aren't you?" The cigarette embers flared as a gust of wind channeled underneath the awning of the department center. "For the hell of it I've been reading Pavlov. Spence copied it for me." She was referring to ?r. Spencer, lecturer in the psychology department with whom she'd been spendmg more time lately, a development which had, lately, made him jealous. Aburn seems fitting. I'm trying to develop a conditioned response."

5 h ht exa • A response to what, exactly? Women, women, women, he t oug ·des dl 1 • • hable pn · perate y, a ways hvmg through theu codes, lessons, and unquenc rosis o·d h 1· me neu 1

e even need to ask? It was probably some dire eventua ity, 5 ~ phys· ?£ hers: one wit~ an end so personally horrifying it paled in comp~n~o;e::taring ical pam. Sometimes when he closed his eyes he opened them to fin at him. , idea

"C f · • y have an) .· ,t o fee itself, by the way " she said "isn't addictive. ou tl1e tin 1e· how ' ' · l even many cups- and how fast-you'd have to drink to hg 1t up spark in the nucleus accumbens?"

The professor shrugged his shoulders and shut his eyes. w _ and to~-e h She laughed nervously-at what the professor did not kn°,,e'- are 111 ~, ,, t e 1 t d · / ? 01110 · • I 11' '

dd .as rag off her cigarette "I 1nean, for Christ's sake, Ptt: r d and r01 " · a icf " Sh · · · · un • h iv~. e smiled and let the cigarette butt drop to the gro int e wmd.

" Remind me," the professor said levelly, "if Twain or Dickinson ever wrote about all this behaviorist bullshit."

This, he knew - and he knew she knew -was the breaking point. It took aw kwardness to make things happen. This was how it worked. It got both par- ties thinking . It melted like acid through the layers. A strong and uncomfortable silence ensued, broken only when Lynne said, "Look, do you want to come over to my place tonight? I'm just grading papers."

He didn't know what to say, he only knew that he hated breaking points and wanted to end this whole thing, if only to prevent it from getting worse. "I really can't see myself with a blonde," he said.

Well, she hated him then. She almost spat. Before, she'd probably thought that his pretentiousness was a cute facade off which she could play her flirty little literature games, but had now realized that it was a weapon, one which he liked to brandish. He never really spoke to her after that but assumed she'd gone over to "Spence's" place instead that night.

Karma, he thinks presently, is just that ghastly giant thumbnail twisting into my scalp but that, indeed, is all. He nods to himself: the grand enmity has not yet become too deep to dislodge, and he is thankful. He could have been born earlier, have had to face the war and the draft and, if he survived that, growing woefully older than he had become now.

When he looks up- a few quiet seconds have passed- he sees immedi- ately that Elise wants to leave. He leads her to the door and they exchange the usual goodbyes.

"You know, I am a lonely man," he asserts as she steps away from the porch.

She looks at him.

"It's quite hard to make friends at one's work," he says. "The point is that I am always home in the evenings, and if you want to visit then I want you to visit. I have candy," he says.

"I like candy," she says. She betrays nothing.

"Good," she agrees, and waves. "I'll tell my parents you helped me a lot. They didn't want me to come over at first. They think you're a little creepy."

"Understandably," he says, and turns to his living room_ after _wa tching her go. He had been very kind to her. She was quite the honest little girl.

Should Our Demise be Wh ite on Wh ite (four o'clock chalk talk in the Chunnel)

Pain is French: a fine, corporeal hue .

(Action. Sucking vacuum-penny-floor-pick)

We suffer greater sorrow from ennui.

K.atie Kohlburn

Steeped and served and life is tea. Bums at first, Scalds tongues that speak in steam. Cools, and soon We suffer greater sorrow from ennui.

Bergamont! No, that's English: often

Used. Limeys strive, they drive the underpass

To France. The fee? Fie faux. Blood-uv-an-Englishmun

Will not do. Cars swerve circonflex, tum a U. No passage through, you pasty islanders.

Only The States are less welcome than vous to Pain. C'est French: a fine, corporeal hue.

The cihJ has more boulevards than Paris and more working fountains tha . if . . d . he n any czty b Rome. A (ou~tazn o. some sort zs ~nc~rporate zn~o t design of nearly even co ut cial buzldzng, gzvzng Kansas CzhJ zts second nzckname: "The Cihy of Fo yt . rn~erF d , 'J un azns -o ors ·

A lover once told me: in Paris they hire these peopleprobably mostly young and not too bad to look atto be in love by the fountains and on the skinny benches. my lover asked me: do you want to make some euros for the season? i thought about all the chapstick i would need. do they even have chapstick in France? much less fabric softener or anti-bacterial hand gel? i told my lover: Kansas City has a lot of fountains, too.

IWish Ust

He likes chocolate-covered strawberries

Flying through air

From powdered-sugar hands

Watching The Simpsons

And realizing how smart he is

Car magazines scattered across ratty kitchen tables

A reluctance to drink plain water

He likes burnt popcorn

And feigns ignorance

When I play Sade

This boy can't dance

But believes he can

Like someone I once knew

ICopper

The lines in your eyes tum copper in the afternoon

When nothing is spoken but the soft moans of midnight I lay you down gently as you throw me to the floor

Sunday heartbeats

framing Wednesday mornings

You are h a z e l light I fall into

Vanit!:J 5encs - RcAect1on * ;,

1V-ir-1 dPf l~ing lipstick)

Yo u a re d a ngerou s to a man such as m e . I don ' t ha ve th e eloqu e nce to impress you. I don' t h ave the courage to be blunt with you . I' m multifaceted, but my angles are all wrong. You don't seem to understand that the wrong embarrassed laugh, the wrong word of gentle consolement, the wrong look of indifference can kill me so easily.

IUnderstood

And just when I think that life is too much

This cancer

This insomnia

This family

This world

He wakes up slightly

Notices I've kicked off all my covers Covers me back up And kisses my shoulder

Then settles back into his sleep

Life is beautiful

Sitting there

Between my brothers and their girlfriends

Knowing this is how it would always beMe, Alone, with them

The first and only man that has ever really loved me Is in the casket in the center of the church

Sitting there

I hear his voice-

"Little girl, little girl"

At the cemetery I hold the hand of a man who will leave me soonmy father didn't have that choicewho will soon sit across from me and say

"I was afraid you would do sometl1ing stupid, like take a

who will think that him breaking my heart is worse than me burying my father.

But at the cemetery I hold his hand, and think I'm going to be okay.

Alone again

drinking peach wine and smoking lights

wondering which man I miss the most

tened of the answer

so I never ask th e question

She Draws My feet

~Aissy Yeaciao

We have been sleepi~g to_gether for ~ne mo~ths. Not sleeping together _ 1 mean, we've been spending mghts asleep in a twin bed in my parents' house. 1 lie mostly with my face in her chest, her chin poking the top of my head. I don't mind, though. I like to know she's there. She doesn't wear a shirt at night. It's so hot. She has three freckles on her chest. I stare at them all the time. Her skin gets sticky from the heat, and I trace a triangle with my finger . She complains that it tickles and grabs my hand. She holds my hand with our fingers interlaced . It's like praying.

Sometimes we talk. Well, she does. "Have you been with any other girls?" she asks.

"You'll be my last," I say.

"I'm serious. You're the first person I've ever had a relationship with."

"Really?"

"Yes. I've told you this before. Why don't you tell me anything about the time before you met me?"

"There's nothing to tell."

I can't tell her that I don't remember more than their names. Dub, Travis, Tanner, JR, Jonathan and so on. There were more than I care to remember . I found them at parties or at work. Even at my junior high school. I took them home to my parents' house. They never noticed . They never heard . I was quiet.

I'd never let them stay the night. If I rolled over and felt an arm, I'd start kicking, pushing and grunting. Eventually, they'd get the picture . They'd stum- ble out of the room pulling their pants on but no shoes. Sometimes they'd yell things as they left. It didn't matter. I hardly heard their voices.

Her hands are always all over me . I don't care with her. I don't care as long as she kisses me. I am obsessed with her kisses. Her lips are shaped funny, curling up at the ends. A perpetual smile, even when she's sad. Sometimes 1 wonder about her. I don't know how she can be so perfect. I look a~ her draw- . 11 d She sees thmgs I could mgs. She really 1·ust doodles for fun. They are a so goo · Sh ks me the same ques- never see. She notices me looking and gets nervous. e a_s d . 1 7" She' ll · , "H 11 your fnen s are gir s · hons she s been asking for months. ow come a say anything to get me to stop looking.

"I like girls," I say . . ,, a s "Doesn't that bother yo u?"

"But there are no men in your hfe, shes Y · h t I' ve fu cked them a ll I 't tell her t . a "No." I can't say much more. can away.

h d crush on me in the second grade . He first start d Dub a ha we were about fourteen or fifteen. I wasn't av· e . trying t ·th mew en 1rg1n 6 o sleep WI h 11 knew. Dub was always at the parties my par . Ythen He knew. T ~y a ur backyard with the dog barking every time soents 1gnorect · C es of beer m o 11 f 1 d llleon . as . We all played around. We a oo e around w ithe h e callle close to his pen. . . ac other b . fun to play with him. , ut it was When I was seventeen, I got drunk enough to take him upstairs d He'd been telling me he was so well-endowed. He fumbled 1 to rny be room. f H h d hi Pu hn h· t ff and nearly fell on top o me. e s ove mself into me so . g is pan s o h 11 N h db quick! . h t Pounding my head against t e wa . o ea oard. I held him . Y1t urbbed his ass and pulled him into me. I couldn't get off. He went s sftitll anct gra · · f b d d h d hi O about two minutes m. I pushed him out o e an watc e m stagger out th d He vomited in the front yard before he got into his car and drove away. e oor

When she touches me I immediately soften. She says she loves to runh fingers down ~y spine, feel each bone. ~ut I'm_too skinny. She wants me toga: weight. I cant be healthy, she says. I ~gnor~ it an~ concentrate on her fingers . Her hands are always so clean. Not hke rmne, with the permanent ink stain between my index and middle fingers. Sometimes I wish I could be her.

I touch her, too. She likes that I'm not that gentle, says it's like I have to know exactly what it feels like to be inside her body. I do know. I know her body better than my own.

"Where did you learn to touch like that?" she asks.

"I don't remember," I say.

I worked at a discount store as a teenager. Three years pulling toys to the front of a shelf and watching a child push them all back or pull them onto the floor. Tanner worked in Sporting Goods. He saw me coming, my face reflected in the glass of the gun case. I walked up beside him, matching blue vests dash· ing with our flannel fashion statements.

Behind the sliding doors he grabbed my ass complained that there were ' ' lk d away, too many layers of fabric between it and his hand. I turned and wa e en ti · . . d asere mo onmg for him to follow me to the time clock. Two metallic beeps an 1 )'ee fl h · b d · the einP 0 as mg a ge accepted. Then, out to a working-class sports car in parking lot. .1f,. fhi!11 W ''

. He pushed the seat all the way back and I sat down on top O 8; lasted pmg my legs around his hips. I raised myself up and down slowl ~1 erewer~ longer tha t f h b ts until t 1 Jer· . n mos O - t em. When he came he squeezed my reas · y untbnght red hand prints over each nipple. I slid off of him and pull ed 0 1 . 1 \ 1 ~:drtt! 01 Wear the . As r C in th ' n my pants, bra, and shirt. He zipped up his pants. e car, he sm k d . ac e my ass and said thanks.

On the rare occasions that s~e and I go out, I am as accommodating as 1 I lk to her friends. I am social because I know she needs these other peo- can be.

le; she needs more than 1ust the two o _us. . ey tal~ about so many things that it's hard to keep up, but I manage to d~hver with a bit _abou~ something I've read or heard on the radio. I tell them stones about the things Ive done. I tell them bout mudding, driving SUVs drunkenly through bean fields. I tell them about :ow tipping or toilet papering the house of our evil librarian. They always seem entertained by the superficial tales of southern Illinois, and I am full of ridiculous stories of the rural Midwest. They laugh and say, "You didn't really do that, did you?"

"Yep," I say.

We go home and she seems satisfied. She seems to think everything's all right when we go out with her friends. I'm really just glad to get her home. We take off most of our clothes and get into bed. She is much taller than me and her feet hang off the end. She doesn't care. She starts singing "A Case of You." She has a terrible voice, but it sounds so good coming from her. When she sings, she closes her eyes and touches my black hair with her right hand. When the song is finished she kisses me. She knows that's what I'm waiting for. We kiss a lot late- ly. It gets more and more intense every time. The heat from her mouth warms mine. She slides her hands up my body and onto my cheeks, bringing my face closer to hers. She pulls away and says, "I love you." I kiss her again.

JR was my boss. He was married with a child and another on the way. He flirted with me everyday. He said the most disgusting things, trying to get me to sleep with him. I was getting ready for work when he called. He wanted to come over. I was in a towel when I opened the door. He followed me into my bedroom and pulled the towel off. Standing behind me, he put his hands on my breasts and ran them down my stomach. He came around to the front and. I shoved his hand inside me. He tried to kiss me twice and I turned my head. His fingers were inside me when my father came home. I pushed him off of me as 1 heard my father go down the stairs to his basement office. I led JR out the front door without my father noticing.

k I k d until the restaurant

A couple of hours later I went to wor • wor e . . t · I trailed after him as closed at three o'clock. JR asked me to follow him ups airs. . d . h b s of styrofoam containers. he unlocked the storage closet. It was fille wit oxe d b ·d th floor and I lay own es1 e I took off my clothes while he watched. He sat on : f H was big- . d I 11 d him on top o me. e him. I watched him put on a condom an ~u e d m ass was smashed into ger than I thought he'd be and he was thrusting so har Y 1 t d I left with an a mos· the dirty carpet. He came quickly an was

d him to that closet again. He was n I foJlowe I . ervou da ys later his destination. was impatient anct s this fo ur 1. nussmg . b k 11· hi grabb k t furnb ing,_ I clutched h is ac , pu mg m mto n-. ect it He ep • · 1de me . kn ••te Until ti J11 e· ush ing 1t ins . .d me when someone ocked on the d he hiJll, P · still wst e • oor tr fro J11 ui ckly. He w~ s and we froze. The knocking stopped and the fo . llis ca 111 e, q pea ted three hrnes 11 on clothes. We walked out of the closet anctotsteps na111 e ~eter. We hurried to pu 1·e we told was revealed by his unzipped a man go t quie Whatever 1 Pants tand ing there. d the door . Two weeks later I was fired. and was s pper un er the co nd om wra

ith her mouth on mine. She tastes like fruit t .

.

Another evening ~estaurant, and she had strawberries for desse Ot11J.ght, d d ' er at a vegan r. She We ha inn h. time She's feeling every part of me. Her touch ha h me more t is . h h d spur. touc es . kirt tonight and she slides er an up between my thi h I am weanng a s d g s pose. . on my underwear. I reach down an pull her hand away and starts tugging ?" h k .

"Don't you want to make love t~ me. '~ e as s.

"God, 1hate it when people call 1t that, I say.

"What?"

"Making love."

"Why?"

"That's not what it is. No one makes love. People fuck."

"Don't say that. It sounds so cold."

"It is so cold."

"It doesn't have to be."

"You've never had it. You don't know." She gets out of bed and turns to look at the ground. I tell her I'm sorry, but it's too late. She grabs her sketchbook off the floor, tells me she loves me, kisses me again and walks out the door.

Travis was my best friend in grade school. I'd known him since kindergarten . We rode the same bus to school. Our families were friends, and we were both members of the 4-H club. I knew he was a good boy. We put on a skit for a 4-H competition. He was a farmer with dozens of cows and I was his wife . This wa s_ sufficient foreplay for us. He asked me after the skit if I was a virgin. When 1 said th at I wasn't, he told me that he was and wanted me to be his first. It see med so sweet.

He was · · f nee in his bac k . d . . no virgm. I took him inside me standing up against a e kles. ya r • He lifted k " d rnyan

As s my s irt and I pulled my underwear down aroun . ·de oo n as I touched h. h f lt hi111 1ns1 me Mo • 6 im e was hard. He was small and I hardly e feel- ving ack and f th . lk d home, ing splint . or , it took forever before he came. I wa e ers m my b k ac · A week later he quit 4-H.

h her as she leaves. She gets up and pulls a thin, white tee shirt over I watc 't l t h . h li h , modest She won e me see er mt e g t even though sh d She s so · . , . . e her hea · b dl 1 want to . She isn t comfortable bemg naked m the day· it's not show a Y ' }<noW So 1watch her . I watch her get further away from me . She always she says. ' h l d ' me, h n she leaves, tells me s e oves me. I on t say a word. She doesn't kisses me w e . t anymore, so the kisses are colder. expect me o . l ·1 h When she's gone, I he there a one unti t e space she filled cools. I try not h. k about her too much. My mother always told me that if I over-think some tot m - thing 1might just chase i_t away. l try ~ot to thmk about how perfect, she is, about how easy it could be with her. l cant help but wonder when she 11 get sick of waiting. I pretend that this is how it'll always be. I pretend that I'll always be with her and it'll always feel like this.

Jonathan was three years older than me when his sister introduced us. I was thirteen and a virgin. It was her birthday party and we were camping out in her backyard. He looked at me like I was the first girl he'd ever seen. I sat down in front of the campfire and he sat beside me. I was the only one he talked to. I sat there listening to his words, shocked that a boy was even looking my way. He played those games I thought only happened in the movies . He put his hand on my leg and left it there for a long time. Next he moved it inside the leg of my shorts. I pulled his hand out and he put it under my shirt and inside my bra. He put his hands on my breasts, underneath the silk, pink bra my mother gave me for my birthday, played with my nipples until they were hard. I sat there like a stat- ue. When he got up and took my hand, I followed him. I dragged my feet over the wet grass and into a small blue tent. Inside, he laid me on the ground and got on top. He started kissing me, my first real kiss. His tongue shoved roughly in and out of my mouth. I felt it grazing the back of my throat. It was big, like a watermelon plopped down inside my mouth. It filled my whole mouth. I bit it accidentally and he winced. I tasted his blood. He slipped his hand down and tried to unzip my pants. I pushed his han~ away· He tried again and I pushed him away a second time. He'd stopped talkmg by now· He started rubbing up against me. I felt something hard in his pants. He :1"ied to 11 d · h n hand stopping him. He pu own my zipper again and was met wit my ow d b k I uncomfortable an grabbed my wrists and forced them under my ac · was till He kept squirming. He held his left hand on my col~arbone Hand ~edptt mpeu: hi~self . d d th his own e tne o unzipped my pants with his right han an en £.. . Th hi·s fist mov.

• · de me irst en ' inside me. I was too tight. He put his fmgers msi bl d' · He was inside me. · fr h' t I was ee mg. mg om side to side. I felt somet mg ear . . d It only lasted a few min- Each time he pushed forward he made a grunting soun · utes.

Afterward, he kissed me on the cheek. "Do you want me t 1 · b d f th d · · 0 eave?" h asked. I nodded. He chm e out o e tent an zipped 1t shut. I pulled m · e up to my chest and fell asleep. Yknees

She knows which parts of me I hate. She sees my flaws and lo ves th She knows my teeth are crooked and I have a freckle on my bottom l' ern. knows how stubborn I can be. She says my teeth give me character Thipfr. She · e eek! is charming. She sees more of me than I think she does. e

She draws my feet. ~he has me hold still for more than an hour while she stares at them and I complam. She knows how much I hate them. She doesn't want to show me the drawing. I tear it out of her hands. My feet are perfect. She even gets the chipped polish on the second toe. It is shorter than the rest.

"God, I can be so vain," I say.

She laughs and says, "You're crazy."

I lean in and kiss her. We are together like this for a long time, just the kissing.

She pulls away and looks me in the eye. "I love you," she says. I don't say anything. When she starts kissing me again, her hands move downward, and when she reaches for my pants and tries to unzip them, I let her.

A Little Yellow Kitchen

A little yellow kitchen lives in my mind . Her eyes are heavy with gingham lids Her ruffled lashes blink in the lazy wind She watches me then- · a barefoot, sunburned girl slicing strawberries in the noonday sun.

My kitchen's yellow face is sprinkled with flower. Her patterned skin blushes with beads of crimson, as a hesitant girl deciphers a recipe and stirs a fussy pot of tomato sauce.

My kitchen's womb has walls of maternal warmth. Her belly swells with possibility. An almond cake rises gracefully, as a girl in red flannel looks forward to seeing herself look back.

A little yellow kitchen lives in my mind. Her vanilla breath tenderly calls me back to her, tempting me with her unrealized ingredients. But I must tum away from her and sigh. I have moved on to more elaborate meals .

Crazy Club searching

Looking like D. C. hookers

But

Jezebels

White stoned columned Magdalenes

I was fixed Fell

Instantly in love

Hurried pace and caught up "So where can a guy go for some fun in D.C."

Probably, not the best approach

But her soft lips

Rippled

Played song

Along the gentle voice

To which my eyes

Danced contours of her all amazing

Everything scandalous beauty

While the freckled-speckled

Side kick heckled me at the Innuendo

Lovely agreed returned the smirk "Have fun being lost," I said. And went

About my way.

1 went to your wake because I had to see you one more time. You, who were too beautiful to grace this world. You, who looked upon me once and stopped my heart.

When I walked in, the room was full of wandering faces that stared emptily into staring faces. I could see your forehead peeping from the cold coffin that would tuck you into the earth with heartless hands.

I sat in the back row and watched your children cry. I heard your wife praise your virtues. I saw your father grim with hidden pain. Fragrant lilies sang sweet psalms .

I did sign the guest book. Otherwise, my presence went undetected. I never could go up and look at you one last time . The pain was too absorbing. So, I will remember you alive. You, who were too beautiful to grace this world. You, who looked upon me once and stopped my heart.

Cieri Fciedlioe

Whoever said confession is good for the soul re the robes of absolver never wo

Un-damned guilt pouring, pooling, seeping through sensitive cracks, crumbling the shell of idealism that once sheltered my spirit

Damning things I never dreamed and prayed I'd never hear much less be asked for absolutionordained to handle Hell

Your wounds heal. mine open and bleed

Leaving scars

Your balm my poison

Your absolution my loss of in-.-0 ut cence

Your hope my despair

Grace

Y. our clean 1 rn sate y stained h eart

A sac of sp r~lrnent 01 ect faith

ld women sat on Three o . G d · debating 0 The tram ,,

"No it is the body. , d "

"No it's just brea • ' d th andal as an

"People use e sc e the shackles of faith

,, excuse to escap . ,, h . d ,, At least that' s what l feel... already lackmg, s e sa1 .

Tunnel lights smiled and Whirled by my head l

Felt dazed as if

Everything had a sudden Glaze and these were My final days

And the emerald tree tops

Gave way to a cemented Ravine where shadows

Rolled across like

Old men wandering the Streets with no goal in Mind, but to smell the Day as they strolled.

I was comfortable falling

Insane and letting time's Disease destroy me

At least It's real and l

Won't have to pretend

I' m fine because that lie ls wrinkling all I see

Sink succumb to my dizzying

Psychosis dazzling turning

Every living thing into

Mosaics of brilliant tiles

Watching social constructs

Fragmentary fad e 1nto a

Blur of God

like whispers of n on sense

Only meant to tickle our Ears.

I ma y be worthless

And have no desire for Money, war, finance. The games, the prestige, or Social status

But as a vagabond

Outcast I am free

And being me is more Important than being He who is expected And accepted

But soul neglected

Content to merely gaze

From the train' s window rolling Blur, under the sun

Watching it all melt Until it's one.

We ap ologize for the error. Please enjoy this, as well as Ke ely's other w ork.

fear God

Gee: Friedline

On the girl' s fa ce, .-\ tear swelled bu t didn' t break.

.-\ wo man dressed fo r ch urch,dth thr ee kid s on her left, two on her righ tentered the bus.

A man wi th a rising nose roll ed his eves as the famih- sat next to him.

He stood and mov ed up front. The mother smiled and said, 11 God Bless," but she w as not recei ved.

The tear finally broke but w as quickl y w iped. The young girl said, 11 How do you do, Ma' am? "

She smiled; the woman smiled and said, 11 God Bless. "

E.Jection Year

Silk protein sparkles, spun threads of . slick-unsticky Deception and tacky Delusion.

Internally manufactured spinaret spewdoublespeakdual fibers in a network of deceit

Spiders spinning streaks of race, religion, and self-righteousness into spokes and bridges, delicate promises blowing in the wind

Webs sturdy enough to lure the unaware fly toward Predator's feast

"Now, those are all 50 % off."

1 looked at her, but didn't say anythin g. Of course they're 50 % off, you Id bag. That's why they were on the s~elf right next to the big sign that read 1so% off" in bright red letters. Floral stahonery: beep, book: beep, stickers: beep-

"Are those ringing up at 50 % off? Those were all from the 50% off shelf" he said, leaning over the counter trying to get a look at my computer screen '

I took an exaggerated step back and said, "Yes."

"Well, they should, because I got them on the sale rack, and I don't want em if they're not 50% off."

Of course you don't. You want to badger me for the whopping grand tal of "Seven sixty-three."

"Did I already give you my credit card?" she asked.

"No, you didn't," I answered.

"Well, it must be in here somewhere, I just used it." She had six wallets. e pulled them all out from her purse and shuffled through them. "Are you sure didn't give it to you?"

"I'm sure."

"Excuse me, Miss?" asked the woman next in line, tapping her car keys n the counter. "I have an order to pick up." She was about fifty with a black fur oat. Her key chain and her attitude said Lexus. I said:

''I'll be right with you."

"I don't know what I did with it, it was just here." The wallets had eated back to the purse. She pulled a drive-up bank teller envelope from her at pocket. "Maybe I stuck it in with my cash." She shuffled through twenty ollar bill after twenty dollar bill. "What did you say the total was?"

"Seven sixty-three."

"Are you sure that's right?" She stopped looking for her card and startto mentally add her items on the counter.

::~iss? I need to pick up that order." Tap, tap, tap . . . , 1m sorry for the wait, Ma'am, but as soon as I'm through helpmg th is dy, I 11 be with you."

"You don't understand. My husband is waiting for me in the car. We ve th · h d " ~?:er tickets, and we are already late. I need to pick up t at or er.

"Ah . d I k ow

1 m sorry, Ma' am, but I need to finish this-" h 1

- a! I found it! It was right where it always 1s, I on t now ssed it" h .

' 8 _ e said, handing me her credit card. . · . I swiped it and heard the modem dial. The computer made a h1ccuppmg ise and be .

"T gan prmtmg the receipts.

'These are gifts, I'll need them all wrapped." . 1 Ha! Wrap our O m sorry, we don't gift wrap sale items," I said w 1th a smi e. wn damn f gi ts, you cheapskate!

d th m all in separate bags then."

"Well I'll nee e TAP " I 11 ' , . " tap, tap, tap, , rea y cant w a ·t

" Excu se me, nuss, l any l l d anger:' chimed the fur a . Yh· u as soon as I bag these items, ma' am."

"I'll be wit yo k d ' t know how you expect to eep customers if y

"I J·ust on l . . h ou tre b waiting for severa minutes wit absolutely at theth .k this I've een l d ,, no serv • q

h e · of your manager, young a y. ice. 1 d mand the name ' H I h l ?" e "I'm the manager, ma am. ow can e p you. I asked, handing Mr SO % Off her bags. . , . s.

"Well, 1 see I'll get no service here. Im canceling my order. 1,11 shop here again!" she declared, spinning on her he~ls and fl?uncing out the:ever I L:_1, he thought I cared. It would have helped 1n canceling her ord h 0 or. trw LI' s er ad she told me her name.

"Some people can be so irritating," Mrs. 50% Off said with a glance atF Lady' 5 departure. I raised ~y eyebrows. . ur

The Andover Gallenes. The premiere upscale shopping destinatio f d . h l f Whi . n o the lower Midwest. Gate commuruty to t e e t - spenng Glade or somethin atrocious like that - and sculpture park to the right. The newest nouveau . hg d . 1 nc e can live, shop, and appreciate me 10cre scu pture art all without mingling with the common folk. I parked my 1987 Cutlass between a seafoam green Jaguar and a shiny Mercedes Kompressor. I was sure that was supposed to be some kind of phenomenal German engineering, but it looked to me like the car name equivalent of "Krispy Kreme." I was ten minutes late for work. The world of stationery and gifts was kept waiting yet again.

''I'm sorry! I got pulled over! Can you believe it? Damn cop," I tried to look breathless. My manager was standing behind the counter. I think she had been picking her nose with her thumb when I came in, but she tried the quick save with a scratch.

"Did you get a ticket?" she asked, either smoothing her skirt or wiping her hand.

"N d rry about . . ope, Just a warning, but he let me sit there in my car an wo it for like ten minutes." d

"Ell I'

" Sh had Art en, ve spoken to you before about your tardiness. e · . utes when that didn't work, they had started scheduling me in at fifteen~ for befo:e the shift would normally start. I got the hint and made it on ~rn:ince a;hile, but then I quit stressing about getting there fifteen minutes e~/sched· t ey really didn't want me there until the normal time. So now they 5 ule me early b t I ·11 ,, , u sti end up getting there late. " I know I'

· t got me. 0 far · m sorry . I was hurrying and that cop JUS went 5 She look d t . h" . he even I was a t . e a me as 1£ she wanted to say somet 1ng, s 1 l<Dew s o take m that . kb tence. screwed. "D quic r~ath right before you say a long sen 0 you carry fingernail clippers?"

u startled . What do we look li ke, Target? "No, ma'am, I' m J looked p, t to try a drug store." The lady nodded and wa lked out. She. · htw an . · ry. You ni ig . V ·tton bucket bag and she was weanng a Jackie O. ha t. If w e sor Louis u1 1· h ' i,ad a huge mir acle carried f1ngema1l c r~pers, t ey d p r obably be go ld p lated )1ad by som e k She would have been JUSt the lady to buy them. fft y buc s. and cost 1 Ellen I have a bride who should be here any time to work on her "L·sten, ' 1 . t· ns When we're through, you and I need to talk." dd . g mv1ta 10 · we 10 K thy" Yep. I was screwed.

"Sure, a · . had survived until lunch. The bnde and her mother were arguing at the d 1 k when I made my exit. The mother wanted an elegant ivory invitation, 0rder e~ of course, with Mr. and Mrs. Filthy Rich requesting the honour of your engrave at the marriage of their daughter Spoiled Brat. Spoiled Brat insisted on presence a vellum overlay and a floppy satin bow. Mrs. Rich was aghast, practically screaming at her daughter that vellum and bows were for baby showers and bar mitzvahs.

My lunch choices were the best of the worst in elegant casual dining. There was a little coffee bar that sold overpriced sandwiches and terrible coffee. They were constantly firing and hiring and the last time I tried to order a mocha the girl behind the counter asked me if I wanted chocolate in it. And then there was the lunch counter deli with the "daily" soups and sandwiches. You really had to watch which "day" they were on, because by day two or three the soups had turned chowdery and would send you to the bathroom within twenty minutes . The sandwiches were in plastic wrap and refrigerated with hard bread on the bottom and squishy bread on the top where the tomato had melded into the lice. I was constantly amazed at what rich people paid eight dollars for with a rrule.

th I chose the vending machine deep in the bowels of the mall. I followed e back hallways past trash rooms and janitorial closets, past the freight elevator ~ th e cardboard cruncher to the machines. I ate my Pepsi and Fritos in my car t de heated parking garage below the mall. I rolled my windows down and lis- ne to them · · • · d un h usic piped m . It had been forty-five minutes before I realize my d ~ e:;~only s_upposed to take thirty. Ah, hell. I didn't think they really expect- e on hme anyway

"Ellie y , · . k d ac k in "K ' ou rem the shitter," my coworker whispered to me as I doc e · athy' · · d I ouJd totall h s m the back and she's pissed. She got some phone call, an "Hy ear the lady screaming on the other end." ow do y k · t b lt ou now it was about me?" I asked though I knew it mu s e . Wa s al · '

"Sh ways about me

. Ve been E~l:~ke~ the lady to describe the p er son and then s he said, 'Th a t muS t 11 sorneone 80 I II certainly sp eak with h e r.' She loo ke d like she w as ready_to d her rnorn ~ -he Went into the back a nd h a d m e fini sh h elpin g p syc ho brici e · id you see them?"

d Very bad. Kathy would never give up a Things were ba · all from her brother that her mom had g wedding hen we got a c . . h d h one to th order. Even w appendectomy, she frms e t e order of the b . e hospital for an emerghenclyft I was seriously considering needing an e nd e 8he 1 · before s e e · lherge was he pmg d etting the hell out of there when the door to the back ncy appendectomy an g room swung open. I d to see you This moment. It cannot wait." Kathy "Ellen, nee · . 1 seemed to s eak without visibly moving her lips. Th~y were c enched and little spittle P fl g in my direction. I shuffled mto the back room. "Listen,, h drops were un . . . . , s e said, "I like you, but this 1s one step too far. I was g~1ng to give you this disciplinary notice for your tardiness again today, but now Ive got to ask you. Ellen, did you tell a customer yesterday that you were the store manager and that she could not have her order?"

"No! Not at all! I was helping someone, and I told her she had to wait until I was finished. I told her I was a manager. I am, I'm the Associate Manager. Doesn't that title count for anything?" Of course, I knew the title had no real power, but I did have a key and business cards. And I was not going to be fired for fur lady. I can be fired for tardiness, for lack of attention to dress code, for my sheer rudeness to customers, but damn it, this time I really didn't do anything wrong.

''I'm sorry, Ellen. This is just the final straw. I'm going to have to ask you to resign. I'm only doing this because I think you're a good person. Maybe retail is just not cut out for you. Please leave while it's a choice, or I'll have to terminate you."

Terminate me. What horrible workplace rhetoric. I had visions of her turning into a molten mass of metallic goo and shooting at me with a big ugly gun. Terminated or not, I would need to find another job.

"Wh hift _at can I get for you?" I had on a green apron and a visor. I had 5 • ed from stationery and gifts to expensively shitty coffee and sandwiches. It was money. At least I knew how to make a mocha

.

"I'd like a turkey bacon BLT on a pla~ bagel " said a bored lady in tig:t Jbeanks wikth embellished bottoms. She was about 45 She had a little teeny Pra la ac pac I w d d · · litt e teeny back ackon er~ if she realized that not only was she too old for a over fourteen. p , that it had never been cool to be wearing one if you were

"I'm sorry w ' h was, as I looked past h t' he re out of plain bagels," I said, just as bored as 5 e er O t e seven 1 · •

"Th . · peop e waiting m the line. d ,, en put 1t on a ee s. I raised m b poppy seed bagel, but pick off all the poppy 5 Yeye rows.

IfZegister fifteen

Here I am again Register fifteen .

Idly placing groceries into a p~astlc bag

Reading The Friendliest Stores m Town Not really

As dirty old men say, "Hey sexy, when you get paid?" And I retort, "Never"

The Coinstar machine loudly rattling change

As small children scream for mommy or a ring pop

And the beep beep of the scanner

Cash drawers opening and closing with a bang While cashiers chat with customers like long-lost friends

Stale musty popcorn, sewage and perfume, deli meat and soiled diapers Of unfortunate elders and alcoholics

Smiling in faces and insisting on hugs

Oh, how I'd love to shop here!

As young thugs have fights in the video department And security guards' radios snow over with activity Ran dom names shouted over the intercom, Co mmands

To the underappreciated, unfortunate souls who fill The space between customers and money

And here I stand

Wi sh ing I were not

Southern fried

I want to sit at the old table again, where the wood is worn smooth from the comforts I once took there. They never changedThe glasses of cold milk offsetting the steaming fried corn, the grease mingling with the rolling hills of bacon-laced pinto beans. Their light gray skin mixing with the dark gray meat of skillet-fried tenderloin; they were best when buried inside the softly thick biscuits that I begged Mom to make every time I came home again. I am tired of eating memories.

rold burnt mill

W William ~4eltao

ft rnoon kindergarten classes began, Before a e . . es the morning was spent sometim

With just me and Dad

J-Ie' d stay up later after an all-night shift And make us those small flaky pizzas for one Which we'd each eat half

While it cooked we prepped for battle, Arranging our pile of toy soldiers For the coming war

Then with full bellies the planes took off Soldiers marched, tanks rolled, and Dad supplied All the exploding booms burped

And I would go to school

Happy as can be -

Didn't he ever realize this was all I wanted of him?

Why did he grow so quiet as I aged Make me beg for attention

Until now he's gone

Leaving me begging to everyone

1meet for their acceptance, So I can pretend it's his.

E 1 dragged his feet through the threshold of their s ll ar . ma two-bedroo h dafter the nine hours of bending, liftino and pull· th m fl t Be ac e . . . . o, mg at e loc al gro- a · He collapsed mto a charr at the dmmo room table Hi h . ery store. . h 1 °. · s ead fell mto c f his dirty hands. Every time e c osed his eyes for relief 11 hthe cups o . a e ::.a,v were There was no escape. All he did w as put cans on a sh lf those cans . e - over and over again.

Finally, after much concentration, he succeeded in conjuring up a dream of Alyson, the one who got away, dancing amidst the endless ro ws of the store that his mind could not escape. She should have been his future. The thought was too much. He raised a droopy eyebrow and glanced around the room . The brown and yellow marble carpet looked like old birthday cake without icing. It brought out a wild vibe next to the mauve and tan striped w allpaper . Daisy, his wife, had a collection of truck-stop plates with the state capitols on each hanging around the room. He peered into the kitchen.

His wife's hair was still in morning curlers despite an unstoppable sunset that was sneaking darkness into their windows. The pot of day-old grease in front of her crackled. She plopped another slimy chicken leg quarter into the vat. Tiny speckles of congealed grease looking like donut glaze blended into the counter- top.

Earl rolled his fingers through the scruff of his beard. He cracked open the tab of a cold beer. The slippery beads of sweat on the can felt good against his burning, arthritic knuckles. They dripped onto his forearms and slithered towards his elbows. It cut a clear, wet trail through the dirt caked on him, like an invisible snake traversing the desert plains.

He took a huge gulp of his beer. It reminded him of drinking icy water from the well tap on summer days. He took another glance of his tiny house and chugged the whole beer. Then another.

H. 1· 1

· ·d Crump bounced is itt e boy, Crump, tossed his toy army Jets asi e. . over to his daddy. "Hey, Daddy, let's go outside and play!" He tried to climb up onto Earl's lap. The tired man mercilessly shoved the child to the floor. fr "Wh

h I a- t home om at the hell did I tell you about bugging me w en °e Work? Get the hello t f h 111

Th . u o ere.

d behind his mother, clutch· e httle boy retreated into the kitchen. He st00 . J 1 . f ce back into ing to her Earl buneo 11s a his hand cow-patterned cotton nightgown.

·

1 ed hi s grip on his sand lost himself. Crump sneered at his father, then re ~as rnother l k

M nrn y7

" ' 00 ed up, and asked, "Whatcha' making, · 01 · · Crump ,, "B 'you know I'm making chicken. ut We had h . k " c 1c en last night.

"And we' re going to have it again tonight." She sa id this Without a gla nee toward s her son.

"Ugh. Ho w about lobster? I saw them eat that on TV last night."

"Whe re the hell do you expect me to get a lobster from?"

"How about the store?"

"Cr ump, you can just shut your mouth while you're ahead." She took a deep, petitioning breath. . . ,

"Mommy, we have chicken all the time. I hate 1t. I don t want it."

"Well, I'm sick of you always whining, but I still get that, don't I?"

"Why don't you get a job, so I don't have to eat chicken anymore."

"God damn it Crump!" She shrieked. "Quit your fucking complaining: you're lucky you get anything to eat at all. You know how many kids don't get shit to eat?"

"Well, I don't want to eat that either... "

"All right, that's it. I'm sick of your smart mouth- go sit at that God damn table and be quiet before I take this spoon to your ass." She waved a thick, wood ladle in the air.

"But, but..."

"No 'buts' - shut the fuck up and move!" She grabbed his small, curved shoulder and threw him forward.

Crump stumbled over his feet and fell onto his face. His head bumped into the back of the chair. He turned to each of his parents. Neither of them saw a thing. His lip quivered. He climbed up the chair, then rubbed his head. No one moved. A swell of emotion crept up his spine. It was like a tide beginning to trickle over the sides of a flood wall. He didn't have the reserve to stop it. Tears fell - splattered on the plastic place mat. Then burst. . t

The sound of his crying pierced his father's ear. Earl kicked his chair 0 ~ from underneath him and rushed into the kitchen. He snatched Crump by his hair and yanked him back. Crump sat helpless. nd

"Oh h ' 1 ?" c squirmed a w at s a matter ittle girl, you wanna cry. rump 1 gs. kicked his bare feet. Earl pulled back farther. The chair tilted back on two \ ed II II~~

.

Where do you think you're going huh? C01ne on now, cry.. contetnpt, wickedly. "Wah, wah, wah," Earl mocked the boy's shaking head in ,5 face "C h ' father ome on Boy, Daddy wil1 cry with you." Crump tried to smack is . bod~ a A J-J' entire way. surge of crimson shot up the walls of Earl's cheeks. is 11d f-fe shook H h d bl d it arou · e reac e down for a bowl but his excited fingers furn e finally grabbed the empty dish and 1 jam1ned it into th e boy's face.

"Here! You stupid fucking little ~rat!" Earl growled as he rubbed the C P 's face "You don't want chicken, then make us some tear so f I in rum · up or b?W How about that? Huh? You hke soup? You little pussy ...cry! I said cry! dinner . " E 1 h d h d h I want some tear soup. ar pus e so ar t e bowl slipped out of hi come on I • s It shattered on the floor. He now saw that Crump s pupils were as big as h~nd 5 · The color had left his face. The boy was horrified . He was frozen. Earl night. · · b h · locked eyes with his son. The ne~t reat escaped him. He dropped his grip on b 's hai r Then lifted the chair up so that all four legs landed with a thump th e oy · . . on th e floor. Earl turned, wiped a solitary tear danglmg from his eyelid, and walked away. Crump trembled silently. His mother walked over and placed her greaseburnt hand on his shoulder; she pushed down to calm his quaking. She twisted her apro n around a finger from her other hand to form a makeshift tissue to dry th e boy's tears, but realized that he had none. He pushed her hand away. His eyes were frozen. Leaning in she whispered into his ear, "You know your father I ,, oves yo u.

. . 1 tel room years ago when I was traveling too much, this poen (Written zn a 10 fi l 1 Was I ft -year-old not to grow up too ast, at east not until her dadd1 npleQ to my tum ve Y gets horne.)

By the babbling brook, towards the Misty Sea, I met a girl so fair.

With emerald eyes and rows of wheat

That spun her golden hair.

I asked, "Are you traveling to places afar? Are you going where I've been?"

"I'm seeking my way. I'm a big girl now: A new life, new tales, new friends!"

The rustling trees, the hoot of an owl Reminded me I must go. But the moonlit night gave me pause To delay my journey so.

"Show me where you've been," I said. "I wish to see this land."

And her face lit up like a firefly's light. She held out her tiny hand.

And all along the Misty Sea

We wandered through the gloam. We laughed and sang of happy times In her joyous, carefree home.

And 'round the bend of the Misty Sea

We came upon a plain, Where sugar boats and chocolate floats

Lined sun ny, tree-trimmed lanes.

Bright balloons abounded

Silly monsters filled th e ai.r!

An ice cream river ran close by A well-worn teddy bear.

A land encased in memory. A land that I once knew. A land I left when very young, So many things to do!

What was atop that snowy mount Or beyond the crystal lake? 1hadn't stayed around to see, So many plans to make!

I patted her head; she smiled so sweet. Her emerald eyes now gleamed. Then laughing little voices beckoned, And she faded toward the scene.

She turned around and wished me well, For she knew I could not stay. Older ones like me, I'm told, Don't have the time to play.

So I made my way along the brook, And down the Misty Sea, To embark upon another journeyAnother place to be.

Sugar boats and tree-trimmed lanes Glow within the breast, And remind us all of memories lost And childhoods laid to rest.

I'll return again to the land Beside the Misty Sea. A~d a little girl with emerald eyes Will be waiting there for me.

Teacn You" Cnildren Well

It is all I want

It is all I need .

The mnocence of not knowmg

If only the world could see

The sweetness of being narrow-minded

The beauty of knowing a little

The joy of being inquisitive

But now it is all gone

If only I could be one again

In mind and not in body

I would resist the sneer of wrongdoing

And not infiltrate my mind

With the payless shadow of maturity

The times of knowing and doing right

But the days are gone now

I have to move on to the outer world

Outside the four-cornered walls of childhood

The air blows and all I feel is the breath of a different person

The breath of contamination

It takes strength to resist

All I wish is for my childhood to return

Give me the joy to know my heart is pure

It is time to make a decision between me and the world

But it is a pity

My childhood is already gone

Flace , dogs done got loose," yelled my grandmothe A

"J ck one a yo 'dl h r. ivty a ' d long his boot laces rap1 y as e threaded th grand , h ds move a . em thr fathers an h rtness of breath, he pulled his large baseball ough l t With a s o cap each eye e . . t l'ghtly above his hairline. For my grandfather Wh onto his d I tting it res s I , oin I hea , e d O ddy there was no time to waste; one of his huntin affec. . t ly calle a , g dog h t10na e th cage out back. When my grandmother peered from h s ad ed from e er 1· · escap . d she spotted the dog running wildly through all the IVtng room wm ow, Yards on Spruce Avenue. 0 the years Mama -that's what I called my grandmoth Vff . ~-~d th Official reporter of the dog escapes, she seemed to have an become e acute S Of anything amiss around her house. After first searching the awarenes creek that ran along the north side of the house, Daddy scavenged the neighborhood search of his dog, continuing to shout commands in his Southern dialect, "Get~~ backa here, and hush up ." Daddy was overweight, and t~is task was physically draining to his body. Meantime, Mama returned to the kitchen to finish preparing the morning breakfast, which appeared to be a monotonous ritual for her. Early mornings, Mama was the first person in the house to rise. After drinking one cup of cream-filled coffee- all the caffeine she would allow herseU to drink for the day-she lit the eyes of the gas stove with a wooden match, and warmth began to fill the room. Compact in size, the kitchen lacked a harmonious decorative display of odds and ends, but it was painted in bright yellow and very much in order. Her Prell-scented hair curled loosely atop her head, white and soft as cotton. High cocoa-brown cheekbones dominated her face as she chewed on a piece of Wrigley's Doublemint gum, stirring, whipping, and chopping food endlessly- all the while humming ballads in a low voice, which she had stored in her heart during her days of growing up in Mississippi. Although I lived with n~y paren~s at 800 Spruce, just two houses from my grandparents', I learned early ll1 my childhood that "house" and "home" are not synonymous.

Everybod y who resided on Spruce Avenue in Dewpoint, Missouri, kneW that Ali ce Jean B t (M k' d of ed1 · ax er ama) could make a delectable meal from any in ble plant or a · 1 A . d not the fl . mma · t Baxter Place, sizzling hot bacon - the thick km ' irnsy stuff of tod , straw· b . ay - scented the house; alongside the bacon lay butte!) ' erry Jam-dipped b' . . th tongue Sc b · iscmts that melted instantly on contact with e J ram led eggs whi d . 'd rits Jacet with butt . ppe to perfection took their proper place best e g . 111v er and li ght] tchu1g • gra ndfather' h k Ysweetened with sugar. I often sat in awe, wa d down1 s c ee s nos d an then back a d f ' e, an temples move in a melod ic rhythm, up t· the n orth, as he h d . . e taien · abil ity to ch c ewe his food. He possessed a uniqu

ew and swall • ow simultaneously.

1 can reca ll during 1975, when I was a quiet . . . ' rune-year-old . ndp arents every day. Within the walls of that h girl. I visited gra ouse at 818 s s received unconditional love, and a big part of th 1 . Pruce Avenue, ay at ove mvol d k. g and Daddy's assortment of animals: rabbits hi k ve Mama's in , c c ens and en bloodhounds. Mama and Daddy's house was d 1 ' more than a , an a ways will be , a place of peace and comfort. , my

A modest one-and-a-half story structure, with a drab 1 b ' pa e lue and white or scheme, Baxter Place was surrounded by plenty of gree f 1 n ° iage and backd land. Flowers and trees grew randomly, as if they began fr d om see s that had n shaken like salt and pepper onto a bland plate of food This d f . , . . · gar en o diser was my grandfathers creation. His domain was the outdoor property, and tended to it faithfully. The cliche, "You can take the man out of the country, t you can't take the country out of the man," referred to my grandfather, addy. He was an original, for no one else in that Dewpoint neighborhood ned a miniature barnyard. At the rear of the large backyard, which could have sily accommodated another house, stood a large pen made of wood scraps; this t,.ras the home of the bloodhounds, which overflowed with dogs of every age and size. Inspectors from the City of Dewpoint threatened Daddy with fines if he did t reduce his dog population. Neighbors were rumored to have complained out the howls heard deep into the nighttime hours and the stench of dog feces. ot one of the numerous threats was ominous enough to separate my grandfather om his dogs.

Life at Baxter Place might have been a little eccentric, but it was a place I lled home. In contrast to the secure and nurturing environment at my grand, essed by the spirits of arents house, 800 Spruce, just two houses away, was poss

b 1 · 1 Mama and Daddv, ell and Damnation." It was the house of my 10 ogica .d If I was the nuddle mantha and Edward along with four siblings an myse · 1 f •x ·1 ' dest in size, a tota o s1,

d. In comparison to Baxter Place, 800 Spruce was mo k h that . d b d m was a bac pore oms; three were bedrooms. Actually, the thir e roo d !even days d b 1 months an e · een enclosed, and my brother, who was e even d m father kept him sepounger than I, slept there. He was my only brother, an f often remind us that ate from "the girls" as often as possible. My fa ther woul s determined that he had anything to do with how my brother turned out, he_wathe to vs he would e l fleeted 111 · · i

Wou d not become "a sissy!" His attitude was re bile we g irl s receivel .

Urchase· t . t my brother, W r full l,t · oy guns and trucks were given ° t the deep tree z e olls and dishes. In addition to toys, Edward always ~ep v of s howin~ Ion' Ood. H . . . h' was his wa.

e enJoyed g1vmg gifts to his family, t is

tr f

" He JJ a nd Damnation" stood a windowless doo . At th e en Y o · . . r in Clim. . d ut aga ins t th e yellow sidmg, and the two narrow, black-tJ-i,__ son red; 1t stoo O -u..i.uned 1 the front of th e house . This door seemed to symbolize an wmdows a ong . . entry.

· dl ess pit of agony. I am sure that within the walls of that h way mto an en . . OUSe at 800 Spruce there re mains a residue from the events that to~k place there through. out my childh ood . I was quiet and somber most of the time, and stomachaches plagued me on a regular basis.

In spite of my nervous stomach, a good meal always comforted me. Like my grandmother, my mother, Samantha, was an_ excellent cook. She doted on her children, cooking full meals every day that consisted of meat, at least two vegeta. bl es, bread, and dessert. Being a housewife, cooking was just part of her daily duties. In addition, Samantha had a flair for decorating, which she displayed strategically in every square inch of space. The house was immaculate, with all furni shings and accessories arranged, decent, and in order. Seven of us shared one tiny bathroom, yet it was unnaturally sanitary, Pine-Sol fresh from morning to night.

Just like Baxter Place, "Hell and Damnation" contained the aromas of food and the spices used in cooking; however, there lingered a distinct odor that prevailed whenever my father, Edward, was in the house. This odor emanated through the pores of the skin that covered his small frame, living and breathing in his mouth. He was addicted to alcohol. During my childhood, Edward was either drunk and nice, or drunk and mean. My father drank a lot of vodka. He preferred to sip it from a half pint-sized bottle. His liquor bottles were hidden throughout the house: behind draperies, in the toilet tank where they must have remained chilled, beneath his bed, and behind his favorite reclining chair in the living room. I have heard that vodka is a liquor that does not have a scent that is easily detected. Well, that might hold true for some nostrils, but to this day, my olfactory glands have no problem identifying its putrid stink.

Edward and his unhealthy relationship with vodka created an atmo~phere at 800 Spruce that was thick with chaos. Especially traumatic were holidays, and I can still recall one Easter when Edward went into a vodka-induced rage! On returning from a visit at Baxter Place as we approached the concrete • I • th tthe patio at the back of 800 Spruce, my mother and two of my siblings noticed a trash can appeared to have fallen over, spilling its contents everywhere. "Ooh,e~ dog must have been back here," said my brother. "This is a mess!" my rno th •t exclaim ed. As we neared the narrow four-step porch that led to the back door,ryt be · · ·n eve came mcreasmgly apparent to us that pots and pans had been strewn i d d " · pare ire~hon . Somehow, the contents of the Easter feast that my mother had pr~ onto earlier that morning had spewed forth from the back door of the house an n· the patio G b . alad, ca . · reen eans, macarom and cheese collard greens, potato 5 the died yams d · ' • tt·ons on . , an an entire glazed ham were scattered in four d1rec .. this pat10 I am t · h . gue pie, · cer amt at somewhere in that mess was a lemon menn

d , favorite desse rt. "Wh at the hell, " screamed Samanth I Edwar 5 h . . a. stood still as . d. belief. J could hear m y ea rt beating mside of my ea G . . , en in is . . lf "I , h rs. ripped m oz d and cried ms1de m yse . ts appe nmg again," I thought "Ed ar I stoo h :I h' · ward ' drunk and unleas ec 1s anger upon the house." as gott;~ad seen the patio trashed before, but on past occasions it was my mothwho would collect the vo dka ~ottles from their hiding places and throw them om the back door onto the patio .. Broken glass and puddles of useless vodka ould be awaiting Edward upon his _return home. I watched my mother crawl ound on her hands and knees, sobbing as_ she attempted to clean up the mess. In past years , Edward would vent his anger by storming the house, breakanything in his path. Never before had he used my mother's meals to hurt e~. That Easter he threw my Mother's love out the backdoor along with the uggling love his family had for him. This time, there was no need to call the ewpoint Police Station, for Edward had fled the scene of his crime. I bent down side my mother to help her clean up the mess, but she stopped me. We went side that house, packed a few clothes in some bags and left for a stay at Baxter lace. A few hours later, Edward returned to his home at "Hell and Damnation" d realized that his family was gone. Our leave was short-lived; after three onths at Baxter Place, we moved back in with Edward. We moved back and rth between 800 and 818 Spruce many times, before my mother gained the trength to leave "Hell and Damnation" forever.

Today, I often visit Spruce Avenue because my mother now permanently sides at Baxter Place. As a result of her courage in leaving Edward, my siblings d I are stronger emotionally. Occasionally, I visit Edward and his third wife in eir home. He now lives a quiet life and is free from alcohol use. I am learning forgive him for his behavior in past years and am looking forward to our future lationship.

Mama and Daddy are still alive in my heart. But in 1988, followin~ a long ess, Mama suffered a stroke and died . Just three years later, Daddy died of a eart attack as he sat in his favorite chair at Baxter Place . Because of their expresons of love and my tormented life two houses away, I learned that a house is just at, a house. The relationship of the people within a house is what truly makes -~touse_a home. Although I now have my own house to call home, Baxter Place

lremams a place of comfort and peace. The inside decor has changed, and n~ta eleme t h . • 1 ith memories M n s ave aged the exterior, but love still remains a ong w ama and Daddy .

IFreshman Di lemma

It wasn't a question of questioning my questions about writing, But a critical analysis of critical issues to analyze in college .

Since I don't use words I can't spell, I didn't understand The need to stress ways to avoid utilizing plagiarism.

I didn't know I was expected to know the final draft Was not the draft to be turned in during finals week.

How was I to perfect imperfect usage of the imperfect tense? Or realize MLA wasn't a Master in Literacy Administration?

I thought assurance of insurance to ensure correct writing was Composing compositions in Freshman College Composition.

But unbelievably, I erred under an erroneous belief in believing I wouldn't be banished to puzzle over the puzzling puzzles of English

... Until I learned there's a writing director To directly direct writing with right writing.

Then I learned literacy was not literally being literate.

l Ys searched for the best leaves I a wa Wi th the best color and s~ape

So I could giv e them as gifts to m y mother

She was always so thankful

When J handed her a leaf in each color and shade she wou ld put them in a book she kept To press them and keep them there

Now I look at the book

Each leaf leaving an oily mark on the page

As she tells me the story of each leaf I wish I could remember

IA few grate catches

so me days

· ·ars

Belong Jll J d k e p th e m o n to p o f m y re frig e rat or

And I woul e

To take down .

On dark, lone ly, ramy day s

Unsc re w the lid s

Lift th em off gently

Lift the jars to my ear

An d listen

An d listen

She would tell me it's time

He would hug me again

An d let his hand linger on my waist

The other would tell me war stories

Ones I use to know by heart

But have forgotten

Another would be laughter

Of my little brother when he was 4 years old

An d I would listen

I would listen

Then put them back on top of the refrigerator

And save them

For another

Dark, lonely, rainy day

s p ri n g wind , 5efo re a whi te ap p le b lo ssom s kate like s no w 5 ss a warm, bla c k ro a d. aero '

* from "Spr ing a nd All," Dr. William Carlo s William s, 1923 .

Observation on Contusion

A ladybug strolls by on the sun-laden sill. She walks Japanese silent moving yet still, with sun tides streaming diligent off her shell. orange gleaming confusion is no longer artificial, the open window breeze was omnipotent so she fell. A ladybug rolls over dead on the sun-laden sill.

I sit in my skiff and stare at an endless sea.

No sounds reach my ears, nothing but whispers of my empty soula wind blowing gently from the East, across a silent, endless plain.

As I lean back and stare, not seeing, into the dark azure depths a humpback surfaces.

We stare at each other, and its black eyes weep.

It vanishes slowly, and I sit up to raise my single sail. The wind fills it, billowing out, to carry me over a shining, tranquil sea.

c onversation i)etween TWO Ve'!) Old Women

Twilight Song

As shadows darken across the land

And nightfall creeps high, Amysterious magnificent crea~reEyes forward and ears at attenhonWalks softly through the snow . Beautiful, Powerful, Intelligent mammal

Survives in wilderness unknown. Little ones grow up fast

And learn the ways of the wise, Like him, standing on the hill, Silhouetted against the moon. The wise stands and lets out

Alonely, eerie cry- No words, no rhythm, just song, From his soul to the heavens above.

p rple mourning goddess

F:r those who love the fading day

Look direct]y at the s un

And see her silhouette fade away

As she ushers in The black night's ruler

Ruined by imitation of day

To make streets bright

For damp eyes

In the fluorescent necessity

Of tea-colored lamps

All the starlight is pushed

From our sight

And soon night gives way to light

I don' t know why I kicked the ice, but I know why my foot hurts.

Bellerive would like t o co n g r at ul ate t h e

th

Ip· .L J winners of the 4 annua 1erre ac e d e Ho n or s U JJ J~ge Awards for Excellence in Writing

1000-leve l wr itin g :

Meghan O'Brien, "When Mr s . Bath Me t Mar b n Luth er''

Su bmitted to Kathryn Walterscheid in h er Wes tern Tr adj ti om, class

2000-level writing: Nikki Harrison, "Dreams"

Submi tted to Shelly Fredman in her In a Wo m an' s Voice cl ass

Upper-level writing: Michelle Thomas, "Hyphenated"

Sub mitted to Chas Adams in his Writing the City cla ss

5 h

ommotion there is in town. A man by the name of Martin Alison! uc a c . d is calling for a reformation of the Church on the basis of th Luther has come an . e th t the P riests have been selling as of late. I have come straight way indulgences a . . . from a sermon of Luther's with this packet- ninety and five theses m regards to indulgences and Christian teachings. Here, I will tell you of what I have learned.

As I approached the church where I wed my five husbands (Chaucer 103), a line had formed of people from the town. This new professor had come to speak of the wicked ways into which the Church had fallen. His first declaration is that we are all of one spiritual estate-we are as much in tune with our Lord Jesus as the members of the clergy. Luther lectures about our individual power to speak to God and how to use our personal gifts to serve God. In all my years and with my range of husbands, along with their opinions, never have I been told of this control I have for myself-although my recent husband has come close. We as women are worthy of God's touch. Did Lord Jesus not talk to me at the well? Did He not consult me on my marriages? (Chaucer 103) Of course, I have always been worthy of the Lord. Finally, the community may know this.

Indulgences and the impiety of them were topics. Luther states the Church has not the power to absolve men of sins, unless they are in violation of Canon Law or the Church's own authoritative laws (Aland 50). I know the strength of God and am not surprised by these words. The Pope could not absolve the words the Lo rd spoke to me! The indulgences, it seems, are meant to cheat the peasants. The money I pay for my dear husbands' souls is not paid in vain I am too good a wife to_ let my loves burn. Yet, to think where that money went. I am distressed to ~- it was not used for good terms. Mayhap, it went to feed the Pope's arrnies buil~ a church for the poor. Altogether from Luther's message, I think th atrnY wifel y intentions w . f ere given to eed the Pope's personal purse.

After the sermon 1 t d . Al ' , such h . ' s eppe out into the sun to receive this . Look, is . a t 1ck booklet' I d rdsso · rea some on the walk here and could not believe the wo h me are poetry d h oft e ' an ot ers are harsh and firm Let me read to you some most no table

" N i I umber Thirteen- Th d · alreal ) dead as fa h . · e ymg are freed by dea th from all p en alti es, are J t·rot1' r as t e Canon La I aseo them " (A lan d 51 Th ws are concerned, and have a ri ght to be re e then' from mo rta l . ,) . e dea th s of my husba nd s w o uld be eno ugh to. freCI se so sins Aga· h l to 0 many men 6 · . m, w at of my money? It mu s t n o t be enou g 1 vide, , ut a wid ow h ·npro !>ays the Wo d (M Suc as my se lf mu s t be ro b be d . Th e Lo rd wi f ith, I r catth ew 6-33 ) f · . ·tt rn Y 3 have my ble d · , so a1th s ho uld no t be los t. Alo ng w1 1 sse wi ts and am not left to s uffe r a lo ne fo r long.

Here is one: " As soon as money clinks into the money chest th urgatorv' (Aland :>2). My fourth husband, I faithfull ' e soul flies out P - f " Earth ' I his Y trust' never h d ugh w ith it, or on _ w as purgatory, fo r which I ho . a t~ go w in glory'' (Chaucer 11 ::>). I do not think that it takes b pe his soul lives . ' . ~~ey~~ m a cleansing bum, nor that a fir e may e ven exist, for th h . a soul . . e ardships endur d ou gh life and marna ge can p repare a so ul for after death M e f . . aft d th "f thi . y soul has long ready or its Journey er ea , 1 s be true Mv fa vori te one ! This states that " an y true Christian" -ma .1 • • • • n or woman, you -is able to parhopate mall the blessings of Christ (Aland 53) Al " hi . . • 1son, t s 1s conviction that by fa1th alone, w e are, as females, in charge of ourselves! We can choose our faith and receiv e the goodness and love from our Lord. Though we may be of barley bread, and not of a pure white wheat-seed (Chaucer 106), Lord Jesus "has not ev ery v essel all of gold; some are of wood and serve well all their days. God calls folk unto Him in sundry ways, and each one has from God a proper gift, some this, some that, as pleases Him to shift" (105). We must see now that we, as w omen, are worthy of God, and He knows our talents, despite the comments of the brutes w e tend to marry .

I quake with fear at the reading of Number Ninety. Luther states that the laity will try to revolt w ith arguments against these words, and sermons from the Church w ill hav e its enemies exposed . He goes on to say that we, the peasants, must be put dmvn by force (Aland 58). I have suffered plenty with m~ hus- bands - God rest their souls - so as not to have to worry about a revolt. This man Luther should not assume our town to be so barbarous that a fight is always on the horizon.

His last We as Christians should "be confident of entering into heaven thr0h~gnkh . " (58). Tot 1 many tnbulations rather than through the false secunty of peace . d f all b d good-mtentione 0 those nights I suffered at the hands of my hus an s, h b nds and th ou gh they were . I now assuredly know that the troubles ofl my hu:v: reached myself ill · f ur dead oves . w gw e us eternal peace. I pray that m y 0 their paradise already

me I must H l · · what keeps · h o, ook at the sun! My husband will be wondenng k d blue for the urrv for if h

1 h 11 be blac an .gh· ' e catches me at gossip with you, s a rrow ru tF · · are thee w ell, Alison. I shall speak with you on

-Coo er received a B.A in Communication_in January 2005. She curr Q.ina Au sti n duc~tional assistant at St. Louis Co mmuru ~ College-Meramec, Wherent1y Wl' rk~ i1S :ln e . tutors fo r the su pplemental instruction program . Her career e s~e tr.uns dhnd superV1n1·csea~on courses at a college or university 1n h er spare time she go~l 1s t\) t'='-11..· coff1mu HGTV) . ' en1oys • 1 • herbal tea inte rior decoratin g (she lov es , and w n tmg poet·ry dn n "' mg ' and m.m-fict10r1

Olivia Ayes, age 21 , is in her fou~th year at t~e Pie~e Lacle~e Honors C~llege at UMSL. ~ht> is currently pursuing an English degree with a biology nunor and Wnting Certificat This is Olivii s second year as an editor for Bell eri ve, and third year being involved : prodw..i.ion. She was also the produc~on leader of last sp~ing's Litmag : ~ es tination s. She works as a stringer for St Lows American newspaper and is currently trymg to find some pe"ic-e of mind, body and soul after an unusually hectic year . " A lot of unexpected adva-sities occurred, but there were some great surprises, too, like receiving an award for Who' s Wh o Among Students in American Universities and Colleges." She wishes to thank her support system: "Without their help, I would not be sane right now ." Olivia regrets not taking linguistics over the summer. "I could have escaped, I mean, graduated this fall." Still though, she plans on resting soundly over winter break. She stated, ''I'm going to d.iSappear fo r a month. Anywhere out of St. Louis and near water woul d be wonderful. l' m in need of furtds, so if you can help .just kidding." Her inspiration for writing comes fro m reflection on seemingly ordinary occurrences or from intense emotion caused by deep attachments. " It' s a fault of mine that I get so deeply involved so quickly," she said "With women, I find it extremely difficult to love moderately. Maybe there is a more profound reason fo r heterosexuality besides procreation and normalcy ."

Gloria A. Ayuba, a member of the Pierre Laclede Honors College, is taking a Pre-~ed program including a heavy emphasis on physics, math and chemistry. While working hard in the sciences, she appreciates the arts and writing.

B b .

) bout things

o Bliss tends to write poetry about things he sees (not hears or reads or a r to that h ave happened (history). Sometimes he tries to "answer" (not to parody, ~;rnpt cre:te an ~alo? to) poems he likes. "They entered the world naked" ~tarte? a::: adriving to answer Wilham Carlos Williams' "Spring and All" with somet~m~ Bhss (European, ho~e on a warm, breezy spring afternoon. He earned a B.A. m h 1st0rY h deanof mainly) and minored in literature (American, mainly). Currently he serves as t 1e 1 · 5 5av ing th p · La · · but 1 · ,,

e 1erre clede Honors College. He watches far too much television, canoe1110 grace_is that he watches it fitfully and channel hops. He enjoys ru n ning, cy~~ t have and fishing, and often retreats to a cabin with his wife of 38 year s, Paulette. ts fo\\ 0'~1 :cellent child:en, Daniel and Greta. Humphrey and Tilly are their c~rren~~ (for yicioll· Pumfue paw prmts of Fanshawe, Strega, Glinka, Alphonse, Ka tya, T1ger, a) and Tiger. ,. ' srtl . . She enJoY\ntirt'

K_eely Bursik graduated from UM-St Louis in 2004 wi th a B A. in English. .;ing the c,in' 1 ~Mg yarn (actual yarn, not stories).· She is a con-,pul sive k n itter a nd cf" 1 \ that 5~cct ''n11 cDonald' M · the ac bl1 •1 ·c~ 11 s enu Song." Her inspi ra tio n to w ri te comes trom :Id or sLI -cttl11 rea y do anythin 1 "I' . J A k ne to cll 't)' o~

I' g e se. ma one-trick pony," she sa tu . s 1 • U ,i vc rs1 rn Sturnped." Being a put-upon grad s tu de nt a t Easte rn Michiga n 1 most of her time.

11

aduated from UM-St. Louis m 2004 She is curr en t}~, teaching English berlY cowa gr d wo r king on a Master's degree . Most of her wo r k comes from life JJl A adem y an · · · She ' d tha ' c or Jes u c . itse lf is a n 1ns p 1rabon . sa1 ta person d oesn' t need to look she fee l'> that life ~n ce to find ma ter ia l everyone will re late to " I emote in m y work J ex pe n e n " L ' d "b f h · ' ch t,e yon mo re perso nal , s ne sa 1 , ut mos t o t e ideas are sti ll unive rsal. kes I t see m k f th · " If · · · hich rn a I s teal all m y wor rom o ers . rec rea tio nal achv 1n , mearis w hat II of that o r . 1 s eith er a . be tween reading for grad school, grad mg papers and trying to teach doe s in th e ti me · I R d J 1· ut toget h e r a s1mp e essa y on omeo an u 1et, then sh e r are ly h an how to P · · d to d bo ha es rn h·ona l imp lies sittin g own rea a ut w t a random p hil osopher t Jf recrea . ea es. 1 .f ( o ints that th ey probab ly . wrote while drunk o r stoned) so that she ma y sta y 'd about I e P d h f h · 1 raduate sc hoo l, th e n sh e s pe n s mu c o e r rec bme confu sed. Cowan urges oa t in gd n th e ma n fi g ht th e p owe r a n d save the empire de rs to am ,

na "Josie" Day g radu a ted fr o m UM-St. Lo u is a n d ea rn ed a P ierre Laclede Honors 1~:;e Ce rtifi cate in 2004 . La s t ye ar s he took part in " Cele bratin g the Arts in Honors," the nu al sprin g art show . Her photographs were featur e d in th a t sho w , and one of the hotog raph s is fea tured in this issue

ike Fetters ha s tra veled to all 50 of the United States and is looking fo rw ard to spending e next few yea rs in England for dissertation work. He is currently a tutor in the writing b at UM-St. Lo ui s and will graduate with a M .A . in English in Ma y 2005. He credits era! fo rces as literary inspiration, including his high schoo l creati ve w riting teacher, ave Mill ar; Nanc y Gleason, his family, J.R.R. Tolkien, Robert Frost, and his Christian ith. Fetters writes fiction, poetry, and essa ys In his spare time, he pl a ys video games, 'kes, camp s, read s extensivel y, and fiddles with wood w orking.

hana Frazier is a sophomore majoring in Accounting at UM-St. Louis . She said that it Yseem a bit out of the ordinary for an accounting major to be a poet, but w ho is to say hat is normal anymore? Music, poetry and other arts are her pass ions, and she dedicates gr~at deal of time to pursuing them. She also loves pla y ing guitar, ke yboard and cello. razier f,la ys guitar for a friend who performs spoken word and poetry at St. Louis venues ch as Cicero's" and "Legacy Books and Cafe " She is inspired b v her surrounding envinm :nt, as we ll as those who encourage and love her unconditi~nall y. When she is not ork;ng, studymg or creating, Frazier enjo y s hanging out with the friends and family that e a arg e part of her life. She is elated to be a part of Belleri ve , and hopes that readers have much fun read· h mg er work as she did writing it. eri Friedline' s f 1 . dl" ho gr d anu Yis the center of her life and the y serve as her mspuahon. Fne me, rti f a uated from UM-St. Louis in May 2004 with a B.A. in English, a PLHC Honors 1cate and a W . . . d ' me tim . nting Certificate also finds ideas in the details of her surroun mgs. e said · eW s r:r' Ydiscoveries are the result of stud y · sometimes they are total serendipity," . ntmg ' r a Writin g f courses have helped her look bey ond the safe and sweet sentimei:ta ity aracters caw~ e a nd mother. She thinks that writing about uninhibited and wicked e, she likes ~lir:i~herapeutic ~nd fun, and while she enjo y s writin? a~out th~ loves _ of ~er ps a noteb k g Wt th subJects in writing she would rather av01d m real ltfe Fnedlme e n~eds to c~Zar phr~ses, sentences and other bits and pieces to freewr_ite ~bout whe~ d hm e to learn er m~ nd - "Why work so hard to be a teacher and a wnter if you can t rd enin g pla y· and Wnte?" she asked Her fun in the world outside of literature mcludes ' in g With h . . h b h er grandkids and enjo y ing Corona(s) on t e eac ·

. . trative staff member in the Office of th b en an admuus . e De Graill has e 1990 Julie has spent her entire career on coll an at th Juhe try since · th p 6 ege c e II ge of 0ptome ·ty of South Carolina) to e ac1 c Northwest (P ampuSe Co e st (U111vers1 . f Ark Ortlanct s, f 001 the East coa bl digits at the University o ansas before settl. State) r M'dWest(dou e h d ing1nh and in the 1 • the stimulating atrnosp ere an diverse displ ere in I d) She enJoys f f' d . ays of in the Heart an . f th academic setting, and o ten m s inspiration for h tel!ect (or sometimes not) 0 tcampus life (e.g., "A Few Grate Catches" near Clar~ ~tograPhic . in the recesses o d ·11 . . 1-iaU) J . ,mages d for digital photography an sti tnes to consider th t · uhe thus far not opte . . a a matter has . 'd ather than procrastination. of purist pn er

urrently a student in the Trilogy Project, a three-year leadershi Seth Hein 1s c P traJJtin th g h the Newfrontiers family of churches. While working toward his d g course rou egree in C ter Science at UM-St. Louis, he works as a web designer for Express Seri· t H ompu p s. e enjoys playing guitar and composmg music and poe~y. Alt~o~gh he doesn't consider himself a professional photographer, due to the non-existent trammg he has undergone, he does like to try to take creative pictures whenever he gets a chance. Seth is a devout Christian and believes that God, who is infinitely creative, created him. Seth believes that God made him in His image, and that his creativity grows from this close relationship.

Paul Huggins graduated Magna Cum Laude from UM-St. Louis in May of 2004 with a B.A. in English. He earned a Pierre Laclede Honors College certificate and a Writing Certificate Paul said," Anyone can achieve their dreams if they don't drink very heavily . Or if they drink heavily in moderation. Or if they can write well while plastered." He assures us that he was entirely sober while writing this, since he wrote it in his very own (along with nine other people) English department office. He is currently in the process of completing a master's degree in English with the emphasis in literature at SIU-Carbondale. He works ~s a graduate assistant there and teaches freshman composition. He was reluctant to explain why he writes, as it could have come out sounding pretentious, so he said that he likes th e act of creating something on paper that came from his mind. . . d Honors

Adena Jones graduated in May of 2004 with a B.A. in English, and Wntmg an_ , Natllral College certif t I h f 11 . . f UM-St Louis . . ica es. n t e a of 2004, she was an associate editor or · B ueri ve. Bridge ( ti II d·t r for e a na ona Y d1stnbuted literary journal) As a former copy e 1 0 to one Illumination L ' t· 0 • . · ) she hopes 1 ' 1 mag: estznatzons, and The Current (campus newspaper , . urre11t Y day have a 1ob f . She is c . ·1g as a pro ess1onal editor for a magazine or newspaper. f r wnt11 pursuing a B h I . . · ations 0 ac e or of Fme Arts in Graphic Design. Most of her mspir come from the be auty of nature and the close relationships she has.

Katie Kohlb . . 11 nt con1 stud f urn is ma1oring in both English and Philosophy, an exce e y or anyon . t . e in eres ted m the arts.

h Lee is a junior at UM -St. Louis and a membe c,:~.a bet hi d l T o f the p · i:,.a,- Betw een an mtems p an c asses, the one n _ . iene Laded H Coll~~e. t in on a dail y basis is rubber band archery so n e;i:::_ntia l activity shee ono~s rti ci pa e , omeu 1111 g h . can sti ll pa r After a length y departure from creative Writing, sh ct · s e picked up ove th U1J1Il1e • aft h · e re isco r e s r creation one late ernoon m er dorm room lnspu · d b vered the wonder f literan . h ch . e v the f th so f- her closest fn ends, s e rea ed out to uncharted ai and support f one o d r ·h . expenences h o bl.al bend in the roa . 1s ne w plethora of frustr ti w en she met th Prover 1 " a ons and tr · e th W riting of " Freshman D1 emrna . It w as one of those rru·d . h 1umphs went into e d . l . nig t ep1ph . al . ed that all of the scattere , seemmg y tri v ial counsel she . an1es when she re iz Th kfull received was th b . satisfying years in ~olle~e. an y, her freshman y ear was not the sue e_ as1s of two ssumptions descnbed m the poem However, she imagines it ld ~ession of klutzy ad"dn't have her special adviser holding her hand from the first w wkouf h ave been if she l ee o er undergraduate career.

Will Melton, a senior at UM-St. Louis, is currently pursuing a B A · b h M · · 1 h . . · · m ot ass Commumcat10ns_ and Phi osop y, as well as a Wntmg Certificate . Melton is also a member of the Pierre Laclede Honors College and has begun his work on an M.A. in Philosophy. He dropped out of high school a few months before turning 16 and "proceeded to bounce around the country ." He is totally fascinated by re li gions and probably spends close to $2,000 a year between Borders bookstore and pizza d eli very. Melton grew up in the suburbs and hated how everything was fabricated. "AU the houses were the same," he said. "Everybody dressed the same Everyone sa id the same things. I got bored " He writes to break out of the mundane. He enjoys drinking coffee, p layi ng racquetball, traveling and going to the movies. "American Beauty" is his favor ite, and he watches it every time he is bored and not writing.

Jeanie Meyer used to be Jeannie Meyer, but two n's made lea:,ning cu_rsive m~r~ complicated . "I just couldn't get over all of those came l humps, she sa id. The _n dilemma presents a fitting v iew of Jeanie: she is low maintenance (not to be confuse~ wr th . . l k ' t ward a B A m English at a m1mmahst, she stressed) . Meyer 1s current y wor mg O · · . 1 1 t UM-St. Louis as a "stickin' around kind of senior." Writing, she exp lained, mvo ves a 0 of wall-staring.

l busy. She attends classes

Natalie Musser like many students keeps herself msane Y . A t Museum She has full f h ' ' · h · t the St Loms r · - ime, olds two jobs and works at an mterns 1P _a ·f rly six years, and at worked in the dungeon of Arttech a photofinishmg lab, orf nea year "Mostly, I am No 1 . , . h hie lab, or one . h t" _vaco or, a custom fme art and commercial p otograp . . m sanity is throug ar · a httl: crazy," she said. "The only way I've found _to mamta: chase Park Plaza are ~er She hkes independent films and the Tivoli, Hi-Pomte and : o enings, seedy bars wit~ :av~rite local theaters. Na~alie also has a fondness f?r ~r ti{e kitchen. She thinhks thas am1liar faces, local rock band concerts and experimenhng _m "good read." S e w~ readin · . d B kowsk1 as a • because s e g is an inspirational activity and name u h t ·twas a blessing anndoyed when her television died recently but realized t a 1 su denly h as an extra hour or two every day. . }-fer Achi!les' blishing rt. ned a Julie Pru·tt h d . working on pu Education, ear d heel in I . as ~ritten one adolescent novel an . is toward a M.A. inf her inspiration a~A TeachinW~tin? is spelling. Pruitt, who is workm~e believes that a_ll Zn two versions of talent g ertificate from UM-St. Louis in 2004 5 She has writt ression." s are God • •t pastime. ,, aw exp Look" B -given. Writing is her favon e •ders the r · ellerive has the first version, which she conSI

d ntique lover, is a former Pierre La 1 avid flea marke;,;~ ~n English Composition and Rhe~ e~el-J.onor ther Rodgers, alno rece ived her h H.onors College, St. Charles Cornmu o nc . She t t-tea 1ent w"' ses at t e . d k n1ty C: ll s College stUl . writing cour Sh loves teaching an wa es up excited b o ege . 1, teaching College e f .d f" h "d " a out . , Lurrcnt ) . community th ·ng I was very a ra1 o , s e sa1 . l Would . going St Louis d t be some 1 - t · , sit al and . "Writing use _ o a iece, so scared that_my wn mg _wasn t any good one tL' wor~- in ,uter working ~n. Pability." Rodgers said that te~chmg has inspired h or that .it in y co ~Id judge my wntmk? with other writers, she reahzed that writing sh er to be p~ople wo Through wor mg h d ou]ct not better writer . . tis meant to bes are . ,1 olationist activity, t L~ an 1s _

0

mber 2004 graduate of UM-St. Louis with a BF A Christy Rudloff _1~ a fece the Honors College, and a certificate in photograpl/ in . A t certificate rom h 1 ic stuct. Studio r, a d duate education 1s overs e p ans to nm away to the circus H ies. Now that her 1un erg~~wever tends to pose a problem in this venture . In all ach! 1er i df I fear of c owns, ' b b f a ity l rea u 1 h t she wants to do with her life. May e you can e o some help .. . ha he has no c ue w a .d h h ve 5 J 7 Sl eni·oys all types of art and 1s an av1 p otograp er, potter, and printmaker any 1oes. 1e h 1 B h" · h · · h n find something that mvolves all t ree. ut at t 1s time, s e will find a i·ob Perhaps s e ca to pay the bills.

Matt Trost. Hi, Bellerive. My name is Wicker Stanton, and I am a licensed hospice nurse The reason I am writing to you is because, unfortunately, Matthew Trost has lost his hands . I know you are expecting me to append a note explaining in just what "terrible _ing acc ident" this tragedy befell him, but I will not. The reality is far, far worse. Okay, you win: Matt stole bread from a merchant in a bazaar in Cairo. Soldiers of the emirate cut off his hands as a punishment. Then fed them to the howling jackals that stalk the northern Sahara . In any case, because Matthew has no hands - and will soon have no tongue, as he plans to return to Cairo to call the emir a "chunky-ass" - I am writing in his stead I un?erstand (Mr. Trost is yelling at me across the house) you are in need of a biography for little magazine you're putting together? Okay, I now ghostwrite as Mr. Trost dictate;: Before developing a craving for literary fame, {Mr. Trost] sailed the Atlantic as the world 5 moS t famous swashbuckling cod fisherman. After they stamped [his] name permanently onto the surface of the sea as a memorandum of [his] contributions [he] returned home, wrote th t ' ·t Oh e s ory you now see in Bellerive, and converted to Islam." That seems to be 1 · - wai t a moment th , " · l 1" - ere s more: Hey, don't forget to tell them [he's] singe .

Mi ss y Yearian says th h . . h sands of dolla rs on conce rts d at e is bormg. She reads, she writes, she spend~ t 0 ~ 11 Jiterar)' ino,pi ration "W o~ations to her cause are welcome). She does not believe ' ting or · nting 1s wo k" y . d'ng wn su pporting h r , eanan said. When Missy is not rea 1 ' ,A1riti11g ( er co nce rt hab ·t h . h degree, vv --'-' rt1 ficate H 1 , s e spends ti me working on her Enghs , onors Co ll ege work and a Women and Gender Studies certificate Rich d 'l'l\ ar Ve nnh as a lw , . thfo\l O'', \ .i di ff ~n"nt route rl ays ? ee n interes te d in writing, e v e n though his ca ree t P" i ~,,orKrl . fcJr y e rece iv ed a M , . , ring c1 nl ' ,1r, h t-a r~ ai, a i; alt~ s e as te r s d e gree in M ec h a ni ca l E n g 1nee 1 teac11111~ , h f1n,t lovei, I lo,., ng1n eer a nd purc h as in g m amw·er History writing, a nL ~rried, l1<': two h· . "-.: a rn ed a M A . o . ' I_J is nw ti''' ' ' 1 l lldren, a nd <- ury ' . In Hi s tory from UM -S t. Louis in 2004. -it's L()t1i 5 1111 ,,) !> an a · , •~ e1, as th . . , . , a t. · i,1 1 \J vid Ca rJina ls Ra e coac h for hi s s on s ba se ball te am . Ve nn ,' ·t .... crc1 in 5t 1i1'• ie enio y . , rn s a n I M . . , h Id 1 ''o ~yl in . 6 go lfing tho h h L 1:1.z.o u fan (th e Be ll e riv e s t aff won t O 1 ,vef1 t 5 r, 1ol- g •n coll e ' ug e ~n id " h I " " 1- e ' /0 11 and a ge, ha s writte f ' ' ' my a ndi ca p is in th e s t ratosp 1 e re. t c011 11tY Ppeared on the H · n o r th e "Opinion S h a p e rs " c olumn in th e vvc ~ 1s t o ry C h a nn e l' s " Hi s tory IQ" qui z s h ow in 2000 .

Llniversit_y of Missouri St.

Louis