THE INKWELL Literary Magazine 2019
The Inkwell Literary Magazine is published by Southern Regional Technical College, and is comprised of literary work and visual art and photography from the SRTC service community, including Colquitt, Grady, Mitchell, Tift, Thomas, Turner, and Worth counties. All work belongs to the authors and artists who retain all rights.
Special thanks to President Craig Wentworth, Ed.D, Jim Glass, The Public Relations staff, The Student Government Association on Thomasville Campus, and all clubs and advisors who participated and encouraged students to submit their work.
Submissions can be sent to jsnodgrass@southernregional.edu ISSN 2327-6142 Selections from The inferno are from H.W. Lonfellow’s 1867 Tranlation taken from Project Guttenburg
Masthead Managing Editor Daniel Thrash Editor-At-Large Laura Weeks Associate Editor Richard B. Atkinson
Faculty Adviors:
Kristy Singletary Maria Studebaker-Coppage Polly Swilley & Jay Snodgrass
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2019
Preface Poetry can be used as a voice for those who feel they are not heard. Poetry is for speaking from places that never see the light of day. It is for deeply felt emotions and the people who hold them inside themselves without saying a word out loud. Well, The Inkwell literary magazine is a place where those thoughts and feelings come alive. It is a combination of poetry, prose and art created by the students and the community at Southern Regional Technical College. We are so pleased to present this issue; at the beginning of this journey we started with just a few poems but so many ideas. This process has been a combination of laughter and word vomiting and has shaped the semester here at Southern Regional. We are so happy to present the 2018 fall/winter issue of The Inkwell.
Larry Weeks Co-Editor
From the Editor We began compiling this issue under the theme of Dante’s Inferno, which, as you may surmise, encompasses many different possible interpretations. One aspect is taking a journey into the wilderness and losing yourself in order to find yourself. Another theme prominent with the idea of The Inferno are the sins that lead to damnation. Now we know sins can be fun, but in the inferno, they are the things that torment us; they torment us in the punishment of the afterlife, and the torment us in the lives we live and how we live them. The structure of this issue echoes the path that Dante took down into the underworld, there are guide posts that indicate which realms we are entering, each section divider is a small poem written by SRTC Librarian Nicole Kelley. Each sin has as wide a possible interpretation as you can imagine. The juxtaposition of poems and short narratives with photography helps the traveler pick their way through the warnings of perdition. Some sins are sins of isolation, some of excess. Photography from Marion Young Rose navigates the themes of alienation, decay, and the darkness of nature as it creeps back into what was once civilized. Photography from faculty member Kristy Singletary compliments the pathway through the inferno with investigations of abstraction culled from technology, mechanical pieces and acknowledgments of nature. Kimberly Duncan offers photography of the whimsy of the natural world as a counter to the darker depths of the inferno. There are many other photos and images of the environment surrounding Thomasville, of gas stations and shopping carts and roadways rendered as a kind of criticism of some of the more cultured aspects of some of our “better” society. follows the pathway down This Issue has taken some time to assemble. We are grateful to all the work the editors and students have put in to the production of this issue. Sincerely Daniel Thrash, Editor
Limbo ‑
Greed‑
Sully McNeill and Laura Weeks
Kim Fromkin
You Can Leave Whenever You Want‑ 11
Shards‑
Neill Asbelll
Sully Mcneill
Theater at Epidaurius, Greece ‑
14
49
Gabriel Lewis
cafuné‑ 55 Mashes Snads ‑
Get Outside‑ 17
grace kelly‑
56
57
Mallory Singletary
Samples
18
Wrath‑ Daniel Thrash
Lust‑
AMeritocracy‑ 60
Richard Atkinson
Danielle Dollar
Masters Of The Air And Sky‑ 22
The Winding Down the Clock‑ 62
Trisha Spillvan
Richard Atkinson
The Bypass‑
23
Blowing A Bubble‑
Amy Atkins
Deliverance‑
63
Taylor Smith
25
who’s doing the talking‑
Laura Weeks
Kimberly Alderman
Whistle To Me Like The Wind ‑ 26
She Sips Her Coffee‑ 66
Tayler Smith
Gregory Long
Perfect Summer‑
27
64
To Fly‑ 69
Benjamin Gardiner
Tracie Washington
The Azimuth‑ 28
The Womb‑
KRISTY SINGLETARY
Tammy Barber
Marion Rose Young ‑ 30
To See ‑
70 72
Hope Williams
Gluttony‑
Death‑ 73
Hunter Mclendon
Daniel Thrash
3/4 of This Story is a Lie ‑
32
Samples 74
LAURA WEEKS
Zylan Brandon-Wade
Becca Oakley
Big Monster’s Soliloquy: Part Two‑ 82
Resilient‑ 44 Grey Matter ‑ 45
Marion Rose Young
sheep‑ 83
Taylor Smith
happy birthdead‑
Fraud ‑
84
Connor Craven
Taylor Smith
morning coffee‑
The Clock ‑
85
J. Ross Archer
But He Swallowed My Watch‑ 122
Heresy ‑
Zylan Brandon-Wade
Elizabeth Carter
The Raven‑
Leap‑ 88 Sympathy for a Warrior‑
89
Kristin Cooper
Alexander at the Battle of Issus ‑ 90 Roniqua I. Sheffield
They Will Never Know‑
92
Taylor Smith
self love mistaken as self harm‑ 93 Sharee Penix
94
Taylor Smith
no‑
Taco Bell Bestiary ‑
128
Myranda Mills
Escape‑
129
Sarah J. Proctor
Joshua ‑
130
Darryl Jones
Peace or Patience ‑
131
Treachary ‑ Riya Patel
The Nature’s Routine ‑ 135
96
Zylan Brandon-Wade
Hannah Johnson
Dying Gaul‑
127
Myranda Mills
David C. Dupriest
Woman ‑
120
97
Chelcy Kilgore
Praxiteles, Hermes & the Infant Dionysus‑ 98 Violence ‑ Hunter Mclendon
( I Live At The End )‑ 103
Aesopic Decadence ‑ 137 Laura Weeks
George Flowers
‑ 139
Photography by Marion Young Rose Kimberly Duncan Kristy Singletary Art by Thomas Tran & Richard A. Atkinson
Nicole Kelley
Limbo I stare at the void Unable to feel. No paradise in sight, Nor Hell to reveal. Silence is damning. My ears start to ring. My body is numb. I can’t feel a thing.
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Flushing the Blind
Sully McNeill and Laura Weeks
You Can Leave Whenever You Want Let’s Get This Bread: Roses are red, Violets are blue, Better get the bread, Before ths bread gets you The Moth and The Lamp: Oh lamp where art thou Thou fanciful light of my life Let me touch you Do I care if your glass exterior cuts me? No It will have been worth it Just to touch you Your light blinds And will kill me soon But I have no qualms with that I will die Getting to touch your light Vine: Vine abandoned us when we needed it most We rlly had something going Six seconds turned to hours Now for six hundred more I’ll be mourning Mothertrucker dude this pain hurts like a buttcheek on a stick Whose nuts will we deez? And who will wish us a merry chrimus? How was Trey’s basketball game? We’ll never know
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Vine 2 ahead?? Uh yeah, I sure hope it does Whaddup my names Jared and Im sad vine is dead Rip ;((((((((((((( It Be Like That Sometimes: It rlly do When you ask You already know That when it be like that Sometimes it rlly do It be like that sometimes uwu God I wish that were me I don’t know his name but he’s an actor He was in Sharknado Ughhh I’m so jealous
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I want to fight sharks But I would probably die {Then Perish} Things You Will Need: 1.
Hot Cheetos
2.
Naughty n Nice Holiday Body Lotion
3.
Serotonin
4.
Floss
5.
La Croix (Pamp)
6.
Metaphors
7.
Hand towel
8.
Some stamps I guess
9.
Dopamine
tea
cool tea laps at the shores of stimuli, you’ve found it sitting on the counter days old and dusty, the tweets you may have missed. you take a tentative sip, but you’re thirsty for those delicious details, even stale. warm tea exchanged over a bag of tostitos, standing in the kitchen with your roommate you make dinner and sip the workplace tea: who is f**king who, who is racist, or hated. the “people you may know” tea. HOT tea is fresh, bitch! when your friend texts from inside the club or on their tinder date, you can gulp that sh*t by the gallon. it’s spicy but someone else is burned, so why am i crying in the club rn? (a list) 1) that video of otters floating on their backs holding hands 2) panera came out with a double bread bowl so now i can have mac and cheese and tomato soup in a single loaf. 3) my friend said he was a bottom for jebus 4) looked at the news app on my phone
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Neill Asbelll
Theater at Epidaurius, Greece Upon first glance as through a seashell carved from the hillside — A cold inanimate remnant of prior events Closer inspection reveals the hidden inside Not looking with sight but listening to remnants We begin to hear in the form of waves A slight roar of the crowd pleased in the ways Replaying the past history it saves Of the victories and sadness each actor portrays Music and dance can be heard at a glance Wisdom attained by imagined pain and romance Pulling away from the skene using eyes to look
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At the seashell in the hillside once more Seeing now only dust from rubble on book Buried by sand but known forevermore
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Bird Dogs on the Hunt
Gabriel Lewis
Get Outside Many pass by nature Without a single thought, They’re more concerned with their possessions And whatever else they’ve got, Instead of rolling through the woods On a bike, Man is more interested In his latest like, You could observe the beauty That nature provides, If you were only willing To step outside
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Mallory Singletary
Sample 1 i stare at the stars every night and wonder why something so beautiful
sample 4
must hide each night. “i love you, but then i remember every
i’m not in love with you anymore.”
beautiful thing about us and, though i know
the cloth in my pillow,
the brightest parts of us
exhausted and tired from
have disappeared like
absorbing my tears,
the stars, i hope they
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will reappear
sinks further into my mattress as
with the moon, new
it muffles another sob
and bright
at your words.
and beautiful. i shut my eyes tight, everything burns inside i whisper the same to you, both of us fully knowing i am the only one lying; my heart the only one breaking.
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sample 6 you know when something is worth holding on to by the impulsive way your lips curl up or the way your heart speeds up at the mere thought. don’t let go of what quickens your heart.
sample 10 i gave you my heart, it beat for you you ripped it down the middle and gave it back to me in shambles. i cried and never told you, you tried to glue it, like a puzzle and hand it back to me. i stared at it, one piece again but still cracked, and still beating, so i could break it again, i look into you and hand it back, still beating.
sample 23 at the end of her tunnel stands her sparks lighting the way of passion. your hands combed through her hair like a gentle wind she is delicate for your fingers where you stood in her dark I
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Marion Rose Young
Nicole Kelley
Lust Her body so tight. His flesh so smooth. The fire so hot, This place so uncouth. I cannot tell where My frail body ends And where the dark Madness soon will begin.
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Richard Atkinson
Masters Of The Air And Sky Oh how I wish to fly like an eagle. Over the mountain high Free from the earth that weighs me down. Master of the air and sky Released from the bonds that ties me to earth. Away from the toils of strife Up through the clouds like a pathway to Heaven. Away from the pressure of life Away with the winds across the tops of the trees. Going higher than the mountains afar Stopping only to rest and admire the view and how wonderful the world’s colors are The landscape appears like a masterful painting that only God alone could create His work is so perfect, no one else can come close or even dare duplicate As the sky is so vast the air is so sweet from smells of the oak and the pine The different aromas tickle the nose like the waters the rivers align As fast as I can, I shoot through the breeze. I can almost play tag with the wind And mixed clouds together with the dawning sunrise, as the colors and morning hues blend To be king of the clouds would be too much to ask I wouldn’t be if I could try But as the great eagles, I would really come close as the masters of the air and sky
Kristy Singletary
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Trisha Spillvan
The Bypass When I think of you I feel nothing your mind wastes its time thinking about me So today I am sad as an egret floating in the waste water treatment of your memory So now I feel nothing and your mind feels everything The breath of the highway brandishes a certain kind of weapon that reminds me of your flowing tears. I got out just in time.
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Marion Rose Young
Amy Atkins
Deliverance See the man as he walks the pastures. His weathered eyes from years of herding wonder from the rising sun in the east To the lush valley way down towards the west Feel the kiss of dew on his sandal clad feet, harden from years of traveling and tending His gait mighty and strong, yet so graceful and light that he leaves no mark or trail Smell the heavenly aroma of the purple sweet peas and the wild honey suckle As they open their buds up to the heavens Hear the shepherd deep voice call to his flock, beckoning them to come and graze in new pastures full of tender, young green grass Hear the herd low back gently to their good shepherd as they move as one to join him In his mind he checks and counts his growing herd, He knows that soon his herd will multiple and he must be diligent in leaving no one behind There yonder under the shade of the tree lies one of the herds first time heifers The man deep voice is gone as he soft speaks to the laboring heifer ensuring that he is there to assist Feel the gentle tug as he helps deliver the new calf See the joy in the shepherd’s face as he examines this wonderful newborn bull calf and raises the calf to his shoulders to carry and join the herd
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Laura Weeks
Whistle To Me Like The Wind Whistle to me like the wind And take me back home again Make it like it was again And take to the starting place A capping off of unexplainable grace Whistle to me like the wind My brain is whole I’m in control again Whistle to me like the wind My blinding, binding, grinning skin Whistle to me like the wind
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Whistle to me like the wind The cold realization of caring where you are And where you have been I once stood out on the water My coffee hotter and my temper hotter To somehow match the rage at sea My only friend is what lies in the wind And we have an understanding I look out and I feel it Falling out of it is myself Disfigured and drowning Gutted by the sounds So Whistle to me like the wind  
Tayler Smith
Perfect Summer “instead of telling you what i did this summer, i’ll tell you what i wanted to do. my reason for this is because the only things i’ve done so far are illegal or at least not appropriate. so here goes. i want to live, breathe, and see yellow which reminds me the most of happiness. i want to go to the beach and play in the water and get sand in the worst places. then i’d be able to say i was having fun. i wanted to glisten and shine like the girls online. but i don’t glisten or shine, not like the girls online. i want to love someone and not have it be so confusing. i want a perfect summer but life doesn’t work like that. sure i can dress myself in yellow but it won’t change a single thing because blue still bleeds through it and then turns green and makes me feel sick. and i can go to the beach and i can love but it won’t actually mean anything until i’m happy. happy enough to enjoy things. good or bad. but i’m not. and that’s why i told you about the summer i wanted, not the one i had.“
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Benjamin Gardiner
The Azimuth
30
Heat rise—we are unmade thin—mirages stippled wayfaring worse than paroled without pardon. Wan parted raw, by rays worn, gel hazard haze as if once, wonder stunted, we bent to waning days. Dromedary-miens ogle you stand before our watchers red ready unphased ruddy distended unblinking. You can care so less and less about drift God-songs or storm songs or daft elders or genetic dune stories or anybody’s get. Dreams on & gone insane or so says you bloated, accusing. The last scathing bloat stopped kicking— too early and bladdered without scream —still—borne as we once bore that corn maze torn down & straw torn browning turned ears to the azimuth-way, bathed. Razed, growing knowing sin, sere & yet forever infertile because our minds whenever we touch spots & wrinkles mumble such phrases to ablaze & to oblige to blanch & to coo bunching as clouds did once cumulate. For a devil yearns dust between graves persevere persevere
water no water everywhere & only dust to blink & devils to-do dervish the wadi in dare mad eyes. Welcome to my share of a great share, a pot sherd , beckoning dwindle. Our droppings gathered in fire wasting shambling. What endues, shadows & sums a blank cozened dome? The drone hovers over. Crazed vagabond women! You’ll untie your bragas to wipe up my waste, loss gazing. Arising, I have become that lost! Prod-empty— useless prick. Signs saying: “refugees.” Once more promise raising us to trust coalescing— words but— no more rain? Respite I see up ahead: Bienvenido a la Republico de Mexico. Angular tilts momentum: a prow, a pole, & one more wet cloud.
Marion Rose Young
Nicole Kelley
Gluttony I’m starving, you fools! My food - I need more. I need more meat You fang-toothed whore! Give me their guts For my personal deli. Oh gods, help me up They erupt from my belly!
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Hunter Mclendon
3/4 of This Story is a Lie
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I’ll say I went to heaven on the one-year anniversary of 9/’11 but it was probably another day in September. I know it was close because granny had a framed drawing of Jesus amongst the debris of the twin towers— a gift one of her beauty shop clients printed off-line, hanging in the hallway between the house and the beauty shop. Jesus’ graphite, blurry eyes stared through the lies that rippled the lake of truth in my head. Yes, I’m a liar, but most of what I’ll recount to you is true, and I’ll try to catch myself in any lies that slip. I’ll admit I didn’t really go to heaven, but the explanation will come later. For now, I’ll just tell you the truth I can recall. My celestial journey came when I was nine. I know for sure, because Granny wrote down my dream as I told it to her and she included my age. We lived in South Georgia, the buckle of the Bible belt, where if you weren’t a church-going, sin-free cracker with money, you weren’t worth anyone’s time. Anyone who tells you different is lying and headed straight for heaven, because lying is acceptable there, as long as you don’t get called out for it. We were church-going and white but granny had been married more times than Elizabeth Taylor, and we had no money since granny went bankrupt, so life was hard. When you grow up with a hard life, the normalcy of it makes it seem easy.
We talked about Heaven a lot when I came up with the notion of lying about it. 9/11 had caused a shift in our country, and people were hopeful that the victims had landed safely in the lord’s embrace. The way I saw it, there was more to be concerned about with those of us who were still here. Another attack could happen any time, and I heard a lot of people even doubted the idea of God and heaven altogether. But that talk was all in secret, of course, but it was still talk we could hear. I came up with the idea to tell people I’d seen heaven in a dream, and when they heard it, I knew they’d feel a sense of relief and be able to go on about their lives. This was a lie, but I liked to think of myself as smarterand more thoughtful than I actually was. So, on the morning of September eleventh, two-thousand-two, I ran from the bedroom Granny and I shared into the beauty shop where she was rolling a perm, and told the biggest lie I’d ever told. The room stank of ammonia and rotten eggs, made all the more nauseating by the orangesherbet walls. I don’t remember the conversation, but Granny believed me without pause. She set down the brush and tin foil and had me describe it in as much detail as possible while she transferred my fibbery to paper. Her hands shook and her cursive wasn’t near as flamboyant as usual, but her eyes were steady and excited.
When I was done, she took off her glasses and asked if I’d seen Aunt Joyce while I was there. Her sister had died four years back from ovarian cancer and granny still mourned her. I may be a liar, but I’m not heartless, so I said yes and that Aunt Joyce was singing with the angels, all of her pinky blonde hair restored, and wearing the powder blue dress she was laid to rest in. I lied about this to give my granny comfort, since that’s what a normal person might have done. But to be entirely honest, which I’m trying to be, I didn’t have a clear motivation. It just seemed to fit. Lisa and Matt, the two stylists who worked at granny’s shop, were dumbfounded by the idea my granny could believe something so outlandish. They tried to talk her off the ledge, reminding her that her daughter, my momma, was a competitive liar, a gold medalist even, and it might be possible I’d inherited her talent. But granny swore up and down I would never lie to her, and closed the door on any more of that talk. Matt thought my lie was cute. The rest of the day, he recounted it to each of his clients, timing the rise and fall of the short little story to the snips of shears and the folding of foils. But Lisa whispered to the old women in her chair that my granny had gone insane. Lisa walked people through my lie like it was a crime scene, displaying the evidence of my guilt like a smoking gun. Granny was in a daze, whispering thank you to God and telling people about this great blessing she’d received.
She printed out copies of my dream and handed them to everyone who sat in her chair. Some cried, and others brought out pictures of lost children and parents, asking me if they looked familiar. I always said yes. That one night, as granny and I sat under the ceiling fan, ready for bed, she asked more questions. She wanted to know what the mansions were like that I’d seen. She wanted to know if the doorknobs were really made of onyx. Was the water really like lavender silk? I specifically remember describing this moment where a painting on the wall comes to life and a ballerina starts to dance. I’d actually been describing a scene from a children’s show I watched in the afternoon. Granny sat up, pulling her nightgown closed, and looked through me. Her face, free of makeup, looked porous and pinched in the wrong places, and the dark red hair gave her a sallow complexion. The elevens at her brow deepened as she thought of how to catch me in this lie. She grabbed my arm and said, “You know you can’t be making stuff up, now.” I laughed, telling her I knew that, and that I was just describing a window, which in heaven was called a painting, because everything outside was a work of art. It was hard to stop lying. Telling a lie that someone believed was like giving someone a gift they actually wanted. They seemed excited and willing to open it, explore it more. I couldn’t just give someone an empty box. I had to fill it with their weight in gold. Granny held me close that night,
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refusing to let me go even as she snored into my ear. The flickering TV kept me awake, but the deflation of adrenaline left me exhausted. I considered fixing my mistake, but knew that I would ruin granny’s happiness. ✴
In the mornings we listened to a Christian radio station where a man recounted a story of God’s work. He was a comedian with no bite, but granny guffawed at every punch line. His voice was coated in white noise, a symptom
The next morning, as I got ready for school, granny knelt by the bed and prayed. She used to speak in tongues all the time, but after we lost everything, she only clacked in private. I heard her from the bathroom and peeked through the door to see her on her knees, hands raised over her head. She spoke with a clarity that didn’t exist in her drawling southern vernacular. It amazed me that this woman, who knew so little about everything else in the world, knew how to speak another language only by the power of God. Whatever happened when she prayed in tongues, it made me believe. When she stopped, she turned to see me and smiled. I looked away, but she only stood up and hugged me, and told me how thankful she was that I was hers. When I asked what she was praying about, she said God revealed how to use the gift I’d been given. It hadn’t occurred to me that God could tell granny I was a liar. Remembering they were so close scared me. What if he decided to have a chat with her during her lunchtime prayer, reveal to her my lie and ruin everything? We left for school, with that thought prickling through my nerves. ✴
of the bent antenna on our car, and we squinted to understand him. Granny tried finagling the antenna once, but there was no hope for any part of that car. It was a white Cutlass from the 80’s granny nicked from Grandpa, the only thing she could get after they repossessed her silver convertible. I hated riding around town in that Cutlass; the way it whaled like a dying moose every time I opened the door, and how the radio crackled on the way to school. Granny never seemed bothered though. She was happy to have a car because God could’ve made us walk. When the man’s story was over, granny turned off the radio and asked me if I knew what a testimony was. She fluffed her pageboy hair in the mirror, and then ploughed her purse for a bullet of lipstick. I said yeah, even though I wasn’t entirely sure, and she said God wanted me to share mine. That’s God’s will, she said. The school was right past the red light, and granny grabbed my hand. Before drop off, granny always prayed for us, and it was always the same. Heavenly Father, please put your protective angels around Hunter, and make sure he has a good day and no one is mean to him. Watch over us, and bless us spiritually,
mentally, emotionally, physically, and financially, in the name of Jesus I pray, amen. When she was done, she patted my hand and steered the immovable wheel towards the school entrance. After we lost the house, I had to change schools. My last school was nice because
hand scribbled away, and she neatly folded it into a triangle and handed it to me. The note said to meet her by the cafeteria doors when the lunch bell rang, and we could talk about it then. She drew a smiling man at the bottom with her signature in harsh cursive.
people got used to me and left me alone mostly. At the new school, I seemed to know everyone from church or summer camp, where I was a pariah. The school was hard to navigate; classrooms moved by the day, thanks to remodeling, and I kept getting turned around. On the third week, when I asked a teacher for directions for the fifth time, she rolled her eyes and said I needed to find a hall buddy. I figured it out myself, and was only seven minutes late. Any friends I’d made in the first few weeks were plagued by my bad behavior. Teachers patience evaporated as my homework was always absent even if I was in attendance. I was never good at repairing things quickly, but my dream seemed like a currency I could use to buy lenience and friendship. I prayed to God, asking if it was okay to lie about this, but made my decision before I heard an answer. During reading time, I leaned across my desk, whispering to Nakiria. She kept her head down, always nervous to get in trouble. When I mentioned heaven, she held up her finger and ripped out a piece of paper from her binder. Her
I knew this was a sign of God’s permission. My plan was to get Nakiria on my side; everyone liked her, and she could convince people my story was real. Momma said the best way to convince someone you’re telling the truth was to have other people corroborate your story; the more people who believed, the more believable it would be. Although my guilt from lying to granny mangled me inside, I figured lying to others might be different. Granny knew the interior of my life, and it was hard to sustain a lie forever, but building a lie to inhabit for moments throughout the day seemed possible. I wanted to experience the joy I had when granny told her clients about my dream; this quiet joy, like knowing God will bring you peace if only you ask. When lunchtime came, I waited by the entrance of the cafeteria, scuffing the blue doors with my WalMart tennis shoes. Nakiria showed up after the lines filled up and said she was finishing a test. We got behind the crowd and I recounted my dream. At first, she scratched at her coarse black brow, looking down in
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a blank stare. Her quietness made me nervous. If I backed out now, she wouldn’t take it right. No one likes to catch a lie… not really. I chewed my cuticles while she threw the idea around, and when she looked up, I could feel my face crumple in despair. She believed me, but she
of the eyes of the other kids, but I knew no one would take away the reassurance I’d given Nakiria. She’d grieved harder than any of us had seen before, and it was hard to watch. Behind us, a boy, Donald, sneered, said there was no way I’d gone to
wondered why God didn’t let her go. The week school started, Nakiria’s grandpa passed away. He’d been taking care of her while her parents were out of the country on a mission trip, and a week after they got back, he had a heart attack. She wondered if he’d made it to heaven alright, but didn’t ask straight out. I asked her what he looked like, and she described a bald man who wore an orange paisley tie and an emerald suit. I shelled out the same lie I’d been telling everyone. I’d seen this person she’d loved so dearly and he was doing just fine. She grabbed a food tray and her eyes turned to glass. The lunch lady cleared the screen three times as Nakiria’s shaky hands keyed in the wrong number. At the table, everyone noticed her silence and asked what was wrong. Nothing, she said, after a pause. She smiled then, tears spilling out like jewels. Hunter saw Grandpa Rudy, and said he’s okay. One of the girls, Cheyenne, gave me a stern look, but asked Nakiria what the heck she was talking about. Nakiria assembled my heaven on the lunch-room table, including the moving painting I’d lied to granny about. She compared me to Joseph, saying if God gave Joseph dreams, it made sense to her he’d give them to me, too. I could see the lack of belief in some
heaven. His face was like a fish, blue bugeyes and a round mouth that opened and closed even when he was just breathing. We’d been friends at the summer camp I attended that year, and he was the only boy I’d ever been totally naked with. We were both shy and when we were supposed to change bathing suits, we shared the same stall. I liked him, but a week before camp was over, he quit speaking to me. Nakiria looked back at him, and asked why I couldn’t have gone to heaven. Donald stood up, wiped a greasy chili stain from his mouth, and leaned into Nakiria’s ear. His whispering was breathy and loud, and I could hear every word. He’s gay, and he likes boys. Nakiria only shrugged her shoulders and said so? Donald explained that God wouldn’t let anyone go to heaven that sinned like that. I knew that was true; granny was always praying for Matt to not be gay anymore, so he could join us in heaven. How you even know he’s gay? Nakiria asked. Donald said he’d caught me rubbing off one of the camp counselors one afternoon before pickup. I wanted to explain myself in that moment. He was twice my age, I’d say, I had to! I couldn’t disrespect an adult. Where I come from, if a grownup tells you
what to do, you do it, no questions. Before I could deny the allegation, we were called to line up for class. I went home that day more nervous than when I lied to granny. Lying about Heaven was easy, because there was no real way to prove I had or hadn’t been. But there
course, and pulled me close, smiling and laughing a little. I’d never seen her talk to the other women in the church. We stayed after the prayer, and granny exchanged numbers with several women, siad we’d be coming over soon. It was strange, since we’d been at this
were so many times I’d been intimate with adults, and denying those realities seemed much harder than conceiving fantasies. I asked God if sins still sent you to hell if you didn’t have a choice but to do them. He never answered. ✴
church for five months, this was the first time anyone had shown interest in us, but granny seemed happy, so I kept quiet. After church, we went to see grandma, my granny’s mom, who lived a few towns over. Grandpa stayed with his mistress most of the time, and grandma couldn’t get out of the house since she had her knees replaced, so we had to do all of her shopping. Her house was falling apart, and each time we drove up, it looked like it was nearer to the end. Floorboards heaved at the weight of her wheelchair, and paint peeled from the walls in streaks like tears. The cats were pawing at the snapping turtles, whose aquarium hadn’t been cleaned in a while. Granny nunchucked her purse at the cats, yelling scat! and told me not to let them in the house. Grandma sat at the table, watching The Little Mermaid. Her hair was flat against the back of her head, flaring out on the sides, like she’d just got out of bed. We’d picked up Kentucky Fried Chicken and made a spread on the table. While we ate, granny wrote a list of things grandma was out of, and asked if
We got to church early Sunday morning. Most times, we didn’t go in until everyone was up and singing, then snuck out as everyone’s heads were bowed at closing prayer. It was strange seeing all the pews empty and the pastors’ wife straightening programs in the back. It felt like I was watching someone getting dressed. People trailed in and found their seats. A group of women came up to us and introduced themselves. They were friends of one of granny’s clients, and they had heard about my dream. Granny perked up in her seat, smoothed her dress pants (which everyone frowned at, since women weren’t supposed to wear pants) and announced that I had been to heaven. The women looked at me like I’d just created fire. One of them asked if we could come to her bible study next week. Granny said of
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she needed anything else. Across the room, a charm of finches whistled over granny talking, but she just spoke louder. “You spoke to Darlene,” grandma asked. Granny shook her head no, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t like people talking about momma around me. Grandma said
car pulling out of the gas station next door. Momma was in the passenger seat, her Hitchcock-blonde hair flaming out of the half rolled down window. Music blasted from the car and cigarette smoke gray through the windshield. I yelled for her as the car drove
she’d slept on her porch a few weeks back, but she didn’t let her in, because Joyce’s son, Zack, told her Momma had been buying meth from one of his friends. Momma had been on drugs since her second husband went to jail. I didn’t know what it meant to be on drugs, but I knew it was bad. Granny smiled like she could cry, and told me to go watch TV in the other room. I walked to the living room and turned on cartoons, then stood in the hallway to listen. Grandma said momma was staying with different friends, and came by before we got there, asking for money. Grandma gave her some, because she didn’t want her off stealing it from somewhere. “She ain’t ever gon’ get no better, Mary Ann,” grandma said. I heard granny crying, and saw her back heaving from the edge of the doorway. The wind got knocked out of me. Granny hadn’t cried since Aunt Joyce. I went back to the living room, asking God what to do. He didn’t answer. They spent a whole hour in the kitchen before granny said to come on, so we could get grandma’s groceries and prescriptions. I asked if everything was okay. She had this talent for pulling herself together real quick, and there was no sign of sadness in her eyes. She said she was fine. After grocery shopping, Granny pulled into the drug store, and I noticed a
away, but granny pulled me back and said I could see her soon. When? I shouted. Granny said we had to be patient; wait for Momma to get things back together. I pushed my face into the window, watching myself cry in the wing mirror. Granny took deep, loud breaths. I looked over ; she was gripping the steering wheel so hard, her knuckles were white. Her mother’s ring, holding the three birthstones of her children, was crooked on her finger. Momma’s name was under the tanzanite, in a nearly illegible cursive. I used to sneak it into the bathroom at night and put the ring in my mouth. I wanted to hold momma inside of me so she wouldn’t get away, and that’s the only way I knew how. I could still taste it. ✴ On our way home, I told granny I was sorry she had to take care of me. I don’t know what made me say it, but I felt guilty for being another person she had to take care of, after taking care of everyone else her whole life. Granny looked at me, eyes the same blue as momma’s, and grabbed my hand. She pulled off the side of the road. “I lost a child one time,” granny said. “It was after I’d already had Russell, Allen, and your Momma. I could ah had it, but I lost it, and I never thought I’d see that child again. The week before I found
out your momma was pregnant, God came down with my baby and he showed him to me. It was a sign, you see?” “What was the sign,” I asked. I imagined a Jesus-like figure floating from the sky, carried by ropes of sunlight. His arms would be filled with this infant spirit
At ten-thirty, Mrs. Judd told us to line up for a field trip. We were going to a museum a few towns over, where they were showing an art piece dedicated to the victims of 9/11. It was the same museum where they had animatronic dinosaurs and a room where your shadow danced with
swaddled in blue silk. “You can’t tell nobody, but I knew the first time I held you in my arms that you were that baby. Don’t ever feel like I don’t want you. You’re what I’ve been waiting for. God showed me my redemption in you. He gave you to me the way he gave Jesus to Mary. That’s how I knew you was telling the truth when you said you went to Heaven. It was meant to be.” She smiled and tickled my ear with her finger; we got back on the road. Part of me was convinced maybe I had actually gone to heaven, the lie wasn’t actually a lie, no way. God must’ve given this to me as another gift to granny. I told myself this was his will, maybe. But granny what made Momma so good at lying was how she’d convince herself anything was true. School went by in a way that only happens when you’re nervous. The weekends gave me a reprieve, a place to forget about my lies and my truths. But at school all of it was back and I wondered if the people I’d told about Heaven took the time to mull my story and had come to think differently. I wanted to hurt Donald for knowing what he shouldn’t, but how could I be mad at him for telling the truth? I sat in class, staying quiet, sucking on the back of my hand till maroon speckles ran over my veins.
psychedelic patterns, all projected on a wall. I’d been there the summer before, with Donald and the rest of the summer camp. We boarded the bus, alphabetically, and hit the road. Alex, a girl with crooked bangs who sat beside me, asked if what everyone was saying was true. Did you really go to heaven? I wondered who told her. Yeah, I said, the lie coming smoothly, feeling less a lie than a distant truth. I went through my whole story again, giving her a tour of my heaven, imagining myself with a radio speaker up to my mouth, directing her to look either left or right at the sights to behold. When I was done, she said, “I wish I could go.” “Well, maybe one day you can.” “You could take me with you,” Alex said. Cheyenne turned around from her seat in front of us, lips pursed, an eyebrow cocked up. I could even here her thinking, let’s see this. I didn’t know what to do. It hadn’t occurred to me anyone would ask this. I straightened up, looking at the two girls looking at me, and said okay. I began speaking in the language granny always did when she prayed. Alex closed her eyes, and my mouth moved in a way it never had before.
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It sounded like, shah-dam-ma-de-get-ahles-so-se-so. I repeated it over and over. Nakiria, who was a few seats adjacent, turned around and I watched her face, like Blanche Dubois caught in the light. More kids turned around and Alex began swaying backward and forward, again
clouds. The sun knew I was in trouble, and was smart enough to hide before it was caught. Mrs. Judd stood over us, her shirt dotted with sweat. “He’s a freak,” Donald shouted. “He’s been tellin’ folks he went to heaven and he likes touchin’ boy’s wieners.”
and again. I put my fingers over her, wiggling them around like I was doing a new kind of prayer. She slapped her body against the seat and against the back of Cheyenne’s seat, and I got louder and the bus felt like it was going faster. The sun was brighter, coming through the windows. It was working, I could feel it. Donald was turned around too, and I could see his face unbelieving of the happenings going on. I smiled and grew louder, my speech clearer, knowing this must be why granny always prayed in the way she did. Alex was slamming hard into our seat and I could feel it almost vibrating. The bus was on an incline. Heaven, here we come. “What’s going on back there,” Mrs. Judd hollered. “Hunter… Alex, what are y’all doing?” Alex smiled; her mouth opening into a laugh. Her gold hair hit the brown leather and then hit me. I got scared, wondering if I’d caused a seizure. My hands split and I held her firmly, waiting for her eyes to roll back in place. When she finally came back into focus, she shouted, “I saw it! I saw it!” then, after she looked down and her face was less red, she said, “Heaven.” “What are y’all doing?” I looked out the window, and the sun had dimmed, hiding behind the
“Donald!” Mrs. Judd shot him a look and he turned around and plopped back into his seat. The bus driver asked if he needed to pull over, but she said to keep going. “We’ll talk about this when we get to the museum, okay?” Mrs. Judd said, kneeling to make eye contact with me. I said okay. ✴ The bus driver stayed with me while Mrs. Judd took the rest of the kids in the museum. He frowned at me, but I think it was because he was an old man, and had nothing to do with whether or not I was in trouble. When Mrs. Judd stepped back out, the driver tapped my shoulder and we both stood up. “Let’s take a walk, okay?” Mrs. Judd said. When she spoke, she sounded like a cheerleader. She was very large, but I could see how maybe she’d been small enough, at some point, to be thrown in the air. “I’m going to ask you some questions, but I won’t be mad, as long as you’re honest…okay?” I nodded. “Have you been telling people you went to Heaven?” “Yes.” “Why are you telling people you
went to Heaven,” she asked. Her hair was blowing in her face, and the sweat stains on her shirt were growing. “Do you know it’s bad to lie? It’s bad, okay?” “I’m not lying,” I lied. “I dreamed I went to heaven, and I told some people, and they asked if they could come too. I didn’t
cloud of smoke. I asked him, can you hear me? Jesus almost turned to see me, the smudged lines of his robe shifting against the moleskin paper. I looked down at my hand, with the hickey I’d made earlier. I covered it, so
know what to say, so I started speaking in tongues and then Donald yelled at me. That’s it.” I was yelling, and she looked mad so I quieted down. “Okay,” she said, again. “Have you told your grandmother about the dream?” “Yeah,” I said. “She says I gotta tell people my testimony. We’re gonna start going around and telling it to people, to give them hope.” She didn’t say anything else. I waited for something to happen, but we just turned around and went into the museum. Everyone else was standing in front of the 9/11 drawing. I recognized it immediately. It was the same drawing granny had framed in the hallway, only it was much bigger, easier to see. Jesus’ eyes weren’t blurry. They stared at me, and I could hear him telling me to move closer. The other kids were elbowing each other to get the front spots. Angela, a tall girl with thick eyebrows, refused to let go of the black velvet ropes keeping us at a safe distance. I slipped under her arm, stood in front of her, and felt her breath huffing against my neck as I looked at the drawing. In it, you could see pastel blurs against steel grey; the bodies. They were falling down, and Jesus waited for them to join him in the
he wouldn’t see. I told him about how his father hadn’t answered any of my questions. How I had lied so much. I asked if my momma was okay. I waited. His eyes twinkled, and I asked if momma was why we lost the house, the car, everything. I guess he was on her side, because he didn’t rat her out. I wondered if anyone else was talking to him. Was he answering their questions; was he too busy answering everyone else to answer me? As everyone else lost interest, I stayed there, in front of the drawing, waiting for some divine conversation. When we got back on the bus, Alex looked at me, almost like she was waiting for something. She pushed her hair behind her large ears. She sat the way all of the boys did, legs splayed and shoulders slumped. I asked her, “What’s Heaven like?” “Only you would know.” She crossed her arms over her chest and rested her head against the back of the seat. I turned to her, leaning close, waiting. “Whaddya mean?” “I faked it,” she whispered. ✴
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Momma was always a liar. She arranged her lies like rooms in a house, giving them a lived in, authentic quality. No one ever doubted a word she said. I asked her, one time, why she lied so much. She said, people only believe what they wanna hear. You can tell the truth all day long and if they don’t like it, they’ll call you a liar anyway. I knew what she said was true. When I was molested the first time, way before the camp counselor or the babysitter or even the stranger in the bathroom, but by a girl named Shelby, granny didn’t believe it. Shelby was the daughter of granny’s boyfriend. I was four and I remember every detail, but what I remember more is the moment right after. I pulled my underwear back up above my knees, sore from all that had happened, and went into the room where granny and her boyfriend were sleeping. She lifted her head up, hair slithering around like medusa’s snakes, the blinds casting a zigzag along her silhouette, and asked what was wrong. I told her everything that happened. She pulled the sheet higher against her chest and blinked into the darkness. Her boyfriend was next to her, (the one she dated between the devil worshipping husband and the pedophile husband) and he turned to her, asking what was going on. His moustache wiggled
while we were on our way to school, when I asked her why she never did anything about that girl that she realized I’d told the truth. She cried that day, holding me while the school staff waited for me to get out of the car. I’m sorry, she kept saying, I’m so sorry. I promise I’m ah believe you from now on. I promise. I’d been telling her little lies ever since then, just testing her to see if it was true; if she’d believe me. All of the bad truths, about being molested, screaming for help as Momma was being beaten, stealing the twenty from granny’s purse for the book at the book fair; all of that I kept tucked away. I was afraid momma was right. If I told granny a bad truth and she didn’t believe me, I might lose faith in everything. When I got home from school, granny said Mrs. Judd had called. She told granny what happened on the bus, and was concerned that it was going to cause problems in the classroom and with the other students. Granny was sitting in one of the dryer chairs, rose pink pleather, and she tapped at the armrests. “What’s that mean,” I asked. “It means we’re just gonna have to be real careful who we tell about your dream from now on.” Granny smiled and pulled me close to her, picking up my too-big, too
under his nose. She patted his back and told him it was nothing. He rolled back to his side. After a moment, she told me to go back to bed and quit making stuff up. It wasn’t until three years later,
old to be held body, and cradling me in her arms. This had happened before. I’d said or done something wrong, and they threatened to take me way. I looked around the orange sherbet room and then
I looked up at her and decided to try the truth. “What if I didn’t really go to heaven?” I asked. Granny pushed me away so she could look me in the eyes. She asked what I meant, and she was frowning in that way she did whenever Uncle Russell made crude jokes. I told her I think I might have made up the dream in my head. “Is this because you got in trouble at school?” I shook my head no. I wanted to tell her the truth, but not the whole truth, because that was too dangerous. I didn’t want to change things forever; I just wanted to put things back as they were. I left out that I was testing her, that I knew I was lying, that I was being blasphemous. I just made the suggestion that my dream had been only a dream. “No,” she said, her tone affirmative. “You went to heaven, little baby. You can’t let these people at school make you think any different. You went to Heaven. You did, I know it. We’re gonna share your testimony with people, re m e mb e r ? ” She’d already made plans with those women at the church. We were supposed to go to their house and sit on their plastic-covered furniture and have them listen to my dream. That’s why we couldn’t back out. None of the church women had spoken to granny in years; the divorces, the drug addict daughter, the atheist sons and whatever else they judged her for, they’d forgotten about
since hearing I’d gone to heaven. I think she was scared to let that go. “I’m telling you the truth,” I said. “I wish you’d believe me.” “I do believe you. I understand. You’re scared, and that’s what it’s like when God gives you a special gift. But we’re gonna share your gift and it’s gonna help people. Now let’s not talk about this anymore. You’re probably just hungry.” She escaped to our bedroom to grab her purse. I sat in the rose pink chair, pushing into the soft pleather, knowing that she’d never believe I didn’t go to heaven. It didn’t matter whether or not I told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth; people don’t believe what they don’t want to hear.
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Becca Oakley
Resilient What a sight it would be, when the addicts lay their needles down and the mentally disabled dispose of their pills; When the preconceived notion that the illusionary flaw lies within man, When that will dissipate, and the veil lifts and exposes something
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more sinister, When our entire existence revolves around self-destruction. and we are separated from ourselves, split by the hands of our very own foundation.  
hjh
Grey Matter To regard my past
to become content
has always been a struggle.
with this present.
Is there too much truth?
It’s really fascinating how the human mind works.
The momentary emotion that takes hold enforces a chemical reaction
You taught me
so profound I have to wonder
that every good
if it is simply a dream.
has a bleeding stain that eventually rots from inside out.
Fleeting memories convert to life lessons
Maggots or memories
and settle on my tongue.
it’s all the same, weaving in and out
Pain, embarrassment, numbness, resentment, guilt, abandonment, denial blend into one hard shot of reality. Ah, the beauty of reality, and the beauty of blending reality. I fabricate my past
of my grey matter.
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Marion Rose Young
Nicole Kelley
Greed “You don’t need that car! You don’t need that money! You know you aren’t worth a Damn thing to me, honey! I have it all - I have more! I’m finally rich!” But his gold suffocates him In his six foot ditch.
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Treeing the Quarry
Kim Fromkin
Shards In dreadful agony my soul laments Yesterday, an unbroken, faultless, perfect rainbow Today, shattered pieces, tiny hair-like prisms splinter my soul My heart Thirsts for love Thirsts for acceptance Thirsts for comfort For approval, validation, saturation, totality, rapture. Why must my soul toil and vacuum Leaving me with an empty restless void? Why can’t I remain full forever? Why must the draining dawns and dusks arrive? The sleepless nights? The desert days? Is it not possible for this great expanse to perpetually gorge with moisture? A vicious water cycle - a sea of glass...implodes Shoots of crystal, fine quills prick my every thought, prick every pore A paralyzing poison stings me to the core Creation - no more Just a stagnant arid wafer of the past A fresh loaf left in scattered crumbs When shall the dew ascend again and quench this thoughtless bout of drought How long before my bow is whole again
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Am I meant to be whole? Perhaps solidarity became idolatry Voices rumble with accusations Thunder with the condensation of condemnation Crash and bang with judgments Roar with reproof Shaking and quaking this torrid soil Cracks pervade The mourning rain ascends from an invisible gulf through the shed tears of the night sky Sparkling slivers of stardust float abroad as matter Drenched with magnificence, grandeur, and splendor - the spectrum of darkness Perhaps I was never meant to be whole but broken - fragmented, a remnant of sorts A Mosaic Paradiso.
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Wholeness is not perfection Perfection is not wholeness It’s millions of pieces - the shatterlings, the slivers, the shavings, the splinters of imperfection The rainbow is an illusion of completion A mirage of truth - a millennial prism Not one whole truth but legions Fragility is the breeding ground of fertility Shards solidified in symbols, sounds, formulated utterances, words Cut and pierce the mortal landscape Expression existeth not lest thou be crushed No apologies necessary for the noose of emotions
hjh
Sensory engrafts all that is stationary
Leaves cling tightly to the trees - vegetates the forest dense Chimes the soul as movement sways Crackling sonants of little brittle branches rustle in the blows They echo loudly Apprehensive of Bygone’s temperament, questions begin to pry
The corridor awaits hooded with vines A thick blackness - The course - a lonesome devil Unattended by thine own securities, I approach the threshold gazing back at the embellished mead of what once was Embarking upon what is Was Whispers persist from the brake Calls out my name in an unspoken tongue Lures my soul to the wooded Shardland Terrors trowel the turf - a well worn path, but trodden by whom? With frailty my feet step forward - is it forward? Is it backward? Wayward is the Way. Out of the ordinary, out of the way is breathless. Pants of trepidation weaken knotty knees -posterity subdued Knotty knees - a forest of knotty trees, a reminder of all that has been cut down, cut off from the living - hard niches What is the source of these knots? Not good enough Not able enough - not worthy enough - not smart enough - not rich enough - not strong enough - not tough enough - not sweet enough - Not enough! Not enough! Not enough of what?
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The cloak of charcoal smoke sheathes thy wings I am inclined to creep my way through the nots. Why am I afraid? Passions in the grove always watching, seeks to hunt me down as if I were prey How is growth able to distinguish my scarlet scent of sanguinity from that which is pallid? The raven wood frightens me intensely Tis nothing more than a canopy of fears birthed from the crevices of my own mind. Shards reveal the memories of what we’re afraid of They glisten from the trees calling out to us all in a hypnotic harmony A seductress tempting one with the delicacies of who, what, when, where, how, and why The wedlock bed of leaves, down branches and trees...rotted. Pain and torment can be seen in the awning Yes I am a afraid - I must go on. Why? - Because lest I do I shall never be free of me.
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Requiem rests in the rhapsodic reservoir of release and reconciliation Identification and resemblance is only amicable in the comforts of has beens. Unfamiliarity shines the truths of discourse bleeding with revelation of who I do not know that I Am. The more I engage this overgrown sea of woods, the more I acquire that I am an ancient soul growing longer than I have been living The wood is dark, a promiscuous sunlight removed Chlora fills this lush evergreen she grove Green’s mood darker in day than in night Eery dew drops myst from undergrowths lunatic fringe Footsteps off in the distance, chords chant the fossilized tunes of perplexity Something is out there Something is whispering Someone beside myself is walking this forest bed
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Confused, I stand guard blaming this ghastly force as the source of my frighted plight I sense a presence, I can feel its breath ascend the premise of my skin Dark matter undefined in its visible invisibility, invisible visibility I turn to see the author of such passions At the instance I fix my gaze upon these fleeting shadows they appear elsewhere Only to diminish upon discovery Distracted by faint murmurings encrypted beyond the green, an unknown caller barks recollections in the markings of the trees A dull crust, hardened from the roots of pastimes journey Memoirs enrolled within the towering scrolls Pervade the vines of my intelligence Outlining the diagram of a most complex shelter blooming with novelty Scared stiff a certain discernment assures me that I have been here before The yielded willows of my conscious weep with joy, sadness, the pangs of love reminiscent in all its elaborations For I do not understand the depths of this dejavu land Reality fights memories of futures past and present The deep hath no boundary I can sink as transcendently as I desire in these unearthed shards of emerald Every new leaf buds from trunks of treasury The fragrance of cedar emanates through my fingertips Raw umber etched in the framework of thy nail beds Turning the pages the knots make themselves known once again in the prints Lines hewn in the palms tell the story of this mysterious repository A souvenir from a quiescent passage slips through liminality unfolding the tablets of thine own hands Can I embrace the secrets these extremities possess Perhaps the whispers, the murmurings from the trees have been hushed secrets traversing through centuries.
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Afraid to know I made my stay in the field, safe from all that was unrevealed. Yes a blanket of daisies and posies of violet laid out a spread easy to comply with That is until I realized that I was not safe at all, No quite the opposite - I became a taste desired by bloodthirsty nuptials. The raven wood is my provocation, a sanctuary of classified information Sewn in shards for my preservation, concealed relics of a lost generation Novelties origination - in loose leaf pages Bound now by kindreds of industrialization I cannot return to whence I once was, I will die lonely in the crowds of be cause. The shades of fir dressed in freedom are becoming a most enchanted companion They protect a well versed path - a concealed moss library of unseasoned volumes Seemingly petrified resurrected amour O’ the tales of the forest enveloped in wood Moulded Braille scale the stories I must reach out and caress these ancient souls, indulging myself in this proud diary of folklores The legends they breathe aspire a converse energy What do they say - oh pray thee tell (Rough, smooth, bent, parted, and twisted - the trees)
Sully Mcneill
cafunÊ is brazialian for running your fingers tenderly through another’s hair. standing behind your chair on aching feet touching your golden hair with my fingertips, has been named. what is unnamed: the trek from my bedroom, through the brief hallway to your door: shadow cast by fluorescent lights on your face as i tell you first, (intentionally) good night. second, (accident ally) i love you. the curve of my spine as i (stand ing) embrace you (seated) from behind. the silence as i sit by your feet, wanting to be near you but held apart. you wish to know the names of other sensations; the nomenclature of desire to describe the many ways i poisoned you.
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Sully Mcneill
Mashes Snads i walked her beach at dawn. eaten by midges looking for life, looking for something tangible. midges live about five days, i suppose if you live only five days then you have to make it worth it. the swarm that engulfed me(,) like a dear friend(,) took away minutes of me / minute parts of my living tissues carried away to grow another, briefer life. devoted to the sting body / self evaporating until I was depleted of goodbyes.
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hjh
Sully Mcneill
grace kelly on viewing grace kelly in a wax museum my living room summons old hollywood glamour: velvet, gold, jewel tones. when grace kelly left the set at the end of the day, what remained? false set, glamourous grace. invert this and you have me standing in my living room. the space between what should be (a person) and what i am: a wax figurine mistakenly wheeled on set. there is something wrong here i’ve run the numbers: the resources that keep this body mobile could be better spent on an actual person. re: difference, gulf that no reparation can span.
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Marion Rose Young
Nicole Kelley
Wrath Don’t touch me, don’t look at me. You wretched swine, make me sick. I’ll rip your fingers off your hands And bash your heads in with a brick. You’re disgusting; you’re weak. You’re absolutely pathetic. Your screams are like music. It’s honestly poetic.
Daniel Thrash
AMeritocracy & The Capital of Greed
Burn, tiny eagle
Zombie Karl Marx Daniel Thrash
Burn...
Chained to your private property, Alienate your neighbor with a White picket Boarder Wall and privately imprison their offspring Flock to your vulture capitalist tribe
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Jail your collective Disenfranchise your brother Vote for your security Pay the bills of your oppressor Obey your capitalist deity, the Brass Bull Idol of Fraud Street Speak for your chattel wives Silent your sisters Donor Class Patriot House of gods, House of lords War lord, Slum lands
House of cards, Land of barons Robber baron, Feudal lords Red state, White supremacy, and Blue lives Blue bullets, Black blood, and Green 3D guns Home of the free markets and Land of The Bourgeoisie, with state motto “ Laissez-faire “ In Capital We Trust, our founding mother Ayn Rand A Representative Democratic Idiocracy, by a Kleptocratic Plutocracy For Profit war, Proxy war Private mercenaries and a Bloated military for a skeletal government Free the wall street and empower the K Street Tear the Safety Net and cut the tax Uniting church & state Force birth the future generation by regulating your mothers and daughters Enslaved individual collapsed by his commune Suffer the proletariat, trapped in your draconian brazen bull Corporate welfare and indebted healthcare Feed the mouths of Fat Cats and Crony capitalist Pigs Replace your Fiat dollar with a fool’s gold standard and a tarnished silver note Then rise with inflation and pop your bull market bubble and Crash....... and Burn.
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Danielle Dollar
The Winding Down of the Clock Your life was like the running of a wound clock, constantly ticking as the years flew by. Constantly ticking as you gave birth to your babies, slowing as you buried one far before his time. Yet your clock kept ticking as you ran after your dream to absorb your favorite English writers. Ticking as you opened young minds to the world of books. Tick tock as you entered a new phase of travels far and wide And still the clock kept ticking its way as you drew family close in love and laughter. Steadily, the ticking started to slow a tad, as all clocks do, and as you began to slow down too.
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Little things in life caused you clock to slow its ticking, yet your love never wavered. The clock had become a little cantankerous, at times needed help with its ticking. Then one early November morning the clock ceased to tick, and all that was left was a memory.
Richard Atkinson
Blowing A Bubble So much is as simple as blowing a bubble and the joy of watching it pop It’s a mystery of why God would create such a thing. As it is to tell bottom from top As simple as even a child can make, but only the careful sustain So much joy comes out of chasing them down and destroy them again and again To create all it takes is some water and soap and a carefully placed bit of air Let it go and it’s at the mercy of the breeze, this perfect and magnificent sphere When it falls it is gone and it cannot come back. It disappears without even a sound The joy comes in creating another one quickly and filling the air all around A child can make it the skilled can sustain and the fun never really can stop There is nothing as simple as making a bubble and the joy of watching it pop
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Taylor Smith
who’s doing the talking i think that sometimes we are given the pain we are meant to be able to handle. the universe is cruel like that, and sometimes people cannot bear their pain. i believe a lot of pain in the world comes from love, heartbreak, and loneliness. of course, all of that starts with a happy time. being in love is one of the greatest and worst things of all. ask anybody with a sad smile. ask them why their eyes are stained with lonely and why they reek of sorrow. they will tell you their hearts been broken one too many times for their time here. that it doesn’t add up just right. they say that they loved someone so much, and they still left them. i say, that i gave away parts of me to people who didn’t deserve them, and in the end i suffered. it’s not fair, but life isn’t ever fair. i spent so much time of my wishing and hoping that these people i loved so dearly would come back to me and be mine again, but i am a fool. don’t i know that they were never mine at all? the heartbreaks will hurt you and humble you at the same time. as much pain as i was in, as i am in, at least i understand why things have to be this way.
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i understand that life is not easy, it’s more like a big cosmic joke, always mocking me and what i want. i’ve also learned that people will leave you, no matter how much you don’t want them to, no matter how many times they said they never would. even when they begged you to stay, and you promised them that you would. it’s so ironic that they were the ones who left all along. you left me in the dark for months, and i sat there in all my despair and waited and waited for something that would never come. or once it came it never satisfied me. you came back out of the shadows but you never told me what i wanted to hear, you told me what you had left to say and then you disappeared again. now it is hell all over again and i don’t think i can handle this type of pain anymore. however, i do know that life must go on. even though i wake up every single day with you on my mind. there is so much left here for me, even on days when i am hopeless and sad. i think sometimes the world gives us the pain we are meant to handle, but sometimes humans don’t give themselves enough time to see through the end of that pain. that’s what i’m waiting for, the end of the pain, the better. i’m waiting for the day that i wake up and it doesn’t hurt anymore, at least not like it does right now.
hjh
Kimberly Alderman
She Sips Her Coffee in the Rain The sun shines through the ra–in as she sips her morning coffee. Hearing the pitter patter of the drops and watching the cars drive by,
hjh reminding her of one year ago today.
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This balcony is her haven
continues to grow the more times she comes by
The place to go, every time she
But understands that things will never change
needs to find herself again. She moves her hair out of Tears start falling down her face
her eyes catching
as she remembers all the love,
a glimpse of her scar
heartbreak, laughter, and everything else she experienced at this very spot.
She can still see the deep cut like it was still there
As she wipes her face,
before her trip to the hospital
she stands up and walks away. Taking three steps forward,
She throws her hand down
she looks back for the last time at what remains. abruptly to her side Trying to forget the pain of that night Nothing but shattered glass
But clings dearly to the
and her broken heart
goodness of her own heart
All over the ground. She still didn’t understand.. She walks forward
She still didn’t know why..
but doesn’t walk fast. The memories that overflow her
But she knew today would be different
are too cruel, too good to keep
A day of no return
but she doesn’t want to forget. She might have shattered the She squats down to pick up the umbrella,
glass with her hand but she
she dropped on the way in,
wasn’t the cause of her broken heart
but doesn’t open it. The rain comforts her as
He left..
it falls through her hair
He never looked back..
Accepting that she just can’t cry anymore And still... Three hundred and sixty five days, she’s been torturing herself
She sips her morning coffee in the rain
The love she has for her favorite spot
In her favorite spot
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Suckling Pups
Gregory Long
To Fly To see them glide: so weightless; free across the stark blue sky, They sing! Soar! so effortlessly: what we wish, you and I. That freedom, craved from stooped stature bowed from pressure fierceTo free ourselves from broken nature To liberate our years! To feel that freedom, dearest true, that feeling most have lostwe must resign- Denounce the queue!no matter what is lost. For freedom true and freedom real, desired one and all, comes not from a sucessed appeal but from a sudden fall. Once seen, the daft absurdities of all the senseless waste: The time we’ve lost trying to gorge to keep up with the pace. Leave it all, do not be fraughtunshoulder all the heft. Take to the skies! Be light! Be free! Encumbrances all left.
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Tracie Washington
The Womb I know it’s time, even in the darkness the lights are bright when he enters the door my heart sinks with fright I walk to the O.R. with images of you to hold. All the stories of you in my womb I told. As I lay on the table my body grew cold. Wait somethings wrong, yet I have no voice and words to come. I begin to cry because I don’t want to die. A whisper comes to me
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Hush now darling, for you’re not ready for the other side But Grandma I’m so tired. All my failures are before my eyes. Like I said before she yells. You’re not ready don’t walk through that door.
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Tammy Barber
To See
Light Amidst the Darkness As I sit upon my perch today, contemplating what to writeShall I slip into the depths of darkness or waft upon the light? The chorus of God’s Earthly choir drifting along the summer breezeMade the decision for meThankfully with easeA path of darkness chosen-the Devil would appearHe’d crouch, sneer and whisper in my ear“Just look around”, I’d hear“The world is nearing my grasp - growing greed, pain, contempt, each and every day!”
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Although his words seem trueGod’s word teaches, that the world will confuseBut it’s not for us to understand, just trust and obey. A world filled with anger, deceit, worldly pleasures to assumeThe Devil, wittingly watching, just waiting to choke and consume. Darkness looms nearby but I choose to see beauty instead. The splendor of the morning - evening hues of orange, purple and redCreation feels so vast -alas it but a small tombFor those who choose to seek the Light and not Darkness as it loomsWill find when Heaven’s gates are opened, there will be plenty of room!
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Hope Williams
Death Death, it’s like a plant that dries out Once it has dried out, it’ll never come back to life Maybe it was taken quickly by a winter frost Or maybe it was taken slowly by the intense heat of the sun Once the plant is gone, you will never see it’s colors bright again You know that it is no longer consuming the air around it It no longer needs, the right nutrients. It no longer requires tending and as the time passes by Your become aware that it’s vibrant, deep, radiant, and colorful flowers have faded away And you realize death has officially robbed the plant of it’s existence
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Daniel Thrash
Sample 1 Ignorance. More than just a blissful existence, It is the most envious state of being. Ignorance is Enlightenment in its purest form. The only True Nirvana. It means, never getting lost in nuanced, existential abstraction, in some vain attempt to explain a nihilist philosophical view on life.
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Or, having to deal with synapses firing at light speed, while images flash uncontrollably, and endless ideas bombard your psyche. And, never being able to stay on a single thought for more than a second, believing your new thought superior, only to experience the feeling that everything you know, is becoming impossible to grasp. It would appear that knowledge cannot grant happiness. And, you should never underestimate the promise of pain, misery, and sadness that Intelligence represents.
Yes, Ignorance.. this word envelopes the soul with the feeling of security,
and, what’s the point of life, if not to feel, or how is it, that one should feel, if not secure. So... If you lack Ignorance, and are burdened by useless thoughts and ideas.. that only leaves your imagination feeling emptier before... then despair no longer.. for the elusive feeling of joyful naivety, can be recreated. Now, To slow the mind to a near halt and grant you the euphoric sensation of numbness (though fleeting), one needs only a rudimentary understanding of pharmacology. And, Even if this simple exercise, leaves you feeling isolated or cold... It will always serve you better.. than the absence of Feeling or Knowing.. that one might experience, in the infinite nothingness, that is the cosmic slaughter, that mankind leads us to.
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Sample 2 Luna sets Dew sticks Twilight carries Dust settles Dwarf rises Dew drips Crust cracks...as starlight crests, sweeping east to west Radiating this entombed cocoon, where you find the Recluse,
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shackled to his dreams of wants. While, Demons regress from evaporating shadows, returning to the inner psyche, from winced they came Certain to be summoned again, they fall into slumber, no longer haunting this hibernating recluse of bedlam Now... With the nightmares over I awake from this isolated isle, To another morning With old pain And a new day
Sample 3 Daylight, drips
We wake, from cold trips
It’s not for you But, know... I’ll be there with you Daylight... It drips... My cold world never comes to grip
Day dies...
You cry... I can’t be there for you Daylight...still drips Our world...just sits Daylight...slips
My world...just quit
Our world...never fits And daylight... Will eclipse.
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Sample 4
Rain Clouds
Descend
Clouds
Descend
Clouds of my creation
I Descend into my void
Clouds of my choices Clouds of my decisions Dark clouds of my undoing
Pull me Pull me Pull me deeper
Falling
deeper
Failing
deeper Black hole Abyss My abyss I stare into
Crushed by my own gravity My abyss stares back at me
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No pain Only suffering
Once warm Now cold
Sinking Sinking
Ice Wet
Sample 5 10 PM I’m empty No No, I’m just out 5 AM It’s okay It’s just one night
I wake her From my kicks of pain
Fuck, a whole night?
And anticipation
And I can already fill it I shiver
9 AM
My bones like ice I entomb myself
I made it
In red velvet polyester
Now I wait, For my phone to ring
1 AM
With my salvation 12 PM
Eyes bloodshot
Awoken by insomnia
My skin ablaze
Drenched in regret
I remove my wet shirt and pajamas
Mouth once lined with cotton,
Soaked in last week’s toxin
Now thick with oil Choked with post nasal drip I’m kicking invisible phantoms Starring at empty orange bottles That remind me of what I had Laying in an empty bed Reminds me of what I’ve lost Born to know everything Cursed to learn nothing
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Sample 6 I will carry this world into a new era by liberating the minds of those oppressed by the fascist crutch of false idols Unshackle the minds of the ignorant by flooding this world with enlightenment Illuminate the minds of zealots, bigoted with prejudice by uniting our nations with alliances tempered by tolerance Free the oppressed, by giving peace to the hearts of their oppressors Seeking, not Justice or Utopia
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But, an age of Logic and Reason For those who seek to impede this Progress through misinformation, manipulation, and subterfuge You Cannot hide from collective Minds You Cannot Lie to Open Eyes, Hearts may be Cold Souls, Unfeeling But, Hands are Steady And Minds are Free
hjh
The Valley of Tears
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Zylan Brandon-Wade
Big Monster’s Soliloquy: Part Two If you all think the winter solstice is bad, imagine living the summer solstice. I you think the supernova prophets are good, the delusions are ruining your corona. The cornice’s diffraction is best seen on the other side of Verona. A syzygy alignment is the Positive One’s nebulous. The blue sphere’s nebula does nto even encompass it. My zenith has been the blue sphere’s violence along with the commercial fit. My culmination is also my demise. They can torture me for multiplier’s whereabouts if they choose. I am impervious to outside enervation; especially from those who lose.
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My enemies can enervate until they sleep. My parents said grandfather’s cycle was weak, that mind was retrograde. They were murdered, but at least I received psychosis as an accolade. When do receive nutrients again? When do I get to drink sidereal juices? When do I attain diphtherial snacks and throw up the deuces.
Marion Rose Young
sheep
do you speak with a bitter tang? does your hatred taste sweet? cast your stones you gave away your criticism.
until i crave the flames.
whose hands do yours belong to? but hear thishave you bargained your conscience? replaced it with denial?
my way is my own. i carve paths, roads, valleys.
no will of your own making. frantic, frantic, frantic to follow.
i am not led. i need not be.
do you know what is righteous? what you know is how i will burn.
i eat my own fruit. i savor the sweetness.
do i deserve my flesh melted in the fires of my misjudgment?
no dog of yours can nip my heels. i will not be swayed, be herded.
or is my burning a comfort because you hold the match?
the lord may be your shepherd but i am no sheep.
use my blood as lantern oil to light your way.
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Taylor Smith
happy birthdead for months i have said to myself that i’m just waiting for you to finally come around, but the more i think about it, i’m not waiting for you. i’m waiting for you to decide that you want me. but you’ve already decided that you don’t, and it hurts. so i sit in my own denial because it feels better than accepting that we’re through. that we’ve been through for so long. i want to be here for you and i want to make you feel better but it isn’t fair anymore. it was never fair at all. it was me doing what i could to keep you around but i have to face it. you run from everything. you run from everyone. no matter how many times you told me you loved me and i was your world, it didn’t matter. it never fucking mattered to you. it makes me wonder if i mattered to you at all. of course, if i asked, you would say you do. or maybe you would say you did. i don’t know if i even want to know. the more i think about you and what you said, i just become more lonesome. i am lonely because i miss you and i don’t have anybody else that can replace you. nobody even comes close. my friends don’t understand and neither do you. my mom doesn’t
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even know and my sister just tells me the truth but i don’t want to hear it. for months, i wondered if i was going to be able to tell you happy birthday or not. spoiler: i did get to, i just didn’t get to say it the way i pictured. i guess that’s when i knew things wouldn’t be the same. that’s when i knew you really had changed and you weren’t coming back, at least you weren’t coming back to me. you changed into a new you, and that’s somebody that i don’t know anymore. the months we spent apart, we changed, and i don’t think you like the ‘me’ i changed into. i don’t blame you, i just find it painfully ironic because i’m that me because of you. the me i don’t think you want to get to know anymore. like i said, i don’t blame you. here lately, i don’t want to know me either.
hjh
Taylor Smith
morning coffee this story is a theory, and it is nothing i can back up because there are no records of who my mother used to be. she doesn’t even have a birth certificate, however i believe she might of been born backwards. for my whole life, she has been a perfect example of hot and cold. not to mention when i was 10 and we were in the car and that dumb song by katy perry came on and i asked her what it meant and she replied with, “i’ll tell you when you’re older.” only i’ve realized that this was just another way to push the question away and by now i’m old enough to have learnt it myself. i’ve learnt a lot of things by myself. she makes her bed right before she lays in it, instead of when she wakes up. she would rather have her morning coffee and cigarettes than to make a bed. in situations in which she should be quiet, she is not, and every time i need her to just say something, she is silent. when people tell you the words that you speak aren’t worth saying, you start to believe them. sometimes, i wonder what it would be like to meet my mother when she was my age. i like to think that we would be friends, but then again, the younger version of her is just another part of her i will never get to know, exactly like the woman i know now. i know nothing about who my mother is and what’s she’s been through. only little pieces but there’s not enough for me to fill in the puzzle. perhaps this is why i’m so angry at her all of the time. i get so frustrated with the things i do not know. on the flip side, my mother is the one of the only things i have ever known. she has been here for my entire life, although i’m only a fraction of hers. there was a time that my mother believed she couldn’t have children. she suffered through terrible things growing up, and i pride her in for never letting those things happen to me, but that pride only stretches so far.
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Guarding the Herd
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Nicole Kelley
Heresy Your God is not mine, His rules are a fiction. A punishment for the crime? What a foolish affliction. This Hell pit for me? My own personal cage? All because I disagree And “misbehaved.�
Elizabeth Carter
Leap Minoans were skillful pleasure-loving people Bull leaping was commonly used for ceremonies The bull was strong and masculine unlike a beetle Much more exciting than using ponies Acrobats would make such a big leap To make the jump was always very steep One would grab the horns and hold on tight The second would take a high flight The third was there to help make the land Snarling and angry the bull would take a stand To try and buck the woman off his head
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The skills the acrobats used were majestic To somersault across the bull in one quick motion The crowd would cry out and show great emotion
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David C. Dupriest
Sympathy for a Warrior Young man, so downtrodden and full of defeat. What toil and trouble have your eyes seen? What fear has been set running through your mind?
Anger set ablaze on a war-torn land. Rage flowing, venom coursing through your veins. Young warrior, was the reward worth death?
Belief is the root of all you fight for. Belief will carry you to the final rest. On what experience did you place your life? Courage and Honor were the codes you held.
As you draw your final breathe in this life. As the lifeforce slowly escapes your being. Do you reminisce on regrets or love? Did you make the most of your time on Earth?
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Kristin Cooper
Alexander at the Battle of Issus While standing tall and holding his ground. He marches into battle with his men. With horses breathing heavy and heart pounding He gives orders to charge in.
For civilization for the Greeks is his aim. With fear of horses, swords, and death the king flees. With love for his people and law Alexander Fights for what he thinks is right for his people.
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With his black hair and armor shining bright. The sun glazing spears and swords dripping in blood. With thoughts of not returning home he rides
His horse bravely thought the people to reach The king. Whom with fear of what he sees flees Behind his people and with Alexander wins.
hjh
Roniqua I. Sheffield
They Will Never Know They will never know what not they should do For the messengers’ fate was ended in doom Try hard as they could, determination was smothered and silenced. Their cries not heard, no hero to save the three, no ears around to hear their pleas. We must warn them is what they thought With the information of the trickery that is at hand, they will know the taste of victory when the enemy is defeated! But it was not to be. The vile serpent’s might was unexpected
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It set upon thee, swiftly, their lives gone. Sheer terror as the breath of life stifled They will never know what not they should do.
hjh
Taylor Smith
self love mistaken as self harm i cut myself so that i never forgot how much i liked my skin before it bled. i held myself underwater so that i never forgot how good air tasted. i lit myself on fire so that i never forgot what it felt like to be burned, and i never allowed anyone to bring flames close to me. you see, i am flammable. put me above a match and i will burn. i will shine so bright that i can’t see how much i actually hate myself. i shaved my body so much i forgot how the hair looked before. i wore so much makeup that i forgot what my skin looks like or if i have any left at all. i made myself go crazy so that nobody else could. i grabbed my own ass to familiarize myself with the feeling. i kissed myself in the mirror for practice. i was too caught up in playing dress up to undress and let myself rest. i have made a mistake. now i have cuts, burns, and bruises all of my body, and the bags under my eyes are too dark to conceal. i did all of this to myself. i have no one else to blame. the art. the talent. the sheer freaking comfort in mistaking self harm for self love. i thought i was doing myself a favor.
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Sharee Penix
Woman The true beauty of a woman is open and free, layed before for all eyes It is vulnerable yet strong, standing for judgment These delicate robes, cast aside, do not chain her Fierce with poise that could cut like daggers In tune with one’s own consciousness as love is with beauty Her figure bring ease as she rests upon her firm hips for support Her gaze, subtle, yet keen towards the focus which she seeks Beauty resides in every crevice and curve From the fine lines below her neck, to the wide gaps in her abdomen This persona, natural and untouched, to be perceived in its purest form She is but a fragment of a concept
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Yet, with a bold stand, she embodies the origins of love Goddess none the less, as she reigns over those who gaze upon her Filling those with both beauty and love in the rawest way
hjh
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Kristy Singletary
Taylor Smith
no i’ve always loved the word ‘no’. ask me am i happy? no. do i want you to leave? no. do i understand how confusing i am? no. do i love you? the word has been saving people for as long as time. do you want me? no. some people don’t really hear the word no, or else they hear it and pretend it’s yes. it’s funny how if you ask me to do something, i almost always say yes. do i want to eat? yes. do i want to smoke? yes. do i miss you? yes. do i love you? i always get so caught up saying yes and no that i can’t tell which one i like more. do i love you? yes.
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hjh
Hannah Johnson
Dying Gaul In his final breaths of air, we weep for the thought of another soul coming to be victim of the silence and solitude of lifelessness.
We wonder why in his deepest, isolated thoughts how could someone so strong, so powerful hit a breaking point and give up on life?
For him, was there some sort of willingness? To live? To love? To fight? To continue down the road of heroism, the brave and most valiant one. The sword, there it lies like the numbness of his soul, yearning for some way out this weary trench. War will cast demons inside you, the sword will be the savior.
Even the best warriors cannot win every battle.
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Chelcy Kilgore
Praxiteles, Hermes and the Infant Dionysus The baby boy might never taste the fruit that he longs to take with his outstretched hand. Hermes holds the bunch out and away from his young brother in a taunting manner.
The bond between the two, while playful, is strong.
With his arm wrapped lightly around his shoulder, the baby feels secure
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to reach for what it desires. Wrapped in worn sheets, in the crook of his arm Hermes eyes the infant admiringly.
With no shadow cast upon the torso from the arm that fails now to reach out, all gazes are called to the magnificence, strength, and beauty of the body of Hermes. Such beauty is this love between brothers.
hjh
Quinten Plummer and Recon
Nicole Kelley
Violence Ha ha! Don’t you see? Their blood runs red! I will not stop until Every idiot is dead! Knife into skin - there’s No greater pleasure! They remain ever useful; Endless supplies of leather.
Hunter Mclendon
( I Live At The End ) Suicide
is a family tradition.
Granny is the
only one who hasn’t given it the old college try. Momma still tests the waters here and there; turning the car on in the garage, breathing in carbon monoxide, sticking a pair of scissors in her arm, popping too many pills, smoking too much crack.
The crack is recent, just to be clear.
Momma has always been proud of herself for not being a ‘crack-whore’, though she did all the other drugs. She also tried to shoot herself with a gun, but my stepdad broke down the bathroom door and knocked her head against the sink just in time. I guess he didn’t want to let her do it first.
I’ve tried it, too. The first it almost
worked. I was sixteen. Granny had taken everything from my bedroom and boxed it up, leaving only the naked mattress and box-springs. I sat on the bed, facing the window, and slipped one pill after the other in my mouth. Momma says if overdose is your path, you can’t pull a Cinnamon Brown and swallow them all at once. If you do, you’ll just vomit on yourself and have to start over again. So, I counted the pills until I’d taken ten. I’d read somewhere that it only took ten, and I figured I’d leave the rest so they knew how I died.
The funny thing is I hadn’t
planned on killing myself that day. My planned suicide attempt happened a few weeks before, when Momma told me she
had cancer. She’d come to see the show I was in, a comedy play the school put on (it was an ensemble piece but I was the audience favorite) and to celebrate, she took me to dinner. While we ate, she wheezed and choked on her food. Then, when we got back to the hotel, she looked at me strangely and said, I think I have cancer. It wasn’t true, but Momma is a gold medal liar, and I believed her. When I went to do the last performance the next day, I ate a few pills and they found me slumped against the brick exterior of the school. That half-assed suicide attempt is possibly to blame for totally committed suicide attempt number two. When Granny found out, especially about the pills, she became so embarrassed she screamed. She boiled over with need, begging me to explain to her why I wanted to make her look bad. She dropped me off at school, glaring at me in the way she always looked at Momma. I spent the day proud of myself for coming clean. I told everyone who listened that I had, in fact, tried to commit suicide. Don’t worry, I assured them, I’m past that now. No more pills for me. I did spend sixty bucks on some hydro’s, just in case Momma needed them when I was to visit that weekend, but I had no intention of taking them. I slipped them in my pocket, and patted myself on the back for being a better person. I’d rejoin my youth group and praise Jesus’ name again, and all would be well. When Granny picked me up that afternoon, I didn’t even look at her. My face was pressed against the tiny screen of my phone. Weeks before, this girl broke
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up with me for not becoming a Jehovah’s Witness, and I was trying to explain that being Pentecostal was more important to me. Granny snatched the phone from my hand and threw it in her purse. We headed home, and Granny said she’d patched things up with Johnny, and he’d be over for
She answered with her silky, glassy-eyed, four bumps of cocaine voice. I told her what happened, and she asked how much money I had in my wallet. This was back when Momma stole money from the gas station where she worked, so I had a couple of hundred at any given time. I pulled out
dinner the next day. Johnny was her sixth ex-husband, a convicted pedophile and exKKK member. I immediately questioned her sanity and my fury ignited the van. She’d started an all out war, and I used all the weapons in my arsenal within the first mile. I was still yelling when we got home, by which point Granny switched tactic, and used her babying voice while still reminding me that she hated me. I slung open the back door to get my backpack, and the door came off its hinges. I stared at it as it cobbled to the ground. Granny pointed at me like a murderer, and fell to the ground in tears. “You’re just so cruel,” she sobbed. “I don’t have the money to fix this, Hunter. I just don’t. Why’re you so cruel?” Cruel; the word stuck to the roof of my mouth. She’d never called me that before. I ran through my memories, the catalogue of everyone I knew who was cruel; the men who came and went from Momma’s life, from Granny’s life, the bullies at school. Those were cruel people. I’d never thought I could be paired with those people, and realizing the truth of it now only made me worse. I ran in the house and pulled out my burner phone, calling Momma.
three hundred. She said to give it to granny and I could get more when I went to visit this weekend. I shut the phone and ran back outside to Granny still on the grass, fetal and small, squalling like a mother bird whose eggs were swallowed by a snake, and I tossed the money in her face. “There. That oughtta take care of i t .” Granny picked up the money and pushed herself up off the ground. I lifted the car door and rested it back in its home, where it was now lopsided and ready to fall at the softest wind, and went back inside. When I got to my room, I saw everything was gone. It’s still never been explained why she took everything from my room. I knew she’d found my stash of cigarettes and airplane bottles of vodka. I’d stolen the bottles when Momma worked at the liquor store, and had friends buy the Marlboro’s. My heart beat so hard I could see my neck pulsing. I sat on the bed and thought about my options. I was about to walk back out and ask Granny why, but then I heard the sound of something shoved under the knob of my bedroom door. It was a chair. The legs cast a spidery shadow in the slit at the bottom of the door. Granny went into her mom’s room, and explained what happened. Grandma took Granny’s side, like always.
In my head, in this moment, I knew that there was nothing left for me to do except to kill myself. I’d been properly acquainted with suicide from the few weeks before, the groundwork was set. I had letters I’d written to everyone, and I’d been updating my last will and testament since
friend. I was confused and high. I couldn’t stand straight. I said I was fine, smiled my half-hearted smile, and looked away. They said okay and left. Granny blamed my other exgirlfriend, the one I broke up with after she tried to kiss me. The last time I’d seen her,
I was nine years old. We’re a family who prepares for death. I was ready. Everything would go smoothly afterward. The idea of Momma dying, of having to live with Granny and her random lovers for the rest of my life, of carrying around this heaviness any longer than I had to...nothing seemed worth it. I slipped the pills into my mouth, and then I lay on the bare mattress, tugging at the decorative buttons that had loosened over time. At the last moment, I realized I needed to tell someone where to find the letters. I pulled out the burner phone, text my friend Katie that I loved her, that I had things for her to give people when I went away, and that I would miss her. She wouldn’t have any clue about suicide, I thought. She said she had a gift to send me and asked my address. I gave it to her, turned off my phone, and waited to die. Then there was a knock on the front door. I heard it from the back of the house, where I was locked away. Granny slipped the chair out from under my door before she answered. The sound of men echoed, and then granny opened my door and said to come on. I followed her to the living room where two EMT’s stood by the couch. They said they’d received a call from someone who was worried about their
she told me she’d cut a mark in her arm for every day we weren’t together. It didn’t stop until she found a new boyfriend. It had to be her, Granny said, so sure. The war wasn’t over, but another knock at the door silenced us. It was the EMT’s, again. “Could we speak to the boy alone?” Granny went to Grandma’s room. I looked at them sitting on the bed. They looked like the Beale’s from Grey Gardens, swathed in crocheted blankets and damp towels. I sat on the couch and the one man, the younger one with nice teeth and smooth skin asked if I was okay. “I’m fine,” I said. I was crying now, my voice barely a breath. These men didn’t know how bad I’d been, how much of this I’d caused. I looked at the different Jesus paintings hanging on the walls. They all stared at me, waiting. I’d spoken to these Jesus paintings before, always asking for advice. They never answered, so I didn’t bother now. The EMT, nametag reading STEVE, waited for me to give a real answer. “I’m just overwhelmed.” ✴ Clarity didn’t come back until I was in the hospital. Granny was bundling her anger in a black sweater with rainbow butterflies. The wings were made of glittery
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beads that winked and helloed with every catching of light. Underneath, she was still in her nightgown. Her hair was wet from the bath, ill-colored makeup barely streaking her cheeks. I heard her praying in tongues under her breath. She only stopped when someone was at the door.
out, visiting the land of pills and sadness. If I hadn’t died yet, I didn’t think it was going to happen. I said I was fine. ✴
Katie and her parents filled the small room. They smiled nervously, like I was an expensive vase swirling at the edge of a table, and asked how I was doing. Granny stood up and told them to leave. Who did they think they were, she asked them, interfering with other people’s business? “Ma’am,” Katie’s mother said, “Why don’t we take this conversation outside and give the kids a moment alone.” Granny shoved at her, hollering, howling, saying she wasn’t going anywhere, that I needed her. I realized, suddenly, that they’d spoken before. Katie’s mother checked my vitals the last time I’d tried to kill myself. She’s the one who suggested I tell Granny. I knew now that she’d told Granny herself. “Get out,” I said, catching Granny by the arm. She looked offended, but I knew she couldn’t have been surprised. She grabbed her purse from under the chair and followed Katie’s parents out the door. “I was so scared,” Katie said, weeping against my shoulder. She covered me with her silky brown hair and her heavy breasts and her goose-pimpled arms. Perfume she wore during our play kissed my nose. I told her I was sorry, but my tone was all wrong. She lifted up and asked if I was okay. I realized I was still fading in and
evaluate me. “Alone,” she said, pointing at Katie. We said goodbye and this imposing man with an asshole face took Katie’s place on the stool by my bed. Momma always said you couldn’t trust people like this, people of authority, with whole truths. She said they’d find a way to use it against you later. I thought of that as I watched him nodding along to nothing, this man who knew so much about teen suicide that he must already have me figured out. Momma was right. With every question he asked, I broke the truth apart and gave him whatever fragmented halftruths were left over. When he finished, he scribbled something at the bottom of his clipboard and smiled at me. “Feel better,” he said, and walked out. I thought that was all. He evaluated me and now he would go home to his miserable life and I would go home to mine. Yet, he stood outside the door, talking to Granny, assuming I couldn’t hear him. “I think it’s a cry for attention, honestly. But he still needs to be sent away. If they say they actually tried, we have to send them.” He went through a list of possible options. I’d only heard about one, Greenleaf, because that’s where everyone at school went during their nervous breakdowns. It was a nice place with good care and outpatient
I had more to say, but Granny came in and said a psychiatrist needed to
treatment once you were released. It was less than an hour away, and the best option, for people with money. Granny chose Hope’s Corner, since that’s all we could afford. ✴
I asked Granny about this night
recently. I’d come to visit, and we were in the middle of watching Prozac Nation. Christina Ricci screamed at Jessica Lange, so furious with her, blaming her for everything, and then she apologized for being so crazy. I sank into my sadness like quicksand. My therapist called it a ‘trigger’. When I looked back at Granny, she was shaking her head in that disappointed way, not at me, but at the screen. She said Momma used to be up and down like that. “Was I?” “You were different. Darlene always thinks being kidnapped when she was a kid gives
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her every right to be bipolar. She likes being crazy. You didn’t. You wanted the help. That’s why I sent you to that place. I’m still paying for it, too.” “I don’t remember much after I tore the door off the car.” “You were a teenager. It’s in the past. Pay attention to the movie.” I turned back and watched a version of my insanity, of my relationship with Granny, spill out onscreen. I wanted to cry, but I’d spent too long proving I was better, proving I’d shoved the crazy in a place it couldn’t be found, even by myself. ✴ When I woke up, Granny was gone. A police officer stood outside my door. He knocked a few times, asked if I was dressed, and told me we’d be leaving in five minutes. I left the room and followed him down the hall, wondering how much he knew about last night. He must’ve known I was crazy; he must assume everyone who tries to die is crazy. Granny was behind us, running down the hall, pushing past doctors and nurses, saying, Wait! Wait! She gave me a Wal-Mart plastic bag, hugged me, and said she loved me and would talk to me tonight. I didn’t understand how she could love me and hate me so much at the same time. The clock in the cop’s car blinked 3:34 AM; the red lines disconnected at every joint. I held my phone to my chest and thought to call Momma and let her know. She never slept much throughout the night. I dialed the number and deleted it again and
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again as I thought of what to say. There was no way to tell her I’d failed at self-murder, which should be the easiest type of murder to commit. She always said I was the only reason she’d lived this long, but I realized now that wasn’t true. It’s just a lot harder to kill yourself when people are always trying
“I don’t know why any strapping boy like you would do that,” she said. She spent the next hour evaluating me. There were questions about child abuse, neglect, family history; all things we didn’t talk about at home. She asked how often I felt like this. I didn’t even have the
to save you. I pulled the plastic bag into my lap and untied it. Inside was a pack of underwear, socks, and my favorite chocolates. They were the hazelnut chocolates wrapped in gold foil. I unbuckled my seatbelt and stuffed the socks under my head as a pillow. As the streetlights lulled me to sleep, I prayed to God. I never finished the prayer, but it started with asking forgiveness and wondering why he thought bringing me into this world was such a good idea. ✴ Hope’s Corner didn’t inspire much hope on first sight. We pulled in just after I woke up, and the exterior looked like the hospital in Halloween II, right before Michael kills all the people. The officer guided me to the door, and a woman who looked shockingly similar to Jane Lynch took me into her office. “Okay Sonny,” she said with a smile. “Why’re you here?” “Because I tried to kill myself, I g u e s s .” The office was undone; there was an empty bookcase, unframed motivational posters ready to plaster the walls, a cluttered desk. The woman grabbed a pen from her drawer, wrote down what I said, and then gave me a hard look.
emotional toolkit needed to construct my feelings in any understandable way. At the end, she asked if I had any questions before they moved forward. I asked if I could watch my show when it came on that night. She said, “I’m sure we can figure something out.” The woman excused herself, taking her pen with her. I figured it was a safety precaution. When she came back, she had a man with her. He held a pair of blue scrubs and Birkenstocks. His eyelids were covered in scars. They showed me to this bathroom with only one bulb, just over the sink. She said I needed to change clothes, and she had to write down whatever scars or bruises I had in case there were any changes during my stay. I asked if I had to get changed in front of them. “You can keep your underwear. The rest, they’ll keep in a locker.” When she was done marking up my chart, she said goodbye, and I followed the scarred man down the hallway. To enter or exit any room where patients were being held, you had to have a badge. I’d never seen anyone use a scanner to get into a door before, except for in Charlie’s Angels. At the time, it didn’t occur to me I was a flight risk. I just thought I was somewhere important. Inside the room were three boys. One, an older boy pulling at his chin hair,
rapped while knocking his knuckles against the table. Yeah, she call me honky, I keep acting nonchalantly. The other boys, two red-heads, nodded along. I found a chair in the corner and kept my head down. I told myself I wasn’t like these children. “What’re you in for,” one of the red-
off evil. This boy had my brothers’ teeth, too; buck teeth resting on his bottom lip. I asked his name, but he just turned to the scarred man and said he was hungry. ✴ I didn’t realize they’d confiscated my phone until I went to call Momma. They
headed boys asked. He had gaps between every single tooth, and every few minutes, he ran to the door leading to the girls’ side to peak through the papered glass. His ass crack peek-a-booed over and over. I didn’t answer him. “You a fag,” the other red-headed boy asked. I was convinced I wasn’t. Just because I gazed at boys longingly from across the room, masturbated to their muscular bodies in grainy videos, imagined their lips on mine, and wanted to be held in their arms at night didn’t mean that I was gay. I was sure of it, and I could suppress those feelings forever if I had to. I shook my head no, and asked if the boy was. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s part of why I’m in here.” He’d been caught giving boys hand jobs during math class. When they suspended him from school, his parents locked him in his room and placed a vial of holy water under his pillow. He smashed the glass, slit his wrists and waited to die. His parents found him before he bled out and sent him to this place. He’d been committed for thirty days. Today was his last. Soon after he was picked up, a little boy arrived. The other boys called him little man and asked what he was in for. He told them to fuck off. I knew he was just scared. My little brother, Gage, cussed a lot when he was scared. He thought profanity warded
explained that, for my safety, they’d placed my phone and chocolate and underwear out of my reach while I was in their care. I wasn’t sure how much harm any of those things could do, but I was trying to look sane, so I didn’t argue. A little after five, a man named Bob came in the room with a phone and a clipboard. He called me over to the bench and asked who I’d like to call. I asked if I could call anyone, and he said, “Anyone who’s got the code word.” The rapper with the chin hair rolled his eyes, said good luck trying to call anyone I actually wanted to talk to. I wanted to ask how people got this code word, but was too embarrassed I’d look stupid. I asked to call Momma. Bob crossed his legs and slouched to the edge of his seat. I heard the ringing echo against his ear. While he waited for Momma to answer, he scratched at his beard with the eraser of his pencil. “Yes, hello, this is Bob from Hope’s Corner. I’m looking for a Darlene White.” I heard her voice hiccup through the phone. “Okay, great, now if you could just supply me with the code word.” It took her a while to find it. She wrote notes down on ripped up packs of cigarettes and old lottery tickets, so it always took her a while to find things. Eventually,
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he smiled and handed the phone over to me. I meant to say hello, but I just sobbed Momma into the receiver. “Don’t you know that I love you?” The sound of her crying was apocalyptic. She asked the same question over and over, and I said yes ma’am each time. “I thought
hear it,” I deadpanned. “You okay,” she asked. “I’m fine.” “Well, I love you then. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I love you came out as a huff, like she was too tired to commit to saying it. I
you’d died. I went to see Mom and she wouldn’t tell me where you were. I had to threaten to take her to court.” Next to me, Bob scribbled away on his clipboard; notes detailing my tears and apologies. I listened to Momma, but I didn’t say much, because I was worried Bob would use it against me somehow. After a while, he spun his finger as a signal to wrap things up. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow?” “Yeah, baby, I’ll be right by the phone when you call. Just act like you’re okay while you’re there, okay? If you act normal, they’ll let you out early.” She was crying again. “I mean, unless you think you need it. But I think you’ll be fine if we just get you out of that bitch’s house.” Bob heard her and took the phone from my hand. He told her I’d call tomorrow, and dialed Granny. I didn’t even want to speak to her now, but she’d requested they put me on the phone every night until I was out. He asked her the code and immediately handed me the phone. “Why didn’t you tell Momma where I was?” “I…Hunter, she…” she took a deep breath, like she always did when she wanted to scream. “She was gonna drive all the way up there and get you. You know how crazy she gets. I was trying to protect you.” “It’s a little late for that, but glad to
started to say something but she ended the call. Bob wrote down that I was hostile, that I raised my voice. He smiled as I handed the phone to him, and looked past me to call the next boy. ✴ “Lights out,” Bob said. It was five ‘til nine. The remote was in my hand, preparing to search for the right channel, so I didn’t miss the beginning of my show. I explained to him that I’d made a request to watch it, and the woman said it shouldn’t be a problem. “She must not have been aware that it violated the rules. Lights out at nine, fella,” he said, with that same smarmy grin. There was no way I could sound like a regular, fully functioning person if I told him it was this show or suicide. He took the remote from my hand and switched off the TV. I cried then, and he wrote it down on his checklist, and ushered us off to bed. “If your goal here is to help people feel less depressed, you’re doing a terrible job,” I said. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said, jingling loose change in his pockets. “Just remember people have it worse than you, and watching a TV show is just a thing you do, not a life saver.” The boy with the chin hair patted his heavy hand on my shoulder and told me
to just try to sleep. I went to close the door and realized there wasn’t one. The mattress was thin, the sheets were scratchy and the blanket only covered half of my body. I stared through the door. Bob waited an hour before turning the TV back on, assuming we were asleep. The
product. It wasn’t that bad until Granny came home early one night, bible study cut short, to find him holding her dress up at the mirror. She stopped by the door, admiring his gentle hands caressing the fabric. He pushed it against himself, looked in the mirror a moment longer then began
rapper snored, but when I looked at him, he winked and gave the finger in Bob’s direction. It felt strange sleeping next to another boy, but it always had. I’d slept next to cousins, camp counselors, my stepdad and stepbrother, friends, church members, random men who just happened to find their way under my sheets, and most of the time, I was left doing things I didn’t want to do. I didn’t trust men. Now, in a place everyone was trying to reassure me was safe, I was surrounded by nothing but boys and men. Bob left around midnight, trading places with a man wearing a security jacket and a goatee. The man turned on the TV and spent most of the time tugging at the crotch of his pants. I rubbed against my scrubs, following his rhythm. I imagined him on top of me, holding my hands down at my sides to stop me from another suicide, and thrusting himself into me. Sex would save me. I quietly masturbated myself to sleep. ✴ Granny swears her third husband, Butch, overdosed on purpose; suicide by Heroin injection. He was a drug dealer for the Country Club in Cairo, but his biggest mistake in that business was using his
to cry. She waited for him to calm down and put her dress away, but his sobbing only got worse. Granny knocked at the bedroom door, not an unusual thing since he didn’t like her watching him shoot up, and asked if she could come in. He opened the door without saying anything and went into the kitchen. “Is everything…” she began. “Just high is all.” A few months later, he divorced her, and she knew he’d seen her in the doorway. He died not long after that. Granny never told anyone what she saw, not until she’d found my drawings of boys stashed in the closet. She asked if I wanted to tell her anything. She told me about Butch, said she’d have loved him, even if he wanted to be a woman, and waited for my admission. I didn’t want to be a woman, so I didn’t think I had anything to say. ✴ I woke up to the scarred man singing. His happiness felt like aluminum between the teeth. I pushed my pillow over my ears to cover up the warm voice. He pulled at my sheets and I snatched back. He said breakfast was coming soon. The scarred man finally introduced
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himself as Cricket; it was a nickname given to him by his family after the attack. At seven, he witnessed a crime, and the man stabbed at his eyes, trying to blind him. He said now the only thing he was blind to was sadness. A woman, Grace, came in with a
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trolley of food. She sat the plates down in front of us, French toast soggy with maple glaze, and smiled at the boys shoving food in their mouths. I pushed the plate to the center of the table, an offering to the ravenous beasts. “It’s important to eat,” she said, moving the plate back in front of me. I chewed my first bite until it was documented on the chart, and then pushed the plate back to the center. Later, when I checked my chart, she wrote that I liked to challenge authority. ✴ The day was filled with routine. 10:00 AM- We wrote in our journals, goals we set for ourselves, thoughts and feelings, drawings and scribbles. Pencils and Pens weren’t allowed, since they presented the opportunity for self-harm. Instead, our letters bubbled and bled from non-toxic markers. 12:00 PM- Lunch was pizza; I stuffed it in my pocket when they weren’t looking, planning to flush it later. 01:00 PM- It rained, so outdoor activities were traded in for inspirational movies. Most everyone napped. 03:00 PM- People were sent to the psychiatrist one at a time; we each had ten minutes to solve our lifetime’s worth of problems. I spent the majority of my time
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lying about my life, a way to save Momma from more jail time, save Granny from further humiliation, save myself from more of whatever was happening now. The man said we’d start me on a series of medications, which (spoiler alert) never happened. ✴ Five came back around like a cigarette after a long day. I called Momma and we made plans for me to move in with her, and we cried as we realized how much we both hated our lives. She said I made her life worth living, but it felt dangerous to have so much control over a person’s entire life in that way. There were too many ways I could, and would, disappoint her. We said our ‘I love you’s’ and hung up the phone. When I spoke with Granny, she said she’d found my suicide notes and was about to toss them in the garbage. “You don’t need them anymore,” she argued, as I begged her not to. “If you ain’t gonna kill yourself anymore then you can just tell people these things when you’re back.” “Please, at least read the one I
wrote to you…before you decide to throw them out.” I waited. “Was all this because you was molested?” Her voice crawled through the phone in her lazy drawl. “No,” I said, after a while. “Why, then,” she asked. “I just wanted to.” “Well,” she said, “In our family, if you wanna die, you’re just gonna live longer. Ask your Momma.” ✴ Granny’s sister, Aunt Nancy, attempted suicide after watching The Exorcist. It’s true, you can ask anyone. She sat there, watching Linda Blair stain the holy cloth with green vomit, and fell into that same sadness we all had. When she left the theater, this man pulled at the braids in her hair, asked if she had any money. She gave him her wallet and walked into the street. She was admitted to the mental health facility in Dothan for six months. She blamed the devil for her sinful thoughts of death, telling the psychiatrist any reasonably sane human being wouldn’t commit such selfish acts. I have three girls at home, she’d said, a normal woman don’t just leave her kids that way. When the doctor suggested it was her husband’s untreated bipolar disorder that might’ve contributed to her stress, Aunt Nancy argued that women weren’t here to judge their husbands, but to support them at all cost. Years later, at Uncle Gary’s funeral, Nancy grabbed at Granny’s hand and let out a sigh of relief. I asked Granny later, why would Aunt Nancy be so relieved that her
husband had shot himself in the head? She said that sometimes, when people are sick for so long, it’s just nice to know they’re not suffering anymore. ✴ The next morning, Grace and this woman with micro-braids and red lips came in with shower caddies and fresh underwear. The rapper boy went first, saying he’d be quick, and then it was the redheaded boy, and then me. I wiped at the blur of the bathroom mirror, only to realize the blur was from a rubber casing. They were afraid we’d smash the glass and take a shard to our aorta. I couldn’t look at myself long. I got in the shower and masturbated. I wasn’t turned on by anything, but masturbating took so much focus, it distracted all of my senses from how much I wanted to die. At least, it did at first. When I got close, I imagined a man coming up behind me and pressing a gun into the back of my head. I imagined them blowing my brains onto the tile at the same time I blew my load. What a way to die, I thought. I cried afterward, the way I did every time I came; Christian guilt. Grace knocked on the door, said to wrap it up. I brushed my teeth and dried my hair, packed up my caddy and unlocked the door. “We’ve got keys,” she said, “if you ever try anything.” The little boy with the buck teeth went in next. There was no noise from the bathroom for a while, but the redheaded boy, whose ass crack still made an appearance every hour or so, faked a seizure
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and no one noticed the silence. I knocked and asked if the boy was alright, and when he opened the door, I saw blood staining his teeth. “It hurts to brush,” he said. I wasn’t sure how to help him, but I just said to brush lightly until he felt like
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his gums could handle it. They looked like they’d been clawed over by a cat. I watched him brushing, and showed him the circular motions I showed Gage when he first learned to brush his teeth. The boy said thanks and rinsed the red from his mouth. ✴ Cricket took us outside after lunch. Grace had to change to the night shift, so we held off on our journaling. The boys threw around the deflated basketball, cussing every time their attempts to dribble only expelled more air. I sat at the edge, watching them. On the other side of the fence, the girls were playing hopscotch and jumprope. I asked Cricket if I could join the girls’ side, but he said no. The woman with the micro-braids waved at me, mouthed ‘boys’, and rolled her eyes. I laughed and felt a little less alone. ✴ “Is Bob coming,” I asked. Grace walked in carrying an overnight bag and sat it on the bench. She turned to me, her face glittery with sweat. She said he wasn’t going to be back for a while. We all grinned, the red head and the rapper high fiving behind me. “Don’t look so pleased,” she said. “He’s not as bad as you think.” She grabbed the phone and clipboard. “Who’s up?”
The little boy dropped from his chair and ran to her side. We watched as he called his Grandmother. The night before, while a movie about white people saving inner city kids played on TV, the little boy got the news that his mother wouldn’t be back to see him. She’d left him there with no plans to come back, no plans to ever speak to him again. He screamed into the phone, begging her to take him home. He apologized for whatever it was he’d done wrong. It wasn’t enough. Hope’s Corner contacted his grandmother and asked if she could take him once he was released. Now, she soothed his woes with plans of a soft bed and homemade food every night. When the little boy finished, Grace looked at us to see who was next. The rapper and the red-headed boy showed no interest in calling their families. I got up and said I’d go. Grace pulled my sheet from the clipboard and asked who I’d like to call. Bob never told me who all had already been given the code word, but now I could see I had options. Not many, but a few. I stopped when I saw my youth pastor was
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on the list. He cornered me in his office, a few months before all of this happened. I’d found porn sites saved to the history of his browser. I hadn’t planned to say anything, but he looked scared. He’d heard rumors that I was ‘a homosexual’, and told me he’d pray for me and keep it to himself, if I would
again, I knew she was crying. “I just don’t know how I let this happen,” she said. “It’s like I can’t save anyone, not even my kids. I really did try.” I wiped at my eyes and put my head between my knees, putting the phone just far enough away that her sobbing wasn’t
do the same. After that, things weren’t the same. I took the pen from Grace’s hand and scratched his name out. I called Momma first. In the background, her dogs growled at each other. She shouted at them, silencing them, and apologizing, asking me to repeat myself. It was her day off. “Mom called and said you left letters. I didn’t realize it was that bad.” I didn’t know what else to say after that, so I told her I had to go. Grace called Granny. They spoke on the phone longer than I expected, with Grace nodding and smiling at whatever Granny told her. When she handed me the phone, she smiled and patted my head. “Did you read the letters,” I asked. “I tried to,” she said. “There ain’t no point in dwelling, Hunter. When you get out, we’ll talk about it then.” I knew that wasn’t true. Granny believed sadness could be ignored until it disappeared. “Please read it,” I said. “I want you to understand how I feel about some things, before I come home.” “They treating you okay? Judy said her grandson, Brandon, went to Greenleaf and it’s not as nice as you’d think.” Her breathing grew heavier and neither of us said anything for a while. When she started
entirely heartbreaking. She said my name a few times and I put the phone back up to my ear. “I love you,” she said. “I talked to the doctor up there. He said I can come get you tomorrow afternoon. You’re coming home tomorrow. You hear me?” “Yes ma’am.” “You’re coming home. I love you little baby.” She hung up and I handed the phone to Grace. “Sometimes,” Grace said, “people show their love in strange ways. Don’t they?” ✴ Grace let us stay up late that night. She snuck in playing cards, and taught us the same card games she taught her daughters. The man who worked the night shift, with the vest and goatee, never showed up. When I asked where he was, Grace said she’d committed to the long haul. When all the other boys had gone to bed, I sat in the chair next to her and asked her everything I could think of. I found out that she didn’t celebrate holidays, because she was a Jehovah’s Witness like my ex. Her mother didn’t believe movies had as good a purpose as books. She believed that Hitler’s wife killed him, and that Germany
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was so embarrassed it was a woman who’d done it, they covered it up. I asked how often she thought of things like that. “If you push through the hard times, you’ll live long enough to speculate just about anything.” ✴
too pretty. I said I was just drawing what I saw, so I could remember it all when I left. When I finished, I handed it to her, and she looked at it for a while. “Can I make a copy,” she asked. We passed by the lockers as I followed her into the office. The woman
Grace was gone when we woke up. Cricket sang through our rooms, fingers substituting drumsticks, thumping along the doorways. The rapper chucked a pillow across the room. Our breakfast was eggs and bacon. I pushed the plate in the middle of the table and watched as the boys picked at the parts they wanted. Cricket asked if we had heard the news. “About what,” I asked. “You’re heading home today!” The little boy lifted up from his plate and asked if it was true. I said yes, and he cried into the runny yellow scramble. Cricket lifted the boys head up and wiped at his drooling mouth. “What’s wrong, little man?” The little boy looked at me and asked me not to leave. I didn’t know how to tell him I couldn’t stay. His gums were still red from the morning before, and I told him everything would be okay as long as he brushed his teeth the way I showed him. I knew it wasn’t true, but he believed me and said okay, wiping his nose on his sleeve. ✴ The woman with the microbraids came in to assist Cricket with our journaling. I sketched her face into the lined paper and she told me to stop making her
I’d met on the first day saw me and congratulated me on leaving so soon. She patted my back on her way out. The copier finished. The woman with the micro-braids turned to me, holding up her copy of the drawing and smiling. She promised to hang it up as soon as she got back home. “I’ve got chocolates,” I said, as she closed the office door. “You brought them with you?” “They’re in a locker,” I said. “Do you think I could have one now, since I’m leaving today?” She tapped her finger on her chin, pretending to think about it. I laughed, and she said yes, but only one. She went back into the office and grabbed a set of keys, spinning through them until she found one labeled with my name. I said I’d share if I could have more than one. She grabbed five, and went to shut the door. I reached back in and grabbed one more. “You’re so bad,” she laughed. “This one’s for you,” I said, smiling. “How’d you get these, anyway?” she asked, pulling open the gold foil. “They’re not supposed to make any stops on your way up here.” “My Granny got them for me, right before I left. They’re my favorite.” “Isn’t that the sweetest,” she said, licking melted chocolate from her thumb.
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“That’s my favorite part about being loved by somebody.” “What is?” I asked. “They know what you need to be h a p p y.” ✴ I was twelve when Momma drove
you expect, if I’d ever thought about trying to kill myself. I had thought about it. I’d thought about it every time Momma tried to kill herself. It was like my life depended on Momma still being here, and any time I imagined having to be pulled away from her casket, I changed the image to us being
the scissors into her arm. It was attempt seventeen. She’d just moved into our tightly packed house, hiding out from Eric after he’d thrown her against the wall and cracked a rib. Within a week, she’d spiraled out. I walked into the kitchen and saw the loops of the scissors poking out of her arm. Blood loosened the blades and they clattered to the floor. Granny drove us to the hospital while red inked the towel wrapped over Momma’s wound. While Momma got stitched up, Granny and I waited in the emergency room. She flipped through a gossip magazine, a serene look on her face, as if nothing had happened. “You ever try it before,” I asked. Granny closed the magazine and set it to the side. She looked up, away from me, at the people filling out their clipboards and coughing and crying and possibly dying. Then she grabbed my hand. Her mothers’ ring, holding the birthstone of each of her children, glinted under the fluorescent lights. “Never have,” she said. “I couldn’t.” “Why?” “I had to take care of people.” We sat there, with her hand holding mine. She asked, in that way when you’re hoping for a different answer than
buried together. I asked why so many people in our family had tried to kill themselves, why they thought that was the only way out. We’d been to at least a funeral a year since I was five and more than half of them were due to suicide. Granny situated herself until my face was level with hers. “The world ain’t always easy, little baby. There are mean people in this world, life ain’t always on your side, and happiness isn’t something readily built in everyone. Sometimes, especially in our family, the world gives us all of the bad news first. It scares people, when bad is all they’ve known. Death looks pretty good, when you’re on that side of things. But just know that death ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. There’s so much good, and people like your Momma would see that if they gave it a chance.” I nodded along, even though I didn’t know exactly what she meant. She asked if I would promise her something. I said yes, and she stuck her pinky out and locked it with mine. “Promise me, no matter how hard it gets, that you won’t take the quickest way out of your problems. Promise me you’ll try to remember what I’m telling you now, and know that life can be so beautiful if you give it a chance.” “I promise,” I lied. 119
Nicole Kelley
Fraud My mask has grown in, Digging under my skin. Who am I? I am Lost. Now what was my sin? Deceit and lies all around. My disguise is shattered. I told you what you wanted. Are you not flattered?
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Connor Craven
he thinks you’re pulling his leg.
The Clock
She moves the pencil and constructs a large mantle. A stray tear falls from her rosy and
The clock strikes one.
lands on her notepad. A small smudge forms over one of the walls and she frantically
The young couple slowly walks down the
attempts to fix it.
cold hallway. Fingers interlock like hope is the only glue to keep their spirits in the air. The
The clock strikes three.
husband pushes the door open to stale air. Four vanilla walls
Percolator: Those dreaded pink pills you use to keep from losing your marbles.
Babushka: The feeling of being pushed to the edge.
A soft knock comes to the door. She turns her head away from her note pad to be greeted
The exam table with paper draped over it.
by a nurse whose ignorance-is-bliss as she
A small window in the corner, large enough
welcomes the couple to the hospital and
to see through, glass stained colors break
tells them to make themselves at home. The
into geometric patterns. His wife stands in
husband gives the woman a nod and lets a
the doorway, uncertain about what awaits
smile crawl to his lips.
inside, she steps through. Straight-edge: The look on your parents face Dank: Long periods of silence.
when you can’t finish school because of your mental health.
The clock strikes two. The wife moves to the window. Note pad in They both make their way to the exam table
hand she moves her hand to meticulously
and sit. He mutters some words, picks up a
construct what would be a large mahogany
magazine to draw his mind away from his
clock, perched on the mantle over her
skewed thoughts. The pulls out a notepad and
fireplace.
begins to draw. She starts with the four walls, adds a flood and fireplace burning.
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Froth: The look your therapist gives you when
The clock strikes four.
Concentrate: Feeling the blood rush to the surface of your skin when you are in a large crowd.
The clock strikes five. The doctor begins to explain what took so
Footsteps come down the hallway to the couple’s room. The husband looks up to the doorway, waiting whomever is about to walk in. A rather stout man steps into the room bringing an unsettling vice. The doctor. The wife’s attention snaps to the man as though she has become more impatient than expected. Rutabaga: The fear of explain your internal thoughts. The doctor looks over at her and she looks to the geometric patterns in the stained glass.
long. He begins. Nectar: Racing thoughts or feelings of immense uncertainty. The scans from the biopsy. It seems like the only thing listening are the four walls. The wife taps her foot uncontrollably. She is becoming more nervous. The doctor clears his throat. Silence: the sound that is made when you finally kick the chair out. The clock strikes six.
The doctor says her name and she frantically makes her way to her husband’s side. He is still flipping through a magazine. The doctor announces the diagnosis for the wife. She looks on, out the window. Fiji: Having uncontrollable tremors from a tragic event. The wife is searching for something in the geometric pattern. Then they both turn to the doctor as though he holds the key to their future.
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J. Ross Archer
But He Swallowed My Watch
My Primary Job at the world
famous Bennett Alligator Farm in southern Florida for the past four years has been feeding alligators, about 80 of the largest, meanest, and ugliest creatures on this earth. Once a week each gator ate twenty pounds of assorted meats. Alligator wrestling has long been a favorite tourist attraction in Florida. The allure is to the wrestlers and to the alligators. But, it’s the possibility of real danger that’s exciting. My friend and co-worker Ben Mitchell used to be the featured wrestler of the farm. Ben came from deep in the Okefenokee Swamp country, and he had a peculiar personality and a very unusual outlook on life. He used to do two exhibition shows daily, and each show attracted around one hundred spectators. The shows still go on, but none of the wrestlers will ever be as big a crowd drawer as old Ben, the days before old Mossback. One day, several years ago, Ben and I were on lunch break and I asked: “Ben, how long have you been wrestling these ‘gators? Don’t you ever tire of it, or wonder when one of those creatures is going eat you for lunch? You’re twenty-five years old, don’t you want to live to be twenty-six?” “John boy, I been doin’ this here
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job for ‘bout five years now, and no, I ain’t ’fraid of getting’ ate.” “But don’t you think the odds of you getting hurt are runnin ’high against you?” “Nah, don’t believe in no odds, John boy. I’m wrestlin’ Old Mossback next show. He’s a big ‘un,’ bout twelve feet long and I guess he’d weigh in at ‘bout eight hundred pounds, give or take a pound or two. Tell you what, you come watch me tame Old Mossback and you’ll see I ain’t afraid none.” No one has ever wrestled him before, but I know how mean he is. That’s why I reckon you ought to think a little more about what you’re about to do.” “Thanks, John boy, but stop yo’ fretin’, I ain’t gonna get hurt. By the by, John boy, look at this here gold watch one of them spectators gave me yesterday. He wuz impressed with my wrestling. ’Aint she a beauty, I’m plum proud of it.” “Yes, it’s a real beauty, Ben. Well deserved; you’re the best alligator wrestler in the world.” “Maybe you right ‘bout that,” said Ben with a sly smile on his freckled face. At one o’clock, with about one hundred spectators looking on, Ben jumped into the ‘gator pit, a twenty by twenty foot square with a wet earthen floor. Four pit
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workers set to prodding Old Mossback, and he was noticing their efforts. His mouth was open wide enough to accommodate a small pony. He was displaying 100 ugly teeth and hissin’ like a steam locomotive. He looked meaner than a junk yard dog. Ben was wearing nothing but a pair of cut off-jeans
“I’m ‘gonna wrap his mouth shut and subdue this SOB, John Boy. Throw me a roll of duct tape – and hurry,” Ben shouted. “Ben, you can’t do that. If you turn even one arm loose, he will throw you off like a toy and have you for lunch. It’s just too dangerous, and the boss would not
and a ten inch hunting knife in a scabbard at his waste. Ben didn’t look up to what was about to take place. Ben’s lean freckled body tensed as he circled Old Mossback, waiting for the right moment to make his move. The onlookers grew deadly silent. Old Mossback had closed his huge mouth and wasn’t moving, but as he had showed many times, he has lightning-fast movement. “You be careful, Ben, I haven’t fed that big boy in a couple weeks and he’s more than likely hungry,” I yelled at Ben. My words didn’t register with Ben. His attention was riveted on Old Mossback, but the spectators heard my warning to Ben, and they became very attentive. The place was deadly still and quiet…minutes passed. Ben leapt across the pit with lightning speed: landed with a splat on the ‘gator’s back, wrapped his legs around the creature’s middle, and locked his arms just behind the ‘gator’s front legs. Old Mossback exploded into action, thrashing about so that I doubted Ben could hang on, but he did. Old Mossback was whipping his huge tail around with such fury it crushed a portion of the pit retaining wall, sending some of the on-lookers scurrying with cries of fear and excitement.
approve, anyway,” I argued. “I will send the pit crew in to loop him so you can get away,” I shouted. “No, boss ain’t here; now, throw me the tape, I’m gettin’ tired.” I threw Ben a role of duct tape, and he caught it with his left hand. But releasing just one arm from his grip was all Old Mossback needed to make his freedom move, and to punish Ben while doing it. When Ben reached forward with both hands to tape his mouth shut, Old Mossback slid sideways fast while opening his huge mouth. He took Ben’s left arm in his jaws, slammed his jaws shut like a steel trap, and shook Ben like a dog shedding water. It freed Ben of Old Mossback’s grip for sure, but at the expense of losing his left arm at the elbow.
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The spectators, who had been cheering Ben, grew silent. All eyes were on Ben’s arm, locked in the ‘gator’s mouth, and at the blood gushing from his arm stump. The pit hands and I jumped into the pit with wire snare loops to place around the ‘gator’s neck to remove him away from Ben. Looping and then pulling the ‘gator away from Ben would not be an easy task, but we had to save Ben’s life. “We have to get Ben out of the pit before he bleeds to death,” I yelled to the pit workers. “Stop,” yelled Ben as he pulled his knife from the scabbard on his waste belt. That overgrown reptile done swallered my gold watch and I aim to get it back.” And with those words, Ben, unaware of his missing forearm, once again jumped on Old Mossback. With the knife in his one remaining hand, blood gushing from the stump, and yelling at the top of his voice, he killed Old Mossback while the five of us restrained the ‘gator as best we could.” “Ben, you will bleed to death, let us get you out of there before it’s too late.” “But he got my watch and I ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til I get it back,” said Ben. With inhuman effort Ben gutted Old Mossback, and got his gold watch back before he passed out. We stopped most of Ben’s bleeding, and in about two minutes, medics carried Ben from the pit as the spectators applauded. They had gotten their money’s worth of entertainment. Ben survived, and so did his watch. I guess you could say they both kept a ticking.
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Kristy Singletary
For such defects, and not for other guilt, Lost are we and are only so far punished, That without hope we live on in desire. Inferno Canto IV
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Obscure, profound it was, and nebulous, So that by fixing on its depths my sight Nothing whatever I discerned therein. Inferno Canto IV
Zylan Brandon-Wade
The Raven I scour the vegetation to avoid the arid sunrise. The planes exist only for me: the humans are surmised. The oriole thinks he is competition: that is a literal surprise. My longitude mirrors my latitude. I fly from Baltimore to Florence to become shrewd. My peers croak, haughty and obscene: I cut away their veil until they are pathetically nude. I do not care what happens tomorrow. I do eternal business with the sparrow, so no sorrow. Even if the Solace-Pump is broken, I will not borrow. What do you think? Do you won the verge and the brink? Does our mutual respect set up the infinite link?  
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Myranda Mills
Taco Bell Bestiary Kangaroos are animals that hide tacos in their pouches. Gremlins are creatures who eat tacos on Tuesdays. Frolicking is what I do through the Taco Bell parking lot after I buy myself a meal. Barry is a guy who loves tacos, but I don’t know. Snickerdoodles—I eat with my tacos. Moist tacos are horrible tacos. Yoga is something you need to do after binge-eating tacos for two months.
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Hiatus is something you need after going to Taco Bell every time you go out and eat. Yacht is something you can drive through a drive-thru at Taco Bell. Hippopotamus is one thing you will not find a Taco Bell buying tacos.
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Myranda Mills
Escape Why can’t I escape? The sounds of cars pass on by on the highway. Blue Jays, Redbirds, Jenny Rins, and other birds sit on Powerlines, singing in the background of the busy sounds. In this city there are always Chaos and Destruction. Will I ever be on my way? Away from this city to a dreamlike place. A place where there is peace and harmony. A place where the Blue Jays, Redbirds, and Jenny Rins and other birds sit up in trees and sing above everything else and never in the background.
A place where cars don’t fly past us every single second. A place where soda cans and bottles are not displayed around your feed and instead there are flowers. A place that is deep in the forest, hidden away from the world. Will I ever go to that place? The city is never quiet here, but it’s still my home. I can always try to escape its grasp, but will I ever escape?
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Sarah J. Proctor
Joshua Is this a war we should fight? Where is battle we can win? It is said God aids us in our plight, But I’ve often fallen far from Him.
He tells me clearly, “You have to ask. Have I not fought for you before? From His throne He sees me task. I know my prayer He won’t ignore.
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In front of these men that I oversee I request the sun stand still today. Against our foe we shall see victory. Silent, in Gibeon, do our enemies lay.
More than a mustard seed, my faith is strong. My God’s word holds true all the day long.
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Darryl Jones
Peace or Patience I live my life through a grapevine My heart pours like a river, Refreshing like a cold sprite soda. I know what it feels like to be at peace, to getg away from the beeping cars, all of the sounds that drive me crazy. Here, I’m surrounded by beautiful tall trees And birds singing perfect melodies. This is the life I must live I must move to a different a different country In order to fulfill my wish The only thing that stops me is my furniture But that will not stop me from living in my mind I will fulfill my wish and live life through a grapevine
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Nicole Kelley
Treachary Stabbed in the back? That’s a good laugh. What I did to my brother? Not on his epitaph. I had not a choice; My mission was clear. If God prefers him, He won’t be here next year.
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Laura Weeks
Thrust me back thither where the sun is silent Inferno Canto I
Riya Patel
The Nature’s Beautiful Routine The dew of the morning fog spits upon the delicate leaves or periwinkle. The radiant sunlight over the horizon makes the sun tingle. As the tires run over the bare road, I can hear the chirps and croaks of the birds and toads. The gentle flow of the river curves through the forest. The leaves on tress turn orange as the months become important. The clouds hang low, covering the mountain’s peak and making the colors of the sky unique. As time passed, the sun made its cycle around. The creatures perform their daily rounds. The pearl of the sky comes about and begins to trek its daily route. The stars in the sky shine bright like diamonds. A soft white glow leaves the nature shining. The owl after a hunt sits on a branch proudly, while the crickets chirp loudly. The air lays silent while the animals hibernate. The day and night come to a peaceful state.
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Kimberly Duncan
Zylan Brandon-Wade
Aesopic Decadence My Grandfather’s legend started with the mystical ancients. My last reprieve brought me to the borrowed solace pump. He actually conversed and commiserated with the Lioness and Phoenix. I wanted too much of the euphoria. One day, the Little Monster asked me for a piece of unleavened bread. I gave him a piece, not realizing the significance. The moment of exchange was indescribable. I spouted every insufficient adjective and adverb. What I didn’t know was the predicate controlled the subject. I built a pool of stolen marble. The Little Monster provided garbage as a gift. I accepted it because it looked precious, like jewels. My deceased grandfather and I swam everyday and he told me stories. He overflowed with intoxicating nostalgia. His final instruction was to destroy the pool, destroy the monsters, and follow the Eagle.
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Laura Weeks
George Flowers I know this road Right, left, right, left, Right? I’ll take it slow I won’t be there anytime soon anyway As you get older things make more sense a card stuck in the door I couldn’t read so it didn’t matter But now it does And it’s not easy to say
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Why people would show up at the door Asking strange questions That I couldn’t answer
Nasty looks
And I sure didn’t want to
Sharper words I use to open boxes
now I jump when the doorbell rings
cut paper
when my cell phone goes off
I construct my own reality
when someone calls my name in public
Ignorance is something I craft
It’s not easy to know
It’s not easy to say
It’s easier to forget
I know this road
Ignorance is something else
But I do.
I still keep hold of