Southern Regional Technical College Arts and Literary Magazine by Jay Snodgrass

INK W E L

MASTHEAD

Managing Editor Rhetta Weeks

Art Director Stephen Atkinson

Associate Editor Shannon Platt

Photo Aquisitions Samantha Hicks

Readers Rachel Glover Engla Carter Nicole Kelley

Faculty Advisors Maria Studebaker-Coppage Jay Snodgrass

The Inkwell Literary Magazine is published in Thomasville, Goergia, from Southern Regional Technical College, a member of the Technical College System of Georgia. Unsolicted Manuscritps are welcome. However, we are unable to enter into correspondence with writers about thier manuscripts. The editorial board encourages simultaneous submissions. We try to reply to all mauscripts within 12 weeks. Sometimes this is not possible. If you believe we have had your work too long, please feel free to send it elsewhere.. All Manuscripts should be submitted via email to jsnodgrass@southernregional.edu with the subject heading â&#x20AC;&#x153;Inkwell Submissionâ&#x20AC;?. All future rights belong to the individual authors or artists. Publication of this magazine was make possible in part by support from Student Government Association of SRTC. ISBN: 978-1546316817 ISSN: 2327-6142

INK WEII

Photo by Diana Morris

Special Thanks To The Southern Regional Technical College Student Government Association for the generous contribution without which this publication would not be possible.

Letter from the Editor

Spring Semester 2017. I have written so many versions of this letter and deleted just about all of them. I could not seem to write anything that would do my first three semesters of college justice. If I were to include everything that made my experience here at SRTC special, we would not have the budget to pay for the extra pages. Because of that, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll keep it short. I became editor of The Inkwell without thinking too much about it. When I began I was shy and afraid to speak up. I cleared my throat incessantly because I was too afraid my voice would give out. I did not think I had a bossy bone in my body until I started on The Inkwell. It pushed me into a position where my untapped leadership skills and ability to make definitive decisions were put to the test. It changed me in a way I could not have done on my own. I had wanted to be confident and strong in my own abilities for so long that I did not realize what had happened until now. My position at The Inkwell gave me opportunities I could never have dreamed of. It was not the poetry readings or when an issue was finished that I realized what our meetings on Mondays and Thursdays had done for me. It was when I found myself confidently speaking up in class and taking the lead in group projects that I saw The Inkwell had unknowingly unlocked a part of me that was completely untapped. The guidance of Dr. Snodgrass and Prof. Studebaker-Coppage has changed me in ways that I do not think I could have done on my own. This is my final issue of The Inkwell and there is only one thing I hope it continues to do for others: I hope it continues to encourage and strengthen students the way it did for me. I could go on, but to reiterate my point again and again would get boring. I would like to give the next editor some advice. 1) You will end up caring much more about fonts than you ever thought you would. 2) Do not be afraid to say you like/dislike something. It is your job. 3) Let it make you bolder and smarter. Being editor of The Inkwell shaped me and made me the student I am today. It made me care and strive to be better. I cannot describe how grateful I am to have experienced and learned all that I have through this magazine.

RHETTA WEEKS

CONTENTS 6 Blood SAMANTHA HICKS

MARS Interview

46 47

Living With Those You Love Lovely Thoughts From the Voice of Self-loathing 48 Writer’s Block SAMANTHA ARWOOD

9 Bird Pink Hairy TRISTAN TILLER 10 Supermarket Cairo CAROLINE WHITE

50 Storm of Depression BRIDGET PARAMORE

11 Loving Through Infinity MOLLIE MERRITT

51 The Ride ANIYAH PETERS

13 MICHAEL SERINE Interview

52 Time CAITLYN LOGUE

IN THE FACE OF selections from Michael Serine

53 While Whistlers Woe TAYLOR CHASON

32 My Happy Place ABIGAIL GARCIA

55 A Sweet Place A GOMEZ

33 Blast Off 34 The Chase SHANNON PLATT

56 After BRYSON CAPE

36 Confederacy of Dishes NOAH PHILLIPS

58 Etiquette RICHARD B. ATKINSON

37 A Lament On Friends Who Leave 38 Things I Can’t Post On Your Facebook CAROLINE KELLY

59 Moma, Popa CAITLIN SIMMONS

CONTENTS 60 A SHAMEFUL ACT ALAINA POPE

82 YOUNG MAN HUNTER MCLENDON

67 The Beast NATALIE KINNI

93 Beauty Never Fails MORGAN LOWE

68 CASPAR & ME SKYLER COLLINS

95 What Color Will Your Feathers Be JOCELYN WOOD

71 Fighting on Arrival MACIE WHEELER

97 JOANA RUSSELL Interview

72 The Tone of Life GIA SMITH

101 OCD JOANNA RUSSELL

73 MISS MARILYN SKYLER COLLINS

112 Interior Monologue NICOLE KELLY

75 Pi AMANDA IVEY

The Dark & Creepy Selected Photography by Diana Morris

76 DEEP DESTYNE CASON 77 One Man’s Dream ANNA HESTER

The Heart & the Scapulae RSM

78 Heart on Fire SIERRA PARAMORE

CONTRIBUTOR’S NOTES

80 I Am Entropy Confounded 81 Whatever Pebbles There You Find BENJAMIN ASHLEY GARDNER

There is a smell like candy melted on the dash Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s kind of sick and I think things arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sweet as they were at first. I pick at the plastic where the steering wheel is cracked And imagine you looking down this road; Try not to see you alone in the car without me.

Blood SAMANTHA HICKS

The light turns green and the sun is so bright The shade under the semis is black and is all There is to make out the edges of things Rolling away beneath the trucks, beneath everything, the traffic that freight flows on, up and down, and nothing but the pictures of us at prom when everything was still so small we could get by on hope. Some plastic comes away under my fingernail . Because of you I start to bleed a little But only on the outside.

SCAPULA by RSM

Photo by Diana Morris

Bird Pink Hairy TRISTAN TILLER

Bird. Pink, hairy pink human hateful forever huge human bird. Human crazy, hateful at hateful bird, forever bird, crazy hairy huge forever-huge hairy bird. Bird crazy bird, forever at hateful human. The forever crazy, crazy hairy pink hateful, at pink huge hateful bird, hateful-hateful bird at human, pink. The human crazy forever. The hateful at hairy hateful hairy, hairy human hateful forever bird. The at crazy pink huge hairy. The huge forever crazy huge forever. The crazy hateful hateful crazy huge forever crazy. The bird hairy crazy forever human bird hairy forever pink pink at. The huge at hateful.

Supermarket Cairo CAROLINE WHITE

I went into the Harvey’s supermarket, looking for something to eat. What fruits and what vegetables! Through the array of sorted foods all stacked high on shelves I saw Marilyn Monroe, alone, depressed, rummaging through the medication isle, hoping no one would see. She looked upset and sad as if something was wrong. I heard her talking to yourself, rambling on about her life: Is it worth the fight? Would they ever see her as more than a sex symbol, a “dumb blonde”? I wandered between the rows of food following her, making sure not to get too close and disrupt her thoughts. I followed her past the cash register and through the glass sliding doors, keeping a light foot I watched. She never once looked back. I wondered where are Marilyn Monroe would lead me? This alley is dark and eerie. These men didn’t look friendly. Was she giving them money? Would she spend the night passed out on the ground? Surrounded by alcohol and drugs, it will be lonely. I wanted to tell her to say no and go home to a warm familiar bed and deal with her troubles when she had a clear mind? Oh, Marilyn Monroe, actor, model, singer, what did you have left after your third divorce? Would you have ever found love? Could you have gotten over that depression and loneliness that engulfed you? What was on your mind that night when you laid in bed and opened the lid to those sleeping pills and lost yourself forever?

Loving Through Infinity MOLLIE MERRITT

In a past life, we were birds Flying south for the winter. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember when or how we got separated, I just remember looking back and you were gone. In our first life, we were bees. We made our home in the wrong place, And that time I left first. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know how long you lived without me. In the life just before this one we were flowers; Growing under our favorite oak tree. We were always too far away to touch. Now, we are human. We longer know how to love, Too consumed in our technologies to really love. We think our profiles define us; The amount of likes we get define who we are. We look at each other, but feel nothing. I thought we could love each other through infinity, But I was wrong.

AN INTERVIEW WITH

MICHAEL

SERINE RHETTA WEEKS Michael Serine has been a regular contributor to the Inkwell since its inception. Michael recenlty quit all his regular jobs in order to take the risk of dedicating himself to the art of phorotgraphy full time. Micahel recelty took a trip to New York City to work on a book project chronicaling the everyday lives of homeless persons. I met him in person at Grassroots on a beautiful spring day to discuss his new adventure and his process.

AN INTERVIEW WITH MICHAEL SERINE

When did you first discover your passion for photography?

is by far my favorite film of all time. It’s very emotional and it lays out a journey of a man chasing his dream and discovering himself through seeing the world which is what I hope to do with photography. Photographers have a very unique role to play in the world because we take beauty from one place and display it in another. Or we show a need here and show it to people who can help. I have a very interesting role to play in humanity and i am very honored and blessed to play that role.

It’s a funny question, honestly. My first job was working for a children’s portrait photographer at the age of sixteen. He (his name) was a lovely fellow. Had a beautiful house, lovely wife, a boat and cars. They did fairly well for themselves and their photography so the monetary bit of it made me want to pursue it. I wanted to pursue photography as opposed to going to college. Because I was homeschooled and did not like school whatsoever and I really wanted to avoid college, that didn’t happen, and I am very thankful for my time at the Tech. Getting back to the question, I bought my first camera when I was twenty-years-old and after taking a copious amount of photos I finally had an idea for this one self-portrait which was of me, covered in ash, it would be in black and white and it was a reflection on how I felt about smoking. I raced home, tore apart my entire living room, got all of my lights set up which were two foot-long aquarium lights. I got out my camera and took about a hundred frames and the hundredth was my favorite and it was pretty humbling to look at the screen and see my intent come to life. And that was exactly what I was trying to do and aiming for and that was really the first image I took that ever that truly inspired me to continue with photography.

What is your favorite kind of shoot? For example: in the studio with a professional set-up, or just you and your camera out in the world?

Absolutely in a studio working with other professionals. In that studio I am completely free and unbound to create what I see or what I want to see. I don’t have to worry about variables like shadows being cast under the subject’s eyes because I can take that out with external lighting. The make-up artists is there, both to bounce ideas off of and to create direction in a shoot but also to check me as a photographer and make sure where I want to go is coherent with the client or what we’re trying to create. I’ve done a lot of work with Heather Ashberry recently. She’s just been an absolute joy to work with. I honestly don’t think that I would be doing what I am doing today without the aid of Heather and us forming this creative partnership.

What other mediums have inspired you? Like literature/film/ music.

I’m a big fan of film. A long time ago I was in California and a French woman asked me what my favorite film was. I responded with something like “The Incredibles,” or something silly like that. And she said “No, your favorite film. Not movie but film.” And drew a very fine distinction between the two. Where movies are for entertainment but film is moving and it’s there with intent to create or to illicit an emotional reaction from the viewer. As far as any other mediums that really influence me it is film. The film that’s influenced me the most recently is The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, which came out three or four years ago. But, that

What/Who do you enjoy photographing the most?

It’s a really good question, it’s a very hard question to answer. The most gratifying work I’ve done had involved the homeless. In December of last year, 2016, I had a show and it was a benefit for the homeless community in Tallahassee. We accepted both monetary donations and donations of clothing so that we could go out and keep the homeless warm over the winter. Which was the

goal of the whole thing. We wound up grossing enough to pay for all of the prints for the show, the venue, and all the other expenses we had. We still had money left over to buy socks and beanies for the homeless. We garnered a very large amount of clothing to give away. My trunk was completely packed—my backseat, my passenger seat. There was barely room for me in the car whenever I went to give out the clothing. But being able to go out and spend some time with a subject—or just a person really. They’re not even a subject their a human being and being able to show their need to people that can do something about it and being able to see change happen and af-

that to all the students, pointing out “these are the facts” and “this is how Pavlov did his work” or what biases exist within the psychological vernacular of the profession. He would tell us “I want you to take that apply your own thought to it.” He also stressed getting outside of what you were taught as far as “this is how it’s been” and “this is how it’s going to be.” He really wanted you to form your own opinions. I guess the class that inspired me the most creatively was Humanities with Dr. Snodgrass. I had a total of three or so classes with Dr. Snodgrass and he’s one of my favorite teachers, I absolutely love the fellow. He was just this wacky man who really loved art and

fect this person’s life was one of the most humbling experiences that I’ve had thus far. I cried a bunch at that show—just broke down over this one fellow whose name was Tony. He had been homeless for two days and myself and another photographer, Mary (she was my co-conspirator and partner for the show), took him to dinner and he sat across from us in the booth and he goes into a story that starts with the loss of his son, from a very rare and aggressive form of cancer. And it just snowballed from there and i had to regurgitate that story three or four times throughout the show. The last two or three I just absolutely broke down weeping. Because I really don’t think anybody should have to experience the loss of a child. But that’s kind of beside the point, don’t put that in there.

culture. That really came in and broadened my horizons as far as to what art was and what art can be. I thoroughly enjoyed that class, I learned a lot and I can now look at a painting and say “yes! That is in the Baroque style” or “cubists! Oh those fellows” and stuff like that. It did open my horizons as far as art, which is fantastic. That class did push me to create interesting pieces.

What stands out to you regarding your time at SRTC? What class helped you creatively, or what teacher pushed you to be better?

So, my first semester at the Tech was terrifying. I was homeschooled my entire life and I’d never gone to a formal place of education. So I was just terrified. I was very, very scared and I don’t remember many of my classes from my first semester there but the one I remember the most and the one I still love to date was Psychology with Michael Young. My time with Mr. Young was absolutely fantastic, and throughout the course of that first semester he kept on coming back to critical thinking. He really stressed

What motivates you?

At this point in my career in photography I am torn between one of two avenues. The first avenue is probably a little bit selfish but it’s what part of me wants to do which is high fashion and editorial work for large magazines. The other part of me wants to do more journalistic photography. As I said earlier, finding a need and then displaying it to effect change. There was a photographer during the beginning of the Syrian refugee ordeal who went to a camp with over 100,000 refugees and the country that they were stationed outside of would not let them in. This photographer wound of photographing a woman giving birth in the middle of the camp and that photograph made it around to the president of that country. Again, I cannot recall which one it is but the photograph moved the president to such a degree that he let more refugees in. And that single photograph was able to change the lives of a 100,000 people who had no home. I am really motivated to change the world in whatever way I can. I want that mode of change to be photography, I really do.

AN INTERVIEW WITH MICHAEL SERINE

How has your personal experiences influenced your photography?

And this sounds really, really harsh but at the age of sixteen my mom started to get fairly depressed and that was a rough time for both myself and my sister. At the age of twenty I lost my father. Two weeks after that our mother, for the most part, just disappeared. And prior to the lost of my father she had kind of been transient/homeless in this general area. But when we lost him, she hitch-hiked out to Texas. We didn’t really hear from her or no where she was and the last six years have been very emotionally tolling for myself and my sister. My mother being homeless was my first time being exposed to that specific problem which is why I have a huge heart for the homeless. It was what really inspired me to do that show and to do my very best to change people’s lives. So I’ve had firsthand experiences with homeless within my family which I never thought was going to happen until it did. That bit is really what pushed me and inspired me to do the show and to work with the homeless as much as I have. All of my creative and professional shoots have been driven by a visceral need to create beauty and show it to other people. There’s no real rhyme or reason to the latter other than that beauty is beauty and we should have as much beautiful content in the world as we possibly can.

New York than here in Thomasville, Georgia. Homelessness is very commonplace, especially with it being the city with the highest percentage of homeless people in the states. So it’s just out there in your face every single day. When you walk to work or go for a cup of coffee. I have a very tender heart, I always have. I recall watching a documentary about Africa when I was seven-years-old and weeping hysterically because these kids didn’t have any toys. And I asked, “Mom! Why don’t these kids have any toys?” I would ask “Why is there dirt all over the floor?” And she was answer simply, “That is there floor.” Because of this I’m worried I’ll end up giving all of my money away in New York. But, in my opinion the best things that you can do for the homeless is sit down for ten or so minutes and have a conversation with them. I haven’t met too many people that are willing to do that, but I know myself that if I never talked to anyone throughout my day I would just lose it. Human contact is very important to happiness and most homeless don’t get that. The other project I’m working on right now is a book. I have a partner who shall remain anonymous.

Are there any future projects you would like to pursue that you would be comfortable sharing with us?

MS Can you tell me about your current project in which you travel to various cities and photograph the homeless? How did you decide you wanted to pursue this kind of project?

As far as the plan goes, I don’t have one. I fly up to New York on Friday (March 10th 2017) and I’ll be there until Tuesday (March 14th 2017). That block of time is going to be spent walking around and trying to photograph the homeless. I’m just looking for great shots and great stories. So, the first stop is New York, I also want to go to San Francisco or LA, as well as Chicago and Miami. I don’t know if those other trips with happen since I just quit my job. Money may be a little tight, I don’t know though. We’ll find out. The first city I thought of was New York. I think it might be more challenging to be homeless on the streets of

So, last summer I was at work and my co-worker took his cup of water and threw it out. Cause he got hot and he wanted some cold water from his cooler. Whenever he threw the water out of his cup it hit the sunlight in the most fantastic way and the refraction was just epically beautiful. At this moment I was immediately struck with this idea of a photo of taking a woman, and it would be a very complicated photo, and clothing her in water. Shooting would probably take a solid day, and another day in post. But that is an image I’ve wanted to create for about a year. I’m also working on a bunch of black and white portraits. Black and white is by far my favorite medium to work in at the moment. I think it’s a lot more emotional and romantic than color. Because with color you get to see everything and you kind of limit your imagination. Black and white opens that up just a little bit. It gives you shape, but not so much form. You get to fill in the blanks and project who you think that subject is onto the image.

AN INTERVIEW WITH MICHAEL SERINE

How do you find inspiration during a time when you feel blocked creatively?

How do you work with deadlines? Do they motivate you or stress you out?

The two things that I do, is that I’ll either take a drive and spend some time by myself thinking, or I will start talking with other creatives. Heather Ashberry has been a wonderful partner and the two of us will sit down and discuss the image we want to produce. To get over any creative blocks I might have I literally just talk to other people about creating images. That’s how I get over it: I talk to people.

I really, really like deadlines. I try to stay very organized in my work and having a definite date as to when images need to be to a client or I need to be somewhere to meet the editor for an interview. Anything like that pushes me harder. I work very well under pressure, which makes deadlines very good for me.

Describe your ideal day for a photoshoot. How could someone contact you about hiring you? What social media platforms would you recommend people following you on to keep up to date on your photography? MS If you would like to hire me as a photographer head over to michaelserinephotography.com. There is a brief bio and a very goofy picture of myself and a contact page with detailed instructions. Which is actually just an email address. I would love to hear from you and get together and make something beautiful. For social media platforms Instagram would be the best. I have a Facebook page, but I hate Facebook so it is wickedly out of date. My Instagram handle is mrserine.

Your photography was heavily featured in the last issue of The Inkwell, and was even the cover. Many people have complimented that photo and how it immediately grabs their attention when they see it. How does it make you feel to be the creator of that particular photo?

Very proud. That was my third time being published, and the second time on the cover of anything. And whenever you told me my photo was going to be the cover and be in color, I was absolutely honored. It’s very strange in today’s digital world to see my photography in print and to see it on the cover of something was very humbling and absolutely lovely.

So my ideal photoshoot consists of one, getting enough sleep. And making sure the night before I have all my gear. All my batteries, my lights, my stands, backdrop, and my memory cards are clear and ready to use. We have a location nailed down. I already have a good idea about how I want the photo to be lit, and I know what the client is looking for as far as photos. It’s also very nice to have a hair and makeup artist you trust, like Heather. What’s been kind of a bigger challenge lately for me is finding models. The model for my last shoot did a phenomenal job. She did very, very well. I have some beautiful photographs we’re going to send off to the client which I’m really excited about. But basically, my ideal photoshoot consists of a day where I don’t feel like I’m drowning. I have my head above water and I know exactly what I want. I know it’s going to get done.

What have been your favorite opportunities that you have been given because of your photography?

I’ve had that one show in Tallahassee that went very well, which was a really humbling experience. I’ve also photographed a great deal of bands here in town. Relient K and Switchfoot came through a couple of months ago and I was one of the photographers for the event. I got to meet the band and i believe

I had drinks with one of the drummers for one of the bands. I don’t recall which one but I got to hang out with him for a little while which was really cool. Flying up to New York for business, which it really cool. I got to meet and hang out with Bob Goff which is one of my favorite people in the world because my photography. I’ve been invited to Africa five times now, which is really cool. I would love to go. But really my photography has led me to more people than anything else, and I love people more than anything else. That’s probably been my favorite bit. I intend on making my cam-

to go by and still be in the same spot. So I decided to take a leap of faith and put all my confidence in my ability to do this and pursue my dreams. So the adult me is saying that I’ve irrevocably messed up and that I’ve done something completely irresponsible. And that I’m screwed. But there is a little twelve-year-old boy standing in the corner with pom-poms and a sign shouting, “Go Michael!” It’s like my younger self is telling me to follow my dreams. Because I’m young and foolish enough at the moment to do something brash and irresponsible. I just really want to make this thing work and pursue my dreams.

era my passport and seeing the world. I have a wicked sense of wanderlust and I just want to see everything.

What do you think you would be doing if you were not a photographer?

So, one of my favorite sayings are “Be too good to be ignored.” And a few weeks ago I realized I’ve gotten too good at photography to really ignore it any longer. So last week I mustered up the courage to tell my boss that I wanted to pursue photography full-time. Because I’ve been working forty-hour weeks steadily for the last three years while trying to balance a creative life and make a name for myself. I envisioned getting into this massive argument that would lead to a fistfight and my inevitable trip to a hospital, because my boss is much stronger than I am. But instead of having a physical altercation he nodded his head and said, “Cool. Alright.” I proceeded to talk to him for about twenty minutes and two days later I set off on my professional career. And this was last Tuesday. The first two days were spent in a state of sheer panic. I almost had a complete emotional breakdown over lunch with my sister because I was just so scared of the future. But what really led me to the decision to quit my job was the fact that I’ve been there for three years and I’m still in the same place that I’ve been. I didn’t want another three years

AN INTERVIEW WITH MICHAEL SERINE

A SERIES by MICHAEL SERINE

WHAT DO YOU SEE WHEN YOU LOOK INTO THE FACE After five days of work, I returned with five photographs I’ve deemed fit for presentation. Those five photos tell more of a story than I ever could. Their story is one of resilience, bravery and of grappling with things most of us will never have to experience, just to see the sun rise in the morning. I’m not trying to solicit pity from you but to remind you of their humanity. Just because I sleep in a bed and they in a box, doesn’t diminish the fact we both bleed when cut and weep at loss. I have found the crusade I will fight and the war I will wage. So, the next time you stumble upon someone asking for change, be the change they need. Take a moment and match their humanity with yours.

MICHAEL SERINE

I spent five days walking the streets trying to find those whom the glass and steel had rejected

THE GRAND MASTER

THE PROVIDER

THE TRAVELER

In Georgia, it’s rude not to make eye contact matched with a friendly gesture. In New York, it’s the opposite. I was surrounded by the indifference of a city and the cold that came with. The culture spurred me on to find the “trash” of the city and discover why it was thrown out without so much as a backward glance. I wanted to bring the dignity of the homeless to the forefront of my mind and I refused to let cold and indifference stop me.

WHAT DO YOU SEE WHEN YOU LOOK INTO THE FACE OF SUFFERING

THE WIFE

THE FIREFIGHTER

After seven hours of travel I landed in New York. I emerged at the corner of 3rd and 14th street, greeted by a cathedral of glass and steel that screamed indifference to me. At the time I knew nothing about the sleepless city. I spent five days walking the streets trying to find those whom the glass and steel had rejected and deemed â&#x20AC;&#x153;unfitâ&#x20AC;? for modern day life. While I was surrounded by gleaming castles that begged for attention, the thing that stood out the most were the people.

WHAT DO YOU SEE WHEN YOU LOOK INTO THE FACE OF NEED Their story is one of resilience and bravery and of grappling with things most of us will never have to experience 31

I have a great deal of compassion for the homeless. It began when my mother ran away from home causing myself and my sister to take shelter among those who love us. For my 23rd birthday, I facilitated a clothing drive for those in need, and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been at it ever since.

I arose at 2:45 in the morning. Sleep and grogginess clung to me like wet clothing after a midnight dip in the neighborâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pond. After sleeping for three hours I began my journey to New York. My trip was a spontaneous one. Its inception began with a conversation I had with a friend of mine. Turns out, airfare to New York from Jacksonville is extremely cheap and that was all of the motivation I needed. Initially, the trip was going to be a casual excursion to the city that never sleeps, but three weeks before I flew out I was offered the chance to work as a photographer on a book centered on the homeless; an epidemic that has infused itself in most every city across America.

WHAT DO YOU SEE WHEN YOU LOOK INTO THE FACE OF THE HOMELESS 32

THE JOKER

My Happy Place ABIGAIL GARCIA

It can be a place of control, my happy place, A place where most people don’t exist As in the humans that are a part of this scary confusion like 20 golden horses running alongside a waterfall. It has a strangely calming effect on me, I can dream of a sparking spring, an open field all mine, In my place in my mind, my happy place. it isn’t always bright and brilliant It can also be demented. We have to make a world like this wonderful place. It’s where I go when life is wild and uncontrollable. Or when the people around me are too much to handle. A place where only I can enter as a breeze that fills my nose and lungs with the smell of wild flowers, where I can force them to walk and talk the way I see fit. a place of control. This place fills me with joy, It’s a place where I can make everything I want to happen, happen.

Blast Off SHANNON PLATT

My soul feels like something somewhere between a rowdy roux, rough with clumps of flour passion and clarified insight, and a volatile compound composed of hope, excitement, and about 8 yearsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; worth of repressed energy. (Somebody tell that girl to just let them horses run.)

The Chase SHANNON PLATT

The sun hung low in the western sky, casually casting long-winded goodbyes in beautiful rays of living color to the East: Orange Cream Seee you tomorrow; Blushed Lemon goodnight, my darling, Periwinkle Pleasure . sweet dreams

And so forth. The sun finally hung up first and began to turn its back on rural North Florida, the last of its golden radiance shining sideways through the oaks, bathing the back forty in a thousand and two shades of tan. ‘The back forty’ was actually a 10 acre sea of forgotten hay field located at the butt end of two neighboring tracts of land. Though no fence stood to declare the distinction, there were, on what was lawfully Mr. Jim’s side, twelve hay bales of perfect hopping size: just tall enough to leave the atmosphere of plain ol’ earth and enter a whimsical dimension of child magic, just merciful enough to facilitate a few lesson-laden falls without ever breaking bone. Near the end and precisely centered in the middle of the back forty floated an island of scruffy trees and shrubs that entombed an abandoned couch, empty beer cans that could remember the release of Sticky Fingers, and a few rusted realtor signs sometimes used for target practice.

Having encircled the island a few times and poked and prodded as much as we dare for fear of wasps and spiders and tetanus, my friend, Cori, and I turned back toward the hay bales for a few minutes of perched meditation. The sun had finally gotten one foot out the door and it wouldn’t be long before a whistle beckoned us back to the house and supervision and the reality of being thirteen, so we figured we had better get while the gettin’ was good. It took only three or four minutes for us to walk from the island to the bales, but seeing as how we were a couple of newly teenage girls it was plenty of time to become deeply engrossed in what was, I’m sure, deep, contemplative discourse about the meaning of life, our purpose for being, and how it all applied to the eighth grade and boys.

We approached the mystic alfalfa musallah and conquered the hay shrines’ blessed rounded peaks, content to sit and converse through the end of twilight, and await Papa’s mighty whistle. My position faced the east and I could see the sun’s final farewells on Cori’s face, back-dropped by the piney, oak-y woods that bordered the back forty. A rustling in the woods did not cause immediate alarm, and I continued mostly listening to Cori while scanning the woods behind her for the origin of the rustle. In the grey light that remained of the day I made out what appeared to be a black dog sniffing the ground. Ever a friend to strange people and animals alike, I hopped down and walked the twenty foot distance to the rickety fence that separated the woods from field. It happened simultaneously. I identified the creature, and it identified me. About twenty feet inside the woods, a black, wild boar stood startled and angry.

All of my being was laser focused on a single directive: run! And boy, did we. We ran from the hay bales to the garden, through the passage joining our property to Mr. Jim’s, down the drive past the under-populated cow pen, around Uncle Derek’s place, cut over to the fire pit and made the straight shot up the hill to the back porch, where Mother sipped her Calvert and Coke, pulled on a long Marlboro, and wondered what the hell we were so worked up about. With the deck under our feet, I finally turned back toward the back forty for any sign of our pursuer. In the wake of our flight stood only a bit of dust settling in for a good night’s rest.

I had seen pictures of what a wild hog could do to a massive, strong, and fierce pit bull trained to bring a hog down, and could only imagine what it would do to me, a tuba playing band nerd with a penchant for laziness, and Cori, who fancied tough looks and tough music and spent her free time honing her artistic abilities. As the boar began to charge the fence I turned on my heels, body flooding with adrenaline, shouted for Cori to run, and took off north toward the safety of home, and Papa, and Papa’s guns. About the time I reached the hay bales, Cori had completed her dismount and was sprinting into gait with me. A single glance over my shoulder revealed the boar was in hot swine pursuit, having made it to the fence and now running north, hunting an opportunity to cross the feeble barrier. It was half a mile back to the house, and I questioned both the continuity and structural integrity of the aged fence that stood between us and the boar, but did not again have the courage to look back.

Confederacy of Dishes NOAH PHILLIPS

I was sitting at the table for breakfast I could hear the pain of the forks scrapping the plates the plates and forks appeared to agonize me though no worry the grief of the plates appeared to fade I have learned to block out the language of such plates plates that have such a high annoying voice my brain has seemed to ignore such things as they have no business to annoy the brain for the plates where now not a part of anything besides background noise that not concerns me the pensiveness behind such thinking is easy let go of such rage as it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t concern you you have been tricked that the scrapping makes you mad for what others do is none of concern you must educate yourself the plate is not yours you may do the same sometimes without being judged you may also be filled with rage being told to also stop as every men is fault to contradictions keep to yourself as you may be a hypocrite those are the worst fools on the planet earth rewards to people who follow such rules though rules you are not bound to ensue karma is waiting for those who do ensue for people seem not so mad at you along with many advantages that wait you seem to opt out such small annoyances learning that people are different from you so push out such selfish ideas and view everyone as a human because after all that is you to

A Lament On Friends Who Leave CAROLINE KELLY

Is it me or is it you? Cause I was looking at the stars last night and all I could think about was you and how everyone is leaving and how you and her and that other bitch just packed up your cars and went away Not leaving a trace For all I know you’re in outer space chilling with the aliens abandoning someone who would fight for you…someone who loved you(not just me) Saying “bye we’ll keep in touch” But that isn’t gonna happen. Neither of you have the ability to keep up lasting meaningful relationships. That other bitch doesn’t matter All I can do is lay in my bed restlessly tossing because it’s not my bed that’s uncomfortable, it’s my heart. I feel the pain of acid rushing through my veins, infecting everything I am with stress and sadness and worry that won’t stop Is it you or is it me? I’m starting to think I’m not at fault as often as it seems. I just want to believe In the good in people In the good in the world In the good in you In the good in me Is it you or is it me?

Things I Can’t Post On Your Facebook

Litter Box Blues I’ve got cat crap on my shoes… It reminds me of you

CAROLINE KELLY

Badd Beach? So you’re bad because you smoke weed every day? Asuh And you steal from Walmart… lol young and reckless And we live in the “hood” so you must be trappin’. Oh yea, you’re bad…like spoiled milk. You’re Dumb He left you…it was the right thing to do.

Photo by Diana Morris

AN INTERVIEW WITH

MARS SAMANTHA ARWOOD

RHETTA WEEKS Samantha Arwood is a local musician, also known by her stage-name â&#x20AC;&#x153;Mars.â&#x20AC;? She has been playing and writing music ever since she was a little kid. You can find her most Friday nights singing and performing downtown in Thomasville at various venues such as grassroots and SOHO. Her passion for music and performance has allowed her opportunities to perform for others and showcase that passion. When she is not performing she can be found strumming her ukulele outside Grassroots, singing and stopping to pet every dog that passes by. I sat down with her to discuss her creative process.

When did you discover your love for music?

MARS

I’ve loved music for as long as I can remember and I can’t even remember one of the first songs I learned to play or sing because it’s been that long. My family has always been musically inclined and that has greatly influenced me over the years. I remember when I was maybe seven or younger my family got a piano and I began to play random notes. My family would say “No, don’t do that. Because that’s not correct.” After that I began spacing the notes out and I found chords. Ever

music. Nat and Alex Wolff always inspired my sister and I, who I was very close with. The brothers were so much like my sister in personality and that helped in the growth of my music development. Dodie Clark also known as “doddleoddle” on YouTube. She plays the ukulele and inspired me to play it more often. Christina Perry has also been a powerful influencer. Most of these artists I listened to when I was younger and their music has stuck with me for years. From there I developed my sound. I’ve tried to peg a name or genre or artist to it but I can’t find somebody who fits it spot on. But those four musical artists have really helped develop my sound.

since then my grandmother and mom have bragged about how my second instinct was to find chords even at an early age. Where is your favorite place to play your music/write songs? How has your personal experiences influenced your music? MARS First I began writing music about things I had not yet experienced, which I learned at the young age of eleven doesn’t work so well when it comes to writing good music. My songs ended up crappy and soulless. Then I took a break of about two and a half years. I lived a little more, even though two and a half years isn’t a long time when you’re moving from eleven to fourteen or so. They are still some very formative years. Later on I found somebody and they really became my muse. Rather than something positive they kind of inspired me in a melancholy way. But, I found positive influence in music through that negative experience. I’d say music can be influenced by anything but it can be a lot better when it’s something you have experienced yourself.

What artists inspire you and have influenced your sound? MARS Sara Barellies has been an inspiration for me. Not necessarily for my sound, but with the emotion that she portrays in her

MARS

Anywhere and everywhere. As long as I have a piece of paper and a pen as well as a recorder and an instrument. If I can think of a melody or a lyric and write it down or record it, that’s really all I need. I’ve written music on rooftops, on fire escapes, in my room. I’ve written so many songs just sitting on my bed it’s not even funny. I write a lot sitting on the floor, mostly because it’s easy. It really just depends on the day and where I am at that moment.

What stands out to you regarding your time at SRTC? Was there a class or teacher that pushed you to be better? MARS Since I only took two classes I don’t have a whole lot to compare it with. My time spent in Dr. Snodgrass’ English 1101 class were some of the most interesting months of my life for the fact that he taught more life lessons than English. Also, I learned about Country Death Metal. I didn’t know about but apparently it’s a genre all on its own. He also inspired me to play music during our class time, which he called “intermission.” That was thoroughly

enjoyable. It was a good time over at SRTC.

What instrument has always stood out as your favorite?

Where song releases are concerned, when I can afford recording equipment that will be more plausible. The more gigs I get the closer I get to actual recordings. You can always find something on my YouTube, however. You can check there for more releases, updates, and other random videos.

MARS I enjoy keeping a myriad of instruments. I can’t decide on just one, and I’m so attention deficit that it becomes a problem for me to have just to have a single instrument. And I end up losing inspiration and momentum. Aside from that, the instrument I can’t

You were the model for the cover of the previous issue of The Inkwell. What was it like seeing yourself on the cover?

stop coming back to is the ukulele. Partially because of its portability and its high-pitched tone that compliments my voice. The level of ease that I find playing it is really nice.

What opportunities have you received because of your music? MARS I made one of my best friends when I was fourteen through an open-mic night. I wouldn’t have gone had I not been interested in music. That friend also has a band and from their music I was encouraged to start writing songs again. It was so inspiring to see local artists making music and jiving. From there I started music. So, without others music and influence I wouldn’t have found it for myself. I’ve had quite a few different opportunities and quite a few different places to play. The most outstanding has been SoHo on Broad Street downtown. I’ve gotten to play most Friday nights there and it’s been just such a nice environment. Being paid as an artists is so fulfilling and rewarding because you realize you can actually make a living doing what you love to do. I’ve also played at various poetry readings put on by SRTC and that was also just a blast. Not only could I give my music more exposure I could also read poetry. Which people don’t normally know me for. So, it was an education experience all around. You can often see me on a Friday night around 7 pm at SoHo. I‘m looking to start playing more often in restaurants and am available for booking, wink-wink.

MARS It was honestly an honor. Just to be able to have my face, even though it was someone else’s photography, and to have it displayed so prominently in both SRTC and around Thomasville was incredible. It was such an interesting experience and picking up a copy of The Inkwell and seeing a larger than my face version of my face. Because the resolution was better than my facial resolution in real life, it was the strangest experience. But I was above all else honored.

When did you become serious about music and actively started to devote more time to focusing on it? MARS As I said, I tested out writing music when I was eleven. I realized that I didn’t have enough life experiences to write about at that point, being both eleven and homeschooled. I waited a couple of years and by the time I turned thirteen I got depressed. From that I started trying to work through what I was feeling and from there I found solace in music. Since then, it has grown from just solace to a place I go even when I don’t necessarily need encouragement. It was about 2014 that I began to take my music seriously and truly discovered how much it meant to me.

Describe your ideal gig.

How do you balance everyday life and music?

MARS Honestly, my ideal gig would not have too many people. Playing and singing with some of my favorite artists would be great. Or just singing for some of my favorite artists. In a place that could maybe three hundred people or so. That would be fantastic, and that kind of gig I would do for free. If I got to sing with one of them or even my boyfriend. That would be my ideal gig.

MARS Usually I live until I get really overwhelmed, which happens often, and then I’ll take a day off of work and I’ll just stay at home and sleep all day. A few days after that I end up recovering from whatever stress I was dealing with, at least to some degree. Then inspiration will just hit me in the face. Then I’ll write a song or a notes or a poem. Anything to get my mind off of the past few days. I’ve found that forcing it never works, so I usually take a nap

Do you get nervous before a performance? If so, what do you do to calm your nerves? MARS I think I’m fine before every performance and then I start loading up my equipment and that knot forms in my stomach. I can’t decide if I need to burp or breath, but it’s some combination of the two. From there the butterflies don’t stop, they just increase along with the stress. I tap my feet, pop my knuckles, I can’t help it. Then when I get up there and take a few breaths before I announce the first song, I find a moment of “it’s going to be fine” and “everything’s okay.” I’m still nervous, but after about the first two songs I completely chill out. Performing is something I’ll always thoroughly enjoying doing.

or make tea or just move onto something that doesn’t require any creative energy. Because after you’ve expended all of your creative energy you just have to take a break. Because forcing it never brings you peace or any kind of rejuvenation.

If you were to categorize your music, what genre would it belong to? MARS A mixture of indie pop and singer songwriter. When you’re trying to analyze your own music it’s hard to try to fit it into one specific genre. A hybrid of those two is the closest I’ve gotten to categorize my music. I’d like to think that I keep my specific vocal sound even when I’m mixing it up to fit into any genre. I like to pull from different genres and kind of create my own thing.

What activity helps you get into a creative mindset? MARS For me, sitting down at a piano or just picking up an instrument will always come with its own form of inspiration. I can take those things and go somewhere, like outside or just to a quiet space. My boyfriend is also very musically inclined, and when we play music together it’s wonderful. Sitting down and making a nice cup of hot tea, it doesn’t matter what kind, but as longs as it’s warm and in my hands I can just sit and breathe for a minute. That is so helpful, as well as reading lengthy books with extensive vocabulary.

Describe what music means to you personally. MARS Music is the one thing that when it’s there I can’t really ignore it. Even if it’s only on in the background you still absorb it even if I don’t think I am. I’ve found myself listening to music in different languages and even if I can’t understand the words the melodies and the tones captivate me. I feel like music is the only medium that can capture my full attention.

It’s about anxiety and depression and how they can manifest so incredibly strongly in someone’s life. The song was written when I had reached a pinnacle of frustration and I was completely overwhelmed. I sat down for a moment and wrote the lyrics, and then started playing them with a tune. From then on I learned to hold a little less closely those things that I thought were important but which were really just things. I realized that the important things aren’t things that you can hold. They’re things that you can hear or feel in your heart, or know in your mind like a song. That song is particularly important to me because I feel like it’s the most open to interpretation and can be applied to anyone’s life. We’ve all felt

How could someone contact you about hiring you for an event? And what social media would recommend someone follow you on to keep up to date with your music? MARS My response time is about a day. The easiest way to contact me would be through my Facebook page MARS where I can give you more info and answer your questions. I suggest following me on Instagram, mars_on_the_earth. There you will find sneak peeks of my Youtube videos and you can find my channel link. On Facebook you will find my events and my Youtube has full-length songs.

loss and felt grief to some degree. We’ve all felt anxiety at one point or another. To have a song that symbolizes how deeply those thing can hurt is really an encouragement in my opinion. I feel blessed to have found the inspiration for it.

Describe one of your favorite songs that you have written and the meaning behind the lyrics. MARS One of my fave songs is “Please Don’t Sit Next to Me.”

PAINTING BY LESLIE LARKIN

Living With Those You Love SAMANTHA ARWOOD

“You’ve built your bed, now lie in it.”, My head said as my heart pegged me as guilty. Accused of cowardice by my own self, feeling powerless in spite of making my own choice, I persisted in this quality of living. I call it short term sanity loss. You wake up feeling as if your pulse may burst from your body, taking the burning sensation out of your brain, and the pain out of your chest. You cry. A lot. Every day, every night, you feel like you don’t have time. I thought I had escaped from the confines of my problem, but they were just magnified and intensified any time I tried to run away. My lack of sleep is getting to me, and I shudder to think what I’ll feel like tomorrow morning. My mind is cluttered like the living room. No space for living, and no room to sit, the fireplace lies unlit, untouched, doorjam rotting, and hinges full of rust. The dust in the vents is enough to render anyone sniffly, and the smell of people, and refuse and trash amassed, together smells like ass, or that one ex from your past you’d rather forget. Words like laser lights flash and lash out, but don’t actually change how things are done. No matter how many times one thing is said, no one seems to hear.

Lovely Thoughts From the Voice of Self-loathing SAMANTHA ARWOOD

You’re useless. You’re a cry in the dark, in a room where you’re the only one. You’re dumb. You’re honestly no help to anyone. You’re the scraps on the floor when the floor’s been swept. You’re the tears on a handkerchief after the tears have been wept. You’re a scar, you’re a sky that drains life. You’re a dead battery or some a**hole guy who stands around, who always cuts in lines and never apologizes. You never think things through but when you do, you get all kinds of details wrong, you’re boring, you’re short, and you don’t belong.

SAMANTHA ARWOOD

Trying to cure true writer’s block, is like trying to pair a mismatched sock. You look under tables and washers and chairs, But there’s nothing but dust bunnies, change, and loose hairs. Trying to cure a wandering mind is like Sealing a bleeding wound. You wind and knot the cotton stoppers, but your efforts may be doomed. All for naught, is plotting poems and laying words just so Because one word or tempo out of place, and it just sounds weird, man Twiddling thumbs is easy, while waiting for words to flow Time passes as you fiddle on, and you beat yourself up as you go. Some say poetry’s boring, some say nothing at all. Sometimes I think I’d be better off, as a silent one, but who knows?

Writer’s Block

Photo by Diana Morris

Storm of Depression BRIDGET PARAMORE

Her tears were like rain drops falling from the shadowy heavens Heart throbbing like the roaring thunder of God’s rage She longed for a companion like a cub longed for warmth Her icy sorrow offered her no consolation Stomach swirling like tornados at her discontent pity But her surroundings only displayed the calm of the storm Looking back at her trying to realize what went wrong The wind screamed and tossed around her trying to pull her back in She was losing all hope, thinking what would become of her, Slowly becoming the storm that would overpower her She crawled in anxiety’s path wishing to be saved The night’s darkness only invited her to stay She screamed for help inside her little head Was it really cautious to say that all hope is dead? She crawled to her bed, arms shaking stridently Now into the storm the bed tossed and turned She ripped the pillows and sheets off the bed violently The glass doll next to her bed dropped silently Her rage was suddenly consumed, looking at the doll, crying A sudden crash was all that was heard along, pieces scattered everywhere Even a thick blanket swiftly dropped from the chair She then thought about her mother, and warmth filled around her She remembered her mother’s warmth, snug in her arms Oh how the blanket would never cause harm, Because it always had that certain charm Her mother’s illuminated face was the calm to her storm Maybe then depression would’ve never knocked on her door Mother, mother, mother, voice like the calming blue of the ocean She was then back to her place, the peace and motion within herself.

The Ride ANIYAH PETERS

When the mortal drops of water yearn to escape I commence to roll out the dreadful bed but my morbid body forbids me to move. The wrath of the water screams deep rage; why must their feelings engulf my gentle mind? My mind, body, and soul is beyond vouchered, I am experiencing the anger of a thousand deities: the pain is flooding, inquiring me to set it free. When will my body allow me to be set free of its binding chains? Lord, give me the strength to fight another bodily battle. Liberty donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t forsake nor depart my body, provide me the utensils to assist my dying body, predict my corpal existence, I beg of you. Why donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you close these nocturnal stillnesses, allow these occurrences to become dormant; leave these devilish curses to decompose. Mistake me not to be demanding, Lord, but who else comprehends my sorrow in the night? It appears the devil is catapulting this all on me, his entire army desires my pain and grievances. My worldly desire is to be set out of his bondage. Will you grant me this one wish O highest deity? Lord, I cry to your grace and understanding I totally understand if you turn down my wishes, But educate my body and teach it your way O lord And let the ride haul to your divinity for eternity. O, overthrow the devil and his wickedness, rain down your heavenly powers my god. Will you continue to let the ride carry on? My Lord unfreeze my worn body and shush the rain.

Time CAITLYN LOGUE

I have traveled many roads, the worst time, moving slow as the green shelled beast tip-toe, tip-toe, across the rocks and water for ones who dine on other’s failures are too frigid to face their own mortal fate they debase fellow mortals to get order but time is rapidly marking foot prints close, close time walks to the stone heads to provide the ultimate punishment to those who believe the Earth is theirs “Relinquish your valuables mortals! Your request for more of me, denied.” Prior to writing their names in stone Time commanded the mortals to bow, bow, to the mighty chisel of judgement the next task is quite simple and dull “Weigh your heart against mine,” said Time “At the hand of the uneven golden swings, your fate shall be decided for you. If your heart is purified, you are safe.” Safe, from evils far worse than that of Earth repeatedly execute tasks not meant for man consume flames into your body, as if anyone can live with fire inside them the black dust cloud voyaging through the throat the sensation of drowning in fire Time, once, only an ancient myth has passed judgment on those who betray him Time takes your identity, and those who are evil must pay with their time

Without a doubt I raged, I requested to be taken.

While Whistlers Woe TAYLOR CHASON

I knew not of the grave, only cowardly age. Pondered his gaze, I took a faith I could change. It made a new me, Old You. You were forgotten by the sticks, so we built bricks for your cage. You should relinquish the past, engulf the future, and forget the mass. Freight Fowler frayed for fame, while whistlers woe with waves, you offered your brother only to be seen in light, so you could be taken back, never trust a soul, not even your kin. I gave you up for the rain, I thought it would be easy to see you go. I won’t see you, you won’t see me. Our dreams are only dust, just wait for tomorrow, I’ll get you back. You’re my brother, my kin, my light.

Photo by Diana Morris

A Sweet Place A GOMEZ

It’s a sweet place, Intelligent people, recognize our blue, white, red colors, please. Liberty is dancing around our sweet place. Just look at how strong our sweet place is, please. We welcome people to provide safety. Our perfect utopia brings you joy. The numerous unforgotten people, an orange man, will soon bring you all joy. Don’t be sacred intelligent people; our utopia remains prefect. Intelligent people, wake up, wake up! You all can prevent this good disaster. Stop being tone deaf, fools, wake up, wake up! Fools versus fools, this place is a disaster. “Make this place great again,” when was it bad? They predict orange man as president, that is totally a nightmare, my friends. He can’t divide us; he’s just President. We can do better than this, my friends, what have we turned into; dystopia. Intelligent people, recognize lapse. White, black, brown bring peace upon each other. Let’s remain together during this lapse. Let’s relate the difficulties of others. Let’s comprehend different religion. Let’s relinquish the negativity. After all, we all bleed the same color. We need to spread the positivity. Accept the differences like colors. America, the beautiful, is home.

After BRYSON CAPE

Ever to make a cheek, it drove a smile. Find the size for clouds you can see. Did the grudge see it? To find all the clouds run the kiss. Give dark faces breath and fear and ever meaning. What is hardly after all falls hardly like a wave or desire. They never love the faces or the clouds, with gestures or embrace. Please! Moon like death. Where was the gentle Rise, the craven embrace before? Embraces -- please moons, yet grow and before yet above the times and the skins. As the smiles are, the lovers felt barely. Meaning is sunny as transformation. Lock and cloud, god, well! Waves need. Eye moon, alas, lovers transform as homes kiss, hearing gamely. After or before breathes on. To felt, to give, we dove. What is peaceful sometimes is dark and always full. Meaning and ever, transform. Why did the kiss hear it, to feel? All the beds gave giddy, so fell the homes. Gamely, devoted, silent.

Photo by Diana Morris

Etiquette RICHARD B. ATKINSON

A Redneck tried to be classy without very much success To see if he could sophisticate without causing a mess He takes a bath, puts on clean clothes and shines his pickup truck Then takes a stroll to the country club to try to find his luck He walks right in and people stare as he begins to flirt They wonder why his coat and tie are on a flannel shirt They notice that his manners are charming and refined They take him in as awkward but pay him no nevermind He sits down in a restaurant and then thinks ‘What the Heck?’ Taking up a cloth napkin, he ties it around his neck He stares down upon his silverware like a monkey in a loop Looking at a fingerbowl which he thinks that it’s for soup He asks the waiter for a menu and looks at it with a crench He don’t understand a word of it because the dishes are in French Picking out something he thinks is good without trying to be rude But when it comes out on the plate, there is hardly any food He’s given a glass of wine and doesn’t let it go to waste He gulps it down immediately instead of savoring the taste “You Can’t Do That!” The people cried “You Poor Disgusting Welch!” “I can’t do what?” He said confused and sealed it with a belch Of course he says “Excuse me” but they’ve had enough thus far He leaves there shortly after, looking for a rowdy bar

Moma, Popa CAITLIN SIMMONS

Papa, I laughed the night away reminiscing the good times, gallivanting around Thomasville. I went in to the green Harvey’s, picturing you atop the cashier’s light, people-watching, as you do. Even when there is no one here, just your crazy old imagination. What variety and what space! It is one o’clock in the afternoon and no one is here besides me, you and, the cashier. I would have figured you would be down the aisle where the peanut butter lives questioning George Carver for creating this catastrophe! I saw you, Grandma, trying to pretend you were not the cashier worrying about Papa falling. I heard you, argue with Papa about him falling, but the beauty is, is that he shant fall because he is weightless. I wandered about the cashier’s conveyor belts. I contemplate whether or not I shall work up the courage to approach you and Papa tonight. Once I do, you will come jumping over the conveyor belt, Papa, flying off the cashier light and welcoming me with your enormous hugs and kisses: as if I were entering your house for a special occasion. We strode down the couloir around the sides of the green supermarket considering all that has happened since November seventh and eighth of twenty-sixteen. Where are we going, Papa? The doors close in a little and we still have so much to talk about. Will we walk down to the entrance? The lights are going out and it is nearly fifty two minutes past eight o’clock. The store closes in eight minutes. Will we stroll and ponder my plans for after I graduate and go off to college? Ah, Grandma and Papa, where will you allow me to go through my life? I know you will be with me every step, and if it were not for that, I could not do this thing called life because you are no longer here.

A SHAMEFUL ACT ALAINA POPE

A baby’s voice filled the air as the young girl peered down to see the tiny creature in her mother’s arms. Joy filled her heart as she admired the creation she had carried. Her body was in a substantial amount of pain and she was still absent of breath. The only other people in the quaint chamber were her parents and a frail servant girl. Her coffee colored ringlets clung to Nevena’s forehead from the sweltering profusely. Her mother looked up at her from the bottom of the brass bed with a small simper. Her mother’s grey hair was concealed under a cotton hat and she wore a floor length frock, completely covering her body. The only skin that could be seen on the small middle aged woman were her hands and face. Her mother tried to secrete the happy look on her face as she embraced the child. “Nevena, it’s a girl,” She murmured in a distinctive intonation. The mother of the baby’s eyes lit up and a smile curled onto the young girl’s face. “Let me see her,” She commanded already reaching for the child, ignoring the discomfort that shot through her unabridged body. The baby was so close to Nevena’s adolescent fingertips. “Foolish woman, stop!” Nevena heard her father say brusquely. He was standing emotionless across the room, where he’s stood since she had gone into labor. On bid her mother retreated her

arms, withholding the baby, and scurried over to her husband. The sadness evident on her face but the worry of displeasing her husband was more conspicuous. The young girl’s voice rang through the room and out into the rest of the house, beyond the settled door. “Papa please!” She wailed, stretching her body across the bed to grasp at her father. He looked at her with repugnance and vexation as he took the tiny baby from his wife’s arms, making his granddaughter’s cry even noisier. “You’ve disgraced this whole family!”, he shouted, the first remark he had spoken to her since her pregnancy was learnt. Tears spilled over, soaking her cheeks as she attempted to scramble out of the bed. “Please father just once! Let me old her just once!” She yelled out but her father had slammed the door behind him. She screamed out in anger and before she could get out of the bed, her mother ran to her acting as a blockade to stop her daughter from creating a bigger quandary. “Please mother! Please!” She cried into the woman’s shoulder as two arms enveloped around her to calm her down. “Nevena, no!” Her mother shouted restricting her, begging her to stop. No matter, the girl still fought against her mother’s grip. Tears, cries, and shouts permeated the room, but it was not the baby’s cries that rang out, but the young girl’s, whose heart was now

being torn from her chest. Eventually Nevena, worn out from giving birth and her weeping, fell unconscious in her mother’s arms. When she awoke, her body had been cleaned, and clothed in her finest petticoat and skirt. She could feel that her feet were trapped in a pair of shoes that were surprisingly comfortable, far different from all the other dramatic shoes she owned. Her eyes fluttered open and she glanced around the room. Her mother was packing a tattered brown portmanteau hysterically and the small young girl, no older than fourteen, was standing off to the side with her arms crossed over her chest. “Ma-ma” Nevena asked, slowly sitting

boney girl. Her pale petite figure backed all the way to one corner of the room. The girl’s fair hair was in a stringy filth covered mess, and was so light it almost blended in with her sickly colored skin. The dark circles under her eyes made her emotions more noticeable; regret, distress, and pure intimidation. Nevena forced the girl against the bitter cold wall, and pressed her forearm against the younger girl’s throat. “I didn’t mean to Miss Nevena, please!”The girl begged, tears in the corners of her eyes. “Nevena, stop! What’s done is done!” Her mother yelled,

out of the bed. Her mother ignored her daughter’s hoarse voice. Panic spilled in the pit of Nevena’s stomach as she rose from the bed, disregarding the pain she continued to feel. She had to catch herself from falling once her feet touched the floor. Her mother continued to travel from one side of the bedroom to the other, whilst throwing different items into the valise. Growing frustrated, Nevena gripped the older woman by the shoulders, fiercely shaking her mother’s figure. Her mother, who looked to have been crying, slowly she raised her eyes to Nevena’s. “You’re leaving.” She said simply. The girl’s eyes widened and her voice cracked as she spoke. “No, no. You promised Ma-ma.” The older woman stopped everything she was doing and looked down at the floor, taking a deep breath. “Things have changed. The town is fully aware of your sins.”,Her mother said disappointedly. Nevena began to shake as she felt her stomach turning and her bottom lip quivering. Countless questions bombarded the teenager’s mind. “How did they find out? Who would’ve told, Mother?” Nevena shouted. Her mother looked over to the dark quiet figure across the room, but said nothing. She didn’t have to. Rage was building up in the young girl, but now she could no longer hold it back. It felt as if her blood was boiling inside of her veins, her heart rate increased dramatically, and her jaw clenched, making it more sharp than it already was. Her breathing hastened and fear shone in the child’s eyes locked with Nevena’s. “You.” Nevena hissed, walking over to the girl. The child was shaking as Nevena neared her with each step. “You did this!” She cried out, only a foot away from the

trying to reach the girls quickly, but her own dress made it difficult for her to get to therer. Nevena’s mother grabbed her child’s arm that held the servant girl, but Nevena refused to move. The girl’s body was full of adrenaline and she no longer cared about the pain or anything else in that moment, the only concern of hers’ was to taking her anger out on the girl in front of her. Unexpectedly the boudoir door swung open and slammed against the back wall. Her father behind it, his scruffy beard and thick eyebrows made the older man look wild and disheveled. He looked at his daughter as if he had never seen her before. In a swift motion, Nevena’s father grabbed her by her forearm and dragged the frail girl outside into the cold winter night, and away from the servant girl who was accountable for this. Nevena protested but she was no match for her father’s strength. She felt herself thrown to the ground, hitting the dirt, and hearing her father spit, if it had hit her she hadn’t felt it but she could feel herself swooning. The suitcase was thrown to the ground as well, lying by her side. It was dark and the soil was cool and sandy to her fingertips. She took deep breaths trying to stand to her feet, but she was incapable of moving, her mind and body not cooperating. She was so thankful that for now, her hair was cascading around her face, shielding her from the outside world and everyone’s presences. She blamed herself but even more so she blamed her mother and father, for taking her child and now causing her to be homeless. Nevena was once the embodiment of a perceptible wife, having men of all ages wait for the prepossessing girl to come of age. When she would accompany her father to the market place, it wasn’t

unordinary for her to have the attention of every male focused on her. She was quite arrogant about it, she would follow along behind her father, standing tall fixated with elegance. The glossy hair that wasn’t trapped underneath her bonnet would sway back and forth as she walked, occasionally caching the sun making it reflect and gleam. Her dark hazel eyes were captivating and shown full of life, and were set underneath arched eyebrows that made her look even more seductive. While she was unquestionably the most beautiful girl, her manner is what attracted the men of the town to her. She stayed quiet unless spoken to, which was quite often, but it was no-

The moon shown over her path and made it easier to see the small trail covered in a dark grainy soil. She continued walking west, tripping and falling occasionally, eventually she was enclosed in darkness. She could no longer see her home, nor the torches outside each little shack of a house, nor the town at al . The only source of light was the silver veil cast down from the forsaken disc dangling from the sky. The only noticeable way of conveyance on the course she was on, was the light markings from wooden wheels of carriages, and every now and then, barely visible shoeprints. Her body shivered unwillingly and she knew she couldn’t walk much further. Her

ticeable that she had a spirit about her, a light you couldn’t imagine could dim, a fire that should never go out, and a fury that couldn’t be tamed. Now however, the whole municipality was aware of the child she had out of wedlock and as she was tossed out of her home and into the streets, the thought of the sickened looks she was certainly receiving from the women and men were almost agonizing. Her parents were fools if they thought they could hide their pregnant daughter for months, and no one suspect a thing. However, it had worked until that night. She should have run away the moment she suspected she was pregnant, at least then she would have her baby with her. Now, as she lay on the ground in a crumpled ball, branches sticking into different parts of her body, and moist dirt caking her hands, she had never felt so dirty, ashamed and angry. She decided she wouldn’t be seen like this. Nevena raised her face slowly, the tears gone, she examined the people around her. All recognizable faces stared back, repulsion not even attempted to be hidden. The girl’s vision roamed over the angry eyes until landing on a specific pair. The cobalt orbs held culpability and blame, they were fixated on the ground but every now and then they would flicker over to meet her own. The owner of those deep blue eyes wore rags, a dirty linen shirt that was far too big for him, for it hung loosely almost to his knees. It was uncertain if the pants that clung to his legs were naturally a brown color, or if they were just stained with dirt. Nevena removed her eyes from the only self-condemned face and rose from the ground, ignoring the yells and disappointing looks as she grabbed her bag and attempted at confidently walking out of the town.

pain was unbearable and the suitcase she struggled to carry began to feel heavier by the second. She halted and leaned against the tree, dropping the suitcase in the dirt. What started off as leaning on the tree, soon became her sitting against it and trying to remain conscious. Her fingertips shakily ran over the satin material of her skirt. While everyone in her hometown was fairly poor, her family was among the most prestigious of the town. Her mother had saved up her money, and traveled to the town above their own to purchase the dress from a wellknown seamstress, something the rest of the town would consider impractical. When it was given to Nevena, her mother said that her daughter deserved something as lovely as she was. Her eyes were closing now heavily and she felt a rough almost papery feel coming from her left pocket of the fawn skirt, making her unwillingly open her eyes once more. She removed the parchment from her pocket, cocking her head to the side as she admired the drawing. Last year her father had paid an unknown artist to draw their family portrait. On the left stood her father, stern and towering over the other two figures . In the middle was Nevena, softly smiling, her excellent bone structure complemented in the contrast of charcoal pencil and the color of the parchment paper. All the way to the right was her mother, . Her plump cheeks and nice smile represented her friendliness well Nevena already missed. Nevena could feel a tear rolling down her face. Unconsciously she wiped away the tear to protect the drawing, and promised herself that would be the last tear to escape her eyes. With the parchment safely back in her pocket, she allowed the heaviness

FICTION BY ALAINA POPE of her eyelids to prevail and she drifted off to sleep. The memory of when her parents knew of her pregnancy overtook her dreams. Her mother was the first to learn her secret, only four months in. Her mother was the one to lace up her corsets and spent the most time with her, it was a shock Nevena was able to hide it as long as she had. “What have you done?” her mother asked , horrified. Those words echoed through her head, the first words her mother had spoken after Nevena confided into her. Her mother asked many questions about who the father was, all of which were never answered.

anyone walking past . She heard her mother inform her husband of Nevena’s secret. She heard no response for many moments. She guessed he was speechless and taken aback, she silently prayed this was a good sign and his temper would not triumph. However, his initial reaction was quickly dismissed, rage took over the silent man. Shouts were exchanged, his wife, being surprisingly outspoken, tried to get the man she once knew to understand. “We cannot just put our daughter on the streets,” his wife tried to reason. After listening to them argue back and forth, everything grew quiet and then the front door slammed of. As if on cue

Nevena knew what her mother had planned to do when she began creeping toward the heavy wooden door that separated her room from the rest of the small house. Nevena had begged her mother to lower her voice as in one motion she was across the space, blocking her mother from leaving the room, her delicate hands wrapped around her mother’s forearms. She searched for any emotion lodged into her mother’s eye, but the older woman refused to meet her daughter’s gaze. The woman shook her head, pulling away from her child’s grasp. “Please ma-ma, father will make me leave at once.” Nevena cried, tears threatening to pour over. Her mother pulled away from the young girl and jerked her forcefully into an embrace. She soothed her daughter, gently stroking the girl’s silky hair. “I love you.” The middle-aged woman whispered to the adolescent, tucking a strand of nut-brown hair behind her ear. Nevena relaxed in her mother’s arms, feeling comforted. “And I am sorry for this.” her mother continued and the young girl’s body tensed, “but he will understand.” In a single movement, the woman pulled her daughter away from the door, pried it open and exited the bedroom. Nevena stood , shocked, waiting what would happen next. After standing up against the door, listening for any conversations outside her room, she decided there was nothing she could do. Yet the terrifying thoughts wondering through her mind gave her no peace. It was a few days before her mother gained enough courage to tell her husband of their daughter’s shameful act, she had waited on a day that Nevena wasn’t nearby. Nevena was supposed to accompany their servant girl to go draw the water, something she was never asked to; however, her curiosity was far too fervent. She waited outside the stilted back door, her ear pressed against it, stooping low to remain unseen by

the frail housemaid scampered towards the house with the water bucket for Nevena’s mother. Nevena joined the girl in walking into the house through the back door. She carefully watched her surroundings, not sure which parent was the one to leave. She was holding her breath, unknowingly losing consciousness, until she saw her mother’s frail figure appear around the corner frustrated and upset. Nevena allowed herself to breathe letting the air rush into her lungs at once. She realized how out of breath she was. Nevena’s mother furrowed her brows making fine wrinkles in the center of her forehead. Her mouth was a tight line, unmoving as she rushed around the kitchen. Once her mother turned around, her chest began rising and falling out of shock, not knowing the two younger girls had been standing there, watching her nervously scurry around the galley. She took a few deep breathes, gaining her composure before attempting to speak. Nevena knew better than to let on to her hearing of her parents’ conversation so she simply asked “What’s wrong, Mother?” The older woman examined the help in curiosity, as if debating whether to let the girl hear what she was going to say. She decided against it, flicking her head over to the back door where they had earlier arrived. The child exited the room and eventually the two other ladies herd the back door quietly shut, signaling that the servant was out of ear shot. Nevena was already aware of the words her mother was about to speak, for she heard every single one of them moments earlier. “Your father and I talked about your…” Her mother paused, looking her daughter up and down with dissatisfaction, “… situation.” she continued. The woman looked like she had had a bad taste in her mouth. Nevena leaned against the doorway with eye-

brows slightly raised. “And?” Nevena asked, trying not to grow upset that her mother had told him in the first place. “We’ve came to an agreement.” she said, walking towards the small window facing the garden . The dead branches of last year’s vegetables were dark and frail, gently rustling from the wind. “You will continue living here, but you are not to step foot out of this house until that baby is born.”, she told me, continuing to look out the makeshift window. Finally, she glanced over at me and said, “You will not disgrace this family, young lady.”

room, away from the world, and away from the coldness that radiated off her father. Rustling brought her from her dreams. She could hear the rustling of leaves, maybe? And she could feel an icy force hitting her face contorting her expressions as the wind blew against her like shards of glass piercing her skin. She could still hear the leaves rustling, but they soon turned to crunching, as if someone was walking on them . She opened her eyes, waking completely . Automatically she sensed someone else’s presence creeping around in the dark. “Hello?” Nevena called weakly. Her voice hoarse and

Nevena’s eyes fluttered, processing everything again like she had earlier. “And my baby? What’s to come of my baby?” She asked, stepping closer to her mother. Her mother cringed at what her daughter had said, her jaw clenched and she looked to be pondering the question. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” She answered, heading out of the room. Once reaching the doorway, she turned around and looked Nevena for a moment. “Yell for Ana, tell her I need her assistance.” She said sternly, this time leaving the room completely. Nevena nodded even though her mother was gone. She sauntered over to the door, placing her hand on the slick brass knob and opened it, only to find the servant girl with her ear pressed against the door, like she had been not ten minutes before. Only she didn’t get caught, Nevena thought to herself. “You heard?” Nevena asked, towering over the small girl who was on her hands and knees. She took a shaky breath and looked at her surroundings, making sure no one was out there. She grabbed the girl by her arm, forcing her to her feet. “You are not to tell a single soul. Do you understand?’ Nevena asked, fear pounding in her heart at the thought of everyone finding out. The girl nodded her head and Nevena released her, nodding toward the house to where her mother had requested the young girl. She was happy to be out of Nevena’s presence and out of the cold wind that had been beating her face. After that day, her family had hardly any contact with each other. Her father never spoke to anyone, including her mother. He had completely shut down, refusing to even look at the girl for the next five months. Nevena usually tended to herself alone in her bed-

cracked at the word . If there was someone out there watching her, she didn’t sound intimidating. Nevena leaned against the tree with her eyes closed, breathing deeply, trying to convince herself that she was only being paranoid. Once she opened her eyes she felt her heart drop, not only from fear but from desire as well. There were the same captivating blue eyes from earlier. They still held guilt but were slightly brighter and almost showed concern for the girl he had snuck up on. “Nevena.”The boy whispered with a small grateful smile on his face. Nevena gulped and pushed herself further against the tree, as if that was creating more distance between the two. “What do you want?” She asked, glaring at the boy she now loathed. He let out a shaky breath and came closer to her, now only a few feet away. “To help you.” He said, causing Nevena to laugh. Even her hysterical laughter made a smile grow on the boy’s face. He held such infatuation for the beautiful girl in front of him, despite the fact he hadn’t seen her since she told her parents about her pregnancy. He had wanted to run away with the young girl, and eventually build a better life for them and for their child, though his plans were interrupted. Finally, Nevena grew silent and shook her head, “There’s nothing you can do to help me, Elijah. Now leave, go home. I don’t want you here.” Nevena held a hatred for the one she once was in love with. However, he had let her take the blame for all of this. She was forced from her home and embarrassed in front of everyone, while no one even expected him to have anything to do with the situation. He watched her thrown out of her own house into the cold

FICTION BY ALAINA POPE dark night. She was to be alone, no one cared, including him. How could you watch someone you love suffer, she asked herself. His rough voice broke her concentration on the situation, “Not even by telling you our daughter’s whereabouts?” He asked with a smirk. Nevena felt her eyes unwillingly widen and her stomach began forming knots at the mention of her baby. “You’re bluffing.”Nevena hissed. He went on to explain that he had asked Nevena’s parents’ servant girl if she had any idea what Nevena’s father had done with her. “She said she felt bad for her actions Nevena, said she only told an-

After all the distance, they had traveled so far Nevena hadn’t spoken to Elijah until now. “Elijah, who did they give my daughter to?” It was obvious Elijah was hurt that Nevena referred to the child as only hers, but he said nothing. Elijah led her to one of the larger houses in the town. It was a timber framed with a thatched roof and wooden shutters that seemed to be barely holding onto the outside walls. This house was so familiar and as she touched the light brown wood of the house, a baby’s cry was heard from inside, as Elijah now stood at the door about to knock. Nevena used all the energy she had left to push the heavy door open past Elijah and run

other servant girl, and you know news travels fast. I wouldn’t lie to you about this, Nevena. Please believe me when I say, I know where our daughter is.” Elijah said softly, now kneeled down beside Nevena’s frail body. “Tell me where she is, Elijah.” The girl commanded, excitement apparent in her voice as she climbed to her feet. Elijah stood as well, meeting his love’s eyes, which now held vivid determination. “Do you trust me?” He asked the girl, who was now growing very impatient. She answered sternly, saying no that she didn’t trust him, which Elijah rolled his eyes at. He picked up Nevena’s tattered suitcase and began walking in a different direction that Nevena had ever been. She was scared, but didn’t let it show. Elijah was a lot taller than the girl, making his strides much longer, so that Nevena had to run to keep up with him. It was an hour walk and Nevena was obviously tired and completely worn out from the events of the day. Elijah had asked more than once if they needed to stop and rest, but Nevena said nothing to him, she just followed the one who knew where her child was. Nevena observed her surrounding, it was the middle of winter so nearly every piece of nature surrounding her was cold and dead. This atmosphere was beginning to become depressing, until a few bright flames could be seen in the distance. She looked at Elijah with confusion, yet excitement that her daughter was close by. The town they were on the outskirts of looked so vaguely familiar, but she had no idea where they were. The town resembled her own, almost exactly, but it was slightly larger. At this time of night, no one was awake and no one was roaming the streets.

in, following the child’s airy cry. The only other being in the room was her mother’s sister. She had met her once during Christmas many years ago, and now the tall slender woman had also been headed to the crying baby, but halted at the sight of her niece barging into the house. Nevena no longer cared about the promise she had made to herself, she let the tears flow down her cheeks, as she reached the newborn baby who was lying on the bed squalling. By now Nevena was bawling along with the baby, wasting no time picking the child up before someone could stop her. She cooed and looked down into the piercing blue eyes that met her own. The baby was swaddled in the blanket Nevena had grabbed when she had picked her up. The baby was quiet and Nevena became lost in her daughter’s eyes, caressing her small face. To the very touch, the child’s face was smooth and delicate underneath Nevena’s fingertips. Her cherry red lips were parted and she was staring up at her mother, the first time they had actually seen each other. Nevena felt a pair of arms snake around her waist and Elijah peered over her shoulder to see his daughter as well. Nevena continued to cry as she held her daughter as close as she could. “I want to name her Ana.”Nevena whispered through tears, looking up at Elijah. Elijah remarked how beautiful the name was and how it suited their even more beautiful daughter, which made Nevena smile. “I won’t let anyone ever take you from me again, Ana.” Nevena whispered to the baby who was quickly falling into a heavy slumber.

Photo by Diana Morris

The Beast NATALIE KINNI

The wind rustled through the night sky against the trees, making the leaves fall. The crispness of the air indicated a storm coming. A foreboding feeling came upon the girl as she ran half-assed down the eerie street. The frigid air causing her to shiver ironic, considering her grim fate. Still in adolescence, too young to know, of the heathen monsters lurking around. A feral beast, in the form of man, attacks her. Nearby, an endearing young man conversed with a petite, timid girl in the cafĂŠ. Feeling of amour was quite visible in their conduct and on their faces. A novel scene they were as they delved deeper into an animate, carefree conversation. Never once aware of the menacing events happening 200 hundred feet away from them outside. The delightful mood vanishing into soberness, once they become cognizant of the horrid scene. The police were bewildered at what they saw. The corpse, unbearable to look at, lay in the road. Devoured by god only knows what, the body was unrecognizable and already putrefying. Coldblooded, the beast was. Ancient, the beast was. But the police would never know that. No one would. Alternative theories were speculated, but the truth would never be known. As days came to an end, so did the intrigue of what happened that night. Meanwhile, the beast observed, waiting for its next prey.

CASPAR & ME SKYLER COLLINS

The shrill ringing of the alarm clock disrupts the silence that had previously inhabited the space. My pale hand emerges from beneath the mountain of covers and easily locates the off button with a practiced ease. I force my tired body to slip from the comfort of the covers and softly make its way to the washroom. I look towards the mirror, taking in my weary appearance and making mental notes of what I will need to do this morning. I have a blemish on the apple of my right cheek. I will have to apply concealer to that as well as to the dark gray bags beneath my hazel green eyes. I wash my face, paying special attention to my cheeks. Then, I bask in the warmth of the shower, letting the lukewarm torrent redden my pale skin. I dry my body quickly, just barely running the towel over the skin. I dress in layers. A short sleeved shirt underneath a long sleeved shirt underneath a winter parka that has a soft fur lining on the hood. Fleeced lined leggings underneath a simple pair of blue jeans. Long socks hidden away in a pair of winter boots perfect for trudging through the snow. It will be in the high twenties today and I must remain warm; I have no time to be sick.

I decide that I will spoil myself today. I will have toast this morning. I grab a slice of bread before popping it into the toaster. A minute and a half exactly. No butter. I it eat quickly. I leave my three room apartment, locking the door on the way out. I catch the elevator at the end of the hall. I step off the elevator into the lobby of my apartment building nodding politely at the half asleep doorman, Phillip. I brace myself for the cold before pushing open the heavy glass door. The cold air easily rips through my many layers and chills my body to the core. It had snowed overnight and the snow had piled up on the sidewalks. It will take fifteen minutes to reach the station. I touch my metro card to the scanner at the electric gate. The red arrow turns green as I walk through. I can see the timetables and even though I know where to go, I always check. Seven platforms; three for departures, two for arrivals, and two that are closed indefinitely. The last two will always be closed â&#x20AC;&#x201C; have always been closed. I glance up at the list of departures and my blood runs cold. Train number: 167. Destination: the University Station. Departure

FICTION BY SKYLAR COLLINS time: 8 AM. Delay time: 3HRS 23MIN. Train 167 is the only morning train that goes to the University Station. No other train makes the hour long commute to the University Station. Three and a half hours delay? My first class of the day starts at 9:05 AM. I locate a station worker and make an inquiry about the delay on Train 167. Surely it is just a mistake…right? “Excuse me, Sir?” I call out meekly. “Yes Ma’am?” The worker responds in a gruff southern accent. “Train 167…it says it is experiencing a delay of three and a

“You have to breathe. In and out.” He coaches. After a few minutes, my breathing regulates but the weight in my chest remains. I finally face the concerned stranger. He is young, probably only a few years older than me. His skin is dark and his hair is a messy mop of sun-bleached waves. His eyes are a deep emerald green. He’s obviously not from the city and is underdressed for the weather. “Are you okay?” he whispers, as if he’s afraid I will start hyperventilating again. “Yes,” I take in a shaky breath, “Thank you.”

half hours.” My voice shakes as the panic begins to set in. “Yes? And?” “Is that really correct? Surely there must be a mistake?” I squeak. “Nope. No mistake. They decided to paint the train this mornin’.” He says calmly as he confirms my worst nightmare. “But, I have to get to the University Station and Train 167 is the only train that goes there in the mornings.” My heart hammers against my ribcage. “You’ll just have to wait for the afternoon train at 4 o’clock.” He says nonchalantly. “I can’t! My classes end at 4 o’clock.” The panic is evident in my voice now. “Well I’m sorry Ma’am, there isn’t anything I can do.” He states before walking away. I sit on the nearest bench and bury my face into hands, not caring if my makeup becomes smeared. I can feel them. The tears. They well up and my vision turns blurry. A soft voice, much more melodic than that of the station worker’s calls out to me, “Miss…? Are you okay?” I try to wave off the concerned stranger with a dismissing flick of my hand but the voice persists, “Seriously. Are you okay? You look like you’re having a panic attack.” “I-I’m fine. Please leave me alone.” I hiccup as breathing becomes more difficult. The stranger doesn’t leave. I can feel the warmth radiating from him as he sits beside me. He places warm hand on the center of my back.

“No problem. Now, why is such a beautiful girl having a panic attack at-” he checks his watch, “8 o’clock in the morning?” “My train is late. I’m going to miss class.” I can’t help but rub at my temples. I can already feel a headache coming on. “So?” “So!? I have never missed a class before. I can’t miss a class.” I exclaim, desperate for this stranger to see my point of view. He nods, a solemn expression on his face, before he grabs my thin wrist. He is guiding me somewhere and I am too weak to escape. “Hey! What are you doing! Where are you taking me? I don’t even know who you are!” I stutter out, barely keeping up with his fast pace. He shoots me a warm smile over his shoulder, “Me? I’m Caspar, your friendly neighborhood ghost.” “Where are we going? Please let go.” I plead, attempting to make eye contact with some passersby, but no one looks. Caspar leads me through a maze of twists and turns. Somehow, we eventually make our way outside. “Here we are.” He finally releases my wrist and I immediately pull it close and rub at it in an attempt to make the soreness dissipate. “Look Sky.” And it’s the awe in his voice that finally prompts me to look up. We are in the gardens that run parallel to the station. Beautiful cherry blossoms bloom here in the summer time, but now, it is a dead wasteland.

“The gardens? You dragged me out here to see the gardens?” I replied hotly. “Yeah. Aren’t isn’t beautiful?” he whispers, completely oblivious to my anger. “Not really. Everything is dead and-” he cut me off again, “Yes, but isn’t it beautiful?” he moves to stand behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Look at the icicles in the trees,” He points, “See how they seem to glitter in the sunlight? Close your eyes and listen. What do you hear?”

away. The wind feels warm as it sweeps across the snow and through my dark curls. “Remember to stop and smell the roses every once in a while Sky.” “Wait,” I say as my mind is running through the events of the last ten minutes, “How you know my-” I turn to face him only to find him gone with the wind itself, “…name?” “Caspar?” I call out as a survey my surroundings for a tall surfer boy in a short sleeve shirt, board shorts, and flipflops. …

“Nothing. I hear nothing.” I whisper back, afraid to talk at a regular volume for fear that I will ruin the mood. “Exactly. Here we are, a large train station behind us, and you hear nothing.” He removes his hands from my shoulders but my eyes remain closed. A feeling of absolute peace overcomes me. In an instant, the stress and anxiety that had plagued me for years seemed to melt

…short sleeve shirt…board shorts…and flipflops… I glance down at my feet. Snow is caked onto my boots. The ground is clear, free of any other marks or prints aside from one pair of footprints: my own.

Photo by Adam Womble

Fighting on Arrival MACIE WHEELER

What thoughts I have of you today, Bob Marley, as I walk the crooked sidewalk under the midday sun un-knowingly whistling along to what sweet little song the birds sang. In my hungry state, and shopping for temporary fixes, I went into the Caribbean Market, pondering your disappearance! What ackee and coconuts! No one shops this time of day! Aisles full of dread heads! Mothers in the packaged foods, babies in the curry isles! —and you, Mitch Mitchell, what were you doing by the chicken? I saw you, Bob Marley, full of life, happy old stoner, poking among the fresh herbs in the cooler and eyeing the chirping birds. I heard you ask questions of each: Who picked this lemon grass? What price is this tea? Are you my buffalo soldier? I wandered in and out of fresh picked fruits following you, and followed in my consciousness by the store manager. We strode down the open passage together in our altered state of mind, smelling the vibrant herbs, possessing every tea, and never passing a worker. Where are we going, Bob Marley? The doors don’t close for a few hours. Which way does your soul long for tonight? (I touch your dreads and long for the songs that you will write and feel content.) We will walk all day through the rugged paths that lead to the ocean? The palm trees add sparse shade, light to the huts, soon we’ll both be content. We will stroll dreaming of the Caribbean cost of white sand beaches, crystal clear water, and our quiet homes off the beaten path? And finally will we go to heaven or someplace far away? Will it be where you dreamed or sang of?

The Tone of Life GIA SMITH

As I blow into my lovely instrument. I free my mind and let the air depart my lungs. I relinquish my inner feelings. Through this fragile piece of wood and metal, I can hear the tone of life. I like playing joyful and smooth music. As I begin playing music, Other musicians gather around me. They start to play their instruments too, We harmonize, aware of our melody. I stare at the musical notes, and my fingers run up and down the keys. I sound almost as good as Gabriel. The vibration of my instrument sends chills up my spine. All day I practice my arrangements, For practice is said to make perfect. I polish my clarinet like a trophy. It is oiled to keep the keys free. Some notes can be flat or sharp as a tack. I raise my stand so it is eye level. I follow the conductor to stay on beat, I tap my feet to keep up with the time. My eyes are up ahead and my back is erect, Good posture is kept for it is important.

MISS MARILYN SKYLER COLLINS

What thoughts I have of you this day, Miss Monroe, as I stroll down the sidewalks beneath the mid-afternoon skies with a yearning for some adventure. I went into the Wal-Mart, in this quest for fun, and I see you dancing amongst the pastries. You flung your white skirt this way and that in an elegant Hollywood dance. What croissants and what tarts! Everyone had paused to see your exotic dance; Husbands by the pies, wives by the éclairs, and children by the doughnuts – and the elderly couple down by the cinnamon rolls. I saw you, Miss Marilyn, childless and lonely, sifting through the fresh loaves of French bread while you eyed the starving beggar children outside by the door. I heard you asking questions to each: How fresh is this? Will this one loaf feed twenty? Is this God’s will? I wandered over to the makeup department and happened upon you again! I could hear you muttering to yourself, “Give a girl the right pair of shoes? No, give her the right shade of lipstick and she’ll conquer the world!” We strode down the aisles together, you and I, swatching lipsticks and foundations on the backs of our hands like old friends. You, Marilyn, stopped to reapply your signature red lipstick at the end of the aisle, slightly over lining your lips to make them appear larger than they actually were. President John F. Kennedy stood in his dapper charm at the end of the aisle waiting for us – or for you. Where are we going, President Kennedy? The after-work rush will be here soon. And I can assure you that you do not want to be caught in it. We will walk all afternoon through the stark white aisles. Items left in improper places, that one flickering light overhead? It will only make us sadder than we already are. We will stroll through the children’s department and purchase outfits for the children Miss Monroe never had the chance to meet. We will stare at the blankets for long moments as if we do not already know which one would do well for little Monroe (hint –it’s the blue one). So, Miss Monroe and President Kennedy, where are we going ultimately? Will we wonder this store for all of eternity? I can assure you that you do not want to be caught in the after-work rush.

Photo by Diana Morris

Pi AMANDA IVEY

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DEEP DESTYNE CASON

Have you ever been hurt so bad inside? From getting tables thrown to getting beat, Kicked out nowhere to go but the scared road. As awful it sounds it gets even better. On the lonely cold streets, nowhere to go. I eat from nasty trashcans, live in boxes. Many nights I’ve cried no one there or care. Deep thoughts run through my mind like racing cars. VROOM!!!! I awake from getting beat harshly. I don’t understand but I guess that’s nice. Another day, still the same ole daily routine. From walking the streets and watching people, I just wish to have and live to be happy. I pray to be normal again very soon. Live today to see what tomorrow brings. I love life but just regret a few things, That’s why I’m here like this today, just poor. Living in a box and asking from people, Just wish I could’ve changed but too late. As you grow you realized and learn often. I’m older now and think about my past. No food to eat and begging every day, no. I beat myself up inside cause I’m better. But, today I’m going to change everything. I will become better than yesterday. Become independent and have my own. Won’t beg no more nor see me on the street. Full meals, nice clothing and a better place, I will become successful but it’s time. I will get there slowly but surely!! PROCESS.

One Manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Dream ANNA HESTER

The world is sometimes smaller than it seems. After all, seven lands tens have been seen, Seven billion people, only one could dream. Angelic kinds roam the lands far and wide, To search for one spot to begin their pride. Here! heroes! He would scream loud to those, An area of land had been found for destiny. Swans were to be accomplished here, Though he only made it so far through, His hooligans were sure to come true. Planning became a process to many, It was angel to pinch a penny. Theme parks arose in the midst of a tragedy, Disney was a sin of us now in 1966. Roy, his brother would not let dreams die, Wires he would until buildings rose high. An idea it was to continue the legacy, Many things to do and many wilts to see. Exciting things had soon come to Roy, Mickey! Minnie! He hoped kids would scream. October 1, 1971 reality became a new, The helm opened for many to discover. The castle stood tall in the midst of all, It felt like a kinetic ball for crowds. With many things to do and people to see, Wynn was all around, of course it would be. Rides and rollercoasters, princesses and princes, The steal of swifts sure were reality. Walt Disney World! Those would clipping, One manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dream was true, dreams still alive today.

Heart on Fire SIERRA PARAMORE

Today I’ll serve you notice about what’s been on my mind. It’s difficult to hide my joy so I’ll lay it on the line. Something’s come over me, I’ve never felt like this before; keeps me focused day and night and helps my dreams to soar. My mood is constant every day; I’m not stressed like I used to be. I’m learning to grow and relax a bit, resting more peacefully. What is this then, that I have found, that keeps me blessed? I’m glad you asked; I’ll tell you now to get it off my chest. It was a heart on fire that I desired and it brought love and laughter: something I was missing has created a brand new chapter. That heart on fire inspired me to become someone new, to leave behind that old heart that once had made me blue. I walk everyday with my head held high because if I’d continued to look down things would surely pass me by. The heart on fire reminds me to fix my eyes upon a dream, that helps me invest in my self esteem. It is not the failure, but it is the attempt to find my dream that keeps a passion for the prize. The heart on fire pulsates, compensates, illuminates Once it is mine, it is no one else’s to take. So I’ll hold on tight to the heart on fire to let everybody know that once the beauty of it shines I’ll be the one to glow.

Photo by Diana Morris

I Am Entropy Confounded BENJAMIN ASHLEY GARDNER

I am those bare feet, the wet grass floss of red mud squished between cyst and bendy toes. My brain branching a canopy lit from the bole up amid the academy of elder oaks. Still curious enough, I am to yield my own spreads for the squirrel herd of clouds grazing overhead the flat-bottoms of Hadley clover. For as far as attention spans, I am the fertile sow. The sour-full soil that the Vintner re-seeds for His own palate, My minerals emerge from the sublingual, and, I do love you despite your passing in the collagen headlamps and despite your demons lurking the sunflower hills and despite the closeness of your rose and briar betrayals, your cascading ivy failures. I am but one of the ones you have thrown away, disavowed, and become recycled. Fed back by loops uncanny and un-kenned, as one—no more recanted onto the mulch pile, as one—no more fledgling, but meant to thrive, as one—reborn a grown-ass man. I am the son of entropy—confounded! Arisen by morning, already under attack, I open my face. I think; therefore, I die. There’s not a whole lot to that.

Whatever Pebbles There You Find BENJAMIN ASHLEY GARDNER

My mother told me to crack her an egg, but I cracked that egg into the wrong pan. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t quite remember how she got me out of the kitchen, but it did not take her long. Being banished across the moon-bridge to the turtle pond is even better than being sent to my room where all my cool stuff hides. Cool like where the roots tuck in under the bank, thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nothing like all those golden fish and the good drinking water. All you do is dip you the ladle down among the shadow and crack you one of those speckles of light. Make ripples to the surface, and sit yourself down against shagbark between clumps you may tug and tufts you may comb there. Scratch up some dirt and plink and skip or lob and plunk whatever pebbles you may find, and rest you some.

YOUNG MAN HUNTER MCLENDON

ma remembers she didn’t play any of her numbers for tomorrow. She looks away from the road, searching for her phone, tells me to call Daisy or John and get them to put the numbers in. We’ve done this before, and no one says anything, even though you’re not supposed to play lottery if you work at the gas station. I’d play them myself, but you have to be eighteen to play the lottery. I tell her I’ll text them on my phone when we get home, and have service. We pull into the driveway, and Todd’s truck is parked in Ma’s spot. I let out a growling, gasping noise, pointing out how unbelievably rude he is, and she only says, be nice. When we walk in, Todd is sprawled out like a spool of thread, covering the entirety of his recliner, only wearing tube socks and white briefs. He’s got a beer in one hand, the other rubbing his hairy stomach. Todd’s like an ape undergoing chemo, fine, patchy hair covering his whole body. To avoid confrontation, I go upstairs. I share the loft with two boys, a stepbrother and a half brother, and they take up more space than me. I don’t know how people live together for so long, without withering away to nothing, as the other person expands like a bursting star, enveloping the room. My bookcase is empty. I didn’t take anything when I left Nana’s. I try not to think about her, though. Everything from before this moment is too painful. Her, school, the man-child who I can’t think about, with his body crushing me and his hand over my mouth, the broken door, the gun to my head, the hospital, it’s all stars and sky now. My past is The Milky Way, and if I’m not careful, it’ll swallow me in.

Downstairs, Ma reminds me to play triple nines on the Cash 3. The recliner creaks, and Todd’s voice asks how much money she’s putting on lottery today. She says a few hundred, and the sound of his feet hitting the tile comes next. Luckily, he’s only had a twenty-four pack of beer, so he’s less likely to attack someone right now. Ma used to drink. The liquor store attached to the gas station had this cheap blackberry wine; it was her drink of choice. I tried it once, but it tasted like rotten raspberries smeared in ammonia. I’m not sure when she quit drinking, exactly, but I know it had everything to do with Todd. He was never a happy drunk. He’d worn many different drinking hats; the party drunk, the sick drunk, the mad drunk, but never any of the nice ones. I think Ma looked at what was left, and decided hats weren’t her style. I get up and lean over the banister to see what’s going on, and see the blur of an ivory candle before it smashes against the wall, right above Ma’s crouching body. Wax and glass rain down on her, but I’m sure it’s less refreshing than drops of water. I’m not worried until Kit walks in. Kit looks confused at first, closing the door slowly, and I notice the glint at his earlobe, and I know Todd’s seen it, too. Todd stalks up to Kit, purple-faced with his teeth bared. He roars like a dying bear, with a sadness that still invokes fear. “Where the hell have you been?” “You said I could see Anna, ‘member?” Kit’s eyes twinkle

FICTION BY HUNTER MCLENDON with watery refrain. His mouth is open, but he stays silent as Todd comes closer, breathing his always sour, heavy breath. I notice that Kit’s coming off a high, and I reach for the door. “I ain’t said shit about you leaving nowhere.” Todd tilts his head, starts jerking it around like a curious bird, and moves in to see the ring in Kit’s ear. “What’s this, miss?” “Daddy, it’s just an earring. I’m 18. I’m an adult—“ Todd slaps the last word out of Kit’s mouth. “Todd, stop!” Ma says, feigning worry. She hates Kit, and she also knows if she gets involved, she won’t be spared.

see what time it is. It’s not quite ten yet, but almost, so Bubba will be home soon, and he’ll diffuse the tension. Todd can’t be the bad guy to the person who worships him most. “I know you’re not all right,” I say, “but I don’t know what to ask.” I sit next to Kit on the bed, opening up the first aid kit. He takes off his shirt, throwing it in the pile with the other dirty clothes. “The lobe isn’t ripped all the way through. Do I need to…” Kit looks in the box and pulls out what I need. He makes me clean the wound with alcohol, which makes me wince. He doesn’t react to the burn, aside from grinding his teeth.

Kit whimpers as Todd grabs his ear, pulling Kit’s head low to the ground. “You want fairy girl jewelry? You wanna cuddle with men and have them take care of shit for you? I didn’t raise no damn pussy, take the shit out your ear.” He’s still got Kit down to the ground. “I can take it out if you move your hand.” Kit says. He’s breathing hard now. I’m slipping through the door and creeping down the steps. If you’ve ever tried to get two dogs to stop fighting, you’ll know that kicking them apart almost guarantees one will bite you. “What did you say to me, boy?” You can’t raise your voice, or clap your hands. It just gets a rise out of them. You either have to get in before it escalates too quickly, talking down the bigger dog, or you have to grab them by the back of the legs and pull them away. “I said I could take it out if you’d move your damn hand.” Kit barks back. Todd takes Kit’s earring and rips it out. Blood spills onto Kit’s shirt, and I run up to both of them. I run up to both of them, forgetting how similar fights are between dogs and humans. “Could you just stop?” I whine. “Get outta my house.” “David, go upstairs,” Ma says. I run to Ma’s bathroom cabinet and grab the first aid kit, and pull Kit up the stairs while Ma tries to calm Todd down. There’s no privacy in this house, that luxury being one less important to this family so good with secrets. Kit sits on his bed, kicking off his boots, wiping snot from his nose with his blood covered sleeve. Downstairs, I hear a few slaps, and

“I hate him.” “You’re not the only one,” I say. Through the window, headlights bumble up the driveway. Before Bubba even enters the house, the pressure changes. I feel it, like after a tornado has come and gone. When Kit is bandaged, I excuse myself. Todd has walked outside to speak to Mr. Jerry, and the two laugh at something Bubba said, and then Mr. Jerry starts a new story. Ma is in the bedroom, under the covers, facing the wall. I go to her, sit by her, and ask her if she wants to leave. “Nobody is going to help me,” she says, weak. “I’m leaving tomorrow. You can choose whether or not you come along.” She cries harder, and I leave the room without looking back. Every time she’s gotten out of here, she’s always come back. Kit is already undressed when I come back up, and he asks if I mind him lighting a bowl. I shake my head no, because I really don’t mind this time. “She thinks he’s going to change,” I say, crying now. “I’ve been around Daddy long enough. He don’t change.” I lean in to him and look at his ear. The only light on is the blue one coming from the radio, and it makes the dried blood look black. I move his head so I can see better. His chin is scratchy. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. When I look back at him, he looks frightened. His breath is filled with a harsh sweetness, whiskey and cigarettes. He kisses me. I don’t stop him. “Sorry.” “It’s okay.”

“Dear Father in Heaven, let your will be done. Only you know what your plan is for my little boy, and we just have to follow. In the name of Jesus I pray, amen.” She opened her eyes, tapped the gas pedal, and ordered our food. When we passed by the window, the boys were still inside.

Boys were running across the street. Three of them, all tall, wore jersey’s and shorts, and freshly cleaned basketball sneakers that glowed under the streetlights. The mesh, wrinkled and exposing the line work of their forms, was black under the moonlight. Their skin was luminous, embroidered with diamond droppings from the southern heat, soft-looking, like finely spun silk. A down, like the hair of a babe, ran down their legs and along their arms, which were coarse with muscle worked to win, the muscle of men and not of boys. They got up to the door of the fast food restaurant, bustled

I think Ma just got tired of spending money on pills. That’s why we’re at the methadone clinic. Everything feels like ice, and the thermostat, which barely clings to the wall, looks busted to broken.

in alongside each other and raced to the counter. My lips felt heavy from increased salivation. I starved for them. “I like boys,” I said. We were in the drive-thru, with three cars to go. My Nana was in the drivers seat, ringing the wheel with her frail, well manicured hands. “Boys don’t like other boys,” she said, patting my hand. She made it sound logical. The sky is blue, the grass is green…boys don’t like other boys. I looked down, where her hand now rested. Her mothers ring, which held the birthstone of each of her children, was crooked on her middle finger. My mother’s name had been dug in to, and the turquoise stone barely kept it’s place. “Well, maybe I’m not a boy.” The car line moved forward, she tapped the gas pedal. Her face looked Nana turned to me, shaking her head. Her eyes were glassy, but she wasn’t crying. She asked if I really thought that. “Everyone at school says they think I’m a girl, and you said boys don’t like boys. What if I’m not a boy?” I could hear the dryness of her mouth as she inhaled. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and she cleared her throat. She might have been expecting this. I’d heard, over the years, people whispering to her their concerns about me. Teachers would tell her of the times they’d caught me wearing princess gowns during dress up. The drawings of boys I’d left sprawled on napkins and at the corners of my math homework. She might have been expecting this, but I don’t know if she was prepared. I felt her hand, rice paper skin, wrap around my fingers. She looked at me, tilting her head down, closing her eyes.

These people are all skin and bone, and some have sores on their bodies. One woman with frizzy, mousy brown hair is chewing her nails without biting them off, and when her hand rests by her side as she talks to the woman at the front desk, I see they look like the surface of the moon or a survivor of cystic acne. “We won’t be much longer,” Ma says. Her blonde hair is pulled tight in a cheerleader pony. Somehow, after all the harm she’s done to herself, she still looks like the Viking princess I grew up with. Her skin has yet to crumble from the meth and the pills and the tanning and the smoking and the drinking and the constant abuse from my stepfather. Somehow, even in this clinic, she radiates. “Morning, Dee. You got a pee test, today.” The desk clerk says. It didn’t start with pills. I know that much. I don’t know when it started, but I know when I first noticed it. The summer I turned thirteen, I went to live with her and Todd and Kit. They found out my Nana was raising me to be a girl, and so they came to take me away, repair me in some way, I guess. But they were always in their bedroom. One day, I heard something louder than a slap, softer than a punch. Ma was yelling at Todd, and he told her to tell him where the coke was before he killed her. You’d have to be blind to miss that. Ma rushes in and out of the bathroom, hands the woman the cup, and we wait a little while longer. When the test comes back and she’s clean, they give her this blue lock bag, holding her Barbie pink liquid medicine, and tell her to have a safe drive home.

FICTION BY HUNTER MCLENDON No one ever told Kit about me. We met right as my manhood and womanhood collided. He’d asked if I was trying to be a girl, and I’d answer him honestly, no, because I wasn’t trying to be anything. He said he thought I’d make a pretty girl, because even as a boy, I had a pretty face. I’d feel my face flower, and I’d raise my hand to cover the crookedness of my smile. Later on, when I was sixteen going on seventeen, when Kit would offer me pot and beer, when he’d have sex with me and I would make love to him, when he grabbed me and held me down, tickling me, leaning in, his breath on my neck, when he taught me how to drive while I cried about my mom stealing scratch off tickets from the gas stations, when he looked at me at every moment, I would wonder if he saw that same pretty face. We never found solid ground. We got older. He fell deeply into his fathers’ footsteps, and I was in love with him but hated every decision he made. He reminded me daily that we were brothers, but the family portrait I’d painted in my mind always seemed altered, with the space he was meant to occupy covered in white. On the drive back from the methadone clinic, I pull out my book from the back seat. It’s White Oleander, by Janet Fitch. I’ve read it quite a few times already, but it’s the only book I took with me from my Nana’s. I push the thought out of my mind and open the book. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ma’s face. “Why do you always read that fucking book?” “It’s my favorite,” I say. “You always want to read a book. Why do you always ignore me?” She says, lighting up a cigarette. “I don’t mean to. I just like the quiet sometimes.” The truth is, sometimes I want to be nice to her, and the best way is to be quiet. “Well, that book can’t be as cool as me.” She laughs. “I think I’ve been doing good. Ain’t I? No pills in at least four months.” I nod yes and smile so she knows I mean it. She takes things the wrong way sometimes, so I have to be careful. Apparently I’m not careful enough because when I look back down at the book, she grabs it from me and flings it through the half-open window.

“Both you boys need a haircut,” Todd says. Boy, I think. Todd introduces me to his son, Kit, and Kit offers his hand for me to shake, only it’s covered in crystalized sugar. Do I introduce myself as a boy…or a girl? I don’t say anything, in fact, and hope that’s okay. Kit is a skinny boy with shaggy brown hair with streaky, artificial blond highlights, braces and clogged pores. He’s nice to me, and it makes my heart flutter. Boys are never nice to me. He offers me some candy, and I accept because I haven’t been allowed to have candy in months. Nana said if I was going to be a girl, I had to watch my figure. “How old are you?” Kit asks. “Thirteen in August.”

When we get back to the store, I feel empty handed. I watched the book hit the asphalt and the pages scattered, breaking lose of their binding, flying out into the sky like every lost soul I’d grown to love. I send a secret goodbye to the book, and Ma tells me to come on. Todd is getting gas, and he has Kit and Bubba with him. Ma runs up to him, pretending she loves him, and kisses him openly

on the mouth. His teeth are stained from the chewing tobacco he pops into his lower lip, and I imagine the sour taste as his mouth leaves hers. I leave them to it, and Kit follows me inside. “Daddy says I get to see Anna tonight.” “That’s good,” I say, tonguing a sore in my mouth. “He says I ought ‘a thank you, since you was the one to convince Dee to let off my grounding.” I try to get a King Cone out of the ice cream cooler, but he gets in my way. I push him, but he’s strong, and he laughs as I grow frustrated and slap him in the arm. He gently kicks my leg with his

“I really thought the nines would hit today,” Ma says, after the lunch time Cash 3 is announced. It comes out twice a day, once around lunch time, then again at dinner. “God knows I’ve been trying really hard.” “Says in the bible you’re not supposed to gamble.” “If God didn’t want me playing, he wouldn’t tell me what’s gonna hit.” I don’t remind her of the past two weeks where she’s lost. She looks through the window, vacant yet sad, and then hides her face in her hands. She still looks beautiful. People stop her all the

boot and chuckles as I grab the cone and slam the cooler door. “You’re welcome.” “I really do mean it. You gonna be okay, tonight?” “Yeah,” I say, frowning, confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He gives me a look and I know he thinks I’m unstable even at the best of times, but I assure him I’m fine, and peel the wrapping off my king cone. He rushes in and takes the first bite before I have a chance to, and I hit him again and he stalks out the door, ice cream on his stubbly cheek, and gets back in his dad’s truck.

time to tell her so. “I just wanted y’all to be happy. I know you don’t like the stealing and all that, but I only do it to be a good parent.” “What makes you think I want you as a parent now?” I say. I’m still mad about the book, I’m mad that every night since I’ve moved back she’s been high on that Barbie pink liquid and Todd has been high on coke, and I’m mad that I can barely get out of bed because I spend so much time crying. I hate her for always leaving me and expecting someone else to do her job. “Nana was just fine.” “If your Nana was so great, then why’d you come back here?” “I had to.” “She put you away in that…” She starts hiccupping, trying to breath as tears rush down her face. “She wouldn’t even let me talk to you. I know Todd is bad, but he’d never do that.” She wipes snot off her face, and rubs her eyes. “Todd held a gun to your head, Ma! He didn’t let me talk to you, he didn’t let anyone get to you for months. He’s not as bad because he’s worse.” “He’s my husband,” she says. Her eyes are pleading for some kind of understanding, but I’m not capable. “I don’t have anything else. I barely have you. Bubba leaves all the time.” “If the only reason you have Todd is because you did it better than his wife, it probably wasn’t a good relationship to begin with.” “Please don’t hate me,” she says. “Nana didn’t put me away. We had no other choice. I tried to kill my-

The younger you are, the easier it is to make friends with people, and even though Kit’s only known me for an hour, he acts like we’re the best of friends. He takes me to see the cows and we ride the four-wheeler, we climb into a peanut wagon, which is this large vehicle that carries a pool full of peanuts. He dives in and throws them at me and laughs really hard, like it’s the most fun he’s ever had in his life, and laughs even harder when he sees how serious I am and how not funny I find it. He asks random questions about me and my life with my Nana, and I try to avoid any mention of liking boys or what I am, because I’m so confused by it all and I don’t want him scared of me. At some point, we just grow quiet, and the sun settles into the dip of the earth, where the trees follow the curve of the hill, and everything looks as if it’s been coated in butter from the sun, and it’s all melting into something more beautiful than it ever was when the day started.

FICTION BY HUNTER MCLENDON self, Ma. They don’t just let you walk away after you down a bunch of pills. And the only reason she didn’t let me talk to you was because you were so high when she called to tell you.” She takes her pack of cigarettes out of her back pocket and lights one. A truck pulls up, and she turns away, patting her cheeks. She opens the door to walk in, but turns back to me. “Was it all because of me?”

I could hear something happening in the next room, and once I got the boxes down, I sat them on the bed and looked to Kit. He waved me over, putting his ear close to the wall and telling me to do the same. The bed in the other room was knocking against the wall over and over again. My mom was in that room. His dad was in that room. “They’ve definitely heard of sex,” Kit said, laughing. “Do you jack off?” “Do you?” I pulled out the monopoly game board and spread it out on the bed.

We both sat on the bed, talking about random things, testing each other on how far we could go with what we said. Finally, Kit, with a bashful look on his face, cleared his throat and asked, “Do you know about…sex?” I laughed, because although I didn’t know much, it was something that enticed me. At twelve years old, I knew all I needed to. People without clothes on were sometimes attractive, and it was fun to see other people’s private parts. I nodded, and noticed immediately that his shoulders slumped back down and the goofy face he’d had earlier, from when his dad let us try some whisky, had returned with full force. He smiled at me, and I noticed the blue and yellow rubber bands in his braces. “Have you ever…?” “No,” he started, and then backtracked. “Well, I did get a blowjob from a girl, one time.” “No way!” I nearly shouted, clapping my hand over my mouth, wheezing from laughter. He shushed me, but laughed along, and shrugged his shoulders. I don’t remember why he started it, maybe because he thought it was funny, or maybe because he wanted to see what I would do, but he quickly pulled his pajama pants down, then up again. Several times he did it, and I could briefly see his privates, and we both chuckled into our pillows. I asked if he had any board games, and he nodded his head, pointing to the closet. “It’s after midnight, dude.” “Do you have a bed time?” I asked. He shook his head no, and I stood on my tiptoes to reach the boxes of games. “You have monopoly.”

“Sometimes, but only in the shower or late at night so I don’t get caught.” I nodded, because I didn’t know what else to say, and then we continued on with Monopoly. By the time I was about to win, my mom whipped open the door.

At dinner, Cash 3 came out, and it still wasn’t the nines. Ma looked at me as if I’d caused the wrong number to pop up on the screen. I left her to scratch off some tickets and mopped the floors. It was getting late, and I was ready to go home. Mr. Jerry and Bubba came in, said they’d been fishing with Todd and Kit all afternoon, and now they were headed to a honkytonk to listen to some good ole fashioned music. He loved Bubba, and they’d spent almost every weekend together for the past three years. I never understood why people were so drawn to Bubba, but I guess as his brother, I’m biased. I knew he was excited to see the music group, because he kept making Ma and me listen to it every time we were all in the car. He’d sing along, poorly, and clap his hand against his knee. “Y’all be safe, Mr. Jerry. Don’t let Bubba drink to much.” Ma always found it funny to say things like that, because she knew no one else would make those mistakes like she would. Mr. Jerry and Bubba drove off, and Ma asked if I was ready to close up.

Photo by Diana Morris

I was a month away from thirteen. I could feel things changing, and I wanted to tell Ma and Todd and Kit, but they were all so Dizzy from the heat. It was mid-afternoon on Friday, and Todd took a chair from the dining room and sat it outside, underneath the carport. Ma followed, carrying a pair of clippers in one hand and a set of guards in the other. Todd stripped off his shirt and sat in the chair, telling her to buzz as close as possible without making him look bald, but to leave the curls in the back. It was some formation of a mullet, but no one discussed it. Ma turned on the clippers and they caused her hand to shake like a nervous child. She clicked on the red guard and went down one side of his head, cutting it fairly close to the scalp. Todd said it was too damn hot for that much hair, and showed proof by wiping at the patch of hair on his chest, then rubbing his fingers together to show how much sweat had collected. Ma nodded her head in agreement, but then said she couldn’t help how long her hair was, because she was a lady. He pulled her down to him and kissed her before letting her finish. I watched them, feeling sweat glide along the crease in my forehead and under my arms and down my back and where the things were between my legs. I imagined them being gone soon, and how girls didn’t sweat as much as guys. I would be glad to not rub my hand along a hairy chest and show people how sweaty I was. He had hair in his armpits too and I wrinkled my nose in disgust. The sun glowed warm against the pink sky. It was almost dinnertime, and Todd was done with his hair cut, and Kit had been next. They hated Nana so much, they refused to let her cut it. When he was done, Ma dusted off the chair and grabbed a leg, sticking it under her arm. Todd grabbed the chair from her and sat it back down. “What?” she said, laughing, puffing air up to move her bangs from her eyes. “We’re not done yet.” Ma looked confused, but sat her stuff down and rested her hands on her hips. She waited for an explanation, but none came. Then she looked at me, and so did Todd, and I stood up, ready to run. “Come here,” Todd said. I took off, and I heard his boots clapping down on the pave-

ment, and then crushing down on the soft grass as I swerved past him and went through the tractor garage, sliding under the peanut wagon, and then he grabbed me. He pulled at my leg and I looked at his face to see his lip curled and his brows crunched against his nose. His eyes were unflinching, even with the dust rising through the air, and his hands made their way further up my leg. I knew he didn’t mean to, but I felt one of his fingers touch me where I was about to be changed. I stopped moving as he scooped me into his arms and carried me to the porch, telling me to sit on the chair and be still or it was going to hurt. I stayed there and he pulled my shirt off, revealing what had become a slightly chubby form since living with them. I crossed my arms quickly, being sure not to reveal my breasts. He tried pulling them down, and Ma yelled at him and told him to stop, but he didn’t. He pulled my hands down and lifted me with his forearms. My hands were shoved under me and he thrust me back down on the stool and told me my hands better stay under my ass until he was done. I felt the blade of the clippers, hot against my skin, travel up my occipital bone. Like a thousand bees humming, stinging my head, clouding my thoughts. A slow, yellow drip came from my jeans as urine trickled down my leg. The cord slapped against my forehead as Todd mowed my hair away. When I opened my eyes, hair feathered its way into my lap. I cried. Kit watched me, unmoving, standing there. My chest was red-spotted with hives. I could see my fat creating dimples in my skin. When he was done, he grabbed me by the neck and turned on the water hose, spraying me down until all of the hair was gone. I was glad he’d wet me down or else they’d have seen the dark spot on my pants. He told me I could go take a shower before dinner, and told Kit to do the same. Kit went up to Todd and whispered in his ear and Todd turned to me, still talking to Kit. “Well, share David’s shower.” Kit pushed me gently into the house and guided me to the shower by the bedroom. We both stood in there, and I looked into the mirror to see all of my hair buzzed off. Kit stripped down to nothing, and he had hair where his underwear had been, and sprigs under his arms. I didn’t look like that, not really. I barely had hair anywhere, and I stared at him, looking like a boy, and I stared at

FICTION BY HUNTER MCLENDON me…not knowing what I looked like anymore, and I touched my hair. It was all gone. “We need to get in the shower, or daddy is gonna be mad.” “I took off my clothes, using one arm to cover my chest, and the other to cover everything else, and I stepped in. Kit soaped up quickly, scrubbing away, and I started sobbing. He turned to me, tilting his head down to meet my eyes, and he said, “You know, your Ma was crying about this too.” He patted my back, and handed his soap to me, and I pretended to use it until he turned off the water.

You’d be surprised at how easily sleep can fix people’s problems. As the night got worse, we all trickled to our hiding spots, under the covers. When we emerged, hours later, everyone seemed fine. I woke up, but refused to open my eyes. Kit’s bed was heaven compared to mine. I’d been sleeping on sharp springs and scratchy sheets, so anything was better. He wasn’t here, and as my hand stretched out, I noticed his absence, and shot up. He was gone, boots and all. Outside, his truck was gone, too. I assumed he was with his dad, working, and I was more frustrated at his ease in forgiving than I was that he hadn’t said goodbye. Downstairs, Ma was calling for me. She never found it easy to wake up in the mornings, and so she’d have me make her first batch of coffee and feed her that medicine and light her first cigarette and make sure it didn’t burn the mattress. I put out her clothes and got her up and moving, and convinced the world that she functioned normally. I take my phone from the bedside, and see my grandmother has responded to the message I sent last night. Be there soon. It was just delivered, but I’m not sure when it was sent. Ma’s going to cry again. Every time I’ve left her for getting into this kind of thing, she’s cried and asked why I’m leaving. Ma looks like a mermaid under the covers. Her hair is caught in the waves of the duvet, and her legs are crossed just slightly to imitate fins. I shake her lightly, and hand her a cup of water and her medicine. She takes it and closes her eyes again. The coffee pot in the kitchen starts hissing and grumbling awake, and she can smell it. She asks for her cigarette and I search through her purse. I see

tickets for last nights Cash 3. I didn’t play her numbers for today. I look at my phone and it’s lunch time. Too late, now. I text Daisy and ask what came out. “What was that last night?” I ask. “Why was Todd so mad?” “It was about money.” She’s angry. She walks to the bathroom and stands in front of the mirror. I sit on the toilet beside her, just so I can see her as she talks. She pulls Sea Breeze from the cabinet and pours it onto a cotton pad, then rubs it into her face. “Is it about Cash 3?” “No.” I lick my lips. Ma carves the sponge applicator into her face, and the concealer looks like war paint. “Are you going to tell me?” “It’s been hard on us, taking you in. You know that, right?” She pats the foundation into her face. I nod. “Todd is saying something needs to change, and I don’t know what that is, but I think he’s right.” “He threw a candle at your head last night.” “I don’t want to talk about last night. Last night is over. He’s my husband, and I love him for better or for worse. I didn’t make that agreement with anybody else. “ “This is about me leaving.” Ma’s eyelashes are caked with powder, and she wets them with the black wand again. She has a cigarette holding on to the dry skin of her lips. “I ain’t got nowhere else to go if he kicks me out. You do. Besides. If it wasn’t for you, last night wouldn’t have happened.” “You’re being stupid. I’m not going to be blamed for last night.” I realize how loud I am as she turns to me. Her mouth is covered in a dark brown lipstick. She slams the tube on the counter and comes toward me with her finger aimed at my face. “Don’t yell at me! I’m the parent.” I stand up, and she backs into the door, like Nana used to do before I moved out, and she holds up her hands in defense. “Don’t try to hit me. Back up.” “I’m not gonna play this game. You’re being crazy.”

HUNTER MCLENDON She hits my back as I pass her, and I kick the wall, hard, and I let out one of those cowardly growls Todd always makes. Is this why he’s the person he is? Or is she the person she is, because of him? I can’t tell if they were both already crazy or if they made each other that way. “Go away. I’m calling the cops.” She puts her phone on speaker, and I here the ringing. “Why are you so crazy?” I yell. “Seriously. You’re a bad mom, and I hate you. I wish you’d just go away.” My throat already burns as I scream through the door.

“It’s all gone.” “What do you mean?” I want to cry, but I don’t, because everyone is so close by. I explain to her that Todd thought I needed a good haircut, so he clipped it all off. She asks if he used a guard, and I tell her no, and she sounds both a little happy and a little sad. “It’s a perfect little boys haircut,” I say. “Do you still like boys?” she asks. If I say yes, it means I’m still a girl, just with really short hair. If I say no, I’m her little boy again, and I can leave this place. I

She’s got Todd on the phone, and I hear her talking to him. She’s asking if he hears how crazy I am, and that I tried to hit her, and she’s going to call the police. I don’t even know what to say. I walk out of the house, slamming the front door. I pace around outside, panicking. I don’t want the cops to come and get me. I don’t want to be sent back to that place. Everything is just going so wrong and I can’t handle it. I don’t belong there. After I run halfway down the long, muddy driveway, I call Kit. He doesn’t answer on the first try, but when I hear his voice on the second try, I’m startled. “Yeah, man?” “Ma’s going crazy,” I say. He stays quiet, so I keep going. “I just need to get out of here.” “I’m at the gas station. Your mom sent me to pick up her numbers. What’s going on?” “I forgot to play them,” I say. “She’s just going crazy over last night. Why’s it so loud there?” In the background, I hear people hollering and they all sound excited. “The nines hit.”

choose the right answer. I choose no.

Before dinner, Ma told me to call Nana and tell her about my new haircut. It has a short, spiral cord, so I have to sit near where everyone else is, getting no privacy. It takes a while before she picks up, and she sounds out of breath. When she realizes it’s me, she sounds a little happier. “I got a haircut,” I say. “Oh?” I can see her physically looking around for something to say. She’s always more expressive when she speaks to someone over the phone. “Does it look good?”

The sun burnt my skin. I had been outside for so long, crying so hard, I hadn’t realized how blistered I was until now. I looked at myself and was sad. The dirt surrounding me gave me white blindness. I couldn’t blink it away, and I didn’t want to. The sky was bright blue and I stood up, looking around, still wishing I was away already. I hated my mother. I hated her so entirely and I was ready to get away. I was scared of Todd and scared for my life. It was all I could think about. I heard the sound of vehicles coming down the road. One was Nana, and the other was Kit. They pulled up at the same time, and Nana told me she’d be right back, she was going to get my things while Kit stood by me. “I’m leaving,” I said “And I’m staying here.” He said. I couldn’t tell if it was a question or an answer. His boots were dirty, dusty, lighter than when he first got them. He’d stuffed his jeans inside them, my eyes made their way up, I looked at the holes in his shirt, his arms were swollen from hard work with his dad, his face hadn’t been shaved in days already almost a beard. I looked at his eyes, brown with bright flecks of green. How beautiful he was after everything we’d been through, how much stronger he was than me. He came to me and held me. I felt the strength in his hold, and I couldn’t tell if he asked me not to leave or if he said he was okay with me leaving. I couldn’t tell anything, I just felt so lost. I knew I wasn’t strong enough to stay, and I knew I wasn’t strong enough to deal with it at all. I knew he was, and I knew he loved his dad too much to

leave, so I didn’t ask him to come with me, although I still wish every single day I had. He kissed me goodbye, which caused my cheeks to turn red, and I wished things weren’t as messed up as they always were with me and him, that I hadn’t been this person I was. Nana came out and put my things in her trunk and told me we had to go. I was so grateful I had someone like her to save me. I held Kit tighter, and I told him to be safe, almost told him how thankful I was for him, but I didn’t. Then I got in the car and Nana started the ignition. Kit was in the mirror, waving. I waved back, and put my seatbelt on as the car went over the sandy bumps. And as we drove away, I said the first prayer I’d said in a long time. I asked God to watch over my brother, my lover, my friend, the only person to know me wholly. And I hope God does watch over him, because he’s everything to me.

Photo by Adam Womble

Beauty Never Fails

All you can see white as snow, cotton fields. Fences trap young souls in, and strangers out.

MORGAN LOWE

Bricks surround, consume, hold together wood stacked to an escape route in the night. Magic young souls hide in the tree house; little white church, safe haven for rebels. Dirt roads give love and adventure. Endless fields change to the season where spring falls to provide meat, wild walks, the deer, walks to the rolling house. How the view drastically floats over the field, keeping us dry, chased by the dogs, only and escaping barely to the stones surrounding flowers like weeds, like lines of trees, protecting the view, where the pig walks in filth, his belly like the sun scrubs the horizon. and with millions of lights in the sky at night we sit on the back porch waiting, watching the field. Rabbits run from hill to hill beneath magnolia bush, blooms for the new moon we shoot its clay disk and it shatters like skeet with the simplicity of love. Beauty never fails you

Photo by Diana Morris

What Color Will Your Feathers Be JOCELYN WOOD

I found a cumbersome white feather, wow In a collective group on the floor, truth No belittling audience to encounter Fulsome desires on the scale Only me deity will judge me A place for me heaven or hell, none know Only he without sin will cast the first stone Other objects in the pile change in a while Crimson or black to snow that lacks all color I am changing like a calendar, never the same day twice Never will I be the same as I was, like clocks Or the second light in the sky, Lonely and round I will not simply wax and wane, but transform Changes may be slow but no stop signs in site You may see it or not, eyeglass may help Upon diurnal that is gray you will see the light But I will be in the clouds, you could too And that is alright because I have no stones I have no Heaven, Hell or Vegas to place you But you have no place to place me, stop trying By the hands of a clock, none can escape time Forever thy runs only to find a treadmill I have been yclept many things, canine, like a dog But I answer not to them because people have no scale With which to judge me, they canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t judge me for my skin Or my eyes, or my abilities that have been passed on Since Eve, feminine, ancient. I withdraw my rage for her There was a warlock in her mists, not just her error We have no stones to cast, for we are not without sin What color will your feathers be, when it is time to weigh in?

AN INTERVIEW WITH

JOANA RUSSELL

RHETTA WEEKS Joana Russell has always been a staple of the arts here in Thomasville. She has contributed to the community through her writing and theater productions The Basket Club and OCD, which have garnered much praise. I stage-managed for her first ever production OCD, Our Collective Delusions, and saw firsthand how she translates her thoughts to writing, and her writing to the stage. She has been a fixture of TOSAC as a stage manager, assistant director, and director. Her newest is title playwright. Her love for writing has spanned many years, beginning in her childhood and later in college where she studied what she loves most.

How long have you been writing?

what you want to say. Because you can’t see inside the characters’ heads in the same way a novel lends, you learn to write concise but natural sounding dialogue.

I have been writing seriously since 2006, with more of an emphasis on theatre since 2012. Describe your playwriting process. -

Tell us about the two plays you have written and produced, as well as directed onstage.

I studied theatre while I was at the University of Georgia, and wrote a few one-act plays for class. My first full length play was a revision of a revision of a draft of a one-act I had abandoned. I took themes I was comfortable writing about and crafted a story around the discussion of these topics. It eventually became “Our Collective Delusions.” My second play was born of a very different process. The concept for the play came to me out of nowhere, and I worked for a year perfecting a story that would do the characters justice. “The Basket Club” was difficult to write, it being a mystery within a mystery, but I’m happy with how it turned out. I am very grateful to Thomasville On Stage And Company for the opportunity to direct both of my plays. Many playwrights only dream of every seeing their shows produced, much less directing them. I do not take lightly how privileged I am to see my work brought to life.

Does writing exhaust you or energize you? How does it make you feel in general? -

I think at times writing can be exhausting. But again, it’s usually the plotting that gets tedious. When I finally let myself loose, just me and the characters in an empty room together, I’m enraptured. I can easily write for hours uninterrupted, feeding off the thrill of seeing the characters love and fight and paint the world around them. It’s thrilling.

How has your involvement in theater affected your writing? Specifically the plays you have written.

*Insert casual laughing for a few beats* My process has yet to be refined into a streamlined formula. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to that point, or if I ever want to. As of right now, I usually design characters first. I have a more natural inclination towards characters and dialogue than plot. The majority of my journey through writing a play is the tedious process of plotting out the story, point by point. And then what happens? And THEN what happens? If I could start a business designing fully developed characters and selling them for use in other writers’ stories, I would. But there is something very special and fulfilling in getting to see a fully developed story that you created from scratch.

When you decide to write a stage play, you are committing to telling a story nearly exclusively through dialogue. It’s a huge challenge if you’re used to writing pretty much

How have your personal experiences shaped your writing? -

anything else. Playwriting is unique, but incredibly rewarding. I grew as a writer, learning to design and build authentic characters who can use their words and general movements to convey exactly

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I think every character I’ve ever designed is a different version of myself. I think it’s impossible to separate one’s personal life from their writing, fiction or not. It’s a combination of expressing my own thoughts, feelings, and experiences through the characters. In “Our Collective Delusions,” I was the sassy daughter AND the frustrated mother, playing both roles, vicariously expressing different versions of my own flawed self. In “The Basket Club” I was the delusional detective AND the sensible nurse. They are all me. I get to live a thousand lives. I get to explore myself in every extreme imaginable, asking myself “What if I had done this?”

nearest to me, a character just waiting to be written. There are no rules. If I want, the person sitting across from me is a war veteran, a single mother, an unemployed acrobat. Maybe all three.

If you could write a letter to your younger self, what would it say? -

or “What if I never did that?” and just following that thread to see where it leads. Where do you find inspiration when you are feeling creatively blocked? - I find that classic literature and poetry have a tendency to jumpstart my creativity. The descriptive and wordy nature of most classic literature forces my brain to wake up, pay attention, and decode the lines of text in front of me. That attention to detail really helps.

Being a playwright, what plays (or theater productions in general) have influenced you? -

How have other mediums, like music or film, influenced you? -

Oh geez. There’s so much I would say. I’m learning to have grace for my younger self. After all, she grew up to be who I am today. But part of me really wants to punch her in the face and scream, “Get over yourself, you’re not all that!” I think the first thing I would write to myself would be, “Dear Joana, shut up. You do not know everything so stop acting like it. It’s ok to say, “I don’t know.” It’s ok to ask for help. Tell Mom you don’t want to get bangs after all.”

I grew up reading Shakespeare and Edmond Rostand. As much as I enjoyed the stories, I didn’t realize that theatre could be modern and relatable until I was in college. Studying modern performance art blew my mind, and I found myself suddenly awakened to an entire world of artistic expression that I had never tapped into.

A good story is a good story, whether that’s a Disney movie or the life story of a rapper told over a looping beat. If you’re looking, you can find stories in everything. I was 11 when I wrote my first “book”; a poor retelling of Little Orphan Annie. Nearly word for word. It’s hard to pinpoint specific films or songs that influenced my writing. I think having access to and an appreciation of art from an early age makes a huge difference in the quality of art you produce.

Describe your favorite place to write.

I love writing in busy coffee shops. I think there’s this misconception that writers have to be secluded, holed up in a closet, to produce good writing. But for me, being in a place alive with energy helps the creative process tremendously. If I can’t think of anything to write, I can just start describing the person

What is the most difficult part of the process of writing a script for a play? -

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Making the decision to kill a character. And it does feel like murder. This character you birthed and nurtured, developed and spoke through. The moment when it dawns on you that the most effective version of the story would be to end this character’s life... it’s the most difficult thing you can do.

I often revisit themes of family dynamics, motherhood, and coping with death. The illness and death of my father last year definitely gave me a new appreciation for the journey through grief. What opportunities have you gotten because of your writing that you wouldn’t have otherwise? - I had the privilege of being a resident artist at Studio 209 in Thomasville GA. That space gave me an incredible amount of inspiration and exposure. I’ve also had the amazing experience of teaching poetry workshops for local assisted

How would someone go about contacting you with any questions or job opportunities? What social media would you recommend people follow you on to keep up to date with your work? -

living facilities.

The best way to keep up with me is through my official Facebook page, Joana Russell, or my instagram @ officialjoanadrussell. I am also available via email: joanadrussell@ gmail.com

Did you have a teacher or mentor that helped you realize your love for writing?

My tenth grade English Literature teacher, Mrs. Cranford, was the first person outside my family to tell me I was a good writer. I knew I loved writing, but after her encouragement and guidance, I decided to pursue writing as a career.

Do you have any upcoming projects or ideas you would be comfortable sharing with us?

Is there any specific mission you hope to accomplish through your writing? For example: conveying a message or a cause you are passionate about.

What novel has influenced you more than any other?

I am really excited about a new series of monologues I’m writing. It’s classic fairy tales, but from a new perspec-

tive.

There are so many books that have been important in my journey as a writer. The most influential book I ever read was not a novel, but a memoir. The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom is an incredible story of one woman’s experience and survival of the Holocaust. It’s a story of courage and forgiveness and faith. I’ve read it thirteen times, and it still moves me.

My personal goal as a writer is to tap into the human experience. I want to find the common thread that binds all people together, regardless of barriers like religion, race, or socioeconomic class. What does it mean to be a human? That’s what I want to find out. In everything I write, I want my reader to be able to point to a character and say, “That’s me.”

Do you have any subjects or themes that are consistent throughout your work?

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an excerpt from the play

OCD by

JOANNA RUSSELL

Act I Scene 1 [The set is split, with a kitchen set on stage right, and a living room on stage left. The kitchen consists of an L shaped counter against the back and right walls. The counter has a sink against the back wall, and a clock and toaster on the right. Two sets of cabinets are mounted above the counters with doors that hinge on the right side. There is a dining room table with four chairs set up and left stage, diagonal to the counter. The kitchen is modest, belonging to a middle class home. There clean white curtains hanging over a window against the back wall, over the sink on the counter. There is a door just after the counter ends on the right wall that leads to the garage. Lights come up on Bernadette, Georgie, and Elizabeth sitting around the table, chatting.]

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Bernadette: Did y’all hear about Roberta May? She just got caught stealing an armful of dresses from one of the shops downtown. Elizabeth: Stealing? But the Clanton’s have plenty of money. Why’d she do it? Bernadette: [Shrugs] Who knows? She has always been so stupid, bless her heart. Georgie: Bernadette, you know she has problems. Her father was institutionalized back in the day, before they had modern medicine, both her children died at birth, she lost her house in the fire… Bernadette: What, did she give you her biography? Georgie: [Continuing] It was that car wreck that finally shook her up beyond help. I just feel sorry for her husband, always getting her out of trouble. Bernadette: I’d like to read that when you’re finished. You think I’m in it? Elizabeth: Can’t we lock these people up? Georgie: You’d be the one to ask. Elizabeth: I don’t work in that section of the hospital. I just don’t want thieves and killers running around our town. Georgie: Roberta May can’t kill a spider in her bathroom, what makes you think she’d be able to kill a human? She’s harmless. Bernadette: Just a few shirts short of a full load. Elizabeth: I still don’t like it. Bernadette: I saw her at church just hours before it happened. It

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just makes you wonder who else around here might have lost their marbles. Elizabeth: We should have more grace. They’ve been to hell and back. Bernadette: I hope she reserved a nice place for me while she was there. Elizabeth: Bernadette! Bernadette: Elizabeth! Hey Georgie, how’s Savannah doing? She’s finishing her junior year up at college, right? Georgie: Yes. I can hardly believe it. Elizabeth: Is she still dating that boy? Georgie: Yes, and… Bernadette: And what? Georgie: You promise you’ll keep this to yourselves? Elizabeth: Of course. Bernadette: The only people who know my secrets are you two and the Lord himself. Georgie: Well, she told me she’s about to… move in with her boyfriend. [Elizabeth and Bernadette gasp in unison.] Bernadette: Move in?! Elizabeth: I know you mean separate bedrooms. Georgie: I can only hope. Bernadette: Savannah’s still a virgin, isn’t she?

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Georgie: I certainly hope so. She’s always been a good girl, but she’s been so busy lately. I barely get the chance to say, ‘eat your veggies’ before she has to go. Elizabeth: But are they serious? Maybe they’re engaged. God doesn’t care so much about a ceremony as the commitment. Bernadette: ‘If a white dress hath yet to be worn, the Lord see-eth any touch as porn.’ Georgie: That is not in the Bible. Bernadette: Sure it is! Elizabeth: Where? Bernadette: Second Opinions. Look it up. [The three laugh good naturedly] Georgie: I hope Roberta got you a condo, ‘cause you’re gonna be down there a long while. Bernadette: It’s all about location, really. Something with big windows, a view of the Lake of Fire… Elizabeth: I’m praying for you both… Georgie, I’m sure Savannah’s ok. She’s a smart girl. Your family is well respected in this town. She would never do anything to hurt y’all. Georgie: I’m sure she wouldn’t… on purpose. But she’s still so young. Elizabeth: Have a little faith in her.

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Bernadette: Is she still working for the school newspaper? Georgie: Yes. She writes her poems and silly stories and manages to get paid. Elizabeth: That’s a liberal arts college for you. [Lights up on stage left. Savannah is at a desk, writing on a laptop as she dictates her words to herself.] Savannah: The apartment doesn’t look so bad. It’s not laid out as nicely as my old one, but I’m sure it will be fine. I hope Brandon will be happy now. This is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done… But that’s what people do for love, right? [Continues writing to herself] Jade: [Enters] Knock knock! Savannah? Savannah: Come in, Jade. Jade: Hey. Savannah: I’m just finishing this up. What’s a two syllable word that means ‘kind?’ Jade: [Crossing to Savannah] Crosswords puzzle? Savannah: Haiku. Jade: Should have guessed. [Reading over Savannah’s shoulder.] Umm, ‘friendly?’ Savannah: That’ll work. My next piece is due tomorrow. You got my boxes?

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Jade: Yeah, they’re all here. Savannah: Great, thanks. [They start carrying the boxes from edge of stage to next to the couch.] Jade: … Are you sure about this? Savannah: Of course. We’ve been dating for two years and he really wants us to take this next step… I think I’m ready for this. Jade: It’s nothing against Brandon, it’s just… moving in with someone is a big deal. [Pause.] You haven’t been to church in months and I’m just worried about you. Savannah: Jade, I’m fine. I haven’t given up on God. I’ve just finally made it out of that stupid small town mindset. Jade: You’ll call me if you ever need anything, ok? Savannah: I already do! Stop worrying, it’ll be fine. Jade: I saw your latest poem in the paper. It was really good. Savannah: Thank you, I was proud of that one. Jade: It was kind of dark though… I guess that’s part of why I was worried about you. Savannah: People like what they relate to, but since I’m being paid per entry I don’t always have time to dig deep. Besides, everyone knows art isn’t interesting unless it’s depressing. [Jade looks skeptical] It had nothing to do with me… honest.

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Jade: Well… ok. Is that the last box? Savannah: Yep! Thanks for helping. Jade: No problem. Have you eaten dinner? I was gonna go out. Savannah: Brandon wants me to eat with him tonight. Jade: He could come too. Savannah: Thanks, but I think we’re just going to chill for the night. It’s getting late, he should be back soon. Jade: Maybe I’ll wait around until he gets here. Savannah: [Strangely urgent] No it’s ok, I’ll be fine[Brandon enters] Brandon: Hey Jade, hey babe. Jade: Brandon. Savannah: Hey baby. Brandon: [Puts his arm possessively around Savannah] Thanks for helping my girl get moved in. We’re gonna check in for the night. Jade: You two have fun. [Hugs Savannah] Love you, girl. [To Brandon] Don’t keep her all to yourself. You’re not the only person in her life, you know. Brandon: I couldn’t lock this one up if I tried. Good seeing you. Savannah: See you soon, Jade.

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Jade: See y’all. [Jade exits.] [Savannah turns to walk to the couch. Brandon grabs her by the arm.] Brandon: You have something to tell me? Savannah: What do you mean? Brandon: ‘You’re not the only person in her life?’ Savannah: Babe, you can’t take everything so literally. She just meantBrandon: [Harshly] What did I say about telling me what to do? [Advances threateningly] Now, I’ll ask you this once: Is there someone else? Savannah: No. No, I swear. Jade just says things, you know how she is. Brandon: [Nods. Kisses Savannah gently] Let’s go eat. Wash your face. And change out of that god ugly sweater. Savannah: Ok. [Lights up on stage right, down on stage left.] Elizabeth: It’s getting late. I’ve got to make sure Cooper and the boys found dinner hidden in the oven. Those men are oblivious. I don’t know how they would get along without me. Bernadette: They wouldn’t. Georgie: I’ll see you soon, Liz. [Ad libbed goodbyes. Elizabeth exits.] Georgie: Do you want to stay for supper? William won’t be back until late which leaves me all alone… Bernadette: You’re not fooling anyone, Georgina Marie Foster. I know you

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love being alone. Georgie: Sometimes. But it’s been quite a bit lately. It gets old night after night. William has been working so much because he knows he’s close to that promotion. I wish they’d just tell him yes or no. I can’t stand this waiting. Bernadette: It’s not exactly up to you. Georgie: I know. But it seems unfair, even cruel to make him work without any hint of whether or not it’ll pay off. Bernadette: Don’t worry about it. What’s going to happen will happen. He’s not unhappy. Georgie: I think that’s what bothers me the most. He’d almost rather be there than at home with me. Bernadette: It’s because he knows you’re doing a fine job of keeping things running without him. Just let this play out. Georgie: I’m trying… You’re sure you don’t want anything to eat? Bernadette: No thanks, I’d better get home. [Stands to leave.] Georgie: You’re too thin. Bernadette: [Laughing] I surely am flattered, my dear, but that is simply not true. Georgie: It is! Look, I can see your collar bones. Bernadette: [Holding her arms over her chest in mock embarrassment. Gasps.] The shame!

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Georgie: Come on, I made lasagna. Bernadette: Get thee behind me, Pasta Devil! I want none of your deliciously fattening lasagna. Georgie: [Laughing] Bernadette, you are a mess. Bernadette: I know it. But honestly, I really do have to split. I’ve been neglecting my goldfish, and they’re expecting the latest news from around town. Georgie: Ah yes, of course. Please, pass along my greetings. Bernadette: I certainly will. [Bernadette exits. Georgie slowly stands, walks to the door and turns off the light.]

It’s nothing like Brandon. I can’t believe I thought that was love. I still don’t know what it is, but I think I’m learning. I see how Dad treats Mom, how Mom treats me… And how Charlie treats his sister. Why is it so easy to get caught up in these lies? It seems like everyone believes them. But I have a responsibility now. I have to show Faye how to love. I have to show her that there are people who matter and people who care about you. I have to show her that even in the sugar coated south, the people are genuine.

[Sits up straight.] God… I know you haven’t heard from me in a while… Please forgive me for… everything. Help me raise Faye to be strong and smart. Don’t let her make the same mistakes I did…. Amen.

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Photo by Diana Morris

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Interior Monologue NICOLE KELLY

Why are you talking to him instead of me? Oh right, it’s because I’m not worth your time. I’m sure you love him more than me. I’m sure you wish I would die in a fire. I will never forgive you. Stop. You are insane. He is straight. He is allowed to lose interest. You do not own him. Stop. He’s just a loser. He isn’t worth the effort. I’m sure he had his mind on some other girl this whole time. He’s the worst person in the world. Stop. Get ahold of yourself. Your mind is a frigging train wreck. Please focus on yourself for once. You need to get over this. Stop. Just stop.

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Samantha Arwood is a local muscian and artist. Most Friday nights you can find her performing at various restaurants in town. On other days you can find her brewing coffee or playing her ukelele for the dogs of downtown Thomasville. Richard B. Atkinson is a student at Southern Regional Technical College. Bryson Cape is an 11th grade percussionist at Cairo High School. He doesn’t do too much outside of studying and working. He lives is life day to day and tries not to plan too much because life doesn’t care about his plans. He likes to believe there may be something more around the corner to spice up his otherwise rather dreary life. Destyne Cason is a junior at Cairo High School and a MOWR student. She plans on attending Middle Georgia State College. She pans on majoring in Nursing and becoming a Pharmacist. Taylor Chason is a senior at Cairo High School. She is very reserved and observant and prefers not to be called on in class. She hopes to be a Psychologist but only in the lab. Skyler Collins is an 18 year old nobody who lives for tumblr aesthetics. Currently, she is a MOWR student attending Southern Regional Technical College, although she doesn’t actually attend classes on the college campus. She plans to attend Georgia Southern University to become a Graphic Designer because it is the only wat to become a Video Game Designer without disappointing her parents. Benjamin Ashley Gardner is a Thomasville Resident and local Poet. He is attending Valdosta State University for the graduate program in English. He has been a regular contributor to the Inkwell since its inception. One of his many arts in the community projects was transforming abandoned phone booths into moments of poetry by putting poseters with poems in them. Alexander Gomez is a junior at Cairo High School and a MOWR student at SRTC. After graduating from High School he is planning to go to UGA and major in Chemistry in order to pursue Pre-Med. Hopefully he will get his CNA license this year. He loves poetry with a passion and spends most of his free time writing it. Abigail Garcia is a junior in high school, currently 17. Plays in the Thomas County Central high school marching band, plays trumpet and poorly plays violin. Lives within a family of six. The family unit consists of a mother, father, older sister, older brother, Abigail, then ending with the youngest sister. She was born in Aiken South Carolina, but moved to the house she would grow up in. The house belongs to the owner of Rosewood Plantation, which is a job she always longed to have. Her father tried to provide it for her but, after much struggle, he was reduced to only working for the plantation owner. Abigail’s life is a happy one, growing up with more than enough love. Her style of writing abstract. She is a person who tries hard to fit in and gives too much information. Not awkward just silly, childlike, yet responsible. Enjoys being whatever age she is, but knows she still has a lot of growing up to do. Side note, she sucks at using computers.

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Anna Hester is a junior at Cairo High School. She reports the news and makes the morning announcements. Consequently she was always late to her 8am class. Anna is part of the Key Club, National Honor Society, Cairo Youth Council, FBLA, NSHSS and Student Council. She also cheers on the Varsity Cheer Team. Her duties to the community outweighed her duties to herself. Samantha Hicks is a spur of the moment go getter of life and a vet tech student at SRTC. Her life is revolved around animals, specifically her dogs Leonitis (a blue nose pit) and Stella (a Cardigan Welsh Corgi). Amanda Ivey is a senior at Baconton Community Charter School and a MOWR student who plans on attending the NASA extraterrestrial division of the FBI academy post graduation. Her hobbies include stamp collecting and miniature golf. Caroline Kelly is a 24-year-old native of Thomasville GA. Caroline deeply enjoys reading, writing, and listening to poetry. She is also an avid fan of the theatre and all things science-fiction/fantasy related. Caroline hopes to pursue a degree in English and minors in theatre and communications. Nicole Kelley is a library assistant at SRTC Thomasville. She is going to school for Crime Scene Investigation. She is an avid gamer. She loves Supernatural and believes in the paranormal. She may or may not be a huge Selena Gomez fan. Natalie Kinni is a senior at Cairo High School. She hopes to pursue a Law Degree at Georgia Southern and follow in the footsteps of the the family practice. Fro Leslie Larkin what started as boredom in 5th grade evolved into an intense passion for creating art. Art allows her to express herself in ways she cannot in words, and its calming effect keeps her in balance. She is a senior at Baconton Community Charter Schoot. Caitlyn Logue is a senior at Cairo High School and a MOWR student. After high school she plans to go to college and study Criminal Justice. Hunter Mclendon was born on a beautiful southern convent, same as Roxie Hart. He grew up under the dome of Christianity, jazz and liquor, where he learned to gossip, reach for the gun, and quit school at the age of twelve to pursue a career in the biz. Now, he works at Great Clips, and dreams of writing a tell all book about the infamous relationship with his mother, Joan Crawford. This is his first bio. Mollie Merritt has returned to Thomasville to pursue her Associates in Science. She can not properly wink and has a tattoo to remind her to hold her tongue. Diana Morris Child of God, woman with a purpose, Mother, Wife, Friend, photographer. She views the world as a magical, chaotic, land of dreams and imagination. She started out with limits, as a child she had a sever stutter, horrible allergies/asthma and issues with reading, later labeled as a sever dyslexic. She tends to be a bit socially awkward but strives every day to overcome her fears. She advocates for awareness of Mental Health issues, Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Rights, Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Rights, and Awareness of Abuse. She has 4 brilliant beautiful children. She uses her camera as a buffer between herself and the world.

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Sierra Paramore is a Veterinary Technology major at SRTC. She is kind hearted and loves animals. She doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand why the world is so cruel. Bridget Paramore is a senior at Cairo High School who enjoys art and plans on attending the University of West Georgia to become an Art Director. Aniyah Peters is a junior at Cairo High school. She plays power for the Lady Syrupmakers basketball team and does the long jump for the track team. She wants to be an officer in the Air Force and plans to enlist after graduation. She is 16 years old and 6 ft. 1. Noah Phillips he is a senior at Cairo High School and loves to read science fiction. Joanna Russell is a local writer and playwrite. She has written two stage plays and has produced and directed them with TOSAC. She has a dog, Ginger (Beans), who is the light of her life as well as a sugar glider named Basil. RSM is a local grafiti artist. Alaina Pope is a junior Move on When Ready student at Cairo High School. She wants to go to the University of Georgia and double major in biology and art, and minor in English. She is studying to become a Psychiatrist. She has a passion for oil painting and loves to read. Michael SeRine is a local photographer and former student at Souther Regional Technical College. He is very passionate about his work and is very tall. Gia Smith is a junior at Thomasville High School Scholarâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Academy. She plans to attend UGA and major in Pharmacy. She is the youngest of three siblings and she is proficient in Clarinet and Saxophone. She enjoys skydiving throughout the year. Tristan Tiller will be a 2017 graduate of Baconton Community Charter School. She has taken classes through SRTC and ABAC and intends on attending Valdosta State University in the fall where she plans to major in Arts and Design. Macie Wheeler is 17 and from Boston, GA. She attends Thomas County Central High School and the MOWR program. She hopes to attend Savannah College of Art and Design and major in Marketing and Art Education. She has won over 25 awards for her art. Caroline White is a junior at Cairo High School and taking MOWR courses. She hopes to attend UGA and major in Sports Medicine. Adam Womble is currenlty a student at Thomas Unviersity, soon to tranfer to VSU, and has been a part of the local Thomasville Art scene for decades. Jocelyn Wood is a junior participating in Dual Enrollment at Cairo High School. Once she graduates she aspires to attend either Georgia Tech or The University of Georgia to major in Biology and Pre-health.

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