The Vortex February 2014 Edition

February 2014

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CONTENTS | February

Fiction :

09 | True Hero,

04 | Sunsets,

10 | August Blooms, Rebecca Bennett 15 | Heart on a String, Katelyn Robertson

Elizabeth Gambertoglio 16 | Focus Focus, Emily Walter

40 | Neon Tiger,

Taylor Lea Hicks

Poetry : 13 | Trapped,

Erik Rivera

19 | When the Dead Walks,

Erik Rivera 22 | Woman on Cup and Saucer, Melody Swartzwelder 27 | der Palast,

Taylor Lea Hicks

Christopher Hall 14 | Figures Frozen, Julia Pistole 20 | Porcelain Elegy, John Beegle

28 | Sweet Land Beyond the Sea,

Candace Baker

45 | Galaxsea Turtle,

23 | Chai-talk,

25 | Heads or Tails, Emily Walter 35 | Grandpa’s Poem, Lily Garbow 37 | Love’s Fertile Soil,

James Hicks 43 | Beauty, Margaret McNeary

44 | Rivers and Dreams,

Zach Hughes

46 | Cataracts,

Courtney Ragland 47 | A LIE, Jessica Summers

48 | Her Little Lemonworld,

Jessica Avant

49 | Spitting Raspberries,

M. Elise Williams 54 | Innocence is a Blurred Line, Elizabeth Gambertoglio

56 | 11.25.13,

Justine Yatska 57 | 8-Legged Prayer, Candace Baker

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Art :

* - These pieces were voted Best of Web for this month.

Elizabeth Sneed 34 | Croc in the Tub, Erik Rivera 38 | Notre Dame, Elizabeth Sneed

Rebecca Bennett 51 | Old Bones, Alison Swanson 52 | Ice Storm, Sarah Irvin

58 | Fruit Punch*,

Katelyn Roberts, Erik

Rivera & Ernesto Peña 64 | Letter L,

Rebecca Bennett

On the Cover : 62 | Octoalien, Rebecca Bennett

Nonfiction : 12 | And for the Life of Me, I Can’t

Remember Why I Was Crying, Emily Qualls

59 | Cripple Genius*,

Emily Walter

Script : 30 | The Best Laid Plans,

Jordan Willoughby

Prose

STAFF | February

LITERATURE & ARTS thevortexmagazine.com

Fiction Poetry Fiction Fiction Fiction Fiction Poetry Poetry Poetry

Editor / Emily Qualls Editor / Christopher Hall Judge / Candace Baker & Poetry Judge / Emily Walter Judge / Tabitha Galbraith Judge / Alicia Brautigan Judge / Jeremy Wade Judge / Jordan Lapio Judge / Courtney Ragland

Media Editor-In-Chief / Taylor Lea Hicks Asst. Editor / Kayelin Roberts Layout Editor / Ashley Thomas Asst. Layout Editor / Ernesto Pe単a Copy Editor / Savannah Moix Asst. Copy Editor / Sara Cervantes PR Consultant / Sheldon Slinkard Faculty Advisor / Garry Craig Powell

Media Editor

/ Michael Tatum

Art Art Editor / Shane Hawkins Art Judge / Anastassiya Khvan Art Judge / Katelyn Spencer Art Judge / Marissa Brantley

Scriptwriting Scriptwriting Editor / Tre Sandlin Scriptwriting Judge / Isabella Evans Scriptwriting Judge / Michael Tatum Scriptwriting Judge / Rachel Glenn

Nonfiction The Vortex is the student-operated literary magazine for the University of Central Arkansas located at 201 Donaghey Avenue Conway, AR 72035.

Nonfiction Editor Nonfiction Judge Nonfiction Judge

/ Chase Night / Candace Baker / Elise Williams 3

Sunsets

Fiction Elizabeth Gambertoglio

My father once told me that our people weren’t always like this. My people didn’t always toil mercilessly under the Tutsi as their laborers. We never use to constantly subject ourselves to lesser treatment because of our heritage. We were strong and proud. And there was once a time when we held high places in society. When the Hutus came and obtained the land from the Twa, my people were regarded as superior and we spread our knowledge of farming and village life as a sign of mutual respect and a desire to help. But, that could only last so long.

Father told me that the Tutsi came in during a time of peace in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. They were strange, tall, and angry. Tutsi men came, bringing violence and destruction to the villages we had maintained throughout the years. They established a complex society of which they sat on top as nobles and we, the Hutu, became reduced to nothing more than cattle herders and workers. The Tutsi uprooted everything we had strived to create: a life where no one was considered a slave to another race, a life where people were equal.

Centuries passed in which we fell under Tutsi, German, and Belgian rule. Hutus continued to be more populous than the Tutsi, but, due to the fact the Tutsi controlled the power and wealth, we never escaped the chains of inferiority. No matter what we tried to do to change our status, the Hutus continued to be shot down, sometimes literally. The tension between our two races continued to rise, suffocating any chance of a peaceful delegation.

As I made my way toward my hut from a long day in the fields, I thought about all that had transpired in the past. Generations of my family trace back to when the first of my people came into Burundi. My father took great pride in this. He reminded my siblings and me constantly that we should also take pride in working and being a part of land we had inhabited for over 900 years. But, how could I take pride in a place where I have so little freedom? Even today, my people were persecuted and treated as insignificant next to a Tutsi. Who decided that a Hutu was less of a person than them? The reality of our situation angered me to no end, but to speak these thoughts would be blasphemy and treason, so I kept to myself mostly.

I entered the hut and greeted my mother who was preparing supper. She was bent over the grinding stones, looking tired and sickly. I hated to see her in such a state.

“Amashyo.”

“Amashongore Nadine,” my mother returned in Kirundi, brightening when she heard my voice. “How was your day?”

“Uneventful,” I replied.

“Ah, Nadine, you cannot go an entire day and not

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experience some kind of beauty to tell your mother about.”

My mother, Nadege, believed that even in depressing times as this, we must not let that stop us from appreciating the simple things. She had a personal connection to this, for, from the time I was born sixteen years ago, she had developed a disease in which her joints were failing and she couldn’t work in the fields anymore. She remained in the hut all hours of the day except Sundays when she went to church. Because she was stuck inside, I brought it upon myself to describe things I saw outside: the sky, the flowers, how the grass felt. It pains her to not be able to move around easily, for she loved being able to walk outdoors and work in the fields. She did not complain though, saying God doesn’t give his children anything they cannot handle, and saw her disease as an opportunity to spend more time in prayer. She fervently believed God would not let allow horrid things to pass and thought He would not permit things becoming totally dismal, for He is a merciful God and would not abandon his people. She honestly presumed I agreed with all I had been taught in church and all she believed, but, for years now, I had come to my own conclusion that God had truly deserted this land, for no God would subject His children to this level of unfair, unequal treatment.

Before I could respond to my mother’s statement, my two brothers, Claude and Thierry, rushed inside. They were tall and handsome, dark-skinned and with dark eyes.

Much like my father. Claude was much more muscular than Thierry, but Thierry was the charmer, and many girls fancied him.

“Amashyo mother,” they both said.

“Mother,” Claude started, “where’s father?”

“Still out in the fields,” she answered.

“What’s he still doing there?” Thierry asked. “The sun’s setting, which is our sign to return home. Nadine is even home instead of with her companions, like usual.

Father is always the first of us here.”

“If you wish to know,” I inserted, “Father wished me to tell you he’d be home late tonight. He said he had a meeting with the Hutu delegates.”

The silence following my words was painful. The last time a meeting was held with Hutu delegates, many Hutu were arrested and kept in prison under charge of treason and trying to overthrow the government. It was done without any proof that this judgment was true. After a time, some of these men found themselves to be executed.

This act of the Tutsi government stopped any further plan, if any existed, to actually stage a coup. I remember being confused why some of my father’s friends were locked away when, in my young mind, they committed no crime.

“Dāta, what did they do wrong?” I had asked.

“Well, umukobga, they did nothing wrong. They are the only ones who believe in what is right. And, it is because they believe this, in equality, that they are put away.

Because those in power do not believe in what is right. They believe in power and its seductive charm. And, since they think this, they will continue to maintain that power for as long as they can, by any means necessary.”

His answer did not settle my confusion, but only brought more complicated questions I could not understand. If those in jail believed in what is right, why was it they were locked up? What was the reason Tutsi hated equality? Why was power so revered? What did Father mean by ‘any means necessary’?

As I grew over the next three years, those questions answered themselves. A government corrupted by ethnic differences and ruled by those who could care less for equal opportunity was no proper government.

“Nadine, you are sure your father is participating in this meeting?” My mother asked, the concern clear on her tired face.

“We walked to the edge of the village together, Māwe. He parted ways with me after explaining he had pressing matters at Yves’.”

My family knew Yves to be one of the few Hutu men who acquired a government position. He had tirelessly fought for a place in the system in order to convey Hutu concerns and opinions in the overwhelmingly Tutsi administration. He and thirteen other men had slowly inserted themselves to speak on behalf of our race and society. For the past four years, they never had a successful endeavor on our behalf. Yves and the other officials were becoming restless and irritated by the Tutsis who overran all their ideas and suggestions due to the fact they were merely Hutu. Rumors had spread around the village that Yves, the thirteen other officials, and a few selected men from many villages kept meeting in secret to discuss staging a new and improved revolt.

“Well,” my mother said after a moment of panic, the color draining from her features, “we will just start dinner without your father tonight.”

I helped my mother finish preparing a meal of porridge and cassava. It was truly a chore to prepare meals.

One must wash, pound, and strain cassava to separate the flour from the roots of the cassava plant to be able to make the bread. Sorghum must be ground in between two stones to make a fine enough powder for porridge. With my mother and me working, the meal was ready to be had within the next hour.

My mother, Claude, Thierry, and I all sat on the ground together to enjoy our supper. We shared stories and made each other laugh. When my brothers began telling tales of their adventures while in the fields, I felt myself starting to relax. It was a relief to listen to them speak about things other than the problems facing our people. I knew they were avoiding the subject for my mother’s sake. She constantly worried about my father’s involvement. Father continually brought up our people’s situation at suppers.

The building pressure within our village was reaching an all-time high. I could see the unease for my father weighing

down on my mother when she clutched the rosary hanging from her neck tightly during these moments. As if God would protect him from the evil lurking around corners.

My brothers were good story tellers. I loved listening to them, especially when I was younger, and they would tell me tales that I could fall asleep to. They are my best friends and were my favorite playmates when I was young.

As far back as I can remember, my brothers and I teased each other for fun. It was common in Hutu culture for families to be extremely close-knit and friendly. My family rarely kept secrets from each other, for if we could not confide in our family, how could we confide in anyone else?

I loved my father, my mother, and my brothers more than I loved anything. And I would have sacrificed myself for them without question.

I’m not sure how many hours or even minutes passed in the company of my mother and brothers before my father walked through the door. We all stood and greeted him, my mother more slowly and achingly than her children.

“Amashyo father,” Claude, Thierry, and I said.

“Amashyo Egide,” my mother spoke softly.

My father nodded in reply to all of us, looking worried and anguished. He ran a hand over his tired, gaunt features. His tall stature and broad shoulders made him intimidating, as well as his lean muscles from working the fields and tending crops for over thirty years. His hair began to gray. And, I noticed his hands trembling. For the first time, I saw my father as fragile.

“Come eat,” I prompted, serving a bowl of porridge and cassava bread for him.

Father sat and took the offered meal. He slowly ate, savoring each bite. This was most unusual for him. Father usually gulped supper in a stupor, starved from the day’s work. We all waited in silence until he finished his first helping.

“More?” Mother asked gently, unsure of what was troubling Father.

“No.” His reply was stern, authoritative. “Nadege, Nadine, please retire to another room. I must speak with Claude and Thierry privately.”

“Egide, surely there is nothing to be kept from mine and your daughter’s knowledge.”

“Go. All will unfold itself tomorrow.”

It was not a suggestion. I reached for my mother’s arm, and we sluggishly made our way out of the central area and into the back room where we could not hear what was happening behind our backs.

------------- I woke up the next morning feeling feverish. Before I had dropped into a fitful sleep, I recalled my father approaching me to kneel and plant a loving kiss upon my forehead. My father rarely showed such signs of affection, and I could not bring myself to respond in fear of breaking down in hysterics. In the deep part of my consciousness, I knew what would come to pass today. Even without my father or brothers saying anything, the actions taken spoke much louder than the silence.

I rose from my bed and walked toward the common area. My father and brothers were standing close to each

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other, whispering things that were not to be made known to me. Not yet, at least.

“Bgakeye Father. Bgakeye brothers.”

The three men hushed their talk and turned to me.

Whatever was to pass, I knew it was nothing good. A single look from the group in front of me confirmed it. I could see the fear in my father’s eyes and the excitement in my brothers’. Their appearance otherwise did not betray them.

“Nadine, is your mother awake?”

“I do not know Father. Has she not begun to prepare breakfast for you?”

“No, and, if she has not, do not bother her. Let her rest. Your brothers and I will be able to feed ourselves elsewhere.”

“Father” I began, but the rest of what I wanted to say caught in the lump in my throat. Don’t go! I wanted to scream. It’s not safe! But, I knew he would reply,

“No, but, my umukobga, it is what is right.”

Instead, I walked solemnly forward and gave each of them a tight embrace. I held on for as long as I could before I felt the begging filling my throat. I knew I had no place to ask for them to stay, to avoid going out and committing the acts I feared they would. My heart hurt with every pulse, and I felt physically ill when I kissed each of them on the cheek.

“N’akagaruka, ku-gomwa,” I spoke, barely able to get the sounds out.

The three of them returned my love and walked out of the hut without as much as a glance behind. I stood rooted to the same spot, staring out after them for what seemed like an eternity.

“Have they gone?”

The sound of my mother’s voice snapped me from my thoughts. I turned to see her wrapped in her cloth blanket, hunched over more than usual, black sags under her eyes. It was evident she slept as little as I did, and her face hid none of the pain she felt.

“Yes.”

Mother’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Then, I shall pray more.” She turned and retreated back to her mat. I did not have the luxury. I ate what was left of the cassava bread and made my way to the fields.

Most of the men did not show. The women worked with a higher determination. We doubled our efforts in order to reap the same amount of profit as any other day.

With each hack at the grains, I imagined the worst for my family. I imagined my father and brothers being killed. I did not know for sure what was developing, but, from all the rumors that circulated, I could only assume the most obvious answer. A coup.

I didn’t think that it was the only way to bring about change, but, as a woman, my opinion hardly mattered in the presence of men. I valued a peaceful approach.

And, since the only thing I could figure was taking place was an uprising, I imagined death and, with each of my heart beats, I envisioned my father’s or my brothers’ no longer pulsating. I wondered if we would be successful.

If the Hutus overthrew the Tutsis, would our life be any better? Would there be a significant change? Would the Hutu culture finally be appreciated? We had the masses to create

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a significant difference in a fight, but we lacked experience and military training.

I worried all day about the safety of my family, the chances of victory, and the chances of defeat, but tried to silence my thoughts through vigorous activity. It hardly worked, but, before I knew it, the sun had started its descent, and it was time for me to make my way home. I gathered the grains I had collected and brought them to where they got stored. I knew I should head home, especially since my mother had been left to herself all day, but I couldn’t bring myself to walk in that direction.

Instead, I made my way to the top of the hill behind the fields. I sat down and looked up into the sky. The sun was just dipping below the horizon, and the reds, oranges, yellows, and purples exploded in an array of colors. The sunset was a canvas recreated, repainted every day in new combinations of colors to be enjoyed. I leaned back and took in the masterpiece given to me this afternoon. The mixture of hues touched me in a way I didn’t understand, and I allowed myself to shed a few tears before I wiped them from my face.

I laid there until the stars first began emerging in the heavens. I knew it was foolish of me to stay that long, for my mother would probably have had a panic-induced attack since I hadn’t returned on a day like this. She might have even thought I left to join my father and brothers.

Reluctantly, I rose and hurried home.

When I got inside the hut, it was silent. There was no food prepared, and my mother was nowhere to be seen in the common area. I began to worry. Did my mother attempt to go somewhere or come find me? Was she stranded somewhere, unable to get up?

“Mother? Mother!”

“Nadine, please quiet.” My mother’s response was so low I barely picked up on it.

I followed the direction I had heard her voice. She was kneeling on a mat in her room, rosary in hand, whispering prayers. I wondered if she had moved since I left this morning.

“Mother, have you eaten?”

“Not now, Nadine. I must keep praying. I must. I must,” she kept muttering, swaying slightly.

“Sit, mother. I’m sure God won’t mind your prayers in that position.” I helped her onto her backside and went to go prepare dinner. When I returned with food, she had not stopped praying. I handed her the food, and she set it aside. Sighing internally, I sat next to her and helped her eat. Once she finished as much as she allowed me to feed her, she leaned back against the wall, exhaustion taking over. She fell asleep on my shoulder, and my eyes found the rosary clutched between her fingers. I couldn’t help but question why she had such firm faith. After all our people have been through, after the horrible circumstances we’d been subjected to our entire lives, how could she not doubt that God existed? I wanted to know what that felt like, to have a rock upon which to stand.

I reached for the beads and held on to the crucifix hanging there. “God,” I opened, feeling slightly foolish, “i-if you are really there, please hear me. I don’t know what to think. What to do. I could really use your help.” My voice

trembled. “My father and brothers are away. I-I’m afraid I won’t see them again. Please, oh Lord, please bring them back to me, to us, safely. Bring all of our men home safely. I know I haven’t been a good follower, and I’m sorry I doubted you in the past, but you haven’t exactly shown your mercy that my mother always talks about. But, I’m willing to forget and I’m willing to let you back in. Just please, tell me what to do and bring them back in one piece.”

In closing, I made the sign of the cross and laid my head on top of my mother’s. Soon, sleep overcame my body.

------------- A hand gently shook my arm until I passed from the dream state into reality. My gaze focused on the face looming over of mine. Claude knelt in front of me, covered in dirt, grime, and, to my horror, blood. And, yet, he was alive, and I felt elation.

“Claude!” I jumped up and threw my arms around him.

I looked over his shoulder to see my father standing looking grim. He too was covered in mud and blood. Claude pushed me away, sadness in his expression. Both of their expressions. My mother stirred when Father walked over and shook her tenderly.

She cried out in joy and attempted to stand, but Father pulled her up and held on to her. I then understood the depressed facial expressions.

“Thierry?” I croaked, already knowing my answer.

My father shook his head, and Claude looked at the ground. The sound that came from my mother broke my heart into pieces. She fell, but didn’t hit the floor because Father caught her. She wailed and wailed, atrocious noises escaping her mouth. I watched in horror, my emotions racing. I was full of sorrow for Thierry, heartbroken for my mother, pained for my father, depressed for the future, and angry at the Tutsis. These emotions I felt brought another question to the surface in my mind, and I blurted it out before I could stop myself.

“Did we win?”

I was greeted by silence. Terrible, terrible silence.

Except the whimpering sounds coming from my mother.

“We killed thousands of them, Nadine.” Claude’s hatred filled the void. “We killed tens of thousands of those monsters. Even if we didn’t succeed in our goal, it doesn’t matter. They know we are dangerous. They know we will stand up for ourselves . . . I swear, I felt so much pleasure in shooting—”

“Enough!” Father commanded, cutting off Claude’s tirade. “We shall not speak of this. Do you not see the state of your mother? Help her, Nadine. Claude, do not talk of this anymore. I do not want to hear you talk of it. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Grieve with your mother and sister. We must put Thierry’s body to rest. We must put this coup to rest. We must never utter a word about it, for it could mean our lives.”

Father left, sorrow prominent on his face. I didn’t know where he was going and I felt such pain for him. He lost his son. Claude and I lost a brother. My mother lost her treasured child. It was a day I never wanted to remember,

but I couldn’t ever forget.

------------- A week passed before they came. My family had had time to put Thierry to rest, though we weren’t able to recover his body. A funeral was held in our church, and many people attended. We lost quite a few men to the cause, and a general service was held for all the souls that lost their lives. It was only three days before my family fell back into its normal routine.

Father, Claude, and I returned to working in the fields. Mother, though broken, resumed cooking meals, even though I had to help more often than before. At least she was not taking to her mat and not being of any use at all. We ate supper together every night, but hardly had things to say to each other. We all missed Thierry’s charm, his wit, and clever tongue. No one dared to bring him up, for it would fling us all back into that manic state of depression the first few days held. We acted as if he never existed, though he most certainly did in our minds. He was always present in mine, joking and laughing, as he always did.

No one in the village talked of the coup. We feared an utterance of what had transpired would bring hellfire upon us. We had taken a stand, something treasonous, and failed to successfully hold our ground. We flailed and met too great of a resistance to our resistance. Many Tutsis were killed, even a former umwami died in our efforts. But, it was fruitless, and, for our actions, the Tutsi believed we Hutus needed to be taught a lesson of our own.

It was late the day when they came. Mid-afternoon.

I was still working in the field while everyone took a break.

I brought a papaya with me to eat, having lost most of my appetite the last couple of days since the return of my father and brother. I hacked away at the plants, not seeing what I was really doing. My mind lately continued to run away on many tangents that always resulted in me on the precipice of tears. I was thinking of Thierry and the fact that he would never be able to marry any one of the many girls who desired to have a family with him when I heard the screams.

I turned to look toward the village, less than a mile or so away. I saw people running around like cockroaches when exposed to light. And, then I saw them.

Military men with guns. Heavy artillery, pointing and shooting whichever way they deemed fit. The continued pop pop of pistols and the sounds of machine guns filled the air around me. I watched in utter horror as I saw my people being massacred before my eyes and I was unable to move or tear my gaze away. Even from that far, I saw the blood of my people flowing upon the ground. The uniforms of the service men, the government insignia burned themselves in my retinas. Tutsis, coming to extract revenge upon my village. Destroying my home.

I detected the fires before I heard the explosions.

Grenades, the men were throwing grenades. Fires materialized in groups everywhere. Spreading, consuming hut after hut. I saw men dragging my fellow women by their hair and gunning them down in a public display. Blood and fire, consuming everything, filling up my vision.

My body reacted before my mind. I curled over and vomited what little breakfast I had been able to stomach earlier that day. It hurt. Everything hurt. I stood back up,

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only to see my father, brother, Yves, and other government officials being led by gunmen toward our market area. I feared they were going to be taken to other villages to be murdered publicly, made examples of what happens when you try to shape things in your favor. My feet began running before I could understand what I was doing. I couldn’t allow myself to idly stand by as my people and my family were executed. I ran toward them, not able to bear for another second to know any more of those I loved were going to die. I couldn’t watch it either.

“No!” I yelled.

Before I made it completely out of the fields, I tripped over a body lying at the edge of the village.

“Mother?” I gasped, the air hardly filling my lungs.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I was overwhelmed.

“Nadine,” her voice was hollow and commanding, something my mother rarely was. She kept me low on the ground, struggling to still me. I saw she was shot, the blood collecting around her stomach, and I screamed. I tried to help her up, to help my father, to help my brother, to help anyone. “No, you cannot. They are lost. You must understand it.” She was crying, sobbing. Words hardly passing through her lips. “You cannot go to them; you must let them go. You must let us all go. Run, my child. Please. Run. I cannot watch all of you die. Live, live for us. Go to Tanzania. It is safe there. Please.” She thrust her rosary into my hand. “I prayed for you earnestly since the day your father and brothers left. I knew, you see. I knew it would come to this. God told me. I accepted it.” The words leaving her mouth cut me deeper than a knife. She was telling me to abandon my family. The people I would die for. The people I couldn’t live without.

“No, no, Māwe. No. I do not listen to what you are saying. I can’t. I can’t.” I was crying, tears flowing down my cheeks.

My mother looked at me with such sadness.

“Yes, my umukobga, you must go. Live for us. Live for your people. Live for your family. Run and do not look back. Pray, pray that God will keep you safe.”

“God has no place here,” I cried, pointing at the atrocity before us. My village was in waste. Nothing, I would have nothing to live for. I wanted to die with my family, the rest of my people.

“No, not here, but here,” she pointed to my heart.

“Keep Him there, and he will keep you safe. Keep us with you in your survival. Do not stay. I forbid it. Now run, child!

RUN.”

I took the rosary, stood, and ran. Tears were pouring down my face. I would honor my mother’s dying wish.

I would honor my father and my brother. I would live for them, for those I saw die before me. My friends. My neighbors. I would pray. Pray that the future brought peace and no more death. I would pray that those who fell this day would not have died in vain. I would pray for the Hutus to be equal to Tutsis.

My whole being ached. I’d lost everything I held dear in a week. I was numb. I was a machine, one foot after the other. And, I made a promise to myself in that moment.

I would fight against power. And, I would fight for what I knew to be right.

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I ran until I couldn’t anymore, and, when I turned to look back, all I saw were pillars of smoke against a purple, red, and orange sunset.

True Hero Charcoal Erik Rivera

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August Blooms Digital Photography Rebecca Bennett 10

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And For the Life of Me, I Can’t Remember Why I Was Crying Nonfiction Emily Qualls

I came to life in a storm. Surprise, Mom. Nice to meet you. But, I don’t remember that. There are years and years I don’t remember. But, what I do recall could fill a hundred stained glass windows with green and gold, endless fields, cathedral forests, and sensations of softness and warmth, fearlessness and freedom. I was raised on Bibles and spring water.

And then—

Are you aware of Sin?

I am.

Can you feel Shame?

I do.

Classrooms, classmates, and learning how to lie to survive. Bibles, Shame, Sin, Change, and then—

A bath in the baptistery and “Daddy, is there time for me?”

Times change. Life becomes loneliness. Mama’s gone off for a job (she’ll come back, but it doesn’t feel like that and sometimes it feels like she never did, and don’t tell Mama that; she thinks I’m well-adjusted.). We will meet on weekends and holidays, and I will wish we didn’t. Sissy becomes someone else and won’t come home anymore. From that moment, I will never again see the person my sister was. Daddy is a paragon of virtue, a synonym of Shame. Home is not the shelter. Home is the storm that lives, inescapable.

The best friends in the world are dogs and cats and strangers, less tangible creatures.

And then—

Do you know what Death is yet?

I do. So, I hide in books and stories and make worlds for myself to exist in that tell of tragedies with happy endings and girls who have friends and pain that goes away.

Hello, God? Are you there? I haven’t seen you in a while. Hello? God? Can you hear me?

Times change and nothing stays the same. Age makes an alien of me then, but I am still so young. So, I check out of the planet. I came back in a storm, but I really try not to remember that much.

My sister is a dead thing wearing a familiar face. She smiles a familiar smile, and I smile and say

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to myself IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou and never say it out loud, though I tell myself I will.

Do you know that love and hate can exist hand-in-hand?

I do. So, I know what it does to a person for both to live in one heart. I do. So, I live a lie for my mother and father because I don’t know how badly two people can break.

In my home, I am a stranger to myself – a girl who still speaks to God, a girl who doesn’t open her legs, a girl who doesn’t have to drink in order to breathe without fear. Mother says all families suffer. I wonder why we don’t all suffer together, but I return to my awayfromhome without saying so and look for others who suffer, since we all do.

My mind is a bowl, never full and impossible to empty. I cannot start again. I suffer. I am myself and I am all people and I can see that, and you can see that. So, you and I can be friends and intellectual lovers. We can hide as strangers suffering alone together, aliens come back to Earth to say,

“Here I am. Nice to meet you. Would you like to read my stories?”

Trapped

Poetry Christopher Hall -March 2004 - Hospital day 3In a stainless room trapped Naked under the cold disposable gown Cameras recording set to me all day and throughout the night

drinking pissing shitting

out everything into a small prison style toilet with a sink Nurses probe me coldly checking the pads on my shaved chest

seeing if the too many glued sensors wired to my brain are working.

Itching and smelling after days of just sitting Embarrassed

I feel no longer human

they allow no food only water.   -March 2004 - Hospital Day 4Not eating only drinking

along with days of no sleep

causes a stressed body a Mind feeling

the flashing lights, the swirling colors

stomach moves the Kaleidoscoping world falling into hot burns of acid flashing across my nerves with an animal scream

pain pain confusion nothing hands tubes words nothing Nothing—

faces foreign lights questions in unknown words The cold the naked

nurses holding me Mr. Hall

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Figures Frozen Poetry Julia Pistole

Carving figures out of stone An artist with his knife Shaping forms of lovers And bringing them to life Tools upon the marble Chip away and break the mold Working day and working night Making love and making gold He saw the first kiss The first real touch The first time he said, “I love you, so much�

Her first excitement Her first small fear Her first heart's question Her first heart's tear He built a love, Built love to stay Carving beautiful figures . . .

Until the day His work was done He dropped his knife And the lovers entangled Had lived their life For once it was built This love which had grown Was stripped of its heart And frozen in stone

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Heart on a String

Photo, Watercolor, Ink, Paper Katelyn Robertson 15

Focus Focus Fiction Emily Walter 10/12/11 Friday

Have you ever felt like you were in a state of perpetual anxiety or, at the very least, locked into a pattern that greatly influenced you? I can’t seem to put my finger on it, but all I know is that tears should not form this easily, not at the sound of the slightest pessimism or half-baked insult.

Why is this happening all the time? Why am I falling into these states of complete detachment, the kind that resemble the silences unintentionally borne by catatonics? I don’t understand it, God damn it. I do not understand where these moments are coming from.

Sorry. I should get a handle on myself. No use documenting these questions right now. Typing them like a jackrabbit at my desk may get them out, but it certainly reveals no answers and it brings me no step closer to figuring out how to heal myself. Just breathe a moment. Breathe.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Don’t get riled up over nothing.

Don’t let your throat close up like that. Don’t sit there and cry like you’re doing.

Anyway, I best start this properly, though it may bore anyone who reads it to tears –maybe not, you never know – and say that, during the course of this self-prescribed treatment, I’m going to write down how I’m feeling and maybe try to figure out why things are happening the way they are. I don’t know if it will work. I don’t know if anything will get accomplished. And, hell, it’ll probably hurt a lot worse before it gets better. But, I need to try something. I’m tired of feeling sad all the time. I’m tired of feeling weighed down. I want to feel young before I’m not a teenager anymore.

I could just really use a break is all I know.

10/15/11 Monday

Dr. Schulman told me to write Jake a letter today after our second session. I guess I see the merit in this, but, holy shit, do I not want to do it. It won’t actually be sent because she feels I’m not ready to make contact with him yet – in my mind, I was saying “if ever.” I know that and have no problem with it. I’m still angry with him. I’m clearly still upset about it. And, I’ve only dealt with it in a way of not dealing with it at all – by submerging it deep in my head and turning it into a little a chapter in my history that bears no influence on my personality but is still there like a shadow you pay no mind to.

Just today, I was sitting in a chair in front of Schulman’s, and she had me talk to an empty chair as if Jake were sitting right there. Granted, I thought it was awkward

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and weird, but I humored her nonetheless, only to find out that that exercise is harder than it looks, to the point where it felt shameful to tease about it. But, in the opposite effect, it felt like a sin to even broach the subject of my business with Jake into the open air.

I talked to the empty chair with an immensely calm rage. In fact, I was much more comfortable performing the act than I am right now typing it out. I spoke in that matterof-fact voice that seems so typical in my family when we’re talking about subjects that spring vulnerability.

I don’t even remember really what I said, something to the effect of “I wanna cut off your dick and shove it in your mouth,” the type of angry venting you’d expect from someone in my position.

Dr. Schulman was actually happy about my reaction – “completely normal,” she said. “It means you haven’t been stunted emotionally so as to think in the same way as you did when you were a kid, and it had just happened. You don’t feel guilt about other people knowing what he did.”

Not a direct quote, honestly, but who the hell is reading this anyway? It’s not like I’m a famous case study or some shit.

10/19/11 Friday

Same old, same old, I guess. I meant to type yesterday, but I wasn’t interested for some reason. It didn’t feel like it would do anything to help at that particular moment.

I’m not even in the mood to type words, just random fragmented nouns or verbs signifying the giant confusion I feel in my fogged up brain. Jesus, you’d think I was on anti-depressants by how cloudy it is in here!

Jester hover fucker mother lover oh my god I’m so in love with unbelievably fucking hot horrible mass-produced influxes of crazy undeniably crazy sensory detail lodged like an iceberg in my soul . . . sigh to myself and my huge urge to scream the most profane absurdities of the English language. Focus Focus Focus Focus Focus Focus Focus

On a not-so-insane-looking note, I’m going home this weekend. This is a good thing because it gets me out of this damn college town for a few days and it gives me a chance to make up for getting drunk in front of the family last week. Admittedly, that only happened due to a misplaced judgment on my part. I should have written down everything I was feeling in that first entry – no bottling up because explosions happen that way.

That’s what these entries are for in a way – especially if bottling things up leads to red and white wine being my only friends and confidants.

10/20/11 Saturday 12:07 a.m.

Monotonous fucking elevator music, mind-blowing like a Pollack painting.

Not that that has anything to with anything, but who knows? Maybe I’ll use it for a line in a short story in the future.

9:24 a.m.

Madness burns through me. hearts love Once in limited amount— bling passions of Incinerating

Numb with the ram-

fireflies

I wish my mother wouldn’t do that. I wish she wouldn’t seem so cold when I need her to be comforting.

She and my dad get so damn distant when things like this happen. I tell her about my session with Dr. Schulman when I’m on the verge of breaking down crying, and, when I hug her hoping for some much desired relief, she recoils (with a lot of subtlety, but there nonetheless) and demands answers of what is wrong. Nothing like being accused of being vulnerable and forced into the position of the probed.

I’ve never felt so much resentment for my mother in my whole life, and it hurts to type those words now because she’s been a great mother in all the time she’s been mine.

She’s always been there for me and so have my dad and my brothers, especially John. She never has had to ground my brothers or me because she and my dad raised us to be good and fearful of his yelling matches that we can never win. Nothing makes you more afraid of screwing up than a father with a big voice. Or maybe we were just raised to know how to take care of ourselves better than most, not having to be told to follow rules? I don’t know.

When it comes to matters of dealing with John, all of his physical issues and taking care of him, both she and him are out in the open and ready to handle things. But, when it comes to this “closed” matter, it’s a question of why is this being brought up now. I can’t see myself getting over that adverse reaction she had. It felt alien and wrong to me. I would have been patient had it been required of me in her position. It’s not my fault these things with Jake are suddenly coming back to bite me in the ass. Nobody knows how to disown and ignore nephews better than them – you’d think we’d never heard of anyone named Jake and the crimes he committed as a teenager, years younger than me right now.

I remember that same distance back from when I was eight. I had just told my dad what Jake did, and he had left me sitting in the lawn chairs we had been using to sit outside. I was left to wonder if I was in trouble. They called me into their room later with both of them sitting in their chair across the room – my dad in the seat, my mom on the arm –while I stood alone at the door. That distance burns in my memory more than anything they said after I entered the room. I believe it was something in the way of “Jake

did something very wrong, and we have to tell the police.”

Major paraphrasing, but it was a long time ago. Of course, at that point, I felt like a snitch and nothing was right anymore.

But, I know they love me. They love me as much as parents should and more. I can depend on them for anything else – I can handle this alone. I just wish they had done things differently originally. It would be nice to have some support.

Maybe just being physically there is enough? A friendly environment to come home to? I don’t fucking know, in case anybody couldn’t guess.

10/22/11 Monday

I’m not really facing my problems. I’m typing and typing and I’m not writing anything that’ll help in the long run – just those short-term issues, like the times when it feels like my brain is shutting down and I feel too numb to even sit up. Dr. Schulman noted it today in our session that I’m willing to talk about Jake, but only in small amounts and only to her. It’s to be expected, I suppose, the rate we’re going. Our rapport is getting better and, I’m starting to like her more. She beats the psychologist I had in Delaware who only ever played Uno with me. I felt she only contributed to the theme of burying things deep, the kind that appears omnipresent most days.

102311 tuesay Timid…...fragile……sensitive…..weird….crazy…. talks to herself….awkward ….slow….crybaby...bitch…loser.. insane..worthless.stupid.spoiledlazybrat i hate your fucking guts you are such a goddamn fucking loser I wish you would just fucking die. You are worthless and in direct need of a fucking wake up call. SHUT UP!!!!!!!! Please God prove that you love me cause I need someone who accepts me and wont judge me. God help me I just wanna get over this. Im tired of filling up my eyes and leaving tear stains on my bed.

somebody please help me somebody please notice please please jesus fucking hell i cant do this anymore im so tired 10/26/11 Friday

I am drunk off my ass.

11/03/11 Saturday

Flowing asphalt poured through my shadow “Coat Mule” i.e. coke mule

11/04/11 Sunday

I saw Kayla today, which was great, because I hadn’t seen her in three or four weeks. She goes to a college

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about ninety minutes away. We had a long talk about Dr. Schulman and Jake. She understands. She gets it, certainly better than most. It was awkward at first. I had to get past it and just admit why I needed to talk and if she wanted to talk about what she thought. I told her it was helpful for me in a way, that she should consider going to see someone. She could use it, especially more than me. Her parents don’t know, and it haunts her in her nightmares. I’m lucky in that way. Had burying those thoughts been a real option for me, my parents could have protected me with silence and time. They tried to, but nothing remembers trauma better than a person’s physical body.

I looked him up today on the Internet. Apparently, he’s twenty-six and lives in Frankford. Not married, no kids. I don’t know about his criminal record, though. I’m thankful he has no children – safer for them if they’re never born. All I can say is that I’ll be there if he ever does it again to anyone else.

I’m not quite sure if I’m getting better. I’m trying to not feel shitty all time. I’m really trying. Helps to watch Shrek or Homeward Bound if things get too heavy.

11/06/11 Tuesday

I met a guy today. He’s half Jewish, half Vietnamese, and he’s from Brooklyn – big talker, but real sweet.

We met at a poetry reading of all things. He drinks a lot of coffee because he’s trying to quit smoking and he’s not used to someone so guarded. We’ve got a date tomorrow.

11/08/11 Thursday

I might only go to a few more of these sessions with Dr. Schulman. Sure, they’re free, but I feel I’ve gotten all I can out of them. Nonetheless, if “Dr.” wasn’t in her title, I might have called her a friend. I’ll miss her by next semester – she made a great Williams to my Damon. Oh, I’m a nerd.

11/11/11 Sunday

How coincidental it seems that it’s November 11th.

This guy is falling at my feet and hasn’t even tried to sleep with me yet. I feel like I’ve known him longer than five days and I must like him a lot to have forgiven him so quickly for causing me to almost fail my Bio test last Wednesday (First date in four years: I was bound to get caught up and study half-assedly.). I shall proceed with caution, as I always do, for my walls are thick and I pray they stay at a healthy balance somewhere between paranoid and naïve, as life has taught me prudently until now.

11/12/11 Monday

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Atypical depression: Self-diagnosed. Case study.

...

02/14/12 Thursday 1:13 a.m.

Jared just told me that he loved me tonight. He tried to play it off like an accident, but I can always tell when he’s lying. He didn’t give me a hard time for not saying it back – he didn’t really say anything really.

I don’t know if I love him back. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever love someone the way he loves me. I almost don’t want it to ever happen.

When we have sex, my eyes go dead, and I don’t feel anything. My mind goes absolutely numb, and it’s like he’s making love to an inflatable person.

I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Schulman for tomorrow. I feel worse than ever and I can’t stand it.

This is not easy.

I’m repeating myself.

I don’t know what I got out of all of this except an open can of worms. I shined a light on something and put it away thinking nothing about what would come later.

I don’t think I wanted to heal myself. I wanted to make it not matter. But, how does something like this not matter?

Maybe I shouldn’t focus on it so much. Maybe I should keep talking about it. Maybe I need to make myself happy in some way. Maybe I need to save myself myself.

If only I had gangrene instead – that I could just cut off and call it a day. If only, if only.

Maybe I’ll find out just what I need eventually, maybe soon, maybe later.

Maybe soon I’ll be okay again.

6:34 a.m.

I will fight to maintain that vigil until the day I die.

When the Dead Walks Watercolor, Pen, Ink Erik Rivera

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The Porcelain Elegy Poetry John Beegle I. A dream to her dreamer: I love you in this repeating play with the words hung and ready for me in the air . . . you catch them like you know them before you take them in and as much as I wish them to be like never known or said I’ll stand to have them pressed, at least, by your hands to a beating chest. But in these walls as we play at being gods of one mind at least consider and try to find that all manner of things shall be well.

At least, at least. That all manner of things shall be well.

I love and don’t understand. Always.

II. i painted a girl by the name of Cecilia.

She wouldn’t smile until i gave her a canvas with white roses on a grey stone wall and a white dress for them to fall against like her chestnut hair in ringlets about her neck. and though She beamed in front of me on Her little oaken stool i could not, She would not let me, put that smile upon Her painted face. oh, here and now She begged for that smile, was angry even, but on that canvas and in my head no no nonono not on this little world She needed that displeasure known. and so grew Her worlds until they filled up mine the walls the floor the closets i am a cleric to it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living G-d and She is a merciful G-d. create me. virgil iam afraid i am iam

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III. 1,000 ships in a draining sink and the water even I cannot drink with my inked fingertips that only drag them further under and turn all they touch to tin.

Pactolus, my hands are starvation and I cannot find the way. I cannot even summon this faucet-stream and I fear the rust has taken her white hands that break away in the breeze.

All manner of things shall be well one mind, like gods.

Is my depth of roses?

IV. These four walls are stuff of hornandivory and I smell a Stygian breeze there is fog outside this cracking wall shapes like men scratching heads and calling names as if their halves would run into their arms.

But nothing came except the fog and I felt myself peeling paper away and pushing through the gate and she, she needed to come with me but the walls were gone and her voice left on the fated wind and the red flakes snowed upon my brow and I knew the sound of weeping all manner of things shall be well.

We are gods and all manner of things shall be always.

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Woman on Cup and Saucer Ceramic Melody Swartzwelder

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Chai-talk

Poetry Candace Baker Chai

Chai

Tea

Latte

Light water, extra milk.

Tea More Chai, little coffee.

Chai

No water, low fat milk.

In every form,

fiery

and

sweet.

Sweetly this drink comes to you Not for your forgiveness because it swivels d o w n past the tonsils to your

cooled stomach

She don’t need you, she can do bad all by herself (snap!)

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ALL BY HERSELF her spritzy,

steamed

Coaxes you into Starbucks, into the starred have misbehaved, she pleasures you

fresh, tanned body

bucks you go and when you

No sounds but loud as ever and it’s the filthy secret between you two.

Two more Grande Chais, no water, extra milk please.

She doesn’t need you. But she is needed by you.

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Heads or Tails Poetry Emily Walter

The church choir on Hickory sings on persistently, but only in the memories of old men and their wives— once the road that led everywhere, now feeds cows and their babes, and the town that lived and lost many breathes no longer = Like the Tasmanian tiger, you are extinct, and Like her, you died through no fault of your own, and Like Blanche Evers, you are merely a picture here or there, and Like all tales of woe, only Fate herself wins at the end of the day, and That is that The faith, the joy, and the love is solid as a stone in the antiqued minds of these long-settled emigrants— yet one coin must have two sides and always there was Blanche and the story of the ghost in the long black trench coat = Cortez killed Montezuma and brought down the Aztecs— Railroads built towns wherever they went and left them dry when done— Families are murdered in their homes and then no one will buy them— Little Blanche is killed by a nameless man and her town evaporates— That is that Rare are the children who possess the hearts of naïve saints, for never was there a prayer for her that came from herself; always the suffering who had her prayers – even that man, who became personified Sin to those who had daughters = Snow White sleeps in a world of experience, where the woods are unseen and untraceable and the prince longs for a pleasure of sort that takes children to overreached levels of intimacy and reaps them of the precious treasure that all snakes lust for – and never are they waked— That is that Nothing saddens the soul more than a dead lamb, as Blanche was the oldest mind in the sweetest of hearts who never carped, cried, or moaned over her humble living of toil and hurt, one with bad luck and a mother who showered in the blood of steers— hard living with prayers sung for by the voice of a choir and brutal endings that fit no child of any kind = The man who was a ghost and

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the girl who is a myth— The choir who praised God and the people who knew Wrath— The countdown of one-by-one and the families who sequenced it— The years that never stopped moving and the atrophy that ceased a community— The elegy that hides behind better memories and the select few that remain to hide such sad songs— I’m afraid that is that.

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der Palast Photo Taylor Lea Hicks

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Sweet Land Beyond the Sea Photo Elizabeth Sneed

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The Best Laid Plans Script Jordan Willoughby FADE IN INT. APARTMENT HALLWAY -- MORNING A white bedroom door rocks in its frame as the sounds of CRASHING and FALLING emanate from the room. JAY bursts from the room, looking around frantically while talking to his friend, ANGELA, on his phone. He is a Caucasian male, college student in his early twenties and wears nothing but a pair of dark blue jeans.

INTERCUT BETWEEN ANGELA AND JAY ANGELA: Jay you need to hurry up and get here! It's almost nine, and Professor Stonewall is about to start class and take up the thesis papers! You know that if you don't turn it in you can't graduate?

JAY: Crap! Crap! Crap! I know. I didn't mean to oversleep, but I was up till five finishing it and went to rest my eyes and overslept. You think you can stall him?

ANGELA: I'll try, but no promises.

JAY runs into the bathroom and hurriedly retrieves a toothbrush from a drawer. He begins to brush his teeth as he runs into his kitchen and pours himself a bowl of Coco Puffs.

JAY: Thanks. You know, you are a true friend.

ANGELA: Yeah, I know.

INT. COLLEGE BUILDING HALLWAY -- MORNING ANGELA ends the phone call and sports a mischievous smile as she looks at a sheet that shows the GPA of everyone in the class. ANGELA’s name on the sheet is in the very last position, with JAY’s name above hers.

2.

EXT. APARTMENT -- MORNING JAY runs down the stairs of his apartment and sprints toward a group of short buses lined up and driving off. He stops the last bus in line just as it is about to drive away. He BANGS on the door.

JAY: Hey, wait! Let me in!

BUS DRIVER: Sorry kid, can't. We're all full, and I gotta get going.

JAY: Look man, I really need to get on campus, like right now. So, can you just let me on now?

BUS DRIVER: Please step back from the door.

JAY: Fine, ya dick.

The BUS DRIVER violently opens the bus doors and angrily stares at JAY. BUS DRIVER: What did you call me?

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JAY: I called you a dick. You dick.

BUS DRIVER: Now you listen to me you lil' asshole. No one talks to me like that!

A group of young men comprised of JOHNNYCAKES,the leader,BILLYTOPS,and LIL' LOUEY, all dressed and speaking as if they were 1950’s GREASERS. They over-hear the argument from the back of the bus.

BILLYTOPS: Hey, boss, I think that guy over there is hasslin' the bus driver.

JOHNNYCAKES: Not if I have anything to say about it. Come on boys. Let's go set this mook straight.

The GREASERS move to the front of the bus JOHNNYCAKES: Hey, you hasslin' the bus cat?

JAY: Me? No this asshole just won't let me on the bus. Wait, who are you guys?

GREASERS: We’re the Greasas, the most open-minded group of cats you'll meet on this side of the Mason-Dixon!

JOHNNYCAKES: And we want you to apologize to the bus driver.

BILLYTOPS: They play a vital role in the community and deserve your respect and admiration.

JAY: Whatever, you damn greasers.I can't waste anymore time here.

JAY points at the BUS DRIVER. JAY: Fuck you. I’m out.

JAY begins to jog down the street while looking at his watch.

JOHNNYCAKES: Nuh uh, that mook ain't gettin' away. Come on, fellas!

The GREASERS begin to chase JAY down the street. They sprint after him until JAY notices that he is being chased.

JAY: What the hell do you guys want?

JOHNNYCAKES: We wanna beat the tar outta ya and make you apologize to the bus driver.

JAY: I’m not doin' any of that shit!

The GREASERS chase JAY until they are within arm’s length of him. JAY looks behind him and jumps onto the spare wheel on the back of a passing Jeep.

JAY: See ya, bitches!

The Jeep stops at a red light only a few feet away. JAY and the GREASERS awkwardly stare at each other for seconds until the Jeep begins to move again.

JAY: Like I said. See ya, bitches!

JAY rides on the back of the vehicle until he gets a call on his cell phone from ANGELA. ANGELA: Jay, when the hell are you gonna get here? I can't keep stalling. I’ve already yelled fire three times, and it’s getting less funny each time.

JAY: Okay, I’m on my way . . . just keep stalling. Flirt with him if you have to!

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ANGELA: You want me to flirt with our seventy-nine-year-old, Filipino, stroke-victim professor?

JAY: As a last resort. Wait . . . What does him being Filipino have to do with anything?

ANGELA: Nothing. I can't stand their smell for a pretty long time so I shou-JAY: Jesus Christ, Angela! That's incredibly racist! Like sickeningly racist.

ANGELA: Whatever, Dr. King. Just get here!

JAY hangs up and jumps from the tire of the Jeep and rolls to the ground. He stumbles and then sprints toward a three-story building. He comes to a stop in front of the two entrance doors. He slouches with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

JAY: Finally, I made it.

JAY is suddenly punched in the face and falls to the ground, clutching the wound.

JAY: What the hell? Who just punched me?!

JAY looks up from the ground and sees the shadowy figures of the GREASERS. JAY: Damn Greasers. How’d you get here? How’d you even find me?

JOHNNYCAKES: Uh, we took the bus. You know, the one you were too much of a douche to get on?

JAY: Okay, that actually makes sense.

JOHNNYCAKES: Yeah, it does. And now we're gonna beat the tar outta ya for being a disrespectful mook.

JAY: Come on, you guys. You're a bunch of forward-thinking guys. You can't just go around beating up people who don't agree with you.

JOHNNYCAKES: It's not 'cause you don't agree with us. It's 'cause you acted like a child and insulted the bus driver. If you act like a child, you get treated like a child.

BILLYTOPS: Wait, boss. It sounds like you're about to say we beat children.

JOHNNYCAKES: No, no. I’m saying we beat people up who act like children.

BILLYTOPS: 'Cause we can't beat up actual children?

LIL' LOUEY: I beat children.

JOHNNYCAKES: No, we beat up cats that act like children! We have not nor will we beat up any ankle-biters!

BILLYTOPS: Yeah, but what if we have some secret desire to abuse children that drives us to beat up childish mooks?

JOHNNYCAKES: No, look, you're overcomplicating this, okay? We do the things we do 'cause . . .

As the GREASERS continue to argue, JAY sneaks away and enters the building. He sprints down the hallway, dodging other students as he runs. JAY stops in front of a classroom door with a note taped to it.

JAY: "Class has been canceled . . . Turn in papers online before the end of class." What the hell?

JAY finishes reading the note and confusedly looks left and right. ANGELA walks out from behind a nearby pillar while laughing maniacally.

ANGELA: Hahaha, you idiot! You’ve fallen right into my trap. It's too late for you to turn the paper in. So. Now.

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You. Gonna. Fail.

JAY: You gigantic bitch.

ANGELA: Call me what you want, but you're still the dumbass that’s gonna fail!

(CONTINUED) JAY: Wait. If we had to turn the paper in before the end of class, and I was already late . . . why did you call me and get me to come here? I mean, I would have already not turned it in if I had been left alone.

ANGELA stares at JAY with a look of confusion.

JAY: And, if you were here from the start, did you even have time to turn in your paper? Did you even write your paper?

ANGELA: Ummmm . . . Fail! You’ve failed, you retarded retard! Hahaha!

ANGELA continues to laugh as JAY stares blankly with a face devoid of emotion. JAY turns around and dazedly walks back outside to the group of still-arguing GREASERS. JAY: Hey, Greasers. That girl in there is a racist and said she hates all public service workers of color.

JOHNNYCAKES: Come on, you cool cats. We're gonna go take care of this stupid dame, then we're gonna get this mook.

BILLYTOPS: We’ve decided that we don't discriminate who gets a beatin'.

The GREASERS enter the building and encircle ANGELA. ANGELA: Who the hell are you idiots?

JOHNNYCAKES: Oh, just the people who are gonna teach ya a little somethin' about equality and respect.

As the GREASERS crack their knuckles and stretch their necks around ANGELA, JAY walks away from the building.

FADE OUT

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Croc in the Tub Oil on Canvas Erik Rivera

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Grandpa’s Poem Poetry Lily Garbow

She is born in March of 1992 and he is there to greet her.

His calloused hands cradle her tiny body so gently.

His heart grows larger, opening a special spot just for her.

She cannot remember this, but it was so.

She grows fast as the beginning years pass.

The visits, far between, are always cherished.

The crunch of gravel wakes her and he is there to greet her.

Sitting in that brown folding chair, between the two brown garage doors.

His calloused hands grab her up and swing her around.

She barely remember this, but it was so.

She bounces in her seat, waiting for the turn and that exquisite crunch of gravel.

He is there to greet her.

Sitting in that brown folding chair, between the two brown garage doors.

His calloused hands wrap around her, hold her close.

She remembers this, exactly as it was so.

But It lingers inside him, biding its time.

Remission.

Thriving on false senses of security.

She was too young to know of this, but it was so.   It rears its ugly head again.

Malignant.

And whispered words are passed from tongue to tongue, words she does not understand.

Words she refuses to remember, but they were so.

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She sits with music in her ears, feels the turn, does not hear the crunch of gravel.

He is not there to greet her, not sitting in his brown metal chair, not between the two brown garage doors.

She clasps his calloused hands, no longer strong enough to lift her up or clasp her back.

She does not want to remember this, though it was so.

She sits in uncomfortable clothes on an uncomfortable pew in uncomfortable silence.

He is there but cannot greet her, lying within the satin.

The monster’s intentions finished.

She feels strange as she sits through the words.

They press no meaning on her ears.

Not sad but not angry, mostly just empty.

Until she glares at his hands crossing his chest manicured the dam breaks the torrents shroud her and drown her.

She cannot forget this, how it was so.

Moving through her life, still young.

He greets her every morning, warming that special spot in her heart.

Just for him.

His calloused hands cradle her, lift her up, cheer her on, wipe away her tears.

Though she cannot feel it, it is always so.

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Love’s Fertile Soil Poetry James Hicks

Words to viviparous love; bear me sweet.

Give birth in your soil of fertility, the blades of green grass to bring ends to meet made one being by nature’s amenity.

The seasons change; the autumn moon’s glisten invents a surreal feature of romance.

Grass of green converts into grass golden demanding from friends one ultimate glance before finally freezing all over a gentle white like fallen mid-day cloud —A bed soft for the lighthearted lover.

Do not let the winter begin to shroud The tanned fertile soil we once knew before That bore well the love we once knew galore.

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Notre

Pho Elizabeth

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Dame

oto h Sneed

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Neon Tiger Fiction Taylor Lea Hicks

On Monday, March 26, two new animals arrived at the St. Louis Zoo. Zookeeper Larry Post was at the receiving dock, ready to unload the big cats. He went about his task clumsily, this being his first integration. The cages were lowered off the truck and onto the menagerie floor. The felines were safely tested for any signs of stress or disease. Larry checked the items off his list in between taking frantic phone calls from his pregnant wife. Under his observation, Sebastian and Luna were securely lured into their new habitat.

His job now done, Larry went about his daily tasks hurriedly. The director was coming at the end of the week, and he was up for review. Between this and his wife’s impending due date, Larry was burning the candle at both ends.

On Friday, March 30, Ted Sanders, the zoo director, arrived at the St. Louis Zoo. He went about the zoo as he always did, inspecting and marking on his imposing check board. By the time Mr. Sanders reached the new exhibit, Larry was practically dizzy with anxiety. Ted Sanders wasn’t known for being understanding, and Larry couldn’t afford any more mistakes.

“Afternoon, Larry.” Mr. Sanders nodded to him.

“Hello, Mr. Sanders! It’s good to see you, sir.” Larry hastily shook his hand.

“Sure.” Mr. Sanders wiped Larry’s sweat off on his pant leg. “Let’s see the new cats then.”

“Right this way, sir.” Larry led the way through the zookeeper’s entrance into the back of the observatory glass, stopping to watch the two masses of white fur as they slept beside each other. “Cute, ain’t they?”

“Larry, what is this?”

“Uh, the new cats, sir. They seem to be adjusting nicely.”

“Yes, but what are they doing together?”

“Um . . . they’re sleeping, sir.”

“We don’t cage a white Bengal tiger with a white lion! They go with their own damn species!” Mr. Sanders was spitting all over his check board.

“But . . . but, sir, they came in on the same truck!”

Larry Post was fired on Friday, March 30, but, by then, it was too late. Luna and Sebastian were removed from their holding habitat and placed in exhibits with their own species. But, fifteen weeks later, Ted Sanders was called back to the St. Louis Zoo for a rather unusual circumstance.

On Friday, July 13, Ted Sanders arrived at the St. Louis Zoo, his inbox full of frantic voicemails from the zookeepers begging him to “Get down here, pronto!” and “Hurry up!” He clicked the DELETE ALL button on his voicemail and entered the veterinary clinic. Immediately, he was bombarded.

“Ted! Thank God you’re here.” Vicky Anderson, one of the senior zookeepers, rushed up to him. “We don’t know what’s going on. Well, we think we do. It’s just so strange . . .”

“You’ve got to take a look, Ted. It’s the darndest thing!” Brad, another zookeeper, waved him over.

The vet, Dr. Garner, called to him, “Mr. Sanders–”

“ALL RIGHT!” He threw up his hands. “Just show me.”

He was led into one of the surgery rooms, where lying on the concrete floor was Luna, the white Bengal tigress.

She was panting and her eyes were closed, but otherwise nothing appeared wrong.

“What’s she doing?”

Vicky replied, “Well, that’s the thing. She’s going into labor. But, she hasn’t mated with any of the male tigers.”

“Are you sure?”

“We keep very close tabs on all of the mating rituals. We like to be prepared for something like this,” Dr. Garner answered.

“Perhaps it happened while you weren’t watching,” Ted snapped.

“That’s impossible,” Vicky replied. “We’ve got cameras on them 24/7. Unless−”

“Larry,” Ted finished for her.

The zookeepers turned to Luna, who, at that time, slowly stood up and moved to the corner, growling at the zookeepers when they tried to approach her. They were forced to back away into the next room, peeking around the corner to watch her. She became so fierce that even that became dangerous. They were beginning to worry about the safety of the cubs when suddenly a squeal was heard. Vicky glanced around the door, gasped, and dashed into the room, the other

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zookeepers close behind her.

Luna lay dead on the floor, her body flat and dull. But, the only thing possibly more interesting than the lifelessness of Luna’s cat body was the single, tiny cub that lie beside it. As big as an adult human’s palm, the cub lie curled in a ball, its eyes still closed. It sparkled in the fluorescent light, shining so radiantly in so many different colors that there was only one name for what it was.

“Why, it’s neon,” Vicky said. “A neon tiger.”

“Where did it come from?” asked Dr. Garner.

“From Luna and Sebastian,” Vicky replied. “It’s their cub.”

“How in the world . . .” Ted trailed off.

“I thought it was supposed to be a liger,” Brad said.

“Maybe it’s another kind of hybrid,” Ted offered.

“That’s no hybrid,” Vicky smiled. “It’s a miracle.”

The neon tiger was given its own exhibit and raised under the strictest security as the prize of the St. Louis Zoo. Animal specialists and experts came from all over the world to see it, not to mention celebrities and anyone who could afford it. The neon tiger shined a different color for everyone who saw it, which gave rise to a debate about what the tiger’s colors meant about the viewers. The zookeepers who cared for the neon tiger, who took to calling him Neo, secretly thought this was a joke he liked to play on his audience since he typically shined all the colors for them. Neon, they called it. He shined neon.

Six months later, on January 13, a Sunday, Ted Sanders was interviewed once again in front of Neo’s exhibit about the strange circumstances of his birth.

“So, Mr. Sanders, tell us again how Neo came to be.” The reporter shoved his microphone in Ted’s face. He grabbed it out of the reporter’s hands and straightened his tie, smiling at the camera.

“Well, it’s a fascinating story, really.” Ted stepped closer to the camera, pushing the reporter out of frame. “We always strive for excellence and innovation here at the St. Louis Zoo, and those were the ideals behind my experiment to breed a white Bengal tiger and white lion hybrid. It’s never been attempted in the U.S. before, so it was a slim chance of success. But, I’m a risk-taker. This time, it paid off.”

The reporter managed to take the microphone back. “Well, you could certainly say that. I’m here at the St. Louis Zoo with director Ted Sanders, the genius behind Neo the tiger cub. Back to you, Mandy.”

Later that night, Ted Sanders was awarded by the Board of Directors at a banquet in his honor. He received a plaque and a generous bonus check.

The next Wednesday, the 16th, Larry Post revisited the St. Louis Zoo for the first time since he was fired to visit the neon tiger. He’d heard the stories and wanted to know what color the tiger would show him. He waited until almost closing time when the exhibit was clear and the street lamps illuminated the tiger to him. He walked up to the fence overlooking the enclosure and peered over, searching for the famous tiger.

Craning his neck and leaning over the railing, he gazed at the beautiful creature. It yawned at him from inside its enclosure.

“Hello, Larry.” A voice from behind made him jump, almost falling into the habitat. He turned, leaning on the fence.

“Oh, Mr. Sanders! You scared me.”

“You looking for Neo?” “Who?”

“The tiger.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“What color he show ya?”

“I think it’s a bright orange,” he turned back around to continue looking. “I don’t suppose you know what that means?”

“We just feed the thing.”

“Didn’t think so.” He turned back to face Ted again. “Is it true, what they say? Is he really neon?”

“He’s whatever color he wants to be. But, I suppose he is neon sometimes.”

Larry whistled. “I wish he would let me see him like you see him. A sight like that would make life worth livin’.”

“So, how’s life been anyhow?”

“You mean since you fired me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

“Not so great. My wife left me after I couldn’t find another job zoo keeping. Took the baby and everything. A baby girl. Chloe. I eventually found work as a janitor down at the local high school. Been doing that ever since.”

“Good to know you found something.”

“Yeah, I found something. You know, whatever happened to those two cats I misplaced, Luna and whatshisface?”

“Well, Luna’s dead, Larry. Sebastian fathered a cub.”

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“Ah, well, sorry to hear about that. Guess you were right in firing me. I was so excited about this job, too. Suppose I just didn’t have it in me.” He turned around and gave one last longing look at the tiger, then turned back to Ted. “Well, I guess that tiger will be here if I need him. I’ll see you later, Mr. Sanders.” He walked past Ted, who continued to watch the exhibit.

“Yeah, see you, Larry,” Ted said.

The neon tiger growled inside its exhibit. Its feline eyes watched Ted as his gaze flitted across the habitat, searching for the tiger that was always black to him, blending in with the falling shadows.

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Beauty

Poetry Margaret McNeary I have no sea blue eyes sun blond hair bronze tan skin No grass green eyes Fire red hair Freckle kissed skin No almond shaped eyes Ebony key hair Flawless skin I have these mud brown eyes Dirt brown hair Paper white skin But my smile can be pearls My cheeks roses My eyelashes slim black flutters Sometimes, those smiling times My eyes are chocolate drops My hair a velvet chestnut mahogany tangle And my whole self, a beautiful version of me

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Rivers and Dreams Poetry Zach Hughes

I read Ruminations, Rivers I to III and thought about dropping out of law school.

I’d rather go back to that old, rocky bank, sit with my bare leather feet in cool, rushing waters. I read Revelation and Psalms 23 and thought about goin’ back to church. So many names forgotten, nights under a dimly-lit moon, tired in beds I can’t sleep in. My own room revisions, when I wake from dreams. I was a poet who passed the time watching clouds, constellations, women; trying to capture silhouettes of wishes, passions, memories with my pen.

Upstream this swift river lay dreams I stay lost in.

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Galaxsea Turtle Printmaking/Watercolor Rebecca Bennett

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Cataracts

Poetry Courtney Ragland The old word for waterfall Is ‘cataract,’ and I can see them now In my mind’s eye, a thousand sparkling drops At a time, descending Craggy rocks grown sleek – crystalline The sound of rushing water comes Entire moments after the sight— An afterthought, like breathing— The sun shines with a more brilliant lustre As it makes jewels of the dewdrops On the emerald bank Men pass through, women as well To drink and be refreshed at the pool As a deer might, or a fox Only the race of mankind cannot abandon here Their woes and wearisome knowledge The trees notice The cataract crashes on They come and depart again, unlike animals, Pulling along their shadows— Barely leaving footprints as they pass— Speaking of invisible burdens and of love The ways of Man are not to be understood – the trees decide I quietly agree, their roots being so deep In my mind, they are as I am The cataract crashes on

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A LIE

Poetry Jessica Summers a wise man once told me when life gives you lemons don’t take that shit get mad. make lemon grenades because anyone who thinks they make good presents to begin with are probably there just to piss on you and your good graces anyway. problem is that same gentleman hung me upside-down, out to dry transformed me into some ghost in the machine against my will. so fuck your lemonade. i’d much rather have cake.

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Her Little Lemonworld Poetry Jessica Avant

I sit here in my lemon head.

All is nice and bright outside.

Wet and bitter within, harsh.

Sometimes I can't stand the taste. Other times it's right.

It's too cold for lemonade. It seems so out of place right now.

I just flavor fish and chicken.

Nice cuts for the carnivorous.

Thick and hot, ready to eat.

Squeeze a gallon out of me and we are set for life. Good luck with that, though. There are more of me out there with bright smiles and curvy shapes. Be careful picking.

How many does a gallon take? Does anyone know if lemons are ever considered? Lemons aren't in a bunch like that phallic fruit. They are alone for a reason. Zesty freshness.

We are all the same I suppose, lemons.

Sitting on the stand, pressured into something pleasant for cheap. Artfully sweetened to quench throats in heat.

I've been known to leave an aftertaste.

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Spitting Raspberries Poetry M. Elise Williams

Bababaaa!

Porcelain skin, sparkling hazel eyes Big Buddha belly, smile of an angel Six new teeth and ticklish feet A laugh, a bath-time splash and a camera flash Always spitting raspberries Smashing raspberries Bababaaa!

A fruit-infused splash in a blinding flash Blink. Blink. Innocent eyes In no time at all, back on those feet The center of attention, precious angel There goes my angel, Looking for raspberries Shaky steps on wobbly feet Bababaaa!

Adventurous eyes Growing up in a flash Gone in a flash Where is my angel?

Devilish eyes, The color of raspberries Bababaaa!

Stomping feet Jump to my feet, To hell and back in a flash Bababaaa!

Anything to bring back my angel Spitting raspberries Demanding eyes A sparkle returns to those eyes, A happy little dance returns to those feet At the sight of my peace offering: raspberries A fruit splash and in a flash Sour to sweet, that’s my precious angel Bababaaa!

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A camera flash, blinded eyes and dizzy feet There’s me and my angel, Spitting raspberries.

Bababaaa!

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Old Bones

Pen and Ink Alison Swanson 51

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Ice Storm Photo Sarah Irvin

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Innocence is a Blurred Line Poetry Elizabeth Gambertoglio Taken in before he was a man accused damned sentenced to oblivion No one listened to the cries of the innocent Surrounded by the dead all decaying inside he found hope in the impossible knowing there was no such thing as impossible Words things most precious to him in jail were stripped from his side thirty-five percent seized under the arbitrary statement of “we’re tired of seeing you on TV” But when hope is embedded in you you cannot give up he cannot give up the stars and snow and grandmother’s house memories keeping him sane

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Time was absent in prison Christmas was the same as the fourth midnight interchangeable with noon a blur an eighteen-year seventy-eight day blur Still when freedom came he could put the past where it belongs behind buried deep but visible enough to influence the future

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11.25.13

Poetry Justine Yatska he holds on to that little ring tighter than he holds on to me. their names engraved on the inside; unremovable. like the memory of her in his head like the memory of her in his bed the memory that I cannot possibly live up to. when he thinks of her I can see it on his face. his eyebrows do this little anxiety-filled furrow and the corners of his lips curl down into a slight frown. the glow I once saw in his eyes gets torn down like the trees in the woods behind my house where we used to spend our afternoons.

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8-Legged Prayer Poetry Candace Baker I wonder if spiders pray; their two front legs clasped together, all eyes shut just to concentrate on their spirit. Do they pray after they’ve ventured from their family to roam nervously on high walls of concrete and plaster and wood? Or do they pray that they are invisible as they crawl across white carpet or tile in front of gigantic creatures, specifically built of the female sex.

I wonder if spiders are Christian, or Catholic, or Jewish, or atheist.

And if they pray, “Jesus, where Spiderman?” or “Allah, why they scream loud when they see me?” Do spiders pray when they’re being sprayed with insecticides or squished by boots, just before melting into a tiny ball of legs?

I bet they curse after their artful traps for food have been spread across the face of the gigantic creatures, erasing a full day’s work.

I’m sure that spider prayed before I drowned it with the hose.

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Fruit Punch

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Acrylic Paint February 2014 Best of Web Katelyn Robertson, Erik River and Ernesto Pe単a

Cripple Genius

Nonfiction February 2014 Best of Web Emily Walter

Ray, the little bastard that I call my brother, is enjoying every second of this interview, not because it gives him a chance to once again be interviewed for his unique story and the accomplishments that fill it, but because I do both a terrible job handling it and I stumble over my words in hopes of finding a decent question to ask him. Then again, it may be less of a mischievous pleasure and more of a contented one in that we are finally talking for the first time in a while.

“Ah, c’mon. Ask me something good,” Ray says.

He eats dinner back home in Clarkridge, while I sit in my apartment in Conway, twiddling with my pencil and staring at the near blank page in front of me. Ray is on “speaker” on the other end of the phone, eating pork chops at the kitchen table while our parents watch some movie in the living room. I can picture him sitting there in his wheelchair, wearing extra large sweatpants and a coffee-stained T-shirt, with lengthy facial hair covering his moon face.

“At least ask me something I have to think about,” Ray continues. He only has so much time before he has to get back to his graduate-level Algebra I problems, which are well beyond me. I’ve already asked him about the move to Arkansas from New Jersey – mostly initial awkwardness that he quickly got over upon settling in – and how he felt about leaving all of our relatives. He replied that he didn’t have many feelings toward them and didn’t really miss them. If he was going to blow an hour of his busy work schedule, I had best get a move on.

I finally got one. “How would you describe your three days in sixth grade?”

Ray snorts. “Boring! The classes were too easy, and the kids were too immature. And, I think I only spent two days there, and most of it was spent with Mr. Anderson.”

He is our junior high counselor and the first school-official-anything to fully acknowledges Ray’s potential.

“Was he worried about you moving up to eighth grade?”

“He was only concerned about the English classes since the junior high had no intermediate English classes. I had to be in seventh-grade English for a while before I got moved up. I was at the top of my eighth grade class when I got there. Wasn’t too hard.”

“Wow, you’re so humble. I’m floored.”

Ray pauses dramatically. “Hey, you wanna go?”

I smile. “We’ll go right now. I’ll jump through this phone and kick your crippled ass. I’ll do it.”

“Alright. Just let me finish my pork chops first. By the way, what are you eating for dinner?”

“I hate you.”

It’s funny the way something significant or extraordinary tends to happen by accident whether it be a husband meeting his wife for the first time via meet-cute or two young parents slipping up in their birth control and getting pregnant with one more kid before it’s time to call it quits.

It’s funny the way circumstances seem to come together in a perfectly precise manner, especially when young siblings are born so close in age that they are liable to become best friends and form the bonds that continually maintain themselves throughout the course of those kids’ lives. Six months out of the womb and already there were unintentional plans in the making to bring me a playmate and a little brother.

And, it’s hard to think that I didn’t always have one. My memories didn’t start sticking until after he had already been there a long time, taking up space in my room the way younger siblings tend to do. So, Ray and I kept each other company in those early years. I bossed him around, and he was happy all the time. He cried considerably less than our older brother, Ron, and me, and, in every picture that we took together, he always outshone me on smiles. Perhaps it was genetically encoded in his cells to be naturally happier than most people. I might even go so far to say that it was a form of adaptation because, when you feel happiness, you are the most productive and the most motivated to improve yourself and reach your potential. For someone like Ray, who’s severely limited in one fashion, the benefits of having that motivation go far and wide – motivation and a capability for intelligence. That’s more of a rarity than people tend to think. The term used to describe him, I believe, is polymath – a person of wide learning in multiple fields of study and sometimes called a “Renaissance Man;” a kid on the same level as Leonardo da Vinci. And, I used to beat him up when he could still walk.

It’s funny the way things can appear bitter-sweetly ironic in some cases. A kid who couldn’t walk until he was sixteen months old could understand the concept of Algebra and talk about it with confidence when he was six – one extreme for the other. It’s up to God to determine whether or not that’s fair.

“During high school, did you ever feel out of place?

And, if you did, can you specify?”

Ray thinks about this question, but, based on his answer, I can tell he was hoping for something with a little more breadth and depth than that. I’m glad he doesn’t belittle my efforts, which leads me to believe that he finds

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some substance in the things I ask him. Coming from him, that is subtly encouraging.

“I remember having a particular thought during a specific instance in my ninth-grade journalism class. The kids in there made me think that I should advance sooner than I originally thought because, after I advanced to eighth grade from sixth grade, I was going to continue in school on the normal pathway. But, after that class, I decided to go even further.

The kids weren’t stupid, and I got along well with them. They were mostly girls, but there wasn’t much social interaction between them and me. They just knew I was in a different league than other students.”

I pause for a few moments to write down what he says. No doubt it sounds nothing like what he actually said, but I try to go for the clearest picture. Of course, as I write, I hear Ray whistle the Jeopardy theme. “So, you definitely had equal footing with other students, but at the same time you felt out of place?”

“Yes, it’s true. I felt out of place for feeling smarter. And, I didn’t worry near as much in high school. The level of intensity is a lot greater now.”

“Ha, I believe it. You used to be so nice and, now, you’re a jerk.”

“That’s what graduate classes do. They’re stressful.”

“Understandable.” I keep writing, hoping to remember that interaction’s juxtaposition of playfulness and seriousness of intent.

Ray eventually moved up even further in high school. During his junior year, he finished his requirements, including several college classes he was taking online. He graduated high school less than a week before he turned fifteen and, based on his GPA, he was definitely valedictorian. Unfortunately for him, our school graduations weren’t structured that way; instead we had summa cum laude, magna cum laude, and cum laude for all honor graduates, putting less focus on the absolute highest grade point. Every summa gave a speech, with Ray’s speech being the most diverse, in my opinion.

He spoke about the importance of teachers to students. It led to one of his better quotes: “Unions suck, and it’s way too expensive compared to what you’re getting,” which was also his answer when I later asked him for his opinion on the New Jersey public school system, as it was full of stiffs who wouldn’t allow him to skip grades fully for fear of “peer isolation.”

My father nearly pulled him out of school to have him homeschooled, if it weren’t for the fear of actual peer isolation in that regard – hence, one of the many reasons my family ended up moving from the Northeast to the southern Midwest part of the country. My brother didn’t have all the time in world to fuck around in classes that he was far too advanced for and far too mature for, a concept the Olsen Middle School principal and superintendent didn’t understand and one that Arkansans understood and sympathized with almost immediately.

Here is the breakdown on what ails my brother, Ray.

Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy (DMD) is a recessive, sex-linked disorder that causes muscle degeneration and eventually leads to death. Almost always afflicted on boys, with girls being only carriers (I would know), the general mortality rate is roughly late teens to mid twenties. Ray was genetically attached to that defective gene carried by our mother the moment she and our father slipped up in their birth control. His body lacks the ability to produce effective dystrophin, which is a key component in the growth of muscle tissue. It’s supposed to bind the cells together, specifically, muscle cells with muscle nerves. Also, calcium infiltration is a problem with this condition as it causes his cells to burst and bring about cell death. DMD boys lose the ability to walk by the time they are about twelve, as Ray did. And, what makes DMD so devastating, obviously, is the rate in which the muscle degeneration occurs compared to other muscular dystrophies.

In some cases, DMD boys have learning disabilities, with some IQs going as low as 75, mostly due to defective dystrophin levels in the brain. Luckily, that isn’t always a symptom – clearly absent from Ray, based to his intellectual prowess. The risk of breathing difficulties and heart disease start around 20, and that’s even with the right medication since diagnosis.

Ray is eighteen years old. He’s been on Prednisone since he was diagnosed at five years old; he barely eats a thing in order to counteract the weight gain associated with Prednisone. He has noticeable skin problems and needs assistance with most things that he does, such as going to the bathroom, going to bed, getting his meals, and getting his frequent coffee hits that feed his addiction to caffeine. Granted, that last part isn’t related to DMD at all, but it is noteworthy about his personality.

He lives the life of a scholar and basically has many unpaid secretaries in his family members. Despite everything that’s just been described, it’s easy to forget that he has one of the worst childhood muscle diseases in the world, if only because he drives a slave ship in terms of his needs related to his disease, but mostly toward his academic pursuits. He makes it easier by being happier than the rest of us during the intervals when everyone can be patient with each other.

“When did you figure out how serious your condition was?” I ask warily. I already asked half the questions I need to ask by this point and I only just found the courage to ask one of this magnitude.

He takes a moment to answer. “When I was in . . . second grade? When I was about eight.”

“How did you find out?” I already know from past history that my parents didn’t sit him down and talk about the consequences of DMD until after he already knew them. This pattern often presented itself in terms of what was necessary for us kids to learn at the time. Often, all of us – Ron, Ray, and I – were left to our own devices in certain areas to figure things out for ourselves. Never once did I receive the “birds and the bees” talk when I hit puberty or when I expressed interest in boys. And, conversations similar to those topics often felt too self-conscious on their part to be effective. Never once did my brothers and I learn what our health education programs denied us, in that no one taught us the value of contraception. It was a miracle that the Walter children never knocked anyone up or got knocked up. I’m not even sure that

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any of them had sex in high school. But, sometimes that luck had bittersweet aspects, like the conversation about Ray’s condition. It wasn’t one that would slowly be forgotten about and never brought up, obviously. But, the delay had an effect on Ray; eight years old is a bit young to carry that weight solo.

“Through the Encyclopedia, from reading it. It said how long boys with it live on average, and I just eventually figured it out.” His tone reflects one that is common in our household – strangely calm and conversational with the strangest thing being that we genuinely sound unaffected.

“How did you react to it?”

“Not well. You’ve heard me say this before. It was the only time when I ever felt upset by my condition and when I felt sorry for myself. My teachers at school noticed that I was distressed and called home to let Mom and Dad know. That was when they sat me down and talked to me about it.”

“Is that when Dad used the Shawshank quote on you?”

Ray sounds confused. “He never said that to me. He said it in the radio interview he gave about me, but he never said it to me back then.”

“Sorry, my bad. Must’ve misheard the story. So, he never actually said that to you after you fully found out about your disease?

“No. Just in the interview.”

“Okay. Glad we got that straight.” I awkwardly search for a follow-up question. “Would you say that it bothered you more than it does now?”

“It bothers me more now since there’s a lot less that I can physically do now.”

“Okay. I see. I get you.” He is surprisingly open with me, and I get the feeling that this is somewhere along the line of questioning that he hoped for from the beginning. He’s gone through all of the high-school-journey and graduating-early stuff, enough to last a lifetime. So, it’s about this time that I decide “to hell” with the high school topic.

“Alright. This is the most important question of the entire interview, so be prepared,” I say.

“Okay,” Rays says sarcastically.

“What is your favorite book? And, why is it your favorite?” No one has read more books than this kid, and I know I have found something he will stumble over. Figuratively.

“Finally! A question that I have to think hard about!” From there, I hear several consecutive “ums” and a few “let me thinks,” and I also picture in my head the squinting face he makes when he has to think about something quickly and intently. “I’d have to say The Lord of the Rings Trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien.”

“Yes, Ray. I’ve heard of him, too.” He read the trilogy in less than two weeks when he was in third grade. Safe to say, no one else in his class was reading that at the same time.

“Hey, I’m just saying.” I see him and his crazy hand gestures making the point even clearer to me from over three hours away in Clarkridge.

“I know. I know. Don’t lose your shit on me. You’d think I had just handed you a pair of denim jeans to wear.” I gave him his cue to follow up on.

My mental picture of Ray squints his eyes, smiles a smile full of crooked teeth, and hands me one of our private jokes. “Denim?”

It’s funny the way the pattern of muscle degeneration works. It only gets worse with age – no classic wine theories here – and it leads to eventual death. I find comfort in knowing that there’s a bounty on all of us in the end. We all gotta pay up and die one day; it’s just that, in Ray’s case, he has more of a clear picture of when it’s going to happen than anyone else in our family does. I gotta check out one day, too, as will the kids who I will make sure never have to be sick or carry any type of illness that I am unfortunate enough to have in my genes, as well. So, there is no real point in worrying too much on it – not for me and certainly not for Ray.

No time to waste when your life’s been cut in half.

But, as Andy Dufresne of The Shawshank Redemption says, “Get busy living or get busy dying.”

I’d say Ray would agree.

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Octoalien

Printmaking/Watercolor Rebecca Bennett 62

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Letter L

Graphic Design Rebecca Bennett 64

Colophon Vortex was created on a pimped-out, custom-built PC using InDesign CS6 and Photoshop CS6. Theme fonts are Rekles, Portmanteau, cafĂŠ & brewery, and Georgia.

Design and random tentacles by Ashley Thomas and Ernesto PeĂąa.

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