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Green Eggs And Hamlet - 25th Edition

Green Eggs and Hamlet is an anthology of the poetry, prose and art-work brought to life by the sudents and almumni of Southeastern Okla-homa State University. All are welcome to contribute and we welcome the opportunity to display the creativity of those who choose to be a

part of Southeastern.

TABLE OF CONTENTS: CREATIVE WRITING

A Cosmic Comedy – Hannah Jones 5Apology to Pac – Bryant Lyles 8B-List Actress: A Tribute – Dewey Briscoe 9*Heavenly Tears – Kirsten Jackson 10-11*Dwana, in Simplicity – Alex Lehr 14-16Don’t Panic – Stephen Comes 18*Eastside Boys, We Ran – Ron Wallace 19*Eye of the Beholder – Liz Watkins 20Forgotominious – Paulette Lancaster 22Untitled Haiku – Crystal Anderson 22Good Sense – Cullen Whisenhunt 24*He Was Reading Chinese – Ron Wallace 26Holding Hands with Death – Madison Barr 27-30*Idaho – Travis Truax 31*In Another Town – Terry Miller 32Insomniac’s Laundry List – Kelly Blue 34In A World Without A Home – J. Lawrence Carter 35Memories of Indian Paintbrushes – Rebecca Gordon 39-40*Mere Players – Liz Watkins 41Nonsensical Thinking – Hannah Jones 42Opposite Sides of the Door – Christian Joy Boone 43Please Don’t Hit Me – John Adams 47Running to – Zackary Kemp 48Serious Problem Limericks – Kelly Blue 49Storms – Vivianne Wesley 50*War Horses – Ron Wallace 50Time Marches On – Stephen Comes 51To My Best Friend – Adeline Patterson 52*What Personal Heaven is He Hiding – Travis Truax 54Your Atlantis – Lindsay Brantley 54Illusory – Kelly Blue 55

*SOSU Alumni

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TABLE OF CONTENTS: ARTWORK

Prosperous Peonies – Amanda Henslee 6Follow – Tyson Hudson 7Dream Reflections – Charles Holloway 11Rocks – Charles Holloway 12Christmas – Jeremy Carter 13Journey’s in Life – Jeremy Carter 13Comic Explosion – Amanda Perry 17Untitled Sketch – Samantha Faudree 18Toobist Trio – Lawrence Carter 20Pomegranat Blossoms – Ezra Tacosa 21Following Chaos – Charles Holloway 23Wondering – Peyton Roberts 25Shades of Grey – Lawrence Carter 30Pomegranate – Lawrence Carter 33West Texas Sunset – Kimber Bosse 36Untitled – Lakesha Bell 37Fruit Basket – Lenora Lemons 38Amanita Muscaria – Amanda Henslee 40Smoking Man – Rachel Hendrix 44Contemplation – Rachel Hendrix 45Assaulted – Stephenie Shields 46Homosexual Dachau – Rachel Hendrix 47Sacred Datura – Amanda Henslee 53August – Tyson Hudson 56Turning – Tyson Hudson 57Runner-Up Cover Art – Ezra Tacosa 58Runner-Up Cover Art – Alexis Olguin 59

— 5 —

What is this life, if not the death of me

I want to move further but

past my hand I cannot see. Day

becomes night; I rise and I fall

and yet still I don’t know

why I keep walking at all.

Is it a race? Surely, it is

a tie—one may beat me

to the end but I have

another day to view to the sky.

But is this what I keep moving for:

scenery, company, a nice house with a red door?

All shall pass—except

the house; though it will crumble

nice and slow

killing all life, even the mouse being crushed by stone,

the abandoned rubble left forever alone.

Truly this life has become so mundane; the stars

die each morning, all days predictably the same

I feel I am part of some celestial joke,

“Oh, those silly humans and their silly

invention of hope.”

You! Look closely at the sun, smiling

as it goes away— because attachment

is futile.

Nothing is permanent but change.

A Cosmic Comedy of Human Proportions by Hannah Jones

— 6 —

Properous Peonies Amanda Henslee

— 7 —

Follow Tyson Hudson

— 8 —

I remember hearing about you when I was young

Heard a lot more when I got older

Pac was the greatest, ain’t no rapper been colder

But I didn’t get it, just couldn’t understand how

Thought they only liked you for your inno-vative sound

Where most people saw a prophet

I only saw another gansta rapper who happened to sound different

Foolish of me not to give your art my at-tention

But eventually I learned you were not all that you seemed

I mean, my God

We both found peace looking into a starry starry night with Don Mclean

How I wish I could’ve conversed with you,

One overwhelmed nigga to another

Two young brothas who could only find parental love from their mothers’

And I been thinking constantly about the kingdom I have to grow

Because much like you, I had no father to leave me a throne

I know somewhat about what you went through

And of the thoughts that ate at you while you were all alone

Because some of these thoughts,

They are my own

I apologize that I did not realize

That your eyes,

They were open

Not closed

That fuckin bitches, getting money, and gang violence

Wasn’t the nature of your soul

Like Vincent Van Gogh,

In your own way you tried to set them free

I see now a man who contemplated what it is

To be

Finding parts of you in me has left my insanity sedated

Dear Tupac,

You are appreciated.

Apology to Pac by Bryant Lyles

— 9 —

My heart breaks with your usage of the past tense; I guess my preference lies in the present. I was certain that if anyone could understand the many complexities of love, it would be you.

From the first moment I laid eyes on you, I was smitten, drunken from the odious aura you exude.

You were young and naïve. I was falling farther into the depths of my own shadows, desperately desiring to hold on. Instead I chose the exit, a misguided noble attempt to save your heart.

That last night spent together, craving you more than oxygen, the anticipation build-ing until that last moment, the moment I coyly refrained. Pleasures of the flesh being halted by nothing more than my desire to wait, after all, you were going to be back in a few weeks and it was the only way I knew to disprove those initial assertions. I desired nothing more than to refute a childish first impression and to demonstrate an under-standing of your worth. Lying there with you in that fortress of blankets, I found equal gratification within your gentle embrace. In all honesty, I don’t regret that decision.

Just know that my heart broke with yours, and again each time a suitor neglected or failed to notice the beauty you attempt to mask with those tomboy traits and your wit and cynicism. I still see it welling in those piercing eyes, being suppressed by pursed lips, only to display itself slightly again in the corners. For me, Christmas is Halloween Day. That was the night I saw your true beauty; that was the night I fell in love with you; and that was the night I saw you truly smile for the first time. That was also the night I began to let you slip away. Today, my heart continues to break. There is no point in searching for solace knowing my heart still resides in the moments of that day.

B-List Actress: A Tribute to Slug and Murs by Dewey Briscoe

— 10 —

The day after his Daddy died, Josiah (12-years-old) came to me and asked if we could speak privately. The house was full of people but he led me to an empty bedroom where he had his jacket and his father’s sewing box out on the bed. He placed the sewing box on his lap, placed the jacket close to his face, and began to cry. He looked up at me—tears making tracks down his cheeks-- and held the jacket out, displaying three rips he had accidentally made that morning.

The lined wind breaker had two small rips on the outside—one about an inch long and the other approximately two inches long. He carefully flipped the jacket over to show me another tear on the inside, on the soft spot of the liner, about an inch long. (Isn’t it interesting how the words “tear* and “tear” are spelled the same?)

My son loves metaphors. He relishes comparing one thing to something that is com-pletely different but shares some common denominator. But on this day he was not trying to be clever: he was trying to share his deepest heart.

He pointed to the tears and sniffed.

“Mom! There are three rips! I don’t know which one to fix first. It’s just like losing Dad. I don’t know whether I should start here (pointing to his head)…or here (pointing to his heart).”

For the millionth time, I heard my heart crack. I was broken for my son. I knew his pain because I was feeling the exact same way. What would I say to this grieving boy?

And then it came to me. It came so clearly, so fully-developed, so lovely….that there is no doubt it was divine. The words that poured from my mouth couldn’t have been words from Kirsten’s intellect. These words came straight from my spirit. I hold on to them even now.

I pointed to the smallest tear on the outside of the jacket and I said, “Josiah, this tear represents what we have to do THIS DAY. Some of the things we have to do are things Daddy used to do for us…like remembering to close the chicken coop at night. Now, some of the things Daddy did for us, are not things we still have to do….we get to de-cide. But this little rip is all about living this one moment: this very second.”

Josiah wiped his nose and nodded.

I pointed to the second, larger rip on the outside of the jacket and I said, “This rip is about learning to live without Daddy. It’s a big rip. It’s not going to be easy. We will do this as a team, though. We’ll figure out a way to still be a family without Daddy here. It’s going to take a very long time to heal this tear but we’ll get there eventually.”

Heavenly Tears by Kirsten Jackson*

— 11 —

Josiah’s breathing slowed and he nodded again.

I turned the jacket over and showed him the rip on the inside liner, and I began to cry. It was hard to get the words around the lump in my throat. “This hole represents how much we love and miss Daddy. We can’t fix this one. We will never be able to sew it back together. It will *always* be there.”

I looked deep in his eyes. “Josiah, a year from now when you see me laughing and happy and it looks like I am fine, I want you to remember this hole and know that I still have it. It’s forever.”

We cried together and then I took a deep, fortifying breath.

I turned the jacket over again and said, “But….don’t you see? Once these two outside tears are fixed, we will be okay. We will function. We will live this life. It will be okay that the secret tear in the liner is still there…it’s on the other side. On the outside, our jacket will be fine.”

Then we hugged. We understood each other. Our ripped hearts were melded together.

Dream Reflection Charles Holloway

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Rocks Charles Holloway

— 13 —

Christmas Jeremy Carter

Journey’s in Life Jeremy Carter

— 14 —

Banquets do not have to smell nice: they merely have to satisfy. Garlic laced rolls and onion soup may wearily provide scents of the most distinguished refines, but there is no doubt to the stomach filling power of such rare feats to come across in the most dire of times. A young girl, for example, barely at the midpoint of her sixteenth year, would find grand comfort in a trash bin’s finer selection of assorted meats should she, God forbid, live in an old broom cupboard of the Middletown Cinemax.

God forbid indeed.

Crunch went the remnants of Marasta jerky, tough, grimy but with an oh so subtle after-taste of charred wild dog. A little dirt, perhaps, but nothing a quick steal from the nearest toilet tank couldn’t wash down. Of course, that permitted this young girl, who surely did not exist beyond this hypothetical scenario, was not spotted by the keen-eyed cinema staff.

God forbid.

Naturally her smell might give her away, which she theorized was the only reason the staff were on a daily high alert. Many of them knew someone must surely be about, but who, and why, after closing hours and whatnot? Rank, a fine dabbling of Landfill Number 12 on her sweet pores, but again, this was assuming this young girl could exist outside of this hypotheti-cal scenario.

God…forbid…

Green eyes peered from the ceiling grate, taking in the passing patrolman with almost mocking pleasure. As the burly bald man passed, his nose wrinkled as he looked about, trying to find the source of the foul smell. He did glance up once, but the girl, should she exist, would be well hidden in the dark up there of the already dimly lit corridor. So he passed on without a word, allowing peace in the life of the garbage girl who must surely never exist.

Dog…dibrof…

Naturally she was real. She was real, she smelled like trash, and her skin had almost permanently adapted to a fine outer layer of dust and old dirt. At sixteen years of age, it was an incredible feat to still be alive, having lived like this for an entire four months. Four months… and a most wonderful juvenile record to mate with it:

Dwana Charla Frazeer

Age: 16

Height: Five feet, five inches

Sex: F

Ethnicity: Central Skaavran

Blood type: Majon + (???) note: elaborate further once subject has been acquired for additional interviewing.

Dwana, in Simplicity by Alex Lehr

— 15 —

Species: Majon. note: Again, elaborate further once subject has been acquired for addi-tional interviewing. Suspicion of false information.

Noted charges: Attempted robbery, brutality, airglade theft, possession of blacklisted narcotics, possession of blacklisted poisons, resisted arrest by certified CCS operatives, arson, attempted arson (note: related to Majon status?), attempted brutality on the elderly, illegal pos-session of (1) Class-X mammalian.

She was beautiful in every way.

She skulked about in the dark ceiling, breathing heavily as she contained her laughter, crawling forward in the gloom with the grace of a crocodile on the hunt for that obnoxious sing-ing bullfrog. Up to a fork, left on experience, a right to go up and two lefts to the mark.

The movie was called Gelix Is Alive, a supernatural opera of the mind’s relationship with indulgence. Mareen indulged in endless lusts with the men who could, would and surely must kill her, night after night, that in death her transformation would be all the better. And so Dwana, this young girl in the dark with her secrecy, absorbed herself into the fabric of the plot with her own smile for the sake of the secrecy in which she thrived.

Through her mind, a great many passions swelled within. Mugging not an impossibility of fantasy in the depths of her mind, she allowed this film to bring to mind visions of transfor-mation. What she could become, what she could draw out of herself if given the right exposure to the right (or wrong) kind of beings. Like Mareen, she was a fire that needed oil, a raging inferno within that needed sacrifices. It was as good as any an analogy. Through whatever transformation awaited her, Arigoy could fear and love her at the same time. In a way, it would make her like God.

And why should it not? she challenged herself. If I am to be God, it would be better than living like the Devil. Her sixteen year old mind could barely comprehend a mental conscription of words that could serve her with irony and poetic justice. To her, simply, she lived like the Devil, feeding off of the misfortunes of others in her dark, ugly world of neediness. And she brought with her her own form of hellfire…

A scuttling in the dark. Beady eyes in her peripheral vision. Oh come all ye pestilent. She reached out with her thick, rubber clad hand and opened her palm, allowing the tiny crea-ture before her to scuttle into it. Such a rat it was. Even in the dark of this ventilation shaft, she knew it to be black without the aid of the darkness. Black, freezing to the skin and astonishing all who would look upon it with its intense silvery eyes.

“Would you care for something to eat while you’re in here?” it whispered into her ear, the little whiskers tickling her cheek. Dwana smiled in the dark, and kissed the rat’s head lightly.

“What can you get for me?”

“Chadrae Nyan. In the little old lady’s bag.”

Dwana looked directly below, and saw the old crow with the big fluffy red bag. A wilted flower if she ever saw one, taking in the film with a salivating gaze. Dwana nodded.

“What are you waiting for?”

The rat had already vanished by the time she said it. In its place, a dark, swirling cloud

— 16 —

of black gas, almost like a thundercloud that had attached itself to her. It wafted down, down, down into the darkness of the heavily crowded theater, swimming between the seats until it hovered right over the old lady’s bag and vanished into the fur. Dwana saw the bag moving about from within, the old lady completely oblivious to the entire ordeal. Then, a second later, the bag ceased its movement, and the darkness of that wondrous cloud formed once more, materializing beside her head…while the thick bottle of amber liquid formed in her ready palm.

It was satisfying to the taste, a bitter drink of sizzling, throat piercing abilities. Her head swam happily with an assortment of colors, a spectrum of red spirals, blue vortexes and green pyramids. In particular she found comfort in the lavender ovals. They looked like eyes.

She no longer cared for the film. The drink had taken from her the concerns of cinemat-ic analysis. Indeed, she did not even question the rat’s sentiment that a drink was “something to eat.” She knew the rat too well. For that rodent, drinking was a food source. True food, though overrated, would be a welcome treat later on. These visits from the rat were fine ones when they came, and so she stared into the darkness of the cloud with her drunken smile.

“Turn into a snake and slither in close,” she breathed, holding out her arm. The cloud seemed to think this an agreeable term, and did just as it was asked, twisting into a physical, black serpent, again sporting those marvelous silver eyes, and found that Dwana’s arm made for a fine branch indeed. Dwana lay with the snake around her arm and the bottle clenched tightly in her teenage fist, and dreamed away the fears of the night. In that dark little space, she was the goddess of her own world, and she could have whatever she wanted, without question. It was the will of things, and the way. A way that suited her, for no matter how long it would take for something to take it all away.

That colorful drink brought onto her a sleep like no other, she and the snake hidden away from a world that had no intention for her, despite her intentions for it. And from below, her snores would soon raise many looks skyward, setting forth the unavoidable fate that must come soon enough… To that effect, it was a damn fine sleep.

God forbid it not be.

— 17 —

Comic Explosion Amanda Perry

— 18 —

Don’t make any sudden movements. Just relax. Look calm. That’s it. One slow step ... “No, no, no, don’t run.” Don’t run. I’m not moving, see. I’m right here. Right here. Just put that down, okay. You want to play? Okay. I ‘!I play. Just put that down, and we’ll play. Alright. She stares at me frozen in place.Don’t make eye contact. Crap. Of course you’d stare at me with those eyes like gentle brown marbles. I don’t have time for this. I hope no-body’s watching. Be nice or she’s going to run. You’ll never catch her if she runs. Okay. Okay.” There beside you. Don’t move too fast. “Look what I found, little girl. I’ve got your doll. You want this?” She turns toward me, leaning, eyes wide, always watching. She’s crouching. Yes, that’s U. You have her. Don’t blow this. Such a dilapidated thing,this doll, with its gutted torso, severed leg, and missing eye. I’ll get her a new one. Shake it around. ‘You want this don’t you?” That’s right. Put that down. Yes, that’s it. “Come on, that’s it. That’s a good girl.” With a full bodied toss the doll is airborne. She dashes after it with a bark, tail wagging. retrieve my model for the sales presentation. Just afew teeth marks. It’s not a total loss. I sigh. I won’t have to tell my boss my dog ate my homework.

Untitled Sketch Samantha Faudree

Don’t Panic by Stephen Comes

— 19 —

Eastside Boys, We Ran by Ron Wallace*

Eastside boys, we ran;we ran straight up Southeast Second to Mississippi to Texas to Alabama and Arkansas,over the Santa Fe tracks to the stop sign on East Main.We ran down gravel roads that cut across our neighborhood, and past the old cemetery.We rolled under barbed wire into pasture grass with no roads to follow we ran. We ran from George Washington Elementary to Roy Child’s Grocery Store; we ran the bases and then back hometo widowed mothers and to moms who made us cookies to fathers who drank too much, and dads who taught us how to cast a fishing line we ran. We ran from poverty that stalked its preyon our side of the tracks, from pasts that trapped us in seines like minnows in a shallow creek.

We ran from ghosts and self-fulfilling prophecies, but never once from a fight.We ran into the record books, and we ran into the law, to God, the Army and college we ran into the world and into our lives; we ran.

Eastside boys, we ran some of us are running still, running out of time and out of space, but running all the same into the fire and out of the flames of a long-gone neighborhood.We run we run

faster than the rest.

— 20 —

Vita é bella

I search for beauty in this life. But my surroundings hold

cracked sidewalks puce green tiles two toned metal signs

The dull grey drone of the turning world offers no light no splendor to bring color to my world

The line has crossed to the empty blackness of the animated shapes who barely tolerate the day much less one another

The ugly runway fashion of despair and heartache bring disgust and blue tears to my dry eyes

I curse the earth I walk upon and kick the dirt that creeps out of the scarred cracked sidewalk

The scuffle reveals an unblemished lilac bloom trapped in a sea of concrete reaching for the sun

I pluck the flower from its prison and place it in my sun streaked hair.Vita é bella

Eye of the Beholder by Liz Watkins*

Toobist Trio Lawrence Carter

— 21 —

Pomegranat Blossoms Ezra Tacosa

— 22 —

Forgotominious by Paulette Lancaster

Ignominious

My life

Is in the final hour

My list to do’s

Either become more important

Or a pointless waste of time

Flighty time

Going faster

Pretty soon

I’ll try the ultimate adventure

And see what’s on the other side

And my list to do’s

Will fade into glory Or die an ignominious Death.

I walked to the ends of the Earth

I searched with the four winds,

But the only thing I could find

was the echo of my own voice

dripping down the s

t

a

i

r

w

e

l

l

Untitled Haiku by Crystal Anderson

— 23 —

Following Chaos Charles Holloway

— 24 —

In a sense, it makes sense

I only spent a few cents

To purchase the new scents

That so filled up my senses

When our love was nascent

That I sent for you

And soon sensed your presence

And our evenings since have been

Sensual

But since you will be incensed

If I spend too long on the incense

And since you’re sure to censure me

And go completely senseless

(I’ve a sixth sense about this)

I’ve decided to censor

My more sensational rhymes

And common sense and conscience say

Just send thanks upon high

Since God sent me the odd cent

And a good sense for good scents

Good Sense

by Cullen Whisenhunt

— 25 —

Wondering Peyton Roberts

— 26 —

his voice hanging like chimes

vibrating across the Orient,

rich, full, melodic poetry.

Eastern wisdom, ancient teachings

filled the academic room

like helium

expanding orange balloons.

PhD’s applauded softly

nodding as if they understood,

waiting for translation.

This was art;

it was impressive, beautiful

exotic

intellectual

esoteric.

A handful of students

in the back of the room

glanced at one another,

remained politely quiet and reserved,

though one did mouth,

“WTF?”

to his friend seated in the same row.

I smiled

and glanced down at the hat

on the empty seat beside me,

The John B. Stetson Company,

made in the USA

a row of seven x’s.

I thought of horses, hawks

and Oklahoma,

and despite the ancient tones,

echoing, soothing, beautiful,

I lifted my eyes up from my boots

and knew

I was just a cowboy,

doomed to live and die,

puzzled by the art of Chinese poetry.

He Was Reading Chinese… by Ron Wallace*

— 27 —

Holding Hands with Death by Madison Barr

It was a Wednesday in September of my senior year of high school when I felt, for the lack of a better word, pulled to see my nana. I had to see her. Nana was in the final days of her losing battle with liver cancer. When I got to Papa and Nana’s house, dread swept through me as I followed Papa back to their bedroom where was she rest-ing. Her gray skin was stretched too tight over her obese frame. She looked as fragile as the few ashen whips of hair left on her head. Nana asked me to sit with her. As I slowly climbed onto the queen size bed, she took my hand.

Obligation forced me to grip onto her hand. I was obliged to hold on because she was my father’s mother. She was obliged to take my hand because I was her son’s daugh-ter. As our hands meshed, they spoke of our many differences. Her weathered, porce-lain skin characterized her as an old fashioned, traditional woman. My rough, scarred palm declared me to be a liberal, feminist girl. Nana’s weak grip encapsulated every ideal I thought held my generation down. My arrogant grasp represented everything she thought was wrong with my generation. We had nothing in common.

The trembling started slowly then turned into violent shaking. The intensity of it was frightening. It was what I imagined a cartoon character felt like when getting elec-trocuted. But it wasn’t really my hand and arm shaking. I looked down at the hand that mine was holding; it seemed too old and frail to be making such a force. Then I looked up at my nana’s face and asked her if she was cold. I knew it wasn’t the cold making her shake. Her shaking was a death rattle.

I stared at her shaking fingers moving mine. Only a few months earlier, I had seen those same fingers clawing into the end of her recliner’s armrests. She had been resting in her recliner after a Sunday family lunch, but she quickly sat up when Papa, Mom, and I walked into the living room. As soon as we all sat down, Papa launched into a tirade over the cleanliness of our house. His condescending yells could not be tempered by my mom’s angry protests that we were at their house so our house didn’t need to be discussed. I looked over at Nana in her recliner. Her lips were meshed together and her fingers were digging into her chair. When her fingers could go in no further, she glared at my mother and declared, “You’re hurting my granddaughters. We have a right to speak up.” I stormed out of the room and refused to see them for several months. During that Wednesday of my senior year, however, her fingers did not hold enough strength to claw into anything.

My papa kept telling me to do my homework if I needed to. He could tell I was uncomfortable, but that pull I felt earlier was making me hold onto her hand. I couldn’t let go. Every now and then, Nana and I spoke in between her, as she called them, shakes. She asked me what colleges I had heard from, and I answered. Then she told me about her senior year of high school. Her father refused to come to her graduation. I couldn’t reply because my hand was shaking again. She had never told me, and I never asked, about her childhood or her father.

I kept marveling at how strong my grip was compared to Nana’s. When I was

— 28 —

younger, three or four years old, I thought she was the most powerful person to ever live. I loved to walk through the Wal-Mart parking lot with her because we would play Step on a Line, You Pay a Dime. The goal of the game was of course to not step on any of the painted lines in the parking lot. Nana clutched my hand as she courageously pulled me away from the dangerous parking lines. When we came to the no parking lines painted in front of the store, I was suddenly flying off the ground and into her strong arms. Nana held me in her strong grasp as she navigated the perilous yellow lines. As she sat me back down on my feet, her loving laugh answered my demands of “Again! Nana, Again!” But as I sat with her on that September day, her hand was barely powerful enough to hold onto mine.

My dad came into the bedroom at some point. He had just gotten back from buying Papa some groceries. Dad was standing next to her side of the bed when a par-ticularly violent shake happened. Nana said, “Take me home, Lord. I am ready. Take me home.” My eyes were glued to our locked hands as I gagged upon hearing her words. Her plea echoed louder and louder in the room. Her words pierced my ears and came crashing into my head. They were a swelling balloon threatening to explode and de-stroy my carefully preserved denial. My mind struggled to focus on anything other than her desperate prayer. I wanted to yank my hand away and hide in another room. Dad told her everything was going to be okay and to just try to relax. I was amazed that he could be comforting while watching his mother beg to die. I couldn’t look up to see if his face was as reassuring.

The longer I sat with Nana, the frailer she became. It was if every second drained a little more out of her. Color slowly seeped from her body, turning her already gray skin to ash. Her hand gradually slackened its hold. I remembered a cooking lesson when Nana’s grip on my hand was impossible to break. She was teaching me to make brownies, and the mix had to be whisked in a specific way. Her hand was guiding mine, but I tried to fight it off. Her tight grip suffocated my own. Flaming pain entered my wrist. When the whisking was finally finished, Nana smiled down at me, completely unaware of the pain she caused. I scowled back and never accepted another cooking lesson. While I was sitting with her on the bed, I knew her grip would never create such pain again.

Her coarse hand was dry compared to mine. Nana struggled to lift her head up to drink water from a straw. Dad suggested I move off the bed for a while, so she could rest. She didn’t let go of my hand. She said she wanted to be buried in her fiftieth wedding anniversary dress. She wore a blue dress at her and Papa’s wedding because they were poor and neither family attended.

I watched Nana’s face as she talked about her wedding. Her vacant eyes made it seem as if she was in the past reliving it. I thought about the last time I visited her before she was bed ridden. She had been sitting in her recliner, while I was on the floor in front of her. A condescending smirk filled her face as she began her usual interroga-tion. “Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked. I, who was having boy troubles, rolled my eyes. I remember thinking, “Too bad I can’t punch an old lady!” Our conversation grew

— 29 —

strained after that. As Nana talked about her wedding, our current conversation began to falter.

Eventually my dad told me I had to leave. I had promised to help my mom take our two dogs to the vet that night. I needed to get going, or the vet’s office would be crowd-ed. Nana slowly let go of my hand. For the first time in my life, I gave her a kiss her on the cheek. She said she loved me. I responded in kind and mumbled something about seeing her later.

I never truly saw Nana again. I couldn’t go over to visit her Thursday night because of a concurrent night class or work or something. I went to see her Friday night, but it wasn’t really her. She was incoherent. I sat by her side and held her hand, but Nana never knew. Tears silently covered my face. Some members of her church came to visit. I wanted to yell at them to leave and throw them out. Papa seemed to enjoy and need the visit.

Ben E. King’s “Stand by Me” was playing on my iPod when I got the call from my mom Saturday morning. She said I needed to come over to Nana and Papa’s house. She had been there since about eight that morning; it was close to half past nine when I an-swered. Mom thought Nana had already passed, but they were waiting on the hospice worker to arrive and confirm. On the mile and a half drive, I was almost hit by a lady who ran a stop sign. It could have been a serious accident if I hadn’t swerved into the ditch. The lady waved an apology and kept going; I sat in the ditch and cried.

I was scheduled to work the Saturday night Nana died. I dreaded calling the diner where I worked to say I wasn’t coming in. Jessie, another waitress, answered. I strug-gled to speak to her. My voice was sticking in my throat like a thick cough syrup. She replied, “Oh God! Maddie, honey, I’m so so sorry. I’ll let them know.” My finger rushed to hit the “end” button as soon as Jessie quit talking. Her sympathy pierced me in a painful intensity. My stomach turned, and nausea swept through me. Nana’s plea to die rushed into my head: “Take me home, Lord. I am ready. Take me home.”

The Sunday after Nana died, my family met with her church’s pastor, Rev. Nate. My parents discussed what hymns should be sung at the service, and Rev. Nate asked if any of us would like to speak. Somewhere in this conversation, my sister pointed out that Nana wouldn’t be at my high school graduation in May. (She didn’t mean any-thing by this. It was just a realization.) That’s when I lost it. I couldn’t stop crying. Nana wouldn’t be at my graduation because she couldn’t be there. Her soul went to heaven, and her body was going to be placed in the ground. There was never going to be any-more strained phone conversations or obligatory visits.

When I arrived at Nana’s funeral with my mom and sister, we were ushered into a room where the family was gathering. Strangers came up and hugged me, claiming they were some type of distant relation. I shuddered and escaped from their sympathetic embraces as quickly as decorum allowed. My dad was standing towards the side of the room talking with several of the unknown relatives as they meandered towards him. I stared in amazement as he hugged several of them before the short conversations

— 30 —

began. He usually didn’t enjoy crowds. I finally settled in a chair by my sister and her boyfriend. “I don’t know any of these people!” my sister complained. I simply nodded my head in agreement.

When we were riding in the limo from the funeral service to the gravesite, the police escort scared me every time they drove past the limo. The cops were on mo-torcycles. They would stop to block an intersection, and then they would speed past us to get in front of the convoy. All of this made me think of Nana always telling Papa, “Ralph, don’t speed. You don’t want a ticket.” She was always nervous about doing something slightly reckless.

On the Wednesday I held Nana’s hand, I went home to help my mom get the dogs to the vet. I must have looked troubled. Mom nervously asked me if I was okay. I looked at her and said nothing. I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t okay. She kept a puzzled stare directed at my face. Her eyes kept searching mine. Her maternal instincts were telling her something had happened, so she continued her hunt for the truth. Mom cautiously asked me if something had happened with Nana. My eyes watered with my astonished reply: “We said goodbye.” I refused to talk anymore about it. We went to the vet’s office as if nothing had changed.

Nana was smart. She must have seen a lot of herself in me. She knew I couldn’t face her death. I wasn’t emotionally mature enough to face it. That hour of holding her hand was her way of saying goodbye. She didn’t say the words because I wasn’t ready to hear them. (Thursday, she actually told my sister goodbye.) Nana knew me better than I knew myself. She knew I would need to figure out that was goodbye in my own time.

Shades of Grey Lawrence Carter

— 31 —

A little quiet bar talk with a man outside Boise

is a small memory of mine.

I remember a white ball

shot across green felt, and its sharp crack

across the rusted room.

She said she’d leave, he keeps saying.

She said she’d leave.

There is a mirror behind the bar tender

smudged with the reflections

of strangers.

Years of them.

We stare at the years.

A young couple is kissing in the corner. A nine-ball

slips into a side pocket.

A summer fan hums.

She said she’d leave, he keeps saying.

She said she’d leave.

Idaho by Travis Truax*

— 32 —

A straight backed willow limb chair

I sit in

outside in the air cool evening air the stars are out in full, sparkling like a sequin jacket,

taking on forms and shapes

and love

sits

perched on a fence

post, as if a bird

horses believe and they run through pastures, cross creeks filled with moss echoing the river they once were,

but now only trickle

and love

sits

only it has moved to a tree a wild dog howls over the hill,

calling his mates to join, hunt the prey

love swooped down out of the tree and tried to take me

it almost did and now it has flown back to the fence

In Another Town by Terry Miller*

— 33 —

Pomegranate Lawrence Carter

— 34 —

Insomniac’s Laundry List by Kelly Blue

I worry about money.

I worry about unwashed dishes.

I worry that you will die before me.

I worry that you won’t.

I worry about carbohydrates.

I worry about the absence of God.

I worry that I am failing adulthood when I wear clothes directly from the basket.

I worry that I had the potential to be more than this.

I worry that I didn’t.

I worry that I should have asked my parents more questions.

I worry that I don’t have better things to worry about.

I worry that someday I will.

I worry about the unidentified smell in my living room.

I worry about the cracked retaining wall surfing down the hill on a wave of soft, loose earth.

I worry about unseen destroyers in the walls and under the floor.

I worry when my heart beats too hard when I worry.

I worry that life is drudgery.

I worry when the world is so vast that it fills me like a red balloon, squeaking, ready to burst, and I weep in the presence of infinity until I remember that it’s all just chemicals, and then I worry that I’m not real.

I worry when I don’t understand.

I worry when I’m afraid there’s nothing left to understand.

I worry when I read about the health effects of stress.

I worry that I will never feel this good again.

I worry that the rain will never stop.

I worry that you will never know how much I worry.

I worry that you already do.

— 35 —

Fortune tellers sell their lies Cons dolled up for chumps to buy

Where charity is opportunity The weak fill hearts up with despise

Leapers are all left out to die Thus loose morals replace chastity

Desperation mixed with cyanides The drink on which the devils dine With the common rabble of revelry

So zip it up and dry your eyes I’ve told you this a thousand times You’ll get no mercey now from me

The wind tonight is howling As I walk out here alone

My soul is raped and doubting In a world without a home

Hearts are whores in waiting As weary my mind roams

And the last dance is dancing In a world without a home

In A World Without A Home by J. Lawrence Carter

— 36 —

West Texas Sunset Kimber Bosse

— 37 —

Untitled Lakesha Bell

— 38 —

Fruit Basket Lenora Lemons

— 39 —

Memories of Indian Paintbrushes by Rebecca Gordon

I ran through the pasture covered with Indian paintbrushes, twirled and then collapsed. My family had moved to Byars, Oklahoma, about eight months ago, and this was my first spring living in the country. The Indian paintbrushes were a scarlet-orange, and I picked a flower up and placed it behind my ear. My childish giggles rang through the air and caused my mom to laugh. My mom walked up behind me and took a pic-ture of me lying in the field that has splotches of what looks like fire in the sea of green and brown grass. My blue and white checkered dress clashed with the scarlet-orange of the paintbrushes. My hair, however, blended in with the paintbrushes. I said, “Mom-my, lay down with me.”

My mom lay down with me in the sea of Indian paintbrushes and dying grass. She told me my favorite story of the cow who is a ballerina. I pointed to a cow in a neighboring pasture. “I don’t think she would look very pretty in a tutu.”

My mom chuckled, “I think she would look better than you think.”

We lay surrounded by the flowers for a while longer, and then I stood and gath-ered some flowers for my mother. My mom said, “Thank you. You are my favorite daughter.”

We hugged, and then I stepped back while laughing and said, “Mom, I am your only child!” I grabbed her hand, and we walked towards our house. The paintbrushes swayed gently in the May breeze.

I picked bouquets of Indian paintbrushes for myself as I grew older and created stories about the importance of the paintbrushes. I gathered a bouquet of paintbrushes and practiced my wedding march. As I grew more imaginative, I envisioned that I would have to venture through treacherous terrain and defeat evil villains (I chased the dog around the pasture) to gather the paintbrushes. After I had defeated my dangerous foe, I picked the paintbrushes and then plucked off the leaves and placed the leaves in a pile. I took my pile of gathered leaves to the house and placed them in a Mason jar. Af-ter placing the leaves in a Mason jar, I took the jar outside. “My queen, I have gathered the paintbrushes that will cure the evil curse placed upon you. You are saved.” My sav-ing the queen’s life usually resulted in me marrying her son and becoming a princess.

When I was about eight, I also started picking up flowers for myself and playing “he loves me, he loves me not” to determine whether or not my crush loved me. I peeled the scarlet-orange leaves from the paintbrush and always ended the game on “he loves me.” I sat in the field blanketed by Indian paintbrushes and daydreamed for hours about my crush. The grass scratched my skin, and I felt the occasional ant crawl across my body. But, I loved sitting in a field of flowers like I imagined a fairy would and daydreaming about my various crushes.

— 40 —

I continued gathering paintbrushes for my mother as I grew older. My mom was de-lighted by the arrival of the Indian paintbrushes. She always placed the paintbrushes I gathered in a glass vase given to her by her mother. The paintbrushes brightened up the brown and white exterior of our house. I felt a sense of pride as a child when I saw a vase of Indian paintbrushes sitting on the kitchen table.

The field of paintbrushes was in a field in front of our house, and when my dad and I practiced softball, my longest hits would end up in the field of Indian paintbrushes. I was always thrilled to hear the crack of the softball against the bat and see the ball land near or on a patch of Indian paintbrushes. The ball stood out among the scar-let-red, green, and brown colors of the field. When I gathered the ball, I always picked a paintbrush for luck and did a twirl.

My family purchased cows around the time I was twelve. The cows combined with the mowing of the pasture caused the paintbrushes to fade. The pasture in front of our house no longer contains a sea of green and brown with islands of scarlet-red paint-brushes. I would have liked to take some of my senior pictures with me twirling in a blue dress on a field covered by Indian paintbrushes. On summer days, I still long to lie amidst the paintbrushes and reminisce about my childhood and indulge my fantastical daydreams.

Amanita Muscaria Amanda Henslee

— 41 —

Mere Playersby Liz Watkins*

all the world’s a stage

with creaky boards

and rusty nails

follow the pied piper

wherever he may lead

we all want to be rats

the glow of the news

sets the trend

anarchy is the new pink

while disney sings

how we should be

and vogue consumes

the essence of life

tick tock of the

iridescent clock

steals my slumber

from the ever turning

churning world

the never lets the

curtain down for

a broken leg

— 42 —

Nonsense-icAl,

-icAl, li-tAl.

Ah-lll-though, ThorOH.

Oh to go, go, Vango, going going, Gone.

Who is this mind

that cries that needs that thinks

I am happy;

This mind has no gates/bound-

eries, colors of time and space,

I notice everything, in love, but

this mind takes takes takes.

Imposing a boundless eye on

this face, making me see deeper still

and feel nothing.

This mind –the Great Consumer-

has finally swallowed me whole.

It becomes. I wrap it, this, my

eye-mind; shut it in strips of

Novocain, mummifying myself

so I am never cold, yet with all

eyes shut I am distinctly alone.

I walk this way, a stoic figure

and they wonder how much I weigh.

Novocain, mummifying myself

so I am never cold, yet with all

eyes shut I am distinctly alone.

I walk this way, a stoic figure

and they wonder how much I weigh.

That girl’s head is always in the clouds.

Yet people don’t try to pick me up

or pull me down. These are the

garbs of your textbook, a familiar-

learned scene. No expression to

call for alarm. A comfortable layer

between the calloused breeze

and me

and this is much better. Nothing itches, any-more.

Nonsensical Thinking by Hannah Jones

— 43 —

Standing on opposite sides of the door The difference between hot and cold

The constructs of civilized and uncivilized.

One man’s submission In the eyes of his Motherland:

A heroic act The other side of the door, a deed reciprocated:

A crime; an attack

Paper societies Flattened by the proverbial fist of

Allegiance and right The solution: “I have it!”

Rocks can slip from a hand with no effort Or were you always looking through splintered lenses?

When it’s all said and done, On opposite sides of the door, Did you choose the right one?

Opposite Sides of the Doorby Christian Joy Boone

— 44 —

Smoking Man Rachel Hendrix

— 45 —

Contemplation Rachel Hendrix

— 46 —

Assaulted Stephenie ShIelds

— 47 —

-pure intentions juxtapose-

-the gavel falls-

-your love quivers, wilted Zinnia-

-crush the Xanax for a remedy-

Please Don’t Hit Me by John Adams

Homosexual Dachau Rachel Hendrix

-noiseless drama reposed-

-irrational emotional genocide-

-victims become killers-

— 48 —

When I was ten, I remember running through short grass and dirt, hopping from one playground to the next. I was a Chieftain. I owned four playgrounds, but I only used three. My kingdom was a four square chalk print, four smaller squares in one larger one - and I ran.

But for all the running I did, I also knew when to stand still. Fighting was the name of the game. That is how all problems were solved. Just two people dancing and rolling in chaos, with no doubt who would end up on top. This was no fancy kung fu you would see in the movies, nor the disciplined arts of modern combat sport. No this was different - primal. Primal and blind. One would find himself wedged between the immovable ground and a fiend raining hate down from above. There were no knockouts. Such power did not exist. Just fury that could only be satiated by verbal admission.

I remember hearing “I give up” as if from far, far away, somewhere on the borders of my four squared kingdom. The punches fell from the sky like relentless cold rain, smacking the face and stinging the eyes. I would hear it again, closer more clearly. Was it an illusion? The deep fog shifted and pulsed in front of my face. I was a general of the revolutionary war, ordering vol-ley after volley of concentrated anger into this thing below me. Alas, there exists no such thing as immortality in this world. If one lives long enough, you come to find everything has an end. I hear a voice as if its right next to me, and surprisingly, it is. The fog drifts from my face and the rain stops. I stand in the middle of the eye, calm, if only relative to the passing storm. The weather clears but a new surge approaches. “I won.” And then, “But of course.”

These were the days of my childhood. Fights were a constant occurrence, much like the small talk of the adults. There was no “Nice weather were having.” Only, “How tough are you?” Adults did not understand the weather like we did. We played in it and we lived it, while they were inside, unmoving. I remember always being amazed by the immobile adult. Once my par-ents took me and my sister to some nameless German city, where we walked along the ram-parts. Walked. It made no sense; we had all this open running space ahead of us, and all those two seemed to be interested in was walking. It was a complete and total waste of the natural gifts of the locale. However, I never considered myself wasteful.

I ran, my sister next to me, until my parents were almost out of sight. Then we ran back, only to find that we were unnoticed. So we ran again, farther and faster and way out of sight. We came back to find those two looking at some building or ruin in the distance. So easily distracted the immobile adult is. And oh so blind. We ran, the tall air whipping at our faces, our arms pump-ing, strangers moving at speeds I was unaccustomed to seeing from those taller than I. The agreed upon abstract landmark, indicating the end of this leg is lost in time. All I remember was thinking it was time to head back. My sister’s hand in mine, we wandered back to find that life does not exist in a vacuum. It’s funny how the slow and the blind can change forms in such a very small amount of time.

Running to by Zackary Kemp

— 49 —

I.

There once was a girl from NantucketWho dreamed about kicking the bucket.

She’d examined her life,Its perpetual strife,

And she thought unequivocally fuck it.II.

A conservative lad from ToledoOnce saw his friend in a tuxedo

He suppressed the strange feelingThat sent his gut reeling

Till, God help him, his pal wore a Speedo.III.

There was a poor mother from KentWhose last dollar had somehow been spent.

Her credit card billHad soared lately uphill –

So that’s where Johnny’s college fund went.IV.

A lusty carouser from FifeTook a sweet-seeming maiden to wife.

When he’d had too much ryeAnd then blackened her eye,

His last thought was where’d she get that knife?V.

A sensitive youngster from DoverFelt that he was a she undercover.

He told all his kinHe was in the wrong skin

So they sent him away to recover.VI.

An unemployed fellow’s depressionWas worsening with the recession

Till one day, talking smackWith a bloke selling crack,

He found happiness and a profession.

Serious Problem Limericks by Kelly Blue

— 50 —

Waves of emotion strike me,

Knocking me back toward land.

My armor absorbs each blow.

One after another they follow.

All my strength combats the pressure…

But, then the lightening is sent in―

Flash after flash I’m blinded, … Everything in slow motion. I must learn how to move my body To protect myself from each blow, And when I finally learn to predict, Well, that’s when the tactics shift.

Down pours the rain, Pressing me against the ground. I cannot pick up my weapon, Weighted down as I am… Until I gather might.

Finally I lift it up.

And, of course, the wind strikes I brace myself against the spearheads, All forcing me toward a wall. Shield up, I refuse to give in now― I can’t, Now that I’ve made it this far.

Bukowski is inside-reading;I leave him at my desk to wait the dead of winter with whiskey and cigars and walk outside onto the cedar deck. I carry leather, stone, steel and oak with me into the elements Dickey, Jeffers, Komunyakaa and Howard Starks;these are my war horses. They bleed Whitman, sometimes in fine arterial spray, sometimes in droplets that spatter in bright red splotches and sometimes – sometimes they seep, saturating the pages.They speak of horses, hawks, yellow jackets and mountain boomers,Osage County, Buckhead and Bogalusa and I listen for echoes in trees and rain beyond the empty clink of beer bottleswhere unfolding black steals the sunset, as I lift worn western heels uponto a low wrought iron table to watch a changing sky before reading the blood.

Storms by Vivianne Wesley War Horses by Ron Wallace*

— 51 —

Restless staring at the clock,mechanical heartbeat how you mock.

Metered moments moving fast,racing each other to the past,surrendering their poten-tial energies, To beg a place in memory.

Each one precious as the last,weighed on scales of future’n past. Rationed mortality in the moment sold, some as lead, others as gold. Few golden moments of joy to sate, but untold more spent in wait.

At one’s dawning existence paid time that will like sunset fade, stream of seconds, eternity to take leave only memory in their wake, while dusty dreams in a mental file are made to rot in the discard pile.

Leaky tap, life drips down the drain, while in waiting I refrain, Till golden moments I procure, hoping then my joy secure, finding pyrite instead of gold, finding youth somehow turned old.

Time whose arms do not reverse,mark slipping sand we crave and curse. You, o clock with patience track, heartless machine, sympathy you lack, all Golden moments smelted with the lead,cast as a monument when I’m dead.

The inversed Philosopher’s stone of wait, depreciating value of my fate. In retrospect seems such a waste, when ambrosia I could taste. Yet comfortable is habit’s coat, a record player’s skipping note.

Time Marches On by Stephen Comes

— 52 —

When I first met you, you were the size of a football. A fat ball of fuzz that fit inside Dad’s coat, four big white paws, two floppy ears, two blue eyes, one stringy white tipped tail, one pink nose.You farted in your sleep. You slept in hard to find places – under the couch, behind the hamper. The bean bag chair was yours. You shredded toys, all except that little rubber tire. You knew the purpose of pillows and always wanted one.As time passed you grew. The cats stopped bullying you once you got bigger than them. They knew one day you would be the size of a baby cow. Your blue eyes became the color of wet beach sand, one eye always looking a little more off to the side than the other. Your tail became a pretty tricolored fan. Your nose slowly went from pink to black, like ink spreading through water. Your hair grew out long and fancy, making you the handsomest boy I would ever know.You stole the nose off the snowman during your first snowfall and ran around the yard like it was Christmas.You are my best friend. We explored the woods and lake together. I taught you to jump over fallen trees and to crawl through barb wire fences. You taught me the simple joy of exploring and being alone with someone who only listens. You would lay at the foot of my bed, even though you knew you took up half the mattress. When I started college you would follow me around as I got ready in the mornings, you welcomed all of my new friends – even the ones who braided your hair, you would whine at me while you pretended to sleep at 2 am because I was up studying and you wanted the light turned off.You let me talk to you like you were human and you pretended to know what I was saying.You did not fit in my car and for that I am sorry or we would have gone on so many more adventures. When we went on walks I would let the leash go so you could freely follow your nose. It was fun, but you cannot tell Mom or we will not be able to go on walks in the woods anymore.I love the swish of your paws on the floor, your wide range of vocal abilities, and the way you can talk to me with just a look. You became fat but you still chased your tail and played with sticks at 9 years old. Nimitz, you are my best friend and I love you.I no longer have you by my side.You are not at the door when I get home or waking me up to feed you in the morning. I believe there is a special place in heaven for you to explore and that you are keeping the angels company until you and I can meet again.

Nimitz, I love you and will never forget you.

To My Best Friend… by Adeline Patterson

— 53 —

Sacred Datura Amanda Henslee

— 54 —

On one of the backroads here

an old man

has lined his ten-acre property

with abandoned car parts,

crates, sheet metal, washing machines

and plywood—all stacked eight-feet tall to keep the deer out.

His driveway is a path full of a junkyard’s blood.

And I’ll never know

the same thing the deer don’t.

I love getting lost in your Atlantis. When laughter whips through your chest, it puts air into my lungs, so I can laugh, too.

But rain comes sometimes, making the waters rough. Your thunder cracks my ribcage- Releasing my boat-shaped heart, Leading the search party for your smile

When it is found, my heartship follows your lighthouse eyes to guide it home, leading me through your Atlantis.

What Personal Heaven Is He Hiding?by Travis Truax*

Your Atlantis by Lindsay Brantley

— 55 —

Illusory

by Kelly Blue

We have no memories,

only memories

of memories, misshapen

by remembering –

treasured tapes

crinkling when rewound.

The act of holding

is violent, iron fingers

distorting the soft sphere

into unnatural forms.

Even as it echoes,

the melody is lost –

yet each new song

seems older than the last.

— 56 —

August Tyson Hudson

— 57 —

Turning Tyson Hudson

— 58 —

Runner Up Ezra Tacosa

— 59 —

Runner Up Alexis Olguin

— 60 —

Acknowledgements

SENIOR EDITORSHannah JonesTyson Hudson

PROJECT COORDINATOR Hannah Jones

STAFFCullen Whisenhunt Adeline PattersonLindsay Brantley Rebecca Gordon

Sharon ScottCrystal Anderson Stephen Comes

Michael MyerDalton Callicoat

ADVISORS Dr. Randy Prus, Chair of English, Humanities and Language

Mr. Jack Ousey, Associate Professor of Art

COVER DESIGNChance Mitchell

Green Eggs & Hamlet is now accepting submissions for the 2017 edition. The deadline for consideration is February 20, 2017.

Contact Randy Prus at rprus@se.edu for more information.

— 61 —