the white squirrelliterary and arts magazine

fall 2014volume 11

The White Squirrel is published biannually in affiliation with The University of Louisville in Louisville, KY. Cover Art by Jackson Taylor.© November 2014

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University of LouisvilleFall 2014Volume XI

Board of Editors

Hanna DeMarcusCo-Editor-in-Chief

Tessa WithornCo-Editor-in-Chief

Charles Burns

Sam Dungan

Ashley Flesher

Sydney Fone

Deryn Greer

Cate Heady

Zofia Hetman

Ameenah Ikram

Dylon Jones

Adam King

Destiny Minton

Robert Mudd

Hannah Rego

Blake Schreiner

Natalie Smith

Sam Smith

Ashley Taylor

Adeline WilsonLuke BuckmanStaff Advisor

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Art

SolaceJeremy Burch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

Lost at the CrossingLuke Parker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

FracturedJackson Taylor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

The Lost WorldPeter Sherman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

This Is a Story I Rarely Tell Anyone, Story 2Taylor Beiser. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14

Understanding the Horrors Around You, Page 4Griffin DiMaio. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Diablo’s DustColin Beach. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

Dear MotherLuke Seward. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

Garden Unearthed in FrightAlison Underwood. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

Table of Contents

Art

SolaceJeremy Burch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

Lost at the CrossingLuke Parker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

FracturedJackson Taylor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

The Lost WorldPeter Sherman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

This Is a Story I Rarely Tell Anyone, Story 2Taylor Beiser. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14

Understanding the Horrors Around You, Page 4Griffin DiMaio. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Diablo’s DustColin Beach. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

Dear MotherLuke Seward. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

Garden Unearthed in FrightAlison Underwood. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

Poetry

Why I Am Not a DancerFiona Grant. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

On the Occasion of Being Mistaken for a Boy While Holding the Door Open at PaneraLauren Whitcomb. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

Prodigal DaughterLauren Whitcomb. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

Pink RosesLauren Oliver. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Off RoadCarroll Grossman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

Semi-nonconsensualFiona Grant. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

Song of the Desert LarkMadeleine Loney. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Black Tie AffairDestiny Nowlin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

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Prose

The BraidHayley Stevenson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

Peace Lily, Queen of SadnessNathan Douglas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Good RiddanceJared Colston. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

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Letter from the Editors

Prose

The BraidHayley Stevenson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

Peace Lily, Queen of SadnessNathan Douglas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Good RiddanceJared Colston. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Dear Readers,

This semester of The White Squirrel has been a tornado of changes, improvements, and general anxiety for Tessa and me. As we strive to improve the quality of the magazine, dozens of ideas and suggestions must be considered, incorporated, and maintained. Student-run publication allows for a lot of flexi-bility, but it can also force us out of our comfort zone. We’re constantly endeavoring to balance the demands of student life with our roles as editors of a literary magazine. For the first time, we’ve opened submissions to the general public. We intend to transition to an annual format in the future, and set up a structure this year with our successors. We hope a larger range of submissions will encourage the literary community of Louisville, and we would like to continue actively supporting local readings and other literary events around the city. I’m confident this issue of The White Squirrel is one of our best. We received five times the amount of art submissions this semester, and as a result, this issue features numerous talented and creative artists. We’re proud to feature the work of Jackson Taylor as our cover art, and we’re equally as enthusi-astic about our poetry and prose contributions this semester. If there is a theme represented in this body of work, it would be the theme present throughout literary endeavors. Perhaps how our contributor Griffin Dimaio phrases it: understanding the horrors around you. Whether it be coming to terms with personal identity, traumatic events, or the failures of our society. We would like to thank our new and returning editors for their enthusiasm, the professors of creative writing and art for their benevolent endorsement of submissions, and our staff advisor Luke Buckman for motivating our ambitions. We hope you enjoy the eleventh volume of The White Squirrel! Sincerely,

Hanna DeMarcus and Tessa WithornCo-Editors-in-Chief

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on the airplane seat next to me, he glances at my thin, folded legs: “are you a dancer?”I turn away to face the window and the receding world, the growing sky: Teena is a dancer. Midstage she waits, lit in yellow, and I watch her from the balcony. The orchestra builds, she

flutters in its breeze, in her anticipation.And the dance: her heart, blood, brain, and supple muscles.And the music: swayed and swaying within its currents, her finespun body caught. I hide in purple shadow. I let the music flow into my mind and I live in there, nested in the space between the notes, curled in the imaginary world of oboes and rests and interactive strings. I watch Teena, through glass like a storefront window. I want to pull out my wallet. How much for her life? Her body, stored like a mannequin: bending, twisting, folding, ephemeral movements. However, I have nothing to say through my body,no overgrown, overwrought, tear-stained phraseor sentence or declaration. The music pools. The plane dips, wheels drop. I sit, still body.

Why I am not a DancerFiona Grant

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On the Ocassion of Being Mistaken for a Boy While Holding the DoorOpen at PaneraLauren WhitcombThey filed through, their bellies filled dressed in Sunday’s best. Blessed by the Lordwith the status of upper-middle class.

The old lady smiled long, tattering her canesaying “They just don’t make ‘em like you anymore.”

I returned a cordial grin, door still in hand as her family followed:A Father and his daughterHe tips his hat and manages a proud “Thank you Son.”

as if I was partaking in a brotherly code.

I suppose he did not see my small handsor my large breasts. He did not hear my soft voice say“You are welcome.”

I have been mistaken for a boy many times:kids in my seventh grade class,construction workers on Second St,homeless man outside of Scheller’s Food Mart, man behind the counter at Papa Johns,old woman on Market St who lost her bus transfer.

This man however, the one who resembled my fathersent me into Panera wondering which bathroom I should cry in.

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The BraidHayley Stevenson

My parents called me down when I was sixteen. “You haven’t been acting yourself lately.” It was a funny observation. It was true, I hadn’t been acting myself. But I hadn’t been acting myself for sixteen years. “Is there something wrong?” My mother said. Her eyes were wide, her gaze unfocused, as always. “I’m alright.” My father looked at me, stubbornly. I knew this meant that when my mom left the room I’d have to talk to him. She left. “Is it your mother?” “No.” “Is it me?” “No.” He sighed, frustrated. “I tried.” He walked out of the room.

I had stopped wearing my braid. I think that’s what they noticed at first. I took it out about a month beforehand, just to see. I looked at my hair, straight and flowing down my back. I hated the length, but I loved the freedom. It was damaged. I never noticed how badly dam-aged it was when it was plaited. When I would get my hair cut, the hairdresser would tell me to stop putting it in a braid, especially while it was wet. “My mom puts it like that because it’s easier for it to set when it’s not dry.” The hairdresser asked me why it needed to be set so firmly. I never answered. I never knew.

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A few days after I stopped wearing the braid, I went back to the hairdresser. “What do I do with my hair now?” “I don’t know.” The hairdresser sighed. “What do you want to do?” I stopped. I took a breath. I hadn’t taken a breath for myself in a while. I hadn’t been asked about myself in a while. What do I want to do? “Cut it off.” She widened her eyes. “Now honey, you’ll have to think about that. It’s a big step.”

People knew me with my braid. For sixteen years, I had been the girl with a three-strand style. It was never out of place. It was showy. It was long. I stopped wearing the braid. No one noticed me. I noticed me. I noticed the dead ends, the leftover mess. My hair was dry. It got greasy. I didn’t realize it when I wore the braid. People saw it after I let my hair down. But after taking out the braid, I realized I never wanted it back.

My parents knew something was wrong when I cut off the hair. It went from being halfway down my back to above my shoulders. “Are you depressed?” “Are people bullying you?” “Do you feel ugly?” “Maybe you shouldn’t have stopped wearing your briad.” Maybe I never should have started. When the hairdresser told me I had to wait a while before she would cut the hair off, I took a blade to the dead ends. I thought I would’ve cried. I’m an emo-tional person. It was a big step. But I didn’t cry. When I looked in the mirror, I laughed. I was ecstatic. I walked

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into the hairdresser. She smiled. “You look nice.” She sat me in the chair and fixed what I couldn’t see. “I wanted you to cut it off first. I couldn’t take that step for you.” Thank you. My parents can’t look me in the eye. Late at night they’ll tell each other they’re worried. My hair is ugly. I look like a boy. My mom offered to buy me a wig. My dad said it looks like I was trying too hard. I looked in the mirror today. I smiled. No more separating the hair. No more tightly wound sections, pulling at my head. No more damaging the hair to make it look nicer. No more control.

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Prodigal DaughterLauren Whitcomb

Dissonant chords from Catholic Church bells clanged between my mother and I for 18 years. I took a hammer to her tradition the Sunday I left home with my backpack full of clothes, a guitar, and about a hundred dollars cash.

I was depressed, jobless, wore the same floral dress for weeks and slept between friends’ houses on dilapidated couches. I stayed high off weed I never paid for, and counted quarters from a change jar every morning. John and I celebrated on dirty carpet when we figured out the difference between a Cobra and a Colt 45 was a dollar.

The album of the summer was “Climbing to New Lows” by MGMT because man that “low-fi synth beat and desperate vocal sound is where it’s at.” I didn’t shave my armpits or legs and never wore deodorant. Never did laundry either.

I ate microwaved meals from my cousin Becca’s house when I was hungry. I got a job teaching high schoolers how to play percussion but couldn’t wake up in the morning and gained thirty pounds by July.

I ate a handful of mushrooms and ran down the street. Away from my friends, moldy dishes, sad music, I had nothing and I couldn’t stand to be in nothingness. It was a strange moment to watch myself give away my sanity. I screamed and found a cardboard box in the alley behind the Shell Station. And so I lived there for an hour.

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Mid-August beat down and a picture was posted to Facebook of me high, sweaty, and despondent on a dilapi-dated couch in that floral dress. My mom messaged me

“Was this a shining moment in your life? What is it on this day that makes you seem so far away? Where have you gone my daughter?”

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FracturedJackson Taylor, Lithograph/Silkscreen

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Pink RosesLauren Oliver

there is a hole in my left side so i fill it with roses. pink ones, not red, because even though red roses symbolize love i am not love, and the color red frightens me. to me, red means war and fireballs that plummet between my legs and blood that drips from my cracked lip. i fear that level of intensity so i fill all my holes with frivolities and girlish colors to avoid confrontation with depth. i close myself off to the world so all that’s left is me by myself with shriveled pink rose petals falling from my body. they form a silhouette of a dragon on the white tiles.

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Off RoadCarroll Grossman

off the highway, a grassy hillside

blue white yellow flowers clustera gentle wind blossoms tremblenearby broken glass, bent metal black marks

soft sun soft breeze soft clothescotton lavender, pink, yellowclothes on the side of the roadthe wind lifts color moves not much not much clothes lie still too still

Sirens Flashing lightsHurry Hurrytouch the flowers, embrace the clothesHope hope Help them move again.

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This Is a Story I Rarely TellAnyone, Story 2 (detail)Taylor Beiser, Graphite, 4 ft x 6 ft

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Semi-nonconsensualFiona Grant

He was 34.

He was a 34-year-old accountant and,

He was a 34-year-old bearded accountant and he, well.

He was a 34-year-old, 6ft3 bearded accountant and,and he,he,well..

He pushed, prodded, pe-penetrated.February.February to May.

Pushed.He,he groomed me: like a little girl for a beauty pageant.

Prodded.He, he prepared me: like a turkey for dinner.

Penetrated.He, well.

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If I close my eyes, maybe it will go away.If I vomit, maybe it will come out.If I walk fast, maybe I can leave it behind:rip it off like a scab, cut it out like a tumor, abort it like a mistake, like a mistake child.

If I walk fast, if I run maybe I can leave it behind, but my foot catches on the edge of the curb and I sprawlfacedown on concrete, forehead sliced.

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Understanding the Horrors Around You, Page 4Griffin DiMaio, Ink on Paper

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Diablo’s DustColin Beach, Oil Paint on Geossed Paper

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Song of the Desert LarkMadeleine Loney

Where must I go to forget your heartbeat?I lay my head on the breast of the dune and listen,But I hear only the drum of the nomad.The wind of the desert dances across my upturned face;it is no longer made up of your exhale.I listen to the wild humming of the Milky WayThe songs of the travelers andthe fires of their caravans have disappeared.

How far must I travel to stop leaving footprints?Handfuls of sand slipped through my fingers;When I stood face to face with the nomadHe said to me: I cannot teach you how to stayI too was born a wanderer.

The song of the desert lark cries: Follow, follow the fool.Where did he hear this melody?I told him that I drank from the upside down teacupbecause I wanted to destroy my destiny.How can only one truth exist?

I was born of the apple eaten by EveAnd I grew up in a world that fears pleasure.I sought the balance and discovered all the sources of my sadness.This is the cause for celebration.I was not created. I am the fool that the lark spoke of.I am becoming.Still, I am becoming.

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Here I became healedbetween the stars and the sandMy body finally free from the traces of your bitemarks.On top of the dune, the northern star guides me south.Running, I seek the drunkenness of freedomI am dancing, spinning, and fallingdown the dunes into the arms of those whosetents will come and go in the red morning.I am at home only when my feet are moving.

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Peace Lily, Queen of SadnessNathan Douglas

In the daytime, Peace Lily saved the world for minimum wage and attended school. At nighttime she partook in weekly rituals of conservation and goodwill towards men and women. Tuesday nights were her favorite; she loved the feeling of carrying her orange recycling bin to the street corner for all her neighbors to see. It was the climatic conclusion to her weekly disposal of glass milk jugs, organic cereal and fair trade tea boxes, plastic cutlery from monthly “family” dinners, and any other self-pronounced ethical commodity she purchased on impulse from Kroger.

Peace Lily wasn’t Peace Lily’s real name, but a name given to her by a classmate when she studied abroad one summer in Tanzania. She found her new name to be a convenient springboard from which she could begin a conversation on African warlords and so-cial justice to anyone asking about the origin of her name, which happened on an almost daily basis. Peace Lily would support African warlords if she could afford it, but conveniently she could not. T-shirts were fortunately within her means however, and her economic situation was a decent excuse to purchase a KONY 2012 t-shirt in-stead of a diamond necklace anyway. As an added bonus, the cotton shirt was of unprecedented softness.

On Monday mornings, Peace Lily rode her bike to work to save the environment from her 4-door sedan she drove on Tuesday through Sunday and on Mondays when it was too cold, too wet, or when she didn’t feel like it. Her route led her through the campus of an all-male catholic high school in the wealthy neighborhood

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she used to live in with her parents. Seeing the teenagers enjoying themselves before school made her feel sick, and would frequently cause her to vomit in her mouth, which she would politely ingest rather than make a spectacle of herself. “Fucking kids,” she thought, “just wait until they’re older, then they’ll see I’m right,” followed by “I’m tired of folk music” as she shuffled through songs her on iPod. Thus her daily cycle of vicious self-inspection and subsequent feelings of guilt began well before noon and would continue well into the night. Ageism and adultoc-racy were not concepts Peace Lily was familiar with, and her fragile conscience, which teetered between emotional instability and self-loathing, was protected from the two articles she happened to miss while perusing Wikipedia on articles about discrimination. Had she known about them, perhaps she would volunteer at a nursery or bring it up to her friends the next time they were having a casual conversation.

Peace Lily spent most of her working day contem-plating what she should be offended by and what new cause she could champion. She secretly hoped that what-ever cause it was, it would have a slogan that would refer to some aspect of agriculture, and have a color scheme dominated by her favorite color, dark green. Peace Lily’s thoughts often took a circular shape, and her half-heart-ed attempts to think through current systems of racial inequality and oppression were frequently met with thoughts like, “Shit, can I still put Aunt Jemima on my pancakes?” Peace Lily decided that she would no longer buy Aunt Jemima syrup and opted instead for real maple syrup. To her, the world’s ills were curable by means that were within her reach, mostly through alternative consumption habits. She felt proud. Switching syrups, she thought, would be an excellent way to combat racially charged sleight-of-hand in our consumer culture. Peace

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Lily could not wait to tell all her friends that she had made the switch, and wished that she could access from work any one of her multiple social media accounts to proclaim her devotion to non-discriminatory condiments.

The big reveal had to wait until the second Monday night of February. The second Monday of each month was selected amongst Peace Lily and her acquain-tances as the date for a special dinner night, which would certainly have cured society of all social ills if, and only if, they could attract a crowd of even ethnic and racial distri-bution. On the rare Monday when the crowd appeared as anything other than ethnically and racially homoge-nous, a particular excitement was elicited that could only be captured through filtered Instagram photos, carefully composed to highlight Peace Lily’s innocence to racism as well as her savvy in selecting salad greens. In anticipation of such a turnout, Peace Lily stopped by the local farmers market, housed in a tin shack under a highway overpass in a part of town she only recently realized existed, while on the way to her nearby second floor apartment.

At the farmers market, Peace Lily found a stag-gering selection of syrups. She found their containers, plastic imitations of earthenware jugs, to be aesthetically pleasing, and thought that regardless of the quality of the syrup, at least she would have a nice vase afterwards to showcase her rusticity and Appalachian side, as Appa-lachian culture and local food went hand in hand in her mind. The price of a quart of maple syrup was roughly half of what Peace Lily had earned at work that day. The allure of the syrup, however, was far too great, and the warm feeling that would inevitably result from the purchase could not be expressed as a monetary value, only as an emotional one. The purchase carried with it a state-ment of character that Peace Lily would hold close to her

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heart and flimsy conscience, it reinforced her position in society as a warrior for social justice, and for a brief and fleeting moment, made it feel as if Aunt Jemima syrup did not exist, and edified Peace Lily’s sense of self-worth. Peace Lily made the purchase with gusto, thinking how great it would be if everyone bought maple syrup. For a split second she felt as if her vision of the world was becoming fully realized and she didn’t have to feel guilty anymore. This was not the case. “Would you like a bag?” said the cashier, half-ex-pectantly. “No, thanks,” she replied, smirking and satisfied with her preparedness, “I brought my own.” Peace Lily, with the flourish and enthusiasm of a magician, pulled her reusable grocery bag from out of nowhere and lightly dropped it on the counter. In a brief and fleeting vision, Peace Lily saw a smiling rookery of penguins, playfully sliding on sheets of ice. Suddenly her screen-printed canvas tote, which featured the logo of her workplace, was forcefully thrust into her hand from be-hind the counter, cruelly interrupting her arctic fantasy. “Have a good afternoon,” the cashier said me-chanically, staring at his phone. Peace Lily put the syrup into her backpack and started an uneventful journey home.

Peace Lily’s guests began arriving at 6:45, the ex-act time set for the event she created on Facebook. Each familiar face was met with forced enthusiasm; the anxious anticipation of a non-Caucasian guest was too much for Peace Lily to bear. By 7, after several rounds of uncom-fortable exchanges amongst the visitors, Peace Lily had given up the prospect of capturing a worthy-enough pho-to for her social media outlets. “This is fine,” she thought, “Everything is going to be alright.” She breathed deeply through her nose, a stress-relieving technique learned in

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a recent therapy session. She looked around her living room, scanning the faces seated on the floor. Her acquain-tances made her nauseous. Behind their half-smiles Peace Lily thought she saw who they truly were, punk-ass humans not devoted to saving planet earth from injustice. Meanwhile, Jeremiah, one of Peace Lily’s friends, was smoking pot in her bathroom, blowing smoke out of the window.

By 7:30, dinner was ready. Peace Lily had careful-ly orchestrated the menu to accommodate syrup, having previously typed in “Dishes eaten with syrup” to Google. Unsatisfied with the initial results, Peace Lily settled for making pancakes and figured that she may as well just make breakfast for dinner. Meanwhile, Jeremiah, laughed to himself at the absurdity of serving breakfast for dinner, thinking about how no one ever serves dinner for break-fast unless it is reheated leftovers. He could feel the frigid, accusatory stare of Peace Lily as he stifled his laughs.

“Alright guys, dinner’s ready,” Peace Lily said, feeling rather maternal and proud of it. She eyed her guests as they lumped their food onto flimsy paper plates, feeling a swelling sense of pride just below her ribs as they poured syrup onto their food. Peace Lily hoped that her guests would notice her syrup, but soon lost her patience. “That’s fair trade syrup you guys,” she said flatly. “I remember reading an article about syrup,” someone replied. “I bought it today at the farmers market, you know regular syrup is just high fructose corn syrup with maple flavoring it,” the volume of Peace Lily’s voice rose in fear that no one was listening, “it also promotes racist stereotypes,” she concluded. Peace Lily’s coworker was moved, “I had never

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thought about that,” he said, “like Aunt Jemima!” His face reflected his genuine surprise, followed by a look of pride in his newfound realization. “We’ll never be able to stop racial injustice unless we talk about it here,” Peace Lily said, filling her guests with hope that perhaps for an instant, their use of maple syrup was the anecdote to years of stories and politically rooted racial oppression.

Sitting down on the living room floor, everyone began to eat, feeling as if Peace Lily’s apartment were a refuge from all the racism in the world. “How is it?” Peace Lily asked, her face in a per-petual scowl, “I mean the syrup, how is it?” Her guests nodded in agreement letting out a muffled “Good,” through their food-filled mouths. Each bite of sugar soaked starch that Peace Lily ingested, to her at least, was another nail in Aunt Jemima’s coffin. Lost in thought, Jeremiah felt accomplished at his restraint to not help himself to seconds before everyone else had finished.

That night Peace Lily, like on most nights, could not fall asleep from tossing and turning in frustration, having overheard at some point in the night someone say “Chinaman,” and by the fact that only two people had rinsed their plates before loading them in her dishwasher.

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Good RiddanceJared Colston

Goddam woman. I’s three years from retiring. She had to go an ruin everything. Well not everything. I tell ya, if it weren’t for the boy, I’da been long gone. Workin my whole goddam life fo’ this retirement. That boy will be a good factory worker. Got strong hands. He only thir-teen too. Hell, he almost a man now. Three years. Three more’n he’ll take my spot. Then I get my retirement. And I’ll kick that goddam woman out. She had to go and mess everythin up. So much as look at her, she jumpin in yo bed apparently. I tell ya, I ain’t sure that boy is mine. I asked her, I asked The boy even mine? She says yes, always, course he mine. I ain’t so sure now, goddam wom-an. I ask her, Where the hell you been? I work all goddam day at the line to come home to an empty house. She ain’t got no job. Where the hell you been? I was at the store, she says. I was gettin something special fo’ dinner toma. You know good as I do it’s his birthday toma. Hell, course I know. He’s my boy ain’t he? Course he is. Next day, I come home early an’ I tell ya, goddam woman gone again. First day off early in thirty years an’ I come home to an empty house. I tell ya, I sat in that ol’ armchair fo’ three hours til she get home. She ain’t got no groceries, no sir, no market bullshit. Where the hell you been? I says. Well I shocked her bein there, I tell ya. She didn’t have no lie fo’ me. The boy at school. He’s a good boy. Almost a man now. Three more years an’ he gon take care of his old man. I’ll get my retirement. First time I stopped workin in fifty years, I tell ya. She had herself a necklace. Where the

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hell that come from? Not with my wages. We ain’t got no means fo’ that. This ain’t from you, she says, this was a gift. From who? You got some rich boyfriend? Who the hell want to buy you a necklace? What you now, thir-ty-eight? Who the hell buy you a necklace? Goddam that woman. She says, A man who knows how to take care of a lady. A real man. Work my whole damn life, an’ I ain’t no real man? All I got now is the boy. When I retire, I tell ya, that woman, she gone. Out. Livin’ with that ol’ necklace givin boyfriend o’ hers. Goddam home wrecker, I says to her. This ain’t no home, so how can I be a home-wrecker? This a damn joke. You a damn joke. You know, yo brother came by yesterday. No, not Louis, was the other. What was his name? Anyways, he say he know that necklace boyfriend o’ hers. He live over off 2nd. He say she been over there this whole week. Boy too. I say good riddance t’ her. Not the boy tho’. That’s ma boy. She cain’t take him. She do what she damn well please, but he my boy. She say to me one day, she say, he want to be a writer. He ain’t goin’ to no factory. His hands too big to not work in no factory. He made fo’ that work. Ya know, I ain’t seen them aroun’ all day. Dey better be home toma. I’s three years from retirement, that goddam woman ain’t takin my boy when I’s just three years from retirin.

The classroom was small, much smaller than its white counterpart. The walls were shabby, cheap, but clean. So clean. There was only one room, filled to burst-ing with desks and second-hand books. There were all manner of school supplies organized neatly at the front,

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next to the blackboard. Class was over, and I packed my bags up, ready to file out with my friends. I hear my name being called. It was my teacher, asking me to stay after class and talk with her a bit. She had heard about my parents; my mom moving out. Are you okay? I’m fine, I say to her. Have you been to see your father? Yes, ma’am. I go and see him every once in a while. She was an older black woman, well accustomed to the molding of young minds. Her face was lined, both from smiling down on good students, and giving stern looks to the trouble-mak-ers. You know, your momma used to always come in and talk to me about your school work. You should tell her to come back and see me again. Yes ma’am. Maybe you could go spend the day with your daddy while we talk? Well, ma’am, I dunno. Momma doesn’t like me staying over there too long. She say he’s a bad influence on me. My teacher stared for a bit longer than usual, studying me and my response with something close to pity. Well I’ll just have to talk to her. You might need to come along with her, but you’ll have to wait outside while we talk. Yes ma’am.

The yard was full of black folk. It was crammed with the neighbors, all of them acting not quite sad enough; not quite in the mourning mood one would expect. The three of them stood by the casket, the only ones focused on the center of the funeral. Mother, son, and step-father stood talking in low-voices. The casket was closed, yet everyone knew about the body. Everyone knew about the bruises around the neck. The low voices in the room all sang the same song. Yes, I heard he did it

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three days into his retirement. What a shame. Lawd, you know whey he goin. You know what It say ‘bout that. The son was quiet, letting his mother dominate what little conversation occurred in their three-part family. She was spouting the same verses as the rest of the crowd. Three years must have been long enough. Long enough to distance herself from the man, the corpse, in the casket. The step-father comforted both of them, sympathy taking over where empathy was not possible. The funeral ends, the neighbors file out, contented with how mournful they were. Wondering who seemed the most mournful, and envying their acting. The son was the last to leave. After leaving the church, he turned onto the main road out of town. This road only led to one place a Negro boy of six-teen could go. The doors to the factory were closed, but not locked. He opened them with his large hands; hands ideal for factory work.

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Garden Unearthed in FrightAlison Underwood, Linocut Print

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Black Tie AffairDestiny Nowlin

black boyswalking in the middle of streetsriding subway buseshomegetting sweet tea whistlingat pretty white girls

Radio Raheemheadache like bloody burning balloon chokehold till they can’t breathe

I’m sad for my brothersand they are my brothers.

But I’m sad for the officers tooI’m sad for their burning bodies

In hell.Their heartsremaining ice coldfreeze burned

I wish Donald Glover were the new Spiderman. He would have been a great Spiderman. Black boys love Spiderman.

Someone please let Kanye West take over the fashion industryso he can finally shut the fuck up.

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Headache like bloody burning balloonfrom heartacheand fear. itchy eyedfrom crying too much.

I bought a jewelry boxAnd put all of my favorite black men in it.

And there was laughter and music and smoke.They were well dressedAnd they were

Alive.

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The University of Louisville Honors Program draws its strength from the talent, intelligence, diversity and dedication of almost 1,300 Honors students. Participation in the Honors Program comes withnumerous advantages such as personal Honorsadvising and graduation with Honors, but it also challenges students to maintain academic excel-lence. Visit www.louisville.edu/honors for more information.

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University of LouisvilleCreative Writing Department

Anne and William AxtonReading Series Spring 2015

Frank X. Walker is from Danville, KY and the current poet laurate of the state. His works include Black Box,Buffalo Dance: The Journey of York, Affrilachia, and his newest collection Isaac Murphey: I Dedicate This Ride.

Reading: Februrary 19th, 7:30 pm, Bingham Poetry Room Master Class: February 20th, 10 am,HM 300

Michelle Latiolais is the author of the short story collection Widow: Stories, and the novels A Proper Knowledge, and Even Now. She teaches creative writing at the University of California. Reading: March 26th, 7:30 pm, Bingham Poetry RoomMaster Class: March 27th, 10 am,HM 300

The Anne and William Axton Reading Series was established in 1999 through the generosity of the late William Axton, former University of Louisville English professor, and his wife, the late Anne Axton. The series brings highly distinguished writers from across the country to the University of Louisville for two-day visits to read from their work and share their knowledge and expertise.

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Special thanks to Sunergos Coffee, Carmichael’s Book-store, and the Etscorn Honors Center for selling previous editions of the magazine.

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