Emmanuel College Post Office Box 129, Franklin Springs, GA 30639

Phone Number: 800-860-8800 www.ec.edu

Emmanuel College is accredited by the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools Commission on Colleges to award associate and baccalaureate degrees.

Contact the Commission on Colleges at 1866 Southern Lane, Decatur, Georgia 30033-4097 or call 404-679-4500 for questions about the accreditation of Emmanuel College.

Montage Literary Magazine

Katie MeltonAlex GenettiChanlin McGuireCarley GuillornJesse McDowellAudey WalkerKyle GarrettNathan Gilmour

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Table of Contents1 MArrow2 Holy Bowls3 Caveat Emptor6 I can sell the furniture7 to the End of the world8 A Meteor shower passed over my head

10 A yellow august11 A Pair of Wood Ducks12 Archetelones15 Fleece16 Rabomant Near Water17 Grandpa18 Bitter19 Third Shift23 Twitterpated24 Farmer25 zaccheus26 The Blood, the Sacrosanct, and the Bower

30 Mantis Religiosa31 Wanderer32 An Old Hardback33 I'm giving you a choice36 Smoke and mirrors

37 Carnival volksfest41 On extinguished lights (love's unfolding)42 hiding43 daily48 Retriever49 Fluid/air50 He loves me, he loves me not53 Gobbler and hen54 public transportation56 Naming57 Perfectly Imperfect58 song of the jaybird59 Sonny Came home with a mission62 Lion Pride63 in pricked stars64 Rumors65 The fight66 the sorcerer71 Papa72 on musicians73 At the gates of the floor74 Take this to your grave75 Atimbrian

I hid you away.Somewhere deep,deep in my heart.

The right ventricle,to be precise. My lungs are filled with memories of us.Cold nights huddled on swing sets.Our shared breath fogging in front of us. My stomach is filled withbutterflies, grape flavored chewing gum, knots. And I can’t quite remember the wayyou said my name. My throat closes and my jaw locks up. What caused the way you breathedthrough the syllables of your wordsonto my face--Was it because we were laughing,perhaps sighing? My ears still ring withthe cadence of your speech, the boom of your laughter, whispers in the dark. And now it hurts to breathe apart from the thing that keeps me beating, and that’s where I keep you safe.Through layers of skin that remember your touch,through veins and arteries,muscles and nerves. My bones remember you.You are my very marrow.

Marrowby: Katie Melton and April Toney

1

I hid you away.Somewhere deep,deep in my heart.

The right ventricle,to be precise. My lungs are filled with memories of us.Cold nights huddled on swing sets.Our shared breath fogging in front of us. My stomach is filled withbutterflies, grape flavored chewing gum, knots. And I can’t quite remember the wayyou said my name. My throat closes and my jaw locks up. What caused the way you breathedthrough the syllables of your wordsonto my face--Was it because we were laughing,perhaps sighing? My ears still ring withthe cadence of your speech, the boom of your laughter, whispers in the dark. And now it hurts to breathe apart from the thing that keeps me beating, and that’s where I keep you safe.Through layers of skin that remember your touch,through veins and arteries,muscles and nerves. My bones remember you.You are my very marrow.

Holy bowls by: Carley Gulliorn

2

James sat up in a cold sweat, and had to clap his hand over his mouth to keep from scream-ing. The scar on his shoulder was burning, and his heart was thumping. It happened again. It was the same dream every night, a hazy slideshow of the night his parents drowned in the Thames after wrecking their car, with him in the backseat. He was only a kid when it happened so the dreams were foggy and he couldn’t remember everything, but even half-remembered twenty years later it nearly paralyzed him with fear. He knew that he could put it off no longer; he was going to have to make a trip to the dream shop. He had been delaying it as long as he could, but these dreams were becoming bad enough to warrant any measure. They were always the same; the only thing that changed was how much he remembered when he woke up. He had never actually bought his dreams from someone else mostly because of the rumors he had heard about the side effects, but the fact that selling or buying dreams was illegal in England didn’t help either. He fumbled around until he found his wallet, where he pulled out the wrinkled little slip of paper with the address scribbled on it: 23 Bury Street, St. James Holding. Knock twice and ask for Crowley. St. James was one of the most dangerous parts of town, but he would do anything to be rid of these terrors. He had asked Jimmy, the guy who worked next to him down at the clock factory, about buying dreams since Jimmy was always talking about getting high on them, and the next day this little slip of paper had showed up in his locker. He stuck it back into his wallet, and got ready to leave. On his way out the door he grabbed his overcoat and a scarf, as the snow and wind outside was swirling hard. He left his apartment and began walking to the shop. Everyone always asked him why he didn’t have a car, with it being 1996 and him living in the big city of London and all, but he always told them he didn’t trust them and he never would. Cars always reminded him of the scar on his shoulder, which was still smarting from this morning. It had always been there, and he never really got a straight answer from his caretakers at the children’s home who had raised him about how he got it, but he had a pretty good idea what it had come from. Shrugging off the memo-ry, he continued to the shop, crossing the Millennium Bridge and making his way down the myriad of streets and lanes before finally turning the corner onto Bury Street. This street had always given him the creeps as it was home to some dodgy types at night, so he was glad it was morning. He usually avoided Bury Street whenever he was headed to his favorite pub nearby by walking a block over, but the thought of another night with the terrors sent a shiver down his spine, so he turned down the street. The street was host to a smattering of dirty bums, a few of whom were asleep and dotted the steps and stoops on the street, and the ones that were awake just stared past James with glazed eyes. He passed 20 Bury Street, so he knew the shop was coming up ahead. He came upon an old concrete archway on his right, with the numbers 23 stamped in iron letters on either side of the doorway. As he approached the metal door, he noticed a crow perched on the balcony over the shop. The crow tilted it’s head, then cawed at him and fluttered off, dark wings flapping rapidly as he stopped in front of the door. He raised his fist, and stopped for a moment before going ahead and banging twice on the door. A slot in the door slid open, and a pair of eyes peered out. James waited a second for the person to say something, and when he didn’t James said, “I’m looking for Crowley.” The eyes disappeared, the slot slammed shut, and the door glided silently open. The shop was dark, and his eyes took a moment to adjust. Dim fluorescent lamps hung overhead, bathing the room in dirty light. Lining either side of the room were grimy lounger chairs, and in each chair was a person was stretched out with an IV drip coming from beeping and blink-ing machines attached to their hand. These people looked much like the bums outside, unkempt

Caveat emptor by: Michael Callicutt

3

and haggard. Many of the men looked as if they hadn’t shaved in months and their eyes were rolled back into their head. Their hands twitched constantly, and most of them looked half asleep. At the end of the aisle in between the loungers, there was a shop counter and behind the counter stood one ugly bugger. He had long, greasy black hair and a matching scraggly thin beard, but what stood out was a ragged scar that ran from his bottom lip diagonally across his face and up to the corner of his eye. The eye that the scar ran across was blind and pale, and it never looked in a different direction even though his working grey eye darted from place to place every few seconds. The man’s leering grin as James approached revealed his pointy, yellow teeth. James fought back his revulsion, and managed to utter, “Are you Crowley?” “Maybe I is, and maybe I ain’t. What’s it to you love?” the man said with a sneer. “I really don’t care. I need a dream. The strongest you can brew. Something nice and pleasant, if you please, and a lot of it.” Crowley cackled, “Look at the a pair on you. Yeah, I can whip you up a dream, right pleas-ant like if that’s what you want. Before I lift a finger, you should know up front: no refunds, no returns. You get what you get, and that’s that. Buyer beware, caveat emptor, and all that. Savvy?” James nodded. Crowley continued, “Right. So now that’s out of the way. Say, you don’t look like most that come in here. Most of our customers are like that lot in the chairs. Repeat customers, if you know what I mean.” Crowley said with a wicked smile. James just wanted to get the dream and get out. “It’s none of your business. Suffice it to say I need the strongest dream you can make, and for Christ’s sake make sure its something pleasant. Put me on an island somewhere, with a drink in my hand.” At this Crowley became quiet, and whispered “Thing is mate, I can’t always control what happens in the dream. Everyone reacts differently, and sometimes what I put in isn’t what comes out. A lot of what you’ll get depends on what’s going on in that noggin of yours. Sometimes my brews bring out your best memories, sometimes the worst. Now I’ll do my best to make sure you get something that’ll rustle your jacobs, but this ain’t no guar-an-tee. You still interested?” James thought about his recurring dream for a moment before nodding to Crowley. Crowley turned and went into the back of the shop. A few minutes later, he came back out with a small box. “That’ll be £150 mate. Take it or leave it.” James jaw went slack, “£150! You must be nutters. No medicine is worth £150.” Crowley’s face turned sour, “Are you bloody deaf, mate? No? Then if you want this fackin’ box, either give me the damn money, or get the hell out of my shop.” James pulled out a wad of bills, angrily slapped them on the counter, grabbed the box and hurried out. Stuffing the box into his coat pocket, he put his head down and made his way back to-wards his apartment. That damn man had put him on edge. He was walking back along the Millen-nium Bridge back towards his apartment, feeling the box in his pocket. Drawing it out, he opened the box and pulled out a vial. He leaned against the railing of the bridge and squinted, attempting to read the instructions on the vial, but the words seemed to go in and out of focus. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a solid night’s sleep. Before he even realized he was doing it, he had popped the cork and tipped the entire vial down his throat. Apparently, he had tipped his body back too far, and when he looked up all he saw was his feet, the bridge, and the sky shrinking away. He smashed into the Thames, and the icy water knocked the breath out of him. Everything was dark and numbingly cold, but he couldn’t tell if he was drowning or dreaming. He strained to remember, but everything felt slippery. Slippery. Two bright lights approached that grew bigger and bigger as they drew closer, and the sound of a horn brought him to his senses. He knew what this was. He was four years old again and in the back of his parent’s car. Every night he half-dreamed about this in a foggy haze, but this time the memory was painfully sharp and clear. There 4

was a shriek of rubber and the explosive scraping sound of metal being torn, and then that feeling of hurtling forward and everything stopping with a jolt. He was very confused and scared when something slowly crept up his legs with a thousand tiny, freezing hands. There were other people there with him as they sank. His dad’s face was wet as he turned around, saying comforting things to him, telling him everything was going to be okay. There was water coming out of his eyes in little rivulets. He was crying. His mum was slumped over in her seat, head on the dashboard. Red water dripped down her forehead and pooled around her blue eyes. The hands crept up his legs and chest, eventually seizing his throat and mouth. He closed his mouth to keep the hands out, and remembered the front glass was broken. He struggled to get out of his seat, and finally succeeded in removing the belt. As he swam past the man he saw that something had pinned his legs down, keeping him rooted to his seat. The man’s mouth was wide open, and his eyes were rolled into the back of his head. He swam through the glass, but there was a line of hot pain that opened up along his shoulder as he passed it. He writhed and flailed, but his arms felt weak, and as the water blossomed red everything else turned black. He was shivering and wet. He opened his eyes, and realized he was being hauled up onto a dock. He sank to his hands and knees, and began to cough up mouthful after mouthful of water, until finally he caught his breath. That’s when he remembered. Crowley. That bastard. That ugly gob had sold James a nightmare, his worst nightmare, making him have to watch his parents die all over again. He knew he shouldn’t have trust that greasy bastard. He stood up, and as he began to run he pushed through the ring of onlookers that had gathered around him. He sprinted as hard as he could, tearing through the streets back to the shop in a furious rage. When he arrived, he ran up to the metal door and banged on it with both his fists, screaming for Crowley. When no one answered, he tore open the door, and the first thing that struck him was that everything was gone. The loungers had disappeared, along with the junkies, counter, lights, and worst of all, Crowley himself. James was twitching in white-hot rage at having been swindled, and was about to leave when he noticed a slip of paper taped to the back of the door. He ripped it off the door, unfolded it and read what was written there: “Hope my little brew did its job. If you didn’t like it, bugger off. Caveat emptor, and such. Cheers. –Crowley.” James crumpled the paper and tossed it aside, fuming. He caught a cab home, and made sure to tell the driver to avoid anywhere near the Mil-lennium Bridge. He got out and stormed into his apartment building. He slammed his door shut so hard some of the plaster broke off the wall. He collapsed onto his bed, exhausted and weary from his morning. He fell into a deep sleep before he could even take his shoes off. His sleep was dreamless and calm, and when he awoke, the sun was shining.

5

The recliner covered in cat hair and an old knitted blanket. The cushions creased where he sat and watched cheesy foreign films that only he liked.The sagging bookcase where books are double-parked and dog-eared pages filled with adventures, romances, heroes, and the shelves are covered in dust.The closet crammed with flannels, work worn pants, and boots that have seen better days.The leather jacket hanging behind the door that smells of peppermints, cigarettes, and cold nights.

The furniture can be stored, sold, or given away.But what about the shoeboxes filled with bits and pieces?The old ticket stubs to movies you’ve never even heard of, the collection of birthday cards you didn’t know he saved, and the picture of you sitting on his lap when you were five.

i can sell the furnitureby: Katie Melton

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to the End of the world by: Robby Johnson

7

The back of my head slapped the concrete roof as I stared at the massive stars that played against me in a staring contest. The blaring of car horns dwelled beneath my feet, the sound of people chattering on about their lives and various adventures became a faint whisper. I stared at the moon and her posse sixteen stories above the streets. It has been this eventful week of me getting my butt handed to me by my Contracts and Civil Procedure professors because I misunderstood the readings for the classes. I don’t think I’m paying this school forty-five thousand dollars a year so I can become the professor’s intellectual punching bag. The night welcomed me as I let her gentle breezes carry my fears and stress away. October nights here, especially where my apartment is located in this jungle, have never ceased to amaze me. Living next to the docks kept the air crisp. I went to college in the deep south so this change of scenery brings me back to the days when I used to live on Staten Island. A small semi-attached house on Manor Road held my family all those years ago. A night like this was forever welcome as they could rid me of the concerns I had back in my days at private school. Had I known then what I know now I would run back to those days in a heartbeat and save myself the embar-rassment of having my fellow law school students look at me as if I were mentally impaired for asking such stupid questions in their midst. I go to school to learn, not just to listen, be a human voice recorder, and leave. To me that seems to defeat the purpose of learning. My feet dangled off the edge of my apartment complex as I stared at God’s game of connect-the-dots. If I had a Sharpie in my pocket I would kill time and see what I could draw from the stars. It was getting late, about three in the morning, when I started to really dwell on why I’m here in the first place. I lived here once but it’s just as much a foreign land to me as it is for the tourists that call this place “The Big Apple”. The city I knew as a child decomposed long ago and in its place grew this place that resembles something out of an Andy Warhol movie. I was young when I first came here, around seven or eight when I first stepped on the cement that was Fifth Avenue. I’m much older now but I would be lying if I claimed to be wiser. I chose to go to law school, so calling myself “wise”, in the midst of that decision, seems to contradict itself. At about three in the morning I realized I was watching a meteor shower over God’s playground that we call Manhattan. Two zipped by as if they were racing. Then three as if they all had meetings to attend and they were running late. Then hundreds more like herds of stampeding buffalo out in the unsettled West. Dozens more followed as if they were running late for their night on the town with a lovely lady. I stared in awe at the sky as the as-

A Meteor Shower Passed Over My Headby: David Pagan

by: Robby Johnson

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tral dancers performed their life’s work for millions of people to applaud with their speechlessness. I threw my hands into the sky and pretended to try and catch them one by one as they fell into my hands like pebbles or space jawbreakers. Meteor after meteor sped across the night sky as if they were cognizant of our awestruck demean-or. As if these cosmic bullets were doing this just so we could have a moment of rest from our busy days and be rendered still even if for a few minutes. I checked my watch and it read four in the morning on a Saturday. I adjusted my body to a newfound coolness in the air and reminded myself of the day ahead. I still had more reading to do! Your work as a law student is never done. What of my other concerns? What do I eat in the morning? Am I going to go lift weights today? What homework assignment of mine is the hardest and should be tackled first? Do I socialize with my friends today? Should I call my parents? I stared into the pockets of lights and windows that towered before me in the form of buildings and skyscrap-ers. I closed my eyes and breathed in this new air that revitalized me. I stood on top of this massive building and looked down at the world below me as if I was a king overlooking my domain. For some reason the meteor shower I had just watched rendered my worries obsolete. My daily routines and daily concerns seemed to have been taken away with them, as if they were robbers of unhealthy thoughts. I opened the heavy door back into the apartment complex and made my way down numerous flights of stairs back to the eighteenth floor where I lived. My apart-ment was a pleasant temperature and I took my coat and shoes off as I threw myself on my bed at five in the morning. I stared at the ceiling until my eyes began closing their curtains as I relaxed and knew that the next day ahead had already been taken care of.

9

My thoughts swimin a yellowsun-tinted sea, good-morningnew and happybecause you are with me.

Our joys pop like warmlemon slices in summerwhen we are at our happiest.Life is slow like trafficwhen the yellow light flashes.

We spread butteron white bread and watchducklings mosey behind their mother.Egg yolks burst by way of forksand yellow happiness fills our bellies.

But even bananas have dark spots that grow and overtakelike mold, like thoughtsof the long way between Georgia and Tennessee,wrought with gray, steely mountain faces.

In September when you leave,yellow daisies wilt and the sea loses its sun.Our world dies for a while,but always comes back in summer time.

a yellow augustby: Saron Williamson

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Pair of Wood Ducks by: Katelyn Whitmire

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The sudden cry sent the father and his children scrambling. The mother rushed in through a back door from where she was retrieving some water and cried out over the din: “Telonai!” Yitzhak, the father, looked to a corner of their small farm-house at a few tools that could be used as improvised weapons, but his peasant’s instincts kept his hands empty as he approached the door. Motioning for his family to stay behind him, Yitzhak took slow but resolved steps towards the four silhouettes approaching out of the setting sun. “Yitzhak, good man! You didn’t come to the tent when I came to town! Don’t you know how much trouble it is when I have to come to you?” Two of the men headed for the small fold where Yitzhak’s family kept their sheep. “You know what happens when I have to visit you, right?” “My son has been sick! We can’t spare what you’re asking!” “Asking? No, Yitzhak. We don’t ask. What they need, we take.” Yitzhak’s fists began to ball up, but the silent giant next to the telones, along with the knowledge that his family was nearby, kept his elbows at his side. “You’re a disgrace to the Jews! You’re a filthy goy!” “Yitzhak! Why so hostile? You know this is the way it is!” “May the God of our fathers strike off your head and crap in your neck-hole!” The squat telones nodded to the huge man beside him, who in one smooth motion raised an elbow to chin height, stepped forward, and lashed out with a massive fist, and smashed two hard knuckles into the farmer’s right cheek. Neck turned, knee buckled, and he fell part way back-wards, catching himself before his torso joined the dust of the earth. A swift kick in the gut from the smaller man made him stagger back another step, his knees now both in the dust. “That’s right, Yitzhak. Get used to kneeling. The god of our fathers doesn’t pay the bills, you smelly dog. You don’t pay what you owe, and I’ll sell you and your whole worthless family to the next caravan coming through.” He glanced up from Yitzhak to see his men leading a small herd of sheep down the road. Leaning in close again, he hissed at the larger farmer, “I suggest you choose one of your children to sell now, and get yourself back into some money, or I’ll be back to scatter all of you! And Yitzhak?” The kneeling man’s eyes burned at him. “Give my regards to the god of our fathers.” He spat on the farmer’s tunic and stood straight, nodding once again at his massive body guard to follow him.Yitzhak wept.

*** The tent was more of a military encampment, a ring of rough tents surrounding that of the archetelones. Large, rough men, armed to a person with nasty hacking blades, reclined in what shade they could find, waiting for their next word to come from inside the tent. The sentry’s eyes narrowed as he imagined motion on the horizon, only to relax again as he turned to walk another round about the camp. Inside the tent, the usual dance between Centurion and telones was going along as the guards had heard dozens of times before. “You’ve done well, Jew. All of the money is here. I’ll be able to take this back to Damas-cus with good reports as usual.” “No need to remind me where I’m from, sir. I’m reminded every time I make the rounds.” The lean Centurion, an ethnic Spaniard if the telones had ever seen one, sneered. “You

Archetelones by: Dr. Nathan Gilmour

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Jews always need reminding. Especially those of you from Galilee.” He rose from his chair, sig-naling one of his own armored guards to pick up the bags of coins and start loading them onto the cart. Taking a sure step towards the tent’s entrance, he hesitated for a moment, then turned back to the smaller man. “Come to think of it, you’re a Galilean. What have you heard from back home about the newest christos, the one who’s been making his way around Galilee?” The telones stared into his interrogator’s eyes. “I stay clear of the rebels, sir. They tend to stick knives in people if they smell too much like civilization.” The Centurion let out a laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself, Jew. You smell like Galilee, and you’ll always smell like Galilee.” He shouted out of the tent, “Alright, boys! Let’s start back to Damascus!” He had heard of the new rebel leader, of course. Everyone had. He was another one who cast out demons like King David of old, whose stories of healing ran far ahead of him, to all the towns of the desert. But his enemies weren’t talking like the conspirators against the other zeal-ots: this one, they claimed, would hand the Kingdom to whores and traitors. No matter, though. There were rounds to make, and every time the Centurion visited that meant the life of the telones got that much shorter, ending or not ending depending on what he could collect by the next time the Centurion visited. He pulled on his dagger-belt and stepped out of his tent to order his men to begin their next journey through the villages.

*** Passover was the season to get a knife in the back, and the ones who didn’t have much of a back tended to live longer. The telones cursed his own luck again and again as his caravan approached Jericho: entering that city, among all of the pilgrims to Jerusalem, was the sort of bad judgment that had landed his predecessors and his rivals in the sun, bleeding to death, food for the dogs. He had hired some more guards, tall Ethiopians, to watch his wagon and his wares, but the Psalms that soared through the Palestinian air sounded less like praise and more like threats to a man in his line of work. A band of travelers approached from behind his own caravan, moving quickly on the road and chanting songs. His men were nervous; hauling the weight of gold that was in the main wagon was never entirely safe, but with the insurgents making more and more raids, piety was a terrifying threat, and song was the cry of a predatory bird. “The Kingdom of God is among us!” Blast. Zealots. The telones quickly ordered his guards to assume defensive positions as the band of pilgrims drew nearer. By his count, at such a distance, there must have been twenty of them, perhaps twenty-five. Even on foot they were outpacing the slow progress of his gold-laden cart. “We want no trouble, O pious ones!” The laughter that followed had no menace to it, a sound that terrified the telones. “We mean no harm, friend! You’re sons of Abraham, and we bear good news to all the good men of Israel!” Turning to his chief bodyguard, he hissed, “They don’t know who we are. Let’s take ad-vantage of that. Order the men to pull aside and let them pass.” “Aye, O Son of Abraham!” Hand flew to belt, gripping hilt of dagger. “This is no time for your foolishness, Baryo-nah!” The guard, resenting the response to his pointed joke, began to give orders to pull the cara-van to the side of the road. “We do not wish to hinder your pilgrimage, friends! We’ll take the side of the road, and we bless your way to Jerusalem!”13

To the horror of the whole crew, the travelers did not continue on their way. Instead, fol-lowing the wagons to the side of the road, they made straight for the main wagon. “Go along your way, friends, or we’ll be forced to fight!” “We have no quarrel with you, friends. The Kingdom of God is at hand!” The telones gave hand signals to prepare for a skirmish. But as they drew closer, he could not see any weapons on the men approaching. Even more bizarre, there were women among them. The telones barked orders at his company to stand down and to put away their weapons. The one calling out in the wilderness approached him, and he tentatively stepped forward. “You can go on to Jerusalem, friends. We don’t want to stand in your way.” The man bowed down before him. The telones looked one way and another, his panic no longer small enough to hide. The other travelers likewise bowed down, and the guards began to curse one another, some fumbling for their weapons, some concealing themselves behind wagons. The first to speak once again addressed the short man. “You will be the first in the kingdom, friend telones.” He rose to one knee, turned to his own company, and shouted, “Behold, brothers! This one will be the first in the Kingdom, he who will know the most forgiveness!” The telones looked around to see his men still cowering, the events before them like noth-ing a lifetime of murder and robbery could have prepared them for. Stammering, he felt like the small man he’d always been as he attempted to respond: “What is this rubbish? I’m an agent of the Kittim! I’ve sold men such as you into slavery and bought whores with the money! You should not be bowing down to me, you fool!” Now standing, the traveler looked him in the eye. “The messiah is coming, friend, and of his kingdom there will be no end. You doubt because you’ve not seen. He’s coming to Jericho, friend! And you will be among the honored ones in his Kingdom!” The telones could not believe his ears. “Come to Jericho, most honored one! Follow us to Jericho!”As they rode off, the hardened, armed guards began to emerge from hiding.

*** Jerusalem always throngs in the Passover, but Jericho terrifies when the people swell be-yond its walls. But such was the sight that greeted the telones as he crested the final hill before the town. His wagons approached the city slowly, and the noise of singing and shouting reached their ears slowly at first, then in a roar as they drew closer to the walls. All eyes were directed down the main road, and he knew that whatever came down that road had to be the terror that awaited him. But as he drew nearer, he saw the thickness of the crowds and realized that there would be no sight of the road, not on this day. Bodies pressed close, their smells mingling with cook-fires and incense, and the telones could not make out anything through the forest of flesh. “Clear a way for us! Make a path for us!” The crowds did not hear. “Please! I beg of you! Let me see!” The songs of the coming Kingdom and the glory of Israel drowned him out. Abandoning his own voice, the telones looked around in desperation. The only sight that would extend hope was a strong trunk, rotted at the roots but growing healthier as it rose towards the heavens, divided into limbs, presented to him the hope of a sight. Leaving his guards behind, the gold still piled high in the horse-cart, he seized the lowest limb that his small hands could reach. He climbed the tree.

14

Paralyzed by lack of choice. No idea which way to turn. Alphabet soup comes to mind. Yes and no, pros and cons, all blended together. Black and white meld in utter confusion. Leaving: change. Oh, how I dislike change. And yet, how quickly I adjusted to the last one. Hopping scotch to another of my own making can hardly be wise.

Fear that I would forsake my family? Whence? How could I when that is the source of my life?! But staying there? Idle time? In soli-tude I might survive, but captive … prey. Independence? Not from my family! But invisibility might protect me.

A single question can undermine my own conclusions. What I want or what I need? Why do I want it? A week ago I was convinced, and then what could have changed my mind so that now I cannot con-vince myself I need what I want? What is right? What is best? What is wise? Isn’t the word of a shepherd enough?

Was it just a fleeting idea that passes? Why wasn’t the solution a brilliant light that drowned out whatever darkness I wanted to run from at first? Was I so convincing in my desperation that now I can-not even convince otherwise, while I myself am so sure?

Wasn’t that whole plot for finding safety like a childish crush that passes with the revelation that all was a product of vain imaginations in the first place? The boy who cried wolf. Oh, why couldn’t I have held my tongue? Why must my tears have been taken so seriously?

Is a mother’s heart so soft and easily broken for her wailing child that even an epiphany cannot bring her back to reason?

No answers. No resolution. Just questions waiting to be answered. I do know what I think, after sorting through, but I can’t explain it convincingly. I milk the bad so much better than the good. Split right down the middle, too.

Starting over, back at square one. Crawling once again to the foot of the Cross. Laying out a fleece. Finding my faith is ever so small.

fleece by: Nalani Jones

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Rabomant Near Water by: Robby Johnson

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Grandpa pushed a rock into my chestsinging away his wild blood as my sternumbroke under it. His hand messy with bone

and chest matter asunder his wry song. His cotton white shirt frozen in time

was hot from all those sermons and stuck slapped to his wet chest and the

buttons undone. His muscles were red withfire and mine blue from bruise. Grit teeth

inside his cheeks of stone smiled at meuntil a hole filled my chest and I fell forwardinto mud that filled my eyes.

I stood up and the rock festered and started beating pushing me forward to follow him again.

Grandpaby: Jesse McDowell

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Bitterby: Jacob Taylor

Grandpaby: Jesse McDowell

Im scared to death of the bitter winter- i know that when i see all the colors wash away with the snow my hope will go with it, right down the drain

Im barely making it as it is, borderline depressive with some nasty habits, wishing for sleep but rest just can’t find me between these sheets

I thought i was doing better but i think im doing worse. Worn raw and rough, why can’t i be made of tougher stuff, like my daddy was?

I feel like just getting by so I can cope with this lack of hope that threatens to choke every ounce of life out of me

I tell myself, “3 more days til friday, then with a few grams of the best you can try and feel alive again” but if im dying for the weekend, i aint really living,

And thats just in the fall! Maybe spring will be a fresh start, ill be able to try again and put the pieces to-gether, but if I don’t make it through the coming gray weather there won’t be a chance to try and get better.

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third shift by: Brent Hemphill Lenny stuck his small head out of the hole in the side of his family’s tree. It was dawn and the deep orange sun was just beginning to peek over the edge of the trees lining the far side of the field, spreading its love across the crisp November sky. “Lenny, come away from there! It’s time for bed. You have to get up early this evening and start your first night at work! It’s a big, big night and you’re going to need all the sleep you can get!” Lenny’s mother pepped as she ruffled his head with her wing. “But Henry’s not going to bed yet and he’s going to work too!” Lenny pleaded. “Silence, son.” Lenny’s father, Lawrence, commanded, “It is a rite of passage for every boy at the age of thirteen to join The Postal Brigade. Henry has been with us for two years now. He is both experienced and proficient at his duties. He doesn’t wear the badge of the brigade for nothing.” Lawrence’s brow furrowed as he tried to stare down his son. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but feel great joy for the occasion. His countenance softened and a smile spread across his face. “Lenny, my son, how do you expect to become a man tomorrow if you are still a whiny child tonight?” Lenny’s face said he was trying to figure out the answer. Lawrence wrapped his wing around his son and pulled him in close, quietly laughing at how naïve Lenny was. “I’m very proud of you. You’re going to do great tomorrow, you hear me? Now, run along to bed. It’s still going to be daylight when we have to get up.” The life of an owl is quite plain. There isn’t a youthful walkabout trying to figure out what your life is meant to be. There isn’t a choice to be made between one path and another. You at-tend The School of The Wise and Thoughtful as a child and when you reach thirteen years of age, you begin your training with The Postal Brigade. The only other job is when you retire from the brigade you may teach the youngsters. That is, if you qualify. For that is only a matter for the es-pecially keen. This may seem a dull existence to you, but for Lenny and his family it was as much excitement as they had ever known and it was rather stress-free to boot. No one had ever failed as a messenger. “You’d think they were created specifically to carry the post, yeah?” Lawrence and Henry had once overheard from one of the humans talking in the postal tower. Hearing that made them smile. After all, “Purpose is peace,” as Wallace, the current professor of the school, was known for saying. Lenny had much difficulty sleeping. He tossed and turned, rolling images over in his mind of what he thought the postal tower looked like, what people looked like, or even what he would look like with a letter or even, heaven forbid, a heavy package hanging from his tiny claws. Even so, he eventually nodded off to sleep. He woke early with his father prodding him. “Awake, my boy! This is going to be quite a night!” Lawrence announced, “Come, come! Get up!” Lenny popped out of bed like a dark slice of toast. He hadn’t been awake for ten minutes when the three owls took flight toward the sleepy sun. After flying for about an hour, Lawrence, Henry, and Lenny, with excited eyes widening to take in the majestic building that had appeared through a clearing in the trees, arrived at the South Postal Tower. Standing at a mere three stories tall, the postal tower had a roof that sunk in on one side, planks of siding hanging on by a single nail nearly falling off completely, and white paint that was barely visible as most of it had flecked off leaving the raw wood exposed. “Wow,” Lenny gasped, “Its sooo beautiful.” Lenny nearly flapped headfirst into a tree limb, as he couldn’t take his eyes off his new-19

found castle. “Careful, Lenny!” Lawrence chuckled, “You don’t want to get knocked out before you’re even in the door!” Lenny laughed and felt very proud of himself, flying there next to his big brother and his father. He couldn’t let them down, no matter what. They entered the tower through a large window near the top and flew round and round un-til they found three perches lined up next to one another. For the first twenty feet the walls were covered in small cubbyholes where mail was sent before being snatched up by an outgoing owl to be taken through the large window and on to its recipient. The humans would pull up one of the baskets that was crammed full of letters and rapidly begin grabbing them at random. No sooner had they taken a hold of a letter than they slung it straight up over their heads and the letter flew through the air landing in a cubby, according on its destination. Lenny marveled at all the paper zipping around below his perch, which stuck out of a wall amongst about fifty other perches that polka-dotted the upper ten feet of the tower. “Lenny, look and watch what your brother does,” said Lawrence. And with that, Henry swooped down flying in circles along the wall until at last he snatched a letter from its cubby and took off, out through the window. “Whoa! Where did he go?” Lenny asked, his eyes nearly ready to pop. “He will deliver his parcel to whomever it is addressed. He may be back in an hour or he may not be back until nearly morning. Now, your turn.” Lenny’s little heart sped up its rapid beating. He turned, took a deep breath and leapt. Cir-cling round and round, he made his descent. His excitement climbed higher and higher as he flew lower and lower, closing in on a letter he had chosen from his perch when – THUD! Opening his eyes from the ground he realized that he had collided with another, much larg-er owl, in mid air. “Hey! Watch where you’re going, Finch!” Gus roared. Gus was only three years older than Henry, but he acted like he owned the tower. Lawrence flew down to Lenny to help him up. “Don’t let him ruffle your feathers, son. He’s just a childish fellow that needs to learn hu-mility.” “Thanks, Dad. Can I, um, can I try again?” Lenny asked timidly, trying to hold back his emotions. “Of course you can! You can’t get good at something unless you fail over and over first!” Lawrence chuckled. With his head a little higher, Lenny took off again. Round and round he flew, certain to avoid any owls that were also looking for a letter to snatch. In fact, he then paid so much attention to the other owls that he almost forgot to grab a letter. Finally snatching a rather small envelope from its cubby he took off out of the large window of the tower feeling higher than life – He had his first letter. The anxiety of grabbing his first letter began to pass as the anxiety of finding his first ad-dress set in. He looked down at the petite paper in his claws and read the address out loud – 1262 Carlton Rd. Coolidge, GA 31738 He got a little flappity when he realized that he knew exactly where that was. He flew on, enjoying the crisp night air, breathing deep to take it all in. The stars all sitting in their seats, smil-ing down at him, watching the little bird make his way. Along he flapped until a gust of wind flew up and snatched his letter from his claws. Down, down, down it spiraled. Terror nearly took hold of little Lenny as he watched his letter fall away

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from him. Without a second thought, Lenny swooped down to the ground to find his prize. He plopped himself down right in the middle of a field of tall wiregrass. He frantically searched, turn-ing in circles and hopping through the tall stalks that surrounded him, but his letter was nowhere to be found. A large knot lodged itself in Lenny’s throat as he tried to hold back tears. Why now? He couldn’t fail, he just couldn’t! The memory of flying alongside his father and brother rushed into his mind. He couldn’t let them down, no matter what. Shaking his head out of the clouds, Lenny kept searching with more tenacity than ever. Suddenly, he saw his letter swoop up out of the grass about a hundred yards ahead of him, sailing on its devious gust of wind. Excitement nearly knocked the poor bird out as he recklessly toppled over and between stalks of the tall wiregrass. Hearing the pounding sound of large wings landing he looked up and saw Gus descending on his lonely letter, staring Lenny in the eyes and laughing. The sight pierced his heart, but he was close enough that just before Gus could fly away, Lenny jumped and grabbed the corner of the letter with the tip of his beak. Holding on with all his might, Lenny twisted and flapped, violently trying to take back his trophy. Gus kicked his feet hard in Lenny’s face before the letter ripped out of Gus’ grasp, leaving Lenny with all but a small corner. Lenny turned and flew as fast as he could to find a tree to hide in. He darted through the forest until he smacked into the back of a rather cozy tree hole. It was dark and quiet. Lenny lay there on his back, catching his breath trying to be as quiet as he could, waiting for Gus to wander on. Lenny’s eyes widened and panic took over, yet again, when he realized he was not alone. Shooting out of the tree for his life he noticed his claws were empty. He circled around and perched on the branch of a nearby tree. He could see his letter barely sticking out of the hole. Just like he had done back at the tower, Lenny leapt from his branch and snatched the letter as he swooped by. It suddenly seemed very heavy though. Looking down he saw a terrified squirrel hanging on for dear life. Descending low to the ground Lenny shook his foot and off flew the squirrel, along with another small chunk of the letter. Discouraged but still in one piece, Lenny couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of the squirrel tumbling along the ground. With his determination growing, he pressed on toward his destination. He would not give up and look like a failure to his family so he flip-flapped along through the clear night. After a few hours had passed Lenny began to get drowsy and his altitude dropped ever so slightly, without his notice. Soon he completely blacked out and this time smacked right into a low tree limb. Doing a few somersaults, Lenny landed on the front porch of a farmhouse. “Aaagghh! What is it, Clarence?!” someone shrieked from the porch swing. “I think it’s one o’ them flying rats! I’ll git it!” shouted Clarence as he tore into the house. Lenny sat up and tried to shake his head clear of dizziness. A few seconds later the screened door slapped open and – BOOM! Lenny’s ears rang and his heart nearly broke through his ribs trying to get out. Not want-ing to stick around to find out what was going on, Lenny jumped into the air and flapped his little wings as hard as they would flap – BOOM! The feather on the tip of Lenny’s right wing flicked as shotgun pellets took off the end of it. Madly flying as fast as he could, Lenny looked down to check the safety of his cargo and saw that half of it was gone. His heart sank because he knew that the damage could not be undone. Angry, yet sad, Lenny trudged onward. He flipped and flapped until he finally arrived at the address on what was left of his little letter. Landing atop the mailbox, Lenny opened the door with his beak, looked at the torn parcel in his claw and breathed heavy. He tossed it in and closed the door. The sun began to rise from behind the tree line as he came into view of his family eagerly awaiting him in their tree hole. Tears welled up in Lawrence’s eyes as he watched his boy flying 21

towards them. “I’m so proud of you, Lenny!” His mother shouted from afar. Lenny landed on the edge of the hole and fell into his father’s wings. “I failed, Dad.” Lenny said, looking at his feet. “Did you not deliver your letter?” “I did, but it was all torn up. There was Gus, and this selfish squirrel and some crazy hu-mans with a loud pipe that bit my wing off!” Lenny’s family laughed a warm laugh. Lawrence held his son out and looked him in the eyes. “It sounds like you had quite the night, my boy. I know not one owl who would have pressed on through all of that. You did not fail, you hear me? You’ve made me so proud.” Lenny’s mother and brother joined the family hug. “Tut, tut! We have awards to present!” Lawrence swiftly scooted to a back room and came out with a small box. “To Lenny, my son. Who, on this night, has become a man. Well done.” Lenny beamed as he opened up the box and inside he gazed upon the shiniest badge he had ever seen. Across the top it said, “The Postal Brigade.” Lawrence smiled broadly at his son, “Welcome to the third shift.”

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Twitterpated by: Katelyn Whitmire

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I’m sorry, pumpkin.I never meantto plant that seedin Georgia’s clay.

I handedoff the wateringcan, turned from the redand ran away.

Another stoodin my patch, pouringwithout looking,poor pressure-washed chaff.

Her arms got tired.She walked on, tooand left youthere to dry.

Long days you spent, staringinto the sky, waitingfor a single dropfrom God’s far-seeming eye.

I’m glad you grew—good job on that!Regardsto the farming hands,

the ones who stole the pumpkin seed I left in clay waste-land.

Farmerby: Chanlin McGuire

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I climbed a tree last night.I sat between the crookof the branches, the infinityabove me, and belowme the infinity.

I saw my head crashon the twisted roots,split open so bloodseeped through the dirt,sucked up by soil.

Then I remembered,Zaccheus, come downfor I mean to stay at your house today.

I saw the multitudeof stars above my head,not knowing the namesof any of them. But Someone named them.

So I came down from my tree,so that Someone could stay at my house.

zaccheusby: Saron Williamson

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by: Jesse McDowell

The Blood, the Sacrosanct, and the Bower, ,

Deft, crystal water droplets rolled towards the tip of the tree-leaves that glistened in the afternoon sun, pulling the branches of the red trees down with their insinuating gravity. All of the trees bent their limbs and cried the wry song of sacred bereavement that filled the air from the voices of Leonard and the rest of the Macabee family. The trees surrounded that graveyard upon a hill which ebbed and flirted with the horizon. Autumn winds blew the droplets directly on the faces of the mourners. Their cries drifted up like ash into the aether, propounding such color that God couldn’t laugh at its wisps any more. Nedda died, and to combat death’s pestilence they had to fill the air above the graveyard with the sweet-smells of mourning. Leonard stood amongst them facing down, sweating in his small black suit in the midst of the Goergia-orange autumn breeze. He kept his eye keenly in that deep hole where Nedda lay while the rest of holy hell looked down there as well. His father Elrod stood next to him on the other side sweating tears that pierced the wood on the coffin like acid as they bumped the tips of his boots. He squeazed his son’s neck until it was a nebulous of bruise, and whispered something in his ear as the preacher let out a “blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” and said to his son “What a fine day for a new wife.” Leornard’s neck turned purple with bruise from his daddy’s fat palm and sausage-fingers. The preacher continued, but soon they ended their sacred rite just as Leonard was about to wince from the pain of his fa-ther’s grip. Everyone began to walk away down from the graveyard-laden hill to their homes so they could rest their heads on the bosoms of their wives and mothers, so that the men could once again appreciate a cooked meal after tasting the dust of the mill all day long. Leonard and Elrod made their way to the truck. They knew what was to happen next. They drove in the pickup down from the graveyard to the cabin. They drove up as the ghost-women were beginning to emerge from the mountains. The curtains closed and the coffee pot whistled a little slower that night for Elrod an Leonard both knew that Nedda would be visiting them if Elrod couldn’t find another wife. The pop and sizzle of the venison on Elrod’s iron pan filled the tiny one-room cabin with smells of the Macabee hunter’s meat. Elrod noticed his son looking at him from his bed as he dished out portions for the both of them on the table. He stopped. “You know we can’t leave tonight. Maybe she just won’t find us.” “She’ll find us” Leonard jabbed, attempting to massage his neck with his small hands. The boy was frail at age 11, even for being so young. His father’s mixture of grief and terror had turned his neck purple in the process of it. Placing salted venison back over the warmed fire Elrod and his son sat at their table with the lantern lit dimly to shove away virgin ghost women who chanted Psalms across the foothill to each cabin to draw out the men and their human energy. “Just pray with me, Leonard, and we’ll last the night without seeing her.” They prayed. They prayed fast so that the venison would keep them warm in the cold autumn with matriarchal spirits around them throughout the night. And by that lantern they filled their stomachs with some sour bread and meat of the deer as quietly as they could, hoping to remain invisible to Nedda’s new cursed ghost. Soon they cut off the lantern and crawled into the same bed in the corner, Elrod shielding his son with his arms tightly under the covers, drifting steadily off to sleep. He whispered silently to his son “I’m sorry about your neck, sweet boy” as Leonard nestled his father’s chest, “I couldn’t control myself.” Leon-ard let out a soft, almost silent, but full reply right to his father’s breast “I don’t care Daddy. I don’t want her to come either.” Then unconsciousness took them and they drifted into the ebb of sound sleep. The sun burst through the cracks where the curtain departed from the window directly onto their squinting faces, still bound to each other as they were when they fell sleep. The sizzling sound of an East Tennessee breakfast over a crackling fire caught their attention and they both sat immediately up and 26

looked at the fireplace. There sat a woman, cleanly dressed in one of Nedda’s old dresses from the chest in the corner, the chest remaining open with Nedda’s old scarfs hanging off of it and the apron pulled from it. She didn’t face them, but they knew it was her, with her dirty blonde locks and soft mountain skin that smelled like daisies in the summertime. The devil makes them smell pretty even. Elrod’s eyes were focused on her as were Leonard’s. Leonard started to get up but his father snatched him and put Leonard behind him on the bed and knocked the lantern off the nightstand and it shattered on the ground. The father and his son gasped in terror and looked at the young woman anticipating her spectre of a face to quickly turn and see that they were there, and walk out, and haunt them another day. But she did nothing. Elrod and Leonard sat on the bed staring, and came to the one conclusion that was obvious: she knew they were there. After another pause, she finally stood up, acting surprised, and greeted them. “Hey there, twinkle eye,” then looked at Elrod “Ellie. Are we ready for breakfast?”Her voice was higher, and she was ten years younger than when she died, with her skin and breasts the healthy appearance of no sickness or pestilence at all that had reached them. Elrod, terrified that she would do what the preacher had warned and slit their throats with the glass from her hu-man heart, he trembled. “Now Nedda, you gotta go” Elrod said as he reached for his knife under the bed. Leonard shuddered behind his father’s shoulder. “But I just got here Elrod. Let me ‘least give you one last meal before I have to walk the mountains with a curse forever.” “Remember they’ll devour you if you let them” Leonard whispered into his father’s ear.Elrod’s words came out of him like daggers to the gut, for every human inch in him desired to take his young wife’s flesh into his arms and call her his. But he tried refusal again, through his tears, “Just go. You can’t be here anymore. I can’t explain it now. Just go.” She walked toward him slow-ly, “Just let me give you this meal. As a parting gift” she said with a smile “and then I’ll be on my way, just as sure as the blue wind blows.” Elrod sat on his bed, wanting to relent. Leonard began to hold his father tightly, and whis-pered into his ear again “she’ll grasp you and never let go. Remember?” But it wasn’t working. Nedda’s smile, though more empty and transparent with the motive of a ghost, was too painful to resist. The damned soul had won the ear of her lover for the sake of a bit of salted venison. “Just put it on the table” he said, smiling with a mixture of pain, joy and terror. Elrod put his overalls on that draped his muscle bound core over his long-johns and sat down to coffee and venison with his late wife. Leonard stayed on the bed in the corner. “Twinkle-eye, come sit next to Momma” Nedda invited, in vain as Leonard’s reply was nil. As they ate the laughter began to ensue and Elrod be-gan to love the manifestation more and more with every laugh, every bite of venison that met his lips. Leonard walked to his dead mother as she stopped her talking and saw that he demanded her attention. Elrod, so mystified with his wife at that point in the illusion of love that he kept eating and didn’t notice that his son was reaching into the depths of a cursed soul. Leonard and Nedda’s ghost stared at each other, and Nedda’s ghost reached her arm out and caressed her son’s face, to little amusement on the part of Leonard. Elrod finally looked up and stopped. She had never touched Leonard like this before. He ignored it on first glance, but couldn’t ignore it a second time. “What are you doing, Nedda” asked Elrod. “You know” she replied, still looking at her son, “I really like the way those overalls fit you, Elrod. They make your chest irre-sistible.” Elrod entered the illusion again. Leonard kept his focus on Nedda’s ghost. She started again, this time looking at Elrod, “how about I feel them like I used to?” Elrod, upon hearing this, jumped to his feet, sweating like he did at her funeral the day before. “Ok, Nedda!” he said eager-ly, like a hound ready to chase a ball. “Leonard, go play outside a little bit, me and your momma needah talk for a bit” he said to his son, with a glazed look that Leonard knew all too well. “Daddy, 27

I can’t go outside.” Elrod was still in the illusion, and reached down to his son, “Just go outside and let me have some time with her. We didn’t know she was going to be like this. You know, healthy and all. She can actually move her limbs!” And Elrod was right. He hadn’t seen his wife with a fully curved body that her full hips resembled that of a goddess to him that demanded sex. Elrod shoved his son onto the porch with a knife and a piece of wood to wittle, closed the curtains, and slammed the door. So Leonard started breathing frantically trying to get back into the cabin any way he could. He tried the windows but was too frail to pry anything open with force, and too young to drive ten miles to get the preacher to extricate the false spirit from his father’s cabin. So he waited, and decided to fight the cursed by refuting her in some way or another no matter what was on the other side of the door. That’s how his best friend Jimmy went. When the door opened, Elrod walked out, strapping his overalls and looking for his boy with a smile on his face that Leonard hadn’t seen for a long time. Leonard put the knife into his sheath, and looked up. Nedda’s ghost stepped out, fixing her dress with a smile on her transparent face, and kissed Elrod on the neck. Leonard hesitated to kill the ghost then. He hadn’t seen his father—nor his mother—with such bliss, such satisfaction in a long time. There were so many nights of cold limbs and coughing that a woman’s bosom must have been as foreign as the shores of the Antarctic to the senses. Leonard hadn’t heard of this. Not from his friends, not from the preacher. He relented, “though she might devour us,” he thought. Weeks went by and the bliss of a domestic life which the Macabees hadn’t had since Leon-ard was born filled their lives with joy. Of course, Nedda’s ghost forgot where the cutlery was and put the firewood in the wrong place, though Elrod replied every time with a “that’s ok, sunflower, you just can’t remember” and showed her where to put it. She then seemed to have stock replies to most events that took place, and didn’t ever go out to town with Leonard or Elrod. “I’ll be fine here, in the woods” she would say, and Elrod and his son would dismiss it as trivial. When one day in winter Elrod arrived from the Mill with a load of venison, he walked into the cabin and dropped it all at the door, turned from closing it and saw Nedda’s ghost, standing naked in front of the fire place. He smiled and began to strip his clothes. “Where is Leonard?” he asked, then upon seeing his son in the side yard with a friend whittling away at wooden dolls, he continued to take his clothes off. They kissed gently with the orange fire glowing against their white skin as they mashed together until suddenly Elrod fell through her and slammed his head on one of the pans next to the fireplace and cutlery. Nedda’s ghost gasped, approached him and began to kiss him, but Elrod could not feel her. He couldn’t smell her daisy skin. He looked at her and asked her what was going on and she began to utter words in a language he had never heard before. Suddenly her words became enraged and she threw Elrod onto the ground, gaining control over her ethereal self. She shrieked, pointed at her naked husband on the bearskin on the floor and drew near him. He backed away from her, terrified, as her body became less and less visible. She almost devoured him whole when suddenly she let out one last shriek, shattered the glass lantern, and then fell to the ground, her body retaining corporeality. The ghost lay naked on the pelt. Elrod, drawing near her, still to the heated orange glow of the fire, knelt next to her, pulling her head into his arms. “You must leave, now, my dear one” he said softly, with remorse. She began to whimper in his arms, and then balled uncontrollably. “You must leave,” he continued, “so that we all may be at peace.” She cried at his words, but also at the sudden wisdom that he had, a wisdom that hammered a cleft between them with every word, “so that I may live freely again.” Leonard noticed his father was home. He ran up to the door and opened it with his friend to his side. When he whisked it open, and saw his father naked, sitting in the middle of the cabin with a heated fire behind him, cleaning a bloodied knife with a towel, capturing one of the drops into a tiny bottle, weeping. Leonard knew that to kill a ghost of a lover you had to pierce them. At 28

this site, and the disappearance of his mother’s ghost, Leonard wept also. “Why” he whimpered, “why is she gone?” knowing the answer. Elrod looked up to his son and said, though tears, “because I made her go. She was only a shadow, son. We both knew. Only a shadow of who we once knew. Maybe now comfort will come to us who mourn.”

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Mantis Religiosa by: Michael Callicutt

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Dusty gray ash swirls and spotslike dandruff on my black shirt.The early morning sun glintsthrough coffee mug steam,and mountains bloom purple through the clouds.

Not all those who wander are lost,he reads aloud.But the words are interrupted bytap, tap, tap,rap-a tap tap.

A scarlet-headed woodpecker perches highon a branch, and Tolkien is closedto listen to the tap, taprap-a tap tap.

Bark scabs drift down to meas the woodpecker continues his searchfor the center of the tree.

He zig-zags Up Up UpAlways rap-a tap tapping,wounding the skin of the tree.

What answer lives in the centerof the tree? He pecksand climbs forever, a restlessand fruitless search for the reasonof his pecks.

He flies away through nakedearly December branches,to wander to another tree.

Maybe, he says, it’s not abouthis pecks finding an answer.It’s his journey through all the forestthat makes his wandering matter.

wandererby: Saron Williamson

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An old hardbackConcealed with dust Yet vulnerable to the ones most acquainted

Edges worn from familiarityDog-eared pagesFrom words Memorized long ago

On the shelf Always visible but never touchedLonging to forgetYet always in view

Wishing to forget And almost accomplishedOnly to be remembered When dusting around the edges

Falling from great heights Cracked open to see the light of dayShould it be hidden, concealed?Or opened to reminisce The words Memorized long ago.

An old Hardbackby: Jenna Aycock

wandererby: Saron Williamson

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by: David Pagan Dusty winds slapped my face as He and I stared at the vast expanse of crater-filled ground on this jawbreaker planet. The sun held her rays high as she brightened the planet she ruled so forceful-ly. She treated Mars warm during the day and gave her springtime weather almost year-round. Her co-workers, Phobos and Deimos, however, quickly relieve the planet of any heat she had retained during her morning shift and caused her to freeze at night. A marble among other marbles but this one a hazy red. I looked at Him staring into the distance. His eyes gave off the impression of weari-ness but whenever He talked His energy in conversation proved His unbound energy. He patted me on the back of my left shoulder and said to me, “Follow me. We’ve got talking to do.” Our footsteps disappeared as the winds concealed our presence on her surface. He walked alongside me yet said nothing. This kind of dynamic between us endured for what seemed like miles and hours before I finally opened my mouth and asked Him, “Is everything alright? Have I done something wrong?” He chuckled a little bit and said, “Not at all. But stand here with me for a moment.” I stopped in my tracks and stared straight at Him. He told me to close my eyes and He took my hand. I opened my eyes and I stared into a dark expanse littered with stars. I turned my head and I saw Saturn behind me with my butt firmly planted on a rock in her orbit. I sat on the rings of Saturn right next to Him and we stared off into what seemed like endless darkness. I shoved Him, playfully of course, and asked, “What are we doing here?” His gaze, though staring hard into the endless void, as I leaned forward to see what He could possibly be looking at, gave off something that hinted toward a sad demeanor in His eyes. He always looked tired to me so a look like this wasn’t new but the way He fixed His eyes straight ahead of Him told me that He had something powerful on His mind. Whatever it was rendered His demeanor a tad morose. He turned to face me, still sitting, crossed his legs, and broke the silence. “There’s a blue planet I haven’t shown you yet. It’s my prized possession. Her name is Earth. She’s beautiful in every aspect of the word. My most polished gem. You won’t see it right now be-cause you may be on it. You may be on it for a while.” I stared into the darkness as I tried to see this “Earth”. He gave it high praise. He called it His “…most polished gem.” If, out of all His possessions, this “Earth” is His most valued then it has to be a place that’s incredible to a fault. He turned His head and said, “You’re not going to see it from here. It’s too far away for you to see.” I dwelled on what He told me of my potential presence on this place called “Earth”. What makes Earth so special to Him? What makes it so great? He picked up an ice rock and fiddled with it in His hands. He broke it like bread as He answered the questions I thought of. “Humans.” I had no idea what He meant by that. “Humans are what make Earth so special to me.” “What are ‘humans’? What are they like?” I sat back down, curious as ever. A tired yet satisfied smile cracked His face. “They’re my children. They’re precious to me. They talk to me and I talk to them. They love me and I love them. They do my work and praise me and I give them gifts and watch them grow. Not all of them are like that though. Some of them hate me. Some of them don’t love me.” His stare became distant as His mind transported Him to what I could only think of as memories of “humans” loving Him but also hating Him. I gasped at the ludicrous statement He had uttered. “Cease your talk!” I demanded Him. “They hate You? Who could ever hate You?” The look I received after I asked that told me that I may get the sense, so obviously lost as

i,m giving you a choice‘

33

by: David Paganto talk to Him like that, knocked back into me. I quickly sat back down and quieted myself. “I created them that way.” His response to my question stupefied me even more. “Why would you do something so foolish as that?” He stood tall, raised His voice, and asked, “Since when did I give you the authority to talk to me this way?” I stood back up, something brave or foolish, I haven’t discerned between the two just yet, rising up in me, and answered back, “I’m sorry but it doesn’t seem very wise a move to create something with the capacity to show anything that isn’t love back to You.” His voice revealed a sorrow I’ve never witnessed Him endure before. I always thought He was tired and at times, depending on whenever you caught Him in the day, bitter. “You have no idea what it’s like. To create something and love it so much yet it hates you and despises you in return.” The thought of something able to hate someone such as Him was truly saddening to me. I looked at Him and asked Him, “Then why did you do that?” He sat me back down, looked into Saturn’s frosty yellow paints, His veins stressed with time and His breath showing His exhaustion, and finally answered me. “The whole point of love is to choose between yes or no. That’s what makes humans so amazing to me. The ones that say ‘Yes I will love You’ say so because they truly desire to love me. The same goes for the ones that choose otherwise. That’s the choice I’m giving you right now.” I stuttered as I responded to the thought. “You…want me to become…human? And if I decline?” “That’s fine if you choose otherwise. I will honor either decision.” I looked back at Him, still lacking the full understanding of what He meant by His request. “What would happen to me if I become human?” He placed His hand on my right shoulder, He told me to close my eyes, and almost immedi-ately my mind became a hive of activity. Images upon images crossed my mind of what I assumed were people. “What you’re seeing in your mind now are the things that some humans experience. Happiness, sadness, joy, pain, grief, love, anger, laughter, friendship, and dozens upon dozens of other things are the things you will experience as a human if you so choose to become one. You will have something to do for me on Earth. It will not be an easy task and it will take you a long time to complete. Once it is completed you will come back to be with Me. If you choose to not become human then I will honor that decision as well.” I looked into the stars that listened to every little word that fell out of our mouths. They were a quiet but very observant audience. I looked back at Him, sorrow filling my being, and asked, “If I do choose to become human then will you be with me?” He smiled right back at me. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.” “But what if I become like the people that hate you? What will happen to me then?” “I will still love you. I will still be with you every step of the way. That doesn’t change because you might hate me.” I looked down at the ice rocks we sat upon. I weighed both options in my mind. As if He didn’t know that I’d think of them already. I looked at Him and I asked, sadly, because I somehow thought that I knew the answer that He would give me. “If I do go down there and do your work, will you be happy?” He leaned back a little bit, as if my answer was something so unexpected that His response was the only suitable thing He could show me. “I’ll be very happy with you.” Without a second thought I told Him, “Let me become human.” At the moment I said that we went right back to Mars. Her winds weren’t blowing as 34

fiercely as before because it was night time. Phobos and Deimos fixed their gazes on us intently as our conversation neared its terminus. His eyes, now filled with tears, with His hand placed on my shoulder, looked at me and goes “Make me proud.” I hugged Him one last time and the last thing I saw was His tear-drenched smile staring back at me as I walked away from Him to do His work. I heard His voice in my head tell me one last time, “I’m always here if you need me.” I began to walk farther and farther into the star-pecked horizon as I played with the thought of becoming “human”. I remember whispering to myself as I left, cognizant of His listening to me, “Not my will but Yours be done.”

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by: Carley GuillornSmoke and Mirrors

36

Elam had bruises. Dull, bluish ink-blotches that bloomed on his chest and inner thighs. He sat under his blanket and gripped a flashlight whose battery drained, little by little. In the dying light, he read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. A bruise below his collar bone ached as he read about Harry’s misfortunes with his neglectful aunt and uncle. He heard the doorknob of his door creek, and his muscles tensed. He squeezed his eyes shut and flicked the flashlight off. “Son?” Elam relaxed. He peeked his head out from underneath his covers and gave his father a trembling smile. He put a finger to his lips and walked to his bedside. “Elam, listen to me. We have to go. Right now. Put your shoes on. Please hurry, son.” His father’s eyes darted to the doorway as the kitchen light flipped on, and he shut his eyes. “Please hurry, Elam.” He swung his feet over his bed and scurried to find his scuffed Spider Man sneakers. He heard a crash of breaking plates as he pulled them on, and his bruises ached again. His father mut-tered a curse and stood between him and the door. “Get in the closet, Elam. Don’t come out for any reason. Look at me.” Elam’s father took his twelve-year-old face in his oversized hands and looked him in the eye. “I love you so much, my son. So much.” He pushed Elam to the closet and shut the door. He heard footsteps into his room, and his father’s voice. “Mallory, stop this. Please. We’ll take you somewhere. Anywhere. We’ll get you help.” Elam heard his mother chuckle deep in her throat. “Please, Raymond. I think we’re a little past that. It’s too late for help.” Elam heard his father’s heavy feet slide on the carpet, toward the closet door. “Just put it down, sweetheart. We can get through this. You don’t have to do it,” his father’s voice got quiet, “please. Our son.” “You don’t understand, do you?” His mother’s voice rose to a manic scream. “I have to do this! You’ve left me no option!” His mother’s feet crept toward where he knew his father stood, cornering him between the closet and the bed. “Please, Mallory,” his father’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Don’t beg, Ray.” He could hear the smile in his mother’s voice. Something fell over, and glass shattered. His father was trying to get around her. He heard his mother’s coo of “Ray, Ray, Ray” as the scuffling continued. Then, a shot like the explosion of fireworks, and the scuffling stopped. “I told you it was too late, Raymond.” His mother’s footsteps moved far away, toward the door. “Elam,” she said, “Eeeeelam, where are you,” she called to him like they were playing Marco Polo. The door creaked closed. Elam opened the closet door and saw an eruption of red splattered against his sheets, his wall. He stepped over a mangled lamp and walked to his father’s broken, bleeding body. The skin was ripped away from his neck, and blood beat out and saturated his shirt. “Daddy?” Elam whimpered. He took his gore splattered face in his tiny hands. “Look at me.” His eyes fluttered open, and he breathed, “Son. Run.” His mother’s calls to him echoed in his ears, and his father’s last breath rattled from his obliterated chest. He choked a sob and heaved his dresser to underneath his window. His mother’s voice got closer. His blood-slippery hands fum-bled with the latch on the window as he forced it open. He hoisted himself through as he heard the door screech, and the turned back to see the swirl of his mother’s auburn hair as she walked into his room. He dropped onto the grass and ran with all his might. Elam woke, his sweat stuck him to the sheets, and his fingers curled into fists. He lay still and watched the sun creep into the windows of the RV, a burning red. He turned his eyes away

Carnival Volksfest by: Saron Williamson

37

from the crimson. He counted one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, and with each number his breathing slowed. He lifted himself onto his elbows and ran his hands through his chin length, soaked hair. “She won’t find you here, Elam. She can’t find you,” he whispered to himself. He got out of bed and roused the rest of the RV. “Alright guys, time to move. Sun’s up.” Four pairs of adolescent eyes glared up at him and the turned the overhead light on. “Get up, get dressed. We’ve got to set up today.” He opened the rickety door and walked into the already bustling lot where Carnival Volks-fest was mid-construction. He weaved through the halfway built funhouses and sideshow booths to find Niklas. His chest ached below his collar bone, and he kept his head down as he walked. He didn’t talk to anyone, and no one talked to him. He spotted Niklas overseeing the raising of the Ferris wheel. “Not zere!” he yelled, sloshing coffee down his front, “Vere do you zink zat goes? Idioten .” Elam approached him and tapped his shoulder.Niklas turned. “Where am I tonight?” “Mmmm, vere do I haf you?” He flipped through the clipboard filled with placements for the carnival workers. “You and your little görs are doing zee basketball hoops. Try to keep zose damn diebe away from zee money, ja ?” He turned his back on Elam and waved him away with the back of his hand. Elam huffed and walked back to the RV he shared with the kids he worked with. He climbed the steps and saw the four of them brushing their teeth, pulling shirts on, and running combs through their hair. He felt a surge of pride. “Niklas put us on the hoops, guys. Let’s get going.” They groaned. The basketball hoop was the most unfair game Carnival Volksfest had. The hoops were shaped like an oval, but when the player looked straight at them, they couldn’t tell. If the ball didn’t hit exactly in the middle of the oval, it didn’t go in. All those poor people wasting their five bucks on a rigged game. He shook his head and followed the kids onto the lot. Past the asphalt, where the grass started to grow a little longer and trees sprouted out of the ground, Elam noticed a speck. He squinted at it, and as it got closer, he saw it was a child. No older than twelve, but it was hard to tell because his clothes hung around his torso, and dirt smudged his face. Elam met him at the edge of the grass and got down on one knee. “Did you run away?” The child nodded. Elam asked, “What’s your name?” “Jack,” he said. He looked up at Elam with blue eyes, glazed over with tears. “Well, Jack,” Elam took his face in his hands, “I ran away from home, too. A long, long time ago. I found this place, and they let me work. Do you know what it’s called?” Jack shook his head. “It’s called Carnival Volksfest, which means ‘carnival carnival’ in German.” Jack laughed a little, and Elam smiled. “Are there people looking for you?” Jack nodded. “Did they do bad things to you?” He nodded again and his chin trembled. “Then you’re going to stay with us. It’s hard work, but we’ll keep you safe, okay? Change your name. Don’t tell anyone your real one. You can call me Hal. Come with me. I’ll show you how to set up the hoops.” Jack walked with Elam to the lot, and he called out to the group, “We’ve got a new one guys! This is,” he looked down at Jack, inviting him to invent his name, “Bobby,” the boy said. “Bobby. Say hi!” The boys yelled their greetings without looking up from their work. He left Jack with the boys, and stepped back. Night fell, and the lights of Carnival Volksfest lit up. Elam left the boys at the game while he went to change in the RV. He looked at himself in the floor to ceiling mirror. His eyes took in the scars that marred his chest, and it throbbed with the beat of his heart. He closed his eyes and tried not to see her face in his memory. Auburn hair crept into the edges of his vision and he opened his eyes. He pulled out the black and white striped referee shirt from his closet. His hand brushed the door and a gunshot echoed through his memory. 38

Someone banged on door of the RV and he jumped. “Hal, Jesus, open the door!” He opened it and saw one of the guys who worked the Ferris wheel standing before him. “What are you doing? I knocked for like five minutes.” “Sorry,” Elam muttered. “What do you need?” “We need to test the Wheel before people start coming in. It’ll only take a sec. Come on.” He turned and walked away. Elam followed him to the dilapidated Ferris wheel with its flashing blue and red bulbs. “Get in. There’s people lining up at the ticket booth.” Elam clambered onto the bench and lowered the bar over his knees. The worker pushed a button, and the wheel began to turn. As he inched toward the top, he looked over the carnival and saw his boys raising the hoops. All of them were runaways. He’d seen their scars, and the way they shied away from adults around them. The wheel continued to turn. Elam’s chest ached as he thought about their fear. It made him feel sick. Maybe they’ll forget their pain. Maybe I can help them forget. I’ll protect them. He vowed to him-self; the wheel turned. He remembered the hiding places his father built for him as a child. His face was lost in the fog of Elam’s memory. All he recalled was his father dragging him to hidden crannies under the floorboards while he tried to subdue his mother. The ghosts of bruises ached. I had a protector once, he thought. The wheel reached the top, and wrenched to a stop. The bench swung back and forth, and he scanned the carnival below. He caught a flash of auburn hair and his chest exploded. His vision blurred over and he fell forward onto the safety bar. It’s not her, it’s not her! His mind screamed to him. You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe. Elam repeated it over and over to himself until he could sit up. He looked up and saw that the auburn hair was a clown wig. He breathed in and out until he got to the bottom of the wheel. He climbed off of the bench and walked toward the wheel worker. “Are we good?” The worker turned to him, and his eyebrows knit together. “How did you get in?” he asked, crossing his arms. “We’re not open yet. Go wait in line.” Elam walked away, his brow creased, and ran his fingers through his hair. He jumped, and scoot-ed to a stop. His hair was gone. He rubbed his fingers over his fuzzy, short shorn hair. He looked down, and his gaze was met with a pair of too-large hands. He turned them in front of his face, and stumbled back into a walk. He fell into the men’s bathroom, and found a mirror. The face that stared back at him was one of age, with wrinkles creasing his eyes and grey hair dusting his tem-ples. He stared at the vaguely familiar stranger in the mirror. “What the hell is happening to me?” The reflection mouthed the words with him. He rubbed his eyes and slapped his cheeks, rough with stubble. “I’m dreaming again,” he said as he walked out of the bathroom. He moved through the throng of people that had formed, toward the basketball game. The hoops towered over the rest of the carnival. He cut through the line of people and walked to the boys. “How’s it going over here, guys?” His voice was huskier than usual. He tried to slow his heart. “It’s fine, mister,” little Jack answered him. “It’s five dollars to play, and you can’t cut in line.” Elam spread his arms open, exposing his torso. “It’s me guys! Hal! Quit playing around.” The older boys stepped forward. “You know Hal?” one of them asked. “Jesus guys, quit it. I am Hal!” He was yelling now, and the people in line started to stare. “Listen mister, you’re gonna have to leave before we call someone. Just leave us alone.” The boys looked at him, and fear flickered in their eyes. They saw a stranger. He’d scared them, when they’d already had so much fear in their lives. “Sorry kids. I’ll,” he paused, “I’ll leave.” He walked away and sat on a bench. He put his 39

unfamiliar head in his hands and rubbed the back of his neck. He heard the clack of high heels over the thunder of tennis shoes, and he looked up. His chest collapsed and he felt the chronic ache of the old bruise claw up his shoulder. Auburn hair swirled around her as she walked to him. “Ray, there you are. Have you seen Elam?” His mother looked at him with eyes wide from mania. Her fingers twitched. “M-mom?” Elam’s chest throbbed in time with his erratic heart. He stumbled off of the bench and got behind it. His mother moved closer. “Mom?” She laughed her throaty chuckle. “I haven’t got time for this, Ray. Tell me where Elam is. I want to play a game with him.” She reached her hand into her purse and drew out the handle of a pistol, a grin spread across her face. “See? A game. Where is he?” Elam’s voice lodged itself in his throat, and his breathing was shallow. This is it, he thought. She found me, she’s here, she’s come. I’m not safe. The memory of bruises inflicted by her pound-ed beneath his skin. He stared at his mother as her eyes darted around the carnival. Her fingers twitched more rapidly at her side. “Ray, tell me where he’s hiding.” Ray? He felt the alien soft fuzz on top of his head, and ran his fingers to his newly prickly chin. She thinks I’m Dad. “Mallory,” he gasped out to her. “Elam’s gone. He’s gone, he’s gone.” His mind raced. She steadied her eyes on him. “Gone?” she repeated. Her fingers stopped. “Gone?” Elam nodded. “He’s not gone! Ray, stop it! He’s hiding! Just hide and seek, he’s hiding,” her voice trailed off and she turned in circles, looking for her son. Elam walked from behind the bench and grabbed his mother’s shoulders. She stopped her spins and faced him. He took her face in his hands and lifted her chin until she made eye contact. “He’s gone, Mallory. Give me the gun. Let me help you,” he whispered, ignoring the thump of his heart, and the throb of old bruises, echoing the words his father said to her those years ago. They looked at one another for a long time. His mother’s hand hovered over her purse. She looked up and down at him and the pistol until pulled him into an embrace. He hung limp around the hug, until he slowly curled his arms around her waist. She handed him the pistol from her purse, and broke the hug. “C’mon, Mallory. Let’s go.” He took her hand and her head swiveled around as they walked. He brought her to the medic tent. “Sit here, okay? Let me talk to someone.” His mother giggled low, and sat down. Her head never stopped moving back and forth. He approached the nurse, who turned to face him. “Can I help you?” Her voice was cool, professional. “Yes. This woman suffered a schizophrenic break fifteen years ago,” he tried to steady his breath and extinguish the shake in his voice, “she has a history of child abuse and homicide.” The nurse breathed sharp and her eyes widened. “She needs help. She’s not stable.” The woman nodded once and got on the phone. Elam walked to where his mother sat. She rapped her fingers on her knees and muttered to herself. “Mallory, look at me.” She turned her head to face him and smiled. “Where’s Elam? Did you find him?” “He’s coming. Some people are going to come and take you to him, okay?” She giggled and clapped her hands. He walked out of the tent and saw blue and red ambulance lights on the horizon. The pain in his chest eased as he walked back to the RV. He walked in and leaned his back against the door. He rubbed his face, and felt hair brush his cheeks. He moved his hand to the top of his head and felt long locks between his fingers. He ran his fingers down the smooth skin of his eyes and chin, and observed the regularity of the size of his hands.“She’s gone,” he said to himself. “She’s gone! SHE’S GONE!” He threw open the door of the RV and fell to his knees on the grass. His heart beat without pain, and tears streamed down face. He raised his hands to the sky and wept. He was free. 40

by: Jon CampbellDarkened,now,

though once were lit, are the hearts of men, not long content

to sit, to walkwith precious Love:

His grove of wealth they did forfeit.

Past feeling,now,

though in past felt, are the souls of those who Sin did fell.

Like blackness burning,Death’s eyes caressed:

His venom’s work hath ended well.

While the heavens reeledand turned their heads,

the earth all bliss of innocence shed.Her silver streams and stones cried out:

“All hope is lost! All life is dead!”

YetLove did rise on swiftest wings.

His heart with restless grace now teemed.

His eye drew fixed upon the paintings slain:“Restore them.”

They, to life, He’d bring.

And so,He came,and so,

was slain:Men’s Champion,

down,in darkness lay

til morning came,til sunshine spake.

And, now, upon the world He waitsto sit,

to walk,O, precious Love,

with the wealthy souls of those He wakes.

On Extinguished Lights Love s Unfolding( )’

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Behind the barricade I ducked while shots were being fired it brought me back to when I was a child my parents would shoot insults at each other I would hide in my closet to escape their barrage of words and there I was doing the same in this exchange of gun fire

I would hold there and wait for it to be over, then step out to see the end results of my parents fire

I did the same once the gun fire was finished, This time I looked to assess the damage, to see who was wounded and in need of help

The only difference between then and now…I had traded a room full of tears for a desert full of blood

hiding by: Charles Powell

)

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Everyone is always saying how they hate funerals, funeral homes, and the funeral crowd. Travis finds it awkward. Even the carpet seems inappropriate—too everyday. Maroon is cheesy. But he’s sure if it were black, they’d be offended that the funeral home was so dismal. There is something peaceful about the dove-white walls and rafters here. Travis never minded funerals that much, until this one. He figures the more personal it gets, the worse the funeral. But here he sits, and he and his child have to perform for these, his wife’s friends and family. Jeannie, I’m sorry your first funeral had to be Mommy’s.She’s doing so well. The funeral home people had chalked over Holly’s face to cover how drained she looked. He would rather stare at the walls and think of sometime last week. Why’d it have to be her—the fun one? Everyone seemed to be crying but J. Still, Travis couldn’t help but impose that hers was the heaviest weight in the room. Her 29 pounds on his lap was nothing, but how could she be anything but confused and gravely wounded? His child smiles at him, first with her endless brown eyes, next with her tiny teeth. It’s like she understands all this better than we adults think we do. ‘Hol, why does it matter that the guy said he’s never seen your ad? What is his opinion to you anyway?’ ‘Don’t “Hol” me, Travis! Do you like being lied to? No! Why should I? It matters because I know that punk saw my ad, and that he even bought the product. He was just trying to make me feel like my ad was crap, when his was the one the board rejected anyway. Why can’t you see that?’ ‘Look, you don’t have to talk to me like I’m stupid.’ ‘You were the one condescending to me—it’s not that you’re stupid, you just never listen! It’s like you don’t care how that jerk was trying to make me feel.’ ‘Sounds like he succeeded.’ ‘What are you trying to say?’ ‘Nothing, dear, just that you are way more sensitive about this than I think is necessary or even reasonable. I think you just need to cool down.’ Why couldn’t I have just said, ‘I know honey; he was just jealous. Let’s have some tea. Gosh, I love you’? Only J would slap someone in the face during his wife’s funeral. Travis looks at her: Hol-ly’s straight brown hair, eyes nothing short of twinkly-wet, mouth softly laid in a wide frown. It was obviously a pat, not a slap; she doesn’t like his tears. She grabs his chin and smiles, “Hey Daddy. You gunna be okay!” He knows that they’re both going to be okay. If Holly remembers anything, how much, and does she forgive me? Most of Holly’s family and friends look right through him.He’s just as much a ghost as she is now. Some stop to hug Jeannie, or hold her little hand for just long enough to see her smile. That puts most of them off. Travis almost wants one of his work buddies to invite him to come along to dinner later, or ask him to join them for golf tomorrow, instead of offering all their furrowed brows and awkward half-hugs. Travis moves Jeannie’s car seat to the front seat. He doesn’t want her to have to yell if she wants to talk, and he knows he’ll want to be able to see her from now on. Her smile fades as they drive away from the funeral home. “You okay, J?” No answer. He watches the road and waits, until she huffs and says, “I juss want every-wunna be happy. I just want you be happy, Daddy. I know Mommy is happy.” Her mouth is do-ing that weird rubber-bandy shape and she’s crying real tears. Jeannie usually shied away from

daily by: Chanlin McGuire

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theatrics, but even when she was trying to doop someone, she couldn’t farce wet tears. “I will be happy, J. It’s okay. Daddy just needs some time to think about all this—and it’s not a happy thing to lose Mommy. It would be okay for you to be sad about it too, you know.” Jeannie does not look convinced. “If we can be sad together, it might help both of us. Wanna try?” He knows she doesn’t understand, and at this point, they’re parked in their driveway. He takes her from the car seat and holds her in his lap to face him. “You know Mom won’t be here tomorrow don’t you?” Jeannie reaches up and grabs a curl from behind Travis’ ear and starts to twist it around her finger. “I don’t want you to be confused about what’s happened. She is going to be away from us for a pretty long time.” “Yeahs. I learn ‘bout this from my friend, y’know, Marla, at daycare. Her fish died. She told me all about it.” Oh good, someone took the pressure off. “What did Marla tell you when her fish died?” “She said she—her fish was the happiest he ever be, and he was always be that way. And he sinvisibled.” She got it pretty close, as far as Travis knows. “And that’s how you know Mommy is happy now?” “Yeahs. Dis she sinvisibled?” “Maybe. I know we can’t see her. Let’s go inside.” Inside, Travis rearranges furniture and Jeannie supervises, pointing to where she’d like things to go. He put a couple of things where she asked, but it would have been silly to put the sofa in the kitchen. They gather some of Holly’s things, and put them in boxes to distribute them as she might have wanted. Among all the pictures of Travis and Holly, they only had one picture of Jeannie in the house. They had stopped getting portraits made when Holly was pregnant, and they never made time for taking pictures themselves anymore. They had moved Jeannie’s portrait into the hallway that leads into the master bedroom. Travis orders the happiest pepperoni pizza that Dominoes can muster, and it arrives within fifteen minutes. Between a couple of talks, a salad fight, and cleaning up, they take an hour to eat supper. After bathing Jeannie and changing Travis asks, “J—you wanna sleep with Daddy tonight? I think it’ll help me not to feel too sad.” “I sleep with Daddy slong as him need.” “He needs.” “Yeahs. He need.” Travis’ J goes out before he can decide what story to tell her. She had been crying while he was brushing his teeth, and that must have put her to sleep. He looks up at the calendar just to reinforce this date: March 13, 2013, and with only a half-hour of missing Holly, falls asleep.

*** There’s no way pizza works that fast. He rolls over quickly to investigate the pull of a much heavier weight behind him on the bed. Next to him lies a girl with a huge mass of blonde curls. She can’t be a day over ten. Jeannie’s picture looks in from the hallway, and Travis has never been so confused. “Hey. Hey kid, wake up.” “Dad. It’s early.” Dad? Just after ten is early? Jeannie would have jumped all over Travis to wake him up at least three hours ago. The mystery child opens her eyes, and Travis’ immediate memory suddenly bursts with all this girl’s information. Her name is Rebecca Slaton; she was born, somehow, to Travis and Holly on September 7, 2004; she loves to watch Adult Swim car-toons even though she is not allowed, she has a crush on some boy named Ross, and the first thing she ever said was ‘Mamama mama”. We’ve gotta get a picture made. “Let’s get some breakfast!” He picks her up and kisses her forehead, just like he would have if she were Jeannie, who was strangely not the first thing on his mind. He senses that wher-ever she is, she is okay. Rebecca groans. She hates physical affection the first twenty minutes of 44

the day. Always has. He takes her to sit at the bar while he cooks her favorite breakfast, French toast. The smell crawls into her through her nose, and she slowly becomes more pleasant. “You wanna get a shower while I finish cooking? We’re going to take pictures after we eat!” She slides off the bar stool with a, “Sure”, and hugs Travis from the back, cracking his lowest vertebrae. Her specialty. Travis feels her footsteps down the hallway filling him from toe to head with glee at each shake. She has a lovely voice—right now it rings out Beck’s “Girl” from the shower. I’ll call her Beck for short. When she joins Travis at the table, he marvels at her fingernail-grip on the toast as she picks it apart, then drenches every shred in syrup. He does nothing to thwart her compulsion toward the car’s cd-player on the way to take pictures. “This girl of yours is a ham, Mr. Slaton! Take a look at the shots I’ve got.” The photog-rapher shuffles through about twenty shots: one with Beck sitting Indian style with both hands in the air, one of her lying down to face the camera with a fist under her chin, another of her walking away with a hand on a tree trunk, and one of only her face, all twisted as if she was trying to say “I’m tough with a bad attitude, plus there’s something in my shoe!” Travis picks one of Beck smiling up toward the sun from beneath the shade of a tree. He asks the photo lady to print them a 24”x20” and frame it with something red. Travis doesn’t hesitate to walk Rebecca into the Ben & Jerry’s downtown. He orders some-thing chocolate, whatever he sees that had the most, and she orders something with potato chips right in the scoop. The two of them walk with their tall cones to a busy street, where Rebecca stands behind one clueless victim at a time imitating their walks, complete with exaggerated facial expressions. Once the ice cream is history, they go home, where Rebecca makes Travis a duct-tape bowtie for work, half standard silver tape, half purple with hair bow-wearing skulls and cross-bones. Grilled chicken and more toast are supper, and a movie follows. “Let’s get to bed now, Beck. We want to wake up before noon tomorrow, right?” “But Dad! I’m not done telling you about the time Ross looked at me on our way to re-cess!” And so the night goes on; she talks, he talks. Four a.m. of March 15 comes, and finally, Rebecca falls asleep. Travis wakes at just before eleven, excited to spend another day with Beck. On his way down the hall to her room, he hears her rolling over, tossing and turning. There’s a shaven head in the bed where he expects to find blond curls. A single father’s fear rises in his throat, and he remembers that he hasn’t seen Jeannie since Wednesday. Travis approaches the bed with a plan to turn what he thinks is a boy over and reveal him, but the child beats him to it, and with the opening of his eyes, his information fills Travis like Rebecca’s had yesterday. Donald Slaton. Turned eleven on August 26. Likes to read Sci-Fi and wants to be an artist someday. He makes great grades in Spanish, and good grades in everything else. He’s quiet. “Hey son.” Travis smiles and hugs him heartily, and the two of them sit down to some Peanut Butter Crunch and M*A*S*H. “Let’s go take pictures, Donny.” “Ugh.” “Um, Mr. Slaton . . . I didn’t know you had more children.” The baffled photographer made Travis laugh, “Yeah! Me either. How many did you get of him? I think he’s had enough.” Don didn’t smile in a single shot, and in most, his glasses left a harsh glare. Travis chooses one in which Don was too busy watching a praying mantis to care about a camera pointed at him. Don is easy to please; Travis takes him to the museum of natural sciences and to Schlotzky’s for ruebens at early supper-time. “Hey Dad? Can I use your pen?”, and with that, Donny has something to do between bites of his sandwich. That evening, the boys play two card games. Just before bed, Travis hangs Don’s doodled-up napkin on the refrigerator while the boy gets lost in his sketchbook. The five days that follow bring Travis three more sons and two more daughters. He has yet 45

to see Jeannie again, or Beck, or Don. But Saturday belongs to Jameson, Sunday to God and Lily. Monday flies by with Trey, and Tuesday with Newell. Today, his daughter’s name is Trisha, and she’s 5 months old. He takes the day to relax and take care of some business. He and Trisha go and visit the photographer to pick up the frames of last week’s children. He hangs each face somewhere in the hallway. If this keeps happening, I can’t afford to keep getting big prints of each child. He needs a digital camera, so he buys one, and takes a few shots of Trisha. “Hey, Mark? Yeah, it’s Trav. Listen—I need you to put on the calendar that I gave two weeks’ notice. Two weeks ago. Yeah—yeah, I’ve gotta quit today. No, it’s not exactly about Holly. J? She’s . . . she’s fine. Thanks, Mark, you’re a pal. We’ll talk later. “Goodness gwacious, Twish. Daddy is unemployed! Yes he is! He can spend all the time in the world with you guys. What’s that, Patwisha? How is Daddy going to pay for you all? He doesn’t know! Haha! But don’t you wowwy. Daddy will figure it out, you smewwy widdle girl. Wet’s change.” Thursday. Who am I going to find in this bedroom today? The lump under the sheets is big-ger than Jeannie, but smaller than Beck, Lily, and Trey. Travis pulls the sheet away from the face of a handsome boy. He looks to be about six, skinny, with golden hair like Travis’ older brother, and olive skin, like Holly’s. His eyes and mouth snap open at once, and he pushes out a loud, but weak voice, “I tricked you!” Joshua: born April 5, 2007, loves superheroes and playing pretend, can win the quiet game if he wants, but rarely finds it worth it. He would eat chicken nuggets for every meal if Travis would let him, and he makes up the best songs, especially in the bathroom. They pack a picnic of what else but chicken nuggets, and spend most of the day at a river in a nearby town, swimming, walking, and taking in some man-talk. Travis finds a place to dig a hole and use the bathroom, so Joshua, in his good manners runs off. When Travis is done, he goes to find his son. “Josh?” he calls at least three times to the rhythm of some leaves scuffling before Joshua answers from behind a nearby tree. Leaves continue to rustle, and the sound grows more frantic as Travis approaches. “What’re you doin’ budd—” He stops before he can finish asking, having found Josh with blood on his hands and face, crouching over a pile of leaves. “What happened? Are you okay?” he asks while scooping up the boy to overturn leaves with his foot. He finds some bloody leaves and looks at Josh, then continues to move leaves to discover a dead cat. Its eye had been scratched out and one of its paws appeared to have been chewed off. Joshua promises Travis that he found the kitty like that and that he was just burying it. Travis washes his son off in some river water, and when back at home, he cleans the blood and fur out of his teeth and puts him to bed, crying. “Josh?” “Yeah, Daddy?” his voice raises high with the question mark and he swallows down some tears and snot. “You know you could tell Daddy if you hurt that cat today. You can tell Jesus too. We want to help you.” “Okay Daddy. I love you.” “I love you too, son.” He kisses the cat-killer goodnight, some weight off his shoulders, knowing that another child would probably be in Joshua’s place the next morning, but at a loss that he might not get to help his little son work through whatever is going on. He puts his camera on its charger, and considers erasing Josh’s picture. Travis enjoys every day with his children, lost in the current child, then racing to meet the next one. He doesn’t take any more to the river. He loves Scott, Dillon, Jessica, Kenneth, Whitney, Robby, Gretchen, Olson, Brandy, Newman, and Dee. He applies for food stamps, sells blood cells, reviews movies online, and showers three times weekly, only using half the water of a normal shower each time. He sells clothes and shoes, cleans houses for people any time he can. He devel-ops his photos, sells his camera, and buys a disposable one with some cheap film. 46

When the electricity goes out, he sits his teenage daughter Hannah down and tells her sto-ries about Holly and Jeannie. At night, he gets to thinking about each child that he has had so far. He can’t help but miss them all. Travis doesn’t want to waste his day with Grant moving, but he needs to get out of the house so he can sell it, and he figures he may never know when he will have a big, strong son again. The next day he takes Jolene to put an ad in the paper for his car, and holds her hand while they look for bicycles. Maybe they will find a sidecar. That’s what they really need. Travis hasn’t shaved in weeks, and Kaitlin knows that. “Daddy? Why don’t you step out-side and let me trim your beard.” They step out into the yard, barren of green, pretty chilly; and a very sleepy Travis sits smiling up at his newest kid, kid number 315. She’s a wiz, he’s sure. “So, how do you do it? When are you going to quit?” In normal barber shop fashion, she questions him, and Travis laughs. “Don’t you cut my beard too short, girl. I’ll getcha.” She laughs a little through her nose, knowing her father has no idea what he means by “getcha”. He himself taught her no one ever does. I wonder when we’ll run out of kids, Hol. Content with the trim, he fell asleep, and she left him there in his chair, surrounded by a thousand pieces of his own hair.

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Retriever by: Katelyn Whitmire

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Water’s current in the airFall down, sweep the streetsA gutter of mouth and fogA mutter of sweet gay-lightChances to make the water keepFather’s tranquility in water’s deepDrowning you in apathetic blocks of glass

by: Josh StewartFluid,Air/

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by: Kristina KeebleHe loves me he loves me not, Annabelle was beautiful. I was always envious of her honey blonde hair that spun. Her plump, blood red lips took precedence on her innocent skin, protected by the wrath of the sun. Her voice was gentle, like a melody. She was smart. Not too smart, but strong like an ox. One would be surprised at how much she would accomplish on the farm before our brothers would even get started. That is why I was surprised when it happened to her. Out of everyone, I never thought it would be Annabelle. Every time I think of Annabelle I cannot help but to think of my grandfather as well. Momma described him to me as a disloyal man, tall and thin. He had ash blonde hair and smelt of burning tobacco. Never amounted to anything in his life. A few years after they had, had my Momma, he left. This was not unusual for him. He had multiple affairs throughout his marriage. My grandmother was a very sick woman physically, so I’m not sure if she ever even noticed his absence. She probably figured he was working on the farm, when in reality he had left those duties for Momma to take care of. My family grew up and still lives on the farm; Momma was their only child. The very last affair he had altered everything for my family. Granddaddy was with this woman on the side for a couple of years. Momma always made up excuses for him when grandma would ask of his whereabouts. She only did this because she could not see her hurt emotionally like she was already hurting physically. One summer however, all of a sudden, grandma started recovering. Like a flower begins to bloom in its season, grandma sprouted up within weeks. Mom-ma said that she had hoped and prayed grandpa would not return, just in fear of him leaving again. When he would come home to check on things at the farm though, he began noticing grandma’s improvement. They started spending more time together and Momma said she would catch them rocking in their wooden chairs on the back porch, talking about memories and sharing tender looks and touches. As much as she hated my grandpa, “it was nice to see momma smile again,” Momma said. Momma said grandpa would still go visit his mistress, but those visits got shorter and short-er, and occurred less often as time passed. Eventually he decided to leave his mistress and return home to his family for good. Supposedly my grandfather wrote this mistress a letter telling her that he had loved her, but that it was time for him to stop being a child, and return to his responsi-bilities. He thanked her for their ruthless time together, full of lust and secrecy. He sealed it with a repugnant kiss and then laid it on her threshold with a sunflower on top, her favorite flower. My family is from Kansas so sunflowers are not hard to find. Little did grandpa know at the time how significant they would become to our family. Grandpa came back and did not leave for a few days. Everything and everyone was full of happiness. Momma said even the wind sang. This lasted for a couple of days and then out of the blue, while grandpa and grandma were rockin’, grandpa just dropped dead. He literally fell out of his chair onto the porch and his life was stripped from him in an instant. Grandma said there were no symptoms or signs of anything negative in his body language or attitude beforehand. Momma was playing in the field right before it happened so when she heard grandma shriek, and saw grand-pa lying face forward on the porch, she without hesitation ran in to call 911. On the desk beside the telephone lay a note and a deceased sunflower. The letter read: “Life’s most precious gift is to love and to be loved in return. Find this love before the last petal falls, or you will die along with it.” Chilled and confused, Momma threw it away quickly so that grandma would not see it and be 50

worried. Momma convinced herself that it was just a bitter ex-mistress, and a terrifying coinci-dence. A cause for grandpa’s death was never decided upon. It was rumored around town to have been a heart attack, but Momma and grandma knew there was something eerie about it. A few weeks later Momma said she noticed two huge sunflowers out in the field in back of the farm. They appeared over night and stood at a domineering 120 inches tall. The head of the flowers displayed florets in spirals of 34 and 55 around the outside. The bright yellow of them seemed to encourage mental and physical stimulation just by looking at them, and brought an instant felling of optimism and happiness. Throughout the seasons they stood tall, never withering away, only losing petals. Momma said that they did not understand how they were there, or their purpose, but they never felt the need to question it. As time passed, Momma said that both flowers began to lose petals at different paces. Eventually one had lost all of its petals and became lifeless. On that same day, grandma passed away. Momma was sixteen. A few years later Momma met Daddy. They fell in love and on their wedding day Momma noticed that the other sunflower had vanished. The remaining sunflower simply disappeared as if someone were to walk away. There was no trace left behind, only a mem-ory. Not long after they were married, they had Annabelle. With Annabelle came another sun-flower, blossomed overnight and full of life. After Annabelle was born, my two older brothers ar-rived, and then I was born. Each time one of us was born, another sunflower rose from the ground like they were anxiously awaiting our arrival. As we all grew older and wiser, our sunflowers lost petal after petal. You could always tell whose sunflower was whose because of the number of pet-als still holding on to the head. As we grew, we each found love, all of us except for Annabelle. My oldest brother was the first to get married. On their wedding day his sunflower vanished also. He had so many of his petals left that no one even bothered counting them. Next in line was my other brother. He was a few years younger than the other but by the time he got married he had lost quite a few of his petals. Once again, his sunflower was nonexistent after his wedding day. Momma and I began to worry about Annabelle. We would sit out on the porch where grandma and grandpa used to sit. We would discuss how we feared that Annabelle would not find true love before all her petals fell. We wondered what would happen to her. One night I asked Momma, “Would she die?” Knowing the story of my grandpa and grandma it only made sense. She would respond with an uneasy and uncertain “No, baby! Annabelle will be just fine. And there’s no reason to worry, she will find love soon.” Momma’s face was a ghostly white and her eyes wet every time any of us would bring it up in conversation. I was the youngest and Annabelle the oldest, so when my flower had just begun losing pet-als, hers were scarce. I had never seen a sunflower as bare as Annabelle’s had gotten. My brothers began setting her up on blind dates. Daddy started hiring extra farm hands, young and attractive men who were hard working, in hopes that Annabelle would find one desirable. She was strange. Her beauty was unmistakable and her body was like an hourglass but she was never with a man. All the men that would come around fell hard, as if Momma and Daddy had pushed them off a skyscraper just by introducing them to her. Annabelle; however, was too stubborn to ever give up any of her independence for a man. She did not care about the consequences; she would not force herself to fall in love. Her petals continued to fall, as did mine, and Momma and Daddy grew older and more cynical. That next summer though, we had a man come and shoe our horses. He was a new fella because the one we had used previously moved to Oklahoma to work for a rodeo full-time. His name was Gordy and he was quite the sight. He was tall, dark, and very handsome. His tan skin made his blue eyes pop and he had honey hair like Annabelle. When he pulled up for the first time 51

Annabelle went out to greet him and show him to the stable. It was not long before I heard laugh-ing and flirtatious clatters. This brought such delight to all of our hearts. I even heard Momma yell throughout the house, “Thank God! Thank God! There is still hope!” We had never seen Annabelle even smile in front of a man, except for Daddy of course. They stayed out in the stable for a long while, much longer than needed to shoe our three horses. When she came in, glowing as if the sun were shinning down on her at that very moment in the midst of the dark and damp coldness of that house, I asked with a playful tone, “Annabelle, who was that?” She replied with an expected and confident answer, “One of Dad’s hired help.” I smiled at her and she quickly ran upstairs. She did not smile back at me but her eyes could not help but to do so. I was excited for my sister and relieved for myself. I just knew if she would give this man a chance, he would take her hand in marriage in no time, and her flower would vanish. Gordy would make his way to the farm almost every day after that. He ended up quitting his job as a farrier and came on to work for Daddy full-time. I liked him a lot. I was still young and childish so he would come in and play with me whenever he was not working or with Annabelle. I would catch them holding hands, walking through the fields, and sometimes he would even be singing to her. Within two months Gordy sat Daddy down and asked for Annabelle’s hand in mar-riage. With eagerness Daddy gave him his blessing. While this was happening, all of us failed to realize Annabelle’s sunflower was down to its last few petals. Life had seemed to pass quickly after Gordy came into the picture. The day that Gordy planned to ask Annabelle to marry him, it rained relentlessly all day. He wanted to propose outside the stable where they had first met so he decided to wait until the next day. I think Anna-belle knew he was going to because she seemed extra anxious and giddy that day. I also remem-ber her having a hard time going to sleep. I heard her rocking on the porch that night. The wood squeaking back and forth mixed with the melody of the rain put me to sleep. That same night, Annabelle’s final petal fell. When I woke up, Momma and Daddy had already found her, face down on the porch. She was twenty-five years old. I immediately ran out to the field where our flowers grew and found hers undressed and lifeless. I fell to me knees and wept so hard you could tell my tears from the rain. Her funeral was two days after. Afterwards, Gordy laid a handful of sunflowers on her grave and then left. He never said much to our family after that, but he did come back to visit ever yso often. One time I walked out there to ask him why he would return, and he answered, “If I lis-ten closely to the wind, I can hear her saying over and over again, ‘he loves me, he loves me not.’”

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Gobbler and hen by: Katelyn Whitmire

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Public Transportation by: Jarrod McDowell My list is already daunting—soon it will become learning the Arabic Script among hot trash in Hell’s Kitchen sometime in the taxing smile of late July. Have to get off of this plane, so many tasks to accomplish—man—what if I step on chewing gum? BRRIIINNGG “You may now remove your seatbelts.” Upper East Side or Morning-Side Heights? When did I get here? Was it Sim Sala Bim or Battery Kinzie? Well, either way, it is the A at 175th street for me. Uptown, I think, so I suppose I’ll head down…Why did I get off at 42nd? This is Port Authority. Where are my bearings? Where are those pillars? I hate this part. Have to make my way downtown somehow. Maybe M20? That will take me to South Ferry right? I know this, I know I know this I know. I know. I do. Get up. What are you doing? Get your foot in. Like Robert Gibbs. You’re losing. Remem-ber the list. Have to find the pillars. Stop. Go! No just stop thinking! No, but think about going! “UUGGHH!…oh I’m sorry, no don’t worry…no...I……no ma’am it was me. No I’m fine…yes thank you.” The list, just focus on the list. Got to get out of LGA, need ground transportation. Where’s that man **Foxx? That’s his name. Where is he when you need him. Nightmare. The list. Need the pillars. I hate US Airways. No time now, Stop! M60 to West Side? Sure. Maybe Blue Ridge Mountains will get me there. Yea, M60, yea. “Hey, hey, hey, hey, HEY! Where is this?” Oh wait, that sign says “Inwood Hill Park.” Ah, 207th street. This is going to be worse than orthodontic impressions. The bottom jaw is fine. It is done swiftly, like a large piece of chewing gum on the whole of all of your teeth, but only on the bottom. Swift; simple. What they don’t tell you is that you may choke and die when they induce the top impression. The warm, oozing substance takes over the back of your throat where the bolus usually goes, indicating that it is time to swallow. Well, this happens, except there is no mastication—only torture, when your brain is telling your brain not to use your brain. It’s a terri-ble process. Well, this will be worse. Stop! No time for this, remember the list. Where am I? Oh right, Inwood. I need the pillars for my list of course, where are they? Yes yes, making my way. It’s becoming Hammurabi’s code in Freshman Calc. at #3 Cal Tech that I couldn’t care less about. Worse than impressions and becoming a math professor lecturing on Hammurabi’s code? I’m in the wrong department I think. Crap! I meant wrong neighborhood. Where am I? Oh right, Inwood. This is going to be worse than Orthodontic impressions, but yes, only on the upper jaw where the soft pallet meets the tonsils. Yes I think that’s right. I know things, you know. Let’s see, this is Inwood too, well, let’s aim for Staten Island and see what happens in between. The pillars should help, they always do. “The A you say? Won’t that put me at 175th? I know I’m right. I know things. Ok, thank you my friend—the kind people are always from Harlem.” There’s the A. Guess I’ll grab a chicken on rye at the Corner before I hop on. South Ferry was crap. I’m on Atlantic Ave! This is Bushwick! Where in the world were the pillars? Guess I was asleep. How in th—this is Brooklyn sweat that I remember. Give me your tired, your poor, your Brooklyn sweat, Lady Ellis. Should have gotten off at 14th street. That would have been a solid choice. Greenwich Village though…everyone there thinks the world is made of Maggie’s farm. Damned animals. Why am I lost? I’m not. Didn’t see the pillars, that’s why. Stupid boy band ads. Who are they anyway? Make the rail cars look silly. The new Kevin Spacey flick looks good though. I bet anything that the Academy will like it by the look of the rose. I’m not lost. Now to get back to Chelsea, not the farm. Guess I’ll take the J? Or Z? Same thing. Or maybe just Atlantic Ave. If I could see the World Trade Center, I would be able to get my bearings. Well, I know I am headed west on the J at least. Maybe the list will shrink soon. 54

Take the M60, ok. Need the pillars, really. Harlem? Ok, only a bit longer. Man, I’m tired. As long as the Financial District sees the sunrise at the same time as I do, pillars of fire will ensue. It’s almost as if I were leading the exodus. Except during sunlight, so that wouldn’t work. Wait, is this still Harlem? …”Hey, hey, hey, hey, HEY! Where is this?” Always a good choice. World Trade Center stop, come on, why is it just Cortland Street now? Huh, must have changed since ’99. The list. Last time I got off here must have been ’99. Lester Burnham would have been proud of me, I think. Of course, Lester Burnham has never been to the Maggie’s Farm. Washington Square hasn’t changed, I definitely know that, but why can’t I find my bearings? Made it to Cortland. Wait…pillars? I can’t finish the list now? Light on glass. Anchors. No wonder I’m so lost. “It did what now?” Well this is beautiful—but not as much as it was before. Back on the A I guess.

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he is Adam the first and the last, by birth and by consumption he inherits sin and perishing, curse and woe from his great grandsbut eats fruit from Life Trees, soda crackers and Welch’s,and the purest of intentions combined with new trust washeshis hands. he is fallen; you can see it in his eyes,green like Life Tree leaves, low like the heads of broken cattlethey lift only for sustenancefrom his Breaker

he is Davidsmall but mighty, sure in his stepsno one believes that this boy can destroyhis giant and ours, or lead a nation; not even he can seethat he and his Ibanez will help us all survivethe storm under Saul, the one we wanted.he needs no weapon; the flesh of a bearand the teeth of a lion still salt the stringsof the harp that he strikes,and he singsfor his Maker

Naming by: Chanlin McGuire

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Perfectly Imperfect by: Anna Kitchens

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Jay- Bird, will you sing? Remind me, again, of denim conversations and lace trimmed seafood. Come sit on my cup and share my peaches and green. Sing to me the song of the bystander, the looker.How peculiar it must have been to eat a flower, dusted in sugar.Remember the laughter refrain, speckling our flight through peach orchards?

Song of the jaybirdby: Hannah Smith

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Sonny Came Home with a Missionby: Kyle Garrett

Sonny came back to the family farm on a Thursday at sunset. The late afternoon sky had been nearly completely overrun with purple shadows -- the blood-orange sun peeled back and pushed nearly out of view -- when Sonny, seemingly dressed in tinfoil and near to glowing, ap-peared over an Appalachian foothill and gaited down the gravel drive until he stopped short of the porch steps and pulled off his Air Jordans. Grandma Froglegs saw him first. Just above the swan-necked faucet and through the open window, her sharp eye caught and seized a life-sized, shiny fishhook twisting itself down the hill sideways, sideways. And when the fishhook stopped twisting along the ground and started to walk, she knew her prayers had been answered. Sonny was back. She dropped her wool-iron and turned off the water. She turned around, her mouth agape, with all intention of telling the others this good news. She saw thirteen year old Stevie sitting on the living room’s hard wooden floor playing jacks with tacks -- his fingers and palms dotted and his face angry. His adopted mother, Feather Gracie, sat on the floor too, serenely resting the back of her head against the color television, feeling the raised electrons. Grandma, unable to so much as croak out a warning, much less a rejoice, was startled to hear the door creak wide open so soon, and looking back saw, for the first time in ten years, and for what seemed like the first time ever, Sonny’s nostrils flared tall and wide. He was back. As she had suspected when she saw him through the window, he was indeed wearing tinfoil. Plied and curved in long, smooth sleeves around his arms and torso, and even with smart pleats down the legs, he was immaculate -- highly reflective. He looked sharp. Not only that, though. She noticed his chest, arms, hands, even his feet -- tinfoil covered all of these. In fact, it covered nearly all of his exposed skin, as if his birth doctor had melted tita-nium-leaf, brushed it on hot, and left him exposed to the air until it had hardened into a skin-tight shell. But Grandma knew his birth doctor hadn’t done that. Sonny was back, but he was different. Everything except for his head and neck glowed metal in the light of the bare bulb that hung there in the kitchen, reflecting its golden hue. He took two great grating, uncomfortable-sounding strides, picked her up and hugged her. Her tanned face teared up and stretched into odd smiles as she managed to choke out “You great, dumb, lovely, thank you.” One and then the other, her flat-heeled rubber soles thudded to the floor. She didn’t care. Sonny was home. “Who the heck are you talking to,” Grandma heard Stevie jeer from the living room. She couldn’t form words in response. “Say,” he asked. Grandma held Sonny closer. After a long half minute, a faint “dumb old hag” escaped from the room Stevie was in. From over Sonny’s shoulder, Grandma looked into the living room to see Feather stirring. Feather opened her gray gray eyes, as if for the first time. To Feather, Grandma must have looked like she was being embraced by a larger than usual cooking utensil. Feather blinked at Grandma and then closed her eyes again, fading into the faint buzz behind her.

*** The reunited family sat around the little kitchen table catching up until late in the night. Sonny made a shade around the harsh bulb that hung above the table out of a brown Hardee’s bag and a bread tie. Stevie was nearly in awe of Sonny’s smile, his ease, his shine. He stared at Sonny when Sonny was talking, and even when he wasn’t, and when Sonny would look at him, Stevie would smile like a shy little brother whose mythic hero has resurrected. 59

Sonny Came Home with a Mission At one point, Feather leaned over to Grandma so that Sonny almost couldn’t hear her. “I want to ask Sonny if he’s wearing tin foil, but I don’t know how. Should I say, ‘are you wearing tin foil,’ or should I say, ‘is tin foil wearing you?’” Later she leaned over and said that she wanted to tell Stevie that his father was not the man he thought he was, she wanted to tell Grandma herself that she should be careful not to become addicted to love, and she wanted to tell everyone in the house that the milk had soured but she put it back in the fridge anyway. Every time Feather finished a sentence, Sonny roared with good-natured laughter. Each time this made Feather jump in her seat, but she smiled back at him each time. Grandma asked him all kinds of questions. After the first brief silence, she clasped his fleshy hand into her two cold, knuckly ones and said, “You’ve been to Graceland, ain’t you?” She said it as if it were a secret he had yet to share. He smiled but didn’t say one way or another. Back before he’d left home, he used to sit at that very table and put together a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle of the Graceland home, pictured at such an angle so as to show off its long flagstone exterior and its four slender columns on the front porch facade. At the bottom right of the puzzle was a superimposed headshot of the young Elvis in his prime--the innocent, almost translucent sky eyes and signature snarl. Grandma bought it at the Graceland gift shop in 1982. “You seen the stained-glass peacocks, ain’t you,” she said. “There in the glass wall between the black baby-grand and the sixteen-foot long couch in the den.” There was a long pause as she looked him over to find the answer in his face. A little more frantically, she continued: “You seen the jungle room -- the skins of slaughtered animals strewn all over the floor, the recliners, tacked to the walls. The green shag carpet, short and soft as courtyard grass? “You seen the inner sanctum,” she said, her voice deepening. Sonny’s eyes widened a little. “You gone inside the dark room where light and dark meet -- that room of gold -- gold records on all four walls, floor to ceiling, covering the walls til you can’t see the wood underneath. You saw it the way it was meant to be.” Sonny pulled his hands from Grandma’s lotioned, leathery fingers and readjusted the make-shift bulb-shade above their heads. The reflection adjusted accordingly on the wall opposite Sonny.Grandma continued looking piercingly into Sonny’s pure blue eyes, needing an answer. “I’ve been in between the song and the din,” he said, looking at Grandma as if she alone would understand. Feather had nearly nodded off but caught herself now, and looked fish-eyed all around. “I’ve seen sacrifice both outside and in. And I’ve seen gold that’s not of ...” Before he could finish, the front door swung open, nearly knocking Stevie off his chair, and in stomped Frank. “Hot dang,” he shrieked, seeing Sonny. “There’s a place for people like you,” he shouted for the whole house to hear, as if there were invisible people in the other rooms that he was en-tertaining, and began to snort to himself until it crescendoed into a high, jeering, wheezy howl. “What in God’s name are you wearing?” he asked, and pulled at a sharp piece of Sonny’s shoulder. He studied the tiny piece of thin metal between his fingers the way a fuzzy puppy studies a mirror. “What is this, some kind of joke?” he asked, and threw the speck into Feather’s thin, black and blonde hair. All she could muster in response was a weak groan. Frank’s wild, rust-colored eyes didn’t move from Sonny. His wild hair was the same color as his eyes. “Where have you been? We’ve been here being a family. There’s four mouths to feed and I’m the only one of us with a job. And here you’ve been gone, worrying us all to death, and not so much as sending us your address or even a -- or even a check to help us make ends meet.” Frank was shifting his weight from foot to foot and pointing a crooked index finger nearly at Sonny as he talked. “I ain’t gonna lie, Sonny-bear, it ain’t been easy.” He looked to the side and burped loudly

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as if to provide proof. “I help,” piped Stevie, looking intently at Frank for approval. “I been chopping wood,” he told Sonny. “Ha!” Frank choked out. “You still got a hundred more logs to split. You about ten percent there.” “I’m getting it,” Stevie said. “I’d get it faster if you’d help.” “I done the hard part, kid. Somebody had to get that tree down in the first place.” He pulled his hand back suddenly, almost hitting his hand on the counter behind him, and began making a loud, pitchy sound with his mouth that sounded much more like gears shifting on a dirtbike as it wove between pine trees and up into the hills, and much less like the whine of a chainsaw. “You’re a big help,” Grandma said to Stevie. “Little help,” Frank corrected. He put his hand palm down at about waist level to show his exact estimation. “Stop it, Frank,” Grandma said, looking at him straight. “You know as well as I do that a storm knocked that tree down.” He paused. Whether in thought or not was hard to tell. “I didn’t know they’d already gotten to ‘F,’” he finally said. “Tropical Storm Frank is raging over Coweta County today; residents watch your butts,” he said using his best formal, radio-man voice. “Frank, maybe you should go to bed. You’ve got work in the morning,” she said. “Tomorrow’s not Friday?” Feather wondered, suddenly looking up but looking at no one in particular. “What are you woman, a walking calendar? I appreciate the insight,” Frank said to Grand-ma, completely ignoring Feather. “You see what I mean?” he looked at Sonny. “This family would be different.” He appeared to be drifting off. “Way different,” he came back with a shout, snorted, and then snatched a loose piece of the tinfoil on Sonny chest, ripping about a three inch patch completely off. In his clumsy he knocked the precarious shade from the bare bulb. The bulb swung over the table like a bell clapper. “What the?” Frank uttered in shock. A smooth layer of tinfoil laid flat underneath the missing patch, as though nothing had ever been ripped away. “You’re metal all the way through now, ain’t you,” Frank said, looking slowly up at Sonny’s face. “He’s been to Graceland, Frankie,” Grandma offered. “I’ll be,” Frank said. “I’ll take you,” Sonny said. “I don’t know.” “I know.” Sonny took the patch of tinfoil that was still in Frank’s hand, smoothed it out on the table, and then placed it in Frank’s breast pocket like a handkerchief that, in the light thrown by the bare bulb, looked a lot more like gold than tin. Granny could feel her face light up. Then she saw Feather’s light up, and as Frank slowly turned, she saw Stevie’s. Frank turned his chest back around the table, letting the golden light fall on the faces once again in reverse order. Last, he turned to Sonny. “I’ll be,” he said with a slow smile.

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by: Kristin HallLion Pride

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And what a night it was!Jarrod played that guitar like fireoceans streaming from its strings

with his clean smile that pierced uslike beams that cut our chests openand our hearts plopped out onto the floor.

The notes from his fingers welled up in ash bits and floated up to the aetherpainting heavens in the sky pricking

stars bleeding pink and blue thatbled across the sky like lamp oil in the morning cool that rushed in afterhis song was over.

Presidents couldn’t stop those oceans from drowning us in that oozing musicthat flowed from the stars into folk

on that mountain, flooding us into one voice that yelled back to the heavensin tattered and bleeding hymns

that not even you, oh God, could turn your face from.

Even the mountains in that morning could hide thyself in thee.

by: Jesse McDowellIn pricked stars

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In pricked starsI heard a rumor about a manAn odd one he wasWalked in from NazarethSaid he’d been sent from above

Wasn’t sure I bought itNo tellin if its trueBut they say he healed sick, lame,And raised the dead too

That’s pretty impressiveFor one man to doI mean I expected a Roman or GreekNot some common Jew

He fed thousandsWith a little food is what I heardMy friend was there and ateThats what she told me--and I believe her

I read the governmentKilled him out of spiteHe called himself the Son of GodSaid salvation was by faith--and not by sight

They hung him on a treeAfter beating him half to deathIt was said you could see his bonesThrough all of the missing flesh

After three daysHe rolled the stone awayHe defeated death itselfWalked right out of the grave

Crushed satan once and for allSaved us from our sinful waysUltimate sacrificeBroken, blessed, and paid

But like I said it was a rumorPure hear-sayBut I heard it from reliable sourcesFrom the truth they would not stray

Now I wasn’t thereBut I’ll tell ya this muchI want to meet this manThis man named Jesus

Rumorsby: Evan James

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The Fight by: Katelyn Whitmire

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The Sorcerer by: Chase Procuro The sun-baked sands were too hot for bare feet to bear, so the two boys took the long way to the well- through the shade while wearing sandals. The unshaded way was quicker but offered no reprieve from sun, which was enormous and full of fury. “I suppose they will say he frightened away the clouds in his passing,” panted the fat older boy. He was called Dundae, the son of a rich man. “Who,” the thin younger boy asked. His name was Somal. “The Sorcerer, of course.” “You said you didn’t believe in him.” “I never said that,” said Dundae, jerking his mule’s reins to keep it from wandering into the oppressive light. “When did you hear me say that?” “You said it just the other day.” “I said I believed there was a man masquerading as a sorcerer. A man pretending. Listen closely, and you will find a difference.” But Somal did not feel like arguing. The heat was dense, he was thirsty, and the news of the Sorcerer’s death four days prior saddened him. His aunt had been the one to tell him, weeping like all rest. Somal had wept as well. He hadn’t seen any of the Sorcerer’s miraculous works with his own eyes, but had believed just the same. And in believing, his imagination had been piqued, his curiosity kindled, and his desire to see the Sorcerer in the flesh roused like a fire in his breast. “Dead!” His aunt had shrieked to the empty sky, her lamented wailing all but dousing the fire in Somal’s heart. “He let them put him to death! To death! All his power and he is caught slum-bering! Slumbering, oh!” The boys rode a ways in silence, until the flat, black mouth of the well began to come into view. Somehow it stood abandoned, shimmering lonesome in the afternoon sun. “Say, have you eaten your pear,” Dundae said, slapping at his wide stomach. “Mine seems to have vanished.” “I’m saving it,” Somal said, gripping the hard cool pear in his pocket. When they stopped at the half buried rook’s tower of the well, their mules began snorting and clopping up dust at the scent of the water. The boys dismounted and unstrapped their many skins and jars. The bucket at the bottom of the well bobbed in the cool, dark water and slapped against the slick stone sides of the well. Dundae filled his jars first, sending the bucket down three times. On the final lift, he filled his smallest jar and drank deeply. “Your turn,” he gasped, dousing his round head and kicking up dust as he slid his bulk against the well’s cracked base to watch his mule drink. Somal first watered the mule, then his skins and jars, and then himself. As he drank, he peered into the blinding desert, his eyes and mouth set tight. Somewhere out there the Sorcerer lay dead, he thought sadly. The unbearable brightness of the day seemed a mockery to the grey weather of his disposition. How he wished for rain.

*** “Wake up, wake up I say,” Dundae hissed after some time. They had been dozing in the limited shade of the well, and Somal was still quite lethargic. He felt a thick elbow jostle him in the ribs. “Wake up and look with me!” “Where?” “There,” Dundae pointed with a thick finger. “Out there!”

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Somal stood, hooding his eyes to ogle the vast ocean of golden white sand. He yawned, smelling his devoured pear. “I don’t see anything.” “Wipe the sand from your eyes, that most certainly is something.” And lo, it was. Soon the boys spied a man dressed in tatters coming their way. “He looks as if he is running,” Somal said. “His feet are doubtless a torment,” said Dundae, spitting out the pit of an olive. “The fool probably lost his mule.” “He will die if he does not slow down.” “Let him,” said Dundae. “If he does it will be his own doing.” But Somal felt differently. He filled his jar with water as the man sprinted toward them. When he finally arrived he bent over and clutched his knees for a long time, his every breath rat-tling his lean and sinewy body. The man was apparently quite old, judging from the darkness of his leathery skin, the lines and wrinkles around his eyes and forehead, and his rounded back. He also had a long, black-grey beard that dangled down near his waist. When he drank from the young boy’s jar, the water dribbled down this wild tangle of a beard and darkened the matted the coarse, wiry hair. Dundae stared at this unusual sight. “Why are you alone and without a mule,” he asked. “Were you attacked by bandits?” The old man shook his hairy head as he handed the jar back to Somal. “No, I come alone, bearing good tidings,” he breathed, his sun-darkened face wrinkling as he smiled. “Yes, news of the Sorcerer.” Somal’s heart leapt. “What news,” said Dundae. “We have known of his death for days.” “Ah, but he lives,” the old man said, beaming at them both. “He lives again!” Dundae laughed with rancor, his chins bouncing. “This is neither tidings nor news, but a rumor. This sorcerer is dead. My father would have told me if this were not so.” “Nay,” the old man said. “The Sorcerer lives, I know this to be true!” “How,” Somal asked eagerly. “How can you know?” “Nevermind this madman’s ravings,” Dundae said. “The sun has burned away his wits. His idea of truth is mere rumor: a lie.” “How,” Somal asked again. “You can see for yourself,” the old man said to Somal. “But you must cross the desert to do so. You-” “See how he dodges the question, Somal!” “No,” the old man said, turning back to the older boy. “I know the Sorcerer lives because his tomb lies empty. I saw him leave with my own eyes!” “A vision, a fantasy,” Dundae said. “Admit it, you saw no such thing.” “He might have…” “If you cross the desert to the tombs,” the old man said to Dundae, “you can see for your-self.” “Cross the desert,” Dundae said, crossing his arms. “And I suppose you want have us make this journey alone?” He watched the old man closely. The old man hesitated. “Alas, silence. You see, Somal? He would take us for fools.” “No, I...if you truly wish for me to take you...but I must rest. I have no mule, and-” “I will give you a mule,” Dundae said quickly, “or better. I will give you one of my father’s horses if you take us to the Sorcerer’s empty tomb. And prove that he is alive. Yes, do this and a fine horse shall be yours. With it, you can spread your tidings as far as you like.” Somal watched as the old man deliberated, his brown forehead darkening as he frowned 67

and muttered and pulled at his beard. “A fair bet, yes, but the Sorcerer advised against wagers of any kind, but a fine horse...” Somal’s heart thumped wildly. Dundae smirked. “Well, old man, what shall it be?”

*** Somal rubbed the warm muscled neck of the great horse as they approached the well where the old man stood waiting. Hours before sunrise, the velvet ink of the sky glittered with innumerable stars. A brilliant endless depth, mortal man’s glimpse of the infinite. “You will ride this and lead us to the magician’s tomb,” Dundae said, handing the old man the reins to the thinnest of three mules. The old man took the reins, eyeing the towering horse being led by Somal. “Have you any food and water for the day’s ride,” he asked Dundae. “Everything we need is on my mule,” Dundae answered. “Now let us go. I am eager to see you earn your prize.” And so they rode, the old man leading the way as Dundae tagged alongside, taunting him occasionally. Somal trailed the unlikely duo, tugging the prized horse across the endless sloping hills of sand. On and on they traveled, up and down and into the distant horizon until the sky all but blinded them, until the bracing winds ceased and the sun climbed higher and higher, raining its radiance down upon their backs and the backs of their beasts, until the sands sizzled and smoke seemed to rise from their shallow footprints. On and on and on again, until the Dundae’s japes turned to complaints, and then to curses, and then to silence. They did not stop until the sun began its reluctant decline, and only then long enough to nourish the animals. They themselves broke their bread and drank while they rode, another of Dundae’s insistences. “One should never tarry if he can help it,” he said, invigorated by the dying day and his generous helping of bread, cheese, dates, and wine mixed with water. “That is what my father always says.” “Are we near,” Somal asked haggardly. His arms cramped from pulling the horse which had grown more reluctant to follow them by the hour. The creature had even caused him to spill most of his water with its incessant and abrupt halting. “Very near,” the old man said, who’d only been given a bit of bread and water, although the Somal had given him most of his cheese. The old man stared straight ahead as he iterated, his back set like a stone, “Very near indeed.”

*** They came upon the tombs near dusk. The setting sun, a distant orange ember in the pur-pling sky, stretched their shadows into elongated caricatures, all spindly necks and fingers and spider-quick movements. The trio dismounted and wobbled their way on stiff legs to the large stone enclosure where massive boulders the size of cattle protected the stores of dead. The air here seemed chilled to Somal, and he shivered as the old man hurried by. “Close now, yes,” the old man muttered, sliding a fluid-swollen hand along the rocks as he stooped forward. Dundae followed at a jaunty pace, amused by the old man’s excitement while Somal remained somewhere between the two. They followed the old man deeper into the austere place until he brought them to a partially opened tomb. Between the boulder and the entrance of the crypt was a pitch black space, perhaps wide enough for a small man to enter abreast. “Here,” the old man said in hushed tones, as if the place was sacred. He turned to the boys with gleaming eyes. “This is where the Sorcerer rose from the dead, where he performed his

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greatest work!” Somal stared uneasily into the darkness of the gap. Dundae crossed his arms and sniffed the stale air, defiant. “The stone was moved from within, you see? Look,” the old man pointed at a deep trough in the earth beginning at the mouth of the tomb and ending at the base of the huge rock. “A miracle in itself that he managed to move it alone, yes? The Sorcerer is quite powerful indeed!” The old man, grunting, proceeded to press his weight against the great rock as if to demon-strate its immovability. But even in inches, the rock sat unmoved. Here, Dundae moved forward, waving the old man away. “Demonstrations of strength by the withered mean nothing,” he said, rolling the sleeves of his robes and squeezing himself into the gap. He crouched for more leverage and pushed against the great rock. His heels dug into the hard ground, his teeth bared, veins rose and pulsed and con-nected in his dampening forehead. He pushed and pushed and pushed again. “You see?” the old man laughed, giving the rock a slap. “A miracle! It cannot be moved!” Dundae tried again and again until his hands slipped and began to redden and chafe. He flexed them carefully as he slowly backed away from the rock, breathing hard. He dried his brow and stared at the rock and the old man. Somal remained quiet, examining the scraped ground from the where Dundae’s feet had been. “This proves nothing,” Dundae said at last. “You expect me to believe a single man moved this, this mountain? No, I say you had this stone moved before we arrived.” “No, the Sorcerer, you have seen for yourselves his great work,” the old man pleaded. “How can a man move this stone from within but by sorcery?” “He can’t, and that is my precisely my point,” Dundae said. “It is a trick, a contrivance. You deceived me by having the stone moved before we met. Admit it.” “Not so!” the old man screeched. “Not so! Not so! Not so! The Sorcerer moved it, as I’ve just shown you. He rose from the dead and moved the stone! He must have! You have seen-” “Come, Somal, let us leave this place,” Dundae said, dusting his reddened palms once more and walking away from the old man. “He’ll not be taking my father’s horse.” “You are a liar,” the old man shouted. “As are you.” “At least give him a mule…I’ll give him mine,” Somal muttered as Dundae neared. Dundae laughed. “The mules belong to my father, and I tell you not one will be given to this decrepit deceiv-er.” “A liar!” Somal stood between Dundae and the thin old man as his cry of “liar” echoed off the stones. Somal glanced at the old man’s face, at the wide and wild eyes and the mouth, a grimace unseen beneath the tangles of his beard. It took a moment for the young boy to register that he had drawn a knife. The mirror-like blade blinked in the last vestige of sunlight as it rose in the old man’s knotted hands. Somal began to back away. “I will have what was promised me,” the old man said, marching past Somal, who had tripped and fallen over a small stone. Dundae turned to say something cutting but faltered at the sight of the knife. “Keep away,” the old man whispered, slashing the knife through the air as he moved past the older boy, disappearing around a bend in the rocks. The two boys followed him at a careful distance, making their way back to their animals until they heard strange noises up ahead. Trembling, they hurried forward until they came to where their animals had been tethered. It seemed that the old man had slit two of the mules throats and

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was busy unpacking the third of supplies. The boys watched as the old man hurriedly took the re-mainder of their food, water, and wine from the older boy’s mule before packing everything onto the horse. He then took his knife, and, with bloodied hands, slit the final mule’s throat with an ef-ficient twist and pull of the blade. Then he mounted the horse in one fluid motion, leaving crimson handprints along either side the creature’s once pristine mane. “You,” the old man said, nodding to Somal. “The Sorcerer would doubtless smile upon your hospitality. And to you,” he looked now to Dundae. “Would that you learn from this.” And with that he thundered off into the cold barren desert, leaving the two boys to watch his lengthy departure into the night over the carcasses of three dead mules.

*** The boys decided it wise not to travel back before daybreak, so they remained at the tombs until moon hung high and full above their heads. Presently they were waiting for sleep to come, lying on their backs on the cold hard ground just outside of the supposed Sorcerer’s tomb. “I will have my father put that renegade to death,” Dundae muttered, bunching his robe in such a way that it served as a pillow. Somal said nothing as he rolled over and shut his eyes, trying very hard not to to think about his aunt, the Sorcerer, the old man, pears, or cheese. At sunrise Somal awoke and found himself back at the lonesome well. Huddled around him were the same three mules from the previous day’s journey, as well as the great white horse. All four animals seemed alive and well, for they stared at him dumbly, apparently waiting for their wa-ter to be drawn. Unnerved at their presence, Somal rose and, pinching himself, warily approached the creatures. He believed that if he could but touch them then their presence would be no mere illusion, or dream. He came closer, and closer, was within an arm’s length of the horse’s reins when noticed that one of the mules, the one he had ridden yesterday, had been loaded with something. Somal approached the animal and unpacked one of the many bulky saddlebags and found that it filled with a vast assortment of cheeses. Puzzled, yet hungry, Somal allowed himself to unpack and taste a bit of this cheese. He chewed thoughtfully, peering around himself in the gradually bright-ening morning. Dundae, it occured to him, was nowhere to be found.

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I don’t remember my Papa’s voice,how he said my name, the sound of his laughter.

His voice was taken when I was small.Cancer.

But I do remember the wayhis whiskers scratched my facewhen he kissed my cheek.

His ice-cold hands wrapped in both of mineas we satside by sidein the old, white swing.

His leathery, tan skinbrowned by the sunand work.

His stained teeth from too many cigarettes.Oh, but his smile...

I remember how his chapped lips movedagainst each other when he would speak.

Hearing the very air of his words.“I love you,” he would breathe.

papaby: Katie Melton

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papaby: Katie Melton

There’s a certain relationship a musician has with the music he creates.An internal resonance transcending sound— a feeling, an emotion, an unction,which makes him better than

who he isand more than he can dream.

It is Imagination’s shape,the shadow of its creator.The essence of his soul, bound to obey theswaying commands of his hands, and, evoking from above something original,ends his silent struggle to reveal what was not his from the beginning.

On Musiciansby: Taylor Collins

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At the great gates of the floorA bottled up savior left youLeft with a feeling of uncertaintyYour porcelain airbag is the only friend you’ll have tonight

Ceilings turning, your head is burningCan’t change now, wish you could change thenYou would have never put your trust in that glass paradeYou would have much rather just seen it on tvThe giant blown up of a drunken manSo fun to watch a life be crushedAt least his pain be hushed

Heart beat antics, Self made franticsHaunt this place

by: Josh Stewart

At the gates of the floor

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Take this to your grave by: Carley Gulliorn

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Atimbrian’s father was named Arthur Rood, and he built railroads. He was a large, well-dressed man with kindly eyes and a mirthful smile that never faded as long as business was good. For twenty-eight years he sat behind the big mahogany desk of the Grand Northeastern’s central office, and they were golden years indeed; it was an age of steam and steel and the sweat of men’s backs, and Old Mr. Rood, as his employees fondly named him, was the hardest-working man of that or any age. On many a hot day he rolled up his sleeves and joined his lowliest workers in the fields and hills, singing and sweating with them beneath the blistering sun, heaving heavy hammers to break the stony ground and drive iron spikes into earth. A certain wistfulness crept into Atimbrian’s voice when he spoke of his father, and although his face was faded and ghostly, I could see faint fires like railway lanterns burning in his eyes as they gazed beyond me into some distant horizon that only he could see. Then suddenly he remembered himself, coughed lightly to break the silence, and resumed his tale while I listened, nodding along quietly, like a psychiatrist listening to his patient. This had been our routine for a month. We met on Friday afternoons, or whenever his work permitted, at a quiet table for two, and he would speak to me in fervent tones over pints of beer and baskets of stale French fries. The first time he came to me, I could tell by his shifting eyes and the edge of unease in his voice that he was anxious for someone to talk to. His wife, he said, was a stern woman, deeply loving but unreachably distant, and certainly not the sort of person before whom he could lay out his troubled mind. So he sought me out instead, and I made my best effort to be a good friend and give him the attention he so clearly craved. Each time he spoke he was peeling back layers of himself, revealing a tender core that hadn’t been exposed to the air since long before I had met him. He spoke of everything, from his recent troubles to his oldest, fondest memories, but inevitably his talk would drift back to his childhood, to his father, and to the railroad that connected them all. Naturally, and much to young Atimbrian’s delight, the Rood family often traveled by rail. Even as a child he was in love with rail travel, with the smell of coal-smoke and the thrilling, chill-ing cry of the steam-whistle; all these he described to me in lavish, loving detail. In his youth he made a home-away-from-home of the train station, and on sunny afternoons he sat and watched entranced as the great locomotives, mighty steam-shrouded iron behemoths, glided gracefully up to the crowded platform and set out again, pistons pushing, wheels turning, smokestacks sending up long trails of black smoke that rose higher and higher until they were swallowed by the deep blue sky. He fondly recalled a day when his father took him for a tour of the rail yard, and how for hours afterwards he had wandered about amongst the rumbling locomotives just to hear the squeak and clang of shunting cars and feel the hot steam droplets gently pelt his face. Even the sound of passenger cars as they sped along the tracks was music to his young ears, and he treasured every bump and every rattle. Old Mr. Rood was keen to notice his son’s enthusiasm. One afternoon, as Atimbrian watched from the platform while a long Camelback engine, its ruddy steel sides emblazoned in gold with the name of the Great Northeastern, set forth from the station with a long passenger train in tow, his father came to his side, leaned down and spoke to him. “You know, Atimbrian,” he said, “the rails will sing to you, if you listen. Now, tell me: what do you hear?” Atimbrian listened. The little iron wheels of the cars clacked rhythmically as they raced over the track. Cha-chunk cha-chunk, cha-chunk cha-chunk, cha-chunk cha-chunk. “Atimbrian, Atimbrian,” his father whispered softly in his ear, in time with the sound of the

Atimbrian by: Alex Genetti

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wheels. A sun-bright smile burst onto the boy’s face. The rails were singing his name! As Atimbrian related this anecdote to me, I managed to spy the ghost of that old smile on his lips – a beaming, boyish grin that looked out of place on his bearded, middle-aged countenance. “Atimbrian, Atimbrian,” he murmured, rapping on the wooden tabletop with his fingertips so that I could hear the rhythm of the rails. I nodded and told him I could hear just fine, and a warm chuckle rumbled upwards from his considerable belly and dissolved into the clinking, chattering background noise of the bar. Years went by, the child grew up, and a time came at last when Old Mr. Rood passed away. Atimbrian recalled the funeral in somber tones. It had been held on a cold, dreary day in early April beneath a blanket of cold gray clouds. On a clifftop over the sea, in an old cemetery where four generations of Roods lay interred, Atimbrian stared in solemn silence with a hundred black-garbed mourners as his father was lowered into the earth to join his fathers before him. The minister reached inside the pocket of his long black overcoat, produced a tattered Bible, and began to read aloud a passage of scripture which the deceased himself had selected. But his voice rang hollow in the grieving son’s ears and failed to reach his distracted mind. On a small knoll over the gravesite grew an aged cherry tree, and its outermost branches, still bearing the pale blossoms of early spring in spite of the tree’s advanced age, stood as spindly black silhouettes against the gray sky; for some reason, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, the branches held Atimbrian’s gaze. “Yea, I hated all my labor which I had taken under the sun: because I should leave it to the man that shall be after me….” A sudden, biting wind from the sea shivered the thin branches. Somewhere behind them, a choir struck up a soulful old hymn about eternal life. The minister read on. “For there is a man whose labor is in wisdom, and in knowledge, and in equity; yet to a man that hath not labored therein shall he leave it for his portion.” “Liv-ing for-ev-er, oh, mar-vel-ous thought! Je-sus to me im-mor-tal-i-ty bought….” sang the choir. Atimbrian looked closer: standing out among the blossoms were tiny, nascent clusters of cherries, still wearing the green skin of immaturity, but surely growing and ripening even as he stared at them. Strange, he thought – the tree had seemed nearly lifeless, far too decrepit to pro-duce fruit. Yet there it was. “For what hath man of all his labor, and of the vexation of his heart, wherein he hath la-bored under the sun?” “Liv-ing for-ev-er, though stars may de-cay, suns cease to shine, and the worlds pass a-way….” The preacher closed his Bible just as the song reached a climax, and even in the midst of his grief and doubt, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, Atimbrian raised his trembling voice to join them. “Living for-ev-er, liv-ing for-e-ver, life e-ver-last-ing my por-tion shall be!” Father would live on, he said to himself. He would see to that. In the years that followed, Atimbrian started to sit behind the Great Northeastern’s big ma-hogany desk. The transition of authority was so smooth it was as if no change had occurred. If all that I have heard about Arthur Rood is true, then Atimbrian was in every way his father’s son: as kind as a summer breeze, as loud and jovial as a carnival, and (it must be admitted) not particularly thin. He seemed to carry an atmosphere of celebration around with him, tempered with hard work and a genuine love for his fellows. On the day his secretary had accepted his marriage proposal – in the middle of the office, no less – Atimbrian had immediately declared a holiday, brought out hotcakes and coffee, and ordered his office employees to take it easy for the rest of the workday. 76

The next morning they found him passed out on his desk, snoring atop piles of paperwork that he had completed overnight by himself to make up for lost time. Nothing delighted Atimbrian more than when his employees began calling him “New Mr. Rood” with the greatest possible affection; he took it as the finest compliment he’d ever received. No sooner had he taken charge of the company than he began to draw up plans, plans for a bright future beyond even his father’s wildest imagination. At this point in our conversation he began to produce items from his coat pockets and place them on the table before me: old roadmaps covered with lines and pen-markings, pages of notes tabulating quantities and costs of steel and labor, and some rather elaborate sketches of new engines and coaches. His grandest scheme of all he called the Via Perpetuus, the “Road Everlasting,” a four-hundred mile stretch of track running inland from Port Ithaca which he described in almost comically romantic terms. With wide sweep-ing gestures he announced that it would “forever unite east and west in geographic matrimony,” and I did my best to stifle a chortle; it clearly meant a great deal to him. Many an hour he had spent at his desk, scribbling on maps by lamplight with ink-stained fingers, and many a day he had spent in the fields and hills, surveying the land upon which he would build his magnum opus. It was to be a monument as much as it was a feat of engineering, for with it he would stamp his name, his father’s name, upon the land in “twin lines of steel that raced into the horizon to meet the dawn of a new age.” At that point, even he had to stop and chuckle at his own phrase, shaking his head with a broad smile. Those plans were all years ago, of course, at the height of the age of steam, in the days when the Great Northeastern was still a force to be reckoned with. He didn’t say much to me of his own feelings on the matter, but I imagine it must have upset him greatly when the building of the line fell through – “not enough demand for a railway,” he muttered limply – and a highway was paved in its place. On reflection, it was just a sign of the end of an era. The larger lines remained open in the years that followed, but smaller ones like the Great Northeastern fell into long and ter-rible declines, closing down a piece at a time like an old man whose weary organs were failing him one by one. Atimbrian, driven at last to desperate straits, found work as the curator of a railway museum. Sometimes he joked that he was as much of an exhibit as the old locomotives, though judging by the look on his face the jest left a bitter taste in his mouth each time he made it. He began to disappear shortly after that. His wife had been the first to notice. When he stood before the window one morning she saw soft blue daylight streaming through a translucent spot in his chest. He shook off her concerns and insisted that she not speak about it. But by break-fast the spot had spread to most of his upper torso, and by lunch his arms and neck were nearly see-through as well. He never went in to work that day; instead he locked himself in the washroom and spent hours gazing hard at his fading reflection in the mirror and thinking harder still. Finally he frowned at himself, pulled on a heavy overcoat and stepped out into the raw autumn air. As he wandered across the cold, gray pavement, he heard the grumble and rush of passing motorcars and breathed in the oily smell of automobile exhaust, and realized for the first time that his father was truly dead. The next day was when he called on me, asked if we could simply sit for a while and talk. He seemed to have a lot on his mind. “Visited his grave again yesterday.” Atimbrian was staring at his empty pint. “Still can’t abide what they wrote on the stone,” he grumbled. “Requiescat in pace indeed!” “Rest in peace?” I said. “What’s wrong with that?” “Rest doesn’t suit him,” he said. “It never did in life – why should it in death? No, Father was always a worker, always had his hand to the proverbial plow. It’s why he smiled so much!” Atimbrian raised the pint to his lips and drained the precious few drops that remained inside. With his right hand he gripped the mug’s handle, and his fingers were nearly as transparent as the glass. 77

“Besides,” he added, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his coat, “there’s always new work to be done, new tracks to lay down. I’ve no doubt he’s still breaking stones and driving spikes in whatever heaven he’s in now.” I flashed him a skeptical grin. “Do you suppose they really need railroads in heaven?” I chided good-humoredly. He laughed. “My boy, of that I’ve no doubt either! The railroad is a fact of life – surely it must be a fact of the afterlife as well. There’s something in man’s spirit that makes him lay down tracks, makes him bridge the gap between ourselves and our neighbors with steel and steam. I dare say he’ll carry it with him wherever he goes, in this world or the next.” “Then what would you rather they have written on the stone?” I asked, now genuinely cu-rious. “What do you think would’ve suited him better?” This question gave him serious pause. For a long time he stared out of the window at the street, stroking his beard and watching the stiff autumn breezes play havoc with the reddening leaves. Finally a smirk played at the corners of his lips, and he said, “Rex quondum, rexque fu-turus.” He winked at me, checked his pocket watch, tipped the waitress heavily, and excused him-self from the establishment and my company. My eyes followed him as he plodded away down the sidewalk, and his shape, already faint, grew harder and harder to make out until he was lost to view among the shuffling crowds. The following afternoon I paid his house a visit. He had left his maps and notes with me at the bar and I suspected he might want them returned. Theirs was a rustic Gothic brick house, with high slanted roofs crowned with two tall red-brick chimneys and elegant running trim hang-ing from the gables. But here and there a roof shingle had fallen off, and the leftmost chimney was crumbling, and the weatherworn wooden window-shutters had certainly seen better days. A tall ladder leaned against the front wall, and Atimbrian was standing precariously at the top with trowel in hand and a bucket of some sealant material balanced carefully on the highest rung. He heard my approach and waved down at me, his ghostly arm tinted blue by the pale sky behind it. “Hullo, my boy! Just a little upkeep, nothing too critical. Go on inside, the missus’ll make you some tea if you like. I’ll be in shortly!” I nodded to him, eyeing the roof as I did so. The section of roof on which he was working was in severe disrepair, with the gables sagging and the shingles crumbling to bits, and I doubted he would make much headway on his own; still, I made no comment and left him to his work. After one ring of the doorbell, Mrs. Rood appeared and welcomed me inside. “Atimbrian seems in low spirits lately,” I said as I set my teacup onto the saucer with a muted clink. The tea set was, like most everything else in the house, antique, and not altogether well-preserved; the edges were chipped and chinked and the sheen of the china looked as though it had worn off years ago. “Oh, he laughs often, and doesn’t dwell on unpleasant matters for long, but the way he spends hours reminiscing – in that nostalgic, melancholy sort of way that he does – it’s beginning to worry me just a tad. I think he’s starting to sound like an old man.” “An old man!” she laughed cynically, shaking her head. Mrs. Rood was a pale, dark-haired woman who looked as though she had been plucked out of a black-and-white photograph, and perhaps she alone in the house could boast of being well-preserved. She sat across from me in a tall armchair, sipping her Earl Grey once before speaking again. “A child, more probably, who fancies himself a grown-up. You should hear him, the way he blathers on about the railroad like a boy of twelve.” Her smile faded and she stared down the steaming tea in her cup. “But then, you have heard him now, haven’t you? Of course, that’s all he talks about now. I don’t believe there’s anything else in his head anymore but trains, trains, and his father.” “Well, I suppose it must seem that way,” I replied, and as I nodded I allowed my eyes to wander about the living room. A painting hung in a simple frame on the far wall, a small, square 78

oil-on-canvas of muted colors in the art deco style. It depicted a stylish, silver J-class locomotive, of the type once used by Norfolk and Western for express passenger trains, rushing forward and gleam-ing in the yellow light of the sun rising behind it. The engine’s sleek, streamlined design might have looked futuristic in its day, but now it looked, at best, a tad quaint. Atimbrian’s signature, a large and stylized “A.R.,” was tucked neatly into the lower right-hand corner of the picture. “Did your husband paint that?” I asked in surprise. “He’s shown me some impressive sketch-es, but I had no idea he had a knack for painting as well.” “It’s only a hobby for him,” she answered simply, continuing to stare into her cup. With one hand she brushed a long black lock of hair out of her face; despite all her years, only a few strands of silver adorned her scalp. “It’s a pastime he took up just recently. And he only paints steam engines, of course. He’s got quite a lot of time on his hands, now that business at the museum is winding down. It’ll likely close within the month.” “The museum? Oh, my. He never mentioned that either. He grumbled a bit about ‘dimin-ished public interest in railroad history’ or something to that effect, but….” “He doesn’t talk much about what’s going on around him,” she said. “If it didn’t happen more than ten years ago, it might as well not have happened at all, as far as he’s concerned.” A sour smile adorned her lips, and her green eyes burned with a quiet contempt. “I suppose he didn’t even want to discuss his – his condition with you, either.” “Well, no,” I confessed. “I could tell he was getting worse, but he didn’t seem inclined to talk about it at all. Just trains, trains, and his father, like you said.” “Of course.” I picked up my tea again, noticing that some of hot liquid had leaked onto the saucer through a hairline crack that ran along the bottom of the cup. A few drops dribbled across the table, the carpet, and my lap before I quickly set it down again. Mrs. Rood was at my side at once with a napkin, dabbing and apologizing, but something in her voice told me that she wasn’t apologizing for herself. “It’s a lovely tea set,” I said. “Just a bit timeworn.” “I’d like to get a new one,” she said. “But Atimbrian won’t have it.” “Sentimental attachment?” “It was his father’s.” “Ah.” The following week passed swiftly. Atimbrian seemed a different man when the next Friday rolled around. His image was paler and grayer than before, his colors faded like an old photograph. As he took his usual seat at our window-side table there wasn’t even the hint of a smile on his face; business was not good. He told me that the railway museum had finally closed down. “Not enough demand,” he muttered in explanation. “Not enough interest.” With a trembling hand he lifted his pint, but the glass slipped through his ghostly fingers and shattered on the tabletop. I reached across with my napkin, but he pushed it away; though the motion of his hands was aggressive, his touch felt no more substantial than water. Suddenly he stood up, thoroughly flustered and afraid, and strode hastily out the door. More weeks passed. His wife saw less and less of him. Rumors sprang up among the neigh-borhood children about a ghost that haunted the old station house and railway yard of the Great Northeastern, who at sunset could be seen wandering the empty tracks. I took to visiting the yard in the evenings, strolling casually around its perimeter, hoping faintly that I might have an encounter of my own with the specter. Over the many years that the yard had lain in disuse, gray-green ivy had crept over the collapsing sheds and derelict carts, as though nature were laying her claim on treasures no one wanted anymore. It was a desolate spot, a wasteland, as still and quiet as a graveyard; what better place to look for a ghost?79

I caught him out there one cool evening in November. I nearly missed him in the fading daylight; his image was so faint, illuminated only by the warm light of a streetlamp burning on the sidewalk some yards distant. He was leaning against the side of an old red boxcar that sat neglect-ed on a forgotten stretch of rusty sidetracks. Weeds sprouted up between the crossties at his feet. When he saw me he smiled. By now his face was barely visible, but there was no mistaking the hot coal-fires that burned in his eyes. He had been reminiscing. “Out here, my boy,” he said to me, “out here is where the great 4-8-4s would come rattling to a stop, and with a clink and a clatter they’d be off again, bound with loads of coal and iron ore for quiet, misty towns far to the north. I’d run from the station, out the great glass doors, and up to the top of that hill – do you see it there, just beyond the fence? – and I’d stare after the train as it shrank away into the distance, smaller and smaller and smaller, until finally it vanished over the horizon, leaving nothing behind but a thin, black trail of smoke.” He sighed and looked down. “Back then there was nothing but country out here, no shopping centers and no office blocks – you could see for miles in any direction. You could see the line running from one horizon to the other. Truly remarkable.” He raised his eyes again. “And over there,” he pointed to a nearby water tower that stood lonely over a half-broken siding. “There, the heavy freighters would stop to drink like thirsty ele-phants. Oh, the hiss of the steam, the chug-chug-chug of the pistons as the engines stirred back into motion! Now those were the sounds of a world that was truly alive! If you’ve ever seen an engine up close, my boy, you’ll know that she’s alive, as alive as anything that breathes, as alive as you and – and me.” He took a long, slow, shuddering breath. “Not like these new diesels or automobiles, no sir.” For a third time he let his eyes stray across the old yard before they alighted on another familiar sight. “And there!” With great gusto he motioned towards the distant shape of the aban-doned stationhouse, silhouetted black against the evening sky. The red glow of the setting sun shone dimly through its long-shattered windows. “Over there is where the sleek green Pacifics would glide to a stop with a hiss and a squeak, and the waiting crowd on the platform would catch fire with excitement. Oh, it was a marvelous spectacle: the air buzzed with chatter, the whistle cried out chill and clear, and then they all climbed aboard with a great bustle and shuffling of feet to be whisked off to some faraway destination. I can hear them all now, you know – I can hear them, just as I heard them when I was a boy.” He turned his glowing eyes on me. “Now, tell me,” he said, “what do you hear?” I listened. I listened as hard as I could, because I wanted to hear the chatter and bustle, the rattle of the wheels, the cold cry of the steam-whistle. I wanted to hear the rails singing my name, just as they sang his. But no sound came to me, save for the low ghostly whistle of the November wind. At that moment the sun sank at last beneath the horizon, and the railway yard fell suddenly into a deep, murky gloom. As the darkness settled atop my shoulders I shivered, though whether it was from the cold or from something else I couldn’t guess. At last I collected myself and turned to look my friend in the face, now barely visible by the light of the distant streetlamp. “Nothing,” I said. “I don’t hear anything, except perhaps the wind.” The fire went out of Atimbrian’s eyes. His somber gaze wandered across the dark and bar-ren yard, searching for anything else bright and familiar to cling to but finding nothing. He seemed to forget I was there. When he spoke again it was the voice of a frail old man, hollow and timeworn, a stately engine whose furnace had gone cold. “Ubi sunt,” he murmured, as if speaking to the air. “Ubi sunt. Where have these things gone?” He turned to me again with hungry eyes in search of an answer, but I had none to give. Only the wind gave him reply, breathing cool and gentle on our faces and rustling the old brown leaves at our shoes. I reached out a comforting hand, but it passed through his arm as though he were made 80

of mist. As his dim outline began to break up, he offered me a sad, apologetic smile. “New Mr. Rood has grown quite old,” he said, and his voice sounded very faint and far away, as though it were carried on the wind from a great distance. He turned from me, stepping away from the boxcar, and began to tread with hunched shoulders down the railway line, slowly shrinking away into the darkness, the gravel crunching softly beneath him with every sullen step. Quickly I stepped after him, reaching out to catch him by the shoulder, but then another wind picked up, so stiff and icy that I had to cover my face with the collar of my coat. When I looked again, Atimbrian was gone, vanished into the night like a wisp of smoke. The following morning there was a series of loud raps at my door. By the time I made it to the front hall it had given way to pounding. I opened the door and Mrs. Rood fell forward, demanding through barely-restrained tears to know what had become of her dear husband, where I had last seen him, what I had done with him. I stepped back and tenderly welcomed her out of the cold, guiding her inside with one hand on her shuddering back. Fifteen minutes later, over a piping cup of Earl Grey that I was fortunate enough to have in my cupboard, I told her what had happened. She sat at the kitchen table, hands cupped around her steam-ing beverage, staring into the tea with green eyes that seemed dulled and darkened since last I saw her. While I explained what I had seen the night before, her once-stormy spirit grew steadily calmer and her tense limbs relaxed. In fact, she seemed altogether unsurprised, as if her husband’s fate were the inevitable fruition of something that had begun years ago, something that had been beyond her power to prevent. When she spoke at last, her voice was low and sullen. “He didn’t say anything else?” “No, nothing else. Only that he had grown old.” With a frail hand she brushed a strand of graying hair from her face. “Of course.” “He loved you dearly, you know,” I said, hoping to console her. “He once told me about the day he proposed. He said it was the happiest day of his life.” “Did he now?” She looked up, smiling spitefully. Around her mouth tiny wrinkles and creases formed that hadn’t been there a month ago. “And what did he have to say about the happy days that came after, hm? What about us? About me? Anything at all? Anything other than trains, trains, and his blasted father?” My gaze fell to the floor. I whispered, “No.” Her hands tightened around the cup. A tortured look crawled across her face; in it was mingled a longing, distant stare of grief, a twisted sneer of disgust, and a simple, solemn frown of disappoint-ment – and acceptance. “He’s dead,” she said flatly. I nodded without looking up. “He had been dying for a long time.” There was a funeral. If there were any mourners besides myself and Mrs. Rood, we didn’t notice them. We took an afternoon train to the coast, to the old clifftop cemetery by the sea where his parents had been buried years before, on one of the last remaining passenger lines. She purchased a small green plot adjacent to his father’s grave, and there she had an aged slab of granite erected with his name carved into it. The epitaph, at my suggestion, read simply ubi sunt. No hymn was sung, no scriptures were read, no sound was heard but the wash of the waves against the rocks far below. The old cherry tree still stood there on its knoll, its withered branches now entirely bare of fruit and flower, and in the fading daylight it cast a weak shadow over the grave, as faint as a ghost. That evening we boarded the return train, bound for home. Mrs. Rood stared blankly ahead for the entire trip, having done all of her grieving in advance. I stared out of the window at the reddening twilight and listened, just listened. Atimbrian, Atimbrian, the rails sang in quiet mourning as the coach sped along the track, along twin lines of steel that raced into the horizon to meet the setting sun.81