the tennessee young writers' workshop provides students...
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The Tennessee Young Writers' Workshop provides students who have in grades 7–12 the
opportunity to explore their interest in writing and devote time to the development of their writing
skills with accomplished authors. This anthology showcases the talent of these Young Writers.
2012 Faculty and Staff
Dan Albergotti, Faculty, Poetry
Darnell Arnoult, Faculty, Fiction
Spencer Cantrell, Counselor
Tiffany Clark, Counselor
Lacey Cook, Director
Brian Curtis, Faculty, Comic Books
Mike Dobrzelecki, Program Officer
Belinda Smith, Faculty, Lyrics
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2012 TN Young Writers’ Workshop Anthology
Table of Contents
“Where I’m From” by Sarah Beavers……………………………………………………………...……….……….1
“I Love You” by Maggie Brazier………………………………………………………………….………………..2
“Bringing a Poem to Bed” by Nicole Brewer………………………………………………………………………3
Untitled by Amani Dixon…………………………………….…………………………………………………….4
“What You See” by Joseph Ellison…………………………………………………………………………………5
“The Rains of Castamere Adaptation” Originally written by George R. R. Martin, adapted by Dylan Hadden……...6
“The Apron and the Axe” by Emma Clare Holleman……………………………………………………………....7
“Solitary Confinement” by Kendyl Kearly………………………………………………………………………….8
“Hidden Ars Poetica” by Sapna Kedia……………………………………………………………………………...9
“Daniel” by Lisa Kobzina…………………………………………………………………………………………10
Untitled by Jennifer Linares……………………………………………………………………………………….11
“Crossroads” by Sukanya Mittal…………………………………………………………………………………...13
“Ars Poetica” by Lauren Moore…………………………………………………………………………………...16
“The Street Fighter” by John Newton…………………………………………………………………………….17
“Where I’m From” by Anita Pershad……………………………………………………………………………..18
“Red On The White” by Angelica Scott…………………………………………………………………………..19
“If I Let Them Know” by Deanna Sola…………………………………………………………………………..20
Untitled by Sarah Spradlin………………………………………………………………………………….……..21
“The Voices Are The Only Ones Who Understand” by Georgia Sroka…………………………………………...23
Untitled by Jonathan Stanfield……………………………………………………………………………………25
“The Endless Machine” by Maya Sterett………………………………………………………………………….26
“I Hate You” by Erika Tanner……………………………………………………………………………………28
“Road To Nowhere” by Kendall Thompson……………………………………………………………………...29
“What You Can’t Have” by Ellie von Palko………………………………………………………………………30
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“Where I’m From”
By Sarah Beavers
I am from coffee mugs
From krumkake irons and warm summer grass
I am from the blooming blue rhododendron
(full and lush
As if grown in paradise)
I am from Sigrid Enerson and Mary Foster
I am from cross-Atlatic pilgrims
From ridged mountains blue
And the mountain folk in the hills
I am from dust bunnies hiding under the bed
From primary colored plastic and Basic H
I am from pianos and bone china
From dishwasher safe and bloodied toes
I am from Marion Whitner and Barbara Gilmore
From cancer and Alzheimer’s
Peeled paint and black dogs
Fluffy kitties and squealing babies
I am from blue walls and red rooftops
Meals of chicken ramen and pico de gallo
From Old World and New World
Deep, knotted familial roots in red clay
Becoming one with where I came
And to where I return
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“I Love You”
By Maggie Brazier
I hate you like I do the sunshine
Charring my pale face
Like the madly dancing red and
Orange flames of a fire
I hate you like I do the men
Who slaughtered my family
Like those who caused me to lose this race
But I love you like I do the full
Moon
Like I love the pure darkness of
Night
But I love you like the rolling thunder
And flashing lightning
I love you like a storm at noon
I hate you like a morning sunrise,
Damaging my eyes
Like a solar flare in the darkest
Night
I hate you like the scorching deserts
In Nigeria
Like the truth of my death
From those who are wise
But I love you like I do the full
Moon
Like I love the pure darkness of night
But I love you like the rolling thunder
And flashing lightning
I love you like a storm at noon
I hate you like the flickering flame
Of a candle
Like an electronic’s pale glow
I hate you like the glare of a camper’s
Flashlight, blinding me
Like the glow of a lamp lit in the
Shadows of tall trees
But I love you my darling
I truly do
Like the moon
The darkness
And a storm
I love you…
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Untitled
by Amani Dixon
“Life would be happier if we could be born at the age of 80 and gradually approach eighteen.” Seventy-
three-year-old Annemae said, sadness filling her voice.
Annemae’s caregiver, Sue, looked at her with soft eyes and said in her twangy voice, “Everyone gets older.
It’s a part of life. Everyone goes through it, sugar.”
“Hmph” was all Annemae said.
Annemae was sitting on her front porch rocking in her rocking chair back and forth, back and forth as she
always does. It helps her to remember. She often gets confused, but sitting in her old rocking chair with its familiar
“Eel” and “creak” as she rocks back and forth, back and forth helps her remember. As she rocks to the steady beat
back “eek” , forth “creak”, she smells honeysuckle. Memories come flooding back to her; her as a little girl playing
on her family farm with her dog Periwinkle. Poor Periwinkle she thinks, she starts remembering him now.
Footsteps then cut off her memory and she feels a tickle on her cheek. She touches the spot surprised to find tears.
As she’s wiping her cheek she notices a fair faced woman walking toward her. Her hair was red, quite like her own;
she had enough freckles for the both of them to share, green eyes, and long think eyelashes. Annemae has a jolt of
realization. The woman is her daughter. Happiness surges through her, then sadness when she realizes she doesn’t
remember her name. Old brain, she thinks, remember, but she can’t.
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“Bringing a Poem to Bed”
By Nicole Brewer
Just gazing upon a crisp, blank page
Chills are sent throughout my nerves,
A satellite signal, instant connection.
A stale perfume wafting off the used sheet
As it flutters by in my hand is all needed
To set my mind into swift piston rotation.
Tingles whisper to my ears “Yesssss!”
The paper’s sigh of sliding against itself
Comes dangerously close to arousing; pure inspiration.
Freshly scribbled graphite alters the flavor of the pristine
Porcelain when I lick my fingers clean of excess grey,
Like adding a new seasoning to an exquisite culinary creation.
Untouched lines don’t always feel the best.
The caressing of grooved words underneath me
Sparks a coveted bliss, from pure unadulterated sensation.
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“What You See”
By Joseph Ellison
You believe I am just a poor outcast.
When you look at me I can tell what you think,
“He is just a bother to us all”
Just a poor kid who will merely sink.
The street maybe my home
The ground serves as my bed
My worries are with you instead
Cause I know in my heart I can be
So much more than what you see.
The world has everything I could need
The cities full of exciting adventures
Twists and turns around each road awaits
The world is all full of detours
The street maybe my home
The ground serves as my bed
My worries are with you instead
Cause I know in my heart I can be
So much more than what you see.
A world of beauty is a waiting
It’s all mine for the taking
Unlike the ones I pity in the city
I am as free as anyone can be.
The street maybe my home
The ground serves as my bed
My worries are with you instead
Cause I know in my heart I can be
So much more than what you see.
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“The Rains of Castamere Adaptation” Originally written by George R. R. Martin
By Dylan Hadden
The Westernland’s midnight wind tore over the crownwork, and with it surged the mass of men on the plain
below; golden lions on a field of crimson. The Red Lion of House Reyne poised on the balustrade, gripping the
rock with both hands, as if trying to crumble it beneath his iron grip. His expression was marked as if he had just
been through the castle’s cesspit, though his accented gold and crimson armor suggested differently. He came clear
of the balustrade, to show his truly bearlike form. The banner of House Reyne tore above his head and fluttered
down. It lay on the plain cobblestone floor before his feet, the red lion crest illuminated by torchlight. Emblematic,
The Red Lion thought with muse.
Outside the walls Tywin Lannister watched the black castle through his green eyes. A hairline grin caught
across his narrow face. From one of the towers Tywin saw a black blur emerge; a raven bearing a message. Out it
flew, higher and higher, until the injection of an arrow sent it back down to land. Again, a satisfied grin grew across
his face.
We have 3 Lannister men to trade for my captured bastard who goes by the name of one Tydrek Hill.
Tywin read the message aloud few accompanying lords, who murmured amongst themselves about what to
do; about what Tywin’s father, Lord Tytos would do. Tywin furrowed the letter and threw it from his tent. “Send
them his bastard,” he announced. “Send him in three pieces, one for every Lannister taken.”
The Halls of Castamere were flooded with Lannister soldiers. Long had the uneventful siege lingered.
Tywin had employed the simple tool of hunger in his favor, while his soldiers feasted freshest meat and richest
wine, paid with gold and silver right from the Lannister mines, the besieged rebels were forced to eat their horses.
When the time came, when the rams preformed their rhythmic drum, the last of the keep’s reserves had been long
spent. House Reyne dueled with a slow, weak hand against the Lannister lion as they cascaded over the walls and
through their gates.
When the Lannisters finally stormed the high keep, led by Tywin himself, there was not a single soldier left
to defend it. Only The Red Lion, sitting in the high keep’s seat. His eyes were fixed on the dwindling fire built
before the throne. The flames danced in the hall as the Westernland’s coastal winds whistled their tune among the
arches, windows and doors. Tywin Lannister lowered himself to The Red Lion’s ear, and whispered the Lannister
words, “Hear my roar.” He drew his thin, eloquent sword, the slew him through the heart in a quick, decisive
stroke. “Kill all the captives. The soldiers, the house maids, all of them,” Tywin commanded as he brutally kicked
the body into the fire. “Let their deaths be a mute testament to those who defy the Lannisters of Casterly Rock.”
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“The Apron and the Axe”
By Emma Clare Holleman
My sister is gone. They say she got into a car with two men from Oslo and they drove away. I don't know if she'd
even been in a car before that. They say she'd met with them, the outsiders, before, in the one and only inn;
sneaking visits in during those errands Mama is always sending her into town on. The morning of her last day that
we didn't know was her last day, I went to the stable for the good axe, taking a moment to breath in that rich
chipped-wood smell, a god-send in the late winter when the frost swallows every smell but Mama's soup and the salt
of the sea. She was there by the west wall, cooing softly to the cow. I tugged on one of her apron strings as I walked
by and she flicked me on the back of the head. I grabbed the axe and was on my way out when she asked me,
“Cutting wood?”
“Yes,” I said.
“With Nis?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Which scarf is he wearing?” Her eyes were wide. I was never sure if Karen had big eyes or if she just opened them
more than the rest of us.
“What?”
“Which scarf; the red or the blue?”
“The blue,” I said. “Why?”
“Red means he's feeling strong,” she said in utter seriousness.
“And blue?”
“Means he wants to be alone... or at least quiet.”
“All this from his scarf?” She shrugged and stuck her hands in her apron pockets. “He probably doesn't even notice
himself.” She turned away and went back to fussing over the cow, her mind suddenly elsewhere. I lingered.
“What about me?” She turned back as if she'd forgotten I was there.
“Hmm?”
“What do you know about me that I don't know?” A smile spread across her face.
“I can't tell you Erik. Then you'd know, and that would be cheating.” She tapped the side of her nose. “Now shoo!”
I grinned and ducked out of the stable. I don't remember what she said at dinner that night, and by morning Mama
had already sent her to town, and that was the end of it. She didn't come home.
At first Mama kept setting her place at the table. After a week she stopped. At first my younger brothers asked a lot
of questions, “why did she go,” and “when's she coming back,” being the most often repeated. Then, as her absence
was accepted, they became mute. Tommen had no one to tease. Tycho had no one to confide in quietly throughout
the day. And then, quite suddenly, they began to be themselves again. Laughing and racing around each other,
Tycho with his stilt-legged gait, as if she had never been there. At first Nis wore only his blue scarf, and then, two
weeks after my sister was taken from us, he came out of his room in the red.
“Take that off!” I shouted, and snatched it from his neck, clutching the scratchy red wool in my fingers so tight I
could feel the individual stitches with my fingertips. His eyes widened, and for a moment he looked like he was
going to hit me. And then it was gone. His face relaxed and he took his scarf back. I let it slide out of my hand.
“No, Erik,” and he walked out of the house before I could follow, and I was alone in the kitchen, pressing against
the table for support, breathing hard, but not knowing why.
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“Solitary Confinement”
By Kendyl Kearly
Her clothes are still in our closet:
A still-wet raincoat, red high heels,
The sundress she said she’d give me
When it fits too tightly on her.
Neighbors ask what she’s doing now
Gone to a college out of state?
“Yes,” my mother says. “School far away.”
A bead of sweat drips down her neck.
Our room is empty of her smell,
Chanel perfume that I once spilled.
Who will help me get through these years?
Who will listen to my trials?
I visit her on Saturdays.
Orange hides a body boys desired.
We gossip, hope our time will last,
Sisters barred just by print-smeared glass.
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“Hidden Ars Poetica”
By Sapna Kedia
Sunlight shining through fresh condensation
on car windows brightens up dusty corners
and bring attention to the entity
hiding in the shadow under the brake.
A lonely second hand plaid sofa stained
with nicotine smoke holds the memory
in its rusty springs of what once nestled
deep in the gap between the frayed cushions.
Freshly painted a cheery shade of grey
an empty locker rests bathed in fake light,
huddled between rows of identical siblings.
It enjoys the secret in its steel heart.
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“Daniel”
By Lisa Kobzina
The second best part of my day is working at the funeral home.
The minute I shut the door, the sound is sucked clean out of my ears and I can breathe again. My dented hat is
unscrewed from my head, and with it goes the sneering mask I wear outside. I put on Reynolds' spare gloves
instead--they're butter-soft leather, sweet against my skin.
Then I go into the next room to find the stiff, cold on Reynolds' table. Today, it's a man, clean but for a bullet hole
right between his eyes. I pick up the make-up swab from the side table and get to work. I squint at his skin, then at
my colors, trying to guess his skin tone, the trickiest kind of puzzle--my favorite. I mix a couple shades of peach
with a pinch of pink and stick it on, dab by dab. I am Da Vinci in this room, and he is my masterpiece.
When the bullet hole is gone, I swipe some color on his cheeks, make him look a little more flesh-and-blood and
less corpse-like. Maybe he's only sleeping, my colors say. It's a lie, sure, but the nice kind. Better than the other
ones I normally end up telling.
Next, I put the monkey suit on him. It's a cruel trick to pull on a dead guy, sure--you're dressing them up all silly
and they can't even complain--but hey, if I have to wear one, so does he. Besides, the stiffs have a look about them
that lets them pull it off much better than I can. It's a crazy dance, me stuffing him into freshly pressed slacks and
wrangling his arms into a jacket, and the only dance I'll ever get to do with a man.
By then, Reynolds has crept in from his office, waiting to check over my work so the big guys can carry the stiff
over to his coffin. He's always quiet, which is what I like about him; home is never quiet. On bad days, he gives me
a look and makes me scrub off all my color and do it over. On good days, he'll nod, once, and say, "Well done, son."
I like it when he says that, much more than the way David calls me son, or how my father might if I saw him again.
Today is a good day. He walks along the side of the table and scrapes his finger across the blush. Then he nods, just
once.
"Well done, son."
The big guys hear their cue and come in from the other room to get the stiff. Reynolds sends me home for the day.
Not too many people died this week, I guess, which makes me unhappy. I've got no reason to come crawling
around in the funeral home if there aren't any funerals.
The stiff the big guys are carrying off was my forty-seventh, I think as I put on my hat and screw my face back into
a grin. I've outlived forty-seven people. Maybe tomorrow I can try for forty-eight.
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Untitled by Jennifer Linares
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“Crossroads”
By Sukanya Mittal
“There are two ways to go when you hit the crossroads in your life,” the man said to himself. ”There is the bad
way, when you give up, and there is the really hard way, when you fight back.
Sensing his frustration in his eyes, his wife examined her two hands and looked at him, “I am here and always
will be. I will be your follower from now into eternity.”
The man and wife left their small bedroom and went to their little boy who was playing on the living room
floor. As soon as they walked in, the boy jumped on them, giggling, and squirmed into their hands. His one toy
dinosaur was lying on its side on the floor with his leftover milk spilled all over it. The wife followed the man’s eyes.
She saw the spilled milk, and her face reddened. She let go of her little boy who was still climbing on her and her
husband, and picked up the glass that had once been filled with milk.
“Why does he always do that?” she said. “He is big enough to drink one glass of milk every morning without
spilling it over everything! We have enough problems on our hands for him to add more.”
The little boy’s face lost its smile and he whimpered as if he was about to cry. His baba could not stand a tear
out his boy’s eyes.
“He’s a little kid,” the man said to the wife. “Don’t compare his small mishaps to our everyday problems. The
problems will be fixed soon. Don’t worry, my dear.”
She looked first at the boy and then at her husband. She bowed her head in shame and silence. The man
watched their little boy pick up his dinosaur and run outside. The man watch his wife wipe up the milk from the
floor and more under the table, as if she was trying to wipe away the misery she felt every day at herself and her
present life.
The father had some time before he left for the restaurant to start a new day full of hopes and misleadings,
spices and lazy workers. He went to his room and sat down on the blankets his family slept on every night. He
reached into his pocket, and drew out felt a wrinkled photograph. He flattened it out and just looked at it.
The photograph had four people. There was an old man on a wooden seat with round glasses and little to no
hair. On his shoulder was a wrinkled, gentle hand of a woman. She was covered from head to toe in dark black
cloth, and she had two beautifully embellished blue bangles with carvings on her right hand. Beside her was a young
lady with a long braid falling down her long back. She was laughing and hugging a tall man next to her. Beside him
sat a large black suitcase and yellow fluffy pillow. Perhaps it was the same man who now was holding the photo in
his leathered hand and was smiling in the picture, yet, just for the show of it.
The father put the picture to his chest and held it there. “I will come back. To free you. To care for you. To
love you. He slid the picture into his pocket, grabbed his wallet with some old coins and a couple dollars and left his
room.
He waved goodbye to his wife and left out the front door. He wasn’t sure what to expect out of this day. After
mounting his bike, he folded his hands together. “Allah, May You always protect my family when I cannot meet
ends,” he whispered under his breath. He put his foot on the pedal, pushed, and swerved his bike onto the black
road.
In the restaurant kitchen, the man hoped to see pots and pans brewing with Middle-eastern curry filled with
spices of rosemary and turmeric. All he saw were his two idle waiters and chefs slouching in wooden chairs in the
corner of the kitchen. They were yelling at the cricket players on the ancient TV.
“What are you doing you fucking idiot?” one of them yelled.
“You call that impressive?” the other followed, “Well then, you’d be impressed when I come down there and
smash your head in a wall. Come on!
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The man looked at both of them, not knowing what to say or how to take command. He stared at the TV
truing to get its attention in a way. As if by his staring, the TV, trying to get its attention in a way, as if by staring, he
could make the TV turn to a blur, like when there’s a white screen and millions of tiny ants crawling all over it.
“What the heck happened now?” said one of the workers.
“Are we supposed to actually cook now that this TV died? I need to tell that idiot boss to get us a new TV
or….” The other worker stopped and looked at the man, who was standing close behind.
“Or else what?” said the man.
Both workers were startled at the sternness in the man’s voice having never heard his anger before. The workers
stumbled off their chairs and shook their heads, exclaiming that they were only just kidding. They whipped on their
aprons and shoved their chef’s hat onto their big heads. One ran to clean the dishes, and the other went outside and
flicked on the big O-P-E-N sign.
The father wasn’t sure what had just happened, but it felt good. The feeling of being respected was what he
had achieved today.
“Perhaps, it is a new day,” He whispered to himself.
The attention was almost over. Not one customer had come. The dishes from the day before had been
washed. The TV was still dead. The cooked food was sitting on the counter with flies buzzing over it and brown
dew sat over the chopped tomatoes. The workers sulked in wooden chairs staring longingly at the dead TV. The
only noise in the building was the dripping of water from the faucet and the beep of the O-P-E-N sign every time it
spelled the word again. As if it was an answer to their boredom, there was a cling and clang of the bell on the front
door.
Was it true? Was someone actually coming in at their restaurant to eat? No, it couldn’t be true, but it was!
They all jumped from their seats. The men walked out to greet unexpected guests while the two workers into the
dining room from the small, round window in the kitchen door. In came, not one, not two not even 5, but 6 men
with bulging muscles and brown faces, sweaty foreheads and large necks.
As he stared closely at who seemed to be the leader of these men, he saw a tattoo on his arm. It was an Arabic
word he had seen before.
Saife, he thought. Sword.
On the leader’s arm, there were the curving Arabic letters like the lines on a heart monitor, up and down. They
spelled out a meaning almost more sinister than its book definition.
Those 5 letters spelled out the name of the most infamous Islamic radicals in the Illinois area. Shocked, the
man watched the six strangers look around and settle into their seats. He slowly started backing away into the
kitchen.
He closed his eyes and prayed to arrive safely at home tonight. Everything will be okay; he thought to himself.
I will walk through the door to see my son’s smile once again today.
“STOP!” yelled the leader in his deep, virile voice. “We come to your restaurant, and you leave without even
serving us? Is this the way you treat your customers? Perhaps that’s why we’ve walked into such an empty place.”
Too stunned to speak, the man stopped midway and let the kitchen door swing out of his grip, all he could do
was stare at those 5 letters and think saife, saife, saife. The leader watched the man’s face and heard his silence. He felt
the man’s eyes piercing into his skin, into those five letters.
“Ah. So this is what your silence is coming from, the sword, the saife.” The leader understood more as the
minutes went by that the man had a hunch of what was to come. The man knew their secret.
“I don’t know why you are silent. Are you afraid? Or are you stunned?” said the leader. “You may think we are
wrong and dangerous, but our wrong is good. Our ideas are pure with good intent.
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“But I don’t understand,” stammered the man in utter desperation. “Why are you here...?”
Both the men fell to silence.
“We have been following you for the past month,” the big man said, “We know where your feet tread
everyday. We know where you live and what you need and desire. Money.”
“All we want is for you to give us a little favor,” spoke another stranger from the side of the room. “Nothing
dangerous. We plan to benefit not only us, but you too. We know you need money. Your business isn’t going well,
and your family is poor, but we can help you get money. Will you be selfish and put your moral right above the
needs of your family? Come, join us.“ spoke a man from the side of the room.
The man looked up at the mention of his family. It had come! The crossroads when he would have to pick
between the right way like a moving train that he could get off at any moment in time, but one he couldn’t get back
on and the wrong way like a carpeted floor that he couldn’t trust to stay there.
He wasn’t sure what to say or what to do. He wasn’t sure which way to step. All he was sure about was his
family, and in the end, that determined the direction he would go.
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Ars Poetica
By Lauren Moore
When Roman soldiers set out to execute
Saint Phocas, he wasn’t a saint yet,
Just a gardener. He invited them
Into his home, served wine and meat,
And took a shovel to his garden
Through the night. In the morning
His head, still bowed in prayer,
Fell into the earth. His body followed.
Poetry, too, makes you dig your own grave.
Let it into your home. Open your door
To it’ let it be your captor. Feed poetry
And feed yourself to it. Feed yourself
To the earth that spit you out.
Surrender. Cut out a piece
Of yourself and entomb it
In a poem. Fold it into the earth.
It will lie in the wild weeds.
It may be resurrected.
Chance oblivion,
And you may live forever.
A martyr,
A heretic saint.
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“The Street Fighter”
By John Newton
Hailing from the gutters of Kiev,
Nobody knew where he was born,
But his legend spread through out the world,
One time in Moscow,
His opponent told me about him,
How his gloves would sting more with every punch,
And his chest could not feel pain,
He never found the comfort,
Nor did he find love,
Infested in his fist,
Were the hardships of his nation,
His muscles made of steel,
With eyes like the coal of Donetsk,
He would lay down the iron,
For strength and prosperity,
And in the alleys of the city,
Not in the glamour or the glory,
Is where he would be crowned,
The one and only,
Street fighter of Kiev
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“Where I’m From”
By Anita Pershad
I am from red saris and gaudy gold
jewelry that hangs and pulls on
dropping earlobes.
This beauty is pain.
I am from hushed prayers
whispered over a fire
rain and wind from energetic lips
will not blow in out.
I am from rustling silk with sequins
and bright stones attached
From fallen bangles that crumble
leaving colored glass behind.
I am from jostling rotund women
asserting their faith.
From sizzling oil and ghee and
searing spices.
red chilies and peppercorn
It’s just a little flavor.
I am from skyscrapers and
fancy cooperate buildings
yet from the muddy earth of
the monsoon’s rains.
From primary-colored blocks
stacked since toddler years.
The green brick revels at the top
the last—don’t worry it’s not important.
I am from mango trees
succulent and ripe
like bits of circular sunlight
set to share
around a table—
each generation present
there to speak the mind
of long deceased ancestors.
Dutiful and Sublime.
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“Red On the White”
By Angelica Scott
Tears brimmed to the peaks of her lashes, obscuring her view. Amanda Sanders stared down at the bed of
pure, white roses. An ache settled in her stomach, forcing her to swallow whatever bile had settled in the back of
her throat.
Gone, she thought with disbelief. Misery was a constant companion for her. It lurked like a fly on the wall.
Reality seemed to blindly hit her with every microscopic trauma.
“My condolences,” came the murmur or hushed whispers of the bystanders. Condolences, grievances... It’s all the
same. Bitterness lay within her, as if dormant. Jeremy.
Jeremy was her kid brother. His light laughter was the highlight of her days. The innocence of one person
was enough for the world to her. Even now her mind could not wrap around her own brother’s death. She had
watched grown men cry out in pain, granted the last request of a man who wanted his love known, but nothing had
prepared her for the bitter truth that had unfolded itself in front of her.
Amanda stared down at the bed of white roses that resembled the child’s purity. She swallowed her heart as
she placed the red scarf upon the white bed.
“This is for you, baby brother.”
20
“If I Let Them Know”
By Deanna Sola
There’s always people looking at me
Sizing me up to someone they think they know
They might build me up or tear me down
But the real me, I’ll never show
Chorus
[Cause in different eyes I’m a different person
I could be the future president
Or the present teen that’s pregnant
Being different people can be fun at times
That’s when I realized how many people I couldn’t be
If I let them know me]
I don’t eve have to say one word
And suddenly I’m somebody I don’t know
So if it’s someone better off
I just smile and go with the flow
[Chorus]
Facades made of myself can be amusing or harsh with no allowance from me
But in the end they serve me well as my personal shield
[Chorus]
21
Untitled
By Sarah Spradlin
“It is better to be silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt,” Nancy read silently.
She loved the phrase because it was the smartest one she had ever heard, not to mention it was said by her
favorite president, Abraham Lincoln. She smiled to herself, but instantly frowned as Macey, the girl who sat right
beside her in the textile mill, snatched Nancy’s Abe Lincoln biography up and snickered, “What is this? You’re
reading on your break?”
Nancy shifted in her seat uncomfortably and looked down at her hands, wishing she could go back to
reading and forget all of this.
“Please give me back my book,” Nancy pleaded, not even daring to look up at Macey for fear she would
laugh in her face. Macey snickered and tossed the book back to Nancy, who fumbled trying to catch it.
“Go back to reading, Bookworm. It’s no use to you anyway,” Macey said angrily, getting up from her stool
and machine and stomping away.
Nancy went back to reading, and kept her head down for the rest of her break.
That afternoon, as Nancy was carefully weaving the cloth in front of her, she heard a voice shouting. She
turned around to see Macey bullying another girl.
“I said to stay five extra hours, not two! Now I won’t be able to buy a dress for my date on Friday! Thanks a
lot, Melanie!”
She shouted at the tiny girl, who shivered as if Macey’s voice was a chilly wind hitting her skin violently.
Nancy turned to the girl at the machine on her right and whispered, “What’s going on?”
The co-worker looked cautiously before spilling, “Macey has been stealing Melanie’s paychecks and making
her work more hours.”
Nancy gasped and said, “I can’t believe she would do that!”
The other girl just looked at Nancy meaningfully and said, “It is Macey, though.” Nancy nodded and
jumped as Chief (her boss) came up behind her.
Chief was a scary woman; she was big and burly and acted just like a man in the way she carried herself
through the factory and made conversations. Nancy was deathly afraid of Chief and tried very hard not to get on
her bad side for fear of getting yelled at.
“Here, Ms. Burgett. Don’t be late,” Chief huffed. Nancy jumped out of her chair, scare, but nodded and
looked down at the piece of pink paper the Chief had given her.
“Meeting tonight. Fun new trivia game. Bring your smarts!” it read.
Nancy looked down, astonished, at the paper. Chief was not one of those friendly bosses who give you
encouraging words or pats you on the back; she was like a military officer, barking commands and not caring if you
disagreed. She wasn’t any of the girls’ friends and she let them know it. Chief was not the type of person to play
games at meetings, either. Something was going on here and Nancy was too suspicious no to find out what.
A few hours later, Nancy got off the elevator of the factory, timidly walking in to the newly decorated room.
“Wow,” she whispered under her breath. The factory room looked amazing and totally transformed. There were
podiums for two contestants and a podium for the host; it looked as if she was in a set for a game show, not where
she worked every day of every week.
22
Chief walked up behind Nancy and said, “Good grief! You look like Bambi with your eyes all wide like that.
Go sit down with the rest of the girls.”
Nancy scampered off as if she were a mouse and sat in one of the rows of chairs where girls from the mill
were already showing up and sitting down. Nancy waited for instruction and looked at the other girls, who were also
waiting for the oh-so-funny punch line of what seemed to be a very elaborate prank.
“Well, come on! Two of you get up here and compete! I didn’t plan this whole stupid thing not to see some
crying and defeat! Get up here!”
“You,” her voice boomed, directly at Nancy. Nancy shook in her seat, but got up. She walked over to the
podium and waited for more instruction from Chief.
“Alright, who else is gonna play?” she asked, staring down the other girls.
“I will,” chimed a voice from the back. Macey walked up to the podium next to Nancy and smiled
menacingly.
The questions were asked and shy little Nancy didn’t answer a single one, terrified that if she did, Macey
would glare at her and bother her even more in revenge.
“Alright, alright!” Chief yelled, ceasing the girls who were talking in the crowd. “Here’s the wild card
question,” she said. “Whoever gets this one will win the game.”
Nancy looked down at her blank whiteboard, hooping that she would get this one.
“Who was the sixteenth president?” Chief asked, staring at the two girls.
Macey didn’t even take a second to slip out, “Teddy Roosevelt.” She sounded so sure of herself, but then
some of the girls started to laugh and even Chief broke out in giggles. Macey just stood behind her podium, looking
like she might cry.
“No, that was wrong, Macey,” Chief said, trying to cease her laughing. “Nancy?”
Chief, Macey, and the girls in the audience looked towards Nancy expectantly, waiting to see if she would
get the answer right. Nancy shifted uncomfortable behind the podium.
“Abraham Lincoln?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.
Chief nodded and said, “Yep. You’re right. You win,” as if she was unhappy with the outcome, but as
Macey moved away from her stance at the podium, Nancy caught a glimpse of Chief’s wink in her direction.
Nancy smiled back, but then looked back at Macey. She walked over to hear and said, “Are you okay,
Macey?” Macey nodded and Nancy said, “It was just a silly contest. It doesn’t matter who wins.”
Macey nodded again, but then said, “Yeah, this time. Next time you’re going to hope I win.”
Nancy nodded and walked away, slowly, trying to think of what Macey might be cooking up.
23
“The Voices Are the Only Ones Who Understand”
By Georgia Sroka
A knife stained with blood falls to the floor with a clash. The girl’s body lays limp and twitching in the
middle of the room. I’m breathing heavily, and I hear it echo down the halls and bounces off the walls. The blood
brings a sweet but bitter taste of copper pennies to my lips as it streams down my cheeks. I carefully use my fingers
to wipe the blood from my face down the side of my recently ripped jeans. Then I try my best to move around the
body and the blood pooling around her.
I whisper softly as if talking to her lifeless body, “This never would’ve happened if you just knew your place
in this world dear sister.” I chuckled softly under my breath and walked away while her perfume lingered in the air. I
say to myself, “They all think I’m crazy. I’ll show them who’s crazy.” I turn the corner and look at my reflection in
the mirror. “Ugh, blood stains,” I huffed as I did my best to chip off the dried rust color blood from my face.
Then I pulled my bloody t-shirt off and threw it into the fireplace after carefully wiping the blood and finger
prints off the knife. I replaced it with a clean one and lit the fire burning all the evidence I can. As the fire grows
brighter my sense of guilt seems to fade into the glow and the voices that come from Heaven and Hell return in
softer whispers unlike before at the warehouse.
Dawn had just risen when I arrived at the dark abandoned building just off the highway, far enough away
you can’t see it from the road. My sister, Molly, must have arrived earlier because she scared me to death when she
tapped on the driver’s side window. I rolled down my window, “Damn it, Molly, you scared me,” I huffed as I
breathed in trying to calm my senses.
“Jeeze Alex, sorry,” she huffed back carrying a little attitude in her voice. I pushed her back with the door as
I opened it. She stumbled back tripping on the uneven gravel road. “Why do you have to be such a jerk, Alex?” she
rolled her eyes as she asked. I sighed, “I’m not a jerk, Molly. I just really hate being snuck up on,” I frowned. “You
know what could happen if you aren’t careful,” I added in a warning tone. She just rolled her eyes again. Even
though I’m younger, I tend to be more mature.
I pushed all of that to the side of my mind and walked alongside her in to the building. The sign read “The
Market”, which we knew as the black market, in old wood letters. Here it’s Molly and I’s job to sell the
government’s conspiracy plans to the people of the city, of course all my idea. The idea is to reveal the
government’s plans before they can do any harm. I’m really the only hard core believer though. Everyone else
believes their cover story, but of course I see straight through it.
Molly and I continue our everyday routine of standing at the cracking wood counter surrounded by stale
musky air, again another day of no sales. “They are all brain washed,” I mumbled to myself a little louder than I
meant to. “What was that?” Molly asked with suspicion in her voice and her eyebrow raised in an arch. “Oh,
nothing,” I replied half smiling at her, trying to look as innocent as possible. She just gave me an “Uh huh, sure”
look in disbelief and walked up ahead of me, her thin tan body stretching a dark shadow on the gravel behind her.
It seemed with each step she took made her straight golden red hair sway in the nonexistent breeze. Even
her deep crystal blue eyes would twinkle with life as she trailed off. I watched as she approached the car and slipped
into the passenger seat, and then I opened the door for myself. As I slid into the leather seat of the driver’s side I
studied my reflection in the windshield. I had the same ashy brown hair that swooped over my forehead, the same
dull blue eyes, and the same pale skin. But why did it seem so different, so unfamiliar? Maybe it’s just my
imagination, just all in my head.
“Um, Alex?” I heard Molly force herself to say. “Yes?” I asked turning the key in the ignition slowly. “Did
you ever think the whole…um…conspiracy thing is…um, all in your head? Did you ever think of…getting help?”
she asked me with a nervous stumble. As soon as the words left her lips I knew she had turned against me and had
24
been brainwashed. I was speechless. So I didn’t answer. Instead I drove her home. She got out and I waited for a
moment then followed her inside.
So many things were going through my mind as I trailed her through the hallway into the kitchen. Like how
my own sister could possibly be in with everyone else and how I needed to right her wrong. Something needed to
be done. The knife felt cold and heavy as I picked it up from a nearby counter. Since her back was turned I stabbed
her just like she had stabbed me, in the back. She screamed in blood curdling agony. Then fell to the floor on her
stomach with a soft thump, like the head of a drum.
I let the blood spatter as I repeatedly stabbed her. Pulling back one more time the knife fell from my hand
and hit the floor. Now as the voices grow louder and louder so do distant sirens. All of a sudden things are moving
so fast and so slow at the same time. Groups of men wearing blue uniforms bust through the locked door. I try
running but two of the men tackle me. I struggle to get free gnashing my teeth at them. One of the men grabs my
hands pulling me back as I try to lunge at the officer in front of me.
He then tried pulling me against him using one arm to restrain me and the other to cover my mouth. I feel
his sticky skin against the lower half of my face and I don’t like it. So I bit the bottom of his palm forcing my teeth
through his skin. The officer chokes down his scream. Instead he lets out a whimper and bites his lower lip hard.
He then pulls his hand from my locked jaw. Blood trickled down my lip and chin. I have a harsh evil grin. All of a
sudden I felt a sharp sting in my side and I faded into unconsciousness.
I woke up in a special jacket strapped to a bed in a room with white bare walls and sterile air. It was silent to
the point of madness. In my head I was trying to figure out what happened, all I remember was the pain and the
darkness. Nothing else. I let out a loud sigh. I guess now the doctors knew I was awake because soon after the door
on the outside clicked unlocked and someone approached the door that lead them inside my room. There was a
hesitation as they touched the door knob, as if they were about to sign their life away.
I guess they figured out it was worth it because a fragile nurse with porcelain skin came in through the door.
Her shiny brown hair pulled back in a high bun behind a little nurse’s hat and her eyes were outlined with thin lines
of eyeliner. The plain clean white nurse’s outfit outlined her thin figure with every inch of fabric. The police officer
that came in behind her on the other hand was taller than the nurse and rough looking. He had a bit of a beard and
a shaved head with a hat perched on top. It was half past eight pm and for some reason he wore dark tinted
aviators.
“The game is over son and you lost,” was all the officer said as he pulled his glasses off and left the room. I
hadn’t lost though, this was only the beginning.
25
“Litman: Relativity” by John Stanfield
26
“The Endless Machine”
By Maya Sterett
I appreciated the endless flow of my work. The machines’ cones turning slowly as it gathered and wound up
the threads. Everything was so constant in this textile factory, the hum of the machines, my fingers working at the
twisting fibers, guiding them and yarn into the machine and watching the cones turn over and over again, twisting.
There was the occasional shout of orders from the overseer or manager that disrupted the flow and consistency the
factory produces, along with the yarn and cloth.
I preferred to work without interruptions. To work at a factory full of heavy, dangerous, and confusing
machinery a worker must concentrate every moment. One slip-up, one mistake could ruin you work or your life.
Messing up in any way would result in punishment many here would not dwell on long. Wages cut, a hungry month,
and the worst, being thrown out to starve and freeze with no one around to care. “Every man for himself,” as the
saying goes.
The factory I work at, and many other factories, are like giant brick machines with smaller metal and flesh
machines inside of it. Everything is moving and synchronized. And white. White clouds of cotton and wool fluff
float around the air like snow, and the white faces of the workers who hardly ever see daylight.
Everything about the factory, its machines, masters, and organization are focused around only three goals:
speed, efficiently and money. The faster and more efficient workers are, the more textiles, business, profit, and pay.
My main goal is have enough money to eat and feed my family of four, keep up with the rent, and keep my
job. In order to have enough money to eat, keep my small home, and keep my job, I had to be clever and learn
tricks to be faster and safer. One is to have you hair short or tightly knotted up. My hair is braided into two braids
and set in buns around my ears. Having your hair up keeps it out of the machines. If hair is caught or any other part
of the body on a machine, the worker’s life might as well be over. For whatever is stuck in the machines is twisted
up and wrecked.
My mother worked in a factory similar to the one I work for now. A week after she first arrived at the
factory her hair had been put into an elegant braid down her back, which had been caught in the cones of a
machine. Her braid and scalp had been ripped and bloodied by the time other workers had stopped the machine
and untangled her. She was very lucky not to have died or been dismissed from her job. Many managers would have
done just that, but since she still had her hands the manager decided to keep her. My mother is fine now, but she
wears her hair cut like a boy’s, even though she is too old and sick to work now. She still has these scars still on her
head and arms, that every time I look at, makes me shudder.
Other workers in the factory have scars and bruises where the machines caught them. Some workers might
say that the manager of this factory is generous to let those who are injured even slightly to keep working. I don’t
know. It seems to me he will keep any worker as long as he is still mobile and has all his limbs. The manager will
keep the worker until nobody can use any part of him anymore. I don’t know what to call that, but it is not
generosity. Generosity would be to pay living wages so my family could live in a better house, not fear of starvation,
or watching my siblings, mother and I get thinner and thinner.
My fingers collect the fibers, and the machine twists and spins them into yarn that I could never afford to
buy. Around and around the cones turn, my hands quickly and skillfully work at the machine. There is a strange
rhythm in the work I do, that keeps me sane. It helps me not make mistakes, and keeps the quality of the yarn I
produce constant.
The workday is almost done. Daytime itself has been over hours ago. The factory schedule does not follow
daylight hours or nothing would get done in the winter time. Every worker in the factory wakes up before sunrises
27
and leaves hours after the sunsets. Several hours are left to us to sleep and eat. Even on Sundays some workers, like
my brother, clean the factories.
Every worker picks up the pace to get all the required work finished. I do as well, for I do not want to be
behind. Some unfortunate workers in their hurry make mistakes and knots appear in their work, or there are loose
fibers. They will not be back, and their places will be taken tomorrow by new workers.
The demand for jobs is so high that if all of us were to suddenly become ill or die, we could easily be
replaced. The managers don’t care about the workers, only about how much work we can do. And if it is not
enough, then we are dismissed.
The church bells outside ring. I may turn off the machinery and stop working for today. But there will be
tomorrow and the next day, and each day will be the same: the hum of the machines, the cotton snow, my fingers as
they fly across the machines, mistakes and replacements. Everything here flows and is consistent, it all seems quite
timeless to me. Maybe this white hell shall never end.
28
“I Hate You”
By Erika Tanner
I love you like the keys on my keyboard
Like the tan-white paint upon my bedroom wall
I’m saying
I love you like the ring on my finger
Like the answering of your midnight phone call
I’m waiting
I hate you
Like the iron lock on the door
Like the way you always beg for more
I hate you
I love you like the rain hitting the ground
Like the paper crumbling under my hand
Just for you
I hate you
Like the iron lock on the door
Like the way you always beg for more
I hate you
Sometimes, I want to be through
But I need you
My heart you always seem to crack
But I’m always running back
I hate you
Like the iron lock on the door
Like the way you always beg for more
I hate you
29
“Road To Nowhere”
By Kendall Thompson
It was sunny the day I found myself on a road to nowhere. The rays beat down on my back, pulling the mist
form my brow and letting it trickle down my face. A breeze had picked up, swirling tiny dust tornadoes around my
feet. My truck was parked in a field, its black a sharp contrast to the soft flowers and baby blue sky. It was a
machine, a heartless hunk of metal and rubber. Funny, it’d once been something I idolized, bragged about. I’d
flaunted it at parties where beer ran like a river, drove it to football games to be gazed at by jealous fans, grumbling
about the quarterback who had it all, so proud of a hunk of metal.
Seemed stupid now, a mile down the road with sweat pouring down my back and a sad bouquet of flowers
clutched between my fingers. Annie’ll like this, I think. It’ll make her laugh, when she sees how I’ve nearly broken
off the stems. I glanced down at them, the orange roses glowing against the Queen Anne’s lace. It was Annie’s
favorite combination. She said red roses were too cliché, and then she’d laugh her gorgeous laugh.
A change under my feet broke me from my thoughts of her. I was on grass, a vibrant green carpet
cushioning my cramping feet. She was only a few feet away, her back to me, gazing at the view of rolling fields. I
spot a black dot in the middle and smile. I walk around to face her, holding out the flowers. The sun warms on my
back, a breeze wraps around my shoulders. I can feel her smiling, hear her tinkling laugh as she notices the color of
the roses. How I remembered.
Something clicks inside my head, and the next thing I know the heat that had been chasing up this god
forsaken mountain was gone. A cold, eerie silence took its place, and the air around me began to think as I stared.
My heart dropped to my stomach, and I fought the lump in my throat. They picked it well, she would like it, I
thought to myself. She liked the smiling angels best. I double checked the flowers to make sure they wouldn’t fly
away, then blew the angel a kiss. When I turned back to walk to my truck, all I could see was the headstone
inscription: Annie Faulkner, Loving Daughter, Loving Friend 1993-2012.
30
“What You Can’t Have”
By Ellie von Palko
“Look here. You’ve never seen this country,” the pastor says to himself. “It’s not the way you thought it
was. Look again.”
He vaguely remembers hearing that quote from his mother, who often weeps to kill time. He is driving
home and he cannot stop saying that under his breath. He embraces a message he is always distant from.
Everything’s a moot point for him.
The church is home sweet home, the only place where a man like him is given permission to play God’s
game. The company there is so generous; his eyes threaten to become soggy at the thought. The images of the kids
running around the picnic area pierce in his mind, and a particular moment stutters and repeats. He sees little
Tommy Johnson walking towards him, a mustardy smile on his face, saying, “One day, I wanna be just like you!”
Yes, of course he wants to be like him; every kid wants to be like him, and never question why.
Now’s not the time for soggy eyes, he thinks vehemently, clinching his teeth.
His car itself is a confessional. People drop by time and again with a lot to say. When The Artist’s Eye
dwindles from sight, he finds a familiar woman in desperate need of a listening audience. She slides into the
passenger seat and his hands loosen on the wheel.
She offers him a cigarette. He waves his hand. “Later.”
“Your ma called again?”
He nods solemnly. “She weeps about everything nowadays. There’s Pa, Macy--”
“Don’t forget Radner,” she adds, pausing for a drag. Dark purple clouds, wistfully thin, shine outside like
neon. She tells him the most fascinating tall tales. She speaks of her board meetings, her neighborhood, her children
– and everything, even the grim airs behind her voice, carries a type of vulgarity most women envy. The pastor can
never remember what it is about her that’s enamoring. Maybe it’s her carelessness, or the way her personality lilts
and lolls like summertime sandstorms.
He asks her where her husband is. She shrugs and says mildly, “He probably think I’m at another meeting.”
“I see.” The pastor’s eyes narrow on a familiar fork in the road. He turns right and slows down, taking in
some of her mindless slurs.
There’s a pile of papers on the dashboard, including directions. She butts her cigarette on his grocery list.
“I’m not going to see you again, am I?”
“No you won’t.”
“And the others?”
“No.”
“You can’t go doing girls that way.”
“And by God, I won’t” he says firmly. The woman shifts in her seat, slightly surprised by the anger in his
voice. She strokes the small bulge in her belly, fearing the worst.
The motel appears in sight, and they check into a room familiar to them. It still has the same gaudy
wallpaper and the ugliest paintings hanging by the doorjamb. He finds a bottle of wine in the minibar. She turns to
the couch and sits, feeling catatonic chills in her back.
After a smoky silence the pastor offers her a drink. She shakes her head, like a child refusing candy from a
stranger. He sits at the counter, and glances at his watch every now and then.
A smile perks on her mouth. “If you’re mad at me--”
“I’m not,” he says, keeping the glass poised at his lips. “Why would I be?”
“Because I’m trouble.”
31
“I’d say you’re a special kind of trouble.”
She straightens her back and angles into the dark wash of the sunset. She strokes her stomach once again.
“Four of my friends died last week. I always try to remember the first time I met them, but it’s hard to.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” the pastor’s temper is growing thin now. “People like us don’t barter for sympathy.”
“I know,” she mimics his voice and feels a dishonest fear growing in her eyes. There’ll probably be other
men she’ll confess to, but she wants to know why this has to end.
“Because it’s wrong,” he says before she can ask. “If you wanna know why, you already know. I’m not a
fortune machine, and personally, I don’t wanna leave you; but really, what else can I do?”
The pastor excuses himself to head to the restroom, and the faint click of the lock seems to anger the
woman even more. The bottle of wine peeks through the door of the minibar, and she strides over and grabs the
neck. A glowing still of a naked woman stares at her, and her response is to pour a glass of wine and throw it at the
picturesque woman’s face. Lazy drips pool at the bottom of the frame, leaking onto the floor.
She stumbles back surprised at her sudden rage. She is famous for this in ways—plus, she knew there were
plenty of men to shed her private heresies with—but why does one of her keepers leaving set her off all of a
sudden? She isn’t in love; her emotions are webbed together through social celibacy. It’s the fact that he has to leave
that angers her. She’s made her most hearty confessions to him, not caring if he sees her break. So what else did she
have to do?
Slinking back onto the couch, she sighs with the last bit of blue smoke lingering. Wheedling isn’t something
she’s good at unless she means it, and she never means it. Her hands cup her knees and she decides that extravagant
tears will break the ice. The doorknob shakes for a moment, but the door swings open before she can well up a
single tear. The pastor refuses to comfort her.
“It’s best that I leave before you get too attached.” He inches toward the door and knows that she won’t
chase him; she’s too proud to concede defeat. “The best things in life are the things you can’t have. Praying for you
is all I can do. Goodbye.”
He arrives home wordlessly. His cup of coffee has gone cold; the dog won’t stop barking, and the candles
surrounding a bronze crucifix have whiffed out from the ceiling fan. He sits in the darkness. That’s that, he thinks.
Anything like that ends in a simply monosyllable: No.
His eyes rake across Jesus’s face. The detail is poor, but there’s still a sense of despair within his tiger eyes.
The pastor says his vespers, stammering on the “Amen.”
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