P reface In her amazing intuitive The Life of Poetry, Muriel Rukeyser writes, “In time of the crises of the spirit, we are aware of all of need, our need for each other and our need for ourselves. We call up our fullness; we turn, and act. We begin to be aware of correspondences, of the acknowledgement in us of necessity, and of the lands.” We live in a time of crises, a time of wars domestic and abroad, of social and household hardship, and of personal and communal fear. The demands on our spirit are great, and so, we grow painfully aware of our need for solace and courage, for affirmation and hope, for community and meaning. For many of us, such profound needs are too dangerous or frightening to deal with, and so we seek escape in “reality” TV shows, shopping, alcohol or drugs, dysfunctional relationships, or any of the other means of anesthesia. Writers and artists, however, turn in a different direction and allow these needs to “call up our fullness.” They seek “correspondences” for inner states and between outer realities. They take action by creating. The creative writing in this year’s SCOP is appropriately varied. Writers consider correspondences with characters in literature or history, in their neighborhood, or in their family. Such profiles are often insightful and poignant as they help us realize the influence we have on each other, often unwittingly. Others explore the many ways people deliver their cruelty on each other. There is a wisdom that comes from confronting our dark side though it can be painful and sad. Hope can also be engendered by other works as they praise beauty, make us laugh, or turn over the big questions. In higher education most of what students do is receive and synthesize, but creative arts require them to create, to put into the world what had not existed before—a remarkable event in and of itself. This year’s SCOP, therefore, represents the power of creativity over the forces of fear and destruction. For that, we should all be grateful. Edward A. Dougherty Renee L. Gross Assistant Professors in English Coming Community College 2005 Kenneth Miller Literartj Awards \tyinncrs The contest for the Kenneth Miller Literary Awards is open to ail full-time and part-time students at Coming Community College during the 2002 - 2003 school year. Entry into the contest gives permission for publication in SCOP. Judges read the entries anonymously, and their decisions are final. This year, the annual SCOP literary contest awards have been renamed in honor of long-time Communications/Humanities faculty member Professor Kenneth A. Miller, who passed away a few months ago. As a division, we decided to honor Ken’s 30 years of teaching and enjoyment of literature by renaming the awards for him. Students who win prizes are not only the best of the submissions; they are the reason Ken, and all of us, teach. f oetry First Prize “Giving Up”-Aleathia Leblond Second Prize “The Main Grill” and “Laying Carpet Squares” - Vicki Jones Third Prize “Snow Blossoms” - Kimberly Fenton fiction First Prize “Theft and Wandering Around Lost” - Christopher Bojangles Pike Second Prize “The Best Performance” - Vicki Jones Third Prize “First Smoke” - Gordon Cooper Honorable Mentions “Natalie, Melinda and The Wind” - Kelly Thomas Victoria’s Secret” — Gordon Cooper Drama First Prize “Tortured Genius: The Insanity of Friedrich Nietzsche” and “The Birdhouse”- Joel Davis Second Prize “Autumn Harvest” - Vicki Jones Third Prize “The Gift” - Brad McKinney T.ssay First Prize Vietnam Veterans Against the War - Gary Kenyon Second Prize Dude, Are You Still Getting a Dell? and “Like A Rock:” Selling Out? - Gordon Cooper Third Prize Maximum Zombie, Minimum Crime, or Who do Voodoo? You do Voodoo — GunnarB. Podolec Clover Design: Shelley Pierce "Thanks to • Joyce Hal lenbeck of Printing Services, the backbone of the publ ication • Woody Knowles and CCC Student Association for essential financial support • Andrea Rubin and the Communications/Humanities Division for financial support, judging entries, soliciting material, and promoting the whole effort. Copyright ©2003 SCOP Publications Coming Community College Coming, New York Table of (Contents Giving Up- aleathia leblond..............................................1 The Main Grill - Vicki Jones.............................................2 Laying Carpet Squares - Vicki Jones......................................3 Snow Blossoms - Kimberly S. Fenton.......................................4 Theft and Wandering Around Lost - Christopher Bojangles Pike.............5 The Best Performance - Vicki Jones.......................................20 First Smoke - Gordon Cooper..............................................24 Natalie, Melinda, and the Wind - Kelly J. Thomas.........................26 Victoria’s Secret - Gordon Cooper.......................................28 Tortured Genius: The Insanity of Friedrich Nietzsche - Joel Davis........33 The Birdhouse-Joel Davis................................................36 Autumn Harvest-Vicki Jones..............................................40 The Gift - Brad McKinney................................................46 Vietnam Veterans Against the War - Gary Kenyon...........................49 Dude, Are you Still Getting a Dell? - Gordon Cooper......................54 Like a Rock: Selling Out - Gordon Cooper.................................57 Maximum Zombie, Minimum Crime, or Who do Voodoo? You do Voodoo - Gunnar B. Podolec.......................................................60 Cliff- Veronica Mae Gallton.............................................63 Flying Home - aleathia leblonde.........................................63 Loneliness - Danielle Erway.............................................64 Stained Glass - Joel Davis..............................................64 The First Time the Baby Hiccupped - Kimberly S. Fenton...................64 23 Weeks - Veronica Mae Gallton.........................................65 Eating Cherry Ice Cream-Joel Davis......................................66 The Touch - Vicki Jones.................................................72 In Our Angelhood-Christopher Bojangles Pike.............................73 Aunt Husty- Vicki Jones.................................................78 Ancient Soil - Joel Davis...............................................79 1936-John Walsh.........................................................80 Of Yellow Light - Joel Davis............................................81 Yellow Smile-Karen Mattison.............................................82 Attributes of Me - Kimberly S. Fenton....................................83 Rubber Gumby- Sharon Weaver.............................................83 Canoe Blues - Josh Gagnon...............................................84 Love and War- Brad McKinney.............................................87 Violation - Joel Davis..................................................92 Wonderful - Joel Davis..................................................92 Is Love - Laurie Weaver..................................................92 Them-Veronica Mae Gallton................................................ 93 Forever Never Land - Julie Ann McUmber...................................94 The Wisteria - Kimberly S. Fenton........................................95 Sculptured - Brenda L. Goodman- Kearns...................................95 Misalliance - Vicki Jones................................................96 Cold Sun - Joel Davis....................................................98 Never-Rest-Aaron Sabatini................................................98 Good - Dane Schneider....................................................99 The Sickness - Aaron Sabatini............................................100 Formless - aleathia leblond..............................................101 Lady Luck - Dane Schneider...............................................102 Power: The Poison that is Richard III - Joel Davis.......................103 Stupidity Personified - John Gardner Hazard..............................106 Why? It is - Gary Kenyon.................................................106 Rusty - Vicki Jones......................................................107 “Mother” - Gwendolyn Brooks..............................................107 Decay - Dane Schneider...................................................108 Insomnia - John Walsh....................................................109 Sleep - Joel Davis.......................................................109 Flowers for Mom - Vicki Jones............................................110 Bus Forty-Four - Vicki Jones.............................................115 Once a Week - Vicki Jones................................................116 Whittling - Sharon Weaver................................................116 Salty Fries and Old Apple Cider - Kimberly S. Fenton.....................117 Anniversary-Kimberly S. Fenton...........................................117 Mortal Monuments - John Walsh............................................118 Should We Deliver Missiles or Mercy? - Gordon Cooper.....................119 February First - Vicki Jones...........................................121 F antasy - Vicki Jones.................................................121 Robert Pinsky’s Yard Sale - Vicki Jones................................122 The First Dance - Vicki Jones..........................................122 Grandmas’s Fireball Kingdom-Julie Ann McUmber..........................123 Comhusk Doll - Brenda L. Goodman-Keams.................................124 My Neighbor - Vicki Jones..............................................125 Old Painting - John Gardner Hazard.....................................125 Centennial Silence - Vicki Jones.......................................126 That’s Me - Susannah Burd..............................................129 Going Shopping - John Gardner Hazard...................................129 F octry - pfrst fn'zc GIVING UP aleathia leblond the room smells cold and distilled like the gallon jug of water collecting dust on top of the fridge. you sit there at the end of our borrowed couch, wrapped in your grandma’s afghan silent, desolate and without a spark of hope. i lay there too, uncomfortable in this growing silence between us, and i have so many things to say, none of which would make you feel better. i keep quiet, staring in the green-blue vase that someone gave us as a wedding present four years ago. i wonder right then if the reason we never married was because of this moment-uncomfortable silences, confusion and anger. i wonder if we have given up in some way, living like this both unhappy but unwilling to admit that we failed after three cross country trips, and seven years of giving it another go. - 1 - Foctry — *5ccond Frize THE MAIN GRILL Vicki Jones Tickled and ten on an elephant leg beside a happy Daddy licking bubbles from his lip. An apron-clad angel pushing a Coke and tapping a nose, “She shouldn’t be in here, Jimmie,” more to himself. Whirring around on a cushioned merry-go-round seeing kaleidoscopes of uncombed wrinkles and blue eye-shadowed blondes, a neon nod nudges to the dancehall floor. An ale breathing dragon, draggin’ to “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.” Lightning bolt crooked fingers toy with innocence and the patriarchal mirror grins. -2 - f*oetry — 5ccon<^ Yrizc LAYINGCARPET SQUARES Vicki Jones This nightmare. A gazillion arrows I can’t tell which way to point. Not arrow heads of chiseled fossil buried deep in fertile flatland, lifted by Minneapolis-Moline furrows. Not hunting arrows of fiberglass dressed with fletchings and nock racing to the heart of the matter. But... ARROWS, ON CARPET, a code in hieroglyphic’s only professionals deduce. A secret to the novice, of which I belong. A novice that ignores the red automobile engine light or where the oil goes in the car or the placement of the K-Mart parking lot lightpole. This novice that needs carpet arrows to be bold, to stand out like a platinum blond in a crowd, or a candy apple red ’65 Chevy Malibu. These arrows, that don’t seem to know which direction to go, should shout to be noticed for any idiot, like me, to point them all NORTH. YOCtry - Xhifd Ynze SNOW BLOSSOMS Kimberly S. Fenton Bright coats of color called his attention to the cold snow. Scarlet carnations, pallid mums, tiny plum buds, the indigo sweet peas. They were the reason for that bouquet, indigo. Petite woven basket with red hearts stenciled around it. To hang from the beam later was the reasoning. I wonder if they shuddered as they sailed off the deck in that dark, frigid air? that stark morning after sadly displayed their curt lives across the ice, like remnants of the cold war. The man picked them up out of the snow-green stems of jealousy, pierced through his heart. The fire started quickly, the basket broke into a dance of flames, in clear view of the woman’s angry tears. -4- vf^ort Story — Hirst f*rize THEFT AND WANDERING AROUND LOST Chris Pike When it finally dawned on me that I had nowhere to go, I got up and left. I lived in a cultural vacuum called Duncan, South Carolina, and I couldn’t stand it anymore; there were too many directionless souls barely existing all around me. The more I studied people going about their daily routines, the more I was convinced that they weren’t actually living, but simply waiting around to die. All of these people and all of their visions had become static within an antiquated social ideal. They were existing within unreasonable social, spiritual, and moral boundaries and even if they were to become cognizant of this, I doubt any of them would remember who had imagined them in the first place. The collective consciousness became desperate and began behaving erratically. Middle-aged men began bringing home cardboard cases of beer after a full day of working themselves to exhaustion for someone else’s financial gain. Perhaps a part of their mind whispered to them of how Silicone-impregnated women really would frolic on far away beaches with them if they drank Miller Genuine Draft. Or perhaps the detached warmth of becoming swirling-drunk and bittersweet about what could have been - if only they had chosen more wisely when they were young and jumping out of their skin with energy - was better then staring down a dark path lined with 401-k’s and retirement only after they were too old and tired to live their lives by their own design. So grown men became hysterical and told no one, but simply began drinking themselves to death in poorly lit bars among clouds of blue smoke, mourning the lives that were now out of reach. Their stay-at-home wives read unrealistic, formulated romance novels to fill up the empty space that began to widen inside as soon as their husbands stopped being the chivalrous prince that had once made their insides melt and drip right out of their pussy’s. A community-wide apathy manifested and spread like cancer. It was puked up out of smokestacks along with the factory-bilge in the industrial district. It hummed quietly in the air, moved under the surface of sidewalks and soaked into the soles of everyone’s feet. Around the age of sixteen or seventeen was when most of the children would begin to notice that they existed within cycles that moved neither up nor down, but simply spun in suspended animation. So they took a hint from their parents and stopped trying. Their youthful vivacity, now without - 5 - direction, bubbled and boiled inside of them. They, too, became desperate and began reacting harshly. Some of them sat in their solitary bedrooms and looked out of windows, seeing themselves reflected in endless rows of prefab houses. Some piled together in cars and drove too fast down back-roads while gulping sticky mouthfuls of liquor from bottles stolen from their parent’s cupboards. I was aware of all the heaving insanity that surrounded me. Sometimes I chose to exist within it, going to parties at parentless-houses where my friends slurred their speech and their thoughts with booze and weed and took turns fucking in upstairs bedrooms. Sometimes I silently observed from the sidelines and felt like I was watching afternoon trash-talk shows on a grand scale. So, in the frozen, white winter of my Junior year in High School, I decided that I wanted more than what was being offered to me. I decided this because one day all of these observations about my town and everyone in it had arranged themselves into a grand equation with an unavoidable solution. No longer did these thoughts give me an ephemeral sadness that I was unable to identify: they now showed me a perfect picture of my future -and it scared the hell out of me. I then knew that every moment I remained, I was buying the lie of life with limitations. Every day that my pre-determined future came closer was another day that saw what was best inside of me dying, dying here in this town, this absolute lack. Anything but the thought of running as far away as fast as I could made me panic. So I started planning. * * * I made my escape at the end of April, when most of the other kids acted worried about the impending final exams, but weren’t doing much of anything to prepare for them. I had spent the last few months avoiding the weekend parties that I was sometimes invited to so that I could sit home and flesh out the details of my leaving. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t come up with a plan that worked logically. The only thing that I was sure of was that no one could know. I thought about leaving in the middle of the night. I would just walk out of my bedroom and down the hall where my parents slept in the gray-white strobe of the television that they left on all night. I wouldn’t need to be quiet as I walked out the front door because my parents expected to hear it grind open several times during the night when 1 went out to smoke a cigarette. They wouldn’t wake in the morning until I would already have left for school, so their concern wouldn’t grow until later in the evening when 1 failed to show for dinner. I replayed this scenario in my mind countless times and something about it just didn’t sit well with me. The whole concept would excite me until the part where I saw myself walking down that initial stretch of road, flexing my thumb for the first set of headlights to come up behind me. That one thought always left me with a hollow feeling. It bothered me just enough to not leave on the exact day that I had wanted - but instead sit around and hope that a better plan would surface in my mind. And then the next day, it hit me. It wasn’t the concept of leaving, itself, that I was uneasy with, it was the loneliness that waited for me on the endless, black ribbons of highway. I had mentally prepared myself to go days at a time without getting a ride. I had envisioned getting mugged, raped, chopped up into tiny bits and left for dead in a lonely rest area dumpster. I had entertained these grim possibilities as if I were a hardened soldier going out to battle, not giving myself time to be afraid. But now the reality of my leaving was under my nose like the strongest stench and afraid was all I was. So I decided to ask my friend Dean to go. As soon as the concept of his traveling with me had entered my mind, I felt excited about going again. It was like a terrible iron weight had been removed from my stomach. So I presented the idea to him as we walked slow laps just outside the school property, smoking cigarette’s during lunch. “Alex, the thing about you is, you start thinking about something and you get so involved in it that you can’t see anything else. Maybe you should sit on this for a few more days.” Dean's cool confidence always impressed me. He could say anything and convince me that he was right, especially when he said my name right before presenting his idea. “Alex,....”. But he never used it to a dishonest advantage. He always entered a conversation with me under the assumption that I was intelligent, and I appreciated that. I guess that is part of the reason that I wanted him to go so badly: I wanted to save him from this place, too. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. It’s not like I woke up this morning and decided to leave.” “Well, when did you decide?” “January”. The word left my lips through an exhalation of curlicued cigarette smoke. I looked directly into his eyes with mine and held his gaze, in an attempt to let him know how serious I was. He gave a resigned exhalation and his body drooped a few centimeters toward the ground. The fingers that pinched his cigarette went up to his temple and pressed in, as if to relieve a headache. “What if I say no?” “Then I’ll be lonely out there” “But where is there? Do you mean to tell me that you are just going! I mean, who the fuck do you think you are bro? Kerouac?” I didn’t know who the hell he was talking about. Dean usually referenced things that I wasn’t aware of. “Never mind. Listen....Jesus, I got things going on here....1 mean, people don’t just leave and not tell anyone.. .you need a plan.. .you....” Dean was - 7 - exasperated. He furrowed his brow and spit out half sentences. He sucked at his cigarette like it was a thick milkshake, threw the butt to the ground and lit another one. He directed an accusatory finger at me but stopped just sort of a declarative statement, then raised his eyes to the clouds for some sort of help. He seemed frustrated and sad all at once and I couldn’t stand to see it. I knew Dean well enough to usually be able to discern what he wanted, but at that moment I had had no idea. I was overcome with both the feeling that this might be one of the last times I would see him and the desire to make him stop feeling sad. So I stepped forward and pulled him close into a hug. I had to stand on my tiptoes so that I was able to wrap my arms around his large frame and hang my chin over his shoulders. He immediately stiffened but didn’t step back. The skin of his throat smelled like soap and salty sweat and I could feel it twitch nervously against mine. After a moment, he loosened up a notch and gently wrapped his hands around the small of my back. After a moment we let go and looked at each other quietly. The laughter of inside jokes between friends walking back to school after lunch grew insistent in the background and rode around on spring breezes. Dean shook his head in soft resignation and let a smile curl on one side of his mouth. He said: “Dude, you’re such an asshole.” * * * Later that night, as we sat in my room smoking a bowl, I asked Dean who Kerouac was. “You’re kidding, right? Jack Kerouac? You mean to tell me that you’ve never read On The Road? ” Dean flicked the lighter and touched the flame against the mound of weed pushed into my glass pipe. He vacuumed up a lungful and continued to talk, his voice croaking as he held the smoke in his lungs. “Maybe you should read it through before you go out on your romantic search for...” Dean expelled a noxious blue cloud out the wide-open window then turned back to look at me. “.. .what exactly are you looking for?” “I decided that I wasn’t going to look for anything. That’s not why I am going.” I sat and absentmindedly picked at a loose thread in my slacks. “I just don’t want to be here anymore.” Dean handed me the pipe and I hit it. I looked over at my window that was painted with the too-white light of the bare-bulb dangling from my ceiling. I saw a ghostly half-reflection of myself sitting with my already packed backpack at my feet. I studied the image and became comfortable with the fact that I was on my way. I didn’t feel much of anything except a terrible restlessness. I was on the border of an event that I had spent the past three months actualizing. I felt naked, vulnerable, new and weightless all at the same time. I started asking strange questions of myself, like: 'What time should I leave? Does it matter since I don’t have to be anywhere? " “Dude, come here.” Dean pulled himself to the edge of the bed and crawled off, acting like he was about to show me something that made him who he was. I sauntered off behind him, down the arthritic stairs and out the front door. I pulled a cigarette out of my pocket, pushed it in between my lips and lit it. I looked up and saw that Dean had walked out to the curb by his car. I walked up next to him and questioned him with my eyes. “When you told me all of this today, part of me thought you were full of shit, and a smaller part of me believed you. I never said whether or not I wanted to go.. .but then again I didn’t believe you wanted to either, until an hour ago.” He pulled a frame backpack from his backseat and dropped it in a puddle of streetlight on the curb. “Fuck this place anyways”. * * * Dean hung up the phone and turned to look at me. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.” He had decided that we should call a cab, hand the driver fifty dollars and have him drop us off wherever the money ran out. I was all for the idea: it seemed ridiculous to start hitchhiking right in town. “I want to put some good distance between us and here as soon as possible,” he explained. We agreed that hitching and walking would take time: probably more than we could anticipate. It was already 11 p.m., and we didn’t want to find ourselves only five miles outside of town as the sun rose and the possibility of friends and family driving by us on their way to work and school was very real. It took some smooth talking and a grand total of $70 to get the cabbie to drive us until $50 ran out. And when he finally agreed, he even offered to help us put our bags in the trunk. We said no, holding them on our laps instead. The few changes of clothes, collective carton of cigarettes and other odd trinkets we had had suddenly become so valuable that we wouldn’t let them out of our sight. I stared out the window and said nothing for the entire drive. All of the world: the telephone poles with their rising and falling wires, the trees and all of their skeletal branches covered with green buds waiting to riot into bloom flew past my window in dreamy black and white. It was springtime and I imagined myself preparing to be bom along with everything else in nature, but right now I was dying, and it felt like it. The one thing that kept me from turning back out of fear was the fact that a slow and festering death waited just a few miles behind me as well. I was pulled out of daydreaming when I felt the car slowing down and the tires crunching gravel on the shoulder of the road. I looked around and saw nothing but expanses of fields on my left and thick forest on my right. The driver turned and looked at us with a sly grin. “Fifty dollars got you - 9 - thirty two miles, gentlemen. End of the line.” “Could you at least drop us off at an exit, man?” Dean asked. “Next exit is fifteen miles down and I got other fares to run tonight.” The man tapped the top of the meter with a jaundiced index finger. $50.00 flashed in red. Dean and I looked at each other silently, took a deep breath and opened our doors. The cab did a U-tum, tore across the grass median and sped back to town. We listened for cars in the distance, but heard nothing but deafening cicadas. We smoked cigarettes and stood in stupid silence for a long time. After a while we began walking. Every once in a while, a tractor-trailer would hum by and nearly tear all our clothes off with the force of its wake. We took turns sticking our thumbs out when we saw a car approaching. And when a rusted and rattling silver Nissan Sentra finally slowed down, it was Dean who had flagged them. We could see the driver, encased in shadows, lean over and roll down the window. He was a gangly boy, around twenty years old. His feral face was highlighted in its hollows with glitter and stick on sparkly stars. His hair was colored crayon-yellow and sticking in wild clumps in all directions. The stereo was throbbing and Dean had to lean his head in the window to talk to the boy over the noise. A moment later, Dean looked back at me with a grin, pulled open the front door and got in. I followed suit, climbing in the back seat while the strange-looking boy reached behind him and shoveled a heap of filth and garbage onto the floor with a sweep of his arm. No sooner had my ass hit the seat before the boy grabbed my hand and shook it. “How’s it goin’? I’m Jeremy, but my friends call me Fat-Ass!” He had a maniacal grin and had to shout over the music. He didn’t give me a chance to respond, but instead slammed the heel of his hand into the gearshift and rocketed down the road, keeping time to the frantic music by beating his fists on the steering wheel. He looked at me in the rearview and shouted over the blare: “Listen, I was just tellin’ your friend here that I’m only goin’ about 30 more miles to a friends house for a get-together. Sorry I can’t take you further, but you guys are more than welcome to chill with us if you want!” The kid was twisted on something: he had the tips of his thumb and index finger between his lips and was sucking at them. His wide-open eyes seemed unhinged in their sockets and they were darting back and forth incessantly. Dean would shout something at the kid and he would cackle maniacally in response, showing a mouthful of long teeth. Dean looked over his shoulder at me and grinned. A half hour later, we were rolling through some random suburb. The car came to a stop in front of a one-story ranch house with dirty, white paint. 1 wasn’t quite sure where we were and was almost positive that I didn't want to stay. I wanted for us to keep going and make some serious time. Dean, - 10 - however, seemed to be feeding off of Jeremy’s energy. They were prattling back and forth, using great, sweeping hand gestures to get their points across. I followed them across the lawn and up to the front door. We could hear the dull cacophony of people talking loudly mixed with music that was shaking the walls with seismic beats. Jeremy pounded on the door with his fist and then walked in without waiting for a response. The inside was lit by a few ancient lamps, which gave off a golden glow through yellowed and brittle shades. There was a faded blue couch with slices in its upholstery, which gave birth to moldy clumps of stuffing. Wadded pieces of paper and dirty ceramic plates covered in dried ketchup spread across a coffee table and bled off its edges; the whole mess creeping across an old, low-pile carpet of indistinguishable color, pockmarked with cigarette bums. There were people everywhere and none of them were walking straight. Some of them sat on the floor facing each other, with their legs folded under them, eyes half closed and speaking in drunken mouthfuls of mush. There were several boys our age draped heavily across the couch, shirtless and sweaty, which added a stench to the putrid rot that already hung in the air. And I smelled pot-smoke, too: a great cloud of it hung and wrapped around all of these people who did not look up as we walked in. Jeremy immediately started talking to a guy who had a patch over his left eye. He was a stocky guy with a big, swollen beach ball of a belly. He had at least two days worth of stubble on his face and his hair was greasy and uncombed. Dean stood next to them and talked like he had known them for years. I looked around and decided that I wasn’t sure what to say to any of these people. None of them were doing anything to acknowledge my existence anyways, so I walked over to a wall, kicked some garbage to the side with the toe of my shoe and sat down. Jeremy, Dean and the new guy were standing in a circle, talking and, every once in a while, looking in my direction. Then Dean walked over and squatted in front of me. “I have something for you.” “What?” I asked. “Open your hand.” He placed a small blue pill in the center of my palm. “Eat it.” He said, matter-of-factly. Then he reached into the front pocket of his hooded sweatshirt and produced a half-empty bottle of water, uncapped it and handed it to me. “What is it? I asked. “It’s Ecstasy, bro.” He said impatiently, as if he were tired of explaining it. I was surprised. I stared at the pill, and then at Dean. “What? An hour ago you had the balls to leave home forever and not tell anyone because you wanted to go out and live hard. Now were here and you want to sit in a comer?” “I’ve never done E, before, that’s all.” I tried to work up the guts to put the pill in my mouth. “Neither have I, but I ate mine. Stop being a pussy.” Dean raised his eyebrows expectantly and extended the bottle of water to me. I threw the pill in my mouth without letting go his gaze and then took his water and pulled a mouthful. He smiled thin and wide, gave me a thumbs up, stood and walked back into the crowd, disappearing in the spaces between bodies. I stood and walked around the house, hoping to find a bathroom. I hadn't pissed in hours and it felt like I was carrying a bowling ball in my bladder. I decided that the majority of kids here were on E, because the further that 1 walked into the mess of people, the more this whole thing looked like one of the stupid propaganda pieces that 20/20 does, preaching that Ecstasy is the new drug that will direct kids to Satan. More than a few people were wearing visors with rainbows on them, tight T-shirts with Hello Kitty and Speed Racer and wide, baggy jeans that swallowed their sneakers whole. Some of the boys pushed their girlfriends against walls and buried their mouths in their necks. Some were bent over at the waist and breathing deeply, wearing surgeon’s masks with thick gobs of Vicks Vapo-Rub slathered on the inside. The pounding music assaulted every space in the house; the almost visible sound waves bounced off walls and around comers. I tried not to stare, but couldn’t help it. The whole house was soaked with sexuality and a dizzying, heaving energy. I took a deep breath and slithered between a clog of bodies in the hallway and found a bathroom on the other side. I went in and closed the door, only slightly muffling the noise outside. I walked over to the sink and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I touched my fingers to my face and tried to make sense out of the gentle, white glow that my skin seemed to be producing. I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, but I soon became painfully aware of my stomach twisting around its small, solitary contents. A dull nausea grew, and I began to panic. I turned and heaved a thick stream of puke into the toilet. My body palsied and forced out a few more mouthfuls of bile. I instantly felt better. I felt weightless and 1 felt like all of my insides were being tickled by tiny feathers. I smiled in spite of myself, wiped my mouth with the side of my hand and walked out of the bathroom, eager to find Dean. * * * The night tattooed itself on my memory as a series of short, rapid-fire vignettes. For a few seconds I was lying on the floor with five sets of hands smearing body lotion all over my torso and spraying my face with a fine mist of ice water, the next instant I was a part of a huge tangle of arms and legs: a cuddle puddle and it felt like living in lukewarm pudding. Frighteningly, several of us ended up inside of a car and it was going somewhere. My eyes were watering so hard that I had to wipe them clear - 12 - with my shirt and by the end of the night, it was noticeably damp at the waistline. People I didn’t even know were hanging limp over the seat in front of me, goofy-smiling around their pacifiers, puddles of glitter and tears gathering around the laugh-lines at the comers of their mouths. They tried to speak, but anything that came out was altered by the mud puddle of drugs in their brains and the binkies between their clenching teeth. A boy to my left was grinding his teeth so hard that he bit the plastic nipple off of his binky and then doubled over at the waist, coughing it out of his throat. He held the colored plastic binky in one hand, the chewed up plastic nipple in the other, studied them and then lifted his eyes to us with a genuine look of confusion on his face. He mumbled something unintelligible and the rest of us giggled and smothered him with a group hug and kisses all over his messy hair and salty skin. He smiled again and someone pushed a lollipop, already dripping and sticky with spit and red sugar, between his lips. His eyes went a shade more relaxed, and his dopey grin came back. He lay back on the seat and pulled several of us on top of him where we lay for quite a while, innocently rubbing each other’s bodies as the music shook the car windows. * * * The next thing I remember, I opened my eyes to the most beautiful sunrise I had ever seen. I was on the ground, somewhere outdoors where there was nothing but sky, trees and the sun painting everything gold and reflective pink. I sat up and it was an effort. I felt like I weighed three hundred pounds. Dean was a few yards away from me, reclined back and supporting his bulk on one elbow, considering the same sunrise that had my heart in my throat with its utter beauty. I was no longer awash with the perfect bliss that I was last night, but everything still seemed humbling and perfect. I stumbled over to my friend and flopped down next to him. He turned to me and smiled, then looked back at the sunrise. “Where is everyone? Where are we?” I asked passively. Dean pointed directly under where the sun was coming up. “That’s the road. Everyone else is gone. They left an hour ago.” We remained in silence for a good thirty minutes, smoking cigarettes for breakfast and scanning the scene around us. Eventually, I realized that my parents would be in a sheer panic right now. I almost felt bad, but the remnants of Ecstasy in my veins wouldn’t let me. I knew that a different me would have stood up and found my way back home at that very moment, but the self that was afraid of everything that I grew up surrounded by told me to walk into the sunrise and see what happened. Dean wrapped a fist of fingers around the strap of my backpack and threw it into my lap. “I hope you feel like walkin’” He said, and then stood and did just that. * * * - 13 - Over the next few weeks, I was slapped in the face with the reality of what I had chosen. It was beautiful and terrible all that the same time. Short stretches of fortune when we would be blessed with ride after ride were followed by longer stretches of luckless and lonely days: days full of cars driving past us as quickly as they could, their drivers pretending not to see us standing on the shoulder, covered in our own filth. There were periods where the two of us felt as if we truly owned our own lives: those days when we weren’t concerned with looking for a ride and instead lay in the grass of hidden fields, finding shapes in the clouds. In North Carolina, we chased each other through the forest and it’s huge patches of Mountain Laurel, bouncing off rocks and tackling each other to the ground. In Tennessee, we spent an entire week camping on top of a mountain that had an exhilarating view of a town nestled in the valley below. We sat by tiny fires at night and watched the yellow and twinkling lights on the back porches of houses far below. We slept on cushions of deer moss and pissed wherever we felt like and it was the freest of feelings. Every day, when we woke, we would make up an excuse to spend one more night there and then walk the two hours into town and buy grapes, apples and bags of potato chips. I had developed a taste for Pecan Log Rolls: I was infatuated with their gooey, powder-pink filling and would sit by the fire at night, scooping them empty with my index finger and cramming the next wad in my mouth faster than I could swallow the last. Dean tried his luck and discovered that he had no problem buying beer at the local mom and pop convenience store. He had the build of a linebacker and hadn’t shaved in weeks, so the cashier never even raised a speculative eyebrow when he dropped two six packs on the counter. So we would carry armloads of beer back into the forest with us every night and get howling drunk. Sometimes Dean would scream obscenities at the bats as they flew over our campfire, just to make me laugh - and I would until my stomach hurt, revealing the sticky gobs of pink sugar between my teeth. We had managed to only cross three states in two months, and now we found ourselves unable to find our way out of Kentucky, with its gently rolling hills and too-much-space between towns. Part of me started to believe that no one at all stayed here but simply drove through as quickly as they could, doing their best to avoid drinking the water. We hadn’t gotten a ride in days and the great expanses of ugly space along the road began to frustrate us. We were yelling at each other more and started trudging through the gravel single file, instead of side by side. We saw that our finances were dwindling and that added to our fear. We could no longer be frivolous and feast on ten dollars worth of food a day, and our stomachs were knotted in protest of their shrinking rations. We hadn’t showered in weeks, and our faces were caked with earth and sweat. Every now and again, we would wash ourselves in filth-encrusted gas-stations - 14 - bathrooms, but that only made us feel dirtier than before. One night, after walking for hours without saying anything, we came to a truck stop. There were rows of tractor trailers parked around towering fluorescent lights that pushed up into the sky. A thousand different kinds of insects flew crazy spirals and loop-de-loops in their violent-white glow and moths with their parchment-paper wings bounced off of the light bulbs over and over again. We made our way inside without telling each other that we wanted to and looked for the bathroom. We walked past the restaurant on our left and through the aisles with their shelves of kitschy souvenirs. There were stacks of black T-shirts with Rebel flags on them next to a rack of black baseball caps with Rebel flags on them. There was a rack on the floor with stacks of velvet paintings depicting barely-clad Indian girls and others with a Grey Wolf’s solemn face super-imposed over a rippling American flag. In the bathroom, we became ecstatic at the sight of showers. We were immediately in good spirits again, and laughed and hooted and hollered as we ran towards them. All of the stalls had vending boxes on their doors and required three dollars in Quarters for ten minutes of use. In an effort to conserve our money, we decided to use the same stall. There was one that was twice the size of the others all the way on the far end, so we fed our quarters to the door and walked in. We hung our backpacks and clothes over a few rusty hooks on the back of the door and ran the water as hot as it would go. Before I could get wet, Dean let out a disgusted sound. I turned around in time to see him looking at the bottom of his foot and the wrinkled yellow condom dangling off of it. His face looked like someone had stuck a steaming pile of dog-shit under his nose. He braced himself on the metal rail that was attached to the wall and hopped over to the stream of water and hosed it off. I laughed out loud, and my voice echoed around the tiled walls. We walked out of the bathroom feeling better than we had in a week. Washing off the dirt from two months of mountains and roadsides felt like a rebirth. Dean paid for a pack of generic smokes, and then we sat at the bar laughing and drinking bitter coffee until the waitress stopped refilling our cups. ♦ ♦ ♦ Three days later, we were crossing through a field a few hours from the Illinois border and in the distance, we could see the spires of a white tent behind a shimmering haze of hot June air. It reminded me of a tent that I spent a boring evening under at a wedding reception, years ago, for some of my parent’s friends. As we got closer, we saw a hundred cars parked to one side and most of them were mini-vans. We heard people shouting “PrAISE the lawd!!” and clapping and cheering. There were a few older men in pinstripe, butterfly collar shirts tucked into polyester pants pulled up to the widest parts of their bellies. Their hair had been sculpted into ducktails with - 15 - Vitalis and they were smoking cigarettes in a circle outside. Dean and I kept our distance until they wandered back in, then we crept closer, keeping our bodies low in the Timmothy-grass. Dean looked at me with an evil grin. “This is it, dude.” “This is what? You want to go to a tent-revival?” I asked incredulously. Dean shook his head in the way he always did when he was frustrated that I couldn’t read his mind. “Watch.” He said, pointing to the side of the tent closest to us. We could see a man in a suit, facing the congregation through a half-open tent flap. He was shouting passionately, and pumping his index finger into the air. There were several boys our age in navy blue suits, walking to the beat of the solemn organ music, carrying collection plates up and down the aisles. “That’s what.” Said Dean, as if he had just solved a riddle. One of the boys walked out of the back of the tent and set a plate full of money on top of a tall, black case that had carried the PA system, then turned and walked back into the tent. I looked directly at Dean, my body suddenly tingling with fear and nervousness. “ASSHOLE! I can’t believe you’re thinking about doing something fucked up and stupid, like that!” I tried to be authoritarian, but Dean seemed determined. “Listen, those people are in there getting drunk on bullshit propaganda and giving that money to a bunch of assholes who are just gonna terrorize the world with more bullshit propaganda. Now do you wanna eat for another week or would you prefer to start peddling your ass on a street comer for money?” 1 couldn’t believe what I was hearing, and before I could say anything, Dean had ran up behind the black box, crouched down and was slowly reaching to it’s top, feeling around with his fingers. The same boy in the suit walked out of the tent just in time to see Dean's fist close around a pile of bills. The boy furrowed his brow in surprised confusion. “Hey!!” He said and pointed at Dean’s hand. Dean heard him and took off like a shot. “HEY!!!!” The kid screamed even louder, and this time his buddies came out of the tent to see what was the matter. As soon as they saw Dean running, they all ran after him, closing in fast. I watched in horror and felt my breathing stop. I thought about running, but I was frozen to the ground. Dean’s bulk was too much for him to carry too quickly and it wasn’t long before four of them tackled him to the ground with a dull “THWUMP!” I heard them all cursing at him and watched them hold him down. I didn’t know what to do. I saw a few people come outside to see where the confusion was coming from. All of the sudden my body freed itself from the ground, and I began running. As soon as I did, I head one of Dean’s attackers shout: “ There 's another!” His words hit my back like a fist of energy, and I ran faster still, - 16 - zigzagging in confusion. I could see the border between field and forest up ahead, and it seemed to take forever to get there. But 1 couldn't stop running if I had wanted to. All of the sudden I was flying in-between trees and leaping over rocks and rises in the earth. I heard only the sound of my own breath in my ears, but I forced myself not to look back and see if anyone was still behind me. I kept running until I couldn’t. I whipped around and was so sure that I would see a huge boy about to tackle me that I fell on my ass and started kicking at the air. But there was nothing there. Still, I skittered g backwards in a crab-walk while guttural noises lept out of my throat. My chest burned with a caustic pain, and my head swam in complete confusion. My stomach was a ball of cramps and knots, and I threw up all over the dirt. I tried to stand, but my legs suddenly jellied, causing me to lose all muscle control and fell face first into my own vomit. * * * I When I came conscious on the forest floor, I saw the sun’s final rays dimming through the tops of the trees. I could feel dirt and leaves matted to my face with sour-smelling puke. I wiped it all away with my sleeve and looked around, not fully remembering what had happened. It didn’t take long for the truth of it all to come back to me, and when it did, 1 immediately began making excuses as to why Dean would be appearing from behind the trees at any moment. But he never did. Still, I sat there and shivered until the sun came up. ■ When it was full-light, I walked slowly to where the forest became field to see if I could see something... anything. I peered across the top of the grass and only saw the forest on the other side. The tent was gone, making the whole scene look as lonely as anything I had ever looked at. I turned and walked back into the forest. * * * .1 Two days later, I had managed to cross the border into Illinois. I kept far from roads the entire time, afraid that I was being looked for. When I got into Illinois, however, I found the closest highway and hitched a ride with a talkative farmer into a town called Marion. .11 Marion was no bigger than where I began two months ago. It had a modest main drag with a hardware store, pharmacy and a cellular phone dealership that looked sparkling and new next to everything else. I found a coffee shop called Beanstreets and went inside. I ordered a cup of house blend with double espresso and claimed a booth as far away from the only . other customer besides me, who sat hunched over a laptop with a cigarette dangling from between his lips. I stared out the window onto main street for hours, watching the sun crawl across the sky. Dean told me once, that it was called an Anilemma - the path the sun takes across the sky. I smiled when I remembered this. Dean always got excited when he revealed some obscure factoid to me. - 17 - I thought about finding my way back to where Dean and I got separated or perhaps calling the local police station but realized I didn’t even know the name of the town. We hadn’t seen a road sign for a day and half before the incident. We had been walking through fields and hills. I sat there and w ondered what happened to him. My heart begged me to go back and see, but part of me realized that the holy rollers had probably called the cops on him. 1 had to decide what to do for myself, now. The attendant came by and startled me out of my repose. “Care for a warm up I managed a smile and a “No, thanks.” My voice cracked. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I had spoken. I took a deep breath and unzipped my backpack. I pulled out a filthy pair of jeans and lifted the false bottom to my bag, under-which was taped two hundred dollars. I hadn’t even told Dean about that, wanting to save it as an extreme emergency fund. I pulled a wet, wrinkled ball of cash from my pocket and saw that I had two hundred and thirteen dollars left. I left a single bill in a drift of ashes near the ashtray, got up and walked out. * * * I found a bus station 3 blocks down. It was deserted except for a pudgy kid with purple nests of acne under his skin, sitting behind the ticket window. “How much for a one-way ticket to Duncan, South Carolina?” I asked. “Ninety-nine dollars plus tax.” I laid six twenties in front of him and waited while he pounded at his keyboard for what seemed like forever. “You’re lucky.” He said “’Only bus to Duncan for the whole week leaves tonight at 11.” I said nothing and rested my chin in my hand and my elbow on the counter. He pulled my ticket out of the printer and laid it in front of me and began an endless spiel as to how my ticket was non-re fundable and told me where I would be transferring busses. As he was talking, I felt an impending doom wash over my face so quickly that it surprised me. Hot tears snuck out of my eyes, and my face trembled. It came on like a storm, and I couldn’t force it back. The kid looked embarrassed for both of us and acted like he had something to do in the back room. I took my ticket and sat on a filthy bench and buried my face in my hands to muffle my gulping sobs. * * * Sixteen hours later, I was ten miles outside of Duncan. The curves in the roads were becoming familiar again, and I started to feel stupid. Stupid for failing, stupid for being too scared to keep going and stupid for coming back. The hot sadness in my chest grew stronger when I thought about going home and seeing my parents for the first time since I said goodnight to them almost three months ago. I tried to think of what their reaction would be, and it only made my head hurt, but I was tired of thinking about Dean - 18 - because that made my heart hurt. I felt the bus slow as we crossed into the speed zone on the outskirts of town. I wrapped the straps of my backpack around my hand as I saw the sign surrounded by a bed of Marigolds: “Welcome to Duncan. Pop. 13,000” * * * I’m three beers into my Saturday night and part of me is considering taking a hot shower, jerking off and going to bed early. Sometimes I do feel like beautiful girls will play on the beach with me when I am drinking. Fuck it. it’s the only time I know how to say anything to them anyway. They rarely say much of anything back: nothing that lets me know they are opening up to me because all I end up talking about is how wonderful it was, back in the day, when Dean and I were dirty on the side of the road. There was one girl that stuck around for a long time, well - longer than any of the others had before - and I was comfortable calling her my girl. But she said I wasn't going anywhere and headed north to New York City. I’ll never move to a place that big because there’s too much noise. But I’m kind of tired of staying here because late at night, there’s not enough. I’ve been thinking of finding a new place to go, but I don’t want to go alone. Sometimes, when I really think about it, I consider asking Dean. But he’s got his kids to worry about and his mom’s heart isn’t doing so well these days. Maybe tomorrow I’ll see if he wants me to come over. I’ll pick up a six-pack on the way. We’ll sit on his porch, smoke cigarettes in complete silence, and stare at nothing like we always did twenty years ago. After a few beers, we’ll start getting warm inside and giggle back and forth, taking turns saying “Remember when..and remind each other of the things we never really forgot. Then we’ll laugh without looking at each other, make some offhanded remark about how we were young and dumb, like we always do. Maybe after that, we’ll go to the bar and see some of the boys from work, like we always do. - 19 - ,5tiort Story - Sccond f*rize THE BEST PERFORMANCE Vicki Jones I’ll get it,” said eleven-year-old Kelly, clomping her patent leather hand-me-downs across the black and white tiled floor to answer the door. Shame cramped her fist around the doorknob as she looked up at the broken window, the result of last nights fight. An attempt to mend Santa Claus and the window left a heart of masking tape. A broken heart. Other houses on the street projected cheery red and green Christmas lights that she longed for at her house. Her dad had punched the door shattering the glass, cracking the construction paper Santa Claus stuck on the window with electrical tape. Shame kept her from turning the knob. She didn't want anyone to know what happened behind Santa’s back. The whole night before, she focused on Dad’s fists, trying to stay out of their way. Her job was to take the three little kids to the closet upstairs and hide when things got really bad. Mom and Dad were in the doorway, her baby sister on the other side; an oak’s sacrificial breath away. She skimmed past their fiery torrents watching the fists, a deer in the headlights. Bending down, she scooped up the three-year-old placing her own hand over the crying child’s mouth, whispering a, “Shhh.” “Shut up,” dad screamed, one thick-soled shoe stomping toward them. She grabbed like a cat the hand of the oldest brother and ran upstairs. All three boys were present at the top, all connected to each other by pudgy hands, an endless chain of sick routines. “Kawee,” sobbed her baby sister, “wilw he find us?” “No honey, he doesn’t know where we are.” But she knew he did know where they were. She always wondered what she would do, where she would go with four hands on her shirttail if he did open the door to the closet. By the time the party started, Dad was kissing Mom’s neck as she stood over the stove. A black turtleneck covering the bruise on her chest. The shirt sported a blue tinged snowman in the moonlight. Black and blue, she thought, how fitting. “Answer the damn door,” yelled Dad, “They’re gonna freeze to death out there.” Kelly turned the knob to see the big smiled, big boobed Sharon that picked up Mom for the once-a-month craft club. This woman had the biggest tits Kelly had ever seen. -20- “Hi sweetie,” Sharon squealed throwing her coat over Kelly’s head, “take care of this, will ya honey.” Sharon’s husband, Ron followed her, walking straight to Kelly’s Dad, Denny, with his hand extended. “Merry Christmas Den,” said Ron not much above a whisper. “Merry Christmas you old fart,” said Dad slapping Ron on the back, “how’s the luckiest man in town?” Dad winked at Sharon. Larry and Norma, Mom’s childhood friends, who arrived earlier, joined the harangue. Larry and Ron shook hands; Sharon and Mom hugged. Sharon and Norma hugged. Sharon and Dad hugged. “What a bee-u-ti-ful Christmas tree ya all have,” said Sharon in a fake southern drawl. Grabbing Kelly’s cheeks in both her hands, she said, “You kids have done a wonderful job of decorating this tree. “I wouldn’t let them kids comb my dog,” said Dad, “That there’s a Douglas Fir. Do you how much them trees cost? I don’t leave the decorating to kids. We never had a Christmas tree when I was boy. So I want it perfect. I put it up, string the lights, place the bulbs and put on the tinsel.” He looked at Kelly. “How’s the tinsel go on, Punkin?” Surprised she was asked to talk, Kelly stuttered, “One, one, one piece at a time.” “One, one, one piece at a time?” her Dad mocked. All the adults began to laugh. She knew they were laughing at her. But adults did that sometimes, she was used to it. Like when Dad tried to get the “neighborhood idiot,” he called him, to hold the spark plug while he pulled the cord. The idiot was smarter than she was, Kelly had told herself for the millionth time. She remembered playing on the porch hearing the whole conversation about the spark plug. Dad’s drinking buddies, five of them, stood around the lawnmower. “I’ll do it, Daddy,” she squealed with delight, running from the porch to the mower, glad she could do something right for him for a change. Daddy looked at her in the strangest way she’d ever seen as she bent down to hold the plug he was pointing to. “Like this, Daddy?” “Just like that, Punkin,” Daddy grinned, grabbing the handle, attached to a long cord, attached to the mower. As he pulled hard, the electrical shock pulsed through her fingers, up her arm and into her jaw, knocking Kelly backward onto the ground. Her confused glance met the gleeful stare of her Daddy’s eyes. The skirt of the pink hand-me-down dress with the puffy sleeves landed over her face. All her Daddy’s buddies were looking at her panties and bare legs. Smirks became chuckles; chuckles became roaring laughs. Kelly, humiliated, jumped to her feet as fast as she had been knocked to the ground, running as fast as her bare feet would run into the house, up the stairs and into her bed. Even with the covers over her head, she could still hear the laughter outside and her Dad yelling, “Come on Punkin, I didn’t -21 - mean it. Come on. Come back out here.” She was sure, she never wanted to go outside again. Dad, Mom, Sharon, Ron, Norma and Larry each held a different bottle of liquor at the kitchen table. They were mixing drinks and debating the best concoctions. Dad said, “Who has not heard my daughter play the ‘Blue Danube Waltz’ on the organ?” All eyes settled on Kelly. A small glimmer of pride settled in her chest worming its way to her mouth forcing a grin she couldn’t hold back. “They’ve all heard, Denny,” said Mom. “We don’t need to hear that again.” “I haven’t heard it,” said Sharon stroking Kelly’s hair. “You, my lady,” led Dad as he headed up the stairs to Kelly’s room where the organ was, “are going to hear the best performance you’ve ever heard.” Kelly was ecstatic, tingling with regal worth to the ends of her fingers and toes. Her Dad was proud of her playing and bragging about it to his friends. A heat, a glow encircled her face, as she seemed to glide up the stairs. She couldn’t force the grin to stop as she sat down at the bench and opened the music leaning against the wall, because she didn’t have a music stand. Her fingers, on fire from excitement, landed squarely on the keys. She knew this would be her best playing ever. Her Dad would be so proud of her, he’d tell everyone, even at his work how good she played. She began playing Braham's ‘Blue Danube Waltz.’ She swayed and closed her eyes just like she’d seen her piano teacher sway when she played at their recitals. She knew every key and was glad she could do it with her eyes closed. Surely, Dad and Sharon would notice and rave about what a good organ player he was. She finished playing the waltz, putting a cavernous smile on her face and turning around to face her audience. She had considered actually standing and taking a bow, holding out with two fingers her frilly dress and bending ever so sweetly like the lady on the Ed Sullivan show. The singer whose name she couldn't remember. What she saw took her breath away. She stared at her Dad and Sharon dressed in Christmas attire, wrapped in each other’s arms. The idiotic smile remained pasted on her face. Sharon’s dress was hiked up over her bare bottom, her legs wrapped around Dad’s. His hands seemed to be holding her from hitting the floor. All Kelly could do was stare. “Play something,” Dad hollered at her, “now dammit.” Turning around, she stuttered again. “Wh-wh-what do you want me to play,” Kelly asked, her tongue as dysfunctional as her family. “I said play and don’t stop until I tell you to,” he seethed behind her. Kelly faced the dark paneling that held up the Donnie Osmond poster taped by each precious comer. His friendly eyes willed her to place her fingers - 22 - where she should, playing a song she didn’t know that she knew. She tried through salty, disgusted tears to will his hands folded in front of him to reach out and wipe the pain from her life. Thoms of moaning to the ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’ pricked her soul from behind her as she glanced at the stairs she knew her Mom might ascend. At this twisted moment in her life, she descended into the only place she knew. It held her heart of stone. Tears slid down her face, washing and rewashing her of any chance of happiness with any man, ever. She knew that, even then, and accepted it with no conditions. Straight as a post, she leaned over the keys, hoping nothing from behind her would touch her and knowing nothing he ever did again would hurt her. Sharon and Dad walked down the stairs, not looking back, leaving her alone. She knew they never heard one single note beyond their own adulterous song led by her. This was one Christmas party Kelly would never forget. -23 - Story - "Third Trizc FIRST SMOKE Gordon Cooper The gray-white smoke slithered and curled from the glowing red tip of the hand-rolled Laredo cigarette up, up toward the yellowed ceiling of Grandpa’s small apartment. The wrinkled, brown-tinged paper tube was held adult-like between the first two amber-shaded fingers of his left hand, while the right hand was caressing the heavy glass handle of his favorite blue coffee mug. I watched the undulating, beckoning vapor as it curled around and hugged his whiskered cheeks. I could almost hear the voice of Eden’s serpent, as it seemed to call my name. “ I betcha wanna’ try a little bite of this apple, doncha. Gordo?” Cigarettes had always been the forbidden fruit in our home. My parents were determined to keep us from that ‘tree of knowledge’ at all costs. We would have to turn down the volume of the TV when the old cigarette commercials came on - no small task when you consider that those days the remote control was a quick ‘poke and point' to the nearest child, and tobacco was the chief sponsor of prime time. We could only watch longingly as the other kids in the neighborhood got to buy and enjoy those fake candy cigarettes that puffed out little, sugary, white smoke-farts when you blew through the cherry- flavored filtered end. We would catch a stem look and a quick lecture when we were overheard singing the catchy jingles: “Winston tastes good, like a cigarette should!” - and it wasn’t just because our mother was an English major in college and she thought the grammar was in error. So, as I sat there alone in the quiet living room, while Gramps went to take his newspaper break on the toilet, the voice came softly once again: “ You will not surely die, my friend.” The smoke said to me. The gray tendrils curling around and hugging my tender cheek like the red painted fingernails of a seductress as I placed my head over the glass ashtray. Inhaling deeply, I felt the gray smoke become searching tentacles exploring the depths of my virginal nostrils. Sensing that I had already passed through the first ring of fire and that my soul was now within the hairy clutches of some Satanic claw, I figured “why stop now?” 1 could feel the innocence fading from my two fingers as they wrapped themselves around the thin, fragile body of the slender tube. I brought the tip to my lips with trembling. A quick, unpracticed breath - 24 - brought the rush of bright, yellow-orange needles of heat into every pore of my mouth, nose and throat. Bitter, burning nicotine replaced the standard oxygen in the small air sacs of my lungs. The nervous system that had been programmed by my creator to alarm me and to remove from me any foreign substance kicked in with loud screams to my unheeding brain. A gag reflex was sent up and just as quickly sent back down by this suddenly mature and anarchic personality. I was taking that ‘small step for an adult-but a major leap for six-year-old child’, while the sound of Gramps flushing the toilet quickened my heartbeat and the action of my nervous fingers. Quickly replacing the smoking evidence of my sin, I jumped into the soft recliner on the other side of the room as he re-entered. “How many times has your Daddy told you to not be jumpin’ on other peoples furniture?” He growled, with that conspiratorial grin that comes with grand-parenthood. Little did he know that he was now speaking to a fellow smoker. - 25 - ^hort Story - Tjonorable Mention NATALIE, MELINDAANDTHE WIND Kelly J. Thomas Melinda and Natalie were playing in back of the old car. They had made a table of one of the seats and were laying it for tea. Natalie put out the four plastic cups and saucers, with spoons alongside, while Melinda filled the teapot with orange from her orange bottle. Without knocking, the wind came in the broke window and swept all the cups, saucers and spoons out the door and rolled them along the grass outside. Melinda put the teapot down on the seat and ran out after them. Every time she tried to pick something up, the wind whipped it away from her. Melinda became cross. “Stop that!” she cried. The wind only tugged her hair and blew it across her face, into her eyes. Natalie came out and picked up the cups and saucers. Melinda was getting really angry. She still had the orange bottle in her hand. Suddenly she made swoop with it, put the cork on and screwed it tight. She pushed the hair back out of her eyes and said, “Now I’ve got it. “What have you got?” asked Natalie. “I’ve got the wind,” said Melinda. She pointed to the bottle and smiled. “You haven’t!” said Natalie. She didn’t believe anything she couldn’t see. “I have!” said Melinda. She believed everything she told herself. She held the bottle up to her ear. “Listen. It’s talking.” “It’s not,” said Natalie. She listened too. And she heard it. “Please let me out,” said the wind in a tiny voice, faint and sad. “Let me out and I won’t tease you any more.” Natalie remembered all the times the wind had been loud and noisy and rough. “Don’t!” she said. Melinda couldn’t bear to think of the wind shut up inside the bottle. She unscrewed the cork and shook the bottle out. The wind smelled of orange from having been shut up in Melinda’s orange bottle. It ruffled their hair gently. “Thank you,” it whispered. It blew a circle of twigs around them. “If ever you want me, just whistle.” it said. And then it went away and the air was still and heavy. Melinda tried to whistle, but she could only blow. Natalie knew how to whistle, but she didn’t trust the wind yet. “You’re standing on one of them she said. “Now you’ve broken it. Let’s go back inside.” Although Melinda couldn’t whistle and Natalie wouldn’t, the wind came to play with them from time to time. It was never rough or loud, and the games were very exciting. Then the days grew longer and hotter and the wind didn’t come any more. Melinda - 26 - tried to whistle, but she could only blow. “It’s gone on holiday,” she said sorrowfully. “Well let it have its holiday,” said Natalie. One day, when Melinda and Natalie were playing, their older sister, Tracy, their mom came out of the house, eager with news. “Tracy,” she said, “The Bank Man is coming to take our house away.” She wasn’t speaking to Melinda and Natalie, but they listened anyway. “Why?" Tracy asked. “Why is the Bank Man taking our house away? “Daddy owes him some money, he can’t pay it back yet, he is taking our house instead.” “He can’t,” said Tracy. “We need it to live in.” Melinda tried to whistle but she could only blow. “Whistle, Natalie,” said Melinda. “Whistle for the wind.” Then the morning came and there was the Bank Man’s car coming along the road up the hill, and behind it was a police car. They all came out to watch. The Bank Man’s car stopped and the man got out. The police car stopped and one of the policemen got out and settled his cap more firmly on his head. Melinda tried to whistle, but she could only blow. “Whistle, Natalie,” she cried. “Whistle for the wind.” At first the sound was low, but then loud and long. The wind answered. They heard it whistling through the trees far away and then it was around them, stroking their hair. “Stop them," said Melinda. “Stop the Bank Man and the police taking our house away.” “Watch me,” said the wind. It blew down the towards the Bank Man and the policeman. First it blew the hat off the Bank Man and the cap off the policeman. It blew the wig off the Bank Man. Then it blew the Bank Man into the policeman; they both fell on the ground. Both of them looked angry when they got up, for their clothes were covered with dust. As soon as they started to get off the ground the wind blew them down again. The policeman went back to the police car, but the Bank Man tried to walk forward again. This time the wind blew him clean through the hedge. It bowled him down the field through all the thistles, and blew him into the stream at the bottom. He crawled out of it, covered with weeds and mud, and ran back to the road. The police car picked him up and brought him away. The next day someone else came and took the Bank Man’s car away. The Bank Man never came back again. Natalie never again scolded the wind, for it now was her best friend, and she trusted it from that day forward. The wind managed to save her family and keep them secure forever. - 27 - ^hort Stori) - Honorable Mention VICTORIA’S SECRET Gordon Cooper She woke up late one morning. Instead of the cheery voice of the morning DJ on the clock radio, it was a stiff, sharp poke from her flabby, stubbly-whiskered husband’s elbow that jolted her awake. The jab was directed to the soft fleshy area that surrounded her inflamed kidney. The pain radiated in hot, yellow flashes from her kidney to her bladder and she could not prevent the sudden release of a warm secretion of urine. She knew, without looking, that the small, egg-shaped stain would bear a pinkish tint. “Hey! - Getcher lazy tail down to the kitchen! Ya’ know that coffee don’t get made by itself!” And then he added the animal name that usually accompanied all of his angry directives. She didn’t move. She lay there with the warm fluid cooling into an itchy, burning reminder of her childish, powerless position. She knew she should get up and quietly fix his breakfast and get him out the door so she could soak away the pain in the tub for an hour before the girls woke up for their breakfast. Another option floated out of the gray, distant background and it was in that instant she finally woke up. She didn’t move. “Hey! Woman, dincha hear me? I said — ‘getcher tail outta bed! I ain’t gonna be late agin on yer account.” She didn’t move. “Woman!” “ I have a name.” She said with a calm strength that surprised her and shocked him. “Wh-... well, what should I call you?- Princess?” He sat up and stared at her unmoving shoulders. She studied hard to control the shivers that would betray her fear. “My name is ... Victoria. That is what my mother named me. I am not a Vicki, or a Vick or a female dog or ‘woman’ or any of those other names you think are so cute.” Her back didn’t move and another small flush of the hot liquid seeped into the white cotton panties. The struggle to remain motionless was now sapping all her energy and her resolve. Sweat began to dampen her underarms and a hot, salty drip of some fluid - she didn’t know if it was a tear or - 28 - sweat or if in some weird reflux action - it may have even been some of the blood-tinged urine, slowly coursed a path along her lower lip. “Victoria, huh...- Well, Queeniepie... Let me tell ya somethin’ - this is the end of the Victorian era, right NOW!” His elbow never reached her back. Her small but powerful hand intercepted the blow and one sharp fingernail drew a small, moon-shaped dent that quickly filled with scarlet. The man jerked to a more upright position and reached for the lamp switch. His eyes went from the tiny curve of blood on his fleshy bicep to his wife’s solid shoulders and then back again. The bluish outline of the old tattoo of a sword covering a bleeding heart undulated as he flexed his arm a few times, as if he was testing for a broken bone. The mumbled curse that should have struck her like an open-handed slap seemed to have no effect upon her. He reached for her auburn hair with every intention of removing its beauty from her skull strand by painful strand. As if she felt the energy field around his approaching fingers, she tinned her face toward him and their eyes met just above the image of his claw-like hand. The look of cold resolve and fearless defiance sent a slithering feeling of dread throughout his body, the result was an involuntary secretion of his own urine. The only other time he had felt this fear was when he and his best friend, Ralph, had cornered a mother woodchuck in the old bam. They had situated themselves between her and the burrow that held her three groundhog pups. The fat, furry rodent had turned toward them, stood upon its hind legs and bared those amber teeth. The sudden introduction of courage into that scene of cowardly bravado had sent warm, wet evidence of his weakness dribbling down his jeans. Another mumbled curse left no sign of impact upon her hazel eyes as she stared at him. Realizing he had to quickly change his underwear, and that she was unlikely to change her attitude, he left the room. She lay there with tremors of fear gripping and releasing her leg muscles. The sounds of slamming cupboards and banging dishes coming from the kitchen below were meant to be a warning to her. He had no knowledge of where she kept anything in the kitchen; she could hear him going through each cupboard looking for the familiar red can of Folgers. She was just about to holler down to tell him to look in the refrigerator and then decided to let him find it on his own. She had become quite fluent in this non-verbal language of his. She could interpret each grunt and each epithet. The closed captions along the bottom of the screen for the hearing impaired would have stated in stark white-on-black letters that Queen Victoria would be left on the throne for now because he was late for work, but there was a bloody coup expected that night when the King’s rusty Chevy truck drove back into the yard. - 29 - She interpreted the message clearly at the same time she felt her bladder let go. The wetness spread around her, soaking the sheets, and filling the room with that familiar, acrid, amber odor. She didn’t move. Tears flowed freely now as the depth of what she had done took hold. The fluids that flow through the living human body contain a common salinity with the oceans, according to the science she remembered from high school - “and this is as close as I’ll ever get to the beach.” She thought, as she smelled the pungent, salty air. The scent of the bloody urine and the taste of her tears merged into a cocktail of sensory impulses that intoxicated and nauseated her. The stench brought back the memory of her father’s drunken figure lying in a puddle of his own beer-flavored pee on the bathroom floor, snoring in blissful peace beside the vomit-filled toilet. She had been left in his care while her mother had gone to ‘pay the rent’- which was the kind way of saying she was having an affair with the leering landlord. Her father knew of the arrangement and dealt with the shame by conversing with his two best friends - Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker. She had attempted to lift him up to a sitting position to prevent his suffocation should he vomit again. Her face was next to his when a belch of toxic whiskey breath came scalding from his pursed lips and enveloped her mouth and nostrils with a stifling heat. This vivid image gripped her stomach and sent a sudden bubble of nauseous gas into her throat. She didn’t move. A couple strong swallows and a determination to hold her hot, throbbing head as motionless as possible kept the regurgitant from adding to her pitiful countenance. She knew her two little girls would soon be awake and she didn’t want them to see this image of womanhood. She began to move. The wet flannel clung to her in chilly wrinkles like Saran Wrap. She filled the hamper with the disgusting mess of sheets and clothing, looked at it once and went for the trash bags instead and threw it all away. She filled the tub with water as hot as she could stand and waited there for the girls to find her. The hot water gave her the impression of being sanitized, the cleansing heat reddening the pale, untanned thighs resting just below the surface. She stared at the distorted, oblong image of her face reflected in the chrome faucet. How often this tub had been her refuge from the day’s misery. It was here that her fantasies took shape and substance. She dreamt of warm caresses. She longed for someone’s fingers to move tenderly across the secret areas of her tired body. She imagined the worlds she could have seen, and the people she could have become if she had only refused the first - 30- jK. advances Walter had made upon her fifteen-year-old virginity. As she toweled herself off, she saw the red stain on the white towel. An involuntary gasp escaped when she saw the tendrils of blood along her inner thigh. It really was too late now. She had ignored the warning signs for the past two months and this morning’s wake-up punch in the cancerous kidney was the final gun. Game over. She looked from the bright red drops on the floor to the white face in the mirror and back again. Her fear and contusion became solid and immovable. Like the time her brothers had lured into the empty concrete silo on her grandmother’s farm and shut the door on the sunlight. The blackness and helplessness that gripped her was tangible and tastable. It would do no good to cry. It would do no good to scream. It would do no good to call her mother. She knelt to the floor and began to clean up the evidence. The substance smeared into a smudge of pink, auburn, and red streaks against the avocado green linoleum. Just as she had decided to wait in frightened silence in that silo, aware of her impotence to open the closed door, and the inevitability of her grandmother’s search for her around chore time; she now felt the same impotence and a similar certainty that her daughters would come searching. She slid into the comer and allowed the tears to fall as unhindered as the incriminating fluid between her clenched knees. Her quick investigation of ‘female’ problems in the Family Medical Encyclopedia revealed to her that the frequent hemorrhaging was not related to menopause or menstruation. She smiled now as she recalled her initial education from her grandmother as she explained those terms and their symptoms: “Menopause and menstruation ... - ya see darlin’ all of women’s troubles begin with ‘men’!” Grandma had said with a conspiratorial smile while she snapped the tips from a bowl of green beans. Just as she longed for the days of blissful ignorance she enjoyed before the first slap of their marriage, she wished she did not know the cause of her symptoms of incontinence and bloody discharge. The self-diagnosis, made with the assistance of the aforementioned Family Medical Encyclopedia, told her she had kidney cancer. She decided today she would call the first doctor she found in the phone book. She had listened to the detached, casual voice of the nurse/reception-ist tell her to bring in a urine sample and the doctor would call her within the next four business days with the lab results. A small Mason jar sitting on the kitchen counter contained the pinkish orange fluid that she was certain - 31 - would initiate a battery of further tests and appointments. Tests and appointments Walter would not take time from work for and blame her for when the bills came due. The nausea and fatigue stifled her efforts to finish supper. She felt the desire for rest become more urgent until it became a necessity. She knew she would collapse if she attempted to stand another minute at the stove. She also knew the pain she would suffer and the words she would hear if Walter found her in bed and nothing but cold pots and pans in the kitchen. She could feel the toxic wastes streaming through her body, causing her body temperature to rise while simultaneously raising chilly goose bumps along her neck and shoulders. The medical book had told her this would happen. She was experiencing the final stages of Uremia and her death would soon follow if she failed to receive immediate care. She stared at the small Mason jar. The jar was one of a set Walter’s mother had given to them at their small wedding. She had made a comment about how she could come over to help Victoria can some of Walter’s favorite Peach preserves. Now that pint-sized vessel contained the lethal pathogens and poisons the body's machinery usually eliminated safely into the city sewer. A quick, tear-blurred glance at the clock sent another involuntary shiver along her spine. Walter’s rusty truck would soon be rattling into the dusty yard, and the stomping work boots would signal the end of her freedom for another day. She walked to the counter and picked up the lukewarm Mason jar. Initially, she had thought she would just pour the contents down the sink, but another awakening occurred as she felt the liquid warmth in her chilled, pale fingers. She opened the stainless steel cap and the green plastic cover of Walter’s Aladdin Stanley thermos. He had apparently given up the search for the Folgers and decided to buy some of the vending machine “Camel Sweat” blend of coffee at work. A small smile curled her upper lip as she emptied the jar into his thermos. “ The best part of waking up ...” she hummed weakly as she turned toward the stairs and her deathbed. - 32 - Drama - pirst f*rize TORTURED GENIUS: THE INSANITY OF FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE Joel Davis The scene is a very squalid apartment in Europe in 1899. The lone inhabitant is famed philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche; he is bedridden. He has spent the past nine years surrounded by darkness, consumed completely by the insanity that will take his life the following year. His brilliant mind has decayed, and the insanity is attempting to consume the very last of his thoughts. The ensuing conversation, spoken entirely in German, takes place while Nietzsche is alone, with only his insanity as company. “Friedrich ” is his earthly body and remaining sanity; “Nietzsche ” is his insanity. Nietzsche: (Softly, as if calling an old friend) Friedrich. Friedrich: (Lost, hallucinating) Roecken, with Father? Nietzsche: (Soothing) Friedrich, you aren’t in Roecken. Friedrich: (Sadly, as if reliving it) Father has died. I was only five—too small to be fatherless. Mother fed me pudding. Nietzsche: (Softly) It’s time to go Friedrich. It’s time to give me what’s left. You cannot do it anymore. Give in to me. I am you. Friedrich: (Quietly) Never. Nietzsche: (A little more assertively) You know you will. You know it’s time now. “Man is something that has to be surpassed,” you said it yourself. I am you, Friedrich. Surpass yourself. Friedrich: (Quietly) I was named after the King. I was christened in his name... Friedrich Wilhelm. Nietzsche: (Losing patience) We’ve been over this so many times. Concede to me now. Friedrich: (Sharply, but quietly) You philosophize with a hammer. Nietzsche: (Ready to finish him) I am you. You philosophize with that very same hammer. That hammer of philosophy is the hammer that broke down your walls and unearthed me. I am you. You drank, too often, of the sweet milk Friedrich: (Quietly, but fighting) Just stay. Do not pollute me again. You are a despicable heretic. Nietzsche: (Loudly, insulted) I am a heretic! I am you! You are the heretic! Friedrich: (Loudly, but not shouting) Heretic! (Pauses - quieter) You aren’t even real—are you? Nietzsche: (Angry, but not shouting - fast-paced) Oh, you know I’m real; - 33 - you know I’m here, Friedrich. And, yes... I am a heretic! I am your heretic! I am you! You are the heretic! I am taking you to hell! “Atheist by instinct.” isn’t that what you said? “God is dead,” didn’t you say that too. There is no one to save you Friedrich. You will rot in hell with the others. Friedrich: (Sadly, lost in the conversation) Wagner. Where’s Wagner? My dear friend Richard, where is he? Nietzsche: (Angry-barking at him - fed-up with him) FUCK WAGNER! He’s dead. He’s in hell, too. Friedrich: (Angry, but with little energy left - spoken quietly, as if distracted) You philistine. Don’t you dare speak that you were bom of me. I didn’t conceive you—I didn’t create you—you could only have been conceived by the union of incubus and succubus. You are... (interrupted by Nietzsche) Nietzsche: (Interrupting - loud and very fast-paced) I am Ubermensch! Only I have the “will to power” that you spoke of. I am your dead God! I am the venomous snake that will coil your throat and squeeze you till you join my heretical world. You won’t beat me Friedrich—you can’t win against me!—I am you—you made me to control your mind—your sad, diseased, broken mind—you wallowed in mediocrity—you made me to explain your twisted duality. I AM YOUR GOD. 1AM YOUR ATHIESTIC GOD! 1AM YOUR SELF-ANALYSIS! I AM YOU! Friedrich: (Lost - in a hallucinating tone) “To share not suffering but joy.” - “To share not suffering but joy.” - “To share not suffering but joy.” (Talking at the same time as N) Nietzsche: (Interrupting-talking over Friedrich’s last quote) You are yammering! Your quotes are empty! I AM YOUR SUFFERING! I AM YOUR JOYDESTROYED! IAM YOUR EMACIATED MIND! IAMYOU! Friedrich: (Calm, as though he isn’t really arguing - he’s just stating it) You are not of me. (Pause) You are not my genesis of a nihilistic epiphany. (Pause) You are only my defiance of pity. (Pause) You seek to destroy your very home—the home in which I allow you to dwell in and stay tethered to. (Pause) I recognize you at all junctures in my mind. I listen to your borderless prophecies. (Pause) I shall eradicate you from this vessel. Nietzsche: (Ranting, fast-paced, very angry) YOU ERADICATE ME? YOU ARE MERELY THE TENANT IN THE MIND THAT I POSSESS! I AM THE VESSEL! IAM YOUR CHILDHOOD! Friedrich: (Hallucinating - in a soft voice) “Wake up, Freddy. It’s October 15th. I have a present for you.” Nietzsche: (Out of control angry) STOP! STOP THIS INCESSANT YAMMERING! GIVE INTO ME! STOPTALKING! STOPTHINKING! STOP BREATHING! Friedrich: (Quietly - recognizing the voice as that of a friend) Richard, is that you? - 34 - Nietzsche: (Screaming) I AM RICHARD WAGNER! I AM YOUR OFFICE AT BASAL! IAM YOUR MOTHER’SPUDDING! IAM YOUR DEAD FATHER! I AM THE EMBRYONIC STAGE OF YOUR ETERNITY IN HELL! I INOCULATED YOU WITH DISEASE! I AM THE RESULT OF THE BOUND BOOKS OF RANTS! IAM BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL! IAM YOUR GENEALOGY OF MORALS! I AM THE GAY SCIENCE. I AM ZARATHUSTRA, I AM THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. I AM YOUR TRAGEDY. Friedrich! I PERMEATED ECCO HOMO WITH MY DISEASE. I WROTE THAT BOOK! I HID IN THE PAGES OF THAT HIDEOUS PIECE OF RUBBISH! I OPPOSED YOU IN THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR! IAM YOUR ENEMY! IAMYOU! (Long pause — calmed now, but with an EVIL tone in his voice) I am the black that you see every day. I am the screams that swim about your broken head. I’m your ethereal end. I am you. You’ve lost. Give me my earned wage—and die! Friedrich: (Slow - amazed at his discovery - finally recognizing who Nietzsche is) I saw you. I saw you at the table when mother fed me pudding. (Pause) That chipped bowl—you sat to the left of it. (Pause) I saw you. (Pause) You kissed me... with adulation for my mind. (Pause) I remember you now. (Pause) Are you here to take care of me? Are you here to stop that terrible voice? Nietzsche: (Calmed) I am but one brief step for you a chasm to spend. I will take care of you. I am you. Friedrich: (Very tired and worn, yet relieved) My arms are tired from holding you back. Take my mind and carry me, Ubermensch. Nietzsche: (Calm, soothing) You are wise, Friedrich. Follow me to hell. It’s okay... I am you. i Friedrich: (Lost) How is Richard? Nietzsche: (Very soothing) GutenAbend, Friedrich. Curtain - 35 - Drama - Hirst Hrize THE BIRDHOUSE Joel Davis Characters Hap - 7 year-old boy Sean - Hap s Mother, 26 Ellie - Sean's sister, 19 Mother - Mother to Sean and Ellie Scene One: Sean and Hap’s living room in an upscale house in rural upstate New York in 1971. Danny, Sean’s husband and Hap’s father, also occupies the house. Danny is not home. The living room is very comfortable with soft fluffy furniture, toys spread about, and many pictures of a man dressed in an army uniform are displayed throughout the room. Sean and Hap are the only ones home; they are talking as Hap finishes gluing pieces of wood together on a newspaper, on the carpeted floor. Hap: Mommy, do you think birds will live in this? Sean: Of course they will. Hap: How will they know to live in it? Sean: Because it looks just like a house. They will recognize it as a home and when they need a place to stay they will stop and live there. It’s really very pretty. Hap: It’s not ‘posed to look pretty, mom. It’s ‘posed to look like a birdhouse, not a dollhouse, not pretty. The boy birds won’t live in a pretty house. But, the birdies are just like us; they all need a place to live. Like Daddy’s new home. Sean: (stunned - quickly changing the subject back to the birdhouse) It looks exactly like a birdhouse should. It’s not too pretty. You even have a place for them to land before they go into the hole. Do you have furniture in there? Hap: (giggling) Maybe I should put a bunk bed and a couch for them, (laughing) They can watch the reports of the war on TV, too. They can relax and drink pop while they watch Tom and Jerry. Sean: (laughing) That would be funny. They could play games like we do. Do birds like Monopoly? Hap: (still laughing) I think they do, Mommy. They like the jail and the racecar and the green towns. - 36 - Sean: (giggling) So the birds like the same things about Monopoly that you like? Hap: Yep, they like that too. (laughs) Sean: Aunt Ellie is going to love it, honey. It is a perfect birdhouse. Is your glue dry yet? We need to go soon, before Grandpa gets home. Hap: It’s dry. Let’s hurry and get there before Grampa gets home. Can I wrap it in that pinkish paper for Aunt Ellie? Do we have any left? Sean: (looking through a drawer in a nearby cabinet) I’ll get the paper for you. I think we have a piece big enough to wrap it. Aunt Ellie will love that paper. She’s going to love that birdhouse. Hap: Is she still sad? Will this make her feel better? Sean: (helping him wrap the birdhouse) This birdhouse will make her feel much better, Hap. She is sad. She will be sad for a very long time. But this will help her smile today. Hap: Is she sad ‘cause of Grampa? Or is she sad ‘cause of Daddy? Or is she sad ‘cause of Emily? Sean: (reflecting. Getting teary-eyed) She’s sad for all of them. She is sad mainly because of Emily. Daddy and Grandpa are fine, but Emily isn’t. Emily’s not coming back. Hap, you know that, right? Hap: (wrapping): I know, Mommy. I wish I could have seen her and played with her before she goed to God. All I saw was the little box she was in. That they put in the ground. I just wish I could a played with her. 1 Sean: (wiping her tears - holding the paper for Hap as he puts tape on the paper) We all do, honey. But we need to go and make Aunt Ellie happy now. And that birdhouse will certainly make her smile. Hap: (putting the last piece of tape on the paper): I hope it makes Grampa and Daddy smile too. Don’t cry again, Mommy. Scene Two: j Ellie and her parents’ modest middle-class house, one half hour later. Ellie gets up from her chair in the kitchen as Sean and Hap enters through the outside door, into the kitchen. Hap is holding his awkwardly wrapped package in his arms. Sean and Ellie hug. Sean: (hugging Ellie tightly) Hey Ells. How are you sweetie? Ellie: Thanks for coming again today, Sean. Dad’s gone. (Turning to Hap) Hey handsome. How are you? Whatcha got in there? Hap: (holding the package up toward Ellie) It’s for you Aunt Ellie—to make you happy, (pausing) Then I’ll be Hap and you’ll be happy. Like the paper? Sean: (laughs, having heard the line many times before): You’re very funny, Hap. Ellie: (laughing at Hap's joke and hugging Him as she takes the package): That’s beautiful paper, Hap. What’s in it? Hap: A s’prise. Ya gotta open it to see. - 37 - Sean: He made it all by himself. He did a wonderful job on it. Ellie: I can’t wait to see what it is. Hap (jumping) Open it! Open it! Sean (laughing) Give her a chance, Hap. Ellie (unwrapping the package) Oh, Hap.. .this is beautiful! You made this all by yourself? Hap: Yep! It’s a birdhouse! Ellie: And it’s a very well-made birdhouse. Hap, you did such a good job with it. Mother: (entering the kitchen and going toward Sean with a hug - her usual nervous self- talking fast) Hello Sean. Hi Hap. How’s Grandma’s boy? Thanks for coming over again. You’re getting way too skinny Sean. Can I make you a sandwich? There’s cake. Sean: Hi Mom. We just ate a little while ago. I’m fine. Hap: Hi Gramma. Look at the birdhouse I made for Aunt Ellie. Mother: It’s lovely Hap. You sure you don’t want to eat Sean. Dad’s coming home soon. Sean: I’m fine, Mom. Ellie: Relax Mom, Jesus. Mother: Elizabeth Jane, watch your mouth with Hap here. Sean: Mom, why don’t you take Hap for a few minutes. Mother: Come on Hap—that’s our usual clue to go. Ellie: I love the birdie house, Hap. Maybe we’ll hang it outside later. Hap: Gramma, is the war on TV right now? Mother: (leaving the room with Hap) The war is not on Here Hap, remember? Ellie: God.. .he gets cuter every day (starts crying). Oh God, Sean (dying, and hugging Sean). Sean (hugging Ellie): Come on, Els. (pausing) Is Daddy still at it? Ellie (crying): Jesus Sean, he won’t let up. He just keeps going on about me being an unmarried mom and not being with Mark. And God, why would he keep talking about it? Even he can’t be that insensitive. Can he? He complained through the whole funeral. I’m not an unmarried Mom. Doesn’t he understand that? He was there when we buried Emily. God, he just doesn’t quit. I’m the unmarried Mother of a dead baby girl. I don’t have a daughter anymore. But he does and he just keeps kicking me at my worst time. He’s in every nightmare that I have Sean. He is every nightmare that I have. Emily is dead. My baby girl is dead, (sobbing - pausing) Dr. Shaanz looked up at me and I knew she was dead. She died inside of me and that bastard has to go on and on every day about it. He is such a monster, Sean. My daughter is in a cheap wooden box in the goddamn ground and he keeps talking about it. No hugs. No peace. Just a constant reminder of what a shitty person I am. Sean (crying and holding Ellie): You are NOT shitty, Els. You’re a wonderful person. Dad is just Dad. He has always been like that and he always will be like that. He is insensitive. He doesn’t ask about Danny. Danny could be dead right now and Daddy wouldn’t care. Danny is in that despicable war defending people like Dad. And Daddy can’t even ask me. To Daddy there are no Emilys or Dannys. There are just people like him. There are - 38 - only the rules within this house. There are no other houses to him. Don’t you let him affect you, though. You ARE wonderful Els. Don’t let Daddy make you feel any different. Ellie: 1 want to go before he comes home. I can’t be here with him anymore. Sean: Are you going to accept our offer? Please come live with us. It’s close to school and work for you. We really need you, Els. We need you around. Get away from Daddy. Mom told me that it’s okay with her. She doesn’t want you here anymore. She loves you, of course, but she knows how Daddy is. She knows he is a bastard to you. Ellie: I am going to come with you—today. I spoke to Mom. She told me to. I’ve got a bag packed now, but I’ll come get the rest later. Hap (bounding into the room): Wanna go hang the birdhouse outside, Aunt Ellie? Grampa's coming soon. Ellie: Can we hang it at your house? Hap: But I want you to keep it! (pause) You don’t like it, do you? (pause) 1 You were just tellin’ me that you liked it! Just like all the other stuff.. .you were tellin’ me that and it wasn’t the truth! I don’t even know why Daddy wanted to leave me! Why won’t Grampa see me? What did I do? Mommy, why do I make people lie to me? Ml Sean: Oh honey, no one is lying to you. I told you that you know all I know about Daddy. Grandpa isn’t angry with you. He loves you. He is just mad at Aunt Ellie and me. I wouldn’t lie to you and Aunt Ellie isn’t lying to you. Ellie: I want to come live with you, Hap. That’s why I want to hang the birdhouse at your house. Hap (Turning to Sean, without emotion, NOT excitedly): Really Mommy? 1 Sean: (excitedly, trying to make Hap excited) Really, honey. She’s going to leave with us in a few minutes! Hap: (sadly) You could sit in daddy’s chair at the table, Aunt Ellie. We could hang the birdhouse in the tree outback. The one with the branches shaped like a ‘w’ and we could feed the birdies and they can live in their new home. They probably thought they didn’t have a home, or their Daddy had to go fight people, or their baby birds died, but now they can live in the birdiehouse. (longpause with Sean and Ellie seemly happy) But I want you to stay here Aunt Ellie. You can’t live with us. You will leave us too. Just like Daddy and Grampa and Emily. I will be happy and one day I'll wake up in my room and Mommy will come in and tell me that you left. And Mommy will talk about you, but I won’t see you again. You can’t come live with me. (pause) Keep the birdhouse here, (pause) I don’t want to make friends with birds. Hap walks off stage, out of the scene, with his head hung. He does not look back. The birdhouse falls from Ellie s hand and crashes to the floor, breaking into pieces. As this happens, Sean looks up quickly at Ellie as the scene fades to black. Curtain - 39 - [)rama — <5ccor|d Prize AUTUMN HARVEST Vicki Jones Characters Jerry Marian, his wife (he calls her Maggie or Magpie) Mage, oldest son Jaron, youngest son Stage divided in half. 'A-kitchen and living room combined. Other /2-porch and corner of house. On porch, a porch swing. Lights on living room/kitchen stage. Jerry in recliner watching TV. Marian doing dishes. Newscaster on television: One year ago today, terrorists flew planes into the world trade center. Be advised the President has issued current nationwide threat levels at orange. There is a high risk of terrorist attacks. (station goes off) Jerry: (fiddling with remote) Damn this remote. First they interrupt the race with this shit, and then they take it off. (pause) Maggie, there’s something wrong with this remote again. Marian: What’d you do to it? Jerry: I didn’t do anything to it. I didn’t even touch it. Marian: Yea, right, (walking toward him) Men! You guys can fly people to the moon, but you can’t run a remote control, (pause) What is the matter with this thing? Maybe the batteries are dead, (walking to the TV to manually adjust the satellite box) Jerry: See, I told you it wouldn’t work. It’s probably them A1 Queda. Yep, they probably bombed our satellite up there.(pointing up) Marian: Jerry, stop it. I’m so sick of hearing that crap. Why do you have to be suspicious of everything that happens? I’m surprised you don’t interrogate Joe everyday when he puts our mail in the box. He could be behind the anthrax letters, you know? (laughing) You’ve even got the boys not tmsting authority. I think they’re afraid. Jerry: Oh, they should be afraid, but they’re not. They’re so afraid, they’re in NYC this weekend visiting the show that should be a shrine. We’re a laughing stock to those A1 Queda. People in this country have made a -40- JK. sideshow where they murdered thousands of our own people. (Marian starts to walk away) Do you hear me, Maggie, AMERICANS. What’s the matter with people these days, they’re gonna blow that city to the moon and you people want to stand around gawkin’ at it. I wish you and YOUR boys could have been in Vietnam. You’d change your tune then, Mag. They don’t have no love loss for this country. They’re just like the VC, Maggie. Are you listening to me? It could be just like Naked Fanny. Marian: (rolls her eyes) Not Naked Fanny again, Jerry, I’ve. Jerry: Nakhon Phanom. You obviously never listened to me. I told you what they did to that pilot. That poor son of a bitch. If he’d a just made it to the silk. Instead he slid right through our perimeter, right into VC hands. (Contemplative) Damn, it seems like it yesterday. I had to enter the area, secure it and rescue the pilot. If it weren’t for Jate, that mascot mutt, I wouldn’t be here, Maggie. (Yelling in her direction) Do you hear me? I’d be pushing up daisies and your sons would be calling someone else Daddy. (Reflectively, to himself) If it wasn’t for Jate. On my hands and knees I was and I still couldn’t see through that jungle. Just as I got to the plane, Jate looked over my right shoulder. I flipped on my back just in time to rip one into that son of bitch. He was just a few feet from my side with kill in his eyes. I started popping illumination and squalk’n on the radio for the QRF and QRT. It didn’t take ‘em long to light up the place. We were too late, though. They gutted that pilot like a trophy buck, from chin to dick, (grabbing her face between his hands) It was an awful sight, Mag. And these sons a bitchin’A1 Queda ain’t no different. They’d slice you in a heartbeat. Marian: All that happened more than thirty years ago. The world is different now. The government wouldn’t let that happen. You’ve got to let it go. Jerry, maybe you should keep those stories to yourself. I’m not saying that I disagree with you, but there’s no sense in scaring people half to death, (pause) Things like that don’t happen now. (sweeping)Pick up your feet. Jerry: Don’t happen now? What about September 11? Is this whole fucking country blind? Are you blind? A year ago, they attacked us on our soil. It ain’t the end Maggie. You mark my words, it ain’t the end. Marian: Oh, Jerry, calm down. You get so worked up. (pause) As long as you can’t watch the race, why don’t you just help me fix that loose board on the porch you’ve been promising to get to. Jerry: I didn’t retire so I could live with my boss (bending down to kiss her cheek). I’ll be quiet if you go out on the porch and swing awhile instead. Marian: I’ve got dishes... Jerry: (interrupting) They’ll all be there in an hour, Mag, come on, let’s swing, (he grabs her hand, twirls her around pulling her to the porch) Marian: (he puts his arm around her, they sit quietly,) This is nice, isn’t it? , Peaceful. -41 - Jerry: Mm hmm. (pause) Boy, that sky looks funny. Marian: (joking) I know, it’s those A1 Queda bombing our major cities, right? Well, George Bush, Jr., the weatherman predicted highs and lows coming together, kicking up a storm tonight. That’s probably what it is. Jerry: Magpie, Magpie. Marian: As long as you brought it up, are you ever going to tell me why you started calling me Magpie? A Magpie is bird, of which I am not and you’d think after twenty-five years you would be considerate enough to let me in on the secret that you and the boys have been laughing at for years. Unless, of course, you plan to take it to your grave. If... Jerry: (interrupting) It’s a chatterbox. Marian: you do plan to take it to your.. .what? Jerry: It’s a chatterbox. Marian: A chatterbox, Oh great, is this the joke on me all these years? My husband with the type A personality and an opinion that rivals Rush Limbaugh’s calls me a chatterbox? The nerve. I suppose this is quite the joke among your friends. I’ll bet they feel sorry for me, don’t they? I’ll bet.. Jerry: and a beautiful bird. Marian: What? Jerry: It’s also a beautiful bird and you, my dear, are my beautiful chatterbox. (she slowly begins to smile, he pulls her close) Marian: Aren’t you sweet.(pause) For that, I’ll go call the satellite company and find out when your race will be back on. Jerry: That’s why I love YOU, Magpie. (she gets up from the swing and goes inside—a minute passes) Marian: (strained) Jerry? Jerry: (getting up to look at her) What’s wrong? Marian: The phone’s dead. Jerry: What do you mean its dead? Marian: I mean its dead. D-e-a-d, dead. There’s no dial tone. Jerry: What the hell is going on? Marian: I don’t know, Jerry, but maybe we better drive into town and find out. Jerry: Get your sweater, I’ll get the car. (Marian starts out the door as Jerry starts back up on the porch) Marian: Let’s go. Jerry: I don’t think so. Marian: What do you mean? Jerry: The car battery is dead. Marian: Oh, my God. Jerry. What is going on here? Jerry: I don’t know, Mag. Let me think a minute. -42 - ■V Marian: Jerry, I’m starting to get scared. Jerry: There’s nothing to be afraid of. We’re okay, (to himself) For now. Marian, go get that battery operated radio. It’s in the hall closet. We’ll find out what’s going on. (rummaging in the closet and pulling it out and handing it to him) Okay, let’s see what’s happening around here, (turns it on and plays with the dial) Nothing! Marian: Nothing? Jerry: I said nothing, didn’t I? (pause) What the hell’s the matter with this thing? Marian: Maybe they weren’t new... Jerry: (yelling) They were new, Marion, I just put new ones in last week. Marian: (starting to cry) I’m sorry. Jerry: Marion, please. We’ve got to try and calm down. There’s got to be an explanation for all this, (pause) Maybe the fuse box. Marian: Weeee’ve got electric, Jerryyyy. (sob) Maybe they are bombing in New York right now. Oh my God, Jerry, my boys. Jerry: Now, stop your caterwalling. This ain’t helping things a bit. We’ve got to stay calm and think. I remember when we were in Haiphong, that was the worst I’d ever seen it, the big boys said just hold down and wait for the Phantom 4’s. So that’s what we’ll do. If all else fails... Marian: What? Jerry: Nothing. Marian: If all else fails, what? -i Jerry: (standing on a chair and reaching way back to the back of the cupboard and retreiving something and holding out his hand) If all else fails, we each had a cyanide capsule, (they look down at the two pills) Our promise to each other that we would die rather than be captured. We knew what they did to the captured. Marian: (shaking her head violently) Ohhh! Jerry, No. You said when all else fails. We haven’t tried everything yet. we don’t really know what’s going on. Jerry: I won’t be taken a prisoner. Not in my own country. Here they are if we need them. We have to face facts, Marian. Something is going on. We don’t know what it is, but if we need them, here they are. Marian: Oh, my God, Jerry, yesterday I was spittin and sputtering at the postman for his car throwing dust all over my wash. Today, you’re suggesting suicide. How can you even consider that? Jerry: Marian, let’s just sit here and talk, maybe one of the neighbors will stop by and give us some news. Marian: Do you want some coffee or tea? Are you hungry? Do you think the boys are okay? I’ve got to do something. (Pause) I hope we’ll look back on this and laugh. Jerry: Make me a cup of tea, and yea, wouldn’t the boys get a kick out of this one, if I’m wrong. They’d love to hold this one over the old man’s head. -43 - Marian: (fixing a cup of tea) Yes, they always did like to get one over on you. Remember when Mage called you out of work saying he broke his leg? You ran home and he said,... Jerry: “Come on Dad, now you can see me pitch in the game.” (pause) I didn’t know whether to kill him or kiss him. Marian: He was such a beautiful little boy, wasn’t he? (sob) What would I do if something’s happened to them? Jerry: (reflectively) We did have handsome boys, didn’t we? I loved having Mage hold my finger when I went in to get a nip. The guys thought he was the greatest. He loved sitting on the side of the pool table watching us play. Marian: It was no place for a child.(sniffling) but he did love going there with you. He’d look up at me with those puppy dog eyes and say, “Pease”. How could I resist? Jerry: Then came Jaron. (pause) Marian, try that radio again. Marian: (fiddling with the radio) The problem with you and Jaron is you’re so much alike, (pause) Still nothing. Feisty and bullheaded you both are, with a little extra on the bullheaded. What would you two do if you didn’t have each other to rub the wrong way? Jerry: I never have understood that kid. Just last week, we were walking down from the garage and Mage slipped and fell in the mud. I thought he broke his damned leg. Bent it right up behind him. Jaron laughed so hard, I thought he was gonna piss his pants. Mage was in so much pain I had to help him up. I thought he was gonna punch Jaron right in the mouth. They both started laughing like crazy. I stood there just shaking my head. What a pair, (reflectively) I’m glad I saw them both laughing. Marian: You talk like they’re dead or we’re dead. WE don't know' anything yet. Jerry: I know, sweety, but something IS going on here. Marian: I know. I know. I just hope they’re okay, Jerry. I’m so afraid for them. Jerry: I have serious doubts, Mag. Marian: I know it’s early, but the sun’s gone down, maybe we should jusi go to bed and everything will be alright in the morning. Won’t it? Things always look bad when you’re tired. (the electric flickers, then goes out; both Jerry and Marian stare at the kitchen light) Jerry: Marian, sit down. I’ve been watching, nobody has driven by all day and now the electric. Something’s wrong. The sky keeps lighting up and despite your weatherman’s predictions, there’s no storm in sight. It doesn’t look good Mag. We need to decide something. Marian: Decide? Decide what? Decide whether to believe that my sons are dead and there’s now no reason to live or decide to stick it out and become some arab’s pin cushion? Let’s walk into town Jerry and make sure. Jerry: It’s twelve miles Maggie. It’ll be in the dark. I don’t know about you, but I’m not walking twelve miles to get my head blowed off. If there’s no traffic, something’s wrong. If A1 Queda’s in this country, they’ll get to us eventually. I said I wouldn’t let no VC take me and I ain’t letting no Arab torture me either. Marian: I feel like I’m living in a dream. Never in a million years would I have -44- thought I’d have to make a decision like this. Oh, my gosh, what if Alqueda’s poison gases are floating towards us right now? What if it bums our skin off? Oh, dear. Oh dear. Remember that little Japanese girl in the magazine? Her skin was dripping off her as she ran? Oh my gosh, I hate what I’m thinking. Jerry: (gently grabbing her by the arms) We’ve lived good lives, Mag. We don’t even know if the boys are still alive. Those al queda would kill me trying to get to you, then what would they do to you? Do you really want to find out? Marian: No. No. But, I’m so scared. Maybe this is a bad dream, Jerry. Yea, that's it. It’s a bad dream or a sick joke and when I wake up, you’ll be in front of the TV watching your game and the boys (crying) will be eating pie at my table. What are we gonna do, Jerry? What are we gonna do? Jerry: (holding Marian) I’ll never leave your side, Mag. I’ll never let you go. I promise, (long pause) No regrets? Marian: (sniffling) No regrets. (they pick up the cyanide, they wash them down with water, and lie together on the floor, Jerry holding Marian) Jerry: I love you Mag. Marian: I love you so much, Jerry. (around the corner of the house come Mage and Jaron) Jaron: This has got to be the best joke on Dad yet. (peeking around the comer) I wonder if they’ve had enough TOGETHER time yet? (laughing) Mage, I can’t believe you thought about replacing the car battery and the radio batteries with dead ones. I never would have thought of that. Mage: Yea, I was pretty proud of that one. But, picking up the mail so ‘ole Joe wouldn’t come out this way was one better, and the phone? Jaron: The phone was easy, just unhook it at the pole, (mbbing his knuckles against his chest) I come by mischief naturally, via, the ‘ole man! Mage: You better duck, I’ll bet he’s got his 10 gauge pointed at the door right now, waiting for Alqueda to pop their head in. Just think, Dad’ll be so embarrassed over this one, he won’t dare give us anymore lectures on the woes of war or the tenets of torture ever again. No more Naked Fanny. Jaron: No more Saigon or Hi-fong. Mage: No more Vietnam bullshit. (they give each other the high five sign) Both: We are so good. Jaron: Just think, everytime we walk in this house, we’ll laugh our asses off over this one, and so will Mom. She’s gonna die over this one. (They open the screen door to enter) Lights down. Curtain. -45 - £)rama - "Third Trize THE GIFT Brad McKinney Characters: Josh Becky Scene: It is senior prom night. Josh has just picked up his girlfriend Becky. She has just gotten in the car and shut the door. Becky: You’re on time for once. Josh: I told you I would. (Sarcastically)You think I would want to be late to the occasion I have always waited for, my senior prom. Becky: Come on Josh, I know you hate this whole thing. You are only going because you are my boyfriend and I am making you. Josh: Becky, you know that I love you and would do anything to make you happy. Hey, I rented this monkey suit didn’t I? By the way, you look hot in that dress. Blue is such a good color for you. Becky: You’re so homy! You only like it because it is low cut and has a slit all the way to my thigh, but thanks. (Pause) Oh, did I tell you what I heard today? Meredith finally found a date for tonight. She is going with Kevin Beckman. Josh: Kevin Beckman! Why on earth would a gorgeous thing like her go with a dorky, chess playing, suspender wearing dork like him? Becky: I don’t know. Hey, did you just say that Meredith was cute? Josh: No, I said she was gorgeous, and I was only using that adjective to describe her talent. She is the best cheerleader Ben Franklin High has ever had. Becky: Whatever, we can discuss it later. Tonight is too special to spend arguing. (Pause) Josh, you do know what tonight is don’t you? Josh: Of course, it’s May 31s1. Becky: And ... Josh: It’s Friday. Becky: (slaps him) You make me so mad! You know today is our 6 month anniversary. Can you believe it has been that long already? 6 Wonderful months!. (Fluttering her eyelashes) Did you get me anything? Josh: Yes. However, it’s not just for you. It is something we will both enjoy together. Becky: You mean like exchanging gifts simultaneously? Josh, that’s a great idea -46- Josh: (hesitating) Well, yes. But I wasn’t talking about a wrapped gift per say. Becky: You didn’t wrap my gift? Did you at least take the price tag off it? Oh, I know, it is a gift certificate isn’t it? Josh: Becky, I don’t think you are getting my drift. I don’t have an actual gift for you. Becky: Josh, what are you talking about? Josh: (stopping the car) Becky, you love me right? Becky: Of course I do. I love you more than anyone in the whole world. Josh: I know that, and I also know that 1 love you. So, that combined with the fact that tonight is our 6 month anniversary, I think it would be a good time to show just how much we love each other. You know, take our relationship to the next level. Becky: Josh, are you talking about sex? Josh: Yes, I think it is time. Becky: Well, maybe you should think again. And this time try using the head that is attached to your neck, not your penis! Josh: Becky ... Becky: You know how I feel about this. I want my first time to be perfect. I want to wait until I am married. I thought you agreed with me. Josh: I do. That is what I was trying to tell you. You love me, I love you, we’ve been together 6 months. Add those all up and what do you get? The ingredients for marriage. It is bound to happen. Becky: Well, I need more than it’s bound to happen . I need commitment. Do you see a ring?....Exactly. Josh: Honey, sex is commitment. Becky: You are such a guy! Josh: What is that supposed to mean? Becky: It means that now I understand why you agreed to go with me tonight. I thought you were going because you knew how much it meant to me. I was wrong. All you are interested in is the screwfest afterwards. How could I have forgotten what prom means to guys? Josh: That is not true. I am not just wanting to have sex, I am wanting to have it with you-the most important person in my life. Becky: Josh don’t give me your crap. You only want to have sex with me tonight because it is prom and you are expected to have something to share in the locker room on Monday. Josh: Becky, I want to have sex because I love you, and I think it’s time. Becky: You’re right, it is time. Time for you to be honest and answer some questions. Josh: Alright. Becky: In the past 6 months have I made you happy? Josh: Yes. They have been the best months of my life. Becky: And have I made you happy physically? Josh: Of course. Becky, you are the best kisser. I mean it! That thing you do with your tongue, it’s out of this world. You have kept me very happy. Becky: Then why do we have to go any further now? Why can’t we wait like we had planned? -47 - Josh: Because I need more than kissing. I am a guy. Guys need sex. (Long pause) Becky, aren’t you going to say anything? Becky: No Josh, I am not. Besides cussing you, out I have nothing else to say. Josh: Becky, I don’t understand the problem with me wanting sex. Becky: The problem is that I hate you. Josh: I thought you loved me. Becky: I thought I did too, but that was before I realized we both want two different things from this relationship. I want love and.. Josh:(interrupting) Wait a minute, I want love. I just want sex too. Becky: I know. To you they mean the same thing. Josh: No, but I do think they go hand in hand. Becky: Don’t speak to me! Josh: Hon... Becky: (interrupting) I said don’t speak to me! Josh: Alright. Look, I am sorry. I thought you were ready for this. I guess I was wrong. Becky: Yes, you were. Josh: We don’t have to have sex if you aren’t ready. Becky: Thank you. Josh: You can just give me head instead. Becky: (throwing her hands in the air and swearing) Oh my God! How dare you! I can't believe you just said that. Here I was thinking you were trying to apologize and you throw out that. But what should I expect? You are a guy and you only think about one thing. Josh: (touching her hand) I just want tonight to be memorable. Something I will never forget. A night that will stand out in my mind forever. Becky: Well, it will be. You will always remember that you spend your senior prom night alone. Take me home! Josh: What? Becky: Take me home now! Josh: Becky, you are going to miss the prom. You have looked forward to this night forever. Becky: You’ve already mined it. Josh: (starting the car) I was only trying to make it more special, (pause) I was. (another pause)Say something....please, (long pause)Becky we are almost home and you haven’t said a word. I told you I was sorry, (pause) Well, we’re here. Good night. (Becky gets out and slams the door. Josh rolls down the window.) Josh: I love you. Becky: Bite me! Curtain -48 - ^ ssaij - f^irst f*rize VIETNAM VETERANS AGAINST THE WAR Gary Kenyon America, bom in revolution, is no stranger to war. Yet very little is taught in our schools about the Vietnam War - America’s longest war and the only one we ever lost. Even less is taught about the opposition movement that developed against it, and the groups that made up that movement. This is hard to understand for a person who served a tour of duty in Vietnam and later spent several years working in that anti-war movement. After all, this was the most divisive time in our history since the Civil War, and yet so little is being taught about it. The war was unique in many ways, in new tactics and equipment, in who was called to fight it, and in its aftermath, effects of which are still with us more than thirty years later. When I talk with younger students, many who have fathers, uncles or older cousins who are Vietnam veterans, I find that these students want to know more about that time in our history. Many Vietnam veterans are reluctant to talk about their experiences. As the war continued with no end in sight, some of these returned veterans joined in the growing antiwar movement, and we formed our own organization: Vietnam Veterans Against the War. This was especially unique in that “for the first time in this country’s history, men who fought a war marched to demand its halt” (MacPherson 55). I would add that this was years before America’s involvement ended. Prior to the August 1964 Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, there were several thousand advisors working to train the South Vietnamese military forces. “Of the approximately 9 million Vietnam-era veterans, 42 percent - or 3.78 million - served in the war zone during the eleven years of United States participation” (MacPherson 6). Vietnam Veterans Against theWar(VVAW) was unlike any previous veterans group in America, and even at its highest point, membership was only about 30,000. There were VVAW chapters across the country, on board US Navy vessels and at US military bases overseas. Initially, membership was limited to those veterans who had served in-country, but as the organization grew in numbers, it also grew in its understanding that Vietnam was about more than just those who served there. From the very beginning, seeing an end to the war was a major objective ofWAW, but that wasn’t the only issue. A set of ten objectives was formulated; among them were included demands for a universal discharge to replace the five levels of discharge then in place, upgrading of Veterans Administration services, a universal and unconditional amnesty for war -49- resisters, and an end to the racism and sexism seen as underlying the war. We returned to a Veterans Administration that was still geared to treating the veterans of World War II and seemed incapable of meeting the new conditions faced by Vietnam veterans. These conditions had much to do with the way in which we arrived in-country and the way we left, not in units but as individuals. This meant being in combat or at a base facing attack one day, and as little as two days later being back in our hometowns, with no time for decompression. And as the war ground on, many of us faced hostility from the public, which seemed unable to separate the war they opposed from the warriors who fought it. In addition, many (literally thousands) were not eligible for VA assistance due to the nature of their military discharge. A veteran who did not have an Honorable discharge (or a General under honorable conditions) was not eligible for VA benefits, but a Bad Conduct or Undesirable Discharge could be issued administratively. What this meant was that many veterans were discharged with little or no ability to appeal. As a result, in VVAW we had as one of our objectives the issuance of a universal discharge. VVAW members and certain mental health professionals in the New York City/ New Jersey area began pioneer work in what is now termed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Frustrated by the Veterans Administration’s inability and unwillingness to take on the unique situation these new veterans were in, they formed a series of “rap groups.” Among these professionals was Dr. Robert J. Lifton, a widely known professor and writer from Yale University, whose book, Home From the War, shed much light on the differences between Vietnam veterans and veterans of earlier wars. The VVAW chapter in Milwaukee, Wisconsin compiled a library of writings on the subject, and finally in the early 1980’s, PTSD received formal recognition as a mental disorder. It is recognized now as a set of behaviors that is a natural response to any traumatic situation, but not before an untold amount of suffering on the part of veterans had occurred. A result in society today is that we see trained counselors at the ready whenever there is an incident of major trauma. From the beginning VVAW made major efforts to bring to the public the nature of the war being fought on its behalf and with its tax dollars. Guerilla theater was used to portray what happens on search and destroy missions. Radio and television were used as forums to talk with the public. VVAW members went into classrooms to talk with high school students. The Buffalo, NY chapter of VVAW, working from a rented storefront, had a weekly showing of movies on various revolutionary groups from around the world. Beginning in early 1967, small groups of returned veterans began to march in antiwar protests. The idea of forming an organization slowly began - 50- to spread. “In Detroit, Michigan, for the three days between 31 January and 2 February 1971, the Vietnam Veterans Against the War held a series of meetings, which they called the ‘Winter Soldier’ investigation. Over one hundred ex-servicemen, from the lowest enlisted ranks to midrange officer grades, testified to violations of the rules of warfare that they had either seen or participated in while serving in Vietnam - acts of savagery, rape, brutality, torture, humiliation, massacre” (Cincinnatus 86). Little attention was paid by the news media, and there were allegations that many of these veterans were not veterans at all. Largely as a result, a demonstration was planned for Washington, DC. In April, 1971, over the course of a week, Operation Dewey Canyon III was held. The testimony from the Winter Soldier Investigation was read into the Congressional Record by Senator Mark Hatfield (John Kerry and Vietnam Veterans Against the War preface). The highlight of the week was over one thousand veterans publicly and ceremoniously throwing their hard-earned medals - for military valor and for injuries from hostile forces - onto the steps of the Capitol building. From that point, the organization began to grow much more rapidly across the country. As its membership increased, so too did the efforts by the government to counter and thwart its influence. For both the leadership and the members, it was important to maintain the credibility and integrity of VVAW. It was insulting to be told you were not a veteran because you were now protesting what you had been a part of. My own involvement with the organization began in June 1971. I quickly realized that, since people didn’t really know each other but recognized that there were efforts to counter VVAW, what was important was the merit of the ideas being discussed and not so much who was saying something. The reason was because the government and the traditional veterans organizations tried to portray us as being out of touch malcontents, psychologically unstable, not truthful about ourselves as veterans or in what we were saying when it differed from the government’s line on the conduct of the war. Informants and paid agents were sent among us with the idea that our activities could be derailed and disrupted from within, costing us influence with the public and within the larger, growing civilian antiwar movement across the country. These efforts were orchestrated by the Nixon regime and carried out by the FBI, military intelligence and other agencies. In spite of this, VVAW had a credibility unmatched by other groups opposed to the war; after all, we had “been there, done that,” and it made Nixon’s policies look bad when we exposed the lies being fed the public. Democracy was the basis of our decision-making, but we recognized early on that a disparity existed between chapters located in large urban areas and those in more scattered, rural areas. To counter this we devised a system that gave each chapter one vote as a chapter, another one based on number of members, and one based on the amount of activity the chapter was - 51 - involved in. In this way a small but active mral chapter had more of an equal voice with a larger but less active chapter. We were constantly aware that there were serious efforts underway to diminish our effectiveness, as mentioned above, so issues of democracy and integrity were important to us. As the organization grew, questions arose about who should be members. Initially only in-country veterans were voting members, and all others were “supporters”. Over time, this changed. I well-remember a meeting at which a man said, “I was a bomb loader on Okinawa for a year. Don’t tell me I wasn’t just as much a part of the war as anyone in-country. I deserve to be a member with a vote too.” As a result of that and similar experiences, membership was opened to any veteran who had been on active service during the war. The analogy was made that oil a spear, only the point does the work, but it would be worthless were it not for the shaft backing it up. Later, I was at a meeting when a woman said that she was the wife of a Vietnam veteran and was upset at the way he was being treated and over the war itself. “Do you mean to tell me that my voice can’t be heard? I deserve a vote too - I do just as much work as others in this organization and I have just as much at stake. This is my country too!” The decision was made to open the membership to anyone who wanted to work with us. Our thinking at the time was that this represented a measure of growth, but it also contributed directly to the demise of the organization. We changed our name to Vietnam Veterans Against the War/ Winter Soldier Organization (VVAW/WSO), which was a reflection of the quote by Thomas Paine: “The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country” (John Kerry and Vietnam Veterans Against the War preface). To be sure, there were differences among our members concerning the war, but we had a common feeling that we were the patriots and that the government had been taken over by those not acting according to the ideals that America was founded on. We took the line from John F. Kennedy’s inaugural speech to heart, where he said, “Ask not what your country can do for you; rather, ask what you can do for your country.” We felt an obligation to speak out against what we saw to be wrong, and the more opposition we got from the government, the more determined we were to continue. Opening our membership eventually resulted in the ruin of our organization, ironically as a result of our own democratic process. A student organization, based on different college campuses, called the Revolutionary Union (RU), sent many of its members to join our organization, and even to start up VVAW/WSO chapters in some places. The difference was this: within our organization the votes came from individuals voting as such, but in the RU, members were bound by the position of their organization. What that meant in practical terms was that now, within VVAW/WSO, we were confronted by block voting by these dual members. Decisions we had made as to policy and direction were systematically undone, and before long our original members began to “vote with their feet” and leave the organization. What was the point of staying? To be sure, there were some longtime members who felt they had to stay, simply to counter the RU before the newest members, but the reality soon became apparent and these older - 52 - members left as well. The result was a hollow shell with the name WAW/ WSO that in reality was nothing but RU in disguise. (They had some sort of larger plan by which they saw the veterans as being but one wing of a multipronged tool of some sort for their own purposes). As an organization founded in opposition the the war in Vietnam, VVAW’s role was limited from the start. Still, it was unique in America’s history and played a definite role in educating the public about the nature of the war. The government’s efforts against it were educational too, showing the public how far it was willing to go to in order to prevent our voice from being heard. The most open example of this came in 1973 with the trial of the Gainesville Eight. This was a Florida chapter of VVAW on trial for conspiracy to disrupt the Republican National Convention with firebombs, automatic weapons, and fried marbles (allegedly effective against horse-mounted police). The prosecution’s case revolved around the testimony of paid informants, and at one point during the trial, FBI agents were discovered hiding in a storage closet next to the defense conference room, with electronic recording equipment. The defense only called one witness before resting its case, and the jury was out only a short time before returning a unanimous verdict of “Not Guilty”. Informants and paid agents were widely used by the government, but they weren’t the only methods of harassment used against VVAW. Wiretaps on telephones and selective opening of the mail were used against me in Rochester. Visitors to my home were followed, and myself, at times. I regarded these tactics as violations of the civil liberties guaranteed by the Bill of Rights, and my outrage only hardened my determination to continue my activities, especially since I was not breaking the law. This was my education in democracy and the Constitutional protections I had been taught America was supposed to be about. Today, looking back from the standpoint of thirty years, I can recognize that just as VVAW was not “all right”, neither was the government “all wrong”. Whatever else may be said, Vietnam Veterans Against the War was a unique organization, in many ways representing the best of the concept of being in service to one’s fellows and one’s country. A great many of the former VVAW people can be found today in positions of service, working with and for other veterans. They were about half the makeup of the Vietnam Veterans of America, which is the only Congressionally chartered veterans organization dedicated to the well-being of the Vietnam veteran and his family. Works Cited Cincinnatus. Self-Destruction: The Disintegration and Decay of the United States Army During the Vietnam Era. New York, London: Norton, 1981. John Kerry and Vietnam Veterans Against the War. The New Soldier. Ed. David Thome and George Butler. New York: Collier Books, 1971. MacPherson, Myra. Long Time Passing: Vietnam and the Haunted Generation. Garden City. New York: 1984. - 53 - ^_ssay — Second f rize DUDE, ARE YOU STILLGETTEVADELL? Gordon Cooper Competition for the eyes and ears of American consumers is as intense as any sporting event, and the methods and designs involve as much tactical expertise and stratagems as any military battle. Victorious advertisers are those that can grab the attention, initiate interest, and finally, alter the intentions of the minds behind those eyes and ears. Many advertisers can accomplish the first two parts of this trichotomy, but fail to get across the threshold to the territory of the changed mind. The eyes and ears mentioned above can be likened to the front porch and the advertiser is the door-to-door salesman. It seems as though the streets are flooded with streams of advertising, and for the most part we leave the 'No Soliciting” sign displayed prominently on our front gate. If the advertisement appeals to our sight or hearing, we allow the advertiser access to our porch, i.e. our attention. However, we only allow them inside the front door (our interested consideration of their message), if the appeal of the message satisfies one or more of our basic human needs. But we reserve the living room sofa (our intention to consider purchasing their product), for those clever advertisers that earn our trust. Advertisers can sometimes out-‘cute’ themselves in their attempt at being clever. An example of this was a recent computer ad I saw on TV last week. I was walking away from the TV, giving it the usual background level of attention, when I heard the familiar guitar licks and unintelligible lyrics of Gary Glitter’s “Glitter Rock ”, but there was no dialogue or narration accompanying the song. The effect of this recently adopted advertising technique was to cause me to stop ignoring the screen and to look at the scrolling text to determine what product could be associated with this classic Rock and Roll dance tune. White lettering on a black background gave names and prices of various brands of computers. The scrolling went from the bottom to the top and the title, which finally appeared over the list, was “ Consumer’s Digest Best Value” with the name of the advertised computer highlighted in the number one spot. Then, in larger (by about three times) size font was the following question: “Dude, Are you still getting a Dell?” The music faded to silence and the message stayed in my mind - a very clever example of advertising genius. Or was it? What advertising effects were used in this ad? First of all, I thought it was - 54 - A an image ad with the use of a classic 1970’s tune; the advertiser was aiming to associate the product with the carefree, partying days of our rebellious years. Howe ver, when the scrolling reached the top of the list, I realized it was a product ad because it was touting the “Best Value” aspect of the computer. Now that I had the category of advertising settled, (it falls under both categories) I considered the various advertising effects used by this ad. The current trend of using music as the sole auditory stimulus and visual text rather than spoken narration or dialogue is the antithesis of the hard-sell effect of the past. By forcing the viewer to actively read the text, the advertiser stimulates an additional cognitive process within the brain, rather than just passively listening. This makes the message a little harder to ignore - it allows the salesman onto the porch. ] The use of sarcastic humor was a creative technique. By twisting the gleeful exclamation of “Steven” the “Surfer Geek” into a question of one’s intelligence; the advertiser jabbed a mature, parental finger in the eye of every teen-aged, couch-bound slacker represented by “Steven”. The choice of the song was calculated to target the older, mature computer buyer that is still young enough to snap his fingers and dance to Gary Glitter. Obviously, the advertising agency subscribed to the VALS profiling system to identify their intended audience as the Achievers, Believers and Fulfilled buying groups (Campbell 399). These buyers would be on the opposite side of the slacker image of “Steven”, who was seen in one commercial lounging on a couch. The believers would be conservative, conventional consumers that would accept the words of Consumer Digest as gospel and reject the smiling, goofy adolescent. The fulfilled are content, mature, satisfied and educated, yet value leisure and the home life; therefore they would be open to the idea of buying a personal computer and the older song would trigger pleasant memories of younger days. The achievers value consensus and predictability over silly sales characters (Campbell 399) and would be attracted to a product that slaps a little mud on the youth culture. Why would a rival computer manufacturer use such an overt ploy to degrade a competitor’s ad campaign? Because Dell’s campaign is effective, that is why. Dell claims that sales have jumped 100% since the “Steven Campaign” began (abcnews.go.com 1/24/2002). There had been reluctance to use advertising characters recently, but Dell was willing to revisit the success of Mr. Whipple and his “Don’t squeeze the Charmin!” message by using the Irritation Advertising Technique (Campbell 403) that draws a thin line between gaining entry through the front door of our interest or having it slammed on their toe. The ironic twist to this particular ad is that although I have seen it perhaps three times during two football games, I do not recall the name of the advertised computer. Why? Because the advertiser out-‘cuted’ themselves. This brings up the somewhat risky technique of comparative advertising and the equally perilous method of throwing mud or making derogatory references toward a competitor (negative advertising). Political campaign managers are coming to realize that they do little to advance their own product by poking fun at or casting doubt upon the competition. In this ad, they also made the grievous mistake of placing the competitor’s name in - 55 - greater prominence (it was the last image seen) and larger font size than their own. When Pepsi used the Coke salesman (captured on the security camera reaching for the Pepsi can that initiates an avalanche of Pepsi) it was safe because the Coke image is implied by the red and white striped shirt and the name is only partially revealed throughout the ad. This type of comparative advertising was well used and effective. The decision to “go negative” is usually made by someone who feels inferior to the one they are attempting to malign. Instead, the viewer should be left with the impression that there is no alternative choice, as if there were no other comparable products available. Furthermore, by putting the name of the opponent into your ad, and at the end of the ad, you allow him to share the porch with you. Then you have to compete for the front door. If he has a goofy smile and a friendly face, while you have only black and white text and a catchy tune, he will very likely get the invitation while you get the polite rejection. My initial reaction to the ad was a smile and a slight shake of the head; the boldness of the question was both humorous and sinister. But I felt no compulsion to buy a computer. I just felt entertained, as though I had just got ringside seats for a twelve-round boxing match, and the bell had finally sounded. In an article found on the What You Need to Know About website, the author describes the effective use of audio and video in TV advertising: " Effective TV commercials merge video and audio into a powerful sales tool. But don it think one is more important than the other. Audio and video go hand in hand. For example, turn down the volume on any commercial. You should he able to identify the benefits of purchasing a product just from the video. The same holds true for audio. Close your eyes and listen to the announcer. If the audio doesn't explain the product in detail, then the commercial isn't effective. Potential customers should be able to hear your message even if they’re not in the room to see it. ” (advertising.about.com) The above mentioned commercial failed to be effective as a sales tool, because it failed to leave a memorable impression of its own product, but it was an effective use of humor and ‘cuteness’ as I got a smile out of it. The question is: Was it worth all the money and time spent to produce and broadcast that commercial just to get me to SMILE? If so, Thanks! Now, - get off my porch! Works Cited Unavailable for publication due to a computer glitch. Contact the author is you have questions. - 56 - ELssay - f*rize LIKE AROCK: SELLINGOUT? Gordon Cooper Many theories have been postulated throughout the ages regarding the origin and source of creativity within the human population. Although that is an interesting and valuable study in itself, the question before us today is not the source of the creative act as much as it is the ultimate end of the creative act. To whom does the product of creativity belong? Is it the possession of the producer or the consumer? In the realm of musical creation, this delineation is most blurry. It seems each person, couple and even group of people can claim ownership of a song as ‘their’ song. Lewis Hyde claims: “.. .true art is a gift which offers to pass through and transform the self’ (Hyde 259), and this ‘transformation of the self’ by a song tends to instill a greater sense of partnership with the performer than does a painting or literary work. Music ‘moves’ us (intellectually, emotionally and physically) into a new place of being; therefore we attach to it the title of fellow traveler and associate against the oppressive status quo. Likewise, we feel betrayed when ‘our song’ is attached to a product or corporate image Such is the case of Bob Seger’s song, “Like a Rock” and its entanglement with the sales campaign for Chevy trucks. The song came out of the breakup of an eleven-year relationship - a time of broken-hearted weakness, in which he was looking back on those days of youthful strength and solidity: Stood there boldly Sweatin’ in the sun Felt like a million Felt like number one The height of summer I’d never felt that strong Like a rock. I was eighteen Didn’t have a care Workin’ for peanuts Not a dime to spare But I was lean And solid everywhere Like a rock. The song captures the essence of growing old and finding yourself on the weak side of a failed relationship, questioning your self-worth and looking back to the time when: "like a rock, nothin ' ever got to me... ” - 57 - Seger’s own explanation of the creative process involved in the inspiration for the song carries no vision of trucks or masculinity to which it is now attached: “Like a Rock was inspired partly by the end of a relationship I had that had lasted for eleven years. You wonder where all that time went. But beyond that, it expresses my feeling that the best years ofyour life are in your late teens when you have no commitments and no career. It s your last blast of fun before heading into the cruel world. ” (Sparling 6) And: “Like a Rock was a cleansing process of sorts. ” (Sparling 6). Now the song is forever tied to the rear bumper of a Chevy truck and dragged through the dusty trails of corporate profiteering like a lynching victim in the South. It is often listed as a prime example of ‘Selling Out’, which, to the idealists of the 60’s was equal to vending your soul to the establishment devil. The whole premise of Rock music is to be counter-culture - to rebel against the system, and the betrothal of your ‘work of art’ to the profit/loss balance sheet of a megalomaniacal corporation is ‘DIRTY’. In fact, that is precisely the adjective Pat MacDonald of the band Timbuk 3 uses in his response to McDonald’s Corporation’s request to use the song, “Future’s so Bright, I Gotta’ Wear Shades” in their commercials: “Ijust vowed a long time ago that l d never do that. You give up a piece of yourself. It’s hard to explain to people the feelings involved. It would make me feel dirty. To me Rock music was always about being contrary to the system ...that's what l liked about it. That’s not the kind of exposure 1 want. I’d rather have anonymity than that kind of exposure. At least you can still have dignity in anonymity. " (Reese 5-6) Now, this all sounds noble and esoteric, however, we reside within a material world (keep quiet. Madonna!) and the reality is that Pat MacDonald is living above his parents’ bar and conducts business from a Pizza Hut pay phone - virtually penniless (Reese 3). The stereotype of the ‘starving artist” maintaining his purity while alive only to be discovered and appreciated for his superior insights after his death is slowly cracking under the pressure of the landlord and the utility company. The sad fact of life is that private, protected art is in its essence selfish art; and art is better described as a gift than as a commodity. This brings us to the philosophy of gift exchange. The gift of creativity has been bestowed upon artists and in certain tribal customs it is held that the value of a gift increases as it is circulated (Hyde 265). I believe this to be true. In the case of “Like a Rock”, the song only reached number 12 on the charts during its initial release as a record, but the beauty of the song and the feelings it evoked within me recurred as 1 heard it in the commercials. I was then inspired to seek out and purchase the “Greatest Hits” CD and thereby I was brought under the influence of the other 13 songs - but oddly enough, I had no similar compulsion to buy a Chevrolet truck. William Wordsworth, in his “Preface to Second Edition of Lyrical Ballads ” states: “For all good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of - 58 - powerful feelings..(Ghiselin 82). If this is true, it is doubtful that “Like a Rock” would have been the same if Chevrolet had contracted Mr. Seger to write a song about a powerful, manly truck - even if they gave him the title. Rarely does a truck produce the powerful feelings of a broken eleven-year relationship; and the poor poetry of most advertising bears this out. The feelings that go into the creation of a song determine to a large extent the feelings produced by the song upon the listeners. It is for this reason that more and more commercials use music of the 60’s and 70’s - the peak of creative Rock, when the artists were inspired by a rapidly changing and confusing society. To the pure artist out there struggling against “THE MAN” and striving to get your message to the masses, I would say: If your medium is music and your message is powerful enough, let the white collars pitch their wares from your heart-felt stanzas and choruses -and unless the product violates your morality, cash the check, feed your kids and pay the bills. One admonition to consider is: Write not as the Market leads you, but write as the Muse moves you. The ability to create a song that exposes the ‘powerful feelings’ of an artist and initiates the same feelings in a listener is a gift that carries with it a certain level of responsibility. The issue of ownership is hereby resolved: the artist is the vessel, the carrier, the sponge of the muse that absorbs the memories and emotions that surround each of us and when the song is heard, the vessel is emptied, the sponge is squeezed and the message reaches the listener. If you are able to accept the fact that the artist can claim as much ownership of the air within his lungs as that of the song within his heart, and that no matter what images are attached to your music, the careful listener will see and feel your message. You will be able to sing with a clear conscience the last stanzas of “Like a Rock”: And I held firmly To what I felt was right Like a rock And I stood arrow straight Unencumbered by the weight Of all these hustlers and their schemes I stood proud, I stood tall High above it all I still believed in my dreams Bob Seger, 1985 Works Cited Unavailable for publication due to a computer glitch. Contact the author is you have questions. - 59 - E_ssay — ~\~W\rA f*rize MAXIMUM ZOMBIE, MINIMUM CRIME, OR WHO DO V OODOO? YOU DO V OODOO! Gunnar B. Podolec Many people wonder how Voodooists make a zombie. How do those voodoo priests reanimate the dead to follow the orders of their deranged masters? In the movies, there is always the sacrifice of some live animal, a bunch of ground bones, and other nasty things. Beyond that, dead people tend to smell and decay, so the priests always have to go out and get themselves new corpses. The truth is most zombie makers of today don’t want to spend the time or the mess to make their army of demonic servants. I personally have an easier, cleaner way of making faithful servants out of live people, so there is no need to keep upgrading. First the new-age zombie maker must get some of the ingredients. This will most likely require a trip to a store. The first item will be a hollow rubber chicken. It is very important that it is hollow. Next on the list of items to obtain, an old looking pot or caldron, a small box of angel hair noodles, a pack of four different colors of food coloring, some paper towels, rock salt, sugar, and five glow sticks. If so desired, a twelve-inch copper pipe could be purchased for added effect, but is not required. Everything else the spell caster should be able to find around their house, such as a pillowcase and the number of an oblivious friend. Start to prepare this spell by filling a pot with water and bringing the water to a boil. There is no need to use the pot that was just bought, but it could be used. Next, add about six drops each of the colors of food coloring. Then add the noodles. The spell caster will need to over-cook the noodles a little, so let them boil about twenty-five minutes. Empty all the water out of the pot after all of the noodle are rather soggy. Dump the noodles into a bowl and stick them in the refrigerator. At this time, the new-age Voodooist must prepare the salt and sugar. Take an old sock and fill it about half way full of the rock salt. Hold the open end of the sock closed and smash the rock salt into small pieces about the size of peas. Then, add about a cup and a half of sugar into the sock. Make sure that the salt and sugar are mixed together well in the sock. At this time it would also be a good idea to ready the rubber chicken. Stuff one of the unlit glow sticks down the throat of the chicken, so it’s in the stomach. Take a paper towel and wad it up and jam it in to the throat of the chicken. The paper towel should be stuck in the throat tightly, so that it won’t fall in to the stomach or back out of the chicken’s mouth. At present, -60- stick the chicken in a pillowcase. For the final steps of the prep work, the Zombie Master will need to wait till it’s almost dark out and make a fire pit outside. Dig a shallow hole in the ground about a yard in diameter and about six inches deep. Inside the hole place the old-looking pot that was intended for this spell, so that it is pushed against the sidewall of the hole. Then, take some large rocks about six inches in diameter and place them around the pot, so that it’s held in well. Fill the pot with water and some plants, like grass that can easily be ripped in to small pieces. Tie the remaining glow sticks to small stones. Snap them so that they light and drop them into the water in the pot. For added spookiness, pick a color of food coloring and drop enough in to turn the water a dark color. In the rest of the hole, the Voodooist can start the fire. If the spell-caster bought the copper pipe, the spell-caster will place it into the fire area so that the logs hide it. This will cause the fire to bum an eerie green. About two yards from the fire pit place a large log, so that it’s standing on end. It will make a nice little table or altar for a cutting area and will obscure the view of the spell caster’s items behind it. Now that the fire is going, it’s dark out, and everything else is ready, it’s time for the Zombie Master to get the last and most important ingredient: a superstitious and naive friend, preferably one with low selfesteem and a phobia of the supernatural. Invite them over. While waiting for the friend’s arrival, take the sock, pillowcase with chicken, a large sharp knife, a large spoon, and the bowl of cooled, cooked noodles out to the fire pit. Hide the stuff behind the log that will serve as the altar. When the soon to be zombie, or friend, arrives, take the friend to the fire pit and seat him so that he is on the opposite side of the fire pit from where the altar is. Now, the victim will probably start to question what the hell is going on. Tell him or her to relax and just enjoy the show. Stand on the side of the fire pit that the altar is on. Get the sock and walk closer to the fire. Reach in to the sock and grab a hand full of salt and sugar. With arms pointed to the sky, say something spooky, like “I call upon the dark mother to give me power”. Throw the hand full of salt and sugar in to the fire. The salt will make popping noises and the sugar will burst in to flames. At this point the Zombie Master should start jumping around like a mad man and chanting a bunch of syllables that end in “ah” or “o”. An example would be “Nott-ah mutt-ah nickt-o”. Take the noodles out of the bowl and carry it with both hands and say, “I give to thee the brains of a cow” and dump it into the pot. The Voodooist should now run behind the altar and grab the pillowcase. Act as if the rubber chicken is putting up a fight in the pillowcase. The Voodooist should then grab the pillowcase, so that the chicken’s body that contains the glow stick is between his hands and snap the glow stick. This will give the impression that the Zombie Master has killed the animal in that bag. Grab the lifeless chicken out of the pillowcase and grab the knife. Place - 61 - the chicken on the log, so that the neck is stretched out and will be easy to cut. Now hold the knife in the air, chanting “take this sacrifice dark mother”, or something to that effect. Then carefully bring the knife down hard into the rubber chicken’s neck below the paper towel. Warning: always be extremely careful when working with knives. The head doesn’t need to be severed with the first chop of the knife, it’s just to add terrifying violence to the act. At the present, cut the head off the chicken where the knife came down on it by sawing at it. The soon-to-be faithful servant will probably be paralyzed with fear at this point. Pick up the chicken’s body, so that the zombie can see the creepy glow emanating from within the body. In the other hand, take the spoon. Drop the chicken’s body into the pot that is in the fire pit and stir it in with the spoon. At this moment, the Zombie Master must give the zombie command. Hold the spoon in to the air and say something like “from this day forward (the friend’s name) will be my zombie slave.” Then, shake the spoon at the newly made zombie. At this point, the zombie will run away at mach speed. Later the zombie will call to yell at the Voodooist and ask what the hell was going on. The Zombie Master should respond to the effect that if the zombie doesn’t obey the orders of the Zombie Master, the zombie will be haunted by nightmares. From that day forward, the zombie won’t risk the chance that the spell worked and the Zombie Master will have a moderate amount of control. Zombie Master gets a slave and no dead goat to clean up. - 62 - CUFF Veronica Mae Gallton Upon a park bench made of stone I sat with weather growing cold. A little girl with eyes of blue walked by. A look of confusion on her face. As she walked on by she turned to stare. I could feel the tension in the air. Her look of confusion turned to fright As she looked behind me with eyes dark as night. I turned around, stopped to stare, For behind me was a man. And somehow it came to be That through this man I could see The park bench made of stone. It was then the little girl spoke: “Meet my father who hated me so That when winter came with it’s snow, Off a cliff he pushed me To the streaming river below.” FLYING HOME aleathia leblond i spread my wings, large and mighty, and i am swept up by ocean air, and sea-salted sand towards you, towards my birth home, towards the light in your eyes. i am flying home with heart wide and wings spread. - 63 - LONELINESS Danielle Erway Loneliness is a caged bird Yearning to be free Waiting for the key STAINED GLASS Joel Davis i cannot hear the children’s voices as i listen through a closed window despite the broken stained glass. THE FIRST TIME THE BABY HICCUPPED Kimberly S. Fenton The first time the baby hiccupped she swam in her own pool she thought she was laughing it made her smile her whole body shimmied then her feet danced hei hands flailed her momma flew her hand to her belly. - 64 - 23 WEEKS Veronica Mae Gallton It’s hard for me to find the words To explain to you what I’m feeling. I find myself wondering Do I even know what I’m going through? I want to cry for no reason at all And I fight back the tears because I can’t explain them. You are part of the reason, though. The biggest part it seems. It’s kind of like we’ve become too comfortable with each other. It seems like that intense passion is gone. I blame my swelling stomach And unattractive body for that. But there’s nothing I can do to change that. Nothing I can do to make myself feel better about it. So what do I do now? Do I let myself believe it’s mood swings and try to laugh it off? Do I let the tears come and hope that relieves these feelings? Well, I tried that. I told myself it was mood swings. I told myself I was stupid to let my emotions take control of me. That didn’t work. I just felt worse. I let myself cry. I cried myself to sleep in the middle of the night With you lying beside me. You didn’t notice. You slept right through my sobs. That made me feel so much worse. It used to be that you couldn’t keep your hands off of me. Now you barely kiss me goodbye. I can’t say that all my feelings come from you. That’s not fair. My clothing isn’t the same, sexy outfits I used to wear. My stomach gets in my way sometimes. People don’t look at me the same way anymore. Including you. No one seems to understand. When I show my feelings people laugh at me. They tell me it’s all in my head. So here I am now Feeling like this And I don’t know what to do. I can’t go on feeling this way. I do know that much. I can’t keep saying everything’s fine. It’s not. -65 - EATING CHKRRYICE CREAM Joel Davis I turned eight years old in nineteen seventy-four. My family went to church every Sunday. We had a moderate belief in God, although we went each week and prayed to him often. We never missed one Sunday until each of us kids went away to college. We went to church the morning of my birthday. On that morning, like all other Sundays, we took our place in our regular pew: the third one from the front on the left. Everyone looked at us when we walked in and watched us throughout the service. They all came to hug us when church was over. My little brother died that same summer I turned eight. He died two days before my birthday. He drowned. Tommy’s death didn’t change my family like you always hear about. My parents didn’t divorce, or beat us, or cheat on each other. They actually seemed to love us more, and showed it, after Tommy drowned. Mom felt that we needed to be better Christians. She had always felt that way. She didn’t think that God punished us, but she saw Tommy’s drowning as a stark reminder of life, death, and God himself. We started to change immediately. We still had my birthday party on that Sunday, just as was planned, at two o'clock. We still had a clown with a big red nose. And we still had cherry ice cream. Tommy loved cherry ice cream. I did too. My cake was round and painted like a baseball. I loved baseball and I played for the Cubs. I was the second baseman. I was good. Artie Hilguson, my best friend, played shortstop. He was better. We turned a great double play. Four-six-three, Tommy would always yell to us from the dugout, after the ball smacked into Janie Carrollson’s first baseman's mitt—two outs. Tommy had to explain to Mom about the way baseball is scored, and that a four-six-three was the official way to record our double play combination. I would always look over at him after he yelled to us. Tommy loved Artie. Artie was at my birthday party. He committed suicide when he was nineteen, after he accidentally killed a boy. Artie was intoxicated and ran off the road near a bus stop. He hit the boy with the ’74 candy-apple red Lemans that we had been working on together since the tenth grade. 1 was devastated when Artie died. I leaned heavily on God and my family. My two best friends were gone forever. I gave the eulogy at Artie’s funeral. I gave the eulogy at Tommy’s funeral too—two days after my birthday. 1 guess I helped give the eulogy. My Uncle Terrence came into town to do it. He was a minister in an equally small town, three states away. I spoke more that day than Uncle T did. It seems now like a big responsibility for an eight year-old, but I was Tommy’s best friend and he was mine. Mom thought that - 66 - it was best for me to do it—therapy for all of us, maybe. I stood at the front of the church where Pastor Mike always stood. It felt weird to be in his spot. I felt like I should be telling the parishioners about David and Goliath, or about Jacob’s daughter, Dinah, or about how God forgives our sins. Maybe I should have professed to them the sacrifice that Jesus made for us, so that our lives could be forever different. But instead I had to tell people about my dead little brother. I told them all how Tommy was the Cubs’ ball boy and how he sat on the very end of our bench and always brought the umpire a clean ball when he needed it. I can still see Tommy rubbing a baseball with that old red t-shirt. I told them all how Tommy would yell four-six-three when Artie and I worked our magic at second base. Artie cried out loud when I said that. I told them all how Tommy would have enjoyed the cherry ice cream and how I ate an extra bowl for him. Tommy liked to bite off pieces of crayon when Mom and Dad weren’t looking, I confessed to all of them. 1 told them that I learned how difficult it is to brush red crayon out of your teeth. I explained in detail how I dressed Tommy like a mummy, wrapped in two rolls of Charmin’s best paper, and pretended to remove his heart. It seemed like over the past four days that Tommy had removed my heart. I finished by holding up a picture Tommy had drawn about two hours before Dad found him dead in the pond. Everyone cried but me that day. My tears had left me just like Tommy had. The picture was of a fish eating cherry ice cream * * * I remember watching Mr. Carrollson’s hair on the very bottom half of the back of his head, change from black, just like Tommy’s, to gray, just like Grandpa's. Mr. Carrollson sat directly in front of me in church. He was the barber in town, and it always seemed odd to me that he was almost bald. What would people think? Nobody cared about his hair, other than the eight year-olds, I learned later. The bright red sunlight from the highest stained glass window always landed on Mr. Carrollson’s head. My brothers and my sister and I always giggled at that. We saw it almost once a week, but it was still fimny each time we saw it. We called him “Red Head Ted,” but only to ourselves, of course. We weren’t allowed to call him Ted. We had to call him Mr. Carrollson. But, sitting in that pew, we kids whispered things that were private—that only we knew about. That pew became a safe-place for all of us. It was the one place that we always were together as a family, without strife or difficulty. Although we shared a lot at home, that pew seemed to be the place that we bonded and grew. The emotions of my family, after Tommy’s death, seemed to develop in that pew. The pews were the same color that we painted Kevin’s room. Kevin is my older brother. He turned fourteen in nineteen seventy-four. We painted Kevin’s room with the leftover paint from the church pews. Tommy’s and my fingerprints are still on the last pew in the comer near the old wall radiator. I -67- made sure that Dad didn’t cover them when we repainted in nineteen eighty-three and again in nineteen ninety-six. Mom and Dad cried when they saw the fingerprints. They had never seen them before. I run my fingers over those prints every Sunday. They have become my panacea. They seem to remedy any ills that the week has brought with it. I sure wish Tommy were still on the other end of those fingerprints, touching me back. God, how I wish he would, if only one time. God, how I wish for that. Janie Carrollson sat to the left of her Dad. He cut her hair too—and it looked like it. But I didn’t care. She was the best first baseman that I would ever play with. And she loved mud. All of that was reason enough to forget the boy haircut that her Dad gave her. Tommy called her “J.C.” He liked that because he was the only one that she let call her that. Janie was the first of my friends that I saw after Tommy died. She and her family lived about one mile away from us. They came to see us the afternoon that Tommy drowned. Their land bordered our land where our pond was. The pond wasn’t far from our house, but the land was expansive. It seemed to go on forever. About two years before Tommy drowned, everyone in my family and Janie’s family helped put the big wooden fence between the house and the land where the pond was. I know the gate leading to the pond was four feet four inches wide because I had measured it with Dad when we built it. And I had closed that gate many times. Janie hugged me forever that day. I’ll never remember the agony on my parents’ faces when they told us that Tommy was dead. I knew what “dead” meant because my Aunt Rhoda had died from Cancer two years before. I knew that it meant Tommy was never coming back. I knew that people would be sad. I knew no one would ever yell four-six-three again. I knew the umpire would have to get his own baseball. I knew my best friend was gone. And I knew my life would change forever. The day after Tommy died, Pastor Mike was at our house. Mom and Dad were downstairs in the living room with him, so I knew it was time to go into Tommy’s room. Tommy and I had shared a room until about two months before he died. Dad had remodeled the old playroom so I could have my own room. We moved the playroom to the basement. Tommy’s room was our old room together. And I was about to go into it for the first time since he died. I was eight years old. I turned the knob to the left and pushed the door. It swung open to the left and exposed my little brother’s life. I had been in that room thousands of times, but this time was so different. I stepped from the marbled gray carpet onto the dusty hardwood floor. The silence hurt my ears. I was supposed to hear laughing when I opened that door. I was supposed to hear a ball bouncing on the floor. I was supposed to hear my name with some silly suffix attached to it. All I heard was the sound of my dead little brother. All I heard was silence. - 68 - I walked over to his desk. The picture of a fish eating cherry ice cream, which he had drawn the day before, lay across other drawings and papers. I looked up at his shelf. It was littered with almost every memory that I had ever had of Tommy. I saw the coffee can first. I knew what was in that. I saw the Beach Boys record that Kevin had gotten him for his birthday. I saw the necklace that he made in Indian Guides with Dad and me. I saw his Cubs hat. I saw the volcano that we had made for the science fair. I saw so many things on that shelf. But on the very end, closest to the closet, I saw something that made me cry. I pulled the chair over to the end of the shelf. I stepped up on the chair and stared down at a present. It was Tommy’s birthday gift to me. It was wrapped in Sunday comics. We called them the funnies. Tommy and I would laugh forever each Sunday as we lay on the floor and read the funnies. A blue envelope was taped to the top of the paper. It had my name in large letters stretching from the right side to the left side. It had four pieces of tape holding it down. I guess he didn’t want it to suddenly be gone without notice, and never come back. The writing was in red crayon. It was blurred through my teary-eyed vision. It was probably written with a red crayon that had a bite out of it. I imagined that smile of his—with one missing tooth in front—and a generous portion of red crayon spread throughout his remaining teeth. I reached out with both hands and carefully pulled the gift toward me. It was not very heavy, even to an eight-year old. I hugged the gift that was drowning in tape, as I stepped down from the old brown chair. I landed on Tommy’s sneakers—the red and blue pair that he wore only to school. I still have those sneakers. They are in my den on the shelf, next to the old coffee can. I lay the gift on the bed. The tears streamed down my face. I knew my best friend was gone. And I knew my life would change forever. I pulled the blue card from its position atop the funnies. The tape would have kept it there forever, had I let it. I slowly removed the card from the envelope. It was a card that Tommy had made. It wasn’t from a store. Tommy had created that card. I ran my fingers over the crayon word on the front— HAPPY. I was far from happy. I couldn't make it to happy even if I had a week to travel. Happy wasn’t in the present for me. I sat there on the blue bedspread with tears running—as a family—down my face. I continued to move my little fingers over the word happy. Tommy called my name. My head spun around to the right, toward the door. Where was Tommy? I had to see him. Was he okay? Did he come back to see me? Was Dad wrong? Was Tommy alive again? Would his clothes be wet? These questions pierced my head as I sat there drowning in my own tears. My sister Peggy stood in the doorway to Tommy’s room. She called my name again. My sister Peggy turned eleven in nineteen seventy-four. She asked if I was okay. I told her that I was. She wouldn’t come in the room. -69 - We didn’t discuss it, but I knew she wouldn’t come in. She was devastated by Tommy’s death. We all were. But, Peggy was so upset. She hadn't slept at all the night before. She seemed different than I had ever seen her. She told us at breakfast that she imagined Tommy had turned into a butterfly and flown into her window. He landed on her arm, smiled at her, and then flew out the window. I remember thinking that just maybe it really happened to Peggy. Peggy walked down the hall, away from Tommy’s room, as she cried. I opened the card and read what Tommy had written. The left side of the card said BIRTHDAY—a continuance from the front. The right side had words that I remember to this day. I have the card in an old wooden box in my closet. I look at it at least once a week. Even without looking, I can remember the words that that sweet little boy—whom I cherished more than my own life—wrote on that card. I cried more that day, in Tommy’s room, than I have ever cried in my entire life. I missed Tommy so much. I was eight years old. I miss Tommy so much. * * * The bright red numbers on the clock showed me that it was two twenty-two in the morning. I sat up in my bed at college. I was twenty years old in nineteen eighty-six. I was drowning in sweat. Some thought had just shattered my dreams. I was near my pond. I was looking at the gate. The four foot four inch gate was open. Life and breath was escaping through the open gate. It was then that I realized that I left the gate open on the day that Tommy had drowned. I left college for a full year after that night. I visited a therapist once a week for that entire time. I leaned heavily on God and my family. The card that Tommy had made for me on my eighth birthday—and that old coffee can—also helped get me through. I returned to college knowing that I had made a mistake and that Tommy forgave me. Mom, Dad, Peggy, and Kevin had forgiven me too. And after many years, I had forgiven myself. I never ate cherry ice cream again. * * * My first child was bom in nineteen ninety-one—seventeen years after Tommy died. Hope is a beautiful girl who has brought me nothing but joy. Three years later, my wife Abby gave birth to our only son. Abby turned six in nineteen seventy-four. Our son was a surprise. We thought he was going to be another girl. I cried when I realized that I was going to be the father of a boy. It seemed like I deserved that. I could hear Tommy yelling/our-sri-three as the ball pounded into Janie’s mitt. My son’s birth was going great. The doctor was pleased with all of the tests. He and the team of nurses were ready for the worst. And they were ready for it to go perfectly smooth. I was too. Abby was in labor for only two hours on that dark, pre-dawn morning. When the doctor announced - 70 - that my son was about to arrive, I thought I had prepared for ev erything. I was wrong. And I was about to experience those familiar emotions from nineteen seventy-four. As my son entered my world, he forced me to re-live a part of my past. My son was about to imitate Tommy in a way I had never dreamed of. My son was bom at 5:03 a.m.—at four sixty-three a.m. Four-six-three. My son Tommy was bom happy and healthy in nineteen ninety-four. There was no question as to what his name would be. I could hear my brother Tommy yelling four-six-three. Abby smiled at me. I thank God everyday for all that I have. I still attend the same church. Kevin and Peggy have families. They each live pretty close to my house. They still attend the same church too. We all sit together in the same pew that we have sat in since before nineteen seventy-four. Mom and Dad sit there with us, of course. Janie Carrollson and her family sit in front of us. She hugs me forever each week. I run my fingers over Tommy’s and my fingerprints every Sunday. Each week we talk about Tommy while we sit in that pew. We talk about him many other times too, when others are around. But each Sunday in that pew we talk about those things that only we know about. We giggle and whisper like we did almost thirty years ago. We talk about life, love, and sacrifice. But most of all we talk about a little boy that touched our lives and made our family better. We talk about how Tommy’s death made us realize what was really important. He didn’t know that he did, and we didn’t either for a very long time. Tommy was the gate to our wonderful lives. And I made sure I left that gate open too. 1 take Tommy’s birthday card to church with me every Sunday morning— and then I put it back in the old wooden box every Sunday afternoon when I get home. After I put the card back, I remove the baseball and the red t-shirt from the coffee can and hold them as I remember taking the throw from Artie and heaving the ball over to Janie—just so I could hear Tommy yell from the dugout. And then I would look over at him. As I hold that ball each week, I remember the brand new, official leather baseball that Tommy gave me for my eighth birthday. It was wrapped in a shoebox with extra funnies inside for padding so the ball wouldn’t roll around. I lost that ball in the pond and never saw it again. And when we bow our heads for the second prayer of each Sunday, I reach into my shirt pocket and remove Tommy’s card. The first prayer is always my time with God. I thank him for his sacrifice of his son. I thank him for the second chance that he gave my family. I thank him for those wonderful years with Tommy and the wonderful years after Tommy. As we are opening our hearts to God, I stare down with tear-filled eyes and read those words: Mikey, thank you for been my best frend, thank you for letting me be on the cubs teem, thank you for the neet bedroom. I love you so much. Love. Yor bestfrend-Tommy. My fingers caress the crayon words as they dance across my heart. Tommy turned six in nineteen seventy-four. And he liked cherry ice cream. - 71 - THETOUCH Vicki Jones A man loaned me a book to heal me he has a passion to save whether it be me or the world I cannot ascertain. One page holds his finger’s impression on the comer; a double-edged aura weeping from his soul. I touch it ever so gently closing my eyes wishing it would touch me back -72 - IN OURANGELHOOD Chris Pike Characters: Joshua: a boy between 9 and 10 years old. He is very quiet but in a gentle way as opposed to a sad way. perhaps he is even a bit introspective. He is suffering from Lukimia and is not entirely sure how to deal with it. Is only aware of the concept that he is very sick, and, much like child, doesn’t fully understand the concept of death. Kembra: a girl of about the same age as Joshua. She has a very soothing presence and speaks to Joshua with calculated and gentle words. She is always dressed in a very simple, knee-length white dress. Scene 1: Joshua is sitting, knees folded under him, on the sidewalk in front of his parents house and lost in the drawing of pictures on the sidewalk with colored chalk. He is humming a catchy, child’s melody as he becomes absorbed in what he is doing. Kembra walks down the street from behind him and looks with interest at what he is doing. Kembra: (peeking over Joshua’s shoulder) What’s that? Joshua: (turns quickly, startled) Wha...? (Joshua looks wide eyed at Kembra for a second) Kembra: (sits next to Joshua and leans over the drawing, studying it more closely. She points a short, thin finger at part of it.) Who’s that? Joshua: (looking at the ground) Me. Kembra: (matter of factly) It doesn’t look like you. Joshua: (suddenly defensive) What would you know about it? Kembra: Well, I can see that your eyes aren’t purple, they’re green. Joshua: (apologetically, averting his eyes) I didn’t have any green chalk... Without skipping a beat, Kembra schooches closer to Joshua and flops the stuffed-animal Bunny she has on his lap. She moves it back and forth, making it do a floppy dance as she looks directly into his face Kembra: This is Henry. Wanna hold him? Joshua looks at her questioningly, not knowing how to take her extrovertedness. Kembra: (smiling gently and sounding older and wiser than she is) You can talk to me. What’s your name? Joshua: (softly) Josh - 73 - Kembra: I’m Kembra. Wanna play? Josh: I’ve never seen you before. Did you just move here? Kembra: Kinda. C’mon, go for a walk with me. Joshua: (with a resigned tone) I’m too tired. Kembra: No you’re not. C’mon! Kembra grabs his and and tries to pull him to his feet. He resists. Josh: Don’t! I’m sick! Kembra: Sick? What kind of sick? Josh: (suddenly “shutting down”) Never mind. Kembra: (Sitting next to him again) It’s ok, I won’t pick on you. Josh: Where are you from? I mean - before you moved here? Kembra: You wouldn’t know where it was. Josh: Sure I would. I know lotsa places. Kembra: You don’t know all of them. Josh: (with a look of distaste on his face) You’re weird. Kembra: Why am I weird? Josh: Do you always just walk up to people you don’t know and start talking to them? Kembra: You seemed nice. Josh: How do you know? Kembra: I just do. Now do you wanna play with me or not? Josh just looks at the ground and doesn’t answer for a moment. Kembra: Do you want me to leave? Josh: (quietly) I guess not. Josh has a small coughing fit, wipes his lips and then inspects his hand. Again, he avoids eye contact with Kembra. Kembra: So what should we do? Josh: I dunno. You’re the one who wanted to play. Kembra: Let’s go for a walk. I don’t know where any fun stuff is, here. Josh: There isn’t anything fun here. Just the playground behind the school. Kembra: Showme. They both stand up and begin walking slowly. Kembra cradles the stuffed bunny between her arm and ribs. Josh studies her curiously as they talk. Kembra: So why won’t you tell me what’s wrong with you? Josh: Who said there was anything wrong with me? Kembra: You did. You said you were sick. Josh: Oh. I have Leukemia. Kembra: Does it hurt? Josh: Sometimes Kembra: It doesn’t have to Once again, Kembra smiles her soothing smile that simultaneously intrigues and confuses Josh. Josh: Why doesn’t it? - 74 - Kembra: Never mind. Josh: You’re getting weirder. Kembra: Do you think you’ll get better soon? Josh: (Matter of factly) My mom says it will never go away. Kembra: What does it do? Josh: I can’t remember. It just makes me hurt. Kembra: I’m supposed to tell you that it will be ok. Josh: Who told you to say that? Kembra: Nobody. Josh: I bet my mom did, my mom is always saying that. Kembra: I don‘t know your mom. From a distance, we can hear Josh’s mom shouting for him to come home for dinner. Josh: I gotta go now. She’ll get worried if I don’t show up. She gets scared a lot. Kembra: Do you wanna play tomorrow? Without answering, Josh runs off in the direction of home, and the stage lights dim. Scene 2: As the stage lights rise once again, we see the interior of the house where Josh lives. He is lying on the couch under a blanket and the television is on He seems to be staring through it as opposed to at it. He has no hair and there are a few lesions on his scalp. He appears to have lost a great deal of weight and has a general look of exhaustion about him. Kembra walks into the room slowly and calmly, looks around, sees Josh on the couch and walks over and sits on the edge of the couch next to him Kembra: I haven’t seen you in a week. I thought you were dead. Josh: (in a weak voice) I got sicker. Kembra: You did? Josh: I was in the hospital. My mom said she thought I was gonna die. She tells me that over and over and then she cries. Kembra: Do you think you’re gonna die? Josh: I feel like it. Why did you come here? I forgot about you. Kembra: I didn’t forget about you. I thought you had moved. So I came over to see. What happened to your head? Josh: (playing dumb) My hair fell out. Did my mom let you in? Kembra: No. I don't think she is here. Why did your hair fall out? Josh: (with a performing, impatient sigh) Because Chemotherapy makes your hair fall out. Why do you care? (Looks around, wincing as if it hurts) My mom wouldn’t have left me alone. Is my dad here? Kembra: I don’t think so. - 75 - Josh: Who let you in? Kembra: No one. I walked in. Josh: Do you always walk into strangers houses without asking? Kembra: You’re not a stranger. We met last week. I thought you might want to talk. Josh: (getting frustruated) What would I wanna talk about with you? Kembra: I dunno. Don’t you at least want some company? Josh: What makes you think I do? Kembra: (without losing the gentle look on her face or the patience in her voice) Because I’d want someone to talk to If all of MY hair fell out. Josh says nothing and stares past her. Kembra studies him and looks down and sees his Cathater bag hanging below the bedsheet. Kembra: (pointing at the bag) What’s that? Josh: (angry and embarrassed) Don’t look at that! Josh quickly adjusts his blanket over the bag. Kembra: Sorry. What is it? Josh is silent, for a momet. Josh: I need it for when I pee. Kembra: Why? Can’t you walk to the bathroom? Josh: (almost whispering) No. I feel too tired. Kembra looks straight into Josh’s eyes and smiles a smile of pure innocence. She rests her tiny hand on top of his and gently leans forward and rests her cheek on his forhead. Kembra: Don’t worry. You can’t feel tired forever. Josh begins to cry. Quietly and softly at first, and then with increasing intensity. He is in pain and cluthches at his stomach. After a moment, his mother runs into the room with a dishtowel over her shoulder and then rushes to Josh’s side to comfort him. She takes no notice of Kembra, but simply embraces her son and holds him close as the lights fade down. Scene 3: The lights come up and we see a hospital room. Josh is lying on the bed with wires, heart monitors and IV’s attached to his body. His parents are sleeping in two chairs by the window. Kembra is on her knees at the side of his bed and she has both of his hands in hers. Her head is supported squarely on her chin and she stares intently into his face. The scene remains like this for a few moments, then Josh slowly begins to open his eyes. Josh: (with a raspy, dehydrated voice) Mom? After saying this, Josh coughs and a bit of blood comes out onto his lip. Kembra pulls the bedsheet up and wipes it away. Josh: What are you doing here? Kembra: I never left. - 76 - Josh: Then why are you always here? Kembra: I’ve already told you why: I’m supposed to tell you that it will be O.K. Josh: (hoarsely) My mom tells me that already. Kembra: Do you believe her? Josh: (shakes his head back and forth very slowly.. .tears well in his eyes, his bottom lip trembles and his voice cracks) No. Kembra: Soon, you will have no reason not to believe me. I would never lie to you, Josh. I love you too much. Josh: (speaking through sobs, now) My mom would never lie... Kembra: That’s right. And she didn’t lie. She just doesn’t know how right she was when she told you it would be O.K. Josh: . ..wha...? Kembra: I’m going to show you Josh. I’m going to show you a place where everything is always O.K., where you’ll never be afraid. In fact, when you see it, it you’ll suddenly remember and it will be like you never left. Josh’s eyes suddenly widen with fear and he looks at his mother, sleeping in the comer. Kembra: Her? Don't worry, Josh. She’ll be there as soon as you get there. Stand up, it’s time for you to see. Josh: (petrified with fear) I can’t. It hurts to move. Kembra: Nothing hurts anymore, Josh. Stand up. Kembra pulls on Josh’s hand and he stands, looking surprised that it doesn’t hurt. A white light off to the side begins to brighten slowly, until the whole stage is engulfed in a blinding white light. We are still able to make out the vague forms of Josh’s sleeping parents in the comer. Kembra: Follow me, Josh. As Kembra turns away, and walks slowly into the source of lighi we are able to see two small, feathered wings. Josh follows her slowly, his eyes widening with every step. Slowly, the sound of children’s laughter rises as they dissapear into the light. When we can no longer see Josh and Kembra, the house lights go black and we hear Josh’s heart monitor change from a stacatto beep to a monotone drone. Curtain - 77 - AUNTHUSTY Vicki Jones Allen Ginsberg: ",Strange now to think of you... ” Still in seclusion, prostrate, breath less, unreclined and unreposed not next to the bay window on Goodhue Street, my haven, while I sit here on Glendenning breathing the finches at the log cabin birdhouse not built by Harley. Mine just sits on the porch, not attached to a fifteen foot pole pushing a Goldfinch Hotel closer to their Creator, so you could see their comings and goings. A colorful hierarchy, through your looking glass oversaw a meticulous mown lawn, the mock orange and pumpkin-colored tiger lilies scarved in wide bladed grasses. Inside your neat world, Time, Look and Life piled under gray metal crutches that gave you stature and structure, and like Emily, an ascetic camaraderie even though you graced us unselfishly with your tatted heirlooms of ornately wrapped memories. - 78 - ANCIENT SOIL Joel Davis Ancient soil went trapped in grandma’s hands— she soothed that ache of earth as she fed her garden, while it shook her hand and welcomed her. I stood away, near that smooth stone path, and whispered in my cracking voice, grandma, do you feel better? She continued to console her brown dirt trying to remember why she was in pain. -79- 1936 John Walsh Oblivious to all goings on: A magnificently painted cloud, alone, like a dream; Held by a fake blue forgetfulness. A solitary bird, lost, struggles toward an endless nothing; Flutters sickly through an ossuary of sky. A tree, secluded, last portrait of dissipated prosperity; Fallen shadow of distant memories. A home, maladroit, foundation broken foretold anguish; Crumbles abandoned without caretaker to care. A wagon, seasoned, bares greater encumbrance than Atlas; Loaded with meaninglessness and delusive egotism. A cultivated plot, bronzed, overwhelmed by impoverishment; Withers beyond resemblance to caliginous flying thieves. A chicken, astray, stiff and bloated emits a foul stench; Accompanied by thousands of tireless workers. The ground, vast, barren provider and supporter of life; Offers six feet and a plaque to those deserving. Observant to all goings on: A faithful wife, plus one, deceitfully cheerful; Shielded tears from arid hands hide a truth. An innocent child, remiss, plays unaware and unashamed; Thinks nothing of burning hunger or blistering heat. A best friend, emaciated, probes relief under wagon’s shade; Exhausted from this life prepares for another. This life, stolen, must be omitted to start anew; Needs be remembered as a bad dream had by all. - 80- OF YELLOW LIGHT Joel Davis It’s dark in here-I want to get out-I smell the fear, The rapid deterioration Of my dripping soul. There must be light-There must be comfort-There must be. I hold that hope in My tightly clenched hand. And at exactly one minute Beyond forever, I can see the crackles of yellow light. Peace to me, now? YELLOW SMILE Karen L. Mattison radiate bright bring a smile to my saddened face gentle scent, like the wing, permeates through me I feel the slick, sultry, inviting petals I feel the coarse, stable support system and I am jealous Its happiness evaporates into my mind and I smile back at it, wondering why it is so happy, wondering what makes it smile so I long to keep its fragile being in my hands so that I may be radiant in times of darkness when I’m feeling blue your yellow hue will bring my smile back I will plant your smile where I may pass you by and have you as long as I can engulfed by a sea of dandelions. - 81 - - 82 - ATTRIBUTES OF ME Kimberly S. Fenton I still like my body, the familiarity of it all. I have great hands-seasoned to expressive perfection my eyes, copper hued sunk in orbs of jade almonds the dimple in my chin is a keeper, gift from the first father i laugh at myself, i have to precious recollected stories curve my cheeks into crescents, seeking out memories brings me solace good genes, grandmama julia proclaimed scents of patchouli and bergamot pondering gray matter-hesitation does not consume me I am good RUBBERGUMBY Sharon J. Weaver They pinch me and pull me My limits are stretched My face and limbs Don’t think they’ll ever find Bend me out of proportion. Beyond what should be my portion They are all askew Something I can’t do I suppose I shouldn’t complain. I know it could be worse Had I been made one of them, Now that would be a curse! - 83 - CANOEBLUES Josh Gagnon How could they ditch gym class; Ditch me too? That’s so un-cool of them, on the first day of canoeing, my two best friends ditch me to go home and have lunch. Here I am, sitting in the back of the bus, staring at people’s wonderful drawings and phrases written on the seat ahead of me. My favorites are when people warm up their lighters and stick the ends into the seat so it leaves an imprint, very creative and popular since I count about 16 of them in this one. The bus comes to a screeching halt, good to know the brakes work, sort of. “Okay everyone get a life jacket and head down to the canoes!” That’s Mr. Hasbean he’s an old football player. He played in the Canadian league, might have had a chance at the NFL, but he blew out his knee. The shine of his balding head blinds me as I pass by him getting off the bus. He can bench 375 pounds, so no one makes fun of the guy. “Mr. Hasbean, neither of my friends are here today who should I partner up with?” He squints at me and looks around for a lifeline. It’s not like I asked him what’s the axial tilt of Mars... “Ah, well.. .we’ll see who else doesn’t have a partner when we get down to the canoes, okay?” I nod and sidestep my way down this grassy semi-steep man-made dam. talking to some of my other friends, seeing if they need another person for their canoe, nope. The lake from here looks kind of pretty, shimmering against the sun’s rays, hardly moving at all except for the small creek that filters in fresh water and fish once in awhile. I noticed just about everybody is in groups, except for two girls. The closer I get though, the worse it looks, the lake and the girls. Our teacher hustles down the hill, must be having a football flashback. “Okay everybody in groups?” I raise my hand. “I-“ “Good!” Mr. Hasbean claps his hands together. “Everybody hop into a canoe and lineup facing that way! Billy-Bob, you’re with them!” Why did my parents name me Billy-Bob? Billy-Bob Nathaniel Boontown, parents should be arrested for giving their kids names like this. Most of my friends call me Boon or Nate. “Hustle up son, you’re with them.” It’s like time slows as he points to the two girls. Devon and Alana, the - 84 - female version of Abbot and Costello except drugged out, and they aren’t funny, yet they are always laughing. I’d rather go alone than with these two giggling morons. Mr. Hasbean gives everybody time to get in and line up and gives us directions. I pile into the middle of the canoe and let these two ass clowns paddle first; the middle person gets to enjoy the scenery. “See that Cone floating on the far side of the lake?” Nobody answers. “This is a race, go around that cone, come back switch your positions, go around again, switch, around, switch once more. First team back here on the shore wins! GO!” They start giggling. “What do we doooo?” Abbot hollers from the front. Not exactly the first thing I want to hear from them. “I dunno just paddle!” Replies Costello. I watch as everybody takes off down the lake as we glide along with the current not making much progress. They continue to giggle and call out random paddles. “For-forward stroke! No wait rudder.” “Rudder?” “Just forward stroke!” “We’re going sideways.” They giggle. “We’re not doing very goooood.” Maybe they aren’t as stupid as I thought. “I’m confused.” They both say at the same time. Yea, yea they are. I’d talk with them, but would you talk to people you don’t like? I sure as hell wouldn’t. “WHATTHE HELLARE YOU TWO DOING?” Mr. Hasbean yells from shore. “Devon, forward stroke! Alana, you do the same, and rudder left or right to straighten out the boat! Goddamn...” As we go nowhere, I watch everyone else pass by us, switch, and pass us by once again. I figured aside from coming in last, this really isn’t that bad. That’s when I realized our canoe was leaking! My buttock becomes completely wet in a matter of seconds. I wish I could see my face at that exact moment. So here I am, going nowhere, ass wet, face warm with anger, listening to the never-ending laughter from the drug-etts. Looking over the edge of the canoe, I thought about jumping in. It really wasn’t that deep, but the mixture of this greenish yellow slime, mud, and pieces of trash didn’t seem too inviting. “Hey you guys! Switch positions, let Billy-Bob get some paddling in!” I was just about to experience hypothermia of my rear end, oh well, maybe another time. Switching positions is not pulling the canoe up to shore and switching, oh no! We switch places while out on the lake! Sound totally - 85 - stupid? Well it is. It’s kind of like playing leap-frog on a balancing beam. Too much weight to one side or the other and all the frogs fall out of the canoe. Amazingly we switch without having a problem. I’m in the back, useless #1 and #2 go to the front and middle. I begin to paddle and for a while we stay straight but soon enough we end up going in a circle. I might as well be in the canoe by myself; the girls are not helping at all. Nothing is more frustrating than trying so hard and not going anywhere with it. After about ten minutes of this, Mr. Hasbean does the smartest thing possible and calls us back to shore. People were on their final lap. We were playing ring around the rosie canoe style. Finally, we pull back to shore, I yank up the canoe, not looking at either girl, and make my way up the grassy hill. I hope nobody notices anything... “Why are you jeans wet dude?” asks a friend. “Canoe leaked.” I reply quietly. “Hey Boon you’re ass is wet.” Says my very observant friend. “Yes, thank you for bringing that to my attention Eric.” I reply quietly again. This whole thing really isn’t that bad. Yes I’m ticked off, yes I'm a little embarrassed, yes I’m cold and there is nasty water sliding down my leg into my shoe as I walk. What bothers me is I made the mistake of telling my parents that they could come and watch. It is a public park, I figured sure why not. What bothers me even more is they actually came, with a camera. Smile... I sure hope it’s still cool to have your mom say out-loud, “Hey Sweetie, your blue jeans are soaked!” - 86 - LOVEANDWAR Brad McKinney Characters: Ryan Thomas - 24 year old mechanic Amy ThomaS - 24 year old day care supervisor The couple has only been married eight months. They live in an apartment in the city. The play takes place in the Thomas’s living room and dining room, which are connected. The time period is the present. Along the back of the stage(center) is a large picture widow which the two rooms share. In front of the window, to the left sits a round table and two chairs. Behind that is a book case with a salt water aquarium sitting on top. To the right of the window is a large, overstuffed couch with a rectangular coffee table in front. The coffee table is covered with books, newspapers and car magazines strewn all over. To the right of the couch is a la-z-boy with an afghan tossed over the back. To the left of the couch is an end table that holds a lamp and telephone. Behind the couch is a large, potted plant. The play opens with Amy sitting siting at the table, which is set with steak dinner for two. Ryan is in the living room talking on the phone. Ryan: (slamming the phone onto the receiver) Bitch! Amy: Hey, that’s my mother you’re talking about. Ryan: Well, if the shoe fits... Amy: You better watch yourself mister. Ryan: (walks over to the table and takes his seat) I better watch myself? Don’t tell me you’re taking her side. Amy: (glaring at Ryan) She is my mother. Ryan: (glaring back) And I’m your husband. Amy: If you don’t take back that remark you may not be for much longer. (Grabs the bowl of mashed potatoes and plops a glob on her plate) Ryan: Alright, I take it back. I’m just so pissed. Why does she think she has the right to tell me what to do? (Picks up his knife and fork and begins to cut his steak) Amy: (lovingly) Honey, she is just trying to help. She knows this is a big situation and she wants to make sure everything turns out ok. Ryan: (still cutting) No, what she wants is to run our life. Amy: (a bit exasperated) She is not trying to run our life, she just.... Ryan: (slamming his utensils down and interrupting) Whatever Amy! That - 87 - is exactly what she has been trying to do from day one. Amy: (opens her mouth to object, but Ryan does not give her time to speak) Ryan: It’s true and you know it. Lets’ start from the beginning. Remember the first time we went out? We ended up being a half hour late to the play because she had to interview, no grill me about everything. Amy: (swallowing a mouth full of peas) Honey, she did not know you. Ryan: (returns to cutting his steak) I understand that Amy, and I was ok with the questions. I was even able to tolerate her asking for the number and address of the theater, but I think wanting a before and after report on the milage gage was a little much. I mean could she have been any more blunt about saying she didn’t trust me? (jams a piece of meat into his mouth) Amy: That was only the first time, (jokingly) After that she was fine with just having me call her every hour or so. Ryan: (loudly banging his knife and fork against the plate while cutting) Do I look like I’m smiling Amy? (not giving time for response) Ok, maybe she did lighten up on the questions and phone numbers, but what about the whole curfew thing? You had a curfew the whole three years we dated! (cutting more loudly and raising his voice) You were 22, engaged, and still had an eleven o’clock curfew! Amy: (she now enters the contest of seeing who can cut their food the loudest) She was only trying to be a good parent. At least she cared. Unlike your parents, who never knew where you were or how late you were out doing it. Ryan: (swallowing a mouthful of peas himself) That’s because I was an adult. They treated me like one and let me live my own life, which is more than I can say for your mother. Amy: (with a fierce glare) And what is that supposed to mean? Ryan: Exactly what I said. (The room is silent except for the violent banging of knifes and forks against the plates, which is soon interrupted by Amy giving Ryan the finger) Ryan: Amy, you were never allowed to do anything. Anytime you did get to go out it was because you had bargained and promised to do things around the house when you got back. She would treat you like crap and make you feel guilty because you wanted to spend a little time with someone besides her. Amy: (buttering her dinner roll) That’s because she hated being home alone. Ryan: Yea, because then she might actually have to do something. Amy: (long , hard stare) What are you trying to say? Ryan: (pouring water into his glass from the pitcher) Oh, like maybe the fact that on top of working and going to school, you were responsible for cooking the meals, washing the dishes, doing the laundry, taking care of the - 88 - dogs, and vacuuming the house. Amy: (filling her own glass) She did what she could until her neck started to bother her. Ryan: (with disgust) Bull crap! She would clean the fish tank, water the plants and tell me about the busy day she had. She was lazy and used her neck as an excuse. Amy: (takes a drink and refuses to answer) Ryan: And if that wasn’t enough control, how do you explain the fact that when you went to college you could not live on campus even though it was covered by your scholarship? (Not stopping) Maybe because she is controlling and manipulative. She wanted you home so she could monitor your every move and make all your decisions for you. Amy: Ryan, it wasn’t control. She loves me, and she wanted me around. Ryan: (slamming his fist on the table) For God’s sake Amy, you could not even wear what clothes you wanted! Remember college graduation? Amy: (with warning) Ryan, no. Ryan: You had bought that purple skirt that I liked so much. The one that made your butt look hot. However, if I remember correctly, you showed up to the ceremony in black dress pants and tears. Amy: (almost tearfully) 1 don’t want to talk about this. Ryan: (with determination in his voice) Well, we are going to. You were dressed and heading out the door, when your mother met you on the patio. After cussing you out, calling you a slut, and accusing you of having ulterior motives, she made you change. Amy: (looking down at her plate and pushing her food around with her fork. She refuses to answer or look up) Ryan: (not showing any sign of backing down) That was only one of the many wardrobe arguments. Ah, and who could forget the time I wore a turtle neck to dinner. What was I smoking that night? (Takes a drink) She did not speak to me the whole night because she was sure I had something to hide, (resentment rising in his voice) She wanted to see a mark, I could have showed her a mark alright. Amy: (defensively) I never gave you a hickey. Ryan: (his eyes dancing playfully) Not on my neck anyway. Amy: (her eyes double in size) Well you certainly weren’t going to show her that! Ryan: Oh that’s right, she didn’t want us having sex either, (takes another drink) Amy: She wanted us to wait until marriage. She thought is would be more special that way. Ryan: She just wanted us to wait because that’s what she did, which of course makes it the right way. (eating his last bite of steak) Oh well, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. (getting up from the table) Actually, maybe 1 - 89 - will call and tell her all about it. Amy: (jumping in front of him with panic in her eyes) Ryan, she would die! She thinks we waited. Rvan: (dripping with sarcasm) Honey, this deception really must end. Amy: (slapping him across the face and walking toward the couch) Shut Up! Ryan: (following and calling after her) Amy.. Amy: (stops and turns around abruptly) I said shut up. I don’t want to hear another word about it. Rvan: What you don't want, is to face the fact the your mother, who has always run your life, is still trying to be in control. Amy: (giving a cold, hurt, stare) And what makes you the authority on what I do and don’t want? Ryan: Because I’m your husband. Amy: (plopping down on the couch and clutching a pillow between her arms) Yes, and you’re also jerk! Ryan: (goes and sits next to her) Amy, I don’t want to fight with you. Amy: (clutching the pillow tighter and turning her head) Well, it’s a little late. You should have thought about that before you started bashing my mother. She may not be perfect, but she is my mother and I love her. She has done a lot for me, and for you for that matter, but you don’t ever think about that do you? Ryan: Sure I do. It’s just that to find the needle of positive in her, you have to dig through the haystack of negative. Amy: (throws the pillow, then turns and faces him) I’m being serious Ryan. (Long pause) After dad died, things were hard. She had never worked and it could have stayed that way. But instead, she went to community college and became a nurse. She provided for me, and I had everything I needed. Ryan: (touching her shoulder) I never said she wasn’t a good provider. Amy: When I turned 16, she taught me how to drive, and then she even paid the down payment on my 1997 Honda Civic. (Deep, serious look) She was a good mom. Ryan: (putting his feet up on the coffee table) I’m sure honey, I was just saying... Amy: (interrupting) How about the time in college when I got mono. Who went and talked with all my professors to get my homework and let them know what was going on- You? No, My mother. You didn t even come visit me. Ryan: (defensively) I was busy, and you were contagious , and.... Amy: (interrupting and building stamina) what about that time you dented your car. Who lent you the money so you could fix it and not have to tell your parents? Who helped you with your valedictorian speech for high school? Who sewed your pants, that you ripped on prom night, at the last minute? Who helped us out big time with our wedding? Who makes you - 90 - peanut butter fudge for Christmas every year? Who is going to watch our kids someday when you are homy and want a night of passionate, mind blowing sex? Huh? Tell me. Ryan: (reluctantly) Your mother. Amy: What was that, I could not hear you? Ryan: Your mother. Amy: (pointing her finger in his face) That’s right, and don’t you forget it. Ryan: (giving her Amy a hug) I am sorry. Your mother has done a lot for us and I should not talk about her like that. I know that she was just trying to help and give her advice on the situation. I just wish she would go about it in a different way. Amy: (hugging him back) I'm sorry too. I shouldn’t have slapped you. (Grabbing his face in one hand) Are you ok honey? Ryan: I’m fine dear, thanks. Amy: (running her fingers along the back of his neck) Can you ever forgive me? Ryan: (playfully) Oh, I might possibly find some way for you to make it up to me. Amy: (pushing him onto his back and climbing on top of him) Maybe like this? Ryan: (large smile stretches across his face, and he laughs) Maybe. Amy: (begins to kiss his neck and run her hands over his chest) Ryan: Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Your mother said to tell you she was going to call back in a an hour. She wants to talk to you. Amy: (knocking the phone off the end table and onto the floor, she then reaches up and turns the lamp off) Bitch! Curtain - 91 - VIOLATION Joel Davis The Rain broke the dry As it pricked the surfaces— So very unfair. WONDERFUL Joel Davis What wonderful calm The violent tree caused me— I climbed its one branch. IS LOVE Laurie Weaver Which is stronger? Love without discernment or discernment without love? If this is true, which will change the heart of man? In my defense I must say, If you call me simple, it’s ok. Because if you do, I will love you anyway. Maybe this is what’s wrong with the world today? Who’s got it backwards anyway? What is the secret? Sum say. Is this the truth? Sure I say. I don’t know any better. Like it’s bad anyway. Do I really want to know why, when or how? No! It’s unconditional, Ya know!! Will conditions make it right? Oh hell no! It’s the sight. If this is true what will it take to make it new? Maybe the fact it’s okay to be you? -92 - THEM Veronica Mae Gallton I wonder if he ever thinks of me? There are so many old “he”s in my life That I could fill a notebook writing about each one. The one in Washington got married To the next thing that came along after I broke his heart He called to tell me about it. That was the last 1 ever heard from him. But every now and then 1 come across his picture And wonder if he still has mine hidden away somewhere. One of the many here in NY Married my best friend and had a child with her. But every year when March 8,h rolls around I wonder if he remembers our wedding plans. Another from here in NY got his EMT license and a full-time job. He’s 21 and still lives at home with his parents. 1 don’t think he ever fully recovered Cuz he still looks at me the way he did on the day he proposed. In Michigan he decided to go Active Army When I told him I wouldn’t move out there. I never heard from my Puerto Rican sweetheart again. In Mississippi he told me I taught him how to love again. I didn’t know how to tell him I was leaving the state forever the next week So I just never wrote back to him. Here again in NY he left me one day with no warning and no regret. It was the worst broken heart I’d had in years. I’ll never be able to forget him because he left something with me much stronger than a Memory. He left me with a swelling stomach and a greater responsibility than I’ve ever had in my Life. So now I wonder Does he ever think of me? Cuz once in a very great while I still think of them. - 93 - FOREVER NEVER LAND Julie Ann McUmber With a body of youth filled agelessness, I embrace life with no fear of death. You sweetly kissed my face and touched my hand. You loved me when I stood strong upon the land. Once like an oak I stood firm and tall; Now, my roots give way and I fall. As you hold me, I slip through times hand. My body is broken, my physical being damned, To await the care from another’s hands. You have been everything to me, mostly my friend; Love me enough to let me go when my time is at an end. Wipe away our tears, touch my hand, Kiss my face, tell me you love me if you can; Love me enough to let me go from this forever never land. - 94 - THE WISTERIA Kimberly S. Fenton The Wisteria grew all around us, it spoke to me, I have always wanted to have one Growing in my back yard over an arbor I’ve built with my own two hands. I could, you know, I have capable hands. The wisteria is royal plum with pallid tendrils Its fragrance covers me sweetly, Close to being wrapped in sugar cotton candy, sticky sweet, A generous portion floats through the breeze Whispering secrets between us. SCULPTURED Stitches Brenda L. Goodman-Keams The fabric is taken from momma’s dress locked into a treasure. The colors carry memories of our lives threaded with pleasure. The time spent making it was sacrificed but cannot be measured. - 95 - MISALLIANCE Vicki Jones “I can’t believe I just heard that, Charlie,” she seethed, taking a practice shot. "If I were dead, who would you torture.” She gently squeezed the trigger of the 12-gauge she would use to hunt whitetail today. She focused, as if her life depended on it, on the paper plate nailed to the sixty-foot pine across the drive. Her neck and shoulders, like Atlas, held the weight of her world. She knew one flinch would antagonize him to knock her to the ground. She planted both feet firmly, as he instructed her e-v-e-r-y time she shot. This time, maybe, it would protect her from the recoil and his “lessons”. She braced for both impacts. He was so close to her shoulder, she could feel his breath on her ear. The Copenhagen, he chewed mixed with the gun oil to make her stomach chum. The blast echoed. She opened her eyes in time to see his bear-claw hand lash out. She could not avoid its swipe. He didn’t knock her down, though. She was glad to still be standing. “Just git in the truck,” he grunted at her. She heard the tmck door slam shut and the engine roar to life. Black smoke bellowed from the old GMC. She opened the passenger side door, as if peeking in Pandora’s box, lifting her dime store sneaker to the rusted-through running board. She stared at his left foot on the clutch, grabbing for the back of the seat. As predicted, his foot pulled off the pedal faster than a hand touching hot coals. Her head, like that 12-gauge recoiled, but her hand clung to the seat. She pulled herself in, the door slamming on her ankle. Turning to look at him, she witnessed him grinning. Son of a bitch, she thought to herself. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of feeling any pain, physical or emotional. “You hate me, don’t ya bitch?” he hissed. She stared straight at the gravel road, aware of what was coming next. “Teach ya to step out on me, whore,” he growled. “Ten years, Charlie. It’s been ten years. Just forget it,” she challenged. “Shut up,” he screamed, his face contorting. “You don’t like it here, git out.” Let’s see, she thought, living like this or being shot between the eyes. Big choice. They drove to the hickory patch two miles down the road with only George Jones between them and walked in silence to her tree stand at the edge of the woods. She turned to hand him the gun so she could climb the ladder, but he kept walking. “I don’t know why I bring you along, “ he mused to himself, “you can’t hit the broad side of a bam with a banjo. But I can’t trust you at home, either,” he yelled back over his shoulder, for her benefit. He couldn’t see her raised index finger pointing at his back, nor could he see her raise it to her lips to blow off the imaginary smoke. She lifted herself and her gun to the -96 - platform of the tree stand, sitting on the rickety chair, her haven. The only peace in her life. She enjoyed watching the squirrels scampering about, gathering nuts for their winter hutch, laboring to care of their families. One squirrel came so close; she wanted to reach out and stroke his fluffy fur. Remaining still as long as her legs would allow, she readjusted, scattering the forest floor tribe, only to have them return a few minutes later. The leaves crackled even under their minuscule weight. It was a sound she never tired hearing. Her head rested against the rough bark as sunlight filtered through the falling leaves. A balm for her angry spirit. A breeze lifted her bangs ever so gently. Her daydreams began. She remembered him holding her and whispering, I love you,” every night. He did then. Their eyes would connect often; each filled with passion and love. All that changed, when she met “him”. Her only regret in the eons of time, a crime of lust. A lifetime sentence of looking in the eyes she hurt so deeply. Could it ever be like it was? Her thoughts shattered. A crashing sound was coming up the draw. She drew her weapon to her cheek, searching in the scope for the source of the racket. Charlie must have kicked one out, she thought. In the blink of an eye, she saw Charlie’s head, then shoulders, and then his whole body, a black bear on his heels. Charlie was on all fours, pawing his way up the bank, like a bull seeing red. Dirt and leaves were being flung behind him against the bear in handfuls. “Shoot him,” he screamed, “shoot himmm.” Even amidst the melee, she sighted the pair in her scope. Now, they were belly to belly like the bear and trainer at the Ringling Brother’s Bamum and Bailey Circus that Charlie had taken her to when she was sixteen. The bear wasn’t as tall as the circus bear, but he stood taller than Charlie’s six feet. The bear’s claws oozed blood as they wrestled. She stared transfixed on their profiles as Charlie struggled to turn toward her, his eyes begging her. For what ? His mouth agape with words she no longer understood. She wondered if he could detect the hatred in her eyes. She took in a deep breath, just like he taught her, released it slowly just like he taught her. She looked directly in his eyes and squeezed the trigger. She descended the ladder. Each rung’s rotting wood splintering in her hands. Aware of the crunchy leaves, she checked and was satisfied the chamber was empty. She placed the leather gun strap over her shoulder, arranging it under her jacket lapel. Turning, she walked toward the dead body. Total silence was intensified by the preceding blast. Her muscles convulsed, her trembling knees hit the now hallowed ground. The gun fell off her shoulder to the black earth raked of its leaves by the skirmish, now staining her blue jeans. Resigned and calm, she ran her fingers through his hair. “You hit where you were aiming, didn’t you,” whispered Charlie? -97 - COLDSUN Joel Davis Branches hang over The cold sun riddled snowfall— With long black shadows. NEVER-REST Aaron Sabatini I seek meaning in this life like a starving man in the desert. Only to run to the mirage with all my strength To find a barrenness nothing. The emptiness fills my soul To the point of suffocation. I break through the thick, gray air by sheer will and desperation. And only at that sad, sad time Have I succeeded to live in the moment? What a paradox! All I ever wanted was to find meaning While living in the moment, And instead the moment owns me. .And in a gut wrenching way, I take a deep breath of shallow air; Sprinting into the distance With a torrid passion for hope that occasionally shimmers In the place I cannot find. Far. far of in that distant place of Never-rest Lies the peace of my heart, soul and mind; Always to be sought and in sight, But never able to find. - 98 - GOOD Dane Schneider It is good then to know of love and to feel peace in the beauty of another. It is good to be ignorant when Plato whispers that ignorance is the knowledge of illusion. And it is good to be wise in the vast red darkness of the setting sun, to breathe tree bark and concrete. And as illusion folds into warm saliva and knowledge scatters like ash and our eyes they laugh and they yeam-is it good? - 99 - THE SICKNESS Aaron Sabatini I did not attain the sickness, I must have been bom with it. It drives me, pushes me, pulls me, Aggravates me, and propels me To perfection, obsession, and compulsion. It's definitely not a friend, For it bums to no end. Its domain is part of my heart, The grind in my mind, And fall in my soul. The pain reigns in this domain, Like the king in his throne And the dog with his bone. I must leam that the sickness will bum And my heart will cry, Leaving my mind wondering why not die? But No! I must restrain from giving into this pain, For there is to be no shame in my domain. I am the king of this throne, And I own the dog with his bone. - 100 - FORMLESS aleathia leblond formless and empty after hours of sitting cross-legged, knees raging in pain as stiffness set in not more than ten minutes into it. distractions come forward in the mind as i am trying so hard to be empty, but trying makes you full in all the wrong ways. patience is my only companion at this point as the will to sit and bear the suffering of myself that is the suffering of everyone else. i pray to lamas and rinpoches i do not know of in humble hopes that my merit will somehow accumulate and some suffering will be lost. the meditation bowl rings it is the sound that means the beginning and the end of stillness, the end of stiffness and distractions and the beginning of formless and empty. LADYLUCK Dane Schneider Dancing limited infinity, dust, stars, and dust. Frenzy. Astral summer, stellar fall, atoms and photons: endless starless blizzard winter. Quiet. Planet earth, China. Sweden, Einstein, Twain: Lady Luck let you close enough to fuck. - 101 - - 102 - POWER: THE POISON THAT IS RICHARD III Joel Davis Power is poison. Such is not always the case in drama; however, when William Shakespeare penned Richard III he employed that very poison in recreating the life of historical villain King Richard III. Shakespeare allows Richard’s evil power to compensate for his physical deformity. Richard's outward physical deformity becomes a reflection of his inner deformity—of the deformity that wields the power. The audience is shown exactly how the power becomes poison and to whom the poison is administered. Shakespeare shows us that the greed, power, and evil by which Richard lives is also the poison by which he dies. The play opens with Richard, Duke of Gloucester, alone on stage in what is a sequel to the conclusion of the war between the houses of York and Lancaster depicted in Henry VI: Part III. Shakespeare’s decision to have him by himself may be a good method by which to illustrate early on the way that Richard lives his life—alone, accompanied only by his inner tumult. We see that Richard is physically deformed and misshapen with a hunchback from his premature birth. The prematurity of his birth becomes symbolic of the way he gains his power: before the time that it would normally occur—forced and pressured. We learn right away in Act I, scene i that Richard’s lust for power is immediate. He begins by celebrating the victory of his family—the house of York—over the powerful house of Lancaster. They have won the English crown and Richard expresses his new outlook and the proverbial change of seasons of his family’s status, as he states, “Now is the winter of our discontent / Made glorious summer by this son of York.” (I,i, 1-2). Although he is pleased at his family’s new fortune and affluence, he compares his physicality—while harboring no illusions about it—to that of his brother King Edward IV, when he laments, “But I, that am not shap’d for sportive tricks, / Nor made to court an amorous looking glass; /1, that am rudely stamp’d, and want of love’s majesty / To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; /1, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion, /[...] Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time /[. . .] That dogs bark at me as I halt by them.” (I,i, 14-18,20,23). Richard is not content with his family possessing a good brand of power over England. He wants the power for his very own; and, he wants to have the control by virtue of an evil brand of power. We then see the first sign of his true spirit and the desire for that evil power while he plans the - 103 - overthrow of his very own family—by setting his brother the king against his other brother George - Duke of Clarence—as he states, “I am determined to prove a villain / And hate the idle pleasures of these days. / Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, / By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams, / To set my brother Clarence and the King / In deadly hate against the other; / And if King Edward be as true and just / As I am subtle, false and treacherous,” (I,i,30-37). Garence does not see Richard’s potential for evil, and therefore he becomes very vulnerable. Richard’s power is propagated via his overwhelming confidence. This confidence is evidenced by his conversations with Lady Anne. At the end of Henry VI: Part III. Richard murdered Lady Anne’s husband, Edward, Prince of Wales. During the funeral of Lady Anne’s father-in-law, Henry VI, whom Richard also had a hand in killing, Lady Anne expresses her strong dislike for Richard. She calls him a “hedgehog” (I,i, 103) and a “foul[er] toad” (I,ii, 147), yet Richard's confidence still sways her to his favor. He opens his shirt, exposing his breast, and asks that she kill him with his sword. She refuses to execute him even after he tells her that he was involved in her husband’s murder, but, ‘“twas thy beauty that provoked me.” (I,i,179-180). He then displays the most garish brand of confidence as he offers his ring to her; she accepts it from him as she is overwhelmed by his audacity and confidence. With this scene alone, Shakespeare illustrates the strong confidence by which Richard reaches his dishonest goals. We do, however, see that not all of the play’s characters are tricked by Richard’s outward show of confidence. While compelling many of the characters of the play, he repels others. Queen Margaret, the wife of Henry VI, expresses her hatred for Richard as she tells others that he is, “A man that loves me not, nor none of you.” (I,iii, 13). William Shakespeare continues to show the audience Richard’s plans for his ultimate goal of becoming England’s next king. He reveals this as Richard murders his own brother, the Duke of Clarence, perhaps because he fears that someone else may do whatever it takes to have power, much the way he is willing to. Richard’s mother also sees through Richard’s false emotions but refuses to believe that he is a murderer. Much the way his physical deformity cannot be hidden, his inner deformities begin to be seen by others. Shakespeare employs asides to let the audience in on Richard’s inner thoughts and certainly his plans to gain more power. After his brother King Edward IV dies, Richard plots to have the young Prince of Wales and his brother killed. This plot will bring Richard one step closer to the power that he desires. Before the murders take place, Richard convinces Buckingham to publicly portray the Prince of Wales as illegitimate, and therefore unfit to be the new king. The Mayor of London openly - 104 - supports Richard as the new candidate for king. Richard feigns excitement and desire to be the new king by stating that, “I am unfit for state and majesty.” (III,vii,205). The next day Richard is crowned King Richard III. He meets with Tyrell to have him murder the two princes. He also orders Tyrell to start a rumor that his new wife, Lady Anne—soon to be the new queen, is deathly ill. This rumor helps to set up his plan to kill her as well, so that he may marry the daughter of Queen Elizabeth cementing his reign as king. At this point in the play Richard feels somewhat invincible and is very confident in his power. During an attack by Richmond’s army, King Richard’s confidence, power, and control start to erode very quickly as he is visited by the ghosts of all of the people whose deaths he participated in. These apparitions quickly take away the confidence and power that he had used to get his position as King of England. He awakes from his “dream” and tells Sir Richard Ratcliffe, “0 Ratcliffe, I fear, I fear! / By the Apostle Paul, shadows to-night / Have strook more terror to the soul of Richard / Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers. ” (V,iii,214,216-218). Richard is completely broken at this point in the play, before he goes into battle. The poison that Richard’s power possesses, finally has its ill effects on Shakespeare’s protagonist; he is on the battlefield running after Richmond, after his horse is slain, trying to maintain the little power that he has left in his possession. Knowing that he needs the horse to properly fight and conquer Richmond, he is ironically willing to sacrifice his kingdom for the power of beating Richmond. In a fit of passion for that victory, he screams out. “Ahorse, Ahorse! My kingdom fora / horse!” (V,iv,6-7). William Shakespeare shows the audience by virtue of Richard - Duke of Gloucester through his transformation into King Richard III, how debilitating power can be when it is not the good brand of power. Through Richard’s hypocrisy, false regret, and deceit we see how evil power can become the poison of evil doers. His greed and power—like with many of Shakespeare's tragedies—lead Richard to his own demise. He loses his power, his control, and ultimately his life from his very own poison. Richmond properly summarizes King Richard III immediately after his death when he states, “The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead.” (V,v,2). Works Cited Shakespeare, William. “Richard III.” The Riverside Shakespeare: Second Edition. Ed. G Blakemore Evans. Boston, New York: Houghton Mifflin. 748-804. - 105 - STUPIDITY PERSONIFIED John Gardner Hazard To the logic of evolution and those who think they mean it it’s a silly and cynical solution and no one has ever seen it. Eventually I pray for us that we leam to make the distinction we’re just less diverse than we once was and this is called extinction. It’s come and wrought its horrible will with many fierce contraption we don’t want to own up, just kill and then teach this as adaption. WHY? IT IS Gary Kenyon Cursed by kin Scorned by folk Is it any wonder Some couldn’t take the joke Some used needles Others used smoke Then there were pills And of course alcohol But no doubt about it Vietnam had us all Today we can heal It’s ok to - again - feel For so long we couldn’t And for some it’s: wouldn’t While here at home A price has been paid In hurt families And graves early laid - 106 - RUSTY Vicki Jones "I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed children. ” “Mother” by Gwendolyn Brooks This nightmare. This abyss, sloughs of demonic despond bearing her psychotic cross from bed to bed to bed. Oh, God, breathe life into yesterday. Turn back the hands of evil who so eagerly joined heaven & hell. Falling, trembling upon faltering faith, drawing up lifeless Noah; fingers entwined in matted, Towheaded hair. Guttural gasps Anointing a firstborn son. How shall this grisly vision Reflect their fallow faces. - 107 - DECAY Dane Schneider Decaying philosophy oflove- Send in the men. As they cry, as organs flay and fester. But the guns need shooting, and what is life, anyway, but a struggle? Now, bark peels off the branches as February asserts its crudest chill. - 108 - INSOMNIA John Walsh Turmoil within provokes sleepless giant. Entity unlike worldly god known or foreseen; Albeit mild and noticed as a spleen. Vague senses note the crawling of an ant; However ticking clock seems eternal rant. Entertainment from nights ado doubling; Overwhelmed by incoherent mumbling from once an insightful melodic chant. Virtuous advancing over vicious; ambiguous becomes breaking solace. Infamous beat fades to obscurity, recumbent shades constricting aimlessly. Blatant omen halts ritual practice, recurring duress begins once again. The sun beats down upon Wilted petals of summer; They sleep to the ground. SLEEP Joel Davis - 109 - FLOWERS FOR MOM Vicki Jones I was ten years old the day I lost a piece of my soul. It must have been July. Yes, I’m sure it was July. After that day, Uncle Ron would say to me, "You’re too young to have such old eyes.” I didn’t know what that meant then. I’m not sure I do now. I’d slowly lost my ability to trust anyone, like when I was seven and a Sheriff banged on our door one night asking Dad to step outside. “Grampa Sutton died,” I told my mother. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew Dad’s father had died. Mom slapped my-I-shouldn’t-talk-like-that-mouth and sent me to bed. Three days later, tears fell from my chin onto the yellow satin of the casket that embraced the love of my seven-year-old life. My Grampa was dead. Because I somehow knew he died, my brother Pat said I killed him. Incessant, torrential rains steamed us that July, just a few weeks after Robert Kennedy was shot. Mom was on her knees in front of the black and white TV, tears streaming down her face. “Not again,” she whimpered. Either Mr. Kennedy or Daddy had made her cry. Mr. Kennedy was dead; daddy was passed out on the couch. I didn't care. All I wanted to do was swim. That day, a sunny day, I didn’t have to take my brother’s swimming. Mom was home. The trestle, two streets away, had one of the deepest swimming holes near our new house. All the neighborhood kids swam there. Ihe boys would knock each other off the railroad ties into the water and push each other under. I could dive off the top and not hit bottom. Bompa, my other grandfather, said the train used to go over it on its way to Elkland. His mom, my great grandmother, would spend a whole day shopping there. I couldn’t imagine a train going over that rickety bridge. We had moved again. Changed schools again. Waved to Juanita out the bus window for the last time. Left the same school Eric Dartt left. He got leukemia. I didn’t know what leukemia was, but his brother Steve said, it was bad. I wondered if it was as bad as Mom getting knocked down the stairs, or Timmy, my brother getting kicked up the stairs was. Mrs. Robertson cried while she told our class Eric died. My Dad didn’t allow crying, so I kept swallowing and swallowing until the lumps in my throat went away. Mrs. Robertson said an angel took Eric away. I’ve been afraid of angels ever since. When he was sober, Dad referred to the house we moved into on Famham Street, as our new start. It was “the dump” when he was drunk. “The dump” was his reason to break dishes and punch walls, I guess. That steamy day, I walked two houses down to ask my friend, Lauren, to - 110 - go swimming. We could walk to Rock Bottom two miles up the road, where no boys went. They didn't like walking that far. Her mother wouldn't let her. Her mother was mean. Lauren cooked, cleaned and watched her brothers all the time. She wanted me to wait until she was done, but I wanted to go swimming. I’d never gone to Rock Bottom alone before, but I was mad because Robin couldn’t go. The idea of going there began as a, “ I wish I dared," to a “I’m going anyway.” The dingy towel around my neck passed for white. Mom wouldn’t use bleach. All our whites were that color. Lauren’s mother used bleach. Mrs. Wright and Mrs. Allen used bleach. Mom wouldn’t. She said it made her break out. I wonder now if beer came before bleach in more places than the dictionary. Anyway, Lauren never got picked on in the locker room because her under pants looked dirty. The dirt road to Rock Bottom was tree-lined on both sides with mountain laurel growing on the bank. I had picked some once. It was so pretty a pinlr it made me remember the cotton candy at the county fair the year before. I took some home for Mom to put in a mason jar. Dad had screamed at me. Something about it being a state flower and the cops were gonna put me in jail and wouldn't 1 feel like shit sitting in a cell away from my family with guards throwing food through the bars. I cried, making dad furious. He spanked me so hard I peed my pants. I never picked flowers for Mom again. I walked toward the swimming hole. This time, I stayed way on the other side of the road away from the mountain laurel, hanging onto my towel, not even looking at flowers. I could see the trampled path up ahead, leading down into the swimming hole and I could see an old man riding a bike towards me. Looking down over the bank, I daydreamed about standing on the knotted swing- rope that hung from the biggest tree there. Swinging out over the dark, swirling water and sliding in, toes, knees, belly, shoulders and head. Loving the rush of falling. Loving the water embracing me. I was jolted back to the present by the old man standing right beside me. “I’ll give you a dollar if you go in them woods and get my cane,” he said. I didn’t answer right away. Mom said I was slow like that, but answering too quickly always had its consequences. I couldn’t understand why this old guy’s cane would be in the woods in the first place and I couldn’t understand why he couldn't go get it himself. There was a dirty canvass bundle tied with baling twine to the back of his old bike. His bike didn’t have high handlebars sticking up or a banana seat like mine. The one I would have been riding, if my brother hadn’t taken parts off mine to fix his. Tim, my youngest brother, ran wheel first into the big Maple in front of our house, because Mike and Pat were peppering him with tomatoes. My front wheel, seat and handlebars became Tim’s. Dad told Mom the week before, “I guaran j damn tee it, it won’t be a week and them little bastards will wreck these bikes. - Ill - “I don’t know why I bother to buy them anything, they don’t appreciate nothing.” Sure enough. Dad was right. But, dad was always right. Here I stood; looking up at this hideous man with dirty cheeks and a baling twine belt holding up urine soaked trousers two sizes to big. I looked into his blood shot eyes, cringing from the strange excitement in them. I told him, “No,” I wasn’t going in the woods for him and started backing toward home, needing a few less steps between me and Mom. “I’ll give you a quarter if you let me look at your pussy,” he said, his gap-toothed grin moving toward me. I didn’t know what a pussy was, but if I had one, I sure didn’t want him looking at it. His hand, all knuckles and veins groped my arm. I turned to run. “NO,” screamed its way from the bottom of my belly searing my throat. I kicked at his legs trying to escape the hand that crawled on my skin. I was used to being scared all the time. Scared Mom would forget to put lipstick on before Dad got home. Scared Dad would break all the dishes in the house. Scared Dad would kill Mom. This was different. I was scared for my life. “Just let me feel your titties,” he said, with a, “He he he,” like it was fun or a game. Like Red Rover, Red Rover come on over, or a quick game of cartoon tag or hide and go seek. Ollie, Ollie home free, somebody come find me. I recoiled from the black caked fingernails thrust between my thighs. I flip flopped like a fish out of water. He held my arm. I twisted first toward the stench of his perverted sweat, shrinking from his roaring cigarette breath, twisting then away from him glimpsing through the trees, the sun-sparkling water in the swimming hole where I should have been. Facing, for the final lime my ability to ever trust another living soul. The frenzied writhing yanked him from the bike leaning against his hip. As he jerked back to catch the falling bike, his grip on my arm loosened. I jumped away, falling forward on all fours, groping at the dirt road for traction, like a runner at the starting blocks. Racing home, I was sure I felt his dragon breath on my neck. Each rapid step seemed in slow motion. I thought every heartbeat and every breath would be my last. Dad and John Quigley, the senior high school boy from next door, stood on the steps of our porch. I ran crazed at them. Tears streaked my dirty face. A hollow well of unspeakable words released from my brain paralyzed my throat. 1 jumped onto Dad, craving security. A spider on a web. He pried me off. My scraped hands clung to his shoulders. I searched his drunken eyes for comfort, revealing what the man had done and what he had asked me to do. Neither one spoke, as they bolted across the yard. We didn’t own a car, but John Quigley did. They jumped into his ’56 Crown Victoria, squealing out of the drive, speeding up the road I had just raced down. Dad once told John, “I used to have a car like her once. She was a beauty. - 112 - Had to trade her for the ole lady and kids.” John had grinned, telling Dad, “I’ll keep my car.” Mom heard my hysterical tale from inside the screen door and pulled me into the house. “What ever possessed you to go off on your own,” she scolded, “Do you know how your dad’s going to act when he gets back? He’s going to blame me, you know? Git to your room.” I climbed upstairs, looking at my feet. Mom said to my back, “I hope you’re happy now.” I wasn’t happy. I didn’t want dad to be mean to her because of me. I wondered as I lay in my room, in my bed, under my covers, if all men either hit like dad or touched like the old man did. Lapping at my salty tears, I cried, sobbing about what happened, about what didn’t happen and for some elusive part of me now absent. I cried alone, like I’d heard Mom cry too many times. I heard the car doors slam. The pillowcase Mom embroidered with lilacs and leaves smeared tears and snot all over my face. I slid from the bed crouching near the heater grate listening to Dad and John talking to Mom in the kitchen. “You’re not gonna believe this,” hollered Dad, “We caught up with the son of a bitch about three miles up the road. I yanked the fucker off the bike and beat him to within an inch of his life. John had to pull me off him. Huh, John?” “I thought he would kill him,” said John, “I finally talked him into taking the pervert to the police.” Dad went on, “We opened his old bag he had tied to his bike.” “Guess what we found in there. Handcuffs, a knife, a whip and girlie magazines. I bet that son of a bitch woulda kilt her. What the hell was she doing up there attracting the likes of him?” At that very moment, my tears dried up, never to flow as freely again. Dad stopped yelling, grabbing a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam from the side- board, and charging down to the basement where he stayed for hours. I stayed in my room until I heard my brothers racing across the lawn, excited about a stray kitten they’d found behind the neighbor’s garage. My father never mentioned that day again, no one did, and I never knew what came of the old man. I couldn’t understand why fate clutched me for that terrifying moment, snatching such a large piece of my soul. But, I never dared to ask. Of course, I was to blame. Twenty-five years passed before events occurred that shed light on some of the reasons for my father’s behavior. I was by then, a married woman with five children of my own. I was also an aspiring writer, selling nothing. A writing pal challenged me to put my pain in print. I had a heart to heart with Dad just before he died. It broke his heart to - 113 - tell me that the grandfather I adored, his father, raped and molested all of his children for years, my own father included. I was pummeled by the confession. The years of pain fiinneled to this moment. This revelation of his need to physically and emotionally distance himself from me, allowed me to understand he couldn’t have helped me cope with that day on the dirt road. He wasn’t capable of helping himself. He gave me the most sacrificial gift he could have; he never touched me the way his father touched him. After years of self-blame, I was finally relieved of the biggest baggage I toted inside. Incidents and circumstances happening long before I was bom shaped the past from which I ran. 1 began to heal by writing about this past, finding my best writing came from my worst pain. - 114 - BUS FORTY-FOUR Vicki Jones No other kids on bus 44 ever got shut-up in the phone booth Our bus stopped right in front of it at Dartt’s store. I held my brother’s hand tight, ready to run The bottom step was always the deciding factor Either we got away or Our faces met the pavement amidst the laughter and jeering Then stuffed like a turkey into the phone booth We’d cry, begging them to stop rocking it Our hands tried not to touch the glass because on the other side their tongues, lips and eyeballs pressed into the glass, figurines of fright. Adults walking by said, “Kids will be kids.” No, I scream, these kids aren’t normal My brother just stands there, bleeding from the lip I’m still holding his hand. If we don’t get home soon He 'll hit us for playing before chores Are we having fun yet? The phone booth opens and my brother Flies out by the hair His face mashed into the concrete Why are they mean to him all the time? I love him so much; he’s all I got I beg them, please stop They’ll stop if I let them lay on me I promise, I promise. You can, just stop. Screaming, “I promise.” I help my brother get up We hold hands again walking the fifty yards up the hill to our house Dad spanks my brother for fighting I sit on my bed and cry - 115 - ONCEAWEEK Vicki Jones Ajailer holds the keys to every fortress in the house allotting cobra tongue slaps leaving blushing sliced pursed lips. Many scarlet sunsets reflect the fist. Vulgar locomotives quake from blue forehead rivers. Submission, coerced by tar black thick-soled shoes call explosive encores. Broken dishes and splintered wood leave the moon and stars stabbing the teenage whore. WHITTLING Sharon J. Weaver up and down back and forth the blade carves engraving swirls, lines, holes cut down deep see dark grain as designs form hands tremble I welcome death slowly, it calls - 116 - SALTY FRIES AND OLD APPLE CIDER Kimberly S. Fenton But who doesn’t like hot, salty fries doused with a little old apple cider? The most gracious and generous people i know, they’ve lived a long life together not always peaches and cream much closer to potatoes and vinegar joyful triumphs tinged with sorrow some moments of deep sadness, the death of a child. it almost destroyed their marriage and their lives. so sad, it came close to killing them. but 51 years later they are still standing strong and tall. living the life that was given to them. they pull us through all of our own trials and support many of our stupid decisions. the most generous and giving people i know my parents. ANNIVERSARY Kimberly S. Fenton You took your leave almost a year ago, It was a Friday mom, a lot like this one. Looks like rain, a little gray like my mood I told you to leave, those were the words I used... Don't come home from your dads, I don't want you to live here for a while I thought that I would teach you a lesson. The manipulation had to stop I reasoned, yet my sunshine was gone. I thought we were o.k. together a few days later, I told you that I loved you and I am always here for you when you need me. You said that you missed me. I asked if you were happy? You told me yes. Then the games began you’re saying one thing Yet doing something totally opposite, Lying to me and to your father. The dark clouds of influence slither into your life And pushes me farther away from you Like a leaf in the wind. So many emotions, I couldn’t take the hurt so I cut the ties, Some day you’ll understand that I was only trying to be a good mom. Til then, I’ll wait... - 117 - MORTALMONUMENTS John Walsh Waving as if to say goodbye, leafing giants sway side to side. Littering mothers foundation with her fruit, forever reaching toward the heavens. Rooted temples penetrate the soul, while countless limbs offer rest to soaring wonders of the sky. Weathering elements from desert to tundra, portraits of beauty endure test of time. Eternal resurrection of fallen ancestors, continues tradition through changing seasons unchanged. * * * forever standing always present - 118 - SHOULD WE DELIVER MISSILES OR MERCY? Gordon Cooper The daily news broadcasts and the talk show airwaves are filled these days with debate over the topic of war. As with most controversial issues the emotional arguments from each side seem to overshadow the rational middle ground. The argument for missiles is filled with the emotion of fear and a somewhat understandable (though misapplied) desire for revenge, coupled with a feeling of an authoritarian parent’s anger toward a defiant child. Let us explore each of these areas. First, the issue of fear is understandable inasmuch as Saddam does not fit the image of a man who would only use his weapons of mass destruction as a final resort to protect his beloved populace from the aggressive United States Armed Forces. His speckled history is replete with examples of his total disregard for human life - even the lives of his own people. The types and volumes of weapons that are unaccounted for by the inspectors' reports should cause alarm and some trepidation. As Mr. Powell so aptly described in his message to the UN there exists the potential for utter devastation if those weapons are used in even small quantities. We have only to gaze back a few years to see the damage done by a man who is bent upon world domination with no regard for borders, laws or mandates. The desire to gain vengeance is understandable as well. Any person in the US who saw those clouds of smoke carrying the souls of the innocent victims and the false sense of security from the rubble of the WTC to the blue September sky of2001, feels the need to make anyone even remotely connected to that deed pay the ultimate price. It is not enough to see the smoke from a distant cave in Afghanistan to satisfy that need, nor will the smoldering, blank eye sockets of a thousand Iraqi corpses satisfy the need for revenge. Vengeance is not a meal for which we should hunger. Its aftertaste is always bitter. We will reap only more terrorist acts unless we can label our mission as moral instead of merely reciprocal. The hands-on-hips and glowering face of an authoritarian parent toward a defiant two-year-old comes to mind when we hear the “we must hold him accountable to the UN Resolutions” argument. This argument is valid to a certain extent for the two-year-old that defies the authority of the parent without retribution will undoubtedly progress to further and more dangerous acts of disobedience. Additionally, if the child hears “Just wait till your father gets home!” He will be content to just wait and persist in his defiance. A swift, painful, and directed response (fitted to the offense) is necessary to deliver a firm message of who is in control. Saddam needs such a lesson. - 119 - Sanctions upon his nation have served only to hurt the general population. I posses no idea what that lesson should entail. However, I fear the military solution would be administered with the “This is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you” mantra of all parents before they deliver the discipline - and not because we hate to see the little Saddam cry - but because we will see the families of our own soldiers cry. Now, on the mercy side of the argument we see emotional reasons for not engaging in military options as well. Emotions of fear, compassion and blind hope envelope the arguments of the anti-war throng. They believe we should allow more time, and exert more effort to find a peaceful resolution because the monstrous conception of war is a fearsome image to behold. This is a justifiable and legitimate emotion. The attack of one group of humans upon another is a frightening thing to behold -whether the weapons are as 'smart' as a laser-guided missile or as primitive as a stone thrown from a twelve-year-old arm - it should send shivers of revulsion and fear through each of us. Compassion compels us to seek the comfort and safety of our fellow earth-travelers, and thereby we should seek peace as the first and most favorable avenue. However, there are times when that same emotion should drive us to use whatever means available to us to hinder the further or future harm to innocent victims. I would that all men would submit their will to the high standards of the Golden Rule, but the reality of this present world system shows that is not the case. Therefore that compassion would be better suited in the direction of those suffering under the oppression of fear in an attempt to deliver them from that dread. Hope is an intriguing emotion. It can assist us by allowing us to look beyond the trials and tribulations of the immediate to the treats and treasures of the future. Nevertheless, hope must have a foundation - a sliver of substance will do - upon which it can cling, like a barnacle upon a reed, lest it be swept away by the harsh waves of realism. I would walk alongside the banners of hope if I could see that sliver of substance - for example, the full, open compliance and submission of Saddam to the resolutions of the UN and the welfare of the global community. The solution of this dilemma will not be found through emotional arguments. We must exercise the rational, logical and intellectual capabilities of our collective minds to find the answer. FEBRUARY FIRST Vicki Jones Seven astronauts all gone this day, the first day of February. The first day of the end of their life. Finger covered eyes paste themselves to a screen of glass, watching heavenly edicts rain decrees. George quotes Isaiah with a bubble in his voice. My son wants to play nintendo. FANTASY Vicki Jones She should be old enough to know better by now But she left the windows in the attic open anyway. Gray skies barely filter through the cobwebs as colorful autumn leaves blow in and back out. I stand on the stairs not feeling the wind, listening to the genie’s at both ends of the house each whispering edicts not unlike Dickens’Artful Dodger She scrubs faithfully all the rooms, neglecting her once glistening brassy velvet jewel long past tarnished. It needs polishing now. But she fears her need to hear the echo She measures coffee, bags lunches, pecks the day adieu. Grabbing the wool and covering her eyes, she braves the elements with that protection for her soul. Occasional respites from the cold fill the skies with words mirrored from her own depths. Thrusts of phantomed fiction serve to maintain her sanity. Or do the words create compulsion. - 121 - ROBERT PINSKY'S YARD SALE Vicki Jones Possessions. Appurtenances. Found at Bob Pinsky’s yard sale. Estates of freehold, compromised for mere lucre. Sad trustee of funds for the easement of accessories, no longer distorted by report. His report. Ragtag, vagabond haunts of poetic omnipresence share contoured, elongated, chiseled words. These things, depressed for want of need. Indefinite decisive need to be. Tossed from feverish hand to hand, undulating possession. Just reciprocation of tribute? THE FIRST DANCE Vicki Jones Legendary pubescent intentions unraveled by the beast. Patched and frayed hand-me-downs contradict new mown grass, the jingle of coins, buying uncertain Swarzenegger confidence, entangled in a button down. Old Spice bounds down the stairs to the front door, chaperoned Proud Mary’s on the boy’s mind But.. .wearing a path from habit to habitation—the beast captures ripe spirits in his palm. Four pie-eyed fingers seize starched, chaste fabric. Unconditional, rock-a-bye love’s betrayed. Weekly tithes of ales sermons sweat the beast’s stenched breath. The cunning, coward sadist sucks the reeling soul. Fingers masterfully collecting Ingersoll-Rand checks weave intricate emotional rape, leaving zebra welts behind as tongue lapping streams of hatred flow. - 122 - GRANDMA’S FIREBALL KINGDOM Julie Ann McUmber The Crystal Coach would arrive to carry the Little Being of Me, Off to the Mansion of Mirrors to see Irises smiling at Me. As I sat on the Throne of Love, wrapped in the Cloak of Security, I would be given the Crown of Abundance and to the Kingdom, the Key. Such an imagination did have the Little Being of Me. It’s all an illusion of fantasy, open your eyes, can you see? For my Crystal Coach was an old beater car. That would take me to the Mansion, a little old house on a hill afar. The Mirrors were the faces of relatives that came to call, Or the photographs that hung on my Grandma’s living room wall. The Irises smiling, they were Grandma’s eyes, They looked so like the ones planted just outside. The Throne of Love, do you see, was Grandma’s soft lap, While her hugging arms were my Cloak of Security. My Crown of Abundance was Grandma’s kisses of plenty, Of which there was no end for me. My Key to the Kingdom was a fireball candy, Kept in Grandma’s apron pocket, now wasn’t that handy? Grandma, with her apron is worth more than any treasures, And, the fireball taught me early there must be pain with pleasure. I am grown now, my eyes wide with reality, But if I close my eyes there it is, My Crystal Coach, waiting to carry me, Back tot the illusion of my fantasy, Close your eyes, can you see? - 123 - CORNHUSKDOLL Brenda L. Goodman-Keams Comhusk doll, standing tall, Do you remember when I was small? Work was very hard back then, When I was, oh, about ten. You would wait until my chores were through, And then we’d play, just me and you. Momma gathered your skirt by candlelight. While I was fast asleep one cold winters night. Well, we became the best of friends, And no one can quite understand. The greatest gifts were simple then. Dear comhusk doll, standing there... Remember when? - 124 - MY NEIGHBOR Vicki Jones Transplanted New Yorker as far from Poland as a hawk from the moon Gnarled trembling fingers cradled sick suckling pigs, cutting crimson smiles in boars throats. I gathered eggs, her income She pinched each coin dropping it in my palm. Blood pudding, her specialty, the color of her roan mare smelled of rancid death She offered it everyday! OLD PAINTING John Gardner Hazard Early this morning in the freezing cold I came upon a pack of crows devouring the remains of what was once a live deer. - 125 - CENTENNIAL SILENCE Vicki Jones While many Alabamans are aware of native Helen Keller’s struggle with being deaf and blind, the result of a childhood illness, few realize that in her dark and silent world, Helen attended and graduated from Radcliffe College and authored four books. 2003 marks the centennial of her first published book, The Story of My Life. This creation left an indelible impact on 1903, setting in motion Helen’s career path and manifesting a courage and tenacity that became her hallmark. The Ladies’ Home Journal began printing a series of Helen Keller’s manuscripts in January of 1902, continuing through September. The Story of My Life, was greeted by a symphony of lofty reviews. Indeed, the book itself was noted, as nothing short of miraculous considering the enormous difficulties Helen endured and overcame. The formulation of such a unique and often humorous personality coupled with the fact that information could only be digested or divulged through the aid of someone spelling into her own hand or she spelling into her teachers’ hand left readers pondering. Helen’s lack of sight and sound gifted her with a surreal ability to feel people’s spirits. She describes again and again, how there is “potential sunshine for her in a child’s hand” and as “clasping frosty fingers”, she likened them “to a northeast storm.” Her fingers felt the stories from Mark Twain’s lips; her intuition astounding many when she wrote, “I feel the twinkle of his eye in his handshake. Even while he utters his cynical wisdom in an indescribably droll voice, he makes you feel that his heart is a tender Iliad of human sympathy.” WilliamNeilson wrote in 1903, “This week-by-week record of a great experiment, carried out almost single-handedly by a young girl with no equipment but a fair education and an intuition amounting to genius, holds one spell-bound” John Albert Macy, editor of Doubleday, Page & Company, was lauded by many for recognizing Helen’s genius, editing and publishing, The Story of My Life by Helen Keller. With her letters (1887-1901), and a supplementary account of her education, including passages from the reports and letters of her teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan. It was released to the public in 1903. In writing her biography, Helen displayed a ferociously independent and habitual need to type her own slowly thought out words, though many offered to dictate. Without being able to read back the lines of her historical passages, she became adept at remembering large amounts of material. Still, she was never quite satisfied with her finished product. Her fortitude led her - 126 - back time and time again to cheerfully rewrite particular pieces that didn’t satisfy her. This dissatisfaction became one of only a handful of faults that acquaintances admitted never deleted anything from her work. Though Helen’s story was considered by many to be the epitome of life characteristic of what the deaf and blind could attain, some held the view that Helen's knowledge was indicative of others' relationship to the world. Her thoughts must certainly represent her teacher’s thoughts. A scathing review of Helen’s work in the magazine, The Nation, by psychologist, J. Jastrow, attacked her competence to compose. Jastrow complained that, “All her knowledge is hearsay knowledge, her very sensations are for the most part vicarious, and yet she writes of things beyond her power of perception with the assurance of one who has verified every word.” Jastrow expressed sympathy for Helen’s courageous and insurmountable struggle to overcome her physical disadvantages. His theory, though, cruel as it was, focused on, “Eyes have we, but we see not; we hear not with our own ears, solely through the eyes and ears of others.” Examples in Helen’s first triumph of what Jastrow coined as “illegitimate uses of imagination” are “The glorious bay lay calm and beautiful in the October sunshine, and the ships came and went like idle dreams; those seaward going, slowly disappeared like clouds that change from gold to gray; those homeward coming sped more quickly, like birds that seek their mother’s nest”(Keller 225). “The rooms are large and splendidly furnished; but I must confess, so much splendor is rather oppressive to me”(Keller 227). “Virgil is serene and lovely, like a marble Apollo in the moonlight. Homer is a beautiful animated youth in the full sunlight with the wind in his hair’’(Keller 111). Jastrow regretted Keller’s desire to conform to the seeing and hearing world. He feared that what she could teach the psychological community about being abnormal was lost in others attempts to describe for her their world. Jastrow felt her resolve to communicate held intense and sincere powers very much as animals possess, developed instinctively. He desired to manifest that innocence through ‘her’ truth. He perceived in Helen an opportunity to observe and record communication limitations, and a “natural attitude toward life of one whose eyes and ears have been sealed,” possibly revealing the due spiritual self. In spite of critics such as Jastrow, Helen Keller forged on, pressing in ink her ever-present, shackled thoughts. By 1905, Helen had written her second book, The World 1 Live In. - 127 - disclosing, perhaps because of critics such as Jastrow, her perceptions of her void world. Not until 1913, would Helen publish again with. Out of the Dark. John Macy, who published Helen's first book and married her teacher, Anne Sullivan, introduced Helen to a revolutionary new way of knowing her world. This book became Helen’s attempt to assimilate her former views, making public her membership in the Socialist Party. Her last book, The Teacher, was published in 1955. Helen’s career, which spanned her lifetime, began as the daughter of loyal southern parents. Her perilous journey in a spatial vacuum created associations with Alexander Graham Bell, King George and Queen Mary at Buckingham Palace and Mark Twain to name a few. Besides her heroic efforts in collecting funds and campaigning for the blind, Helen was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by President Lyndon Johnson and elected to the Women's Hall of Fame at the New York World’s Fair in 1964. At 88, Helen died peacefully. - 128 - THAI'S ME Susannah Burd When you hear the wind blowing, That’s me whispering in your ear. When you see the sun shining, That’s me conquering your fears. When you hear the birds singing, That’s me laughing along with you. When you see a rainbow glowing, That’s me smiling back at you. When you hear a dog howling, That’s me longing to hold you close. When you see the rain start falling, That’s me, when I miss you the most. When you’re lost and think you might need me, Just listen close and look to see. That’s me all around you No matter where you happen to be. GOING SHOPPING John Gardner Hazard I am here in the lost world a vase of clear water with sunlight through my prism bonding with everything. - 129 -