THE BLIND ARCHER

Exceptional Undergraduate Creative Writing from Adelphi University

2015

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 Archers are nothing without the arrows in their quivers.

We may be the archers and we may have the bows, but you are the

arrows. This magazine would be nothing without you, our contributors. Without

your writing, we would be a world without words. We thank you for all your

hard work and for making The Blind Archer possible.

We are proud to share this work with you, dear writers, and your fellow

peers. We hope it moves all of you who dare to think, dare to love, and all those

committed to the relentless search for self-discovery, the unnamable that moves

us to write. As long as you dare to explore through writing, we will dare to read.

We invite future contributors to be rebellious and to take aim. The bull’s-

eye awaits you.

- Ryan Kearney, Managing Editor, The Blind Archer

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Table of Contents

Fiction

The Birds by Cassie Williams 3

Feathers by Meghan Kingsley 12

Poetry

Maddening Creation by Julian Lopez 17

Sojourners like stars in the night by Rebecca Endres 18

Paper Men by Eric E. Smith 21

Stay by Amanda Hayman 22

Drama

Garlic Powder by Joseph Grippo 23

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The Birds

By Cassie Williams

The sound of the shovel crunched as it pierced through the cool serenity

of the autumn earth. The dim evenings air was crisp enveloping each labored

breath as he continued to scoop and pry the soil up and out from where it once

rested undisturbed, before meticulously laying each offering atop those that

came before. His lips were taught, hugging one another in despair. His elbow

swiped at the beginning of a single tear as it began to swell in failed escape. The

continuous flash of life happening before him again and again in a way too

surreal to have led him to this place. This exact place where his wife knelt,

tending to her tiger lilies as he admired her from the hovering window in Baby’s

room. The place where Merlin wouldn’t dare relieve himself for fear of the pink

fuzzy slipper she’d take to his backside. The forbidden place, her place, now

home to them all. How could he have missed it? The transcending memory of

morning taunted him as he continued to excavate.

*

The familiar clang of silverware against glass swept through the house

accompanied by the aroma of fresh Columbian Joe as it rumbled and dripped.

He straightened his salmon striped tie without a second thought as he took to the

stairs and tried to beat her to the punch, “coming,” he called down. His voice

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echoed through the foyer, bounced off the marble floors missing the crystalline

chandelier that hung out of reach, and arrived at the kitchen just before he had.

“We’re out of creamer so I just put a splash of milk,” she spoke quickly

without pause, “and real sugar this time, no more of that substitute crap, that

stuff will kill you. Make you grow things you never knew was there till your

eyebrows melt off, and your heads clean. There’s no hiding that thing unless—”

“Well good morning to you too dear.” He placed one hand gently on her

arm and hushed her with a peck on the cheek like a city pigeon quickly nipping

at gum glued to the sidewalk. He took the coffee from her grasp and sipped it

while briskly making way to his seat. She passed him The Times over his

shoulder. Without a second thought he snapped it open, peeked over the brim of

a mug that read World’s Best Dad, in bold black letters, and took a seat. They had

perfected this morning dance.

“You’ll have to take that thing to the groomer this weekend, his stench is

nauseating and he brought in another dead bird. The head was missing this time.

Not long before the baby will find these things before I do, you can count on

them that way, you watch. Merlin. What kind of dog is named Merlin anyways?

Ill be happy when little bird-napper learns to change diapers, or at least shower.”

She ranted before the interruption of Baby’s awakening. His cry, a series of

breathy snarls, preceded the malignant squeal squeak that could instantly be

translated to, Mom.

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She turned to find the hind half of her husband’s face buried in the paper,

his food untouched, clearly unaffected. “Dan!”

“Huh, oh.” He looked up only momentarily before returning to the

previous days recap. “Call and make the appointment honey,”

“Ugh!” She huffed down the hall to Baby’s room. “The Danny I married

would call and do it himself,” she mumbled. “You know? A little HELP would

be nice. I don’t ask for much. I don’t need flowers, or fancy jewelry—” she

snapped, scooping the flailing baby from the crib, pulling on the collar of her

dingy white tank top. She attached him to her breast and continued, “the cars,

this house—”

She cradled and rocked Baby down the steps, grabbed the car keys off the

entryway table with her free hand, and made her way back to the kitchen.

“Here.” She dumped the keys in front of him in a way that disturbed his paper.

Before he could speak she dumped Baby on his lap too, stomped across the

kitchen with her soggy breast still exposed, and tinted nipple erect. Baby

squealed. She snatched open the refrigerator door to retrieve his bottle and set it

down in the microwave.

“Celeste,” he started, as he pushed back from the table to stand with Baby

in hand.

“So what? Listen to him, you’ll get it to him faster this way.” She leaned

against the counter in front of the microwave and crossed her arms. He walked

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toward her, half-rocking Baby. Meeting the machine mid-beep, she gently

inverted the bottle and lost a drop on her wrist.

“Running late Leste, I’ve got to get going.” He handed over Baby, still

wailing. She turned her face for the usual farewell peck he forgot to give.

He made his way to the door and paused briefly to scratch Merlin behind

the ears. “I’ll have Nancy call the groomer.” Baby had found his mother’s milk

and World’s Best Dad vanished beyond the door.

*

The sound of metal piercing the undisturbed earth beside the ground he

had dug before, crunches, and rips as the roots of grass are torn from their nest.

His sweat is thrown into the air like runaway doves from a magicians’ hat as he

scoops, and pries, and meticulously lays the soil on top of the rest. His face is

frozen with grief, eyes blank, and each movement robotic. If only he had

answered, maybe things would be different. Maybe he could have told her

sooner. He is overcome by the regurgitation of regret filled synapses in his brain.

*

He stood up from his desk to draw the blinds down the windows of his

cushy corner office, scooped up his leather briefcase and left the shoulder strap

to hang near the hard wood under his feet then headed toward the parking lot.

With every step his keys were agitated, you could tell from the tone of their

jingle. He paused as a net of birds were cast from the neighboring tree and

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disappeared into the sky like a drunken slinky toy. The monotony of his life had

become unbearable, but for a moment, he enjoyed watching the birds. His stupor

was abruptly interrupted by Nancy, his secretary, as she locked up behind them.

“You ok boss?”

“Yeah, sure. Drive safe Nance, supposed to rain pretty bad, and you know

that Southern State is prone to flash floods.”

She nodded. The click clack of her black Jimmy Choos’ grew faint as he

ignored her womanly dance. He quickly turned off the noise that came blaring

from the radio when the car began to breathe. He reached into his pocket and

chucked his handheld device into the cup holder beside him with disregard of its

bright buzzing. With the remnants of morning in mind at the end of a day filled

with negotiations, he all but indulged in his usual silent car ride. He imagined

coming home to a sleeping baby and happy wife. Although never the case it

made for a peaceful commute. His old pal Merlin never let him down though.

Each day he would be perched atop the sofa watching the squirrels do their

business like the neighborhood watch. When he arrived home you could hear the

pitter-patter of his fluffy little feet stop just before the door. One foot in and the

little guy would bounce up and down like a child on a pogo stick, eyes buried in

a blanket of straw colored curls, and his ears flopped with excitement as if his

human friend had been gone for months. Or maybe it was more like a cry of

desperation in hopes to be saved from the drooling quadruped called Baby.

Nevertheless, the snivel in is stomach broke the trance induced by the constant

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click clacking of the turning signal and reminded him that it was Wednesday,

which meant meatloaf.

The house was alive. Television locked on Disney Jr., Mickey and his pals

chipper as usual, Legos scattered across the floor of the dining room, an empty

swing being swung in the bedroom, and the smell of roasting onions and garlic

filled the air, but Merlin never came. The basement door was left open and

became the barrier that diverted his attention downward. “Honey?” his call

answered by the rush of a filling washing machine and the banging of the old

dryer as it went round. Sounded as if something was hanging onto one side like

a rodeo clown and took the entire machine for a ride.

The door creaked as his hand settled on the handle. “Honey?” he called

before looking around briefly to scan for some sign of them. “Babe,” he called,

this time more sternly in a way that demanded a response. The water swishing

now and the bang banging of the dryer grew louder as he neared the bottom.

The light from the tiny window was blinding in contrast to the darkness of the

room casting a haze around the worn corduroy couch that occupied its center.

From the large tube television before it, Dr Phil watched her lying there under

the Santa Claus throw blanket her mother-in-law knitted for Baby before he was

born. Her legs sprung from underneath like fresh spring buds warmed by green

flannel pajamas. Her ankles gently kissed, right over left. The bottoms of her feet

were lightly dusted with the day’s chores. He continued to admire her from the

distance before moving closer, slightly alarmed by the overturned pill bottle on

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the floor beside her. The top was missing. He knelt down onto the pale plush

floor tapestry and placed his hand gently on her forehead guiding a stray behind

her ear that exposed her sullen speckled cheek.

“Leste?”

Her eyes fluttered beneath their lids as he kissed her gently with hushed

apology. She took a long slow inhale as her arm stretched over her head before

falling gracefully around her husbands neck and met with the other. Her back

arched as she turned to greet him through sleepy eyes and a tight lipped smile.

Her lashes fluttered like butterflies emerging from their cocoons as they widened

and reflected a delicate explosion of blue flames.

“You’re home early, dinner will be ready soon.”

He gently pulled away to sit beside her. “Where’s Merlin?” He leaned

back and became one with the couch. “The baby asleep?”

Her face filled with pallor that could be traced down to her fingertips, she

readjusted on the large pillows beside him and assumed the position of prayer.

“I’m so sorry Danny.” The vibrations of her voice fluctuated. “I was so

overwhelmed and I—well they’re—Baby pooped and it exploded out his pamper

and then—”

His heart raced to keep up with her words, his stomach became uneasy.

“And then what Celeste? Where are they? Did you hurt him?” His voice

escalated as his throat swelled in suspense. “What did you do? Is he ok?”

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“Well—they…” She looked in the direction of the long grappling rasp of

the buzzer as it sounded and the banging of the dryer stopped. The room now

filled with intimate breaths through which she pleaded, “I’m so sorry Danny,”

tears welled as they found their way to her shameful hands. “It’s just us now.”

His eyes shot in the direction of the new silence before he lunged forward

to snatch a fist full of her delicate mahogany curls from the root. He tugged

violently and hovered over her as her nails peeled back the flesh covering of his

forearm. His free hand rearranged the dots on her face as he squeezed, “What the

fuck did you do Celeste?” He demanded an answer through clenched teeth, his

jaw depressed into the center, the ropes of desperation visible in his neck. He

jolted her head toward the wall without letting go as if to erase what he knew.

He jumped to his feet, rushed around the arm of the worn couch into the back

room. He was mortified at the crisp disposition of the dryer’s contents.

“Danny, wait!”

Nestled beside his favorite straw-colored cushion, Baby was curled up like

a kitten napping on its mother’s breast, paralyzed by death. The scene replayed

in his head over and over. The one that brought unwelcomed invitation to this

place.

*

His body descended heavily toward the earth, his knees were coddled by

the moist soil, spine erect, and his head hung as he surveyed his filthy hands and

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wept. The thin lines of black nestled neatly beneath his nails, clouds of blood

smeared deep within the valleys of his palms. He made no effort to rid himself of

the despair that escaped him in that moment. His cries rang out into the sunset in

recognition of its immense beauty beyond the imminent puffs of darkness.

The moment that his hands were strung around her neck until her body

went limp was flashing before him. Her arms parted beside her like two halves

of a choked collard shirt in the moment a single button decides to flee. The blue

flames were extinguished by his hearts intent. The trees swayed and danced with

consolation. He didn’t know how he could have missed it, but none of that

mattered now. He smoothed over the soil in hopes that it may continue to keep

them warm. Celeste, Merlin, and Baby, were now buried beneath the shadow

cast by the home he’d made for them.

He wanted to forget the birds. If only he hadn’t wondered about them. If

only they had never come. Weeping uncontrollably now, the sweat glistened

down the nape of his neck. The tears, finally free, raced one another down his

freshly shaved cheek undisturbed. Both hands on the steel that shone before him,

one thumb rested on fate. His cries were muffled now by the weight of barrel on

his tongue. His elbows met his knees. Bang. A net of birds fled the tree beside

Baby’s window, and disappeared into the sky.

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Feathers

By Meghan Kingsley

Lying down in the warmth of my bed, staring at the ceiling, I wait for my

eyes to adjust to the darkness. The faint paleness of the moon illuminates the

wooden nightstand on my right. The reflection of blue light from the alarm clock

gleams through a glass jar. 6:47 a.m. I drag my feet to my sister’s bed.

“Wake up,” I say, gently shaking her shoulder. With her eyes closed, she

mumbles. Again, I try, “let’s go. The sun is almost up.” Her breath remains

calm. I look at the clock: 6:52 a.m. Looking back at her, I shrug and put on my

tan wolverines, just like my dad’s. I slip into my purple sweatshirt. It’s my

favorite sweatshirt for two reasons: it is my favorite color and in the left side, it

has a secret pocket. I go to my sister one last time. Her golden curls fall gently

on her fair skin. Her breathing is peaceful and innocent. She doesn’t budge. I

turn slightly to my right and face the glass jar on the nightstand. Perfect thumb-

sized feathers fill half of the jar. I remember the first feather we collected. Mia

found it mixed into the wood chips in the school’s playground. She ran through

the field to show me. The excitement in her eyes was genuine. She asked me to

hold on to it for her, to put it in my secret pocket so it stayed safe. The feather

pocket she called it. Our mom always told us that when we found a white

feather floating around, it was from our guardian angel. Our angels left it for us

so we knew they were watching us. It started with that one feather. Now we

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have half of a mason jar full and something that will bind us forever. I am

interrupted by the chimes of a bird’s song. And I run down the stairs.

I quietly close the old screen door behind me. Its creaks and cracks have

become part of life’s soundtrack. I walk through the backyard’s snow covered

grass. I can feel in my soul spring’s attempt to break through the icy earth. The

tone of a bird’s song, the smell of a breeze, and the gentle warmth of the sun are

all signals of spring’s attempted triumph.

The histories of my travels are frozen in time on the snowy soil. I pass the

little garden at the end of our property. I smile looking at the painted sign “Bea

and Amelia’s Garden.” I remember writing our names in pencil and letting Mia

paint over them. We spent all morning pulling weeds and digging holes.

Mommy helped us plant the seeds and pour the heavy plastic watering can. The

sun reflected off her fair skin. A large pink sunhat flopped across her face. A

messy braid of golden hair rested on her shoulder. Her smile is contagious. She

always knew how to make Mia and me feel special.

I reach the wooded area behind our house. The small farmhouse-like

figure stands in the distance. Smoke rises from the chimney. Dad is awake,

probably brewing a pot of coffee at this point. I continue to tread under the tall

pines. Over the last few years, these woodland guardians have become so

familiar: the smell of the pine, the dark green needles filtering the sunlight, the

sticky sap trunks. Our favorite spot was just ahead. Beyond the pines and a few

boulders was a clearing. It overlooked a small but willing stream that trickled

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over petite stones and stood as a highway for minnows. But the quiet stream

and blanketed field of wildflowers in the summer wasn’t the reason Mia and I

made the pilgrimage every morning. It was the sunrise. When the sky over the

mountains was painted with the warm pastel colors; it was a glimpse of heaven.

Mia and I make this excursion every morning just to sit and let the soft hues

invite us to another world.

I proceed to climb the boulders that wall the earth. It is the same route

every day. My feet knew the grooves and ridges that characterize these rocks.

The solid stone was cold to the touch, mostly smooth but rough and rigid in

some areas. The stone’s battle wounds were evident; each mark telling a story.

The sky was lightening. I have to hurry or I’ll miss seeing the sun coyly peak

over the mountaintops. I lose focus on my foot placement. My right foot presses

against a shallow indent, my weight shifts as I lift my left leg. My foot slides

down the rock, my hands desperately grasping for a ledge; clawing at the solid

figure.

My body is numb.

I can’t move my legs or my arms; my body feels heavy. A tingling

sensation jets through my veins and muscles. My mouth is dry. My voice is

silenced. My stomach is in my throat. My eyes water from the icy breeze. Time

is nearly still. I can’t think. I can’t react. I can’t stop what is about to happen. All

I see is a whirlpool of colors; the air around me is moving fast but stagnant at the

same time. My body slams against the scattered rocks and patches of frozen

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grass; it sounds like a firecracker. I squeeze my eyes shut, wincing from the

brutal contact. My ears are ringing; I can’t hear the sweet lullaby of the earth

around me. I open my eyes to see a kaleidoscope of colors: subtle yellow and

orange, a vibrant pink, and a splash of muted blue. I can feel a warm tear

cascade delicately down my cheek. It is the most beautiful sunrise I have ever

seen. I turn my head slightly, only feeling a little pain, my right cheek wades in a

pool of bright crimson. My small fingers covered in the rapidly darkening liquid.

My vision is blurry and my head feels airy. I try to move my body but am not

successful. I attempt to breathe in deeply, but I can’t catch my breath; it’s as if

I’m drowning just inches from the surface. I don’t want to give up. I can’t give

up. I’m not ready to leave. I feel hot tears streaming down my cheeks. A lump in

my throat, it’s getting harder to breathe.

A cool gentle breeze rushes over my body like a blanket; just enough to

calm me. I look into the sky, I want to be held by my mom and dad, I want to

hug my sister and tell her everything is going to be fine. And at that moment,

falling gently and graciously from the sky, like the first snowflake of a blizzard,

is a kiss from an angel. The small feather lands gently in the red bath, barely

making a ripple. With every last bit of energy I have, I reach for the feather and

hold it in my hand. The blood stains its innocence. I smile and grip the feather

tighter.

I let go.

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The sky has never been more beautiful. It is now my canvas; to paint my

story in color for all to experience. It is the feeling of jumping off the swing;

freedom from earthly virtues, floating in the sun for just a moment. But this

time, there is nothing that binds me to falling back down.

I stand next to Mia’s bed. The sunlight is dancing through the window. I

kneel down so that our faces meet. My eyes fill with tears but I smile and let out

a soft chuckle. She starts to stir. I look at her soft round face surrounded by her

messy golden mane one more time. It won’t be my last. I place the soft white

feather on her pillow and kiss her forehead.

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Maddening Creation

By Julian Lopez

With a grin, the painter set his masterpiece.

Death and Life in struggle

Wildly dancing on an easel.

Brush stokes upon a canvas

Working through time and

Space out of everything.

He laughed

Lunacy but a precursor for genius

Carving disaster in harmony.

Dying in water once upon a time.

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Sojourners like stars in the night

By Rebecca Endres

I

Humanity is a veil we all must wear

in order to relate to the strangers around us.

We orbit each other

constantly, independent

solar systems comprising one galaxy.

Any place that you go, you’re destined

to see some people lighting fires to incite riots

while others gather close to the flames

for warmth.

And frankly, you can take that

as an insult

or as a challenge,

but either way,

it’s in your nature

to take.

II

Insurance offices, the local dentist,

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the college admissions office,

and the nail salon

all fill themselves with fake plants

because we can replicate nature’s colors,

but haven’t the time to maintain life,

as though the added task

of watering a fern or

Bonsai tree

would command such

time and effort that

business would be forced

to a standstill. That,

or we simply cannot

fathom the chance of death

in the same place we

have our teeth cleaned

or sign checks to strangers.

III

The cold blackness of the infinite sea

at night;

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the effortless ascent of a bird from treetop to air;

the soft swoop of an infant’s fingernail

touching its mother’s cheek for the first time;

you feel it too, don’t you?

Heat, radiating off skin

because by being born,

you’ve already proved

no one is without another

and we are all traveling home

one step, one touch, one breath

at a time.

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Paper Men

By Eric E. Smith

Through the living of shadows in unrushed blood,

I’ve brushed against untouched ends

In hopes that the beginning will find these veins to flood.

It is not the end,

It is not the end for these veins

No it is not the end for your skin/for your skin to feel loved.

You’re dancing with the tusks of elephants

& tasting the pastures of free land

The wind is your throne

And the conch is your conscience weaving

Through the oppressive stones

Thrown against your stygian skin.

You’ve bled here

But in the hands of your blood, this time

There will be no room for the unrushed

For in the sternums of your skin lie lessons

The blood for which we owe flowing to is all kin

To the forging of the cut.

To be alive is far deeper than tone,

We sing, not to be of color,

But to be more than flesh and bone.

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Stay

By Amanda Hayman

We were wandering down the asphalt jungle,

swollen with salt water and infected with

those little words.

I liked to imagine that we were reborn,

that we were the king and queen

of the bees.

But I was lost with you

as you smiled daggers downwards

bringing me to my own slaughter.

I know what they say,

some people leave and some people stay:

I think I need you to stay.

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Garlic Powder

A Dramatic Scene by Joseph Grippo

Characters

Joann: early 20s, dressed a little too revealing/loose

Michael: early 20s, properly dressed/stiff

Setting

A pizzeria/ restaurant. A wooden table with two paper place mats, two chairs,

and the counter to order pizza from is behind Joann. Michael is sitting in front of

her eating a slice of pizza.

Michael: Remember we’re madly in love, so it’s alright to kiss me whenever you

want.

Joann: Is that really how it works?

Michael: Well yeah.. Unless you don’t love me.. do you love me?

Joann: I think I do, I mean yeah.

Michael: Is it a yes or a no? I don’t understand what you mean.

Joann: Well Michael I have nothing to base it off of, being that you are the first

man I have ever felt a real connection with. I mean I laugh at your corny jokes

and miss you when you’re not around.

Michael: Since when are my jokes corny?

Joann: Come on Mike, don’t get sore!

Michael: I’m not!

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Pause.

Michael takes the last two bites of his pizza, leaving the crust on his plate.

Joann: Is that not enough for you?

Michael: I just don’t understand we have been together for half a year, why

haven’t we kissed?

Joann: We’ve been together for 4 months.

Michael: We’ve done everything else, literally the only thing we haven’t done is

kiss. It’s like we did all the bigger steps and skipped the first baby steps.

Joann: I want it to be special Mike, can you understand that. I am not going to

just kiss you. I don’t think I’m ready for the commitment.

Michael: Joann, I am not asking you to marry me. I am not asking you to move

to goddamn Africa with me. What I am getting at is that you and I are a couple,

this is what couples do. Remember the movie we watched yesterday?

Joann: Yeah, it was horrible.

Michael: That’s not what I’m getting at. The characters in the movie were in love

and in a relationship in which they were kissing all the time!

Joann: But we aren’t in a movie.

Pause.

A look of frustration washes over Michaels face.

Michael: Alright so let me get this conundrum straight, we can have bed rocking,

neighbor waking, sheet gripping sex, but you will not kiss me.

Joann: (snickers) Why did you explain it that way?

Michael: I have scratch marks on my back, and look at this goddamn thing on

my neck!

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Michael turns his head, revealing a hickey the size of a Ping-Pong ball

Joann: (Laughing) Sheet gripping sex, huh?

Michael: HOLY SH-

Michael gets up to get another slice of pizza.

Michael: Do you want anything else?

Joann: No, thank you.

Michael goes up to counter and orders another pizza. He puts some garlic powder, red

pepper and parmesan cheese on his slice. When he turns around to return to his seat, he

sees that Joann has got up to smoke a cigarette outside. He sits down to eat his slice,

waiting for her to return.

She returns and sits.

He hands her a piece of gum.

Michael: You know I hate it when you smoke. Why do you do it?

Joann: I don’t know Michael, but I do know one thing.

Michael: What’s that?

Joann: I’ll tell you!

Michael: Shoot.

Joann: I love you.

Michael: Well, it took you long enough. I love you.

Joann: You make me very happy.

Michael: Kiss me!

Joann: Fine! I’ll kiss you, since you want it so bad and it means so much to this

relationship! Two lips pressing together is really going to define us!

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Michael: I am going to ignore your sarcasm and pretend like you want this as

much as I do.

Michael leans over the table and gives Joann a kiss on the lips.

Joann pulls away suddenly.

Joann: Wait! Did you eat garlic!?

Michael: No.. Well yes I put some garlic powder on my pizza. Why?

A look of shock appears on Joann’s face.

Joann: … I’m allergic to garlic!

CURTAIN.

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Managing Editor: Ryan Kearney

Special thanks to:

Iris Mahan and Danielle Loughran, the founders of Village of Crickets, for their hard work and faith when it couldn’t be done.

Program Director, Judy Baumel, for all her encouragement and support.

Our Adelphi Undergraduate Contributors:

- Rebecca Endres - Amanda Hayman - Joseph Grippo - Meghan Kingsley - Julian Lopez - Eric E. Smith - Cassie Williams

Adelphi University’s MFA Program in creative writing, for the canvas.