The Carillon's 2012 Literary Supplement

8/2/2019 The Carillon's 2012 Literary Supplement

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2012 Literary Supplement

ICE COLd...I stared blankly at the soda machines inane message

blink on its small, dull ticker.What a sorry existence, I said to no one in particu-

lar. I meant the d. That single, solitary, lowercase d.Forever would the lowercase d be ostracized from itsuppercase brethren

ICE COLd...Though that makes sense, of course. An uppercase

d in this string of lights would look like a zero.ICE COL0...But suppose the drink machine just got filled? Those

drinks are notICE COLd...And suppose some poor schmuck buys a warm

drink? The schmucks pissed off, and the machine is aliar. But thats not the machines fault.

GrACIAS

Or further suppose that the machine is tired of say-ing

ICE COLd...Perhaps it has become apathetic about proclaiming

the sub-zero state of its innards to a permanently disen-gaged world? This machine is relaying some deeply per-sonal information, and, in short, no one gives a flyingfuck.

UH-UHSo, as I was saying: perhaps the machine is tired of

the old--ICE COLd...Song and dance. Suppose the machine wanted to tell

off those insensitive pricks who assault the machine, atthis, I patted the soda machines dusty and dented exte-rior, in the hopes of procuring a free frosty beverage.?

OW STOP

I plugged a few coins into the machine, and made my se-

lection. The old machines gear work groaned andmoaned from years of immobility. Finally, the great beastsprang into life with a great whirring and clinking ofglass in its belly. The bottle dropped into the small steelcatcher with an audible

Clink!I plucked the bottle from the catchergently, by theneckand popped the cap off with the machines con-venient, albeit rusted, bottle opener.

I wonder why you dont see machines that dispensebottles, anymore, I pondered with my same non-com-pany. Yessir, when I was a kid, there was nothing likewrapping your lips around the steaming head of an

ICE COLd...Bottle, and drowning in the sweet, sweet taste of

The putrid, stale, dusty-tasting liquid seared the back

of my throat like the first puff a ten-year-old takes of hisneglectful fathers cigarettes. I turned, spit the slop out,and vomited violently. Even stomach acid couldnt washthe taste of that foul liquid out of my mouth.

What in Gods name was that?! I yelled at the ma-chine. That wasnt cola! That wasnt even?ICECOLd...

I turned the maroon bottle over in my hand, andwiped some of the grime from the label with my thumb.Dr. Simpkins Cranberry Cure-All. Circa 1954. I glared in-credulously at the soda machine.

You treacherous bastard! I pounded the front of themachine angrily. After all of the defending I did of you,this is how you repay me?! What do you have to say foryourself?!

...HA-HA

Perhaps soda machines arent bored. Perhaps theyre

just assholes.

ICE COLd

by Cassandra Hubrich

In the rain in the sunhe stands as all the world laughsat him, the fool, while a little girlfrom the nearby town

brings him a lunch each day anda thermos at noonthinking him quite brave.

They say the man is crazythe one who fishes from the dockseach day reeling in piketo everyone's surprise, 23 lbs.and letting them go saying

This isn't the one as the littlegirl nods in agreement.

Walter on theEast Docks

by Kyle Leitch

by Cassandra Hubrich

Lover from a foreign land,you had to go back home.You stepped away, removed your hand,and left me all alone.The kiss was short, the goodbye sweet,

I cried to see you go.You promised me once more we'd meet,again we'd say hello.The future bright, my heart so young,I believed your every word:

Je t'aime, mon lapin. Je t'appelleras.The passion inside me stirred.Day and weeks, then months went by,then months turned into years.With still no call, it's clear you lied.You caused so many tears.To this day, the little thingsremind me of your voice.Some nights I wonder why you leftand how you made your choice.I hope that you have no regrets;I hope you're doing well.I hope that you're enjoying France.

Love, ton ex-amante casuelle.

Untitled(On se reverra)

brought to you by

Chris Brown Waking Hours

Jocelynn Marsden HomesMelissa Ens After Another Troubled

NightMelissa Ens WritersRichard Krahn Its All I Can Do

Joel D. Blechinger Johnnie-BDebby Adair Picnic

Natasha Morrow SurplusDebby Adair Lullaby from Avice Cunny,

c. 1589

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Pretty much the usual morning, but greyer maybe, and hecould see his breath. He got into his car and sat looking to-wards where the sun would normally have peeked out from

behind the houses and saw the spider crouched an inch abovethe driver side windshield-wiper. He listened to the wander-ing trill of the wind through a crack in his door seal, a livelysound from his childhood, and slid a key into the ignition.

Morning spiders were a common occurrence in this neigh-bourhood. He had, in fact, used his windshield-wipers toeradicate spiders on several occasions, but that morning hewas distracted by a thread of thought that unravelled some-where in the haze of last night, and so he paid the spider nomore attention than the first drop of rain which signed theglass as he stepped on the clutch. That funny thing, his irra-tional fear of spiders and the fact that they have as many eyesas they do legs, did not surface because he was here and thespider out there.

He did notice the spider, though, when he pulled onto Vicand accelerated. It fumbled forward and comically splayedits legs in an attempt to stabilize itself, but the rain was com-

ing faster now. Sorry bud, not gonna last long. When hestopped at a light, the spider regrouped slightly, edging itsway back between the swaying wipers. The glass was darkand slippery.

He was sure the spider would disappear when he hithighway speed on the Ring Road. This time, instead of splay-ing, the spider crumpled into itself, looking less and less rec-ognizable as any kind of living being. It thrummed with theengine, small and oblivious and barely visible. He foundhimself slowing slightly, but only slightly, because this wasonly a spider, and because a familiar black car went by andhis mind fled, quietly, somewhere behind it. It was early, afterall, and his thoughts were tired and the rain was cold.

Waking Hoursby Chris Brown

Behind walls constructed, plywood, polyester, plasticour coveted livelihood, cherished individualfavorite blanketIlluminated by soft lighting, hiding inmodern decoratingthe places we hold closest,homesYet, alienated and containedmirrors of social constructs, judge our behavior within,specific dichotomies exist to ease oursensibilities

What are you hiding behind your numbered lot?

in glass your shadows dance for mehiding behind my own facadestucco, salmon pinkmy perch, my core,my prisonperhapsYou hide your own details, the messy bitsthe small fragile tensionssexual or otherwiseThe gathering and placement of furnituredrinking wine, eating dinner alone

Hiding within the shrouding nature ofegyptian cottonI wonder what you're thinking

behind the drywallKubla's paradise, or tortured abyss?You cook dinner, practice domestic rhetoric, things in

specific placesabstract artgrowing up, painting over the wallsfresh coat, new lifeas though peace is obtained superficiallyAre we happy in the dwellings we so adamantly cling to?

In the night the peaceful structures, spaced preciselyaccording to land linefenced, isolated, contentAre you hiding animosity, violence, new families?I see you in the kitchenyouve opened the pantryno motivationstaring blanklynine timesI stare out my own widow, a barriersolemnly

Contemplating the lives of others

while trying to forget my own

The landscapesplanned or otherwiselook like the insides of bodiesfenced offnot quite naturalclose the front door, stop the draft, save energyclose us off from otherskeep us safeDEADBOLTSclickclick

clickturn in the night while lights turn off in the different framesMy view, like a gallery of paintingsanimates itself in front of meand slowly becomes stalelike the heavy breathing contained withinWhile humans dream, and turnfluff pillowsand try to sleepmake grocery listsand think about MTVthe shows they need to tapeThe various forms ofmonotonous escape

Where is the mystery?Am i as self contained and alone as the rest?Houses hold the lonelyin its creaking embrace

and temporary nature;the knock and hum of furnacesand the sounds of slumber

And yet you are still awakeas am II want to peer into your dining room activitiesfly on the wallso late in the nightI want to hear the trickling of words off tired lipsfoot in the doorhalf dwelling within the domain of sandThe beer finds its spot on the table,the tenants dwindle off into their respected locations,you stare briefly into the night;life ceases to exist for spying eyes,continues as normalfor those inside.

Homesby Jocelynn Marsden

by Melissa Enns

Dawn.Light breaks into twilight greysand spills into the clouds,then seeps over the hills,giving each leaf and blade its own mutedglory.

Through the night raged tempestand fear

and wind,threatening to tear it all down,that structure so laboriously established.But once again, the sun has come,replacing turmoilwith peace and light and glory,accomplishing what we never could.

We think so highly of our mistakes,groan in misery at the darkness,think ourselves so helpless...and we are.Still, we underestimate the sunand its infallible capacity to riseagain and again

over our troubles,rendering what was shadowed grey and dyinginexplicably beautiful...complete.

So, we cry out to the sunin the night when our bones shakeand our guts seem ready to fall out;let him come and illuminatethe path at our feet,outline our features in glory,and bring the impossible light,which relentlessly makes all things new.

After AnotherTroubled Night

by Melissa Enns

introvertsyou dont knowwhat theyre talking about,so cleverly masked it is

by the words.they are puffed up,important in their own eyesnevermind mistakesonly they knowthey have the powerto control your minds.

Writers

by Richard Krahn

Its all I can do, Girl Just walk the straight and narrow.It takes all my strengthCause Im not a straight arrow.

Im bent and Im twisted.Im the bad boyYour Mama insistedWould drag you down.

You think your love can save me? Ha!

Its all I can do, Girl Just take my medication.Cause it takes all my strength

To keep the madman at bay.

All I Can Do


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It is a shoe. There is a shoe. I see it out of the corner ofmy eye. A little red velvet flat adorned with embroideredsequins, lying in the middle of the crosswalk. Crushedseveral times by the oncoming traffic with tire markstracked into the white insole. Without looking, I run

across with my hands outstretched toward it on theground. Stooping over, I notice the light in the yellowhand turn solid, stale, unblinking. And then I hear thenoise.

They are pressing their horns. They are angry. A manin a black Acura rolls down his window and takes aswing at me as he passes.

I rise with it, clutching it to my chest. I stow it in myknapsack.

I just keep saying, No. No, no. You dont see. No,no. You dont see. No. This is a shoe. There was a shoethere. I found it. I found a shoe there. This is her shoe. Ifound it. I have the other one.

But they do not hear me, and I do not hear them.

On the morning after Christmas in 1996, a mother picksup a strange note from her stairway step. The three-pageletter says, among other things, that they have taken her

daughter and want money. She goes to her 6-year-olddaughters room and finds her bed empty.

Sometimes, I wish that we could prove that there existsthe ever-loving heart of God.

That somewhere pulsing violently above the clouds itrests, its palpitations causing bouts of strange precipita-tion and unexpected changes in the weather.

But then I reconsider when I realize that we couldthen also prove that we are capable of breaking it.

On est capable de briser le coeur de Dieu.

Do you know the America that greets you every day?That you see in the faces of the people you meet? Thatyou feel in the hands that you shake?

Do you know the America that gazes at you from themirror? That watches your morning spittle slink downthe drainpipes?

Do you know the America that lights your cigarette?That sings you a song? That drains the dregs of your bot-tle?

Do you know the America that dances just for you?That strokes your cock before bed? That jots your initialsnext to a circled total?

I do, and she is staring back at me.Little Miss Colorado, National Tiny Miss Beauty,

Little Miss Christmas.These are the names that I give her.

It is on my wall. She is on my wall.I can see her out of the corner of my eye.There is a white bow in her hair, rising out of the

back of her head. She is wearing a navy blouse, lapelstrimmed neatly in white. She has a necklace on, slunglopsidedly across her neck. Her eyes appear to bepointed upward, as if she is staring beyond the camera.

She is smiling, revealing a row of immaculate white

teeth. I wonder how many she has lost.

When I was very young I had an awful time with wet-ting my bed. I can remember the terror that greeted mewhen I would jerk awake soaked. I would stil l be warm,

but, within a short time, I would be very cold. This is be-cause I would not rouse my parents. I was afraid to tellthem. Instead I would stare at my ceiling for hours mythighs turning raw, my nose prickling with the scent ofurine.

In the morning, I would hide the sheets in the back ofmy closet. But the smell was overpowering, and, by thetime I returned from school, my mother would discoverthem. She would meet me at the door, unsmiling,forcibly grab me by the wrist, and lead me to my roomwhere they would lay piled next to my stripped bed.

Take them downstairs. Take them to the cellar, shewould say, drumming her lacquered nails on my dresser.Theres a bucket of bleach there that Ive prepared soak them in that!

Avoiding eye contact, I would descend, piled highwith the balled sheets, often not able to see my footfalls.By the time I reached the sink I was usually quite nau-

seous from the smell.Once, turning the corner, I placed my heel deliber-

ately on the edge, and I fell the whole flight, slammingmy head on the corner of a protruding wooden win-dowsill.

Sobbing at the bottom, and splayed across the yel-lowed sheets, I looked up to see my mother appear at thetop of the stairs.

Baby! Baby, Im sorry!With mascara streaming down her face, she flew

down and pressed me to her chest.As she massaged my aching scalp and dabbed at my

hot tears, I felt like a doll that she was mending. I couldhear her heart pounding.

I read,Cosmetics and a pageant gown conceal the deep furrow

around her neck. She wears a tiara, and Sister Socks, a stuffed

kitten, is at her side. John and Patsy are in the receiving line togreet the several hundred people who have come to pay respectsto their daughter. Patsys mother, Nedra Paugh, flits about,taking people by the arm and leading them to the open casketto see her beautiful granddaughter in her crown and gown.

And I think,crown and gown and crown and gown and crown

and gown and crown and gown and crown and gownand crown and gown and crown and gown and crownand gown and crown and gown and crown and gownand crown and gown and crown and gown and crownand gown and crown and gown and crown and gownand crown and gown and crown and gown and crownand gown and crown and gown and crown and gownand crown and gown and crown and gown and crownand gown and crown and gown and crown and gownand crown and gown and crown and gown and crownand gown and

Johnnie-B was crowned in death as in life as in death.

And it pleases me that Sister Socks was at her side.We will all need this in the end.

JonBent Ramsey and I were born exactly twenty daysapart in August of 1990. She is twenty days my senior.

JonBent Ramseys tombstone reads August 6th 1990 December 26th 1996.

It also reads, Love. Purity and Joy. A gift to her fam-ily and the world. Home in the Peace of God.

I do not remember what I did on December 26th1996. I have memories of what I might have done. But, ifI need them, I am sure there are photos.

Patsy Ramsey rises to her knees, her arms straight over-head, and calls out, Jesus! You raised Lazarus from thedead, raise my baby from the dead!

The window is open, and, though several blocksaway, she can faintly hear the synthetic din of a car alarmamidst the howls of the many cursing neighbours.

Do you know the America that smiled at your fatherevery day? That he saw in the pupils of the people hemet? That they felt in his shaking hands?

Do you know the America that winked at him fromthe mirror? That chased his morning spittle down thedrainpipes?

Do you know the America that ashed his cigarette?That wrote him a song? That licked the dregs from his

bottle?Do you know the America that danced just for him?

That teased his cock before bed? That signed his initialsnext to a circled total?

The shoe. The shoe that I found. The shoe that I rescued.I have two of them now a pair. They are very dirty, butI think they are expensive. I think they were expensive.Whoever lost them must be sad. I think I would be verysad if I lost shoes that were this expensive.

The funeral services are held in Atlantas PeachtreePresbyterian Church.

The Reverend Dr. W. Frank Harrington tells themourners, I can tell you that the heart of God is broken

by the tragic death of JonBent.

The Reverend Dr. W. Frank Harrington tells the mourn-ers, I can tell you that the heart of God is broken by thetragic death of JonBent.

The Reverend Dr. W. Frank Harrington tells themourners, I can tell you that le coeur de Dieu est brisepar la mort tragique de JonBent.

The Reverend Dr. W. Frank Harrington, afterwinking, tells the mourners, I cant tell you. I cant tellyou anything. If I did I would spoil it.

Then, when the Reverend Dr. W. Frank Harrington isalone, crossing the parish lawn with an easy gait, hesings to himself this rising and falling incantation justabove the whisper of wind through leaves:

On a bris le coeur de Dieu and we have photographed its

many pieces.

Johnnie-Bby Joel D. Blechinger

Almost 5:30lemonade sitting inhalf-empty styrofoam cupsflies buzzingupturned icecream cones

I wanted to offerto clean up, butcouldnt

miss seeing the car

I fidgetedthen heard music beforedust clouds rolling

behind tireswindows downCowboy hat on

He wavedI glancedinstead behind meand walked slowly to the caras if we did this every day

He swung out of the church drive-wayand for a moment

I prayedfor us to be swallowed uphiddeninside the clouds of musicmusicand dust

by Debby Adair

Picnic


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She couldnt stop touching it. For the tenth time thatmorning, Donna reached her right arm across her bodyand ran her hand over the lump just below her leftarmpit. She was sure it hadnt been there the night be-fore. Surely she would have noticed something like this,wouldnt she? It was broad, three inches wide at least,and protruded only slightly from her body. She pressedher fingertips against it and felt them sink into its fleshytexture. She could press into it easily enough. It was defi-nitely part of her body, not flimsily attached like a skintag. But it was big enough that she could feel it pressagainst her underarm when she lowered her shoulder.She wished the doctor could see her sooner than twodays from now. Not like she had time to see him untilthen anyway, but you make time for something like this.

She lifted a file from the top of one of the three pileson her desk and turned to her computer. She was typing

intently when the phone rang. She had been concentrat-ing; the sound startled her. She lifted the receiver to herear. It was her husband, needing another favour. Heknew personal calls were frowned upon by her boss. Shequickly agreed to pick up his package, even though shewould have to work through part of her lunch hour inorder to leave early and get there before the store closed.

Thanks. Love you hun. Whatre you gonna make forsupper?

I havent thought about it. Chicken, maybe?Her boss appeared suddenly at the doorway of her

cubicle carrying a stack of files with a small cassette ontop. She quickly hung up and took the stack of dictationfrom him. The surface of her desk already obscured bysimilar stacks, she set this one down on the floor next toher chair.

By the time she had picked up the kids from the sitterand driven home it was already a quarter after five. She

dropped her purse on the floor, kicked off her high heels,and started supper, yelling at the kids to hurry and dressfor their lessons. Charlotte had to be at dance by six, andMichael at soccer by a quarter after. Yesterdays mail wasstill on the counter, so she opened the envelopes and sep-arated the contents into piles. Charlotte limped into theroom with one leg partway into a pair of tights, whiningthat she couldnt put them on by herself. Donna bentdown, pulled the tights off Charlottes leg, and put them

back on the little feet, toes-first. Michael yelled fromdown the hall that he couldnt find his soccer bag, thesoccer bag that was in the hall closet where it alwayswas. She unloaded the dishwasher and re-filled it, tidiedand wiped down the countertops, fed the kids a fewquick forkfuls, then hurried them to the car. She toldMichael to wait in the car and ran into the dance studiowith Charlotte. She hugged her daughter and turned toleave. Michael stood pouting in the doorway.

I didnt want to stay in the car by myself.Donna sighed in exasperation. I swear, these kids.

Sometimes I think I need eyes in the back of my head.Other mothers standing nearby nodded their under-standing.

After lessons, she ran Michaels bath and cleaned upthe supper dishes so that she could fold laundry at thekitchen table while she helped Charlotte study herspelling words. Her husband called out from his reclinerin the next room.

Donn, he called, could you grab the remote forme? Its way over there. Donna found it on the endtable, picked it up and delivered it to him. Thanks, hun.Could you make me some hot chocolate? Im really tired.Youre the best. He smirked, pursed his lips, and heldhis arms out to her. She rolled her eyes, grinned, and setthe kettle to boil.

After three bedtime stories and two glasses of water,

she finally closed the kids bedroom doors and sat downto check her email. One from the community association

with the date of their next meeting, one from her friendSusan pointing out that they havent seen each other insix months and wondering if they are still friends (winkyface emoticon), one from the kids school outlining up-coming activities and requesting volunteers, and onefrom her co-worker Gloria asking why she left early to-day because the boss had been looking for her. She readthem all, then logged off without responding.

Nine forty-five. How did it always get so late? Shehadnt even showered yet. She stood and walked downthe hall to the bathroom and began taking off her clothes.As she slipped her top over her head, she caught aglimpse of her left underarm in the mirror. It occurred toher that she hadnt thought about the lump all day. For amoment, she was almost glad that she was so busy, de-cided it was better that she stayed that way, so that shewouldnt have time to think about it. Yet, despite her

anxiety (and feeling, in all honesty, a little bit terrified),she leaned forward for a closer look. The lump wasnt asobvious as she had expected, and its skin was soft andsupple. Its pigment was the same as the rest of her fleshand it rose out of her side like a nipple-less, adolescent

breast.That night in bed, her husband sulked when she

nudged him away. He complained that it seemed oddshe would always be too tired. He thought there must besomething she could take for that.

When she awoke the next morning, Donna felt imme-diately that the lump had grown substantially. She couldno longer rest her left arm flat against the side of her

body and she felt it not only beneath her armpit buthalfway to her elbow. She waited until her husband hadleft for work, proffering the right side of her body to ac-cept his habitual morning embrace, then she locked her-self in the bathroom to inspect the foreign bulge. To her

horror, it had nearly quadrupled in size from the day be-fore. It was no longer a slight swelling of flesh but had infact elongated in opposition to her torso. It was shapedlike a cylinder, approximately four inches long, and ithad girth and circumference.

Her limbs began to feel numb and she collapsed ontothe edge of the tub. What the hell was happening to her?This wasnt right. She regained her composure enough toput her nightgown back on and make her way down thehall to the telephone where she promptly dialled thedoctors office. She told them it was urgent, that sheneeded to see someone urgently about the lump underher arm. They were sorry but they had absolutely noopenings. She would have to wait one more day untilher scheduled appointment. The receptionist asked herto describe the lump and she would speak with the doc-tor about it. Charlotte and Michael walked sleepily intothe room. Donna paused, then hung up the phone. She

told the kids to get dressed for school, then called the of-fice to tell them she was taking a sick day.

Okay. Dont forget, well need a doctor s note.She squeezed her hands together into fists.Never mind. Ill be right there.She locked herself in her bedroom so the kids would-

nt see anything, and hurried to get ready. She had noidea what to wear. She had to hide this thing somehow.She quickly realized that it was flexible enough to be flat-tened painlessly against the side of her body. She found aroll of tensor bandage in a drawer, held the growthagainst her body and wrapped the bandage around hertorso. She looked a bit wider than usual, but that was all.The extra breadth of her body was easily concealed un-der her suit jacket. She looked at herself in the mirror, de-cided no one would notice, and wondered if she wasgoing to die.

After feeding the kids a quick breakfast, Donna hur-

ried them into the car and dropped them off at schooljust as the bell was ringing. The receptionist at work said

Donna didnt look sick, but hoped that whatever it waswasnt contagious. Her boss said he hoped her emer-gency the day before had been satisfactorily handled andthat she wouldnt need to leave early again today. Shenodded and almost reminded him that she had gottenhis permission. He set another stack of dictation on thefloor by her filing cabinet and left her cubicle. During hertwo daily breaks, she called the indoor playground to

book a date for Michaels birthday party, made dentalappointments for both kids, scheduled haircuts for all ofthem, and responded to a few of her neglected personalemails.

At the end of the day, her fingers were sore from typ-ing and her neck ached. She made a quick stop at thegrocery store for milk and eggs, picked up the mail fromtheir post office box, and was only fifteen minutes latepicking up the kids from the babysitter. She made a

quick supper so that she would have time to dropCharlotte off at her piano lesson before she went to hercommunity association meeting. She meant to leaveMichael at home but her husband arrived just as theywere leaving and told her he needed to work in thegarage that evening, so she took her son along. The asso-ciation agreed they would do a cabaret fundraiser andDonna took home a list of tasks that she had been as-signed to complete. At home, she put Charlotte in the

bath and noticed that the tub had a prominent ringaround it. Michaels teacher had sent home a book forhim to practice reading to her. As he struggled with theone and two-syllable words, she glanced at her wiltinghouseplants and dusty shelves. She couldnt even re-member the last time she had cleaned the floors.

After she finally got the kids to sleep, Donna laiddown on her own bed, exhausted. After a few minutes,she stood up and looked out the bedroom window to

make sure her husband was still outside. The light wason in the garage, so she quickly undressed and put onher nightgown without removing the tensor bandagethat was still wrapped around her torso. She didnt wantto look at it. Tomorrow she would go to the doctor andfind out what it was and how they were going to get ridof it.

She slept fitfully. She woke up at three a.m., feelingnauseous. She stumbled to the kitchen, swallowed twoibuprofen and went back to bed. When she woke thenext morning, her husband had already left for work andthe kids were still asleep. She locked her bedroom door,slipped her nightgown over her head, took a few deep

breaths, and removed the bandage from her body. Shenoticed immediately that something was different. Nowher right shoulder was slightly elevated and she couldntlay that arm flat against the side of her body. She reachedacross her chest with her left arm and felt a rounded

bump, like a nipple-less, adolescent breast, swelling outof her body just below her right armpit. She began to hy-perventilate. How could this be happening? She hadnever heard of anyone developing two identical tumoursso quickly on opposite sides of their body.

As she was pressing her fingertips into the soft, cush-iony flesh of the new lump, she felt something unex-pected and unfamiliar on her left side, the site of theoriginal growth. She stopped hyperventilating, stopped

breathing altogether, and slowly withdrew her left arm.Her left hand began to shake as she stared down at whather original lump had become. That cylindrical slab offlesh had elongated another six inches. As she watchedin horror and disbelief, it began to move as if of its ownaccord, lifting itself away from her body and swayingfrom side to side. Soon it stopped moving and hoveredin mid-air, as if in contemplation. Then it raised itsrounded tip and slowly extended five slender fingers.

Surplus by Natasha Morrow

by Debby Adair

And here I stand with Gods own handimprinted in my womb

A special song, from lust gone wronglove locked me in a room

So now I wait, tis Heavens gatenot oil from Hells own pot

In six months time, theyll take whatsmine-hes mine, not theres, hes not

I thought I knew your flame was trueour love, for me surreal

But when I told, your eyes ran coldas the river I would feel

You ran to town, they found a gownand wrapped me head to toe

They said a prayer and threw me thereso death could save my soul

With one small move, then I did provemy belly was worth the wait

You let me down, he would have drownedtwo lives, two souls at stake

What they dont know, is as he growshes still a piece of me

Ill will him strong, hell do no wronghis life will set me free

My hang will come, so youll be doneof blame, of shame and pest

But none can save your wretched namecursed from eternal rest

Lullabye from Avice Cunny, c. 1589

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The Carillon's 2012 Literary Supplement