The Flagler Review Spring 2011

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Cover Art: By: Paige Broadbent

Review Staff:

Senior Editor: Megan Parker

Fiction Editor: Stephanie Johnson

Poetry Editor: Saira Khan

Non-Fiction Editor: Ashley Harris

Screenplay/Play Editors: Christina Fritts & Benjamin Seanor

Graphics and Layout Editor: Steffi Shook

Staff: Toni Alfiero, Haley Bach, Candace Cabral,

Meg Cannistra, Janette Duval, Lucas Garner, Holly Hofer,

Catherine Kaloger, Tiffany Knowles, Robert Neff

Faculty Advisor: Jim Wilson

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Table of Contents

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15

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40

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Editor‘s Note

Brianna Angelakis

Sirens

Jurassic Trees

Ashley Harris

Thorns in a Rose for Emily

Mary Pritchard

Barbie Dolls

Stephanie Johnson

Pantoum to Michael

Fragments from Sisters

Holly Hofer

Adolescent Hem

Song for a dragonfly and the complexities of sight

Phil Grech

A Vegetarian Conversation Held Over a Steak Dinner

Jillian Burns

Shadowland

Steffi Shook

Floor 5, Hall D, Room 524

Born from Bone

Oven Bird

Bethany Bruno

Nutritious Comfort

Emily Hoover

Sobriety in the Suburbs

Jillian Burns

Happiness

Jeanette Vigliotti

Ghazal for the Despondent

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Mollie Saunders

Breaking Even

I Heard Laughter Through My Window

daddy‘s little princess

Matthew Sperber

Stumble Upon

Evan Tisdale

A Blueprint of Grandma‘s Trailer Home

Veronica Spake

Attic Window

The Jumpers

Girl on 35 Eureka Line —m4w— 28

Rachael Cosgrove

Acrostic: several arrows later

Chloe Rose

Untitled

Stephanie Boilard

The Eagle and the Wolf

Autopsy of a Suicide

Jillian Burns

Carl

Maya De Ceano-Vivas

Hands/Butterfly

Desire

Stephanie Johnson

Sleeping With the Fishes

Keirstin Yantis

Robot

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45

46

47

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

93

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Editor‘s Note

I plan on keeping this editor‘s note short and sweet, as

the writing really worth reading is just a page turn away. To

say the least, I felt thrilled when I learned of my appointment

as Senior Editor of the 2010-2011 Flagler Review, a position I

had desired upon transferring to Flagler College over three

years ago. As a tremendous creative writing nerd, I could not

wait to begin working with our staff and student writers.

While many of our staff members were new to the

journal and initially quiet, we broke through the dreaded shy

barrier and worked together to compose this wonderful issue

of the Flagler Review. Our staff toiled through hundreds of

submissions, and our editors worked assiduously to edit,

organize, and select superlative work to represent Flagler

College writers.

Although we were required to edit for language, the

work presented in this journal nonetheless represents the

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exquisite, insightful, humorous, and lovely work of our

students. I feel honored and exceedingly proud to have been a

part of this dedicated staff of editors and writers. On that note,

please enjoy the 2010-2011 Flagler Review.

- Megan Parker

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Sirens

We hear them on a daily basis. It is an onomatopoeic

sound for death; yet, whenever we hear that alarm

piercing through our ears, we feel nothing. Someone's

house is burning down. Someone is being robbed at

gun point. Someone is dying. Those thoughts might

come to mind as the Doppler Effect draws closer

and then farther away, like the water ribbons around

a raindrop in a puddle. But once the piercing melody

rounds past you, you forget. Someone's

hard earnings just turned to ash. A once frightened

store clerk has a bullet through his skull. And death.

The sound of a siren. Fear. Worry. Confusion. Attention.

All for a moment. Until the sound is broken and your

life continues. The store clerk died. You feel nothing.

You had no attachment to that man. You didn't know

him. You didn't know his wife and their new born child.

You didn't know his mother or father. His sister or

brother. He means nothing to you as his name and

face appears on the news for a mere thirty seconds.

Another death. Another life. Then back to celebrity

gossip and the weather. He was worth the appearance

of thirty seconds, and only because the killer still

walks the streets.

Brianna Angelakis

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Jurassic Trees

Brianna Angelakis

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When my mistress Emily died, I knew it was time to leave. Soon

enough, everyone in town would know what I‘ve known for years. Poor

Miss Emily, I heard them murmur and whisper whenever I ventured from

the house to the market for food. Poor Miss Emily, no father, no

husband, no lover. Poor Miss Emily, all alone and proud in the old

Grierson house.

Poor Miss Emily. So upright, so proud. The icon of the way

things were, the way things should still be. The last of the Old South, the

living tradition of the way things no longer were. When the slaves were

freed, I stayed. I was just a boy then, but I knew the Griersons needed

me almost as much as I needed them. So I stayed and grew up, then

grew old along with Miss Emily. We were close in age, so I knew Miss

Emily the best, even better than her old, stodgy, overprotective father.

Even to his last days, I was never allowed in the room alone with Miss

Emily. Even if it was in the reading room, where Miss Emily could often

be found, her nose in this or that book.

Ah. I remember that day as if it were yesterday; the day that old

man Grierson forbade us from ever being in the same room again. We

were young, just shy of turning sixteen, and almost friends, I suppose.

We had, by then, endured a lifetime of harsh treatment from old man

Grierson. Me for being a Negro servant; I needed to learn my place, he

said. She for not being the son he wanted and needed to carry on the

family name.

So one day, when I had just given Miss Emily her warm tea, I

accidentally knocked over old man Grierson‘s tobacco pipe stand with

my elbow. I quickly put it back to rights, but his prize Meerschaum pipe

had broken. Just then, old man Grierson came in and saw the broken

pipe. He was furious, more furious than I had ever seen, and he picked

up his heavy cane and raised it to strike me – but Miss Emily stepped in,

and begged for him to spare me. After securing a promise to withhold

my pay until a new pipe was paid in full, the old man Grierson let me go;

but ever since then, I think, he feared that there was something between

me and his daughter. And so he forbade us to ever be alone, regardless

of the circumstances.

The old man Grierson. He loved his daughter, I am sure; though

he was harsh with her, it was with the best of intentions. No man was

Ashley Harris

Thorns in A Rose for Emily

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good enough for her, and he turned away every suitor that came calling

for Miss Emily. Soon enough, the suitors stopped coming around. Miss

Emily was thirty then, and still unmarried. Still a proper and subservient

daughter, caring for her aging father. There were some oleanders growing

in the garden, and Miss Emily bade me cut a few for her, taking care to

leave the roots and to hang them up to dry. So I did, and late one night

while her old father slept, Miss Emily came down the stairs and crushed

all of the parts of the dried flowers; and mixed about half of the resulting

powder into her father‘s canister of coffee. She put the rest away in

another canister, and placed it in the furthest, darkest corner of the pantry.

She told me to be quiet and say nothing; and so I obeyed. When he rose

early the next morning, I made his usual cup of coffee. He said nothing of

the taste, but began to feel ill almost immediately. After a week of violent

bodily evacuations from almost every opening that God gave him, he

died.

Poor Miss Emily. I don‘t expect she realized how much suffering

her father would have; she was near him throughout his entire ordeal,

even bedding down next to him while still wearing her proper clothes, and

he in his bedclothes, covered with the heavy blankets, which she lay on

top of. When I left them each night, she would lay watching him toss and

moan, and when I went in each morning to coax him to eat or drink

something, she would look – comforted, even as he suffered unspeakable

agony from the powdered oleander in his drink.

She called for the town‘s doctor to look after him, and he only

shook his head and ordered total bedrest and limited fluids. He left, never

knowing, never guessing the cause of the old man Grierson‘s sudden

illness. And then he died, and she was with him. She lay in bed, her arm

crossed over his chest, her head on his shoulder, just as she had as a little

girl. I left them that way; she never seemed to notice me in the room.

And then, of course, the town found out he had died; poor Miss

Emily. She wanted to keep her father with her; his body had begun to

bloat and to discolor. After three days, he had begun to smell and to stain

the sheets and his bedclothes with an oily black discharge. Still, Miss

Emily found comfort in being with him, even taking care to carefully

stroke his full beard. Since he was all that she had known, I did not blame

her. She finally broke down when the town‘s doctors and ministers

pressed her; and she was angry, upset, furious that her old father was

gone.

She tried taking the same crushed oleander, but only became ill for

a long time. I pulled up the rest of the flowers and threw them out in the

Ashley Harris

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trash. It was a moment of rebellion, to be sure, but still – a selfish one. I

did not want to be unemployed, or have the town question me. Me, a

Negro. No, no. That won‘t do at all. And so I threw them out, and when

Miss Emily asked, I claimed that some neighborhood boys had stolen

them. I think she believed me; she never asked me about the oleanders

again. And in a moment of childish rebellion, she took a large pair of

scissors, and slashed her hair short.

And then she met him. That Yankee, Homer Barron. He was the

first man who showed an interest in Miss Emily, and he resembled

somewhat her dead father. The same large build, the same swagger. He

came around calling, and Miss Emily wanted him. At first, she was

uncertain – then she realized that without her father there, she was free to

make a choice of her own. And she wanted Homer Barron. She smiled

and batted her eyelashes at him, and he returned her affections with

promises of money and marriage.

―Homer, darling, how should I know you have money enough to

care for me?‖ Miss Emily asked as I served them their Mint Juleps in a

secluded corner of the back porch.

―Oh, Miss Emily! Always so cautious. Come, I will give you full

access to my account. Use the money to plan the wedding, and you will

see – I have money enough for you, and perhaps some young Barrons,

hm?‖ He leaned over and planted a very wet, noisy kiss on her lips.

―Homer!‖She laughed, and blushed at the roguish twinkle in his

eye. I mentally scolded myself for wanting to empty the contents of my

stomach at this display between them.

Not long after, a few days perhaps, she held a piece of paper from

the bank, and on it was verification of Homer‘s account, as well as the

amount that was in it. Miss Emily sat down and thought. Homer had

gone away for work, but promised with much restrained passion that he

would return. Miss Emily was upset, and when he left, raged of his

audacity to leave her! How dare he, she fumed. How dare he leave her,

knowing how much she needed and wanted him?

The next morning she visited the druggist and returned home with

the rat poison. She put it in the same canister that had once held the pow-

dered Oleander, and I said nothing. I knew she would keep him forever;

that this time, he would stay, and never leave Miss Emily‘s side. She had

wanted her father to stay, too, but the town found out and took him away,

leaving Miss Emily truly alone. I was nearly invisible, only there when

she thought to take notice.

Ashley Harris

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So the day after her trip to the druggist, she came into the kitchen

where I was cooking her evening meal, and she stood in the doorway,

watching.

―Would you like some tea, Miss Emily?‖I asked, stirring the

sauce.

―No, Tobe.‖

―Then, perhaps some biscuits or scones to tide you over till

supper, Miss Emily?‖

―No. I‘m not hungry or thirsty. I want to talk to you about the rat

poison.‖ She waited, but I said nothing. I focused on the all-important

sauce. It is what makes or breaks an entire meal.

―When my Homer comes back, mix a teaspoonful in every meal

for him, even his morning coffee.‖

―Yes, Miss Emily.‖

―You won‘t warn him or anyone else, will you?‖

―No, Miss Emily.‖

―You swear it?‖

―Upon my life, Miss Emily.‖

Miss Emily was satisfied with my promise, and she left. I heard

her steps receding, the squeaky door to the reading room open and close.

The sauce was perfect, and I took it off the stove, and checked the pot

roast. Almost ready.

Miss Emily had brought home various marriage items for Homer;

a fine suit, some fine silver things with his initials ―H.B.‖ engraved in

them. She chose the room upstairs, the one that had been her father‘s and

had a beautiful view of the garden in the backyard as the marriage-room.

Homer, when he returned, would sleep in that room. She spent some time

fussing over the perfect arrangement for the items she had bought, and

finally satisfied, left the room and shut the door.

Homer Barron was back some days later. That evening, I

admitted him through the kitchen door, and as per my promise, I added a

teaspoon of the poison to his roast stew, making sure to mix it in with the

spices that he liked. He never noticed the odd taste. He had three bowls

and I added the rat‘s poison to each bowl. That night, he was violently

ill. Miss Emily cared for him, just as she had for her father. She never

sent for the doctor, and never asked me to. It would not do, and Miss

Emily is my responsibility, first and foremost. And so I fed him thin

soups and tepid tea, all with a teaspoonful of sugar mixed with the

Ashley Harris

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poison. He drank and his health grew rapidly worse.

―I love you, Homer. I never want you to leave me, never, never

ever again. That‘s why I must do this, my love,‖ Miss Emily murmured

to Homer. He was almost dead, then, but not so far gone that a wildness,

a fear entered his eyes as he realized what she was saying.

―You… You poisoned me,‖ Homer gasped.

―Yes, my love, but I had to, don‘t you see? I love you so much,‖

she said as she stroked his too-pale skin lovingly.―I cannot bear it when

you leave. So you will stay with me, forever.‖

All he could do was vomit violently; she murmured love-words

and dabbed his brow with a clean handkerchief while I wiped his mouth

and cleaned the mess. I said nothing, only helped Miss Emily. I had been

with the Griersons all of my life, who am I to go against them? I

understood her. She told the truth; she couldn‘t bear it when Homer left.

Did I agree? I‘m not sure. I had never found any man or woman to my

liking, and love is a strange thing to me, alien. Like the town, Miss Emily

is my care, my responsibility.

Finally, mercifully, he died. I helped Miss Emily to undress and

clean him, then to dress him in his new suit. Then I took the dirty sheets

off the bed, put fresh ones on, and changed the blankets on the bed. Miss

Emily had already set aside the ones she wanted; those I put on, fresh,

crisp, new. When I was done, I put him back in the bed for her, on his

side of the bed, and left. Miss Emily spent the night there, as she would

do every night until her death.

When she died, I put her in her own bed, and admitted the

townspeople in for the first time in ten years, and I left, never to return.

Ashley Harris

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Barbie Dolls

Little girls are never so innocent.

Their mothers dream of gowns and wedding bells

and plastic toys lead to that development.

Daddies think their play is beneficent,

but giggling girls are also found in hell.

Little girls are never so innocent.

Joe and Jane, their plastic bodies both bent.

Baby dolls play with army personnel

and plastic toys lead to that development.

Barbie dressed in white to her detriment

and Ken in a tux waiting for church bells.

Little girls are never so innocent.

Becoming their mothers is imminent,

so what better teacher to show and tell?

And plastic toys lead to that development.

Little girls want to be insolent,

eventually found with boys in motels

Little girls are never so innocent

and plastic toys lead to that development.

Mary Pritchard

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Pantoum to Michael

You were a lost coat on the train,

left behind and scattered across the rails;

Though we resembled strangers longing to make connection,

I had no more use for you than conversation.

Left behind and scattered across the rails

they found your teenage body beautiful.

I had no more use for you than conversation

and crime in the moonlight felt romantic.

They found your teenage body beautiful.

I knew from a past of snapshot business

crime, in the moonlight, feels so romantic

but by day is a damn shame.

I knew from a past of snapshot business

the theatre is not a kind trade.

By day it‘s a damn shame

and you get tired of the glittering night life.

―The theatre is not a kind trade,‖

I told you as we rumbled along.

―You get tired of the glittering night life.‖

You smiled and pretended you knew exactly what I meant.

I told you as we rumbled along.

Though we resembled strangers longing to make connection,

you smiled and pretended you knew exactly what I meant.

You were a lost coat on the train.

Stephanie Johnson

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Fragments from Sisters

Sweetbitter unmanageable essence that steals in over hills and outside

window sills:

unfragranced, if not, frozen canopies on cold branches.

Ever-wise, birds are not surprised by substance whiter than the tails of

goats.

―Snow!‖ the three girls cry,

child sweet joy echoing off woven tatami dreams

and windows decorated with steam.

We looked like golden anklebone cups, as the sun struck our faces

crunching our way through the burning dawn, walking.

Towards the schoolyard: smiles like paper cranes seven arm lengths long.

To the world, we are no more than a bird with a piercing voice

but with each other, all is to be dared, a choice

to collect violet memories in our laps.

Stephanie Johnson

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Adolescent Hem

A coldness crept through the circle of girls, as scissors in the hand

slide to mend a too-tight hem, or as if someone had whispered, gesturing,

―this is not the end.‖ A few had the idea, that there would be a split, but it

was by no means common knowledge. It was a secret love note

addressed to another, each girl‘s silent fear.

They stood huddled as in winter, too close for early spring, eating

hastily-prepared lunches, near the concrete blocks of the school‘s mall.

Her eyes were looking too near, too near. She laughed in time with the

others. They were all animated, now, to keep off the chill; now, to

portray an illusion.

Not for the lack but for the abundance, she had begun to be

skeptical of sensations which were barely felt or heard rather than those

which were directly seen, touched. They continued to stand tight in a ring

for weeks after the general premonition. The feelings, the whispers began

to catch like ragged toenails on threadbare socks.

She tried to resist the shock, the truth behind the pull, content in

her position, knowing more the coolness, the prodding, the growing

distance between the others, herself. But she and the others became made

-up. Boys and more established girls frequently broke up the ring.

The fights were not innocent but bloodless; eyes, tongues began

to roll with indignation. Girls went missing, only to be found beside other

concrete blocks, in other circles: there she stood, coolly performing on

the far side of the square concrete lunch area.

And then the bell shrilled for the last lunch of the last day of the

last year of school. The girls were scattered. She was among new friends,

new enemies, when the metallic coldness cut through the clamor to the

other side of all that had held them there. Her ripped bag slung carefully

over her shoulder, she made her way alone through the many faces of the

hallway and thought, maybe. . . maybe things were on the mend.

Holly Hofer

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Song for a dragonfly and the

complexities of sight

This dragonfly‘s stuck in a stairwell. The stairwell‘s a passage

tucked between the light and the dark. One could merely turn a

corner to enter and, later, turn a corner to leave. There are no

closed doors. Some creatures long ago, thinking it better to see,

poked holes in the light side and filled them with glass. The direct

light reveals dust and debris on the stairs, and this fly, flapping

furiously—it is tricked, not trapped. An old woman, sweeping,

hears the bustle and finds the raging being. She doesn‘t know

what to do. Every time she cups her careful hands to guide the

dragonfly out of the trick, it makes a zzssszzssz, and flails all

about the window in a tantrum—liable to get its wings ripped off.

She‘s saddened. It lives and it dies at once.

The woman, curious and tired, sets aside her broom, sits at the

window, and begins to hum. In a kinder story, her fertile song

would be like firm, gentle hands, those she longs for, those long

absent. The dragonfly, cupped by this low lullaby, would fly to a

better place, light or dark, this way or that. But this dragonfly

stares, seeming stunned, through speckled glass and flaps its

wings against obscurity. With its bulbous eyes, it sees the light,

the many piercing shades. This dragonfly is not content; it does

not know what it is—a beating of wings, a looking, a din—who it

is—a rising, a falling, a floating.

Holly Hofer

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A Vegetarian Conversation Held Over a

Steak Dinner In classrooms, many students are too lazy to raise their hand to

answer a question. In a group of people, some are too scared or shy to

volunteer their assistance. While this may appear to be seemingly

inconsequential, it is reflective of our nature to do just nothing when the

time comes to do something.

Edmund Burke said, ―All that's necessary for the forces of evil to

win in the world is for enough good men to do nothing.‖ When most

people hear that quote, they may think of the old lady across the street

being mugged while a group of onlookers does just that - looks on. And

while that prevailing sense of passivity and abhorrent decision making

angers me, I believe that the quote also applies to ethical living that

involves our treatment of animals.

It is our obligation to rise up and help out the old woman across

the street being mugged, not because of her place in the social hierarchy

or income bracket, but because she feels pain and hurts like we all do. It

is our obligation to be aware of the consequences of our decisions and

take appropriate actions. Willfully keeping ourselves in the dark instead

of accepting responsibility for our actions because it‘s nicer in the dark

rates us as sub-par, incompetent humans. As capable men and women, it

is our duty and obligation to be on guard and to be on call for situations

that arise where we can help – because we should help, whether we‘re

helping the old woman across the street or acknowledging the effects of

meat-based diets and animal-based clothing and no longer participating.

You know why I like being a vegetarian with vegan qualities?

Because it gives me reason to be a pompous, arrogant, in-your-face guy

who throws his beliefs in your face while you shove chicken nuggets

down your throat.

Well, that‘s not entirely true. In fact, it‘s not true at all. A person

is defined by both the decisions they make and the decisions they choose

not to make. Five years ago, I chose to stop eating meat and to stop

wearing animal by-products. After a decade of unnecessarily long

deliberation, I had made the decision on the morning of my birthday

while driving to work listening to Fugazi. Five years later, I can say I‘ve

never felt healthier in my life, I rarely get sick and I feel strong for

having never abandoned my convictions.

One question remains however: Although my refusal to eat meat

Phil Grech

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and wear animal by-products obviously saves the lives of innocent

animals, shouldn‘t it be my obligation to inform others about the effects

of factory farming on the environment, the horrendous immorality

involved in slaughtering animals we don‘t need to eat and the health

effects of a meatless and fruitful diet? Well, yes and no.

It‘s important for people to be informed, but it‘s how they

become informed that matters more. Vegetarianism is similar to religion

in the way that it should be a personal choice, it should be born from

your own decisions and perhaps most importantly, it shouldn‘t be thrown

in people‘s faces. I understand that the last point is controversial as many

people believe that the above mentioned points can be brought to light so

the masses are aware of the decisions they make in eating food and

purchasing animal-sourced clothing. But that light will only bring

shadows if it is shoved down people‘s throats.

Throwing ideas in a person‘s face is arrogant and rude, not

admirable and effective. Like religion, shoving your beliefs down

someone‘s throat will only push them away, prevent them from seeing

the purpose of your actions and make people more resistant to accepting

your lifestyle.

When I sit down to dinner with my carnivorous friends, I don‘t

voice my opinion when they slice their steak knives into their bloody

steaks. In fact, if they choose to eat meat, that‘s their choice, but

sometimes they ask me, ―Hey, Phil, I didn‘t know you were a vegetarian;

why did you choose to make that decision?‖

In response, I tell them, ―I couldn‘t help but realize that, as a

child, the cow I thought was cute whose ‗moo‘ I was asked to imitate in

the picture book was the same cow I was eating later that night for

dinner. It‘s not wrong for me to harm another human being because

they‘re smart or dress well, but because they feel pain, the same pain

animals feel when they are physically hurt, and because they feel the

same grief we do when their children are taken from them, and therefore,

I don‘t want to take part in that system. I know that my sole decision to

stop eating meat and not wear animal products will not end the system,

but I feel better for not partaking in a process I disagree with.‖

Usually, people respect that; sometimes they don‘t, but every

time, I have taken the time to listen to what people have to say (Ok, not

every time - some people just reply with stupid remarks – if you‘ve been

vegetarian longer than a week, you know this). But one thing is for sure,

Phil Grech

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I have influenced other people in going vegetarian - not because I shoved

it in their face, but because I openly and without judgment answered their

questions regarding a lifestyle they were new to and curious about – and

that is much more that I would have done than if I had yelled at them for

eating a steak in front of me.

Phil Grech

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Jillian Burns

Shadowland

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Steffi Shook

Floor 5, Hall D, Room 524 They call it a slip

into a coma.

Are we really that close

to being what keeps the wind

from capturing a sheet?

When a child is nudged

into a hospital room, her grandmother

holding a warm, motionless hand;

She doesn‘t see hope or pain or memories

woven above her head in the gray

plaster -- swirled by purpose lacking care.

She sees a carrot in her grandfather‘s pajamas.

With six billion people how

is it possible, that every one

of us knows what it‘s like to feel

aloneness like a clot in a vein;

waiting to lock the doors to your muscles

trapping your aura in a paperweight body.

A man who keeps porcelain

pitchers piled to the ceiling in the grayest

of houses because he has no idea

what love feels like.

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Steffi Shook

Born from Bone

I drop the phone like flies. Drop.

How we‘ll all drop

one way, before we‘re fifty.

I look at my mother‘s hips when she shifts her weight in the kitchen.

Knowing evil could be living there already,

ready to swallow my happiness

like it swallowed her sister three years ago.

I pick the phone up and my grandmother rests on the other end,

her soft, crackled voice tells me it‘s ok

that my cousin has a tumor on her ovary the size

of a baby‘s brain.

I touch my stomach. Low.

Knowing the place where life is created can bring death

as hard as a hailstorm.

The kind of lightning volcanoes make when they can no longer stand

staring at the sky.

I touch my sister‘s hand, the rim of water in our eyes match.

Hers grayer, more blue than mine.

I pray it‘s not in her so hard I think my eyes will never again open

to praise the autumn clouds.

I pray

until I‘m terrified that I‘m doing more harm than good.

A prick and we will fall.

How could He look at a child and plan to eat away

her flesh in her forty-eighth year?

How can I still love Him

like the feel of moss and soil,

brown eyes, my cousin‘s laugh?

I hang up, stop the line running

from my ear to my grandmother‘s

knotted throat.

Head in hands, why is

being born from bone

a greater sin

than dust?

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Oven Bird

There‘s a bird in the oven.

Mama looks out the window ignoring its death dance,

petals fall off her dogwood tree onto daddy‘s shinin‘ head.

Be still cricket soul she crows to her middle, touching the spot

a baby head rests dead on her liver. Just a few more weeks

and we can wrap him in a blanket and make an afterlife behind the shed.

Pop said we shouldn‘t name him, when we found his heart

the size of a fingernail in a barrel chest. Mom and I call him

Angelo, since he decided he liked lying in angel‘s arms

better than our own. How still she sleeps to not stir his

hollow body. Her belly now a tomb I set a daisy

on yesterday afternoon. Oh Allah she cries on cloud-

covered nights, when she thinks we‘re all in bed.

She walks into the pasture, the wet dew forming a barrier

on her bare, calloused feet. The earth‘s protection offered

to a woman who‘s failed at her purpose, who‘s as dead

as the rock in her middle. She kneels near the tractor and picks

the cool grass, its sweat shinin‘ in the moonlight. Rubbing it

on Angelo‘s plastic face, she pleads with him to wake up and prove

she‘s still a woman. Not a limp sheet, pinned to the line-

holding on to too much starch, rough on any skin

willing to get close. I look back to the oven.

The bird has calmed and drawn its wing as a pillow

for his baking head. He decides turning into scorched meat

might be a noble way to go.

Steffi Shook

27

Bethany Bruno

Nutritious Comfort

I remember the smell of it, Nana‘s kitchen during the cool fall nights

Smell of clean, crisp, crunchy fibrous fruit whose skin snapped like

sticks when bitten.

Blood red candle flickering in the darkness. Flame dancing upon the

wick.

My stomach, screaming at me. I could not answer back.

Sweet smell of apple engulfed my nostrils. I felt…. home.

Feeling of hunger always tempting to consume me.

I didn‘t, couldn‘t, lose control again!

This simple homely fruit was my only escape from chaos. With it, I had

sanity.

It overcame cravings for food and gave me power to keep strong during

times of frailty.

Weakness from lack of nutrients, my body desperately needed.

But no, I refused its offer of health. Mirrors judged my every inch and

they declared me ugly.

Skin, yellow. Nails, brittle. Hair, thinning. Breath, horrendous. Eyes,

sunken. Weight 109 lbs.

Only five more, I‘ll be perfect. Right size, right shape, right girl to

admire for beauty.

Who would have guessed that a small, seed-filled, tasty, and red skinned

fruit could be so satisfying? I knew. I knew all too well.

28

Sobriety in the Suburbs He stared into her hazel eyes. He saw no love in them, at that

moment, just contempt.

―Those cigarettes are horrible, Nick. Stop smoking them,‖ she

said calmly, as if her energy was lost and there was no point in telling

him, for he already knew.

Nick smiled. He loved Miranda, didn't he? He thought he loved

everything about her, save for her constant whining and complaining

over his cigarettes. It felt like a Truth commercial. He thought that she

loved him as well and she was trying to cease his bad habits. However, it

seemed to Nick that all those kindergarteners had finally awakened some

maternal side in her. Yet, he wasn't a child. He didn't need to be told not

to eat paste. He was thirty-five years old.

―I don't know how I kiss you,‖ she continued. ―I get a nicotine fix

each time. I don't need it and neither do you. That's it; I'm getting you the

patch.‖

―Christ, Miranda, lay off.‖ He crushed out his cigarette. ―You

sound just like my mother. I left Washington for a reason.‖

―You started smoking for a reason, too. You knew she'd hate it.‖

―I was thirteen. Listen, you don't have to like everything about

me. I don't like everything about you, but I accept you for who you are.‖

―Oh really?‖

―Really,‖ he said, smirking. He could guess her next question.

―And what, may I ask, can't you stand about me?‖

He had guessed correctly. For one, you're too predictable, he

thought. But, he did love almost everything about Miranda, at least the

physical parts: her smile, the smell of her hair after a shower, her soft

skin, and her perfect, shapely body. ―Well,‖ he began, ―I'm not exactly

fond of your Whitesnake albums.‖ He lit another cigarette.

―You just don't know good music.‖

―Maybe so. Although I, too, was a child of the 80s, I tried to

remove myself from the hair metal MTV generation. Perhaps it was my

mistake.‖

She laughed and rose from her chair, heading for the sliding glass

door. Nick grabbed her left hand, gently, and pulled her towards him.

―Not into your safe American home until you give me a kiss,‖ he said.

He fiddled with her engagement ring.

―Brush your teeth after that death stick and I just might.‖ She

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29

pulled her hand away from his and walked into the house.

Nick placed his boot heels onto the glass patio table and inhaled.

His body quivered as the smoke traveled down his throat and into his

lungs. He took a couple more deep drags and stubbed the cigarette out on

his boots, carelessly. A few ignited embers blew about in the October

breeze before falling to the ground, diminishing into ashes. He gazed

around their back yard. Miranda had started a winter garden, which

would birth cucumbers, carrots, beets, and other disgusting vegetables

that Nick wouldn't eat. He felt nostalgic for Washington as he noticed the

dying grass. A desert without an oasis. The white privacy fence was all

that separated Nick from his neighbors. The houses all looked the same;

rectangular, fabricated boxes which, to most, contained the ingredients

for the American dream.

He brushed his fingers through his hair and made a mental note to

grab a haircut tomorrow after work. Despite Miranda's insistence that he

resembled a skinhead, he would not let his hair grow because it was thin-

ning. Only Hunter Thompson looked good with a cul de sac, he decided.

He opened the sliding glass door and walked inside, paralyzed by

the cool, artificial breeze from the air conditioner.

―Go brush your teeth,‖ Miranda called from the bedroom.

―You've got ears like a dog, woman,‖ he said, turned down the

A/C, and followed her voice into the bedroom.

She was changing into pajamas. He watched her from the

doorway. She looked up at him while rummaging through his shirt

drawer. Nick watched her pull out his bleach-stained Dead Kennedys

t-shirt and some freshly washed cotton boxers. She seemed to look at him

coyly and began to undress. He positioned himself against the bedroom

door, still watching. She wriggled out of her tight, black pencil skirt,

exposing her golden, shapely legs. He tried to turn on a light to see her

better, but discovered that the bulb was out. He'd fix it later. He could

still see her in the dissipating Florida sunlight. He began to walk towards

her as she took off her panties.

―Go brush your teeth, Nick, and then I'll kiss you.‖

He leaned in for a kiss, but she turned her head. ―All right, point

taken,‖ he said and walked into the bathroom. He pulled his toothbrush

out of its cup and spread toothpaste onto the bristles. After turning on the

faucet to moisten the bristles, he stuck the brush into his mouth and

turned to face Miranda. She was in the process of tying back her long,

brown hair.

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30

―Now, that's a good boy,‖ she said and stretched her arms back to

unbuckle her bra. It dropped to the floor, her breasts exposed. They were

round and supple. Her nipples were as little pennies, erect and small.

Nick spat into the sink and rinsed his mouth. Tapping the

toothbrush on the edge of the sink, he asked once more for a kiss. She

kissed him briefly. He smiled and guzzled another glass of water.

After dinner, Nick offered to do the dishes. Miranda was tired and

their dinner had been later than usual. She and her students had had a

field trip to the Jacksonville Zoo and the bus ride back to Palm Coast had

been difficult. Nick grabbed his fourth beer, a subtle reward for loading

the dishwasher. He opened it and took a long sip. He felt warm. He

needed a cigarette.

Opening the door to the patio, he fished in his pants for a lighter,

located it, and lit the cigarette dangling from his lips. He inhaled the

tobacco and exhaled.

The wedding was planned for the summer. Miranda had been

coordinating and accessorizing since he had proposed the previous

October. He still remembered the changing leaves spiraling to the

ground, descending harshly, as if to signal the end of something. They

had been in the park. He had given her a blue diamond. Five years ago,

Nick would have sworn an oath to never marry. However, he didn't know

Miranda then. It seemed that after he had met her, everything had

changed. Miranda was a nag, but she meant well. She may have tamed

his inner punk rocker and facilitated his change from a free-lance writer

to a broadcast reporter at First Coast News in Jacksonville, but it was for

a good cause. Adulthood was what she called it. Nick took another sip

off his beer and a pull off his cigarette. Something about the fall proposal

memory stunned him. An uneasy feeling crept into the pit of his stomach,

but he shrugged it off.

The bedroom light turned on. Miranda joined him on the porch,

clutching herself in the fall night. ―What are you doing? You have to

work in the morning.‖ She looked exhausted.

―I know. I'm having a good night cigarette.‖

She yawned. ―Are you drunk?‖

―Borderline.‖

―Nick, you've got to grow up.‖

―Miranda, won't you go to sleep?‖ He took another sip. ―Why are

you even out here?‖

She rolled her eyes. ―Because I woke up and you weren't in bed.

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31

It's almost midnight, Nick.‖

―Maybe if we hadn't eaten so late, it wouldn't have taken me so

long to wash the dishes.‖ He finished his cigarette and his beer. ―I'm

going to sleep, now. Okay?‖ She stretched out her hand and led him into

the house. ~()~

The room was damp and dark. The sounds of yelling, laughing,

and buzzing guitars ricocheted across the four walls and out into the

street. Nick had to take off his boots for security purposes before moving

into the venue. He lit a cigarette as the doorman stamped his hand,

permitting the reckless consumption of alcohol.

Those inside were nameless, faceless black blobs. He walked to

the bar and ordered a beer. The shadows of people danced and hit each

other as the drums acted as machine guns, bringing order to the physical

manifestation of chaos. He knew no one. He cared to know no one. He

just knew that he felt safe, like he belonged in that natural, primitive

energy.

He jumped into the pit, taking the blows of people much larger

and younger than he. It felt good to move in the circle, the parabola. His

body, soggy from sweat, did not feel tired. His arms and chest, red from

punches, embraced the bruises that would surely come. The singer of the

band, covered in tattoos, swirled his dreadlocks as his eyes bulged,

screaming into the microphone.

Suddenly, he saw her. Miranda. She was wearing white and

carrying a bouquet of wilting roses. She had tears in her eyes.

A fist from somewhere hit Nick in the jaw, catching him off

guard. He fell into the mob as young kids, clad in boots and studded

jackets, continued to kick and stomp, trampling him, confining him to

chaos. He could hear their voices. He could taste the blood. ~()~

―Get up,‖ Miranda said. ―If you didn't drink all of those beers last

night this might be a wee bit easier.‖

Nick opened his eyes. It had been a dream. Miranda opened the

blinds and the sun plunged into the room, lighting nearly everything,

save for Nick's disposition. Miranda stood over him with black slacks, a

white shirt, and tie in her left hand. She placed her unoccupied hand on

his forehead to test his temperature. She wiped his sweat onto the

comforter, placed his clothes on the nightstand, and mounted him.

―You might be getting sick, you're pretty clammy,‖ she said and

kissed him. ―But right now, you've got to get up. You're late. Plus, the

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32

refrigerator died sometime last night and I have to clean it out, buy a new

one, and figure out when they're going to deliver it.‖

―What about the beer?‖

―Warm. My chili is gone too. I made a week's worth, which sucks

now.‖ She kissed him again. They kissed longer, more intimately. He

began to pull off her boxers when she rolled off him, abruptly.

―What are you doing,‖ he asked, pulling her towards him. ―Don't

go anywhere.‖

―Let's go take a shower.‖ She strolled slowly towards the

bathroom. Nick smirked and raised his tired body out of bed, rejecting

the gravitational pull of synthetic satin. He decided not to tell her about

the dream. Dreams meant nothing. He followed Miranda's pile of clothes

into the bathroom and closed the door. ~()~

―What the---‖ he mumbled, searching for a lighter in his pockets.

―How did I lose my freakin‘ lighter?‖ Rummaging, fondling, and

simultaneously unlocking his car door, he cursed to himself about a

painful migraine he had been experiencing since noon. ―Eureka.‖ He

fingered the orange Bic in his shirt pocket. He brought the cigarette from

behind his ear into his mouth. The smoke billowed. Sighing from the

burst of nicotine, he yanked off the press badge and tossed it into the

passenger seat. The pressure had been alleviated from his head; it was as

Novocain.

He had covered a house fire in Riverside and downtown

Jacksonville traffic was hell. Trying to get to I-95 was like trying to

silence a crying infant. Once he was able to accelerate onto the interstate,

he began to calm down. The skyline menaced him in his rear view

mirror. He missed Jacksonville, even the crack heads downtown. He

missed the music and art festivals that united the city, segregated by

racial and religious tension.

95 was packed once he made it out of Duval County. Everyone

was commuting from Jacksonville to the lily-white suburbs where

property was cheaper and crime was non-existent. He got off at US-1 and

his stomach churned as he reached the sign at the end of the off-ramp.

―St. Augustine: 17 miles. Palm Coast: 5 miles.‖

As much as he would have loved, at that moment, to merge north,

back to his job with St. Augustine culture magazine The Drift, he turned

right, heading south, towards the suburbs. He hadn't been to the St.

George Street Tavern since he bar tended there, two years ago. He had

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33

left St. Augustine when he and Miranda had bought the house in Palm

Coast and she had transferred to Wadsworth Elementary School. He

missed the architecture, the street musicians, and the first Friday art

walks. Everything in Palm Coast died at sunset. Beauty meant mini-vans

and elitist subdivisions in Palm Coast. Fun equaled a trip to the movie

theater for the newlywed and nearly dead.

As he turned into his neighborhood, he noticed that each house

had a basketball hoop. Each road led to nowhere. Each driveway was big

enough for two sedans. If he didn't live there, he thought, he wouldn't

even know how to navigate through the puzzling labyrinth of

handicapped placards, manicured lawns, and sidewalk chalk.

Pulling into his driveway, he noticed immediately that Miranda

was home. She had said she would be chaperoning the Halloween sock

hop at school that Saturday. Or was it next Saturday? His migraine

throbbed.

The garage door was down, so he entered through the front door,

infiltrated by some strange smell. Miranda was on the phone with a

friend, cooking couscous and steaming fresh broccoli. He liked neither.

Massaging his temples, he trudged into the bedroom and removed his tie.

Miranda had already started laundry, he thought, eyes cascading across

the carpeted floor for the jeans he had worn the night before.

―Wait a minute,‖ he said aloud, noticing Miranda's landscape

painting above his dresser. ―Where the hell is my Stooges poster,

Miranda?‖ He threw on some gym shorts and a tight Misfits t-shirt.

―Miranda!‖

She had hung up the phone. ―Hey, baby,‖ she said. It seemed to

Nick that she was speaking more to the stove than to him. ―I know

you're not fond of couscous, but it's all I have. The refrigerator isn't

coming until Monday and Jodie from next door gave me some broccoli.‖

―I'm not hungry. I have a headache. Speaking of which, where did

you put my Stooges poster?‖

―The A/C unit is leaking in the garage. Will you pretty please go

take a look?‖

He stared at her for a moment, taking it personally that she had

ignored his imperative question. His mother used to do that. That's why

he pissed on a cop car that night he got accepted to University of Central

Florida. His mother had submitted the application. She knew, at that

moment, he didn't want to go to college. Not like he wanted probation

either.

Emily Hoover

34

Nick walked into the garage. He pressed the button, which

opened the garage door, releasing natural light into the stifling, darkened

garage. Before he noticed the puddle of water, which stretched from the

unit to the garage door itself, he noticed his Stooges poster, hanging

comfortably next to his Washington State license plate, as if conforming

to another moment in time.

―What the hell? The nerve.‖ His eyes found the puddle; it had

completely ruined his cardboard box of baseball cards and his vinyl

records. Fighting his anger at Miranda's lack of consideration, he picked

up the Louisville Slugger, draped against cleaning supplies, and

commenced to beating the unit, screaming in frustration.

―What are you doing?‖ Miranda yelled, running into the garage.

―Nick, stop it! I'm calling a repairman tomorrow! We need something to

repair, remember?‖

―You moved Iggy Pop,‖ Nick said, almost whispering. He

dropped the bat, breathing heavily.

―Who?‖

―Iggy Pop. Iggy and the freakin‘ Stooges, Miranda!‖ He moved to

face her, parallel to the garage door.

―So? It didn't look good in the bedroom.‖

―How are you going to marry me if you don't respect Iggy, huh?

The raw power of The Stooges, Miranda! You didn't even consult me.‖

―I didn't know I had to.‖

―Sorry my taste sucks. Excuse me while I wipe my butt with your

Thomas Kinkade painting.‖ He moved past her, almost through her, and

into the house. ~()~

After driving to the gas station for more beer, Nick decided to

have it his way at Burger King before heading home. He thought that

couscous tasted like overcooked grits, and couldn't resist the temptation

of saturated fat, but he sat with Miranda while she ate, still stewing over

the poster.

By the time she had disposed of what Nick refused to eat, he had

a pretty good buzz going. He saw that Miranda didn't look happy.

―I wish you hadn't bought beer, we could have stored the food in

the cooler with the ice you bought. There's no room now, so I have to

throw all of this away.‖

―Pity,‖ Nick said, guzzling his Guinness.

―Is your headache gone?‖

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35

―Nope, getting worse.‖

―Why don't you turn in early?‖

He didn't reply.

―You look like hell,‖ she said. ―Finish that beer and go lay

down.‖

―Christ, Miranda, you're just like my mother. Stop messing with

me. I'm not some snot-nosed kid who's eating crayons or shitting my

pants during naptime. You're not the boss, I'm not in school, and I know

how to tie my shoes!‖

―I'm only trying to help.‖

―Forget your help. I don't need any help. I've traveled all over this

country armed with a backpack and a bachelor's degree in journalism.

Here I am, writing crappy newscasts, devoid of thought and cause,

watching Barbie and Ken regurgitate my information to bobble-heads

just like them. That was because you helped me. That was because you

know a producer at First Coast. Forget your help.‖

―You are so inconsiderate!‖

―Yeah,‖ he said and paused. ―And you're a nagging snob. Aren't

we a match?‖

―What are you trying to say? Are you trying to say that you don't

want to marry me?‖

He grunted. ―I didn't say that, Miranda.‖

―Yes you did! So, you've been giving me the wrong impression

all these years, haven't you?‖

He guzzled the remainder of his beer and looked at her. Her eyes

flooded with tears. He looked away.

―If you don't want to marry me--‖

Nick cut her off. ―I didn't say that, for Christ sakes. Why are you

so sensitive?‖

He saw the disdain in her eyes. ―I never said I didn't want to

marry you. I implied it.‖

―You implied it,‖ she said, her mascara bleeding.

Nick rolled his eyes. ―Miranda, I'm sorry. I'm sorry; please don't

cry.‖ She stormed out of the room and slammed the bedroom door. ―I'm

going to go outside and have a cigarette and then we're going to talk

about this.‖ Miranda didn't respond. Nick sighed and went out onto the

porch, taking his seventh beer with him.

After five minutes of silence, he finished his beer and his

cigarette. However, he did not dare to venture inside; he had a feeling

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36

Miranda was sobbing and throwing things. While outside, he thought

about the dream. He had been wearing a tuxedo at the show. He

remembered he had been dressed for the wedding. Suddenly, that same

uneasy feeling that had plagued him the night before surfaced again

inside him. He walked into the house.

Opening the door to his bedroom, he tried to flick on the light to

see Miranda. He realized he had forgotten to fix it. ―Miranda,‖ he said,

walking to the bed. He faintly saw her lying there, with her back to him.‖

Miranda,‖ he said again, louder. No response. He walked out of the

room. He figured that Miranda had wanted him to think she was asleep

and thus, could avoid talking. That was fine. He grabbed another beer. ~()~

By the time darkness had swallowed suburbia entirely, leaving no

light save for the moon and stars, Nick was drunk. He was very drunk.

He had finished his twelve pack and had moved on to the bottle of Jack

Daniels. He was sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette. He had

rebelled against Miranda's rules, like he had with his mother in Seattle.

He looked at the pictures on the coffee table. One was of him and

Miranda, early in their relationship. They had looked so happy, Nick

thought, so happy being different from one another. Miranda had said

that he was her bad boy and he had once called her his angel, summoned

to save him from a pathetic, putrid barfly existence.

Next to the photograph was another of Nick and his mother on the

night of his college graduation. Everything about his mother looked

perfect. Her clothing was pressed and expensive, her nails manicured and

her hair dyed a youthful blond. The only thing off about the picture, Nick

thought, as he looked at himself in the photo—he was clad in a torn

flannel shirt and still had a hot pink mohawk—was his mother's face. She

never smiled. He was never good enough for her, even after graduating

from college with honors. He hadn't seen her since. It had been almost

thirteen years.

Now, he felt tough as he governed his bottle like it was the center

of the universe. Sipping slowly and smoking slowly, he guessed that

Miranda was sleeping; it was after two. She was sleeping while Nick was

breaking all the rules and poisoning their house with cigarettes. He had

not bothered to throw away the beer bottles. She would complain about

that in the morning. She would complain about the smell as well.

He belched. It tasted of sin. He felt sinful but he didn't mind. He

stubbed out his cigarette on the coffee table and chuckled. He lit another,

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37

in spite of her, in spite of everyone who told him what to do. It tasted

good. Belching again, the room spun. He didn't feel so tough. He took

one last drag, flicked it aside, and fell asleep. ~()~

The smoke detector sounded. Nick opened his eyes and smelled

smoke. It was clouding everything, including his ability to act

assertively. He coughed, hypnotized by the holocaust before him. He

could still see the photographs of his mother and Miranda as they began

to curl inside their frames, but picked up the cigarette pack and stuffed it

into his pocket. Coughing up mucus, vomiting both out of fear and

inebriation, he crawled to the front door. The flames chased him. He

could feel the fire; he could feel everything burn around him. The fire

had completely incinerated the western side of the house and was

slithering across the carpet, engulfing the couch, brightening the room

with blue, orange, and red flames. When it caressed the bottle of Jack

Daniels, it exploded, flames augmenting as high as the ceiling,

annihilating the life he and Miranda had built for themselves.

Suddenly, he remembered. ―Miranda!‖ He coughed, struggling to

breathe. ―Miranda, we've got to get out of here!‖ He heard the fire

crackle and felt the heat as it moved closer to the door, closing in on him.

He jumped to his feet and ran out the door.

Near the mailbox, Nick saw Miranda's silhouette in the

moonlight. She was pacing back and forth on the asphalt, sniffling,

sobbing and screaming on the phone to the 911 dispatcher that her

fiancée was still inside. She collapsed to the ground, overcome with fear

and frustration. He felt his stomach drop and ran to her. He pulled her to

her feet and embraced her tightly.

―I was so scared,‖ she said, her speech muffled in his chest. ―I

yelled for you but you didn't answer.‖

―I was asleep; I think I took too much Advil.‖

She looked up at him and placed her hand on his cheek. ―Are you

all right?‖

―Yeah, I'm okay. A little tired.‖ His lies stung him. He heard the

fire department in the distance. ~()~

The sun peaked over the horizon, painting pastel orange and pink

into the sky. Nick's eyes were bloodshot as he sat in the ambulance

drinking water, trying to sober up. Miranda sat adjacent to him, hugging

a towel. Nick turned to look at her. She was looking at the ruins of their

house. She looked away. Nick looked into her hazel eyes. He winked.

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38

She smiled; Nick could tell it was forced.

―You know I love you, Miranda,‖ he said, placing an arm around

her.

―I love you too.‖

―I'm sorry about our house.‖

―It's not your fault. I think I left the stove on after cooking that

couscous.‖

Nick finished his water and tried to visualize the way the house

used to look. The entire house was black. He tried to count everything

they had lost, but couldn't. Everything was gone.

He stood and leaned against the side of the ambulance. The

firefighters were packing their equipment and barking orders at each

other. Miranda stood next to him and buried herself in his chest, turning

her back to the nothingness that stood before them. Nick knew he could

have lost her. He felt closer to her than ever before. For once, he did not

feel inadequate.

―Excuse me, kids,‖ said a voice from behind them. They turned to

face the concerned firefighter. ―I'm Captain Buchanan and I'd like to ask

you a few questions. Would that be all right?‖

Miranda nodded. ―Was it an electrical fire?‖

―No ma'am. I was wondering...do we have a smoker here?‖

Nick let go of Miranda's waist and put his hands in his pockets.

―Yeah, and thankfully, he lost his cigarettes in the fire.‖

Buchanan's eyes narrowed. ―So, you're the smoker? Well, son, it

seems that this fire was caused by a cigarette. Did you forget to put it

out?‖

Nick was stunned. He looked at Miranda, who looked like she

would spontaneously combust. ―You've got to be kidding me!‖ She gave

Nick a filthy look. ―That figures, doesn't it?‖

Nick stared. Buchanan began to walk away. ―Hey,‖ Nick said.

Buchanan turned. ―Are you sure?‖ Buchanan nodded and began to walk

back to the house. Nick closed his eyes.

―You're a living, breathing omen, Nick! An omen! I can't believe

you destroyed our house...with a cigarette! For three years I've been

telling you to quit. Three years, Nick! The night we get into a huge

argument, over your vices, mind you, you destroy our house! What about

my clothes, Nick? And my cedar dining room set? And what about those

suede couches? Those couches cost me a thousand bucks!‖

Nick massaged his temples.

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―What's wrong, Nick? Do you have a headache? Well, guess

what? I don't have a house!‖

―Christ, Miranda, stop yelling.‖ He opened his eyes, studying the

ruins of his house—the broken foundation, the haze, and the black,

gaping pile of destruction.

―Man,‖ he said, amazed. Miranda huffed, puffed, and started

down the street, sobbing. Nick didn't even try to stop her. ―Man,‖ he said

again and inhaled a breath of fresh, sweet oxygen. ―I need a cigarette.‖

As the smoke billowed around him, he could barely see her. Even

though the rays of the rising sun had illuminated the entire neighborhood,

the milky smoke created a hazy film over Nick's eyes. It clouded his view

of Miranda. He couldn't see her anymore.

Emily Hoover

40

Happiness

Jillian Burns

41

Ghazal for the Despondent

When the failing half-light falls on the pavement,

the cold tears of the night stain darkly on the pavement.

We let our sorrow pool and collect in Misery‘s bed,

afraid to banish the past that lingers on the pavement .

The clanging of keys filter through my window and

I long for the echo of soft footsteps on the pavement.

I smell gingered cologne, his signature night, and I

drop my fork and run to meet him on the pavement.

I asked to be a phoenix once, so that I could begin

Anew. But I was denied, left numb on the pavement.

In still hours, I run down the street‘s end, soaking in my thoughts.

Sometimes, I stumble; feel the grit of pain on the pavement.

When morning light blankets the porch in cool colors, I leave

the house in faded jeans and walk with resolve on the pavement.

Jeanette Vigliotti

42

Breaking Even

We walked down the street in a straight line, Alex‘s basketball

bouncing up and down with the rhythm of our feet. I swing the wicker

picnic basket from one hand to the other as we veered from the brick

lined path onto the grass, a vague path formed by a stampede of feet. My

mother opened the gate to the Morrow‘s backyard, which was a wild

circus with parents and kids running within the limits of the high wooden

fence.

I veer off from my parents and brother, making my way to the

endless table of food. Placing the basket on the edge of the table, I began

to place the assortment of homemade desserts in symmetrical patterns,

amusing myself with the brownie building blocks, making small castles.

High-pitched squeals echoed around me, beckoning me from the long

wooden table towards a group of girls, crammed around a circular table

covered by a cloth red and white checkered tablecloth. The latest charity

hosted by a sorority was the current topic of conversation. Wasn‘t it so

important to participate to host a charity nowadays? There was immense

excitement over the pictures the following day. Getting all done up just

to take a picture in front of the river. Taking my place on an empty chair,

I let me eyes wander over to the backyard basketball hoop, where our

escorts and brothers had some sort of basketball game going on. I noticed

my little brother, Alex, was the only one not dressed in either plaid or

khaki shorts with a polo; he was wearing baggy basketball shorts and an

oversized t-shirt. The black sheep of the neighborhood, determined not to

fit into the distinctly southern section of town.

10 am the next morning, I open the locker room door at

Timiquana Country Club to a din of noise. Girls are flying around the

room, determined to be the first in line for hair or first in line for

make-up, I watched as Anna, in a first grade, had to be first all the time

move, shoved her way to the front of the hair line, plopping down in

Tiffany‘s makeshift hair salon chair. Setting my bag down, I placed

Mollie Saunders

43

myself in the make-up line, quietly ignoring the rest of the girls the best I

could. The room seemed to shake as girls flew from one end to the next,

trying to get into their identical dresses with their nearly identical

hairstyles and make-up. Conformity was the theme to a debutante ball.

Everyone was in the same dress in different colors. Any differences were

subtle in order to fit each girl into the dresses. The emphasis on

individuality was unimportant to the families at Timiquana; every girl

had to look the same, total equality.

As everyone began to slip into their dresses, the catfights over the

mirrors began. Everyone seemed to want the same mirror, as if the one

were any different from the rest. But there seemed to be something

special about this mirror, it held a certain magical fascination for each

girl, except for me. I could care less. I was just ready for the day to be

over, and then the nightmare of the debutante ball would end. The picture

this afternoon, the ball in the evening.

―GIRLS‖ Ms. Carly‘s principal voice silenced the classroom of

debutants, ―It‘s picture time.‖ Another round of excited squeals erupted

in the suffocating room, leading to a stampede of feet out the door to the

back exit of the country club.

We lined up in front of the river, the American flag waving

behind us, showing our American pride. The five foot nothing

photographer tried to gain our attention as the girls fluttered about,

fussing over their escorts, who were more interested in discussing

whatever baseball game they‘d been listening to in the men‘s locker

room earlier. Finally, taking a stand on the chair next to him, he yelled at

us to shut up and stand still. In drill sergeant form, he moved each couple

to the place he wanted, so we would be ―visually appealing‖.

From my place, I could see the cars coming and going from the

club parking lot. Wouldn‘t it just be nice to hop in one of those cars and

disappear? To just run away before the ball began? Before the dances and

the smiling and the announcement as to how much was made for the

breast cancer organization we were funding?

Mollie Saunders

44

―Smile‖ I turned my head from the parking lot, towards the

camera and plastered on the best smile I could, trying to ignore Ms. Carly

who was dancing around behind the photographer trying to make us

smile bigger. What was the point of leaving anyhow? It was just one

night, one afternoon. And it meant so much to my parents. Almost too

much. What does it matter if I‘m not doing this for me, if I‘m doing this

for them. That‘s what daughters are supposed to do. We‘re supposed to

do what our parents want us to do. So I take the picture with a smile.

Besides, I‘ll get out soon enough.

Mollie Saunders

45

I Heard Laughter Through My Window

Wind flares, curling hair

of a young couple huddled

together against the cold

waves swirl at young

children threatening to

pull them into the

dangerous rocks, sharp

toddlers ready to follow

reckless footsteps as

young mothers reel them

into the safety of the grass

long bridge, old as stone,

connects flowers picked

by pretend princesses

to the old weeds left

forgotten by the younger

generation as the sun drops

in the late sky,

nearing the end of a day.

Mollie Saunders

46

daddy‘s little princess

quiet, even breathing drawn short

gentle rocking of the crib, empty of life

sunlight trying to flit through thick curtains

steady whirring of the fan overhead

creaking wooden floorboards signaled your arrival

is this what you expected to find?

your baby girl, barely 8 months old

forever gone from you

26 years later, a wife, later, a life later

i came

if she were here

would she wear that crown?

Mollie Saunders

47

Stumble Upon

It was Tom Loguidice who introduced The Duluoz Legend to us.

He had a small collection made up of such titles as: On the Road, the

Dharma Bums, and Desolation Angels. After class, whether that be late

morning or afternoon, we met up and, consciously or not, acted out the

fantasies we read into—that free, don‘t-give-two attitude, the Memento

Mori mindset, all alluding to a single elusive word, IT. We met at our

friend‘s house on Pomar, the three of us: Tom, Kyle, and I—the new

generation of naysayers and optimists. We sat around smoking cigarettes,

calling to bums and passersby on the street. But however far we emulated

our characters, no one matched Tom‘s level in devotion. He took it too

far without even trying. And when he stood on a coffee table, jumping up

and down with his unit out, screaming, ―Yes, Yes, Yes,‖ he looked like a

barbarous Indian angel. So when it was rumored Thomas Loguidice

joined the army, we were all skeptical. Never the less, it was true.

A certain madness shrouded itself around us. Beneath its veil, all

predilections of ethnicity and style were forgotten. We formed a clique,

some joined emphatically, others reluctantly, and some because they saw

no other option: and out of this group, the hesitant beatniks who didn‘t

want to completely go along with ‗IT‘, I was one. The saintly fourteen

book saga told tales wild from my nature, but they did give me

interesting thoughts of freedom and adventuring this land. Honestly, I

preferred some Joyce, whose stories shed light on the drag of day to day

life in a small city. And while these books certainly qualified as

literature, they didn‘t exactly fit the curriculum of an early Brit Lit class,

and for that they were circulated secretly during lectures. One day, Dr.

Walsh was preaching Shakespeare and Kyle was discovered with a copy

of Big Sur.

--Which page? 1115? Now, Kyle, up!

--My love is a fever….Continue! My love is a fever…Did you not read?

My love is a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell?

She stood there in mortal disbelief. Then she dramatically

lowered her head, keeping her eyes on keel with Kyle‘s. When finished,

she was grilling him like no other. You know, like giving him the

universal death stare, that ice cold glare which still burns, burns, burns

right through you all the same. The look meant to inspire instant

Matthew Sperber

48

involuntary defecation out of intimidation. In words this expression

roughly translates to: Are you kidding me? You best wipe that little

smirk off your face, before I walk over there and slap the living crap out

of you until your eyes are bleeding. And if you‘d really like, I can

provide you with a chance to meet Shakespeare himself! She marched

directly over to Kyle‘s corner.

--What‘s this on your desk? She said. Big Sur? You‘d rather read this, a

grammatical travesty written by an alcoholic who slept in box cars,

drifting from town to town and striking kin with junkies and vagabonds!

Is this really what you people read, books about admittedly pointless road

trips from coast to coast, avoiding any responsibility. Well, let me tell

you, Shakespeare faced the dragon. He faced the critics and reconciled

his fame. Kerouac never faced his dragon. In fact, he never stopped

running from it. You sir, have just spit in the face of Shakespeare. In fact,

not only that, you‘ve crucified Shakespeare today, actually, by what you

said, today sir…you haven‘t just crucified Shakespeare, what you‘ve

done, is manage to rape and crucify all of English Literature!

--Good, he said, I‘m an American

--Get out!

This reality check in the sane hours of our lives detracted much

from the allure of beat literature for me, and Kyle‘s growing infatuation

for anything uprooted matched with an utter disrespect against anything

establishment didn‘t help. But when the formal echo of school ceased

tolling through my head, I began thirsting again for mystical visions and

cosmic vibrations, for the freedom those books outlined. The balls-to-

walls lifestyle we pursued at night became equally draining as school

itself. It was getting to a point where I was giving all, both mentally and

physically, and was left almost nothing. But still, as Huxley said, ―I

didn‘t want comfort, I wanted God, I wanted poetry, I wanted real

danger, I wanted freedom, I wanted goodness, I wanted sin. [sic]‖ And I

couldn‘t have said It better myself.

The semester was winding down when I decided to live

completely on the edge, for one night at least. With Kyle Matthews and

another guy named Evan, we planned a night of fully fledged

debauchery. Each of us would save twelve dollars for jugs of port. We

would meet at five p.m. on the corner of Granada and Bridge. Evan

would skip his night class and Kyle would call out of work. We decided

we would go to ABC, where Kyle would buy the wine using his fake ID,

then go to the corner of King and Riberia and see if any hobos were

Matthew Sperber

49

there. If not, we‘d walk down Riberia near the abandoned boat yard

where they often slept in forgotten sewage pipes, left there by the city

God knows when. Evan was afraid some of these people might be crazy,

but Kyle asked very wisely, isn‘t that the point. Then it was settled: Kyle

collected all our money. As we walked away trying last minute ideas, we

were all excited. We diverged laughing, Kyle chuckling, ‗Yes, oh yes,

yes.‘

All through class the next day, I couldn‘t pay attention. At five I

was first to the corner, seeing as it directly faced my apartment. It was

turning into a cool November evening. I paced back and forth chiefing

down innumerable L&M‘s, watching Food Not Bombs provide their

nightly meal in Pot Belly‘s parking lot. The Spanish moss danced quietly

with a soft wind to and fro. Traces of my breath floated through the air in

the form of condensation and smoke. I was burning with great

expectations.

After about ten minutes I saw Kyle‘s scrawny figure approaching.

He walked up, tossed his cigarette on the ground and squished it out

using his loafer. While we waited he pulled out his new one hitter and

explained why it was the most effective smoking utensil ever conceived.

One of those ceramic cigarettes, it was certainly inconspicuous, say for

the inevitable smell. I asked why he brought it, he said so we could blaze

out some bum. We stood around and chatted until six o‘clock when it

became obvious Evan had decided not to skip class.

--Aight, let‘s go, I knew he‘d wuss out, probably too scared of that

damned attendance policy.

--What about the money he gave you?

--Ours now, said Kyle. And good too, Now we‘ll each get two liters of

port instead of one and a half.

We walked down Bridge Street till we came to MLK, upon which

we hooked a right towards King. At King we turned left and made the ten

minute walk to ABC liquor out by US-1. Kyle went in and returned with

three large jugs of Carlo Rossi. As soon as we were off King Street and

back in the shadows, Kyle tore into his jug with a vengeance. We

sauntered slowly down Riberia, stopping every few steps for large slugs

of port. The street was very quiet and vacant, except for a bearded man

making his way with some difficulty towards us on a bike. We pleased

ourselves with the bizarre ambiance of Lincolnville: the run down houses

and vacant buildings all rumored to be haunted. From a clearing we

distinguished a few silhouettes swaying out in the bay. Probably

Matthew Sperber

50

schooners, I said, stragglers left behind from the Southern Sailor

Migration.

Each boat greeted the harbor identically: with a slow, rocking

and melodic wave. In doldrums, their dark and somber faces dodged one

another for the most part. On occasion their portholes met—blind golden

eyes exchanging glances. But these moments wouldn‘t last, they

couldn‘t. Time and again, the undying mutability of nature reared its ugly

head, killing and shattering them over the fractaling swells from which

they rose. And these schooners, like slaves chained to the Deep, as the

locusts are to the heavens, continued their perpetual journey. But lo, even

the seeds of knowledge once bowed before the wind.

Again thoughts of freedom flooded my imagination. Where had

these boats been, where were they going? The possibilities seemed

endless. I played with this notion in my mind as a figure passed behind

us, a tranny. I tried to see if his eyes were green because I had heard

somewhere…It was too dark to tell.

We continued along Riberia, working on our jugs, bs-ing at one

another with some increasing difficulty. Further down, we came to the

abandoned boat yard. Kyle produced his one hitter and stuffed it with

some dank cheebah. We passed it back and forth, coughing heavily each

time on the rebound. There seemed to be nobody in the area but us. Then

Kyle spotted a figure hunched over in a big pipe and his face lit up with

glee. We approached slowly with some caution as we didn‘t know if this

person was sleeping, drunk or armed—possibly all three. From ten feet I

made out the figure of a man. He was shabbily dressed in several

sweatshirts and jeans, looking stiff from dried mud. A long, untamed

grey beard matched his nappy hair. If I had to say, I would‘ve placed him

somewhere around sixty. As we stood there he turned quickly to us, then

back around. He was defiantly coherent. We called to him and waited a

few seconds before an echo; we drew nearer. He smelt as if he‘d been

rolling around in horse all night, and then afterwards taken a shower in

malt liquor. Informal introductions gave us his name, the Green Dragon.

If it‘s one thing I‘ve learned, the homeless have some of the most

creative aliases out there.

We talked about the weather. He said it would be a cold winter,

colder than last; and adding how global warming made for a hell of a

summer, implored we share our wine. We were surprised to learn he‘d

attended college, Princeton he said. These, he added, were some of the

best days of his life, before Vietnam came knocking, that is. Apparently,

Matthew Sperber

51

this last point called upon some tragic memories. I saw, he growled, I

saw the best friends I had die over there, hysterically screaming and

naked, covered in napalm, dragging themselves across the battle field at

dawn, looking for a medic. He paused for a moment of silence, and then

inquired if either of us had read any Whitman or Joyce. Through my

drunkenness I acted as if I‘d read every story and poem he rattled off.

--Ah, I can tell you‘re one for the world of academia. But him, he looked

at Kyle swaying back and forth still pounding wine like a champ, he gets

IT.

He said he used to own all of Joyce‘s and Whitman‘s publications

and used to read them all at least once per year. Dubliners, he said, was

his favorite of all time. He smiled. He had eyes like piss holes in the

snow, and only a few pitted rotting teeth hiding behind his beard. His

hands were covered in tattoos—the lines of which weren‘t even black,

more of a pond scum green. Some of the lines didn‘t connect all the way.

Although I didn‘t want to ask, I knew these were all markings of prison

tattoos; done under the most rudimentary of conditions.

Then he wanted to know which of us got the most girls. Kyle told

him he had a girlfriend of two years back home. He turned to me and

leaned in slightly, peering upwards in my direction. Reluctantly, I

admitted no girls had taken to my fancy. This, he said, surely must be a

modest lie, but I shamefully assured him it was not.

--How bout‘ you man, said Kyle rather obnoxiously, how many babes

has the Green Dragon lured in?

I would say Dragon smiled, but his lack of teeth made any

attempt at sincerity virtually impossible. Even the most genuine of smiles

still came across as some disturbing sneer. He said when he was our age

it was the time of free love, so he really couldn‘t say how many cats he‘d

reeled in. He seemed pretty intelligent and well read for a man sleeping

in a swamp. But something was off about him. Every so often, like after

a sentence, he‘d crane his neck downward into his arm pit and mumble.

He started talking about college girls: how there was nothing more nubile

than one, how a girl of that age had the softest skin and prettiest eyes, and

how all beauty is like morning dew. The way he said all of this was

extraordinarily unnerving. He was practically licking his hideously

chapped lips throughout the entire speech, I could smell his terrible

breath more and more—I swear it was discolored when it lingered and

vanished before us. And still, every so often, he would bury his head in

his armpit and mumble incoherent interjections to himself. As he spoke, I

Matthew Sperber

52

found myself looking less and less at him. A wicked combination of

alcohol and growing disgust for this man was making my head spin. How

Kyle could stand exchanging a bottle with him was beyond me.

After a while, Dragon stopped talking. I looked up and found him

just staring at me, his head lowered slightly; eyes kept level with mine.

Then he picked himself up slowly, remarked he‘d be right back, and

without adjusting my line of sight passed before us stumbling further

back in the yard. We seized this opportunity to kill the wine. Five

minutes passed when I heard Kyle utter,

--Holy crap, look what he‘s doing.

I didn‘t say a word and just kept my eyes directly aimed on the

ground before me. Kyle cried again.

--Dude!... This guy‘s a perve.

--If he wants our names, I said, I‘m Goldberg and your Ryder.

We went back to being quite. I was thinking whether to take a

scenic route back home, so Dragon wouldn‘t know where I lived. He

came back and sat down. Kyle stood and dug around in his pocket. He

came out with his one hitter and walked away. Dragon and I watched the

flick-flick-flare of his lighter across the field. He began to speak once

more, though this time differently. Whereas before, the majority of his

speech was directed at us, now his armpit bore the brunt of his attention.

Any notion of this man‘s sanity poured out with the garbled tongues

leaving his mouth. All I could make out was something about wearing a

dress. I turned my head at him momentarily and realized his eyes were

green.

I waited a passing minute until he paused, oblivious to wipe his

nose, nodding all the while. Then I stood up fast, hung around a few

seconds, pretended to re-adjust my belt and then, saying a quick goodbye

walked as fast as I could towards the boat yard‘s entrance, trying not to

make it too obvious I was fleeing the scene. When I got to the entrance I

turned and yelled:

--Ryder!

My voice shook slightly. I yelled it once more before I saw Kyle

jogging towards me. The way he came said he knew exactly what I was

thinking. And I was regretful, because through my fear, a hit of loathing

still resonated in his honor.

Matthew Sperber

53

Evan Tisdale

A Blueprint of Grandma‘s Trailer Home

I. The Front Yard

Pink plastic feathers, sprinkled throughout the khaki-olive blades.

Rusted out Lincoln; immobile; the key ornament on a barren lawn.

The drive; a minefield of imperfections; cobbled to the ashen road.

Neighbors flock; migrate south; BBQ chicken on a nest of ember coals.

II. The Living Room

Front porch, a carpeted couch coughs a smoky cloud when sat upon.

An August Xmas tree hangs estranged from the cob-webbed corner.

Old Milwaukee an aluminum trophy case, bled of each gold drop.

Hangovers become friendly, fuzzy recollections of midnight revelry.

III. The Kitchen

Antlered-eyes stare frozen from hollow fridge to grease-stained stove.

A flea market stuffed into a shoebox; cartons, eloquently cramp and clutter.

Shriveled and inky, the scarlet man spits tar from cracked, crowded lips.

Shooting, slicing, drying, spicing, chewing; each sweet bite of gamey flesh.

IV. The Bedroom

Behind a paper barricade the leathered skin embrace ends in salty pleasure.

Sweet sleep sweeps in like a haze; upright each night a battle for brittle bones.

Jaundiced crooks clamp a kindling cigarette between each cloudy puff-puff.

Veiled with vodka from the world, the grey angel smiles and prays, ―watch

over us all.‖

54

Veronica Spake

Attic Window

Tiny, isolated porthole,

it housed the world like a sea,

a space just big enough for me

to squeeze inside the frame where

I could see and not be seen.

One day, I heard the bikes before I saw them, two kids

circling the sidewalk.

Sitting on my knees, my breath fogging up the glass,

I heard their muffled laughter, and I was longing

to slip through the glass and ride away too.

55

Veronica Spake

The Jumpers

I played hooky

at an amusement park

when the towers fell

On a rollercoaster

inching up the incline

when the first plane hit

Speeding down the drop

weightless, floating

free, until I saw

the bottom

56

Veronica Spake

Girl on 35 Eureka Line – m4w – 28

Tuesday, on the bus, you sat three seats down,

your hair was pinned up and you wore black jeans.

I stared so long I missed my stop downtown—

you‘re the most gorgeous girl I‘ve ever seen.

The way your eyes gleamed as the sun shone in

inspired me to write a poem. This

is not it. I dream of touching your skin,

smelling your hair, having our first real kiss.

I longed to say hi, but nerves bested me.

I already love you (you‘ll love me too),

So I‘m posting this now, hoping you‘ll see.

(Describe your tattoos, so I know it‘s you).

I like to think we can create our fate,

that we are not passing lines, caught too late.

57

Acrostic: several arrows later

while undone by disdain, accented by

absences: your earthtoned Eames chair,

ill slighted stomach, and

the stack of books you have not read

in entirety. You performed as my admirable elder

though unadmirable chef, scrapping

out all flesh from our diet for

us who still feel (in theory)

too well.

Rachael Cosgrove

58

Chloe Rose

Untitled

59

The Eagle and the Wolf

last night, I dreamed

Go as far as you can, Dad said

Don't worry about the cost, just climb

So up I went, the wind in my hair

the sweetest breath I'd ever taken,

my feet trod the greenest grass

and the house at the top of the hill

shone red, brown, warm in the sun

an eagle coasted around the roof

The wind blew stronger at my back

and lifted me up

an eagle in the sky suddenly didn't seem so far away

the top of the hill became reality

when a wolf cried out

at the bottom of the hill

I looked down

and saw my family's eyes in the hungry gaze

I returned to the pack

this morning, I remembered

Stephanie Boilard

60

Stephanie Boilard

Autopsy of a Suicide

Half of the brain is missing,

along with a portion of the ear.

The skin, burned by a great fire,

has already been cut.

Peel away the threadbare clothes

and trace the veins, lines on a map,

to a bullet buried in the enlarged heart.

Liver deteriorated, stomach empty.

Indications of digestive problems.

The surrounding ribs, easily seen

through skin, broken under pressure.

Underneath we find blackened lungs

sickened by the very air they breathed.

Near lungs is a foreign object. May be

of use; will remove later.

Face is lined, weathered, pained.

The eyes, nearsighted, have seen too much;

close them. Open the mouth and find

words unheard lodged in the throat.

The hands are stained with paint

or blood and bound, extended but empty.

At last, go down to the feet.

Callouses and dirt suggest a long

distance travelled without company.

61

Jillian Burns

Carl

62

Maya De Ceano-Vivas

Hands/Butterfly

63

Maya De Ceano-Vivas

Desire

64

Sleeping With the Fishes

INT. TENNYSON‘S FISH BOWL - DAY

Swirling colors. TENNYSON, a pretty black and red fish,

swims into a small stone castle. Alarm vibrates the calm

world.

INT. ALLIE‘S BEDROOM - DAY

Alarm continues. ALLIE reaches out to hit it- misses sev-

eral times. Finally finds the off button. Allie has pick-

up-sticks hair and dolphin pajamas.

Allie makes the bed. Fish shaped pillows. Brushes teeth.

Dances into jeans. Applies bright pink eye shadow.

Pictures of AGGIE and SAMSON (a couple in their late twen-

ties) and BABY MONROE sit on her dresser. An older

―sixties‖ photo of her MOTHER and FATHER, in lab coats,

holding a shark.

Allie waves at a fish bowl and grabs a messenger bag.

ALLIE

Bye-Bye, Tennyson.

EXT. ALLIE‘S APARTMENT

Allie hops on a bright blue MOTOR SCOOTER—it has some rust

and a cracked mirror. Straps on a camouflage helmet. The

scooter doesn‘t start. She shakes it.

ALLIE

Come on baby. Come on,

Mama needs you to start.

The scooter jolts to life, dings into the old taxi paral-

lel parked in front of her. Small dent, in a series of

small dents and blue scratches on the bumper.

MR. HENDRICKSON in a rocking chair on the porch of the

brownstone apartment, drinking coffee.

MR HENDRICKSON

I‘ll add it to your tab, Allie.

Stephanie Johnson

65

Stephanie Johnson

ALLIE

Sorry, Mister Hendrickson.

MR HENDRICKSON

Yeah, yeah. Just do me a favor and

bring me back some chew, okay?

ALLIE

No can do, Mr. H. You‘re quitting,

remember?

MR. HENDRICKSON

Spoil sport.

EXT. BOSTON

Allie flies through streets- spring flowers burst open. She

passes cafes along the sidewalk. A park.

Allie stops at a red light. A COLLEGE GUY wolf whistles at

her. Allie rolls her eyes. The light turns green.

EXT. ST MARY‘S

Allie pulls into a small parking space. Scooter shudders

off. Helmet on the seat. ALLIE walks towards a COLLEGE CAM-

PUS.

There‘s a large sign that reads ―Saint Mary‘s Science Col-

lege for Girls.‖ It has a cross on it.

OVERHEAD SPEAKER

Would Allie McAllister please

come to Dean Harper‘s office?

Allie sighs.

INT. COLLEGE OFFICES

Allie walks through a graying building towards an office at

the end of the hall. There‘s a large sign that reads ―Dean

Harper: Dean of Academic Affairs.‖ She enters.

INT. HARPER‘S OFFICE

Allie pushes chopsticks into her hair. She stares at DEAN

66

Stephanie Johnson HARPER, a rail thin woman with more salt than pepper hair.

Photo of Allie swimming with dolphins on the desk.

ALLIE

Really, Auntie? Over the intercom?

Harper‘s strict demeanor melts.

HARPER

Wull, how the heck else am I gonna

get your attention, day dreamer?

They hug.

ALLIE

Uh, a phone call is what normal

people—

HARPER

Normal people aren‘t Deans.

Happy twenty-first!

ALLIE

Ugh. I was kinda hopin‘ you‘d

forgot.

HARPER

Allie... just because...

ALLIE

―Just‖. You‘re right. My birthday is

just a reminder my parents died

six years ago.

HARPER

Allie, stop. Not today.

ALLIE

Okay. Sorry.

HARPER

Now, what shenanigans are we gettin‘

into tonight?

ALLIE

Um. I was gonna work at the aquarium to-

night.

67

Stephanie Johnson

HARPER

And then pass out watchin‘ taped

episodes of Shark Week on DVR?

Allie looks at her shoes: Guilty.

HARPER

It‘s your birthday! Go out

with friends!

ALLIE

What friends?

HARPER

Honey, why is it you can only

be nice to fish?

ALLIE

Probably because they don‘t mind

that I find anything with gills

more fascinating than Britney Spears

and Lindsey Lohan‘s rehab visits.

HARPER

Oh God. The Lohan rehab case was

months ago. You need to get out more.

ALLIE

I called Aggie and Samson. Maybe

they‘ll drive up from Cambridge—

HARPER

Your sister and her hippie

husband do not count.

ALLIE

They do to me. You can come too.

HARPER

Okay. If we go somewhere where it‘s

mostly dark and they serve alcohol,

I will allow you to spend your birthday

with people who are all at least seven

years older than you.

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ALLIE

If we must. Though I won‘t be

drinking.

HARPER

Yes you will. You will get so drunk-

Harper‘s intercom buzzes.

DENISE

Dean Harper, Bishop Matthew needs

you at ten thirty mass.

HARPER

Okay, Denise, thank you.

Allie gets up to go, slings her bag over her shoulder.

HARPER

So I‘ll swing by at eight. And for

godssakes, Allie, don‘t wear something

you crocheted yourself. Flash some skin!

Allie smiles, they hug again, and Harper leaves, crossing

herself in front of a crucifix at the door.

INT. CLUB – NIGHT

Allie, in jeans and a t-shirt, sits awkwardly at bar with

Harper, in a dress-but-more-of-a-shirt-without-pants.

Music is booming. Allie half-heartedly peruses a drink

menu. Harper bobs her head, itching to dance.

HARPER

(shouting over music)

See anything that looks good?

ALLIE

Um, I dunno. A Shirley Temple?

HARPER

Allie, we had a deal! You have to

get something alcoholic.

ALLIE

Fine. A Shirley Temple black,

hold the black.

Harper rolls her eyes. The song changes.

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69

HARPER

Ohmigaw! I love this song!

Harper rushes towards the dance floor. Allie sighs.

TEDDY, a brawny guy with a crew cut, sits next to Allie.

TEDDY

So, you managed to break away

from the fish tonight, Allie?

ALLIE

Teddy? What are you doing here?

TEDDY

I, unlike you, have a life.

I am not tied to the aquarium.

ALLIE

Yeah, well, you‘re also not Dr.

Shapasian‘s pet intern.

TEDDY

(shrugging)

I‘m just there because it‘s

easy community service hours.

ALLIE

(suspiciously)

What do you need community

service hours for?

Teddy makes a gesture to the drink in his own hand, and to

Allie, towards the BARTENDER, who nods.

TEDDY

Enough about me. Why are you

here tonight?

ALLIE

Oh. Um. It‘s my birthday.

TEDDY

You‘re serious? Happy Birthday,

little fishmonger! How old are you?

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ALLIE

Twenty-one.

TEDDY

Ah, the ripe age of alcoholics.

Well, let‘s get you drunk, shall we?

ALLIE

Uh, no. Thanks though.

TEDDY

Come on. One. For me.

ALLIE

No.

TEDDY

For the whales? Somebody‘s got

to save ‗em, McAllister.

ALLIE

Fine. Shirley Temple Black.

It appears as she says it. Teddy winks.

ALLIE

How did you...?

TEDDY

I have my ways.

Allie raises an eyebrow. Teddy grins.

TEDDY

That, and I heard you

talking to...

He gestures towards Harper, who is pop-and-locking with a

MOHAWKED-MAN.

ALLIE

My aunt. Uh. Five times removed.

TEDDY

I see. On your birthday, you go out

with your aunt.

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ALLIE

Well, I would have invited my sister

and her husband, but they couldn‘t

get anyone to watch Monroe.

TEDDY

Their dog?

ALLIE

Their kid.

TEDDY

You‘re a family man, aren‘t ya?

Allie nods, but makes a face. Teddy laughs as Allie stuffs

the drink umbrella in her hair.

TEDDY

Must be nice. Don‘t have much

family to speak of.

ALLIE

Neither do I. My parents died in

a car crash on my fifteenth birthday.

TEDDY

Christ. I‘m sorry.

ALLIE

Thanks.

TEDDY

Well, drink up, McAllister.

The whales aren‘t gonna save

themselves.

Allie takes a large gulp, makes a face. Teddy laughs.

TEDDY

You look like the guppies

we keep in tank twelve. ‗Cept a

lot cuter. (licks his lips) Hey,

Allie, you got a number?

Allie chokes. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

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She looks towards Harper, who‘s taking a body shot. The

red exit sign glows like a Hallelujah chorus. Teddy waits,

finger tracing the rim of the glass.

ALLIE

Uh, yeah. I have a cellular

device, yes.

TEDDY

Well, may I have the number

at which to activate said

cellular device and make it

a-ring-a-ding-ding?

ALLIE

I‘m not so sure that‘d be such

a great idea.

TEDDY

Come on. It‘s seven digits.

ALLIE

No thanks, Teddy.

Allie rises, grabbing her bag. She stands, stiffly, and

hands him a twenty.

ALLIE

For the drink. Keep the change.

TEDDY

(smirking)

Good night, McAllister.

Happy Birthday.

EXT. CLUB – NIGHT

Allie stands outside the club and hails a taxi. She climbs

inside, stumbling. Mr. Hendrickson is the driver. He

sighs.

MR. HENDRICKSON

Am I takin‘ ya home, Allie?

ALLIE

Nah, ta ma sistas. She lives

at 53rd and Church... number 5...

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She leans against the window. Mr. Hendrickson sighs again.

INT. AGGIE‘S LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

Aggie and Allie are drinking coffee on the couch. Allie‘s

hair is even more bedraggled than usual. She‘s slumped.

AGGIE

And you said no... why?

ALLIE

(slurring)

Coz, Aggie! He‘s all bad boy and

tattooed and he‘s mah co workah.

AGGIE

Wow. Your Boston accent really

comes out when you‘re drunk.

Are you sure you only had one drink?

ALLIE

‗m NOT drunk. ‗m TIPSY. At best.

AGGIE

Shh, Allie, you‘ll wake the baby.

ALLIE

Oh. Sorry.

AGGIE

It‘s okay, kid. Get some sleep.

Aggie head butts Allie softly. Both grin, despite Allie‘s

wavered attempt at a full smile.

ALLIE

Ove-lay oo-yay.

AGGIE

Orever-fay.

Allie passes out, head falling back into the couch pillows.

Aggie pulls a blanket over her sister, sighing.

AGGIE

Happy Birthday, Allie.

Aggie kisses Allie‘s forehead and turns out the light.

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INT. ALLIE‘s APARTMENT - MORNING

Allie‘s alarm goes off. Empty apartment. A key jingles in

the door. Allie enters, red eyed. Stumbles into bedroom,

turning off the alarm. Allie stares at Tennyson swimming

in his bowl.

ALLIE

Twenty-one, Tennyson. Big party.

She falls into bed, instantly snoring.

INT. BOSTON AQUARIUM - DAY

Allie, in lab coat and gloves, stands over a tank of small

sharks, flinging tentacle food in.

ALLIE

C‘mon, guys. Chow time.

DR. SHAPASIAN, a black woman in her 60s with coke bottle

glasses, walks over to Allie.

DR. SHAPASIAN

They look hungry today. Did you

feed ‗em yesterday?

ALLIE

I wasn‘t in yesterday. Might be-

DR. SHAPASIAN

Teddy. I swear to God, I don‘t know

what to do with that boy.

There‘s a pause. Allie squeaks her sneakers.

DR. SHAPASIAN

You‘re a good girl, Allie. So

precise, very dependable. What

are you doin‘ when school lets

out in a couple weeks?

ALLIE

Wull, I‘m going back to Cambridge

to live with my sister and her family.

They both teach, and in the summer,

they take on other jobs.

There‘s an awkward pause. Allie looks at the tank.

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ALLIE

I‘m the free baby sitter.

DR. SHAPASIAN

I see. Wull. If that changes,

let me know.

The Doctor starts to walk away. Allie scoops some squid

bits.

ALLIE

Sure. (bites lip) Um, why?

DR. SHAPASIAN

Well, the Association of Marine

Biology has their annual

conference in Chicago this June,

and I‘m allowed by the Board to

take one intern with me.

ALLIE

Really? You wanna take me?

DR. SHAPASIAN

(laughing)

Girl, it‘s better than takin‘ Teddy!

ALLIE

I would love to! I‘ve always wanted

to be a marine biologist.

DR. SHAPASIAN

You have a specialty picked out?

ALLIE

(nodding)

Sea horses. I‘ve loved them ever

since my mother told me they mate

for life.

DR. SHAPASIAN

They are such a beautiful species.

(pause) So you‘ll come?

ALLIE

Well... Aggie and Samson are

pretty hard up for cash and…

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76

DR. SHAPASIAN

I understand completely.

But her eyebrows are raised, and her mouth is a straight

line.

EXT. BOSTON AQUARIUM

ALLIE

(on the phone)

Hey, Aggie, it‘s me. I‘m heading

over.

EXT. AGGIE AND SAMSON‘S – EVENING

Aggie and Allie pull into the driveway at the same time-

Allie on her scooter, Aggie in an old bug.

Allie waits on the front porch swing as Aggie detangles

herself from the car. Allie laughs.

ALLIE

You know, driving that car

made sense for Mom, because

she was five two.

AGGIE

(grinning)

Yeah, and?

ALLIE

And you take after dad...

You‘re five eleven.

AGGIE

Therefore?

ALLIE

Therefore, art-smay ass-hay,

it doesn‘t make sense for you

to drive the car.

Aggie, finally out of the car, drags a book bag filled

with papers over to the porch where Allie sits. They head

butt.

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77

AGGIE

(smiling)

Emotional attachment. You study fish,

I drive her car. It works.

They open the door.

INT. AGGIE AND SAMSON‘S

Aggie sets the table, setting down a pan of stir-fry. Next

to Allie sits Samson, Aggie‘s older hippie husband,

scratching his hairy arms with a fork.

Baby MONROE sits in a high chair, following his father by

taking his own fork, full of peas, and dumping it onto his

arm. Aggie sighs.

ALLIE

... and so he‘s asking me to

go with him!

SAMSON

Seriously? Allie! That‘s great!

Aggie shoots Allie a glare. A sink in the background drips.

They say silent grace, cross themselves simultaneously.

They pass the stir-fry around. Allie takes a giant helping.

ALLIE

And it‘s only for two weeks at the

end of this month, so I‘ll be able

to come back for the rest of—

AGGIE

Why bother?

SAMSON

Agatha Lee! Jeez!

AGGIE

No, I‘m sorry. I get that this

fish thing is a big deal for you,

Allie. Really. But you already

promised us you‘d watch Monroe.

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Stephanie Johnson

ALLIE

And I will! I just want to go do

this one thing! It‘s the most

prestigious conference in the

field.

AGGIE

It‘s not like Samson or

I can just take off two weeks.

ALLIE

It‘s not my fault you guys chose

to be broke high school teachers.

AGGIE

Excuse me?

ALLIE

You heard me.

AGGIE

Yeah, well, at least I didn‘t just

become what Mom and Dad were because

there wasn‘t anything else to do.

ALLIE

That‘s not true! I want to be a

marine biologist because I want to

study seahorses. I feel at home at

the aquarium.

AGGIE

And you‘ll spend your life obsessing

over creatures who can‘t talk back!

ALLIE

I‘m doing what makes me happy!

Which is more than I can say for

someone who wanted to write fiction,

but ended up teaching snot nosed-

SAMSON

Allie! Aggie! You guys are getting

out of hand.

ALLIE

Sorry.

AGGIE

Fine.

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Stephanie Johnson

Pause. Monroe tosses his spoon to the ground. It clatters.

ALLIE

I should go. I‘ll see if I can‘t

find someone else to baby-sit

Monroe for those two weeks.

AGGIE

Allie, we can‘t afford-

ALLIE

I’ll pay for it. Jeez.

AGGIE

You mean, you‘ll make aunt

Harper pay for it, like

everything else in your life?

SAMSON

Aggie! Seriously?

Allie rises from the table. Walking over to the sink, she

picks up Tupperware from the drying rack.

ALLIE

Thanks for the one-minute dinner.

Allie dumps the food in the Tupperware, snaps the lid.

SAMSON

I‘ll walk you out.

Samson gets up, his chair scraping on the floor. Aggie

rinses Allie‘s plate. A snow pea slides down the drain.

EXT. AGGIE AND SAMSON‘S

Allie mounts the scooter, wiping her eyes. Crickets chirp.

Samson leans against the bug as she revs up.

SAMSON

You okay to drive?

ALLIE

Yup. Peachy.

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Stephanie Johnson

SAMSON

Hey Al? Just give her time.

ALLIE

I‘m not sure I want to right now.

Samson reaches over, knocks on her helmet.

SAMSON

Be safe, kid.

Allie sputters off.

INT. ALLIE‘S APARTMENT – EVENING

Harper and Allie sit on the couch, drinking coffee. Next to

Harper‘s mug, there‘s an empty Bailey‘s bottle.

ALLIE

And now, she won‘t talk to me.

HARPER

Allie, Aggie likes things a certain

way. She and her husband are trying

so hard with that baby. And they won‘t

accept help from anyone- not even me.

ALLIE

What do you mean?

HARPER

Why do you think Samson still

bikes to work when I‘ve offered more

than once to buy him a proper car?

ALLIE

Because he doesn‘t believe in

useless fuel-

HARPER

Yeah right, Allie. Your sister is

stubborn. She wants to prove she can

do everything on her own.

ALLIE

Yet, she expects help from me. She

whines like a little kid when she

doesn‘t get it.

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Stephanie Johnson

Allie grabs her mug and walks to the kitchen.

INT. ALLIE‘S KITCHEN

Allie is rinsing her cup and wipes away angry tears.

HARPER (OS)

Wull, darlin, you gotta know it‘s

not because of you. She‘s just got

her pannies in a twist because her

little sister is going so far in life-

ALLIE

I don‘t think that‘s it. She chose to

be a teacher.

HARPER

If she chose to be a teacher, why

is she havin‘ so much trouble lettin‘

you go live your dreams?

ALLIE

Because it‘s not according to her plan,

I think. I dunno. Whatever. It mostly

just bothers me that she won‘t even

return my phone calls.

HARPER

Not even a text?

Allie shakes her head.

HARPER

How long has it been now?

ALLIE

Three weeks. I leave Tuesday,

and I‘m not even sure if I‘ll have

a place to stay when I come back.

HARPER

Of course you have a place to stay,

crazy. You can stay with me.

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Stephanie Johnson

ALLIE

Aww, thanks Auntie.

Allie looks toward the TV. Shark Week tapes. A particularly

violent part with blood oozing from a dolphin. Allie puts

her hands over Tennyson‘s bowl on the living room table.

ALLIE

Don‘t look, Tennyson. You‘re

not allowed to watch the bloody

scenes, you know.

HARPER

You‘re going to have to stop

talking to your fish if you

want to live with me, though.

Allie nods, a small smile fighting its way across her face.

As her aunt stumbles into the kitchen, Allie opens her cell

phone. In the saved texts, an unsent draft flashes across

her phone: ―TO: TEDDY. Do you baby-sit?‖

INT. ALLIE‘S APARTMENT – MORNING

Allie‘s apartment is a mess of suitcases and boxes. Tenny-

son sits, in bowl, atop a cardboard box. Mr. Hendrickson

stands, still in his robe, in Allie‘s microscopic living

room.

ALLIE

Thanks so much for watching Tennyson

while I‘m at the conference, Mr. H.

MR. HENDRICKSON

It‘s a fish. It‘s not that hard.

ALLIE

Well, actually...

Allie prattles on. Mr. Hendrickson‘s eyes get blurred.

ALLIE

And at night, it helps him sleep

if you play Mozart.

Mr. Hendrickson shakes himself awake, raising his eyebrows.

MR. HENDRICKSON

Allie! He‘s a fish, not a toddler.

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Stephanie Johnson

ALLIE

(ignoring him)

But nevertheless, if you have any

questions, please feel free to-

Allie‘s phone buzzes.

ALLIE

-call me. Um. Excuse me, Mr.

Hendrickson.

MR. HENDRICKSON

(mumbling)

Yeah, whatever, hippie.

ALLIE

Hello? ... hey Samson. What‘s-

What? Are you- Yeah. Um. Yeah.

I‘ll be right there.

Allie grabs Tennyson‘s bowl. She runs into the kitchen, re

emerging with Tennyson newly transferred into a Tupperware,

lid attached and duct taped.

MR. HENDRICKSON

What the-?

ALLIE

I‘m sorry, Mr. Hendrickson. My

sister‘s husband just called and-

Tennyson and I have to-

She tears up. Mister Hendrickson sighs, unties his robe.

MR. HENDRICKSON

Here, take this. Wrap it around him

to add extra padding.

She looks at him tearfully. He‘s wearing a Jimmy Buffet t-

shirt and Kermit boxers.

ALLIE

Thank... you...

MR. HENDRICKSON

Don‘t mention it. Seriously.

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Stephanie Johnson

EXT. BOSTON STREETS

Allie straps Tennyson onto a small trunk compartment on the

back of the scooter. Together, Allie (and a very sloshed

about Tennyson) weave through the streets of Boston.

INT. BOSTON HOSPITAL FRONT DESK

Allie, Tupperware in hand, pants at the front desk.

ALLIE

I need the room of Agatha McAllister,

please? She was admitted about an

hour ago—

NURSE

326. Go to the end of the—

Allie is already racing down the hallway, sneakers squeak-

ing.

INT. AGGIE‘S HOSPITAL ROOM

Aggie lays on the bed, nose and arms bloody. Her leg is

suspended in a cast, eyes closed. Samson paces across the

room, Monroe asleep in his carrier. Allie flings the door

open, comes tumbling in.

SAMSON

Allie, thank God. Harper just

left to go get-

ALLIE

How is she?

SAMSON

She‘s pretty banged up. Broken

leg, scraped arms, cracked ribs.

The doctor says she‘ll be okay,

once she wakes up.

ALLIE

(screeching)

Wakes up? You mean she‘s unconscious?

SAMSON

Yeah. We‘re lucky she‘s alive.

The car hit her going forty.

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Stephanie Johnson

ALLIE

The car?

SAMSON

Yeah... she was walking home from

school and got hit by a car.

ALLIE

The luck my family has with cars,

no wonder I drive a moped.

SAMSON

Allie, it‘s not some weird pre

destined thing. Stuff just happens.

ALLIE

Right. Call me when she wakes up,

okay? I can‘t... I just...

Allie leaves, Tennyson still under her arm. Samson looks

after her, smoothes Aggie‘s hand. Machines beep in the

background.

SAMSON

I swear, Aggie, craziness must

run in the family.

INT. BOSTON AQUARIUM - DAY

Allie sits with her back against a tank of sea horses. The

blue of the water reflects across her face as she stares

at Tennyson, swimming happily in his bowl at her feet.

Teddy walks up behind her, in lab coat, gloves, and his

goggles on his head. He smiles, watching her watch the

fish.

TEDDY

Weren‘t you supposed to be at

that nerd convention?

Allie, rather than being shocked at Teddy‘s presence, rolls

her head in his direction, shooting him with a blank stare.

ALLIE

Hey Teddy.

86

TEDDY

What‘s wrong?

ALLIE

Oh, the usual. Finding consolation

in things that can‘t talk back to me.

TEDDY

Consolation... over...?

ALLIE

My older sister got hit by a

car today. She‘s okay. It just

seems like my entire family is

going to die by automated vehicle.

TEDDY

Do you realize how pathetic you

sound right now?

Allie glares at him, ready to fight. She starts to stand,

reaches out towards Tennyson‘s bowl.

TEDDY

No, you don‘t get to flounce off

this time, McAllister. Listen.

You have a great life. A little

sheltered, sure, but you have so

many opportunities before you.

Instead of being mopey that your

parents died, stop and realize how

proud of you they probably are.

ALLIE

You have no right to-

TEDDY

Oh, I‘m not done. As for your

sister, if you love her so much,

what are you doing here?

Allie looks at her feet.

TEDDY

The fish can‘t save her, Allie. And

they sure as hell can‘t save you.

So go back there, say you‘re sorry,

and be there for your family.

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87

Allie stares at him, mouth open. She moves towards him.

ALLIE

Why do you need community service,

Teddy?

Teddy grabs Allie and kisses her, her hand still raised.

She fights it for a second, then gives in, slowly lowering

her hand. They part, but only by a few centimeters. The

tank shines blue behind them.

TEDDY

(whispering)

To get into Harvard‘s Marine Biology

Graduate program on scholarship.

Allie‘s eyes double in size. She kisses him again, hard.

TEDDY

My turn to ask a question.

He slides to the floor, kneeling next to Tennyson.

TEDDY

Who is this?

ALLIE

(laughing)

Oh. That‘s Tennyson, my-

TEDDY

Red finned pilot fish. I know.

They‘re rare.

Allie smiles as Teddy carefully picks up Tennyson‘s bowl,

so he and the fish are face to face.

TEDDY

Nice to meet you, Lord Alfred

Tennyson. Now, shall we accompany

said fair maiden to yonder hospital

to wish other, battered fair maiden

well?

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88

INT. BOSTON HOSPITAL HALLWAY - EVENING

Allie and Teddy walk down the hall, holding hands. They

stop just outside Aggie‘s hospital room when they hear ar-

guing inside. Allie leans against the wall.

HARPER (OS)

Well, I guess you‘ve got yourself

a babysitter, Agatha.

AGGIE (OS)

Don‘t be so cruel.

HARPER (OS)

(sarcastically)

Right, because that would be

undeserved.

AGGIE (OS)

Look. I know I hurt you by turning

down your money, but Samson and I want

to make it in the world, on our own.

HARPER (OS)

I don‘t get why.

INT. AGGIE‘S HOSPITAL ROOM

Aggie‘s propped up against a sea of pillows. Harper stands

by her bedside, fists clenched at her sides.

AGGIE

Because I don‘t want to be a charity

case to you. I don‘t want you to

only be nice to me because you‘re my

dead father‘s sister.

HARPER

Aggie, you know that‘s not true.

AGGIE

I already have to pay you back for Ag-

gie‘s

apartment. I don‘t want to owe you

more.

Harper sighs heavily, sinking into a seat by Aggie‘s bed.

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89

HARPER

You don‘t owe me. Your sister‘s future-

AGGIE

Oh, my little sister, the child prodigy.

INT. BOSTON HOSPITAL HALLWAY

Allie slides to the floor. Teddy kneels next to her.

HARPER (OS)

It‘s not like that! Aggie, don‘t be too

proud to accept help. You‘re making

her reject the dreams you never got

to have.

AGGIE (OS)

You‘re right I never got to have

them. Because I was too busy raising

a teenage kid!

ALLIE

I can‘t listen to this.

TEDDY

Allie, I am so...

ALLIE

It‘s okay. You should go. I‘ll be here

for awhile.

TEDDY

If you‘re sure.

Allie nods. Teddy wraps his arms around Allie. Samson walks

up, Monroe in his arms. Samson clears his throat.

SAMSON

Hey Al, who‘s this stunning fellow?

ALLIE

Oh. Um. Oh, yeah. This is

Teddy. He‘s my-

TEDDY

I work at the aquarium with

Allie.

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90

Teddy and Allie stare at each other, blushing.

ALLIE

I mean, he‘s-

TEDDY

We just made out at the aquarium

and haven‘t yet defined what we‘re

going to do with that.

SAMSON

Well. I appreciate your frankness.

I‘m Samson, Allie‘s brother in law.

And this is Monroe, Allie‘s nephew.

TEDDY

Hi, brother in law. Towering brother

in law.

Teddy stares awkwardly at his shoes. Samson grins.

Harper emerges from the hospital room, slightly tear

stained.

HARPER

She‘s all right. Kinda doped up on

whatever good stuff they gave her, but

she‘ll be fine.

Harper looks over at Allie- poignant glances exchanged.

HAPRER

She wants to talk to you, Allie.

ALLIE

But I...

HARPER

So help me child, I will channel your

father and stick you both in a corner.

ALLIE

Alright, alright.

INT. AGGIE‘S HOSPITAL ROOM

ALLIE

Hey.

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91

Stephanie Johnson AGGIE

Hey. Thanks for-

She notices the look on Allie‘s face: her mouth is drawn,

eyes lowered.

AGGIE

Allie. Ut-way‘s up-hay?

Allie bursts into tears.

ALLIE

Did you mean everything you

told Aunt Harper? Is that why-?

AGGIE

Oh, Allie. Shush. It‘s not

like being your second mom ruined

my life. It just meant I had to worry

about someone other than myself for

once. (pause) Clearly a lesson I

didn‘t learn well enough the first

time around.

ALLIE

But if being there for me meant you

having to give up writing-

AGGIE

I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Seriously.

ALLIE

Really?

AGGIE

Yeah. (pause) Allie, I‘m sorry I

gave you so much crap about baby

sitting Monroe.

ALLIE

Well, like Auntie said,

I guess you have a sitter now.

Aggie laughs an unattractive, half cry, half snort laugh

that ends in a snot bubble. Allie, laughing, reaches out

for a hug.

92

Stephanie Johnson AGGIE

I‘m not so sure I can hug right now.

They dissolve into laughter and head butt.

AGGIE

Ove-lay oo-yay.

ALLIE

Orever-fay.

A pause.

AGGIE

Hey. Al? Whose robe is that?

Allie blushes.

ALLIE

Oh. Um. My next door neighbor‘s.

Tennyson swims happily in his Tupperware, surrounded by

blue terry cloth.

93

Keirstin Yantis

Robot

94